■ HE WAS GOING■ DOWN,■ DOWN,■ DOWN…■ 4000 feet into the earth,■ never to return!Level 7 is the diary of Officer X-127, who is assigned to the country's deepest bomb shelter housing important military personnel and equipment. For security reasons those who go down, stay down.Four thousand feet away from sunshine, Level 7 is considered secure from the most devastating attack and has been prepared to be self-sufficient for five hundred years. Marriages are made in this inverted heaven; food is taken in the form of pulp and pills. All is ordained by the god Loudspeaker which, unseen and omnipresent, voices commands for the good of its creatures.The duty of Officer X-127 is to stand guard at the Pushbuttons, a machine devised to rocket instant atomic destruction toward the enemy. There are pushbuttons 1, 2, 3, and 4. Pushbutton 4 is final, complete, total devastation."Powerful, deeply imaginative, haunting…. The best comment there has been so far on the ghastly imbecility of nuclear armaments."—J.B. PRIESTLY"No one can read Level 7 without feeling its gravest warning."—N.Y. Herald Tribune"This story gives the most realistic picture of nuclear war that I have read in any work of fiction."—Linus PaulingOriginally published in 1959, and with more than 400,000 copies sold, this powerful dystopian novel remains a horrific vision of where the nuclear arms race may lead and is an affirmation of human life and love. Level 7 merits comparison to Huxley's A Brave New World and Orwell's 1984 and should be considered a must-read by all science fiction fans."Eventually, I believe, Roshwald's remorseless apocalypse will be recognized as one of the masterpieces of anti-utopian literature."—H. Bruce FranklinMordecai Roshwald is professor emeritus of humanities at the University of Minnesota and a visiting professor at many universities worldwide.
To Dwight and Nikita
My thanks are due to Jonathan Price for translating the original manuscript from my English into English and for making many valuable suggestions.
Some time has passed—thirty-seven days, to be precise—since I decided to write this diary and started to do so. It seems longer: these thirty-seven days have stretched out like eternity. My previous life passes before my mind as a recollected dream, a remote image, the life of another man. In a way, I got adjusted to my new life pretty quickly, though I am still far from feeling happy.
It is now, when my diary is already quite substantial, that it occurs to me that it should have some sort of introduction.
Introduction for whom? I ask myself. What chance is there that the diary will ever see daylight? I mean that literally. For my unknown and uncertain reader sometime in the future, this diary is being written in dungeons.
These dungeons are so deep underground that there is not the slightest chance of any ray of natural light penetrating into them. Not that we need daylight, of course. Our light down here is as strong as is desirable. It is scientifically adjusted to suit human needs. In some ways it is more perfect than sunlight: we get no gloomy days down here, and we never need sun-glasses. I’m told the temperature too is scientifically regulated—to 68 degrees, I believe. This must be the only place in the world where nobody ever talks about the weather. There isn’t any.
So here I am, 4,400 feet down inside the earth, with no chance of seeing sunshine again, writing a diary which probably no one will ever read. The idea of writing it occurred to me a few hours after I had come down. They were very hard hours—hours in which I realised that I shall never go back up to live on the surface of the earth again. But I must go back a bit to tell you how it happened.
The time was 8:00 a.m. and the date was March 21. I was sitting in my room at the PB (Push-Button) Training Camp. I had just had my breakfast, and I was in the act of glancing through the day’s work-programme when there came a knock at the door. A messenger poked his head in and said that the Commanding Officer wanted to see me at once. I glanced in the mirror, flicked a speck of dust off the sleeve of my uniform, took my cap down from the peg behind the door, and left the room.
I had no idea I was walking out of one life and into another. I didn’t even wonder much what the C.O. wanted to see me about. He quite often called one in without any advance warning. Sometimes it was for a fairly important matter—to say that you were to go on attachment to another training base, for example, or that you had been promoted, or that your work was not up to standard. Sometimes it was for one of his periodical inquiries about how you had spent your leave or week-end pass, to find out whether you had met anybody who seemed to be too interested in military secrets. And sometimes he called you in for a friendly-seeming chat without any apparent purpose, which made you wonder for the rest of the day whether he had had a hidden motive or was just plain bored and wanted somebody to talk to.
For the C.O. often was bored—lonely, anyway. As the administrative apex of a highly trained unit of military technicians, he was our superior in rank but inferior to us in technical education, in I.Q. and—so we thought—in his indispensability for modern warfare. So he was always obeyed, but seldom respected; and never treated as a friend. Our attitude probably resembled that of a bunch of Ivy-league college boys under a veteran sergeant who ruled as a god on the parade ground but with whom they would not have dreamt of associating in private. I wouldn’t know for certain because I never was an aristocrat and our instruction bore little resemblance to the old-time training for officers.
To get back to my story: when I was summoned to the C.O. that morning I had no idea what to expect. I thought vaguely that it might be something to do with my leave. For the last three months I had not been allowed off the camp—it had been the final phase of my training period. I had not even had a week-end away. I felt I deserved some leave. We had excellent facilities for leisure inside the camp, but even the inconveniences of life outside seemed attractive once in a while. Now that I am deep underground, even the restricted life of the camp seems almost unbearably attractive in retrospect. And as for a week-end free to go where I liked and do what I wanted—I daren’t think about it.
