Level 7

“There is some ill-feeling among people who assume that segregation into different levels means social discrimination,” said the speaker, “but it stays within reasonable bounds.” Apparently people have a vague idea that Level 5 is better than Level 4, Level 4 better than Level 3, and so on; but they do not know exactly what the difference is. Most of them imagine it is a matter of convenience and luxury, not of safety. Up there the information we have been given in our daily talks is top secret.

Most of the hostility—and it is mixed with anxiety—comes from people who do not yet possess an identity badge and shelter number, which will act as a sort of passport to the underground. The hostility is directed, naturally enough, at those who have already been given their badges. This is tending to split the nation into two opposed groups—a new kind of division between the haves and the have-nots. However, the dangers of this ill-feeling are being mitigated by the fact that more and more people are receiving their badges (“and the right to be buried alive”, I thought of adding). The moment they get them, they become the strongest supporters of the system.

It is only among the prospective inhabitants of Level 1 that this last trouble has arisen. All the people destined for the other levels have already got their passports. There are a few grumblers among the cranks and peace-mongers of Level 2, admittedly, but not many. The receipt of Level 2 badges has made even the most fervent critics a great deal less eloquent.

MAY 26

I miss the ‘Know Other Levels’ talks. No new talks programme has been announced so far. Probably because there is nothing to talk about. Now that we know Level 7 thoroughly and have a fair working knowledge of the other levels, what else can they find to discuss? Even with the diversity of seven levels, the amount of variety underground is very limited. It must be, just as the caves are.

I have been listening to music today. By now the tunes have become rather familiar.

It is an odd sensation, knowing so much about other levels, while the people up there know so little about the kind of life—if you can call this life—which is waiting for them. I feel like an omniscient being, severed from contact with other human beings, but knowing all about what is going to happen to them.

If God exists—in heaven, or in the centre of the earth—He must feel the same way. In seclusion He watches the impending disaster which is about to overtake the ant-like human beings. Watches with interest, but also with detachment.

But perhaps He envies them sometimes. There they are, all the ants, running about, enjoying each other’s company, planning, analysing, discussing, believing, criticising. And there He is—alone. Wiser, more powerful, but alone.

I wonder if sometimes He would like to change places: to be miserably weak, but to have company and so many interests. They may be petty interests, stupid ones; but they keep the mind busy.

Maybe this is the reason why gods—the Greek ones, at least—used sometimes to descend to earth and mix with men. They must have become bored with their own company.

MAY 27

Today it got me again.

It had been an ordinary routine day, nothing unusual, until sometime between 17.00 and 18.00 hours, when I suddenly saw the green fields near my native town. I knew perfectly well that it was my imagination, but the whole scene was sharp and bright in front of my eyes.

I do not know why it happened. It may have had something to do with the good violet perfume used by the nurse sitting next to me at lunch—she must have brought it down with her. I remember thinking how nice it smelled. Then I must have forgotten it until several hours later, when the memory brought with it the image of the meadows.

Different shades of green grass: some dark, some light and fresh. Trees and hills and the cool breeze of a spring afternoon. Blue skies with bright clouds. And people scattered here and there, and twittering birds. And a deep peace of mind, a feeling that I was alive and that being alive was enough. No need to do anything, or achieve anything, or struggle for anything. And deep breathing to welcome all the sweet scents of soil and grass and spring flowers into my breast.

No, it’s no use trying. It takes a poet to convey sensations like those. I have never been one, and poets do not grow in caves. But today, I think, I felt the way poets must feel. The vision was so sharp, so powerful, that for a moment I forgot where I was.

Was it for just a moment? I have no way of telling, for I have lost all sense of time.

But then the image disappeared, and in its place came longing for those meadows and those days. It came like a sharp pain, throbbing with increasing vigour, until I wanted to cry out and bang my head against the clean, hygienic, sterile walls.