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03 - The Machine Stops - E M Forster · Science Fiction Books

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Chapter three, The Homeless. During the years that followed Cuno's escapade, two
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important developments took place in the machine. On the surface, they were revolutionary,
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but in either case men's minds had been prepared beforehand, and they did
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but express tendencies that were latent already. The first of these was the abolition
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of respirators. Advanced thinkers like Vashti had always held it foolish to visit the
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surface of the Earth. Airships might be necessary, but what was the good
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of going out for mere curiosity and crawling along for a mile or two in
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a terrestrial motor. The habit was vulgar and perhaps faintly improper. It was
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unproductive of ideas and had no connection with the habits that really mattered. So
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respirators were abolished, and with them, of course, the terrestrial motors,
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and except for a few lecturers who complained that they were debarred access to their
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subject matter, the development was accepted quietly. Those who still wanted to know
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what the Earth was like had, after all, only to listen to some
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gramophone or to look into some cinematophote, And even the lecturers acquiesced when they
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found that a lecture on the sea was nonetheless stimulating when compiled out of other
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lectures that had already been delivered on the same subject. Beware of first hand
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ideas, exclaimed one of the most advanced of them. First Hand ideas do
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not really exist. They are but the physical impressions produced by love and fear.
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And on this gross foundation, who could erect a philosophy. Let your
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ideas be second hand, and, if possible, tenth hand, for then
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they will be far removed from that disturbing element direct observation. Do not learn
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anything about this subject of mine, the French Revolution. Learn instead, would
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I think that en Chermond thought, Urizen thought, Gutsch thought, Ho Young
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thought, Chibo Singh thought, Lafcadio Hearn thought, Carlyle thought. Mirabeau said
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about the French Revolution. Through the medium of these eight great minds, the
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blood that was shed at Paris and the windows that were broken at Versailles will
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be clarified to an idea which you may employ most profitably in your daily lives.
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But be sure that the intermediates are many and varied. For in history,
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one authority exists to counteract another. Urazen must counteract the skepticism of how
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young and enchremon I must myself counteract the impetuosity of Gutsch. You who listen
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to me are in a better position to judge about the French Revolution than I
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am. Your descendants will be even in a better position than you, for
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they will learn what you think I think. And yet another intermediate will be
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added to the chain. And in time, his voice rose, there will
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come a generation that has got beyond facts, beyond impressions, a generation absolutely
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colorless, a generation seraphically free from taint of personality, which will see the
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French Revolution, not as it happened, nor as they would like it to
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have happened, but as it would have happened had it taken place in the
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days of the machine. Tremendous applause greeted this lecture, which did but voice
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a feeling already latent in the minds of men, a feeling that terrestrial facts
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must be ignored, and that the abolition of respirators was a positive gain.
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It was even suggested that airships should be abolished too. This was not done
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because airships had somehow worked themselves into the machine system, but year by year
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they were used less and mentioned less by thoughtful men. The second great development
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was the re establishment of religion. This too had been voiced in the celebrated
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lecture. No one could mistake their reverent tone in which the peroration had concluded,
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and it awakened a responsive echo in the heart of each Those who had
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long worshiped silently now began to talk. They described the strange feeling of peace
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that came over them when they handled the book of the machine, the pleasure
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that it was to repeat certain numerals out of it, however little meeting those
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numerals, conveyed to the outward ear, the ecstasy of touching a button,
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however unimportant, or ringing an electric bell, however superfluously. The machine,
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they exclaimed, feeds us and clothes us and houses us. Through it,
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we speak to one another. Through it, we see one another. In
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it, we have our being. The machine is the friend of ideas and
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the enemy of superstition. The machine is omnipotent, eternal. Blessed is the
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machine. And before long this elocution was printed on the first page of the
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book, and in subsequent editions, the rituals swelled into a complicated system of
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praise and prayer. The word religion was sedulously avoided, and in theory the
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machine was still the creation and the implement of man. But in practice all
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save a few retrogrades worshiped it as divine, nor was it worshiped in unity.
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One believer would be chiefly impressed by the blue optic plates through which he
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saw other believers, Others by the mending apparatus, which sinful Cudo had compared
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to worms, another by the liths, another by the book, and each
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would pray to this or to that, and ask it to intercede for him
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with the machine as a whole persecution that was also present. It did not
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break out, for reasons that will be set forward shortly, but it was
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latent, and all who did not accept the minimum known as undenominational mechanism lived
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in danger of homelessness, which means death, as we know. To attribute
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these two great developments to the Central Committee is to take a very narrow view
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of civilization. The Central Committee announced the developments, it is true, but
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they were no more the cause of them than were the kings of the imperialistic
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period the cause of war. Rather, did they yield to some invincible pressure
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which came no one knew whither, and which, when gratified, was succeeded
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by some new pressure equally invincible. To such a state of affairs, it
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is convenient to give the name of progress. No one confessed the machine was
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out of hand. Year by year it was served with increased efficiency and decreased
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intelligence. The better a man knew his own duties upon it, the less
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he understood the duties of his neighbor. And in all the world there was
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not one who understood the monster as a whole. Those master brains had perished.
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They had left full directions, it is true, and their successors had,
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each of them mastered a portion of those directions. But humanity, in
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its desire for comfort, had overreached itself. It had exploited the riches of
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nature too far, quietly and complacently. It was sinking into decadence, and
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progress had come to mean the progress of the machine. As for Vashti,
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her life went peacefully forward until the final disaster. She made her room dark
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and slept, She awoke and made the room light. She lectured and attended
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lectures. She exchanged ideas with her innumerable friends, and believed she was growing
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more spiritual. At times, a friend was granted euthanasia and left his or
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her room for the homelessness that is beyond all human conception. Vashi did not
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much mind. After an unsuccessful lecture, She would sometimes ask for euthanasia herself,
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but the death rate was not permitted to exceed the birth rate, and
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the machine had hitherto refused it to her. The troubles began quietly, long
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before she was conscious of them. One day, she was astonished at receiving
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a message from her son. They never communicated, having nothing in common,
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and she had only heard indirectly that he was still alive and had been transferred
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from the northern hemisphere, where he had behaved so mischievously, to the southern,
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indeed, to a room not far from her own. Does he want
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me to visit him? She thought, Never again, never, and I
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have not the time. No, it was madness of another kind. He
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refused to visualize his face upon the blue plate, and, speaking out of
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the darkness with solemnity, said, the machine stops. What do you say?
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The machine is stopping. I know it, I know the signs.
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She burst into a peal of laughter. He hurt her and was angry,
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and they spoke no more. Can you imagine anything more absurd, She cried
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to a friend, A man who was my son, believed that the machine
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is stopping. It would be impious if it was not mad. The machine
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is stopping. Her friend replied, what does that mean? The phrase conveys
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nothing to me, nor to me he does not refer I suppose to the
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trouble there has been lately with the music. Oh no, of course not.
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Let us talk about music. Have you complained to the authorities, Yes,
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and they say it wants mending, and referred me to the committee of
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the mending apparatus. I complained of those curious, gasping sighs that disfigure the
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symphonies of the Brisbane school. They sound like someone in pain. The Committee
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of the mending apparatus say that it shall be remedied shortly, obscurely. Worried,
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she resumed her life. For one thing, the defect in the music
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irritated her. For another thing, she could not forget Kuno's speech. If
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he had known that the music was out of repair, he could not know
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it, for he detested music. If he had known that it was wrong,
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the machine stops was exactly the venomous sort of remark he would have made.
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Of course, he had made it at a venture. But the coincidence
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annoyed her, and she spoke with some petulance to the Committee of the Mending
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Apparatus. They replied, as before, that the defects would be set right
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shortly, shortly, at once. She retorted, why should I be worried
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by imperfect music? Things are always put right at once. If you do
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not mend it at once, I shall complain to the Central Committee. No
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personal complaints are received by the Central Committee. The Committee of the Mending Apparatus
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replied, through whom am I to make my complaint? Then through us I
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complain, Then your complaints shall be forwarded in its turn? Have others complained?
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This question was unmechanical, and the Committee of the Mending Apparatus refused to
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answer it. It is too bad, she exclaimed to another of her friends.
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There never was such an unfortunate woman as myself. I can never be
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sure of my music. Now it gets worse and worse each time I summon
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it. I too have my troubles, the friend replied, Sometimes my ideas
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are in interrupted by a slight jarring noise. What is it? I do
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not know whether it is inside my head or inside the wall complaint. In
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either case, I have complained, and my complaint will be forwarded in its
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turn to the Central Committee. Time passed, and they resented the defects no
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longer. The defects had not been remedied, but the human tissues in that
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latter day had become so subservient that they readily adapted themselves to every caprice of
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the machine. The sigh of the crisis of the Brisbane Symphony no longer irritated
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Vashti. She accepted it as part of the melody. The jarring noise,
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whether in the head or in the wall, was no longer resented by her
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friend. And so with the moldy artificial fruit, and so with the bath
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water that began to stink, and so with the defective rhymes that the poetry
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machine had taken to emit all were bitterly complained of at first, and then
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acquiesced in and forgotten. Things went from bad to worse unchallenged. It was
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otherwise with the failure of the sleeping apparatus that was a more serious stoppage.
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There came a day when over the whole world, in Sumatra, in Wessex,
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in the innumerable cities of Courland and Brazil. The bends, when summoned
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by their tired owners, failed to appear. It may seem a ludicrous matter,
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but from it we may date the collapse of humanity. The committee responsible
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for the failure was assailed by complainants, whom it referred as usual to the
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Committee of the Mending Apparatus, who in its turn assured them that their complaints
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would be forwarded to the central Committee. But the discontent grew, for mankind
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was not yet sufficiently adaptable to do without sleeping. Someone is meddling with the
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machine they began. Someone is trying to make himself king. To reintroduce the
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personal element. Punish that man with homelessness. To the rescue, avenge the
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machine, Avenge the machine, war, kill the man. But the Committee
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of the Mending Apparatus now came forward and allayed the panic with well chosen words.
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It confessed that the mending Apparatus was itself in need of repair. The
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effect of this frank confession was admirable, of course, said a famous lecturer,
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he of the French Revolution, who gilded each new decay with splendor.
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Of course, we shall not press our complaints. Now the mending apparatus has
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treated us so well in the past that we all sympathize with it and will
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wait patiently for its recovery. In its own good time, it will resume
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its duties. Meanwhile, let us do without our beds, our tabloids,
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our little wants, such I feel sure would be the wish of the machine
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thousands of miles away. His audience applauded. The machines still linked them under
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the seas, beneath the roots of the mountains, where in the wires through
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which they saw and heard the enormous eyes and ears that were their heritage,
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and the hum of many workings clothed their thoughts in one garment of subserviency.
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Only the old and the sick remained ungrateful, For it was rumored that euthanasia
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too was out of order, and that pain had reappeared among men. It
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became difficult to read. A blight entered the atmosphere and dulled its luminosity.
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At times Vashti could scarcely see across her room. The air too was foul
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loud, were the complaints impotent in the remedies heroic? The tone of the
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lecturer as he cried, courage, courage, what matter? So long as
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the machine goes on to it, the darkness and the light are won.
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And though things improved again after a time, the old brilliancy was never recaptured,
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and humanity never recovered from its entrance into twilight. There was an hysterical
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talk of measures of provisional dictatorship, and the inhabitants of Sumatra were asked to
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familiarize themselves with the workings of the central power station, the said power station
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being situated in France. But for the most part, panic reigned, and
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men spent their strength praying to their books tangible proofs of the machine's omnipotence.
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There were gradations of terror. At time came rumors of hope. The mending
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apparatus was almost mended, The enemies of the machine had been got under.
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New nerve centers were evolving, which would do the work even more magnificently than
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before. But there came a day when, without the slightest warning, without
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any previous hinted feebleness, the entire communication system broke down all over the world,
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and the world as they understood it ended. Vashti was lecturing at the
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time and her earlier remarks had been punctuated with applause. As she proceeded,
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the audience became silent, and at the conclusion there was no sound. Somewhat
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displeased, she called to a friend who was a specialist in sympathy. No
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sound, doubtless, the friend was sleeping, and so with an ext friend
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whom she tried to summon, and so with the next until she remembered Kuno's
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cryptic remark, the machine stops. The phrase still conveyed nothing. If eternity
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was stopping, it would of course be set going shortly. For example,
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there was still a little light and air. The atmosphere had improved a few
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hours previously. There was still the book, and while there was the book,
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there was security. Then she broke down for a whi. With the
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cessation of activity came in unexpected terror. Silence. She had never known silence,
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and the coming of it nearly killed her. It did kill many thousands
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of people outright. Ever since her birth, she had been surrounded by the
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steady hum. It was to the ear what artificial air was to the lungs,
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and agonizing pains shot across her head, and scarcely knowing what she did.
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She stumbled forward and pressed the unfamiliar button, the one that opened the
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door of her cell. Now the door of the cell worked on a simple
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hinge of its own. It was not connected with the central power station dying
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far away in France. It opened, rousing immoderate hopes in Vashti, for
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she thought that the machine had been mended. It opened, and she saw
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the dim tunnel that curved far away towards freedom. One look, and then
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she shrank back, for the tunnel was full of people. She was almost
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the last in that city to have taken alarm. People at any time repelled
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her. And these were nightmares from her worst dreams. People were crawling about.
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People were screaming, whimpering, gasping for breath, touching each other,
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vanishing in the dark, and ever and anon being pushed off the platform onto
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the live rail. Some were fighting round the electric bells, trying to summon
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trains which could not be summoned. Others were yelling for euthanasia, or for
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respirators, or blespheming the machine. Others stood at the doors of their cells,
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fearing, like herself, either to stop in them or to leave them.
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And behind all the uproar was silence, the silence which is the voice
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of the earth and of the generations who have gone. No, it was
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worse than solitude. She closed the door again and sat down to wait for
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the end. The disintegration went on, accompanied by horrible cracks and rumbling.
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The valves that restrained the medical apparatus must have weakened, for it ruptured and
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hung hideously from the ceiling. The floor heaved and fell and flung her from
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her chair. A tube oozed towards her serpent fashion, and at last the
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final horror approached. Light began to ebb, and she knew that civilization's long
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day was closed. She whirled round, praying to be saved from this at
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any rate, kissing the book, pressing button after button. The uproar outside
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was increasing and even penetrated the wall. Slowly, the brilliancy of her cell
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was dimmed. The reflections faded from her metal switches. Now she could not
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see the reading stand, now, not the book, though she held it
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in her hand. Light followed the flight of sound. Air was following light,
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and the original void returned to the cavern from which it had been so
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long excluded. Fashti continued to whirl like the devotees of an earlier religion,
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screaming, praying, striking at the buttons with bleeding hands. It was thus
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that she opened her prison and escaped. Escaped in the spirit, at least,
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so it seems to me. Ere My meditation closes that she escapes in
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the body. I cannot perceive that she struck by chance the switch that released
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the door, and the rush of foul air on her skin. The loud,
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throbbing whispers in her ears told her that she was facing the tunnel again,
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and that tremendous platform on which he had seen men fighting. They were
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not fighting now. Only the whispers remained, and the little whimpering groans.
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They were dying by the hundreds out in the dark. She burst into tears.
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Tears answered her. They wept for humanity, those two, not for
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themselves. They could not bear that this should be the end. Ere's silence
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was completed. Their hearts were opened, and they knew what had been important
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on the earth. Man, the flower of all flesh, the noblest of
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all creatures, visible man, who had once made God in his image,
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and had mirrored his strength on the constellations. Beautiful naked man was dying strangled
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in the garments that he had woven. Century after century had he toiled,
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and here was his reward. Truly, the garment had seemed heavenly at first,
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shot with the colors of culture, sown with the threads of self denial,
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and heavenly it had been so long as it was a garment, and
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no more so long as man could shed it at will and live by the
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essence that is his soul, and the essence equally divine, that is his
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body. The sin against the body. It was for that that they wept
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in chief, the centuries of wrong, against the muscles and the nerves,
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those five portals by which we can alone apprehend glausing it over with talk of
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evolution, until the body was white pap the home of ideas as colorless,
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less, sloshy stirrings of a spirit that had grasped the stars. Where are
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you? She sobbed his voice in the darkness, said here is there any
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hope? Kuno none for us? Where are you? She crawled towards him
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over the bodies of the dead. His blood spurted over her hands. Quicker
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he gasped, I am dying. But we touch, we talk, not
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through the machine he kissed her. We have come back to our own We
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die, but we have recaptured life as it was in Wessex when Alfred overthrew
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the Danes. We know what they know outside, those who dwelt in a
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cloud that is the color of a pearl. But, Cuno, is it
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true? Are there still men on the surface of the earth? Is this
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this tunnel does poisoned darkness? Really? Not the end? He replied.
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I have seen them, spoken to them, Love them. They are hiding
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in the mist and the ferns until our civilization stops. To day they are
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the homeless. Tomorrow, Oh tomorrow, some fool will start the machine again.
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Tomorrow, never said Cuno. Never, humanity has learnt its lesson.
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As he spoke, the whole city was broken like a honeycomb. An airship
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had sailed in through the vomitory into a ruined wharf. It crashed downwards,
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exploding as it went, rending gallery after gallery with its wings of steel.
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For a moment they saw the nations of the dead, and before they joined
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them scraps of the untainted sky. End of chapter three, End of The
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Machine Stops by E. M. Forster