PARADISE NOW?? Paradise Gardens -Chapter 2- Year 2250, The Earth's Surface. "The Selling of Paradise Gardens" Eden Underground...

The Selling of Paradise Gardens

If Madge Chilton wasn’t sure she was alive, it was clear she wasn’t dead. The problem was a matter of personal style and professional necessity. Being pleasant and agreeable was the stock and trade of public relations. Who cared about the emotional burn-out after decades of calculated pleasantness—her real personality mourned like a memory? Eject self-pity, she thought, crossing the eerily deserted lobby of the crumbling New York Sheraton. You can’t afford it. Wasn’t it her reputation for equa nimity that helped her win Paradise Gardens?

Madge reached the peeling brown and gold enam eled elevator doors and hit the Up button. Where was Security at 9:30 Sunday morning? The conference was at ten. Greenfield was expecting her to deliver his guests in good condition. No easy teleconference for this job, the content was too sensitive. Why they needed outside PR and Greenfield had chosen her when he could have had anyone. “Cracker-jack,” he said. Big agency quality yet small enough for the personal touch. Small is right, she thought, examining herself in a mirror beyond re- silvering. She pressed the elevator button and took a last professional look.

Only 5’3” but she could inspire confidence. Madge’s dark brown pageboy bobbed around her jaw line in a precise curve. Her neat dye-cut features were also pre cise, a theme echoed throughout her thin body encased in a vintage Chanel-like suit. And the look needed little maintenance. She made a small adjustment to her pageboy wig with scarcely a thought for the once rare, now not all that uncommon allergy that led to hair loss. Otherwise, she was amazingly intact for thirty-five, especially for those working in non-corporate environments in the late 2250’s.

The elevator banged to a sharp halt a foot below the floor line. So much for the twentieth century, she thought, climbing down onto a powdery gray carpet. No longevity to synthetics, she tsk-ed. Madge pressed “Empire Room,” hoping the elevator could find it. Madge checked her purse for her elevator kit, the pocket acetylene torch and nylon cord for impromptu hikes between floors. She also found her contract with the Sheraton, which spelled out their obligation to supply security, digital display listing the meeting, easel signs, projector and screen for power point, pitchers of drinkable water. They also were to receive a box of physical press kits for corporate honchos and Human Resources.

Behind the softly thudding door of The Empire Room, Madge saw folding tables, her box of kits, a few empty pitchers. Well the security and signs were a bust and once again, she’s have to

hunt for AV equipment. With the collapse of digital media in the late 2030’s, revival projectors and screens were at a premium. The sudden series of sun flares that collapsed the grid were called the hand of God by vigilantes, who destroyed skeletons of systems that remained.

Technology became invisible, private and rudimentary in an unconnected world. With scarce access to materials and suppliers, cities had emergency systems for every day and husbanded energy within guarded compounds. She had paid the Sheraton to insure the risk.

Madge wheezed, spotting dust-laden drapes and, poking out behind them, a projection panel. Her throat tightened. An inhaler was in her purse. Quick puffs took her over dubious rugs to the ladies room. She sat on the floor sprayed into her mouth and breathed. Eyes closed, she willed the relaxation mechanism to take over her body. Once again she reviewed her pitch.

Imagine Paradise Gardens. If you can’t leave the City, go underground! Discover a business situation where you’re completely the boss, on your own estate. No outside interfer ence at all!

Her throat was open, she was breathing easier now, the pitch ran smoothly through her brain.

An initial investment and monthly fee are a small outlay for a uniquely stable environment. What you leave behind:

Madge paused to spray more medicine. Now came the visuals. New York City at rush hour. Close-up on boarded- up subway toll booths and sealed Metro-card swipers. A long line of employees give a transit policeman corporate tokens.

He deposits them in a locked box guarded by another transit employee. Tension, as each passenger is allowed through the gate. Another close shot of the policeman’s rifle. Close to the barrel, a ragged derelict raves about putting “Public” back into transportation. The policeman looks at him indul- gently, relaxing a microsecond. The derelict blows up the sta tion and takes the box. Close on the derelict’s arm sans rags. Revealed are undisguised tattoos, ritual scars distinguishing a gang-man.

Then recognizable images with impact, Madge thought. People blanked–out, transit blow–ups, a gang takeover of the subway, a carpool abduction. Though cor- porate Human resources departments encouraged the use of helmets, a means of processing such trauma, the effect was not complete. Subliminally, many people knew what was going on. And the higher echelons, the corpo rate planners and strategists Nate Greenfield had invited, probably didn’t use the device. The reminder would be powerful.

Madge got up from the floor. She felt well and confident about her pitch for PARADISE GARDENS. As long as the equipment works, her last affirmation, before exiting the bathroom to return to the lobby and meet Nate. She found lobby lights and behind the reception desk some old cache, stock felt-tip and lettered “Empire Room,” when she realized someone was behind her…Nate creepily smiling away. His sense

of humor, she thought with irritation. Someday, maybe never, she would tell him he

smiled like an ecstasy cultist.

“New York’s an open sewer,” he greeted her.

“See Paradise Gardens,” she responded, “Eden under- ground, an environmental throwback to a time that never was.”

“Funny,” said Nate. “Anyone would be convinced. There seems to be a personnel issue?”

“And missing equipment, I want to take a look around.” Madge threw the manual lock behind the reception desk and waited. No siren or flashing lights. She might have been a nihilist for

all they cared. Nate was smiling but with a shade of concern.

“Security is good here despite what you might think,” he said.

“Is that a fact?”

“I would not have signed otherwise. I gave workshops here.”

Madge taped the sign to the front of the reception desk.

“They are still rated the best in New York,” said Nate.

“There are clever honchos who moved their headquarters to Montana thinking the air was still pure.”

“The desire to live. We resuscitated it in Empowerment seminars. Pivotal work, you must know The Enlightenment Group?”

Madge handed him her marker and cardboard. “We need another sign,” she said, instead of her belief that empowerment was an insidious ideology; It appealed to retro New-Age techies. Madge had never been crazy about retro anything. Then she saw the light.

Beyond the front desk was a small fluorescent-lit cor ridor. An inner office, behind a Plexiglas divider, held a beige-looking woman staring at an ancient P.C. Madge knocked on the divider. The woman’s eyes stayed on the screen. Her hands reached for what Madge hoped was not a weapon, perhaps a security button?

“No signs in the lobby,” Madge said.

“Maintenance is not here on weekends. I’m back office not hospitality,” the woman stated indifferently.

“We contracted for items for our conference in the Empire Room, 10 AM?”

“Our clients bring their own staff,” said the woman. “Isn’t that what you are?”

“You have fifteen minutes to supply the items speci fied or I invoke the stop-payment clause.” Madge held up a corporate payment card threateningly.

The woman laid a revolver on her computer table. Bored, she recited, “The second half payment is due before the client leaves. You can guess the enforcement capability of our security staff?”

“Do you have any?” Madge challenged. “I’ll get your contract,” said the woman. “Paradise Gardens,” said Madge, taking it out of her purse. The woman flickered vague recognition. “I will publicize your non-delivery of

services to all existing media outlets. The Sheraton could close. No corporate protection, you’re on the street.”

With clear resentment, the woman accessed the con- tract. She revolved to face Madge. “We got one man and he’s at lunch. I can get you cardboard…”

“I found that,” said Madge with real menace. “Where’s our digital display?”

“People risk coming here, you think they won’t find the Empire Room?”

Madge turned her back in answer. A monitor would record a shot. Would the woman risk it? The voice that called was conciliatory. “When the electronic display broke, it was too hard to get fixed. We have movable type for the lobby sign but not all the letters. If you keep it simple…”

“Someone will meet me at the front desk now?” “I’ll page maintenance. He’ll come when he can.” Madge walked. “I’ll pay when he does.”

The woman regretfully chimed, “Don’t know why they promise you things.”

“Idiocy,” Madge said to Nate waiting at reception.

“You do better encouraging the best than threatening the worst,” said Nate.

“Spare me the platitude?”

“Motivating people is about sensitivity. My work shows you can change lives by changing thoughts.”

“I am among the unenlightened,” said Madge.

“I was a graduate student in psychology when I first took empowerment training. I gained enough confidence to change course and become an urban planner. I listened and heard an inner voice. For me, helping people meant planning better places for them to work. I believe there’s a social destiny embodied in every building. Office buildings should respond to more than a corporation’s image or physical needs.”

If the trouble was all within, why are things so bad on the outside, Madge thought but only nodded; glad when a purposeful man approached the reception desk. “Are you looking for Paradise Gardens?”she inquired brightly.

“Exactly,” said the man.

“I’m Madge Chilton, this is Nate…”

“Michael!” Nate interjected. “You are the first to arrive. Michael Thorpe is a solo entrepreneur.”

“Lone wolf in this group,” said Michael.

“Many of us started that way. Madge is my PR person and a complete joy to work with.”

“Can she say that about you?” asked Michael, with a wink to Madge. “Nate does pontificate. I can’t believe I’m voluntarily subjecting myself, except he’s got a track record for being prescient.”

Charming, Madge observed and handsome but I’ve never heard of the guy. She must have written pieces on or for every major player and organization, even connected entrepreneurs. This guy was below the radar.

“We’ll go up,” said Nate, ushering Michael toward the elevators. “Madge has to see a man about a sign.”

Madge watched them enter the elevator, wondering about the strange connection, as a largely built well- suited executive with a flushed face was upon her. “Para- dise Gardens, Do you know where it is?”

“Empire Room, Nate’s there.”

He extended his hand. “Jack Hagley, EMI Corpora- tion.”

“Madge,” she said, briefly taking it. “Side elevator.”

She pointed her finger in the right direction thinking, EMI, a significant player. Hagley has a tailor on salary somewhere. Perhaps Nate had met him while pushing Empowerment? The program was big bucks in the inspiration business during the first downsizings in the 20th century. An HR darling, Counseling was more cost- effective than retraining employees or retooling factories. When the individual felt entirely responsible for his fate, a dead-end life was obviously a failure of motivation

No longer did employees blame their companies or the government. They blamed themselves. And, if they blamed their stars, astrological counselors abounded. The beginning of our end of the end, she thought. So many corporations went under, dinosaurs sinking into the swamp. Nate’s invitees were the survivors.

A man in shabby Sheraton shirt and overalls appeared with a tray of type.

“We used to have a display…” he began apologetically.

“The type fits the directory?”

“Sure but it’s time-consuming to make words.”

“A very hands-on proposition,” Madge agreed, soon realizing he was unable to spell with the available letters. She arranged the type on his trays, thinking of Scrabble. On this job she was certainly earning her fee.

At last, she was on her way back to the Empire Room with a group of executives, lightly pitching Paradise Gardens. The men needed little convincing. They knew the world would not be a better place to live, at least in their lifetimes. Even she was becoming convinced, wondering if Nate could get her a job. Then she got hold of herself. As long as I can pay my co-op’s security fee.

Outside the Empire Room, Nate signed in the new guests.

“What about the power point?” Madge whispered.

“Functional,” Nate grimaced. “Wait five minutes for stragglers.”

Madge compared the sign-in sheets to her RSVP list. Here were familiar names of CEOs. All men, in fact, all white men with the exception of two Asians and one Hispanic. Where were the women who once assumed themselves equivalent to such men? Self-employed? If fortunate that meant a government check. Now there were no checks;

not even heating fuel for those Unconnected to any corporate entity. Some were des perate enough to burn their homes around them. Nate better have ordered my limo, Madge thought with a jolt of paranoia. She didn’t feel like picking her way through the Midtown bonfires. Her co-op was a safe haven but she had to get there. Not yet.

Softly, Madge let herself into the darkened Empire Room. On the wall panel was an overhead view of a suburban shopping center. It zoomed down inside to a surgery center and its crowded emergency room. People tightly held paper slips. An anxious woman clung to hers. Repeatedly, she asked what number had been called, as she comforted a sick child. Suddenly, that image cut to a miraculously pristine Fifth Avenue; completely empty.

“Where are the people?” asked a resonant voice Madge recognized as Michael Thorpe’s. “On the business estates of Paradise Gardens,” Nate answered. “At lunch hour you’ll see inspired employees walking this avenue.” Behind him was an artist’s rendering of immaculately attractive people cheerfully strolling on Fifth Avenue.

Sequence three was a simulation of Central Park underground. “The way our founding fathers intended it,” Nate intoned, “a luscious panorama of hedges, trees and lawns. The air is so clear you can make out shapes of individual trees.” Close-up was a pond transparent to the bottom with sparkling clean water. “Our architects have created a dream come true. Paradise lost is regained, but commitment is crucial. Major construction will be complete in ten years. You may think we’re rushing but the surface will not be able to support life even in our reduced state.”

Nate turned on the lights and motioned Madge to the lectern. “Employees prefer one fixed payroll deduction for housing over the rollercoaster speculation of market and interest rates,” she began pragmatically. “Ownership of an equivalent unit in Paradise Gardens is a desirable swap. Paradise Gardens is a living situation you control but you must make commitment a priority.”

Am I communicating, she wondered, staring into expressionless faces. Only Thorpe looked something and that was hostility. She expected skepticism, which came from a young Asian man. Perhaps Indonesian or Japanese, she guessed. “Isn’t an underground city extreme? Aren’t you exaggerating the demise of the surface?” he asked. She had a scripted answer but Thorpe didn’t wait.

“Everyone acknowledges that life on the surface is doomed but how can cities underground coexist with the earth’s magnetic core? We’re talking about an iron core with magnetic fields that reverse. How do you make that habitable?” Then, addressing the Asian man, “Do we need to discuss the obvious; unbreathable air, undrink able water, lethal untreatable viruses and flus?”

“Your government hasn’t the will and mine can’t act alone,” said the man. “We have no control over city governments and the Old Fed, whether the government’s garrisoned themselves or not,” said Nate from his seat, eliciting some laughs.

“Abdicated their authority,” said the man. “Why should my company have to pay off your

local drug war- lords?”

“A living situation you control is not an idle slogan,” said Madge soothingly. “We’re talking about business as government. That’s what you purchase. And Michael, our engineers have more than a vision. You can see the prospectus.”

Now the man looked enthusiastic. “My country is working on a bubble over our islands. Isn’t this similar?”

“The United Business Estates is a Federation of Corporate Businesses. Our motto

is, ‘If you can’t leave the city behind, go underground.’ Each business is its own country.

But we govern together.”

Hagley stood up. “Nate, we expect more than a guarantee we can do business underground? We want to know why your plan is the best option for our organizations and our markets.” Hagley sat awash in clapping, as the anxious men proclaimed him their spokesman.

Nate exchanged places with Madge at the podium. “You’ve protected your own property and employees. You’ve even accepted gang members into your security forces. But you are still hostage to the surface. What are your markets but employees and allied companies? Resources are precious and hard to transport. You can call this a cyclical problem, say that renewal is coming. But the truth is you’ll eventually be polluted from within or overrun.”

This was Nate’s story to sell, Madge reminded her- self. He was at the podium. Her job was to pitch facts. She was doing everything within her persuasive power but success was not her responsibility. . Keep your professional distance. All hail competency and collecting my fee, Madge thought, though she was willing these men to share Nate’s profound gamble.

Truth was, Madge couldn’t do a job without emotional involvement. She had to find an emotional connection or her pitch wasn’t convincing. Often the process left her emotionally vulnerable. An artistic approach, one you couldn’t buy just anywhere. She would reward Nate’s confidence, if it killed her.

Thorpe was on his feet. “How are you going to build this underground without collapsing the surface? If you do, considering its toxicity, we’ll be in worse shape than before. What about a blistering mass of fast-turning iron for our new sun? How will we live among intense magnetic fields?”

Nate was the senior authority humoring the young challenger. “We’re going as close to the core as possible and our reinforcements will hold and act as a barrier. There’s risk but consider the plans and personnel. Our team includes the experts responsible for the cities inside the Alps. We have plans built by the Swiss military.”

“Shangri-La, Eldorado! Is Paradise Gardens our last escape fantasy? We’ve pursued myth to the ends of the Earth and now you want to go underground. I had hoped for a reality-based solution,” said Thorpe with palpable disappointment.

“The solution is drastic but so is our situation. We are not a responsible species. Can anyone think otherwise?”

A motion from Nate and Madge turned off the lights. The wall panel displayed a dramatic montage; fires raged on city corners, gangs occupied abandoned office buildings, turf wars between anarchist/nihilist/ fascist gangs and the nonideological tribes dedicated to drugs of ecstatic, hallucinogenic and narcotic properties. Sequences finished with familiar sights;: trashcans burnings, swastikas and anarchist graffiti, beggars crowding sidewalks, skylines in flames.

“Cities vary, though locales are frighteningly the same,” said Nate. “To build Paradise Gardens we need more than your money, your private security forces and their willing support. We must also enlist the Unconnected who would sabotage us. S.O.R., Save Our Race, is the name of a media campaign that will garner support for Paradise Gardens. It’s in the hands of my competent colleague, Madge Chilton.”

Madge saw Thorpe at the door. She could not have a walk-out before her pitch. “Michael, won’t you hear me out?” she asked.

Politely he paused, hand on the door. “Frankly, I don’t have the financial resources for this investment or faith it’s the way to go. I can’t imagine why I received an invitation.”

“You’re in uranium and precious metals,” said Nate, “a successful entrepreneur.”

“Because of my relationships with the surface,” said Thorpe.

Nate’s tone was respectful. “Your company stockpiles rare but essential commodities. You acquire them from impoverished nations and sell to the highest bidding corporation. Increasingly, it must be difficult for you to travel to buy goods and actually receive shipments. Soon your buyers will be underground. If you join Paradise Gardens, we can ensure the survival of your business. Your customer base will not deteriorate and you’ll have protection for your excursions. Eventually, you may even extract resources from the core itself and perhaps sell to the surface.”

Michael was unconvinced.

“Ten years to begin our future said Nate in great earnest. Only Paradise Gardens is offering one.” Michael sat in a chair close to the door. Nate nodded and Madge began.

“We preserve the human races by segregating them by race. Enforcing sexual abstinence within each group allows us to create a new Eden. You may ask what about people of mixed race? Are we racist? Think again. The retroviruses are the tip of the iceberg of diseases out there. Most we cannot identify. All we know is that they are environmentally derived. Some are airborne, others passed through sexual contact. They manifest differently in each race, though no studies have determined long range effects in each gene pool. Without such studies, our new society is doomed. The underground will be segregated so the next generation can be disease-free.”

“If I understand you,” said Thorpe, “racism and fear are the basis for your underground?”

“Fear is fact. We offer hope. No place or person is safe now. Like Noah’s Ark, we preserve the best of the Earth’s races. The beneficiaries will be the first generation to come of age in Paradise Gardens.”

“You are also discriminating in your choice of employees. Does God direct your choice?’” Thorpe added sarcastically.

“Anyone can be tested for lethal disease. If they are clean, they can join the underground, If not accepted, some of their genetic code can be donated. We are offering immortality and employment. S.O.R. is a rallying cry for public acceptance of Paradise Gardens. The departing corporations offer protection to all participants.

Jack Hagley stood up. “My employees constantly request transfers to safer places, but there’s nowhere left to go.”

“Exactly,” Nate quickly followed. “The fed govern ment is suffering rigor mortis. Local authorities can’t hold communities together. They are barely collecting taxes.”

“We’ll know they’re dead when that stops!” Jack hoarsely chimed-in.

“My colleagues talk of building underground,” said the Asian man.

“My future will ensure not just your existence but the future health of your enterprise.”

“We are the ark in the storm,” finished Madge. “In your press kits is a guide to commitment based on the size of your organization. We have included a range because diversity is our object.”

While the audience looked at materials, Madge looked for Nate. He had pulled aside the heavy drapes and was absently gazing out the window. They had appealed to the representatives of the last corporations. Nate needed their support: money, private security, loyalty, yet each rep was concerned with the fate of their own organization. He had given them no hope of survival in the same form, Madge worried. Every organization must become an estate on Paradise Gardens.

Nate caught her glance and signaled they should once more exchange places. As she passed, he smiled and whispered, “Thanks for saving Thorpe. I like the man…”

Becoming a business estate is like becoming a sovereign country,” Nate began. “The governing center; the soul of our linked nations, are my psychologicians. More about them later. First the preservation of your invaluable organizations.

Trust was the stumbling block, thought Madge. With the public contempt of psychology, couldn’t he have found a better name?

“We stress the autonomy of your organizations,” Nate reassured his audience. “The borders of each estate will approximate your size and projected growth. You reveal to us your goals and resources, products and services you have in development. Our common database determines the workforce necessary to produce your goods and consume them. Growth with consistent gains over time is the result.”

“Let me get this straight,” Thorpe interrupted, “You will be producing people as a facet of corporate planning?”

“We will be safeguarding the marketplace.”

“Why do you want my company, when you can make me superfluous? Especially, when you can produce people to satisfy corporate needs?”

“You’re a risk taker and somewhat unpredictable. Since the beginning of time, human beings have desired to minimize danger and maximize their physical well-being. We can plan to eliminate danger, but we need your genes to keep us vital. History will be sprung on us but we must also plan.”

Thorpe got up from his seat with resolve. “Any plan that includes the manufacture of people is not for me.”

“Take your materials,” said Madge. “You might change your mind. Consider overcrowding in a world without S.O.R., a movement and a name for diseases we must contain”

“Nate, I can’t in good conscience oblige. Planned diversity isn’t my idea of nature.”

“Can you in good conscience leave? How far will nostalgia take you? People have been privately cloned for a long time.”

“Another reason life expectancy diminishes. It’s not just disease,” Michael Thorpe shot back. Softly, the door thudded behind him. Though cushioned by the powdery carpet, it resounded in the silent room. Nate surveyed faces, waiting for other dissenters.

“May I show you what enables us to proceed with Paradise Garden?”

Madge was already killing the lights, activating the wall panel.

“It may look like a vintage filing cabinet on wheels, but it’s a supercomputer capable of retaining the genetic information of the human race and the requirements of your corporation. Not just projections of how many individuals will be needed for your work, but the qualities of those individuals and the number of people essential to consume your products.”

“That means,” said Hagley, “that we will not have to respond to unexpected change?”

“Yes. And profit will be predictable. Ultimately, the economic process will become self-sustaining and you will be free to use your organizations for higher pursuits.”

“Where do the psychos come in?” asked Hagley. “Psychologicians,” said Madge clearly.

“A computer cannot save civilization,” said Nate, “but it gives us hope of survival. It will contain the best of our thought and a means to continuance. It’s monitored by specialists we call Psychologicians.”

“Do you have another agenda?” asked a thin blonde man. “Businesses want prosperity forever.

You’re offering it and then saying there’s something beyond that, a new faith in a database? We ask that you leave our religion alone or count the Mormons out.”

Hagley laughed. There was nervousness in it. The other CEOs hung on his words. “Faith in decline? Natural process? You can go outside and see nature in its death throes.”

“Jack,” said Nate in a comforting voice, “history repeats itself but never in the same form. Our society will be based on economic stability, but it will be enlightened. Excellence achieved through perseverance; levels of quality to strive for, and rewards at each level. Materialism will not be the only arena for excellence.”

Dancing around it, Madge thought. We have them right where we can sell it.

“The Psychologicians are a special class of advisors to the United Business Estates. They’ll combine the thinking of our best philosophers, priests and ministers, psychologists, psychiatrists, ethicists, social workers, and economists. From the mix of these very different disciplines will come an overview of penetrating depth and wisdom. These special advisors will work with you to determine the practical direction of our world.”

Hagley’s face resembled Thorpe’s before he walked out. “Are you the first of these great leaders? The program I can buy. The rest I don’t understand

Stick to the text, Nate, Madge silently willed. Nate paused and looked out to see the eyes following his words. They were slow and clear. “We’re not an apocalyptic cult. The Psychologicians oversee the database. They’re a specially trained class of people who clarify the objectives of the UBE. As the needs and desires of the estates change, they alter existing programs. A world with minimum of conflict cannot be achieved without a governing ideology.”

“What about the separation of Church and State?” asked the Hispanic man standing. “Are you just going to write that off?”

The blonde man also stood. “In our Church, we recognize faith as the positive force in business.”

“Nate, you’re asking us to take a lot on your word,” said Hagerty with an edge.

“Our database can preserve the best of us: our sci ence and art, our philosophy and history, the basis of the world’s religious and secular enlightenments. Our new world will be based on the old, that’s all I guarantee.”

How thin is the line between megalomania and idealism, wondered Madge, especially when dealing with a visionary and his utopian experiment? Yet she believed in Nate though he was probably influenced by the Empowerment Group. He aroused that kind of trust, even in the powerful men in the Empire Room. Unconsciously they had formed a standing semi-circle.

It was a crucial moment. Nate, know when it;s time to back off, she willed silently.

“I want to know how you plan to subdue the surface,” interrupted the Asian man. “I don’t intend to sacrifice my whole defensive force.”

“Unfortunately,” said Nate, “that’s a risk we’ll all bear, until the S.O.R. campaign gains us public support. Our defense teams will cooperate so no one organization is overburdened.”

“I’m not interested,” said the Mormon. “We are against the religious homogeneity you describe. It would dilute our moral base.”

“Our database will preserve the ethical basis of all beliefs, your Prophet, Christ, Buddha and Mohammad. We will preserve the ethics, patriarchs, practices, and belief systems of all major religions.”

The Mormon was unconvinced. “I want a ban on psychology—workshops in diversity training, self-knowledge through therapy, and other such programs. Besides being ineffective, I believe they’ve contributed to our current disintegration.”

“Enlightenment through service is a creed we can all adhere to,” answered Nate. “Excellence and high performance will be character traits of all Superior employees. Think about employees with the best traits of your most valued people. Please consider that each estate can choose not just the kind of worker desired, but religion and political ideology. Only agreement has tolerance for the governing body of Psychologicians.”

“I’m not getting your values,” the Mormon began angrily.

Nater was pragmatic, “Love, children, knowledge, respect for authority; a life of enlightened action with the best values of tradition.”

“And this miracle will be accomplished by your data- base?”

“In the U.B.E, we marry secular materialism with the emotionally galvanizing effect of religion.”

“There are many kinds of pollutants,” said the Mormon, leaving the Empire Room.

“You are currently fighting to keep your companies alive, let alone your product lines,” said Nate, surveying the room. “Customers die, potential ones are not born, and so ends the means of consumption.”

“We know the problem!” said Hagerty, irritated. “I’m not breathing the air or walking the streets. Count me in.”

“Good,” said Nate. “I ask all of you to think carefully. Can you contribute to a vision beyond your immediate needs? If not, the U.B.E. will soon repeat the errors of the surface.”

“In our world,” Madge clarified, joining Nate at the lectern, “demand does not exceed need. There’s a symbiotic relationship between the amount of goods produced and people. Each receives according to use and ability. Each is positioned in life at the best level to make use of them. And they can pass advantages on to any offspring they merit within the system.”

“Can you assure us it is the best option for the future?” asked the Asian man.

“That depends on our ability to monitor the database. Each corporation will exist on its own estate and operate within its sphere of influence. The psychologicians work with you. Our collective needs will produce the most stable, prosperous society possible.”

“Won’t superior human beings make my business obsolete?” asked another man Madge recognized asa CEO from a pharmaceutical giant.

“No,” said Nate. “Our Superior employees, like our Averages, will recognize a higher order, but they’ll still be human. They’ll purchase cosmetics.”

“What about hair restorer? Will any be bald?” asked the same man, to a laughter Madge found very welcome.

“Without a doubt pattern baldness will make it through some gene combinations,” said Nate.

Your employees,” Madge added, “will be people of both Superior and Average abilities; workers and con — sumers of future products. Their betterment and your profits go hand-in-hand. Let us leave you with a final image.”

Nate turned out the lights and projected an archi tect’s rendering of life on an estate. The camera panned bright sun-filled corridors with glass floors and chrome ceilings. On glass balconies, attractive

employees in colored tunics walked back and forth with easy athleticism. “Total psychological adjustment complements perfectly formed bodies. Ideals match.”

“They’re inhuman,” objected a voice Madge thought she recognized. “Are they capable of letting loose, acting outrageous, making trouble? It’s our nature to rebel against constraints.”

“If there was such a need, they would be capable,” answered Nate.

“We’re talking about a natural process, rebellion, right? A way to differentiate the self?”

“In adolescence, yes,” said Nate, “but don’t you think we’ve suffered enough from that freedom? It’s cre ative, but consider the part unfettered individualism has played in the demise of our surface. We fanned it for sales but forgot the downside, the frustrated nihilism that’s brought down our cities.”

“Eros-thanatos, the human drive for sex and death. I can’t see how you can breed that out of the genes,” said the same voice, emanating from a shadowy figure visible in the slightly open doorway. Madge turned the lights on Michael Thorpe.

“It is natural selection,” challenged Nate. “Destruc tive levels of the drive will be bred out, but we can’t go on without it entirely.”

“He’s right,” said the Hispanic man. “What’s creativity but the instinct to destroy in order to start over? We are starting over but this time we won’t destroy ourselves.”

“To that inspiring idea,” said Nate. “May I conclude that I look forward to seeing you all in Paradise Gardens.”