Free Levels: The Host by Peter Emshwiller Page B

either on foot, on bicycle, or on the occasional bus. A good subway system would have been welcome. But Second Level said no, and Second Level was the boss.
    The flip side of the bean was Central Park. Unlike the subways, the upperfolk wanted it. They wanted it bad. It was their style. As construction spread, those in charge realized something drastic would have to be done. Already people were complaining that the park was “down there with the dirty ones,” and how unfair that was. Meetings were called. Further construction was delayed. At first they were going to build their own elevated park above the real one, but the logistics were too complicated back then. A few trees here and there up above were easy, but this was too much. And too damn expensive. Besides, Second Level wanted the real Central Park. It was a matter of principle.
    So they took it. They claimed the park. Central Park became the only place in Manhattan where Second Level dipped down to First. Starting around a half block away—all around the park—the upper streets sloped down to the lower level. If Second Level was thought of as real land, then Central Park was its green valley. They built a gentle incline all around the park down to its level. Of course, it therefore became inaccessible to First Level people. On First Level, the result was an angled ceiling in those areas, narrowing to pointed corners where bums slept. And no park. Watly had visited the park’s edges when he first moved to Manhattan. It was cramped and claustrophobic, not a nice area at all. This was to be expected. This was the way of the world. The way of Manhattan, the island country.
    It was said—said quietly—that at various points in time attempts were made to liberate the Second Level. There was nothing about it in history lessons. No one taught it in school. Nothing on the CV. But Watly had heard the stories: Attempts were made. And failed. Failed real badly and real consistently. It may have been propaganda or it may have been truth. Who was there for Watly to ask? But there were stories. The tubes were stormed, they said. Uprights and girders were bombed. Hostages taken. Riots and rebellions. Violence. Uprisings. Unrest . Maybe even Revy. But it never worked. None of it. They said nothing like it ever could succeed. And, if these things really happened at all, Watly knew they had only resulted in stricter security and tougher laws. Crackdowns. Punishment. Discipline. Execution. Actions against the bi-level system were useless. Against the greater good, and all. So it was said. And Watly believed it, or—more accurately—he accepted it.
    The upperfolk always had a favorite response to unhappy Firsters: “If you don’t like it, you can leave!” It was hard to argue with. You could leave. No one was forcing anyone to stay on First Level. Not at all. In fact, it was always much harder to get into Manhattan than to get out. Getting in was complicated and required all kinds of approval. But you could always leave the country easily. No problem. Few did. Manhattan had the money. Manhattan had the jobs—what there were. Those above had wealth and power—investments and businesses in various countries all across the UCA. And if any of that money was going to trickle down, it seemed logical that it would trickle down in Manhattan.
    By and large, people were resigned to their station on the island country. They knew their places, high and low. That was the history. In spite of obvious inequities and an almost comically literal split between the classes, the levels of Manhattan kept lumbering along. To Watly the extreme opposites of Manhattan’s parts somehow balanced into a functional—if uneven—yin- yang symbiosis.
    Over those early post-Cedetime years, the bi-level system continued to grow. And it continued still. Watly knew Second Level, even now, had not reached capacity. There were still areas of construction way uptown and a few places on the West Side. It would