fuck this job.com

Simon can barely feel the night air rushing past him. He knows he is high up, because the wind is clear and the lights of the city below are faint. Then his stomach drops and the world rushes up, and he sees tiny golden lights in the windows of a stately old mansion nestled among oak trees. He barely has time to think about trying to slow down when a thick Persian rug is suddenly under his toes. He stares around, wide-eyed, at the subtle opulence of the place. A huge stone fireplace crackles quietly, and a tall, thin, serious looking man with only the remnant of a ring of white hair on his head sits in a large leather chair and puffs a cigar. A younger man enters the room carrying a brandy.

“Heywood. I’m so glad to see another insomniac!” The younger man smiles sheepishly at this. The older man takes another puff on the cigar. “I seldom sleep at night. I sleep from around five in the morning to around noon. I’m convinced that I’m naturally nocturnal. I get my best ideas in the early morning.”

The younger man walks carefully to the chair opposite the older man and sits down slowly. He deliberately places the brandy snifter on the table and does not sit back in the chair.

Simon is afraid that they will see him, but he gradually realizes that they can’t see him. They don’t seem to be able to detect him at all.

“I’m not really an insomniac, Professor Allenbright…”

“Please, call me John.”

“…John. I’ve been troubled recently by the lack of progress in The Organization. The lack of real forward movement.”

The older man raises his eyebrows.

“That, my dear Heywood, is an illusion. The Organization is moving forward every day. I’ll be happy to explain.” Professor Allenbright taps off a cigar ash. “You’re a Yale man, correct?”

“Yes sir. Class of ‘88”

“I thought so. You’ve studied quite a lot in your life, but not quite enough to be able to judge the progress of The Organization. You see, Heywood…well, perhaps you’ve been wondering why I asked you out here?”

“I was hoping…perhaps you might be offering me a job?

Allenbright laughs. “Oh yes. Commerce. Filthy lucre. Well, Heywood, I’m offering you a job, all right. The biggest job there is. I’m offering you membership in a very exclusive club.” Heywood attempts to speak but Allenbright raises his hand. “And, it’s not an invitation that you can decline.” Heywood frowns a little and Allenbright smiles at him.

“It’s a simple thing, really. You are member of The Global Economic Organization. You work for Emary Research as an economist. You have a fine career, but your career will go nowhere unless you join our group, and once you join, you won't be leaving.”

Heywood looks serious. Allenbright continues.

“Our group doesn’t have a name. It can afford anything but a name. We work behind the scenes to make certain that the future of this world is peaceful and secure. We make certain that nationalism and religion and hatred of all kinds are, eventually, eliminated from the globe. We want the world to be a peaceful, happy, serene place where we can live and prosper. That’s a goal that I’m sure you share with us, based upon your writings. Am I correct?”

“Yes sir.”

“But there is one thing. You know we want a global trade system and a global system of laws to regulate that trade, and you know that we want peace and stability. But you’re not a member of our group, Heywood, until you learn our ultimate motive.”

Heywood sits for a moment and then swallows, noisily.

“Have you ever wondered why so many people all over the world would work so hard for something that is meaningless to them personally? I mean, I’m a very wealthy man. My children have made their own fortunes, I’m proud to say. What does it matter to us if the world is peaceful? Is it really the danger of nuclear war that motivates us? The answer is no—not exactly. You see, back in the 1930’s, before the invention of The Bomb, we—that is, people like us—thought that the end of war was at hand. A global state could be erected and everyone would be in their place. We even began to shut down the non-essential industries, thinking that only a few more years would pass and everything would fall into place.”

Heywood picks up the brandy and takes a large swallow.

“But we were wrong. Nationalism doomed that project from the start. Communication and data technology hadn’t progressed nearly enough to make the project work. So we learned a lesson. We learned a painful lesson. But now, at last, a single global government can become a reality. But with improved technology comes improved weaponry. We have the means to pursue our ends, but those ends have changed, and that is what the invention of the H-bomb has done to us. We can no longer afford, nor does anyone require, an excess in the human population.”

Heywood takes another swallow.

“Our group—and it is a very, very powerful group—is dedicated to one thing and one thing only. To diminish the human population of this planet to manageable size, and, since we need to eliminate human organisms, we should eliminate those humans who can most easily be eliminated.”

Allenbright takes another small puff from the cigar.

“You may have heard the rumor, so dear to academics, that we are all the same under the skin. Nothing could be further from the truth. The vast majority of human beings are in the business of converting food into feces. They have no other task in life. Their intelligence is non-existent. They cannot create. They merely consume. These creatures are a plague on this planet. You are now a member of our group, in that you now know that our group intends to see to it that these beings are exterminated.”

Heywood takes another large swallow, draining the glass.

“But, you’re talking about eliminating a large portion of the population of the earth!”

“Yes. Approximately 90%. Once the tools are in place, it will be easy to shut down all non-essential industry, reducing these parasites to a state of extreme poverty. Then, each in turn, the poorest will begin to commit crime to survive. That is when we will round them up and do away with them. Each time it happens, the majority of the population will approve of it because it will appear to them that we are merely fighting crime.”

Heywood begins to smile. Then he actually chuckles.

“You know, sir. They warned me about your sense of humor. You really had me going for a minute.”

Allenbright looks steadily at Heywood.

“Once you are in, my young friend, you don’t leave alive.”

Heywood suddenly looks pale and tense. His eyes wide and his mouth open slightly.

“I’m not…I can’t…”

“Heywood—all of us go through an adjustment period when we are first admitted to the group—but you don’t realize the power of this idea. Once the population of our planet is only ten percent—and the elite ten percent at that—we will be living in a virtual paradise. Machines will grow the food and repair the cities while we dedicate ourselves to art and science. The future is yours. It is ours. We will not stand by and watch while a great, mentally defective population of sub-humans who spend all of their time breeding like rabbits overruns our world and buries this planet in their filth!!!”

Heywood sits, frozen in the chair. He finally sits back, looking completely exhausted.

Allenbright turns his head slightly.

“Anson. Bring Mr. Winslow another brandy.”

(TO BE CONTINUED)