Utopia on the 6Th Floor: Work, Death, & Taxes-Part 2

All Rights Reserved © 2004 by Steven H. Propp

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CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

INTRODUCTION

PART ONE     MORTON

PRELUDE: BRAVE NEW WORLD

1: A UNIVERSITY WELCOME

2: ORIENTATION

3: GET READY, GET SET…

4: MEET THE FACULTY

5: FIRST DANCE

6: SHE GOT GAME

7: OFFICE HOURS

8: SUNDAY MORNING OBLIGATION

9: THE OTHER SIDE OF THE TRACKS

10: THE NEW MUSIC

11: A NIGHT OUT

12: ON TO THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY

13: EXPRESSION AND SUPPRESSION

14: PEEKING THROUGH THE WALL

15: BREACH OF CONFIDENCE

16: VIEW FROM ABOVE

17: END OF THE BEGINNING

PART TWO     WILLIAM

INTERLUDE: SYSTEM TESTING

18: SPECIAL PROJECT

19: SPECIAL DELIVERY

20: SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER

21: VIEW FROM INSIDE

22: BACK TO SCHOOL

23: NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND

24: SIXTH FLOOR UTOPIA?

25: TAKING PERSONAL INVENTORY

26: MAKING PLANS

PART THREE     UTOPIA?

27: A MATTER OF SECURITY

28: PARADISE FOUND

29: SUMMER SCHOOL

POSTLUDE A FAREWELL TO COMRADES IN ARMS

LECTURE ONE THE ORIGIN OF UTOPIAN IDEAS

LECTURE TWO UTOPIAS IN LITERATURE

LECTURE THREE THE FIRST UTOPIAS IN AMERICA

LECTURE FOUR RECENT RELIGIOUS UTOPIAS

LECTURE FIVE JOURNEY TO THE EAST

LECTURE SIX SECULAR UTOPIAS

LECTURE SEVEN WHEN UTOPMSTURN BAD

LECTURE EIGHT LESSONS FROM UTOPIAS

To Nancy: the light and love of my life, and my sweetheart forever.

To Susan Buzynski, the big sister who’s always there, even in tough times…

To my friends and coworkers who encourage my literary endeavors.

And to my best buddy Devonte, my little partner Joseph, and mi amigo Dominic;

My personal hope for the future.

But especially to Dorothy S. Propp: the Mom who will never be forgotten.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

With love and gratitude for the support and encouragement of:

My brother-in-law Darrel Buzynski;

My niece Jennifer (herself a UC student);

My favorite nephew Jason (also a University student);

All of my family, near and far;

All of Nancy’s wonderful, unique and multicultural family.

This was a tough year, but your love and encouragement made it work out in the end.

INTRODUCTION

My first novel, Work, Death, & Taxes was a dystopia; that is, a fictional depiction of a terrible place. The story takes place in 2019, where economic conditions have created a condition of lawless anarchy throughout much of the country, especially at nighttime. Many workers such as programmer William Rand and his girlfriend Christie Simmons choose to become lifers—people who work fifteen hours a day, six-and-one-half days a week, living in their office buildings for protection from the gangs roving the streets.

Rand and Christie work for the Unified Communication Linkup—UniCom, for short—a quasi-governmental agency that is designing a database known to insiders as The BEAST, which attempts to consolidate all known information about individuals (including highly personal information) into a single master database.

Rand is initially thrilled when he is offered a huge promotion by his boss, Mr. DeFalco, until he finds out that he is only considered a pawn to be manipulated by DeFalco, and that his position was obtained only at the cost of the murder of a friend and a young female coworker. Having evidence of his friend’s murder, and unwilling to simply go along with the proposed usage of The BEAST on a worldwide basis, Rand found himself the target of the murderous ambitions of DeFalco, and narrowly avoids being killed by him.

The book ends on an intentionally ambiguous note, which is (mostly) resolved in this current book, which represents a utopia, to balance out my earlier dystopia. It is recommended that you read Work, Death, & Taxes before this book, but that isn’t necessary. (You will miss being surprised at the reappearance of a number of characters in this book, however.)

NOTE: Eight of the lectures of History Professor Morton Thompson from his class on American Utopian Communities are also appended, for persons who would like to learn more about utopian and intentional communities (including fictional ones!) and related movements in general. I would suggest that readers either read the lectures before reading the novel part of the book, or that one read a lecture every three chapters or so. (The lectures intentionally make an interesting parallel with certain events in the book.) However, readers preferring to simply "read the story’ by itself are also welcome to do so.

Readers with comments about any of my books, or who would like an Emailed copy of the Bibliography used in writing this book, are warmly invited to E-mail me at: stevenhpropp@hotmail.com

P A R T   O N E

MORTON

PRELUDE

BRAVE NEW WORLD

Nothin’ to be done.

So said the short, husky young man in an affected English/Irish/Scottish accent. His head was shaved, and twelve large rings with colorful braids attached were hanging from his pale, pierced scalp. He turned away from the dirty window, and looked at his two companions in the squalid basement.

He ain’t comin’, added the second young man, in the same accent. The back of his head was completely shaved, but he had a series of short spikes of hair in the front.

If Cruz say he comin’ back, he comin’ back, replied a young black man, whose head was similarly shaved in the back, but was worn in braids hanging over his eyes in front.

But ‘e ain’t never been gone this long, Jordan, replied the young man with the spikes in his hair. "Spozin’ ‘e don’t come back? Cain’t no three blokes survive on da streets alone; we’d hafta join up wid anudder gang, right?" With a look of genuine dread, his voice lost the accent as he added,

And joinin’ this late—they’d make us bitch up for sure, ‘til we was proved.

"Ain’t no other gang got Eminem, Roody, replied the young black man, nodding at the husky young man with the rings in his scalp. Fingering his own wiry biceps, he added, We be OK…’cept we need some fockin’ food!’

Aye! echoed Eminem, rubbing his stomach hungrily.

Roody didn’t seem reassured, and asked tentatively, If Cruz don’t come back, you gonna be our leader, Jordan?

Jordan shook his head vigorously. Cruz the leader; he’s da one what knows dat stuff about Australian enocomics, da free market, history…all dat stuff. He stood up and said emphatically, "If it ain’t be for Cruz, we wouldn’t even have no name!"

That’s right! chimed in Eminem, standing straight and tall. "Now ev’ry udder gang on the streets knows’n’ fears Bakunins Buggers!" he shouted, raising his right fist in a proud salute.

Bakunin’s Buggers! echoed the other two, also raising their fists. They all lapsed back into a worried silence.

It’s almost dark, Roody said.

Aw, shuddup, willya? Jordan replied, beginning to pace nervously back and forth.

Cain’t we even go scavengin’, Jordan? Eminem asked.

Jordan shook his head, patting Eminem’s shoulder sympathetically. Too risky, mate, when we not full strength. I told ya ‘bout dem Nazi flattops what almost caught up wid me yesterday.

"Then where the bloody hell is Cruz?" Eminem said, the beginnings of panic in his voice. ’e’s never comin’ back; he don’t fockin’ care about.

"Well, if I didn’t care, it’d bloody well be because you deserved it!"’ answered a commanding voice (with a more convincing English accent than the others) from outside a window. The window quickly slid open, a pair of jeans-clad legs slid through it, and a young Latino man jumped to the ground.

Cruz! the other three shouted with joy and relief, as they rushed over to him (pounding themselves vigorously on the chest to show their happiness).

Cruz reached through the window, then handed a small attaché case to Jordan, saying, Be extra careful with that, Jordan. Cruz motioned for Eminem and Roody to follow him to the door, which he unlocked and swung open, directing them to bring a large metal case sitting outside down into their hideout.

Puffing with the exertion, Roody said, What the bloody ‘ell is this?

Food! Cruz replied, as they quickly set it down, and excitedly tore open the latches and opened the case; the case was filled with individually wrapped foil packages. As they looked in bewilderment at Cruz, he explained, Meals-Ready-To-Eat, or MREs; these are what they give our soldier boys and girls stationed in Saudi Arabia, and on the India/Pakistan border. They’re pre-cooked; at two meals a day, this should hold us for about one-and-a-half moons. Wiping his sweating forehead, he said, "Now, would one of ye get a bloke some water?"

Roody jumped up and grabbed a metal can, then went to a large canister in the corner and poured water into it. He handed it to Cruz, who drank it thirstily, saying, I was starting to think I wasn’t going to make it, all by meself. Wiping his lips with the back of his wrist, he commanded, Well, Buggers—let’s eat! They tore open their food packages, eating with their fingers greedily.

Army guys eat this? Jordan asked, surprised. It’s bloody good.

"Aye, and it gives ye strength for the battlefield…or the streets!" Cruz replied. Apologetically, he said, I’m bloody sorry I was gone so long this time, mates; but it took me two days to work my way back here alone, dragging this from alley to alley.

Jordan said, No problem, Cruz; it’s equami…equanim…

Equanimous, Cruz said, helpfully. Relaxed and happy again, Roody teased Eminem good-naturedly about the tattoos on his shoulders (none one else had any). With indignation, Eminem replied, "Slack me off, I was only thirteen—it was the style, OK?" They all cackled.

Jus’ like when your momma name you after some whiteboy singer, Jordan grinned.

Aw, shuddup; your momma named you after the Basketball Commissioner, Eminem replied. Anyways, I heard my whiteboy’s recordin’ a new album, and gonna do a TV special, so he comin’ back. Gently nudging Jordan with his elbow, he added, You named after an old man.

My name man a old Commissioner now, Jordan said, defensively, "But he usedta be the best hoops player ever. He score a hundred twenny-five points in a game once, and only missed one shot!" The rest of the group laughed skeptically, as they continued to eat.

We were really worried that you weren’t comin’ back, Roody said.

"I bet some day you don’t come back," Eminem said, sorrowfully.

That’ll never happen, Cruz said, shaking his head vigorously, and standing up. I’m with you to the end, mates. He began speaking as if he were a teacher giving a lecture, as his students hung eagerly on his every word. The bastards that created this modern economy have written off our whole generation, exporting all the jobs outside the country, where the environment is safer, and labor costs are cheaper, he said gravely, his companions nodding their heads. Plus, as soon as the EconoRiots began, they quit funding the public schools; so unless you were some richboygirl, or could educate yourself online, you were screwed. What the hell is this generation supposed to do, except live on the streets and barter for survival? That’s why I threw away my bigass scholarship, and joined up with you. As far as I’m concerned, all those business and governmental lifers can go kiss their own titties. The group laughed heartily at this statement.

So you here to stay? Eminem asked, hopefully.

Cruz shook his head, and said, I’ve got to go back in a few weeks to test how they developed the stuff I just gave them. Seeing the disappointment on his companions’ faces, he added, "It’s my business, mates."

What kinda business? Jordan asked.

Cruz thought for a moment, then replied, There’s a computer company here in town that makes…kind of like games, you know? I design stuff for them, and they pay me for it.

His companions’ faces reflected shock, and Eminem gasped, "Ya mean ya take bloody cash?!"

"Sellin’ yer soul for a packa quid?" exclaimed Roody, with a gesture of dismissal.

Cruz raised his hands defensively, and said, "I don’t touch their bleedin’ money, by Crom! I engage in a free market exchange of my labor for this food. At the words free market," his comrades began to relax slightly.

All free market stuff, huh? Jordan said, seeming satisfied.

Pure Austrian econ, Cruz replied, reassuringly. Mises himself would’ve stamped it.

What do they pay you to do, Cruz? Eminem asked, with genuine curiosity.

Cruz wrinkled his brow, then replied, "See, these daylight people ain’t got no imagination, ya know? So they like, borrow some of my imagination, then give me what I want in return."

I still don’t like it, Roody said, sulking. Stayin’ away for half a moon, just for some bloody food. Jordan and Eminem nodded in agreement.

"Ay, but that wasn’t all I got, maties, Cruz said slyly, and he retrieved the small attaché case that he had given to Jordan earlier. If all I got was food, then where’d be the advantage for us? That’s only keepin’ us alive. Remember that in free market exchanges, both parties to the exchange have to be made better off, understand? It’s got to be win/win for both sides. They slowly nodded their understanding, as he placed the case on the ground in front of them and unlatched the lid, revealing that it contained a computer, with its display screen inside the lid. Casually, Cruz said, It’s a movie disc player. He waited for their sharp intake of breath, then added, It’s got a solar rechargeable battery, with ultra metadisk storage, and it’s got." and he paused, for dramatic impact, 200 hundred movies on itF and his companions squealed with joy. All the classics: Clockwork Orange, Mad Max, Escape From New York, Robin Hood, Romper Stomper, Boyz N the Hood, The Warriors, To Sir With Love, and everything else a streetboy would wanna see," Cruz added, modestly.

Put one on, put one on, Jordan chanted, as Cruz fiddled with the computer for a moment, causing the monitor to spring to life. "This one’s a real pip, called ‘ Trainspotting, Cruz said. Shaking his finger at them warningly, he said, Now all of you boys pay attention; watching movies like this is how you learn how to speak with class and style—so practice your accents!" His companions nodded obediently, and the four of them huddled around the screen, repeating the dialogue as it was spoken.

’Choose your future; choose life’; I like that one, Roody repeated, carefully mimicking the foreign accent of the character on screen.

Suddenly, the door behind them was slammed open, and a commanding voice with a German accent called out insolently, Well, well; what sort of vermin have we stumbled onto here? A tall, gangly young man with a platinum blond flattop haircut began casually walking down the steps into the basement hideout. (Cruz quietly closed the lid on the computer, quickly pushing it off beneath some trash to the side.) The blond intruder clapped his hands loudly twice, and five other young men (with identical flattop haircuts) strode down the steps menacingly, arranging themselves around the one who had spoken. They were all wearing identical white T-shirts, flight jackets, and retro Doc Marten boots.

Cruz and his companions stood up, and Cruz said, We’ve got nothin’ to trade, Krauts; try again next moon.

"Oh, but I think that you do have something we want, schweinhund’,’" replied the apparent leader of the invading gang, walking forward and nodding at the case of food.

And what would we get in return? Cruz said, calmly, crossing his arms.

How about. the leader said, pretending to think as he cupped his chin, before spitting out in a savage tone, "Your fuckin’ lives?"

They ain’t yours to give, Krautzki, Cruz said, contemptuously. "And you and your little girlfriends sure as hell ain’t man enough to take ‘em."

The leader of the invading gang made a gesture with his hand, and his gang deployed themselves: himself and the most muscular member of his gang against Cruz, two on Jordan, and one each on Eminem and Roody. They all began to circle each other tensely, ready for a signal to start fighting.

The invader who was circling around Eminem laughed mockingly and said, "Hey, comrades—get a load of the pretty little braids on this pussy! Eminem remained silent, his arms at his sides, as if refusing to defend himself. Encouraged, his opponent stepped up the verbal attacks, saying, Hey, sissy boy; you some kinda faggot? Is that why you got these little girly braids?" Emboldened by Eminem’s continuing silence, the taller invader suddenly leaped forward and grabbed one of the braids, tearing its attached ring violently from Eminem’s scalp, causing him to emit a yelp of pain and grab his wounded head. The basement became deathly silent, as they waited to see what Eminem’s reaction would be; he removed his hand from his head slowly, then looked at the bloody mark it had left on his hand.

Bad move, Kraut, Cruz said, edging over to a concrete pillar, Jordan and Roody likewise quietly moving to hiding places. The invader who had torn the braided ring from Eminem’s head looked triumphant as he waved the bloody trophy above his head, and said, I scalped him!

Suddenly, Eminem emitted a terrifying howl of rage, causing all heads to turn in his direction. Picking up a large slab of loose concrete from the ground with his bare hands, he hurled it at his attacker, who was smashed against the wall (with a sickening crunch of smashed ribs), collapsing in a heap to the ground and moaning softly. Without pausing, Eminem grabbed the arm and leg of the next nearest attacker, raised him easily above his head, and began using him as a human club, wreaking havoc among the other invaders, and horribly mangling the body of his unwilling tool.

The leader of the invaders (who had wisely backed away as soon as he saw Cruz retreat), exclaimed in terrified wonderment, "He’s fuckin’ crazyf He ran for the door, yelling back over his shoulder, Full retreat! Now!! Realizing they had no chance against the infuriated dreadnought that was Eminem, the invaders followed their cowardly leader, one of them roughly dragging up the steps their member who had been crushed by the concrete slab.

Racing after them up the steps holding a broken and limp body, Eminem yelled after them, "Hey! Ye forgot one of your fockin’ Nazi scum!" and threw him out the door in the direction they had run.

Eminem’s companions immediately came out of hiding, and Jordan and Roody quickly secured the door, then profusely congratulated Eminem, who—his maniacal strength now fading—had begun to weep, sniffling miserably while Cruz attended to his wound. Cruz quickly tore off a strip of cloth from his own overshirt, and applied direct pressure to the wound; after a minute or so, he removed the cloth and inspected the wound; seeming satisfied, he said to Eminem, It’s not too bad, mate. He went to retrieve the ring and braid that had been dropped by the invader, and said to Roody, Get me a cup of water, will ya?

Fockin’ Nazi mudderfockin’… Eminem began, but Cruz slapped him lightly on the chest, and said, "Hey—remember our rule about swearing, mate! It’s allowed only in the heat of battle. Call ‘em ‘bloody fools,’ or something like that."

"Bloody Nazi cunts, Eminem hissed, and Cruz shrugged and let it pass. Eminem suddenly looked worried, and asked in a trembling voice, Cruz, am I gonna get some kinda disease? Or a NewVirus?" Cruz accepted the cup of water that Roody handed him.

Shaking his head, Cruz whispered in Eminem’s ear (so that the others couldn’t hear), I’ve got some bank credits, so first thing in the morning I’ll take you to a doctor and he’ll give you a shot, so you won’t get infected or anything. And then. he added, raising his voice loud enough for all to hear, Then, I’ll take you over to Rouge Rosie’s place, and she’ll put your ring back in.

Eminem looked almost childishly grateful. Thanks, Cruz; I. really need ta have all twelve rings, ‘cause. and he scratched his head, before adding, It’s somethin’ about twelve bein’ the Celtic number for power, and.

Eleven is a good Celtic number too, Cruz reassured him. But by this time tomorrow, you’ll be good as new.

Eminem brightened, and said, "But you ain’t got to take me to no doctor, Cruz. They got them three Wicca sisters a coupla blocks over—I think the littlest one kinda likes me—and they can."

No member of our gang is goin’ to no voodoo doctors! Cruz shook his head emphatically, and added, When you get cut, you need disinfectant and antibiotics, not some stupid herbs, colored-water potions, and mumbo-jumbo words. Eminem shrugged his shoulders in resignation, as Cruz poured water from the cup gently over his wound. Owwww!! Eminem exclaimed. That hurts!

Big baby, Cruz said with a smile, patting the cleansed wound dry. Looking satisfied, he went over to retrieve the computer, then motioned to his companions, and said, Can we watch the rest of our movie, now? As they enthusiastically resumed their earlier places around the computer, Cruz passed around another meal package to everyone.

And so they quickly forgot the attempted invasion, as they happily watched their movies well into the night.

And with that, our story begins.

* * *

Welcome to downtown Sacramento, California.

September, 2022.

1

A UNIVERSITY WELCOME

Things are moving too fast, I thought with a sigh, as I looked out the window of the bus.

I turned back to the 25-minute News Summary being broadcast to the electronic reader sitting in my lap, listening through my left earpiece as the synthesized female anchorperson said, A spokesperson for the Reclamation Party predicted even greater success in the fall election than they had in 2020. I pressed the Skip button, to advance to the next news story. The anchorperson said, The President rescinded Executive Order 2007-13872, formally ending the requirement that all cognitive and technical workers devote one hour per day to the so-called ‘Daily Documentation,’ reviewing all existing computer programs. I pressed Skip again, as I thought, old news; no one has done Daily Doc for the last two years, anyway. The anchorperson continued, The California Gubernatorial campaign continues for actor Tom Cr. and I pressed Stop, to terminate the news broadcast, as I thought, Even though I filter my News Settings to eliminate ‘entertainment’ news, there are so many actors and musicians running for office these days that you get them as ‘political’ news.

I looked out the window of the armored transport bus again. Seeing the abundant trees, I thought, We must be getting close. I glanced casually around at the other occupants of the transport: a wide variety of ages were represented, ranging from people in their 50s or even 60s, to people in their mid-20s—probably (like me) fresh out of graduate school, and ready to begin our University teaching careers. Although a few people were talking softly, most of us were just sitting quietly, or pretending to read, and probably nervous; traveling on the open road was still dangerous—even when you were part of an armored convoy.

Suddenly, the bus began to slow down, after we rounded a corner; about 100 yards in the distance we could see a formidable-looking concrete wall, extending for a considerable length—the only things visible over this wall were a number of tall buildings. We came to a halt just outside the wall, and we tried (unsuccessfully) to overhear the conversation between our driver and the people guarding the wall. Looking out the window, I noticed the raised golden metallic letters on the wall, which quietly stated:

UNIVERSITY OF NORTHERN CALIFORNIA PLACERVILLE

It’s almost too good to be true, I thought, grateful that I would soon be in a much more secure environment than during my graduate studies at the University of California at Davis (which, owing to security concerns, just shut down half their operations). Evidently, our bus passed inspection, because we started moving forward again. I took a final glance around through the windows, realizing, it may be months or even years before I set foot outside of these walls again.

As we drove through the gated entrance, I was impressed by the thickness of the walls surrounding the campus, as well as by the apparent technological sophistication of the gate’s mechanism—not to mention the large number of uniformed Security staff (wearing identical wine-colored jackets) who were guarding the gate. Obviously, these people took their security (and ours!) very seriously.

Proceeding through the gate, all our buses headed to an apparent unloading dock, and our transport made a U-turn before stopping. The voice of our driver came over the intercom, saying, Please watch your step as you disembark, then stand behind the yellow line over to your right. The doors to the side of the transport opened, and we all stood up, and began to make our way to the exit. The driver continued, Thank you for your cooperation; we hope you had a pleasant trip. As I reached the exit, I breathed the fresh mountain air gratefully, as I heard the driver’s voice cheerily adding, Welcome to U.N.C.!

* * *

Standing behind the yellow line, we waited as our luggage was removed from the transport. The transport staff began scanning, then reading the name of each piece of luggage as it came off, calling for the owner to come forward. Soon, my own name was called:

Thompson? Professor Morton Thompson?

I felt a slight flush of pleasure at hearing the word Professor in front of my name (it made all my previous years of schooling seem somehow vindicated). I raised my hand and hurried forward, saying, That’s me, here I am.

Indicating my three suitcases, the transport officer asked, Is this everything? and I nodded, before indicating the electronic reader in my hand and saying, Plus this. They made some electronic mark on my luggage, and motioned for me to join the others who had also finished this step of the process. Soon a young man with a wine-colored jacket came up to me and handed me a computer printout. Welcome to U.N.C., Professor. Let’s see, he said, consulting his own electronic reader. "Your residence number is #6 East, room 217B; that brown building over there.

Your office will be #3 Northwest, 1115a, way over there. Your classrooms, he said, indicating my printed schedule, Are indicated on there; there’s a map on the back. Any questions? I shook my head, and he smiled and shook my hand, saying, Best of luck to you," then immediately went over to the next person.

I took my first good look around at the campus, and was impressed: lush green grass, large well-established trees, and about twenty buildings of various sizes, shapes, and heights. There was even a full-sized football field in the middle of the campus, complete with bleachers on one side. (It was hard to believe that this had all been constructed in less than two years.) After about twelve of us had been checked in, a smiling young black man wearing a wine-colored jacket motioned for us to gather around him, and he said in excellent English (but with a thick African accent), My name is Maurice Awuah; I will be taking you on a brief tour of the campus. Afterwards, I will take you by the Cafeteria for lunch, since you’re probably hungry after your trip. Then, you’ll be on your own for a while; you can visit your residence room, your office, your classrooms, or just wander around the campus. Ask any of the Security staff—we wear these jackets, for identification—or any custodial staff wearing the green uniforms, if you need any help or directions. Tonight, a buffet dinner is being served at 6:00 PM outside the main Auditorium, then you’ll all be attending the Chancellor’s ‘Welcome’ lecture in the Auditorium at 7:00. Any questions? We all shook our heads, so Maurice invited us to board an electric transport vehicle (resembling an elongated golf cart), and we got on, two persons per seat.

The middle-aged gentleman who was my seatmate smiled at me and held out his hand to shake. Dr. Kempton; Industrial and Behavioral Science.

Morton Thompson; History, I said, shaking his hand, somewhat embarrassed that (having only a Master’s Degree) I wasn’t able to add the coveted title Doctor to my name. He nodded pleasantly, as the electric vehicle took off.

What do you teach? he asked.

My specialty is in American utopian communities, I replied. You know, those communities where people who just want to be able to live in a certain way form a community of their own, and.

"Like Skinner’s Walden Two, he cut in. That’s very interesting; as a behaviorist myself, I was very interested in Skinner’s novel when I was an undergraduate. I understand that several real-life communities modeled on his proposals have been started."

"There have been; the Twin Oaks and East Wind communities, for example, I replied, glad to find a willing listener. However, most of the communities that were supposedly modeled on Skinner’s fictional utopia actually abandoned any connection with his behaviorist philosophy decades ago, and."

Maurice’s voice came over the speakers that were built into each of our seats: Of course, the first thing you are all concerned about is Security; hopefully, seeing the outer wall and the security measures in effect at the main gate has reassured you about that. Nevertheless, let me assure you that our campus is absolutely safe, surrounded by an impregnable wall with an electronic surveillance network around the entire perimeter. Since all the faculty, students, and administrative personnel live here on campus, the traffic in and out of the gates is quite restricted, mostly consisting of vehicles delivering food and equipment.

Dr. Kempton called out, I understand that both faculty and students will be virtually ‘locked in’ here for the duration of the school year.

Maurice replied over the intercom, With the exception of the December Holiday between semesters and Spring Break, that is correct, sir. Maurice indicated two large buildings to the left, and said, Those are the dormitories for the students, who will be arriving the day after tomorrow, soon after the conclusion of Chapel services. We brought you in today so that you would have one complete day to get oriented and acclimated to the campus before the students arrive, and before instruction begins on Monday.

How come instruction starts so soon? called out a voice from behind us.

Maurice replied, In order for us to have a four-week break in-between semesters, we had to begin instruction as soon as the campus was physically ready for occupation. We realize that things will initially be a bit hectic, and we appreciate your patience with us this first year. Maurice indicated a large paved area to our right, and said, "Most of our visitors—UC Regents, visiting professors, guest speakers and politicians, for example—will be arriving via our Heliport, by the way, rather than driving through the gates. So we think you’ll find that as of Monday morning, we have a self-sufficient and ‘sealed’ environment here.

Dr. Kempton looked pleased and winked at me, saying, Marvelous; sounds like a good controlled environment for a scientific experiment.

(Which made me nervous.)

Now over on the right-hand side you see our combination football/soccer field. Maurice continued.

* * *

I read over the room number on my printout again: 1115a. I noticed the shiny gold nameplate with two names on it, one of which was Morton Thompson, M.A.; Assistant Professor of History, and the other was for KayLee Alexander (with no listed degrees). With a swelling of pride, I pressed my thumb to the sensor to unlock the door, and opened it. I found a very small room consisting of two desks with computers on them, a bookshelf covering one entire wall, two extra chairs, and nothing else—not even an outside window. Well, after seeing the size ofourpersonal residences, I should have expected it to be small. I fingered the bookshelf reassuringly, and thought, At least this will give me someplace to keep my books; there’s no place in my room for them.

I started to sit down at the closest desk, when I saw the computer had a note addressed to Prof. Alexander. Guess I’m supposed to take the other one, I thought sheepishly, and went to the other desk. Taking my seat, I saw a similar note addressed to me, informing me that I had a 9:45 appointment tomorrow morning at the Doctor’s Office in the Health Services building for my Initial Screening/Sampling and First Weekly Bio-Survey. I grimaced somewhat, but realized that if this was what was needed in order to stay secure here on campus, it was a price that had to be paid.

The outside door opened, and a fiftyish woman with very short silver hair entered. Seeing me, she smiled and walked forward with her hand thrust out, saying, How are you doing? You must be Dr. Thompson. I shook her hand, wincing from the force of her handshake.

"It’s just plain Professor Thompson, I’m afraid, I said, smiling. I take it that you’re Miss Alexander?"

"That’s Ms. Alexander, she corrected. I started to apologize, but she held up her hand (seemingly taking no offense) and said, I know that I’m probably the only female on campus who still calls herself ‘Ms.,’ but I hate that ‘Call-yourself-Miss-to-prove-that-you’re-unattached’ bullshit. I’ve been ‘Ms.’ all my life, and I’ll die that way: unredeemed, and unrepentant. She laughed, and added, That’s probably why I’m still an Assistant Professor in spite of the fact that I’ve been teaching for almost 30 years."

Really? I said, surprised. Do you have a Masters degree?

"I’ve got a Masters and a Doctorate in History, she replied, Although I refuse to let anyone call me ‘Doctor,’ because academic titles represent nothing more than institutionalized class conflict. Everyone—including students—just calls me ‘KayLee,’ or ‘Kay.’ Oh, and I’m also a Wiccan priestess. She laughed again, and said, In case you hadn’t guessed, I’m probably the one token radical in our History Department."

I’d never have guessed, I replied with a broad smile, finding myself charmed by her straightforward nature.

She said, With my luck, they probably stuck me in the same office with the greatest bastion of conservatism on the whole campus. Eyeing me suspiciously, she asked bluntly, "Are you an arch-conservative, by the way?"

I shook my head, and said, I don’t think so; not politically, at least. I asked, What do you teach?

Well, it used to be called ‘Women’s Studies’ when I started in the ‘80s, but after the turn of the century they did clitoridectomies on practically all the Women’s Studies programs everywhere, so I ended up in the History Department—it was either that, or Sociology. Fortunately, by teaching traditional history classes with a radical perspective, I’m able to bring out a lot of things that don’t get covered in the usual survey classes, such as the burning of Witches; Chinese footbinding; African genital mutilation of women, American ‘cosmetic’ surgery, and other things.

That sounds interesting, I said, with genuine enthusiasm. Too many colleges threw out all of the ‘specialized’ History classes—like African-American, Latino, and Native-American—after overall enrollments started dropping in 2010, so I never had the chance to take such classes.

Can I count on you to help me stage political protests on campus? she asked bluntly.

Umm…probably not, I said sheepishly. "Although I love political philosophy, ‘practical’ politics is not very interesting to me; sorry."

She sighed, and said, Just thought I’d try; I think that social protest went out of fashion permanently the second year after the EconoRiots. Brightly, she asked, "So what do you teach?"