

















                                MISRULE

                            by ROBERT SCOTT

                 Glen Wheatley thanked his lucky stars
                 for his good fortune every day of his
                 life ... every day, that is, but one!

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The brick smashed through the window and skittered across the top of
Glen Wheatley's desk. He had already removed most of the breakables,
but it caught a large plastic ash tray and sent it caroming off his
cheekbone. A thin trickle of blood crept down his face.

"Good God, aren't they starting a little early this year?" Bert
Hillary, who shared Wheatley's office, was obviously not expecting an
answer. He had been making it clear for the past hour (they had all got
to their desks an hour earlier for this day) that he was an old hand,
while this was Glen's first experience of People's Day.

Glen knew that Hillary had been in the Civil Service only five or six
years. He himself could hardly be accused of being an expert on the
every-four-years Day. Still, he waited for the older man to make the
first move.

Hillary got up and peered cautiously out the shattered window. "Yeah,
they're already boiling around the outer wall like yeast in a vat. That
guy with the brick must have quite a pitching arm." Sweat stood out on
his forehead. He was clearly much more frightened than he pretended to
be.

Glen noticed this with some satisfaction. At least, he wasn't the only
one. "Come on, Wheatley. Us lower-level boys have got to be on the
hop. You'd be surprised how fast that mob can get up here."

Glen unfolded the map of Government House that had been placed on his
desk that morning. He stared grimly at it, dabbing at his cheek with
a rather grubby handkerchief meanwhile. The bleeding did not show any
signs of stopping.

Hillary hurried to the door. "Come on!" He was openly nervous now.
"It's no good studying that map for safety-holes now. You should have
been doing that ever since we got here this morning."

As a matter of fact, Glen had been doing just that, whenever Hillary's
flow of words had momentarily run dry. But he had not yet got the
location of all the nearby hidden cubbies clearly in his mind.
"Government House is such a maze," he said defensively.

"And we're damned lucky it is," Hillary said from the doorway. "Anyway,
how do you know that map you've got there isn't just what they've been
hawking in People's Square all this past week?" He gave a slightly sick
leer.

"You know those maps are inaccurate. They're just a sop, just to
give the mob an extra thrill. Government House plants most of them."
He could sound like an old hand, too, Glen thought with a certain
smugness.

"Nuts to that. Some of them are amazingly accurate. There are a hell
of a lot of non-Government people in here from year to year, and some
of them aren't here just on business. Let's get going." Hillary pulled
Glen through the door, and then locked it. Glen raised his eyebrows at
this. "Oh, sure," his co-worker said wryly. "Gives the People something
to work off steam on." He patted the flimsy door. "This will cave in
under a few hard shoulders. Not like the safety-hole panels. We hope."

"But they don't unlock for another half hour in this area."

"Thirty-eight minutes, to be exact," Hillary said, glancing at his
watch. "And of course the ones deeper in and higher up open even later.
We're supposed to give them a run for their taxes."

       *       *       *       *       *

The corridor was emptying out rapidly. Glen could hear smashing noises
from the ground floor.

Apparently the People were already in the building, beginning their day
of destruction. He thought gratefully of his private apartment, tucked
away in the impregnable heart of Government House. Of course, it was
closed off to him too on this day; but at least it was safe from the
mob. They would get mainly the chaff to destroy.

"I'm heading for the upper levels," Hillary said. "Even if the
safeties open later up there, it takes longer for the mob to penetrate.
There's enough breakable and burnable stuff at the first few levels to
keep them busy for a while. Coming?"

Glen had just seen Joan Bourne emerge from her office and lock the
door. He headed toward her. "I'm going to stay near some out-of-the-way
safety in this area and hop in when it first opens. I don't feel like
running from the People," he called back with a bravado he did not
really feel.

"Suit yourself." Hillary was already at the stairs. He paused for a
moment. "And good luck."

"Thanks," Glen said. "Good hiding."

Joan had been listening, and met him in the middle of the corridor. "I
think you've got the right idea, Glen. Want some company?"

He smiled, and brushed her cheek with his lips. "You know the answer to
that, Joan. For life."

"This is _hardly_ the day to bring that up again." She took his arm,
and they turned off down a side corridor. "Besides, I thought our
relationship was very nice as it is," she pouted.

"It is. I'm just greedy."

The side passageway took them deeper into the labyrinth that was
Government House. Glen had hardly ever been out of it. He had
been born and brought up in the great central area that surrounded
Government Park, now sealed off from both the People and the Civil
Servants. Apart from a vacation trip to another city's Government
House, this had been Glen's entire world. And two years ago he had
passed the Examinations and become a full-fledged CS, with all the
privileges--and perils, he was now realizing--that that entailed.

They turned into another corridor, went past a bank of
elevators--turned off for the day, as all the elevators were in the
official section of the building--and went up a long flight of stairs.

Glen stopped at the third level.

"This looks like as good a spot as any to wait for the first
safety-holes to open. It's out of the way. And there's a hole right
here, according to the map. It'll be opening in twenty minutes. The
mob should be busy down there for longer than that." They located the
almost invisible key square, and Glen pressed his Class-6 key to it.
"Just on the chance they might have given us a break," he said half
apologetically.

"Apparently they haven't," Joan murmured. "Let's see if my Class-5 has
any better luck." She pressed her own key to the square, but the panel
still refused to slide back. Class-5 shelters in this area were often
combined with those for Class-6.

       *       *       *       *       *

Glen looked at her quizzically. "Joan, we graduated at the same
time, and you're already Class-5--Job Consultation--while I'm still
Class-6--Secondary School Allocation. How do you do it?"

"Brains, personality and talent. Hadn't you noticed?" She pressed close
to him.

He kissed her. "Mmm, yes. But I still don't see...."

"Darling," she said, "Joan Bourne is a young lady destined to go far.
And fast."

"You seem so different from the other girls here though, Joan." He
blushed. "You didn't happen to come from ... Outside. Er ... from the
People, that is?"

"I grew up in Block 6, Section A, overlooking the statue of Martyr
Sherman Adams in Government Park. Just two blocks down from you, if I
remember your records correctly."

"You've had access to my records?"

"Class-5 always does to Class-6's. And I took a special interest in
you, my dear." She stroked his cheek.

"Then you're forgiven the snooping," Glen smiled. "But to think I was
being so polite and discreet about asking your origins!"

"Not many take the Exams and come to Civil Service from Outside any
more, sweet. Just as not many from here decide to go out and try their
luck in the big world. Generally we stay on our side of the fence, and
they stay on theirs. Except for the Day, of course. And then it's all
one-way traffic."

"But I've heard some CS people go Outside for their vacation. I never
have, of course, but...."

"Oh, yes, quite a few do. You're taken in a CS plane to another
Government House, where you won't be known in the city outside. You
are given appropriate papers and emerge from the House during business
hours. You mingle with the People, just like one of them. And when
vacation's over, back to the House for Job Consultation or Welfare
Benefits or whatever you want to trump up. Show your true papers, and
you're whisked back to your own cozy womb." She smiled reminiscently.
"Outside is an interesting experience."

This annoyed Glen obscurely. He put his arm around her. "I don't want
you going Outside again. At least, not without me."

"Oh, the People are just people. Except for today...."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well, well, the Bourne from which no traveler returneth! Hope I'm not
interrupting anything, my dear. Anything important, that is." At this
unexpected voice, Glen let go of Joan and spun to face the intruder.
It was a Class-2 High Official named Duckpath, whom he had heard speak
at a few Government banquets. He dropped his fists, which he had
unconsciously raised.

"Mustn't be so nervous, young man," Duckpath said, swaying slightly. He
was obviously quite drunk. "How are you, Joanie?" He patted her rump
affectionately and gave her a smacking kiss. Joan looked both annoyed
and amused. Glen flushed, but said nothing.

After a moment of contemplating the new arrival, Joan said, "Well,
Ducks, what brings you down to the lower echelons?"

"Oh, pleasure, pleasure, my dear. Wanted to see all the fun and games.
Usually pretty dull on top, you know." He winked at her, then cocked an
ear. "Sounds like the rabble are getting warmer, too."

Glen listened, and realized he had been hearing all along a dim
muttering which was now clearly getting louder. A distinct crash
sounded, and he was sure he smelled smoke.

"Come on, Joan," he said, tugging at her arm. "Let's get into the
shelter. It must be time now."

"Young man, you _are_ obstreperous, aren't you?" Duckpath interposed
himself between Glen and Joan. "Be calm, be calm. As you may know, my
key will open any of the lower echelon's shelters, and at any time.
Yours is not due to open for five minutes yet, for example, but at the
touch of this--" he flashed his Class-2 key--"all barriers will fall
before us. And I like the scent of danger. Just the scent, of course.
Now--" he motioned to Glen--"if you will just stand by that stairway,
you will be able to see them in plenty of time for us all to get into
shelter. You two shall be my guests. It will be very cozy." He giggled.

Glen scowled, but did as he was told.

It was true that the stairs were the obvious place for the onslaught.
They led both up and down. He assumed Duckpath had come down them, but
of course the People were still below, although apparently working
their way rapidly to the stairs. The only other way up to this area was
through one of the secret passageways, which the mob would not know
about.

Another crash echoed up the stairwell, much louder this time. A wisp of
smoke curled lazily in the air in front of him.

Glen fingered the caked blood on his cheek. Things he had never
questioned before seemed utterly meaningless and cruel now. His
irritation with Duckpath bubbled over, and he said sourly, "What
madness! This whole procedure is incredibly stupid and wasteful."

Joan glanced at Duckpath with raised eyebrows, but said nothing.
That gentleman at first stiffened, then relaxed and said blandly, "I
wouldn't criticize the Government too much, my boy. It gives us all we
have. And it can take it away also." He smiled. "This is not madness,
but sheer sanity. You must have been neglecting your Political Science
courses."

"Sanity! It's murder and destruction," Glen muttered.

"You know very well, young man, that all that is being destroyed is
easily replaced. _Will_ be replaced tomorrow, in fact. Ours is an
opulent, productive society." Duckpath's smile deepened into a smirk.
"All the important documents, all the valuables, are safely locked away
in the central section. And the good that is being done today!" He
became rapturous. "The People are led by us, led by the nose. We decide
where they will go to school, where they will live, which job they will
get, how many children they may have. Soon we will decide when they are
to die. We have the power." His eyes glistened.

"And in return we give them security. The population is balanced,
the country productive, the old cared for; there is medical service
for all. Everything is arranged for the best by the great complex of
Government Houses all over the world. Everything is in the hands of the
Government." Duckpath was panting slightly. "Everything is in _our_
hands."

       *       *       *       *       *

"If everything is so perfect, why this?" Glen gestured toward the cloud
of smoke seeping through the entrance to the stairway.

"It's only the office furnishings. The building itself won't burn,"
Joan murmured.

Duckpath gave her a little squeeze. "Our callow young friend is talking
about the hatred, I believe, Joanie. The urge of the People to destroy
and kill. Well, it is only natural." He belched softly. "These People
are aware that their lives are woven from threads held in Government
House. And though they are well cared for, they resent it. They resent
having to file into this building and be allocated to this and that.
They want someone to take care of them, but they resent their loss of
freedom. They resent our power.

"So this is their day. It comes once every four years. The day that
gives them the illusion that they have some control over us, the day
of Mob Rule. This is the day they can express all their locked-up
frustrations, all their fury at the State which feeds and clothes
them and watches over them. They can batter down and smash and burn."
Duckpath stared at Glen and seemed to sober a little. "Yes, they
can even kill. They cannot bring guns or knives here, but they can
use fire and fists and stones. And that is even better for boiling
away their hostilities. The hotheads among the People will go so
far as to kill, and that will cool them. But they will get only
the fumble-fingered and feeble-witted. The rest will take care of
themselves." He paused for a moment, breathless. "Do you realize we
haven't had even the sniff of a revolution in four hundred years? No
civil strife at all. No _change_ of any kind." He laughed. "This is
Sheep's Day ... their day to be wolves."

"Glen, you'd better watch the stairs," Joan said, her face taut.

Glen started. Duckpath's harangue had distracted him, and somehow
chilled him too. He peered down the stairwell. There were People at the
end of the lower corridor, milling around and shouting.

"We've got to get to shelter," he said, hurrying toward Joan.

Duckpath began to talk again. "This is nothing new. The Romans had a
word for it, and a day for it, too. A day when the laws were abandoned
and society was turned upside down. A day when the people cast off the
bonds of civilization and order. A day of Misrule. They even had a King
of Misrule. I rather like that. I might be such a King." He struck a
pose. "King of Misrule!" He turned with a grand gesture to Joan. "And
you are my...."

A rock crashed against the side of his head. Another exploded on the
wall next to Glen.

"The secret passageways, Glen!" Joan screamed. "They've come up the
other way. The maps must have been accurate this time."

There was a knot of men at the far bend of the corridor. They carried
torches, and clumps of stones in sacks at their waists. Obviously they
were not the dilettantes of People's Day. They were after more than the
crash of furniture.

"Get the dame, boys!" one of them yelled. They charged forward.
Duckpath was lying across the entrance to the shelter, and the mob was
almost on him.

"We've got to take the stairway, Joan!" Glen cried, fumbling at her arm.

"His key, his key!" She knelt beside Duckpath and pulled the key out
of his hand. The High Official stirred, but did not speak. An amazing
amount of blood had already accumulated on the floor around him.

       *       *       *       *       *

A brick grazed Glen's shoulder, sending him spinning toward the
stairway. Joan rushed after him, and they pounded the stairs together.
"I can get in anywhere with this," she gasped, holding up the key.

Presumably the half-conscious Duckpath had made the oncoming men pause.
Ripping sounds could be heard, and a horrible strangled cry. They were
relieving the High Official of his personal belongings--and probably of
his life.

But the People from the floor below were now surging up the stairs,
joined by four men from the crowd that had first seen Joan. "Get the
dame! Government meat!" The cry came booming up to Glen and Joan.

They stumbled into the corridor at the next landing, realizing they
would never make it up the next flight before the mob reached them.
They were both fumbling with their maps. "There's a small Class-3 right
around here," Joan waved her map in his face. She raced along the wall
for a few yards and then clapped Duckpath's key to it. A panel slid
back and she slipped inside. "Thank God!" She glanced around her.
"Darling, it's only a single. Too bad."

There was obviously no room for another person, Glen saw with dismay.
Joan and the air-freshening apparatus took up all the space.

"Hurry and find another, sweets." She pitched him the Class-2 key, and
blew him a kiss as the door slid shut. It would open again only after
sundown, when People's Day was officially over.

A mass of screaming People burst from the stairway, and raised a great
shout on seeing Glen. He dashed down the corridor, turned left, and
then turned right at the next passageway. He was in a long corridor
ending in a large window opening on the outside.

Glen squinted at his map through eyes that refused to focus. He
suddenly realized they were streaming with tears.

There was a Class-4 shelter several paces along on the left. He rushed
to it and pressed the High Official's key to the square. A dim red
light glowed through the plastic of the key. Full.

He pounded on the panel. Of course it was soundproof. Of course the
shelter was full of wise Civil Servants. Only the fumble-fingered and
the feeble-witted, only the chaff....

The People came pouring around the corner as Glen backed toward the end
of the corridor. A stone sang past him and smashed through the window.
Another caught him in the ribs. He backed faster, now completely
blinded by tears. The growl of hatred from the mob grew louder. A heavy
blow struck his collarbone and he lurched backward. His knees caught,
and then he was flipping over. Out and down.

He sailed through the air.

The pressure of the mob was gone. There was no time to think. There was
just an exhilarating sense of flight, of space, of freedom.

       *       *       *       *       *

Editorial from the _Albany Evening Star_:

                   _A MOST SUCCESSFUL PEOPLE'S DAY_

    People's Day is over again. For four more years peace and order
    reign over the land.

    We feel that this year's Day was one of the most successful in
    history. The damage seemed to be substantially less than usual.
    Among those no longer with us are:

    Oliver Duckpath: Class-2 High Official. Deeply valued, he will
    be missed, as those whom he cared for in his work as Supervisor
    will testify.

    Lizabeth Brennan: Class-6 Religion Consultant.

    Glen Wheatley: Class-6 Secondary School Allocator.

    Thurmond Christian: Class-6....






