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 TheStigma of Disease and Disability

The Stigma of Disease and Disability: Understanding Causes and Overcoming

Injustices, edited by P. W. Corrigan
Copyright © 2014 American Psychological Association. All rights reserved.
 The Stigma of
Disease and Disability
Understanding Causes
and Overcoming Injustices

Edited by
Patrick W. Corrigan

American Psychological Association

Washington, DC
Copyright © 2014 by the American Psychological Association. All rights reserved. Except as
permitted under the United States Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may
be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, including, but not limited to, the
process of scanning and digitization, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the
prior written permission of the publisher.

Published by To order
American Psychological Association APA Order Department
750 First Street, NE P.O. Box 92984
Washington, DC 20002 Washington, DC 20090-2984
www.apa.org Tel: (800) 374-2721; Direct: (202) 336-5510
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Typeset in Goudy by Circle Graphics, Inc., Columbia, MD

Printer: United Book Press, Baltimore, MD

Cover Designer: Mercury Publishing Services, Rockville, MD

The opinions and statements published are the responsibility of the authors, and such
opinions and statements do not necessarily represent the policies of the American
Psychological Association.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

The stigma of disease and disability : understanding causes and overcoming injustices /
edited by Patrick W. Corrigan.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-4338-1583-6 — ISBN 1-4338-1583-4 1. Chronic diseases—Psychological
aspects. 2. Chronically ill—Social aspects. 3. People with disabilities—Public opinion.
4. Sociology of disability. I. Corrigan, Patrick W., editor of compilation.
RC108.S75 2014
616'.044—dc23

2013022897

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A CIP record is available from the British Library.

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

http://dx.doi.org/10.1037/14297-000
To my dad, Lloyd Corrigan (1927–2013),
who taught me to live life fully and fairly.
 Contents

Contributors................................................................................................. ix
Acknowledgments....................................................................................... xi
Introduction.................................................................................................. 3
Patrick W. Corrigan

I. Stigma in Diseases and Disabilities....................................................... 7

Chapter 1. Understanding Stigma...................................................... 9
Nev Jones and Patrick W. Corrigan
Chapter 2. Mental Illness Stigma: Types, Constructs,
and Vehicles for Change................................................. 35
Patrick W. Corrigan and Kristin A. Kosyluk
Chapter 3. The Stigma of Alcohol and Other Substance Abuse..... 57
Georg Schomerus
Chapter 4. Stigma in the Field of Intellectual Disabilities:
Impact and Initiatives for Change.................................. 73
Shirli Werner and Dana Roth

vii
Chapter 5. Stigma Related to Physical and Sensory Disabilities...... 93
Hanoch Livneh, Fong Chan, and Cahit Kaya
Chapter 6. HIV-Related Stigma...................................................... 121
Gregory M. Herek
Chapter 7. Infectious Diseases: A Case Study of
Leprosy-Related Stigma................................................ 139
Wim H. van Brakel and Beatriz Miranda Galarza
Chapter 8. Cancer Stigma............................................................... 165
Nicole M. Else-Quest and Tracy L. Jackson
Chapter 9. The Nature, Consequences, and Public Health
Implications of Obesity Stigma..................................... 183
Rebecca M. Puhl and Jamie Lee Peterson
Chapter 10. Stigma Associated With Disease and Disability
During Childhood and Adolescence:
A Developmental Approach......................................... 205
Caroline Heary, Eilis Hennessy, and Lorraine Swords
Chapter 11. Stigma and Alzheimer’s Disease: A Systematic
Review of Evidence, Theory, and Methods.................. 223
Perla Werner

II. Stigma and Action............................................................................ 245

Chapter 12. Stigma and Family......................................................... 247
Tally Moses
Chapter 13. Overcoming Stigma...................................................... 269
David Roe, Paul H. Lysaker, and Philip T. Yanos
Chapter 14. Stigma Across Cultures................................................. 283
Deepa Rao and Dellanira Valencia-Garcia
Afterword: A Critical Eye for Stigma Change......................................... 297
Patrick W. Corrigan
Index......................................................................................................... 303
About the Editor....................................................................................... 319

viii       contents

 Contributors

Fong Chan, PhD, University of Wisconsin–Madison

Patrick W. Corrigan, PsyD, Illinois Institute of Technology, Chicago
Nicole M. Else-Quest, PhD, University of Maryland, Baltimore County
Caroline Heary, PhD, National University of Ireland, Galway
Eilis Hennessy, PhD, University College Dublin, Dublin, Ireland
Gregory M. Herek, PhD, University of California, Davis
Tracy L. Jackson, MPH, MS, Brown University, Providence, RI
Nev Jones, PhD, Illinois Institute of Psychology, Chicago
Cahit Kaya, MA, University of Wisconsin–Madison
Kristin A. Kosyluk, MS, Illinois Institute of Technology, Chicago
Hanoch Livneh, PhD, Portland State University, Portland, OR
Paul H. Lysaker, PhD, Roudebush VA Med Center, Indianapolis, IN
Beatriz Miranda Galarza, PhD, Athena Institute, Amsterdam, the Netherlands
Tally Moses, PhD, University of Wisconsin–Madison
Jamie Lee Peterson, MA, Yale University, New Haven, CT
Rebecca M. Puhl, PhD, Yale University, New Haven, CT
Deepa Rao, PhD, University of Washington, Seattle
David Roe, PhD, University of Haifa, Haifa, Israel
Dana Roth, PhD, Beit Issie Shapiro, Ra’anana, Israel

ix
Georg Schomerus, MD, University Medicine Greifswald, Stralsund,
Germany
Lorraine Swords, PhD, Trinity College Dublin, Dublin, Ireland
Dellanira Valencia-Garcia, PhD, San Francisco State University, San
Francisco, CA
Wim H. van Brakel, MD, PhD, Netherlands Leprosy Relief, Amsterdam
Perla Werner, PhD, University of Haifa, Mt. Carmel, Israel
Shirli Werner, PhD, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Jerusalem, Israel
Philip T. Yanos, PhD, City University of New York, New York

x       contributors
 Acknowledgments

Many thanks to my colleagues and assistants who made this volume

possible, including Kristin Kosyluk, who oversees the daily operation of the
National Consortium on Stigma and Empowerment, as well as Andrea Bink,
Mandy Fong, Dana Kraus, and Janice Parker.

xi
TheStigma of Disease and Disability
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The
programmed people
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The programmed people

Author: Jack Sharkey

Illustrator: Ed Emshwiller

Release date: December 31, 2023 [eBook #72565]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company,

1963

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE

PROGRAMMED PEOPLE ***
THE PROGRAMMED PEOPLE

By JACK SHARKEY

Illustrated by EMSH

From Light-of-Day to Ultrablack,

the people of the Hive went about their
rigid lives in ignorance of their real
ruler, of their true history. How
could one slender blonde girl crack
this powerful monolithic structure?

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Amazing Stories June and July 1963.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
 CHAPTER 1

Under the stark bluewhite glow that glittered from hidden niches onto
the faceted undersurface of the vast vaulted crystal dome, the people
milled and jockeyed for position near the dais. There was still room to
move about and select a standing-site; most of the heavy thronging
was still at the entrances, the wide, squat arches giving egress to the
fifteen block-long arcades that radiated from the center of the temple
like the spokes of a gigantic wheel. Between the pillars that framed
these arches, long unbroken walls served as firm backdrops for the
Vote Boxes, twenty-five to a wall, three hundred seventy-five in all, to
service a building that could hold five thousand.
Lloyd Bodger took a quick look at his wristwatch while there was still
sufficient elbow-room to lift his arm. Two minutes till eight P.M.
Service began promptly on the hour. He gauged his nearness to the
dais with a practiced eye, then let himself be wedged into place by
the increasing pressure of urgent bodies about him. It would not do
to remain in the rear of the hemispherical room, where he might lose
some of the Speakster's words, words that might have direct bearing
upon the next Vote; nor would it do to let himself stand too near the
dais, from which central point he might find himself at the tail end of
the voting line, should the Proposition Screens begin to glow during
the Service. A decisive Vote could be made in ten seconds, but each
Kinsman was allowed thirty. The Screen would only propose the bill
for five minutes before the Count. That meant that Lloyd must be at
least the tenth person in a line in order to be assured his chance to
nock his Voteplate in the slot. He'd missed two of his allowable three
non-Votes this quarter, already. It would not do to miss another.

The glow from the dome decreased, suddenly, as the center of the
dais unfolded back into fifteen equal wedge-segments, like a
blossoming flower, and the Speakster rose into view amid a solemn
hush. Bright golden light made the white velvet robe shimmer like a
slippery flame, and made the shadowy aspect of the cowl-hidden
features all the more terrible. The golden light spilled upward from
the surfaces of the fifteen triangular "petals", bathing the Speakster
thoroughly in bright radiance, leaving the remainder of the Temple in
even darker darkness by contrast.
The arms of the Speakster rose slowly, angling domeward over his
unseen head, until the folds of the weighty sleeves slid back a trifle at
the cuff, exposing the wax-white hands, fingers spread wide apart,
palms toward the beginning of the dome-curve, as though warding
off impending dangers. Lloyd shivered, suddenly, despite the
suffocating warmth of the crowd. This would not be a regular
Service. That was the Danger-stance. Unconsciously, he held his
breath, listening, as the mass tension grew unbearably electric.
"There cannot be Service tonight!" thundered the Speakster. "We are
polluted from within. It would be sacrilege to have Service with a
traitor in our midst!" Then, over the rising gasp that arose from the
multitude, "She has been traced to this holy place, in a fiendish
attempt to lose herself among the masses, to hide her rottenness
amid the healthy flesh of the Kinsmen! Remain in your places—!"
cried the Speakster, as a short-lived Brownian Movement began in the
close-packed mob. People froze in place at the peremptory shout.
"The Goons have been alerted, and are even now converging through
the arcades!" said the Speakster. A sigh of relief whispered like a
concerted zephyr over the up-turned faces. "She will be found out,
have no fear. When I depart and the Light-of-Day returns, you must
exit through the arcade by which you entered. You will be checked by
a squad of Goons on your way out. Remember, a good Kinsman has
nothing to fear!"
The outstretched arms swung down until the pallid palms came firmly
together before the Speakster's chest, the cowled head bowed low,
and then the figure on the dais descended from sight, the stiff
"petals" re-closing over the spot on which the Speakster had stood,
and the golden light vanishing as the Light-of-Day sprang bluely into
harsh life against the crystal dome. Lloyd turned obediently, as soon
as movement was possible in the dispersing crowd, and started
toward his point of entrance, the arcade that would lead him into his
sector of the Hive.
Without warning, the Proposition Screens flickered on, and the
crowd's movement jerked to a confused halt. Then, as though
collectively realizing that there was time enough to be checked by the
Goons after the Vote, people formed into neat lines, queuing up
before the Vote Boxes that lined the walls.
Lloyd took another look at his watch. Five past eight. That gave him
till ten past to arrive at the Vote Box. With mounting anxiety, he
counted heads in the line before him. He was twelfth. If each person
took the allotted thirty seconds—He'd miss his Vote, have to be
hospitalized for Readjustment. He tried to stay calm as the line
advanced.
With two minutes to go, he found four people before him. The first, a
grey-suited man with very little hair, nocked his plate in the slot—
Then stood and pondered. It was fully twenty-five seconds before he
depressed one of the buttons in the Vote Box's interior, where his
choice would remain secret. Another few seconds to retrieve his
plate, and then a full six precious seconds while the next person, a
skinny woman very near the compulsory retirement age, fumbled in a
deep leather purse for her card. And she pondered....
Sweat sprang out on Lloyd's forehead. There wouldn't be enough
time. There couldn't be ... unless—
"Miss!" he said, to the back of the small blonde head in front of him.
The girl spun about to face him, dark green eyes wide in fright,
breath hissing between parted lips. "I didn't mean to startle you," he
said, contritely. "It's just that—" It was terrible, telling such an awful
confidence to a total stranger, but it was the only way to convince her
quickly. "I've missed twice this quarter," he blurted. "Not my fault. I'm
a good Kinsman, honestly. It was line-jams, both times. Too many
people for too few Vote Boxes. You must believe me!"
"What—" she said, a little dazedly. "What can I do?"
"Let me have your place in line!" begged Lloyd. "I've timed it. Less
than a minute left till Count, and two ahead of me, including yourself.
Please help me!"
"I—" she said, with a funny, almost hysterical smile. "I don't know
why you should be so—" Then she stepped aside, swiftly. "Go ahead.
Hurry!"
Lloyd leaped into the breach without even pausing to voice his
thanks. As the young man before him stepped away, Lloyd jammed
his plate into the slot, and shoved his fingers inside the handspace. A
fumble, and he had a button, he didn't know which one. Pro was
right, Con was left, but he just prodded it inward without checking its
location. Then the light died on the screen, and his plate popped out
of the slot. He caught it deftly, sighed in quavery relief, and turned to
thank his benefactor. He saw her, trailing after the departing people
toward one of the arcades, shuffling her feet, apparently in no hurry.
Then an uncomfortable thought struck him, and he ran to catch up
with her.
"Miss—!" he said, taking her arm. Again the brief look of fear on her
features, then she smiled. It was a small, very tired smile. "You
needn't thank me—" she began.
"I wasn't going to—" said Lloyd. Then, embarrassed, "I mean, of
course I'd thank you, but that isn't why I came after you. I just
realized—Have you missed any Votes this quarter? I'd hate to be the
cause of your Readjustment...."
"There's no danger," she said softly, "of my getting in trouble for non-
voting."

He suddenly remembered the words of the Speakster, and dropped

the girl's hand as though it had burnt him. "You—You're the—"
"Please!" begged the girl, before his voice could rise in a warning
shout to the crowd. "Don't give me away!"
"They'll get you anyhow," he said flatly, with a note of near-pity in his
voice. "By rights, I should raise a cry right this instant, to save the
Goons the trouble of checking all the good Kinsmen." A secondary
thought hit him, and he took a very short step backward. "And you're
diseased. The longer you remain in contact with the crowd, the more
likely a spread of the contagion."
"I'm not!" she almost shouted, then clenched her jaws, and got
control of herself. Bright moisture began to trickle from the corners of
her eyes, and she dabbed angrily at the warm salty drops. "I was
hurt, yes!" she said, suddenly pulling back the long sleeve of her
bright green dress, for a brief moment. Lloyd saw the ragged, pink-
edged cicatrix on the underside of her forearm, and winced. "It's
healed," she said. "I didn't need the hospital, don't you see?"
Lloyd saw, and stood there, his mind fumbling dizzily for a direction
to take. The last straggling ends of the crowd were moving into the
arcades, now. Lloyd took his bearings, saw that only one or two
people were now headed for his own arcade, and began to back off
in that direction, saying, "I'm sorry, I'm so terribly sorry. I must go,
now."
She nodded, once, then turned her back on him, and stood, small
and helpless, in the growing void that was the Temple proper. Lloyd
turned from her and started toward his arcade. Then he stopped and
looked back at her. She was healed, after all.... He remembered with
a sense of shame the time he'd broken a finger, and hadn't reported
for hospital assignment, because a favorite cowboy was at the
neighborhood theatre that afternoon. He never had gone in, then,
being fearful lest the examining doctors notice that he'd delayed. The
finger had healed itself, a trifle crookedly, and Lloyd had never told
anyone of his dereliction, not even his father. Especially not his father.

Suddenly, he turned and ran back to the girl. "Do they know you?" he
said, fiercely, frightened by his own daring.
"Wh—Who?" gasped the girl, startled by his reappearance. "Who
know me?" Then, catching his meaning, "The goons, you mean?"
Lloyd nodded impatiently. "No, they don't. But they don't have to. I—
I have no Voteplate."
"Can't you girls hang onto anything?!" he muttered. "Don't tell me
yours fell in the sea from a Tourgyro?"
"You say that as though you know somebody whose did," said the
girl.
"My fiancee," he explained, adding, with an embarrassed grin, "I'll be
twenty-five just after next Marriage Day. I found her in the
phonebook listings."
"But—What'd she do?" the girl persisted. "Without a Voteplate, she
could be picked up any time, in the first Goon inspection that arose."
"Take this," he urged, pressing something into her hand. "Your
arcade is third over from mine. When you get outside, wait. I'll meet
you there and get this back. Don't fail me, please."
He spun about and dashed toward his arcade, leaving her standing in
the center of the floor, staring dumbfounded at the flat metal plate in
her hand. Trembling, she turned toward the indicated arch, and
followed swiftly after the stragglers entering it, her perspiring fingers
clamped rigidly upon the engraved face of the Voteplate.

CHAPTER 2
Lloyd didn't like Goons. He knew he was supposed to recognize in
them the ultimate in police efficiency, but they still gave him chills. A
Goon, a Governmental Opposer of Neutrality, was a fearful sight. All
were of a size, equal to a micrometer-breadth, a monstrous eight feet
of thick metal and ponderous wheels, bathed from base to apex in
the blurry grey pulsations of their protective force-fields, through
which no power on Earth could penetrate. The metal arms were
multi-jointed and dextrous to a fantastic degree, despite the clumsy
look of the thick tripodal fingers at the ends of the arms. The "eyes"
were wide-set telelenses, a pair of them, to report back all they saw
to the Brain itself, deep beneath the teeming streets of the Hive. And
each Goon spoke with the cold, inflectionless tones of the Brain, the
flatly indifferent voice that could only emanate from a mind of
glowing vacuum tubes and magnetic fields. From any or all of a
Goon's six fingertips could spring the dreaded Snapper Beam, an
electronic refinement of vibrations that struck the human nervous
system almost identically with the chemical effect of strychnine
poisoning, except that a Snapper Beam worked instantly, and always
fatally. A brush of the invisible force, and a man's face creased into
the frenzied grin of a madman, his legs danced wildly, uncontrollably,
and the muscles of his back contracted tightly, relentlessly,
remorselessly, until his spine cracked in two.
Lloyd had never seen it employed, save in the theatres. Dispersal of
insurrection by Goons was a popular theme in films. A mob could be
efficiently halted by a sweeping Snapper Beam, to fall like broken
puppets. Goons never lost a film battle. Or a real one.
"Name," said the Goon, as the woman in front of Lloyd moved quickly
out of the arcade. Goons could not inflect. You had to sense their
questions.
"Lloyd Bodger, Junior," said Lloyd, extending his Voteplate for perusal.
The three fingers took the plate from his fingers, and slid it into a slot
in the chest. A sharp click, and the plate was returned to him, his
number now on file in the vast memory banks of the Brain.
"Your sector," said the Goon. With his Voteplate data on file, he would
be hard put to tell a lie. Any discrepancy in his statements would go
hard on him. He hoped, shakily, that the unknown girl had a sharp
memory. She'd only have a few moments to memorize the
information on the plate.
These thoughts flickered through Lloyd's mind in the split second
between the Goon's second query and his outwardly calm response,
"Hundred-Level, Angle One, Unit B."
Lloyd's sector was only one short of being the most important in the
Hive. The President lived in Unit A, in the same Angle. Lloyd Bodger,
Senior, was Secondary Speakster of the entire Hive. But Goons were
no respecters of persons. And less so were they respecters of mere
offspring of persons.
"Assignment," droned the Goon.
"Null," said Lloyd, indicating the question was inapplicable.
"Goal," the Goon sub-questioned.
"Secondary Speakster of the Hive by inheritance."
The Goon's arms suddenly dropped to its thick sides, it swiveled
completely about-face, and rolled swiftly off toward the far end of the
arcade. The interview was over, and it had gone, abruptly as that. No
"Thanks for your time and trouble", or "You pass inspection", or "That
will be all". Goons were built for basic efficiency, not for the subtler
nuances of civilized conversation.

Outside the mouth of the arcade, Light-of-Day was still stark bright
blue throughout the Hive. Light-of-Day was dimmed to Ultrablack at
ten P.M. every night of the nine-day week save Temple Day, when it
was left on until eleven-fifteen, giving time enough for the Kinsmen
at the ten P.M. Service to return to their sectors. No one went out in
Ultrablack. You could see nothing when Light-of-Day went out. A
struck flame would burn in Ultrablack, but the light of the flame
would not show. Only the Goons could see what went on, then. If
going out during Ultrablack were absolutely necessary, as it
sometimes was on the Governmental level, a Goon would come and
take you to your destination. Being found upon the street after
Ultrablack was a form of rebellion; you would then have to be
hospitalized for Readjustment.
Just as this last thought was flitting across his mind, Lloyd saw the
girl, standing uncertainly at the entrance to the arcade he'd sent her
to, a solemn, green-clad figure in the midst of the converging people
moving into the entrance toward the nine P.M. Service. Her face
lighted up when she saw him, and Lloyd was disconcerted to note the
tears that sprang to her eyes despite her welcoming smile. "How can
I ever—?" she started, but a quick squeeze of his fingers on her arm
stopped her.
"Not here," said Lloyd, awkwardly. "Come with me." She fell into step
alongside him without question. He led the way to a bar near the
inter-level lift. They said nothing to one another until they were
seated in a secluded booth, and had pressed the drink-selector that
would light alongside their booth-number behind the bar. They almost
spoke, then, but the waiter showed up too quickly, and they had to
wait until he'd checked their ages on the Voteplates and left.
"Why did you do it?" she said softly.
Lloyd made a grimace. "Because I'm a damned fool, I guess."
The girl nodded seriously. "You are, you know. Taking a risk like that
—! You might have been detected, yourself."
Lloyd looked at her, puzzled. "Detected?"
"As a member of the movement, of course," she said. "You're the first
I've been able to contact since my escape. The progress you've all
made amazes me. Where in heaven did you people learn to duplicate
Voteplates!? I couldn't believe it when the Goon passed me."
"Hold on—" said Lloyd, pressing his hand furiously hard upon hers
where it lay on the smooth table top between them. "Don't say
anymore, please. You've made an error. I am not a member of your
movement." The girl's eyes widened in sudden fear.
"But—Why did you help me? Who are you?"
Lloyd sighed. "I've already answered your first question. And it is with
the most abject embarrassment that I answer your second: I'm Lloyd
Bodger, the Junior version, the only child of the Secondary Speakster
of the Hive." He saw the utter dismay in her face, and added dryly,
"Are you impressed?"
"Shattered is more like it," she said when she'd found her voice
again. "But an extra Voteplate—"
"I can explain the plate," said Lloyd. "It belongs to my fiancee, Grace
Horton. I was going to her place tonight, after Service, with it."
"But you said she'd dropped it—Oh. I see."
"Exactly. Lost in the sea, from a Tourgyro. The Goon in the 'gyro saw
it happen, which was lucky for Grace. He relayed it instantly to the
Brain, and when the 'gyro landed, another Goon was waiting at the
field with a temporary pass for her. Another person, by the way,
would have needed Readjustment, being so careless, but Grace, as
my fiancee, carries just enough weight to get her over the humps.
New Voteplates have to be approved through the President's office,
of course. When this one came in, today, it was turned over to my
father, who gave it to me. I'm not as official as the Goon who'd
ordinarily deliver one of these, but even protocol bows to sentiment,
now and then."

He suddenly curled the fingers of the hand beneath his own until
they lay fisted in his palm. She looked up at him, then, sensing
almost to the word what he was about to say. "Miss—You know I
could turn you in for what you inadvertently told me, just now. I
won't, though. You have enough counter-information on me to make
things hot even for the son of an official."
"I wouldn't—!"
"Be that as it may," said Lloyd, "let me say something: Quit. Quit
now. Get out of this movement, whatever it is. You can't win, you
know. The Goons are invincible. And I hate to think of you, falling
under a Snapper Beam."
"Death is death," the girl sighed. "One way or another."
He looked at her, genuinely at sea. "I'm afraid I don't know what you
mean, Miss. I only helped you avoid hospitalization because I myself
—Well, let my reasons go. But you shouldn't fear going. Sure, it's
annoying to be laid up for awhile, out of the swing of things, but—"
The girl pulled her hand away. "You're joking," she said. "You must
be joking. If you're truly the son of the Secondary Speakster, you
must know the truth!"
"I still don't follow you," Lloyd said sincerely.
"You don't know!" the girl said, shaken. "You're really convinced that
—Listen to me, listen carefully: There are no hospitals! There is no
Readjustment! There is only death."
"You're out of your mind," Lloyd said, recoiling from her vehemence.
"Of course there are hospitals. I've seen them—!"
"Sure," said the girl. "From a Tourgyro. Or in the movies. But have
you ever been to one? Have you ever met anybody who returned
from one?"
"My dear girl," Lloyd protested, really growing concerned for her, "do
you realize the odds against meeting a hospital patient? With disease
almost completely obliterated, and a civilization of ten million people
—!"
"Exactly," said the girl, with a peculiar note of triumph. "Ten million
people. Never so much more as ten million and one, and seldom any
less. Doesn't that perturb you?"
"The wars—" Lloyd began.
"Please," the girl groaned, shaking her head. "Spare me the
enlistment speeches. I know the tales of all the men lost in the
battles every quarter, giving their lives in defense of the Hive. Except
that there aren't any wars, nor battles, any more! There's nothing out
on the planet except wild animals and growing plants! We're the only
ten million people on Earth!"
"That's impossible," said Lloyd. "It's childish to be so insular-minded.
Our Hive is one of ten thousand such—"
"Have you seen another, even one other?"
"For what?" said Lloyd. "All the Hives are alike."
"They've really got you brain-washed, haven't they! You believe
everything the Brain dictates, without question!"
"I have to," said Lloyd, with what he thought was irrefutable logic.
"There's no way of checking things like—Well, like your story of no
wars. I mean, can I be expected to check out ten million people to
see if the number of war dead coincides with the total in the Brain?"
"No," said the girl. "You can't. Not so long as your movements are
restricted to certain sectors, and you're told which street to use,
which side of the street, which direction to walk, which hand to turn
the knob with, which—"
"Those are only traffic rules," Lloyd objected. "Can you imagine ten
million people all going to the same sector at the same time? It'd be
disastrous."
"Sure," said the girl. "For the Brain. People might confer."

Lloyd shrugged and gave up. "I can see there's no dissuading you,"
he said regretfully. "I only hope that when you're finally caught—"
"They teach me the error of my ways?" she smiled tightly.
"I don't mean it with the inflection you give it," he said. "I really
would like to see you get help. You need help, you know."
"The kind I need is the kind you gave me in The Temple," she said.
"Illegal help. Shelter. Time to make plans. Time to figure out some
way of telling the Hive what's happening to it!"
"You know I've gone farther than I should, already."
"I know," she said. She took the Voteplate from her handbag, and
held it musingly in her fingers. "I really should keep this," she said,
then saw the sudden anxiety in his eyes and relented. "Here, take it."
She slid it under his hand. Lloyd palmed it gratefully. "Our movement
could use a hammerlock on a higher-up," she said, almost wistfully.
"But you're too nice a guy to put the screws on. It'd be a cruel way to
show my gratitude for what you did tonight."
"I did nothing, really," Lloyd said. "I simply saw how fearful you were
of the hospital, and didn't have the heart to turn you in."
"Wait," said the girl. Lloyd stopped speaking. She looked thoughtful,
then leaned forward, very confidentially, and asked, "Does your
father like you? Do you two get along?"
"What is this?" Lloyd demanded suspiciously. "Instant
psychoanalysis?"
"Nothing like that," the girl snapped, exasperated. "I mean, does he
like you, as a son, care what happens to you?"
"Well," Lloyd said, slowly, "he'd probably beat my head in for what I
pulled, tonight, with you.... But—yes, he does like me. And he cares
about my welfare."
"Then do this one favor for me," said the girl. "When you get to your
Unit tonight, tell him you feel rotten, all sick inside, and that you
think you should be hospitalized."
"But why should I—?"
"Just tell him. And make it convincing. And, if he really cares about
you—See what happens." She rose from her place. "It'll look funny if
I leave alone. Walk me to the street?"
Once outside, she glanced about, uneasily. "It's after ten. Got to find
a place to hide before Ultrablack."
"But listen—!" Lloyd said, abruptly realizing the grim night that lay in
store for her, with blinding blackness like a palpable pall in the
streets, and only Goons rolling through the empty streets. "You've got
to have someplace to go!"
"Is there someplace? Without a Voteplate?" she said with weary
rhetoric. "I think not. Thanks. Goodnight. And goodbye."

She started off down the street. Lloyd hesitated a moment then
rushed after her. "Wait, I'll hide you."
"Why should you take such a risk, for me?" she said.
"It's not for you," Lloyd said, telling as the full truth something that
was only part of the whole. "It's for me. Purely selfish. I risk more if
you're caught tonight. When they question you, under truth drugs,
about your escape from the Temple—and I'm sure that has them
curious—you will be unable to avoid implicating me."
"Is—Is that your only reason? Your own skin?" she said.
"Yes," he said, forcing conviction into the word.
She shrugged and took his arm. "A fugitive can't afford to be choosy.
I have no prospect of escape but you. I'll let you hide me ... if it'll
make you feel safer."
Lloyd nodded, and started toward the lift that would take the two of
them up to the Hundred-Level. It was only as they got aboard, and
he'd keyed the lift-switch with his Voteplate, that he thought to ask,
"By the way—What's your name?"
"Andra," she said. "Andra Corby."
"A nice name. I like it," said Lloyd. "I wasn't sure if you'd tell me your
name."
Andra shrugged. "It'll be in tomorrow's papers, anyway."
Lloyd looked at her uncomfortably, but she was staring straight ahead
at the grillwork gate of the lift.

CHAPTER 3

Grace Horton appraised herself in the mirror, and was not pleased
with what she saw. "Face it, Grace," she said aloud. "You are
positively hopeless." She tilted her head to one side. "Well, nearly
hopeless." Her eyes were good, that was something. Wide, gray and
thickly lashed, they were her best feature. Her nose was just too
snub to be pert. Her mouth, though her lips were generous, and her
teeth well-aligned, had too much slack at the outer edges. She either
held it in a perpetual smile—"An easy way to be mistaken for an
idiot," she remarked bitterly—or it sagged. Her hair, an unfortunate
mustard-and-brass shade, would not hold a curl for more than two
hours at the outside. "All I need," she decided ruefully, "is a brand-
new head."
Grace leaned away from the mirror to consult the alarm clock which
lay almost hidden behind an impressive array of cosmetics. Five till
eleven. "He's not coming," she said to her image. "Give it up girl. He
said he'd come, and he probably meant it when he said it, but he's
not coming." She turned from the mirror and began to undress,
beside the single three-quarter-sized bed. "And why should he
come?" she asked herself tiredly. "He doesn't love you. He never—to
his credit, damn it—said he did, either. Hive Law requires that all
males shall marry by the age of twenty-five, or be taken for
Readjustment. Bachelors are not good for racial survival, unquote.
Unwed girls may list themselves in the classified section of the phone
book, along with their qualifications, then start sweating it out by the
phone. So I did, so he called me, so we're engaged. But that doesn't
mean we have to like it. Or that he has to, anyhow. And I'm not sure
that I do."
Grace toyed a moment with the idea of submitting herself for
Readjustment, then gave it up. "A new face wouldn't help," she
decided. "What I need is a new outlook. Besides, what have I got to
crab about? I'm engaged, I'm only twenty-four, and someday I'll be
the wife of Secondary Speakster of the Hive. So hurray for me," she
added, listlessly, as she flipped the coverlet back, and hopped into
bed. She lay there in the glaring Light-of-Day, waiting for Ultrablack.
When it came, in a soundless rush of darkness, she spoke just once
more. "But why didn't he come!"

CHAPTER 4

"Didn't you tell your future daughter-in-law she'd been reassigned to

a new Temple Day?" asked the President. "She went last night,
regardless."
The man addressed, Lloyd Bodger, Senior, scratched his head.
"Seems to me I did, Fred. I could have forgotten, of course."
Fredric Stanton, President and Prime Speakster of the Hive, nodded
and shrugged the topic away. "Probably hated to miss a chance to be
with your boy. Nice kid, that Lloyd."
"Thanks," Bodger said dryly, keeping a firm eye on his superior.
Stanton was buttering him up to something, he knew. "Full of
youthful spirits, too, your boy. I can easily understand why he might
—well—grow overly romantic."
"Come to the point, Fred," said Bodger. "Lloyd's behavior can't hurt
you unless it hits your only sensitive area: your public image. So
what's he done? Drunk too much, pinched a waitress's rump,
scratched a four-letter word on a Temple?"
"Don't take this too lightly, fellow Speakster," said Stanton,
purposefully. "Running the Hive is like walking on eggs in hot cleats.
You're either careful or things get a mite sticky."
"We always have the Goons," said Bodger.
"A Hive full of ten million back-broken corpses isn't much of a
domain," snapped the President. "Have you forgotten that extra-
marital peccadillos are frowned upon in Hive society? People who
play around get hospitalized, quick."
"So what has all this to do with my son?" demanded Bodger.
"He was seen, last night, bringing his fiancee up to this level, shortly
before Ultrablack."
Bodger sighed, then nodded slowly and leaned back in his chair. "And
the girl?" he said grimly.
"So far as I know, she's still on your premises. I think you had better
have a talk with her. And your son."
"I'm sorry, Fred," said Bodger. "I'll make certain there is no
recurrence."
"You'd better," said the President. "If I topple, you're on the next
pedestal down. I might drag you along, just by inertia." He turned
and left the office with cold dignity.
"Crap!" the elder Bodger spat aloud. "I've told that kid to toe the
mark in public!"

CHAPTER 5

Bodger had only a short distance to walk to Unit B from his office. His
temper, despite his efforts at self-control, was seething dangerously
when he entered his foyer. He crossed the mammoth parlor toward
the archway at its rear, where a short corridor led to the sleeping
quarters. Bodger arrived at the door of his son's bedroom. Then, with
his hand upon the knob, he froze, and a ghastly pallor spread itself
across his rugged features.
A hand came up swiftly to his stomach, holding it, pressing inward
against the sudden spasm he had felt, and he stepped swiftly across
the few remaining feet of carpeted hallway to the door of his own
room, through it, and swiftly into his personal bathroom, locking the
thick door behind him. The room was swimming like a thing seen
through warm oil as he slid open the mirrored panel of the medicine-
chest and removed a large jar of pale granulated crystals. Violently
nauseated, he managed to unscrew the lid and dump a handful of
the crystals into the water tumbler. He ran the warm water into the
tumbler—it would dissolve the crystals faster—and drank the now-
glutinous solution. Then the tumbler fell from his weak, perspiring
fingers and smashed into spicules in the basin. He took no notice,
hands rigid against the rim of the basin, shoulders shaking
uncontrollably, his large, grey-thatched head sunken wearily upon his
chest. He stood like that for two minutes, until the room began to
settle down, and its outlines took on solidity once more.
"A close one," he muttered, aloud.
When the eyes that met his in the glass were no longer bleared with
sick pain, he combed his hair neatly, and impatiently began to
remove his sweat-soaked shirt and necktie. Before returning to his
bedroom to change into fresh dry garments, he slid the mirrored
panel closed. It clicked sharply and locked. Countersunk into the tiled
wall, there was no indication that such a space existed behind it. Only
Bodger, Senior, knew which tiles to depress in which order to open
that panel. In a disease-free society, a medicine-chest was taboo; it
implied that its user had no faith in the Government-run hospitals.
Bodger went into his bedroom, dropping the damp shirt and tie atop
the clothes hamper in the closet. There was an ancient leather bag,
with shoulder-strap, on the closet floor. Bodger carried this out into
the room, opened the flap.
When a small light glowed on the indicator panel, he lifted a short
metal rod, and played the end of it slowly back and forth just below
his fleshy ribs. The light flickered on and off steadily. Bodger looked
sharply at the needle of a dial beside the light. "Thank heaven," he
whispered, and returned case and contents to the closet. Then, after
laying out a set of dry things, he considered a moment, ran a hand
testily over his stomach region, and grunted in annoyance. He was
still slightly over-wrought; he could feel the juices inside him itching
to spurt into his bloodstream and arouse him into his erstwhile pitch
of anger. It wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all.
Angered at his own infirmity, he nevertheless set the alarm for an
hour's time ahead, in case he dozed, then lay back on the bed and
closed his eyes.

In the adjoining room, where the door to the hallway was securely
bolted, Lloyd Bodger, Junior, stood up near the wall, in a stance he'd
held for many minutes, the side of his head pressed tightly against
the plastic paneling. "I think he's lying down," he whispered. "I heard
the bedsprings creak."
Andra Corby, her face lowered against the knees which she hugged
to her chest on the bed, shivered a bit, then straightened her long,
smooth legs until she was simply pillow-propped against the
headboard once more, and her arms had refolded across her breast.
"Are you sure?" she asked tautly. "The longer I stay here, the more
frightened I become."
Lloyd spun to face her, almost angrily. "Will you stop that relentless
nobility! I'm doing this for my own skin, remember? I don't care what
happens to you; I care what happens to me if something happens to
you!"
"Your father," she said, enunciating with icy calm and slow clarity, "is
going to hear you...."
Lloyd controlled himself, his fists knotting at his sides.
Seeing he was relaxing, Andra said, a little less frigidly, "I thought—I
thought he was coming in here."
"He stopped outside my door, all right ..." Lloyd mused. "Then went
to his room in a rush. I don't get it."
He listened some more at the wall. Behind him, Andra giggled,
suddenly. He glanced at her. "What—?"
"I just thought—What if your father's on the other side, listening to
hear what you're doing. I'm just picturing two grown men, frowning
in earnest concentration, their ears separated by a few inches of
plastic, and it's funny."
"Not if you're correct, it isn't," said Lloyd, and Andra stopped smiling.
"As soon as he hears you, the jig's up."
"Maybe—" She leaned forward with eager hope. "Maybe it would be a
good thing, Lloyd. He's a powerful man in the Hive. If he knew your
problem, he could use his influence to do something, couldn't he?"
"My father loves me, sure," said Lloyd, with a wry quirk to his lips.
"But I don't think he loves anything so much as his position in our
society. My consorting with a fugitive might put the kibosh on the
next election."
Just then the phone rang and Lloyd couldn't avoid knocking Andra to
the floor in his effort to get the receiver off the hook before the bell
could shatter the silence once more.
"Hello?" he said, extending an upright palm toward Andra to beg her
continued silence.
"Lloyd?" said a subdued, tense female voice.
"Grace!" he said, remembering his promise to come by with her card.
"What—What do you want?"
"I've got to see you, Lloyd," she said. "About last night."
"When?" he asked.
"As soon as you can make it."
"Well—Maybe in ..." Lloyd peered across the room at his bureau
clock. Almost noon. Non-essential lift usage precluded until after the
twelve-to-one lunch period. If he hurried, he could key the lift-switch
before the ban. Lifts in use were never disempowered. "If I catch the
lift, fifteen minutes. Otherwise not till after one."
"... All right."

Lloyd grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair. Andra stood up,
apparently unharmed, and slid into her shoes. "Where are we going?"
she asked, smoothing her dress.
Lloyd looked at her. He hadn't considered—"I guess you'd better
come with me," he said. "I'd hate you caught in the house. In my
bedroom especially."
There were seconds to spare when he closed the gate and thumbed
Grace's level, the ninety-third. Anyone was permitted to travel to a
level beneath their own. To go higher, you needed a duly authorized
Voteplate, or an invitation from a higher-level dweller. The lift
dropped smoothly down inside the shaft. Half-way to Grace's level, a
red light glowed on the level-indicator. When they reached their
getting-off place, the buttons would function no more until one
o'clock. It saved needless crowding if lunching workers remained on
their own levels. Otherwise, if a line were too long, a worker might
be tempted to try his luck lower down, and if too many decided
simultaneously, the bland flow of human traffic might be imbalanced,
agglomerated beyond the capacity of the transportation systems.
Inefficiency would result, with people returning late to their work,
restaurants having too much leftover food, or not enough to go
around. The Hive was too delicately geared for imbalance. So the lifts
went off during lunch.
"Grace Horton must be trusted," Andra said suddenly. "Look, Lloyd,"
she clutched his arm, forcing him to meet her gaze and listen. "If she
hasn't found out, fine. Even Goons can't find out what a person
doesn't know. But if she has found out someone else used her cards
—And called you, instead of reporting it to the authorities.... Then
she can be trusted to hear about me."
"I hope you're right," said Lloyd. The gate opened.
"We'll never find out standing here," said Andra. "Come on, Lloyd."
She started out ahead of him. He pondered the courage of this small
blonde girl, then felt a wave of shame at his own cowardice. He was
in this up to his earlobes already. No amount of explaining could ever
make up his hours of ignoring the basic laws of the Hive. And he
simultaneously realized two things: If Andra's theories were all
wrong, he would merely be Readjusted and returned to his life same
as before. And if they were correct—What difference did it make how
long he dallied with the Hive's opposition? You could only be
destroyed once, and even his delay in shouting the alarm when he'd
recognized Andra as the fugitive was grounds for a medical check-up.
"What the hell," Lloyd said miserably to himself. He was no safer
standing on the cross-sector walk than in the depths of dark intrigue
with Andra.
 CHAPTER 6

"BODGER!... Bodger!"...
A hand was shaking his shoulder roughly, the elder Bodger realized
with annoyance. His eyes focused on the face of Fredric Stanton.
Bodger shrugged the hand away, and sat up groggily.
"As I always suspected," he said, brushing at the crusted salt on his
chest, "the Hive can't run an hour without me at the helm." He got to
his feet and stretched.
Stanton, frowning at his sarcasm, let it pass without comment; he
had a more important topic to discuss. "The tally of last evening's
Vote just came in to my office," he said tightly. "It was a near-
complete poll, only a few thousand missing."
Bodger, still trying to get his mind readjusted to the idea of being
wide awake again, started toward the bathroom and a warm shower,
muttering, "Hooray for progress. Is that any reason to waken a man
—"
"Bodger—!"
He stopped at the open door to the bathroom and turned his head
toward the President. "All right, out with it." Without knowing how,
exactly, Bodger knew it was about Lloyd again. And worse than
before.
Stanton reached inside his suitjacket and withdrew a folded legal
paper, a black-lettered stiff document with an illuminated margin of
pale orange. "I have here," he said, watching Bodger's face, "an
order for Readjustment. It just came up the tube from the Brain. Do I
have to read you the name of the Kinsman on it?"
"Good lord," Bodger whispered. "What—What could he possibly have
done to—?"
"As I said, there was a Vote last night. The proposition was a simple
one: "Shall, in the interests of good government, the draft age be
lowered to fifteen?" You want to know how Lloyd voted?"