A Diversity of Creatures | Page 2

a seat on the chart-room
divan: 'We're tremendously grateful to 'em in Illinois. We've never had
a chance of exercising all the Fleet together. I've turned in a General
Call, and I expect we'll have at least two hundred keels aloft this
evening.'
'Well aloft?' De Forest asked.
'Of course, sir. Out of sight till they're called for.'
Arnott laughed as he lolled over the transparent chart-table where the
map of the summer-blue Atlantic slid along, degree by degree, in exact
answer to our progress. Our dial already showed 320 m.p.h. and we

were two thousand feet above the uppermost traffic lines.
'Now, where is this Illinois District of yours?' said Dragomiroff. 'One
travels so much, one sees so little. Oh, I remember! It is in North
America.'
De Forest, whose business it is to know the out districts, told us that it
lay at the foot of Lake Michigan, on a road to nowhere in particular,
was about half an hour's run from end to end, and, except in one corner,
as flat as the sea. Like most flat countries nowadays, it was heavily
guarded against invasion of privacy by forced timber--fifty-foot spruce
and tamarack, grown in five years. The population was close on two
millions, largely migratory between Florida and California, with a
backbone of small farms (they call a thousand acres a farm in Illinois)
whose owners come into Chicago for amusements and society during
the winter. They were, he said, noticeably kind, quiet folk, but a little
exacting, as all flat countries must be, in their notions of privacy. There
had, for instance, been no printed news-sheet in Illinois for
twenty-seven years. Chicago argued that engines for printed news
sooner or later developed into engines for invasion of privacy, which in
turn might bring the old terror of Crowds and blackmail back to the
Planet. So news-sheets were not.
'And that's Illinois,' De Forest concluded. 'You see, in the Old Days,
she was in the forefront of what they used to call "progress," and
Chicago--'
'Chicago?' said Takahira. 'That's the little place where there is Salati's
Statue of the Nigger in Flames? A fine bit of old work.'
'When did you see it?' asked De Forest quickly. 'They only unveil it
once a year.'
'I know. At Thanksgiving. It was then,' said Takahira, with a shudder.
'And they sang MacDonough's Song, too.'
'Whew!' De Forest whistled. 'I did not know that! I wish you'd told me
before. MacDonough's Song may have had its uses when it was

composed, but it was an infernal legacy for any man to leave behind.'
'It's protective instinct, my dear fellows,' said Pirolo, rolling a cigarette.
'The Planet, she has had her dose of popular government. She suffers
from inherited agoraphobia. She has no--ah--use for Crowds.'
Dragomiroff leaned forward to give him a light. 'Certainly,' said the
white-bearded Russian, 'the Planet has taken all precautions against
Crowds for the past hundred years. What is our total population to-day?
Six hundred million, we hope; five hundred, we think; but--but if next
year's census shows more than four hundred and fifty, I myself will eat
all the extra little babies. We have cut the birth-rate out--right out! For
a long time we have said to Almighty God, "Thank You, Sir, but we do
not much like Your game of life, so we will not play."'
'Anyhow,' said Arnott defiantly, 'men live a century apiece on the
average now.'
'Oh, that is quite well! I am rich--you are rich--we are all rich and
happy because we are so few and we live so long. Only I think
Almighty God He will remember what the Planet was like in the time
of Crowds and the Plague. Perhaps He will send us nerves. Eh, Pirolo?'
The Italian blinked into space. 'Perhaps,' he said, 'He has sent them
already. Anyhow, you cannot argue with the Planet. She does not forget
the Old Days, and--what can you do?'
'For sure we can't remake the world.' De Forest glanced at the map
flowing smoothly across the table from west to east. 'We ought to be
over our ground by nine to-night. There won't be much sleep
afterwards.'
On which hint we dispersed, and I slept till Takahira waked me for
dinner. Our ancestors thought nine hours' sleep ample for their little
lives. We, living thirty years longer, feel ourselves defrauded with less
than eleven out of the twenty-four.
By ten o'clock we were over Lake Michigan. The west shore was

lightless, except for a dull ground-glare at Chicago, and a single
traffic-directing light--its leading beam pointing north--at Waukegan on
our starboard bow. None of the Lake villages gave any sign of life; and
inland, westward, so far as we could see, blackness lay unbroken on the
level earth. We swooped down and