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Title: The York Problem

Author: Herbert D. Kastle

Illustrator: Paul Orban

Release date: March 8, 2019 [eBook #59036]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YORK PROBLEM ***

The York Problem

BY HERBERT D. KASTLE

Warfare, diplomacy, art, music, science, religion—have all

failed to secure peace for the world. But still there is hope

for Mankind. Another experiment remains: change the color

line—and let's see what happens....

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Worlds of If Science Fiction, February 1955.

Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that

the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

They sat around the table, thirteen men dressed in the prescribed blue of their office. They spoke quietly, without tension, and they all seemed alike. Commissioner Dobu summed up this meeting of the Earth Council of Prevention and Correction of Non-Conformity.

"It is to be regretted," he said, "that the juvenile deliquency problem remains unsolved in York. It is also to be noted, and included in the local reports of the sector captains, that the problem has existed some six hundred years, since 3046, speaking in general figures. Therefore, the fault lies not with us—though this point is to be hinted at rather than stated per se, Peaceful Sirs."

The council members accepted his aside, with brief nods and briefer smiles, for the problem of York was nothing to smile at.

Dobu cleared his throat and continued. "Since the Federated Galactic Bill of Inherent Human Rights forbids psychiatric treatment or syndromic surgery against an individual's wishes, and since the people of York under the fanatic tutorship of their church masters consider psychiatry a sacrilege, there is no easy solution—no humane solution. But people who have refused all advice, aid and education for six hundred years no longer deserve humane treatment. Therefore, as we have done on so many other occasions, and as has been done by our predecessors, we present what we feel is the only solution. Namely, that York as a community, and the people of York as a whole, be eliminated in whatever manner the Federated Galactic Council sees fit. Sterilization appears to be the method most suitable. But even euthanasia would not be out of order."

Mala Wang yawned as she read the commissioner's report. It was like all the others she'd sent to Galactic Council in the four years she'd been with the CPCNC. And nothing had ever happened; not unless you counted the Report-Received flashes.

She inserted a fresh strip into the feeder, worked the keys efficiently, and began sending. "Federated Galactic Council, Centauri Two, Code CPCNC-Earth. Most Peaceful Sirs: In the meeting of July, 3646, the problem of York, its adult inhabitants, and more particularly its juvenile delinquents...."

Some forty minutes later, she was finished. She shut off the feeder, opened the ejector, and waited. Before she'd finished buffing the nails on her left hand, the ejector began clicking. "Report Received" emerged on the tape. Mala shrugged and pushed back her chair, but another series of clicks stopped her.

"Urgently request operator stand by for results emergency session, Federated Galactic Council, being called at this time. Business: Continuing reports of CPCNC-Earth on York Sector."

Mala stared at the tape, and slowly her eyes grew wide and her lips parted. Then she threw the inter-departmental switch and rang Commissioner Dobu. As soon as Dobu's face materialized on the screen, she said, "Peaceful Sir! I've just received a message that indicates the Galactic Council is going to take action on your reports!"

A half-hour later, the Earth Council of Prevention and Correction of Non-Conformity was reconvened, waiting for the Galactic Council's decision. They were all wondering whether it would be sterilization or euthanasia.

John Stevens was irritable. He'd been that way for weeks now, or was it months? Anyway, life was getting to be a foul-blooded pain!

He saw the empty can, kicked it, watched it bounce along the cracked pavement. When it stopped bouncing, he was again faced with his problem: What to do on a hot July afternoon?

He considered going down to Frank's Vizio Palace, but decided against it. Not that he was afraid of the Sinais, but it was too hot to invade enemy territory alone. Besides, he had brained all this month's vizios and new ones wouldn't be in for at least a week. So he leaned against the tenement's warped wall and looked for more cans to kick. On a day like this, he thought, a kid could almost wish vacation was over and school back in operation.

Then he saw Pete Smith and waved a languid hand. "How's the pure-blood?" he asked.

"Living," Pete answered. "And I can see Mr. Aryan's doing all right for—"

Both froze as the patrol bubble turned the corner on racing treads and pulled up short. John considered making a run for it, but saw it was too late. Pete had arrived at the same conclusion.

"They picked our lips on the vocal-box," Pete whispered. "We're in trouble."

John didn't have a chance to answer. The two Blasts were out of their bubble and coming toward them. The tall one said mechanically, "Section twenty-seven, Earth Ordinances, using profane language on public lanes. Subsection twelve, covering classification of terms of racial-superiority as profanity due to its negation of established fact and the harmful effects—"

"Oh, shove it, Blast," Pete muttered. "We know the public scroll. So you picked us up on the box. So what?"

The CPCNC officer looked at him. "You people never will learn. Why don't you accept the status quo, learn to live like human beings?"

"That's what I always say," John murmured sarcastically.

The Blast stepped in and slapped him, hard. John rocked back on his heels, clenched his fists, but did nothing. The Blast slapped him again, not quite so hard but with a great deal more deliberation. John bit his lip and dropped his eyes.

"Yeah," he said. "Why don't we act like human beings!"

The second Blast, a shorter, heavier man, waved his companion away. "Easy, Farn. Don't let this Yorker get you." He turned to the two adolescents, something like pity in his brown eyes. "We'll let it pass, this time. But we've got you down on our photopads. The next offense means Re-education House."

Neither boy said a word, but John's cheek burned and something in his chest burned even more.

The conciliatory Blast hesitated; then said, "Why don't you boys come down to Composite Youth Center? We've got the latest vizios, athletic—"

"We're members of Race-Through-God," John said, a quiet satisfaction in his voice. "The scroll says we can't be forced to attend CYC. Our master told us that. We go to meetings regularly."

Farn, the Blast who had slapped John, whirled around and stamped back to the bubble. "C'mon, Stan!" he called. "This filthy slum sickens me!"

Stan nodded, but lowered his voice to a confidential murmur. "You'll never get out of York, be issued a space visa, or do anything worth while if you stick to the race-church stuff, boys. You don't know what the Galaxy is like—the planets, the beautiful cities. It's really something. Just sign up for CYC. After that, you can qualify for Integration and meet some really beautiful ladies."

"We got our own ladies," John said, sullen and irritated. And his emotions bothered him. He should be enraged, after the slaps and sacriligeous lecture; not irritated. "We don't want Integration."

Stan shrugged wearily. "All right. So you'll stick in this archaic hole, and eventually try to kill one of us, and end up on a euthanasia table. And one day the Galactic Council will get fed up and clean out the lot of you." He turned to the bubble, speaking over his shoulder. "Watch your steps. Any gang fights, stealing, or profanity will get you six months. The Blasts in Re-education won't slap—they'll use electros on your fannies!"

When the bubble went down the street and around the corner, Pete spat eloquently. John was still fighting his irritation, his vast sense of dissatisfaction, but he spat too, and said, "Man, I'd love to do a carve on all Outsiders!"

"John!" a shrill voice called. "John, you getting into trouble again?"

John turned light blue eyes to the left and looked at the ground floor window. "Oh, ease up, Ma! Can't an Aryan stand up to a foul-blood Outsider?"

"John!" the gray-haired, prematurely-old woman screeched. Her eyes darted up and down the street and her voice dropped to an intense whisper. "Don't you use those words in public! A profanity charge is all we need, what with your father drinking—"

John tried to interrupt, but she raised her voice again and shouted him down.

"Don't you go getting into trouble, bringing those Blasts around bothering God-fearing folk who want to be left alone! It's you kids that make it tough for the rest of us. That rabble would let us be if you—"

John rubbed his short-cropped blond hair in exasperation, and stalked to the corner. Pete followed, and they paused near the curb, ignoring the tirade which continued behind them. Finally, the woman stopped speaking and drew her head back inside the window.

The street was old, cracked in many places. But it didn't matter. The only traffic was the ramshackle public snake which ran once every half-hour, and an occasional transport, and the Blast bubbles which were constantly on the prowl for profanity, theft, attacks on Outsiders, and juvenile delinquency.

"For once in a foul-blood lifetime," John exploded, "let's cut a different caper! I'm sick of fighting the Sinais and Albines and Sons of Musso. I want Upper City, where we can pick up some high loot."

Pete's thick jaw fell open and he stared at his blond, slender companion. "Upper City! But the Blasts—"

"It's a free Galaxy, ain't it?" John snapped. "We're allowed anywhere our disks take us, ain't we? So I want to travel Upper City."

"They'll watch us," Pete muttered. "Even if we could grab some loot, I don't like it there. My old man works as custodian in a food vendro. I went with him a few times and I didn't like it. The Outsiders look at us as if we smelled bad, and they don't sit near when we're on the snake. I tell you it's tough, John. Let's get a few of the boys and raid the Sons of Musso."

John hesitated, and then decided that as leader of the Adolphs he had to follow through on what he'd said. He moved into the street and walked casually to the snake stop. "If you're jetting out, okay. But I don't operate that way."

Pete didn't move. "You been there lately?" he jeered. "You know what it's like?"

John acted as if he were too disgusted to answer. He'd been to Upper City several times, but that was years ago, when he was a baby and his mother had gone against the Divine-Angel-Church master's wishes and had him inoculated against cancer. Everyone was doing it on the sly anyway, so she took him for his three shots. Then she'd switched to the Race-Through-God sect, and it was like the other, only there the master let it be known he'd taken his anti-cancer shots like everyone else. But John didn't remember much of Upper City, except that the people had looked at them with amusement and some contempt. He'd wondered why they did, but when he asked his mother she'd said he'd find out for himself.

He had. The foul-blood trash! They had no pride. And they were all alike!

He searched for a disk as the snake appeared at the corner. The jointed series of cars moved slowly on its tractor-like treads, turbo exhaust filtering through the block-tube high on the engine. Each year it seemed to get slower, noisier, shabbier.

John stepped into car three as the snake stopped. He placed his disk in the slot, waited a moment, then moved inside as the Clear buzzer sounded. He'd tried to fake his disk a few times, cutting imitations from plastic cans, but the auto-guard was too damn smart. It always rang for the Blast each snake carried in a little booth hinged to the last car.

He found a seat near a window and glanced around. Not half-filled this early in the day. Later, when four o'clock came, it would be jammed. He turned to the window and watched the familiar shabby streets flow by. As they entered Sinai territory, he felt a tightening of the stomach muscles. But then he laughed and remembered he was on the snake, not invading. Nevertheless, when two big kids got on and took seats across the aisle, he knew a moment of fear. They were Sinais, all right. He'd seen the muscular one in a caper last winter. And they knew him for an Adolph.

They exchanged glares, and John kept his face tough. The muscular Sinai took out a knife, holding it low so no one but John could see and began to run his finger over the blade. John reached for his own sticker; then stopped. He grinned and whistled ONE GALAXY, ONE PEOPLE. The Sinais didn't like it. It was equivalent to calling them Outsiders. But their corner came along and they had to hop it. John turned back to the window. He'd get his sticker into that muscular one; see if he didn't!

"Your sister sleeps with Outsiders," a soft voice murmured.

John jerked around, and saw the three kids shuffling past his seat. They grinned at him and the soft-spoken one said, "You don't like it, Adolph? Step off at Benito Street and we'll have it out."

John controlled his rage. "Some other time," he said, voice calm. "I'm capering Upper City today. Maybe you boys would like to declare a truce and come along?"

They all stared at him. Then the one who did all the talking said, "Hell, he's a foul-blood liar!"

"Sure," John said as they slumped into seats. "Follow me to the Split and see."

"Okay," another Son of Musso said. "We will." And the three of them grinned at him.

John grinned back, but he felt far from Aryan inside. Now he wouldn't be able to jet out. Now he'd really have to cross the Split.

He began to sweat, hoping the snake would break down along the route, that a Blast would stop him from crossing, that the Earth would blow up! Anything to keep from having to cross the Split. He knew now that he'd never meant to do it—just take a ride, kill some time, and bluff Pete when he got back.

Ten minutes later, the Last Corner sign lit up at car end. The three Sons of Musso strolled out into the street and waited, standing quietly under the eyes of the Blasts who were always around the dry river bed which separated York from Upper City.

This was the Split, and John had to leave the car. He came out, walked past the three kids toward the span, and stopped at the gate. "One to Upper City," he said, throat dry.

The Blast gave him a sharp look. "Why do you want to go there, boy?"

"Free Galaxy, ain't it?" John muttered.

The Blast shrugged, handed him a transfer disk, lifted the gate. John had a momentary surge of satisfaction as he heard the Sons of Musso talking excitedly behind him. It wasn't every day that a kid from York invaded Upper City. Then he was at the shiny new snake and his stomach tightened and he was sweating.

He kept walking, got on the fifth car, took a seat in the last row. He was the only passenger, but he'd seen others waiting in the cars he'd passed. Older folks. People who worked in Upper City, doing various menial tasks for the Outsiders.

When the Blast walked through on his way to the back-box, John ran to the port and looked out across the one-piece duralume span. The Sons of Musso were still there. Before he could make a decision, the snake eased forward fluidly and then hit high speed.

John Stevens was frightened, but he composed his features and returned to his seat. He sat straight and tried to remember what the master had said about maintaining dignity in front of Outsiders, showing them the stuff pure-bloods were made of. But the words fled his mind as he gazed out of the window.

Upper City was really something. Wide thoroughfares lacing over and under each other in stop-free throughways. Thousands—no, millions of private bubbles rolling along with gaily-dressed passengers! Low, square, bright-looking buildings. Trees and grass and flowers everywhere. And then, for one glorious moment, they were in Bunche Spaceport, the greatest on Earth!

John drank in the huge, upright needles that stood gleaming in the July sun, waiting to blast off for planets where even greater cities and spaceports were established. If only he, John Stevens of York, could get inside one of those ships and go—

Deep bitterness hit him, and all the irritation he'd felt for the past weeks was back. They don't let us do anything! he thought. They keep us poor; in dirt and ignorance! That's what the master had said. And he'd added that the Outsiders were afraid of Aryans. That's why they persecuted them.

John was seeing the full majesty of Upper City now, the spacious walks and busy drives and sun-filled buildings. And he couldn't help wondering why his people refused Integration.

He suddenly realized that the car had filled with passengers, with Outsiders. He also realized that the twin seat next to his was just about the only one left in the jammed car. He felt his face stiffen, felt the hatred rise in his blood; and then the girl flounced up the aisle and hesitated, looking at him. She sat down.

Not more than sixteen, John thought. Just right for him. And she sure was cute. Lovely golden skin—

He stopped the thoughts there.

It wasn't right to think that way. The master at Race-Through-God wouldn't approve. Not that John attended church regularly, as he'd told the Blast back in York. But still, such thoughts weren't right. They smacked of Integration.

He kept his head still, but flicked his eyes around the crowded car. They'd made another stop, and now Outsiders were standing. They didn't seem to resent him, or, for that matter, pay him any particular attention. It was just that he felt different, and that made him angry, and that led to his standing up and moving to the port and getting off at the next corner—all this instead of being sensible and staying on the snake until it returned to the span and York.

But even as he stepped into the street, he was remembering how that girl had looked, with her big brown eyes and dark hair and golden skin.

He muttered, "Damned, non-Aryan, foul-blood Outsiders!" Then walked quickly down the street when he realized he'd used terms of racial-superiority. Getting picked up here for profanity wouldn't be fun. He'd get six months in Re-education House for sure.

It was a hot, bright day and Upper City was clean, fragrant and beautiful, but John Stevens wasn't enjoying himself. He was filled with nagging irritation, growing angrier by the second without knowing exactly why. He began to search the eyes of people passing by—well-dressed Outsiders in their one-piece coroplast suits, colors ranging through all the hues of the rainbow. He felt shabby in his old brown plasts. Those eyes seemed to be sneering at him. They seemed to be looking at him with disgust and contempt.

He was about to turn around and go back to the snake stop, about to obey the warning bell that had begun ringing in his brain, when it happened. It wasn't much, and yet it was the last straw—the one that broke the normal behavior patterns and left him at the mercy of his own emotions.

A young woman, sleek and well-groomed, was passing with a little boy of about five. The child stopped dead on seeing John. In spite of himself, John stopped too. The child stared at John, eyes wide and filled with wonder.

"Mommy!" he shrilled. "Mommy, look at him!"

The woman tried to hush her son, to drag him away, but the child eluded her grasp and danced back, still staring at John. "Look at him, Mommy! What a funny color—"

John raised his hand as if to strike the child. He didn't mean it, not really, but he wanted to stop that high-pitched voice, stop those amazed eyes from examining him. The child screamed and ran to his mother. The mother shrank back, enfolding the little boy in her arms, and shouted, "Help! Help me, please!"

John turned and ran, almost into the arms of a tall Blast. He stopped, whirled around, and headed back past the woman and child. He cut left at the next corner, ran faster than ever before in his life, cut right, and left, and kept going until the breath rasped through his throat like liquified metal. But even as he ran, he was without fear. He was too angry now to be frightened. And it was anger such as he'd never before experienced. A sickening, confusing, red-hazed mélange of emotion that had about it a nightmare quality.

He had to slow down, and saw that it was all right. He'd lost that Blast, left the entire scene far behind. "Lousy foul-blooded Outsiders!" he panted, and at the same time knew that it wasn't just the Outsiders. It was his mother, and his father, and the slum, and the gangs, and the poverty. It was his life he hated, his life he raged at.

This then was the irritation he'd felt in the past weeks, now transformed by Upper City into a maniacal rage.

John Stevens was leader of the Adolphs. John Stevens wasn't even close to being the biggest or strongest boy in his crowd. But he was the smartest. And this raw, basic, but still superior intellect worked against him as he stalked the wide avenues of Upper City.

A caper, he thought. He'd pull a big caper, return with loot, justify this visit, take out his anger on these people—these scum who had made his life so poor.

Or was it his mother and father who had made his life poor? Was it the masters who had done that? Why had he come here when it brought such confusion, such pain?

Another quick change of thought. He blocked everything from his mind but the red haze of rage; fed it, allowed it to grow to the point where it swallowed everything but his desire to strike back.

He didn't know where he was, where he was going, and he no longer saw the Outsiders. He had regained his wind now, and began walking quickly, almost running.

It was later, much later, when he finally found the right street, and the right vendro, and the focal point for his hatred. Clothing. New, bright, expensive coroplast suits. Eight hundred disks and up! More than his father made in three months. More than John Stevens had ever seen in a lump sum.

The street was quiet, empty of pedestrians. He walked past the vendro, casing it with eyes that saw nothing but inner hate. Something sane—something still resisting the never-before-experienced rage—cried out that he wasn't being smart, that he wasn't checking for Blasts, that he couldn't think straight enough for a caper, especially one in Upper City. But he was back at the vendro now, and he was going inside.

There was only the commersh, and an old man magnetting dust from the floor. The commersh was an Outsider, naturally. But the old man was one of York's folk, and this made John Stevens lose whatever grain of caution he might have retained. His folk, slaving for these scum!

The commersh was moving toward him, face bland, only his dark eyes showing something other than serenity at seeing a kid from York. "Are you sure you have the right—" he began, and then gasped as John pulled his knife and snapped the eight-inch blade free of the haft.

John pressed the blade against the Outsider's stomach and said, "Five suits, the best, and I'm with you every foul-blood inch of the way!"

"Don't, son!" the old man said from the side. "Get out before—"

John half-turned his head, and then felt the numbness strike his body. He stood there, completely rigid for a moment, and then found he could breathe and move his lips and shift his eyes. The commersh stepped back, pressed a red button on the counter.

"You Yorkers must be insane," he said mildly. "Do you think we haven't got adequate protection against criminals of our own group, not to say such pitiful amateurs as you? I can paralyze a whole vendro full of people with this little ornament on my wrist." He showed John the metallic strap and small case. "It's six months Re-education House for you."

The old man shuffled closer, peered at John, said, "The Blasts will be here soon. You can talk. Tell me your name and I'll get word to your folks and your master. Maybe they can help."

The rage was so strong now that John barely heard the old man. He was screaming inside, bellowing insane things that couldn't get through his rigid throat. But the words, "You can talk," penetrated, and he calmed himself.

He tried hard, and squeaking sounds came through his lips. He shaped the words, and then had nothing to say. There wasn't anything bad enough, anything that could hurt this Outsider, anything that could penetrate his shield of superiority.

And then he remembered the ancient word, the forbidden word, the cardinal sin that meant death if used. He'd heard it one night when his father had gotten hold of enough medicinal prychol for a long drunk, and had ranted and raved against the Outsiders.

"Nigger!" John screamed. "Niggers, all of you! Billions of foul-blood Niggers! Planets full of lousy Niggers! All alike! All brown! Only we are white! Only we are pure-bloods! Only we aren't Nig—"

The paralysis intensified, everything stopped, he couldn't breathe, he wanted desperately to breathe. And, more than that, in a final instant of clarity, he wanted to say that it was all a mistake—everything he'd said, everything he'd thought, everything he'd lived by. He too would be a golden brown, like the billions of others. It was his own folk who were the outsiders, but it wasn't their fault either. It was the fault of those few thousand who'd refused Integration when all the rest of Earth's population had decided on mixed breeding as a solution to human conflict. And that was six hundred years ago, and the cults had formed in York, and no one knew how to break the pattern of hatred, envy and fear.

But he was falling into a long tube that had no light and had no end.

That girl on the snake, that lovely girl with the sweet smell and soft eyes and golden skin, that composite of all the white, black, brown, yellow and red races of Earth would never be his. The space ships and wonderful planets would never be his. Never, he thought, because I am dead.

He was wrong. He wasn't dead. He opened his eyes later and vomited and was then hauled to his feet and stripped and given fresh clothing. He was taken by two Outsiders—only he didn't think of them that way any more, only used the term because he had no others—was taken by them to a white room and pushed inside and left there alone as the port slid shut.

A voice spoke from the smooth white walls. "CPCNC-Earth urges you to accept psychiatric treatment."

"No," John said automatically. He didn't want his brain touched. There were stories told by the masters—

The voice spoke again. "Very well. You have used the term of utmost profanity to villify a citizen of Upper City. The Galactic Scroll calls for a penalty of death. However, because of your youth, and probable syndromic history, the sentence is reduced to ten years in Re-education House. Have you anything to say?"

John fought not to cry out. Ten years! That was worse than death! Six months was enough to break a man, and ten years would drive him mad.

He'd wanted to say he was ready for CYC. He'd wanted to say he was anxious for the time when he'd be eligible for Integration, when he'd be sent to another part of Earth and allowed to mingle with the golden-skinned people and so lose his hatreds, fears and tensions. But now he couldn't. Because it wasn't a matter of free choice any longer. It was an escape from terror, from ten years in hell.

Later, he was told that this room would be his home for the next ten years. He didn't answer the unseen voice, nor touch the food that was given him through the minor-port. He decided he would use the only means of escape men had ever found in Re-education House. He would starve himself to death.

He meant it.

In the council room not far away, the thirteen members of CPCNC-Earth were considerably more subdued. They'd had an hour of waiting, and an hour of thinking. Each was now wrestling with his conscience, wondering what portion of responsibility was his in the coming decision. Of course, everyone in the Galaxy agreed that York's eight hundred thousand residents had to be eliminated since they were incorrigible race-god fanatics. But now that the moment was almost at hand, sterilization seemed quite drastic, and euthanasia—

To a man, they looked up as Mala entered the chamber. "Most Peaceful Sir," she began, stopping before Commissioner Dobu's chair. But Dobu snatched the transcription from her hand, mumbled over the code-identification and formal introductions, and read the meat of the report in a voice that trembled only slightly.

"After years of work, our scientists on Centauri Two have produced the answer to the York problem. Four million units, liquid, of a new geneological agent is en route to Earth, York Sector, for immediate administration to the white population. The effect produced by induction of this agent into the bloodstream will be an instantaneous change of pigmentation to accepted norm, and subsequent loss of racial tension. Change is permanent, and will be transmitted to offspring. Administration will be initiated by paralysis of entire white population, said method to be launched immediately. Shipment of geneological agent should arrive Bunche Spaceport, 22 hundred hours, day-this-report. Within five days after change of pigmentation, population of York is to be separated into family units and sent to as many different Galactic sectors as is possible. This order applies to all white residents, not excluding those found outside of York, or those in re-education institutions."

John Stevens didn't hear the shout that went up from thirteen relieved and delighted men. He was entering the second hour of his fast unto the death.

He couldn't know that he'd fail to complete a single day of it.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YORK PROBLEM ***

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The York Problem

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