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167
The Status Civilization
·
Robert Sheckley
160
He
made
out
the
dim
shades
of
lamps
and
furniture,
the
dull
gleam
of
a
painting
on
the
wall,
a
piece
of
statuary
on
an
ebony
pedestal.
Needlebeam
in
hand,
he
stepped
into
the
next
room.
And
came
face
to
face
with
the
informer.
Staring
at
the
informer's
face,
Barrent
remembered.
In
an
overpowering
flood
of
memory
he
saw
himself,
a
little
boy,
entering
the
closed
classroom.
He
heard
again
the
soothing
hum
of
machinery,
watched
the
pretty
lights
blink
and
flash,
heard
the
insinuating
machine
voice
whisper
in
his
ear.
At
first,
the
voice
filled
him
with
horror;
what
it
suggested
was
unthinkable.
Then,
slowly,
he
became
accustomed
to
it,
and
accustomed
to
all
the
strange
things
that
happened
in
the
closed
classroom.
He
learned.
The
machines
taught
on
deep,
unconscious
levels.
The
machines
intertwined
their
lessons
with
the
basic
drives,
weaving
a
pattern
of
learned
behavior
with
the
life
instinct.
They
taught,
then
blocked
off
conscious
knowledge
of
the
lessons,
sealed
it--and
fused
it.
What
had
he
been
taught?
For
the
social
good,
you
must
be
your
own
policeman
and
witness.
You
must
assume
responsibility
for
any
crime
which
might
conceivably
be
yours.
The
face
of
the
informer
stared
impassively
at
him.
It
was
Barrent's
own
face,
reflected
back
from
a
mirror
on
the
wall.
He
had
informed
on
himself.
Standing
with
the
gun
in
his
hand
that
day,
looking
down
at
the
murdered
man,
learned
unconscious
processes
had
taken
over.
The
presumption
of
guilt
had
been
too
great
for
him
to
resist,
the
similarity
to
guilt
had
turned
into
guilt
itself.
He
had
walked
to
the
robot-confessor's
booth,
and
there
he
had
given
complete
and
damning
evidence
against
himself,
had
indicted
himself
on
the
basis
of
probability.
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