We are just a group of retired spooks that discuss things that you’ll not find anywhere else. It makes us unique. Take a look around. Learn a thing or two.
This text was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy, January 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
A human brain-controlled spacecraft would mean mechanical perfection. This was accomplished, and something unforeseen: a strange entity called—
Mr. Spaceship
By
Philip K. Dick
Kramer leaned back. “You can see the situation. How can we deal with a factor like this? The perfect variable.”
“Perfect? Prediction should still be possible. A living thing still acts from necessity, the same as inanimate material. But the cause-effect chain is more subtle; there are more factors to be considered. The difference is quantitative, I think. The reaction of the living organism parallels natural causation, but with greater complexity.”
Gross and Kramer looked up at the board plates, suspended on the wall, still dripping, the images hardening into place. Kramer traced a line with his pencil.
“See that? It’s a pseudopodium. They’re alive, and so far, a weapon we can’t beat. No mechanical system can compete with that, simple or intricate. We’ll have to scrap the Johnson Control and find something else.”
“Meanwhile the war continues as it is. Stalemate. Checkmate. They can’t get to us, and we can’t get through their living minefield.”
Kramer nodded. “It’s a perfect defense, for them. But there still might be one answer.”
“What’s that?”
“Wait a minute.” Kramer turned to his rocket expert, sitting with the charts and files. “The heavy cruiser that returned this week. It didn’t actually touch, did it? It came close but there was no contact.”
“Correct.” The expert nodded. “The mine was twenty miles off. The cruiser was in space-drive, moving directly toward Proxima, line-straight, using the Johnson Control, of course. It had deflected a quarter of an hour earlier for reasons unknown. Later it resumed its course. That was when they got it.”
“It shifted,” Kramer said. “But not enough. The mine was coming along after it, trailing it. It’s the same old story, but I wonder about the contact.”
“Here’s our theory,” the expert said. “We keep looking for contact, a trigger in the pseudopodium. But more likely we’re witnessing a psychological phenomena, a decision without any physical correlative. We’re watching for something that isn’t there. The mine decides to blow up. It sees our ship, approaches, and then decides.”
“Thanks.” Kramer turned to Gross. “Well, that confirms what I’m saying. How can a ship guided by automatic relays escape a mine that decides to explode? The whole theory of mine penetration is that you must avoid tripping the trigger. But here the trigger is a state of mind in a complicated, developed life-form.”
“The belt is fifty thousand miles deep,” Gross added. “It solves another problem for them, repair and maintenance. The damn things reproduce, fill up the spaces by spawning into them. I wonder what they feed on?”
“Probably the remains of our first-line. The big cruisers must be a delicacy. It’s a game of wits, between a living creature and a ship piloted by automatic relays. The ship always loses.” Kramer opened a folder. “I’ll tell you what I suggest.”
“Mine is very simple. These creatures are superior to any mechanical system, but only because they’re alive. Almost any other life-form could compete with them, any higher life-form. If the yuks can put out living mines to protect their planets, we ought to be able to harness some of our own life-forms in a similar way. Let’s make use of the same weapon ourselves.”
“Which life-form do you propose to use?”
“I think the human brain is the most agile of known living forms. Do you know of any better?”
“But no human being can withstand outspace travel. A human pilot would be dead of heart failure long before the ship got anywhere near Proxima.”
“But we don’t need the whole body,” Kramer said. “We need only the brain.”
“What?”
“The problem is to find a person of high intelligence who would contribute, in the same manner that eyes and arms are volunteered.”
“But a brain….”
“Technically, it could be done. Brains have been transferred several times, when body destruction made it necessary. Of course, to a spaceship, to a heavy outspace cruiser, instead of an artificial body, that’s new.”
The room was silent.
“It’s quite an idea,” Gross said slowly. His heavy square face twisted. “But even supposing it might work, the big question is whose brain?”
It was all very confusing, the reasons for the war, the nature of the enemy. The Yucconae had been contacted on one of the outlying planets of Proxima Centauri. At the approach of the Terran ship, a host of dark slim pencils had lifted abruptly and shot off into the distance. The first real encounter came between three of the yuk pencils and a single exploration ship from Terra. No Terrans survived. After that it was all out war, with no holds barred.
Both sides feverishly constructed defense rings around their systems. Of the two, the Yucconae belt was the better. The ring around Proxima was a living ring, superior to anything Terra could throw against it. The standard equipment by which Terran ships were guided in outspace, the Johnson Control, was not adequate. Something more was needed. Automatic relays were not good enough.
—Not good at all, Kramer thought to himself, as he stood looking down the hillside at the work going on below him. A warm wind blew along the hill, rustling the weeds and grass. At the bottom, in the valley, the mechanics had almost finished; the last elements of the reflex system had been removed from the ship and crated up.
All that was needed now was the new core, the new central key that would take the place of the mechanical system. A human brain, the brain of an intelligent, wary human being. But would the human being part with it? That was the problem.
Kramer turned. Two people were approaching him along the road, a man and a woman. The man was Gross, expressionless, heavy-set, walking with dignity. The woman was—He stared in surprise and growing annoyance. It was Dolores, his wife. Since they’d separated he had seen little of her….
“Kramer,” Gross said. “Look who I ran into. Come back down with us. We’re going into town.”
“Hello, Phil,” Dolores said. “Well, aren’t you glad to see me?”
He nodded. “How have you been? You’re looking fine.” She was still pretty and slender in her uniform, the blue-grey of Internal Security, Gross’ organization.
“Thanks.” She smiled. “You seem to be doing all right, too. Commander Gross tells me that you’re responsible for this project, Operation Head, as they call it. Whose head have you decided on?”
“That’s the problem.” Kramer lit a cigarette. “This ship is to be equipped with a human brain instead of the Johnson system. We’ve constructed special draining baths for the brain, electronic relays to catch the impulses and magnify them, a continual feeding duct that supplies the living cells with everything they need. But—”
“But we still haven’t got the brain itself,” Gross finished. They began to walk back toward the car. “If we can get that we’ll be ready for the tests.”
“Will the brain remain alive?” Dolores asked. “Is it actually going to live as part of the ship?”
“It will be alive, but not conscious. Very little life is actually conscious. Animals, trees, insects are quick in their responses, but they aren’t conscious. In this process of ours the individual personality, the ego, will cease. We only need the response ability, nothing more.”
Dolores shuddered. “How terrible!”
“In time of war everything must be tried,” Kramer said absently. “If one life sacrificed will end the war it’s worth it. This ship might get through. A couple more like it and there wouldn’t be any more war.”
They got into the car. As they drove down the road, Gross said, “Have you thought of anyone yet?”
Kramer shook his head. “That’s out of my line.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m an engineer. It’s not in my department.”
“But all this was your idea.”
“My work ends there.”
Gross was staring at him oddly. Kramer shifted uneasily.
“Then who is supposed to do it?” Gross said. “I can have my organization prepare examinations of various kinds, to determine fitness, that kind of thing—”
“Listen, Phil,” Dolores said suddenly.
“What?”
She turned toward him. “I have an idea. Do you remember that professor we had in college. Michael Thomas?”
Kramer nodded.
“I wonder if he’s still alive.” Dolores frowned. “If he is he must be awfully old.”
“Why, Dolores?” Gross asked.
“Perhaps an old person who didn’t have much time left, but whose mind was still clear and sharp—”
“Professor Thomas.” Kramer rubbed his jaw. “He certainly was a wise old duck. But could he still be alive? He must have been seventy, then.”
“We could find that out,” Gross said. “I could make a routine check.”
“What do you think?” Dolores said. “If any human mind could outwit those creatures—”
“I don’t like the idea,” Kramer said. In his mind an image had appeared, the image of an old man sitting behind a desk, his bright gentle eyes moving about the classroom. The old man leaning forward, a thin hand raised—
“Keep him out of this,” Kramer said.
“What’s wrong?” Gross looked at him curiously.
“It’s because I suggested it,” Dolores said.
“No.” Kramer shook his head. “It’s not that. I didn’t expect anything like this, somebody I knew, a man I studied under. I remember him very clearly. He was a very distinct personality.”
“Good,” Gross said. “He sounds fine.”
“We can’t do it. We’re asking his death!”
“This is war,” Gross said, “and war doesn’t wait on the needs of the individual. You said that yourself. Surely he’ll volunteer; we can keep it on that basis.”
“He may already be dead,” Dolores murmured.
“We’ll find that out,” Gross said speeding up the car. They drove the rest of the way in silence.
For a long time the two of them stood studying the small wood house, overgrown with ivy, set back on the lot behind an enormous oak. The little town was silent and sleepy; once in awhile a car moved slowly along the distant highway, but that was all.
“This is the place,” Gross said to Kramer. He folded his arms. “Quite a quaint little house.”
Kramer said nothing. The two Security Agents behind them were expressionless.
Gross started toward the gate. “Let’s go. According to the check he’s still alive, but very sick. His mind is agile, however. That seems to be certain. It’s said he doesn’t leave the house. A woman takes care of his needs. He’s very frail.”
They went down the stone walk and up onto the porch. Gross rang the bell. They waited. After a time they heard slow footsteps. The door opened. An elderly woman in a shapeless wrapper studied them impassively.
“Security,” Gross said, showing his card. “We wish to see Professor Thomas.”
“Why?”
“Government business.” He glanced at Kramer.
Kramer stepped forward. “I was a pupil of the Professor’s,” he said. “I’m sure he won’t mind seeing us.”
The woman hesitated uncertainly. Gross stepped into the doorway. “All right, mother. This is war time. We can’t stand out here.”
The two Security agents followed him, and Kramer came reluctantly behind, closing the door. Gross stalked down the hall until he came to an open door. He stopped, looking in. Kramer could see the white corner of a bed, a wooden post and the edge of a dresser.
He joined Gross.
In the dark room a withered old man lay, propped up on endless pillows. At first it seemed as if he were asleep; there was no motion or sign of life. But after a time Kramer saw with a faint shock that the old man was watching them intently, his eyes fixed on them, unmoving, unwinking.
“Professor Thomas?” Gross said. “I’m Commander Gross of Security. This man with me is perhaps known to you—”
The faded eyes fixed on Kramer.
“I know him. Philip Kramer…. You’ve grown heavier, boy.” The voice was feeble, the rustle of dry ashes. “Is it true you’re married now?”
“Yes. I married Dolores French. You remember her.” Kramer came toward the bed. “But we’re separated. It didn’t work out very well. Our careers—”
“What we came here about, Professor,” Gross began, but Kramer cut him off with an impatient wave.
“Let me talk. Can’t you and your men get out of here long enough to let me talk to him?”
Gross swallowed. “All right, Kramer.” He nodded to the two men. The three of them left the room, going out into the hall and closing the door after them.
The old man in the bed watched Kramer silently. “I don’t think much of him,” he said at last. “I’ve seen his type before. What’s he want?”
“Nothing. He just came along. Can I sit down?” Kramer found a stiff upright chair beside the bed. “If I’m bothering you—”
“No. I’m glad to see you again, Philip. After so long. I’m sorry your marriage didn’t work out.”
“How have you been?”
“I’ve been very ill. I’m afraid that my moment on the world’s stage has almost ended.” The ancient eyes studied the younger man reflectively. “You look as if you have been doing well. Like everyone else I thought highly of. You’ve gone to the top in this society.”
Kramer smiled. Then he became serious. “Professor, there’s a project we’re working on that I want to talk to you about. It’s the first ray of hope we’ve had in this whole war. If it works, we may be able to crack the yuk defenses, get some ships into their system. If we can do that the war might be brought to an end.”
“Go on. Tell me about it, if you wish.”
“It’s a long shot, this project. It may not work at all, but we have to give it a try.”
“It’s obvious that you came here because of it,” Professor Thomas murmured. “I’m becoming curious. Go on.”
After Kramer finished the old man lay back in the bed without speaking. At last he sighed.
“I understand. A human mind, taken out of a human body.” He sat up a little, looking at Kramer. “I suppose you’re thinking of me.”
Kramer said nothing.
“Before I make my decision I want to see the papers on this, the theory and outline of construction. I’m not sure I like it.—For reasons of my own, I mean. But I want to look at the material. If you’ll do that—”
“Certainly.” Kramer stood up and went to the door. Gross and the two Security Agents were standing outside, waiting tensely. “Gross, come inside.”
They filed into the room.
“Give the Professor the papers,” Kramer said. “He wants to study them before deciding.”
Gross brought the file out of his coat pocket, a manila envelope. He handed it to the old man on the bed. “Here it is, Professor. You’re welcome to examine it. Will you give us your answer as soon as possible? We’re very anxious to begin, of course.”
“I’ll give you my answer when I’ve decided.” He took the envelope with a thin, trembling hand. “My decision depends on what I find out from these papers. If I don’t like what I find, then I will not become involved with this work in any shape or form.” He opened the envelope with shaking hands. “I’m looking for one thing.”
“What is it?” Gross said.
“That’s my affair. Leave me a number by which I can reach you when I’ve decided.”
Silently, Gross put his card down on the dresser. As they went out Professor Thomas was already reading the first of the papers, the outline of the theory.
Kramer sat across from Dale Winter, his second in line. “What then?” Winter said.
“He’s going to contact us.” Kramer scratched with a drawing pen on some paper. “I don’t know what to think.”
“What do you mean?” Winter’s good-natured face was puzzled.
“Look.” Kramer stood up, pacing back and forth, his hands in his uniform pockets. “He was my teacher in college. I respected him as a man, as well as a teacher. He was more than a voice, a talking book. He was a person, a calm, kindly person I could look up to. I always wanted to be like him, someday. Now look at me.”
“So?”
“Look at what I’m asking. I’m asking for his life, as if he were some kind of laboratory animal kept around in a cage, not a man, a teacher at all.”
“Do you think he’ll do it?”
“I don’t know.” Kramer went to the window. He stood looking out. “In a way, I hope not.”
“But if he doesn’t—”
“Then we’ll have to find somebody else. I know. There would be somebody else. Why did Dolores have to—”
The vidphone rang. Kramer pressed the button.
“This is Gross.” The heavy features formed. “The old man called me. Professor Thomas.”
“What did he say?” He knew; he could tell already, by the sound of Gross’ voice.
“He said he’d do it. I was a little surprised myself, but apparently he means it. We’ve already made arrangements for his admission to the hospital. His lawyer is drawing up the statement of liability.”
Kramer only half heard. He nodded wearily. “All right. I’m glad. I suppose we can go ahead, then.”
“You don’t sound very glad.”
“I wonder why he decided to go ahead with it.”
“He was very certain about it.” Gross sounded pleased. “He called me quite early. I was still in bed. You know, this calls for a celebration.”
“Sure,” Kramer said. “It sure does.”
Toward the middle of August the project neared completion. They stood outside in the hot autumn heat, looking up at the sleek metal sides of the ship.
Gross thumped the metal with his hand. “Well, it won’t be long. We can begin the test any time.”
“Tell us more about this,” an officer in gold braid said. “It’s such an unusual concept.”
“Is there really a human brain inside the ship?” a dignitary asked, a small man in a rumpled suit. “And the brain is actually alive?”
“Gentlemen, this ship is guided by a living brain instead of the usual Johnson relay-control system. But the brain is not conscious. It will function by reflex only. The practical difference between it and the Johnson system is this: a human brain is far more intricate than any man-made structure, and its ability to adapt itself to a situation, to respond to danger, is far beyond anything that could be artificially built.”
Gross paused, cocking his ear. The turbines of the ship were beginning to rumble, shaking the ground under them with a deep vibration. Kramer was standing a short distance away from the others, his arms folded, watching silently. At the sound of the turbines he walked quickly around the ship to the other side. A few workmen were clearing away the last of the waste, the scraps of wiring and scaffolding. They glanced up at him and went on hurriedly with their work. Kramer mounted the ramp and entered the control cabin of the ship. Winter was sitting at the controls with a Pilot from Space-transport.
“How’s it look?” Kramer asked.
“All right.” Winter got up. “He tells me that it would be best to take off manually. The robot controls—” Winter hesitated. “I mean, the built-in controls, can take over later on in space.”
“That’s right,” the Pilot said. “It’s customary with the Johnson system, and so in this case we should—”
“Can you tell anything yet?” Kramer asked.
“No,” the Pilot said slowly. “I don’t think so. I’ve been going over everything. It seems to be in good order. There’s only one thing I wanted to ask you about.” He put his hand on the control board. “There are some changes here I don’t understand.”
“Changes?”
“Alterations from the original design. I wonder what the purpose is.”
Kramer took a set of the plans from his coat. “Let me look.” He turned the pages over. The Pilot watched carefully over his shoulder.
“The changes aren’t indicated on your copy,” the Pilot said. “I wonder—” He stopped. Commander Gross had entered the control cabin.
“Gross, who authorized alterations?” Kramer said. “Some of the wiring has been changed.”
“Why, your old friend.” Gross signaled to the field tower through the window.
“My old friend?”
“The Professor. He took quite an active interest.” Gross turned to the Pilot. “Let’s get going. We have to take this out past gravity for the test they tell me. Well, perhaps it’s for the best. Are you ready?”
“Sure.” The Pilot sat down and moved some of the controls around. “Anytime.”
“Go ahead, then,” Gross said.
“The Professor—” Kramer began, but at that moment there was a tremendous roar and the ship leaped under him. He grasped one of the wall holds and hung on as best he could. The cabin was filling with a steady throbbing, the raging of the jet turbines underneath them.
The ship leaped. Kramer closed his eyes and held his breath. They were moving out into space, gaining speed each moment.
“Well, what do you think?” Winter said nervously. “Is it time yet?”
“A little longer,” Kramer said. He was sitting on the floor of the cabin, down by the control wiring. He had removed the metal covering-plate, exposing the complicated maze of relay wiring. He was studying it, comparing it to the wiring diagrams.
“What’s the matter?” Gross said.
“These changes. I can’t figure out what they’re for. The only pattern I can make out is that for some reason—”
“Let me look,” the Pilot said. He squatted down beside Kramer. “You were saying?”
“See this lead here? Originally it was switch controlled. It closed and opened automatically, according to temperature change. Now it’s wired so that the central control system operates it. The same with the others. A lot of this was still mechanical, worked by pressure, temperature, stress. Now it’s under the central master.”
“The brain?” Gross said. “You mean it’s been altered so that the brain manipulates it?”
Kramer nodded. “Maybe Professor Thomas felt that no mechanical relays could be trusted. Maybe he thought that things would be happening too fast. But some of these could close in a split second. The brake rockets could go on as quickly as—”
“Hey,” Winter said from the control seat. “We’re getting near the moon stations. What’ll I do?”
They looked out the port. The corroded surface of the moon gleamed up at them, a corrupt and sickening sight. They were moving swiftly toward it.
“I’ll take it,” the Pilot said. He eased Winter out of the way and strapped himself in place. The ship began to move away from the moon as he manipulated the controls. Down below them they could see the observation stations dotting the surface, and the tiny squares that were the openings of the underground factories and hangars. A red blinker winked up at them and the Pilot’s fingers moved on the board in answer.
“We’re past the moon,” the Pilot said, after a time. The moon had fallen behind them; the ship was heading into outer space. “Well, we can go ahead with it.”
Kramer did not answer.
“Mr. Kramer, we can go ahead any time.”
Kramer started. “Sorry. I was thinking. All right, thanks.” He frowned, deep in thought.
“What is it?” Gross asked.
“The wiring changes. Did you understand the reason for them when you gave the okay to the workmen?”
Gross flushed. “You know I know nothing about technical material. I’m in Security.”
“Then you should have consulted me.”
“What does it matter?” Gross grinned wryly. “We’re going to have to start putting our faith in the old man sooner or later.”
The Pilot stepped back from the board. His face was pale and set. “Well, it’s done,” he said. “That’s it.”
“What’s done?” Kramer said.
“We’re on automatic. The brain. I turned the board over to it—to him, I mean. The Old Man.” The Pilot lit a cigarette and puffed nervously. “Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”
The ship was coasting evenly, in the hands of its invisible pilot. Far down inside the ship, carefully armoured and protected, a soft human brain lay in a tank of liquid, a thousand minute electric charges playing over its surface. As the charges rose they were picked up and amplified, fed into relay systems, advanced, carried on through the entire ship—
Gross wiped his forehead nervously. “So he is running it, now. I hope he knows what he’s doing.”
Kramer nodded enigmatically. “I think he does.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” Kramer walked to the port. “I see we’re still moving in a straight line.” He picked up the microphone. “We can instruct the brain orally, through this.” He blew against the microphone experimentally.
“Go on,” Winter said.
“Bring the ship around half-right,” Kramer said. “Decrease speed.”
They waited. Time passed. Gross looked at Kramer. “No change. Nothing.”
“Wait.”
Slowly, the ship was beginning to turn. The turbines missed, reducing their steady beat. The ship was taking up its new course, adjusting itself. Nearby some space debris rushed past, incinerating in the blasts of the turbine jets.
“So far so good,” Gross said.
They began to breathe more easily. The invisible pilot had taken control smoothly, calmly. The ship was in good hands. Kramer spoke a few more words into the microphone, and they swung again. Now they were moving back the way they had come, toward the moon.
“Let’s see what he does when we enter the moon’s pull,” Kramer said. “He was a good mathematician, the old man. He could handle any kind of problem.”
The ship veered, turning away from the moon. The great eaten-away globe fell behind them.
Gross breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s that.”
“One more thing.” Kramer picked up the microphone. “Return to the moon and land the ship at the first space field,” he said into it.
“Good Lord,” Winter murmured. “Why are you—”
“Be quiet.” Kramer stood, listening. The turbines gasped and roared as the ship swung full around, gaining speed. They were moving back, back toward the moon again. The ship dipped down, heading toward the great globe below.
“We’re going a little fast,” the Pilot said. “I don’t see how he can put down at this velocity.”
The port filled up, as the globe swelled rapidly. The Pilot hurried toward the board, reaching for the controls. All at once the ship jerked. The nose lifted and the ship shot out into space, away from the moon, turning at an oblique angle. The men were thrown to the floor by the sudden change in course. They got to their feet again, speechless, staring at each other.
The Pilot gazed down at the board. “It wasn’t me! I didn’t touch a thing. I didn’t even get to it.”
The ship was gaining speed each moment. Kramer hesitated. “Maybe you better switch it back to manual.”
The Pilot closed the switch. He took hold of the steering controls and moved them experimentally. “Nothing.” He turned around. “Nothing. It doesn’t respond.”
No one spoke.
“You can see what has happened,” Kramer said calmly. “The old man won’t let go of it, now that he has it. I was afraid of this when I saw the wiring changes. Everything in this ship is centrally controlled, even the cooling system, the hatches, the garbage release. We’re helpless.”
“Nonsense.” Gross strode to the board. He took hold of the wheel and turned it. The ship continued on its course, moving away from the moon, leaving it behind.
“Release!” Kramer said into the microphone. “Let go of the controls! We’ll take it back. Release.”
“No good,” the Pilot said. “Nothing.” He spun the useless wheel. “It’s dead, completely dead.”
“And we’re still heading out,” Winter said, grinning foolishly. “We’ll be going through the first-line defense belt in a few minutes. If they don’t shoot us down—”
“We better radio back.” The Pilot clicked the radio to send. “I’ll contact the main bases, one of the observation stations.”
“Better get the defense belt, at the speed we’re going. We’ll be into it in a minute.”
“And after that,” Kramer said, “we’ll be in outer space. He’s moving us toward outspace velocity. Is this ship equipped with baths?”
“Baths?” Gross said.
“The sleep tanks. For space-drive. We may need them if we go much faster.”
“But good God, where are we going?” Gross said. “Where—where’s he taking us?”
The Pilot obtained contact. “This is Dwight, on ship,” he said. “We’re entering the defense zone at high velocity. Don’t fire on us.”
“Turn back,” the impersonal voice came through the speaker. “You’re not allowed in the defense zone.”
“We can’t. We’ve lost control.”
“Lost control?”
“This is an experimental ship.”
Gross took the radio. “This is Commander Gross, Security. We’re being carried into outer space. There’s nothing we can do. Is there any way that we can be removed from this ship?”
A hesitation. “We have some fast pursuit ships that could pick you up if you wanted to jump. The chances are good they’d find you. Do you have space flares?”
“We do,” the Pilot said. “Let’s try it.”
“Abandon ship?” Kramer said. “If we leave now we’ll never see it again.”
“What else can we do? We’re gaining speed all the time. Do you propose that we stay here?”
“No.” Kramer shook his head. “Damn it, there ought to be a better solution.”
“Could you contact him?” Winter asked. “The Old Man? Try to reason with him?”
“It’s worth a chance,” Gross said. “Try it.”
“All right.” Kramer took the microphone. He paused a moment. “Listen! Can you hear me? This is Phil Kramer. Can you hear me, Professor. Can you hear me? I want you to release the controls.”
There was silence.
“This is Kramer, Professor. Can you hear me? Do you remember who I am? Do you understand who this is?”
Above the control panel the wall speaker made a sound, a sputtering static. They looked up.
“Can you hear me, Professor. This is Philip Kramer. I want you to give the ship back to us. If you can hear me, release the controls! Let go, Professor. Let go!”
Static. A rushing sound, like the wind. They gazed at each other. There was silence for a moment.
“It’s a waste of time,” Gross said.
“No—listen!”
The sputter came again. Then, mixed with the sputter, almost lost in it, a voice came, toneless, without inflection, a mechanical, lifeless voice from the metal speaker in the wall, above their heads.
“… Is it you, Philip? I can’t make you out. Darkness…. Who’s there? With you….”
“It’s me, Kramer.” His fingers tightened against the microphone handle. “You must release the controls, Professor. We have to get back to Terra. You must.”
Silence. Then the faint, faltering voice came again, a little stronger than before. “Kramer. Everything so strange. I was right, though. Consciousness result of thinking. Necessary result. Cognito ergo sum. Retain conceptual ability. Can you hear me?”
“Yes, Professor—”
“I altered the wiring. Control. I was fairly certain…. I wonder if I can do it. Try….”
Suddenly the air-conditioning snapped into operation. It snapped abruptly off again. Down the corridor a door slammed. Something thudded. The men stood listening. Sounds came from all sides of them, switches shutting, opening. The lights blinked off; they were in darkness. The lights came back on, and at the same time the heating coils dimmed and faded.
“Good God!” Winter said.
Water poured down on them, the emergency fire-fighting system. There was a screaming rush of air. One of the escape hatches had slid back, and the air was roaring frantically out into space.
The hatch banged closed. The ship subsided into silence. The heating coils glowed into life. As suddenly as it had begun the weird exhibition ceased.
“I can do—everything,” the dry, toneless voice came from the wall speaker. “It is all controlled. Kramer, I wish to talk to you. I’ve been—been thinking. I haven’t seen you in many years. A lot to discuss. You’ve changed, boy. We have much to discuss. Your wife—”
The Pilot grabbed Kramer’s arm. “There’s a ship standing off our bow. Look.”
They ran to the port. A slender pale craft was moving along with them, keeping pace with them. It was signal-blinking.
“A Terran pursuit ship,” the Pilot said. “Let’s jump. They’ll pick us up. Suits—”
He ran to a supply cupboard and turned the handle. The door opened and he pulled the suits out onto the floor.
“Hurry,” Gross said. A panic seized them. They dressed frantically, pulling the heavy garments over them. Winter staggered to the escape hatch and stood by it, waiting for the others. They joined him, one by one.
“Let’s go!” Gross said. “Open the hatch.”
Winter tugged at the hatch. “Help me.”
They grabbed hold, tugging together. Nothing happened. The hatch refused to budge.
“Get a crowbar,” the Pilot said.
“Hasn’t anyone got a blaster?” Gross looked frantically around. “Damn it, blast it open!”
“Pull,” Kramer grated. “Pull together.”
“Are you at the hatch?” the toneless voice came, drifting and eddying through the corridors of the ship. They looked up, staring around them. “I sense something nearby, outside. A ship? You are leaving, all of you? Kramer, you are leaving, too? Very unfortunate. I had hoped we could talk. Perhaps at some other time you might be induced to remain.”
“Open the hatch!” Kramer said, staring up at the impersonal walls of the ship. “For God’s sake, open it!”
There was silence, an endless pause. Then, very slowly, the hatch slid back. The air screamed out, rushing past them into space.
One by one they leaped, one after the other, propelled away by the repulsive material of the suits. A few minutes later they were being hauled aboard the pursuit ship. As the last one of them was lifted through the port, their own ship pointed itself suddenly upward and shot off at tremendous speed. It disappeared.
Kramer removed his helmet, gasping. Two sailors held onto him and began to wrap him in blankets. Gross sipped a mug of coffee, shivering.
“It’s gone,” Kramer murmured.
“I’ll have an alarm sent out,” Gross said.
“What’s happened to your ship?” a sailor asked curiously. “It sure took off in a hurry. Who’s on it?”
“We’ll have to have it destroyed,” Gross went on, his face grim. “It’s got to be destroyed. There’s no telling what it—what he has in mind.” Gross sat down weakly on a metal bench. “What a close call for us. We were so damn trusting.”
“What could he be planning,” Kramer said, half to himself. “It doesn’t make sense. I don’t get it.”
As the ship sped back toward the moon base they sat around the table in the dining room, sipping hot coffee and thinking, not saying very much.
“Look here,” Gross said at last. “What kind of man was Professor Thomas? What do you remember about him?”
Kramer put his coffee mug down. “It was ten years ago. I don’t remember much. It’s vague.”
He let his mind run back over the years. He and Dolores had been at Hunt College together, in physics and the life sciences. The College was small and set back away from the momentum of modern life. He had gone there because it was his home town, and his father had gone there before him.
Professor Thomas had been at the College a long time, as long as anyone could remember. He was a strange old man, keeping to himself most of the time. There were many things that he disapproved of, but he seldom said what they were.
“Do you recall anything that might help us?” Gross asked. “Anything that would give us a clue as to what he might have in mind?”
Kramer nodded slowly. “I remember one thing….”
One day he and the Professor had been sitting together in the school chapel, talking leisurely.
“Well, you’ll be out of school, soon,” the Professor had said. “What are you going to do?”
“Do? Work at one of the Government Research Projects, I suppose.”
“And eventually? What’s your ultimate goal?”
Kramer had smiled. “The question is unscientific. It presupposes such things as ultimate ends.”
“Suppose instead along these lines, then: What if there were no war and no Government Research Projects? What would you do, then?”
“I don’t know. But how can I imagine a hypothetical situation like that? There’s been war as long as I can remember. We’re geared for war. I don’t know what I’d do. I suppose I’d adjust, get used to it.”
The Professor had stared at him. “Oh, you do think you’d get accustomed to it, eh? Well, I’m glad of that. And you think you could find something to do?”
Gross listened intently. “What do you infer from this, Kramer?”
“Not much. Except that he was against war.”
“We’re all against war,” Gross pointed out.
“True. But he was withdrawn, set apart. He lived very simply, cooking his own meals. His wife died many years ago. He was born in Europe, in Italy. He changed his name when he came to the United States. He used to read Dante and Milton. He even had a Bible.”
“Very anachronistic, don’t you think?”
“Yes, he lived quite a lot in the past. He found an old phonograph and records, and he listened to the old music. You saw his house, how old-fashioned it was.”
“Did he have a file?” Winter asked Gross.
“With Security? No, none at all. As far as we could tell he never engaged in political work, never joined anything or even seemed to have strong political convictions.”
“No,” Kramer, agreed. “About all he ever did was walk through the hills. He liked nature.”
“Nature can be of great use to a scientist,” Gross said. “There wouldn’t be any science without it.”
“Kramer, what do you think his plan is, taking control of the ship and disappearing?” Winter said.
“Maybe the transfer made him insane,” the Pilot said. “Maybe there’s no plan, nothing rational at all.”
“But he had the ship rewired, and he had made sure that he would retain consciousness and memory before he even agreed to the operation. He must have had something planned from the start. But what?”
“Perhaps he just wanted to stay alive longer,” Kramer said. “He was old and about to die. Or—”
“Or what?”
“Nothing.” Kramer stood up. “I think as soon as we get to the moon base I’ll make a vidcall to earth. I want to talk to somebody about this.”
“Who’s that?” Gross asked.
“Dolores. Maybe she remembers something.”
“That’s a good idea,” Gross said.
“Where are you calling from?” Dolores asked, when he succeeded in reaching her.
“From the moon base.”
“All kinds of rumors are running around. Why didn’t the ship come back? What happened?”
“I’m afraid he ran off with it.”
“He?”
“The Old Man. Professor Thomas.” Kramer explained what had happened.
Dolores listened intently. “How strange. And you think he planned it all in advance, from the start?”
“I’m certain. He asked for the plans of construction and the theoretical diagrams at once.”
“But why? What for?”
“I don’t know. Look, Dolores. What do you remember about him? Is there anything that might give a clue to all this?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. That’s the trouble.”
On the vidscreen Dolores knitted her brow. “I remember he raised chickens in his back yard, and once he had a goat.” She smiled. “Do you remember the day the goat got loose and wandered down the main street of town? Nobody could figure out where it came from.”
“Anything else?”
“No.” He watched her struggling, trying to remember. “He wanted to have a farm, sometime, I know.”
“All right. Thanks.” Kramer touched the switch. “When I get back to Terra maybe I’ll stop and see you.”
“Let me know how it works out.”
He cut the line and the picture dimmed and faded. He walked slowly back to where Gross and some officers of the Military were sitting at a chart table, talking.
“Any luck?” Gross said, looking up.
“No. All she remembers is that he kept a goat.”
“Come over and look at this detail chart.” Gross motioned him around to his side. “Watch!”
Kramer saw the record tabs moving furiously, the little white dots racing back and forth.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“A squadron outside the defense zone has finally managed to contact the ship. They’re maneuvering now, for position. Watch.”
The white counters were forming a barrel formation around a black dot that was moving steadily across the board, away from the central position. As they watched, the white dots constricted around it.
“They’re ready to open fire,” a technician at the board said. “Commander, what shall we tell them to do?”
Gross hesitated. “I hate to be the one who makes the decision. When it comes right down to it—”
“It’s not just a ship,” Kramer said. “It’s a man, a living person. A human being is up there, moving through space. I wish we knew what—”
“But the order has to be given. We can’t take any chances. Suppose he went over to them, to the yuks.”
Kramer’s jaw dropped. “My God, he wouldn’t do that.”
“Are you sure? Do you know what he’ll do?”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
Gross turned to the technician. “Tell them to go ahead.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but now the ship has gotten away. Look down at the board.”
Gross stared down, Kramer over his shoulder. The black dot had slipped through the white dots and had moved off at an abrupt angle. The white dots were broken up, dispersing in confusion.
“He’s an unusual strategist,” one of the officers said. He traced the line. “It’s an ancient maneuver, an old Prussian device, but it worked.”
The white dots were turning back. “Too many yuk ships out that far,” Gross said. “Well, that’s what you get when you don’t act quickly.” He looked up coldly at Kramer. “We should have done it when we had him. Look at him go!” He jabbed a finger at the rapidly moving black dot. The dot came to the edge of the board and stopped. It had reached the limit of the chartered area. “See?”
—Now what? Kramer thought, watching. So the Old Man had escaped the cruisers and gotten away. He was alert, all right; there was nothing wrong with his mind. Or with his ability to control his new body.
Body—The ship was a new body for him. He had traded in the old dying body, withered and frail, for this hulking frame of metal and plastic, turbines and rocket jets. He was strong, now. Strong and big. The new body was more powerful than a thousand human bodies. But how long would it last him? The average life of a cruiser was only ten years. With careful handling he might get twenty out of it, before some essential part failed and there was no way to replace it.
And then, what then? What would he do, when something failed and there was no one to fix it for him? That would be the end. Someplace, far out in the cold darkness of space, the ship would slow down, silent and lifeless, to exhaust its last heat into the eternal timelessness of outer space. Or perhaps it would crash on some barren asteroid, burst into a million fragments.
It was only a question of time.
“Your wife didn’t remember anything?” Gross said.
“I told you. Only that he kept a goat, once.”
“A hell of a lot of help that is.”
Kramer shrugged. “It’s not my fault.”
“I wonder if we’ll ever see him again.” Gross stared down at the indicator dot, still hanging at the edge of the board. “I wonder if he’ll ever move back this way.”
“I wonder, too,” Kramer said.
That night Kramer lay in bed, tossing from side to side, unable to sleep. The moon gravity, even artificially increased, was unfamiliar to him and it made him uncomfortable. A thousand thoughts wandered loose in his head as he lay, fully awake.
What did it all mean? What was the Professor’s plan? Maybe they would never know. Maybe the ship was gone for good; the Old Man had left forever, shooting into outer space. They might never find out why he had done it, what purpose—if any—had been in his mind.
Kramer sat up in bed. He turned on the light and lit a cigarette. His quarters were small, a metal-lined bunk room, part of the moon station base.
The Old Man had wanted to talk to him. He had wanted to discuss things, hold a conversation, but in the hysteria and confusion all they had been able to think of was getting away. The ship was rushing off with them, carrying them into outer space. Kramer set his jaw. Could they be blamed for jumping? They had no idea where they were being taken, or why. They were helpless, caught in their own ship, and the pursuit ship standing by waiting to pick them up was their only chance. Another half hour and it would have been too late.
But what had the Old Man wanted to say? What had he intended to tell him, in those first confusing moments when the ship around them had come alive, each metal strut and wire suddenly animate, the body of a living creature, a vast metal organism?
It was weird, unnerving. He could not forget it, even now. He looked around the small room uneasily. What did it signify, the coming to life of metal and plastic? All at once they had found themselves inside a living creature, in its stomach, like Jonah inside the whale.
It had been alive, and it had talked to them, talked calmly and rationally, as it rushed them off, faster and faster into outer space. The wall speaker and circuit had become the vocal cords and mouth, the wiring the spinal cord and nerves, the hatches and relays and circuit breakers the muscles.
They had been helpless, completely helpless. The ship had, in a brief second, stolen their power away from them and left them defenseless, practically at its mercy. It was not right; it made him uneasy. All his life he had controlled machines, bent nature and the forces of nature to man and man’s needs. The human race had slowly evolved until it was in a position to operate things, run them as it saw fit. Now all at once it had been plunged back down the ladder again, prostrate before a Power against which they were children.
Kramer got out of bed. He put on his bathrobe and began to search for a cigarette. While he was searching, the vidphone rang.
He snapped the vidphone on.
“Yes?”
The face of the immediate monitor appeared. “A call from Terra, Mr. Kramer. An emergency call.”
“Emergency call? For me? Put it through.” Kramer came awake, brushing his hair back out of his eyes. Alarm plucked at him.
From the speaker a strange voice came. “Philip Kramer? Is this Kramer?”
“Yes. Go on.”
“This is General Hospital, New York City, Terra. Mr. Kramer, your wife is here. She has been critically injured in an accident. Your name was given to us to call. Is it possible for you to—”
“How badly?” Kramer gripped the vidphone stand. “Is it serious?”
“Yes, it’s serious, Mr. Kramer. Are you able to come here? The quicker you can come the better.”
“Yes.” Kramer nodded. “I’ll come. Thanks.”
The screen died as the connection was broken. Kramer waited a moment. Then he tapped the button. The screen relit again. “Yes, sir,” the monitor said.
“Can I get a ship to Terra at once? It’s an emergency. My wife—”
“There’s no ship leaving the moon for eight hours. You’ll have to wait until the next period.”
“Isn’t there anything I can do?”
“We can broadcast a general request to all ships passing through this area. Sometimes cruisers pass by here returning to Terra for repairs.”
“Will you broadcast that for me? I’ll come down to the field.”
“Yes sir. But there may be no ship in the area for awhile. It’s a gamble.” The screen died.
Kramer dressed quickly. He put on his coat and hurried to the lift. A moment later he was running across the general receiving lobby, past the rows of vacant desks and conference tables. At the door the sentries stepped aside and he went outside, onto the great concrete steps.
The face of the moon was in shadow. Below him the field stretched out in total darkness, a black void, endless, without form. He made his way carefully down the steps and along the ramp along the side of the field, to the control tower. A faint row of red lights showed him the way.
Two soldiers challenged him at the foot of the tower, standing in the shadows, their guns ready.
“Kramer?”
“Yes.” A light was flashed in his face.
“Your call has been sent out already.”
“Any luck?” Kramer asked.
“There’s a cruiser nearby that has made contact with us. It has an injured jet and is moving slowly back toward Terra, away from the line.”
“Good.” Kramer nodded, a flood of relief rushing through him. He lit a cigarette and gave one to each of the soldiers. The soldiers lit up.
“Sir,” one of them asked, “is it true about the experimental ship?”
“What do you mean?”
“It came to life and ran off?”
“No, not exactly,” Kramer said. “It had a new type of control system instead of the Johnson units. It wasn’t properly tested.”
“But sir, one of the cruisers that was there got up close to it, and a buddy of mine says this ship acted funny. He never saw anything like it. It was like when he was fishing once on Terra, in Washington State, fishing for bass. The fish were smart, going this way and that—”
“Here’s your cruiser,” the other soldier said. “Look!”
An enormous vague shape was setting slowly down onto the field. They could make nothing out but its row of tiny green blinkers. Kramer stared at the shape.
“Better hurry, sir,” the soldiers said. “They don’t stick around here very long.”
“Thanks.” Kramer loped across the field, toward the black shape that rose up above him, extended across the width of the field. The ramp was down from the side of the cruiser and he caught hold of it. The ramp rose, and a moment later Kramer was inside the hold of the ship. The hatch slid shut behind him.
As he made his way up the stairs to the main deck the turbines roared up from the moon, out into space.
Kramer opened the door to the main deck. He stopped suddenly, staring around him in surprise. There was nobody in sight. The ship was deserted.
“Good God,” he said. Realization swept over him, numbing him. He sat down on a bench, his head swimming. “Good God.”
The ship roared out into space leaving the moon and Terra farther behind each moment.
And there was nothing he could do.
“So it was you who put the call through,” he said at last. “It was you who called me on the vidphone, not any hospital on Terra. It was all part of the plan.” He looked up and around him. “And Dolores is really—”
“Your wife is fine,” the wall speaker above him said tonelessly. “It was a fraud. I am sorry to trick you that way, Philip, but it was all I could think of. Another day and you would have been back on Terra. I don’t want to remain in this area any longer than necessary. They have been so certain of finding me out in deep space that I have been able to stay here without too much danger. But even the purloined letter was found eventually.”
Kramer smoked his cigarette nervously. “What are you going to do? Where are we going?”
“First, I want to talk to you. I have many things to discuss. I was very disappointed when you left me, along with the others. I had hoped that you would remain.” The dry voice chuckled. “Remember how we used to talk in the old days, you and I? That was a long time ago.”
The ship was gaining speed. It plunged through space at tremendous speed, rushing through the last of the defense zone and out beyond. A rush of nausea made Kramer bend over for a moment.
When he straightened up the voice from the wall went on, “I’m sorry to step it up so quickly, but we are still in danger. Another few moments and we’ll be free.”
“How about yuk ships? Aren’t they out here?”
“I’ve already slipped away from several of them. They’re quite curious about me.”
“Curious?”
“They sense that I’m different, more like their own organic mines. They don’t like it. I believe they will begin to withdraw from this area, soon. Apparently they don’t want to get involved with me. They’re an odd race, Philip. I would have liked to study them closely, try to learn something about them. I’m of the opinion that they use no inert material. All their equipment and instruments are alive, in some form or other. They don’t construct or build at all. The idea of making is foreign to them. They utilize existing forms. Even their ships—”
“Where are we going?” Kramer said. “I want to know where you are taking me.”
“Frankly, I’m not certain.”
“You’re not certain?”
“I haven’t worked some details out. There are a few vague spots in my program, still. But I think that in a short while I’ll have them ironed out.”
“What is your program?” Kramer said.
“It’s really very simple. But don’t you want to come into the control room and sit? The seats are much more comfortable than that metal bench.”
Kramer went into the control room and sat down at the control board. Looking at the useless apparatus made him feel strange.
“What’s the matter?” the speaker above the board rasped.
Kramer gestured helplessly. “I’m—powerless. I can’t do anything. And I don’t like it. Do you blame me?”
“No. No, I don’t blame you. But you’ll get your control back, soon. Don’t worry. This is only a temporary expedient, taking you off this way. It was something I didn’t contemplate. I forgot that orders would be given out to shoot me on sight.”
“It was Gross’ idea.”
“I don’t doubt that. My conception, my plan, came to me as soon as you began to describe your project, that day at my house. I saw at once that you were wrong; you people have no understanding of the mind at all. I realized that the transfer of a human brain from an organic body to a complex artificial space ship would not involve the loss of the intellectualization faculty of the mind. When a man thinks, he is.
“When I realized that, I saw the possibility of an age-old dream becoming real. I was quite elderly when I first met you, Philip. Even then my life-span had come pretty much to its end. I could look ahead to nothing but death, and with it the extinction of all my ideas. I had made no mark on the world, none at all. My students, one by one, passed from me into the world, to take up jobs in the great Research Project, the search for better and bigger weapons of war.
“The world has been fighting for a long time, first with itself, then with the Martians, then with these beings from Proxima Centauri, whom we know nothing about. The human society has evolved war as a cultural institution, like the science of astronomy, or mathematics. War is a part of our lives, a career, a respected vocation. Bright, alert young men and women move into it, putting their shoulders to the wheel as they did in the time of Nebuchadnezzar. It has always been so.
“But is it innate in mankind? I don’t think so. No social custom is innate. There were many human groups that did not go to war; the Eskimos never grasped the idea at all, and the American Indians never took to it well.
“But these dissenters were wiped out, and a cultural pattern was established that became the standard for the whole planet. Now it has become ingrained in us.
“But if someplace along the line some other way of settling problems had arisen and taken hold, something different than the massing of men and material to—”
“What’s your plan?” Kramer said. “I know the theory. It was part of one of your lectures.”
“Yes, buried in a lecture on plant selection, as I recall. When you came to me with this proposition I realized that perhaps my conception could be brought to life, after all. If my theory were right that war is only a habit, not an instinct, a society built up apart from Terra with a minimum of cultural roots might develop differently. If it failed to absorb our outlook, if it could start out on another foot, it might not arrive at the same point to which we have come: a dead end, with nothing but greater and greater wars in sight, until nothing is left but ruin and destruction everywhere.
“Of course, there would have to be a Watcher to guide the experiment, at first. A crisis would undoubtedly come very quickly, probably in the second generation. Cain would arise almost at once.
“You see, Kramer, I estimate that if I remain at rest most of the time, on some small planet or moon, I may be able to keep functioning for almost a hundred years. That would be time enough, sufficient to see the direction of the new colony. After that—Well, after that it would be up to the colony itself.
“Which is just as well, of course. Man must take control eventually, on his own. One hundred years, and after that they will have control of their own destiny. Perhaps I am wrong, perhaps war is more than a habit. Perhaps it is a law of the universe, that things can only survive as groups by group violence.
“But I’m going ahead and taking the chance that it is only a habit, that I’m right, that war is something we’re so accustomed to that we don’t realize it is a very unnatural thing. Now as to the place! I’m still a little vague about that. We must find the place, still.
“That’s what we’re doing now. You and I are going to inspect a few systems off the beaten path, planets where the trading prospects are low enough to keep Terran ships away. I know of one planet that might be a good place. It was reported by the Fairchild Expedition in their original manual. We may look into that, for a start.”
The ship was silent.
Kramer sat for a time, staring down at the metal floor under him. The floor throbbed dully with the motion of the turbines. At last he looked up.
“You might be right. Maybe our outlook is only a habit.” Kramer got to his feet. “But I wonder if something has occurred to you?”
“What is that?”
“If it’s such a deeply ingrained habit, going back thousands of years, how are you going to get your colonists to make the break, leave Terra and Terran customs? How about this generation, the first ones, the people who found the colony? I think you’re right that the next generation would be free of all this, if there were an—” He grinned. “—An Old Man Above to teach them something else instead.”
Kramer looked up at the wall speaker. “How are you going to get the people to leave Terra and come with you, if by your own theory, this generation can’t be saved, it all has to start with the next?”
The wall speaker was silent. Then it made a sound, the faint dry chuckle.
“I’m surprised at you, Philip. Settlers can be found. We won’t need many, just a few.” The speaker chuckled again. “I’ll acquaint you with my solution.”
At the far end of the corridor a door slid open. There was sound, a hesitant sound. Kramer turned.
“Dolores!”
Dolores Kramer stood uncertainly, looking into the control room. She blinked in amazement. “Phil! What are you doing here? What’s going on?”
They stared at each other.
“What’s happening?” Dolores said. “I received a vidcall that you had been hurt in a lunar explosion—”
The wall speaker rasped into life. “You see, Philip, that problem is already solved. We don’t really need so many people; even a single couple might do.”
Kramer nodded slowly. “I see,” he murmured thickly. “Just one couple. One man and woman.”
“They might make it all right, if there were someone to watch and see that things went as they should. There will be quite a few things I can help you with, Philip. Quite a few. We’ll get along very well, I think.”
Kramer grinned wryly. “You could even help us name the animals,” he said. “I understand that’s the first step.”
“I’ll be glad to,” the toneless, impersonal voice said. “As I recall, my part will be to bring them to you, one by one. Then you can do the actual naming.”
“I don’t understand,” Dolores faltered. “What does he mean, Phil? Naming animals. What kind of animals? Where are we going?”
Kramer walked slowly over to the port and stood staring silently out, his arms folded. Beyond the ship a myriad fragments of light gleamed, countless coals glowing in the dark void. Stars, suns, systems. Endless, without number. A universe of worlds. An infinity of planets, waiting for them, gleaming and winking from the darkness.
He turned back, away from the port. “Where are we going?” He smiled at his wife, standing nervous and frightened, her large eyes full of alarm. “I don’t know where we are going,” he said. “But somehow that doesn’t seem too important right now…. I’m beginning to see the Professor’s point, it’s the result that counts.”
And for the first time in many months he put his arm around Dolores. At first she stiffened, the fright and nervousness still in her eyes. But then suddenly she relaxed against him and there were tears wetting her cheeks.
“Phil … do you really think we can start over again—you and I?”
He kissed her tenderly, then passionately.
And the spaceship shot swiftly through the endless, trackless eternity of the void….
This text was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction January 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
THE CHAPTER ENDS
Novelet of Latter Years
by Poul Anderson
Julith clasped the star-man’s arm with one hand, while her other arm gripped his waist. The generator in Jorun’s skull responded to his will … they rose quietly and went slowly seaward….
“Look around you, Jorun of Fulkhis. This is Earth. This is the old home of all mankind. You cannot go off and forget it. Man cannot do so. It is in him, in his blood and bones and soul; he will carry Earth within him forever.”
“No,” said the old man.
“But you don’t realize what it means,” said Jorun. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
The old man, Kormt of Huerdar, Gerlaug’s son, and Speaker for Solis Township, shook his head till the long, grizzled locks swirled around his wide shoulders. “I have thought it through,” he said. His voice was deep and slow and implacable. “You gave me five years to think about it. And my answer is no.”
Jorun felt a weariness rise within him. It had been like this for days now, weeks, and it was like trying to knock down a mountain. You beat on its rocky flanks till your hands were bloody, and still the mountain stood there, sunlight on its high snow-fields and in the forests that rustled up its slopes, and it did not really notice you. You were a brief thin buzz between two long nights, but the mountain was forever.
“You haven’t thought at all,” he said with a rudeness born of exhaustion. “You’ve only reacted unthinkingly to a dead symbol. It’s not a human reaction, even, it’s a verbal reflex.”
Kormt’s eyes, meshed in crow’s-feet, were serene and steady under the thick gray brows. He smiled a little in his long beard, but made no other reply. Had he simply let the insult glide off him, or had he not understood it at all? There was no real talking to these peasants; too many millennia lay between, and you couldn’t shout across that gulf.
“Well,” said Jorun, “the ships will be here tomorrow or the next day, and it’ll take another day or so to get all your people aboard. You have that long to decide, but after that it’ll be too late. Think about it, I beg of you. As for me, I’ll be too busy to argue further.”
“You are a good man,” said Kormt, “and a wise one in your fashion. But you are blind. There is something dead inside you.”
He waved one huge gnarled hand. “Look around you, Jorun of Fulkhis. This is Earth. This is the old home of all humankind. You cannot go off and forget it. Man cannot do so. It is in him, in his blood and bones and soul; he will carry Earth within him forever.”
Jorun’s eyes traveled along the arc of the hand. He stood on the edge of the town. Behind him were its houses—low, white, half-timbered, roofed with thatch or red tile, smoke rising from the chimneys; carved galleries overhung the narrow, cobbled, crazily-twisting streets; he heard the noise of wheels and wooden clogs, the shouts of children at play. Beyond that were trees and the incredible ruined walls of Sol City. In front of him, the wooded hills were cleared and a gentle landscape of neat fields and orchards rolled down toward the distant glitter of the sea: scattered farm buildings, drowsy cattle, winding gravel roads, fence-walls of ancient marble and granite, all dreaming under the sun.
He drew a deep breath. It was pungent in his nostrils. It smelled of leaf-mould, plowed earth baking in the warmth, summery trees and gardens, a remote ocean odor of salt and kelp and fish. He thought that no two planets ever had quite the same smell, and that none was as rich as Terra’s.
“This is a fair world,” he said slowly.
“It is the only one,” said Kormt. “Man came from here; and to this, in the end, he must return.”
“I wonder—” Jorun sighed. “Take me; not one atom of my body was from this soil before I landed. My people lived on Fulkhis for ages, and changed to meet its conditions. They would not be happy on Terra.”
“The atoms are nothing,” said Kormt. “It is the form which matters, and that was given to you by Earth.”
Jorun studied him for a moment. Kormt was like most of this planet’s ten million or so people—a dark, stocky folk, though there were more blond and red-haired throwbacks here than in the rest of the Galaxy. He was old for a primitive untreated by medical science—he must be almost two hundred years old—but his back was straight, and his stride firm. The coarse, jut-nosed face held an odd strength. Jorun was nearing his thousandth birthday, but couldn’t help feeling like a child in Kormt’s presence.
That didn’t make sense. These few dwellers on Terra were a backward and impoverished race of peasants and handicraftsmen; they were ignorant and unadventurous; they had been static for more thousands of years than anyone knew. What could they have to say to the ancient and mighty civilization which had almost forgotten their little planet?
Kormt looked at the declining sun. “I must go now,” he said. “There are the evening chores to do. I will be in town tonight if you should wish to see me.”
“I probably will,” said Jorun. “There’s a lot to do, readying the evacuation, and you’re a big help.”
The old man bowed with grave courtesy, turned, and walked off down the road. He wore the common costume of Terran men, as archaic in style as in its woven-fabric material: hat, jacket, loose trousers, a long staff in his hand. Contrasting the drab blue of Kormt’s dress, Jorun’s vivid tunic of shifting rainbow hues was like a flame.
The psychotechnician sighed again, watching him go. He liked the old fellow. It would be criminal to leave him here alone, but the law forbade force—physical or mental—and the Integrator on Corazuno wasn’t going to care whether or not one aged man stayed behind. The job was to get the race off Terra.
A lovely world. Jorun’s thin mobile features, pale-skinned and large-eyed, turned around the horizon. A fair world we came from.
There were more beautiful planets in the Galaxy’s swarming myriads—the indigo world-ocean of Loa, jeweled with islands; the heaven-defying mountains of Sharang; the sky of Jareb, that seemed to drip light—oh, many and many, but there was only one Earth.
Jorun remembered his first sight of this world, hanging free in space to watch it after the gruelling ten-day run, thirty thousand light-years, from Corazuno. It was blue as it turned before his eyes, a burnished turquoise shield blazoned with the living green and brown of its lands, and the poles were crowned with a flimmering haze of aurora. The belts that streaked its face and blurred the continents were cloud, wind and water and the gray rush of rain, like a benediction from heaven. Beyond the planet hung its moon, a scarred golden crescent, and he had wondered how many generations of men had looked up to it, or watched its light like a broken bridge across moving waters. Against the enormous cold of the sky—utter black out to the distant coils of the nebulae, thronging with a million frosty points of diamond-hard blaze that were the stars—Earth had stood as a sign of haven. To Jorun, who came from Galactic center and its uncountable hosts of suns, heaven was bare, this was the outer fringe where the stars thinned away toward hideous immensity. He had shivered a little, drawn the envelope of air and warmth closer about him, with a convulsive movement. The silence drummed in his head. Then he streaked for the north-pole rendezvous of his group.
Well, he thought now, we have a pretty routine job. The first expedition here, five years ago, prepared the natives for the fact they’d have to go. Our party simply has to organize these docile peasants in time for the ships. But it had meant a lot of hard work, and he was tired. It would be good to finish the job and get back home.
Or would it?
He thought of flying with Zarek, his team-mate, from the rendezvous to this area assigned as theirs. Plains like oceans of grass, wind-rippled, darkened with the herds of wild cattle whose hoofbeats were a thunder in the earth; forests, hundreds of kilometers of old and mighty trees, rivers piercing them in a long steel gleam; lakes where fish leaped; spilling sunshine like warm rain, radiance so bright it hurt his eyes, cloud-shadows swift across the land. It had all been empty of man, but still there was a vitality here which was almost frightening to Jorun. His own grim world of moors and crags and spin-drift seas was a niggard beside this; here life covered the earth, filled the oceans, and made the heavens clangerous around him. He wondered if the driving energy within man, the force which had raised him to the stars, made him half-god and half-demon, if that was a legacy of Terra.
Well—man had changed; over the thousands of years, natural and controlled adaptation had fitted him to the worlds he had colonized, and most of his many races could not now feel at home here. Jorun thought of his own party: round, amber-skinned Chuli from a tropic world, complaining bitterly about the cold and dryness; gay young Cluthe, gangling and bulge-chested; sophisticated Taliuvenna of the flowing dark hair and the lustrous eyes—no, to them Earth was only one more planet, out of thousands they had seen in their long lives.
And I’m a sentimental fool.
2
He could have willed the vague regret out of his trained nervous system, but he didn’t want to. This was the last time human eyes would ever look on Earth, and somehow Jorun felt that it should be more to him than just another psychotechnic job.
“Hello, good sir.”
He turned at the voice and forced his tired lips into a friendly smile. “Hello, Julith,” he said. It was a wise policy to learn the names of the townspeople, at least, and she was a great-great-granddaughter of the Speaker.
She was some thirteen or fourteen years old, a freckle-faced child with a shy smile, and steady green eyes. There was a certain awkward grace about her, and she seemed more imaginative than most of her stolid race. She curtsied quaintly for him, her bare foot reaching out under the long smock which was daily female dress here.
“Are you busy, good sir?” she asked.
“Well, not too much,” said Jorun. He was glad of a chance to talk; it silenced his thoughts. “What can I do for you?”
“I wondered—” She hesitated, then, breathlessly: “I wonder if you could give me a lift down to the beach? Only for an hour or two. It’s too far to walk there before I have to be home, and I can’t borrow a car, or even a horse. If it won’t be any trouble, sir.”
“Mmmm—shouldn’t you be at home now? Isn’t there milking and so on to do?”
“Oh, I don’t live on a farm, good sir. My father is a baker.”
“Yes, yes, so he is. I should have remembered.” Jorun considered for an instant. There was enough to do in town, and it wasn’t fair for him to play hooky while Zarek worked alone. “Why do you want to go to the beach, Julith?”
“We’ll be busy packing up,” she said. “Starting tomorrow, I guess. This is my last chance to see it.”
Jorun’s mouth twisted a little. “All right,” he said; “I’ll take you.”
“You are very kind, good sir,” she said gravely.
He didn’t reply, but held out his arm, and she clasped it with one hand while her other arm gripped his waist. The generator inside his skull responded to his will, reaching out and clawing itself to the fabric of forces and energies which was physical space. They rose quietly, and went so slowly seaward that he didn’t have to raise a wind-screen.
“Will we be able to fly like this when we get to the stars?” she asked.
“I’m afraid not, Julith,” he said. “You see, the people of my civilization are born this way. Thousands of years ago, men learned how to control the great basic forces of the cosmos with only a small bit of energy. Finally they used artificial mutation—that is, they changed themselves, slowly, over many generations, until their brains grew a new part that could generate this controlling force. We can now even, fly between the stars, by this power. But your people don’t have that brain, so we had to build spaceships to take you away.”
“I see,” she said.
“Your great-great-great-grandchildren can be like us, if your people want to be changed thus,” he said.
“They didn’t want to change before,” she answered. “I don’t think they’ll do it now, even in their new home.” Her voice held no bitterness; it was an acceptance.
Privately, Jorun doubted it. The psychic shock of this uprooting would be bound to destroy the old traditions of the Terrans; it would not take many centuries before they were culturally assimilated by Galactic civilization.
Assimilated—nice euphemism. Why not just say—eaten?
They landed on the beach. It was broad and white, running in dunes from the thin, harsh, salt-streaked grass to the roar and tumble of surf. The sun was low over the watery horizon, filling the damp, blowing air with gold. Jorun could almost look directly at its huge disc.
He sat down. The sand gritted tinily under him, and the wind rumpled his hair and filled his nostrils with its sharp wet smell. He picked up a conch and turned it over in his fingers, wondering at the intricate architecture of it.
“If you hold it to your ear,” said Julith, “you can hear the sea.” Her childish voice was curiously tender around the rough syllables of Earth’s language.
He nodded and obeyed her hint. It was only the small pulse of blood within him—you heard the same thing out in the great hollow silence of space—but it did sing of restless immensities, wind and foam, and the long waves marching under the moon.
“I have two of them myself,” said Julith. “I want them so I can always remember this beach. And my children and their children will hold them, too, and hear our sea talking.” She folded his fingers around the shell. “You keep this one for yourself.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I will.” The combers rolled in, booming and spouting against the land. The Terrans called them the horses of God. A thin cloud in the west was turning rose and gold.
“Are there oceans on our new planet?” asked Julith.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s the most Earth-like world we could find that wasn’t already inhabited. You’ll be happy there.”
But the trees and grasses, the soil and the fruits thereof, the beasts of the field and the birds of the air and the fish of the waters beneath, form and color, smell and sound, taste and texture, everything is different. Is alien. The difference is small, subtle, but it is the abyss of two billion years of separate evolution, and no other world can ever quite be Earth.
Julith looked straight at him with solemn eyes. “Are you folk afraid of Hulduvians?” she asked.
“Why, no,” he said. “Of course not.”
“Then why are you giving Earth to them?” It was a soft question, but it trembled just a little.
“I thought all your people understood the reason by now,” said Jorun. “Civilization—the civilization of man and his nonhuman allies—has moved inward, toward the great star-clusters of Galactic center. This part of space means nothing to us any more; it’s almost a desert. You haven’t seen starlight till you’ve been by Sagittarius. Now the Hulduvians are another civilization. They are not the least bit like us; they live on big, poisonous worlds like Jupiter and Saturn. I think they would seem like pretty nice monsters if they weren’t so alien to us that neither side can really understand the other. They use the cosmic energies too, but in a different way—and their way interferes with ours just as ours interferes with theirs. Different brains, you see.
“Anyway, it was decided that the two civilizations would get along best by just staying away from each other. If they divided up the Galaxy between them, there would be no interference; it would be too far from one civilization to the other. The Hulduvians were, really, very nice about it. They’re willing to take the outer rim, even if there are fewer stars, and let us have the center.
“So by the agreement, we’ve got to have all men and manlike beings out of their territory before they come to settle it, just as they’ll move out of ours. Their colonists won’t be coming to Jupiter and Saturn for centuries yet; but even so, we have to clear the Sirius Sector now, because there’ll be a lot of work to do elsewhere. Fortunately, there are only a few people living in this whole part of space. The Sirius Sector has been an isolated, primi—ah—quiet region since the First Empire fell, fifty thousand years ago.”
Julith’s voice rose a little. “But those people are us!”
“And the folk of Alpha Centauri and Procyon and Sirius and—oh, hundreds of other stars. Yet all of you together are only one tiny drop in the quadrillions of the Galaxy. Don’t you see, Julith, you have to move for the good of all of us?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I know all that.”
She got up, shaking herself. “Let’s go swimming.”
Jorun smiled and shook his head. “No, I’ll wait for you if you want to go.”
She nodded and ran off down the beach, sheltering behind a dune to put on a bathing-suit. The Terrans had a nudity taboo, in spite of the mild interglacial climate; typical primitive irrationality. Jorun lay back, folding his arms behind his head, and looked up at the darkening sky. The evening star twinkled forth, low and white on the dusk-blue horizon. Venus—or was it Mercury? He wasn’t sure. He wished he knew more about the early history of the Solar System, the first men to ride their thunderous rockets out to die on unknown hell-worlds—the first clumsy steps toward the stars. He could look it up in the archives of Corazuno, but he knew he never would. Too much else to do, too much to remember. Probably less than one percent of mankind’s throngs even knew where Earth was, today—though, for a while, it had been quite a tourist-center. But that was perhaps thirty thousand years ago.
Because this world, out of all the billions, has certain physical characteristics, he thought, my race has made them into standards. Our basic units of length and time and acceleration, our comparisons by which we classify the swarming planets of the Galaxy, they all go back ultimately to Earth. We bear that unspoken memorial to our birthplace within our whole civilization, and will bear it forever. But has she given us more than that? Are our own selves, bodies and minds and dreams, are they also the children of Earth?
Now he was thinking like Kormt, stubborn old Kormt who clung with such a blind strength to this land simply because it was his. When you considered all the races of this wander-footed species—how many of them there were, how many kinds of man between the stars! And yet they all walked upright; they all had two eyes and a nose between and a mouth below; they were all cells of that great and ancient culture which had begun here, eons past, with the first hairy half-man who kindled a fire against night. If Earth had not had darkness and cold and prowling beasts, oxygen and cellulose and flint, that culture might never have gestated.
I’m getting unlogical. Too tired, nerves worn too thin, psychosomatic control slipping. Now Earth is becoming some obscure mother-symbol for me.
Or has she always been one, for the whole race of us?
A seagull cried harshly overhead and soared from view.
The sunset was smoldering away and dusk rose like fog out of the ground. Julith came running back to him, her face indistinct in the gloom. She was breathing hard, and he couldn’t tell if the catch in her voice was laughter or weeping.
“I’d better be getting home,” she said.
3
They flew slowly back. The town was a yellow twinkle of lights, warmth gleaming from windows across many empty kilometers. Jorun set the girl down outside her home.
“Thank you, good sir,” she said, curtseying. “Won’t you come in to dinner?”
“Well—”
The door opened, etching the girl black against the ruddiness inside. Jorun’s luminous tunic made him like a torch in the dark. “Why, it’s the star-man,” said a woman’s voice.
“I took your daughter for a swim,” he explained. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“And if we did, what would it matter?” grumbled a bass tone. Jorun recognized Kormt; the old man must have come as a guest from his farm on the outskirts. “What could we do about it?”
“Now, Granther, that’s no way to talk to the gentleman,” said the woman. “He’s been very kind. Won’t you come eat with us, good sir?”
Jorun refused twice, in case they were only being polite, then accepted gladly enough. He was tired of cookery at the inn where he and Zarek boarded. “Thank you.”
He entered, ducking under the low door. A single long, smoky-raftered room was kitchen, diningroom, and parlor; doors led off to the sleeping quarters. It was furnished with a clumsy elegance, skin rugs, oak wainscoting, carved pillars, glowing ornaments of hammered copper. A radium clock, which must be incredibly old, stood on the stone mantel, above a snapping fire; a chemical-powered gun, obviously of local manufacture, hung over it. Julith’s parents, a plain, quiet peasant couple, conducted him to the end of the wooden table, while half a dozen children watched him with large eyes. The younger children were the only Terrans who seemed to find this removal an adventure.
The meal was good and plentiful: meat, vegetables, bread, beer, milk, ice cream, coffee, all of it from the farms hereabouts. There wasn’t much trade between the few thousand communities of Earth; they were practically self-sufficient. The company ate in silence, as was the custom here. When they were finished, Jorun wanted to go, but it would have been rude to leave immediately. He went over to a chair by the fireplace, across from the one in which Kormt sprawled.
The old man took out a big-bowled pipe and began stuffing it. Shadows wove across his seamed brown face, his eyes were a gleam out of darkness. “I’ll go down to City Hall with you soon,” he said; “I imagine that’s where the work is going on.”
“Yes,” said Jorun, “I can relieve Zarek at it. I’d appreciate it if you did come, good sir. Your influence is very steadying on these people.”
“It should be,” said Kormt. “I’ve been their Speaker for almost a hundred years. And my father Gerlaug was before me, and his father Kormt was before him.” He took a brand from the fire and held it over his pipe, puffing hard, looking up at Jorun through tangled brows. “Who was your great-grandfather?”
“Why—I don’t know. I imagine he’s still alive somewhere, but—”
“I thought so. No marriage. No family. No home. No tradition.” Kormt shook, his massive head, slowly, “I pity you Galactics!”
“Now please, good sir—” Damn it all, the old clodhopper could get as irritating as a faulty computer. “We have records that go back to before man left this planet. Records of everything. It is you who have forgotten.”
Kormt smiled and puffed blue clouds at him. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Do you mean you think it is good for men to live a life that is unchanging, that is just the same from century to century—no new dreams, no new triumphs, always the same grubbing rounds of days? I cannot agree.”
Jorun’s mind flickered over history, trying to evaluate the basic motivations of his opponent. Partly cultural, partly biological, that must be it. Once Terra had been the center of the civilized universe. But the long migration starward, especially after the fall of the First Empire, drained off the most venturesome elements of the population. That drain went on for thousands of years. Sol was backward, ruined and impoverished by the remorseless price of empire, helpless before the storms of barbarian conquest that swept back and forth between the stars. Even after peace was restored, there was nothing to hold a young man or woman of vitality and imagination here—not when you could go toward Galactic center and join the new civilization building out there. Space-traffic came ever less frequently to Sol; old machines rusted away and were not replaced; best to get out while there was still time.
Eventually there was a fixed psychosomatic type, one which lived close to the land, in primitive changeless communities and isolated farmsteads—a type content to gain its simple needs by the labor of hand, horse, or an occasional battered engine. A culture grew up which increased that rigidity. So few had visited Earth in the last several thousand years—perhaps one outsider a century, stopping briefly off on his way to somewhere else—that there was no challenge or encouragement to alter. The Terrans didn’t want more people, more machines, more anything; they wished only to remain as they were.
You couldn’t call them stagnant. Their life was too healthy, their civilization too rich in its own way—folk art, folk music, ceremony, religion, the intimacy of family life which the Galactics had lost—for that term. But to one who flew between the streaming suns, it was a small existence.
Kormt’s voice broke in on his reverie. “Dreams, triumphs, work, deeds, love and life and finally death and the long sleep in the earth,” he said. “Why should we want to change them? They never grow old; they are new for each child that is born.”
“Well,” said Jorun, and stopped. You couldn’t really answer that kind of logic. It wasn’t logic at all, but something deeper.
“Well,” he started over, after a while, “as you know, this evacuation was forced on us, too. We don’t want to move you, but we must.”
“Oh, yes,” said Kormt. “You have been very nice about it. It would have been easier, in a way, if you’d come with fire and gun and chains for us, like the barbarians did long ago. We could have understood you better then.”
“At best, it will be hard for your people,” said Jorun. “It will be a shock, and they’ll need leaders to guide them through it. You have a duty to help them out there, good sir.”
“Maybe.” Kormt blew a series of smoke rings at his youngest descendant, three years old, who crowed with laughter and climbed up on his knee. “But they’ll manage.”
“You can’t seem to realize,” said Jorun, “that you are the last man on Earth who refuses to go. You will be alone. For the rest of your life! We couldn’t come back for you later under any circumstances, because there’ll be Hulduvian colonies between Sol and Sagittarius which we would disturb in passage. You’ll be alone, I say!”
Kormt shrugged. “I’m too old to change my ways; there can’t be many years left me, anyway. I can live well, just off the food-stores that’ll be left here.” He ruffled the child’s hair, but his face drew into a scowl. “Now, no more of that, good sir, if you please; I’m tired of this argument.”
Jorun nodded and fell into the silence that held the rest. Terrans would sometimes sit for hours without talking, content to be in each other’s nearness. He thought of Kormt, Gerlaug’s son, last man on Earth, altogether alone, living alone and dying alone; and yet, he reflected, was that solitude any greater than the one in which all men dwelt all their days?
Presently the Speaker set the child down, knocked out his pipe, and rose. “Come, good sir,” he said, reaching for his staff. “Let us go.”
They walked side by side down the street, under the dim lamps and past the yellow windows. The cobbles gave back their footfalls in a dull clatter. Once in a while they passed someone else, a vague figure which bowed to Kormt. Only one did not notice them, an old woman who walked crying between the high walls.
“They say it is never night on your worlds,” said Kormt.
Jorun threw him a sidelong glance. His face was a strong jutting of highlights from sliding shadow. “Some planets have been given luminous skies,” said the technician, “and a few still have cities, too, where it is always light. But when every man can control the cosmic energies, there is no real reason for us to live together; most of us dwell far apart. There are very dark nights on my own world, and I cannot see any other home from my own—just the moors.”
“It must be a strange life,” said Kormt. “Belonging to no one.”
They came out on the market-square, a broad paved space walled in by houses. There was a fountain in its middle, and a statue dug out of the ruins had been placed there. It was broken, one arm gone—but still the white slim figure of the dancing girl stood with youth and laughter, forever under the sky of Earth. Jorun knew that lovers were wont to meet here, and briefly, irrationally, he wondered how lonely the girl would be in all the millions of years to come.
The City Hall lay at the farther end of the square, big and dark, its eaves carved with dragons, and the gables topped with wing-spreading birds. It was an old building; nobody knew how many generations of men had gathered here. A long, patient line of folk stood outside it, shuffling in one by one to the registry desk; emerging, they went off quietly into the darkness, toward the temporary shelters erected for them.
Walking by the line, Jorun picked faces out of the shadows. There was a young mother holding a crying child, her head bent over it in a timeless pose, murmuring to soothe it. There was a mechanic, still sooty from his work, smiling wearily at some tired joke of the man behind him. There was a scowling, black-browed peasant who muttered a curse as Jorun went by; the rest seemed to accept their fate meekly enough. There was a priest, his head bowed, alone with his God. There was a younger man, his hands clenching and unclenching, big helpless hands, and Jorun heard him saying to someone else: “—if they could have waited till after harvest. I hate to let good grain stand in the field.”
Jorun went into the main room, toward the desk at the head of the line. Hulking hairless Zarek was patiently questioning each of the hundreds who came hat in hand before him: name, age, sex, occupation, dependents, special needs or desires. He punches the answers out on the recorder machine, half a million lives were held in its electronic memory.
“Oh, there you are,” his bass rumbled. “Where’ve you been?”
“I had to do some concy work,” said Jorun. That was a private code term, among others: concy, conciliation, anything to make the evacuation go smoothly. “Sorry to be so late. I’ll take over now.”
“All right. I think we can wind the whole thing up by midnight.” Zarek smiled at Kormt. “Glad you came, good sir. There are a few people I’d like you to talk to.” He gestured at half a dozen seated in the rear of the room. Certain complaints were best handled by native leaders.
Kormt nodded and strode over to the folk. Jorun heard a man begin some long-winded explanation: he wanted to take his own plow along, he’d made it himself and there was no better plow in the universe, but the star-man said there wouldn’t be room.
“They’ll furnish us with all the stuff we need, son,” said Kormt.
“But it’s my plow!” said the man. His fingers twisted his cap.
Kormt sat down and began soothing him.
The head of the line waited a few meters off while Jorun took Zarek’s place. “Been a long grind,” said the latter. “About done now, though. And will I be glad to see the last of this planet!”
“I don’t know,” said Jorun. “It’s a lovely world. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful one.”
Zarek snorted. “Me for Thonnvar! I can’t wait to sit on the terrace by the Scarlet Sea, fern-trees and red grass all around, a glass of oehl in my hand and the crystal geysers in front of me. You’re a funny one, Jorun.”
The Fulkhisian shrugged slender shoulders. Zarek clapped him on the back and went out for supper and sleep. Jorun beckoned to the next Terran and settled down to the long, almost mindless routine of registration. He was interrupted once by Kormt, who yawned mightily and bade him goodnight; otherwise it was a steady, half-conscious interval in which one anonymous face after another passed by. He was dimly surprised when the last one came up. This was a plump, cheerful, middle-aged fellow with small shrewd eyes, a little more colorfully dressed than the others. He gave his occupation as merchant—a minor tradesman, he explained, dealing in the little things it was more convenient for the peasants to buy than to manufacture themselves.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting too long,” said Jorun. Concy statement.
“Oh, no.” The merchant grinned. “I knew those dumb farmers would be here for hours, so I just went to bed and got up half an hour ago, when it was about over.”
“Clever.” Jorun rose, sighed, and stretched. The big room was cavernously empty, its lights a harsh glare. It was very quiet here.
“Well, sir, I’m a middling smart chap, if I say it as shouldn’t. And you know, I’d like to express my appreciation of all you’re doing for us.”
“Can’t say we’re doing much.” Jorun locked the machine.
“Oh, the apple-knockers may not like it, but really, good sir, this hasn’t been any place for a man of enterprise. It’s dead. I’d have got out long ago if there’d been any transportation. Now, when we’re getting back into civilization, there’ll be some real opportunities. I’ll make my pile inside of five years, you bet.”
Jorun smiled, but there was a bleakness in him. What chance would this barbarian have even to get near the gigantic work of civilization—let alone comprehend it or take part in it. He hoped the little fellow wouldn’t break his heart trying.
“Well,” he said, “goodnight, and good luck to you.”
“Goodnight, sir. We’ll meet again, I trust.”
Jorun switched off the lights and went out into the square. It was completely deserted. The moon was up now, almost full, and its cold radiance dimmed the lamps. He heard a dog howling far off. The dogs of Earth—such as weren’t taken along—would be lonely, too.
Well, he thought, the job’s over. Tomorrow, or the next day, the ships come.
4
He felt very tired, but didn’t want to sleep, and willed himself back to alertness. There hadn’t been much chance to inspect the ruins, and he felt it would be appropriate to see them by moonlight.
Rising into the air, he ghosted above roofs and trees until he came to the dead city. For a while he hovered in a sky like dark velvet, a faint breeze murmured around him, and he heard the remote noise of crickets and the sea. But stillness enveloped it all, there was no real sound.
Sol City, capital of the legendary First Empire, had been enormous. It must have sprawled over forty or fifty thousand square kilometers when it was in its prime, when it was the gay and wicked heart of human civilization and swollen with the lifeblood of the stars. And yet those who built it had been men of taste, they had sought out genius to create for them. The city was not a collection of buildings; it was a balanced whole, radiating from the mighty peaks of the central palace, through colonnades and parks and leaping skyways, out to the temple-like villas of the rulers. For all its monstrous size, it had been a fairy sight, a woven lace of polished metal and white, black, red stone, colored plastic, music and light—everywhere light.
Bombarded from space; sacked again and again by the barbarian hordes who swarmed maggot-like through the bones of the slain Empire; weathered, shaken by the slow sliding of Earth’s crust; pried apart by patient, delicate roots; dug over by hundreds of generations of archaeologists, treasure-seekers, the idly curious; made a quarry of metal and stone for the ignorant peasants who finally huddled about it—still its empty walls and blind windows, crumbling arches and toppled pillars held a ghost of beauty and magnificence which was like a half-remembered dream. A dream the whole race had once had.
And now we’re waking up.
Jorun moved silently over the ruins. Trees growing between tumbled blocks dappled them with moonlight and shadow; the marble was very white and fair against darkness. He hovered by a broken caryatid, marveling at its exquisite leaping litheness; that girl had borne tons of stone like a flower in her hair. Further on, across a street that was a lane of woods, beyond a park that was thick with forest, lay the nearly complete outline of a house. Only its rain-blurred walls stood, but he could trace the separate rooms: here a noble had entertained his friends, robes that were fluid rainbows, jewels dripping fire, swift cynical interplay of wits like sharpened swords rising above music and the clear sweet laughter of dancing-girls; here people whose flesh was now dust had slept and made love and lain side-by-side in darkness to watch the moving pageant of the city; here the slaves had lived and worked and sometimes wept; here the children had played their ageless games under willows, between banks of roses. Oh, it had been a hard and cruel time; it was well gone but it had lived. It had embodied man, all that was noble and splendid and evil and merely wistful in the race, and now its late children had forgotten.
A cat sprang up on one of the walls and flowed noiselessly along it, hunting. Jorun shook himself and flew toward the center of the city, the imperial palace. An owl hooted somewhere, and a bat fluttered out of his way like a small damned soul blackened by hellfire. He didn’t raise a wind-screen, but let the air blow around him, the air of Earth.
The palace was almost completely wrecked, a mountain of heaped rocks, bare bones of “eternal” metal gnawed thin by steady ages of wind and rain and frost, but once it must have been gigantic. Men rarely built that big nowadays, they didn’t need to; and the whole human spirit had changed, become ever more abstract, finding its treasures within itself. But there had been an elemental magnificence about early man and the works he raised to challenge the sky.
One tower still stood—a gutted shell, white under the stars, rising in a filigree of columns and arches which seemed impossibly airy, as if it were built of moonlight. Jorun settled on its broken upper balcony, dizzily high above the black-and-white fantasy of the ruins. A hawk flew shrieking from its nest, then there was silence.
No—wait—another yell, ringing down the star ways, a dark streak across the moon’s face. “Hai-ah!” Jorun recognized the joyful shout of young Cluthe, rushing through heaven like a demon on a broomstick, and scowled in annoyance. He didn’t want to be bothered now.
Well, they had as much right here as he. He repressed the emotion, and even managed a smile. After all, he would have liked to feel gay and reckless at times, but he had never been able to. Jorun was little older than Cluthe—a few centuries at most—but he came of a melancholy folk; he had been born old.
Another form pursued the first. As they neared, Jorun recognized Taliuvenna’s supple outline. Those two had been teamed up for one of the African districts, but—
They sensed him and came wildly out of the sky to perch on the balcony railing and swing their legs above the heights. “How’re you?” asked Cluthe. His lean face laughed in the moonlight. “Whoo-oo, what a flight!”
“I’m all right,” said Jorun. “You through in your sector?”
“Uh-huh. So we thought we’d just duck over and look in here. Last chance anyone’ll ever have to do some sight-seeing on Earth.”
Taliuvenna’s full lips drooped a bit as she looked over the ruins. She came from Yunith, one of the few planets where they still kept cities, and was as much a child of their soaring arrogance as Jorun of his hills and tundras and great empty seas. “I thought it would be bigger,” she said.
“Well, they were building this fifty or sixty thousand years ago,” said Cluthe. “Can’t expect too much.”
“There is good art left here,” said Jorun. “Pieces which for one reason or another weren’t carried off. But you have to look around for it.”
“I’ve seen a lot of it already, in museums,” said Taliuvenna. “Not bad.”
“C’mon, Tally,” cried Cluthe. He touched her shoulder and sprang into the air. “Tag! You’re it!”
She screamed with laughter and shot off after him. They rushed across the wilderness, weaving in and out of empty windows and broken colonnades, and their shouts woke a clamor of echoes.
Jorun sighed. I’d better go to bed, he thought. It’s late.
The spaceship was a steely pillar against a low gray sky. Now and then a fine rain would drizzle down, blurring it from sight; then that would end, and the ship’s flanks would glisten as if they were polished. Clouds scudded overhead like flying smoke, and the wind was loud in the trees.
The line of Terrans moving slowly into the vessel seemed to go on forever. A couple of the ship’s crew flew above them, throwing out a shield against the rain. They shuffled without much talk or expression, pushing carts filled with their little possessions. Jorun stood to one side, watching them go by, one face after another—scored and darkened by the sun of Earth, the winds of Earth, hands still grimy with the soil of Earth.
Well, he thought, there they go. They aren’t being as emotional about it as I thought they would. I wonder if they really do care.
Julith went past with her parents. She saw him and darted from the line and curtsied before him.
“Goodbye, good sir,” she said. Looking up, she showed him a small and serious face. “Will I ever see you again?”
“Well,” he lied, “I might look in on you sometime.”
“Please do! In a few years, maybe, when you can.”
It takes many generations to raise a people like this to our standard. In a few years—to me—she’ll be in her grave.
“I’m sure you’ll be very happy,” he said.
She gulped. “Yes,” she said, so low he could barely hear her. “Yes, I know I will.” She turned and ran back to her mother. The raindrops glistened in her hair.
Zarek came up behind Jorun. “I made a last-minute sweep of the whole area,” he said. “Detected no sign of human life. So it’s all taken care of, except your old man.”
“Good,” said Jorun tonelessly.
“I wish you could do something about him.”
“So do I.”
Zarek strolled off again.
A young man and woman, walking hand in hand, turned out of the line not far away and stood for a little while. A spaceman zoomed over to them. “Better get back,” he warned. “You’ll get rained on.”
“That’s what we wanted,” said the young man.
The spaceman shrugged and resumed his hovering. Presently the couple re-entered the line.
The tail of the procession went by Jorun and the ship swallowed it fast. The rain fell harder, bouncing off his force-shield like silver spears. Lightning winked in the west, and he heard the distant exuberance of thunder.
Kormt came walking slowly toward him. Rain streamed off his clothes and matted his long gray hair and beard. His wooden shoes made a wet sound in the mud. Jorun extended the force-shield to cover him. “I hope you’ve changed your mind,” said the Fulkhisian.
“No, I haven’t,” said Kormt. “I just stayed away till everybody was aboard. Don’t like goodbyes.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” said Jorun for the—thousandth?—time. “It’s plain madness to stay here alone.”
“I told you I don’t like goodbyes,” said Kormt harshly.
“I have to go advise the captain of the ship,” said Jorun. “You have maybe half an hour before she lifts. Nobody will laugh at you for changing your mind.”
“I won’t.” Kormt smiled without warmth. “You people are the future, I guess. Why can’t you leave the past alone? I’m the past.” He looked toward the far hills, hidden by the noisy rain. “I like it here, Galactic. That should be enough for you.”
“Well, then—” Jorun held out his hand in the archaic gesture of Earth. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.” Kormt took the hand with a brief, indifferent clasp. Then he turned and walked off toward the village. Jorun watched him till he was out of sight.
The technician paused in the air-lock door, looking over the gray landscape and the village from whose chimneys no smoke rose. Farewell, my mother, he thought. And then, surprising himself: Maybe Kormt is doing the right thing after all.
He entered the ship and the door closed behind him.
Toward evening, the clouds lifted and the sky showed a clear pale blue—as if it had been washed clean—and the grass and leaves glistened. Kormt came out of the house to watch the sunset. It was a good one, all flame and gold. A pity little Julith wasn’t here to see it; she’d always liked sunsets. But Julith was so far away now that if she sent a call to him, calling with the speed of light, it would not come before he was dead.
Nothing would come to him. Not ever again.
He tamped his pipe with a horny thumb and lit it and drew a deep cloud into his lungs. Hands in pockets, he strolled down the wet streets. The sound of his clogs was unexpectedly loud.
Well, son, he thought, now you’ve got a whole world all to yourself, to do with just as you like. You’re the richest man who ever lived.
There was no problem in keeping alive. Enough food of all kinds was stored in the town’s freeze-vault to support a hundred men for the ten or twenty years remaining to him. But he’d want to stay busy. He could maybe keep three farms from going to seed—watch over fields and orchards and livestock, repair the buildings, dust and wash and light up in the evening. A man ought to keep busy.
He came to the end of the street, where it turned into a graveled road winding up toward a high hill, and followed that. Dusk was creeping over the fields, the sea was a metal streak very far away and a few early stars blinked forth. A wind was springing up, a soft murmurous wind that talked in the trees. But how quiet things were!
On top of the hill stood the chapel, a small steepled building of ancient stone. He let himself in the gate and walked around to the graveyard behind. There were many of the demure white tombstones—thousands of years of Solis Township men and women who had lived and worked and begotten, laughed and wept and died. Someone had put a wreath on one grave only this morning; it brushed against his leg as he went by. Tomorrow it would be withered, and weeds would start to grow. He’d have to tend the chapel yard, too. Only fitting.
He found his family plot and stood with feet spread apart, fists on hips, smoking and looking down at the markers Gerlaug Kormt’s son, Tarna Huwan’s daughter, these hundred years had they lain in the earth. Hello, Dad, hello, Mother. His fingers reached out and stroked the headstone of his wife. And so many of his children were here, too; sometimes he found it hard to believe that tall Gerlaug and laughing Stamm and shy, gentle Huwan were gone. He’d outlived too many people.
I had to stay, he thought. This is my land, I am of it and I couldn’t go. Someone had to stay and keep the land, if only for a little while. I can give it ten more years before the forest comes and takes it.
Darkness grew around him. The woods beyond the hill loomed like a wall. Once he started violently, he thought he heard a child crying. No, only a bird. He cursed himself for the senseless pounding of his heart.
Gloomy place here, he thought. Better get back to the house.
He groped slowly out of the yard, toward the road. The stars were out now. Kormt looked up and thought he had never seen them so bright. Too bright; he didn’t like it.
Go away, stars, he thought. You took my people, but I’m staying here. This is my land. He reached down to touch it, but the grass was cold and wet under his palm.
The gravel scrunched loudly as he walked, and the wind mumbled in the hedges, but there was no other sound. Not a voice called; not an engine turned; not a dog barked. No, he hadn’t thought it would be so quiet.
And dark. No lights. Have to tend the street lamps himself—it was no fun, not being able to see the town from here, not being able to see anything except the stars. Should have remembered to bring a flashlight, but he was old and absentminded, and there was no one to remind him. When he died, there would be no one to hold his hands; no one to close his eyes and lay him in the earth—and the forests would grow in over the land and wild beasts would nuzzle his bones.
But I knew that. What of it? I’m tough enough to take it.
The stars flashed and flashed above him. Looking up, against his own will, Kormt saw how bright they were, how bright and quiet. And how very far away! He was seeing light that had left its home before he was born.
He stopped, sucking in his breath between his teeth. “No,” he whispered.
This was his land. This was Earth, the home of man; it was his and he was its. This was the land, and not a single dust-mote, crazily reeling and spinning through an endlessness of dark and silence, cold and immensity. Earth could not be so alone!
The last man alive. The last man in all the world!
He screamed, then, and began to run. His feet clattered loud on the road; the small sound was quickly swallowed by silence, and he covered his face against the relentless blaze of the stars. But there was no place to run to, no place at all.
These two unusual and very original stories [1] are examples of a rare genre invented by the brilliant author of Lucky Jim: “SF-drink”. They had me chuckling and even hooting, an enjoyable and all-too-rare experience indeed, and I dare say that they will have you doing the same!
1. The 2003 Claret (1958) A scientific team in 1970 is anxiously awaiting the return of a member of their team who had been sent on man’s first exploratory mission into the future, to 2010 to report on the social and political situation then. But what intersts the scientific team most is the wine situation in those far-off days, and what the time-traveler has to tell them about the reversal of tastes that has occurred is quite a shock indeed.
2. The Friends of Plonk (1964) Where people in 2145 after a terribly dsstructive atomic war try to recreate the fabled drinks of the past with no documentation at all apart from some garbled descriptions of the ceremonies surrounding the consumption of fine wines and liqueurs. With astonishing results.
THE 2003 CLARET (1958)
’How long to go now?’ the Director asked for the tenth time. I compared the main laboratory chronometer with the dial on the TIOPEPE (Temporal Integrator, Ordinal Predictor and Electronic Propulsion Equipment). ’He should be taking the trance-pill in a few seconds, sir,’ I said. ’Then there’s only the two minutes for it to take effect, and we can bring him back.’ ’Supposing he hasn’t taken the pill?’ ’I’m sure he’d survive the time-shift even if he were fully conscious, sir. It’s instantaneous, after all.’ ’I know, but being snatched back from fifty years in the future can’t do a man’s mind any good, can it? We just don’t know what we’re up against, Baker. I wish those blasted politicians had let us go slow on this project. But no, there mustn’t be any delay or the Russians will have developed time-travel before the Atlantic Powers, so we bundle Simpson off to the year 2010 and if we lose him or he turns up a raving lunatic it’s our fault.’ The Director sat moodily down on a work-bench. ’What happens if he gets tight?’ ’He won’t have done that, sir. Simpson’s one of the Knights of Bordeaux. They never get drunk — isn’t it a rule of the society?’ ’I believe so, yes.’ The Director cheered up a little. ’He’ll probably have a good deal to tell us, with any luck. The Douro growers are saying that last year was the best since 1945, you know, Baker. Imagine what that stuff must be like where Simpson is. Just one glass — ’Did you actually tell Simpson to sample the wines in 20I0 ?’ The Director coughed. ’Well, I did just make the suggestion to him. After all, part of our terms of reference was to report on social conditions, in addition to the political situation. And drinking habits are a pretty good guide to the social set-up, aren’t they? Find out how people treat their port and you’ve found out a lot about the kind of people they are.’ ’Something in that, sir.’ I’m a beer man myself, which made me a bit of an outsider in the team. There were only the four of us in the lab that night — the VIPs and the press boys had been pushed into the Conference Room, thank heaven — and all the other three were wine-bibbers of one sort or another. The Director, as you will have gathered, was fanatical about port; Rabaiotti, my senior assistant, belonged to a big Chianti family; and Schneider, the medical chap, had written a book on hock. Simpson was reputedly on the way to becoming a sound judge of claret, though I had sometimes wondered whether perhaps tactical considerations played their part in his choice of hobby. Anyway, I considered I was lucky to have got the job of Chief Time-Engineer, against competition that included a force-field expert who doubled as an amateur of old Madeira and an electronics king named Gilbey [2] — no relation, it turned out, but the Director couldn’t have known that at the time. ’The receiver is tuned, Dr Baker.’ ’Thank you, Dr Rabaiotti. Would you like to operate the recall switch, sir?’ ’Why, that’s extremely kind of you, Baker.’ The Director was shaking with excitement. ’It’s this one here, isn’t it?’ His hand brushed the trigger of a relay that would have sent Simpson shooting back to about the time of Victoria’s accession. This may have been half-deliberate: the Director often got wistful about what pre-phylloxera stuff might or might not have tasted like. ’No, this one, sir. Just press it gently down.’ The switch clicked and instantly the figure of Simpson — tallish, forty-ish, baldish — appeared in the receiver. We all gave a shout of triumph and relief. Rabaiotti killed the power. Schneider hurried forward and there was tension again. `I’d give a case of Dow 1919 to see him conscious and mentally sound,’ the Director muttered at my side. ’Everything all right so far,’ Schneider called. ’I’ve given him a shot that’ll pull him round in a minute or two.’ We lit cigarettes. ’Pity conditions wouldn’t allow of him bringing anything back,’ the Director said. ’Just think of a forty-year-old 1970 all ready to drink. But I suppose it would have cost too much anyway. Next time we must find a better way of handling the currency problem. Very risky giving him raw gold to pawn. And we’re restricted to a lump small enough not to arouse too much suspicion. Oh, well, he should have been able to afford a few glasses. I hope that champagne’s all right, by the way?’ ’Oh, yes, I put it in the molecular-motion-retarder myself, with the setting at point-three. It’ll be nicely chilled by now.’ ’Splendid. I do want the dear boy to get a decent livener inside him before he faces all those cameras and interviews. I should have preferred a dry port myself, or possibly a Bittall, but I know what the occasion demands, of course. It’s a Lambert 1952 I’ve got for him. I don’t understand these things myself, but the Director of Lunar Projectiles swears by it.’ ’He’s coming round now,’ Schneider shouted, and we all pressed forward. There was an intense silence while Simpson blinked at us, sat up and yawned. His face was absolutely impassive. Very slowly he scratched his ear. He looked like a man with a bad hangover. ’Well?’ the Director demanded eagerly. ’What did you see?’ ’Everything. At least, I saw enough.’ ’Had there been a war? Is there going to be a war?’ ’No. Russia joined the Western Customs Union in 1993, China some time after 2000. The RAF’s due to be disbanded in a few months.’ Then everyone hurled questions at once: about flying saucers, the Royal Family, the sciences, the arts, interplanetary travel, climatic conditions in the Rheingau — all sorts of things. Simpson seemed not to hear. He just sat there with the same blank look on his face, wearily shaking his head. ’What’s the matter?’ I asked finally. ’What was wrong?’ After a moment, he said in a hollow voice, ’Better if there had been a war. In some ways. Yes. Much better.’ ’What on earth do you mean?’ Simpson gave a deep sigh. Then, hesitantly, to a silent audience and with the bottle of champagne quite forgotten, he told the following story.
The landing went off perfectly. Hyde Park was the area selected, with a thousand-square-yard tolerance to prevent Simpson from materialising inside a wall or halfway into a passer-by. Nobody saw him arrive. He changed his gold into currency without difficulty, and in a few minutes was walking briskly down Piccadilly, looking into shop-windows, studying dress and behaviour, buying newspapers and magazines, and writing busily in his notebook. He had several fruitful conversations, representing himself according to plan as a native of Sydney. This brought him some commiseration, for England had just beaten Australia at Lord’s by an innings and 411 runs. Yes, everything seemed normal so far. His political report and much of his social report were complete by six-thirty, and his thoughts started turning to drink: after all, it was a positive duty. As he strolled up Shaftesbury Avenue he began looking out for drink advertisements. The beer ones had much in common with those of 1960, but were overshadowed in prominence by those recommending wines. MOUTON ROTHSCHILD FOR POWER, BREEDING AND GRANDEUR, one said. ASK FOR OESTRICHER PFAFFENBERG – THE HOCK WITH THE CLEAN FINISH, enjoined another. MY GOLLY, MY ST GYOERGHYHEGYI FURMINT, bawled a third. Well, practical experiment would soon establish what was what. Simpson slipped quietly through the doorway of an establishment clearly devoted to drink. The interior was surprising. If some French provincial cafe had not been gutted of decor and furnishings to get this place up, then a good job of duplication had been done. Men in neat, sombre clothing sat at the tables talking in low tones, wine-glasses and wine-bottles before them, while aproned waiters moved silently about. One of them was decanting a red wine from a bottle that was thick with dust and cobwebs, watched critically by all the nearby drinkers. Simpson crept to a seat in an unfrequented part of the room. A waiter approached. ’What can I bring you, monsieur?’ Here it must be explained that Simpson was not quite the claret-fancier the Director thought him. He enjoyed claret all right, but he also enjoyed other French wines, and German wines, and Italian wines, and Iberian wines, and Balkan wines, and fortified wines, and spirits, and liqueurs, and apéritifs, and cocktails, and draught beer, and bottled beer, and stout, and cider, and perry— all the way down to Fernet Branca. (There were some drinks he had never drunk — arak, kava, Gumpoldskirchner Rotgipfler, methylated spirits — but they were getting fewer all the time.) Anyway, feeling dehydrated after his walk round the streets, he unreflectingly ordered a pint of bitter. ’I’m sorry, monsieur, I don’t understand. What is this bitter?’ ’Bitter beer, ale; you know. Haven’t you got any?’ ’Beer, monsieur?’ The waiter’s voice rose in contempt. ’Beer? I’m afraid you’re in the wrong district for that.’ Several men turned round, nudged one another and stared at Simpson, who blushed and said, ’Well. . . a glass of wine, then.’ ’France, Germany, Luxembourg, Austria . . .’ Simpson tried to think. ’A claret, please. Let’s say — a nice St Emilion.’ ’Château Le Couvent, Château Puyblanquet, Château Bellefore Belcier, Château Grand Corbin d’Espagne . ..’ ’Oh . . . I leave it to you.’ ’Bien, monsieur. And the year? Will you leave that to me too?’ ’If you don’t mind.’ The waiter swept away. Conscious that all eyes were upon him, Simpson tried to sink into his chair. Before he could compose himself, a middle-aged man from a nearby table had come over and sat down next to him. ’Well, who are you?’ this man asked. ’A — a traveller. From Sydney.’ ’These days that’s no excuse for not knowing your wines, friend. Some of them Rubicons and Malbecs are as firm and fully rounded as all bar the greatest Burgundies. And I found a Barossa Riesling on holiday this year that was pretty near as gay as a Kreuznacher Steinweg. You well up on the Barossas, friend?’ ’No, not really, I’m afraid.’ ’Thought not, somehow. Otherwise you wouldn’t stalk in here and screech out for beer. Ger, ought to be ashamed of yourself, you ought.’ ’I’m awfully sorry.’ ’Should hope so and all. Now, I’m an honest working man, see? I’m a DRIP, I am.’ ’A drip?’ ’Domestic Reactor Installation Patentee. Don’t they go in for them down under? Now you listen to me. When I come in here to meet my colleagues and crack a bottle or two after the daily round, I don’t want my palate soured by some toff yelling out about beer, especially not when we got a really elegant Gevrey Chambertin or Chambolle Musigny or something of that in front of us. It’s psychosomatic, like. Just the idea of beer’s enough to cut off some of the subtler overtones, get me?’ ’I’m sorry,’ Simpson said again. ’I didn’t realise. But tell me: don’t you eat while you’re drinking these wines?’ ’What, and foul up the taste-buds with fat and sauces and muck? You got a nerve even mentioning food in a place like this. We’re oenophiles in here, I’ll have you know, not a bunch of pigs. Ah, here’s your claret.’ The stranger held the glass up to the light, then sniffed it delicately. ’Right, now let’s see what you got to say about this. And get on with it.’ Simpson drank. It was the most wonderful wine he had ever known, with a strange warm after-taste that seemed to seep upwards and flood his olfactory centres. He sighed deeply. ’Superb,’ he said at last ’Come on, come on, we want more than that; you got to do better than that. Give us a spot of imagery, kind of style, a reference to art, that type of stuff.’ ’It’s — I don’t know — it’s the richness of summer, all the glory of . . . of love and lyric poetry, a whole way of life, profound and . . . some great procession of — ’ ‘Ah, you turn me up,’ the man said violently. ’This is a 2003 Chateau La Bouygue, reconstituted pre-phylloxera of course. Now, light and free, not rich in association but perfectly assured without any insincerity, instrumental where the ’01s are symphonic, the gentleness of a Braque rather than the bravura of a Matisse. That’s as far as you can go with it. Love and lyric poetry indeed. I never heard such slop in my life. You aren’t fit to come in here, friend. You get off out to one of the pubs with your boss-class pals, that’s where you belong.’ Simpson threw down some coins and ran, a gust of ill-natured laughter sounding in his ears. He felt like walking the streets for the two hours in 2010 that still remained to him, but a nagging curiosity emboldened him to ask to be directed to a pub. The place he finally made his way to was on the corner of a narrow street on the edge of Soho. It was a red-brick affair like a miniature grammar school or a suburban bank. As he approached, a bus drew up and a crowd of young people got off, chattering loudly to one another in what Simpson made out as a version of the upper-class tones current in his own time. He was more or less swept in through the front door of the pub, and had no time to puzzle out the significance of a notice above the entrance, painted by hand with what seemed deliberate inelegance, and bearing the legend: CRACKED UP BY THE WALLOP AND SCOFF MOB. He found himself in a large, ill-lighted and crowded room of which the main feature was a long counter that ran from end to end zigzag-wise, as if to accommodate as many as possible of the tall stools that were closely packed along it. What were evidently glass sandwich cupboards stood every couple of feet along the red plastic top. A group of people, half-crowd, half-queue, was clustered round the entrance, and Simpson mingled with them. He noticed that most of the stools were occupied by persons drinking beer or some such liquid out of pint glasses and eating rolls or sandwiches. Conversations were bawling away around him. ’My dear, simply nobody goes to the Crown these days. Simon and I were given fresh crisps the last time we went.’ ’It doesn’t surprise me. We had some mustard that couldn’t have been more than a day old.’ ’The wallop’s first-class down at the George, and as for the scoff— the bluest piece of ham you ever saw. A really memorable thrash. I’m getting the secretary of the Mob to crack them up in the next issue of the Boozer Rag.’ ’Have you bagged stools, sir?’ ’I beg your pardon?’ ’Sorry, mate. Have you bagged, mate?’ ’No, I’m afraid not. May I see the head potman?’ ’I’ll get him over directly, mate.’ ’Shall we start thinking about what we’re going to have? Pickled onions to start? With a glass of mild?’ ’Nuts for me. Mixed and salted.’ ’Right, that’s three onions, one nuts. And then I can recommend the cheese rolls. They know me here and always see that I get the three-day-old, with plenty of rind.’ After some time, Simpson obtained a stool and ordered a pint of bitter from the grubby barmaid. ’Certainly, love. A fresh barrel has just come on.’ `Oh, I’ll have mild instead, then.’ ’By all means, love, if you wish for it. Your taste is your own. And what will you have in the way of scoff, love?’ ’Oh, er — nothing to eat, thank you.’ `If I may say so, love, with all due respect, you might perhaps do better at the wine-bar if you don’t wish for any scoff. We have standards to maintain here, love.’ ’I’m awfully sorry. What. . . scoff do you recommend?’ ’Our gherkins have frequently been cracked up, love. Not a dish is sold till it’s two days old.’ ’They sound delightful. One dish, please.’ ’Very good, love. With cigarette-ash garnishings, of course.’ The beer came. It was horrible. The gherkins came. Simpson took no notice of them. Dazedly he watched and listened to those around him. A kind of ritual seemed to be being enacted by a group of four immediately next to him. The two couples raised their pints in concert, intoned the word ’Cheers’ in a liturgical manner, poured a few drops on to the front of their greasy pullovers, and sank their drinks in one swallow. Afterwards they all sighed loudly, wiped their mouths with their hands, banged the empty glasses down on the counter, and spoke in turn. ’Lovely drop of wallop.’ ’First today.’ ’I needed that.’ ’Lays the dust.’ ’You can’t beat a decent pint.’ ’Full of goodness.’ ’Keeps your insides working.’ ’It’s a real drink.’ When this point was reached, all four shouted ’Let’s have another’ in unison, and were immediately served with fresh drinks and small plates of sandwiches. The bread on these was curled up at the corners, revealing purple strips of meat criss-crossed with gristle. One of the men felt the texture of the bread and nodded approvingly. ’I told you this place was good,’ his friend said. Then the party got down to what was clearly the pièce de résistance, alternately biting at the sandwiches and taking pulls of beer, chewing the resulting mush with many a belch of appreciation. Simpson lowered his head into his hands. The talk went on. ’What’s the fighting like here?’ ’Oh, excellent. The governor of the boozer gets it under way at ten-thirty sharp, just outside on the corner. I did hear a whisper that he’s going to allow broken bottles for the last five minutes tonight. The police should be with us by then. They’re very keen round here.’ ’At the Feathers, you know, they kick off at ten-fifteen inside the bar. Don’t know whether I agree with that.’ ’No. After all, it’s only the finale of the evening.’ ’Absolutely. Shouldn’t make it too important.’ ’Definitely not. Getting tight’s the object of the exercise.’ ’Quite. By the way, who’s that fellow next to you?’ ’No idea. Wine-bar type, if you ask me.’ ’Hasn’t touched his gherkins. Refused fresh bitter. Shouldn’t be here at all.’ ’Couldn’t agree more. I mean, look at his clothes.’ ’Wonder how long since they were slept in.’ `If they ever have been.’ ’Disgusting.’ ’And what would you like to follow, love?’ This last was the barmaid. Simpson raised his head and gave a long yell of fury, bewilderment, horror and protest. Then he ran from the room and went on running until he was back at the point where the TIOPEPE was to pick him up. With shaking fingers he put the trance-pill into his mouth.
The Director broke the silence that followed the end of Simpson’s story. ’Well, it’s a long time ahead, anyway,’ he said with an attempt at cheerfulness. ’Is it?’ Simpson shouted. ’Do you think that sort of situation develops in a couple of weeks? It’s starting to happen already. Wine-snobbery spreading, more and more of this drinking what you ought to drink instead of what you like. Self-conscious insistence on the virtues of pubs and beer because the wrong people are beginning to drink wine. It’ll be here in our time, don’t you worry. You just wait.’ ‘Ah, now, Simpson, you’re tired and overwrought. A glass of champagne will soon make you see things in a different light.’ ’Slip away with me afterwards,’ I murmured. ’We’ll have a good go at the beer down in town.’ Simpson gave a long yell — much like the one, probably, he vented at the end of his visit to 2010. Springing to his feet, he rushed away down the lab to where Schneider kept the medical stores. ’What’s he up to?’ the Director puffed as we hurried in pursuit. ’Is he going to try and poison himself?’ ’Not straight away, sir, I imagine.’ ’How do you mean, Baker?’ ’Look at that bottle he’s got hold of, sir. Can’t you see what it is?’ ’But . . . I can’t believe my eyes. Surely it’s . . .’ ’Yes, sir. Surgical spirit.’
THE FRIENDS OF PLONK (1964)
The (technical) success of Simpson’s trip to the year 2010 encouraged the authorities to have similar experiments conducted for a variety of time-objectives. Some curious and occasionally alarming pieces of information about the future came to our knowledge in this way; I’m thinking less of politics than of developments in the domain of drink. For instance, let me take this opportunity of warning every youngster who likes any kind of draught beer and has a high life-expectancy to drink as much of the stuff as he can while he can, because they’re going to stop making it in 2016. Again, just six months ago Simpson found that, in the world of 2045, alcoholic diseases as a whole accounted for almost exactly a third of all deaths, or nearly as many as transport accidents and suicide combined. This was universally put down to the marketing, from 2039 onwards, of wines and spirits free of all the congeneric elements that cause hangovers, and yet at the same time indistinguishable from the untreated liquors even under the most searching tests — a triumph of biochemitechnology man had been teasingly on the brink of since about the time I was downing my first pints of beer. Anyway, by a lucky accident, the authorities suddenly became anxious to know the result of the 2048 Presidential election in America, and so Simpson was able to travel to that year and bring back news, not only of the successful Rosicrucian candidate’s impending installation at the Black House, but also of the rigorous outlawing of the new drink process and everything connected with it. After one veiled reference to the matter in conversation, Simpson had considered himself lucky to escape undamaged from the bar of the Travellers’ Club. For a time, our section’s exploration of the rather more distant future was blocked by a persistent fault in the TIOPEPE, whereby the projection circuits cut off at approximately 83.63 years in advance of time-present. Then, one day in 1974, an inspired guess of Rabaiotti’s put things right, and within a week Simpson was off to 2145. We were all there in the lab as usual to see him back safely. After Schneider had given him the usual relaxing shots, Simpson came out with some grave news. A quarrel about spy-flights over the moons of Saturn had set Wales and Mars — the two major powers in the Inner Planets at that period — at each other’s throats and precipitated a system-wide nuclear war in 2101. Half of Venus, and areas on Earth the size of Europe, had been virtually obliterated. Rabaiotti was the first to speak when Simpson had stopped. ’Far enough off not to bother most of our great-grandchildren, anyway,’ he said. ’That’s true. But what a prospect.’ ’I know,’ I said. ’Well, no use glooming, Baker,’ the Director said. ’Nothing we can do about it. We’ve got a full half-hour before the official conference — tell us what’s happened to drink.’ Simpson rubbed his bald head and sighed. I noticed that his eyes were bloodshot, but then they nearly always were after one of these trips. A very conscientious alcohologist, old Simpson. ’You’re not going to like it.’ We didn’t.
Simpson’s landing in 2145 had been a fair enough success, but there had been an unaccountable error in the ground-level estimates, conducted a week earlier by means of our latest brain-child, the TIAMARIA (Temporal Inspection Apparatus and Meteorological-Astronomical-Regional-Interrelation Assessor). This had allowed him to materialise twelve feet up in the air and given him a nasty fall — on to a flower-bed, by an unearned piece of luck, but shaking him severely. What followed shook him still further. The nuclear war had set everything back so much that the reconstructed world he found himself in was little more unfamiliar than the ones he had found on earlier, shorter-range time-trips. His official report, disturbing as it was, proved easy enough to compile, and he had a couple of hours to spare before the TIOPEPE ’s field should snatch him back to the present. He selected a restaurant within easy range of his purse — the TIAMARIA’s cameras, plus our counterfeiters in the Temporal Treasury, had taken care of the currency problem all right — found a vacant table, and asked for a drink before dinner. ’Certainly, sir,’ the waiter said. ’The Martian manatee-milk is specially good today. Or there’s a new delivery of Iapetan carnivorous-lemon juice, if you’ve a liking for the unusual. Very, uh, full- blooded, sir.’ Simpson swallowed. ’I’m sure,’ he said, ’but I was thinking of something — you know — a little stronger?’ The waiter’s manner suffered an abrupt change. ’Oh, you mean booze, do you?’ he said coldly. ’Sometimes I wonder what this town’s coming to, honest. All right, I’ll see what I can do.’ The ’booze’ arrived on a tin tray in three chunky cans arranged like equal slices of a round cake. The nearest one had the word BEAR crudely stamped on it. Simpson poured some muddy brown liquid from it into a glass. It tasted like last week’s swipes topped up with a little industrial alcohol. Then he tried the can stamped BOOJLY. (We all agreed later that this must be a corruption of ’Beaujolais’.) That was like red ink topped up with a good deal of industrial alcohol. Lastly there was BANDY. Industrial alcohol topped up with a little cold tea. Wondering dimly if some trick of the TIOPEPE had managed to move him back into some unfrequented corner of the 1960s, Simpson became aware that a man at the next table had been watching him closely. When their eyes met, the stranger came over and, with a word of apology, sat down opposite him. (It was extraordinary, Simpson was fond of remarking, how often people did just this sort of thing when he visited the future.) ’Do excuse me,’ the man said politely, ’but from your expression just now I’d guess you’re a conozer — am I right? Oh, my name’s Piotr Davies, by the way, on leave from Greenland Fruiteries. You’re not Earth-based, I take it?’ ’Oh . . . no, I’m just in from Mercury. My first trip since I was a lad, in fact.’ Simpson noticed that Piotr Davies’s face was covered by a thick network of burst veins, and his nose carried the richest growth of grog-blossom Simpson had ever seen. (He avoided looking at the Director when he told us this.) ’Yes,’ he struggled on after giving his name, am a bit of a connoiss — conozer, I suppose. I do try to discriminate a little in my — ’ ’You’ve hit it,’ Piotr Davies said excitedly. ’Discrimination. That’s it, the very word. I knew I was right about you. Discrimination. And tradition. Well, you won’t find much of either on Earth these days, I’m afraid. Nor on Mercury, from what I hear.’ ’No — no, you certainly won’t.’ ’We conozers are having a hard time. The Planetary War, of course. And the Aftermath.’ Davies paused, and seemed to be sizing up Simpson afresh. Then: ’Tell me, are you doing anything tonight? More or less right away?’ ’Well, I have got an appointment I must keep in just under two hours, but until then I — ’ ’Perfect. Let’s go.’ ’But what about my dinner?’ ’You won’t want any after you’ve been where I’m going to take you.’ But where are you — ?’ ’Somewhere absolutely made for a conozer like you. What a bit of luck you happened to run into me. I’ll explain on the way.’ Outside, they boarded a sort of wheelless taxicab and headed into what seemed to be a prosperous quarter. Davies’s explanations were copious and complete; Simpson made full use of his supposed status as one long absent from the centre of things. It appeared that the Planetary War had destroyed every one of the vast, centralised, fully automated distilleries of strong liquors; that bacteriological warfare had put paid to many crops, including vines, barley, hops and even sugar; that the fanatical religious movements of the Aftermath, many of them with government backing, had outlawed all drink for nearly twenty years. Simpson shuddered at that news. ’And when people came to their senses,’ Davies said glumly, ’it was too late. The knowledge had died. Oh, you can’t kill a process like distillation. Too fundamental. Or fermentation, either. But the special processes, the extra ingredients, the skills, the tradition — gone for ever. Whisky — what a rich, evocative word. What can the stuff have tasted like? What little there is about it in the surviving literature gives a very poor idea. Muzzle — that was a white wine, we’re pretty sure, from Germany, about where the Great Crater is. Gin — a spirit flavoured with juniper, we know that much. There isn’t any juniper now, of course. `So, what with one thing and another, drinking went out. Real, civilised drinking, that is — I’m not talking about that stuff they tried to give you back there. I and a few like-minded friends tried to get some of the basic information together, but to no avail. And then, quite by chance, one of us, an archaeologist, turned up a primitive two-dimensional television film that dated back almost two hundred years, giving a full description of some ancient drinks and a portrayal of the habits that went with them — all the details. The film was called ’The Down-and-Outs’, which is an archaic expression referring to people of limited prosperity, but which we immediately understood as being satirically or ironically intended in this instance. That period, you know, was very strong on satire. Anyway, the eventual result of our friend’s discovery was . . . this.’ With something of a flourish, Davies drew a pasteboard card from his pocket and passed it to Simpson. It read:
THE FRIENDS OF PLONK Established 2139 for the drinking of traditional liquors in traditional dress and in traditional surroundings
Before Simpson could puzzle this out, his companion halted the taxi and a moment later was shepherding him through the portals of a large and magnificent mansion. At the far end of a thickly carpeted foyer was a steep, narrow staircase, which they descended. When they came to its foot, Davies reached into a cupboard and brought out what Simpson recognised as a trilby hat of the sort his father had used to wear, a cloth cap, a large piece of sacking and a tattered brown blanket. All four articles appeared to be covered with stains and dirt. At the same time Simpson became aware of a curious and unpleasant mixture of smells and a subdued grumbling of voices. In silence, Davies handed him the cap and the blanket and himself donned the sacking, stole-fashion, and the trilby. Simpson followed his lead. Then Davies ushered him through a low doorway. The room they entered was dimly lit by candles stuck into bottles, and it was a moment before Simpson could take in the scene. At first he felt pure astonishment. There was no trace here of the luxury he had glimpsed upstairs: the walls, of undressed stone, were grimy and damp, the floor was covered at random with sacks and decaying lumps of matting. A coke stove made the cellar stiflingly hot; the air swam with cigarette smoke; the atmosphere was thick and malodorous. Against one wall stood a trestle table piled with bottles and what looked like teacups. Among other items Simpson uncomprehendingly saw there were several loaves of bread, some bottles of milk, a pile of small circular tins and, off in a corner, an old-fashioned and rusty gas-cooker or its replica. But his surprise and bewilderment turned to mild alarm when he surveyed the dozen or so men sitting about on packing-cases or broken chairs and squatting or sprawling on the floor, each wearing some sort of battered headgear and with a blanket or sack thrown round his shoulders. All of them were muttering unintelligibly, in some instances to a companion, more often just to themselves. Davies took Simpson’s arm and led him to a splintery bench near the wall. ’These blankets and so on must have been a means of asserting the essential democracy of drink,’ Davies whispered. ’Anyway, we’re near the end of the purely ritualistic part now. Our film didn’t make its full significance clear, but it was obviously a kind of self-preparation, perhaps even prayer. The rest of the proceedings will be much less formal. Ah . . .’ Two of the men had been muttering more loudly at each other and now closed physically, but their blows and struggles were symbolic, a mime, as in ballet or the Japanese theatre. Soon one of them had his adversary pinned to the floor and was raining token punches upon him. (We’re rather in the dark about this bit,’ Davies murmured. ’Perhaps an enacted reference to the ancient role of drink as a sequel to physical exertion.’) When the prostrate combatant had begun to feign unconsciousness, a loud and authoritative voice spoke. ’End of Part One.’ At once all was animation: everybody sprang up and threw off his borrowed garments, revealing himself as smartly clad in the formal dress of the era. Davies led Simpson up to the man who had made the announcement, probably a member of one of the professions and clearly the host of the occasion. His face was sprayed with broken veins to a degree that outdid Davies’s. ’Delighted you can join us,’ the host said when Simpson’s presence had been explained. ’A privilege to have an Outworlder at one of our little gatherings. Now for our Part Two. Has Piotr explained to you about the ancient film that taught us so much? Well, its second and third sections were so badly damaged as to be almost useless to us. So what’s to follow is no more than an imaginative reconstruction, I fear, but I think it can be said that we’ve interpreted the tradition with taste and reverence. Let’s begin, shall we?’ He signed to an attendant standing at the table; the man began filling the teacups with a mixture of two liquids. One came out of something like a wine-bottle and was red, the other came out of something like a medicine bottle and was almost transparent, with a faint purplish tinge. Courteously passing Simpson the first of the cups, the host said: ’Please do us the honour of initiating the proceedings.’ Simpson drank. He felt as if someone had exploded a tear-gas shell in his throat and then sprayed his gullet with curry-powder. As his own coughings and weepings subsided he was surprised to find his companions similarly afflicted in turn as they drank. ’Interesting, isn’t it?’ the host asked, wheezing and staggering. ’A fine shock to the palate. One might perhaps say that it goes beyond the merely gustatory and olfactory to the purely tactile. Hardly a sensuous experience at all – ascetic, almost abstract. An invention of genius, don’t you think?’ ’What — what’s the . . . ?’ ’Red Biddy, my dear fellow,’ Piotr Davies put in proudly. There was reverence in his voice when he added: ’Red wine and methylated spirits. Of course, we can’t hope to reproduce the legendary Empire Burgundy-characters that used to go into it, but our own humble Boojly isn’t a bad substitute. Its role is purely ancillary, after all.’ ’We like to use a straw after the first shock.’ The host passed one to Simpson. ’I hope you approve of the teacups. A nice traditional touch, I think. And now, do make yourself comfortable. I must see to the plonk in person — one can’t afford to take risks.’ Simpson sat down near Davies on a packing-case. He realised after a few moments that it was actually carved out of a single block of wood. Then he noticed that the dampness of the walls was maintained by tiny water-jets at intervals near the ceiling. Probably the sacks on the floor had been specially woven and then artificially aged. Pretending to suck at his straw, he said nervously to Davies: ’What exactly do you mean by plonk? In my time, people usually. . .’ He broke off, fearful of having betrayed himself, but the man of the future had noticed nothing. `Ah, you’re in for a great experience, my dear friend, something unknown outside this room for countless decades. To our ancestors in the later twentieth century it may have been the stuff of daily life, but to us it’s a pearl beyond price, a precious fragment salvaged from the wreck of history. Watch carefully — every bit of this is authentic.’ With smarting eyes, Simpson saw his host pull the crumb from a loaf and stuff it into the mouth of an enamel jug. Then, taking a candle from a nearby bottle, he put the flame to a disc-shaped cake of brownish substance that the attendant was holding between tongs. A flame arose; liquid dropped on to the bread and began to soak through into the jug; the assembled guests clapped and cheered. Another brownish cake was treated in the same way, then another. ’Shoe-polish,’ Simpson said in a cracked voice. ’Exactly. We’re on the dark tans this evening, with just a touch of ox-blood to give body. Makes a very big, round, pugnacious drink. By the way, that’s processed bread he’s using. Wholemeal’s too permeable, we’ve found.’ Beaming, the host came over to Simpson with a half-filled cup, a breakfast cup this time. ’Down in one, my dear chap,’ he said. They were all watching; there was nothing for it. Simpson shut his eyes and drank. This time a hundred blunt dental drills seemed to be working at once on his nose and throat and mouth. Fluid sprang from all the mucous membranes in those areas. It was like having one’s face pushed into a bath of acid. Simpson’s shoulders sagged and his eyes filmed over. ’I’d say the light tans have got more bite,’ a voice said near him. ’Especially on the gums.’ ’Less of a follow-through, on the other hand.’ There was the sound of swallowing and then a muffled scream. ’Were you here for the plain-tan tasting last month? Wonderful fire and vehemence. I was blind for the next four days.’ ’I still say you can’t beat a straight brown for all-round excoriation. Amazing results on the uvula and tonsils.’ ’What’s wrong with black?’ This was a younger voice. An embarrassed silence, tempered by a fit of coughing and a heartfelt moan from different parts of the circle, was ended by someone saying urbanely: ’Each to his taste, of course, and there is impact there, but I think experience shows that that sooty, oil-smoke quality is rather meretricious. Most of us find ourselves moving tanwards as we grow older.’ `Ah, good, he’s . . . yes, he’s using a tin of transparent in the next jug. Watch for the effect on the septum,’ Simpson lurched to his feet. ’I must be going,’ he muttered. ’Important engagement.’ ’What, you’re not staying for the coal-gas in milk? Turns the brain to absolute jelly, you know.’ ’Sorry . . . friend waiting for me.’ ’Goodbye, then. Give our love to Mercury. Perhaps you’ll be able to start a circle of the Friends of Plonk on your home planet. That would be a magnificent thought.’
’Magnificent,’ the Director echoed bitterly. ’Just think of it. The idea of an atomic war’s too much to take in, but those poor devils . . . Baker, we must prepare some information for Simpson to take on his next long-range trip, something that’ll show them how to make a decent vodka or gin even if the vines have all gone.’ I was hardly listening. ’Aren’t there some queer things about that world, sir? Shoe-polish in just the same variants that we know? Wholemeal bread when the crops are supposed to have — ’ I was interrupted by a shout from the far end of the lab, where Rabaiotti had gone to check the TIAMARIA. He turned and came racing towards us, babbling at the top of his voice. ’Phase distortion, sir! Anomalous tracking on the output side! Completely new effect!’ ’And the TIOPEPE’s meshed with it, isn’t it?’ Schneider said. ’Of course!’ I yelled. ’Simpson was on a different time-path, sir! An alternative probability, a parallel world. No wonder the ground-level estimate was off. This is amazing!’ ’No nuclear war in our time-path — no certainty, anyway,’ the Director sang, waving his arms. ’No destruction of the vines.’ ’No Friends of Plonk.’ ’All the same,’ Simpson murmured to me as we strolled towards the Conference Room, ’in some ways they’re better off than we are. At least the stuff they use is genuine. Nobody’s going to doctor bloody shoe-polish to make it taste smoother or to preserve it or so that you’ll mistake it for a more expensive brand. And it can only improve, what they drink.’ ’Whereas we . . .’ ’Yes. That draught beer you go on about isn’t draught at all: it comes out of a giant steel bottle these days, because it’s easier that way. And do you think the Germans are the greatest chemists in the world for nothing? Ask Schneider about the 1972 Moselles. And what do you imagine all those scientists are doing in Bordeaux?’ ’There’s Italy and Spain and Greece. They’ll — ’ ’Not Italy any more. Ask Rabaiotti, or rather don’t. Spain and Greece’ll last longest, probably, but by 1980 you’ll have to go to Albania if you want real wine. Provided the Chinese won’t have started helping them to get the place modernised.’ ’What are you going to do about it?’ ’Switch to whisky. That’s still real. In fact I’m going to take a bottle home tonight. Can you lend me twenty-five quid?’
Do you want more?
You can find more articles related to this in my Fictional Story Index here…
This is a nice story by Ray Bradbury. It takes you to a point in time. It’s about being alone. I do hope that you appreciate this story like I do. It’s a great story that takes place on Mars. This is in PDF format for easy reading.
The long years
Ray Bradbury
Conclusion
It’s a very short story.
I think that this story stands alone on it’s own merits.
Loneliness is an unpleasant emotional response to perceived isolation. Loneliness is also described as social pain—a psychological mechanism which motivates individuals to seek social connections. It is often associated with an unwanted lack of connection and intimacy. Loneliness overlaps and yet is distinct from solitude. Solitude is simply the state of being apart from others; not everyone who experiences solitude feels lonely. As a subjective emotion, loneliness can be felt even when surrounded by other people; one who feels lonely, is lonely. The causes of loneliness are varied. They include social, mental, emotional, and environmental factors.
- Wikipedia
Today’s society insists that we communicate via e-mail and social media. But face to face, in depth human to human contact is what we require. Accept that fact and do everything in your power to make sure that you are never, ever alone. Your strength is your community.
This is a nice story by Ray Bradbury. It takes you to a point in time. It’s about a life after the insanity of mad kings and corrupt politicians. I do hope that you appreciate this story like I do.
Especially since it takes place in America in the year 2026…
There will come the soft rains
Ray Bradbury
Conclusion
It’s a very short story.
I think that this story stands alone on it’s own merits.
People have forgotten. The American leadership has forgotten what a cold war was, and the threat of any day having your complete life turned upside down by nuclear war. This week, America is going to base it’s nuclear SLBM missile subs in Australia, and Australia agrees to host the systems.
Jesus!
This kind of nuclear-war level posturing is dangerous. On one hand Biden says that “America doesn’t want war”, on the other hand, it was one year after it launched three lethal bio-weapons strains on China. And is placing nuclear weapons in the QUAD that rings the Chinese mainland.
Do they think that the rest of the world is as ignorant as the dumbed-down Americans are?
I guess so.
The United States is a run-away train and it ain’t stopping or slowing down for shit. The final crash is going to be spectacular, and horrific at the same time. This story here describes that aftermath.
RayBradbury’s “There Will Come Soft Rains” tells the story ofahouse that has survived a nuclear blast in the year 2026. Thehouse has automated systems, not unlike a modern-day smarthome. Each day, the house makes the beds, cooks dinner, and throwsoutthe trash—despite the fact that its owners have died.
This is a nice story by Ray Bradbury. As I reread this story, I couldn’t help but relive the “news” that enters my feeds on a daily basis. It sounds so familiar. It’s just hard to believe that this story was written in the 1950’s. I do hope that you appreciate this story like I do.
THE LUGGAGE STORE
Ray Bradbury
It was a very remote thing, when the luggage-store
proprietor heard the news on the night radio, received all the
way from Earth on a light-sound beam. The proprietor felt how
remote it was.
There was going to be a war on Earth.
…
He went out to peer into the sky.
Yes, there it was. Earth, in the evening heavens,
following the sun into the hills. The words on the radio and
that green star were one and the same.
“I don’t believe it,” said the proprietor.
“It’s because you’re not there,” said Father Peregrine,
who had stopped by to pass the time of evening.
“What do you mean, Father?”
“It’s like when I was a boy,” said Father Peregrine. “We
heard about wars in China. But we never believed them. It was
too far away. And there were too many people dying. It
was impossible. Even when we saw the motion pictures we didn’t
believe it. Well, that’s how it is now. Earth is China. It’s so
far away it’s unbelievable. It’s not here. You can’t touch it.
You can’t even see it. All you see is a green light. Two
billion people living on that light? Unbelievable! War? We
don’t hear the explosions.”
“We will,” said the proprietor. “I keep thinking about
all those people that were going to come to Mars this week.
What was it? A hundred thousand or so coming up in the next
month or so. What about _them_ if the war starts?”
“I imagine they’ll turn back. They’ll be needed on Earth.”
“Well,” said the proprietor, “I’d better get my luggage
dusted off. I got a feeling there’ll be a rush sale here any
time.”
“Do you think everyone now on Mars will go back to Earth
if this _is_ the Big War we’ve all been expecting for years?”
“It’s a funny thing, Father, but yes, I think we’ll _all_
go back. I know, we came up here to get away from
things–politics, the atom bomb, war, pressure groups,
prejudice, laws–I know. But it’s still home there. You wait
and see. When the first bomb drops on America the people up
here’ll start thinking. They haven’t been here long enough.
A couple years is all. If they’d been here forty years, it’d
be different, but they got relatives down there, and their
home towns. Me, I can’t believe in Earth any more; I can’t
imagine it much. But I’m old. I don’t count. I might stay on
here.”
“I doubt it.”
“Yes, I guess you’re right.”
They stood on the porch watching the stars. Finally
Father Peregrine pulled some money from his pocket and handed
it to the proprietor. “Come to think of it, you’d better give
me a new valise. My old one’s in pretty bad condition. . . .”
The End
Conclusion
It’s a very short story.
Do you really think that if you were living off in a far away nation, and war broke out on American soil, that you would leave and return to America?
I don’t.
I’m in China. America is thrashing and snarling. It is going bat-shit-crazy and the LAST thing that I want to do is return to that cesspool of greedy ignorant psychopathic monsters.
Never the less, this story was written at a different time, in a different place, and the values reflected in this story has long since disappeared from the world. It’s all gone like whispers and vapor.
This is a nice story by Ray Bradbury. I like it because it reminds me of the treasures of being a kid in the 1960’s / 1970’s. There things that our communities and parents provided for us that are now seemingly absent in America today. But in those days were simply precious treasures. Ray Bradbury captures these ideas and images so well.
Time in Thy Flight
A wind blew the long years away past their hot faces.
The Time Machine stopped.
“Nineteen hundred and twenty-eight,” said Janet. The two boys looked past her.
Mr. Fields stirred. “Remember, you’re here to observe the behavior of these ancient people. Be inquisitive, be intelligent, observe.”
“Yes,” said the girl and the two boys in crisp khaki uniforms. They wore identical haircuts, had identical wristwatches, sandals, and coloring of hair, eyes, teeth, and skin, though they were not related.
“Shh!” said Mr. Fields.
They looked out at a little Illinois town in the spring of the year. A cool mist lay on the early morning streets.
Far down the street a small boy came running in the last light of the marble-cream moon. Somewhere a great clock struck 5 A.M. far away.
Leaving tennis-shoe prints softly in the quiet lawns, the boy stepped near the invisible Time Machine and cried up to a high dark house window.
The house window opened. Another boy crept down the roof to the ground. The two boys ran off with banana-filled mouths into the dark cold morning.
“Follow them,” whispered Mr. Fields. “Study their life patterns.
Quick!”
Janet and William and Robert ran on the cold pavements of spring, visible now, through the slumbering town, through a park. All about, lights flickered, doors clicked, and other children rushed alone or in gasping pairs down a hill to some gleaming blue tracks.
“Here it comes!” The children milled about before dawn. Far down the shining tracks a small light grew seconds later into steaming thunder.
“What is it?” screamed Janet.
“A train, silly, you’ve seen pictures of them!” shouted Robert.
And as the Time Children watched, from the train stepped gigantic gray elephants, steaming the pavements with their mighty waters, lifting question-mark nozzles to the cold morning sky. Cumbrous wagons rolled from the long freight flats, red and gold. Lions roared and paced in boxed darkness.
“Why— this must be a—circus!” Janet trembled.
“You think so? Whatever happened to them?”
“Like Christmas, I guess. Just vanished, long ago.”
Janet looked around. “Oh, it’s awful, isn’t it.”
The boys stood numbed. “It sure is.”
Men shouted in the first faint gleam of dawn. Sleeping cars drew up, dazed faces blinked out at the children. Horses clattered like a great fall of stones on the pavement.
Mr. Fields was suddenly behind the children. “Disgusting, barbaric, keeping animals in cages. If I’d known this was here, I’d never let you come see. This is a terrible ritual.”
“Oh, yes.” But Janet’s eyes were puzzled. “And yet, you know, it’s like a nest of maggots. I want to study it.”
“I don’t know,” said Robert, his eyes darting, his fingers trembling.
“It’s pretty crazy. We might try writing a thesis on it if Mr. Fields says it’s all right …”
Mr. Fields nodded. “I’m glad you’re digging in here, finding motives, studying this horror. All right—we’ll see the circus this afternoon.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Janet.
The Time Machine hummed.
“So that was a circus,” said Janet, solemnly.
The trombone circus died in their ears. The last thing they saw was candy-pink trapeze people whirling while baking powder clowns shrieked and bounded.
“You must admit psychovision’s better,” said Robert slowly.
“All those nasty animal smells, the excitement.” Janet blinked. “That’s bad for children, isn’t it? And those older people seated with the children.
Mothers, fathers, they called them. Oh, that was strange.”
Mr. Fields put some marks in his class grading book.
Janet shook her head numbly. “I want to see it all again. I’ve missed the motives somewhere. I want to make that run across town again in the early morning. The cold air on my face—the sidewalk under my feet—the circus train coming in. Was it the air and the early hour that made the children get up and run to see the train come in? I want to retrace the entire pattern.
Why should they be excited? I feel I’ve missed out on the answer.”
“They all smiled so much,” said William.
“Manic-depressives,” said Robert.
“What are summer vacations? I heard them talk about it.” Janet looked at Mr. Fields.
“They spent their summers racing about like idiots, beating each other up,” replied Mr. Fields seriously.
“I’ll take our State Engineered summers of work for children anytime,” said Robert, looking at nothing, his voice faint.
The Time Machine stopped again.
“The Fourth of July,” announced Mr. Fields. “Nineteen hundred and twenty-eight. An ancient holiday when people blew each other’s fingers off.”
They stood before the same house on the same street but on a soft summer evening. Fire wheels hissed, on front porches laughing children tossed things out that went bang!
“Don’t run!” cried Mr. Fields. “It’s not war, don’t be afraid!”
But Janet’s and Robert’s and William’s faces were pink, now blue, now white with fountains of soft fire.
“We’re all right,” said Janet, standing very still.
“Happily,” announced Mr. Fields, “they prohibited fireworks a century ago, did away with the whole messy explosion.”
Children did fairy dances, weaving their names and destinies on the dark summer air with white sparklers.
“I’d like to do that,” said Janet, softly. “Write my name on the air.
See? I’d like that.”
“What?” Mr. Fields hadn’t been listening.
“Nothing,” said Janet.
“Bang!” whispered William and Robert, standing under the soft summer trees, in shadow, watching, watching the red, white, and green fires on the beautiful summer night lawns. “Bang!”
October.
The Time Machine paused for the last time, an hour later in the month of burning leaves. People bustled into dim houses carrying pumpkins and corn shocks. Skeletons danced, bats flew, candles flamed, apples swung in empty doorways.
“Halloween,” said Mr. Fields. “The acme of horror. This was the age of superstition, you know. Later they banned the Grimm Brothers, ghosts, skeletons, and all that claptrap. You children, thank God, were raised in an antiseptic world of no shadows or ghosts. You had decent holidays like William C. Chatterton’s Birthday, Work Day, and Machine Day.”
They walked by the same house in the empty October night, peering in at the triangle-eyed pumpkins, the masks leering in black attics and damp cellars. Now, inside the house, some party children squatted telling stories, laughing!
“I want to be inside with them,” said Janet at last.
“Sociologically, of course,” said the boys.
“No,” she said.
“What?” asked Mr. Fields.
“No, I just want to be inside, I just want to stay here, I want to see it all and be here and never be anywhere else, I want firecrackers and pumpkins and circuses, I want Christmases and Valentines and Fourths, like we’ve seen.”
“This is getting out of hand …” Mr. Fields started to say.
But suddenly Janet was gone. “Robert, William, come on!” She ran.
The boys leaped after her.
“Hold on!” shouted Mr. Fields. “Robert! William, I’ve got you!” He seized the last boy, but the other escaped. “Janet, Robert—come back here!
You’ll never pass into the seventh grade!
You’ll fail, Janet, Bob— Bob! ”
An October wind blew wildly down the street, vanishing with the children off among moaning trees.
William twisted and kicked.
“No, not you, too, William, you’re coming home with me. We’ll teach those other two a lesson they won’t forget. So they want to stay in the past, do they?” Mr. Fields shouted so everyone could hear. “All right, Janet, Bob, stay in this horror, in this chaos! In a few weeks you’ll come sniveling back here to me. But I’ll be gone! I’m leaving you here to go mad in this world!”
He hurried William to the Time Machine. The boy was sobbing.
“Don’t make me come back here on any more Field Excursions ever again, please, Mr. Fields, please—”
“Shut up!”
Almost instantly the Time Machine whisked away toward the future, toward the underground hive cities, the metal buildings, the metal flowers, the metal lawns.
“Good-bye, Janet, Bob!”
A great cold October wind blew through the town like water. And when it had ceased blowing it had carried all the children, whether invited or uninvited, masked or unmasked, to the doors of houses which closed upon them. There was not a running child anywhere in the night. The wind whined away in the bare treetops.
And inside the big house, in the candlelight, someone was pouring cold apple cider all around, to everyone, no matter who they were.
The End
Conclusion
This story takes me back to a time when things were simpler and reminds me of how precious the moments were that we possessed. Don’t let the preciousness of the moments that you have today slip from your hands.
Whether it is the 1950’s or the 1990’s, or even today. Treasure what you have now. For it is all fleeting….
This is a nice story by Ray Bradbury.Three hundred years after his death, William Lantry awakes from his coffin. One thing is very clear to him – this sterile world without superstition, fear, or imagination must be destroyed. Ray Bradbury was one of the best-known writers of our time. He was a master storyteller, a champion of creative freedom, and a space-age visionary.
Pillar of Fire
I
He came out of the earth, hating. Hate was his father; hate was his mother.
It was good to walk again. It was good to leap up out of the earth, off of your back, and stretch your cramped arms violently and try to take a deep breath!
He tried. He cried out.
He couldn’t breathe. He flung his arms over his face and tried to breathe. It was impossible. He walked on the earth, he came out of the earth.
But he was dead. He couldn’t breathe. He could take air into his mouth and force it half down his throat, with withered moves of long-dormant muscles, wildly, wildly! And with this little air he could shout and cry! He wanted to have tears, but he couldn’t make them come, either. All he knew was that he was standing upright, he was dead, he shouldn’t be walking! He couldn’t breathe and yet he stood.
The smells of the world were all about him. Frustratedly, he tried to smell the smells of autumn. Autumn was burning the land down into ruin. All across the country the ruins of summer lay; vast forests bloomed with flame, tumbled down timber on empty, unleafed timber. The smoke of the burning was rich, blue, and invisible.
He stood in the graveyard, hating. He walked through the world and yet could not taste nor smell of it. He heard, yes. The wind roared on his newly opened ears. But he was dead. Even though he walked he knew he was dead and should expect not too much of himself or this hateful living world.
He touched the tombstone over his own empty grave. He knew his own name again. It was a good job of carving.
WILLIAM LANTRY
That’s what the gravestone said.
His fingers trembled on the cool stone surface.
BORN 1898—DIED 1933
Born again…?
What year? He glared at the sky and the midnight autumnal stars moving in slow illuminations across the windy black. He read the tiltings of centuries in those stars. Orion thus and so, Aurega here! and where Taurus?
There!
His eyes narrowed. His lips spelled out the year:
“2349.”
An odd number. Like a school sum. They used to say a man couldn’t encompass any number over a hundred. After that it was all so damned abstract there was no use counting. This was the year 2349! A numeral, a sum. And here he was, a man who had lain in his hateful dark coffin, hating to be buried, hating the living people above who lived and lived and lived, hating them for all the centuries, until today, now, born out of hatred, he stood by his own freshly excavated grave, the smell of raw earth in the air, perhaps, but he could not smell it!
“I,” he said, addressing a poplar tree that was shaken by the wind, “am an anachronism.” He smiled faintly.
He looked at the graveyard. It was cold and empty. All of the stones had been ripped up and piled like so many flat bricks, one atop another, in the far corner by the wrought iron fence. This had been going on for two endless weeks. In his deep secret coffin he had heard the heartless, wild stirring as the men jabbed the earth with cold spades and tore out the coffins and carried away the withered ancient bodies to be burned. Twisting with fear in his coffin, he had waited for them to come to him.
Today they had arrived at his coffin. But—late. They had dug down to within an inch of the lid. Five o’clock bell, time for quitting. Home to supper.
The workers had gone off. Tomorrow they would finish the job, they said, shrugging into their coats.
Silence had come to the emptied tombyard.
Carefully, quietly, with a soft rattling of sod, the coffin lid had lifted.
William Lantry stood trembling now, in the last cemetery on Earth.
“Remember?” he asked himself, looking at the raw earth. “Remember those stories of that last man on Earth? Those stories of men wandering in ruins, alone? Well, you, William Lantry, are a switch on the old story. Do you know that? You are the last dead man in the whole world!”
There were no more dead people. Nowhere in any land was there a dead person. Impossible! Lantry did not smile at this. No, not impossible at all in this foolish, sterile, unimaginative, antiseptic age of cleansings and scientific methods! People died, oh my God, yes. But— dead people?
Corpses? They didn’t exist!
What happened to dead people?
The graveyard was on a hill. William Lantry walked through the dark burning night until he reached the edge of the graveyard and looked down upon the new town of Salem. It was all illumination, all color. Rocket ships cut fire above it, crossing the sky to all the far ports of Earth.
In his grave the new violence of this future world had driven down and seeped into William Lantry. He had been bathed in it for years. He knew all about it, with a hating dead man’s knowledge of such things.
Most important of all, he knew what these fools did with dead men.
He lifted his eyes. In the center of the town a massive stone finger pointed at the stars. It was three hundred feet high and fifty feet across. There was a wide entrance and a drive in front of it.
In the town, theoretically, thought William Lantry, say you have a dying man. In a moment he will be dead. What happens? No sooner is his pulse cold when a certificate is flourished, made out, his relatives pack him into a car-beetle and drive him swiftly to—
The Incinerator!
That functional finger, that Pillar of Fire pointing at the stars.
Incinerator. A functional, terrible name. But truth is truth in this future world.
Like a stick of kindling your Mr. Dead Man is shot into the furnace.
Flume!
William Lantry looked at the top of the gigantic pistol shoving at the stars. A small pennant of smoke issued from the top.
There’s where your dead people go.
“Take care of yourself, William Lantry,” he murmured. “You’re the last one, the rare item, the last dead man. All the other graveyards of Earth have been blasted up. This is the last graveyard and you’re the last dead man from the centuries. These people don’t believe in having dead people about, much less walking dead people. Everything that can’t be used goes up like a matchstick. Superstitions right along with it!”
He looked at the town. All right, he thought, quietly, I hate you. You hate me, or you would if you knew I existed. You don’t believe in such things as vampires or ghosts. Labels without referents, you cry! You snort. All right, snort! Frankly, I don’t believe in you, either! I don’t like you! You and your Incinerators.
He trembled. How very close it had been. Day after day they had hauled out the other dead ones, burned them like so much kindling. An edict had been broadcast around the world. He had heard the digging men talk as they worked!
“I guess it’s a good idea, this cleaning up the graveyards,” said one of the men.
“Guess so,” said another. “Grisly custom. Can you imagine? Being buried, I mean! Unhealthy! All them germs!”
“Sort of a shame. Romantic, kind of. I mean, leaving just this one graveyard untouched all these centuries. The other graveyards were cleaned out, what year was it, Jim?”
“About 2260, I think. Yeah, that was it, 2260, almost a hundred years ago. But some Salem Committee, they got on their high horse and they said,
‘Look here, let’s have just one graveyard left, to remind us of the customs of the barbarians.’ And the government scratched its head, thunk it over, and said, ‘Okay. Salem it is. But all other graveyards go, you understand, all!’”
“And away they went,” said Jim.
“Sure, they sucked out ’em with fire and steam shovels and rocket-cleaners. If they knew a man was buried in a cow pasture, they fixed him!
Evacuated them, they did. Sort of cruel, I say.”
“I hate to sound old-fashioned,but still there were a lot of tourists came here every year, just to see what a real graveyard was like.”
“Right. We had nearly a million people in the last three years visiting.
A good revenue. But—a government order is an order. The government says no more morbidity, so flush her out we do! Here we go. Hand me that spade, Bill.”
William Lantry stood in the autumn wind, on the hill. It was good to walk again, to feel the wind and to hear the leaves scuttling like mice on the road ahead of him. It was good to see the bitter cold stars almost blown away by the wind.
It was even good to know fear again.
For fear rose in him now, and he could not put it away. The very fact that he was walking made him an enemy. And there was not another friend, another dead man, in all of the world, to whom one could turn for help or consolation. It was the whole melodramatic living world against one. William Lantry. It was the whole vampire-disbelieving, body-burning, graveyard-annihilating world against a man in a dark suit on a dark autumn hill. He put out his pale cold hands into the city illumination. You have pulled the tombstones, like teeth, from the yard, he thought. Now I will find some way to push your Incinerators down into rubble. I will make dead people again, and I will make friends in so doing. I cannot be alone and lonely. I must start manufacturing friends very soon. Tonight.
“War is declared,” he said, and laughed. It was pretty silly, one man declaring war on an entire world.
The world did not answer back. A rocket crossed the sky on a rush of flame, like an Incinerator taking wing.
Footsteps. Lantry hastened to the edge of the cemetery. The diggers, coming back to finish up their work? No. Just someone, a man, walking by.
As the man came abreast the cemetery gate, Lantry stepped swiftly out. “Good evening,” said the man, smiling.
Lantry struck the man in the face. The man fell. Lantry bent quietly down and hit the man a killing blow across the neck with the side of his hand.
Dragging the body back into shadow, he stripped it and changed clothes with it. It wouldn’t do for a fellow to go wandering about this future world with ancient clothing on. He found a small pocket knife in the man’s coat; not much of a knife, but enough if you knew how to handle it properly.
He knew how.
He rolled the body down into one of the already opened and exhumed graves. In a minute he had shoveled dirt down upon it, just enough to hide it.
There was little chance of it being found. They wouldn’t dig the same grave twice.
He adjusted himself in his new loose-fitting metallic suit. Fine, fine.
Hating. William Lantry walked down into town, to do battle with the Earth.
II
The Incinerator was open. It never closed. There was a wide entrance, all lighted up with hidden illumination, there was a helicopter landing table and a beetle drive. The town itself was dying down after another day of the dynamo. The lights were going dim, and the only quiet, lighted spot in the town now was the Incinerator. God, what a practical name, what an unromantic name.
William Lantry entered the wide, well-lighted door. It was an entrance, really; there were no doors to open or shut. People could go in and out, summer or winter, the inside was always warm. Warm from the fire that rushed whispering up the high round flue to where the whirlers, the propellors, the air jets pushed the leafy gray ashes on away for a ten-mile ride down the sky.
There was the warmth of the bakery here. The halls were floored with rubber parquet. You couldn’t make a noise if you wanted to. Music played in hidden throats somewhere. Not music of death at all, but music of life and the way the sun lived inside the Incinerator; or the sun’s brother, anyway. You could hear the flame floating inside the heavy brick wall.
William Lantry descended a ramp. Behind him he heard a whisper and turned in time to see a beetle stop before the entranceway. A bell rang. The music, as if at a signal, rose to ecstatic heights. There was joy in it.
From the beetle, which opened from the rear, some attendants stepped carrying a golden box. It was six feet long and there were sun symbols on it.
From another beetle the relatives of the man in the box stepped and followed as the attendants took the golden box down a ramp to a kind of altar. On the side of the altar were the words, “WE THAT WERE BORN OF THE SUN RETURN TO THE SUN.” The golden box was deposited upon the altar, the music leaped upward, the Guardian of this place spoke only a few words, then the attendants picked up the golden box, walked to a transparent wall, a safety lock, also transparent, and opened it. The box was shoved into the glass slot.
A moment later an inner lock opened, the box was injected into the interior of the flue, and vanished instantly in quick flame.
The attendants walked away. The relatives without a word turned and walked out. The music played.
William Lantry approached the glass fire lock. He peered through the wall at the vast, glowing never-ceasing heart of the Incinerator. It burned steadily, without a flicker, singing to itself peacefully. It was so solid it was like a golden river flowing up out of the earth toward the sky. Anything you put into the river was borne upward, vanished.
Lantry felt again his unreasoning hatred of this thing, this monster, cleansing fire.
A man stood at his elbow. “May I help you, sir?”
“What?” Lantry turned abruptly. “What did you say?”
“May I be of service?”
“I—that is—” Lantry looked quickly at the ramp and the door. His hands trembled at his sides. “I’ve never been in here before.”
“Never?” The Attendant was surprised.
That had been the wrong thing to say, Lantry realized. But it was said, nevertheless. “I mean,” he said. “Not really. I mean, when you’re a child, somehow, you don’t pay attention. I suddenly realized tonight that I didn’t really know the Incinerator.”
The Attendant smiled. “We never know anything, do we, really? I’ll be glad to show you around.”
“Oh, no. Never mind. It—it’s a wonderful place.”
“Yes, it is.” The Attendant took pride in it. “One of the finest in the world, I think.”
“I—” Lantry felt he must explain further. “I haven’t had many relatives die on me since I was a child. In fact, none. So, you see I haven’t been here for many years.”
“I see.” The Attendant’s face seemed to darken somewhat.
What’ve I said now, thought Lantry. What in God’s name is wrong?
What’ve I done? If I’m not careful I’ll get myself shoved right into that monstrous firetrap. What’s wrong with this fellow’s face? He seems to be giving me more than the usual going-over.
“You wouldn’t be one of the men who’ve just returned from Mars, would you?” asked the Attendant.
“No. Why do you ask?”
“No matter.” The Attendant began to walk off. “If you want to know anything, just ask me.”
“Just one thing,” said Lantry.
“What’s that?”
“This.”
Lantry dealt him a stunning blow across the neck.
He had watched the fire-trap operator with expert eyes. Now, with the sagging body in his arms, he touched the button that opened the warm outer lock, placed the body in, heard the music rise, and saw the inner lock open.
The body shot out into the river of fire. The music softened.
“Well done, Lantry, well done.”
Barely an instant later another Attendant entered the room. Lantry was caught with an expression of pleased excitement on his face. The Attendant looked around as if expecting to find someone, then he walked toward Lantry.
“May I help you?”
“Just looking,” said Lantry.
“Rather late at night,” said the Attendant.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
That was the wrong answer, too. Everybody slept in this world.
Nobody had insomnia. If you did you simply turned on a hypnoray, and, sixty seconds later, you were snoring. Oh, he was just full of wrong answers. First he had made the fatal error of saying he had never been in the Incinerator before, when he knew that all children were brought here on tours, every year, from the time they were four, to instill the idea of the clean fire death and the Incinerator in their minds. Death was a bright fire, death was warmth and the sun. It was not a dark, shadowed thing. That was important in their education.
And he, pale, thoughtless fool, had immediately gabbled out his ignorance.
And another thing, this paleness of his. He looked at his hands and realized with growing terror that a pale man also was nonexistent in this world. They would suspect his paleness. That was why the first attendant had asked, “Are you one of those men newly returned from Mars?” Here, now, this new Attendant was clean and bright as a copper penny, his cheeks red with health and energy. Lantry hid his pale hands in his pockets. But he was finally aware of the searching the Attendant did on his face.
“I mean to say,” said Lantry, “I didn’t want to sleep. I wanted to think.”
“Was there a service held here a moment ago?” asked the Attendant, looking about.
“I don’t know, I just came in.”
“I thought I heard the fire lock open and shut.”
“I don’t know,” said Lantry.
The man pressed a wall button. “Anderson?”
A voice replied. “Yes.”
“Locate Saul for me, will you?”
“I’ll ring the corridors.” A pause. “Can’t find him.”
“Thanks.” The Attendant was puzzled. He was beginning to make little sniffing motions with his nose. “Do you— smell anything?”
Lantry sniffed. “No. Why?”
“I smell something.”
Lantry took hold of the knife in his pocket. He waited.
“I remember once when I was a kid,” said the man. “And we found a cow lying dead in the field. It had been there two days in the hot sun. That’s what this smell is. I wonder what it’s from?”
“Oh, I know what it is,” said Lantry quietly. He held out his hand.
“Here.”
“What?”
“Me, of course.”
“You?”
“Dead several hundred years.”
“You’re an odd joker.” The Attendant was puzzled.
“Very.” Lantry took out the knife. “Do you know what this is?”
“A knife.”
“Do you ever use knives on people any more?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean—killing them, with knives or guns or poison?”
“You are an odd joker!” The man giggled awkwardly.
“I’m going to kill you,” said Lantry.
“Nobody kills anybody,” said the man.
“Not any more they don’t. But they used to, in the old days.”
“I know they did.”
“This will be the first murder in three hundred years. I just killed your friend. I just shoved him into the fire lock.”
That remark had the desired effect. It numbed the man so completely, it shocked him so thoroughly with its illogical aspects that Lantry had time to walk forward. He put the knife against the man’s chest. “I’m going to kill you.”
“That’s silly,” said the man, numbly. “People don’t do that.”
“Like this,” said Lantry. “You see?”
The knife slid into the chest. The man stared at it for a moment.
Lantry caught the falling body.
III
The Salem flue exploded at six that morning. The great fire chimney shattered into ten thousand parts and flung itself into the earth and into the sky and into the houses of the sleeping people. There was fire and sound, more fire than autumn made burning in the hills.
William Lantry was five miles away at the time of the explosion. He saw the town ignited by the great spreading cremation of it. And he shook his head and laughed a little bit and clapped his hands smartly together.
Relatively simple. You walked around killing people who didn’t believe in murder, had only heard of it indirectly as some dim gone custom of the old barbarian races. You walked into the control room of the Incinerator and said, “How do you work this Incinerator?” and the control man told you, because everybody told the truth in this world of the future, nobody lied, there was no reason to lie, there was no danger to lie against. There was only one criminal in the world, and nobody knew HE existed yet.
Oh, it was an incredibly beautiful setup. The Control Man had told him just how the Incinerator worked, what pressure gauges controlled the flood of fire gases going up the flue, what levers were adjusted or readjusted.
He and Lantry had had quite a talk. It was an easy, free world. People trusted people. A moment later Lantry had shoved a knife in the Control Man also and set the pressure gauges for an overload to occur half an hour later, and walked out of the Incinerator halls, whistling.
Now even the sky was palled with the vast black cloud of the explosion.
“This is only the first,” said Lantry, looking at the sky. “I’ll tear all the others down before they even suspect there’s an unethical man loose in their society. They can’t account for a variable like me. I’m beyond their understanding. I’m incomprehensible, impossible, therefore I do not exist. My God, I can kill hundreds of thousands of them before they even realize murder is out in the world again. I can make it look like an accident each time. Why, the idea is so huge, it’s unbelievable!”
The fire burned the town. He sat under a tree for a long time, until morning. Then, he found a cave in the hills, and went in, to sleep.
He awoke at sunset with a sudden dream of fire. He saw himself pushed into the flue, cut into sections by flame, burned away to nothing. He sat up on the cave floor, laughing at himself. He had an idea.
He walked down into the town and stepped into an audio booth. He dialed OPERATOR. “Give me the Police Department,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” said the operator.
He tried again. “The Law Force,” he said.
“I will connect you with the Peace Control,” she said, at last.
A little fear began ticking inside him like a tiny watch. Suppose the operator recognized the term Police Department as an anachronism, took his audio number, and sent someone out to investigate? No, she wouldn’t do that.
Why should she suspect? Paranoids were nonexistent in this civilization.
“Yes, the Peace Control,” he said.
A buzz. A man’s voice answered. “Peace Control. Stephens speaking.”
“Give me the Homicide Detail,” said Lantry, smiling.
“The what? ”
“Who investigates murders?”
“I beg your pardon, what are you talking about?”
“Wrong number.” Lantry hung up, chuckling. Ye gods, there was no such a thing as a Homicide Detail. There were no murders, therefore they needed no detectives. Perfect, perfect!
The audio rang back. Lantry hesitated, then answered.
“Say,” said the voice on the phone. “Who are you?”
“The man just left who called,” said Lantry, and hung up again.
He ran. They would recognize his voice and perhaps send someone out to check. People didn’t lie. He had just lied. They knew his voice. He had lied. Anybody who lied needed a psychiatrist. They would come to pick him up to see why he was lying. For no other reason. They suspected him of nothing else. Therefore—he must run.
Oh, how very carefully he must act from now on. He knew nothing of this world, this odd straight truthful ethical world. Simply by looking pale you were suspect. Simply by not sleeping nights you were suspect. Simply by not bathing, by smelling like a—dead cow?—you were suspect. Anything.
He must go to a library. But that was dangerous, too. What were libraries like today? Did they have books or did they have film spools which projected books on a screen? Or did people have libraries at home, thus eliminating the necessity of keeping large main libraries?
He decided to chance it. His use of archaic terms might well make him suspect again, but now it was very important he learn all that could be learned of this foul world into which he had come again. He stopped a man on the street. “Which way to the library?”
The man was not surprised. “Two blocks east, one block north.”
“Thank you.”
Simple as that.
He walked into the library a few minutes later.
“May I help you?”
He looked at the librarian. May I help you, may I help you. What a world of helpful people! “I’d like to ‘have’ Edgar Allan Poe.” His verb was carefully chosen. He didn’t say ‘read.’ He was too afraid that books were passé, that printing itself was a lost art. Maybe all ‘books’ today were in the form of fully delineated three-dimensional motion pictures. How in blazes could you make a motion picture out of Socrates, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and Freud?
“What was that name again?”
“Edgar Allan Poe.”
“There is no such author listed in our files.”
“Will you please check?”
She checked. “Oh, yes. There’s a red mark on the file card. He was one of the authors in the Great Burning of 2265.
“How ignorant of me.”
“That’s all right,” she said. “Have you heard much of him?”
“He had some interesting barbarian ideas on death,” said Lantry.
“Horrible ones,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Ghastly.”
“Yes. Ghastly. Abominable, in fact. Good thing he was burned.
Unclean. By the way, do you have any of Lovecraft?”
“Is that a sex book?”
Lantry exploded with laughter. “No, no. It’s a man.”
She riffled the file. “He was burned, too. Along with Poe.”
“I suppose that applies to Machen and a man named Derleth and one named Ambrose Bierce, also?”
“Yes.” She shut the file cabinet. “All burned. And good riddance.” She gave him an odd warm look of interest. “I bet you’ve just come back from Mars.”
“Why do you say that?”
“There was another explorer in here yesterday. He’d just made the Mars hop and return. He was interested in supernatural literature, also. It seems there are actually ‘tombs’ on Mars.”
“What are ‘tombs’?” Lantry was learning to keep his mouth closed.
“You know, those things they once buried people in.”
“Barbarian custom. Ghastly!”
“Isn’t it? Well, seeing the Martian tombs made this young explorer curious. He came and asked if we had any of those authors you mentioned. Of course we haven’t even a smitch of their stuff.” She looked at his pale face.
“You are one of the Martian rocket men, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he said. “Got back on the ship the other day.”
“The other young man’s name was Burke.”
“Of course. Burke! Good friend of mine!”
“Sorry I can’t help you. You’d best get yourself some vitamin shots and some sun lamps. You look terrible, Mr.—?”
“Lantry. I’ll be good. Thanks ever so much. See you next Hallows’
Eve!”
“Aren’t you the clever one.” She laughed. “If there were a Hallows’
Eve, I’d make it a date.”
“But they burned that, too,” he said.
“Oh, they burned everything,” she said. “Good night.”
“Good night.” And he went on out.
Oh, how carefully he was balanced in this world! Like some kind of dark gyroscope, whirling with never a murmur, a very silent man. As he walked along the eight o’clock evening street he noticed with particular interest that there was not an unusual amount of lights about. There were the usual street lights at each corner, but the blocks themselves were only faintly illuminated. Could it be that these remarkable people were not afraid of the dark? Incredible nonsense! Every one was afraid of the dark. Even he himself had been afraid, as a child. It was as natural as eating.
A little boy ran by on pelting feet, followed by six others. They yelled and shouted and rolled on the dark cool October lawn, in the leaves. Lantry looked on for several minutes before addressing himself to one of the small boys who was for a moment taking a respite, gathering his breath into his small lungs, as a boy might blow to refill a punctured paper bag.
“Here, now,” said Lantry. “You’ll wear yourself out.”
“Sure,” said the boy.
“Could you tell me,” said the man, “why there are no street lights in the middle of the blocks?”
“Why?” asked the boy.
“I’m a teacher, I thought I’d test your knowledge,” said Lantry.
“Well,” said the boy, “you don’t need lights in the middle of the block, that’s why.”
“But it gets rather dark,” said Lantry.
“So?” said the boy.
“Aren’t you afraid?” asked Lantry.
“Of what?” asked the boy.
“The dark,” said Lantry.
“Ho ho,” said the boy. “Why should I be?”
“Well,” said Lantry. “It’s black, it’s dark. And after all, street lights were invented to take away the dark and take away fear.”
“That’s silly. Street lights were made so you could see where you were walking. Outside of that there’s nothing.”
“You miss the whole point—” said Lantry. “Do you mean to say you would sit in the middle of an empty lot all night and not be afraid?”
“Of what?”
“Of what, of what, of what, you little ninny! Of the dark!”
“Ho ho.”
“Would you go out in the hills and stay all night in the dark?”
“Sure.”
“Would you stay in a deserted house alone?”
“Sure.”
“And not be afraid?”
“Sure.”
“You’re a liar!”
“Don’t you call me nasty names!” shouted the boy. Liar was the improper noun, indeed. It seemed to be the worst thing you could call a person.
Lantry was completely furious with the little monster. “Look,” he insisted. “Look into my eyes …”
The boy looked.
Lantry bared his teeth slightly. He put out his hands, making a clawlike gesture. He leered and gesticulated and wrinkled his face into a terrible mask of horror.
“Ho ho,” said the boy. “You’re funny.”
“What did you say?”
“You’re funny. Do it again. Hey, gang, c’mere! This man does funny things!”
“Never mind.”
“Do it again, sir.”
“Never mind, never mind. Good night!” Lantry ran off.
“Good night, sir. And mind the dark, sir!” called the little boy.
Of all the stupidity, of all the rank, gross, crawling, jelly-mouthed stupidity! He had never seen the like of it in his life! Bringing the children up without so much as an ounce of imagination! Where was the fun in being children if you didn’t imagine things?
He stopped running. He slowed and for the first time began to appraise himself. He ran his hand over his face and bit his fingers and found that he himself was standing midway in the block and he felt uncomfortable. He moved up to the street corner where there was a glowing lantern. “That’s better,” he said, holding his hands out like a man to an open warm fire.
He listened. There was not a sound except the night breathing of the crickets. Finally there was a fire-hush as a rocket swept the sky. It was the sound a torch might make brandished gently on the dark air.
He listened to himself and for the first time he realized what there was so peculiar to himself. There was not a sound in him. The little nostril and lung noises were absent. His lungs did not take nor give oxygen or carbon dioxide; they did not move. The hairs in his nostrils did not quiver with warm combing air. That faint purling whisper of breathing did not sound in his nose.
Strange. Funny. A noise you never heard when you were alive, the breath that fed your body, and yet, once dead, oh how you missed it!
The only other time you ever heard it was on deep dreamless awake nights when you wakened and listened and heard first your nose taking and gently poking out the air, and then the dull deep dim red thunder of the blood in your temples, in your eardrums, in your throat, in your aching wrists, in your warm loins, in your chest. All of those little rhythms, gone. The wrist beat gone, the throat pulse gone, the chest vibration gone. The sound of the blood coming up down around and through, up down around and through.
Now it was like listening to a statue.
And yet he lived. Or, rather, moved about. And how was this done, over and above scientific explanations, theories, doubts?
By one thing, and one thing alone.
Hatred.
Hatred was a blood in him, it went up down around and through, up down around and through. It was a heart in him, not beating, true, but warm.
He was—what? Resentment. Envy. They said he could not lie any longer in his coffin in the cemetery. He had wanted to. He had never had any particular desire to get up and walk around. It had been enough, all these centuries, to lie in the deep box and feel but not feel the ticking of the million insect watches in the earth around, the moves of worms like so many deep thoughts in the soil.
But then they had come and said, “Out you go and into the furnace!”
And that is the worst thing you can say to any man. You cannot tell him what to do. If you say you are dead, he will want not to be dead. If you say there are no such things as vampires, by God, that man will try to be one just for spite. If you say a dead man cannot walk, he will test his limbs. If you say murder is no longer occurring, he will make it occur. He was, in toto, all the impossible things. They had given birth to him with their practices and ignorances. Oh, how wrong they were. They needed to be shown. He would show them! Sun is good, so is night, there is nothing wrong with dark, they said.
Dark is horror, he shouted, silently, facing the little houses. It is meant for contrast. You must fear, you hear! That has always been the way of this world. You destroyers of Edgar Allan Poe and fine big-worded Lovecraft, you burner of Halloween masks and destroyer of pumpkin jack-o-lanterns! I will make night what it once was, the thing against which man built all his lanterned cities and his many children!
As if in answer to this, a rocket, flying low, trailing a long rakish feather of flame. It made Lantry flinch and draw back.
IV
It was but ten miles to the little town of Science Port. He made it by dawn, walking. But even this was not good. At four in the morning a silver beetle pulled up on the road beside him.
“Hello,” called the man inside.
“Hello,” said Lantry, wearily.
“Why are you walking?” asked the man.
“I’m going to Science Port.”
“Why don’t you ride?”
“I like to walk.”
“Nobody likes to walk. Are you sick? May I give you a ride?”
“Thanks, but I like to walk.”
The man hesitated, then closed the beetle door. “Good night.”
When the beetle was gone over the hill, Lantry retreated into a nearby forest. A world full of bungling, helping people. By God, you couldn’t even walk without being accused of sickness. That meant only one thing. He must not walk any longer, he had to ride. He should have accepted that fellow’s offer.
The rest of the night he walked far enough off the highway so that if a beetle rushed by he had time to vanish in the underbrush. At dawn he crept into an empty dry water drain and closed his eyes.
The dream was as perfect as a rimed snowflake.
He saw the graveyard where he had lain deep and ripe over the centuries. He heard the early morning footsteps of the laborers returning to finish their work.
“Would you mind passing me the shovel, Jim?”
“Here you go.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute!”
“What’s up?”
“Look here. We didn’t finish last night, did we?”
“No.”
There was one more coffin, wasn’t there?”
“Yes.”
“Well, here it is, and open!”
“You’ve got the wrong hole.”
“What’s the name say on the gravestone?”
“Lantry. William Lantry.”
“That’s him, that’s the one! Gone!”
“What could have happened to it?”
“How do I know. The body was here last night.”
“We can’t be sure, we didn’t look.”
“God man, people don’t bury empty coffins. He was in his box. Now he isn’t.”
“Maybe this box was empty.”
“Nonsense. Smell that smell? He was here all right.”
A pause.
“Nobody would have taken the body, would they?”
“What for?”
“A curiosity, perhaps.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. People just don’t steal. Nobody steals.”
“Well, then, there’s only one solution.”
“And?”
“He got up and walked away.”
A pause. In the dark dream, Lantry expected to hear laughter. There was none. Instead, the voice of the grave-digger, after a thoughtful pause, said, “Yes. That’s it, indeed. He got up and walked away.”
“That’s interesting to think about,” said the other.
“Isn’t it, though!”
Silence.
Lantry awoke. It had all been a dream, but, how realistic. How strangely the two men had carried on. But not unnaturally, oh, no. That was exactly how you expected men of the future to talk. Men of the future. Lantry grinned wryly. That was an anachronism for you. This was the future. This was happening now. It wasn’t three hundred years from now, it was now, not then, or any other time. This wasn’t the twentieth century. Oh, how calmly those two men in the dream had said, “He got up and walked away.” “—
interesting to think about.” “Isn’t it, though?” With never a quaver in their voices. With not so much as a glance over their shoulders or a tremble of spade in hand. But, of course, with their perfectly honest, logical minds, there was but one explanation; certainly nobody had stolen the corpse. “Nobody steals.” The corpse had simply got up and walked off. The corpse was the only one who could have possibly moved the corpse. By the few casual slow words of the gravediggers Lantry knew what they were thinking. Here was a man that had lain in suspended animation, not really dead, for hundreds of years. The jarring about, the activity, had brought him back.
Everyone had heard of those little green toads that are sealed for centuries inside mud rocks or in ice patties, alive, alive oh! And how when scientists chipped them out and warmed them like marbles in their hands the little toads leapt about and frisked and blinked. Then it was only logical that the gravediggers think of William Lantry in like fashion.
But what if the various parts were fitted together in the next day or so?
If the vanished body and the shattered, exploded Incinerator were connected?
What if this fellow named Burke, who had returned pale from Mars, went to the library again and said to the young woman he wanted some books and she said, “Oh, your friend Lantry was in the other day.” And he’d say, ‘Lantry who? Don’t know anyone by that name.’ And she’d say, “Oh, he lied.” And people in this time didn’t lie. So it would all form and coalesce, item by item, bit by bit. A pale man who was pale and shouldn’t be pale had lied and people don’t lie, and a walking man on a lonely country road had walked and people don’t walk any more, and a body was missing from a cemetery, and the Incinerator had blown up and and and—
They would come after him. They would find him. He would be easy to find. He walked. He lied. He was pale. They would find him and take him and stick him through the open fire lock of the nearest Burner and that would be your Mr. William Lantry, like a Fourth of July set-piece!
There was only one thing to be done efficiently and completely. He arose in violent moves. His lips were wide and his dark eyes were flared and there was a trembling and burning all through him. He must kill and kill and kill and kill and kill. He must make his enemies into friends, into people like himself who walked but shouldn’t walk, who were pale in a land of pinks. He must kill and then kill and then kill again. He must make bodies and dead people and corpses. He must destroy Incinerator after Flue after Burner after Incinerator. Explosion on explosion. Death on death. Then, when the Incinerators were all in thrown ruin, and the hastily established morgues were jammed with the bodies of people shattered by the explosion, then he would begin his making of friends, his enrollment of the dead in his own cause.
Before they traced and found and killed him, they must be killed themselves. So far he was safe. He could kill and they would not kill back.
People simply do not go around killing. That was his safety margin. He climbed out of the abandoned drain, stood in the road.
He took the knife from his pocket and hailed the next beetle.
It was like the Fourth of July! The biggest firecracker of them all. The Science Port Incinerator split down the middle and flew apart. It made a thousand small explosions that ended with a greater one. It fell upon the town and crushed houses and burned trees. It woke people from sleep and then put them to sleep again, forever, an instant later.
William Lantry, sitting in a beetle that was not his own, tuned idly to a station on the audio dial. The collapse of the Incinerator had killed some four hundred people. Many had been caught in flattened houses, others struck by flying metal. A temporary morgue was being set up at—
An address was given.
Lantry noted it with a pad and pencil.
He could go on this way, he thought, from town to town, from country to country, destroying the Burners, the Pillars of Fire, until the whole clean magnificent framework of flame and cauterization was tumbled. He made a fair estimate—each explosion averaged five hundred dead. You could work that up to a hundred thousand in no time.
He pressed the floor stud on the beetle. Smiling, he drove off through the dark streets of the city.
The city coroner had requisitioned an old warehouse. From midnight until four in the morning the gray beetles hissed down the rain-shiny streets, turned in, and the bodies were laid out on the cold concrete floors, with white sheets over them. It was a continuous flow until about four-thirty, then it stopped. There were about two hundred bodies there, white and cold.
The bodies were left alone; nobody stayed behind to tend them. There was no use tending the dead; it was a useless procedure; the dead could take care of themselves.
About five o’clock, with a touch of dawn in the east, the first trickle of relatives arrived to identify their sons or their fathers or their mothers or their uncles. The people moved quickly into the warehouse, made the identification, moved quickly out again. By six o’clock, with the sky still lighter in the east, this trickle had passed on, also.
William Lantry walked across the wide wet street and entered the warehouse.
He held a piece of blue chalk in one hand.
He walked by the coroner who stood in the entranceway talking to two others. “… drive the bodies to the Incinerator in Mellin Town, tomorrow …”
The voices faded.
Lantry moved, his feet echoing faintly on the cool concrete. A wave of sourceless relief came to him as he walked among the shrouded figures. He was among his own. And—better than that! He had created these! He had made them dead! He had procured for himself a vast number of recumbent friends!
Was the coroner watching? Lantry turned his head. No. The warehouse was calm and quiet and shadowed in the dark morning. The coroner was walking away now; across the street, with his two attendants; a beetle had drawn up on the other side of the street, and the coroner was going over to talk with whoever was in the beetle.
William Lantry stood and made a blue chalk pentagram on the floor by each of the bodies. He moved swiftly, swiftly, without a sound, without blinking. In a few minutes, glancing up now and then to see if the coroner was still busy, he had chalked the floor by a hundred bodies. He straightened up and put the chalk in his pocket.
Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party, now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party, now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party, now is the time …
Lying in the earth, over the centuries, the processes and thoughts of passing peoples and passing times had seeped down to him, slowly, as into a deep-buried sponge. From some death-memory in him now, ironically, repeatedly, a black typewriter clacked out black even lines of pertinent words: Now is the time for all good men, for all good men, to come to the aid of—
William Lantry.
Other words—
Arise my love, and come away—
The quick brown fox jumped over … Paraphrase it. The quick risen body jumped over the tumbled Incinerator…
Lazarus, come forth from the tomb …
He knew the right words. He need only speak them as they had been spoken over the centuries. He need only gesture with his hands and speak the words, the dark words that would cause these bodies to quiver, rise and walk!
And when they had risen he would take them through the town, they would kill others, and the others would rise and walk. By the end of the day there would be thousands of good friends, walking with him. And what of the naïve, living people of this year, this day, this hour? They would be completely unprepared for it. They would go down to defeat because they would not be expecting war of any sort. They wouldn’t believe it possible, it would all be over before they could convince themselves that such an illogical thing could happen.
He lifted his hands. His lips moved. He said the words. He began in a chanting whisper and then raised his voice, louder. He said the words again and again. His eyes were closed tightly. His body swayed. He spoke faster and faster. He began to move forward among the bodies. The dark words flowed from his mouth. He was enchanted with his own formulae. He stooped and made further blue symbols on the concrete, in the fashion of long-dead sorcerers, smiling, confident. Any moment now the first tremor of the still bodies, any moment now the rising, the leaping up of the cold ones!
His hands lifted in the air. His head nodded. He spoke, he spoke, he spoke. He gestured. He talked loudly over the bodies, his eyes flaring, his body tensed. “Now!” he cried, violently. “Rise, all of you!”
Nothing happened.
“Rise!” he screamed, with a terrible torment in his voice.
The sheets lay in white blue-shadow folds over the silent bodies.
“Hear me, and act!” he shouted.
Far away, on the street, a beetle hissed along.
Again, again, again he shouted, pleaded. He got down by each body and asked of it his particular violent favor. No reply. He strode wildly between the even white rows, flinging his arms up, stooping again and again to make blue symbols!
Lantry was very pale. He licked his lips. “Come on, get up,” he said.
“They have, they always have, for a thousand years. When you make a mark
—so! and speak a word—so! they always rise! Why not now, why not you!
Come on, come on, before they come back!”
The warehouse went up into shadow. There were steel beams across and down. In it, under the roof, there was not a sound, except the raving of a lonely man.
Lantry stopped.
Through the wide doors of the warehouse he caught a glimpse of the last cold stars of morning.
This was the year 2349.
His eyes grew cold and his hands fell to his sides. He did not move.
Once upon a time people shuddered when they heard the wind about the house, once people raised crucifixes and wolfbane, and believed in walking dead and bats and loping white wolves. And as long as they believed, then so long did the dead, the bats, the loping wolves exist. The mind gave birth and reality to them.
But …
He looked at the white sheeted bodies.
These people did not believe.
They had never believed. They would never believe. They had never imagined that the dead might walk. The dead went up flues in flame. They had never heard superstition, never trembled or shuddered or doubted in the dark. Walking dead people could not exist, they were illogical. This was the year 2349, man, after all!
Therefore, these people could not rise, could not walk again. They were dead and flat and cold. Nothing, chalk, imprecation, superstition, could wind them up and set them walking. They were dead and knew they were dead!
He was alone.
There were live people in the world who moved and drove beetles and drank quiet drinks in little dimly illumined bars by country roads, and kissed women and talked much good talk all day and every day.
But he was not alive.
Friction gave him what little warmth he possessed.
There were two hundred dead people here in this warehouse now, cold upon the floor. The first dead people in a hundred years who were allowed to be corpses for an extra hour or more. The first not to be immediately trundled to the Incinerator and lit like so much phosphorus.
He should be happy with them, among them.
He was not.
They were completely dead. They did not know nor believe in walking once the heart had paused and stilled itself. They were deader than dead ever was.
He was indeed alone, more alone than any man had ever been. He felt the chill of his aloneness moving up into his chest, strangling him quietly.
William Lantry turned suddenly and gasped.
While he had stood there, someone had entered the warehouse. A tall man with white hair, wearing a light weight tan overcoat and no hat. How long the man had been nearby there was no telling.
There was no reason to stay here. Lantry turned and started to walk slowly out. He looked hastily at the man as he passed and the man with the white hair looked back at him, curiously. Had he heard? The imprecations, the pleadings, the shoutings? Did he suspect? Lantry slowed his walk. Had this man seen him make the blue chalk marks? But then, would he interpret them as symbols of an ancient superstition? Probably not.
Reaching the door, Lantry paused. For a moment he did not want to do anything but lie down and be coldly, really dead again and be carried silently down the street to some distant burning flue and there dispatched in ash and whispering fire. If he was indeed alone and there was no chance to collect an army to his cause, what, then, existed as a reason for going on? Killing? Yes, he’d kill a few thousand more. But that wasn’t enough. You can only do so much of that before they drag you down.
He looked at the cold sky.
A rocket went across the black heaven, trailing fire.
Mars burned red among a million stars.
Mars. The library. The librarian. Talk. Returning rocket men. Tombs.
Lantry almost gave a shout. He restrained his hand, which wanted so much to reach up into the sky and touch Mars. Lovely red star on the sky.
Good star that gave him sudden new hope. If he had a living heart now it would be thrashing wildly, and sweat would be breaking out of him and his pulses would be stammering, and tears would be in his eyes!
He would go down to wherever the rockets sprang up into space. He would go to Mars, one way or another. He would go to the Martian tombs.
There, there were bodies, he would bet his last hatred on it, that would rise and walk and work with him! Theirs was an ancientculture, much different from that of Earth, patterned on the Egyptian, if what the librarian had said was true. And the Egyptian—what a crucible of dark superstition and midnight terror that culture had been. Mars it was, then. Beautiful Mars!
But he must not attract attention to himself. He must move carefully.
He wanted to run, yes, to get away, but that would be the worst possible move he could make. The man with the white hair was glancing at Lantry from time to time, in the entranceway. There were too many people about. If anything happened he would be outnumbered. So far he had taken on only one man at a time.
Lantry forced himself to stop and stand on the steps before the warehouse. The man with the white hair came on onto the steps also and stood, looking at the sky. He looked as if he was going to speak at any moment. He fumbled in his pockets and took out a packet of cigarettes.
V
They stood outside the morgue together, the tall, pink, white-haired man, and Lantry, hands in their pockets. It was a cool night with a white shell of a moon that washed a house here, a road there, and farther on, parts of a river.
“Cigarette?” The man offered Lantry one.
“Thanks.”
They lit up together. The man glanced at Lantry’s mouth. “Cool night.”
“Cool.”
They shifted their feet. “Terrible accident.”
“Terrible.”
“So many dead.”
“So many.”
Lantry felt himself some sort of delicate weight upon a scale. The other man did not seem to be looking at him, but rather listening and feeling toward him. There was a feathery balance here that made for vast discomfort.
He wanted to move away and get out from under this balancing, weighing.
The tall white-haired man said, “My name’s McClure.”
“Did you have any friends inside?” asked Lantry.
“No. A casual acquaintance. Awful accident.”
“Awful.”
They balanced each other. A beetle hissed by on the road with its seventeen tires whirling quietly. The moon showed a little town farther over in the black hills.
“I say,” said the man McClure.
“Yes.”
“Could you answer me a question?”
“Be glad to.” He loosened the knife in his coat pocket, ready.
“Is your name Lantry?” asked the man at last.
“Yes.”
“William Lantry?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re the man who came out of the Salem graveyard day before yesterday, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good Lord, I’m glad to meet you, Lantry! We’ve been trying to find you for the past twenty-four hours!”
The man seized his hand, pumped it, slapped him on the back.
“What, what?” said Lantry.
“Good Lord, man, why did you run off? Do you realize what an instance this is? We want to talk to you!”
McClure was smiling, glowing. Another handshake, another slap. “I thought it was you!”
The man is mad, thought Lantry. Absolutely mad. Here I’ve toppled his incinerators, killed people, and he’s shaking my hand. Mad, mad!
“Will you come along to the Hall?” said the man, taking his elbow.
“Wh-what hall?” Lantry stepped back.
“The Science Hall, of course. It isn’t every year we get a real case of suspended animation. In small animals, yes, but in a man, hardly! Will you come?”
“What’s the act!” demanded Lantry, glaring. “What’s all this talk.”
“My dear fellow, what do you mean?” the man was stunned.
“Never mind. Is that the only reason you want to see me?”
“What other reason would there be, Mr. Lantry? You don’t know how glad I am to see you!” He almost did a little dance. “I suspected. When we were in there together. You being so pale and all. And then the way you smoked your cigarette, something about it, and a lot of other things, all subliminal. But it is you, isn’t it, it is you!”
“It is I. William Lantry.” Dryly.
“Good fellow! Come along!”
The beetle moved swiftly through the dawn streets. McClure talked rapidly.
Lantry sat, listening, astounded. Here was this fool, McClure, playing his cards for him! Here was this stupid scientist, or whatever, accepting him not as a suspicious baggage, a murderous item. Oh no! Quite the contrary!
Only as a suspended animation case was he considered! Not as a dangerous man at all. Far from it!
“Of course,” cried McClure, grinning. “You didn’t know where to go, whom to turn to. It was all quite incredible to you.”
“Yes.”
“I had a feeling you’d be there at the morgue tonight,” said McClure, happily.
“Oh?” Lantry stiffened.
“Yes. Can’t explain it. But you, how shall I put it? Ancient Americans? You had funny ideas on death. And you were among the dead so long, I felt you’d be drawn back by the accident, by the morgue and all. It’s not very logical. Silly, in fact. It’s just a feeling. I hate feelings but there it was. I came on a, I guess you’d call it a hunch, wouldn’t you?”
“You might call it that.”
“And there you were!”
“There I was,” said Lantry.
“Are you hungry?”
“I’ve eaten.”
“How did you get around?”
“I hitchhiked.”
“You what? ”
“People gave me rides on the road.”
“Remarkable.”
“I imagine it sounds that way.” He looked at the passing houses. “So this is the era of space travel, is it?”
“Oh, we’ve been traveling to Mars for some forty years now.”
“Amazing. And those big funnels, those towers in the middle of every town?”
“Those. Haven’t you heard? The Incinerators. Oh, of course, they hadn’t anything of that sort in your time. Had some bad luck with them. An explosion in Salem and one here, all in a forty-eight-hour period. You looked as if you were going to speak; what is it?”
“I was thinking,” said Lantry. “How fortunate I got out of my coffin when I did. I might well have been thrown into one of your Incinerators and burned up.”
“Quite.”
Lantry toyed with the dials on the beetle dash. He wouldn’t go to Mars. His plans were changed. If this fool simply refused to recognize an act of violence when he stumbled upon it, then let him be a fool. If they didn’t connect the two explosions with a man from the tomb, all well and good. Let them go on deluding themselves. If they couldn’t imagine someone being mean and nasty and murderous, heaven help them. He rubbed his hands with satisfaction. No, no Martian trip for you, as yet, Lantry lad. First, we’ll see what can be done boring from the inside. Plenty of time. The Incinerators can wait an extra week or so. One has to be subtle, you know. Any more immediate explosions might cause quite a ripple of thought.
McClure was gabbling wildly on.
“Of course, you don’t have to be examined immediately. You’ll want a rest. I’ll put you up at my place.”
“Thanks. I don’t feel up to being probed and pulled. Plenty of time in a week or so.”
They drew up before a house and climbed out.
“You want to sleep, naturally.”
“I’ve been asleep for centuries. Be glad to stay awake. I’m not a bit tired.”
“Good.” McClure let them into the house. He headed for the drink bar.
“A drink will fix us up.”
“You have one,” said Lantry. “Later for me. I just want to sit down.”
“By all means sit.” McClure mixed himself a drink. He looked around the room, looked at Lantry, paused for a moment with the drink in his hand, tilted his head to one side, and put his tongue in his cheek. Then he shrugged and stirred the drink. He walked slowly to a chair and sat, sipping the drink quietly. He seemed to be listening for something. “There are cigarettes on the table,” he said.
“Thanks.” Lantry took one and lit it and smoked it. He did not speak for some time.
Lantry thought, I’m taking this all too easily. Maybe I should kill and run. He’s the only one that has found me, yet. Perhaps this is all a trap.
Perhaps we’re simply sitting here waiting for the police. Or whatever in blazes they use for police these days. He looked at McClure. No. They weren’t waiting for police. They were waiting for something else.
McClure didn’t speak. He looked at Lantry’s face and he looked at Lantry’s hands. He looked at Lantry’s chest a long time, with easy quietness.
He sipped his drink. He looked at Lantry’s feet.
Finally he said, “Where’d you get the clothing?”
“I asked someone for clothes and they gave these things to me. Darned nice of them.”
“You’ll find that’s how we are in this world. All you have to do is ask.”
McClure shut up again. His eyes moved. Only his eyes and nothing else. Once or twice he lifted his drink.
A little clock ticked somewhere in the distance.
“Tell me about yourself, Mr. Lantry.”
“Nothing much to tell.”
“You’re modest.”
“Hardly. You know about the past. I know nothing of the future, or I should say ‘today’ and day before yesterday. You don’t learn much in a coffin.”
McClure did not speak. He suddenly sat forward in his chair and then leaned back and shook his head.
They’ll never suspect me, thought Lantry. They aren’t superstitious, they simply can’t believe in a dead man walking. Therefore, I’ll be safe. I’ll keep putting off the physical checkup. They’re polite. They won’t force me.
Then, I’ll work it so I can get to Mars. After that, the tombs, in my own good time, and the plan. God, how simple. How naïve these people are.
McClure sat across the room for five minutes. A coldness had come over him. The color was very slowly going from his face, as one sees the color of medicine vanishing as one presses the bulb at the top of a dropper. He leaned forward, saying nothing, and offered another cigarette to Lantry.
“Thanks.” Lantry took it. McClure sat deeply back into his easy chair, his knees folded one over the other. He did not look at Lantry, and yet somehow did. The feeling of weighing and balancing returned. McClure was like a tall thin master of hounds listening for something that nobody else could hear. There are little silver whistles you can blow that only dogs can hear. McClure seemed to be listening acutely, sensitively for such an invisible whistle, listening with his eyes and with his half-opened, dry mouth, and with his aching, breathing nostrils.
Lantry sucked the cigarette, sucked the cigarette, sucked the cigarette, and, as many times, blew out, blew out, blew out. McClure was like some lean red-shagged hound listening and listening with a slick slide of eyes to one side, with an apprehension in that hand that was so precisely microscopic that one only sensed it, as one sensed the invisible whistle, with some part of the brain deeper than eyes or nostril or ear.
The room was so quiet the cigarette smoke made some kind of invisible noise rising to the ceiling. McClure was a thermometer, a chemist’s scales, a listening hound, a litmus paper, an antennae; all these. Lantry did not move. Perhaps the feeling would pass. It had passed before. McClure did not move for a long while and then, without a word, he nodded at the sherry decanter, and Lantry refused as silently. They sat looking but not looking at each other, again and away, again and away.
McClure stiffened slowly. Lantry saw the color getting paler in those lean cheeks, and the hand tightening on the sherry glass, and a knowledge come at last to stay, never to go away, into the eyes.
Lantry did not move. He could not. All of this was of such a fascination that he wanted only to see, to hear what would happen next. It was McClure’s show from here on in.
McClure said, “At first I thought it was the first psychosis I have ever seen. You, I mean. I thought, he’s convinced himself, Lantry’s convinced himself, he’s quite insane, he’s told himself to do all these little things.”
McClure talked as if in a dream, and continued talking and didn’t stop.
“I said to myself, he purposely doesn’t breathe through his nose. I watched your nostrils, Lantry. The little nostril hairs never once quivered in the last hour. That wasn’t enough. It was a fact I filed. It wasn’t enough. He breathes through his mouth, I said, on purpose. And then I gave you a cigarette and you sucked and blew, sucked and blew. None of it ever came out your nose. I told myself, well, that’s all right. He doesn’t inhale. Is that terrible, is that suspect? All in the mouth, all in the mouth. And then, I looked at your chest. I watched. It never moved up or down, it did nothing. He’s convinced himself, I said to myself. He’s convinced himself about all this. He doesn’t move his chest, except slowly, when he thinks you’re not looking.
That’s what I told myself.”
The words went on in the silent room, not pausing, still in a dream.
“And then I offered you a drink but you don’t drink and I thought, he doesn’t drink, I thought. Is that terrible? And I watched and watched you all this time.
Lantry holds his breath, he’s fooling himself. But now, yes, now, I understand it quite well. Now I know everything the way it is. Do you know how I know?
I do not hear breathing in the room. I wait and I hear nothing. There is no beat of heart or intake of lung. The room is so silent. Nonsense, one might say, but I know. At the Incinerator I know. There is a difference. You enter a room where a man is on a bed and you know immediately whether he will look up and speak to you or whether he will not speak to you ever again. Laugh if you will, but one can tell. It is a subliminal thing. It is the whistle the dog hears when no human hears. It is the tick of a clock that has ticked so long one no longer notices. Something is in a room when a man lives in it. Something is not in the room when a man is dead in it.”
McClure shut his eyes a moment. He put down his sherry glass. He waited a moment. He took up his cigarette and puffed it and then put it down in a black tray.
“I am alone in this room,” he said.
Lantry did not move.
“You are dead,” said McClure. “My mind does not know this. It is not a thinking thing. It is a thing of the senses and the subconscious. At first I thought, this man thinks he is dead, risen from the dead, a vampire. Is that not logical? Would not any man, buried as many centuries, raised in a superstitious, ignorant culture, think likewise of himself once risen from the tomb? Yes, that is logical. This man has hypnotized himself and fitted his bodily functions so that they would in no way interfere with his self-delusion, his great paranoia. He governs his breathing. He tells himself, I cannot hear my breathing, therefore I am dead. His inner mind censors the sound of breathing. He does not allow himself to eat or drink. These things he probably does in his sleep, with part of his mind, hiding the evidences of this humanity from his deluded mind at other times.”
McClure finished it. “I was wrong. You are not insane. You are not deluding yourself. Nor me. This is all very illogical and—I must admit—
almost frightening. Does that make you feel good, to think you frighten me? I have no label for you. You’re a very odd man, Lantry. I’m glad to have met you. This will make an interesting report indeed.”
“Is there anything wrong with me being dead?” said Lantry. “Is it a crime?”
“You must admit it’s highly unusual.”
“But, still now, is it a crime?” asked Lantry.
“We have no crime, no criminal court. We want to examine you, naturally, to find out how you have happened. It is like that chemical which, one minute is inert, the next is living cell. Who can say where what happened to what. You are that impossibility. It is enough to drive a man quite insane.”
“Will I be released when you are done fingering me?”
“You will not be held. If you don’t wish to be examined, you will not be. But I am hoping you will help by offering us your services.”
“I might,” said Lantry.
“But tell me,” said McClure. “What were you doing at the morgue?”
“Nothing.”
“I heard you talking when I came in.”
“I was merely curious.”
“You’re lying. That is very bad, Mr. Lantry. The truth is far better. The truth is, is it not, that you are dead and, being the only one of your sort, were lonely. Therefore you killed people to have company.”
“How does that follow?”
McClure laughed. “Logic, my dear fellow. Once I knew you were really dead, a moment ago, really a—what do you call it—a vampire (silly word!) I tied you immediately to the Incinerator blasts. Before that there was no reason to connect you. But once the one piece fell into place, the fact that you were dead, then it was simple to guess your loneliness, your hate, your envy, all of the tawdry motivations of a walking corpse. It took only an instant then to see the Incinerators blown to blazes, and then to think of you, among the bodies at the morgue, seeking help, seeking friends and people like yourself to work with—”
“Blast you!” Lantry was out of the chair. He was halfway to the other man when McClure rolled over and scuttled away, flinging the sherry decanter. With a great despair Lantry realized that, like an idiot, he had thrown away his one chance to kill McClure. He should have done it earlier. It had been Lantry’s one weapon, his safety margin. If people in a society never killed each other, they never suspected one another. You could walk up to any one of them and kill him.
“Come back here!” Lantry threw the knife.
McClure got behind a chair. The idea of flight, of protection, of fighting, was still new to him. He had part of the idea, but there was still a bit of luck on Lantry’s side if Lantry wanted to use it.
“Oh, no,” said McClure, holding the chair between himself and the advancing man. “You want to kill me. It’s odd, but true. I can’t understand it.
You want to cut me with that knife or something like that, and it’s up to me to prevent you from doing such an odd thing.”
“I will kill you!” Lantry let it slip out. He cursed himself. That was the worst possible thing to say.
Lantry lunged across the chair, clutching at McClure.
McClure was very logical. “It won’t do you any good to kill me. You know that.” They wrestled and held each other in a wild, toppling shuffle.
Tables fell over, scattering articles. “You remember what happened in the morgue?”
“I don’t care!” screamed Lantry.
“You didn’t raise those dead, did you?”
“I don’t care!” cried Lantry.
“Look here,” said McClure, reasonably. “There will never be any more like you, ever, there’s no use.”
“Then I’ll destroy all of you, all of you!” screamed Lantry.
“And then what? You’ll still be alone, with no more like you about.”
“I’ll go to Mars. They have tombs there. I’ll find more like myself!”
“No,” said McClure. “The executive order went through yesterday. All of the tombs are being deprived of their bodies. They’ll be burned in the next week.”
They fell together to the floor. Lantry got his hands on McClure’s throat.
“Please,” said McClure. “Do you see, you’ll die.”
“What do you mean?” cried Lantry.
“Once you kill all of us, and you’re alone, you’ll die! The hate will die. That hate is what moved you, nothing else! That envy moves you.
Nothing else! You’ll die, inevitably. You’re not immortal. You’re not even alive, you’re nothing but a moving hate.”
“I don’t care!” screamed Lantry, and began choking the man, beating his head with his fists, crouched on the defenseless body. McClure looked up at him with dying eyes.
The front door opened. Two men came in.
“I say,” said one of them. “What’s going on? A new game?”
Lantry jumped back and began to run.
“Yes, a new game!” said McClure, struggling up. “Catch him and you win!”
The two men caught Lantry. “We win,” they said.
“Let me go!” Lantry thrashed, hitting them across their faces, bringing blood.
“Hold him tight!” cried McClure.
They held him.
“A rough game, what?” one of them said. “What do we do now? ”
The beetle hissed along the shining road. Rain fell out of the sky and a wind ripped at the dark green wet trees. In the beetle, his hands on the half-wheel, McClure was talking. His voice was susurrant, a whispering, a hypnotic thing. The two other men sat in the back seat. Lantry sat, or rather lay, in the front seat, his head back, his eyes faintly open, the glowing green light of the dash dials showing on his cheeks. His mouth was relaxed. He did not speak.
McClure talked quietly and logically, about life and moving, about death and not moving, about the sun and the great sun Incinerator, about the emptied tombyard, about hatred and how hate lived and made a clay man live and move, and how illogical it all was, it all was, it all was. One was dead, was dead, was dead, that was all, all, all. One did not try to be otherwise. The car whispered on the moving road. The rain spattered gently on the windshield. The men in the back seat conversed quietly. Where were they going, going? To the Incinerator, of course. Cigarette smoke moved slowly up on the air, curling and tying into itself in gray loops and spirals. One was dead and must accept it.
Lantry did not move. He was a marionette, the strings cut. There was only a tiny hatred in his heart, in his eyes, like twin coals, feeble, glowing, fading.
I am Poe, he thought. I am all that is left of Edgar Allan Poe, and I am all that is left of Ambrose Bierce and all that is left of a man named Lovecraft.
I am a gray night bat with sharp teeth, and I am a square black monolith monster. I am Osiris and Bal and Set. I am the Necronomicon, the Book of the Dead. I am the house of Usher, falling into flame. I am the Red Death. I am the man mortared into the catacomb with a cask of Amontillado … I am a dancing skeleton. I am a coffin, a shroud, a lightning bolt reflected in an old house window. I am an autumn-empty tree, I am a rapping, flinging shutter. I am a yellowed volume turned by a claw hand. I am an organ played in an attic at midnight. I am a mask, a skull mask behind an oak tree on the last day of October. I am a poison apple bobbling in a water tub for child noses to bump at, for child teeth to snap … I am a black candle lighted before an inverted cross. I am a coffin lid, a sheet with eyes, a foot-step on a black stairwell. I am Dunsany and Machen and I am the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. I am The Monkey’s Paw and I am The Phantom Rickshaw. I am the Cat and the Canary, the Gorilla, the Bat. I am the ghost of Hamlet’s father on the castle wall.
All of these things am I. And now these last things will be burned.
While I lived they still lived. While I moved and hated and existed, they still existed. I am all that remembers them. I am all of them that still goes on, and will not go on after tonight. Tonight, all of us, Poe and Bierce and Hamlet’s father, we burn together. They will make a big heap of us and burn us like a bonfire, like things of Guy Fawkes’ day, gasoline, torches, cries, and all!
And what a wailing will we put up. The world will be clean of us, but in our going we shall say, oh what is the world like, clean of fear, where is the dark imagination from the dark time, the thrill and the anticipation, the suspense of old October, gone, never more to come again, flattened and smashed and burned by the rocket people, by the Incinerator people, destroyed and obliterated, to be replaced by doors that open and close and lights that go on and off without fear. If only you could remember how once we lived, what Halloween was to us, and what Poe was, and how we gloried in the dark morbidities. One more drink, dear friends, of Amontillado, before the burning. All of this, all, exists but in one last brain on earth. A whole world dying tonight. One more drink, pray.
“Here we are,” said McClure.
The Incinerator was brightly lighted. There was quiet music nearby.
McClure got out of the beetle, came around to the other side. He opened the door. Lantry simply lay there. The talking and the logical talking had slowly drained him of life. He was no more than wax now, with a small glow in his eyes. This future world, how the men talked to you, how logically they reasoned away your life. They wouldn’t believe in him. The force of their disbelief froze him. He could not move his arms or his legs. He could only mumble senselessly, coldly, eyes flickering.
McClure and the two others helped him out of the car, put him in a golden box, and rolled him on a roller table into the warm glowing interior of the building.
I am Edgar Allan Poe, I am Ambrose Bierce, I am Halloween, I am a coffin, a shroud, a Monkey’s Paw, a Phantom, a Vampire …
“Yes, yes,” said McClure, quietly, over him. “I know. I know.”
The table glided. The walls swung over him and by him, the music played. You are dead, you are logically dead.
I am Usher, I am the Maelstrom, I am the MS Found In A Bottle, I am the Pit and I am the Pendulum, I am the Telltale Heart, I am the Raven nevermore, nevermore.
“Yes,” said McClure, as they walked softly. “I know.”
“I am in the catacomb,” cried Lantry.
“Yes, the catacomb,” said the walking man over him.
“I am being chained to a wall, and there is no bottle of Amontillado here!” cried Lantry weakly, eyes closed.
“Yes,” someone said.
There was movement. The flame door opened.
“Now someone is mortaring up the cell, closing me in!”
“Yes, I know.” A whisper.
The golden box slid into the flame lock.
“I’m being walled in! A very good joke indeed! Let us be gone!” A wild scream and much laughter.
“We know, we understand …”
The inner flame lock opened. The golden coffin shot forth into flame.
“For the love of God, Montresor! For the love of God !”
The End
Conclusion
It’s a nice little story to read. A bit on the horrific side, but a good read never the less. I hope that you all enjoyed it.
This is a nice story by Ray Bradbury. I dedicate it to the many, many MM readers that tell me that they have changed by visiting this site, and that they are all the better for it. They tell me stories, and adventures, and just amazing events that confirm that everyone is on the right track. This story is about a man who changes.
Chrysalis.
This story is dedicated to youse guys. It’s my way of telling you that I recognize what you are tying to ell me, and that I am so gladdened by your stories. It’s just a fictional story, and you all, well, you all are the “real deal”. But Ray Bradbury has such a way with the words, and he conjures up such imagery, that I think that this is a treasure.
A treasure that is worthy for you all.
Chrysalis
Rockwell didn’t like the room’s smell. Not so much McGuke’s odor of beer, or Hartley’s unwashed, tired smell—-but the sharp insect tang rising from Smith’s cold green-skinned body lying stiffly naked on the table. There was also a smell of oil and grease from the nameless machinery gleaming in one comer of the small room.
The man Smith was a corpse. Irritated, Rockwell rose from his chair and packed his stethoscope. “I must get back to the hospital. War rush. You understand, Hartley. Smith’s been dead eight hours. If you want further information call a post-mortem—”
He stopped as Hartley raised a trembling, bony hand. Hartley gestured at the corpse—this corpse with brittle hard green shell grown solid over every inch of flesh. “Use your stethoscope again, Rockwell. Just once more. Please.”
Rockwell wanted to complain, but instead he sighed, sat down, and used the stethoscope. You have to treat fellow doctors politely. You press your stethoscope into cold green flesh, pretending to listen—
The small, dimly lit room exploded around him. Exploded in one green cold pulsing. It hit Rockwell’s ears like fists. It hit him. He saw his own fingers jerk over the recumbent corpse.
He heard a pulse.
Deep in the dark body the heart beat once. It sounded like an echo in fathoms of sea water.
Smith was dead, unbreathing, mummified. But at the core of that deadness—his heart lived. Lived, stirring like a small unborn baby!
Rockwell’s crisp surgeon’s fingers darted rapidly. He bent his head. In the light it was dark-haired, with flecks of gray in it. He had an even, level, nice-looking face. About thirty-five. He listened again and again, with sweat coming cold on his smooth cheeks. The pulse was not to be believed.
One heartbeat every thirty-five seconds.
Smith’s respiration—how could you believe that, too one breath of air every four minutes. Lungcase movement imperceptible.
Body temperature?
Sixty degrees.
Hartley laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh. More like an echo that had gotten lost. “He’s alive,” he said tiredly. “Yes, he is. He almost fooled me many times. I injected adrenalin to speed that pulse, but it was no use. He’s been this way for twelve weeks. And I couldn’t stand keeping him a secret any longer. That’s why I phoned you, Rockwell. He’s—unnatural.
The impossibility of it overwhelmed Rockwell with an inexplicable excitement. He tried to lift Smiths’ eyelids. He couldn’t. They were webbed with epidermis. So were the lips. So were the nostrils. There was no way for Smith to breathe—
“Yet, he’s breathing.” Rockwell’s voice was numb. He dropped his stethoscope blankly, picked it up, and saw his fingers shaking.
Hartley grew tall, emaciated, nervous over the table. “Smith didn’t like my calling you. I called anyway. Smith warned me not to. Just an hour ago.”
Rockell’s eyes dilated into hot black circles. “How could he warn you? He can’t move.”
Hartley’s face, all razor-sharp bone, hard jaw, tight squinting gray eyes, twitched nervously. Smith— thinks. I know his thoughts. He’s afraid you’ll expose him to the world. He hates me. Why? I want to kill him, that’s why. Here.” Hardey fumbled blindly for a blue-steel revolver in his rumpled, stained coat. “Murphy. Take this. Take it before I use it on Smith’s foul body!”
Murphy pulled back, his thick red face afraid. “Don’t like guns. You take it, Rockwell.”
Like a scalpel, Rockwell made his voice slash. “Put the gun away, Hartley. After three months tending one patient you’ve got a psychological blemish. Sleep’ll help that.” He licked his lips. “What sort of disease has Smith got?”
Hartley swayed. His mouth moved words out slowly. Falling asleep on his feet, Rockwell realized. “Not diseased,” Hartley managed to say. “Don’t know what. But I resent him, like a kid resents the birth of a new brother or sister. He’s wrong. Help me. Help me, will you?”
“Of course.” Rockwell smiled. “My desert sanitarium’s the place to check him over, good. Why—why Smith’s the most incredible medical phenomenon in history. Bodies just don’t act this way!”
He got no further. Hartley had his gun pointed right at Rockwell’s stomach. “Wait. Wait. You—you’re not going to bury Smith! I thought you’d help me. Smith’s not healthy. I want him killed! He’s dangerous! I know he is!”
Rockwell blinked. Hartley was obviously psychoneurotic. Didn’t know what he was saying. Rockwell straightened his shoulders, feeling cool and calm inside. “Shoot Smith and I’ll turn you in for murder. You’re overworked mentally and physically. Put the gun away.”
They stared at one another.
Rockwell walked forward quietly and took the gun, patted Hartley understandingly on the shoulder, and gave the weapon to Murphy, who looked at it as if it would bite him. “Call the hospital. Murphy. I’m taking a week off. Maybe longer. Tell them I’m doing research at the sanitarium.”
A scowl formed in the red fat flesh of Murphy’s face. “What do I do with this gun?”
Hartley shut his teeth together, hard. “Keep it. You’ll want to use it—
later.”
Rockwell wanted to shout it to the world that he was sole possessor of the most incredible human in history. The sun was bright in the desert sanitarium room where
Smith lay, not saying a word, on his table; his handsome face frozen into a green, passionless expression.
Rockwell walked into the room quietly. He used the stethoscope on the green chest. It scraped, making the noise of metal tapping a beetle’s carapace.
McGuire stood by, eyeing the body dubiously, smelling of several recently acquired beers.
Rockwell listened intently. “The ambulance ride may have jolted him.
No use taking a chance—”
Rockwell cried out.
Heavily, McGuire lumbered to his side. ‘What’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” Rockwell stared about in desperation. He made one hand into a fist. “Smith’s dying!”
“How do you know? Hartley said Smith plays possum. He’s fooled you again—”
“No!” Rockwell worked furiously over the body, injecting drugs. Any drugs. Swearing at the top of his voice. After all this trouble, he couldn’t lose Smith. No, not now.
Shaking, jarring, twisting deep down inside, going completely liquidly mad. Smith’s body sounded like dim volcanic tides bursting.
Rockwell fought to remain calm. Smith was a case unto himself.
Normal treatment did nothing for him. What then? What?
Rockwell stared. Sunlight gleamed on Smith’s hard flesh. Hot sunlight. It flashed, glinting off the stethoscope tip. The sun. As he watched, clouds shifted across the sky outside, taking the sun away. The room darkened. Smith’s body shook into silence. The volcanic tides died.
“McGuire! Pull the blinds! Before the sun comes back!”
McGuire obeyed.
Smith’s heart slowed down to its sluggish, infrequent breathing.
“Sunlight’s bad for Smith. It counteracts something. I don’t know what or why, but it’s not good—” Rockwell relaxed. “Lord, I wouldn’t want to lose Smith. Not for anything. He’s different, making his own standards, doing things men have never done. Know something, Murphy?”
“What?”
“Smith’s not in agony. He’s not dying either. He wouldn’t be better off dead, no matter what Hartley says. Last night as I arranged Smith on the stretcher, readying him for his trip to this sanitarium, I realized, suddenly, that Smith likes me.”
“Gah. First Hartley. Now you. Did Smith tell you that?”
“He didn’t tell me. But he’s not unconscious under all that hard skin.
He’s aware. Yes, that’s it. He’s aware.”
“Pure and simply—he’s petrifying. He’ll die. It’s been weeks since he was fed. Hartley said so. Hartley fed him intravenously until the skin toughened so a needle couldn’t poke through it.”
Whining, the cubicle door swung slowly open. Rockwell started.
Hartley, his sharp face relaxed after hours of sleep, his eyes still a bitter gray, hostile, stood tall in the door. “If you’ll leave the room,” he said, quietly, “I’ll destroy Smith in a very few seconds. Well?”
“Don’t come a step closer.” Rockwell walked, feeling irritation, to Hartley’s side. “Every time you visit, you’ll have to be searched. Frankly, I don’t trust you.” There were no weapons. “Why didn’t you tell me about the sunlight?”
“Eh?” Soft and slow Hartley said it. “Oh—yes. I forgot. I tried shifting Smith weeks ago. Sunlight struck him and he began really dying.
Naturally, I stopped trying to move him. Smith seemed to know what was coming, vaguely. Perhaps he planned it; I’m not sure. While he was still able to talk and eat ravenously, before his body stiffened completely, he warned me not to move him for a twelve-week period. Said he didn’t like the sun.
Said it would spoil things. I thought he was joking. He wasn’t. He ate like an animal, a hungry, wild animal, fell into a coma, and here he is—” Hartley swore under his breath. “I’d rather hoped you’d leave him in the sun long enough to kill him inadvertently.”
McGuire shifted his two hundred fifty pounds. “Look here, now.
What if we catch Smith’s disease?”
Hartley looked at the body, his pupils shrinking. “Smith’s not diseased. Don’t you recognize degeneration when you see it? It’s like cancer.
You don’t catch it, you inherit a tendency. I didn’t begin to fear and hate Smith until a week ago when I discovered he was breathing and existing and thriving with his nostrils and mouth sealed. It can’t happen. It mustn’t happen.”
McGuire’s voice trembled. “What if you and I and Rockwell all turn green and a plague sweeps the country—what then?”
“Then,” replied Rockwell, “if I’m wrong, perhaps I am, I’ll die. But it doesn’t worry me in the least.”
He turned back to Smith and went on with his work.
A bell. A bell. Two bells, two bells. A dozen bells, a hundred bells.
Ten thousand and a million clangorous, hammering metal dinning bells. All born at once in the silence, squalling, screaming, hurting echoes, bruising ears!
Ringing, chanting with loud and soft, tenor and bass, low and high voices. Great-armed clappers knocking the shells and ripping air with the thrusting din of sound!
With all those bells ringing, Smith could not immediately know where he was. He knew that he could not see, because his eyelids were sealed tight, knew he could not speak because his lips had grown together. His ears were clamped shut, but the bells hammered nevertheless.
He could not see. But yes, yes, he could, and it was like inside a small dark red cavern, as if his eyes were turned inward upon his skull. And Smith tried to twist his tongue, and suddenly, trying to scream, he knew his tongue was gone, that the place where it used to be was vacant, an itching spot that wanted a tongue but couldn’t have it just now.
No tongue. Strange. Why? Smith tried to stop the bells. They ceased, blessing him with a silence that wrapped him up in a cold blanket. Things were happening. Happening.
Smith tried to twitch a finger, but he had no control. A foot, a leg, a toe, his head, everything. Nothing moved. Torso, limbs—immovable, frozen in a concrete coffin.
A moment later came the dread discovery that he was no longer breathing. Not with his lungs, anyway.
“BECAUSE I HAVE NO LUNGS!” he screamed. Inwardly he screamed and that mental scream was drowned, webbed, clotted, and journeyed drowsily down in a red, dark tide. A red drowsy tide that sleepily swathed the scream, garroted it, took it all away, making Smith rest easier.
I am not afraid, he thought. I understand that which I do not understand. I understand that I do not fear, yet know not the reason.
No tongue, no nose, no lungs.
But they would come later. Yes, they would. Things were—
happening.
Through the pores of his shelled body air slid, like rain needling each portion of him, giving life. Breathing through a billion gills, breathing oxygen and nitrogen and hydrogen and carbon dioxide, and using it all. Wondering.
Was his heart still beating?
But yes, it was beating. Slow, slow, slow. A red dim susurrance, a flood, a river surging around him, slow, slower, slower. So nice.
So restful.
The jigsaw pieces fitted together faster as the days drifted into weeks.
McGuire helped. A retired surgeon-medico, he’d been Rockwell’s secretary for a number of years. Not much help, but good company.
Rockwell noted that McGuire joked gruffly about Smith, nervously; and a lot. Trying to be calm. But one day McGuire stopped, thought it over, and drawled, “Hey, it just came to me! Smith’s alive. He should be dead. But he’s alive. Good God!”
Rockwell laughed. “What in blazes do you think I’m working on? I’m bringing an X-ray machine out next week so I can find out what’s going on inside Smith’s shell.” Rockwell jabbed with a hypo needle. It broke on the hard shell.
Rockwell tried another needle, and another, until finally he punctured, drew blood, and placed the slides under the microscope for study. Hours later he calmly shoved a serum test under McGuire’s red nose, and spoke quickly.
“Lord, I can’t believe it. His blood’s germicidal. I dropped a streptococci colony into it and the strep was annihilated in eight seconds! You could inject every known disease into Smith and he’d destroy them all, thrive on them!”
It was only a matter of hours until other discoveries. It kept Rockwell sleepless, tossing at night, wondering, theorizing the titanic ideas over and over. For instance—
Hartley’d fed Smith so many cc’s of blood-food every day of his illness until recently. NONE OF THAT FOOD HAD EVER BEEN
ELIMINATED. All of it had been stored, not in bulk-fats, but in a perfectly abnormal solution, an x-liquid contained in high concentrate form in Smith’s blood. An ounce of it would keep a man well fed for three days. This x-liquid circulated through the body until it was actually needed, when it was seized upon and used. More serviceable than fat. Much more!
Rockwell glowed with his discovery. Smith had enough x-liquid stored in him to last months and months more. Self-sustaining.
McGuire, when told, contemplated his paunch sadly.
“I wish I stored my food that way.”
That wasn’t all. Smith needed little air. What air he had he seemed to acquire by an osmotic process through his skin. And he used every molecule of it. No waste.
“And,” finished Rockwell, “eventually Smith’s heart might even take vacations from beating, entirely!”
“Then he’d be dead,” said McGuire.
“To you and I, yes. To Smith—maybe. Just maybe. Think of it, McGuire. Collectively, in Smith, we have a self-purifying blood stream demanding no replenishment but an interior one for months, having little breakdown and no elimination of wastes whatsoever because every molecule is utilized, self-evolving, and fatal to any and all microbic life. All this, and Hartley speaks of degeneration!”
Hartley was irritated when he heard of the discoveries. But he still insisted that Smith was degenerating. Dangerous.
McGuire tossed his two cents in. “How do we know that this isn’t some super microscopic disease that annihilates all other bacteria while it works on its victim. After all—malarial fever is sometimes used surgically to cure syphilis; why not a new bacillus that conquers all?”
“Good point,” said Rockwell. “But we’re not sick, are we?”
“It may have to incubate in our bodies.”
“A typical old-fashioned doctor’s response. No matter what happens to a man, he’s ‘sick’—if he varies from the norm. That’s your idea, Hartley,”
declared Rockwell, “not mine. Doctors aren’t satisfied unless they diagnose and label each case. Well, I think that Smith’s healthy; so healthy you’re afraid of him.”
“You’re crazy,” said McGuire.
“Maybe. But I don’t think Smith needs medical interference. He’s working out his own salvation. You believe he’s degenerating. I say he’s growing.’*
“Look at Smith’s skin,” complained McGuire.
“Sheep in wolfs clothing. Outside, the hard, brittle epidermis. Inside, ordered regrowth, change. Why? I’m on the verge of knowing. These changes inside Smith are so violent that they need a shell to protect their action. And as for you. Hartley, answer me truthfully, when you were young, were you afraid of insects, spiders, things like that?”
“Yes.”
“There you are. A phobia. A phobia you use against Smith. That explains your distaste for Smith’s change.”
In the following weeks, Rockwell went back over Smith’s life carefully. He visited the electronics lab where Smith had been employed and fallen ill. He probed the room where Smith had spent the first weeks of his
“illness” with Hartley in attendance. He examined the machinery there.
Something about radiations
While he was away from the sanitarium, Rockwell locked Smith tightly, and had McGuire guard the door in case Hartley got any unusual ideas.
The details of Smith’s twenty-three years were simple. He had worked for five years in the electronics lab, experimenting. He had never been seriously sick in his life.
And as the days went by Rockwell took long walks in the dry-wash near the sanitarium, alone. It gave him time to think and solidify the incredible theory that was becoming a unit in his brain.
And one afternoon he paused by a night-blooming jasmine outside the sanitarium, reached up, smiling, and plucked a dark shining object off of a high branch. He looked at the object and tucked it in his pocket. Then he walked into the sanitarium.
He summoned McGuire in off the veranda. McGuire came. Hartley trailed behind, threatening, complaining. The three of them sat in the living quarters of the building.
Rockwell told them.
“Smith’s not diseased. Germs can’t live in him. He’s not inhabited by banshees or weird monsters who’ve ‘taken over’ his body. I mention this to show I’ve left no stone untouched. I reject all normal diagnoses of Smith. I offer the most important, the most easily accepted possibility of—delayed hereditary mutation.”
“Mutation?” McGuire’s voice was funny.
Rockwell held up the shiny dark object in the light.
“I found this on a bush in the garden. It’ll illustrate my theory to perfection. After studying Smith’s symptoms, examining his laboratory, and considering several of these”—he twirled the dark object in his fingers— “I’m certain. It’s metamorphosis. It’s regeneration, change, mutation after birth.
Here. Catch. This is Smith.”
He tossed the object to Hartley. Hartley caught it.
“This is the chrysalis of a caterpillar,” said Hartley.
Rockwell nodded. “Yes, it is.”
“You don’t mean to infer that Smith’s a— chrysalis?”
“I’m positive of it,” replied Rockwell.
Rockwell stood over Smith’s body in the darkness of evening. Hartley and McGuire sat across the patient’s room, quiet, listening. Rockwell touched Smith softly. “Suppose that there’s more to life than just being born, living seventy years, and dying. Suppose there’s one more great step up in man’s existence, and Smith has been the first of us to make that step.
“Looking at a caterpillar, we see what we consider a static object. But it changes to a butterfly. Why? There are no final theories explaining it. It’s progress, mainly. The pertinent thing is that a supposedly unchangeable object weaves itself into an intermediary object, wholly unrecognizable, a chrysalis, and emerges a butterfly. Outwardly the chrysalis looks dead. This is misdirection. Smith has misdirected us, you see. Outwardly, dead. Inwardly, fluids whirlpool, reconstruct, rush about with wild purpose. From grub to mosquito, from caterpillar to butterfly, from Smith to—?”
“Smith a chrysalis?” McGuire laughed heavily.
“Yes.”
“Humans don’t work that way.”
“Stop it, McGuire. This evolutionary step’s too great for your comprehension. Examine this body and tell me anything else. Skin, eyes, breathing, blood flow. Weeks of assimilating food for his brittle hibernation.
Why did he eat all that food, why did he need that x-liquid in his body except for his metamorphosis? And the cause of it all was—eradiations. Hard radiations from Smith’s laboratory equipment. Planned or accidental I don’t know. It touched some part of his essential gene-structure, some part of the evolutionary structure of man that wasn’t scheduled for working for thousands of years yet, perhaps.”
“Do you think that some day all men—?”
“The maggot doesn’t stay in the stagnant pond, the grub in the soil, or the caterpillar on a cabbage leaf. They change, spreading across space in waves.
“Smith’s the answer to the problem ‘What happens next for man, where do we go from here?’ We’re faced with the blank wall of the universe and the fatality of living in that universe, and man as he is today is not prepared to go against the universe. The least exertion tires man, overwork kills his heart, disease his body. Maybe Smith will be prepared to answer the philosophers’ problem of life’s purpose. Maybe he can give it new purpose.
“Why, we’re just petty insects, all of us, fighting on a pinhead planet.
Man isn’t meant to remain here and be sick and small and weak, but he hasn’t discovered the secret of the greater knowledge yet.
“But—change man. Build your perfect man. Your— your superman, if you like. Eliminate petty mentality, give him complete physiological, neurological, psychological control of himself: give him clear, incisive channels of thought, give him an indefatigable blood stream, a body that can go months without outside food, that can adjust to any climate anywhere and kill any disease. Release man from the shackles of flesh and flesh misery and then he’s no longer a poor, petty little man afraid to dream because he knows his frail body stands between him and the fulfillment of dreams, then he’s ready to wage war, the only war worth waging—the conflict of man reborn and the whole confounded universe!”
Breathless, voice hoarse, heart pounding, Rockwell tensed over Smith, placed his hands admiringly, firmly on the cold length of the chrysalis and shut his eyes. The power and drive and belief in Smith surged through him. He was right. He was right. He knew he was right. He opened his eyes and looked at McGuire and Hartley who were mere shadows in the dim shielded light of the room.
After a silence of several seconds. Hartley snuffed out his cigarette. “I don’t believe that theory.”
McGuire said, “How do youknow Smith’s not just a mess of jelly inside? Did you X-ray him?”
“I couldn’t risk it, it might interfere with his change, like the sunlight did.”
“So he’s going to be a superman? What will he look like?”
“We’ll wait and see.”
“Do you think he can hear us talking about him now?”
“Whether or not he can, there’s one thing certain— we’re sharing a secret we weren’t intended to know. Smith didn’t plan on myself and McGuire entering the case. He had to make the most of it. But a superman doesn’t like people to know about him. Humans have a nasty way of being envious, jealous, and hateful. Smith knew he wouldn’t be safe if found out. Maybe that explains your hatred, too. Hartley.”
They all remained silent, listening. Nothing sounded. Rockwell’s blood whispered in his temples, that was all. There was Smith, no longer Smith, a container labeled Smith, its contents unknown.
“If what you say is true,” said Hartley, “then indeed we should destroy him. Think of the power over the world he would have. And if it affects his brain as I think it will affect it—he’ll try to kill us when he escapes because we are the only ones who know about him. He’ll hate us for prying.”
Rockwell said it easily. “I’m not afraid.”
Hartley remained silent. His breathing was harsh and loud in the room.
Rockwell came around the table, gesturing.
“I think we’d better say good-night now, don’t you?”
The thin rain swallowed Hartley’s car. Rockwell closed the door, instructed McGuire to sleep downstairs tonight on a cot fronting Smith’s room, and then he walked upstairs to bed.
Undressing, he had time to conjure over all the unbelievable events of the passing weeks. A superman. Why not? Efficiency, strength—
He slipped into bed.
When. When does Smith emerge from his chrysalis? When?
The rain drizzled quietly on the roof of the sanitarium.
McGuire lay in the middle of the sound of rain and the earthquaking of thunder, slumbering on the cot, breathing heavy breaths. Somewhere, a door creaked, but McGuire breathed on. Wind gusted down the hall.
McGuire granted and rolled over. A door closed softly and the wind ceased.
Footsteps tread softly on the deep carpeting. Slow footsteps, aware and alert and ready. Footsteps. McGuire blinked his eyes and opened them.
In the dim light a figure stood over him.
Upstairs, a single light m the hall thrust down a yellow shaft near McGuire’s cot.
An odor of crashed insect filled the air. A hand moved. A voice started to speak.
McGuire screamed.
Because the hand that moved into the light was green.
Green.
“Smith!’
McGuire flung himself ponderously down the hall, yelling.
“He’s walking! He can’t walk, but he’s walking!”
The door rammed open under McGuire’s bulk. Wind and rain shrieked in around him and he was gone into the storm, babbling.
In the hall, the figure was motionless. Upstairs a door opened swiftly and Rockwell ran down the steps. The green hand moved back out of the light behind the figure’s back.
“Who is it?” Rockwell paused halfway.
The figure stepped into the light.
Rockwell’s eyes narrowed.
“Hartley! What are you doing back here?”
“Something happened,” said Hartley. “You’d better get McGuire. He ran out in the rain babbling like a fool.”
Rockwell kept his thoughts to himself. He searched Hartley swiftly with one glance and then ran down the hall and out into the cold wind.
“McGuire! McGuire, come back you idiot!” The rain fell on Rockwell’s body as he ran. He found McGuire about a hundred yards from the sanitarium, blubbering,
“Smith—Smith’s walking .. .” “Nonsense. Hartley came back, that’s all.”
“I saw a green hand. It moved.”
“You dreamed.”
“No. No.” McGuire’s face was flabby pale, with water on it. “I saw a green hand, believe me. Why did Hartley come back? He—”
At the mention of Hartley’s name, full comprehension came smashing to Rockwell. Fear leaped through his mind, a mad blur of warning, a jagged edge of silent screaming for help.
“Hartley!”
Shoving McGuire abruptly aside, Rockwell twisted and leaped back toward the sanitarium, shouting. Into the hall, down the hall—
Smith’s door was broken open.
Gun in hand, Hartley was in the center of the room. He turned at the noise of Rockwell’s running. They both moved simultaneously. Hartley fired his gun and Rockwell pulled the light switch.
Darkness. Flame blew across the room, profiling Smith’s rigid body like a flash photo. Rockwell jumped at the flame. Even as he jumped, shocked deep, realizing why Hartley had returned. In that instant before the lights blinked out Rockwell had a glimpse of Hartley’s fingers.
They were a brittle mottled green.
Fists then. And Hartley collapsing as the lights came on, and McGuire, dripping wet at the door, shook out the words, “Is—is Smith killed?”
Smith wasn’t harmed. The shot had passed over him.
“This fool, this fool,” cried Rockwell, standing over Hartley’s numbed shape. “Greatest case in history and he tries to destroy it!”
Hartley came around, slowly. “I should’ve known. Smith warned you.”
“Nonsense, he—” Rockwell stopped, amazed. Yes. That sudden premonition crashing into his mind. Yes. Then he glared at Hartley. “Upstairs with you. You’re being locked in for the night. McGuire, you, too. So you can watch him.”
McGuire croaked. “Hartley’s hand. Look at it. It’s green. It was Hartley in the hall—not Smith!”
Hartley stared at his fingers. “Pretty, isn’t it?” he said, bitterly. “I was in range of those radiations for a long time at the start of Smith’s illness. I’m going to be a—creature—like Smith. It’s been this way for several days. I kept it hidden. I tried not to say anything. Tonight, I couldn’t stand it any longer, and I came back to destroy Smith for what he’s done to me …”
A dry noise racked, dryly, splitting the air. The three of them froze.
Three tiny flakes of Smith’s chrysalis flicked up and then spiraled down to the floor.
Instantly, Rockwell was to the table, and gaping.
“It’s starting to crack. From the collar-bone to the navel, a miscroscopic fissure! He’ll be out of his chrysalis soon!”
McGuire’s jowls trembled. “And then what?”
Hartley’s words were bitter sharp. “We’ll have a superman. Question: what does a superman look like? Answer: nobody knows.”
Another crust of flakes crackled open.
McGuire shivered. “Will you try to talk to him?”
“Certainly.”
“Since when do—butterflies—speak?”
“Oh, Good God, McGuire!”
With the two others securely imprisoned upstairs, Rockwell locked himself into Smith’s room and bedded down on a cot, prepared to wait through the long wet night, watching, listening, thinking.
Watching the tiny flakes flicking off the crumbling skin of chrysalis as the Unknown within struggled quietly outward.
Just a few more hours to wait. The rain slid over the house, pattering.
What would Smith look like? A change in the earcups perhaps for greater hearing; extra eyes, maybe; a change in the skull structure, the facial setup, the bones of the body, the placement of organs, the texture of skin, a million and one changes.
Rockwell grew tired and yet was afraid to sleep. Eyelids heavy, heavy. What if he was wrong? What if his theory was entirely disjointed?
What if Smith was only so much moving jelly inside? What if Smith was mad, insane—so different that he’d be a world menace?
No. No. Rockwell shook his head groggily. Smith was perfect.
Perfect. There’d be no room for evil thought in Smith. Perfect.
The sanitarium was death quiet. The only noise was the faint crackle of chrysalis flakes skimming to the hard floor …
Rockwell slept. Sinking into the darkness that blotted out the room as dreams moved in upon him. Dreams in which Smith arose, walked in stiff, parched gesticulations and Hartley, screaming, wielded an ax, shining, again and again into the green armor of the creature and hacked it into liquid horror.
Dreams in which McGuire ran babbling through a rain of blood. Dreams in which—
Hot sunlight. Hot sunlight all over the room. It was morning.
Rockwell rubbed his eyes, vaguely troubled by the fact that someone had raised the blinds. Someone had—he leaped! Sunlight! There was no way for the blinds to be up. They’d been down for weeks! He cried out.
The door was open. The sanitarium was silent. Hardly daring to turn his head, Rockwell glanced at the table. Smith should have been lying there.
He wasn’t.
There was nothing but sunlight on the table. That— and a few remnants of shattered chrysalis. Remnants.
Brittle shards, a discarded profile cleft in two pieces, a shell segment that had been a thigh, a trace of arm, a splint of chest—these were the fractured remains of Smith!
Smith was gone. Rockwell staggered to the table, crushed. Scrabbling like a child among the rattling papyrus of skin. Then he swung about, as if drunk, and swayed out of the room and pounded up the stairs, shouting:
“Hartley! What did you do with him? Hartley! Did you think you could kill him, dispose of his body, and leave a few bits of shell behind to throw me off trail?”
The door to the room where McGuire and Hartley had slept was locked. Fumbling, Rockwell unlocked it. Both McGuire and Hartley were there.
“You’re here,” said Rockwell, dazed. “You weren’t downstairs, then.
Or did you unlock the door, come down, break in, kill Smith and—no, no.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Smith’s gone! McGuire, did Hartley move out of this room?”
“Not all night.’*
“Then—there’s only one explanation—Smith emerged from his chrysalis and escaped during the night! I’ll never see him, I’ll never get to see him, damn it! What a fool I was to sleep!”
“That settles it!” declared Hartley. “The man’s dangerous or he would have stayed and let us see him! God only knows what he is.”
“We’ve got to search, then. He can’t be far off. We’ve got to search then! Quick now. Hartley. McGuire!”
McGuire sat heavily down. “I won’t budge. Let him find himself. I’ve had enough.”
Rockwell didn’t wait to hear more. He went downstairs with Hartley close after him. McGuire puffed down a few moments later.
Rockwell moved wildly down the hall, halted at the wide windows that overlooked the desert and the mountains with morning shining over them.
He squinted out, and wondered if there was any chance at all of finding Smith. The first superbeing. The first perhaps in a new long line. Rockwell sweated. Smith wouldn’t leave without revealing himself to at least Rockwell.
He couldn’t leave. Or could he?
The kitchen door swung open, slowly.
A foot stepped through the door, followed by another. A hand lifted against the wall. Cigarette smoke moved from pursed lips.
“Somebody looking for me?”
Stunned, Rockwell turned. He saw the expression on Hartley’s face, heard McGuire choke with surprise. The three of them spoke one word together, as if given their cue:
“Smith.”
Smith exhaled cigarette smoke. His face was red-pink as he had been sunburnt, his eyes were glittering blue.
He was barefoot and his nude body was attired in one of Rockwell’s old robes.
“Would you mind telling me where I am? What have I been doing for the last three or four months? Is this a—hospital or isn’t it?”
Dismay slammed Rockwell’s mind, hard. He swallowed.
“Hello. I. That is— Don’t you remember—anything?”
Smith displayed his fingertips. “I recall turning green, if that’s what you mean. Beyond that—nothing.” He raked his pink hand through his nut-brown hair with the vigor of a creature newborn and glad to breathe again.
Rockwell slumped back against the wall. He raised his hands, with shock, to his eyes, and shook his head. Not believing what he saw he said,
“What time did you come out of the chrysalis?’*
“What time did I come out of—what?”
Rockwell took him down the hall to the next room and pointed to the table.
“I don’t see what you mean,” said Smith, frankly sincere. “I found myself standing in this room half an hour ago, stark naked.”
“That’s all?” said McGuire, hopefully. He seemed relieved.
Rockwell explained the origin of the chrysalis on the table.
Smith frowned. “That’s ridiculous. Who are you?”
Rockwell introduced the others.
Smith scowled at Hartley. “When I first was sick you came, didn’t you. I remember. At the radiations plant. But this is silly. What disease was it?”
Hartley’s cheek muscles were taut wire. “No disease. Don’t you know anything about it?”
“I find myself with strange people in a strange sanitarium. I find myself naked in a room with a man sleeping on a cot. I walk around the sanitarium, hungry. I go to the kitchen, find food, eat, hear excited voices, and then am accused of emerging from a chrysalis. What am I supposed to think?
Thanks, by the way, for this robe, for food, and the cigarette I borrowed. I didn’t want to wake you at first, Mr. Rockwell. I didn’t know who you were and you looked dead tired.”
“Oh, that’s all right.’ Rockwell wouldn’t let himself believe it.
Everything was crumbling. With every word Smith spoke, his hopes were pulled apart like the crumpled chrysalis. “How do you feel?”
“Fine. Strong. Remarkable, when you consider how long I was under.”
“Very remarkable,” said Hartley.
“You can imagine how I felt when I saw the calendar. All those months—crack—gone. I wondered what I’d been doing all that time.”
“So have we.”
McGuire laughed. “Oh, leave him alone, Hartley. Just because you hated him—”
“Hated?” Smith’s brows went up. “Me? Why?”
“Here. This is why!” Hartley thrust his fingers out “Your damned radiations. Night after night sitting by you in your laboratory. What can I do about it?”
“Hartley,” warned Rockwell. “Sit down. Be quiet.”
“I won’t sit down and I won’t be quiet! Are you both fooled by this imitation of a man, this pink fellow who’s carrying on the greatest hoax in history? If you had any sense you’d destroy Smith before he escapes!”
Rockwell apologized for Hartley’s outburst.
Smith shook his head. “No, let him talk. What’s this about?”
“You know already!” shouted Hartley, angrily. “You’ve lain there for months, listening, planning. You can’t fool me. You’ve got Rockwell bluffed, disappointed. He expected you to be a superman. Maybe you are. But whatever you are, you’re not Smith any more. Not any more. It’s just another of your misdirections. We weren’t supposed to know all about you, and the world shouldn’t know about you. You could kill us, easily, but you’d prefer to stay and convince us that you’re normal. That’s the best way. You could have escaped a few minutes ago, but that would have left the seeds of suspicion behind. Instead, you waited, to convince us that you’re normal.”
“He is normal,” complained McGuire.
“No he’s not. His mind’s different. He’s clever.’*
“Give him word association tests then,” said McGuire.
“He’s too clever for that, too.”
“It’s very simple, then. We take blood tests, listen to his heart, and inject serums into him.”
Smith looked dubious. “I feel like an experiment, but if you really want to. This is silly.”
That shocked Hartley. He looked at Rockwell. “Get the hypos,” he said.
Rockwell got the hypos, thinking. Now, maybe after all, Smith was a superman. His blood. That super-blood. Its ability to kill germs. His heartbeat.
His breathing. Maybe Smith was a superman and didn’t know it. Yes. Yes, maybe—
Rockwell drew blood from Smith and slid it under a microscope. His shoulders sagged. It was normal blood. When you dropped germs into it the germs took a normal length of time to die. The blood was no longer super germicidal. The x-liquid, too, was gone. Rockwell sighed miserably. Smith’s temperature was normal. So was his pulse. His sensory and nervous system responded according to rule.
“Well, that takes care of that,” said Rockwell, softly.
Hartley sank into a chair, eyes widened, holding his head between bony fingers. He exhaled. “I’m sorry. I guess my—mind—it just imagined things. The months were so long. Night after night. I got obsessed, and afraid.
I’ve made a fool out of myself. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He stared at his green fingers. “But what about myself?”
Smith said, “I recovered. You’ll recover, too, I guess. I can sympathize with you. But it wasn’t bad … I don’t really recall anything.”
Hartley relaxed. “But—yes I guess you’re right. I don’t like the idea of my body getting hard, but it can’t be helped. I’ll be all right.”
Rockwell was sick. The tremendous letdown was too much for him.
The intense drive, the eagerness, the hunger and curiosity, the fire, had all sunk within him.
So this was the man from the chrysalis? The same man who had gone m. All this waiting and wondering for nothing.
He gulped a breath of air, tried to steady his innermost, racing thoughts. Turmoil. This pink-cheeked, fresh-voiced man who sat before him smoking calmly, was no more than a man who had suffered some partial skin petrification, and whose glands had gone wild from radiation, but, nevertheless, just a man now and nothing more. Rockwell’s mind, his overimaginative, fantastic mind had seized upon each facet of the illness and built it into a perfect organism of wishful thinking. Rockwell was deeply shocked, deeply stirred and disappointed.
The question of Smith’s living without food, his pure blood, low temperature, and the other evidences of superiority were now fragments of a strange illness. An illness and nothing more. Something that was over, down and gone and left nothing behind but brittle scraps on a sunlit tabletop.
There’d be a chance to watch Hartley now, if his illness progressed, and report the new sickness to the medical world.
But Rockwell didn’t care about illness. He cared about perfection.
And that perfection had been split and ripped and torn and it was gone. His dream^ was gone. His supercreature was gone. He didn’t care if the whole world went hard, green, brittle-mad now.
Smith was shaking hands all around. “I’d better get back to Los Angeles. Important work for me to do at the plant. I have my old job waiting for me. Sorry I can’t stay on. You understand.”
“You should stay on and rest a few days, at least,” said Rockwell. He hated to see the last wisp of his dream vanish.
“No thanks. I’ll drop by your office in a week or so for another checkup, though. Doctor, if you like? I’ll drop in every few weeks for the next year or so so you can check me, yes?”
“Yes. Yes,’smith. Do that, will you please? I’d like to talk your illness over with you. You’re lucky to be alive.”
McGuire said, happily, “I’ll drive you to L.A.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll walk to Tujunga and get a cab. I want to walk. It’s been so long, I want to see what it feels like.”
Rockwell lent him an old pair of shoes and an old suit of clothes.
“Thanks, Doctor. I’ll pay you what I owe you as soon as possible.”
“You don’t owe me a penny. It was interesting.”
“Well, good-bye, Doctor. Mr. McGuire. Hartley.”
“Good-bye, Smith.”
“Good-bye.”
Smith walked down the path to the dry wash, which was already baked dry by the late afternoon sun. He walked easily and happily and whistled. I wish I could whistle now, thought Rockwell tiredly.
Smith turned once, waved to them, and then he strode up the hillside and went on over it toward the distant city.
Rockwell watched him go as a small child watches his favorite sand castle eroded and annihilated by the waves of the sea. “I can’t believe it,” he said, over and over again. “I can’t believe it. The whole thing’s ending so soon, so abruptly for me. I’m dull and empty inside.”
“Everything looks rosy to me!” chuckled McGuire happily.
Hartley stood in the sun. His green hands hung softly at his side and his white face was really relaxed for the first time in months, Rockwell realized. Hartley said, softly,
“I’ll come out all right. I’ll come out all right. Oh, thank God for that.
Thank God for that. I won’t be a monster. I won’t be anything but myself.” He turned to Rockwell. “Just remember, remember, don’t let them bury me by mistake. Don’t let them bury me by mistake, thinking I’m dead. Remember that.”
Smith took the path across the dry wash and up the hill. It was late afternoon already and the sun had started to vanish behind blue hills. A few stars were visible. The odor of water, dust, and distant orange blossoms hung in the warm air.
Wind stirred. Smith took deep breaths of air. He walked.
Out of sight, away from the sanitarium, he paused and stood very still. He looked up at the sky.
Tossing away the cigarette he’d been smoking, he mashed it precisely under one heel. Then he straightened his well-shaped body, tossed his brown hair back, closed his eyes, swallowed, and relaxed his fingers at his sides.
With nothing of effort, just a little murmur of sound, Smith lifted his body gently from the ground into the warm air.
He soared up quickly, quietly—and- very soon he was lost among the stars as Smith headed for outer space …
…
…
The End
Conclusion
When you all tell me your stories, about how you have changed since arriving at MM… well, this is always what comes to mind.
And this is only the beginning.
Who knows what greatness lies in the futures ahead of you?
The story begins with a scene the three witches from Macbeth brewing a potion and staring into a crystal, which reveals another scene that takes place on a rocket ship. Originating from Earth, the men on the rocket ship are panicking because they have recently experienced nightmares, confusing illnesses, and unexpected death. They are destined for Mars, and they are worried that these events may be warnings from Martians not to arrive.
As the crewmembers talk, it becomes clear that the Earth they are leaving has banned many books, some of which are considered some of the best authors of all time. The rocket ship has the last edition of many of these works, and their goal is to burn the books upon their arrival at Mars. Once they have burned the books, there will be no remaining evidence that these authors ever existed...
The Exiles
THEIR EYES were fire and the breath flamed out the witches’ mouths as they bent to probe the caldron with greasy stick and bony finger.
‘When shall we three meet again
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?’
They danced drunkenly on the shore of an empty sea, fouling the air with their
three tongues, and burning it with their cats’ eyes malevolently aglitter:
‘Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison’d entrails throw.
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!’
They paused and cast a glance about. ‘Where’s the crystal? Where the needles?’
‘Here!’
‘Good!’
‘Is the yellow wax thickened?’
‘Yes!’
‘Pour it in the iron mold!’
‘Is the wax figure done?’ They shaped it like molasses adrip on their green
hands.
‘Shove the needle through the heart!’
‘The crystal, the crystal; fetch it from the tarot bag. Dust it off; have a
look!’
They bent to the crystal, their faces white.
‘See, see, see . . .’
…
A rocket ship moved through space from the planet Earth to the planet Mars. On
the rocket ship men were dying.
The captain raised his head, tiredly. ‘We’ll have to use the morphine.’
‘But, Captain”
‘You see yourself this man’s condition.’ The captain lifted the wool blanket and
the man restrained beneath the wet sheet moved and groaned. The air was full of
sulphurous thunder.
‘I saw it’I saw it.’ The man opened his eyes and stared at the port where there
were only black spaces, reeling stars, Earth far removed, and the planet Mars
rising large and red. ‘I saw it’a bat, a huge thing, a bat with a man’s face,
spread over the front port. Fluttering and fluttering, fluttering and
fluttering.’
‘Pulse?’ asked the captain.
The orderly measured it. ‘One hundred and thirty.’
‘He can’t go on with that. Use the morphine. Come along, Smith.’
They moved away. Suddenly the floor plates were laced with bone and white skulls that screamed. The captain did not dare look down, and over the screaming he said, ‘Is this where Perse is?’ turning in at a hatch.
A white-smocked surgeon stepped away from a body. ‘I just don’t understand it.’
‘How did Perse die?’
‘We don’t know, Captain. It wasn’t his heart, his brain, or shock. He just’ died.’
The captain felt the doctor’s wrist, which changed to a hissing snake and bit
him. The captain did not flinch. ‘Take care of yourself. You’ve a pulse too.’
The doctor nodded. ‘Perse complained of pains’needles, he said’ in his wrists and
legs. Said he felt like wax, melting. He fell. I helped him up. He cried like a
child. Said he had a silver needle in his heart. He died. Here he is. We can
repeat the autopsy for you. Everything’s physically normal.’
‘That’s impossible! He died of something!’
The captain walked to a port. He smelled of menthol and iodine and green soap on his polished and manicured hands. His white teeth were dentifriced, and his ears scoured to a pinkness, as were his cheeks. His uniform was the color of new
salt, and his boots were black mirrors shining below him. His crisp crew-cut
hair smelled of sharp alcohol. Even his breath was sharp and new and clean.
There was no spot to him. He was a fresh instrument, honed and ready, still hot
from the surgeon’s oven.
The men with him were from the same mold. One expected huge brass keys spiraling
slowly from their backs. They were expensive, talented, well-oiled toys,
obedient and quick.
The captain watched the planet Mars grow very large in space. ‘We’ll be landing
in an hour on that damned place. Smith, did you see any bats, or have other
nightmares?’
‘Yes, sir. The month before our rocket took off from New York, sir. White rats
biting my neck, drinking my blood. I didn’t tell. I was afraid you wouldn’t let me come on this trip.’
‘Never mind,’ sighed the captain. ‘I had dreams too. In all of my fifty years I
never had a dream until that week before we took off from Earth. And then every night I dreamed I was a white wolf. Caught on a snowy hill. Shot with a silver bullet. Buried with a stake in my heart.’ He moved his head toward Mars. ‘Do you think, Smith, they know we’re coming?’
‘We don’t know if there are Martian people, sir.’
‘Don’t we? They began frightening us off eight weeks ago, before we started.
They’ve killed Perse and Reynolds now. Yesterday they made Crenville go blind.
How? I don’t know. Bats, needles, dreams, men dying for no reason. I’d call it
witchcraft in another day. But this is the year 2120, Smith. We’re rational men.
This all can’t be happening. But it is! Whoever they are, with their needles and
their bats, they’ll try to finish us all.’ He swung about. ‘Smith, fetch those books from my file. I want them when we land.’
Two hundred books were piled on the rocket deck.
‘Thank you, Smith. Have you glanced at them? Think I’m insane? Perhaps. It’s a
crazy hunch. At that last moment I ordered these books from the Historical
Museum. Because of my dreams. Twenty nights I was stabbed, butchered, a
screaming bat pinned to a surgical mat, a thing rotting underground in a black
box; bad, wicked dreams. Our whole crew dreamed of witch-things and were-things, vampires and phantoms, things they couldn’t know anything about. Why? Because books on such ghastly subjects were destroyed a century ago. By law. Forbidden for anyone to own the grisly volumes. These books you see here are the last copies, kept for historical purposes in the locked museum vaults.’
Smith bent to read the dusty titles:
‘Tales of Mystery and Imagination, by Edgar Allan Poe. Dracula, by Brain Stoker.
Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley. The Turn of the Screw, by Henry James. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, by Washington Irving. Rappaccini’s Daughter, by Nathaniel Hawthorne. An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge, by Ambrose Bierce. Alice in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll. The Willows, by Algernon Blackwood. The Wizard of Oz, by L. Frank Baum. The Weird Shadow Over Innsmouth, by H. P. Lovecraft. And more! Books by Walter de la Mare, Wakefield, Harvey, Wells, Asquith, Huxley’all forbidden authors. All burned in the same year that Halloween was outlawed and Christmas was banned! But, sir, what good are these to us on the rocket?’
‘I don’t know,’ sighed the captain, ‘yet.’
…
The three bags lifted the crystal where the captain’s image flickered, his tiny
voice tinkling out of the glass:
‘I don’t know,’ sighed the captain, ‘yet.’
The three witches glared redly into one another’s faces.
‘We haven’t much time,’ said one.
‘Better warn Them in the City.’
‘They’ll want to know about the books. It doesn’t look good. That fool of a
captain!’
‘In an hour they’ll land their rocket.’
The three bags shuddered and blinked up at the Emerald City by the edge of the
dry Martian sea.
…
In its highest window a small man held a blood-red drape aside.
He watched the wastelands where the three witches fed their caldron and shaped the waxes. Farther along, ten thousand other blue fires and laurel incenses, black tobacco smokes and fir weeds, cinnamons and bone dusts rose soft as moths through the Martian night. The man counted the angry, magical fires. Then, as the three witches stared, he turned. The crimson drape, released, fell, causing the distant portal to wink, like a yellow eye.
Mr. Edgar Allan Poe stood in the tower window, a faint vapor of spirits upon his
breath. ‘Hecate’s friends are busy tonight,’ he said, seeing the witches, far
below.
A voice behind him said, ‘I saw Will Shakespeare at the shore, earlier, whipping
them on. All along the sea Shakespeare’s army alone, tonight, numbers thousands: the three witches, Oberon, Hamlet’s father, Puck’all, all of them’thousands!
Good lord, a regular sea of people.’
‘Good William.’ Poe turned. He let the crimson drape fall shut. He stood for a
moment to observe the raw stone room, the black-timbered table, the candle
flame, the other man, Mr. Ambrose Bierce, sitting very idly there, lighting
matches and watching them burn down, whistling under his breath, now and then laughing to himself.
‘We’ll have to tell Mr. Dickens now,’ said Mr. Poe. ‘We’ve put it off too long.
It’s a matter of hours. Will you go down to his home with me, Bierce?’
Bierce glanced up merrily. ‘I’ve just been thinking’what’ll happen to us?’
‘If we can’t kill the rocket men off, frighten them away, then we’ll have to
leave, of course. We’ll go on to Jupiter, and when they come to Jupiter, we’ll
go on to Saturn, and when they come to Saturn, we’ll go to Uranus, or Neptune,
and then on out to Pluto”’
‘Where then?’
Mr. Poe’s face was weary; there were fire coals remaining, fading, in his eyes,
and a sad wildness in the way he talked, and a uselessness of his hands and the
way his hair fell lankly over his amazing white brow. He was like a satan of
some lost dark cause, a general arrived from a derelict invasion. His silky,
soft, black mustache was worn away by his musing lips. He was so small his brow
seemed to float, vast and phosphorescent, by itself, in the dark room.
‘We have the advantages of superior forms of travel,’ he said. ‘We can always
hope for one of their atomic wars, dissolution, the dark ages come again. The
return of superstition. We could go back then to Earth, all of us, in one
night.’ Mr. Poe’s black eyes brooded under his round and luminant brow. He gazed
at the ceiling. ‘So they’re coming to ruin this world too? They won’t leave
anything undefiled, will they?’
‘Does a wolf pack stop until it’s killed its prey and eaten the guts? It should
be quite a war. I shall sit on the side lines and be the scorekeeper. So many
Earthmen boiled in oil, so many Mss. Found in Bottles burnt, so many Earthmen
stabbed with needles, so many Red Deaths put to flight by a battery of
hypodermic syringes’ha!’
Poe swayed angrily, faintly drunk with wine. ‘What did we do? Be with us,
Bierce, in the name of God! Did we have a fair trial before a company of
literary critics? No! Our books were plucked up by neat, sterile, surgeon’s
pliers, and flung into vats, to boil, to be killed of all their mortuary germs.
Damn them all!’
‘I find our situation amusing,’ said Bierce.
They were interrupted by a hysterical shout from the tower stair.
‘Mr. Poe! Mr. Bierce!’
‘Yes, yes, we’re coming!’ Poe and Bierce descended to find a man gasping against
the stone passage wall.
‘Have you heard the news?’ he cried immediately, clawing at them like a man
about to fall over a cliff. ‘In an hour they’ll land! They’re bringing books
with them’old books, the witches said! What’re you doing in the tower at a time
like this? Why aren’t you acting?’
Poe said: ‘We’re doing everything we can, Blackwood. You’re new to all this.
Come along, we’re going to Mr. Charles Dickens’ place”’
”to contemplate our doom, our black doom,’ said Mr. Bierce, with a wink.
They moved down the echoing throats of the castle, level after dim green level,
down into mustiness and decay and spiders and dreamlike webbing. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Poe, his brow like a huge white lamp before them, descending, sinking. ‘All along the dead sea tonight I’ve called the others. Your friends and mine, Blackwood’Bierce. They’re all there. The animals and the old women and the tall men with the sharp white teeth. The traps are waiting; the pits, yes, and the pendulums. The Red Death.’ Here he laughed quietly. ‘Yes, even the Red Death. I never thought’no, I never thought the time would come when a thing like the Red Death would actually be. But they asked for it, and they shall have it!’
‘But are we strong enough?’ wondered Blackwood.
‘How strong is strong? They won’t be prepared for us, at least. They haven’t the
imagination. Those clean young rocket men with their antiseptic bloomers and
fish-bowl helmets, with their new religion. About their necks, on gold chains,
scalpels. Upon their heads, a diadem of microscopes. In their holy fingers,
steaming incense urns which in reality are only germicidal ovens for steaming
out superstition. The names of Poe, Bierce, Hawthorne, Blackwood’blasphemy to
their clean lips.’
Outside the castle they advanced through a watery space, a tarn that was not a
tarn, which misted before them like the stuff of nightmares. The air filled with
wing sounds and a whirring, a motion of winds and blacknesses. Voices changed,
figures swayed at campfires. Mr. Poe watched the needles knitting, knitting,
knitting, in the firelight; knitting pain and misery, knitting wickedness into
wax marionettes, clay puppets. The caldron smells of wild garlic and cayenne and saffron hissed up to fill the night with evil pungency.
‘Get on with it!’ said Poe. ‘I’ll be back!’
All down the empty seashore black figures spindled and waned, grew up and blew into black smoke on the sky. Bells rang in mountain towers and licorice ravens spilled out with the bronze sounds and spun away to ashes.
Over a lonely moor and into a small valley Poe and Bierce hurried, and found
themselves quite suddenly on a cobbled street, in cold, bleak, biting weather,
with people stomping up and down stony courtyards to warm their feet; foggy
withal, and candles flaring in the windows of offices and shops where hung the
Yuletide turkeys. At a distance some boys, all bundled up, snorting their pale
breaths on the wintry air, were trilling, ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,’ while
the immense tones of a great clock continuously sounded midnight. Children
dashed by from the baker’s with dinners all asteam in their grubby fists, on
trays and under silver bowls.
At a sign which read SCROOGE, MARLEY AND DICKENS, Poe gave the Marley-faced knocker a rap, and from within, as the door popped open a few inches, a sudden gust of music almost swept them into a dance. And there, beyond the shoulder of the man who was sticking a him goatee and mustaches at them, was Mr. Fezziwig clapping his hands, and Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile, dancing and colliding with other merrymakers, while the fiddle chirped and laughter ran about a table like chandelier crystals given a sudden push of wind. The large table was heaped with brawn and turkey and holly and geese; with mince pies, suckling pigs, wreaths of sausages, oranges and apples; and there was Bob Cratchit and Little Dorrit and Tiny Tim and Mr. Fagin himself, and a man who looked as if he might be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato’who else but Mr. Marley, chains and all, while the wine poured and the brown turkeys did their excellent best to steam!
‘What do you want?’ demanded Mr. Charles Dickens.
‘We’ve come to plead with you again, Charles; we need your help,’ said Poe.
‘Help? Do you think I would help you fight against those good men coming in the
rocket? I don’t belong here, anyway. My books were burned by mistake. I’m no
supernaturalist, no writer of horrors and terrors like you, Poe; you, Bierce, or
the others. I’ll have nothing to do with you terrible people!’
‘You are a persuasive talker,’ reasoned Poe. ‘You could go to meet the rocket
men, lull them, lull their suspicions and then’then we would take care of them.’
Mr. Dickens eyed the folds of the black cape which hid Poe’s hands. From it,
smiling, Poe drew forth a black cat. ‘For one of our visitors.’
‘And for the others?’
Poe smiled again, well pleased. ‘The Premature Burial?’
‘You are a grim man, Mr. Poe.’
‘I am a frightened and an angry man. I am a god, Mr. Dickens, even as you are a
god, even as we all are gods, and our inventions’our people, if you wish’have
not only been threatened, but banished and burned, torn up and censored, ruined and done away with. The worlds we created are falling into ruin. Even gods must fight!’
‘So?’ Mr. Dickens tilted his head, impatient to return to the party, the music,
the food. ‘Perhaps you can explain why we are here? How did we come here?’
‘War begets war. Destruction begets destruction. On Earth, a century ago, in the
year 2020 they outlawed our books. Oh, what a horrible thing’to destroy our
literary creations that way! It summoned us out of’what? Death? The Beyond? I
don’t like abstract things. I don’t know. I only know that our worlds and our
creations called us and we tried to save them, and the only saving thing we
could do was wait out the century here on Mars, hoping Earth might overweight
itself with these scientists and their doubtings; but now they’re coming to
clean us out of here, us and our dark things, and all the alchemists, witches,
vampires, and were-things that, one by one, retreated across space as science
made inroads through every country on Earth and finally left no alternative at
all but exodus. You must help us. You have a good speaking manner. We need you.’
‘I repeat, I am not of you, I don’t approve of you and the others,’ cried
Dickens angrily. ‘I was no player with witches and vampires and midnight
things.’
‘What of A Christmas Carol?’
‘Ridiculous! One story. Oh, I wrote a few others about ghosts, perhaps, but what
of that? My basic works had none of that nonsense!’
‘Mistaken or not, they grouped you with us. They destroyed your books’your
worlds too. You must hate them, Mr. Dickens!’
‘I admit they are stupid and rude, but that is all. Good day!’
‘Let Mr. Marley come, at least!’
‘No!’
The door slammed. As Poe turned away, down the street, skimming over the frosty ground, the coachman playing a lively air on a bugle, came a great coach, out of which, cherry-red, laughing and singing, piled the Pickwickians, banging on the door, shouting Merry Christmas good and loud, when the door was opened by the fat boy.
Mr. Poe hurried along the midnight shore of the dry sea. By fires and smoke he
hesitated, to shout orders, to check the bubbling caldrons, the poisons and the
chalked pentagrams. ‘Good!’ he said, and ran on. ‘Fine!’ he shouted, and ran
again. People joined him and ran with him. Here were Mr. Coppard and Mr. Machen running with him now. And there were hating serpents and angry demons and fiery bronze dragons and spitting vipers and trembling witches like the barbs and nettles and thorns and all the vile flotsam and jetsam of the retreating sea of imagination, left on the melancholy shore, whining and frothing and spitting.
Mr. Machen stopped. He sat like a child on the cold sand. He began to sob. They
tried to soothe him, but he would not listen. ‘I just thought,’ he said. ‘What
happens to us on the day when the last copies of our books are destroyed?’
The air whirled.
‘Don’t speak of it!’
‘We must,’ wailed Mr. Machen. ‘Now, now, as the rocket comes down, you, Mr. Poe; you, Coppard; you, Bierce’all of you grow faint. Like wood smoke. Blowing away.
Your faces melt”
‘Death! Real death for all of us.’
‘We exist only through Earth’s sufferance. If a final edict tonight destroyed
our last few works we’d be like lights put out.’
Coppard brooded gently. ‘I wonder who I am. In what Earth mind tonight do I
exist? In some African hut? Some hermit, reading my tales? Is he the lonely
candle in the wind of time and science? The flickering orb sustaining me here in
rebellious exile? Is it him? Or some boy in a discarded attic, finding me, only
just in time! Oh, last night I felt ill, ill, ill to the marrows of me, for
there is a body of the soul as well as a body of the body, and this soul body
ached in all of its glowing parts, and last night I felt myself a candle,
guttering. When suddenly I sprang up, given new light! As some child, sneezing
with dust, in some yellow garret on Earth once more found a worn, time-specked
copy of me! And so I’m given a short respite!’
A door banged wide in a little hut by the shore. A thin short man, with flesh
hanging from him in folds, stepped out and, paying no attention to the others,
sat down and stared into his clenched fists.
‘There’s the one I’m sorry for,’ whispered Blackwood. ‘Look at him, dying away.
He was once more real than we, who were men. They took him, a skeleton thought,
and clothed him in centuries of pink flesh and snow beard and red velvet suit
and black boot; made him reindeers, tinsel, holly. And after centuries of
manufacturing him they drowned him in a vat of Lysol, you might say.’
The men were silent.
‘What must it be on Earth?’ wondered Poe. ‘Without Christmas? No hot chestnuts,
no tree, no ornaments or drums or candles’nothing; nothing but the snow and wind
and the lonely, factual people. . . .’
They all looked at the thin little old man with the scraggly beard and faded red
velvet suit.
‘Have you heard his story?’
‘I can imagine it. The glitter-eyed psychiatrist, the clever sociologist, the
resentful, froth-mouthed educationalist, the antiseptic parents”’
‘A regrettable situation,’ said fierce, smiling, ‘for the Yuletide merchants
who, toward the last there, as I recall, were beginning to put up holly and sing
Noel the day before Halloween. With any luck at all this year they might have
started on Labor Day!’
Bierce did not continue. He fell forward with a sigh. As he lay upon the ground
he had time to say only, ‘How interesting.’ And then, as they all watched,
horrified, his body burned into blue dust and charred bone, the ashes of which
fled through the air in black tatters.
‘Bierce, Berce!’
‘Gone!’
‘His last book gone. Someone on Earth just now burned it.’
‘God rest him. Nothing of him left now. For what are we but books, and when
those are gone, nothing’s to be seen.’
A rushing sound filled the sky.
They cried out, terrified, and looked up. In the sky, dazzling it with sizzling
fire clouds, was the rocket! Around the men on the seashore lanterns bobbed;
there was a squealing and a bubbling and an odor of cooked spells. Candle-eyed
pumpkins lifted into the cold clear air. Thin fingers clenched into fists and a
witch screamed from her withered mouth:
‘Ship, ship, break, fall!
Ship, ship, burn all!
Crack, flake, shake, melt!
Mummy dust, cat pelt!’
‘Time to go,’ murmured Blackwood. ‘On to Jupiter, on to Saturn or Pluto.’
‘Run away?’ shouted Poe in the wind. ‘Never!’
‘I’m a tired old man!’
Poe gazed into the old man’s face and believed him. He climbed atop a huge
boulder and faced the ten thousand gray shadows and green lights and yellow eyes
on the hissing wind.
‘The powders!’ he shouted.
A thick hot smell of bitter almond, civet, cumin, wormseed and orris!
The rocket came down’steadily down, with the shriek of a damned spirit! Poe
raged at it! He flung his fists up and the orchestra of heat and smell and
hatred answered in symphony! Like stripped tree fragments, bats flew upward!
Burning hearts, flung like missiles, burst in bloody fireworks on the singed
air. Down, down, relentlessly down, like a pendulum the rocket came. And Poe
howled, furiously, and shrank back with every sweep and sweep of the rocket
cutting and ravening the air! All the dead sea seemed a pit in which, trapped,
they waited the sinking of the dread machinery, the glistening ax; they were
people under the avalanche!
‘The snakes!’ screamed Poe.
And luminous serpentines of undulant green hurtled toward the rocket. But it
came down, a sweep, a fire, a motion, and it lay panting out exhaustions of red
plumage on the sand, a mile away.
‘At it!’ shrieked Poe. ‘The plan’s changed! Only one chance! Run! At it! At it!
Drown them with our bodies! Kill them!’
And as if he had commanded a violent sea to change its course, to suck itself
free from primeval beds, the whirls and savage gouts of fire spread and ran like
wind and rain and stark lightning over the sea sands, down empty river deltas,
shadowing and screaming, whistling and whining, sputtering and coalescing toward the rocket which, extinguished, lay like a clean metal torch in the farthest
hollow. As if a great charred caldron of sparkling lava had been overturned, the
boiling people and snapping animals churned down the dry fathoms.
‘Kill them!’ screamed Poe, running.
The rocket men leaped out of their ship, guns ready. They stalked about,
sniffing the air like hounds. They saw nothing. They relaxed.
The captain stepped forth last. He gave sharp commands. Wood was gathered,
kindled, and a fire leapt up in an instant. The captain beckoned his men into a
half circle about him.
‘A new world,’ he said, forcing himself to speak deliberately, though he glanced
nervously, now and again, over his shoulder at the empty sea. ‘The old world
left behind. A new start. What more symbolic than that we here dedicate
ourselves all the more firmly to science and progress.’ He nodded crisply to his
lieutenant. ‘The books.’
Firelight limned the faded gilt titles: The Willows, The Outsider, Behold, The
Dreamer, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The Land of Oz, Pellucidar, The Land That Time
Forgot A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and the monstrous names of Machen and Edgar
Allan Poe and Cabell and Dunsany and Blackwood and Lewis Carroll; the names, the
old names, the evil names.
‘A new world. With a gesture, we burn the last of the old.’ The captain ripped
pages from the books. Leaf by seared leaf, he fed them into the fire.
A scream!
Leaping back, the men stared beyond the firelight at the edges of the
encroaching and uninhabited sea.
Another scream! A high and wailing thing, like the death of a dragon and the
thrashing of a bronzed whale left gasping when the waters of a leviathan’s sea
drain down the shingles and evaporate.
It was the sound of air rushing in to fill a vacuum, where, a moment before,
there had been something!
…
The captain neatly disposed of the last book by putting it into the fire.
The air stopped quivering. Silence!
The rocket men leaned and listened. ‘Captain, did you hear it?’
‘No.’
‘Like a wave, sir. On the sea bottom! I thought I saw something. Over there. A
black wave. Big. Running at us.’
‘You were mistaken.’
‘There, sir!’
‘What?’
‘See it? There! The city! Way over! That green city near the lake! It’s
splitting in half. It’s falling!’
The men squinted and shuffled forward.
Smith stood trembling among them. He put his hand to his head as if to find a
thought there. ‘I remember. Yes, now I do. A long time back. When I was a child.
A book I read. A story. Oz, I think it was. Yes, Oz. The Emerald City of Oz . .
.’
‘Oz? Never heard of it.’
‘Yes, Oz, that’s what it was. I saw it just now, like in the story. I saw it
fall.’
‘Smith!’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Report for psychoanalysis tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir!’ A brisk salute.
‘Be careful.’
…
The men tiptoed, guns alert, beyond the ship’s aseptic light to gaze at the long
sea and the low hills.
‘Why,’ whispered Smith, disappointed, ‘there’s no one here at all, is there? No
one here at all.’
The wind blew sand over his shoes, whining.
No
The End
A final MM note.
Our reality is one ruled by quantum physics. An within this reality is the idea that thoughts create and change our reality. So what happens when entire groups of people no longer have , or possess, certain thoughts? What will the resulting landscape look like?
Here's a nice short story to provide some brief moments of pleasure. I do hope that you enjoy it as much as I have. - MM
THE DRAGON
By Ray Bradbury
The night blew in the short grass on the moor; there was no other motion. It had been years since a single bird had flown by in the great blind shell of sky.
Long ago a few small stones had simulated life when they crumbled and fell into dust. Now only the night moved in the souls of the two men bent by their lonely fire in the wilderness; darkness pumped quietly in their veins and ticked silently in their temples and their wrists.
Firelight fled up and down their wild faces and welled in their eyes in orange tatters. They listened to each other’s faint, cool breathing and the lizard blink of their eyelids. At last, one man poked the fire with his sword.
“Don’t idiot; you’ll give us away!”
“No matter,” said the second man, “The dragon can smell us miles off anyway. God’s breath, it’s cold. I wish I was back at the castle.”
“It’s death, not sleep, we’re after…”
“Why? Why? The dragon never sets foot in the town!”
“Quiet, fool! He eats men traveling alone from our town to the next!”
“Let them be eaten and let us get home!”
“Wait now; listen!”
The two men froze.
They waited a long time, but there was only the shake of their horses’ nervous skin like black velvet tambourines jingling the silver stirrup buckles, softly, softly.
“Ah.” The second man sighed. “What a land of nightmares. Everything happens here. Someone blows out the sun; it’s night. And then, and then, oh, God, listen! This dragon, they say his eyes are fire. His breath a white gas; you can see him burn across the dark lands. He runs with sulfur and thunder and kindles the grass. Sheep panic and die insane. Women deliver forth monsters. The dragon’s fury is such that tower walls shake back to dust. His victims, at sunrise, are strewn hither thither on the hills. How many knights, I ask, have gone for this monster and failed, even as we shall fail?”
“Enough of that!”
“More than enough! Out here in this desolation I cannot tell what year this is!”
“Nine hundred years since the Nativity.”
“No, no,” whispered the second man, eyes shut, “On this moor is no Time, is only Forever. I feel if I ran back on the road the town would be gone, the people yet unborn, things changed, the castles unquarried from the rocks, the timbers still uncut from the forests; don’t ask how I know; the moor knows and tells me. And here we sit alone in the land of the fire dragon, God save us!”
“Be you afraid, then gird on your armor!”
“What use? The dragon runs from nowhere; we cannot guess its home. It vanishes in fog; we know not where it goes. Aye, on with our armor, we’ll die well dressed.”
Half into his silver corselet, the second man stopped again and turned his head.
Across the dim country, full of night and nothingness from the heart of the moor itself, the wind sprang full of dust from clocks that used dust for telling time. There were black suns burning in the heart of this new wind and a million burnt leaves shaken from some autumn tree be- yond the horizon. This wind melted landscapes, lengthened bones like white wax, made the blood roil and thicken to a muddy deposit in the brain. The wind was a thousand souls dying and all time confused and in transit. It was a fog inside of a mist inside of a darkness, and this place was no man’s place and there was no year or hour at all, but only these men in a faceless emptiness of sudden frost, storm and white thunder which
moved behind the great falling pane of green glass that was the lightning. A squall of rain drenched the turf; all faded away until there was unbreathing hush and the two men waiting alone with their warmth in a cool season.
“There,” whispered the first man. “Oh, there…”
Miles off, rushing with a great chant and a roar – the dragon.
In silence the men buckled on their armor and mounted their horses. The midnight wilderness was split by a monstrous gushing as the dragon roared nearer, nearer; its flashing yellow glare spurted above a hill and then, fold on fold of dark body, distantly seen, therefore indistinct, flowed over that hill and plunged vanishing into a valley.
“Quick!”
They spurred their horses forward to a small hollow.
“This is where it passes!”
They seized their lances with mailed fists and blinded their horses by flipping the visors down over their eyes.
“Lord!”
“Yes, let us use His name.”
On the instant, the dragon rounded a hill. Its monstrous amber eye fed on them, fired their armor in red glints and glitters, With a terrible wailing cry and a grinding rush it flung itself forward.
“Mercy, God!”
The lance struck under the unlidded yellow eye, buckled, tossed the man through the air. The dragon hit, spilled him over, down, ground him under. Passing, the black brunt of its shoulder smashed the remaining horse and rider a hundred feet against the side of a boulder, wailing, wailing, the dragon shrieking, the fire all about, around, under it, a pink, yellow, orange sun-fire with great soft plumes of blinding smoke.
…
“Did you see it?” cried a voice. “Just like I told you!”
“The same! The same! A knight in armor, by the Lord Harry! We hit him!”
“You goin’ to stop?”
“Did once; found nothing. Don’t like to stop on this moor. I get the willies. Got a feel, it has.”
“But we hit something!”
“Gave him plenty of whistle; chap wouldn’t budge!”
A steaming blast cut the mist aside.
“We’ll make Stokely on time. More coal, eh, Fred?”
Another whistle shook dew from the empty sky. The night train, in fire and fury, shot through a gully, up a rise, and vanished away over cold earth toward the north, leaving black smoke and steam to dissolve in the numbed air minutes after it had passed and gone forever.
Do you want more?
I have more stories much like this one in my Ray Bradbury Index here…
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Please kindly help me out in this effort. There is a lot of effort that goes into this disclosure. I could use all the financial support that anyone could provide. Thank you.
This is the science fiction short story that eventually was made into the famous movie 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) It’s a great read, and as much as I loved the movie, in many ways this short story was actually better. I hope that you all will enjoy it as much as I have.
THE SENTINEL
Arthur C. Clarke
1951 Avon Periodicals Inc.
The next time you see the full moon high in the south, look carefully at its right-hand edge and let your eye travel upward along the curve of the disk. Round about two o’clock you will notice a small, dark oval: anyone with normal eyesight can find it quite easily. It is the great walled plain,
one of the finest on the Moon, known as the Mare Crisium-the Sea of Crises. Three hundred miles in diameter, and almost completely surrounded by a ring of magnificent mountains, it had never been explored until we entered it in the late summer of 1996.
Our expedition was a large one. We had two heavy freighters which had flown our supplies and equipment from the main lunar base in the Mare Serenitatis, five hundred miles away. There were also three small rockets which were intended for short-range transport over regions which our surface vehicles couldn’t cross. Luckily, most of the Mare Crisiurn is very flat. There are none of the great crevasses so common and so dangerous elsewhere, and very few craters or mountains of any size. As far as we could tell, our powerful caterpillar tractors would have no difficulty in taking us wherever we wished to go.
I was geologist-or selenologist, if you want to be pedantic in charge of. the group exploring the southern region of the Mare. We had crossed a hundred miles of it in a week, skirting the foothills of the mountains along the shore of what was once the ancient sea, some thousand million years before. When life was beginning on Earth, it was already dying here. The waters were retreating down the flanks of those stupendous cliff s, retreating into the empty heart of the Moon. Over the land which we were crossing, the tideless ocean had once been half a mile deep, and now the only trace of moisture was the hoarfrost one could sometimes find in caves which the searing sunlight never penetrated.
We had begun our journey early in the slow lunar dawn, and still had almost a week of Earth-time before nightfall. Half a dozen times a day we would leave our vehicle and go outside in the spacesuits to hunt for interesting minerals, or to place markers for the guidance of future travelers. It was an uneventful routine. There is nothing hazardous or even particularly exciting about lunar exploration. We could live comfortably for a month in our pressurized tractors, and if we ran into trouble we could always radio for help and sit tight until one of the spaceships came to our rescue.
I said just now that there was nothing exciting about lunar exploration, but of course that isn’t true. One could never grow tired of those incredible mountains, so much more rugged than the gentle hills of Earth. We never knew, as we rounded the capes and promontories of that vanished sea, what new splendors would be revealed to us. The whole southern curve of the Mare Crisiurn is a vast delta where a score of rivers once found their way into the ocean, fed perhaps by the torrential rains that must have lashed the mountains in the brief volcanic age when the Moon was young.
Each of these ancient valleys was an invitation, challenging us to climb into the unknown uplands beyond. But we had a hundred miles still to cover, and could only look longingly at the heights which others must scale.
We kept Earth-time aboard the tractor, and precisely at 22.00 hours the final radio message would be sent out to Base and we would close down for the day. Outside, the rocks would still be burning beneath the almost vertical sun, but to us it was night until we awoke again eight hours later. Then one of us would prepare breakfast, there would be a great buzzing of electric razors, and someone would switch on the short-wave radio from Earth. Indeed, when the smell of frying sausages began to fill the cabin, it was sometimes hard to believe that we were not back on our own world – everything was so normal and homely, apart from the feeling of decreased weight and the unnatural slowness with which objects fell.
It was my turn to prepare breakfast in the corner of the main cabin that served as a galley. I can remember that moment quite vividly after all these years, for the radio had just played one of my favorite melodies, the old Welsh air, “David of the White, Rock.”
Our driver was already outside in his space-suit, inspecting our caterpillar treads. My assistant, Louis Garnett, was up forward in the control position, making some belated entries in yesterday’s log.
As I stood by the frying pan waiting, like any terrestrial housewife, for the sausages to brown, I let my gaze wander idly over the mountain walls which covered the whole of the southern horizon, marching out of sight to east and west below the curve of the Moon. They seemed only a mile or two from the tractor, but I knew that the nearest was twenty miles away. On the Moon, of course, there is no loss of detail with distance-none of that almost imperceptible haziness which softens and sometimes transfigures all far-off things on Earth.
Those mountains were ten thousand feet high, and they climbed steeply out of the plain as if ages ago some subterranean eruption had smashed them skyward through the molten crust. The base of even the nearest was hidden from sight by the steeply curving surface of the plain, for the Moon is a very little world, and from where I was standing the horizon was only two miles away.
I lifted my eyes toward the peaks which no man had ever climbed, the peaks which, before the coming of terrestrial life, had watched the retreating oceans sink sullenly into their graves, taking with them the hope and the morning promise of a world. The sunlight was beating against those ramparts with a glare that hurt the eyes, yet only a little way above them the stars were shining steadily in a sky blacker than a winter midnight on Earth.
I was turning away when my eye caught a metallic glitter high on the ridge of a great promontory thrusting out into the sea thirty miles to the west. It was a dimensionless point of light, as if a star had been clawed from the sky by one of those cruel peaks, and I imagined that some smooth rock surface was catching the sunlight and heliographing it straight into my eyes. Such things were not uncommon. When the Moon is in her second quarter, observers on Earth can sometimes see the great ranges in the Oceanus Procellarum burning with a blue-white iridescence as the sunlight flashes from their slopes and leaps again from world to world. But I was curious to know what kind of rock could be shining so brightly up there, and I climbed into the observation turret and swung our four inch telescope round to the west.
I could see just enough to tantalize me. Clear and sharp in the field of vision, the mountain peaks seemed only half a mile away, but whatever was catching the sunlight was still too small to be resolved. Yet it seemed to have an elusive symmetry, and the summit upon which it rested was curiously flat. I stared for a long time at that glittering enigma, straining my eyes into space, until presently a smell of burning from the galley told me that our breakfast sausages had made their quarter-million mile journey in vain. .
All that morning we argued our way across the Mare Crisium while the western mountains reared higher in the sky. Even when we were out prospecting in the space-suits, the discussion would continue over the radio. It was absolutely certain, my companions argued, that there had never been any form of intelligent life on the Moon. The only living things that had ever existed there were a few primitive plants and their slightly less degenerate ancestors. I knew that as well as anyone, but there are times when a scientist must not be afraid to make a fool of himself.
“Listen,” I said at last, “I’m going up there, if only for my own peace of mind. That mountain’s less than twelve thousand feet high -that’s only two thousand under Earth gravity-and I can make the trip in twenty hours at the outside. I’ve always wanted to go up into those hills, anyway, and this gives me an excellent excuse.”
“If you don’t break your neck,” said Garnett, “you’ll be the laughing-stock of the expedition when we get back to Base. That mountain will probably be called Wilson’s Folly from now on.”
“I won’t break my neck,” I said firmly. “Who was the first man to climb Pico and Helicon?” “But weren’t you rather younger in those days?” asked Louis gently.
“That,” I said with great dignity, “is as good a reason as any for going.”
We went to bed early that night, after driving the tractor to within half a mile of the promontory. Garnett was coming with me in the morning; he was a good climber, and had often been with me on such exploits before. Our driver was only too glad to be left in charge of the machine.
At first sight, those cliffs seemed completely unscalable, but to anyone with a good head for heights, climbing is easy on a world where all weights are only a sixth of their normal value. The real danger in lunar mountaineering lies in overconfidence; a six-hundred-foot drop on the Moon can kill you just as thoroughly as a. hundred-foot fall on Earth.
We made our first halt on a wide ledge about four thousand feet above the plain. Climbing had not been very difficult, but my limbs were stiff with the unaccustomed effort, and I was glad of the rest. We could still see the tractor as a tiny metal insect far down at the foot of the cliff, and we reported our progress to the driver before starting on the next ascent.
Inside our suits it was comfortably cool, for the refrigeration units were fighting the fierce sun and carrying away the body-heat of our exertions. We seldom spoke to each other, except to pass climbing instructions and to discuss our best plan of ascent. I do not know what Garnett was thinking, probably that this was the craziest goose-chase he had ever embarked upon. I more than half agreed with him, but the joy of climbing, the knowledge that no man had ever gone this way before and the exhilaration of the steadily widening landscape gave me all the reward I needed.
I don’t think I was particularly excited when I saw in front of us the wall of rock I had first inspected through the telescope from thirty miles away. It would level off about fifty feet above our heads, and there on the plateau would be the thing that had lured me over these barren wastes. It was, almost certainly, nothing more than a boulder splintered ages ago by a falling meteor, and with its cleavage planes still fresh and bright in this incorruptible, unchanging silence.
There were no hand-holds on the rock face, and we had to use a grapnel. My tired arms seemed to gain new strength as I swung the three-pronged metal anchor round my head and sent it sailing Lip toward the stars. The first time it broke loose and came falling slowly back when we pulled the rope. On the third attempt, the prongs gripped firmly and our combined weights could not shift it.
Garnett looked at me anxiously. I could tell that he wanted to go first, but I smiled back at him through the glass of my helmet and shook my head. Slowly, taking my time, I began the final ascent.
Even with my space-suit, I weighed only forty pounds here, so I pulled myself up hand over hand without bothering to use my feet. At the rim I paused and waved to my companion, then I scrambled over the edge and stood upright, staring ahead of me.
You must understand that until this very moment I had been almost completely convinced that there could be nothing strange or unusual for me to find here. Almost, but not quite; it was that haunting doubt that had driven me forward. Well, it was a doubt no longer, but the haunting had scarcely begun.
I was standing on a plateau perhaps a hundred feet across. It had once been smooth-too smooth to be natural-but falling meteors had pitted and scored its surface through immeasurable eons. It had been leveled to support a glittering, roughly pyramidal structure, twice as high as a man, that was set in the rock like a gigantic, many-faceted jewel.
Probably no emotion at all filled my mind in those first few seconds. Then I felt a great lifting of my heart, and a strange, inexpressible joy. For I loved the Moon, and now I knew that the creeping moss of Aristarchus and Eratosthenes was not the only life she had brought forth in her youth. The old, discredited dream of the first explorers was true. There had, after all, been a lunar civilization- and I was the first to find it. That I had come perhaps a hundred million years too late did not distress me; it was enough to have come at all.
My mind was beginning to function normally, to analyze and to ask questions. Was this a building, a shrine-or something for which my language had no name? If a building, then why was it erected in so uniquely inaccessible a spot? I wondered if it might be a temple, and I could picture the adepts of some strange priesthood calling on their gods to preserve them as the life of the Moon ebbed with the dying oceans, and calling on their gods in vain.
I took a dozen steps forward to examine the thing more closely, but some sense of caution kept me from going too near. I knew a little of archaeology, and tried to guess the cultural level of the civilization that must have smoothed this mountain and raised the glittering mirror surfaces that still dazzled my eyes.
The Egyptians could have done it, I thought, if their workmen had possessed whatever strange materials these far more ancient architects had used. Because of the thing’s smallness, it did not occur to me that I might be looking at the handiwork of a race more advanced than my own. The idea that the Moon had possessed intelligence at all was still almost too tremendous to grasp, and my pride would not let me take the final, humiliating plunge.
And then I noticed something that set the scalp crawling at the back of my neck-something so trivial and so innocent that many would never have noticed it at all. I have said that the plateau was scarred by meteors; it was also coated inches-deep with the cosmic dust that is always filtering down upon the surface of any world where there are no winds to disturb it. Yet the dust and the meteor scratches ended quite abruptly in a wide circle enclosing the little pyramid, as though an invisible wall was protecting it from the ravages of time and the slow but ceaseless bombardment from space.
There was someone shouting in my earphones, and I realized that Garnett had been calling me for some time. I walked unsteadily to the edge of the cliff and signaled him to join me, not trusting myself to speak. Then I went back toward that circle in the dust. I picked up a fragment of splintered rock and tossed it gently toward the shining enigma. If the pebble had vanished at that invisible barrier I should not have been surprised, but it seemed to hit a smooth, hemispherical surface and slide gently to the ground.
I knew then that I was looking at nothing that could be matched in the antiquity of my own race. This was not a building, but a machine, protecting itself with forces that had challenged Eternity. Those forces, whatever they might be, were still operating, and perhaps I had already come too close. I thought of all the radiations man had trapped and tamed in the past century. For all I knew, I might be as irrevocably doomed as if I had stepped into the deadly, silent aura of an unshielded atomic pile.
I remember turning then toward Garnett, who bad joined me and was now standing motionless at my side. He seemed quite oblivious to me, so I did not disturb him but walked to the edge of the cliff in an effort to marshal my thoughts. There below me lay the Mare Crisium-Sea of Crises, indeed-strange and weird to most men, but reassuringly familiar to me. I lifted my eyes toward the crescent Earth, lying in her cradle of stars, and I wondered what her clouds had covered when these unknown builders had finished their work. Was it the steaming jungle of the Carboniferous, the bleak shoreline over which the first amphibians must crawl to conquer the land-or, earlier still, the long loneliness before the coming of life?
Do not ask me why I did not guess the truth sooner-the truth, that seems so obvious now. In the first excitement of my discovery, I had assumed without question that this crystalline apparition had been built by some race belonging to the Moon’s remote past, but suddenly, and with overwhelming force, the belief came to me that it was as alien to the Moon as I myself.
In twenty years we had found no trace of life but a few degenerate plants. No lunar civilization, whatever its doom, could have left but a single token of its existence.
I looked at the shining pyramid again, and the more remote it seemed from anything that had to do with the Moon. And suddenly I felt myself shaking with a foolish, hysterical laughter, brought on by excitement and overexertion: for I had imagined that the little pyramid was speaking to me and was saying: “Sorry, I’m a stranger here myself.”
It has taken us twenty years to crack that invisible shield and to reach the machine inside those crystal walls. What we could not understand, we broke at last with the savage might of atomic power and now I have seen the fragments of the lovely, glittering thing I found up there on the mountain.
They are meaningless. The mechanisms-if indeed they are mechanisms-of the pyramid belong to a technology that lies far beyond our horizon, perhaps to the technology of para-physical forces.
The mystery haunts us all the more now that the other planets have been reached and we know that only Earth has ever been the home of intelligent life in our Universe. Nor could any lost civilization of our own world have built that machine, for the thickness of the meteoric dust on the plateau has enabled us to measure its age. It was set there upon its mountain before life had emerged from the seas of Earth.
When our world was half its present age, something from the stars swept through the Solar System, left this token of its passage, and went again upon its way. Until we destroyed it, that machine was still fulfilling the purpose of its builders; and as to that purpose, here is my guess.
Nearly a hundred thousand million stars are turning in the circle of the Milky Way, and long ago other races on the worlds of other suns must have scaled and passed the heights that we have reached. Think of such civilizations, far back in time against the fading afterglow of Creation, masters of a universe so young that life as yet had come only to a handful of worlds. Theirs would have been a loneliness we cannot imagine, the loneliness of gods looking out across infinity and finding none to share their thoughts.
They must have searched the star-clusters as we have searched the planets. Everywhere there would be worlds, but they would be empty or peopled with crawling, mindless things. Such was our own Earth, the smoke of the great volcanoes still staining the skies, when that first ship of the peoples of the dawn came sliding in from the abyss beyond Pluto. It passed the frozen outer worlds, knowing that life could play no part in their destinies. It came to rest among the inner planets, warming themselves around the fire of the Sun and waiting for their stories to begin.
Those wanderers must have looked on Earth, circling safely in the narrow zone between fire and ice, and must have guessed that it was the favorite of the Sun’s children. Here, in the distant future, would be intelligence; but there were countless stars before -them still, and they might never come this way again.
So they left a sentinel, one of millions they have scattered throughout the Universe, watching over all worlds with the promise of life. It was a beacon that down the ages has been patiently signaling the fact that no one had discovered it.
Perhaps you understand now why that crystal pyramid was set upon the Moon instead of on the Earth. Its builders were not concerned with races still struggling up from savagery. They would be interested in our civilization only if we proved our fitness to survive -by crossing space and so escaping from the Earth, our cradle. That is the challenge that all intelligent races must meet, sooner or later. It is a double challenge, for it depends in turn upon the conquest of atomic energy and the last choice between life and death.
Once we had passed that crisis, it was only a matter of time before we found the pyramid and forced it open. Now its signals have ceased, and those whose duty it is will be turning their minds upon Earth. Perhaps they wish to help our infant civilization. But they must be very, very old, and the old are often insanely jealous of the young.
I can never look now at the Milky Way without wondering from which of those banked clouds of stars the emissaries are coming. If you will pardon so commonplace a simile, we have set off the fire-alarm and have nothing to do but to wait.
I do not think we will have to wait for long.
The End
Do you want more?
I have more posts in my Fictional Story Index here…
You’ll not find any big banners or popups here talking about cookies and privacy notices. There are no ads on this site (aside from the hosting ads – a necessary evil). Functionally and fundamentally, I just don’t make money off of this blog. It is NOT monetized. Finally, I don’t track you because I just don’t care to.
The main theme in this story is the role of faith in gaining redemption.
The Man is what the Judeo-Christian faiths would term the Messiah or Savior, but Bradbury opts to make this a broader, explicitly stating that this figure exists in many cultures and goes by many names.
What the Man brings, however, is a sense of peace and happiness that is akin to what the Judeo-Christian faiths would call redemption - that is, a forgiveness of sins and a more enlightened way of life.
The Man
By Ray Bradbury
CAPTAIN HART stood in the door of the rocket. ‘Why don’t they come?’ he said.
‘Who knows?’ said Martin, his lieutenant. ‘Do I know, Captain?’
‘What kind of a place is this, anyway?’ The captain lighted a cigar. He tossed
the match out into the glittering meadow. The grass started to burn.
Martin moved to stamp it out with his boot.
‘No,’ ordered Captain Hart, ‘let it burn. Maybe they’ll come see what’s
happening then, the ignorant fools.’
Martin shrugged and withdrew his foot from the spreading fire.
Captain Hart examined his watch. ‘An hour ago we landed here, and does the
welcoming committee rush out with a brass band to shake our hands? No indeed!
Here we ride millions of miles through space and the fine citizens of some silly
town on some unknown planet ignore us!’ He snorted, tapping his watch. ‘Well,
I’ll just give them five more minutes, and then”’
‘And then what?’ asked Martin, ever so politely, watching the captain’s jowls
shake.
‘We’ll fly over their damned city again and scare hell out of them.’ His voice
grew quieter. ‘Do you think, Martin, maybe they didn’t see us land?’
‘They saw us. They looked up as we flew over.
‘Then why aren’t they running across the field? Are they hiding? Are they
yellow?’
Martin shook his head. ‘No. Take these binoculars, sir. See for yourself.
Everybody’s walking around. They’re not frightened. They’well, they just don’t
seem to care.
Captain Hart placed the binoculars to his tired eyes. Martin looked up and had
time to observe the lines and the grooves of irritation, tiredness, nervousness
there. Hart looked a million years old; he never slept, he ate little, and drove
himself on, on. Now his mouth moved, aged and drear, but sharp, under the held
binoculars.
‘Really, Martin, I don’t know why we bother. We build rockets, we go to all the
trouble of crossing space, searching for them, and this is what we get. Neglect.
Look at those idiots wander about in there. Don’t they realize how big this is?
The first space flight to touch their provincial land. How many times does that
happen? Are they that blas’?’
Martin didn’t know.
Captain Hart gave him back the binoculars wearily. ‘Why do we do it, Martin?
This space travel, I mean. Always on the go. Always searching. Our insides
always tight, never any rest.’
‘Maybe we’re looking for peace and quiet. Certainly there’s none on Earth,’ said
Martin.
‘No, there’s not, is there?’ Captain Hart was thoughtful, the fire damped down.
‘Not since Darwin, eh? Not since everything went by the board, everything we
used to believe in, eh? Divine power and all that. And so you think maybe that’s
why we’re going out to the stars, eh, Martin? Looking for our lost souls, is
that it? Trying to get away from our evil planet to a good one?’
‘Perhaps, sir. Certainly we’re looking for something.’
Captain Hart cleared his throat and tightened back into sharpness. ‘Well, right
now we’re looking for the mayor of that city there. Run in, tell them who we
are, the first rocket expedition to Planet Forty-three in Star System Three.
Captain Hart sends his salutations and desires to meet the mayor. On the
double!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Martin walked slowly across the meadow.
‘Hurry!’ snapped the captain.
‘Yes, sir!’ Martin trotted away. Then he walked again, smiling to himself.
The captain had smoked two cigars before Martin returned. Martin stopped and
looked up into the door of the rocket, swaying, seemingly unable to focus his
eyes or think.
‘Well?’ snapped Hart. ‘What happened? Are they coming to welcome us?’
‘No.’ Martin had to lean dizzily against the ship.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not important,’ said Martin. ‘Give me a cigarette, please, Captain.’ His
fingers groped blindly at the rising pack, for he was looking at the golden city
and blinking. He lighted one and smoked quietly for a long time.
‘Say something!’ cried the captain. ‘Aren’t they interested in our rocket?’
Martin said, ‘What? Oh. The rocket?’ He inspected his cigarette. ‘No, they’re
not interested. Seems we came at an inopportune time.’
‘Inopportune time!’
Martin was patient. ‘Captain, listen. Something big happened yesterday in that
city. It’s so big, so important that we’re second-rate’second fiddle. I’ve got
to sit down.’ He lost his balance and sat heavily, gasping for air.
The captain chewed his cigar angrily. “What happened?’ Martin lifted his head,
smoke from the burning cigarette in his fingers, blowing in the wind. ‘Sir,
yesterday, in that city, a remarkable man appeared’good, intelligent,
compassionate, and infinitely wise!’
The captain glared at his lieutenant. ‘What’s that to do with us?’
‘It’s hard to explain. But he was a man for whom they’d waited a long time’a
million years maybe. And yesterday he walked into their city. That’s why today,
sir, our rocket landing means nothing.’
The captain sat down violently. ‘Who was it? Not Ashley? He didn’t arrive in his
rocket before us and steal my glory, did he?’ He seized Martin’s arm. His face
was pale and dismayed.
‘Not Ashley, sir.’
‘Then it was Burton! I knew it. Burton stole in ahead of us and ruined my
landing! You can’t trust anyone any more.’
‘Not Burton, either, sir,’ said Martin quietly.
The captain was incredulous. ‘There were only three rockets. We were in the
lead. This man who got here ahead of us? What was his name!’
‘He didn’t have a name. He doesn’t need one. It would be different on every
planet, sir.’
The captain stared at his lieutenant with hard, cynical eyes. ‘Well, what did he
do that was so wonderful that nobody even looks at our ship?’
‘For one thing,’ said Martin steadily, ‘he healed the sick and comforted the
poor. He fought hypocrisy and dirty politics and sat among the people, talking,
through the day.’
‘Is that so wonderful?’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘I don’t get this.’ The captain confronted Martin, peered into his face and
eyes. ‘You been drinking, eh?’ He was suspicious. He backed away. ‘I don’t
understand.’
Martin looked at the city. ‘Captain, if you don’t understand, there’s no way of
telling you.’
The captain followed his gaze. The city was quiet and beautiful and a great
peace lay over it. The captain stepped forward, taking his cigar from his lips.
He squinted first at Martin, then at the golden spires of the buildings.
‘You don’t mean’you can’t mean’ That man you’re talking about couldn’t be”’
Martin nodded. ‘That’s what I mean, sir.
The captain stood silently, not moving. He drew himself up.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he said at last.
At high noon Captain Hart walked briskly into the city, accompanied by
Lieutenant Martin and an assistant who was carrying some electrical equipment.
Every once in a while the captain laughed loudly, put his hands on his hips and
shook his head.
The mayor of the town confronted him. Martin set up a tripod, screwed a box onto
it, and switched on the batteries.
‘Are you the mayor?’ The captain jabbed a finger out.
‘I am,’ said the mayor.
The delicate apparatus stood between them, controlled and adjusted by Martin and
the assistant. Instantaneous translations from any language were made by the
box. The words sounded crisply on the mild air of the city.
‘About this occurrence yesterday,’ said the captain. ‘It occurred?’
‘It did.’
‘You have witnesses?’
‘We have.’
‘May we talk to them?’
‘Talk to any of us,’ said the mayor. ‘We are all witnesses.’
In an aside to Martin the captain said, ‘Mass hallucination.’ To the mayor,
‘What did this man’this stranger’look like?’
‘That would be hard to say,’ said the mayor, smiling a little.
‘Why would it?’
‘Opinions might differ slightly.’
‘I’d like your opinion, sir, anyway,’ said the captain. ‘Record this,’ he
snapped to Martin over his shoulder. The lieutenant pressed the button of a hand
recorder.
‘Well,’ said the mayor of the city, ‘he was a very gentle and kind man. He was
of a great and knowing intelligence.’
‘Yes’yes, I know, I know.’ The captain waved his fingers. ‘Generalizations. I
want something specific. What did he look like?’
‘I don’t believe that is important,’ replied the mayor.
‘It’s very important,’ said the captain sternly. ‘I want a description of this
fellow. If I can’t get it from you, I’ll get it from others.’ To Martin, ‘I’m
sure it must have been Burton, pulling one of his practical jokes.’
Martin would not look him in the face. Martin was coldly silent.
The captain snapped his fingers. ‘There was something or other’a healing?’
‘Many healings,’ said the mayor.
‘May I see one?’
‘You may,’ said the mayor. ‘My son.’ He nodded at a small boy who stepped
forward. ‘He was afflicted with a withered arm. Now, look upon it.’
At this the captain laughed tolerantly. ‘Yes, yes. This isn’t even
circumstantial evidence, you know. I didn’t see the boy’s withered arm. I see
only his arm whole and well. That’s no proof. What proof have you that the boy’s
arm was withered yesterday and today is well?’
‘My word is my proof,’ said the mayor simply.
‘My dear man!’ cried the captain. ‘You don’t expect me to go on hearsay, do you?
Oh no!’
‘I’m sorry,’ said the mayor, looking upon the captain with what appeared to be
curiosity and pity.
‘Do you have any pictures of the boy before today?’ asked the captain.
After a moment a large oil portrait was carried forth, showing the son with a
withered arm.
‘My dear fellow!’ The captain waved it away. ‘Anybody can paint a picture.
Paintings lie. I want a photograph of the boy.’
There was no photograph. Photography was not a known art in their society.
‘Well,’ sighed the captain, face twitching, ‘let me talk to a few other
citizens. We’re getting nowhere.’ He pointed at a woman. ‘You.’ She hesitated.
‘Yes, you; come here,’ ordered the captain. ‘Tell me about this wonderful man
you saw yesterday.’
The woman looked steadily at the captain. ‘He walked among us and was very fine
and good.’
‘What color were his eyes?’
‘The color of the sun, the color of the sea, the color of a flower, the color of
the mountains, the color of the night.’
‘That’ll do.’ The captain threw up his hands. ‘See, Martin? Absolutely nothing.
Some charlatan wanders through whispering sweet nothings in their ears and”’
‘Please, stop it,’ said Martin.
The captain stepped back. ‘What?’
‘You heard what I said,’ said Martin. ‘I like these people. I believe what they
say. You’re entitled to your opinion, but keep it to yourself, sir.’
‘You can’t talk to me this way,’ shouted the captain.
‘I’ve had enough of your highhandedness,’ replied Martin. ‘Leave these people
alone. They’ve got something good and decent, and you come and foul up the nest
and sneer at it. Well, I’ve talked to them too. I’ve gone through the city and
seen their faces, and they’ve got something you’ll never have’a little simple
faith, and they’ll move mountains with it. You, you’re boiled because someone
stole your act, got here ahead and made you unimportant!’
‘I’ll give you five seconds to finish,’ remarked the captain. ‘I understand.
You’ve been under a strain, Martin. Months of traveling in space, nostalgia,
loneliness. And now, with this thing happening, I sympathize, Martin. I overlook
your petty insubordination.’
‘I don’t overlook your petty tyranny,’ replied Martin. ‘I’m stepping out. I’m
staying here.’
‘You can’t do that!’
‘Can’t I? Try and stop me. This is what I came looking for. I didn’t know it,
but this is it. This is for me. Take your filth somewhere else and foul up other
nests with your doubt and your’scientific method!’ He looked swiftly about.
‘These people have had an experience, and you can’t seem to get it through your
head that it’s really happened and we were lucky enough to almost arrive in time
to be in on it.
‘People on Earth have talked about this man for twenty centuries after he walked
through the old world. We’ve all wanted to see him and hear him, and never had
the chance. And now, today, we just missed seeing him by a few hours.’
Captain Hart looked at Martin’s cheeks. ‘You’re crying like a baby. Stop it.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Well, I do. In front of these natives we’re to keep up a front. You’re
overwrought. As I said, I forgive you.’
‘I don’t want your forgiveness.”
‘You idiot. Can’t you see this is one of Burton’s tricks, to fool these people,
to bilk them, to establish his oil and mineral concerns under a religious guise!
You fool, Martin. You absolute fool! You should know Earthmen by now. They’ll do
anything’blaspheme, lie, cheat, steal, kill, to get their ends. Anything is fine
if it works; the true pragmatist, that’s Burton. You know him!’
The captain scoffed heavily. ‘Come off it, Martin, admit it; this is the sort of
scaly thing Burton might carry off, polish up these citizens and pluck them when
they’re ripe.’
‘No,’ said Martin, thinking of it.
The captain put his hand up. ‘That’s Burton. That’s him. That’s his dirt, that’s
his criminal way. I have to admire the old dragon. Flaming in here in a blaze
and a halo and a soft word and a loving touch, with a medicated salve here and a
healing ray there. That’s Burton all right!’
‘No.’ Martin’s voice was dazed. He covered his eyes. ‘No, I won’t believe it.’
‘You don’t want to believe.’ Captain Hart kept at it. ‘Admit it now. Admit it!
It’s just the thing Burton would do. Stop daydreaming, Martin. Wake up! It’s
morning. This is a real world and we’re real, dirty people’Burton the dirtiest
of us all!’
Martin turned away.
‘There, there, Martin,’ said Hart, mechanically patting the man’s back. ‘I
understand. Quite a shock for you. I know. A rotten shame, and all that. That
Burton is a rascal. You go take it easy. Let me handle this.’
Martin walked off slowly toward the rocket.
Captain Hart watched him go. Then, taking a deep breath, he turned to the woman
he had been questioning. ‘Well. Tell me some more about this man. As you were
saying, madam?’
Later the officers of the rocket ship ate supper on card tables outside. The
captain correlated his data to a silent Martin who sat red-eyed and brooding
over his meal.
‘Interviewed three dozen people, all of them full of the same milk and hogwash,’
said the captain. ‘It’s Burton’s work all right, I’m positive. He’ll be spilling
back in here tomorrow or next week to consolidate his miracles and beat us out
in our contracts. I think I’ll stick on and spoil it for him.’
Martin glanced up sullenly. ‘I’ll kill him,’ he said.
‘Now, now, Martin! There, there, boy.’
‘I’ll kill him’so help me, I will.’
‘We’ll put an anchor on his wagon. You have to admit he’s clever. Unethical but
clever.’
‘He’s dirty.’
‘You must promise not to do anything violent.’ Captain Hart checked his figures.
‘According to this, there were thirty miracles of healing performed, a blind man
restored to vision, a leper cured. Oh, Burton’s efficient, give him that.’
A gong sounded. A moment later a man ran up. ‘Captain, sir. A report! Burton’s
ship is coming down. Also the Ashley ship, sir!’
‘See!’ Captain Hart beat the table. ‘Here come the jackals to the harvest! They
can’t wait to feed. Wait till I confront them. I’ll make them cut me in on this
feast’I will!’
Martin looked sick. He stared at the captain.
‘Business, my dear boy, business,’ said the captain.
Everybody looked up. Two rockets swung down out of the sky.
When the rockets landed they almost crashed.
‘What’s wrong with those fools?’ cried the captain, jumping up. The men ran
across the meadowlands to the steaming ships.
The captain arrived. The airlock door popped open on Burton’s ship.
A man fell out into their arms.
‘What’s wrong?’ cried Captain Hart.
The man lay on the ground. They bent over him and he was burned, badly burned.
His body was covered with wounds and scars and tissue that was inflamed and
smoking. He looked up out of puffed eyes and his thick tongue moved in his split
lips.
‘What happened?’ demanded the captain, kneeling down, shaking the man’s arm.
‘Sir, sir,’ whispered the dying man. ‘Forty-eight hours ago, back in Space
Sector Seventy-nine DFS, off Planet One in this system, our ship, and Ashley’s
ship, ran into a cosmic storm, sir.’ Liquid ran gray from the man’s nostrils.
Blood trickled from his mouth. ‘Wiped out. All crew. Burton dead. Ashley died an
hour ago. Only three survivals.’
‘Listen to me!’ shouted Hart bending over the bleeding man. ‘You didn’t come to
this planet before this very hour?’
Silence.
‘Answer me!’ cried Hart.
The dying man said, ‘No. Storm. Burton dead two days ago. This first landing on
any world in six months.’
‘Are you sure?’ shouted Hart, shaking violently, gripping the man in his hands.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure, sure,’ mouthed the dying man.
‘Burton died two days ago? You’re positive?’
‘Yes, yes,’ whispered the man. His head fell forward. The man was dead.
The captain knelt beside the silent body. The captain’s face twitched, the
muscles jerking involuntarily. The other members of the crew stood back of him
looking down. Martin waited. The captain asked to be helped to his feet,
finally, and this was done. They stood looking at the city. ‘That means”’
‘That means?’ said Martin.
‘We’re the only ones who’ve been here,’ whispered Captain Hart. ‘And that man”’
‘What about that man, Captain?’ asked Martin.
The captain’s face twitched senselessly. He looked very old indeed, and gray.
His eyes were glazed. He moved forward in the dry grass.
‘Come along, Martin. Come along. Hold me up; for my sake, hold me. I’m afraid
I’ll fall. And hurry. We can’t waste time”’
They moved, stumbling, toward the city, in the long dry grass, in the blowing
wind.
Several hours later they were sitting in the mayor’s auditorium. A thousand
people had come and talked and gone. The captain had remained seated, his face
haggard, listening, listening. There was so much light in the faces of those who
came and testified and talked he could not bear to see them. And all the while
his hands traveled, on his knees, together; on his belt, jerking and quivering.
When it was over, Captain Hart turned to the mayor and with strange eyes said:
‘But you must know where he went?’
‘He didn’t say where he was going,’ replied the mayor.
‘To one of the other nearby worlds?’ demanded the captain.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You must know.’
‘Do you see him?’ asked the mayor, indicating the crowd.
The captain looked. ‘No.’
‘Then he is probably gone,’ said the mayor.
‘Probably, probably!’ cried the captain weakly. ‘I’ve made a horrible mistake,
and I want to see him now. Why, it just came to me, this is a most unusual thing
in history. To be in on something like this. Why, the chances are one in
billions we’d arrived at one certain planet among millions of planets the day
after he came! You must know where he’s gone!’
‘Each finds him in his own way,’ replied the mayor gently.
‘You’re hiding him.’ The captain’s face grew slowly ugly.
Some of the old hardness returned in stages. He began to stand up.
‘No,’ said the mayor.
‘You know where be is then?’ The captain’s fingers twitched at the leather
holster on his right side.
‘I couldn’t tell you where he is, exactly,’ said the mayor.
‘I advise you to start talking,’ and the captain took out a small steel gun.
‘There’s no way,’ said the mayor, ‘to tell you anything.’
‘Liar!’
An expression of pity came into the mayor’s face as he looked at Hart.
‘You’re very tired,’ he said. ‘You’ve traveled a long way and you belong to a
tired people who’ve been without faith a long time, and you want to believe so
much now that you’re interfering with yourself. You’ll only make it harder if
you kill. You’ll never find him that way.
‘Where’d he go? He told you; you know. Come on, tell me!’ The captain waved the
gun.
The mayor shook his head.
‘Tell me! Tell me!’
The gun cracked once, twice. The mayor fell, his arm wounded.
Martin leaped forward. ‘Captain!’
The gun flashed at Martin. ‘Don’t interfere.’
On the floor, holding his wounded arm, the mayor looked up. ‘Put down your gun.
You’re hurting yourself. You’ve never believed, and now that you think you
believe, you hurt people because of it.’
‘I don’t need you,’ said Hart, standing over him. ‘If I missed him by one day
here, I’ll go on to another world. And another and another. I’ll miss him by
half a day on the next planet, maybe, and a quarter of a day on the third
planet, and two hours on the next, and an hour on the next, and half an hour on
the next, and a minute on the next. But after that, one day I’ll catch up with
him! Do you hear that?’ He was shouting now, leaning wearily over the man on the
floor. He staggered with exhaustion. ‘Come along, Martin.’ He let the gun hang
in his hand.
‘No,’ said Martin. ‘I’m staying here.’
‘You’re a fool. Stay if you like. But I’m going on, with the others, as far as I
can go.’
The mayor looked up at Martin. ‘I’ll be all right. Leave me. Others will tend my
wounds.’
‘I’ll be back,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll walk as far as the rocket.’ They walked with
vicious speed through the city. One could see with what effort the captain
struggled to show all the old iron, to keep himself going. When he reached the
rocket he slapped the side of it with a trembling hand. He holstered his gun. He
looked at Martin.
‘Well, Martin?’
Martin looked at him. ‘Well, Captain?’
The captain’s eyes were on the sky. ‘Sure you won’t’come with’with me, eh?’
‘No, sir.’
‘It’ll be a great adventure, by God. I know I’ll find him.’
‘You are set on it now, aren’t you, sir?’ asked Martin.
The captain’s face quivered and his eyes closed. ‘Yes.’
‘There’s one thing I’d like to know.’
‘What?’
‘Sir, when you find him’if you find him,’ asked Martin, ‘what will you ask of
him?’
‘Why” The captain faltered, opening his eyes. His hands clenched and
unclenched. He puzzled a moment and then broke into a strange smile. ‘Why, I’ll
ask him for a little’peace and quiet.’ He touched the rocket. ‘It’s been a long
time, a long, long time since’since I relaxed.’
‘Did you ever just try, Captain?’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Hart.
‘Never mind. So long, Captain.’
‘Good-by, Mr. Martin.’
The crew stood by the port. Out of their number only three were going on with
Hart. Seven others were remaining behind, they said, with Martin.
Captain Hart surveyed them and uttered his verdict: ‘Fools!’ He, last of all,
climbed into the airlock, gave a brisk salute, laughed sharply. The door
slammed.
The rocket lifted into the sky on a pillar of fire.
Martin watched it go far away and vanish.
At the meadow’s edge the mayor, supported by several men, beckoned.
‘He’s gone,’ said Martin, walking up.
‘Yes, poor man, he’s gone,’ said the mayor. ‘And he’ll go on, planet after
planet, seeking and seeking, and always and always he will be an hour late, or a
half hour late, or ten minutes late, or a minute late. And finally he will miss
out by only a few seconds. And when he has visited three hundred worlds and is
seventy or eighty years old he will miss out by only a fraction of a second, and
then a smaller fraction of a second. And he will go on and on, thinking to find
that very thing which he left behind here, on this planet, in this city”
Martin looked steadily at the mayor.
The mayor put out his hand. ‘Was there ever any doubt of it?’ He beckoned to the
others and turned. ‘Come along now. We mustn’t keep him waiting.”
They walked into the city.
The End
Some comments.
Captain Hart is faced with the possibility of this redemption, but makes two mistakes: first, he initially refuses to believe; second, when forced to believe by circumstances, he thinks he can take control of the situation with force.
Faith isn’t about taking control, after all, but releasing control and allowing a higher power to lead the way.
What Hart feels, then, isn’t faith at all, but a kind of agnostic desperation.
Agnosticism is a non-committal attitude to the existence of God: neither atheistic nor believing in God, but instead waiting for solid proof to sway one's position.
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This is a nice rainy-day read. It’s a classic science fiction story about a “rescue party” that encounters the remains of a civilization. It’s a nice read, and will keep your mind occupied. It is reprinted in full, with no registration, need to provide your credit card (oh, to check to see if you are human; LOL) or CAPTCHA bullshit. If English is not your native language, you can translate it using the buttons on the side. Enjoy.
Rescue Party
by Arthur C. Clarke
Preface by Eric Flint
I'm certain this wasn't the first science fiction story I ever read, because I still remember those vividly. Three novels, all read when I was twelve years old and living in the small town of Shaver Lake (pop. 500) in the Sierra Nevada mountains in California: Robert Heinlein's Citizen of the Galaxy, Tom Godwin's The Survivors and Andre Norton's Star Rangers.
I must have started reading Arthur C. Clarke soon thereafter, though. The two stories that introduced me to him as I remember, anyway were this one and "Jupiter V," and those two stories fixed Clarke permanently as one of the central triad in my own personal pantheon of SF's great writers. (The other two being Robert Heinlein and Andre Norton.)
We chose this one, rather than "Jupiter V," at my request. I wanted this one because, of all the stories ever written in science fiction, this is the one which first demonstrated to me that science fiction could be inspirational as well as fascinating. So I thought at the age of twelve or possibly thirteen. More than four decades have now gone by, and I haven't changed my mind at all.
Who was to blame? For three days Alveron’s thoughts had come back to that question, and still he had found no answer. A creature of a less civilized or a less sensitive race would never have let it torture his mind, and would have satisfied himself with the assurance that no one could be responsible for the working of fate. But Alveron and his kind had been lords of the Universe since the dawn of history, since that far distant age when the Time Barrier had been folded round the cosmos by the unknown powers that lay beyond the Beginning. To them had been given all knowledge and with infinite knowledge went infinite responsibility. If there were mistakes and errors in the administration of the galaxy, the fault lay on the heads of Alveron and his people. And this was no mere mistake: it was one of the greatest tragedies in history.
The crew still knew nothing. Even Rugon, his closest friend and the ship’s deputy captain, had been told only part of the truth. But now the doomed worlds lay less than a billion miles ahead. In a few hours, they would be landing on the third planet.
Once again Alveron read the message from Base; then, with a flick of a tentacle that no human eye could have followed, he pressed the “General Attention” button. Throughout the mile-long cylinder that was the Galactic Survey Ship S9000, creatures of many races laid down their work to listen to the words of their captain.
“I know you have all been wondering,” began Alveron, “why we were ordered to abandon our survey and to proceed at such an acceleration to this region of space. Some of you may realize what this acceleration means. Our ship is on its last voyage: the generators have already been running for sixty hours at Ultimate Overload. We will be very lucky if we return to Base under our own power.
“We are approaching a sun which is about to become a Nova. Detonation will occur in seven hours, with an uncertainty of one hour, leaving us a maximum of only four hours for exploration. There are ten planets in the system about to be destroyed and there is a civilization on the third. That fact was discovered only a few days ago. It is our tragic mission to contact that doomed race and if possible to save some of its members. I know that there is little we can do in so short a time with this single ship. No other machine can possibly reach the system before detonation occurs.”
There was a long pause during which there could have been no sound or movement in the whole of the mighty ship as it sped silently toward the worlds ahead. Alveron knew what his companions were thinking and he tried to answer their unspoken question.
“You will wonder how such a disaster, the greatest of which we have any record, has been allowed to occur. On one point I can reassure you. The fault does not lie with the Survey.
“As you know, with our present fleet of under twelve thousand ships, it is possible to re-examine each of the eight thousand million solar systems in the Galaxy at intervals of about a million years. Most worlds change very little in so short a time as that.
“Less than four hundred thousand years ago, the survey ship S5060 examined the planets of the system we are approaching. It found intelligence on none of them, though the third planet was teeming with animal life and two other worlds had once been inhabited. The usual report was submitted and the system is due for its next examination in six hundred thousand years.
“It now appears that in the incredibly short period since the last survey, intelligent life has appeared in the system. The first intimation of this occurred when unknown radio signals were detected on the planet Kulath in the system X29.35, Y34.76, Z27.93. Bearings were taken on them; they were coming from the system ahead.
“Kulath is two hundred light-years from here, so those radio waves had been on their way for two centuries. Thus for at least that period of time a civilization has existed on one of these worlds a civilization that can generate electromagnetic waves and all that that implies.
“An immediate telescopic examination of the system was made and it was then found that the sun was in the unstable pre-nova stage. Detonation might occur at any moment, and indeed might have done so while the light waves were on their way to Kulath.
“There was a slight delay while the supervelocity scanners on Kulath II were focused on to the system. They showed that the explosion had not yet occurred but was only a few hours away. If Kulath had been a fraction of a light-year further from this sun, we should never have known of its civilization until it had ceased to exist.
“The Administrator of Kulath contacted the Sector Base immediately, and I was ordered to proceed to the system at once. Our object is to save what members we can of the doomed race, if indeed there are any left. But we have assumed that a civilization possessing radio could have protected itself against any rise of temperature that may have already occurred.
“This ship and the two tenders will each explore a section of the planet. Commander Torkalee will take Number One, Commander Orostron Number Two. They will have just under four hours in which to explore this world. At the end of that time, they must be back in the ship. It will be leaving then, with or without them. I will give the two commanders detailed instructions in the control room immediately.
“That is all. We enter atmosphere in two hours.” * * *
On the world once known as Earth the fires were dying out: there was nothing left to burn. The great forests that had swept across the planet like a tidal wave with the passing of the cities were now no more than glowing charcoal and the smoke of their funeral pyres still stained the sky. But the last hours were still to come, for the surface rocks had not yet begun to flow. The continents were dimly visible through the haze, but their outlines meant nothing to the watchers in the approaching ship. The charts they possessed were out of date by a dozen Ice Ages and more deluges than one.
The S9000 had driven past Jupiter and seen at once that no life could exist in those half-gaseous oceans of compressed hydrocarbons, now erupting furiously under the sun’s abnormal heat. Mars and the outer planets they had missed, and Alveron realized that the worlds nearer the sun than Earth would be already melting. It was more than likely, he thought sadly, that the tragedy of this unknown race was already finished. Deep in his heart, he thought it might be better so. The ship could only have carried a few hundred survivors, and the problem of selection had been haunting his mind.
Rugon, Chief of Communications and Deputy Captain, came into the control room. For the last hour he had been striving to detect radiation from Earth, but in vain.
“We’re too late,” he announced gloomily. “I’ve monitored the whole spectrum and the ether’s dead except for our own stations and some two-hundred-year-old programs from Kulath. Nothing in this system is radiating any more.”
He moved toward the giant vision screen with a graceful flowing motion that no mere biped could ever hope to imitate. Alveron said nothing; he had been expecting this news.
One entire wall of the control room was taken up by the screen, a great black rectangle that gave an impression of almost infinite depth. Three of Rugon’s slender control tentacles, useless for heavy work but incredibly swift at all manipulation, flickered over the selector dials and the screen lit up with a thousand points of light. The star field flowed swiftly past as Rugon adjusted the controls, bringing the projector to bear upon the sun itself.
No man of Earth would have recognized the monstrous shape that filled the screen. The sun’s light was white no longer: great violet-blue clouds covered half its surface and from them long streamers of flame were erupting into space. At one point an enormous prominence had reared itself out of the photosphere, far out even into the flickering veils of the corona. It was as though a tree of fire had taken root in the surface of the sun a tree that stood half a million miles high and whose branches were rivers of flame sweeping through space at hundreds of miles a second.
“I suppose,” said Rugon presently, “that you are quite satisfied about the astronomers’ calculations. After all “
“Oh, we’re perfectly safe,” said Alveron confidently. “I’ve spoken to Kulath Observatory and they have been making some additional checks through our own instruments. That uncertainty of an hour includes a private safety margin which they won’t tell me in case I feel tempted to stay any longer.”
He glanced at the instrument board.
“The pilot should have brought us to the atmosphere now. Switch the screen back to the planet, please. Ah, there they go!”
There was a sudden tremor underfoot and a raucous clanging of alarms, instantly stilled. Across the vision screen two slim projectiles dived toward the looming mass of Earth. For a few miles they traveled together, then they separated, one vanishing abruptly as it entered the shadow of the planet.
Slowly the huge mother ship, with its thousand times greater mass, descended after them into the raging storms that already were tearing down the deserted cities of Man. * * *
It was night in the hemisphere over which Orostron drove his tiny command. Like Torkalee, his mission was to photograph and record, and to report progress to the mother ship. The little scout had no room for specimens or passengers. If contact was made with the inhabitants of this world, the S9000 would come at once. There would be no time for parleying. If there was any trouble the rescue would be by force and the explanations could come later.
The ruined land beneath was bathed with an eerie, flickering light, for a great auroral display was raging over half the world. But the image on the vision screen was independent of external light, and it showed clearly a waste of barren rock that seemed never to have known any form of life. Presumably this desert land must come to an end somewhere. Orostron increased his speed to the highest value he dared risk in so dense an atmosphere.
The machine fled on through the storm, and presently the desert of rock began to climb toward the sky. A great mountain range lay ahead, its peaks lost in the smoke-laden clouds. Orostron directed the scanners toward the horizon, and on the vision screen the line of mountains seemed suddenly very close and menacing. He started to climb rapidly. It was difficult to imagine a more unpromising land in which to find civilization and he wondered if it would be wise to change course. He decided against it. Five minutes later, he had his reward.
Miles below lay a decapitated mountain, the whole of its summit sheared away by some tremendous feat of engineering. Rising out of the rock and straddling the artificial plateau was an intricate structure of metal girders, supporting masses of machinery. Orostron brought his ship to a halt and spiraled down toward the mountain.
The slight Doppler blur had now vanished, and the picture on the screen was clear-cut. The latticework was supporting some scores of great metal mirrors, pointing skyward at an angle of forty-five degrees to the horizontal. They were slightly concave, and each had some complicated mechanism at its focus. There seemed something impressive and purposeful about the great array; every mirror was aimed at precisely the same spot in the sky or beyond.
Orostron turned to his colleagues.
“It looks like some kind of observatory to me,” he said. “Have you ever seen anything like it before?”
Klarten, a multitentacled, tripedal creature from a globular cluster at the edge of the Milky Way, had a different theory.
“That’s communication equipment. Those reflectors are for focusing electromagnetic beams. I’ve seen the same kind of installation on a hundred worlds before. It may even be the station that Kulath picked up though that’s rather unlikely, for the beams would be very narrow from mirrors that size.”
“That would explain why Rugon could detect no radiation before we landed,” added Hansur II, one of the twin beings from the planet Thargon.
Orostron did not agree at all.
“If that is a radio station, it must be built for interplanetary communication. Look at the way the mirrors are pointed. I don’t believe that a race which has only had radio for two centuries can have crossed space. It took my people six thousand years to do it.”
“We managed it in three,” said Hansur II mildly, speaking a few seconds ahead of his twin. Before the inevitable argument could develop, Klarten began to wave his tentacles with excitement. While the others had been talking, he had started the automatic monitor.
“Here it is! Listen!”
He threw a switch, and the little room was filled with a raucous whining sound, continually changing in pitch but nevertheless retaining certain characteristics that were difficult to define.
The four explorers listened intently for a minute; then Orostron said, “Surely that can’t be any form of speech! No creature could produce sounds as quickly as that!”
Hansur I had come to the same conclusion. “That’s a television program. Don’t you think so, Klarten?”
The other agreed.
“Yes, and each of those mirrors seems to be radiating a different program. I wonder where they’re going? If I’m correct, one of the other planets in the system must lie along those beams. We can soon check that.”
Orostron called the S9000 and reported the discovery. Both Rugon and Alveron were greatly excited, and made a quick check of the astronomical records.
The result was surprising and disappointing. None of the other nine planets lay anywhere near the line of transmission. The great mirrors appeared to be pointing blindly into space.
There seemed only one conclusion to be drawn, and Klarten was the first to voice it.
“They had interplanetary communication,” he said. “But the station must be deserted now, and the transmitters no longer controlled. They haven’t been switched off, and are just pointing where they were left.”
“Well, we’ll soon find out,” said Orostron. “I’m going to land.”
He brought the machine slowly down to the level of the great metal mirrors, and past them until it came to rest on the mountain rock. A hundred yards away, a white stone building crouched beneath the maze of steel girders. It was windowless, but there were several doors in the wall facing them.
Orostron watched his companions climb into their protective suits and wished he could follow. But someone had to stay in the machine to keep in touch with the mother ship. Those were Alveron’s instructions, and they were very wise. One never knew what would happen on a world that was being explored for the first time, especially under conditions such as these.
Very cautiously, the three explorers stepped out of the airlock and adjusted the antigravity field of their suits. Then, each with the mode of locomotion peculiar to his race, the little party went toward the building, the Hansur twins leading and Klarten following close behind. His gravity control was apparently giving trouble, for he suddenly fell to the ground, rather to the amusement of his colleagues. Orostron saw them pause for a moment at the nearest door then it opened slowly and they disappeared from sight.
So Orostron waited, with what patience he could, while the storm rose around him and the light of the aurora grew even brighter in the sky. At the agreed times he called the mother ship and received brief acknowledgments from Rugon. He wondered how Torkalee was faring, halfway round the planet, but he could not contact him through the crash and thunder of solar interference.
It did not take Klarten and the Hansurs long to discover that their theories were largely correct. The building was a radio station, and it was utterly deserted. It consisted of one tremendous room with a few small offices leading from it. In the main chamber, row after row of electrical equipment stretched into the distance; lights flickered and winked on hundreds of control panels, and a dull glow came from the elements in a great avenue of vacuum tubes.
But Klarten was not impressed. The first radio sets his race had built were now fossilized in strata a thousand million years old. Man, who had possessed electrical machines for only a few centuries, could not compete with those who had known them for half the lifetime of the Earth.
Nevertheless, the party kept their recorders running as they explored the building. There was still one problem to be solved. The deserted station was broadcasting programs, but where were they coming from? The central switchboard had been quickly located. It was designed to handle scores of programs simultaneously, but the source of those programs was lost in a maze of cables that vanished underground. Back in the S9000, Rugon was trying to analyze the broadcasts and perhaps his researches would reveal their origin. It was impossible to trace cables that might lead across continents.
The party wasted little time at the deserted station. There was nothing they could learn from it, and they were seeking life rather than scientific information. A few minutes later the little ship rose swiftly from the plateau and headed toward the plains that must lie beyond the mountains. Less than three hours were still left to them.
As the array of enigmatic mirrors dropped out of sight, Orostron was struck by a sudden thought. Was it imagination, or had they all moved through a small angle while he had been waiting, as if they were still compensating for the rotation of the Earth? He could not be sure, and he dismissed the matter as unimportant. It would only mean that the directing mechanism was still working, after a fashion.
They discovered the city fifteen minutes later. It was a great, sprawling metropolis, built around a river that had disappeared leaving an ugly scar winding its way among the great buildings and beneath bridges that looked very incongruous now.
Even from the air, the city looked deserted. But only two and a half hours were left there was no time for further exploration. Orostron made his decision, and landed near the largest structure he could see. It seemed reasonable to suppose that some creatures would have sought shelter in the strongest buildings, where they would be safe until the very end.
The deepest caves in the heart of the planet itself would give no protection when the final cataclysm came. Even if this race had reached the outer planets, its doom would only be delayed by the few hours it would take for the ravening wavefronts to cross the Solar System.
Orostron could not know that the city had been deserted not for a few days or weeks, but for over a century. For the culture of cities, which had outlasted so many civilizations had been doomed at last when the helicopter brought universal transportation. Within a few generations the great masses of mankind, knowing that they could reach any part of the globe in a matter of hours, had gone back to the fields and forests for which they had always longed. The new civilization had machines and resources of which earlier ages had never dreamed, but it was essentially rural and no longer bound to the steel and concrete warrens that had dominated the centuries before. Such cities as still remained were specialized centers of research, administration or entertainment; the others had been allowed to decay, where it was too much trouble to destroy them. The dozen or so greatest of all cities, and the ancient university towns, had scarcely changed and would have lasted for many generations to come. But the cities that had been founded on steam and iron and surface transportation had passed with the industries that had nourished them.
And so while Orostron waited in the tender, his colleagues raced through endless empty corridors and deserted halls, taking -innumerable photographs but learning nothing of the creatures who had used these buildings. There were libraries, meeting places, council rooms, thousands of offices all were empty and deep with dust. If they had not seen the radio station on its mountain eyrie, the explorers could well have believed that this world had known no life for centuries.
Through the long minutes of waiting, Orostron tried to imagine where this race could have vanished. Perhaps they had killed themselves knowing that escape was impossible; perhaps they had built great shelters in the bowels of the planet, and even now were cowering in their millions beneath his feet, waiting for the end. He began to fear that he would never know.
It was almost a relief when at last he had to give the order for the return. Soon he would know if Torkalee’s party had been more fortunate. And he was anxious to get back to the mother ship, for as the minutes passed the suspense had become more and more acute. There had always been the thought in his mind: What if the astronomers of Kulath have made a mistake? He would begin to feel happy when the walls of the S9000 were around him. He would be happier still when they were out in space and this ominous sun was shrinking far astern.
As soon as his colleagues had entered the airlock, Orostron hurled his tiny machine into the sky and set the controls to home on the S9000. Then he turned to his friends.
“Well, what have you found?” he asked.
Klarten produced a large roll of canvas and spread it out on the floor.
“This is what they were like,” he said quietly. “Bipeds, with only two arms. They seem to have managed well, in spite of that handicap. Only two eyes as well, unless there are others in the back. We were lucky to find this; it’s about the only thing they left behind.”
The ancient oil painting stared stonily back at the three creatures regarding it so intently. By the irony of fate, its complete worthlessness had saved it from oblivion. When the city had been evacuated, no one had bothered to move Alderman John Richards, 1909-1974. For a century and a half he had been gathering dust while far away from the old cities the new civilization had been rising to heights no earlier culture had ever known.
“That was almost all we found,” said Klarten. “The city must have been deserted for years. I’m afraid our expedition has been a failure. If there are any living beings on this world, they’ve hidden themselves too well for us to find them.”
His commander was forced to agree.
“It was an almost impossible task,” he said. “If we’d had weeks instead of hours we might have succeeded. For all we know, they may even have built shelters under the sea. No one seems to have thought of that.”
He glanced quickly at the indicators and corrected the course.
“We’ll be there in five minutes. Alveron seems to be moving rather quickly. I wonder if Torkalee has found anything.”
The S9000 was hanging a few miles above the seaboard of a blazing continent when Orostron homed upon it. The danger line was thirty minutes away and there was no time to lose. Skillfully, he maneuvered the little ship into its launching tube and the party stepped out of the airlock.
There was a small crowd waiting for them. That was to be expected, but Orostron could see at once that something more than curiosity had brought his friends here. Even before a word was spoken, he knew that something was wrong.
“Torkalee hasn’t returned. He’s lost his party and we’re going to the rescue. Come along to the control room at once.” * * *
From the beginning, Torkalee had been luckier than Orostron. He had followed the zone of twilight, keeping away from the intolerable glare of the sun, until he came to the shores of an inland sea. It was a very recent sea, one of the latest of Man’s works, for the land it covered had been desert less than a century before. In a few hours it would be desert again, for the water was boiling and clouds of steam were rising to the skies. But they could not veil the loveliness of the great white city that overlooked the tideless sea.
Flying machines were still parked neatly round the square in which Torkalee landed. They were disappointingly primitive, though beautifully finished, and depended on rotating airfoils for support. Nowhere was there any sign of life, but the place gave the impression that its inhabitants were not very far away. Lights were still shining from some of the windows.
Torkalee’s three companions lost no time in leaving the machine. Leader of the party, by seniority of rank and race was T’sinadree, who like Alveron himself had been born on one of the ancient planets of the Central Suns. Next came Alarkane, from a race which was one of the youngest in the Universe and took a perverse pride in the fact. Last came one of the strange beings from the system of Palador. It was nameless, like all its kind, for it possessed no identity of its own, being merely a mobile but still dependent cell in the consciousness of its race. Though it and its fellows had long been scattered over the galaxy in the exploration of countless worlds, some unknown link still bound them together as inexorably as the living cells in a human body.
When a creature of Palador spoke, the pronoun it used was always “We.” There was not, nor could there ever be, any first person singular in the language of Palador.
The great doors of the splendid building baffled the explorers, though any human child would have known their secret. T’sinadree wasted no time on them but called Torkalee on his personal transmitter. Then the three hurried aside while their commander maneuvered his machine into the best position. There was a brief burst of intolerable flame; the massive steelwork flickered once at the edge of the visible spectrum and was gone. The stones were still glowing when the eager party hurried into the building, the beams of their light projectors fanning before them.
The torches were not needed. Before them lay a great hall, glowing with light from lines of tubes along the ceiling. On either side, the hall opened out into long corridors, while straight ahead a massive stairway swept majestically toward the upper floors.
For a moment T’sinadree hesitated. Then, since one way was as good as another, he led his companions down the first corridor.
The feeling that life was near had now become very strong. At any moment, it seemed, they might be confronted by the creatures of this world. If they showed hostility and they could scarcely be blamed if they did the paralyzers would be used at once.
The tension was very great as the party entered the first room, and only relaxed when they saw that it held nothing but machines row after row of them, now stilled and silent. Lining the enormous room were thousands of metal filing cabinets, forming a continuous wall as far as the eye could reach. And that was all; there was no furniture, nothing but the cabinets and the mysterious machines.
Alarkane, always the quickest of the three, was already examining the cabinets. Each held many thousand sheets of tough, thin material, perforated with innumerable holes and slots. The Paladorian appropriated one of the cards and Alarkane recorded the scene together with some close-ups of the machines. Then they left. The great room, which had been one of the marvels of the world, meant nothing to them. No living eye would ever again see that wonderful battery of almost human Hollerith analyzers and the five thousand million punched cards holding all that could be recorded on each man, woman and child on the planet.
It was clear that this building had been used very recently. With growing excitement, the explorers hurried on to the next room. This they found to be an enormous library, for millions of books lay all around them on miles and miles of shelving. Here, though the explorers could not know it, were the records of all the laws that Man had ever passed, and all the speeches that had ever been made in his council chambers.
T’sinadree was deciding his plan of action, when Alarkane drew his attention to one of the racks a hundred yards away. It was half empty, unlike all the others. Around it books lay in a tumbled heap on the floor, as if knocked down by someone in frantic haste. The signs were unmistakable. Not long ago, other creatures had been this way. Faint wheel marks were clearly visible on the floor to the acute sense of Alarkane, though the others could see nothing. Alarkane could even detect footprints, but knowing nothing of the creatures that had formed them he could not say which way they led.
The sense of nearness was stronger than ever now, but it was nearness in time, not in space. Alarkane voiced the thoughts of the party.
“Those books must have been valuable, and someone has come to rescue them rather as an afterthought, I should say. That means there must be a place of refuge, possibly not very far away. Perhaps we may be able to find some other clues that will lead us to it.”
T’sinadree agreed; the Paladorian wasn’t enthusiastic.
“That may be so,” it said, “but the refuge may be anywhere on the planet, and we have just two hours left. Let us waste no more time if we hope to rescue these people.”
The party hurried forward once more, pausing only to collect a few books that might be useful to the scientists at Base though it was doubtful if they could ever be translated. They soon found that the great building was composed largely of small rooms, all showing signs of recent occupation. Most of them were in a neat and tidy condition, but one or two were very much the reverse. The explorers were particularly puzzled by one room clearly an office of some kind that appeared to have been completely wrecked. The floor was littered with papers, the furniture had been smashed, and smoke was pouring through the broken windows from the fires outside.
T’sinadree was rather alarmed.
“Surely no dangerous animal could have got into a place like this!” he exclaimed, fingering his paralyzer nervously.
Alarkane did not answer. He began to make that annoying sound which his race called “laughter.” It was several minutes before he would explain what had amused him.
“I don’t think any animal has done it,” he said. “In fact, the explanation is very simple. Suppose you had been working all your life in this room, dealing with endless papers, year after year. And suddenly, you are told that you will never see it again, that your work is finished, and that you can leave it forever. More than that no one will come after you. Everything is finished. How would you make your exit, T’sinadree?”
The other thought for a moment.
“Well, I suppose I’d just tidy things up and leave. That’s what seems to have happened in all the other rooms.”
Alarkane laughed again.
“I’m quite sure you would. But some individuals have a different psychology. I think I should have liked the creature that used this room.”
He did not explain himself further, and his two colleagues puzzled over his words for quite a while before they gave it up.
It came as something of a shock when Torkalee gave the order to return. They had gathered a great deal of information, but had found no clue that might lead them to the missing inhabitants of this world. That problem was as baffling as ever, and now it seemed that it would never be solved. There were only forty minutes left before the S9000 would be departing.
They were halfway back to the tender when they saw the semicircular passage leading down into the depths of the building. Its architectural style was quite different from that used elsewhere, and the gently sloping floor was an irresistible attraction to creatures whose many legs had grown weary of the marble staircases which only bipeds could have built in such profusion. T’sinadree had been the worst sufferer, for he normally employed twelve legs and could use twenty when he was in a hurry, though no one had ever seen him perform this feat.
The party stopped dead and looked down the passageway with a single thought. A tunnel, leading down into the depths of Earth! At its end, they might yet find the people of this world and rescue some of them from their fate. For there was still time to call the mother ship if the need arose.
T’sinadree signaled to his commander and Torkalee brought the little machine immediately overhead. There might not be time for the party to retrace its footsteps through the maze of passages, so meticulously recorded in the Paladorian mind that there was no possibility of going astray. If speed was necessary, Torkalee could blast his way through the dozen floors above their head. In any case, it should not take long to find what lay at the end of the passage.
It took only thirty seconds. The tunnel ended quite abruptly in a very curious cylindrical room with magnificently padded seats along the walls. There was no way out save that by which they had come and it was several seconds before the purpose of the chamber dawned on Alarkane’s mind. It was a pity, he thought, that they would never have time to use this. The thought was suddenly interrupted by a cry from T’sinadree. Alarkane wheeled around, and saw that the entrance had closed silently behind them.
Even in that first moment of panic, Alarkane found himself thinking with some admiration: Whoever they were, they knew how to build automatic machinery!
The Paladorian was the first to speak. It waved one of its tentacles toward the seats.
“We think it would be best to be seated,” it said. The multiplex mind of Palador had already analyzed the situation and knew what was coming.
They did not have long to wait before a low-pitched hum came from a grill overhead, and for the very last time in history a human, even if lifeless, voice was heard on Earth. The words were meaningless, though the trapped explorers could guess their message clearly enough.
“Choose your stations, please, and be seated.”
Simultaneously, a wall panel at one end of the compartment glowed with light. On it was a simple map, consisting of a series of a dozen circles connected by a line. Each of the circles had writing alongside it, and beside the writing were two buttons of different colors.
Alarkane looked questioningly at his leader.
“Don’t touch them,” said T’sinadree. “If we leave the controls alone, the doors may open again.”
He was wrong. The engineers who had designed the automatic subway had assumed that anyone who entered it would naturally wish to go somewhere. If they selected no intermediate station, their destination could only be the end of the line.
There was another pause while the relays and thyratrons waited for their orders. In those thirty seconds, if they had known what to do, the party could have opened the doors and left the subway. But they did not know, and the machines geared to a human psychology acted for them.
The surge of acceleration was not very great; the lavish upholstery was a luxury, not a necessity. Only an almost imperceptible vibration told of the speed at which they were traveling through the bowels of the earth, on a journey the duration of which they could not even guess. And in thirty minutes, the S9000 would be leaving the Solar System.
There was a long silence in the speeding machine. T’sinadree and Alarkane were thinking rapidly. So was the Paladorian, though in a different fashion. The conception of personal death was meaningless to it, for the destruction of a single unit meant no more to the group mind than the loss of a nail-paring to a man. But it could, though with great difficulty, appreciate the plight of individual intelligences such as Alarkane and T’sinadree, and it was anxious to help them if it could.
Alarkane had managed to contact Torkalee with his personal transmitter, though the signal was very weak and seemed to be fading quickly. Rapidly he explained the situation, and almost at once the signals became clearer. Torkalee was following the path of the machine, flying above the ground under which they were speeding to their unknown destination. That was the first indication they had of the fact that they were traveling at nearly a thousand miles an hour, and very soon after that Torkalee was able to give the still more disturbing news that they were rapidly approaching the sea. While they were beneath the land, there was a hope, though a slender one, that they might stop the machine and escape. But under the ocean not all the brains and the machinery in the great mother ship could save them. No one could have devised a more perfect trap.
T’sinadree had been examining the wall map with great attention. Its meaning was obvious, and along the line connecting the circles a tiny spot of light was crawling. It was already halfway to the first of the stations marked.
“I’m going to press one of those buttons,” said T’sinadree at last. “It won’t do any harm, and we may learn something.”
“I agree. Which will you try first?”
“There are only two kinds, and it won’t matter if we try the wrong one first. I suppose one is to start the machine and the other is to stop it.”
Alarkane was not very hopeful.
“It started without any button pressing,” he said. “I think it’s completely automatic and we can’t control it from here at all.”
T’sinadree could not agree.
“These buttons are clearly associated with the stations, and there’s no point in having them unless you can use them to stop yourself. The only question is, which is the right one?”
His analysis was perfectly correct. The machine could be stopped at any intermediate station. They had only been on their way ten minutes, and if they could leave now, no harm would have been done. It was just bad luck that T’sinadree’s first choice was the wrong button.
The little light on the map crawled slowly through the illuminated circle without checking its speed. And at the same time Torkalee called from the ship overhead.
“You have just passed underneath a city and are heading out to sea. There cannot be another stop for nearly a thousand miles.” * * *
Alveron had given up all hope of finding life on this world. The S9000 had roamed over half the planet, never staying long in one place, descending ever and again in an effort to attract attention. There had been no response; Earth seemed utterly dead. If any of its inhabitants were still alive, thought Alveron, they must have hidden themselves in its depths where no help could reach them, though their doom would be nonetheless certain.
Rugon brought news of the disaster. The great ship ceased its fruitless searching and fled back through the storm to the ocean above which Torkalee’s little tender was still following the track of the buried machine.
The scene was truly terrifying. Not since the days when Earth was born had there been such seas as this. Mountains of water were racing before the storm which had now reached velocities of many hundred miles an hour. Even at this distance from the mainland the air was full of flying debris trees, fragments of houses, sheets of metal, anything that had not been anchored to the ground. No airborne machine could have lived for a moment in such a gale. And ever and again even the roar of the wind was drowned as the vast water-mountains met head-on with a crash that seemed to shake the sky.
Fortunately, there had been no serious earthquakes yet. Far beneath the bed of the ocean, the wonderful piece of engineering which had been the World President’s private vacuum-subway was still working perfectly, unaffected by the tumult and destruction above. It would continue to work until the last minute of the Earth’s existence, which, if the astronomers were right, was not much more than fifteen minutes away though precisely how much more Alveron would have given a great deal to know. It would be nearly an hour before the trapped party could reach land and even the slightest hope of rescue.
Alveron’s instructions had been precise, though even without them he would never have dreamed of taking any risks with the great machine that had been entrusted to his care. Had he been human, the decision to abandon the trapped members of his crew would have been desperately hard to make. But he came of a race far more sensitive than Man, a race that so loved the things of the spirit that long ago, and with infinite reluctance, it had taken over control of the Universe since only thus could it be sure that justice was being done. Alveron would need all his superhuman gifts to carry him through the next few hours.
Meanwhile, a mile below the bed of the ocean Alarkane and T’sinadree were very busy indeed with their private communicators. Fifteen minutes is not a long time in which to wind up the affairs of a lifetime. It is indeed, scarcely long enough to dictate more than a few of those farewell messages which at such moments are so much more important than all other matters.
All the while the Paladorian had remained silent and motionless, saying not a word. The other two, resigned to their fate and engrossed in their personal affairs, had given it no thought. They were startled when suddenly it began to address them in its peculiarly passionless voice.
“We perceive that you are making certain arrangements concerning your anticipated destruction. That will probably be unnecessary. Captain Alveron hopes to rescue us if we can stop this machine when we reach land again.”
Both T’sinadree and Alarkane were too surprised to say anything for a moment. Then the latter gasped, “How do you know?”
It was a foolish question, for he remembered at once that there were several Paladorians if one could use the phrase in the S9000, and consequently their companion knew everything that was happening in the mother ship. So he did not wait for an answer but continued, “Alveron can’t do that! He daren’t take such a risk!”
“There will be no risk,” said the Paladorian. “We have told him what to do. It is really very simple.”
Alarkane and T’sinadree looked at their companion with something approaching awe, realizing now what must have happened. In moments of crisis, the single units comprising the Paladorian mind could link together in an organization no less close than that of any physical brain. At such moments they formed an intellect more powerful than any other in the Universe. All ordinary problems could be solved by a few hundred or thousand units. Very rarely, millions would be needed, and on two historic occasions the billions of cells of the entire Paladorian consciousness had been welded together to deal with emergencies that threatened the race. The mind of Palador was one of the greatest mental resources of the Universe; its full force was seldom required, but the knowledge that it was available was supremely comforting to other races. Alarkane wondered how many cells had coordinated to deal with this particular emergency. He also wondered how so trivial an incident had ever come to its attention.
To that question he was never to know the answer, though he might have guessed it had he known that the chillingly remote Paladorian mind possessed an almost human streak of vanity. Long ago, Alarkane had written a book trying to prove that eventually all intelligent races would sacrifice individual consciousness and that one day only group-minds would remain in the Universe. Palador, he had said, was the first of those ultimate intellects, and the vast, dispersed mind had not been displeased.
They had no time to ask any further questions before Alveron himself began to speak through their communicators.
“Alveron calling! We’re staying on this planet until the detonation waves reach it, so we may be able to rescue you. You’re heading toward a city on the coast which you’ll reach in forty minutes at your present speed. If you cannot stop yourselves then, we’re going to blast the tunnel behind and ahead of you to cut off your power. Then we’ll sink a shaft to get you out the chief engineer says he can do it in five minutes with the main projectors. So you should be safe within an hour, unless the sun blows up before.”
“And if that happens, you’ll be destroyed as well! You mustn’t take such a risk!”
“Don’t let that worry you; we’re perfectly safe. When the sun detonates, the explosion wave will take several minutes to rise to its maximum. But apart from that, we’re on the night side of the planet, behind an eight-thousand-mile screen of rock. When the first warning of the explosion comes, we will accelerate out of the Solar System, keeping in the shadow of the planet. Under our maximum drive, we will reach the velocity of light before leaving the cone of shadow, and the sun cannot harm us then.”
T’sinadree was still afraid to hope. Another objection came at once into his mind.
“Yes, but how will you get any warning, here on the night side of the planet?”
“Very easily,” replied Alveron. “This world has a moon which is now visible from this hemisphere. We have telescopes trained on it. If it shows any sudden increase in brilliance, our main drive goes on automatically and we’ll be thrown out of the system.”
The logic was flawless. Alveron, cautious as ever, was taking no chances. It would be many minutes before the eight-thousand-mile shield of rock and metal could be destroyed by the fires of the exploding sun. In that time, the S9000 could have reached the safety of the velocity of light.
Alarkane pressed the second button when they were still several miles from the coast. He did not expect anything to happen then, assuming that the machine could not stop between stations. It seemed too good to be true when, a few minutes later, the machine’s slight vibration died away and they came to a halt.
The doors slid silently apart. Even before they were fully open, the three had left the compartment. They were taking no more chances. Before them a long tunnel stretched into the distance, rising slowly out of sight. They were starting along it when suddenly Alveron’s voice called from the communicators.
“Stay where you are! We’re going to blast!”
The ground shuddered once, and far ahead there came the rumble of falling rock. Again the earth shook and a hundred yards ahead the passageway vanished abruptly. A tremendous vertical shaft had been cut clean through it.
The party hurried forward again until they came to the end of the corridor and stood waiting on its lip. The shaft in which it ended was a full thousand feet across and descended into the earth as far as the torches could throw their beams. Overhead, the storm clouds fled beneath a moon that no man would have recognized, so luridly brilliant was its disk. And, most glorious of all sights, the S9000 floated high above, the great projectors that had drilled this enormous pit still glowing cherry red.
A dark shape detached itself from the mother ship and dropped swiftly toward the ground. Torkalee was returning to collect his friends. A little later, Alveron greeted them in the control room. He waved to the great vision screen and said quietly, “See, we were barely in time.”
The continent below them was slowly settling beneath the mile-high waves that were attacking its coasts. The last that anyone was ever to see of Earth was a great plain, bathed with the silver light of the abnormally brilliant moon. Across its face the waters were pouring in a glittering flood toward a distant range of mountains. The sea had won its final victory, but its triumph would be short-lived for soon sea and land would be no more. Even as the silent party in the control room watched the destruction below, the infinitely greater catastrophe to which this was only the prelude came swiftly upon them.
It was as though dawn had broken suddenly over this moonlit landscape. But it was not dawn: it was only the moon, shining with the brilliance of a second sun. For perhaps thirty seconds that awesome, unnatural light burnt fiercely on the doomed land beneath. Then there came a sudden flashing of indicator lights across the control board. The main drive was on. For a second Alveron glanced at the indicators and checked their information. When he looked again at the screen, Earth was gone.
The magnificent, desperately overstrained generators quietly died when the S9000 was passing the orbit of Persephone. It did not matter, the sun could never harm them now, and although the ship was speeding helplessly out into the lonely night of interstellar space, it would only be a matter of days before rescue came.
There was irony in that. A day ago, they had been the rescuers, going to the aid of a race that now no longer existed. Not for the first time Alveron wondered about the world that had just perished. He tried, in vain, to picture it as it had been in its glory, the streets of its cities thronged with life. Primitive though its people had been, they might have offered much to the Universe. If only they could have made contact! Regret was useless; long before their coming, the people of this world must have buried themselves in its iron heart. And now they and their civilization would remain a mystery for the rest of time.
Alveron was glad when his thoughts were interrupted by Rugon’s entrance. The chief of communications had been very busy ever since the take-off, trying to analyze the programs radiated by the transmitter Orostron had discovered. The problem was not a difficult one, but it demanded the construction of special equipment, and that had taken time.
“Well, what have you found?” asked Alveron.
“Quite a lot,” replied his friend. “There’s something mysterious here, and I don’t understand it.
“It didn’t take long to find how the vision transmissions were built up, and we’ve been able to convert them to suit our own equipment. It seems that there were cameras all over the planet, surveying points of interest. Some of them were apparently in cities, on the tops of very high buildings. The cameras were rotating continuously to give panoramic views. In the programs we’ve recorded there are about twenty different scenes.
“In addition, there are a number of transmissions of a different kind, neither sound nor vision. They seem to be purely scientific possibly instrument readings or something of that sort. All these programs were going out simultaneously on different frequency bands.
“Now there must be a reason for all this. Orostron still thinks that the station simply wasn’t switched off when it was deserted. But these aren’t the sort of programs such a station would normally radiate at all. It was certainly used for interplanetary -relaying Klarten was quite right there. So these people must have crossed space, since none of the other planets had any life at the time of the last survey. Don’t you agree?”
Alveron was following intently.
“Yes, that seems reasonable enough. But it’s also certain that the beam was pointing to none of the other planets. I checked that myself.”
“I know,” said Rugon. “What I want to discover is why a giant interplanetary relay station is busily transmitting pictures of a world about to be destroyed pictures that would be of immense interest to scientists and astronomers. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to arrange all those panoramic cameras. I am convinced that those beams were going somewhere.”
Alveron started up.
“Do you imagine that there might be an outer planet that hasn’t been reported?” he asked. “If so, your theory’s certainly wrong. The beam wasn’t even pointing in the plane of the Solar System. And even if it were just look at this.”
He switched on the vision screen and adjusted the controls. Against the velvet curtain of space was hanging a blue-white sphere, apparently composed of many concentric shells of incandescent gas. Even though its immense distance made all movement invisible, it was clearly expanding at an enormous rate. At its center was a blinding point of light the white dwarf star that the sun had now become.
“You probably don’t realize just how big that sphere is,” said Alveron. “Look at this.”
He increased the magnification until only the center portion of the nova was visible. Close to its heart were two minute condensations, one on either side of the nucleus.
“Those are the two giant planets of the system. They have still managed to retain their existence after a fashion. And they were several hundred million miles from the sun. The nova is still expanding but it’s already twice the size of the Solar System.”
Rugon was silent for a moment.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said, rather grudgingly. “You’ve disposed of my first theory. But you still haven’t satisfied me.”
He made several swift circuits of the room before speaking again. Alveron waited patiently. He knew the almost intuitive powers of his friend, who could often solve a problem when mere logic seemed insufficient.
Then, rather slowly, Rugon began to speak again.
“What do you think of this?” he said. “Suppose we’ve completely underestimated this people? Orostron did it once he thought they could never have crossed space, since they’d only known radio for two centuries. Hansur II told me that. Well, Orostron was quite wrong. Perhaps we’re all wrong. I’ve had a look at the material that Klarten brought back from the transmitter. He wasn’t impressed by what he found, but it’s a marvelous achievement for so short a time. There were devices in that station that belonged to civilizations thousands of years older. Alveron, can we follow that beam to see where it leads?”
Alveron said nothing for a full minute. He had been more than half expecting the question, but it was not an easy one to answer. The main generators had gone completely. There was no point in trying to repair them. But there was still power available, and while there was power, anything could be done in time. It would mean a lot of improvisation, and some difficult maneuvers, for the ship still had its enormous initial velocity. Yes, it could be done, and the activity would keep the crew from becoming further depressed, now that the reaction caused by the mission’s failure had started to set in. The news that the nearest heavy repair ship could not reach them for three weeks had also caused a slump in morale.
The engineers, as usual, made a tremendous fuss. Again as usual, they did the job in half the time they had dismissed as being absolutely impossible. Very slowly, over many hours, the great ship began to discard the speed its main drive had given it in as many minutes. In a tremendous curve, millions of miles in radius, the S9000 changed its course and the star fields shifted round it.
The maneuver took three days, but at the end of that time the ship was limping along a course parallel to the beam that had once come from Earth. They were heading out into emptiness, the blazing sphere that had been the sun dwindling slowly behind them. By the standards of interstellar flight, they were almost stationary.
For hours Rugon strained over his instruments, driving his detector beams far ahead into space. There were certainly no planets within many light-years; there was no doubt of that. From time to time Alveron came to see him and always he had to give the same reply: “Nothing to report.” About a fifth of the time Rugon’s intuition let him down badly; he began to wonder if this was such an occasion.
Not until a week later did the needles of the mass-detectors quiver feebly at the ends of their scales. But Rugon said nothing, not even to his captain. He waited until he was sure, and he went on waiting until even the short-range scanners began to react, and to build up the first faint pictures on the vision screen. Still he waited patiently until he could interpret the images. Then, when he knew that his wildest fancy was even less than the truth, he called his colleagues into the control room.
The picture on the vision screen was the familiar one of endless star fields, sun beyond sun to the very limits of the Universe. Near the center of the screen a distant nebula made a patch of haze that was difficult for the eye to grasp.
Rugon increased the magnification. The stars flowed out of the field; the little nebula expanded until it filled the screen and then it was a nebula no longer. A simultaneous gasp of amazement came from all the company at the sight that lay before them.
Lying across league after league of space, ranged in a vast three-dimensional array of rows and columns with the precision of a marching army, were thousands of tiny pencils of light. They were moving swiftly; the whole immense lattice holding its shape as a single unit. Even as Alveron and his comrades watched, the formation began to drift off the screen and Rugon had to recenter the controls.
After a long pause, Rugon started to speak.
“This is the race,” he said softly, “that has known radio for only two centuries the race that we believed had crept to die in the heart of its planet. I have examined those images under the highest possible magnification.
“That is the greatest fleet of which there has ever been a record. Each of those points of light represents a ship larger than our own. Of course, they are very primitive what you see on the screen are the jets of their rockets. Yes, they dared to use rockets to bridge interstellar space! You realize what that means. It would take them centuries to reach the nearest star. The whole race must have embarked on this journey in the hope that its descendants would complete it, generations later.
“To measure the extent of their accomplishment, think of the ages it took us to conquer space, and the longer ages still before we attempted to reach the stars. Even if we were threatened with annihilation, could we have done so much in so short a time? Remember, this is the youngest civilization in the Universe. Four hundred thousand years ago it did not even exist. What will it be a million years from now?”
An hour later, Orostron left the crippled mother ship to make contact with the great fleet ahead. As the little torpedo disappeared among the stars, Alveron turned to his friend and made a remark that Rugon was often to remember in the years ahead.
“I wonder what they’ll be like?” he mused. “Will they be nothing but wonderful engineers, with no art or philosophy? They’re going to have such a surprise when Orostron reaches them I expect it will be rather a blow to their pride. It’s funny how all isolated races think they’re the only people in the Universe. But they should be grateful to us; we’re going to save them a good many hundred years of travel.”
Alveron glanced at the Milky Way, lying like a veil of silver mist across the vision screen. He waved toward it with a sweep of a tentacle that embraced the whole circle of the galaxy, from the Central Planets to the lonely suns of the Rim.
“You know,” he said to Rugon, “I feel rather afraid of these people. Suppose they don’t like our little Federation?” He waved once more toward the star-clouds that lay massed across the screen, glowing with the light of their countless suns.
“Something tells me they’ll be very determined people,” he added. “We had better be polite to them. After all, we only outnumber them about a thousand million to one.”
Rugon laughed at his captain’s little joke.
Twenty years afterward, the remark didn’t seem funny.
The End
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While Ray Bradbury is most well known for his science fiction and dystopian writings, I consider the Story of Love to be on par in quality and enchantment to his other works. This short story explores the constraints that society puts on love and recognizes that affections cannot always be pursued.
That was the week Ann Taylor came to teach summer school at Green Town Central. It was the summer of her twenty-fourth birthday, and it was the summer when Bob Spaulding was just fourteen.
Everyone remembered Ann Taylor, for she was that teacher for whom all the children wanted to bring huge oranges or pink flowers, and for whom they rolled up the rustling green and yellow maps of the world without being asked. She was that woman who always seemed to be passing by on days when the shade was green under the tunnels of oaks and elms in the old town, her face shifting with the bright shadows as she walked, until it was all things to all people. She was the fine peaches of summer in the snow of winter, and she was cool milk for cereal on a hot early-June morning. Whenever you needed an opposite, Ann Taylor was there. And those rare few days in the world when the climate was balanced as fine as a maple leaf between winds that blew just right, those were the days like Ann Taylor, and should have been so named on the calendar.
As for Bob Spaulding, he was the cousin who walked alone through town on any October evening with a pack of leaves after him like a horde of Hallowe’en mice, or you would see him, like a slow white fish in spring in the tart waters of the Fox Hill Creek, baking brown with the shine of a chestnut to his face by autumn. Or you might hear his voice in those treetops where the wind entertained; dropping down hand by hand, there would come Bob Spaulding to sit alone and look at the world, and later you might see him on the lawn with the ants crawling over his books as he read through the long afternoons alone, or played himself a game of chess on Grandmother’s porch, or picked out a solitary tune upon the black piano in the bay window. You never saw him with any other child.
That first morning, Miss Ann Taylor entered through the side door of the schoolroom and all of the children sat still in their seats as they saw her write her name on the board in a nice round lettering.
“My name is Ann Taylor,” she said, quietly. “And I’m your new teacher.”
The room seemed suddenly flooded with illumination, as if the roof had moved back; and the trees were full of singing birds. Bob Spaulding sat with a spitball he had just made, hidden in his hand. After a half hour of listening to Miss Taylor, he quietly let the spitball drop to the floor.
That day, after class, he brought in a bucket of water and a rag and began to wash the boards.
“What’s this?” She turned to him from her desk, where she had been correcting spelling papers.
“The boards are kind of dirty,” said Bob, at work.
“Yes. I know. Are you sure you want to clean them?”
“I suppose I should have asked permission,” he said, halting uneasily.
“I think we can pretend you did,” she replied, smiling, and at this smile he finished the boards in an amazing burst of speed and pounded the erasers so furiously that the air was full of snow, it seemed, outside the open window.
“Let’s see,” said Miss Taylor. “You’re Bob Spaulding, aren’t you?”
“Yes’m.”
“Well, thank you, Bob.”
“Could I do them every day?” he asked.
“Don’t you think you should let the others try?”
“I’d like to do them,” he said. “Every day.”
“We’ll try it for a while and see,” she said.
He lingered.
“I think you’d better run on home,” she said, finally.
“Good night.” He walked slowly and was gone.
The next morning he happened by the place where she took board and room just as she was coming out to walk to school.
“Well, here I am,” he said.
“And do you know,” she said, “I’m not surprised.”
They walked together.
“May I carry your books?” he asked.
“Why, thank you, Bob.”
“It’s nothing,” he said, taking them.
They walked for a few minutes and he did not say a word. She glanced over and slightly down at him and saw how at ease he was and how happy he seemed, and she decided to let him break the silence, but he never did. When they reached the edge of the school ground he gave the books back to her. “I guess I better leave you here,” he said. “The other kids wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m not sure I do, either, Bob,” said Miss Taylor.
“Why we’re friends,” said Bob earnestly and with a great natural honesty.
“Bob –” she started to say.
“Yes’m?”
“Never mind.” She walked away.
“I’ll be in class,” he said.
And he was in class, and he was there after school every night for the next two weeks, never saying a word, quietly washing the boards and cleaning the erasers and rolling up the maps while she worked at her papers, and there was that clock silence of four o’clock, the silence of the sun going down in the slow sky, the silence with the catlike sound of erasers patted together, and the drip of water from a moving sponge, and the rustle and turn of papers and the scratch of a pen, and perhaps the buzz of a fly banging with a tiny high anger against the tallest clear pane of window in the room. Sometimes the silence would go on this way until almost five, when Miss Taylor would find Bob Spaulding in the last seat of the room, sitting and looking at her silently, waiting for further orders.
“Well, it’s time to go home,” Miss Taylor would say, getting up.
“Yes’m.”
And he would run to fetch her hat and coat. He would also lock the school-room door for her unless the janitor was coming in later. Then they would walk out of school and across the yard, which was empty, the janitor taking down the chain swings slowly on his stepladder, the sun behind the umbrella trees. They talked of all sorts of things.
“And what are you going to be, Bob, when you grow up?”
“A writer,” he said.
“Oh, that’s a big ambition: it takes a lot of work.”
“I know, but I’m going to try,” he said. “I’ve read a lot.”
“Bob, haven’t you anything to do after school?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, I hate to see you kept in so much, washing the boards.”
“I like it,” he said. “I never do what I don’t like.”
“But nevertheless.”
“No, I’ve got to to that,” he said. He thought for a while and said, “Do me a favour, Miss Taylor?”
“It all depends.”
“I walk every Saturday from out around Buetrick Street along the creek to Lake Michigan. There’s a lot of butterflies and crayfish and birds. Maybe you’d like to walk, too.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“Then you’ll come?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Don’t you think it’d be fun?”
“Yes, I’m sure of that, but I’m going to be busy.”
He started to ask what, but stopped.
“I take along sandwiches,” he said. “Ham-and-pickle ones. And orange pop and just walk along, taking my time. I get down to the lake about noon and walk back and get home about three o’clock. It makes a real fine day, and I wish you’d come. Do you collect butterflies? I have a big collection. We could start one for you.”
“Thanks, Bob, but no, perhaps some other time.”
He looked at her and said, “I shouldn’t have asked you, should I?”
“You have every right to ask anything you want to,” she said.
A few days later she found an old copy of `Great Expectations’, which she no longer wanted, and gave it to Bob. He was very grateful and took it home and stayed up that night and read it through and talked about it the next morning. Each day now he met her just beyond sight of her boarding house and many days she would start to say, “Bob –” and tell him not to come to meet her any more, but she never finished saying it, and he talked with her about Dickens and Kipling and Poe and others, coming and going to school. She found a butterfly on her desk on Friday morning. She almost waved it away before she found it was dead and had been placed there while she was out of the room. She glanced at Bob over the heads of her other students, but he was looking at his book; not reading, just looking at it.
It was about this time that she found it impossible to call on Bob to recite in class. She would hover her pencil about his name and then call the next person up or down the list. Nor would she look at him while they were walking to or from school. But on several late afternoons as he moved his arm high on the blackboard, sponging away the arithmetic symbols, she found herself glancing over at him for a few seconds at a time before she returned to her papers.
And then on Saturday morning he was standing in the middle of the creek with his overalls rolled up to his knees, kneeling down to catch a crayfish under a rock, when he looked up and there on the edge of the running stream was Miss Ann Taylor.
“Well, here I am,” she said, laughing.
“And do you know,” he said, “I’m not surprised.”
“Show me the crayfish and the butterflies,” she said.
They walked down to the lake and sat on the sand with a warm wind blowing softly about them, fluttering her hair and the ruffle of her blouse, and he sat a few yards back from her and they ate the ham-and-pickle sandwiches and drank the orange pop solemnly.
“Gee, this is swell,” he said. “This is the swellest time ever in my life.”
“I didn’t think I would ever come on a picnic like this,” she said.
“With some kid,” he said.
“I’m comfortable, however,” she said.
“That’s good news.”
They said little else during the afternoon.
“This is all wrong,” he said, later. “And I can’t figure out why it should be. Just walking along and catching old butterflies and crayfish and eating sandwiches. But Mom and Dad’d rib the heck out of me if they knew, and the kids would, too. And the other teachers, I suppose, would laugh at you, wouldn’t they?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I guess we better not do any more butterfly catching, then.”
“I don’t exactly understand how I came here at all,” she said.
And the day was over.
That was about all there was to the meeting of Ann Taylor and Bob Spaulding, two or three monarch butterflies, a copy of Dickens, a dozen crayfish, four sandwiches and two bottles of Orange Crush. The next Monday, quite unexpectedly, though he waited a long time, Bob did not see Miss Taylor come out to walk to school, but discovered later that she had left earlier and was already at school. Also, Monday night, she left early, with a headache, and another teacher finished her last class. He walked by her boarding house but did not see her anywhere, and he was afraid to ring the bell and inquire.
On Tuesday night after school they were both in the silent room again, he sponging the board contentedly, as if this time might go on forever, and she seated, working on her papers as if she, too, would be in this room and this particular peace and happiness forever, when suddenly the courthouse clock struck. It was a block away and its great bronze boom shuddered one’s body and made the ash of time shake away off your bones and slide through your blood, making you seem older by the minute. Stunned by that clock, you could not but sense the crashing flow of time, and as the clock said five o’clock, Miss Taylor suddenly looked up at it for a long time, and then she put down her pen.
“Bob,” she said.
He turned, startled. Neither of them had spoken in the peaceful and good hour before.
“Will you come here?” she asked.
He put down the sponge slowly.
“Yes,” he said.
“Bob, I want you to sit down.”
“Yes’m.”
She looked at him intently for a moment until he looked away. “Bob, I wonder if you know what I’m going to talk to you about. Do you know?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe it’d be a good idea if you told me, first.”
“About us,” he said, at last.
“How old are you, Bob?”
“Going on fourteen.”
“You’re thirteen years old.”
He winced. “Yes’m.”
“And do you know how old I am?”
“Yes’m. I heard. Twenty-four.”
“Twenty-four.”
“I’ll be twenty-four in ten years, almost,” he said.
“But unfortunately you’re not twenty-four now.”
“No, but sometimes I feel twenty-four.”
“Yes, and sometimes you almost act it.”
“Do I, really!”
“Now sit still there, don’t bound around, we’ve a lot to discuss. It’s very important that we understand exactly what is happening, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“First, let’s admit that we are the greatest and best friends in the world. Let’s admit I have never had a student like you, nor have I had as much affection for any boy I’ve ever known.” He flushed at this. She went on. “And let me speak for you — you’ve found me to be the nicest teacher of all teachers you’ve ever known.”
“Oh, more than that,” he said.
“Perhaps more than that, but there are facts to be faced and an entire way of life to be considered. I’ve thought this over for a good many days, Bob. Don’t think I’ve missed anything, or been unaware of my own feelings in the matter. Under any normal circumstances our friendship would be odd indeed. But then you are no ordinary boy. I know myself pretty well, I think, and I know I’m not sick, either mentally or physically, and that whatever has evolved here has been a true regard for your character and goodness, Bob; but those are not the things we consider in this world, Bob, unless they occur in a man of a certain age. I don’t know if I’m saying this right.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s just if I was ten years older and about fifteen inches taller it’d make all the difference, and that’s silly,” he said, “to go by how tall a person is.”
“The world hasn’t found it so.”
“I’m not all the world,” he protested.
“I know it seems foolish,” she said. “When you feel very grown up and right and have nothing to be ashamed of. You have nothing at all to be ashamed of, Bob, remember that. You have been very honest and good, and I hope I have been, too.”
“You have,” he said.
“In an ideal climate, Bob, maybe someday they will be able to judge the oldness of a person’s mind so accurately that they can say, `This is a man, though his body is only thirteen; by some miracle of circumstances and fortune, this is a man, with a man’s recognition of responsibility and position and duty’; but until that day, Bob, I’m afraid we’re going to have to go by ages and heights and the ordinary way in an ordinary world.”
“I don’t like that,” he said.
“Perhaps I don’t like it, either, but do you want to end up far unhappier than you are now? Do you want both of us to be unhappy? Which we certainly would be. There really is no way to do anything about us — it is so strange even to try to talk about us.”
“Yes’m.”
“But at least we know all about us and the fact that we have been right and fair and good and there is nothing wrong with our knowing each other, nor did we ever intend that it should be, for we both understand how impossible it is, don’t we?”
“Yes, I know. But I can’t help it.”
“Now we must decide what to do about it,” she said. “Now only you and I know about this. Later, others might know. I can secure a transfer from this school to another one –“
“No!”
“Or I can have you transferred to another school.”
“You don’t have to do that,” he said.
“Why?”
“We’re moving. My folks and I, we’re going to live in Madison. We’re leaving next week.”
“It has nothing to do with all this, has it?”
“No, no, everything’s all right. It’s just that my father has a new job there. It’s only fifty miles away. I can see you, can’t I, when I come to town?”
“Do you think that would be a good idea?”
“No, I guess not.”
They sat awhile in the silent schoolroom.
“When did all of this happen?” he said, helplessly.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Nobody ever knows. They haven’t known for thousands of years, and I don’t think they ever will. People either like each other or don’t, and sometimes two people like each other who shouldn’t. I can’t explain myself, and certainly you can’t explain you.”
“I guess I’d better get home,” he said.
“You’re not mad at me, are you?”
“Oh, gosh no, I could never be mad at you.”
“There’s one more thing. I want you to remember, there are compensations in life. There always are, or we wouldn’t go on living. You don’t feel well, now; neither do I. But something will happen to fix that. Do you believe that?”
“I’d like to.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“If only,” he said.
“What?”
“If only you’d wait for me,” he blurted.
“Ten years?”
“I’d be twenty-four then.”
“But I’d be thirty-four and another person entirely, perhaps. No, I don’t think it can be done.”
“Wouldn’t you like it to be done?” he cried.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “It’s silly and it wouldn’t work, but I would like it very much.”
He sat there a long time.
“I’ll never forget you,” he said.
“It’s nice for you to say that, even though it can’t be true, because life isn’t that way. You’ll forget.”
“I’ll never forget. I’ll find a way of never forgetting you,” he said.
She got up and went to erase the boards.
“I’ll help you,” he said.
“No, no,” she said, hastily. “You go on now, get home, and no more tending to the boards after school. I’ll assign Helen Stevens to do it.”
He left the school. Looking back, outside, he saw Miss Ann Taylor, for the last time, at the board, slowly washing out the chalked words, her hand moving up and down.
He moved away from the town the next week and was gone for sixteen years. Though he was only fifty miles away, he never got down to Green Town again until he was almost thirty and married, and then one spring they were driving through on their way to Chicago and stopped off for a day.
Bob left his wife at the hotel and walked around town and finally asked about Miss Ann Taylor, but no-one remembered at first, and then one of them remembered.
“Oh, yes, the pretty teacher. She died in 1936, not long after you left.”
Had she ever married? No, come to think of it, she never had.
He walked out to the cemetery in the afternoon and found her stone, which said “Ann Taylor, born 1910, died 1936.” And he thought, Twenty-six years old. Why I’m three years older than you are now, Miss Taylor.
Later in the day the people in the town saw Bob Spaulding’s wife strolling to meet him under the elm trees and the oak trees, and they all turned to watch her pass, for her face shifted with bright shadows as she walked; she was the fine peaches of summer in the snow of winter, and she was cool milk for cereal on a hot early-summer morning. And this was one of those rare few days in time when the climate was balanced like a maple leaf between winds that blow just right, one of those days that should have been named, everyone agreed, after Robert Spaulding’s wife.
The End
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Ray Bradbury is known for his fine science fiction stories, and poetic ambience. But he also writes horror and non-science fiction as well. This little beauty is about FEAR. And please pay attention to it. Fear is the big killer. Fear is what disrupts our lives and the beauty within our lives. It is fear.
Now a good story will take you to new places, and you will get to feel familiar emotions when you read about those places, and one such story is this one. It’s a horror story, but then again… it is not about the staples of horror. It’s about the emotions that accompany it.
The Whole Town’s Sleeping by Ray Bradbury
THE COURTHOUSE CLOCK CHIMED SEVEN TIMES.
The echoes of the chimes faded. Warm summer twilight here in upper Illinois country in this little town deep far away from everything, kept to itself by a river and a forest and a meadow and a lake.
The sidewalks still scorched.
The stores closing and the streets shadowed.
And there were two moons; the clock moon with four faces in four night directions above the solemn black courthouse, and the real moon rising in vanilla whiteness from the dark east.
In the drugstore fans whispered in the high ceiling.
In the rococo shade of porches, a few invisible people sat.
Cigars glowed pink, on occasion.
Screen doors whined their springs and slammed.
On the purple bricks of the summer-night streets, Douglas Spaulding ran; dogs and boys followed after.
“Hi, Miss Lavinia!” The boys loped away. Waving after them quietly, Lavinia Nebbs sat all alone with a tall cool lemonade in her white fingers, tapping it to her lips, sipping, waiting.
“Here I am, Lavinia.” She turned and there was Francine, all in snow white, at the bottom steps of the porch, in the smell of zinnias and hibiscus.
Lavinia Nebbs locked her front door and, leaving her lemonade glass half empty on the porch, said, “It’s a fine night for the movie.”
They walked down the street.
“Where you going, girls?” cried Miss Fern and Miss Roberta from their porch over the way.
Lavinia called back through the soft ocean of darkness: “To the Elite Theater to see CHARLIE CHAPLIN!”
“Won’t catch us out on no night like this,” wailed Miss Fern. “Not with the Lonely One strangling women. Lock ourselves up in our closet with a gun.”
“Oh, bosh!” Lavinia heard the old women’s door bang and lock, and she drifted on, feeling the warm breath of summer night shimmering off the oven-baked sidewalks.
It was like walking on a hard crust of freshly warmed bread.
The heat pulsed under your dress, along your legs, with a stealthy and not unpleasant sense of invasion.
“Lavinia, you don’t believe all that about the Lonely One, do you?”
“Those women like to see their tongues dance.”
“Just the same, Hattie McDollis was killed two months ago, Roberta Ferry the month before, and now Elizabeth Ramsell’s disappeared. . . .”
“Hattie McDollis was a silly girl, walked off with a traveling man, I bet.”
“But the others, all of them, strangled, their tongues sticking out their mouths, they say.”
They stood upon the edge of the ravine that cut the town half in two. Behind them were the lit houses and music, ahead was deepness, moistness, fireflies and dark.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go to the show tonight,” said Francine.
“The Lonely One might follow and kill us. I don’t like that ravine. Look at it, will you!”
Lavinia looked and the ravine was a dynamo that never stopped running, night or day; there was a great moving hum, a bumbling and murmuring of creature, insect, or plant life.
It smelled like a greenhouse, of secret vapors and ancient, washed shales and quicksands.
And always the black dynamo humming, with sparkles like great electricity where fireflies moved on the air.
“It won’t be me coming back through this old ravine tonight late, so darned late; it’ll be you, Lavinia, you down the steps and over the bridge and maybe the Lonely One there.”
“Bosh!” said Lavinia Nebbs.
“It’ll be you alone on the path, listening to your shoes, not me. You all alone on the way back to your house. Lavinia, don’t you get lonely living in that house?”
“Old maids love to live alone.” Lavinia pointed at the hot shadowy path leading down into the dark.
“Let’s take the short cut.”
“I’m afraid!”
“It’s early. Lonely One won’t be out till late.”
Lavinia took the other’s arm and led her down and down the crooked path into the cricket warmth and frog sound and mosquito-delicate silence.
They brushed through summer-scorched grass, burs prickling at their bare ankles.
“Let’s run!” gasped Francine.
“No!” They turned a curve in the path—and there it was.
In the singing deep night, in the shade of warm trees, as if she had laid herself out to enjoy the soft stars and the easy wind, her hands at either side of her like the oars of a delicate craft, lay Elizabeth Ramsell!
Francine screamed. “Don’t scream!”
Lavinia put out her hands to hold onto Francine, who was whimpering and choking. “Don’t! Don’t!”
The woman lay as if she had floated there, her face moonlit, her eyes wide and like flint, her tongue sticking from her mouth.
“She’s dead!” said Francine.
“Oh, she’s dead, dead! She’s dead!” Lavinia stood in the middle of a thousand warm shadows with the crickets screaming and the frogs loud.
“We’d better get the police,” she said at last.
“Hold me, Lavinia, hold me, I’m cold, oh, I’ve never been so cold in all my life!”
Lavinia held Francine and the policemen were brushing through the crackling grass, flashlights ducked about, voices mingled, and the night grew toward eight-thirty.
“It’s like December. I need a sweater,” said Francine, eyes shut, against Lavinia.
The policeman said, “I guess you can go now, ladies. You might drop by the station tomorrow for a little more questioning.”
Lavinia and Francine walked away from the police and the sheet over the delicate thing upon the ravine grass. Lavinia felt her heart going loudly in her and she was cold, too, with a February cold; there were bits of sudden snow all over her flesh, and the moon washed her brittle fingers whiter, and she remembered doing all the talking while Francine just sobbed against her.
A voice called from far off, “You want an escort, ladies?”
“No, we’ll make it,” said Lavinia to nobody, and they walked on.
They walked through the nuzzling, whispering ravine, the ravine of whispers and clicks, the little world of investigation growing small behind them with its lights and voices.
“I’ve never seen a dead person before,” said Francine. Lavinia examined her watch as if it was a thousand miles away on an arm and wrist grown impossibly distant.
“It’s only eightthirty. We’ll pick up Helen and get on to the show.”
“The show!” Francine jerked. “It’s what we need. We’ve got to forget this. It’s not good to remember. If we went home now we’d remember. We’ll go to the show as if nothing happened.”
“Lavinia, you don’t mean it!”
“I never meant anything more in my life. We need to laugh now and forget.”
“But Elizabeth’s back there—your friend, my friend—”
“We can’t help her; we can only help ourselves. Come on.”
They started up the ravine side, on the stony path, in the dark. And suddenly there, barring their way, standing very still in one spot, not seeing them, but looking on down at the moving lights and the body and listening to the official voices, was Douglas Spaulding.
He stood there, white as a mushroom, with his hands at his sides, staring down into the ravine.
“Get home!” cried Francine. He did not hear.
“You!” shrieked Francine. “Get home, get out of this place, you hear? Get home, get home, get home!”
Douglas jerked his head, stared at them as if they were not there. His mouth moved. He gave a bleating sound. Then, silently, he whirled about and ran. He ran silently up the distant hills into the warm darkness.
Francine sobbed and cried again and, doing this, walked on with Lavinia Nebbs. “There you are! I thought you ladies’d never come!”
Helen Greer stood tapping her foot atop her porch steps. “You’re only an hour late, that’s all. What happened?”
“We—” started Francine. Lavinia clutched her arm tight.
“There was a commotion. Somebody found Elizabeth Ramsell in the ravine.”
“Dead? Was she—dead?” Lavinia nodded. Helen gasped and put her hand to her throat.
“Who found her?” Lavinia held Francine’s wrist firmly.
“We don’t know.” The three young women stood in the summer night looking at each other.
“I’ve got a notion to go in the house and lock the doors,” said Helen at last. But finally she went to get a sweater, for though it was still warm, she, too, complained of the sudden winter night.
While she was gone Francine whispered frantically, “Why didn’t you tell her?”
“Why upset her?” said Lavinia.
“Tomorrow. Tomorrow’s plenty of time.”
The three women moved along the street under the black trees, past suddenly locked houses.
How soon the news had spread outward from the ravine, from house to house, porch to porch, telephone to telephone. Now, passing, the three women felt eyes looking out at them from curtained windows as locks rattled into place.
How strange the popsicle, the vanilla night, the night of close-packed ice cream, of mosquitolotioned wrists, the night of running children suddenly veered from their games and put away behind glass, behind wood, the popsicles in melting puddles of lime and strawberry where they fell when the children were scooped indoors.
Strange the hot rooms with the sweating people pressed tightly back into them behind the bronze knobs and knockers.
Baseball bats and balls lay upon the unfootprinted lawns.
A half-drawn, white-chalk game of hopscotch lay on the broiled, steamed sidewalk. It was as if someone had predicted freezing weather a moment ago.
“We’re crazy being out on a night like this,” said Helen.
“Lonely One won’t kill three ladies,” said Lavinia. “There’s safety in numbers. And besides, it’s too soon. The killings always come a month separated.”
A shadow fell across their terrified faces.
A figure loomed behind a tree.
As if someone had struck an organ a terrible blow with his fist, the three women gave off a scream, in three different shrill notes.
“Got you!” roared a voice. The man plunged at them. He came into the light, laughing. He leaned against a tree, pointing at the ladies weakly, laughing again.
“Hey! I’m the Lonely One!” said Frank Dillon.
“Frank Dillon!” “Frank!” “Frank,” said Lavinia, “if you ever do a childish thing like that again, may someone riddle you with bullets!”
“What a thing to do!” Francine began to cry hysterically. Frank Dillon stopped smiling.
“Say, I’m sorry.” “Go away!” said Lavinia. “Haven’t you heard about Elizabeth Ramsell— found dead in the ravine? You running around scaring women! Don’t speak to us again!”
“Aw, now—” They moved. He moved to follow.
“Stay right there, Mr. Lonely One, and scare yourself. Go take a look at Elizabeth Ramsell’s face and see if it’s funny. Good night!”
Lavinia took the other two on along the street of trees and stars, Francine holding a kerchief to her face.
“Francine, it was only a joke.” Helen turned to Lavinia.
“Why’s she crying so hard?”
“We’ll tell you when we get downtown. We’re going to the show no matter what! Enough’s enough. Come on now, get your money ready, we’re almost there!”
The drugstore was a small pool of sluggish air which the great wooden fans stirred in tides of arnica and tonic and soda-smell out onto the brick streets.
“I need a nickel’s worth of green peppermint chews,” said Lavinia to the druggist. His face was set and pale, like all the faces they had seen on the half-empty streets.
“For eating in the show,” said Lavinia as the druggist weighed out a nickel’s worth of the green candy with a silver shovel.
“You sure look pretty tonight, ladies. You looked cool this afternoon, Miss Lavinia, when you was in for a chocolate soda. So cool and nice that someone asked after you.” “Oh?”
“Man sitting at the counter—watched you walk out. Said to me, ‘Say, who’s that?’ Why, that’s Lavinia Nebbs, prettiest maiden lady in town, I said. ‘She’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘Where does she live?’ ”
Here the druggist paused uncomfortably.
“You didn’t!” said Francine. “You didn’t give him her address, I hope? You didn’t!”
“I guess I didn’t think. I said, ‘Oh, over on Park Street, you know, near the ravine.”
A casual remark.
But now, tonight, them finding the body, I heard a minute ago, I thought, My God, what’ve I done!”
He handed over the package, much too full.
“You fool!” cried Francine, and tears were in her eyes.
“I’m sorry. Course, maybe it was nothing.” Lavinia stood with the three people looking at her, staring at her.
She felt nothing.
Except, perhaps, the slightest prickle of excitement in her throat. She held out her money automatically.
“There’s no charge on those peppermints,” said the druggist, turning to shuffle some papers.
“Well, I know what I’m going to do right now!” Helen stalked out of the drugshop.
“I’m calling a taxi to take us all home. I’ll be no part of a hunting party for you, Lavinia. That man was up to no good. Asking about you. You want to be dead in the ravine next?”
“It was just a man,” said Lavinia, turning in a slow circle to look at the town.
“So is Frank Dillon a man, but maybe he’s the Lonely One.”
Francine hadn’t come out with them, they noticed, and turning, they found her arriving.
“I made him give me a description—the druggist. I made him tell what the man looked like. A stranger,” she said, “in a dark suit. Sort of pale and thin.”
“We’re all overwrought,” said Lavinia. “I simply won’t take a taxi if you get one. If I’m the next victim, let me be the next. There’s all too little excitement in life, especially for a maiden lady thirty-three years old, so don’t you mind if I enjoy it. Anyway it’s silly; I’m not beautiful.”
“Oh, but you are, Lavinia; you’re the loveliest lady in town, now that Elizabeth is—” Francine stopped. “You keep men off at a distance. If you’d only relax, you’d been married years ago!”
“Stop sniveling, Francine! Here’s the theater box office, I’m paying forty-one cents to see Charlie Chaplin. If you two want a taxi, go on. I’ll sit alone and go home alone.”
“Lavinia, you’re crazy; we can’t let you do that—”
They entered the theater.
The first showing was over, intermission was on, and the dim auditorium was sparsely populated. The three ladies sat halfway down front, in the smell of ancient brass polish, and watched the manager step through the worn red velvet curtains to make an announcement.
“The police have asked us to close early tonight so everyone can be out at a decent hour. Therefore we are cutting our short subjects and running our feature again immediately. The show will be over at eleven. Everyone is advised to go straight home. Don’t linger on the streets.”
“That means us, Lavinia!” whispered Francine.
The lights went out.
The screen leaped to life.
“Lavinia,” whispered Helen. “What?”
“As we came in, a man in a dark suit, across the street, crossed over. He just walked down the aisle and is sitting in the row behind us.”
“Oh, Helen!”
“Right behind us?”
One by one the three women turned to look. They saw a white face there, flickering with unholy light from the silver screen. It seemed to be all men’s faces hovering there in the dark.
“I’m going to get the manager!” Helen was gone up the aisle.
“Stop the film! Lights!”
“Helen, come back!” cried Lavinia, rising. They tapped their empty soda glasses down, each with a vanilla mustache on their upper lip, which they found with their tongues, laughing.
“You see how silly?” said Lavinia.
“All that riot for nothing. How embarrassing.”
“I’m sorry,” said Helen faintly.
The clock said eleven-thirty now. They had come out of the dark theater, away from the fluttering rush of men and women hurrying everywhere, nowhere, on the street while laughing at Helen.
Helen was trying to laugh at herself.
“Helen, when you ran up that aisle crying, ‘Lights!’ I thought I’d die! That poor man!”
“The theater manager’s brother from Racine!”
“I apologized,” said Helen, looking up at the great fan still whirling, whirling the warm late night air, stirring, restirring the smells of vanilla, raspberry, peppermint and Lysol.
“We shouldn’t have stopped for these sodas. The police warned—”
“Oh, bosh the police,” laughed Lavinia.
“I’m not afraid of anything. The Lonely One is a million miles away now. He won’t be back for weeks and the police’ll get him then, just wait. Wasn’t the film wonderful?”
“Closing up, ladies.”
The druggist switched off the lights in the cool white-tiled silence. Outside, the streets were swept clean and empty of cars or trucks or people. Bright lights still burned in the small store windows where the warm wax dummies lifted pink wax hands fired with blue-white diamond rings, or flourished orange wax legs to reveal hosiery.
The hot blueglass eyes of the mannequins watched as the ladies drifted down the empty river bottom street, their images shimmering in the windows like blossoms seen under darkly moving waters.
“Do you suppose if we screamed they’d do anything?”
“Who?”
“The dummies, the window people.”
“Oh, Francine.”
“Well. . .”
There were a thousand people in the windows, stiff and silent, and three people on the street, the echoes following like gunshots from store fronts across the way when they tapped their heels on the baked pavement.
A red neon sign flickered dimly, buzzed like a dying insect, as they passed. Baked and white, the long avenues lay ahead.
Blowing and tall in a wind that touched only their leafy summits, the trees stood on either side of the three small women.
Seen from the courthouse peak, they appeared like three thistles far away.
“First, we’ll walk you home, Francine.”
“No, I’ll walk you home.”
“Don’t be silly. You live way out at Electric Park. If you walked me home you’d have to come back across the ravine alone, yourself. And if so much as a leaf fell on you, you’d drop dead.”
Francine said, “I can stay the night at your house. You’re the pretty one!”
And so they walked, they drifted like three prim clothes forms over a moonlit sea of lawn and concrete, Lavinia watching the black trees flit by each side of her, listening to the voices of her friends murmuring, trying to laugh; and the night seemed to quicken, they seemed to run while walking slowly, everything seemed fast and the color of hot snow.
“Let’s sing,” said Lavinia.
They sang, “Shine On, Shine On, Harvest Moon …”
They sang sweetly and quietly, arm in arm, not looking back. They felt the hot sidewalk cooling underfoot, moving, moving.
“Listen!” said Lavinia. They listened to the summer night. The summer-night crickets and the far-off tone of the courthouse clock making it eleven forty-five.
“Listen!” Lavinia listened.
A porch swing creaked in the dark and there was Mr. Terle, not saying anything to anybody, alone on his swing, having a last cigar.
They saw the pink ash swinging gently to and fro.
Now the lights were going, going, gone.
The little house lights and big house lights and yellow lights and green hurricane lights, the candles and oil lamps and porch lights, and everything felt locked up in brass and iron and steel, everything, thought Lavinia, is boxed and locked and wrapped and shaded.
She imagined the people in their moonlit beds. And their breathing in the summernight rooms, safe and together.
And here we are, thought Lavinia, our footsteps on along the baked summer evening sidewalk. And above us the lonely street lights shining down, making a drunken shadow.
“Here’s your house, Francine. Good night.”
“Lavinia, Helen, stay here tonight. It’s late, almost midnight now. You can sleep in the parlor. I’ll make hot chocolate—it’ll be such fun!”
Francine was holding them both now, close to her.
“No, thanks,” said Lavinia.
And Francine began to cry. “Oh, not again, Francine,” said Lavinia.
“I don’t want you dead,” sobbed Francine, the tears running straight down her cheeks.
“You’re so fine and nice, I want you alive. Please, oh, please!”
“Francine, I didn’t know how much this has done to you. I promise I’ll phone when I get home.”
“Oh, will you?”
“And tell you I’m safe, yes. And tomorrow we’ll have a picnic lunch at Electric Park. With ham sandwiches I’ll make myself, how’s that? You’ll see, I’ll live forever!”
“You’ll phone, then?”
“I promised, didn’t I?”
“Good night, good night!”
Rushing upstairs, Francine whisked behind a door, which slammed to be snap-bolted tight on the instant.
“Now,” said Lavinia to Helen, “I’ll walk you home.”
The courthouse clock struck the hour.
The sounds blew across a town that was empty, emptier than it had ever been. Over empty streets and empty lots and empty lawns the sound faded.
“Nine, ten, eleven, twelve,” counted Lavinia, with Helen on her arm.
“Don’t you feel funny?” asked Helen.
“How do you mean?”
“When you think of us being out here on the sidewalks, under the trees, and all those people safe behind locked doors, lying in their beds. We’re practically the only walking people out in the open in a thousand miles, I bet.”
The sound of the deep warm dark ravine came near.
In a minute they stood before Helen’s house, looking at each other for a long time. The wind blew the odor of cut grass between them.
The moon was sinking in a sky that was beginning to cloud.
“I don’t suppose it’s any use asking you to stay, Lavinia?”
“I’ll be going on.” “Sometimes—” “Sometimes what?”
“Sometimes I think people want to die. You’ve acted odd all evening.”
“I’m just not afraid,” said Lavinia.
“And I’m curious, I suppose. And I’m using my head. Logically, the Lonely One can’t be around. The police and all.”
“The police are home with their covers up over their ears.”
“Let’s just say I’m enjoying myself, precariously, but safely. If there was any real chance of anything happening to me, I’d stay here with you, you can be sure of that.”
“Maybe part of you doesn’t want to live anymore.”
“You and Francine. Honestly!”
“I feel so guilty. I’ll be drinking some hot cocoa just as you reach the ravine bottom and walk on the bridge.”
“Drink a cup for me. Good night.”
Lavinia Nebbs walked alone down the midnight street, down the late summer-night silence.
She saw houses with the dark windows and far away she heard a dog barking. In five minutes, she thought, I’ll be safe at home. In five minutes I’ll be phoning silly little Francine. I’ll—”
She heard the man’s voice. A man’s voice singing far away among the trees. “Oh, give me a June night, the moonlight and you . . .”
She walked a little faster.
The voice sang, “In my arms . . . with all your charms …”
Down the street in the dim moonlight a man walked slowly and casually along.
I can run knock on one of these doors, thought Lavinia, if I must.
“Oh, give me a June night,” sang the man, and he carried a long club in his hand.
“The moonlight and you. Well, look who’s here . What a time of night for you to be out, Miss Nebbs!”
“Officer Kennedy!” And that’s who it was, of course.
“I’d better see you home!”
“Thanks, I’ll make it.”
“But you live across the ravine. . . .”
Yes, she thought, but I won’t walk through the ravine with any man, not even an officer. How do I know who the Lonely One is?
“No,” she said, “I’ll hurry.”
“I’ll wait right here,” he said.
“If you need any help, give a yell. Voices carry good here. I’ll come running.”
“Thank you.” She went on, leaving him under a light, humming to himself, alone. Here I am, she thought.
The ravine.
She stood on the edge of the one hundred and thirteen steps that went down the steep hill and then across the bridge seventy yards and up the hills leading to Park Street. And only one lantern to see by.
Three minutes from now, she thought, I’ll be putting my key in my house door. Nothing can happen in just one hundred eighty seconds.
She started down the long dark-green steps into the deep ravine.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten steps,” she counted in a whisper. She felt she was running, but she was not running.
“Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty steps,” she breathed.
“One fifth of the way!” she announced to herself.
The ravine was deep, black and black, black! And the world was gone behind, the world of safe people in bed, the locked doors, the town, the drugstore, the theater, the lights, everything was gone.
Only the ravine existed and lived, black and huge, about her.
“Nothing’s happened, has it? No one around, is there? Twenty-four, twenty-five steps. Remember that old ghost story you told each other when you were children?”
She listened to her shoes on the steps.
“The story about the dark man coming in your house and you upstairs in bed. And now he’s at the first step coming up to your room. And now he’s at the second step. And now he’s at the third step and the fourth step and the fifth! Oh, how you used to laugh and scream at that story! And now the horrid dark man’s at the twelfth step and now he’s opening the door of your room and now he’s standing by your bed. ‘I GOT YOU!’ “
She screamed. It was like nothing she’d ever heard, that scream. She had never screamed that loud in her life.
She stopped, she froze, she clung to the wooden banister.
Her heart exploded in her. The sound of the terrified beating filled the universe.
“There, there!” she screamed to herself.
“At the bottom of the steps. A man, under the light! No, now he’s gone! He was waiting there!”
She listened.
Silence.
The bridge was empty. Nothing, she thought, holding her heart. Nothing. Fool! That story I told myself. How silly. What shall I do?
Her heartbeats faded.
Shall I call the officer—did he hear me scream? She listened. Nothing. Nothing. I’ll go the rest of the way.
That silly story.
She began again, counting the steps.
“Thirty-five, thirty-six, careful, don’t fall. Oh, I am a fool. Thirty-seven steps, thirty-eight, nine and forty, and two makes forty-two— almost halfway.”
She froze again.
Wait, she told herself. She took a step.
There was an echo.
She took another step.
Another echo.
Another step, just a fraction of a moment later.
“Someone’s following me,” she whispered to the ravine, to the black crickets and dark-green hidden frogs and the black stream.
“Someone’s on the steps behind me. I don’t dare turn around.”
Another step, another echo.
“Every time I take a step, they take one.”
A step and an echo. Weakly she asked of the ravine, “Officer Kennedy, is that you?”
The crickets were still.
The crickets were listening. The night was listening to her. For a change, all of the far summer-night meadows and close summer-night trees were suspending motion; leaf, shrub, star, and meadow grass ceased their particular tremors and were listening to Lavinia Nebbs’s heart.
And perhaps a thousand miles away, across locomotive-lonely country, in an empty way station, a single traveler reading a dim newspaper under a solitary naked bulb, might raise up his head, listen, and think, What’s that? and decide, Only a woodchuck, surely, beating on a hollow log.
But it was Lavinia Nebbs, it was most surely the heart of Lavinia Nebbs.
Silence.
A summer-night silence which lay for a thousand miles, which covered the earth like a white and shadowy sea.
Faster, faster! She went down the steps. Run!
She heard music. In a mad way, in a silly way, she heard the great surge of music that pounded at her, and she realized as she ran, as she ran in panic and terror, that some part of her mind was dramatizing, borrowing from the turbulent musical score of some private drama, and the music was rushing and pushing her now, higher and higher, faster, faster, plummeting and scurrying, down, and down into the pit of the ravine.
Only a little way, she prayed.
One hundred eight, nine, one hundred ten steps!
The bottom!
Now, run! Across the bridge! She told her legs what to do, her arms, her body, her terror; she advised all parts of herself in this white and terrible moment, over the roaring creek waters, on the hollow, thudding, swaying almost alive, resilient bridge planks she ran, followed by the wild footsteps behind, behind, with the music following, too, the music shrieking and babbling.
He’s following, don’t turn, don’t look, if you see him, you’ll not be able to move, you’ll be so frightened.
Just run, run!
She ran across the bridge. Oh, God, God, please, please let me get up the hill! Now up the path, now between the hills, oh God, it’s dark, and everything so far away.
If I screamed now it wouldn’t help; I can’t scream anyway. Here’s the top of the path, here’s the street, oh, God, please let me be safe, if I get home safe I’ll never go out alone; I was a fool, let me admit it, I was a fool, I didn’t know what terror was, but if you let me get home from this I’ll never go without Helen or Francine again!
Here’s the street. Across the street! She crossed the street and rushed up the sidewalk.
Oh God, the porch!
My house!
Oh God, please give me time to get inside and lock the door and I’ll be safe!
And there—silly thing to notice—why did she notice, instantly, no time, no time—but there it was anyway, flashing by—there on the porch rail, the half-filled glass of lemonade she had abandoned a long time, a year, half an evening ago!
The lemonade glass sitting calmly, imperturbably there on the rail,. . . and . . . She heard her clumsy feet on the porch and listened and felt her hands scrabbling and ripping at the lock with the key.
She heard her heart.
She heard her inner voice screaming.
The key fit. Unlock the door, quick, quick!
The door opened. Now, inside. Slam it! She slammed the door.
“Now lock it, bar it, lock it!” she gasped wretchedly.
“Lock it, tight, tight!” The door was locked and bolted tight.
The music stopped. She listened to her heart again and the sound of it diminishing into silence.
Home! Oh God, safe at home! Safe, safe and safe at home! She slumped against the door. Safe, safe. Listen. Not a sound.
Safe, safe, oh thank God, safe at home.
I’ll never go out at night again. I’ll stay home.
I won’t go over that ravine again ever. Safe, oh safe, safe home, so good, so good, safe! Safe inside, the door locked. Wait. Look out the window. She looked. Why, there’s no one there at all!
Nobody. There was nobody following me at all.
Nobody running after me.
She got her breath and almost laughed at herself. It stands to reason If a man had been following me, he’d have caught me! I’m not a fast runner. . . . There’s no one on the porch or in the yard.
How silly of me. I wasn’t running from anything.
That ravine’s as safe as anyplace. Just the same, it’s nice to be home. Home’s the really good warm place, the only place to be.
She put her hand out to the light switch and stopped. “What?” she asked. “What, what?”
Behind her in the living room, someone cleared his throat.
The End
Some thoughts…
Have you ever been petrified or terrified of an event in the future? One where you really don’t have much control of the outcome? You do what you can. You make a “risk analysis”. and then you try to “hedge your bets” to avoid any undue discomfort. But then, all things said and done, you move forward with you head held high, and you confronted what ever your fear is.
And the truth really is that your fears are far worse than what you are going to experience.
Know this fact and use it. Bravery is simply the realization that your fears are much larger than what you will actually encounter.
You’ll not find any big banners or popups here talking about cookies and privacy notices. There are no ads on this site (aside from the hosting ads – a necessary evil). Functionally and fundamentally, I just don’t make money off of this blog. It is NOT monetized. Finally, I don’t track you because I just don’t care to.
Please kindly help me out in this effort. There is a lot of effort that goes into this disclosure. I could use all the financial support that anyone could provide. Thank you very much.
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The soft knock came at the kitchen door, and when Mrs. O’Brian opened it, there on the back porch were her best tenant, Mr. Ramirez, and two police officers, one on each side of him.
Mr. Ramirez just stood there, walled in and small.
“Why, Mr. Ramirez!” said Mrs. O’Brian.
Mr. Ramirez was overcome. He did not seem to have words to explain.
He had arrived at Mrs. O’Brian’s rooming house more than two years earlier and had lived there ever since.
He had come by bus from Mexico City to San Diego and had then gone up to Los Angeles. There he had found the clean little room, with glossy blue linoleum, and pictures and calendars on the flowered walls, and Mrs. O’Brian as the strict but kindly landlady.
During the war, he had worked at the airplane factory and made parts for the planes that flew off somewhere, and even now, after the war, he still held his job.
From the first, he had made big money.
He saved some of it, and he got drunk only once a week–a privilege that, to Mrs. O’Brian’s way of thinking, every good workingman deserved, unquestioned and unreprimanded.
Inside Mrs. O’Brian’s kitchen, pies were baking in the oven.
Soon the pies would come out with complexions like Mr. Ramirez’s, brown and shiny and crisp, with slits in them for the air almost like the slits of Mr. Ramirez’s dark eyes.
The kitchen smelled good.
The policemen leaned forward, lured by the odor.
Mr. Ramirez gazed at his feet, as if they had carried him into all this trouble.
“What happened, Mr. Ramirez?” asked Mrs. O’Brian.
Behind Mrs. O’Brian, as he lifted his eyes, Mr. Ramirez saw the long table, laid with clean white linen and set with a platter, cool, shining glasses, a water pitcher with ice cubes floating inside it, a bowl of fresh potato salad, and one of bananas and oranges, cubed and sugared.
At this table sat Mrs. O’Brian’s children–her three grown sons, eating and conversing, and her two younger daughters, who were staring at the policemen as they ate.
“I have been here thirty months,” said Mr. Ramirez quietly, looking at Mrs. O’Brian’s plump hands.
“That’s six months too long,” said one policeman.
“He only had a temporary visa. We’ve just got around to looking for him.”
Soon after Mr. Ramirez had arrived, he bought a radio for his little room; evenings, he turned it up very loud and enjoyed it.
And he had bought a wrist-watch and enjoyed that, too.
And on many nights he had walked silent streets and seen the bright clothes in the windows and bought some of them, and he had seen the jewels and bought some of them for his few lady friends.
And he had gone to picture shows five nights a week for a while.
Then, also, he had ridden the streetcars–all night some nights– smelling the electricity, his dark eyes moving over the advertisements, feeling the wheels rumble under him, watching the little sleeping houses and big hotels slip by.
Besides that, he had gone to large restaurants, where he had eaten many-course dinners, and to the opera and the theatre.
And he had bought a car, which later, when he forgot to pay for it, the dealer had driven off angrily from in front of the rooming house.
“So here I am,” said Mr. Ramirez now, “to tell you that I must give up my room, Mrs. O’Brian. I come to get my baggage and clothes and go with these men.”
“Back to Mexico?”
“Yes. To Lagos. That is a little town north of Mexico City.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ramirez.”
“I’m packed,” said Mr. Ramirez hoarsely, blinking his dark eyes rapidly and moving his hands helplessly before him.
The policemen did not touch him. There was no necessity for that.
“Here is the key, Mrs. O’Brian,” Mr. Ramirez said, “I have my bag already.”
Mrs. O’Brian, for the first time, noticed a suitcase standing behind him on the porch. Mr. Ramirez looked in again at the huge kitchen, at the bright silver cutlery and the young people eating and the shining waxed floor.
He turned and looked for a long moment at the apartment house next door, rising up three stories, high and beautiful.
He looked at the balconies and fire escapes and back-porch stairs, at the lines of laundry snapping in the wind.
“You’ve been a good tenant,” said Mrs. O’Brian.
“Thank you, thank you, Mrs. O’Brian,” he said softly. He closed his eyes. Mrs. O’Brian stood holding the door half open.
One of her sons, behind her, said that her dinner was getting cold, but she shook her head at him and turned back to Mr. Ramirez.
She remembered a visit she had once made to some Mexican border towns–the hot days, the endless crickets leaping and falling or lying dead and brittle like the small cigars in the shop windows’ and the canals taking river water out to the farms, the dirt roads, the scorched fields, the little adobe houses, the bleached clothes, the eroded landscape.
She remembered the silent towns, the warm beer, the hot, thick foods each day.
She remembered the slow, dragging horses and the parched jack rabbits on the road.
She remembered the iron mountains and the dusty valleys and the ocean beaches that spread hundreds of miles with no sound but the waves –no cars, no buildings, nothing.
“I’m sure sorry, Mr. Ramirez,” she said.
“I don’t want to go back, Mrs. O’Brian,” he said weakly. “I like it here. I want to stay here. I’ve worked, I’ve got money. I look all right, don’t I? And I don’t want to go back!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ramirez,” she said. “I wish there was something I could do.”
“Mrs. O’Brian!” he cried suddenly, tears rolling out from under his eyelids. He reached out his hands and took her hand fervently, shaking it, wringing it, holding to it.
“Mrs. O’Brian, I see you never, I see you never!”
The policemen smiled at this, but Mr. Ramirez did not notice it, and they stopped smiling very soon.
“Goodbye, Mrs. O’Brian. You have been good to me. Oh, goodbye, Mrs. O’Brian. I see you never”
The policemen waited for Mr. Ramirez to turn, pick up his suitcase, and walk away.
Then they followed him, tipping their caps to Mrs. O’Brian. She watched them go down the porch steps.
Then she shut the door quietly and went slowly back to her chair at the table.
She pulled the chair out and sat down. She picked up the shining knife and fork and started once more upon her steak.
“Hurry up, Mom,” said one of the sons. “It’ll be cold.”
Mrs. O’Brian took one bite and chewed on it for a long, slow time; then she stared at the closed door.
She laid down her knife and fork.
“What’s wrong, Ma?” asked her son.
“I just realized,” said Mrs. O’Brian–she put her hand to her face–“I’ll never see Mr. Ramirez again.”
The End
Some words…
Most of youse guys reading this might associate it with an immigrant coming to America and overstaying their visa. But for me, as an American expat, we are always at the mercy of our host country. In my case it is China. And they can just as easily revoke my visa. All it takes is a crazed madman running the United States and causing discord between our two nations.
When I lived in the USA, I believed the narrative that “foreigners were taking our jobs”. Why? Well, it was a non-stop mantra from the “news” media for decades.
But you know what? There weren’t any engineers from India taking my work, or the work of anyone around me. There wasn’t any “Mexicans” stealing my work in any way. And all this stuff about them getting free hospital care, free medicine, and free this and that… well I believed it.
But…
But…
But I never SAW it with my eyes – first hand. I only heard about it.
We need to return to being a compassionate and just people. We need to show care and empathy. And those that rule the media need to shut the FUCK UP and stop provoking and filling the world with hate. The big reset is coming to America. Wise up, and start being the Rufus. We need to be a compassionate people again. We really do. For that is the only true road to salvation on both the spiritual and physical worlds.
Do you want more?
I have more Ray Bradbury posts in my Literature Index here…
You’ll not find any big banners or popups here talking about cookies and privacy notices. There are no ads on this site (aside from the hosting ads – a necessary evil). Functionally and fundamentally, I just don’t make money off of this blog. It is NOT monetized. Finally, I don’t track you because I just don’t care to.
Please kindly help me out in this effort. There is a lot of effort that goes into this disclosure. I could use all the financial support that anyone could provide. Thank you very much.
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This is the full text, for free, of the Robert Heinlein novel titled “Starship Troopers”. You can read it here directly. You do not have to “register for free” with your credit card, click through a dozen affiliate links, join a “membership”, or download some kind of “pass”. This website is not monetized, and that means that “free” actually means “free”.
Not like the “other” websites on the internet that promise you “free” with a catch…
It’s all “free” just go ahead and give the website your credit card number, and agree to pay some “minor” fees and give them your email address and answer some “minor” questions.
Yeah. It’s all “free” right? Yeah like fucking Hell, it’s free. Most everything in the United States is tied to making money. And you, my dear reader as just a pawn, a debt sheep to serve your greedy masters. But not here.
Sounds legit, eh? Safe and Secure, eh?
Here it is really free. Here I don’t want your fucking credit card, or God-damn banking information. I do not expect you to make a “future purchase. I don’t want anything from ya. Just enjoy a great read. It’s my way, a little one, of making the world a better place, step by step.
Here it is in all it’s glory.
Brief Introduction
If you think that the Hollywood movie version of this novel was accurate, let me dispel that misconception. The movie does not, in any way, resemble the novel. This novel is great, and something worthy of posting on my blog.
I first read this book years ago as a child, and in many ways it shaped my entire world view; it quite literally changed my life.
I recently retired after 27 years of Naval service, and as silly as it may seem to some, this book was the foundation of my success; in military service, in the lives of countless young Sailors, and in my new role as a civilian.
It shaped the character of who I was as a leader of men and women at war.
Heinlein may have authored "better" books (according to the critics) but having read virtually all of them, none of the others ever quite so captured the essence of what it means to be both in military service and what those of us fortunate enough to have served all know in our hearts: the true value and moral responsibility of citizenship.
-Amazon Customer
I’ve read this novel three or four times over the last fifty years. It’s a wonderful adventure, but far far more than that.
This is a book about morality: what does the individual ‘owe’ to society (as represented by the state), if anything? Heinlein was a libertarian, so you might think that his answer would, effectively, be …. nothing. His The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress, another classic, is closer to that view.
This is a classic SF futuristic warfare novel that was (may be still) on the reading list at the USAF Command and Staff College where it first got my attention.
Written in or around 1959, Heinlein's views on duty, honor, selfless service, dignity, combat unit cohesiveness, future infantry tactics and weaponry, society, women in combat, politics, and even parenting are magnificently woven into a fast read novel written at the high school level (at least the 1959 high school level).
A must read for any junior officer or NCO. Great for a military professional development discussion or class. Heinlein was a prolific SF writer. And, I have read a number of his books. But, Starship Troopers is by far the best.
If you saw the movie.... I provide you my regrets, although it had a number of budding stars. About the only thing the novel and the movie share besides title is that the protagonist is named Johnnie and the antagonists are bugs.
-EIA!
But in my opinion this book has a sounder view. It’s also brilliantly written — okay, it’s not Updike, but it’s very good juvenile fiction. Two things will interest readers with a sense of history: first, this was written BEFORE the ‘Sixties Revolution’ — and Heinlein was NEVER Politically Correct.
But this book, like almost all his novels written from the 1950s onward, includes very effective, if subtle, arguments against what nowadays are called ‘racism’ and ‘sexism’.
Secondly, it’s interesting to see how far-seeing science fiction authors almost completely missed the revolution in micro-miniaturisation and digital electronics, which makes some of their predictions about the evolution of technology way off the mark. But no one reading the book should feel superior — it just shows that the future is not predictable.
A great book for teenage boys — I don’t know if girls will appreciate it. Lots of bang-bang, but underlying the adventure, and the identifiable-with central character, are deep lessons in how to be a good person.
Best WAR story ever written, past, present or future. It is NOT what you saw in the movie, it is SOOOOO much better!!!
Heinlein lays out his vision for inter-galactic warfare, but it is really a book about how a boy becomes a man and a person becomes a worthy citizen.
Accused by the Hippies of its era for being "Too Fascist" this libertarian fantasy portrays a future where society really is a liberal-globalist paradise run on a capitalist economy, but with the right to vote limited to those who volunteer for military service.
It is a future society with total freedom and total responsibility.
All wars are in outer space where human colonies run into hostile societies, especially the "Bugs." We get to follow Johnny Rico, a very typical recent high school graduate, as he goes through basic training and enters combat in a wild tech-warrior mech-suit (first imagined in this book) as a member of the Mobile Infantry. if you like HALO, this is where the game world and tech came from.
But, it is really a story about a new a better society and how to find meaning for your life through service to humanity. The best scenes are short, but all take place in a classroom, where "Moral Ethics and History" are taught by a veteran with a missing arm.
So, ignore the movie, ignore the controversy; just buy this space adventure and ponder why we don't live in Heinlein's perfect society . . . . yet!!
"Do you apes want to live forever!!"
-Erik S Rurikson
The story follows the career of Johnnie Rico as a Trooper for the federation in a far off fascist future. Despite being a military sci-fi novel it has a surprising amount of political commentary running throughout adding an interesting layer of depth that a lot of modern military sci-fi novels really lack. In the future the only people that can vote have to have worked for the federation to earn citizenship, they have to have earned the right and put the good of the whole above the individual but it’s not that simple as Johnnie finds out.
Can't believe I waited this long to read it. I have been a Sci-Fi fan for many years. My die-hard friends always recommended "Starship Troopers" and the Forever War as two classics that all Sci-Fi fans have to have read.Well.... I saw the abysmal movie years ago so was not interested. What a dolt. Robert Heinlein's book is, I now agree, a must read classic for all Sci-Fi fans. I can now see the influence he had with current writers of the genre. Between him and Asimov their influence is seen everywhere. Really glad I finally read it. Not as much action as I had hoped for but the other areas where he explores human nature, government and society and an individuals role in all of that was enjoyable and well worth the read. You have to answer those same questions for yourself as you read Rico's experiences and journey from late teen into adulthood.
-Squall Line
Though Rico’s reason for joining started as a political choice it soon turns into the look at the life of a mobile infantry trooper, over half the book is about his training alone, about what really makes a soldier in the future. Most of the cadets don’t make it through training, nevermind to serve their term to be citizens.
Starship Troopers
By Robert Heinlein
Come on, you apes! You wanta live forever?
—Unknown platoon sergeant, 1918
I always get the shakes before a drop. I’ve had the injections, of course, and hypnotic preparation, and it stands to reason that I can’t really be afraid. The ship’s psychiatrist has checked my brain waves and asked me silly questions while I was asleep and he tells me that it isn’t fear, it isn’t anything important—it’s just like the trembling of an eager race horse in the starting gate.
I couldn’t say about that; I’ve never been a race horse. But the fact is: I’m scared silly, every time.
At D-minus-thirty, after we had mustered in the drop room of the Rodger Young, our platoon leader inspected us. He wasn’t our regular platoon leader, because Lieutenant Rasczak had bought it on our last drop; he was really the platoon sergeant, Career Ship’s Sergeant Jelal. Jelly was a Finno-Turk from Iskander around Proxima—a swarthy little man who looked like a clerk, but I’ve seen him tackle two berserk privates so big he had to reach up to grab them, crack their heads together like coconuts, step back out of the way while they fell.
Off duty he wasn’t bad—for a sergeant. You could even call him “Jelly” to his face. Not recruits, of course, but anybody who had made at least one combat drop.
But right now he was on duty. We had all each inspected our combat equipment (look, it’s your own neck—see?), the acting platoon sergeant
had gone over us carefully after he mustered us, and now Jelly went over us again, his face mean, his eyes missing nothing. He stopped by the man in front of me, pressed the button on his belt that gave readings on his physicals. “Fall out!”
“But, Sarge, it’s just a cold. The Surgeon said—”
Jelly interrupted. “‘But Sarge!’” he snapped. “The Surgeon ain’t making no drop—and neither are you, with a degree and a half of fever. You think
I got time to chat with you, just before a drop? Fall out! ”
Jenkins left us, looking sad and mad—and I felt bad, too. Because of the Lieutenant buying it, last drop, and people moving up, I was assistant
section leader, second section, this drop, and now I was going to have a hole in my section and no way to fill it. That’s not good; it means a man can run into something sticky, call for help and have nobody to help him.
Jelly didn’t downcheck anybody else. Presently he stepped out in front of us, looked us over and shook his head sadly. “What a gang of apes!” he growled. “Maybe if you’d all buy it this drop, they could start over and build the kind of outfit the Lieutenant expected you to be. But probably not— with the sort of recruits we get these days.” He suddenly straightened up, shouted, “I just want to remind you apes that each and every one of you has cost the gov’ment, counting weapons, armor, ammo, instrumentation, and training, everything, including the way you overeat—has cost, on the hoof, better’n half a million. Add in the thirty cents you are actually worth and that runs to quite a sum.” He glared at us. “So bring it back! We can spare you, but we can’t spare that fancy suit you’re wearing. I don’t want any heroes in this outfit; the Lieutenant wouldn’t like it. You got a job to do, you go down, you do it, you keep your ears open for recall, you show up for retrieval on the bounce and by the numbers. Get me?”
He glared again. “You’re supposed to know the plan. But some of you ain’t got any minds to hypnotize so I’ll sketch it out. You’ll be dropped in two skirmish lines, calculated two-thousand-yard intervals. Get your bearing on me as soon as you hit, get your bearing and distance on your squad mates, both sides, while you take cover. You’ve wasted ten seconds already, so you smash-and-destroy whatever’s at hand until the flankers hit dirt.” (He was talking about me—as assistant section leader I was going to be left flanker, with nobody at my elbow. I began to tremble.)
“Once they hit—straighten out those lines!—equalize those intervals! Drop what you’re doing and do it! Twelve seconds. Then advance by leapfrog, odd and even, assistant section leaders minding the count and guiding the envelopment.” He looked at me. “If you’ve done this properly— which I doubt—the flanks will make contact as recall sounds . . . at which time, home you go. Any questions?”
There weren’t any; there never were. He went on, “One more word—This is just a raid, not a battle. It’s a demonstration of firepower and frightfulness. Our mission is to let the enemy know that we could have destroyed their city—but didn’t—but that they aren’t safe even though we refrain from total bombing. You’ll take no prisoners. You’ll kill only when you can’t help it. But the entire area we hit is to be smashed. I don’t want to see any of you loafers back aboard here with unexpended bombs. Get me?” He glanced at the time. “Rasczak’s Roughnecks have got a reputation
to uphold. The Lieutenant told me before he bought it to tell you that he will always have his eye on you every minute . . . and that he expects your names to shine!”
Jelly glanced over at Sergeant Migliaccio, first section leader. “Five minutes for the Padre,” he stated. Some of the boys dropped out of ranks,
went over and knelt in front of Migliaccio, and not necessarily those of his creed, either—Moslems, Christians, Gnostics, Jews, whoever wanted a word with him before a drop, he was there. I’ve heard tell that there used to be military outfits whose chaplains did not fight alongside the others, but I’ve never been able to see how that could work. I mean, how can a chaplain bless anything he’s not willing to do himself? In any case, in the Mobile
Infantry, everybody drops and everybody fights—chaplain and cook and the Old Man’s writer. Once we went down the tube there wouldn’t be a Roughneck left aboard—except Jenkins, of course, and that not his fault.
I didn’t go over. I was always afraid somebody would see me shake if I did, and, anyhow, the Padre could bless me just as handily from where he was. But he came over to me as the last stragglers stood up and pressed his helmet against mine to speak privately. “Johnnie,” he said quietly, “this is your first drop as a non-com.”
“Yeah.” I wasn’t really a non-com, any more than Jelly was really an officer.
“Just this, Johnnie. Don’t buy a farm. You know your job; do it. Just do it. Don’t try to win a medal.” “Uh, thanks, Padre. I shan’t.”
He added something gently in a language I don’t know, patted me on the shoulder, and hurried back to his section. Jelly called out, “Tenn . . .
shut!” and we all snapped to. “Platoon!”
“Section!” Migliaccio and Johnson echoed.
“By sections—port and starboard—prepare for drop!”
“Section! Man your capsules! Move! ”
“Squad!”—I had to wait while squads four and five manned their capsules and moved on down the firing tube before my capsule showed up on
the port track and I could climb into it. I wondered if those old-timers got the shakes as they climbed into the Trojan Horse? Or was it just me? Jelly checked each man as he was sealed in and he sealed me in himself. As he did so, he leaned toward me and said, “Don’t goof off, Johnnie. This is just like a drill.”
The top closed on me and I was alone. “Just like a drill,” he says! I began to shake uncontrollably.
Then, in my earphones, I heard Jelly from the center-line tube: “Bridge! Rasczak’s Roughnecks . . . ready for drop!”
“Seventeen seconds, Lieutenant!” I heard the ship captain’s cheerful contralto replying—and resented her calling Jelly “Lieutenant.” To be sure, our lieutenant was dead and maybe Jelly would get his commission . . . but we were still “Rasczak’s Roughnecks.”
She added, “Good luck, boys!” “Thanks, Captain.”
“Brace yourselves! Five seconds.”
I was strapped all over—belly, forehead, shins. But I shook worse than ever.
It’s better after you unload. Until you do, you sit there in total darkness, wrapped like a mummy against the acceleration, barely able to breathe— and knowing that there is just nitrogen around you in the capsule even if you could get your helmet open, which you can’t—and knowing that the capsule is surrounded by the firing tube anyhow and if the ship gets hit before they fire you, you haven’t got a prayer, you’ll just die there, unable to move, helpless. It’s that endless wait in the dark that causes the shakes—thinking that they’ve forgotten you . . . the ship has been hulled and stayed in orbit, dead, and soon you’ll buy it, too, unable to move, choking. Or it’s a crash orbit and you’ll buy it that way, if you don’t roast on the way down.
Then the ship’s braking program hit us and I stopped shaking. Eight gees, I would say, or maybe ten. When a female pilot handles a ship there is nothing comfortable about it; you’re going to have bruises every place you’re strapped. Yes, yes, I know they make better pilots than men do; their
reactions are faster, and they can tolerate more gee. They can get in faster, get out faster, and thereby improve everybody’s chances, yours as well
as theirs. But that still doesn’t make it fun to be slammed against your spine at ten times your proper weight.
But I must admit that Captain Deladrier knows her trade. There was no fiddling around once the Rodger Young stopped braking. At once I heard her snap, “Center-line tube … fire!” and there were two recoil bumps as Jelly and his acting platoon sergeant unloaded—and immediately: “Port and starboard tubes—automatic fire! ” and the rest of us started to unload.
Bump! and your capsule jerks ahead one place—bump! and it jerks again, precisely like cartridges feeding into the chamber of an old-style automatic weapon. Well, that’s just what we were . . . only the barrels of the gun were twin launching tubes built into a spaceship troop carrier and each cartridge was a capsule big enough (just barely) to hold an infantryman with all field equipment.
Bump!—I was used to number three spot, out early; now I was Tail-End Charlie, last out after three squads. It makes a tedious wait, even with a capsule being fired every second; I tried to count the bumps—bump! (twelve) bump! (thirteen) bump! (fourteen—with an odd sound to it, the empty one Jenkins should have been in) bump!—
And clang!—it’s my turn as my capsule slams into the firing chamber—then WHAMBO! the explosion hits with a force that makes the Captain’s braking maneuver feel like a love tap.
Then suddenly nothing.
Nothing at all. No sound, no pressure, no weight. Floating in darkness . . . free fall, maybe thirty miles up, above the effective atmosphere, falling weightlessly toward the surface of a planet you’ve never seen. But I’m not shaking now; it’s the wait beforehand that wears. Once you unload, you can’t get hurt—because if anything goes wrong it will happen so fast that you’ll buy it without noticing that you’re dead, hardly.
Almost at once I felt the capsule twist and sway, then steady down so that my weight was on my back . . . weight that built up quickly until I was at my full weight (0.87 gee, we had been told) for that planet as the capsule reached terminal velocity for the thin upper atmosphere. A pilot who is a real artist (and the Captain was) will approach and brake so that your launching speed as you shoot out of the tube places you just dead in space relative to the rotational speed of the planet at that latitude. The loaded capsules are heavy; they punch through the high, thin winds of the upper atmosphere without being blown too far out of position—but just the same a platoon is bound to disperse on the way down, lose some of the perfect formation in which it unloads. A sloppy pilot can make this still worse, scatter a strike group over so much terrain that it can’t make rendezvous for retrieval, much less carry out its mission. An infantryman can fight only if somebody else delivers him to his zone; in a way I suppose pilots are just as essential as we are.
I could tell from the gentle way my capsule entered the atmosphere that the Captain had laid us down with as near zero lateral vector as you could ask for. I felt happy—not only a tight formation when we hit and no time wasted, but also a pilot who puts you down properly is a pilot who is smart and precise on retrieval.
The outer shell burned away and sloughed off—unevenly, for I tumbled. Then the rest of it went and I straightened out. The turbulence brakes of the second shell bit in and the ride got rough . . . and still rougher as they burned off one at a time and the second shell began to go to pieces. One of the things that helps a capsule trooper to live long enough to draw a pension is that the skins peeling off his capsule not only slow him down, they also fill the sky over the target area with so much junk that radar picks up reflections from dozens of targets for each man in the drop, any one of which could be a man, or a bomb, or anything. It’s enough to give a ballistic computer nervous breakdowns—and does.
To add to the fun your ship lays a series of dummy eggs in the seconds immediately following your drop, dummies that will fall faster because they don’t slough. They get under you, explode, throw out “window,” even operate as transponders, rocket sideways, and do other things to add to the confusion of your reception committee on the ground.
In the meantime your ship is locked firmly on the directional beacon of your platoon leader, ignoring the radar “noise” it has created and following you in, computing your impact for future use.
When the second shell was gone, the third shell automatically opened my first ribbon chute. It didn’t last long but it wasn’t expected to; one good, hard jerk at several gee and it went its way and I went mine. The second chute lasted a little bit longer and the third chute lasted quite a while; it began to be rather too warm inside the capsule and I started thinking about landing.
The third shell peeled off when its last chute was gone and now I had nothing around me but my suit armor and a plastic egg. I was still strapped inside it, unable to move; it was time to decide how and where I was going to ground. Without moving my arms (I couldn’t) I thumbed the switch for a proximity reading and read it when it flashed on in the instrument reflector inside my helmet in front of my forehead.
A mile and eight-tenths—A little closer than I liked, especially without company. The inner egg had reached steady speed, no more help to be gained by staying inside it, and its skin temperature indicated that it would not open automatically for a while yet—so I flipped a switch with my other thumb and got rid of it.
The first charge cut all the straps; the second charge exploded the plastic egg away from me in eight separate pieces—and I was outdoors,
sitting on air, and could see! Better still, the eight discarded pieces were metal-coated (except for the small bit I had taken proximity reading through) and would give back the same reflection as an armored man. Any radar viewer, alive or cybernetic, would now have a sad time sorting me out from the junk nearest me, not to mention the thousands of other bits and pieces for miles on each side, above, and below me. Part of a mobile infantryman’s training is to let him see, from the ground and both by eye and by radar, just how confusing a drop is to the forces on the ground— because you feel awful naked up there. It is easy to panic and either open a chute too soon and become a sitting duck (do ducks really sit?—if so, why?) or fail to open it and break your ankles, likewise backbone and skull.
So I stretched, getting the kinks out, and looked around . . . then doubled up again and straightened out in a swan dive face down and took a good look. It was night down there, as planned, but infrared snoopers let you size up terrain quite well after you are used to them. The river that cut diagonally through the city was almost below me and coming up fast, shining out clearly with a higher temperature than the land. I didn’t care which side of it I landed on but I didn’t want to land in it; it would slow me down.
I noticed a flash off to the right at about my altitude; some unfriendly native down below had burned what was probably a piece of my egg. So I fired my first chute at once, intending if possible to jerk myself right off his screen as he followed the targets down in closing range. I braced for the shock, rode it, then floated down for about twenty seconds before unloading the chute—not wishing to call attention to myself in still another way by not falling at the speed of the other stuff around me.
It must have worked; I wasn’t burned.
About six hundred feet up I shot the second chute . . . saw very quickly that I was being carried over into the river, found that I was going to pass about a hundred feet up over a flat-roofed warehouse or some such by the river . . . blew the chute free and came in for a good enough if rather bouncy landing on the roof by means of the suit’s jump jets. I was scanning for Sergeant Jelal’s beacon as I hit.
And found that I was on the wrong side of the river; Jelly’s star showed up on the compass ring inside my helmet far south of where it should have been—I was too far north. I trotted toward the river side of the roof as I took a range and bearing on the squad leader next to me, found that he was over a mile out of position, called, “Ace! Dress your line,” tossed a bomb behind me as I stepped off the building and across the river. Ace answered as I could have expected—Ace should have had my spot but he didn’t want to give up his squad; nevertheless he didn’t fancy taking orders from me.
The warehouse went up behind me and the blast hit me while I was still over the river, instead of being shielded by the buildings on the far side as I should have been. It darn near tumbled my gyros and I came close to tumbling myself. I had set that bomb for fifteen seconds . . . or had I? I suddenly realized that I had let myself get excited, the worst thing you can do once you’re on the ground. “Just like a drill,” that was the way, just as Jelly had warned me. Take your time and do it right, even if it takes another half second.
As I hit I took another reading on Ace and told him again to realign his squad. He didn’t answer but he was already doing it. I let it ride. As long as Ace did his job, I could afford to swallow his surliness—for now. But back aboard ship (if Jelly kept me on as assistant section leader) we would eventually have to pick a quiet spot and find out who was boss. He was a career corporal and I was just a term lance acting as corporal, but he was under me and you can’t afford to take any lip under those circumstances. Not permanently.
But I didn’t have time then to think about it; while I was jumping the river I had spotted a juicy target and I wanted to get it before somebody else noticed it—a lovely big group of what looked like public buildings on a hill. Temples, maybe . . . or a palace. They were miles outside the area we were sweeping, but one rule of a smash & run is to expend at least half your ammo outside your sweep area; that way the enemy is kept confused as to where you actually are—that and keep moving, do everything fast. You’re always heavily outnumbered; surprise and speed are what saves you.
I was already loading my rocket launcher while I was checking on Ace and telling him for the second time to straighten up. Jelly’s voice reached
me right on top of that on the all-hands circuit: “Platoon! By leapfrog! For ward! ” My boss, Sergeant Johnson, echoed, “By leapfrog! Odd numbers! Advance! ”
That left me with nothing to worry about for twenty seconds, so I jumped up on the building nearest me, raised the launcher to my shoulder, found
the target and pulled the first trigger to let the rocket have a look at its target—pulled the second trigger and kissed it on its way, jumped back to the
ground. “Second section, even numbers!” I called out . . . waited for the count in my mind and ordered, “Advance! ”
And did so myself, hopping over the next row of buildings, and, while I was in the air, fanning the first row by the river front with a hand flamer.
They seemed to be wood construction and it looked like time to start a good fire—with luck, some of those warehouses would house oil products, or even explosives. As I hit, the Y-rack on my shoulders launched two small H.E. bombs a couple of hundred yards each way to my right and left flanks but I never saw what they did as just then my first rocket hit—that unmistakable (if you’ve ever seen one) brilliance of an atomic explosion. It was just a peewee, of course, less than two kilotons nominal yield, with tamper and implosion squeeze to produce results from a less-than-critical mass—but then who wants to be bunk mates with a cosmic catastrophe? It was enough to clean off that hilltop and make everybody in the city take shelter against fallout. Better still, any of the local yokels who happened to be outdoors and looking that way wouldn’t be seeing anything else for a
couple of hours—meaning me. The flash hadn’t dazzled me, nor would it dazzle any of us; our face bowls are heavily leaded, we wear snoopers over our eyes—and we’re trained to duck and take it on the armor if we do happen to be looking the wrong way.
So I merely blinked hard—opened my eyes and stared straight at a local citizen just coming out of an opening in the building ahead of me. He
looked at me, I looked at him, and he started to raise something—a weapon, I suppose—as Jelly called out, “Odd numbers! Advance! ”
I didn’t have time to fool with him: I was a good five hundred yards short of where I should have been by then. I still had the hand flamer in my left
hand; I toasted him and jumped over the building he had been coming out of, as I started to count. A hand flamer is primarily for incendiary work but it is a good defensive anti-personnel weapon in tight quarters; you don’t have to aim it much.
Between excitement and anxiety to catch up I jumped too high and too wide. It’s always a temptation to get the most out of your jump gear—but
don’t do it! It leaves you hanging in the air for seconds, a big fat target. The way to advance is to skim over each building as you come to it, barely clearing it, and taking full advantage of cover while you’re down—and never stay in one place more than a second or two, never give them time to target in on you. Be somewhere else, anywhere. Keep moving.
This one I goofed—too much for one row of buildings, too little for the row beyond it; I found myself coming down on a roof. But not a nice flat one where I might have tarried three seconds to launch another peewee A-rocket; this roof was a jungle of pipes and stanchions and assorted ironmongery—a factory maybe, or some sort of chemical works. No place to land. Worse still, half a dozen natives were up there. These geezers are humanoid, eight or nine feet tall, much skinnier than we are and with a higher body temperature; they don’t wear any clothes and they stand out in a set of snoopers like a neon sign. They look still funnier in daylight with your bare eyes but I would rather fight them than the arachnids—those Bugs make me queazy.
If these laddies were up there thirty seconds earlier when my rocket hit, then they couldn’t see me, or anything. But I couldn’t be certain and didn’t want to tangle with them in any case; it wasn’t that kind of a raid. So I jumped again while I was still in the air, scattering a handful of ten-second fire pills to keep them busy, grounded, jumped again at once, and called out, “Second section! Even numbers! . . . Advance!” and kept right on going to close the gap, while trying to spot, every time I jumped, something worth expending a rocket on. I had three more of the little A-rockets and I
certainly didn’t intend to take any back with me. But I had had pounded into me that you must get your money’s worth with atomic weapons—it was only the second time that I had been allowed to carry them.
Right now I was trying to spot their waterworks; a direct hit on it could make the whole city uninhabitable, force them to evacuate it without directly killing anyone—just the sort of nuisance we had been sent down to commit. It should—according to the map we had studied under hypnosis—be about three miles upstream from where I was.
But I couldn’t see it; my jumps didn’t take me high enough, maybe. I was tempted to go higher but I remembered what Migliaccio had said about not trying for a medal, and stuck to doctrine. I set the Y-rack launcher on automatic and let it lob a couple of little bombs every time I hit. I set fire to things more or less at random in between, and tried to find the waterworks, or some other worth-while target.
Well, there was something up there at the proper range—waterworks or whatever, it was big. So I hopped on top of the tallest building near me, took a bead on it, and let fly. As I bounced down I heard Jelly: “Johnnie! Red! Start bending in the flanks.”
I acknowledged and heard Red acknowledge and switched my beacon to blinker so that Red could pick me out for certain, took a range and bearing on his blinker while I called out, “Second Section! Curve in and envelop! Squad leaders acknowledge!”
Fourth and fifth squads answered, “Wilco”; Ace said, “We’re already doin’ it—pick up your feet.”
Red’s beacon showed the right flank to be almost ahead of me and a good fifteen miles away. Golly! Ace was right; I would have to pick up my feet or I would never close the gap in time—and me with a couple of hundred-weight of ammo and sundry nastiness still on me that I just had to find time to use up. We had landed in a V formation, with Jelly at the bottom of the V and Red and myself at the ends of the two arms; now we had to close it into a circle around the retrieval rendezvous . . . which meant that Red and I each had to cover more ground than the others and still do our full share of damage.
At least the leapfrog advance was over with once we started to encircle; I could quit counting and concentrate on speed. It was getting to be less healthy to be anywhere, even moving fast. We had started with the enormous advantage of surprise, reached the ground without being hit (at least I hoped nobody had been hit coming in), and had been rampaging in among them in a fashion that let us fire at will without fear of hitting each other while they stood a big chance of hitting their own people in shooting at us—if they could find us to shoot at, at all. (I’m no games-theory expert but I doubt if any computer could have analyzed what we were doing in time to predict where we would be next.)
Nevertheless the home defenses were beginning to fight back, co-ordinated or not. I took a couple of near misses with explosives, close enough to rattle my teeth even inside armor, and once I was brushed by some sort of beam that made my hair stand on end and half paralyzed me for a moment—as if I had hit my funny bone, but all over. If the suit hadn’t already been told to jump, I guess I wouldn’t have got out of there.
Things like that make you pause to wonder why you ever took up soldiering—only I was too busy to pause for anything. Twice, jumping blind over buildings, I landed right in the middle of a group of them—jumped at once while fanning wildly around me with the hand flamer.
Spurred on this way, I closed about half of my share of the gap, maybe four miles, in minimum time but without doing much more than casual damage. My Y-rack had gone empty two jumps back; finding myself alone in sort of a courtyard I stopped to put my reserve H.E. bombs into it while I took a bearing on Ace—found that I was far enough out in front of the flank squad to think about expending my last two A-rockets. I jumped to the top of the tallest building in the neighborhood.
It was getting light enough to see; I flipped the snoopers up onto my forehead and made a fast scan with bare eyes, looking for anything behind us worth shooting at, anything at all; I had no time to be choosy.
There was something on the horizon in the direction of their spaceport—administration & control, maybe, or possibly even a starship. Almost in line and about half as far away was an enormous structure which I couldn’t identify even that loosely. The range to the spaceport was extreme but I let the rocket see it, said, “Go find it, baby!” and twisted its tail—slapped the last one in, sent it toward the nearer target, and jumped.
That building took a direct hit just as I left it. Either a skinny had judged (correctly) that it was worth one of their buildings to try for one of us, or one of my own mates was getting mighty careless with fireworks. Either way, I didn’t want to jump from that spot, even a skimmer; I decided to go through the next couple of buildings instead of over. So I grabbed the heavy flamer off my back as I hit and flipped the snoopers down over my eyes, tackled a wall in front of me with a knife beam at full power. A section of wall fell away and I charged in.
And backed out even faster.
I didn’t know what it was I had cracked open. A congregation in church—a skinny flophouse—maybe even their defense headquarters. All I knew was that it was a very big room filled with more skinnies than I wanted to see in my whole life.
Probably not a church, for somebody took a shot at me as I popped back out—just a slug that bounced off my armor, made my ears ring, and staggered me without hurting me. But it reminded me that I wasn’t supposed to leave without giving them a souvenir of my visit. I grabbed the first thing on my belt and lobbed it in—and heard it start to squawk. As they keep telling you in Basic, doing something constructive at once is better than figuring out the best thing to do hours later.
By sheer chance I had done the right thing. This was a special bomb, one each issued to us for this mission with instructions to use them if we found ways to make them effective. The squawking I heard as I threw it was the bomb shouting in skinny talk (free translation): “I’m a thirty-second bomb! I’m a thirty-second bomb! Twenty-nine! . . . twenty-eight! . . . twenty-seven!—”
It was supposed to frazzle their nerves. Maybe it did; it certainly frazzled mine. Kinder to shoot a man. I didn’t wait for the countdown; I jumped,
while I wondered whether they would find enough doors and windows to swarm out in time.
I got a bearing on Red’s blinker at the top of the jump and one on Ace as I grounded. I was falling behind again—time to hurry.
But three minutes later we had closed the gap; I had Red on my left flank a half mile away. He reported it to Jelly. We heard Jelly’s relaxed growl to the entire platoon: “Circle is closed, but the beacon is not down yet. Move forward slowly and mill around, make a little more trouble—but mind
the lad on each side of you; don’t make trouble for him. Good job, so far—don’t spoil it. Platoon! By sections . . . Muster! ”
It looked like a good job to me, too; much of the city was burning and, although it was almost full light now, it was hard to tell whether bare eyes
were better than snoopers, the smoke was so thick.
I echoed, “Squads four, five, and six—call off and report!” The assortment of safe circuits we had available in the new model comm units certainly speeded things up; Jelly could talk to anybody or to his section leaders; a section leader could call his whole section, or his non-coms; and the platoon could muster twice as fast, when seconds matter. I listened to the fourth squad call off while I inventoried my remaining firepower and
lobbed one bomb toward a skinny who poked his head around a corner. He left and so did I—“Mill around,” the boss man had said.
The fourth squad bumbled the call off until the squad leader remembered to fill in with Jenkins’ number; the fifth squad clicked off like an abacus and I began to feel good . . . when the call off stopped after number four in Ace’s squad. I called out, “Ace, where’s Dizzy?”
“Shut up,” he said. “Number six! Call off!” “Six!” Smith answered.
“Seven!”
“Sixth squad, Flores missing,” Ace completed it. “Squad leader out for pickup.” “One man absent,” I reported to Johnson. “Flores, squad six.”
“Missing or dead?”
“I don’t know. Squad leader and assistant section leader dropping out for pickup.” “Johnnie, you let Ace take it.”
But I didn’t hear him, so I didn’t answer. I heard him report to Jelly and I heard Jelly cuss. Now look, I wasn’t bucking for a medal—it’s the
assistant section leader’s business to make pickup; he’s the chaser, the last man in, expendable. The squad leaders have other work to do. As you’ve no doubt gathered by now the assistant section leader isn’t necessary as long as the section leader is alive.
Right that moment I was feeling unusually expendable, almost expended, because I was hearing the sweetest sound in the universe, the beacon the retrieval boat would land on, sounding our recall. The beacon is a robot rocket, fired ahead of the retrieval boat, just a spike that buries itself in the ground and starts broadcasting that welcome, welcome music. The retrieval boat homes in on it automatically three minutes later and you had better be on hand, because the bus can’t wait and there won’t be another one along.
But you don’t walk away on another cap trooper, not while there’s a chance he’s still alive—not in Rasczak’s Roughnecks. Not in any outfit of the Mobile Infantry. You try to make pickup.
I heard Jelly order: “Heads up, lads! Close to retrieval circle and interdict! On the bounce!”
And I heard the beacon’s sweet voice: “—to the everlasting glory of the infantry, shines the name, shines the name of Rodger Young!” and I wanted to head for it so bad I could taste it.
Instead I was headed the other way, closing on Ace’s beacon and expending what I had left of bombs and fire pills and anything else that would weigh me down. “Ace! You got his beacon?”
“Yes. Go back, Useless!”
“I’ve got you by eye now. Where is he?”
“Right ahead of me, maybe quarter mile. Scram! He’s my man.”
I didn’t answer; I simply cut left oblique to reach Ace about where he said Dizzy was.
And found Ace standing over him, a couple of skinnies flamed down and more running away. I lit beside him. “Let’s get him out of his armor—the boat’ll be down any second!”
“He’s too bad hurt!”
I looked and saw that it was true—there was actually a hole in his armor and blood coming out. And I was stumped. To make a wounded pickup you get him out of his armor . . . then you simply pick him up in your arms—no trouble in a powered suit—and bounce away from there. A bare man
weighs less than the ammo and stuff you’ve expended. “What’ll we do?”
“We carry him,” Ace said grimly. “Grab ahold the left side of his belt.” He grabbed the right side, we manhandled Flores to his feet. “Lock on! Now
. . . by the numbers, stand by to jump—one—two! ”
We jumped. Not far, not well. One man alone couldn’t have gotten him off the ground; an armored suit is too heavy. But split it between two men
and it can be done.
We jumped—and we jumped—and again, and again, with Ace calling it and both of us steadying and catching Dizzy on each grounding. His gyros seemed to be out.
We heard the beacon cut off as the retrieval boat landed on it—I saw it land . . . and it was too far away. We heard the acting platoon sergeant call out: “In succession, prepare to embark!”
And Jelly called out, “Belay that order!”
We broke at last into the open and saw the boat standing on its tail, heard the ululation of its take-off warning—saw the platoon still on the ground around it, in interdiction circle, crouching behind the shield they had formed.
Heard Jelly shout, “In succession, man the boat—move! ”
And we were still too far away! I could see them peel off from the first squad, swarm into the boat as the interdiction circle tightened. And a single figure broke out of the circle, came toward us at a speed possible only to a command suit.
Jelly caught us while we were in the air, grabbed Flores by his Y-rack and helped us lift.
Three jumps got us to the boat. Everybody else was inside but the door was still open. We got him in and closed it while the boat pilot screamed
that we had made her miss rendezvous and now we had all bought it! Jelly paid no attention to her; we laid Flores down and lay down beside him. As the blast hit us Jelly was saying to himself, “All present, Lieutenant. Three men hurt—but all present!”
I’ll say this for Captain Deladrier: they don’t make any better pilots. A rendezvous, boat to ship in orbit, is precisely calculated. I don’t know how,
but it is, and you don’t change it. You can’t.
Only she did. She saw in her scope that the boat had failed to blast on time; she braked back, picked up speed again—and matched and took
us in, just by eye and touch, no time to compute it. If the Almighty ever needs an assistant to keep the stars in their courses, I know where he can look.
Flores died on the way up.
CH:02
It scared me so, I hooked it off, Nor stopped as I remember,off, Nor stopped as I remember, Nor turned about till I got home, Locked up in mother’s chamber. Yankee Doodle, keep it up, Yankee Doodle dandy the step, Mind the music and the step, And with the girls be handy.
I never really intended to join up.
And certainly not the infantry! Why, I would rather have taken ten lashes in the public square and have my father tell me that I was a disgrace to a proud name.
Oh, I had mentioned to my father, late in my senior year in high school, that I was thinking over the idea of volunteering for Federal Service. I suppose every kid does, when his eighteenth birthday heaves into sight—and mine was due the week I graduated. Of course most of them just think about it, toy with the idea a little, then go do something else—go to college, or get a job, or something. I suppose it would have been that way with me . . . if my best chum had not, with dead seriousness, planned to join up.
Carl and I had done everything together in high school—eyed the girls together, double-dated together, been on the debate team together, pushed electrons together in his home lab. I wasn’t much on electronic theory myself, but I’m a neat hand with a soldering gun; Carl supplied the skull sweat and I carried out his instructions. It was fun; anything we did together was fun. Carl’s folks didn’t have anything like the money that my father had, but it didn’t matter between us. When my father bought me a Rolls copter for my fourteenth birthday, it was Carl’s as much as it was mine; contrariwise, his basement lab was mine.
So when Carl told me that he was not going straight on with school, but would serve a term first, it gave me to pause. He really meant it; he seemed to think that it was natural and right and obvious.
So I told him I was joining up, too.
He gave me an odd look. “Your old man won’t let you.”
“Huh? How can he stop me?” And of course he couldn’t, not legally. It’s the first completely free choice anybody gets (and maybe his last); when a boy, or a girl, reaches his or her eighteenth birthday, he or she can volunteer and nobody else has any say in the matter.
“You’ll find out.” Carl changed the subject.
So I took it up with my father, tentatively, edging into it sideways.
He put down his newspaper and cigar and stared at me. “Son, are you out of your mind?” I muttered that I didn’t think so.
“Well, it certainly sounds like it.” He sighed. “Still . . . I should have been expecting it; it’s a predictable stage in a boy’s growing up. I remember when you learned to walk and weren’t a baby any longer—frankly you were a little hellion for quite a while. You broke one of your mother’s Ming vases—on purpose, I’m quite sure . . . but you were too young to know that it was valuable, so all you got was having your hand spatted. I recall the day you swiped one of my cigars, and how sick it made you. Your mother and I carefully avoided noticing that you couldn’t eat dinner that night and I’ve never mentioned it to you until now—boys have to try such things and discover for themselves that men’s vices are not for them. We watched when you turned the corner on adolescence and started noticing that girls were different—and wonderful.”
He sighed again. “All normal stages. And the last one, right at the end of adolescence, is when a boy decides to join up and wear a pretty uniform. Or decides that he is in love, love such as no man ever experienced before, and that he just has to get married right away. Or both.” He smiled grimly. “With me it was both. But I got over each of them in time not to make a fool of myself and ruin my life.”
“But, Father, I wouldn’t ruin my life. Just a term of service—not career.”
“Let’s table that, shall we? Listen, and let me tell you what you are going to do—because you want to. In the first place this family has stayed out of politics and cultivated its own garden for over a hundred years—I see no reason for you to break that fine record. I suppose it’s the influence of that fellow at your high school—what’s his name? You know the one I mean.”
He meant our instructor in History and Moral Philosophy—a veteran, naturally. “Mr. Dubois.”
“Hmmph, a silly name—it suits him. Foreigner, no doubt. It ought to be against the law to use the schools as undercover recruiting stations. I think
I’m going to write a pretty sharp letter about it—a taxpayer has some rights!”
“But, Father, he doesn’t do that at all! He—” I stopped, not knowing how to describe it. Mr. Dubois had a snotty, superior manner; he acted as if
none of us was really good enough to volunteer for service. I didn’t like him. “Uh, if anything, he discourages it.”
“Hmmph! Do you know how to lead a pig? Never mind. When you graduate, you’re going to study business at Harvard; you know that. After that,
you will go on to the Sorbonne and you’ll travel a bit along with it, meet some of our distributors, find out how business is done elsewhere. Then you’ll come home and go to work. You’ll start with the usual menial job, stock clerk or something, just for form’s sake—but you’ll be an executive before you can catch your breath, because I’m not getting any younger and the quicker you can pick up the load, the better. As soon as you’re able and willing, you’ll be boss. There! How does that strike you as a program? As compared with wasting two years of your life?”
I didn’t say anything. None of it was news to me; I’d thought about it. Father stood up and put a hand on my shoulder. “Son, don’t think I don’t sympathize with you; I do. But look at the real facts. If there were a war, I’d be the first to cheer you on—and to put the business on a war footing. But there isn’t, and praise God there never will be again. We’ve outgrown wars. This planet is now peaceful and happy and we enjoy good enough relations with other planets. So what is this so-called ‘Federal Service’? Parasitism, pure and simple. A functionless organ, utterly obsolete, living on the taxpayers. A decidedly expensive way for inferior people who otherwise would be unemployed to live at public expense for a term of years,
then give themselves airs for the rest of their lives. Is that what you want to do?” “Carl isn’t inferior!”
“Sorry. No, he’s a fine boy . . . but misguided.” He frowned, and then smiled. “Son, I had intended to keep something as a surprise for you—a graduation present. But I’m going to tell you now so that you can put this nonsense out of your mind more easily. Not that I am afraid of what you might do; I have confidence in your basic good sense, even at your tender years. But you are troubled, I know—and this will clear it away. Can you guess what it is?”
“Uh, no.”
He grinned. “A vacation trip to Mars.”
I must have looked stunned. “Golly, Father, I had no idea—”
“I meant to surprise you and I see I did. I know how you kids feel about travel, though it beats me what anyone sees in it after the first time out. But this is a good time for you to do it—by yourself; did I mention that?—and get it out of your system . . . because you’ll be hard-pressed to get in even a week on Luna once you take up your responsibilities.” He picked up his paper. “No, don’t thank me. Just run along and let me finish my paper— I’ve got some gentlemen coming in this evening, shortly. Business.”
I ran along. I guess he thought that settled it . . . and I suppose I did, too. Mars! And on my own! But I didn’t tell Carl about it; I had a sneaking suspicion that he would regard it as a bribe. Well, maybe it was. Instead I simply told him that my father and I seemed to have different ideas about it.
“Yeah,” he answered, “so does mine. But it’s my life.” I thought about it during the last session of our class in History and Moral Philosophy. H. &
M. P. was different from other courses in that everybody had to take it but nobody had to pass it—and Mr. Dubois never seemed to care whether he
got through to us or not. He would just point at you with the stump of his left arm (he never bothered with names) and snap a question. Then the argument would start.
But on the last day he seemed to be trying to find out what we had learned. One girl told him bluntly: “My mother says that violence never settles
anything.”
“So?” Mr. Dubois looked at her bleakly. “I’m sure the city fathers of Carthage would be glad to know that. Why doesn’t your mother tell them so?
Or why don’t you?”
They had tangled before—since you couldn’t flunk the course, it wasn’t necessary to keep Mr. Dubois buttered up. She said shrilly, “You’re
making fun of me! Everybody knows that Carthage was destroyed!”
“You seemed to be unaware of it,” he said grimly. “Since you do know it, wouldn’t you say that violence had settled their destinies rather thoroughly? However, I was not making fun of you personally; I was heaping scorn on an inexcusably silly idea—a practice I shall always follow. Anyone who clings to the historically untrue—and thoroughly immoral—doctrine that ‘violence never settles anything’ I would advise to conjure up the ghosts of Napoleon Bonaparte and of the Duke of Wellington and let them debate it. The ghost of Hitler could referee, and the jury might well be the Dodo, the Great Auk, and the Passenger Pigeon. Violence, naked force, has settled more issues in history than has any other factor, and the contrary opinion is wishful thinking at its worst. Breeds that forget this basic truth have always paid for it with their lives and freedoms.”
He sighed. “Another year, another class—and, for me, another failure. One can lead a child to knowledge but one cannot make him think.” Suddenly he pointed his stump at me. “You. What is the moral difference, if any, between the soldier and the civilian?”
“The difference,” I answered carefully, “lies in the field of civic virtue. A soldier accepts personal responsibility for the safety of the body politic of which he is a member, defending it, if need be, with his life. The civilian does not.”
“The exact words of the book,” he said scornfully. “But do you understand it? Do you believe it?” “Uh, I don’t know, sir.”
“Of course you don’t! I doubt if any of you here would recognize ‘civic virtue’ if it came up and barked in your face!” He glanced at his watch. “And that is all, a final all. Perhaps we shall meet again under happier circumstances. Dismissed.”
Graduation right after that and three days later my birthday, followed in less than a week by Carl’s birthday—and I still hadn’t told Carl that I wasn’t joining up. I’m sure he assumed that I would not, but we didn’t discuss it out loud—embarrassing. I simply arranged to meet him the day after his birthday and we went down to the recruiting office together.
On the steps of the Federal Building we ran into Carmencita Ibañez, a classmate of ours and one of the nice things about being a member of a race with two sexes. Carmen wasn’t my girl—she wasn’t anybody’s girl; she never made two dates in a row with the same boy and treated all of us with equal sweetness and rather impersonally. But I knew her pretty well, as she often came over and used our swimming pool, because it was Olympic length—sometimes with one boy, sometimes with another. Or alone, as Mother urged her to—Mother considered her “a good influence.” For once she was right.
She saw us and waited, dimpling. “Hi, fellows!”
“Hello, Ochee Chyornya,” I answered. “What brings you here?” “Can’t you guess? Today is my birthday.”
“Huh? Happy returns!” “So I’m joining up.”
“Oh . . .” I think Carl was as surprised as I was. But Carmencita was like that. She never gossiped and she kept her own affairs to herself. “No foolin’?” I added, brilliantly.
“Why should I be fooling? I’m going to be a spaceship pilot—at least I’m going to try for it.”
“No reason why you shouldn’t make it,” Carl said quickly. He was right—I know now just how right he was. Carmen was small and neat, perfect health and perfect reflexes—she could make competitive diving routine look easy and she was quick at mathematics. Me, I tapered off with a “C” in algebra and a “B” in business arithmetic; she took all the math our school offered and a tutored advance course on the side. But it had never occurred to me to wonder why. Fact was, little Carmen was so ornamental that you just never thought about her being useful.
“We—uh, I,” said Carl, “am here to join up, too.”
“And me,” I agreed. “Both of us.” No, I hadn’t made any decision; my mouth was leading its own life. “Oh, wonderful!”
“And I’m going to buck for space pilot, too,” I added firmly.
She didn’t laugh. She answered very seriously, “Oh, how grand! Perhaps in training we’ll run into each other. I hope so.” “Collision courses?” asked Carl. “That’s a no-good way to pilot.”
“Don’t be silly, Carl. On the ground, of course. Are you going to be a pilot, too?”
“Me? ” Carl answered. “I’m no truck driver. You know me—Starside R&D, if they’ll have me. Electronics.”
“‘Truck driver’ indeed! I hope they stick you out on Pluto and let you freeze. No, I don’t—good luck! Let’s go in, shall we?”
The recruiting station was inside a railing in the rotunda. A fleet sergeant sat at a desk there, in dress uniform, gaudy as a circus. His chest was loaded with ribbons I couldn’t read. But his right arm was off so short that his tunic had been tailored without any sleeve at all . . . and, when you came up to the rail, you could see that he had no legs.
It didn’t seem to bother him. Carl said, “Good morning. I want to join up.” “Me, too,” I added.
He ignored us. He managed to bow while sitting down and said, “Good morning, young lady. What can I do for you?” “I want to join up, too.”
He smiled. “Good girl! If you’ll just scoot up to room 201 and ask for Major Rojas, she’ll take care of you.” He looked her up and down. “Pilot?” “If possible.”
“You look like one. Well, see Miss Rojas.”
She left, with thanks to him and a see-you-later to us; he turned his attention to us, sized us up with a total absence of the pleasure he had shown in little Carmen. “So?” he said. “For what? Labor battalions?”
“Oh, no!” I said. “I’m going to be a pilot.”
He stared at me and simply turned his eyes away. “You?”
“I’m interested in the Research and Development Corps,” Carl said soberly, “especially electronics. I understand the chances are pretty good.” “They are if you can cut it,” the Fleet Sergeant said grimly, “and not if you don’t have what it takes, both in preparation and ability. Look, boys,
have you any idea why they have me out here in front?” I didn’t understand him. Carl said, “Why?”
“Because the government doesn’t care one bucket of swill whether you join or not! Because it has become stylish, with some people—too many people—to serve a term and earn a franchise and be able to wear a ribbon in your lapel which says that you’re a vet’ran . . . whether you’ve ever
seen combat or not. But if you want to serve and I can’t talk you out of it, then we have to take you, because that’s your constitutional right. It says that everybody, male or female, shall have his born right to pay his service and assume full citizenship—but the facts are that we are getting hard pushed to find things for all the volunteers to do that aren’t just glorified K.P. You can’t all be real military men; we don’t need that many and most of the volunteers aren’t number-one soldier material anyhow. Got any idea what it takes to make a soldier?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Most people think that all it takes is two hands and two feet and a stupid mind. Maybe so, for cannon fodder. Possibly that was all that Julius Caesar required. But a private soldier today is a specialist so highly skilled that he would rate ‘master’ in any other trade; we can’t afford stupid ones. So for those who insist on serving their term—but haven’t got what we want and must have—we’ve had to think up a whole list of dirty, nasty, dangerous jobs that will either run ’em home with their tails between their legs and their terms uncompleted . . . or at the very least make them remember for the rest of their lives that their citizenship is valuable to them because they’ve paid a high price for it. Take that young lady who was here—wants to be a pilot. I hope she makes it; we always need good pilots, not enough of ’em. Maybe she will. But if she misses, she may wind up in Antarctica, her pretty eyes red from never seeing anything but artificial light and her knuckles callused from hard, dirty work.”
I wanted to tell him that the least Carmencita could get was computer programmer for the sky watch; she really was a whiz at math. But he was talking.
“So they put me out here to discourage you boys. Look at this.” He shoved his chair around to make sure that we could see that he was legless.
“Let’s assume that you don’t wind up digging tunnels on Luna or playing human guinea pig for new diseases through sheer lack of talent; suppose
we do make a fighting man out of you. Take a look at me—this is what you may buy . . . if you don’t buy the whole farm and cause your folks to receive a ‘deeply regret’ telegram. Which is more likely, because these days, in training or in combat, there aren’t many wounded. If you buy at all, they likely throw in a coffin—I’m the rare exception; I was lucky . . . though maybe you wouldn’t call it luck.”
He paused, then added, “So why don’t you boys go home, go to college, and then go be chemists or insurance brokers or whatever? A term of service isn’t a kiddie camp; it’s either real military service, rough and dangerous even in peacetime . . . or a most unreasonable facsimile thereof. Not a vacation. Not a romantic adventure. Well?”
Carl said, “I’m here to join up.” “Me, too.”
“You realize that you aren’t allowed to pick your service?” Carl said, “I thought we could state our preferences?”
“Certainly. And that’s the last choice you’ll make until the end of your term. The placement officer pays attention to your choice, too. First thing he does is to check whether there’s any demand for left-handed glass blowers this week—that being what you think would make you happy. Having reluctantly conceded that there is a need for your choice—probably at the bottom of the Pacific—he then tests you for innate ability and preparation.
About once in twenty times he is forced to admit that everything matches and you get the job . . . until some practical joker gives you dispatch orders to do something very different. But the other nineteen times he turns you down and decides that you are just what they have been needing to field-test survival equipment on Titan.” He added meditatively, “It’s chilly on Titan. And it’s amazing how often experimental equipment fails to work. Have to have real field tests, though—laboratories just never get all the answers.”
“I can qualify for electronics,” Carl said firmly, “if there are jobs open in it.” “So? And how about you, bub?”
I hesitated—and suddenly realized that, if I didn’t take a swing at it, I would wonder all my life whether I was anything but the boss’s son. “I’m going to chance it.”
“Well, you can’t say I didn’t try. Got your birth certificates with you? And let’s see your IDs.”
Ten minutes later, still not sworn in, we were on the top floor being prodded and poked and fluoroscoped. I decided that the idea of a physical
examination is that, if you aren’t ill, then they do their darnedest to make you ill. If the attempt fails, you’re in.
I asked one of the doctors what percentage of the victims flunked the physical. He looked startled. “Why, we never fail anyone. The law doesn’t permit us to.”
“Huh? I mean, excuse me, Doctor? Then what’s the point of this goose-flesh parade?”
“Why, the purpose is,” he answered, hauling off and hitting me in the knee with a hammer (I kicked him, but not hard), “to find out what duties you are physically able to perform. But if you came in here in a wheel chair and blind in both eyes and were silly enough to insist on enrolling, they would find something silly enough to match. Counting the fuzz on a caterpillar by touch, maybe. The only way you can fail is by having the psychiatrists decide that you are not able to understand the oath.”
“Oh. Uh . . . Doctor, were you already a doctor when you joined up? Or did they decide you ought to be a doctor and send you to school?”
“Me? ” He seemed shocked. “Youngster, do I look that silly? I’m a civilian employee.” “Oh. Sorry, sir.”
“No offense. But military service is for ants. Believe me. I see ’em go, I see ’em come back—when they do come back. I see what it’s done to them. And for what? A purely nominal political privilege that pays not one centavo and that most of them aren’t competent to use wisely anyhow. Now if they would let medical men run things—but never mind that; you might think I was talking treason, free speech or not. But, youngster, if you’ve got savvy enough to count ten, you’ll back out while you still can. Here, take these papers back to the recruiting sergeant—and remember what I said.”
I went back to the rotunda. Carl was already there. The Fleet Sergeant looked over my papers and said glumly, “Apparently you both are almost insufferably healthy—except for holes in the head. One moment, while I get some witnesses.” He punched a button and two female clerks came out, one old battle-ax, one kind of cute.
He pointed to our physical examination forms, our birth certificates, and our IDs, said formally: “I invite and require you, each and severally, to examine these exhibits, determine what they are and to determine, each independently, what relation, if any, each document bears to these two men standing here in your presence.”
They treated it as a dull routine, which I’m sure it was; nevertheless they scrutinized every document, they took our fingerprints—again!—and the cute one put a jeweler’s loupe in her eye and compared prints from birth to now. She did the same with signatures. I began to doubt if I was myself.
The Fleet Sergeant added, “Did you find exhibits relating to their present competence to take the oath of enrollment? If so, what?”
“We found,” the older one said, “appended to each record of physical examination a duly certified conclusion by an authorized and delegated board of psychiatrists stating that each of them is mentally competent to take the oath and that neither one is under the influence of alcohol, narcotics, other disabling drugs, nor of hypnosis.”
“Very good.” He turned to us. “Repeat after me— “I, being of legal age, of my own free will—”
“‘I,’” we each echoed, “‘being of legal age, of my own free will—’”
“—without coercion, promise, or inducement of any sort, after having been duly advised and warned of the meaning and consequences of this oath—
“—do now enroll in the Federal Service of the Terran Federation for a term of not less than two years and as much longer as may be required by the needs of the Service—”
(I gulped a little over that part. I had always thought of a “term” as two years, even though I knew better, because that’s the way people talk about
it. Why, we were signing up for life.)
“I swear to uphold and defend the Constitution of the Federation against all its enemies on or off Terra, to protect and defend the Constitutional
liberties and privileges of all citizens and lawful residents of the Federation, its associated states and territories, to perform, on or off Terra, such duties of any lawful nature as may be assigned to me by lawful direct or delegated authority—
“—and to obey all lawful orders of the Commander-in-Chief of the Terran Service and of all officers or delegated persons placed over me— “—and to require such obedience from all members of the Service or other persons or non-human beings lawfully placed under my orders— “—and, on being honorably discharged at the completion of my full term of active service or upon being placed on inactive retired status after
having completed such full term, to carry out all duties and obligations and to enjoy all privileges of Federation citizenship including but not limited to the duty, obligation and privilege of exercising sovereign franchise for the rest of my natural life unless stripped of honor by verdict, finally sustained, of court of my sovereign peers.”
(Whew!) Mr. Dubois had analyzed the Service oath for us in History and Moral Philosophy and had made us study it phrase by phrase—but you don’t really feel the size of the thing until it comes rolling over you, all in one ungainly piece, as heavy and unstoppable as Juggernaut’s carriage.
At least it made me realize that I was no longer a civilian, with my shirttail out and nothing on my mind. I didn’t know yet what I was, but I knew what
I wasn’t.
“So help me God!” we both ended and Carl crossed himself and so did the cute one.
After that there were more signatures and fingerprints, all five of us, and flat colorgraphs of Carl and me were snapped then and there and embossed into our papers. The Fleet Sergeant finally looked up. “Why, it’s’way past the break for lunch. Time for chow, lads.”
“Could I flash my folks from here? Tell them what I—Tell them how it came out?” “We can do better than that.”
“Sir?”
“You go on forty-eight hours leave now.” He grinned coldly. “Do you know what happens if you don’t come back?” “Uh . . . court-martial?”
“Not a thing. Not a blessed thing. Except that your papers get marked, Term not completed satisfactorily, and you never, never, never get a second chance. This is our cooling-off period, during which we shake out the overgrown babies who didn’t really mean it and should never have taken the oath. It saves the government money and it saves a power of grief for such kids and their parents—the neighbors needn’t guess. You don’t even have to tell your parents.” He shoved his chair away from his desk. “So I’ll see you at noon day after tomorrow. If I see you. Fetch your personal effects.”
It was a crumbly leave. Father stormed at me, then quit speaking to me; Mother took to her bed. When I finally left, an hour earlier than I had to, nobody saw me off but the morning cook and the houseboys.
I stopped in front of the recruiting sergeant’s desk, thought about saluting and decided I didn’t know how. He looked up. “Oh. Here are your papers. Take them up to room 201; they’ll start you through the mill. Knock and walk in.”
Two days later I knew I was not going to be a pilot. Some of the things the examiners wrote about me were:—insufficient intuitive grasp ofspatial relationships . . . insufficient mathematical talent . . . deficient mathematical preparation . . . reaction time adequate . . . eyesight good.
I’m glad they put in those last two; I was beginning to feel that counting on my fingers was my speed.
The placement officer let me list my lesser preferences, in order, and I caught four more days of the wildest aptitude tests I’ve ever heard of. I mean to say, what do they find out when a stenographer jumps on her chair and screams, “Snakes!” There was no snake, just a harmless piece of plastic hose.
The written and oral tests were mostly just as silly, but they seemed happy with them, so I took them. The thing I did most carefully was to list my preferences. Naturally I listed all of the Space Navy jobs (other than pilot) at the top; whether I went as power-room technician or as cook, I knew that I preferred any Navy job to any Army job—I wanted to travel.
Next I listed Intelligence—a spy gets around, too, and I figured that it couldn’t possibly be dull. (I was wrong, but never mind.) After that came a long list; psychological warfare, chemical warfare, biological warfare, combat ecology (I didn’t know what it was, but it sounded interesting), logistics corps (a simple mistake; I had studied logic for the debate team and “logistics” turns out to have two entirely separate meanings), and a dozen others. Clear at the bottom, with some hesitation, I put K-9 Corps, and Infantry.
I didn’t bother to list the various non-combatant auxiliary corps because, if I wasn’t picked for a combat corps, I didn’t care whether they used me as an experimental animal or sent me as a laborer in the Terranizing of Venus—either one was a booby prize.
Mr. Weiss, the placement officer, sent for me a week after I was sworn in. He was actually a retired psychological-warfare major, on active duty for procurement, but he wore mufti and insisted on being called just “Mister” and you could relax and take it easy with him. He had my list of preferences and the reports on all my tests and I saw that he was holding my high school transcript—which pleased me, for I had done all right in school; I had stood high enough without standing so high as to be marked as a greasy grind, having never flunked any courses and dropped only one, and I had been rather a big man around school otherwise; swimming team, debate team, track squad, class treasurer, silver medal in the annual literary contest, chairman of the homecoming committee, stuff like that. A well-rounded record and it’s all down in the transcript.
He looked up as I came in, said, “Sit down, Johnnie,” and looked back at the transcript, then put it down. “You like dogs?” “Huh? Yes, sir.”
“How well do you like them? Did your dog sleep on your bed? By the way, where is your dog now?”
“Why, I don’t happen to have a dog just at present. But when I did—well, no, he didn’t sleep on my bed. You see, Mother didn’t allow dogs in the house.”
“But didn’t you sneak him in?”
“Uh—” I thought of trying to explain Mother’s not-angry-but-terribly-terribly-hurt routine when you tried to buck her on something she had her mind made up about. But I gave up. “No, sir.”
“Mmm . . . have you ever seen a neodog?”
“Uh, once, sir. They exhibited one at the Macarthur Theater two years ago. But the S.P.C.A. made trouble for them.” “Let me tell you how it is with a K-9 team. A neodog is not just a dog that talks.”
“I couldn’t understand that neo at the Macarthur. Do they really talk?”
“They talk. You simply have to train your ear to their accent. Their mouths can’t shape ‘b,’ ‘m,’ ‘p,’ or ‘v’ and you have to get used to their equivalents—something like the handicap of a split palate but with different letters. No matter, their speech is as clear as any human speech. But a neodog is not a talking dog; he is not a dog at all, he is an artificially mutated symbiote derived from dog stock. A neo, a trained Caleb, is about six times as bright as a dog, say about as intelligent as a human moron—except that the comparison is not fair to the neo; a moron is a defective, whereas a neo is a stable genius in his own line of work.”
Mr. Weiss scowled. “Provided, that is, that he has his symbiote. That’s the rub. Mmm . . . you’re too young ever to have been married but you’ve seen marriage, your own parents at least. Can you imagine being married to a Caleb?”
“Huh? No. No, I can’t.”
“The emotional relationship between the dog-man and the man-dog in the K-9 team is a great deal closer and much more important than is the emotional relationship in most marriages. If the master is killed, we kill the neodog—at once! It is all that we can do for the poor thing. A mercy killing. If the neodog is killed . . . well, we can’t kill the man even though it would be the simplest solution. Instead we restrain him and hospitalize him and slowly put him back together.” He picked up a pen, made a mark. “I don’t think we can risk assigning a boy to K-9 who didn’t outwit his mother to have his dog sleep with him. So let’s consider something else.”
It was not until then that I realized that I must have already flunked every choice on my list above K-9 Corps—and now I had just flunked it, too. I was so startled that I almost missed his next remark. Major Weiss said meditatively, with no expression and as if he were talking about someone else, long dead and far away: “I was once half of a K-9 team. When my Caleb became a casualty, they kept me under sedation for six weeks, then rehabilitated me for other work. Johnnie, these courses you’ve taken—why didn’t you study something useful?”
“Sir?”
“Too late now. Forget it. Mmm . . . your instructor in History and Moral Philosophy seems to think well of you.” “He does?” I was surprised. “What did he say?”
Weiss smiled. “He says that you are not stupid, merely ignorant and prejudiced by your environment. From him that is high praise—I know him.” It didn’t sound like praise to me! That stuck-up stiff-necked old—
“And,” Weiss went on, “a boy who gets a ‘C-minus’ in Appreciation of Television can’t be all bad. I think we’ll accept Mr. Dubois’ recommendation. How would you like to be an infantryman?”
I came out of the Federal Building feeling subdued yet not really unhappy. At least I was a soldier; I had papers in my pocket to prove it. I hadn’t been classed as too dumb and useless for anything but make-work.
It was a few minutes after the end of the working day and the building was empty save for a skeleton night staff and a few stragglers. I ran into a man in the rotunda who was just leaving; his face looked familiar but I couldn’t place him.
But he caught my eye and recognized me. “Evening!” he said briskly. “You haven’t shipped out yet?”
And then I recognized him—the Fleet Sergeant who had sworn us in. I guess my chin dropped; this man was in civilian clothes, was walking around on two legs and had two arms. “Uh, good evening, Sergeant,” I mumbled.
He understood my expression perfectly, glanced down at himself and smiled easily. “Relax, lad. I don’t have to put on my horror show after working hours—and I don’t. You haven’t been placed yet?”
“I just got my orders.” “For what?”
“Mobile Infantry.”
His face broke in a big grin of delight and he shoved out his hand. “My outfit! Shake, son! We’ll make a man of you—or kill you trying. Maybe both.”
“It’s a good choice?” I said doubtfully.
“‘A good choice’? Son, it’s the only choice. The Mobile Infantry is the Army. All the others are either button pushers or professors, along merely to hand us the saw; we do the work.” He shook hands again and added, “Drop me a card—‘Fleet Sergeant Ho, Federal Building,’ that’ll reach me. Good luck!” And he was off, shoulders back, heels clicking, head up.
I looked at my hand. The hand he had offered me was the one that wasn’t there—his right hand. Yet it had felt like flesh and had shaken mine firmly. I had read about these powered prosthetics, but it is startling when you first run across them.
I went back to the hotel where recruits were temporarily billeted during placement—we didn’t even have uniforms yet, just plain coveralls we wore during the day and our own clothes after hours. I went to my room and started packing, as I was shipping out early in the morning—packing to send stuff home, I mean; Weiss had cautioned me not to take along anything but family photographs and possibly a musical instrument if I played one (which I didn’t). Carl had shipped out three days earlier, having gotten the R&D assignment he wanted. I was just as glad, as he would have been just too confounded understanding about the billet I had drawn. Little Carmen had shipped out, too, with the rank of cadet midshipman (probationary)—she was going to be a pilot, all right, if she could cut it . . . and I suspected that she could.
My temporary roomie came in while I was packing. “Got your orders?” he asked. “Yup.”
“What?”
“Mobile Infantry.”
“The Infantry? Oh, you poor stupid clown! I feel sorry for you, I really do.”
I straightened up and said angrily, “Shut up! The Mobile Infantry is the best outfit in the Army—it is the Army! The rest of you jerks are just along to hand us the saw—we do the work.”
He laughed. “You’ll find out!”
“You want a mouthful of knuckles?”
CH:03
He shall rule them with a rod of iron.
—Revelations II:25
I did Basic at Camp Arthur Currie on the northern prairies, along with a couple of thousand other victims—and I do mean “Camp,” as the only permanent buildings there were to shelter equipment. We slept and ate in tents; we lived outdoors—if you call that “living,” which I didn’t, at the time. I was used to a warm climate; it seemed to me that the North Pole was just five miles north of camp and getting closer. Ice Age returning, no doubt.
But exercise will keep you warm and they saw to it that we got plenty of that.
The first morning we were there they woke us up before daybreak. I had had trouble adjusting to the change in time zones and it seemed to me that I had just got to sleep; I couldn’t believe that anyone seriously intended that I should get up in the middle of the night.
But they did mean it. A speaker somewhere was blaring out a military march, fit to wake the dead, and a hairy nuisance who had come charging
down the company street yelling, “Everybody out! Showa leg! On the bounce!” came marauding back again just as I had pulled the covers over my head, tipped over my cot and dumped me on the cold hard ground.
It was an impersonal attention; he didn’t even wait to see if I hit.
Ten minutes later, dressed in trousers, undershirt, and shoes, I was lined up with the others in ragged ranks for setting-up exercises just as the Sun looked over the eastern horizon. Facing us was a big broad-shouldered, mean-looking man, dressed just as we were—except that while I looked and felt like a poor job of embalming, his chin was shaved blue, his trousers were sharply creased, you could have used his shoes for mirrors, and his manner was alert, wide-awake, relaxed, and rested. You got the impression that he never needed to sleep—just ten-thousand-mile checkups and dust him off occasionally.
He bellowed, “C’pnee! Atten . . . shut! I am Career Ship’s Sergeant Zim, your company commander. When you speak to me, you will salute and say, ‘Sir’—you will salute and ‘sir’ anyone who carries an instructor’s baton—” He was carrying a swagger cane and now made a quick reverse moulinet with it to show what he meant by an instructor’s baton; I had noticed men carrying them when we had arrived the night before and had intended to get one myself—they looked smart. Now I changed my mind. “—because we don’t have enough officers around here for you to practice on. You’ll practice on us. Who sneezed?”
No answer—
“WHO SNEEZED?”
“I did,” a voice answered.
“‘I did’ what?” “I sneezed.”
“‘I sneezed,’ SIR!”
“I sneezed, sir. I’m cold, sir.”
“Oho!” Zim strode up to the man who had sneezed, shoved the ferrule of the swagger cane an inch under his nose and demanded, “Name?” “Jenkins . . . sir.”
“Jenkins . . .” Zim repeated as if the word were somehow distasteful, even shameful. “I suppose some night on patrol you’re going to sneeze just because you’ve got a runny nose. Eh?”
“I hope not, sir.”
“So do I. But you’re cold. Hmm . . . we’ll fix that.” He pointed with his stick. “See that armory over there?” I looked and could see nothing but prairie except for one building that seemed to be almost on the skyline.
“Fall out. Run around it. Run, I said. Fast! Bronski! Pace him.”
“Right, Sarge.” One of the five or six other baton carriers took out after Jenkins, caught up with him easily, cracked him across the tight of his
pants with the baton. Zim turned back to the rest of us, still shivering at attention. He walked up and down, looked us over, and seemed awfully unhappy. At last he stepped out in front of us, shook his head, and said, apparently to himself but he had a voice that carried: “To think that this had
to happen to me!”
He looked at us. “You apes—No, not ‘apes’; you don’t rate that much. You pitiful mob of sickly monkeys . . . you sunken-chested, slack-bellied,
drooling refugees from apron strings. In my whole life I never saw such a disgraceful huddle of momma’s spoiled little darlings in—you, there! Suck
up the gut! Eyes front! I’m talking to you !”
I pulled in my belly, even though I was not sure he had addressed me. He went on and on and I began to forget my goose flesh in hearing him
storm. He never once repeated himself and he never used either profanity or obscenity. (I learned later that he saved those for very special occasions, which this wasn’t.) But he described our shortcomings, physical, mental, moral, and genetic, in great and insulting detail.
But somehow I was not insulted; I became greatly interested in studying his command of language. I wished that we had had him on our debate team.
At last he stopped and seemed about to cry. “I can’t stand it,” he said bitterly. “I’ve just got to work some of it off—I had a better set of wooden soldiers when I was six. ALL RIGHT! Is there any one of you jungle lice who thinks he can whip me? Is there a man in the crowd? Speak up!”
There was a short silence to which I contributed. I didn’t have any doubt at all that he could whip me; I was convinced.
I heard a voice far down the line, the tall end. “Ah reckon ah can . . . suh.”
Zim looked happy. “Good! Step out here where I can see you.” The recruit did so and he was impressive, at least three inches taller than Sergeant Zim and broader across the shoulders. “What’s your name, soldier?”
“Breckinridge, suh—and ah weigh two hundred and ten pounds an’ theah ain’t any of it ‘slack-bellied.’” “Any particular way you’d like to fight?”
“Suh, you jus’ pick youah own method of dyin’. Ah’m not fussy.”
“Okay, no rules. Start whenever you like.” Zim tossed his baton aside.
It started—and it was over. The big recruit was sitting on the ground, holding his left wrist in his right hand. He didn’t say anything. Zim bent over him. “Broken?”
“Reckon it might be . . . suh.”
“I’m sorry. You hurried me a little. Do you know where the dispensary is? Never mind—Jones! Take Breckinridge over to the dispensary.” As they left Zim slapped him on the right shoulder and said quietly, “Let’s try it again in a month or so. I’ll show you what happened.” I think it was meant to
be a private remark but they were standing about six feet in front of where I was slowly freezing solid.
Zim stepped back and called out, “Okay, we’ve got one man in this company, at least. I feel better. Do we have another one? Do we have two more? Any two of you scrofulous toads think you can stand up to me?” He looked back and forth along our ranks. “Chickenlivered, spineless—oh, oh! Yes? Step out.”
Two men who had been side by side in ranks stepped out together; I suppose they had arranged it in whispers right there, but they also were far down the tall end, so I didn’t hear. Zim smiled at them. “Names, for your next of kin, please.”
“Heinrich.”
“Heinrich what?”
“Heinrich, sir. Bitte.” He spoke rapidly to the other recruit and added politely, “He doesn’t speak much Standard English yet, sir.”
“Meyer, mein Herr,” the second man supplied.
“That’s okay, lots of ’em don’t speak much of it when they get here—I didn’t myself. Tell Meyer not to worry, he’ll pick it up. But he understands what we are going to do?”
“Jawohl,” agreed Meyer.
“Certainly, sir. He understands Standard, he just can’t speak it fluently.” “All right. Where did you two pick up those face scars? Heidelberg?”
“Nein—no, sir. Königsberg.”
“Same thing.” Zim had picked up his baton after fighting Breckinridge; he twirled it and asked, “Perhaps you would each like to borrow one of these?”
“It would not be fair to you, sir,” Heinrich answered carefully. “Bare hands, if you please.” “Suit yourself. Though I might fool you. Königsberg, eh? Rules?”
“How can there be rules, sir, with three?”
“An interesting point. Well, let’s agree that if eyes are gouged out they must be handed back when it’s over. And tell your Korpsbruder that I’m ready now. Start when you like.” Zim tossed his baton away; someone caught it.
“You joke, sir. We will not gouge eyes.”
“No eye gouging, agreed. ‘Fire when ready, Gridley.’” “Please?”
“Come on and fight! Or get back into ranks!”
Now I am not sure that I saw it happen this way; I may have learned part of it later, in training. But here is what I think happened: The two moved out on each side of our company commander until they had him completely flanked but well out of contact. From this position there is a choice of four basic moves for the man working alone, moves that take advantage of his own mobility and of the superior co-ordination of one man as compared with two—Sergeant Zim says (correctly) that any group is weaker than a man alone unless they are perfectly trained to work together. For example, Zim could have feinted at one of them, bounced fast to the other with a disabler, such as a broken kneecap—then finished off the first at his leisure.
Instead he let them attack. Meyer came at him fast, intending to body check and knock him to the ground, I think, while Heinrich would follow through from above, maybe with his boots. That’s the way it appeared to start.
And here’s what I think I saw. Meyer never reached him with that body check. Sergeant Zim whirled to face him, while kicking out and getting Heinrich in the belly—and then Meyer was sailing through the air, his lunge helped along with a hearty assist from Zim.
But all I am sure of is that the fight started and then there were two German boys sleeping peacefully, almost end to end, one face down and one face up, and Zim was standing over them, not even breathing hard. “Jones,” he said. “No, Jones left, didn’t he? Mahmud! Let’s have the water bucket, then stick them back into their sockets. Who’s got my toothpick?”
A few moments later the two were conscious, wet, and back in ranks. Zim looked at us and inquired gently, “Anybody else? Or shall we get on with setting-up exercises?”
I didn’t expect anybody else and I doubt if he did. But from down on the left flank, where the shorties hung out, a boy stepped out of ranks, came front and center. Zim looked down at him. “Just you? Or do you want to pick a partner?”
“Just myself, sir.”
“As you say. Name?” “Shujumi, sir.”
Zim’s eyes widened. “Any relation to Colonel Shujumi?” “I have the honor to be his son, sir.”
“Ah so! Well! Black Belt?” “No, sir. Not yet.”
“I’m glad you qualified that. Well, Shujumi, are we going to use contest rules, or shall I send for the ambulance?” “As you wish, sir. But I think, if I may be permitted an opinion, that contest rules would be more prudent.”
“I don’t know just how you mean that, but I agree.” Zim tossed his badge of authority aside, then, so help me, they backed off, faced each other, and bowed.
After that they circled around each other in a half crouch, making tentative passes with their hands, and looking like a couple of roosters.
Suddenly they touched—and the little chap was down on the ground and Sergeant Zim was flying through the air over his head. But he didn’t land with the dull, breath-paralyzing thud that Meyer had; he lit rolling and was on his feet as fast as Shujumi was and facing him. “Banzai!” Zim yelled and grinned.
“Arigato,” Shujumi answered and grinned back.
They touched again almost without a pause and I thought the Sergeant was going to fly again. He didn’t; he slithered straight in, there was a confusion of arms and legs and when the motion slowed down you could see that Zim was tucking Shujumi’s left foot in his right ear—a poor fit.
Shujumi slapped the ground with a free hand; Zim let him up at once. They again bowed to each other. “Another fall, sir?”
“Sorry. We’ve got work to do. Some other time, eh? For fun . . . and honor. Perhaps I should have told you; your honorable father trained me.” “So I had already surmised, sir. Another time it is.”
Zim slapped him hard on the shoulder. “Back in ranks, soldier. C’pnee! ”
Then, for twenty minutes, we went through calisthenics that left me as dripping hot as I had been shivering cold. Zim led it himself, doing it all with
us and shouting the count. He hadn’t been mussed that I could see; he wasn’t breathing hard as we finished. He never led the exercises after that morning (we never saw him again before breakfast; rank hath its privileges), but he did that morning, and when it was over and we were all bushed, he led us at a trot to the mess tent, shouting at us the whole way to “Step it up! On the bounce! You’re dragging your tails!”
We always trotted everywhere at Camp Arthur Currie. I never did find out who Currie was, but he must have been a trackman.
Breckinridge was already in the mess tent, with a cast on his wrist but thumb and fingers showing. I heard him say, “Naw, just a greenstick
fractchuh—ah’ve played a whole quahtuh with wuss. But you wait—ah’ll fix him.”
I had my doubts. Shujumi, maybe—but not that big ape. He simply didn’t know when he was outclassed. I disliked Zim from the first moment I laid eyes on him. But he had style.
Breakfast was all right—all the meals were all right; there was none of that nonsense some boarding schools have of making your life miserable at the table. If you wanted to slump down and shovel it in with both hands, nobody bothered you—which was good, as meals were practically the only time somebody wasn’t riding you. The menu for breakfast wasn’t anything like what I had been used to at home and the civilians that waited on us slapped the food around in a fashion that would have made Mother grow pale and leave for her room—but it was hot and it was plentiful and the cooking was okay if plain. I ate about four times what I normally do and washed it down with mug after mug of coffee with cream and lots of sugar—I would have eaten a shark without stopping to skin him.
Jenkins showed up with Corporal Bronski behind him as I was starting on seconds. They stopped for a moment at a table where Zim was eating alone, then Jenkins slumped onto a vacant stool by mine. He looked mighty seedy—pale, exhausted, and his breath rasping. I said, “Here, let me pour you some coffee.”
He shook his head.
“You better eat,” I insisted. “Some scrambled eggs—they’ll go down easily.”
“Can’t eat. Oh, that dirty, dirty so-and-so.” He began cussing out Zim in a low, almost expressionless monotone. “All I asked him was to let me go
lie down and skip breakfast. Bronski wouldn’t let me—said I had to see the company commander. So I did and I told him I was sick, I told him. He just felt my cheek and counted my pulse and told me sick call was nine o’clock. Wouldn’t let me go back to my tent. Oh, that rat! I’ll catch him on a dark night, I will.”
I spooned out some eggs for him anyway and poured coffee. Presently he began to eat. Sergeant Zim got up to leave while most of us were still eating, and stopped by our table. “Jenkins.”
“Uh? Yes, sir.”
“At oh-nine-hundred muster for sick call and see the doctor.”
Jenkins’ jaw muscles twitched. He answered slowly, “I don’t need any pills—sir. I’ll get by.” “Oh-nine-hundred. That’s an order.” He left.
Jenkins started his monotonous chant again. Finally he slowed down, took a bite of eggs and said somewhat more loudly, “I can’t help wondering
what kind of a mother produced that. I’d just like to have a look at her, that’s all. Did he ever have a mother?”
It was a rhetorical question but it got answered. At the head of our table, several stools away, was one of the instructor-corporals. He had finished
eating and was smoking and picking his teeth, simultaneously; he had evidently been listening. “Jenkins—”
“Uh—sir?”
“Don’t you know about sergeants?” “Well . . . I’m learning.”
“They don’t have mothers. Just ask any trained private.” He blew smoke toward us. “They reproduce by fission . . . like all bacteria.”
And the LORD said unto Gideon, The people that are with thee are too many . . . Nowtherefore go to, proclaim in the ears of the people, saying, Whosoever is fearful and afraid, let him return . . . And there returned of the people twenty and two thousand; and there remained ten thousand. And the LORD said unto Gideon, The people are yet too many; bring them down unto the water, and I will try them for thee there . . . so he brought down the people unto the water: and the LORD said unto Gideon, Every one that lappeth of the water with his tongue, as a dog lappeth, him shalt thou set by himself; likewise everyone that boweth down upon his knees to drink. And the number of them that drank, putting their hand to their mouth, were three hundred men . . .
And the LORD said unto Gideon, By the three hundred . . . will I save you . . . let all the other people go . . .
—Judges VII:2-7
Two weeks after we got there they took our cots away from us. That is to say that we had the dubious pleasure of folding them, carrying them four miles, and stowing them in a warehouse. By then it didn’t matter; the ground seemed much warmer and quite soft—especially when the alert sounded in the middle of the night and we had to scramble out and play soldier. Which it did about three times a week. But I could get back to sleep after one of those mock exercises at once; I had learned to sleep any place, any time—sitting up, standing up, even marching in ranks. Why, I could even sleep through evening parade standing at attention, enjoy the music without being waked by it—and wake instantly at the command to pass in review.
I made a very important discovery at Camp Currie. Happiness consists in getting enough sleep. Just that, nothing more. All the wealthy, unhappy people you’ve ever met take sleeping pills; Mobile Infantrymen don’t need them. Give a cap trooper a bunk and time to sack out in it and he’s as happy as a worm in an apple—asleep.
Theoretically you were given eight full hours of sack time every night and about an hour and a half after evening chow for your own use. But in fact your night sack time was subject to alerts, to night duty, to field marches, and to acts of God and the whims of those over you, and your evenings, if not ruined by awkward squad or extra duty for minor offenses, were likely to be taken up by shining shoes, doing laundry, swapping haircuts (some of us got to be pretty fair barbers but a clean sweep like a billiard ball was acceptable and anybody can do that)—not to mention a thousand other chores having to do with equipment, person, and the demands of sergeants. For example we learned to answer morning roll call with: “Bathed!” meaning you had taken at least one bath since last reveille. A man might lie about it and get away with it (I did, a couple of times) but at least one in our company who pulled that dodge in the face of convincing evidence that he was not recently bathed got scrubbed with stiff brushes and floor soap by his squad mates while a corporal-instructor chaperoned and made helpful suggestions.
But if you didn’t have more urgent things to do after supper, you could write a letter, loaf, gossip, discuss the myriad mental and moral shortcomings of sergeants and, dearest of all, talk about the female of the species (we became convinced that there were no such creatures, just mythology created by inflamed imaginations—one boy in our company claimed to have seen a girl, over at regimental headquarters; he was unanimously judged a liar and a braggart). Or you could play cards. I learned, the hard way, not to draw to an inside straight and I’ve never done it since. In fact I haven’t played cards since.
Or, if you actually did have twenty minutes of your very own, you could sleep. This was a choice very highly thought of; we were always several weeks minus on sleep.
I may have given the impression that boot camp was made harder than necessary. This is not correct.
It was made as hard as possible and on purpose.
It was the firm opinion of every recruit that this was sheer meanness, calculated sadism, fiendish delight of witless morons in making other
people suffer.
It was not. It was too scheduled, too intellectual, too efficiently and impersonally organized to be cruelty for the sick pleasure of cruelty; it was planned like surgery for purposes as unimpassioned as those of a surgeon. Oh, I admit that some of the instructors may have enjoyed it but I don’t
knowthat they did—and I do know (now) that the psych officers tried to weed out any bullies in selecting instructors. They looked for skilled and dedicated craftsmen to follow the art of making things as tough as possible for a recruit; a bully is too stupid, himself too emotionally involved and too likely to grow tired of his fun and slack off, to be efficient.
Still, there may have been bullies among them. But I’ve heard that some surgeons (and not necessarily bad ones) enjoy the cutting and the blood which accompanies the humane art of surgery.
That’s what it was: surgery. Its immediate purpose was to get rid of, run right out of the outfit, those recruits who were too soft or too babyish ever
to make Mobile Infantrymen. It accomplished that, in droves. (They darn near ran me out.) Our company shrank to platoon size in the first six weeks. Some of them were dropped without prejudice and allowed, if they wished, to sweat out their terms in the non-combatant services; others got Bad Conduct Discharges, or Unsatisfactory Performance Discharges, or Medical Discharges.
Usually you didn’t know why a man left unless you saw him leave and he volunteered the information. But some of them got fed up, said so loudly, and resigned, forfeiting forever their chances of franchise. Some, especially the older men, simply couldn’t stand the pace physically no matter how hard they tried. I remember one, a nice old geezer named Carruthers, must have been thirty-five; they carried him away in a stretcher while he was still shouting feebly that it wasn’t fair!—and that he would be back.
It was sort of sad, because we liked Carruthers and he did try—so we looked the other way and figured we would never see him again, that he was a cinch for a medical discharge and civilian clothes. Only I did see him again, long after. He had refused discharge (you don’t have to accept a
medical) and wound up as third cook in a troop transport. He remembered me and wanted to talk old times, as proud of being an alumnus of Camp
Currie as Father is of his Harvard accent—he felt that he was a little bit better than the ordinary Navy man. Well, maybe he was.
But, much more important than the purpose of carving away the fat quickly and saving the government the training costs of those who would never cut it, was the prime purpose of making as sure as was humanly possible that no cap trooper ever climbed into a capsule for a combat drop unless he was prepared for it—fit, resolute, disciplined and skilled. If he is not, it’s not fair to the Federation, it’s certainly not fair to his teammates, and
worst of all it’s not fair to him.
But was boot camp more cruelly hard than was necessary?
All I can say to that is this: The next time I have to make a combat drop, I want the men on my flanks to be graduates of Camp Currie or its Siberian equivalent. Otherwise I’ll refuse to enter the capsule.
But I certainly thought it was a bunch of crumby, vicious nonsense at the time. Little things—When we were there a week, we were issued undress maroons for parade to supplement the fatigues we had been wearing. (Dress and full-dress uniforms came much later.) I took my tunic back to the issue shed and complained to the supply sergeant. Since he was only a supply sergeant and rather fatherly in manner I thought of him as a semi- civilian—I didn’t know how, as of then, to read the ribbons on his chest or I wouldn’t have dared speak to him. “Sergeant, this tunic is too large. My company commander says it fits like a tent.”
He looked at the garment, didn’t touch it. “Really?” “Yeah. I want one that fits.”
He still didn’t stir. “Let me wise you up, sonny boy. There are just two sizes in this army—too large and too small.” “But my company commander—”
“No doubt.”
“But what am I going to do?”
“Oh, it’s advice you want! Well, I’ve got that in stock—new issue, just today. Mmm . . . tell you what I’ll do. Here’s a needle and I’ll even give you a
spool of thread. You won’t need a pair of scissors; a razor blade is better. Now you tight ’em plenty across the hips but leave cloth to loose ’em
again across the shoulders; you’ll need it later.”
Sergeant Zim’s only comment on my tailoring was: “You can do better than that. Two hours extra duty.” So I did better than that by next parade.
Those first six weeks were all hardening up and hazing, with lots of parade drill and lots of route march. Eventually, as files dropped out and went home or elsewhere, we reached the point where we could do fifty miles in ten hours on the level—which is good mileage for a good horse in case you’ve never used your legs. We rested, not by stopping, but by changing pace, slow march, quick march, and trot. Sometimes we went out the full distance, bivouacked and ate field rations, slept in sleeping bags and marched back the next day.
One day we started out on an ordinary day’s march, no bed bags on our shoulders, no rations. When we didn’t stop for lunch, I wasn’t surprised, as I had already learned to sneak sugar and hard bread and such out of the mess tent and conceal it about my person, but when we kept on marching away from camp in the afternoon I began to wonder. But I had learned not to ask silly questions.
We halted shortly before dark, three companies, now somewhat abbreviated. We formed a battalion parade and marched through it, without music, guards were mounted, and we were dismissed. I immediately looked up Corporal-Instructor Bronski because he was a little easier to deal with than the others . . . and because I felt a certain amount of responsibility; I happened to be, at the time, a recruit-corporal myself. These boot chevrons didn’t mean much—mostly the privilege of being chewed out for whatever your squad did as well as for what you did yourself—and they could vanish as quickly as they appeared. Zim had tried out all of the older men as temporary non-coms first and I had inherited a brassard with chevrons on it a couple of days before when our squad leader had folded up and gone to hospital.
I said, “Corporal Bronski, what’s the straight word? When is chow call?”
He grinned at me. “I’ve got a couple of crackers on me. Want me to split ’em with you?”
“Huh? Oh, no, sir. Thank you.” (I had considerably more than a couple of crackers; I was learning.) “No chow call?”
“They didn’t tell me either, sonny. But I don’t see any copters approaching. Now if I was you, I’d round up my squad and figure things out. Maybe one of you can hit a jack rabbit with a rock.”
“Yes, sir. But—Well, are we staying here all night? We don’t have our bedrolls.”
His eyebrows shot up. “No bedrolls? Well, I do declare!” He seemed to think it over. “Mmm . . . ever see sheep huddle together in a snowstorm?” “Oh, no, sir.”
“Try it. They don’t freeze, maybe you won’t. Or if you don’t care for company, you might walk around all night. Nobody’ll bother you, as long as you stay inside the posted guards. You won’t freeze if you keep moving. Of course you may be a little tired tomorrow.” He grinned again.
I saluted and went back to my squad. We divvied up, share and share alike—and I came out with less food than I had started with; some of those idiots either hadn’t sneaked out anything to eat, or had eaten all they had while we marched. But a few crackers and a couple of prunes will do a lot to quiet your stomach’s sounding alert.
The sheep trick works, too; our whole section, three squads, did it together. I don’t recommend it as a way to sleep; you are either in the outer layer, frozen on one side and trying to worm your way inside, or you are inside, fairly warm but with everybody else trying to shove his elbows, feet, and halitosis on you. You migrate from one condition to the other all night long in a sort of a Brownian movement, never quite waking up and never really sound asleep. All this makes a night about a hundred years long.
We turned out at dawn to the familiar shout of: “Up you come! On the bounce!” encouraged by instructors’ batons applied smartly on fundaments sticking out of the piles . . . and then we did setting-up exercises. I felt like a corpse and didn’t see how I could touch my toes. But I did, though it hurt, and twenty minutes later when we hit the trail I merely felt elderly. Sergeant Zim wasn’t even mussed and somehow the scoundrel had managed to shave.
The Sun warmed our backs as we marched and Zim started us singing, oldies at first, like “Le Regiment de Sambre et Meuse” and “Caissons” and “Halls of Montezuma” and then our own “Cap Trooper’s Polka” which moves you into quickstep and pulls you on into a trot. Sergeant Zim couldn’t carry a tune in a sack; all he had was a loud voice. But Breckinridge had a sure, strong lead and could hold the rest of us in the teeth of Zim’s terrible false notes. We all felt cocky and covered with spines.
But we didn’t feel cocky fifty miles later. It had been a long night; it was an endless day—and Zim chewed us out for the way we looked on parade and several boots got gigged for failing to shave in the nine whole minutes between the time we fell out after the march and fell back in again for parade. Several recruits resigned that evening and I thought about it but didn’t because I had those silly boot chevrons and hadn’t been busted yet.
That night there was a two-hour alert.
But eventually I learned to appreciate the homey luxury of two or three dozen warm bodies to snuggle up to, because twelve weeks later they dumped me down raw naked in a primitive area of the Canadian Rockies and I had to make my way forty miles through mountains. I made it—and hated the Army every inch of the way.
I wasn’t in too bad shape when I checked in, though. A couple of rabbits had failed to stay as alert as I was, so I didn’t go entirely hungry . . . nor entirely naked; I had a nice warm thick coat of rabbit fat and dirt on my body and moccasins on my feet—the rabbits having no further use for their skins. It’s amazing what you can do with a flake of rock if you have to—I guess our cave-man ancestors weren’t such dummies as we usually think.
The others made it, too, those who were still around to try and didn’t resign rather than take the test—all except two boys who died trying. Then we all went back into the mountains and spent thirteen days finding them, working with copters overhead to direct us and all the best communication gear to help us and our instructors in powered command suits to supervise and to check rumors—because the Mobile Infantry doesn’t abandon its own while there is any thin shred of hope.
Then we buried them with full honors to the strains of “This Land Is Ours” and with the posthumous rank of PFC, the first of our boot regiment to
go that high—because a cap trooper isn’t necessarily expected to stay alive (dying is part of his trade) . . . but they care a lot about howyou die. It has to be heads up, on the bounce, and still trying.
Breckinridge was one of them; the other was an Aussie boy I didn’t know. They weren’t the first to die in training; they weren’t the last.
Starboard gun . . . FIRE!
He’s bound to be guilty ’r he wouldn’t be here!
Shooting’s too good for ’im, kick the louse out!
Port gun . . . FIRE!
—Ancient chanty used to time saluting guns
But that was after we had left Camp Currie and a lot had happened in between. Combat training, mostly—combat drill and combat exercises and combat maneuvers, using everything from bare hands to simulated nuclear weapons. I hadn’t known there were so many different ways to fight. Hands and feet to start with—and if you think those aren’t weapons you haven’t seen Sergeant Zim and Captain Frankel, our battalion commander, demonstrate la savate, or had little Shujumi work you over with just his hands and a toothy grin—Zim made Shujumi an instructor for that purpose at once and required us to take his orders, although we didn’t have to salute him and say “sir.”
As our ranks thinned down Zim quit bothering with formations himself, except parade, and spent more and more time in personal instruction, supplementing the corporal-instructors. He was sudden death with anything but he loved knives, and made and balanced his own, instead of using the perfectly good general-issue ones. He mellowed quite a bit as a personal teacher, too, becoming merely unbearable instead of downright disgusting—he could be quite patient with silly questions.
Once, during one of the two-minute rest periods that were scattered sparsely through each day’s work, one of the boys—a kid named Ted Hendrick—asked, “Sergeant? I guess this knife throwing is fun . . . but why do we have to learn it? What possible use is it?”
“Well,” answered Zim, “suppose all you have is a knife? Or maybe not even a knife? What do you do? Just say your prayers and die? Or wade in
and make him buy it anyhow? Son, this is real—it’s not a checker game you can concede if you find yourself too far behind.”
“But that’s just what I mean, sir. Suppose you aren’t armed at all? Or just one of these toadstickers, say? And the man you’re up against has all
sorts of dangerous weapons? There’s nothing you can do about it; he’s got you licked on showdown.” Zim said almost gently, “You’ve got it all wrong, son. There’s no such thing as a ‘dangerous weapon.’” “Huh? Sir?”
“There are no dangerous weapons; there are only dangerous men. We’re trying to teach you to be dangerous—to the enemy. Dangerous even without a knife. Deadly as long as you still have one hand or one foot and are still alive. If you don’t know what I mean, go read ‘Horatius at the Bridge’ or ‘The Death of the Bon Homme Richard’; they’re both in the Camp library. But take the case you first mentioned; I’m you and all you have is a knife. That target behind me—the one you’ve been missing, number three—is a sentry, armed with everything but an H-bomb. You’ve got to get
him . . . quietly, at once, and without letting him call for help.” Zim turned slightly—thunk!—a knife he hadn’t even had in his hand was quivering in the center of target number three. “You see? Best to carry two knives—but get him you must, even barehanded.”
“Uh—”
“Something still troubling you? Speak up. That’s what I’m here for, to answer your questions.”
“Uh, yes, sir. You said the sentry didn’t have any H-bomb. But he does have an H-bomb; that’s just the point. Well, at least we have, if we’re the sentry . . . and any sentry we’re up against is likely to have them, too. I don’t mean the sentry, I mean the side he’s on.”
“I understood you.”
“Well . . . you see, sir? If we can use an H-bomb—and, as you said, it’s no checker game; it’s real, it’s war and nobody is fooling around—isn’t it sort of ridiculous to go crawling around in the weeds, throwing knives and maybe getting yourself killed . . . and even losing the war . . . when you’ve got a real weapon you can use to win? What’s the point in a whole lot of men risking their lives with obsolete weapons when one professor type can do so much more just by pushing a button?”
Zim didn’t answer at once, which wasn’t like him at all. Then he said softly, “Are you happy in the Infantry, Hendrick? You can resign, you know.” Hendrick muttered something; Zim said, “Speak up!”
“I’m not itching to resign, sir. I’m going to sweat out my term.”
“I see. Well, the question you asked is one that a sergeant isn’t really qualified to answer . . . and one that you shouldn’t ask me. You’re supposed
to knowthe answer before you join up. Or you should. Did your school have a course in History and Moral Philosophy?” “What? Sure—yes, sir.”
“Then you’ve heard the answer. But I’ll give you my own—unofficial—views on it. If you wanted to teach a baby a lesson, would you cut its head off?”
“Why . . . no, sir!”
“Of course not. You’d paddle it. There can be circumstances when it’s just as foolish to hit an enemy city with an H-bomb as it would be to spank
a baby with an ax. War is not violence and killing, pure and simple; war is controlled violence, for a purpose. The purpose of war is to support your government’s decisions by force. The purpose is never to kill the enemy just to be killing him . . . but to make him do what you want him to do. Not killing . . . but controlled and purposeful violence. But it’s not your business or mine to decide the purpose of the control. It’s never a soldier’s
business to decide when or where or how—or why—he fights; that belongs to the statesmen and the generals. The statesmen decide why and how much; the generals take it from there and tell us where and when and how. We supply the violence; other people—‘older and wiser heads,’ as they
say—supply the control. Which is as it should be. That’s the best answer I can give you. If it doesn’t satisfy you, I’ll get you a chit to go talk to the
regimental commander. If he can’t convince you—then go home and be a civilian! Because in that case you will certainly never make a soldier.” Zim bounced to his feet. “I think you’ve kept me talking just to goldbrick. Up you come, soldiers! On the bounce! Man stations, on target—
Hendrick, you first. This time I want you to throw that knife south of you. South, get it? Not north. The target is due south of you and I want that knife to go in a general southerly direction, at least. I know you won’t hit the target but see if you can’t scare it a little. Don’t slice your ear off, don’t let go of it
and cut somebody behind you—just keep what tiny mind you have fixed on the idea of ‘south’! Ready—on target! Let fly!” Hendrick missed it again.
We trained with sticks and we trained with wire (lots of nasty things you can improvise with a piece of wire) and we learned what can be done with really modern weapons and how to do it and how to service and maintain the equipment—simulated nuclear weapons and infantry rockets and various sorts of gas and poison and incendiary and demolition. As well as other things maybe best not discussed. But we learned a lot of
“obsolete” weapons, too. Bayonets on dummy guns for example, and guns that weren’t dummies, too, but were almost identical with the infantry rifle of the XXth century—much like the sporting rifles used in hunting game, except that we fired nothing but solid slugs, alloy-jacketed lead bullets, both at targets on measured ranges and at surprise targets on booby-trapped skirmish runs. This was supposed to prepare us to learn to use any
armed weapon and to train us to be on the bounce, alert, ready for anything. Well, I suppose it did. I’m pretty sure it did.
We used these rifles in field exercises to simulate a lot of deadlier and nastier aimed weapons, too. We used a lot of simulation; we had to. An “explosive” bomb or grenade, against matériel or personnel, would explode just enough to put out a lot of black smoke; another sort of gave off a gas that would make you sneeze and weep—that told you that you were dead or paralyzed . . . and was nasty enough to make you careful about anti-gas precautions, to say nothing of the chewing-out you got if you were caught by it.
We got still less sleep; more than half the exercises were held at night, with snoopers and radar and audio gear and such.
The rifles used to simulate aimed weapons were loaded with blanks except one in five hundred rounds at random, which was a real bullet. Dangerous? Yes and no. It’s dangerous just to be alive . . . and a nonexplosive bullet probably won’t kill you unless it hits you in the head or the heart and maybe not then. What that one-in-five-hundred “for real” did was to give us a deep interest in taking cover, especially as we knew that some of
the rifles were being fired by instructors who were crack shots and actually trying their best to hit you—if the round happened not to be a blank. They
assured us that they would not intentionally shoot a man in the head . . . but accidents do happen.
This friendly assurance wasn’t very reassuring. That 500th bullet turned tedious exercises into large-scale Russian roulette; you stop being bored
the very first time you hear a slug go wheet! past your ear before you hear the crack of the rifle.
But we did slack down anyhow and word came down from the top that if we didn’t get on the bounce, the incidence of real ones would be
changed to one in a hundred . . . and if that didn’t work, to one in fifty. I don’t know whether a change was made or not—no way to tell—but I do know we tightened up again, because a boy in the next company got creased across his buttocks with a live one, producing an amazing scar and a lot of half-witty comments and a renewed interest by all hands in taking cover. We laughed at this kid for getting shot where he did . . . but we all knew it
could have been his head—or our own heads.
The instructors who were not firing rifles did not take cover. They put on white shirts and walked around upright with their silly canes, apparently
calmly certain that even a recruit would not intentionally shoot an instructor—which may have been overconfidence on the part of some of them. Still, the chances were five hundred to one that even a shot aimed with murderous intent would not be live and the safety factor increased still higher because the recruit probably couldn’t shoot that well anyhow. A rifle is not an easy weapon; it’s got no target-seeking qualities at all—I understand that even back in the days when wars were fought and decided with just such rifles it used to take several thousand fired shots to average killing
one man. This seems impossible but the military histories agree that it is true—apparently most shots weren’t really aimed but simply acted to force
the enemy to keep his head down and interfere with his shooting.
In any case we had no instructors wounded or killed by rifle fire. No trainees were killed, either, by rifle bullets; the deaths were all from other
weapons or things—some of which could turn around and bite you if you didn’t do things by the book. Well, one boy did manage to break his neck taking cover too enthusiastically when they first started shooting at him—but no bullet touched him.
However, by a chain reaction, this matter of rifle bullets and taking cover brought me to my lowest ebb at Camp Currie. In the first place I had been busted out of my boot chevrons, not over what I did but over something one of my squad did when I wasn’t even around . . . which I pointed out. Bronski told me to button my lip. So I went to see Zim about it. He told me coldly that I was responsible for what my men did, regardless . . . and tacked on six hours of extra duty besides busting me for having spoken to him about it without Bronski’s permission. Then I got a letter that upset me a lot; my mother finally wrote to me. Then I sprained a shoulder in my first drill with powered armor (they’ve got those practice suits rigged so
that the instructor can cause casualties in the suit at will, by radio control; I got dumped and hurt my shoulder) and this put me on light duty with too much time to think at a time when I had many reasons, it seemed to me, to feel sorry for myself.
Because of “light duty” I was orderly that day in the battalion commander’s office. I was eager at first, for I had never been there before and wanted to make a good impression. I discovered that Captain Frankel didn’t want zeal; he wanted me to sit still, say nothing, and not bother him. This left me time to sympathize with myself, for I didn’t dare go to sleep.
Then suddenly, shortly after lunch, I wasn’t a bit sleepy; Sergeant Zim came in, followed by three men. Zim was smart and neat as usual but the expression on his face made him look like Death on a pale horse and he had a mark on his right eye that looked as if it might be shaping up into a shiner—which was impossible, of course. Of the other three, the one in the middle was Ted Hendrick. He was dirty—well, the company had been on a field exercise; they don’t scrub those prairies and you spend a lot of your time snuggling up to the dirt. But his lip was split and there was blood on his chin and on his shirt and his cap was missing. He looked wild-eyed.
The men on each side of him were boots. They each had rifles; Hendrick did not. One of them was from my squad, a kid named Leivy. He seemed excited and pleased, and slipped me a wink when nobody was looking.
Captain Frankel looked surprised. “What is this, Sergeant?”
Zim stood frozen straight and spoke as if he were reciting something by rote. “Sir, H Company Commander reports to the Battalion Commander. Discipline. Article nine-one-oh-seven. Disregard of tactical command and doctrine, the team being in simulated combat. Article nine-one-two-oh. Disobedience of orders, same conditions.”
Captain Frankel looked puzzled. “You are bringing this to me, Sergeant? Officially?”
I don’t see how a man can manage to look as embarrassed as Zim looked and still have no expression of any sort in his face or voice. “Sir. If the
Captain pleases. The man refused administrative discipline. He insisted on seeing the Battalion Commander.”
“I see. A bedroll lawyer. Well, I still don’t understand it, Sergeant, but technically that’s his privilege. What was the tactical command and doctrine?”
“A ‘freeze,’ sir.” I glanced at Hendrick, thinking: Oh, oh, he’s going to catch it. In a “freeze” you hit dirt, taking any cover you can, fast, and then
freeze—don’t move at all, not even twitch an eyebrow, until released. Or you can freeze when you’re already in cover. They tell stories about men who had been hit while in freeze . . . and had died slowly but without ever making a sound or a move.
Frankel’s brows shot up. “Second part?”
“Same thing, sir. After breaking freeze, failing to return to it on being so ordered.” Captain Frankel looked grim. “Name?”
“Very well. Hendrick, you are deprived of all privileges for thirty days and restricted to your tent when not on duty or at meals, subject only to sanitary necessities. You will serve three hours extra duty each day under the Corporal of the Guard, one hour to be served just before taps, one hour just before reveille, one hour at the time of the noonday meal and in place of it. Your evening meal will be bread and water—as much bread as you can eat. You will serve ten hours extra duty each Sunday, the time to be adjusted to permit you to attend divine services if you so elect.”
(I thought: Oh my! He threw the book.)
Captain Frankel went on: “Hendrick, the only reason you are getting off so lightly is that I am not permitted to give you any more than that without convening a court-martial . . . and I don’t want to spoil your company’s record. Dismissed.” He dropped his eyes back to the papers on his desk, the incident already forgotten—
—and Hendrick yelled, “You didn’t hear my side of it!” The Captain looked up. “Oh. Sorry. You have a side?”
“You’re darn right I do! Sergeant Zim’s got it in for me! He’s been riding me, riding me, riding me, all day long from the time I got here! He—” “That’s his job,” the Captain said coldly. “Do you deny the two charges against you?”
“No, but—He didn’t tell you I was lying on an anthill.”
Frankel looked disgusted. “Oh. So you would get yourself killed and perhaps your teammates as well because of a few little ants?”
“Not ‘just a few’—there were hundreds of ’em. Stingers.”
“So? Young man, let me put you straight. Had it been a nest of rattlesnakes you would still have been expected—and required—to freeze.” Frankel paused. “Have you anything at all to say in your own defense?”
Hendrick’s mouth was open. “I certainly do! He hit me! He laid hands on me! The whole bunch of ’em are always strutting around with those silly batons, whackin’ you across the fanny, punchin’ you between the shoulders and tellin’ you to brace up—and I put up with it. But he hit me with his
hands—he knocked me down to the ground and yelled, ‘Freeze! you stupid jackass!’ How about that?”
Captain Frankel looked down at his hands, looked up again at Hendrick. “Young man, you are under a misapprehension very common among
civilians. You think that your superior officers are not permitted to ‘lay hands on you,’ as you put it. Under purely social conditions, that is true—say if we happened to run across each other in a theater or a shop, I would have no more right, as long as you treated me with the respect due my rank, to slap your face than you have to slap mine. But in line of duty the rule is entirely different—”
The Captain swung around in his chair and pointed at some loose-leaf books. “There are the laws under which you live. You can search every
article in those books, every court-martial case which has arisen under them, and you will not find one word which says, or implies, that your superior officer may not ‘lay hands on you’ or strike you in any other manner in line of duty. Hendrick, I could break your jaw . . . and I simply would
be responsible to my own superior officers as to the appropriate necessity of the act. But I would not be responsible to you. I could do more than that. There are circumstances under which a superior officer, commissioned or not, is not only permitted but required to kill an officer or a man
under him, without delay and perhaps without warning—and, far from being punished, be commended. To put a stop to pusillanimous conduct in the
face of the enemy, for example.”
The Captain tapped on his desk. “Now about those batons—They have two uses. First, they mark the men in authority. Second, we expect them to be used on you, to touch you up and keep you on the bounce. You can’t possibly be hurt with one, not the way they are used; at most they sting a
little. But they save thousands of words. Say you don’t turn out on the bounce at reveille. No doubt the duty corporal could wheedle you, say ‘pretty please with sugar on it,’ inquire if you’d like breakfast in bed this morning—if we could spare one career corporal just to nursemaid you. We can’t, so he gives your bedroll a whack and trots on down the line, applying the spur where needed. Of course he could simply kick you, which would be just as legal and nearly as effective. But the general in charge of training and discipline thinks that it is more dignified, both for the duty corporal and for you, to snap a late sleeper out of his fog with the impersonal rod of authority. And so do I. Not that it matters what you or I think about it; this is the way we do it.”
Captain Frankel sighed. “Hendrick, I have explained these matters to you because it is useless to punish a man unless he knows why he is being
punished. You’ve been a bad boy—I say ‘boy’ because you quite evidently aren’t a man yet, although we’ll keep trying—a surprisingly bad boy in view of the stage of your training. Nothing you have said is any defense, nor even any mitigation; you don’t seem to know the score nor have any idea of your duty as a soldier. So tell me in your own words why you feel mistreated; I want to get you straightened out. There might even be something in your favor, though I confess that I cannot imagine what it could be.”
I had sneaked a look or two at Hendrick’s face while the Captain was chewing him out—somehow his quiet, mild words were a worse chewing- out than any Zim had ever given us. Hendrick’s expression had gone from indignation to blank astonishment to sullenness.
“Speak up!” Frankel added sharply.
“Uh . . . well, we were ordered to freeze and I hit the dirt and I found I was on this anthill. So I got to my knees, to move over a couple of feet, and I was hit from behind and knocked flat and he yelled at me—and I bounced up and popped him one and he—”
“STOP!” Captain Frankel was out of his chair and standing ten feet tall, though he’s hardly taller than I am. He stared at Hendrick.
“You . . . struck . . . your . . . company commander?”
“Huh? I said so. But he hit me first. From behind, I didn’t even see him. I don’t take that off of anybody. I popped him and then he hit me again and
then—”
“Silence!”
Hendrick stopped. Then he added, “I just want out of this lousy outfit.”
“I think we can accommodate you,” Frankel said icily. “And quickly, too.” “Just gimme a piece of paper, I’m resigning.”
“One moment. Sergeant Zim.”
“Yes, sir.” Zim hadn’t said a word for a long time. He just stood, eyes front and rigid as a statue, nothing moving but his twitching jaw muscles. I looked at him now and saw that it certainly was a shiner—a beaut. Hendrick must have caught him just right. But he hadn’t said anything about it and Captain Frankel hadn’t asked—maybe he had just assumed Zim had run into a door and would explain it if he felt like it, later.
“Have the pertinent articles been published to your company, as required?” “Yes, sir. Published and logged, every Sunday morning.”
“I know they have. I asked simply for the record.”
Just before church call every Sunday they lined us up and read aloud the disciplinary articles out of the Laws and Regulations of the Military Forces. They were posted on the bulletin board, too, outside the orderly tent. Nobody paid them much mind—it was just another drill; you could stand still and sleep through it. About the only thing we noticed, if we noticed anything, was what we called “the thirty-one ways to crash land.” After all, the instructors see to it that you soak up all the regulations you need to know, through your skin. The “crash landings” were a worn-out joke, like “reveille oil” and “tent jacks” . . . they were the thirty-one capital offenses. Now and then somebody boasted, or accused somebody else, of having found a thirty-second way—always something preposterous and usually obscene.
“Striking a superior officer—! ”
It suddenly wasn’t amusing any longer. Popping Zim? Hang a man for that? Why, almost everybody in the company had taken a swing at Sergeant Zim and some of us had even landed . . . when he was instructing us in hand-to-hand combat. He would take us on after the other instructors had worked us over and we were beginning to feel cocky and pretty good at it—then he would put the polish on. Why, shucks, I once saw Shujumi knock him unconscious. Bronski threw water on him and Zim got up and grinned and shook hands—and threw Shujumi right over the horizon.
I did it, all thumbs, stepped back when an officer’s face came on and let the Captain take the call. “Adjutant,” the face said.
Frankel said crisply, “Second Battalion Commander’s respects to the Regimental Commander. I request and require an officer to sit as a court.” The face said, “When do you need him, Ian?”
“As quickly as you can get him here.”
“Right away. I’m pretty sure Jake is in his HQ. Article and name?”
Captain Frankel identified Hendrick and quoted an article number. The face in the screen whistled and looked grim. “On the bounce, Ian. If I can’t get Jake, I’ll be over myself—just as soon as I tell the Old Man.”
Captain Frankel turned to Zim. “This escort—are they witnesses?” “Yes, sir.”
“Did his section leader see it?”
Zim barely hesitated. “I think so, sir.”
“Get him. Anybody out that way in a powered suit?” “Yes, sir.”
Zim used the phone while Frankel said to Hendrick, “What witnesses do you wish to call in your defense?”
“Huh? I don’t need any witnesses, he knows what he did! Just hand me a piece of paper—I’m getting out of here.” “All in good time.”
In very fast time, it seemed to me. Less than five minutes later Corporal Jones came bouncing up in a command suit, carrying Corporal Mahmud in his arms. He dropped Mahmud and bounced away just as Lieutenant Spieksma came in. He said, “Afternoon, Cap’n. Accused and witnesses here?”
“All set. Take it, Jake.” “Recorder on?”
“It is now.”
“Very well. Hendrick, step forward.” Hendrick did so, looking puzzled and as if his nerve was beginning to crack. Lieutenant Spieksma said briskly: “Field Court-Martial, convened by order of Major F.X. Malloy, commanding Third Training Regiment, Camp Arthur Currie, under General Order Number Four, issued by the Commanding General, Training and Discipline Command, pursuant to the Laws and Regulations of the Military Forces, Terran Federation. Remanding officer: Captain Ian Frankel, M.I., assigned to and commanding Second Battalion, Third Regiment. The Court: Lieutenant Jacques Spieksma, M.I., assigned to and commanding First Battalion, Third Regiment. Accused: Hendrick, Theodore C., Recruit Private RP7960924. Article 9080. Charge: Striking his superior officer, the Terran Federation then being in a state of emergency.”
The thing that got me was how fast it went. I found myself suddenly appointed an “officer of the court” and directed to “remove” the witnesses and have them ready. I didn’t know how I would “remove” Sergeant Zim if he didn’t feel like it, but he gathered Mahmud and the two boots up by eye and they all went outside, out of earshot. Zim separated himself from the others and simply waited; Mahmud sat down on the ground and rolled a cigarette—which he had to put out; he was the first one called. In less than twenty minutes all three of them had testified, all telling much the same story Hendrick had. Zim wasn’t called at all.
Lieutenant Spieksma said to Hendrick, “Do you wish to cross-examine the witnesses? The Court will assist you, if you so wish.” “No.”
“Stand at attention and say ‘sir’ when you address the Court.” “No, sir.” He added, “I want a lawyer.”
“The Law does not permit counsel in field courts-martial. Do you wish to testify in your own defense? You are not required to do so and, in view of the evidence thus far, the Court will take no judicial notice if you choose not to do so. But you are warned that any testimony that you give may be used against you and that you will be subject to cross-examination.”
Hendrick shrugged. “I haven’t anything to say. What good would it do me?”
“The Court repeats: Will you testify in your own defense?”
“Uh, no, sir.”
“The Court must demand of you one technical question. Was the article under which you are charged published to you before the time of the alleged offense of which you stand accused? You may answer yes, or no, or stand mute—but you are responsible for your answer under Article 9167 which relates to perjury.”
The accused stood mute.
“Very well, the Court will reread the article of the charge aloud to you and again ask you that question. ‘Article 9080: Any person in the Military Forces who strikes or assaults, or attempts to strike or assault—’ ”
“Oh, I suppose they did. They read a lot of stuff, every Sunday morning—a whole long list of things you couldn’t do.” “Was or was not that particular article read to you?”
“Uh . . . yes, sir. It was.”
“Very well. Having declined to testify, do you have any statement to make in mitigation or extenuation?” “Sir?”
“Do you want to tell the Court anything about it? Any circumstance which you think might possibly affect the evidence already given? Or anything which might lessen the alleged offense? Such things as being ill, or under drugs or medication. You are not under oath at this point; you may say anything at all which you think may help you. What the Court is trying to find out is this: Does anything about this matter strike you as being unfair? If so, why?”
“Huh? Of course it is! Everything about it is unfair! He hit me first! You heard ’em!—he hit me first!” “Anything more?”
“Huh? No, sir. Isn’t that enough?”
“The trial is completed. Recruit Private Theodore C. Hendrick, stand forth!” Lieutenant Spieksma had been standing at attention the whole time; now Captain Frankel stood up. The place suddenly felt chilly.
“Private Hendrick, you are found guilty as charged.”
My stomach did a flip-flop. They were going to do it to him . . . they were going to do the “Danny Deever” to Ted Hendrick. And I had eaten breakfast beside him just this morning.
“The Court sentences you,” he went on, while I felt sick, “to ten lashes and Bad Conduct Discharge.” Hendrick gulped. “I want to resign!”
“The Court does not permit you to resign. The Court wishes to add that your punishment is light simply because this Court possesses no jurisdiction to assign greater punishment. The authority which remanded you specified a field court-martial—why it so chose, this Court will not speculate. But had you been remanded for general court-martial, it seems certain that the evidence before this Court would have caused a general court to sentence you to hang by the neck until dead. You are very lucky—and the remanding authority has been most merciful.” Lieutenant Spieksma paused, then went on, “The sentence will be carried out at the earliest hour after the convening authority has reviewed and approved the record, if it does so approve. Court is adjourned. Remove and confine him.”
The last was addressed to me, but I didn’t actually have to do anything about it, other than phone the guard tent and then get a receipt for him when they took him away.
At afternoon sick call Captain Frankel took me off orderly and sent me to see the doctor, who sent me back to duty. I got back to my company just in time to dress and fall in for parade—and to get gigged by Zim for “spots on uniform.” Well, he had a bigger spot over one eye but I didn’t mention it.
Somebody had set up a big post in the parade ground just back of where the adjutant stood. When it came time to publish the orders, instead of “routine order of the day” or other trivia, they published Hendrick’s court-martial.
Then they marched him out, between two armed guards, with his hands cuffed together in front of him.
I had never seen a flogging. Back home, while they do it in public of course, they do it back of the Federal Building—and Father had given me strict orders to stay away from there. I tried disobeying him on it once . . . but it was postponed and I never tried to see one again.
Once is too many.
The guards lifted his arms and hooked the manacles over a big hook high up on the post. Then they took his shirt off and it turned out that it was fixed so that it could come off and he didn’t have an undershirt. The adjutant said crisply, “Carry out the sentence of the Court.”
A corporal-instructor from some other battalion stepped forward with the whip. The Sergeant of the Guard made the count.
It’s a slow count, five seconds between each one and it seems much longer. Ted didn’t let out a peep until the third, then he sobbed.
The next thing I knew I was staring up at Corporal Bronski. He was slapping me and looking intently at me. He stopped and asked, “Okay now?
All right, back in ranks. On the bounce; we’re about to pass in review.” We did so and marched back to our company areas. I didn’t eat much dinner but neither did a lot of them.
Nobody said a word to me about fainting. I found out later that I wasn’t the only one—a couple of dozen of us had passed out.
CH:06
What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly . . . it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as FREEDOM should not be highly rated.
—Thomas Paine
It was the night after Hendrick was kicked out that I reached my lowest slump at Camp Currie. I couldn’t sleep—and you have to have been through boot camp to understand just how far down a recruit has to sink before that can happen. But I hadn’t had any real exercise all day so I wasn’t physically tired, and my shoulder still hurt even though I had been marked “duty,” and I had that letter from my mother preying on my mind, and every time I closed my eyes I would hear that crack! and see Ted slump against the whipping post.
I wasn’t fretted about losing my boot chevrons. That no longer mattered at all because I was ready to resign, determined to. If it hadn’t been the middle of the night and no pen and paper handy, I would have done so right then.
Ted had made a bad mistake, one that lasted all of half a second. And it really had been just a mistake, too, because, while he hated the outfit (who liked it?), he had been trying to sweat it out and win his franchise; he meant to go into politics—he talked a lot about how, when he got his citizenship, “There will be some changes made—you wait and see.”
Well, he would never be in public office now; he had taken his finger off his number for a single instant and he was through.
If it could happen to him, it could happen to me. Suppose I slipped? Next day or next week? Not even allowed to resign . . . but drummed out with my back striped.
Time to admit that I was wrong and Father was right, time to put in that little piece of paper and slink home and tell Father that I was ready to go to Harvard and then go to work in the business—if he would still let me. Time to see Sergeant Zim, first thing in the morning, and tell him that I had had
it. But not until morning, because you don’t wake Sergeant Zim except for something you’re certain that he will class as an emergency—believe me, you don’t! Not Sergeant Zim.
Sergeant Zim—
He worried me as much as Ted’s case did. After the court-martial was over and Ted had been taken away, he stayed behind and said to Captain Frankel, “May I speak with the Battalion Commander, sir?”
“Certainly. I was intending to ask you to stay behind for a word. Sit down.”
Zim flicked his eyes my way and the Captain looked at me and I didn’t have to be told to get out; I faded. There was nobody in the outer office, just a couple of civilian clerks. I didn’t dare go outside because the Captain might want me; I found a chair back of a row of files and sat down.
I could hear them talking, through the partition I had my head against. BHQ was a building rather than a tent, since it housed permanent communication and recording equipment, but it was a “minimum field building,” a shack; the inner partitions weren’t much. I doubt if the civilians could hear as they each were wearing transcriber phones and were bent over typers—besides, they didn’t matter. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Uh, well, maybe I did.
Zim said: “Sir, I request transfer to a combat team.”
Frankel answered: “I can’t hear you, Charlie. My tin ear is bothering me again.” Zim: “I’m quite serious, sir. This isn’t my sort of duty.”
Frankel said testily, “Quit bellyaching your troubles to me, Sergeant. At least wait until we’ve disposed of duty matters. What in the world happened?”
Zim said stiffly, “Captain, that boy doesn’t rate ten lashes.”
Frankel answered, “Of course he doesn’t. You know who goofed—and so do I.” “Yes, sir. I know.”
“Well? You know even better than I do that these kids are wild animals at this stage. You know when it’s safe to turn your back on them and when
it isn’t. You know the doctrine and the standing orders about article nine-oh-eight-oh—you must never give them a chance to violate it. Of course some of them are going to try it—if they weren’t aggressive they wouldn’t be material for the M.I. They’re docile in ranks; it’s safe enough to turn your back when they’re eating, or sleeping, or sitting on their tails and being lectured. But get them out in the field in a combat exercise, or anything that gets them keyed up and full of adrenaline, and they’re as explosive as a hatful of mercury fulminate. You know that, all you instructors know that; you’re trained—trained to watch for it, trained to snuff it out before it happens. Explain to me how it was possible for an untrained recruit to hang a mouse on your eye? He should never have laid a hand on you; you should have knocked him cold when you saw what he was up to. So why weren’t you on the bounce? Are you slowing down?”
“I don’t know,” Zim answered slowly. “I guess I must be.”
“Hmm! If true, a combat team is the last place for you. But it’s not true. Or wasn’t true the last time you and I worked out together, three days ago. So what slipped?”
Zim was slow in answering. “I think I had him tagged in my mind as one of the safe ones.” “There are no such.”
“Yes, sir. But he was so earnest, so doggedly determined to sweat it out—he didn’t have any aptitude but he kept on trying—that I must have done that, subconsciously.” Zim was silent, then added, “I guess it was because I liked him.”
Frankel snorted. “An instructor can’t afford to like a man.”
“I know it, sir. But I do. They’re a nice bunch of kids. We’ve dumped all the real twerps by now—Hendrick’s only shortcoming, aside from being clumsy, was that he thought he knew all the answers. I didn’t mind that; I knew it all at that age myself. The twerps have gone home and those that are left are eager, anxious to please, and on the bounce—as cute as a litter of collie pups. A lot of them will make soldiers.”
“So that was the soft spot. You liked him . . . so you failed to clip him in time. So he winds up with a court and the whip and a B.C.D. Sweet.” Zim said earnestly, “I wish to heaven there were some way for me to take that flogging myself, sir.”
“You’d have to take your turn, I outrank you. What do you think I’ve been wishing the past hour? What do you think I was afraid of from the moment I saw you come in here sporting a shiner? I did my best to brush it off with administrative punishment and the young fool wouldn’t let well enough
alone. But I never thought he would be crazy enough to blurt it out that he’d hung one on you—he’s stupid; you should have eased him out of the outfit weeks ago . . . instead of nursing him along until he got into trouble. But blurt it out he did, to me, in front of witnesses, forcing me to take
official notice of it—and that licked us. No way to get it off the record, no way to avoid a court . . . just go through the whole dreary mess and take our
medicine, and wind up with one more civilian who’ll be against us the rest of his days. Because he has to be flogged; neither you nor I can take it for him, even though the fault was ours. Because the regiment has to see what happens when nine-oh-eight-oh is violated. Our fault . . . but his lumps.”
“My fault, Captain. That’s why I want to be transferred. Uh, sir, I think it’s best for the outfit.”
“You do, eh? But I decide what’s best for my battalion, not you, Sergeant. Charlie, who do you think pulled your name out of the hat? And why?
Think back twelve years. You were a corporal, remember? Where were you?”
“Here, as you know quite well, Captain. Right here on this same godforsaken prairie—and I wish I had never come back to it!”
“Don’t we all. But it happens to be the most important and the most delicate work in the Army—turning unspanked young cubs into soldiers. Who was the worst unspanked young cub in your section?”
“Mmm . . .” Zim answered slowly. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say you were the worst, Captain.”
“You wouldn’t, eh? But you’d have to think hard to name another candidate. I hated your guts, ‘Corporal’ Zim.” Zim sounded surprised, and a little hurt. “You did, Captain? I didn’t hate you—I rather liked you.”
“So? Well, ‘hate’ is the other luxury an instructor can never afford. We must not hate them, we must not like them; we must teach them. But if you liked me then—mmm, it seemed to me that you had very strange ways of showing it. Do you still like me? Don’t answer that; I don’t care whether you do or not—or, rather, I don’t want to know, whichever it is. Never mind; I despised you then and I used to dream about ways to get you. But you were always on the bounce and never gave me a chance to buy a nine-oh-eight-oh court of my own. So here I am, thanks to you. Now to handle your request: You used to have one order that you gave to me over and over again when I was a boot. I got so I loathed it almost more than anything else
you did or said. Do you remember it? I do and now I’ll give it back to you: ‘Soldier, shut up and soldier!’” “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t go yet. This weary mess isn’t all loss; any regiment of boots needs a stern lesson in the meaning of nine-oh-eight-oh, as we both know.
They haven’t yet learned to think, they won’t read, and they rarely listen—but they can see . . . and young Hendrick’s misfortune may save one of his mates, someday, from swinging by the neck until he’s dead, dead, dead. But I’m sorry the object lesson had to come from my battalion and I certainly don’t intend to let this battalion supply another one. You get your instructors together and warn them. For about twenty-four hours those kids will be in a state of shock. Then they’ll turn sullen and the tension will build. Along about Thursday or Friday some boy who is about to flunk out anyhow will start thinking over the fact that Hendrick didn’t get so very much, not even the number of lashes for drunken driving . . . and he’s going to
start brooding that it might be worth it, to take a swing at the instructor he hates worst. Sergeant—that blowmust never land! Understand me?” “Yes, sir.”
“I want them to be eight times as cautious as they have been. I want them to keep their distance, I want them to have eyes in the backs of their heads. I want them to be as alert as a mouse at a cat show. Bronski—you have a special word with Bronski; he has a tendency to fraternize.”
“I’ll straighten Bronski out, sir.”
“See that you do. Because when the next kid starts swinging, it’s got to be stop-punched—not muffed, like today. The boy has got to be knocked cold and the instructor must do so without ever being touched himself—or I’ll damned well break him for incompetence. Let them know that. They’ve
got to teach those kids that it’s not merely expensive but impossible to violate nine-oh-eight-oh . . . that even trying it wins a short nap, a bucket of water in the face, and a very sore jaw—and nothing else.”
“Yes, sir. It’ll be done.”
“It had better be done. I will not only break the instructor who slips, I will personally take him ’way out on the prairie and give him lumps . . .
because I will not have another one of my boys strung up to that whipping post through sloppiness on the part of his teachers. Dismissed.” “Yes, sir. Good afternoon, Captain.”
“What’s good about it? Charlie—” “Yes, sir.”
“If you’re not too busy this evening, why don’t you bring your soft shoes and your pads over to officers’ row and we’ll go waltzing Matilda? Say about eight o’clock.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s not an order, that’s an invitation. If you really are slowing down, maybe I’ll be able to kick your shoulder blades off.” “Uh, would the Captain care to put a small bet on it?”
“Huh? With me sitting here at this desk getting swivel-chair spread? I will not! Not unless you agree to fight with one foot in a bucket of cement. Seriously, Charlie, we’ve had a miserable day and it’s going to be worse before it gets better. If you and I work up a good sweat and swap a few lumps, maybe we’ll be able to sleep tonight despite all of mother’s little darlings.”
“I’ll be there, Captain. Don’t eat too much dinner—I need to work off a couple of matters myself.”
“I’m not going to dinner; I’m going to sit right here and sweat out this quarterly report . . . which the Regimental Commander is graciously pleased
to see right after his dinner . . . and which somebody whose name I won’t mention has put me two hours behind on. So I may be a few minutes late for our waltz. Go ’way now, Charlie, and don’t bother me. See you later.”
Sergeant Zim left so abruptly that I barely had time to lean over and tie my shoe and thereby be out of sight behind the file case as he passed
through the outer office. Captain Frankel was already shouting, “Orderly! Orderly! ORDERLY!—do I have to call you three times? What’s your name? Put yourself down for an hour’s extra duty, full kit. Find the company commanders of E, F, and G, my compliments and I’ll be pleased to see them before parade. Then bounce over to my tent and fetch me a clean dress uniform, cap, side arms, shoes, ribbons—no medals. Lay it out for me here. Then make afternoon sick call—if you can scratch with that arm, as I’ve seen you doing, your shoulder can’t be too sore. You’ve got thirteen minutes until sick call—on the bounce, soldier!”
I made it . . . by catching two of them in the senior instructors’ shower (an orderly can go anywhere) and the third at his desk; the orders you get aren’t impossible, they merely seem so because they nearly are. I was laying out Captain Frankel’s uniform for parade as sick call sounded. Without looking up he growled, “Belay that extra duty. Dismissed.” So I got home just in time to catch extra duty for “Uniform, Untidy in, Two Particulars” and see the sickening end of Ted Hendrick’s time in the M.I.
So I had plenty to think about as I lay awake that night. I had known that Sergeant Zim worked hard, but it had never occurred to me that he could
possibly be other than completely and smugly self-satisfied with what he did. He looked so smug, so self-assured, so at peace with the world and with himself.
The idea that this invincible robot could feel that he had failed, could feel so deeply and personally disgraced that he wanted to run away, hide his face among strangers, and offer the excuse that his leaving would be “best for the outfit,” shook me up as much, and in a way even more, than seeing Ted flogged.
To have Captain Frankel agree with him—as to the seriousness of the failure, I mean—and then rub his nose in it, chew him out. Well! I mean really. Sergeants don’t get chewed out; sergeants do the chewing. A law of nature.
But I had to admit that what Sergeant Zim had taken, and swallowed, was so completely humiliating and withering as to make the worst I had ever heard or overheard from a sergeant sound like a love song. And yet the Captain hadn’t even raised his voice.
The whole incident was so preposterously unlikely that I was never even tempted to mention it to anyone else.
And Captain Frankel himself—Officers we didn’t see very often. They showed up for evening parade, sauntering over at the last moment and doing nothing that would work up a sweat; they inspected once a week, making private comments to sergeants, comments that invariably meant grief for somebody else, not them; and they decided each week what company had won the honor of guarding the regimental colors. Aside from that, they popped up occasionally on surprise inspections, creased, immaculate, remote, and smelling faintly of cologne—and went away again.
Oh, one or more of them did always accompany us on route marches and twice Captain Frankel had demonstrated his virtuosity at la savate. But officers didn’t work, not real work, and they had no worries because sergeants were under them, not over them.
But it appeared that Captain Frankel worked so hard that he skipped meals, was kept so busy with something or other that he complained of
lack of exercise and would waste his own free time just to work up a sweat.
As for worries, he had honestly seemed to be even more upset at what had happened to Hendrick than Zim had been. And yet he hadn’t even known Hendrick by sight; he had been forced to ask his name.
I had an unsettling feeling that I had been completely mistaken as to the very nature of the world I was in, as if every part of it was something wildly different from what it appeared to be—like discovering that your own mother isn’t anyone you’ve ever seen before, but a stranger in a rubber mask.
But I was sure of one thing: I didn’t even want to find out what the M.I. really was. If it was so tough that even the gods-that-be—sergeants and officers—were made unhappy by it, it was certainly too tough for Johnnie! How could you keep from making mistakes in an outfit you didn’t
understand? I didn’t want to swing by my neck till I was dead, dead, dead! I didn’t even want to risk being flogged . . . even though the doctor stands by to make certain that it doesn’t do you any permanent injury. Nobody in our family had ever been flogged (except paddlings in school, of course,
which isn’t at all the same thing). There were no criminals in our family on either side, none who had even been accused of crime. We were a proud
family; the only thing we lacked was citizenship and Father regarded that as no real honor, a vain and useless thing. But if I were flogged—Well, he’d probably have a stroke.
And yet Hendrick hadn’t done anything that I hadn’t thought about doing a thousand times. Why hadn’t I? Timid, I guess. I knewthat those instructors, any one of them, could beat the tar out of me, so I had buttoned my lip and hadn’t tried it. No guts, Johnnie. At least Ted Hendrick had had guts. I didn’t have . . . and a man with no guts has no business in the Army in the first place.
Besides that, Captain Frankel hadn’t even considered it to be Ted’s fault. Even if I didn’t buy a 9080, through lack of guts, what day would I do something other than a 9080—something not my fault—and wind up slumped against the whipping post anyhow?
Time to get out, Johnnie, while you’re still ahead.
My mother’s letter simply confirmed my decision. I had been able to harden my heart to my parents as long as they were refusing me—but when they softened, I couldn’t stand it. Or when Mother softened, at least. She had written:
—but I am afraid I must tell you that your father will still not permit your name to be mentioned. But, dearest, that is his way of grieving, since he
cannot cry. You must understand, my darling baby, that he loves you more than life itself—more than he does me—and that you have hurt him very
deeply. He tells the world that you are a grown man, capable of making your own decisions, and that he is proud of you. But that is his own pride speaking, the bitter hurt of a proud man who has been wounded deep in his heart by the one he loves best. You must understand, Juanito, that he does not speak of you and has not written to you because he cannot—not yet, not till his grief becomes bearable. When it has, I will know it, and then I will intercede for you—and we will all be together again.
Myself? How could anything her baby boy does anger his mother? You can hurt me, but you cannot make me love you the less. Wherever you are, whatever you choose to do, you are always my little boy who bangs his knee and comes running to my lap for comfort. My lap has shrunk, or
perhaps you have grown (though I have never believed it), but nonetheless it will always be waiting, when you need it. Little boys never get over needing their mother’s laps—do they, darling? I hope not. I hope that you will write and tell me so.
But I must add that, in view of the terribly long time that you have not written, it is probably best (until I let you know otherwise) for you to write to me care of your Aunt Eleanora. She will pass it on to me at once—and without causing any more upset. You understand?
A thousand kisses to my baby, Your Mother
I understood, all right—and if Father could not cry, I could. I did.
And at last I got to sleep . . . and was awakened at once by an alert. We bounced out to the bombing range, the whole regiment, and ran through a simulated exercise, without ammo. We were wearing full unarmored kit otherwise, including ear-plug receivers, and we had no more than extended when the word came to freeze.
We held that freeze for at least an hour—and I mean we held it, barely breathing. A mouse tiptoeing past would have sounded noisy. Something did go past and ran right over me, a coyote I think. I never twitched. We got awfully cold holding that freeze, but I didn’t care; I knew it was my last.
I didn’t even hear reveille the next morning; for the first time in weeks I had to be whacked out of my sack and barely made formation for morning jerks. There was no point in trying to resign before breakfast anyhow, since I had to see Zim as the first step. But he wasn’t at breakfast. I did ask Bronski’s permission to see the C.C. and he said, “Sure. Help yourself,” and didn’t ask me why.
But you can’t see a man who isn’t there. We started a route march after breakfast and I still hadn’t laid eyes on him. It was an out-and-back, with lunch fetched out to us by copter—an unexpected luxury, since failure to issue field rations before marching usually meant practice starvation except for whatever you had cached . . . and I hadn’t; too much on my mind.
Sergeant Zim came out with the rations and he held mail call in the field—which was not an unexpected luxury. I’ll say this for the M.I.; they might chop off your food, water, sleep, or anything else, without warning, but they never held up a person’s mail a minute longer than circumstances required. That was yours, and they got it to you by the first transportation available and you could read it at your earliest break, even on maneuvers. This hadn’t been too important for me, as (aside from a couple of letters from Carl) I hadn’t had anything but junk mail until Mother wrote to me.
I didn’t even gather around when Zim handed it out; I figured now on not speaking to him until he got in—no point in giving him reason to notice me until we were actually in reach of headquarters. So I was surprised when he called my name and held up a letter. I bounced over and took it.
And was surprised again—it was from Mr. Dubois, my high school instructor in History and Moral Philosophy. I would sooner have expected a letter from Santa Claus.
Then, when I read it, it still seemed like a mistake. I had to check the address and the return address to convince myself that he had written it and had meant it for me.
My dear boy,
I would have written to you much sooner to express my delight and my pride in learning that you had not only volunteered to serve but also had chosen my own service. But not to express surprise; it is what I expected of you—except, possibly, the additional and very personal bonus that you chose the M.I. This is the sort of consummation, which does not happen too often, that nevertheless makes all of a teacher’s efforts worth while. We necessarily sift a great many pebbles, much sand, for each nugget—but the nuggets are the reward.
By now the reason I did not write at once is obvious to you. Many young men, not necessarily through any reprehensible fault, are dropped during recruit training. I have waited (I have kept in touch through my own connections) until you had “sweated it out” past the hump (how well we all know that hump!) and were certain, barring accidents or illness, of completing your training and your term.
You are now going through the hardest part of your service—not the hardest physically (though physical hardship will never trouble you again; you now have its measure), but the hardest spiritually . . . the deep, soul-turning readjustments and re-evaluations necessary to metamorphize a potential citizen into one in being. Or, rather I should say: you have already gone through the hardest part, despite all the tribulations you still have ahead of you and all the hurdles, each higher than the last, which you still must clear. But it is that “hump” that counts—and, knowing you, lad, I know that I have waited long enough to be sure that you are past your “hump”— or you would be home now.
When you reached that spiritual mountaintop you felt something, a new something. Perhaps you haven’t words for it (I know I didn’t, when I was a boot). So perhaps you will permit an older comrade to lend you the words, since it often helps to have discrete words. Simply this: The noblest fate that a man can endure is to place his own mortal body between his loved home and the war’s desolation. The words are not mine, of course, as you will recognize. Basic truths cannot change and once a man of insight expresses one of them it is never necessary, no matter how much the world changes, to reformulate them. This is an immutable, true everywhere, throughout all time, for all men and all nations.
Let me hear from you, please, if you can spare an old man some of your precious sack time to write an occasional letter. And if you should happen to run across any of my former mates, give them my warmest greetings.
Good luck, trooper! You’ve made me proud.
Jean V. Dubois Lt.-Col., M.I., rtd.
The signature was as amazing as the letter itself. Old Sour Mouth was a short colonel? Why, our regional commander was only a major. Mr. Dubois had never used any sort of rank around school. We had supposed (if we thought about it at all) that he must have been a corporal or some such who had been let out when he lost his hand and had been fixed up with a soft job teaching a course that didn’t have to be passed, or even taught—just audited. Of course we had known that he was a veteran since History and Moral Philosophy must be taught by a citizen. But an M.I.? He didn’t look it. Prissy, faintly scornful, a dancing-master type—not one of us apes.
But that was the way he had signed himself.
I spent the whole long hike back to camp thinking about that amazing letter. It didn’t sound in the least like anything he had ever said in class. Oh, I don’t mean it contradicted anything he had told us in class; it was just entirely different in tone. Since when does a short colonel call a recruit private “comrade”?
When he was plain “Mr. Dubois” and I was one of the kids who had to take his course he hardly seemed to see me—except once when he got me sore by implying that I had too much money and not enough sense. (So my old man could have bought the school and given it to me for Christmas—is that a crime? It was none of his business.)
He had been droning along about “value,” comparing the Marxist theory with the orthodox “use” theory. Mr. Dubois had said, “Of course, the Marxian definition of value is ridiculous. All the work one cares to add will not turn a mud pie into an apple tart; it remains a mud pie, value zero. By corollary, unskillful work can easily subtract value; an untalented cook can turn wholesome dough and fresh green apples, valuable already, into an inedible mess, value zero. Conversely, a great chef can fashion of those same materials a confection of greater value than a commonplace apple tart, with no more effort than an ordinary cook uses to prepare an ordinary sweet.
“These kitchen illustrations demolish the Marxian theory of value—the fallacy from which the entire magnificent fraud of communism derives—and illustrate the truth of the common-sense definition as measured in terms of use.”
Dubois had waved his stump at us. “Nevertheless—wake up, back there!—nevertheless the disheveled old mystic of Das Kapital, turgid, tortured, confused, and neurotic, unscientific, illogical, this pompous fraud Karl Marx, nevertheless had a glimmering of a very important truth. If he had possessed an analytical mind, he might have formulated the first adequate definition of value . . . and this planet might have been saved endless grief.
“Or might not,” he added. “You!” I had sat up with a jerk.
“If you can’t listen, perhaps you can tell the class whether ‘value’ is a relative, or an absolute?”
I had been listening; I just didn’t see any reason not to listen with eyes closed and spine relaxed. But his question caught me out; I hadn’t read that day’s assignment. “An absolute,” I answered, guessing.
“Wrong,” he said coldly. “‘Value’ has no meaning other than in relation to living beings. The value of a thing is always relative to a particular person, is completely personal and different in quantity for each living human—‘market value’ is a fiction, merely a rough guess at the average of personal values, all of which must be quantitatively different or trade would be impossible.” (I had wondered what Father would have said if he had heard “market value” called a “fiction”—snort in disgust, probably.)
“This very personal relationship, ‘value,’ has two factors for a human being: first, what he can do with a thing, its use to him . . . and second, what he must do to get it, its cost to him. There is an old song which asserts ‘the best things in life are free.’ Not true! Utterly false! This was the tragic
fallacy which brought on the decadence and collapse of the democracies of the twentieth century; those noble experiments failed because the
people had been led to believe that they could simply vote for whatever they wanted . . . and get it, without toil, without sweat, without tears. “Nothing of value is free. Even the breath of life is purchased at birth only through gasping effort and pain.” He had been still looking at me and
added, “If you boys and girls had to sweat for your toys the way a newly born baby has to struggle to live you would be happier . . . and much richer. As it is, with some of you, I pity the poverty of your wealth. You! I’ve just awarded you the prize for the hundred-meter dash. Does it make you happy?”
“Uh, I suppose it would.”
“No dodging, please. You have the prize—here, I’ll write it out: ‘Grand prize for the championship, one hundred-meter sprint.’” He had actually come back to my seat and pinned it on my chest. “There! Are you happy? You value it—or don’t you?”
I was sore. First that dirty crack about rich kids—a typical sneer of those who haven’t got it—and now this farce. I ripped it off and chucked it at him.
Mr. Dubois had looked surprised. “It doesn’t make you happy?” “You know darn well I placed fourth!”
“Exactly! The prize for first place is worthless to you . . . because you haven’t earned it. But you enjoy a modest satisfaction in placing fourth; you earned it. I trust that some of the somnambulists here understood this little morality play. I fancy that the poet who wrote that song meant to imply that
the best things in life must be purchased other than with money—which is true—just as the literal meaning of his words is false. The best things in life are beyond money; their price is agony and sweat and devotion . . . and the price demanded for the most precious of all things in life is life itself
—ultimate cost for perfect value.”
I mulled over things I had heard Mr. Dubois—Colonel Dubois—say, as well as his extraordinary letter, while we went swinging back toward camp. Then I stopped thinking because the band dropped back near our position in column and we sang for a while, a French group—“Marseillaise,” of course, and “Madelon” and “Sons of Toil and Danger,” and then “Legion Étrangère” and “Mademoiselle from Armentières.”
It’s nice to have the band play; it picks you right up when your tail is dragging the prairie. We hadn’t had anything but canned music at first and that only for parade and calls. But the powers-that-be had found out early who could play and who couldn’t; instruments were provided and a regimental band was organized, all our own—even the director and the drum major were boots.
It didn’t mean they got out of anything. Oh no! It just meant they were allowed and encouraged to do it on their own time, practicing evenings and Sundays and such—and that they got to strut and countermarch and show off at parade instead of being in ranks with their platoons. A lot of things that we did were run that way. Our chaplain, for example, was a boot. He was older than most of us and had been ordained in some obscure little sect I had never heard of. But he put a lot of passion into his preaching whether his theology was orthodox or not (don’t ask me) and he was certainly in a position to understand the problems of a recruit. And the singing was fun. Besides, there was nowhere else to go on Sunday morning between morning police and lunch.
The band suffered a lot of attrition but somehow they always kept it going. The camp owned four sets of pipes and some Scottish uniforms, donated by Lochiel of Cameron whose son had been killed there in training—and one of us boots turned out to be a piper; he had learned it in the Scottish Boy Scouts. Pretty soon we had four pipers, maybe not good but loud. Pipes seem very odd when you first hear them, and a tyro practicing can set your teeth on edge—it sounds and looks as if he had a cat under his arm, its tail in his mouth, and biting it.
But they grow on you. The first time our pipers kicked their heels out in front of the band, skirling away at “Alamein Dead,” my hair stood up so straight it lifted my cap. It gets you—makes tears.
We couldn’t take a parade band out on route march, of course, because no special allowances were made for the band. Tubas and bass drums had to stay behind because a boy in the band had to carry a full kit, same as everybody, and could only manage an instrument small enough to add to his load. But the M.I. has band instruments which I don’t believe anybody else has, such as a little box hardly bigger than a harmonica, an electric gadget which does an amazing job of faking a big horn and is played the same way. Comes band call when you are headed for the horizon, each bandsman sheds his kit without stopping, his squad mates split it up, and he trots to the column position of the color company and starts blasting.
It helps.
The band drifted aft, almost out of earshot, and we stopped singing because your own singing drowns out the beat when it’s too far away. I suddenly realized I felt good.
I tried to think why I did. Because we would be in after a couple of hours and I could resign?
No. When I had decided to resign, it had indeed given me a measure of peace, quieted down my awful jitters and let me go to sleep. But this was something else—and no reason for it, that I could see.
Then I knew. I had passed my hump!
I was over the “hump” that Colonel Dubois had written about. I actually walked over it and started down, swinging easily. The prairie through there
was flat as a griddle-cake, but just the same I had been plodding wearily uphill all the way out and about halfway back. Then, at some point—I think it was while we were singing—I had passed the hump and it was all downhill. My kit felt lighter and I was no longer worried.
When we got in, I didn’t speak to Sergeant Zim; I no longer needed to. Instead he spoke to me, motioned me to him as we fell out. “Yes, sir?”
“This is a personal question . . . so don’t answer it unless you feel like it.” He stopped, and I wondered if he suspected that I had overheard his chewing-out, and shivered.
“At mail call today,” he said, “you got a letter. I noticed—purely by accident, none of my business—the name on the return address. It’s a fairly common name, some places, but—this is the personal question you need not answer—by any chance does the person who wrote that letter have his left hand off at the wrist?”
I guess my chin dropped. “How did you know? Sir?”
“I was nearby when it happened. It is Colonel Dubois? Right?”
“Yes, sir.” I added, “He was my high school instructor in History and Moral Philosophy.”
I think that was the only time I ever impressed Sergeant Zim, even faintly. His eyebrows went up an eighth of an inch and his eyes widened slightly. “So? You were extraordinarily fortunate.” He added, “When you answer his letter—if you don’t mind—you might say that Ship’s Sergeant Zim sends his respects.”
“Yes, sir. Oh . . . I think maybe he sent you a message, sir.”
“What?”
“Uh, I’m not certain.” I took out the letter, read just: “‘—if you should happen to run across any of my former mates, give them my warmest
greetings.’ Is that for you, sir?”
Zim pondered it, his eyes looking through me, somewhere else. “Eh? Yes, it is. For me among others. Thanks very much.” Then suddenly it was
over and he said briskly, “Nine minutes to parade. And you still have to shower and change. On the bounce, soldier.”
The young recruit is silly—’e thinks o’ suicide. ’E’s lost ’is gutter-devil; ’e ’asin’t got’is pride; But day by day they kicks ’im, which ’elps ’im on a bit, Till ’e finds ’isself one mornin’ with a full an’ proper kit. Gettin’ clear o’ dirtiness, gettin’ done with mess, Gettin’ shut o’ doin’ things rather-more-or-less.
I’m not going to talk much more about my boot training. Mostly it was simply work, but I was squared away—enough said.
—Rudyard Kipling
But I do want to mention a little about powered suits, partly because I was fascinated by them and also because that was what led me into trouble. No complaints—I rated what I got.
An M.I. lives by his suit the way a K-9 man lives by and with and on his doggie partner. Powered armor is one-half the reason we call ourselves “mobile infantry” instead of just “infantry.” (The other half are the spaceships that drop us and the capsules we drop in.) Our suits give us better eyes, better ears, stronger backs (to carry heavier weapons and more ammo), better legs, more intelligence (“intelligence” in the military meaning; a man in a suit can be just as stupid as anybody else—only he had better not be), more firepower, greater endurance, less vulnerability.
A suit isn’t a space suit—although it can serve as one. It is not primarily armor—although the Knights of the Round Table were not armored as well as we are. It isn’t a tank—but a single M.I. private could take on a squadron of those things and knock them off unassisted if anybody was silly enough to put tanks against M.I. A suit is not a ship but it can fly, a little—on the other hand neither spaceships nor atmosphere craft can fight against a man in a suit except by saturation bombing of the area he is in (like burning down a house to get one flea!). Contrariwise we can do many things that no ship—air, submersible, or space—can do.
There are a dozen different ways of delivering destruction in impersonal wholesale, via ships and missiles of one sort or another, catastrophes so widespread, so unselective, that the war is over because that nation or planet has ceased to exist. What we do is entirely different. We make war as personal as a punch in the nose. We can be selective, applying precisely the required amount of pressure at the specified point at a designated time—we’ve never been told to go down and kill or capture all left-handed redheads in a particular area, but if they tell us to, we can. We will.
We are the boys who go to a particular place, at H-hour, occupy a designated terrain, stand on it, dig the enemy out of their holes, force them then and there to surrender or die. We’re the bloody infantry, the doughboy, the duckfoot, the foot soldier who goes where the enemy is and takes him on in person. We’ve been doing it, with changes in weapons but very little change in our trade, at least since the time five thousand years ago when the foot sloggers of Sargon the Great forced the Sumerians to cry “Uncle!”
Maybe they’ll be able to do without us someday. Maybe some mad genius with myopia, a bulging forehead, and a cybernetic mind will devise a weapon that can go down a hole, pick out the opposition, and force it to surrender or die—without killing that gang of your own people they’ve got imprisoned down there. I wouldn’t know; I’m not a genius, I’m an M.I. In the meantime, until they build a machine to replace us, my mates can handle that job—and I might be some help on it, too.
Maybe someday they’ll get everything nice and tidy and we’ll have that thing we sing about, when “we ain’t a-gonna study war no more.” Maybe. Maybe the same day the leopard will take off his spots and get a job as a Jersey cow, too. But again, I wouldn’t know; I am not a professor of cosmopolitics; I’m an M.I. When the government sends me, I go. In between, I catch a lot of sack time.
But, while they have not yet built a machine to replace us, they’ve surely thought up some honeys to help us. The suit, in particular.
No need to describe what it looks like, since it has been pictured so often. Suited up, you look like a big steel gorilla, armed with gorilla-sized weapons. (This may be why a sergeant generally opens his remarks with “You apes—” However, it seems more likely that Caesar’s sergeants used the same honorific.)
But the suits are considerably stronger than a gorilla. If an M.I. in a suit swapped hugs with a gorilla, the gorilla would be dead, crushed; the M.I. and the suit wouldn’t be mussed.
The “muscles,” the pseudo-musculature, get all the publicity but it’s the control of all that power which merits it. The real genius in the design is
that you don’t have to control the suit; you just wear it, like your clothes, like skin. Any sort of ship you have to learn to pilot; it takes a long time, a new full set of reflexes, a different and artificial way of thinking. Even riding a bicycle demands an acquired skill, very different from walking, whereas a spaceship—oh, brother! I won’t live that long. Spaceships are for acrobats who are also mathematicians.
But a suit you just wear.
Two thousand pounds of it, maybe, in full kit—yet the very first time you are fitted into one you can immediately walk, run, jump, lie down, pick up
an egg without breaking it (takes a trifle of practice, but anything improves with practice), dance a jig (if you can dance a jig, that is, without a suit)— and jump right over the house next door and come down to a feather landing.
The secret lies in negative feedback and amplification.
Don’t ask me to sketch the circuitry of a suit; I can’t. But I understand that some very good concert violinists can’t build a violin, either. I can do field maintenance and field repairs and check off the three hundred and forty-seven items from “cold” to ready to wear, and that’s all a dumb M.I. is expected to do. But if my suit gets really sick, I call the doctor—a doctor of science (electromechanical engineering) who is a staff Naval officer, usually a lieutenant (read “captain” for our ranks), and is part of the ship’s company of the troop transport—or who is reluctantly assigned to a regimental headquarters at Camp Currie, a fate-worse-than-death to a Navy man.
But if you really are interested in the prints and stereos and schematics of a suit’s physiology, you can find most of it, the unclassified part, in any fairly large public library. For the small amount that is classified, you must look up a reliable enemy agent—“reliable” I say, because spies are a tricky lot; he’s likely to sell you the parts you could get free from the public library.
But here is how it works, minus the diagrams. The inside of the suit is a mass of pressure receptors, hundreds of them. You push with the heel of your hand; the suit feels it, amplifies it, pushes with you to take the pressure off the receptors that gave the order to push. That’s confusing, but negative feedback is always a confusing idea the first time, even though your body has been doing it ever since you quit kicking helplessly as a baby. Young children are still learning it; that’s why they are clumsy. Adolescents and adults do it without knowing they ever learned it—and a man with Parkinson’s disease has damaged his circuits for it.
The suit has feedback which causes it to match any motion you make, exactly—but with great force.
Controlled force . . . force controlled without your having to think about it. You jump, that heavy suit jumps, but higher than you can jump in your
skin. Jump really hard and the suit’s jets cut in, amplifying what the suit’s leg “muscles” did, giving you a three-jet shove, the axis of pressure of which passes through your center of mass. So you jump over that house next door. Which makes you come down as fast as you went up . . . which the suit notes through your proximity & closing gear (a sort of simple-minded radar resembling a proximity fuse) and therefore cuts in the jets again just the right amount to cushion your landing without your having to think about it.
And that is the beauty of a powered suit: you don’t have to think about it. You don’t have to drive it, fly it, conn it, operate it; you just wear it and it takes orders directly from your muscles and does for you what your muscles are trying to do. This leaves you with your whole mind free to handle
your weapons and notice what is going on around you . . . which is supremely important to an infantryman who wants to die in bed. If you load a mud foot down with a lot of gadgets that he has to watch, somebody a lot more simply equipped—say with a stone ax—will sneak up and bash his head in while he is trying to read a vernier.
Your “eyes” and your “ears” are rigged to help you without cluttering up your attention, too. Say you have three audio circuits, common in a marauder suit. The frequency control to maintain tactical security is very complex, at least two frequencies for each circuit, both of which are necessary for any signal at all and each of which wobbles under the control of a cesium clock timed to a micromicrosecond with the other end—but all this is no problem of yours. You want circuit A to your squad leader, you bite down once—for circuit B, bite down twice—and so on. The mike is taped to your throat, the plugs are in your ears and can’t be jarred out; just talk. Besides that, outside mikes on each side of your helmet give you
binaural hearing for your immediate surroundings just as if your head were bare—or you can suppress any noisy neighbors and not miss what your
platoon leader is saying simply by turning your head.
Since your head is the one part of your body not involved in the pressure receptors controlling the suit’s muscles, you use your head—your jaw muscles, your chin, your neck—to switch things for you and thereby leave your hands free to fight. A chin plate handles all visual displays the way the jaw switch handles the audios. All displays are thrown on a mirror in front of your forehead from where the work is actually going on above and back of your head. All this helmet gear makes you look like a hydrocephalic gorilla but, with luck, the enemy won’t live long enough to be offended by your appearance, and it is a very convenient arrangement; you can flip through your several types of radar displays quicker than you can change channels to avoid a commercial—catch a range & bearing, locate your boss, check your flank men, whatever.
If you toss your head like a horse bothered by a fly, your infrared snoopers go up on your forehead—toss it again, they come down. If you let go of
your rocket launcher, the suit snaps it back until you need it again. No point in discussing water nipples, air supply, gyros, etc.—the point to all the arrangements is the same: to leave you free to follow your trade, slaughter.
Of course these things do require practice and you do practice until picking the right circuit is as automatic as brushing your teeth, and so on. But simply wearing the suit, moving in it, requires almost no practice. You practice jumping because, while you do it with a completely natural motion, you jump higher, faster, farther, and stay up longer. The last alone calls for a new orientation; those seconds in the air can be used—seconds are jewels beyond price in combat. While off the ground in a jump, you can get a range & bearing, pick a target, talk & receive, fire a weapon, reload,
decide to jump again without landing and override your automatics to cut in the jets again. You can do all of these things in one bounce, with practice.
But, in general, powered armor doesn’t require practice; it simply does it for you, just the way you were doing it, only better. All but one thing—you
can’t scratch where it itches. If I ever find a suit that will let me scratch between my shoulder blades, I’ll marry it.
There are three main types of M.I. armor: marauder, command, and scout. Scout suits are very fast and very long-range, but lightly armed.
Command suits are heavy on go juice and jump juice, are fast and can jump high; they have three times as much comm & radar gear as other suits, and a dead-reckoning tracker, inertial. Marauders are for those guys in ranks with the sleepy look—the executioners.
As I may have said, I fell in love with powered armor, even though my first crack at it gave me a strained shoulder. Any day thereafter that my section was allowed to practice in suits was a big day for me. The day I goofed I had simulated sergeant’s chevrons as a simulated section leader and was armed with simulated A-bomb rockets to use in simulated darkness against a simulated enemy. That was the trouble; everything was simulated— but you are required to behave as if it is all real.
We were retreating—“advancing toward the rear,” I mean—and one of the instructors cut the power on one of my men, by radio control, making him a helpless casualty. Per M.I. doctrine, I ordered the pickup, felt rather cocky that I had managed to get the order out before my number two cut out to do it anyhow, turned to do the next thing I had to do, which was to lay down a simulated atomic ruckus to discourage the simulated enemy overtaking us.
Our flank was swinging; I was supposed to fire it sort of diagonally but with the required spacing to protect my own men from blast while still putting it in close enough to trouble the bandits. On the bounce, of course. The movement over the terrain and the problem itself had been discussed ahead of time; we were still green—the only variations supposed to be left in were casualties.
Doctrine required me to locate exactly, by radar beacon, my own men who could be affected by the blast. But this all had to be done fast and I wasn’t too sharp at reading those little radar displays anyhow. I cheated just a touch—flipped my snoopers up and looked, bare eyes in broad
daylight. I left plenty of room. Shucks, I could see the only man affected, half a mile away, and all I had was just a little bitty H.E. rocket, intended to make a lot of smoke and not much else. So I picked a spot by eye, took the rocket launcher and let fly.
Then I bounced away, feeling smug—no seconds lost.
And had my power cut in the air. This doesn’t hurt you; it’s a delayed action, executed by your landing. I grounded and there I stuck, squatting,
held upright by gyros but unable to move. You do not repeat not move when surrounded by a ton of metal with your power dead.
Instead I cussed to myself—I hadn’t thought that they would make me a casualty when I was supposed to be leading the problem. Shucks and
other comments.
I should have known that Sergeant Zim would be monitoring the section leader.
He bounced over to me, spoke to me privately on the face-to-face. He suggested that I might be able to get a job sweeping floors since I was too stupid, clumsy, and careless to handle dirty dishes. He discussed my past and probable future and several other things that I did not want to hear about. He ended by saying tonelessly, “How would you like to have Colonel Dubois see what you’ve done?”
Then he left me. I waited there, crouched over, for two hours until the drill was over. The suit, which had been feather-light, real seven-league boots, felt like an Iron Maiden. At last he returned for me, restored power, and we bounded together at top speed to BHQ.
Captain Frankel said less but it cut more.
Then he paused and added in that flat voice officers use when quoting regulations: “You may demand trial by court-martial if such be your choice. How say you?”
I gulped and said, “No, sir!” Until that moment I hadn’t fully realized just how much trouble I was in.
Captain Frankel seemed to relax slightly. “Then we’ll see what the Regimental Commander has to say. Sergeant, escort the prisoner.” We
walked rapidly over to RHQ and for the first time I met the Regimental Commander face to face—and by then I was sure that I was going to catch a court no matter what. But I remembered sharply how Ted Hendrick had talked himself into one; I said nothing.
Major Malloy said a total of five words to me. After hearing Sergeant Zim, he said three of them: “Is that correct?” I said, “Yes, sir,” which ended my part of it.
Major Malloy said, to Captain Frankel: “Is there any possibility of salvaging this man?” Captain Frankel answered, “I believe so, sir.”
Major Malloy said, “Then we’ll try administrative punishment,” turned to me and said: “Five lashes.”
Well, they certainly didn’t keep me dangling. Fifteen minutes later the doctor had completed checking my heart and the Sergeant of the Guard was outfitting me with that special shirt which comes off without having to be pulled over the hands—zippered from the neck down the arms. Assembly for parade had just sounded. I was feeling detached, unreal . . . which I have learned is one way of being scared right out of your senses. The nightmare hallucination—
Zim came into the guard tent just as the call ended. He glanced at the Sergeant of the Guard—Corporal Jones—and Jones went out. Zim stepped up to me, slipped something into my hand. “Bite on that,” he said quietly. “It helps. I know.”
It was a rubber mouthpiece such as we used to avoid broken teeth in hand-to-hand combat drill. Zim left. I put it in my mouth. Then they handcuffed me and marched me out.
The order read: “—in simulated combat, gross negligence which would in action have caused the death of a teammate.” Then they peeled off my shirt and strung me up.
Now here is a very odd thing: A flogging isn’t as hard to take as it is to watch. I don’t mean it’s a picnic. It hurts worse than anything else I’ve ever had happen to me, and the waits between strokes are worse than the strokes themselves. But the mouthpiece did help and the only yelp I let out never got past it.
Here’s the second odd thing: Nobody even mentioned it to me, not even other boots. So far as I could see, Zim and the instructors treated me exactly the same afterwards as they had before. From the instant the doctor painted the marks and told me to go back to duty it was all done with, completely. I even managed to eat a little at dinner that night and pretend to take part in the jawing at the table.
Another thing about administrative punishment: There is no permanent black mark. Those records are destroyed at the end of boot training and you start clean. The only record is one where it counts most.
You don’t forget it.
Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old he will not depart from it.
—Proverbs XXII:6
There were other floggings but darn few. Hendrick was the only man in our regiment to be flogged by sentence of court-martial; the others were administrative punishment, like mine, and for lashes it was necessary to go all the way up to the Regimental Commander—which a subordinate commander finds distasteful, to put it faintly. Even then, Major Malloy was much more likely to kick the man out, “Undesirable Discharge,” than to have the whipping post erected. In a way, an administrative flogging is the mildest sort of a compliment; it means that your superiors think that there is a faint possibility that you just might have the character eventually to make a soldier and a citizen, unlikely as it seems at the moment.
I was the only one to get the maximum administrative punishment; none of the others got more than three lashes. Nobody else came as close as I did to putting on civilian clothes but still squeaked by. This is a social distinction of sorts. I don’t recommend it.
But we had another case, much worse than mine or Ted Hendrick’s—a really sick-making one. Once they erected gallows.
Now, look, get this straight. This case didn’t really have anything to do with the Army. The crime didn’t take place at Camp Currie and the placement officer who accepted this boy for M.I. should turn in his suit.
He deserted, only two days after we arrived at Currie. Ridiculous, of course, but nothing about the case made sense—why didn’t he resign? Desertion, naturally, is one of the “thirty-one crash landings” but the Army doesn’t invoke the death penalty for it unless there are special circumstances, such as “in the face of the enemy” or something else that turns it from a highly informal way of resigning into something that can’t be ignored.
The Army makes no effort to find deserters and bring them back. This makes the hardest kind of sense. We’re all volunteers; we’re M.I. because we want to be, we’re proud to be M.I. and the M.I. is proud of us. If a man doesn’t feel that way about it, from his callused feet to his hairy ears, I don’t want him on my flank when trouble starts. If I buy a piece of it, I want men around me who will pick me up because they’re M.I. and I’m M.I. and my skin means as much to them as their own. I don’t want any ersatz soldiers, dragging their tails and ducking out when the party gets rough. It’s a whole lot safer to have a blank file on your flank than to have an alleged soldier who is nursing the “conscript” syndrome. So if they run, let ’em run; it’s a waste of time and money to fetch them back.
Of course most of them do come back, though it may take them years—in which case the Army tiredly lets them have their fifty lashes instead of hanging them, and turns them loose. I suppose it must wear on a man’s nerves to be a fugitive when everybody else is either a citizen or a legal resident, even when the police aren’t trying to find him. “The wicked flee when no man pursueth.” The temptation to turn yourself in, take your lumps, and breathe easily again must get to be overpowering.
But this boy didn’t turn himself in. He was gone four months and I doubt if his own company remembered him, since he had been with them only a couple of days; he was probably just a name without a face, the “Dillinger, N.L.” who had to be reported, day after day, as absent without leave on the morning muster.
Then he killed a baby girl.
He was tried and convicted by a local tribunal but identity check showed that he was an undischarged soldier; the Department had to be notified and our commanding general at once intervened. He was returned to us, since military law and jurisdiction take precedence over civil code.
Why did the general bother? Why didn’t he let the local sheriff do the job? In order to “teach us a lesson”?
Not at all. I’m quite sure that our general did not think that any of his boys needed to be nauseated in order not to kill any baby girls. By now I believe that he would have spared us the sight—had it been possible.
We did learn a lesson, though nobody mentioned it at the time and it is one that takes a long time to sink in until it becomes second nature: The M.I. take care of their own—no matter what.
Dillinger belonged to us, he was still on our rolls. Even though we didn’t want him, even though we should never have had him, even though we would have been happy to disclaim him, he was a member of our regiment. We couldn’t brush him off and let a sheriff a thousand miles away handle it. If it has to be done, a man—a real man—shoots his own dog himself; he doesn’t hire a proxy who may bungle it.
The regimental records said that Dillinger was ours, so taking care of him was our duty.
That evening we marched to the parade grounds at slow march, sixty beats to the minute (hard to keep step, when you’re used to a hundred and forty), while the band played “Dirge for the Unmourned.” Then Dillinger was marched out, dressed in M.I. full dress just as we were, and the band played “Danny Deever” while they stripped off every trace of insignia, even buttons and cap, leaving him in a maroon and light blue suit that was no longer a uniform. The drums held a sustained roll and it was all over.
We passed in review and on home at a fast trot. I don’t think anybody fainted and I don’t think anybody quite got sick, even though most of us didn’t eat much dinner that night and I’ve never heard the mess tent so quiet. But, grisly as it was (it was the first time I had seen death, first time for most of us), it was not the shock that Ted Hendrick’s flogging was—I mean, you couldn’t put yourself in Dillinger’s place; you didn’t have any feeling
of: “It could have been me.” Not counting the technical matter of desertion, Dillinger had committed at least four capital crimes; if his victim had lived, he still would have danced Danny Deever for any one of the other three—kidnaping, demand of ransom, criminal neglect, etc.
I had no sympathy for him and still haven’t. That old saw about “To understand all is to forgive all” is a lot of tripe. Some things, the more you understand the more you loathe them. My sympathy is reserved for Barbara Anne Enthwaite whom I had never seen, and for her parents, who would never again see their little girl.
As the band put away their instruments that night we started thirty days of mourning for Barbara and of disgrace for us, with our colors draped in black, no music at parade, no singing on route march. Only once did I hear anybody complain and another boot promptly asked him how he would like a full set of lumps? Certainly, it hadn’t been our fault—but our business was to guard little girls, not kill them. Our regiment had been dishonored;
we had to clean it. We were disgraced and we felt disgraced.
That night I tried to figure out how such things could be kept from happening. Of course, they hardly ever do nowadays—but even once is ’way too
many. I never did reach an answer that satisfied me. This Dillinger—he looked like anybody else, and his behavior and record couldn’t have been too odd or he would never have reached Camp Currie in the first place. I suppose he was one of those pathological personalities you read about— no way to spot them.
Well, if there was no way to keep it from happening once, there was only one sure way to keep it from happening twice. Which we had used.
If Dillinger had understood what he was doing (which seemed incredible) then he got what was coming to him . . . except that it seemed a shame that he hadn’t suffered as much as had little Barbara Anne—he practically hadn’t suffered at all.
But suppose, as seemed more likely, that he was so crazy that he had never been aware that he was doing anything wrong? What then? Well, we shoot mad dogs, don’t we?
Yes, but being crazy that way is a sickness—
I couldn’t see but two possibilities. Either he couldn’t be made well—in which case he was better dead for his own sake and for the safety of others—or he could be treated and made sane. In which case (it seemed to me) if he ever became sane enough for civilized society . . . and
thought over what he had done while he was “sick”—what could be left for him but suicide? How could he live with himself?
And suppose he escaped before he was cured and did the same thing again? And maybe again? How do you explain that to bereaved parents? In view of his record?
I couldn’t see but one answer.
I found myself mulling over a discussion in our class in History and Moral Philosophy. Mr. Dubois was talking about the disorders that preceded the breakup of the North American republic, back in the XXth century. According to him, there was a time just before they went down the drain when such crimes as Dillinger’s were as common as dog-fights. The Terror had not been just in North America—Russia and the British Isles had it, too, as well as other places. But it reached its peak in North America shortly before things went to pieces.
“Law-abiding people,” Dubois had told us, “hardly dared go into a public park at night. To do so was to risk attack by wolf packs of children,
armed with chains, knives, homemade guns, bludgeons . . . to be hurt at least, robbed most certainly, injured for life probably—or even killed. This
went on for years, right up to the war between the Russo-Anglo-American Alliance and the Chinese Hegemony. Murder, drug addiction, larceny, assault, and vandalism were commonplace. Nor were parks the only places—these things happened also on the streets in daylight, on school grounds, even inside school buildings. But parks were so notoriously unsafe that honest people stayed clear of them after dark.”
I had tried to imagine such things happening in our schools. I simply couldn’t. Nor in our parks. A park was a place for fun, not for getting hurt. As for getting killed in one—“Mr. Dubois, didn’t they have police? Or courts?”
“They had many more police than we have. And more courts. All overworked.”
“I guess I don’t get it.” If a boy in our city had done anything half that bad . . . well, he and his father would have been flogged side by side. But such things just didn’t happen.
Mr. Dubois then demanded of me, “Define a ‘juvenile delinquent.’” “Uh, one of those kids—the ones who used to beat up people.” “Wrong.”
“Huh? But the book said—”
“My apologies. Your textbook does so state. But calling a tail a leg does not make the name fit. ‘Juvenile delinquent’ is a contradiction in terms, one which gives a clue to their problem and their failure to solve it. Have you ever raised a puppy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you housebreak him?”
“Err . . . yes, sir. Eventually.” It was my slowness in this that caused my mother to rule that dogs must stay out of the house. “Ah, yes. When your puppy made mistakes, were you angry?”
“What? Why, he didn’t know any better; he was just a puppy.” “What did you do?”
“Why, I scolded him and rubbed his nose in it and paddled him.” “Surely he could not understand your words?”
“No, but he could tell I was sore at him!” “But you just said that you were not angry.”
Mr. Dubois had an infuriating way of getting a person mixed up. “No, but I had to make him think I was. He had to learn, didn’t he?”
“Conceded. But, having made it clear to him that you disapproved, how could you be so cruel as to spank him as well? You said the poor beastie
didn’t know that he was doing wrong. Yet you inflicted pain. Justify yourself! Or are you a sadist?”
I didn’t then know what a sadist was—but I knew pups. “Mr. Dubois, you have to! You scold him so that he knows he’s in trouble, you rub his nose in it so that he will know what trouble you mean, you paddle him so that he darn well won’t do it again—and you have to do it right away! It doesn’t do a bit of good to punish him later; you’ll just confuse him. Even so, he won’t learn from one lesson, so you watch and catch him again and paddle him still harder. Pretty soon he learns. But it’s a waste of breath just to scold him.” Then I added, “I guess you’ve never raised pups.”
“Many. I’m raising a dachshund now—by your methods. Let’s get back to those juvenile criminals. The most vicious averaged somewhat younger than you here in this class . . . and they often started their lawless careers much younger. Let us never forget that puppy. These children were often caught; police arrested batches each day. Were they scolded? Yes, often scathingly. Were their noses rubbed in it? Rarely. News organs and officials usually kept their names secret—in many places the law so required for criminals under eighteen. Were they spanked? Indeed not! Many had never been spanked even as small children; there was a widespread belief that spanking, or any punishment involving pain, did a child permanent psychic damage.”
(I had reflected that my father must never have heard of that theory.)
“Corporal punishment in schools was forbidden by law,” he had gone on. “Flogging was lawful as sentence of court only in one small province, Delaware, and there only for a few crimes and was rarely invoked; it was regarded as ‘cruel and unusual punishment.’” Dubois had mused aloud, “I do not understand objections to ‘cruel and unusual’ punishment. While a judge should be benevolent in purpose, his awards should cause the criminal to suffer, else there is no punishment—and pain is the basic mechanism built into us by millions of years of evolution which safeguards us by warning when something threatens our survival. Why should society refuse to use such a highly perfected survival mechanism? However, that period was loaded with pre-scientific pseudo-psychological nonsense.
“As for ‘unusual,’ punishment must be unusual or it serves no purpose.” He then pointed his stump at another boy. “What would happen if a puppy were spanked every hour?”
“Uh . . . probably drive him crazy!”
“Probably. It certainly will not teach him anything. How long has it been since the principal of this school last had to switch a pupil?” “Uh, I’m not sure. About two years. The kid that swiped—”
“Never mind. Long enough. It means that such punishment is so unusual as to be significant, to deter, to instruct. Back to these young criminals— They probably were not spanked as babies; they certainly were not flogged for their crimes. The usual sequence was: for a first offense, a warning
—a scolding, often without trial. After several offenses a sentence of confinement but with sentence suspended and the youngster placed on probation. A boy might be arrested many times and convicted several times before he was punished—and then it would be merely confinement, with others like him from whom he learned still more criminal habits. If he kept out of major trouble while confined, he could usually evade most of even that mild punishment, be given probation—‘paroled’ in the jargon of the times.
“This incredible sequence could go on for years while his crimes increased in frequency and viciousness, with no punishment whatever save rare dull-but-comfortable confinements. Then suddenly, usually by law on his eighteenth birthday, this so-called ‘juvenile delinquent’ becomes an adult
criminal—and sometimes wound up in only weeks or months in a death cell awaiting execution for murder. You—”
He had singled me out again. “Suppose you merely scolded your puppy, never punished him, let him go on making messes in the house . . . and
occasionally locked him up in an outbuilding but soon let him back into the house with a warning not to do it again. Then one day you notice that he
is now a grown dog and still not housebroken—whereupon you whip out a gun and shoot him dead. Comment, please?” “Why . . . that’s the craziest way to raise a dog I ever heard of!”
“I agree. Or a child. Whose fault would it be?” “Uh . . . why, mine, I guess.”
“Again I agree. But I’m not guessing.”
“Mr. Dubois,” a girl blurted out, “but why? Why didn’t they spank little kids when they needed it and use a good dose of the strap on any older ones who deserved it—the sort of lesson they wouldn’t forget! I mean ones who did things really bad. Why not?”
“I don’t know,” he had answered grimly, “except that the time-tested method of instilling social virtue and respect for law in the minds of the young
did not appeal to a pre-scientific pseudo-professional class who called themselves ‘social workers’ or sometimes ‘child psychologists.’ It was too simple for them, apparently, since anybody could do it, using only the patience and firmness needed in training a puppy. I have sometimes wondered if they cherished a vested interest in disorder—but that is unlikely; adults almost always act from conscious ‘highest motives’ no matter what their behavior.”
“But—good heavens!” the girl answered. “I didn’t like being spanked any more than any kid does, but when I needed it, my mama delivered. The only time I ever got a switching in school I got another one when I got home—and that was years and years ago. I don’t ever expect to be hauled up in front of a judge and sentenced to a flogging; you behave yourself and such things don’t happen. I don’t see anything wrong with our system; it’s a
lot better than not being able to walk outdoors for fear of your life—why, that’s horrible!”
“I agree. Young lady, the tragic wrongness of what those well-meaning people did, contrasted with what they thought they were doing, goes very deep. They had no scientific theory of morals. They did have a theory of morals and they tried to live by it (I should not have sneered at their
motives), but their theory was wrong—half of it fuzzy-headed wishful thinking, half of it rationalized charlatanry. The more earnest they were, the farther it led them astray. You see, they assumed that Man has a moral instinct.”
“Sir? I thought—But he does! I have.”
“No, my dear, you have a cultivated conscience, a most carefully trained one. Man has no moral instinct. He is not born with moral sense. You were not born with it, I was not—and a puppy has none. We acquire moral sense, when we do, through training, experience, and hard sweat of the
mind. These unfortunate juvenile criminals were born with none, even as you and I, and they had no chance to acquire any; their experiences did not
permit it. What is ‘moral sense’? It is an elaboration of the instinct to survive. The instinct to survive is human nature itself, and every aspect of our personalities derives from it. Anything that conflicts with the survival instinct acts sooner or later to eliminate the individual and thereby fails to show up in future generations. This truth is mathematically demonstrable, everywhere verifiable; it is the single eternal imperative controlling everything we do.
“But the instinct to survive,” he had gone on, “can be cultivated into motivations more subtle and much more complex than the blind, brute urge of the individual to stay alive. Young lady, what you miscalled your ‘moral instinct’ was the instilling in you by your elders of the truth that survival can have stronger imperatives than that of your own personal survival. Survival of your family, for example. Of your children, when you have them. Of your nation, if you struggle that high up the scale. And so on up. A scientifically verifiable theory of morals must be rooted in the individual’s instinct to
survive—and nowhere else!—and must correctly describe the hierarchy of survival, note the motivations at each level, and resolve all conflicts. “We have such a theory now; we can solve any moral problem, on any level. Self-interest, love of family, duty to country, responsibility toward the
human race—we are even developing an exact ethic for extra-human relations. But all moral problems can be illustrated by one misquotation: ‘Greater love hath no man than a mother cat dying to defend her kittens.’ Once you understand the problem facing that cat and how she solved it, you will then be ready to examine yourself and learn how high up the moral ladder you are capable of climbing.
“These juvenile criminals hit a low level. Born with only the instinct for survival, the highest morality they achieved was a shaky loyalty to a peer
group, a street gang. But the do-gooders attempted to ‘appeal to their better natures,’ to ‘reach them,’ to ‘spark their moral sense.’ Tosh! They hadno ‘better natures’; experience taught them that what they were doing was the way to survive. The puppy never got his spanking; therefore what he did with pleasure and success must be ‘moral.’
“The basis of all morality is duty, a concept with the same relation to group that self-interest has to individual. Nobody preached duty to these kids in a way they could understand—that is, with a spanking. But the society they were in told them endlessly about their ‘rights.’
“The results should have been predictable, since a human being has no natural rights of any nature.”
Mr. Dubois had paused. Somebody took the bait. “Sir? How about ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness’?”
“Ah, yes, the ‘unalienable rights.’ Each year someone quotes that magnificent poetry. Life? What ‘right’ to life has a man who is drowning in the Pacific? The ocean will not hearken to his cries. What ‘right’ to life has a man who must die if he is to save his children? If he chooses to save his own life, does he do so as a matter of ‘right’? If two men are starving and cannibalism is the only alternative to death, which man’s right is
‘unalienable’? And is it ‘right’? As to liberty, the heroes who signed the great document pledged themselves to buy liberty with their lives. Liberty is never unalienable; it must be redeemed regularly with the blood of patriots or it always vanishes. Of all the so-called natural human rights that have ever been invented, liberty is least likely to be cheap and is never free of cost.
“The third ‘right’?—the ‘pursuit of happiness’? It is indeed unalienable but it is not a right; it is simply a universal condition which tyrants cannot
take away nor patriots restore. Cast me into a dungeon, burn me at the stake, crown me king of kings, I can ‘pursue happiness’ as long as my brain lives—but neither gods nor saints, wise men nor subtle drugs, can insure that I will catch it.”
Mr. Dubois then turned to me. “I told you that ‘juvenile delinquent’ is a contradiction in terms. ‘Delinquent’ means ‘failing in duty.’ But duty is an adult virtue—indeed a juvenile becomes an adult when, and only when, he acquires a knowledge of duty and embraces it as dearer than the self- love he was born with. There never was, there cannot be, a ‘juvenile delinquent.’ But for every juvenile criminal there are always one or more adult
delinquents—people of mature years who either do not know their duty, or who, knowing it, fail.
“And that was the soft spot which destroyed what was in many ways an admirable culture. The junior hoodlums who roamed their streets were symptoms of a greater sickness; their citizens (all of them counted as such) glorified their mythology of ‘rights’ . . . and lost track of their duties. No nation, so constituted, can endure.”
I wondered how Colonel Dubois would have classed Dillinger. Was he a juvenile criminal who merited pity even though you had to get rid of him? Or was he an adult delinquent who deserved nothing but contempt?
I didn’t know, I would never know. The one thing I was sure of was that he would never again kill any little girls. That suited me. I went to sleep.
We’ve got no place in this outfit for good losers. We want tough hombres who will go in there and win!
—Admiral Jonas Ingram, 1926
When we had done all that a mud foot can do in flat country, we moved into some rough mountains to do still rougher things—the Canadian Rockies between Good Hope Mountain and Mount Waddington. Camp Sergeant Spooky Smith was much like Camp Currie (aside from its rugged setting) but it was much smaller. Well, the Third Regiment was much smaller now, too—less than four hundred whereas we had started out with more than two thousand. H Company was now organized as a single platoon and the battalion paraded as if it were a company. But we were still called “H Company” and Zim was “Company Commander,” not platoon leader.
What the sweat-down meant, really, was much more personal instruction; we had more corporal-instructors than we had squads and Sergeant Zim, with only fifty men on his mind instead of the two hundred and sixty he had started with, kept his Argus eyes on each one of us all the time— even when he wasn’t there. At least, if you goofed, it turned out he was standing right behind you.
However, the chewing-out you got had almost a friendly quality, in a horrid sort of way, because we had changed, too, as well as the regiment— the one-in-five who was left was almost a soldier and Zim seemed to be trying to make him into one, instead of running him over the hill.
We saw a lot more of Captain Frankel, too; he now spent most of his time teaching us, instead of behind a desk, and he knew all of us by name and face and seemed to have a card file in his mind of exactly what progress each man had made on every weapon, every piece of equipment— not to mention your extra-duty status, medical record, and whether you had had a letter from home lately.
He wasn’t as severe with us as Zim was; his words were milder and it took a really stupid stunt to take that friendly grin off his face—but don’t let that fool you; there was beryl armor under the grin. I never did figure out which one was the better soldier, Zim or Captain Frankel—I mean, if you took away the insignia and thought of them as privates. Unquestionably they were both better soldiers than any of the other instructors—but which was best? Zim did everything with precision and style, as if he were on parade; Captain Frankel did the same thing with dash and gusto, as if it were a game. The results were about the same—and it never turned out to be as easy as Captain Frankel made it look.
We needed the abundance of instructors. Jumping a suit (as I have said) was easy on flat ground. Well, the suit jumps just as high and just as easily in the mountains—but it makes a lot of difference when you have to jump up a vertical granite wall, between two close-set fir trees, and override your jet control at the last instant. We had three major casualties in suit practice in broken country, two dead and one medical retirement.
But that rock wall is even tougher without a suit, tackled with lines and pitons. I didn’t really see what use alpine drill was to a cap trooper but I had learned to keep my mouth shut and try to learn what they shoved at us. I learned it and it wasn’t too hard. If anybody had told me, a year earlier, that I could go up a solid chunk of rock, as flat and as perpendicular as a blank wall of a building, using only a hammer, some silly little steel pins, and a chunk of clothesline, I would have laughed in his face; I’m a sea-level type. Correction: I was a sea-level type. There had been some changes made.
Just how much I had changed I began to find out. At Camp Sergeant Spooky Smith we had liberty—to go to town, I mean. Oh, we had “liberty” after the first month at Camp Currie, too. This meant that, on a Sunday afternoon, if you weren’t in the duty platoon, you could check out at the orderly tent and walk just as far away from camp as you wished, bearing in mind that you had to be back for evening muster. But there was nothing within walking distance, if you don’t count jack rabbits—no girls, no theaters, no dance halls, et cetera.
Nevertheless, liberty, even at Camp Currie, was no mean privilege; sometimes it can be very important indeed to be able to go so far away that you can’t see a tent, a sergeant, nor even the ugly faces of your best friends among the boots . . . not have to be on the bounce about anything, have time to take out your soul and look at it. You could lose that privilege in several degrees; you could be restricted to camp . . . or you could be restricted to your own company street, which meant that you couldn’t go to the library nor to what was misleadingly called the “recreation” tent (mostly some parcheesi sets and similar wild excitements) . . . or you could be under close restriction, required to stay in your tent when your presence was not required elsewhere.
This last sort didn’t mean much in itself since it was usually added to extra duty so demanding that you didn’t have any time in your tent other than for sleep anyhow; it was a decoration added like a cherry on top of a dish of ice cream to notify you and the world that you had pulled not some everyday goof-off but something unbecoming of a member of the M.I. and were thereby unfit to associate with other troopers until you had washed away the stain.
But at Camp Spooky we could go into town—duty status, conduct status, etc., permitting. Shuttles ran to Vancouver every Sunday morning, right after divine services (which were moved up to thirty minutes after breakfast) and came back again just before supper and again just before taps. The instructors could even spend Saturday night in town, or cop a three-day pass, duty permitting.
I had no more than stepped out of the shuttle, my first pass, than I realized in part that I had changed. Johnnie didn’t fit in any longer. Civilian life, I mean. It all seemed amazingly complex and unbelievably untidy.
I’m not running down Vancouver. It’s a beautiful city in a lovely setting; the people are charming and they are used to having the M.I. in town and they make a trooper welcome. There is a social center for us downtown, where they have dances for us every week and see to it that junior
hostesses are on hand to dance with, and senior hostesses to make sure that a shy boy (me, to my amazement—but you try a few months with nothing female around but lady jack rabbits) gets introduced and has a partner’s feet to step on.
But I didn’t go to the social center that first pass. Mostly I stood around and gawked—at beautiful buildings, at display windows filled with all manner of unnecessary things (and not a weapon among them), at all those people running around, or even strolling, doing exactly as they pleased and no two of them dressed alike—and at girls.
Especially at girls. I hadn’t realized just how wonderful they were. Look, I’ve approved of girls from the time I first noticed that the difference was more than just that they dress differently. So far as I remember I never did go through that period boys are supposed to go through when they know
that girls are different but dislike them; I’ve always liked girls.
But that day I realized that I had long been taking them for granted.
Girls are simply wonderful. Just to stand on a corner and watch them going past is delightful. They don’t walk. At least not what we do when we talk. I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s much more complex and utterly delightful. They don’t move just their feet; everything moves and in different directions . . . and all of it graceful.
I might have been standing there yet if a policeman hadn’t come by. He sized us up and said, “Howdy, boys. Enjoying yourselves?”
I quickly read the ribbons on his chest and was impressed. “Yes, sir!”
“You don’t have to say ‘sir’ to me. Not much to do here. Why don’t you go to the hospitality center?” He gave us the address, pointed the direction
and we started that way—Pat Leivy, “Kitten” Smith, and myself. He called after us, “Have a good time, boys . . . and stay out of trouble.” Which was exactly what Sergeant Zim had said to us as we climbed into the shuttle.
But we didn’t go there. Pat Leivy had lived in Seattle when he was a small boy and wanted to take a look at his old home town. He had money and offered to pay our shuttle fares if we would go with him. I didn’t mind and it was all right; shuttles ran every twenty minutes and our passes were not restricted to Vancouver. Smith decided to go along, too.
Seattle wasn’t so very different from Vancouver and the girls were just as plentiful; I enjoyed it. But Seattle wasn’t quite as used to having M.I. around in droves and we picked a poor spot to eat dinner, one where we weren’t quite so welcome—a bar-restaurant, down by the docks.
Now, look, we weren’t drinking. Well, Kitten Smith had had one repeat one beer with his dinner but he was never anything but friendly and nice. That is how he got his name; the first time we had hand-to-hand combat drill Corporal Jones had said to him disgustedly: “A kitten would have hit
me harder than that!” The nickname stuck.
We were the only uniforms in the place; most of the other customers were merchant marine sailors—Seattle handles an awful lot of surface
tonnage. I hadn’t known it at the time but merchant sailors don’t like us. Part of it has to do with the fact that their guilds have tried and tried to get their trade classed as equivalent to Federal Service, without success—but I understand that some of it goes way back in history, centuries.
There were some young fellows there, too, about our age—the right age to serve a term, only they weren’t—long-haired and sloppy and kind of dirty-looking. Well, say about the way I looked, I suppose, before I joined up.
Presently we started noticing that at the table behind us, two of these young twerps and two merchant sailors (to judge by clothes) were passing
remarks that were intended for us to overhear. I won’t try to repeat them.
We didn’t say anything. Presently, when the remarks were even more personal and the laughs louder and everybody else in the place was keeping quiet and listening, Kitten whispered to me, “Let’s get out of here.”
I caught Pat Leivy’s eye; he nodded. We had no score to settle; it was one of those pay-as-you-get-it places. We got up and left. They followed us out.
Pat whispered to me, “Watch it.” We kept on walking, didn’t look back. They charged us.
I gave my man a side-neck chop as I pivoted and let him fall past me, swung to help my mates. But it was over. Four in, four down. Kitten had handled two of them and Pat had sort of wrapped the other one around a lamppost from throwing him a little too hard.
Somebody, the proprietor I guess, must have called the police as soon as we stood up to leave, since they arrived almost at once while we were still standing around wondering what to do with the meat—two policemen; it was that sort of a neighborhood.
The senior of them wanted us to prefer charges, but none of us was willing—Zim had told us to “stay out of trouble.” Kitten looked blank and about fifteen years old and said, “I guess they stumbled.”
“So I see,” agreed the police officer and toed a knife away from the outflung hand of my man, put it against the curb and broke the blade. “Well, you boys had better run along . . . farther uptown.”
We left. I was glad that neither Pat nor Kitten wanted to make anything of it. It’s a mighty serious thing, a civilian assaulting a member of the Armed Forces, but what the deuce?—the books balanced. They jumped us, they got their lumps. All even.
But it’s a good thing we never go on pass armed . . . and have been trained to disable without killing. Because every bit of it happened by reflex. I didn’t believe that they would jump us until they already had, and I didn’t do any thinking at all until it was over.
But that’s how I learned for the first time just how much I had changed. We walked back to the station and caught a shuttle to Vancouver.
We started practice drops as soon as we moved to Camp Spooky—a platoon at a time, in rotation (a full platoon, that is—a company), would shuttle down to the field north of Walla Walla, go aboard, space, make a drop, go through an exercise, and home on a beacon. A day’s work. With eight companies that gave us not quite a drop each week, and then it gave us a little more than a drop each week as attrition continued, whereupon the drops got tougher—over mountains, into the arctic ice, into the Australian desert, and, before we graduated, onto the face of the Moon, where your capsule is placed only a hundred feet up and explodes as it ejects—and you have to look sharp and land with only your suit (no air, no parachute) and a bad landing can spill your air and kill you.
Some of the attrition was from casualties, deaths or injuries, and some of it was just from refusing to enter the capsule—which some did, and that was that; they weren’t even chewed out; they were just motioned aside and that night they were paid off. Even a man who had made several drops might get the panic and refuse . . . and the instructors were just gentle with him, treated him the way you do a friend who is ill and won’t get well.
I never quite refused to enter the capsule—but I certainly learned about the shakes. I always got them, I was scared silly every time. I still am. But you’re not a cap trooper unless you drop.
They tell a story, probably not true, about a cap trooper who was sight-seeing in Paris. He visited Les Invalides, looked down at Napoleon’s coffin and said to a French guard there: “Who’s he?”
The Frenchman was properly scandalized. “Monsieur does not know? This is the tomb of Napoleon! Napoleon Bonaparte—the greatest soldier who ever lived!”
The cap trooper thought about it. Then he asked, “So? Where were his drops?”
It is almost certainly not true, because there is a big sign outside there that tells you exactly who Napoleon was. But that is how cap troopers feel about it.
Eventually we graduated.
I can see that I’ve left out almost everything. Not a word about most of our weapons, nothing about the time we dropped everything and fought a forest fire for three days, no mention of the practice alert that was a real one, only we didn’t know it until it was over, nor about the day the cook tent blew away—in fact not any mention of weather and, believe me, weather is important to a doughboy, rain and mud especially. But though weather is important while it happens it seems to me to be pretty dull to look back on. You can take descriptions of most any sort of weather out of an almanac and stick them in just anywhere; they’ll probably fit.
The regiment had started with 2009 men; we graduated 187—of the others, fourteen were dead (one executed and his name struck) and the rest resigned, dropped, transferred, medical discharge, etc. Major Malloy made a short speech, we each got a certificate, we passed in review for the last time, and the regiment was disbanded, its colors to be cased until they would be needed (three weeks later) to tell another couple of thousand civilians that they were an outfit, not a mob.
I was a “trained soldier,” entitled to put “TP” in front of my serial number instead of “RP.” Big day. The biggest I ever had.
The tree of Liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots . . .
—Thomas Jefferson, 1787
That is, I thought I was a “trained soldier” until I reported to my ship. Any law against having a wrong opinion?
I see that I didn’t make any mention of how the Terran Federation moved from “peace” to a “state of emergency” and then on into “war.” I didn’t notice it too closely myself. When I enrolled, it was “peace,” the normal condition, at least so people think (who ever expects anything else?). Then, while I was at Currie, it became a “state of emergency” but I still didn’t notice it, as what Corporal Bronski thought about my haircut, uniform, combat drill, and kit was much more important—and what Sergeant Zim thought about such matters was overwhelmingly important. In any case, “emergency” is still “peace.”
“Peace” is a condition in which no civilian pays any attention to military casualties which do not achieve page-one, lead-story prominence— unless that civilian is a close relative of one of the casualties. But, if there ever was a time in history when “peace” meant that there was no fighting going on, I have been unable to find out about it. When I reported to my first outfit, “Willie’s Wildcats,” sometimes known as Company K, Third
Regiment, First M.I. Division, and shipped with them in the Valley Forge (with that misleading certificate in my kit), the fighting had already been going on for several years.
The historians can’t seem to settle whether to call this one “The Third Space War” (or the “Fourth”), or whether “The First Interstellar War” fits it better. We just call it “The Bug War” if we call it anything, which we usually don’t, and in any case the historians date the beginning of “war” after the time I joined my first outfit and ship. Everything up to then and still later were “incidents,” “patrols,” or “police actions.” However, you are just as dead if you buy a farm in an “incident” as you are if you buy it in a declared war.
But, to tell the truth, a soldier doesn’t notice a war much more than a civilian does, except his own tiny piece of it and that just on the days it is happening. The rest of the time he is much more concerned with sack time, the vagaries of sergeants, and the chances of wheedling the cook between meals. However, when Kitten Smith and Al Jenkins and I joined them at Luna Base, each of Willies’ Wildcats had made more than one combat drop; they were soldiers and we were not. We weren’t hazed for it—at least I was not—and the sergeants and corporals were amazingly easy to deal with after the calculated frightfulness of instructors.
It took a little while to discover that this comparatively gentle treatment simply meant that we were nobody, hardly worth chewing out, until we had proved in a drop—a real drop—that we might possibly replace real Wildcats who had fought and bought it and whose bunks we now occupied.
Let me tell you how green I was. While the Valley Forge was still at Luna Base, I happened to come across my section leader just as he was about to hit dirt, all slicked up in dress uniform. He was wearing in his left ear lobe a rather small earring, a tiny gold skull beautifully made and under it, instead of the conventional crossed bones of the ancient Jolly Roger design, was a whole bundle of little gold bones, almost too small to see.
Back home, I had always worn earrings and other jewelry when I went out on a date—I had some beautiful ear clips, rubies as big as the end of my little finger which had belonged to my mother’s grandfather. I like jewelry and had rather resented being required to leave it all behind when I went to Basic . . . but here was a type of jewelry which was apparently okay to wear with uniform. My ears weren’t pierced—my mother didn’t approve of it, for boys—but I could have the jeweler mount it on a clip . . . and I still had some money left from pay call at graduation and was anxious to spend it before it mildewed. “Unh, Sergeant? Where do you get earrings like that one? Pretty neat.”
He didn’t look scornful, he didn’t even smile. He just said, “You like it?”
“I certainly do!” The plain raw gold pointed up the gold braid and piping of the uniform even better than gems would have done. I was thinking that a pair would be still handsomer, with just crossbones instead of all that confusion at the bottom. “Does the base PX carry them?”
“No, the PX here never sells them.” He added, “At least I don’t think you’ll ever be able to buy one here—I hope. But I tell you what—when we reach a place where you can buy one of your own, I’ll see to it you know about it. That’s a promise.”
“Uh, thanks!” “Don’t mention it.”
I saw several of the tiny skulls thereafter, some with more “bones,” some with fewer; my guess had been correct, this was jewelry permitted with uniform, when on pass at least. Then I got my own chance to “buy” one almost immediately thereafter and discovered that the prices were unreasonably high, for such plain ornaments.
It was Operation Bughouse, the First Battle of Klendathu in the history books, soon after Buenos Aires was smeared. It took the loss of B.A. to make the ground-hogs realize that anything was going on, because people who haven’t been out don’t really believe in other planets, not down deep where it counts. I know I hadn’t and I had been space-happy since I was a pup.
But B.A. really stirred up the civilians and inspired loud screams to bring all our forces home, from everywhere—orbit them around the planet practically shoulder to shoulder and interdict the space Terra occupies. This is silly, of course; you don’t win a war by defense but by attack—no “Department of Defense” ever won a war; see the histories. But it seems to be a standard civilian reaction to scream for defensive tactics as soon as they do notice a war. They then want to run the war—like a passenger trying to grab the controls away from the pilot in an emergency.
However, nobody asked my opinion at the time; I was told. Quite aside from the impossibility of dragging the troops home in view of our treaty obligations and what it would do to the colony planets in the Federation and to our allies, we were awfully busy doing something else, to wit: carrying the war to the Bugs. I suppose I noticed the destruction of B.A. much less than most civilians did. We were already a couple of parsecs away under Cherenkov drive and the news didn’t reach us until we got it from another ship after we came out of drive.
I remember thinking, “Gosh, that’s terrible!” and feeling sorry for the one Porteño in the ship. But B.A. wasn’t my home and Terra was a long way off and I was very busy, as the attack on Klendathu, the Bugs’ home planet, was mounted immediately after that and we spent the time to
rendezvous strapped in our bunks, doped and unconscious, with the internal-gravity field of the Valley Forge off, to save power and give greater speed.
The loss of Buenos Aires did mean a great deal to me; it changed my life enormously, but this I did not know until many months later.
When it came time to drop onto Klendathu, I was assigned to PFC Dutch Bamburger as a supernumerary. He managed to conceal his pleasure at the news and as soon as the platoon sergeant was out of earshot, he said, “Listen, boot, you stick close behind me and stay out of my way. You go slowing me down, I break your silly neck.”
I just nodded. I was beginning to realize that this was not a practice drop. Then I had the shakes for a while and then we were down—
Operation Bughouse should have been called “Operation Madhouse.” Everything went wrong. It had been planned as an all-out move to bring the enemy to their knees, occupy their capital and the key points of their home planet, and end the war. Instead it darn near lost the war.
I am not criticizing General Diennes. I don’t know whether it’s true that he demanded more troops and more support and allowed himself to be overruled by the Sky Marshal-in-Chief—or not. Nor was it any of my business. Furthermore I doubt if some of the smart second-guessers know all the facts.
What I do know is that the General dropped with us and commanded us on the ground and, when the situation became impossible, he personally led the diversionary attack that allowed quite a few of us (including me) to be retrieved—and, in so doing, bought his farm. He’s radioactive debris on Klendathu and it’s much too late to court-martial him, so why talk about it?
I do have one comment to make to any armchair strategist who has never made a drop. Yes, I agree that the Bugs’ planet possibly could have been plastered with H-bombs until it was surfaced with radioactive glass. But would that have won the war? The Bugs are not like us. The Pseudo- Arachnids aren’t even like spiders. They are arthropods who happen to look like a madman’s conception of a giant, intelligent spider, but their organization, psychological and economic, is more like that of ants or termites; they are communal entities, the ultimate dictatorship of the hive. Blasting the surface of their planet would have killed soldiers and workers; it would not have killed the brain caste and the queens—I doubt if anybody can be certain that even a direct hit with a burrowing H-rocket would kill a queen; we don’t know how far down they are. Nor am I anxious to find out; none of the boys who went down those holes came up again.
So suppose we did ruin the productive surface of Klendathu? They still would have ships and colonies and other planets, same as we have, and their HQ is still intact—so unless they surrender, the war isn’t over. We didn’t have nova bombs at that time; we couldn’t crack Klendathu open. If
they absorbed the punishment and didn’t surrender, the war was still on. If they can surrender—
Their soldiers can’t. Their workers can’t fight (and you can waste a lot of time and ammo shooting up workers who wouldn’t say boo!) and their soldier caste can’t surrender. But don’t make the mistake of thinking that the Bugs are just stupid insects because they look the way they do and don’t know how to surrender. Their warriors are smart, skilled, and aggressive—smarter than you are, by the only universal rule, if the Bug shoots first. You can burn off one leg, two legs, three legs, and he just keeps on coming; burn off four on one side and he topples over—but keeps on shooting. You have to spot the nerve case and get it . . . whereupon he will trot right on past you, shooting at nothing, until he crashes into a wall or something.
The drop was a shambles from the start. Fifty ships were in our piece of it and they were supposed to come out of Cherenkov drive and into reaction drive so perfectly co-ordinated that they could hit orbit and drop us, in formation and where we were supposed to hit, without even making
one planet circuit to dress up their own formation. I suppose this is difficult. Shucks, I knowit is. But when it slips, it leaves the M.I. holding the sack.
We were lucky at that, because the Valley Forge and every Navy file in her bought it before we ever hit the ground. In that tight, fast formation (4.7 miles/sec. orbital speed is not a stroll) she collided with the Ypres and both ships were destroyed. We were lucky to get out of her tubes—those of
us who did get out, for she was still firing capsules as she was rammed. But I wasn’t aware of it; I was inside my cocoon, headed for the ground. I
suppose our company commander knew that the ship had been lost (and half his Wildcats with it) since he was out first and would know when he suddenly lost touch, over the command circuit, with the ship’s captain.
But there is no way to ask him, because he wasn’t retrieved. All I ever had was a gradually dawning realization that things were in a mess.
The next eighteen hours were a nightmare. I shan’t tell much about it because I don’t remember much, just snatches, stop-motion scenes of horror. I have never liked spiders, poisonous or otherwise; a common house spider in my bed can give me the creeps. Tarantulas are simply unthinkable, and I can’t eat lobster, crab, or anything of that sort. When I got my first sight of a Bug, my mind jumped right out of my skull and started to yammer. It was seconds later that I realized that I had killed it and could stop shooting. I suppose it was a worker; I doubt if I was in any shape to tackle a warrior and win.
But, at that, I was in better shape than was the K-9 Corps. They were to be dropped (if the drop had gone perfectly) on the periphery of our entire target and the neodogs were supposed to range outward and provide tactical intelligence to interdiction squads whose business it was to secure the periphery. Those Calebs aren’t armed, of course, other than their teeth. A neodog is supposed to hear, see, and smell and tell his partner what he finds by radio; all he carries is a radio and a destruction bomb with which he (or his partner) can blow the dog up in case of bad wounds or capture.
Those poor dogs didn’t wait to be captured; apparently most of them suicided as soon as they made contact. They felt the way I do about the Bugs, only worse. They have neodogs now that are indoctrinated from puppy-hood to observe and evade without blowing their tops at the mere sight or smell of a Bug. But these weren’t.
But that wasn’t all that went wrong. Just name it, it was fouled up. I didn’t know what was going on, of course; I just stuck close behind Dutch, trying to shoot or flame anything that moved, dropping a grenade down a hole whenever I saw one. Presently I got so that I could kill a Bug without wasting ammo or juice, although I did not learn to distinguish between those that were harmless and those that were not. Only about one in fifty is a warrior
—but he makes up for the other forty-nine. Their personal weapons aren’t as heavy as ours but they are lethal just the same—they’ve got a beam that will penetrate armor and slice flesh like cutting a hard-boiled egg, and they co-operate even better than we do . . . because the brain that is doing the heavy thinking for a “squad” isn’t where you can reach it; it’s down one of the holes.
Dutch and I stayed lucky for quite a long time, milling around over an area about a mile square, corking up holes with bombs, killing what we found above surface, saving our jets as much as possible for emergencies. The idea was to secure the entire target and allow the reinforcements and the heavy stuff to come down without important opposition; this was not a raid, this was a battle to establish a beachhead, stand on it, hold it, and enable fresh troops and heavies to capture or pacify the entire planet.
Only we didn’t.
Our own section was doing all right. It was in the wrong pew and out of touch with the other section—the platoon leader and sergeant were dead and we never re-formed. But we had staked out a claim, our special-weapons squad had set up a strong point, and we were ready to turn our real estate over to fresh troops as soon as they showed up.
Only they didn’t. They dropped in where we should have dropped, found unfriendly natives and had their own troubles. We never saw them. So we stayed where we were, soaking up casualties from time to time and passing them out ourselves as opportunity offered—while we ran low on ammo and jump juice and even power to keep the suits moving. This seemed to go on for a couple of thousand years.
Dutch and I were zipping along close to a wall, headed for our special-weapons squad in answer to a yell for help, when the ground suddenly opened in front of Dutch, a Bug popped out, and Dutch went down.
I flamed the Bug and tossed a grenade and the hole closed up, then turned to see what had happened to Dutch. He was down but he didn’t look hurt. A platoon sergeant can monitor the physicals of every man in his platoon, sort out the dead from those who merely can’t make it unassisted and must be picked up. But you can do the same thing manually from switches right on the belt of a man’s suit.
Dutch didn’t answer when I called to him. His body temperature read ninety-nine degrees, his respiration, heartbeat, and brain wave read zero— which looked bad but maybe his suit was dead rather than he himself. Or so I told myself, forgetting that the temperature indicator would give no reading if it were the suit rather than the man. Anyhow, I grabbed the can-opener wrench from my own belt and started to take him out of his suit while trying to watch all around me.
Then I heard an all-hands call in my helmet that I never want to hear again. “Sauve qui peut! Home! Home! Pickup and home! Any beacon you can hear. Six minutes! All hands, save yourselves, pick up your mates. Home on any beacon! Sauve qui—”
I hurried.
His head came off as I tried to drag him out of his suit, so I dropped him and got out of there. On a later drop I would have had sense enough to salvage his ammo, but I was far too sluggy to think; I simply bounced away from there and tried to rendezvous with the strong point we had been heading for.
It was already evacuated and I felt lost . . . lost and deserted. Then I heard recall, not the recall it should have been: “Yankee Doodle” (if it had
been a boat from the Valley Forge)—but “Sugar Bush,” a tune I didn’t know. No matter, it was a beacon; I headed for it, using the last of my jump juice lavishly—got aboard just as they were about to button up and shortly thereafter was in the Voortrek, in such a state of shock that I couldn’t remember my serial number.
I’ve heard it called a “strategic victory”—but I was there and I claim we took a terrible licking.
Six weeks later (and feeling about sixty years older) at Fleet Base on Sanctuary I boarded another ground boat and reported for duty to Ship’s Sergeant Jelal in the Rodger Young. I was wearing, in my pierced left ear lobe, a broken skull with one bone. Al Jenkins was with me and was wearing one exactly like it (Kitten never made it out of the tube). The few surviving Wildcats were distributed elsewhere around the Fleet; we had lost half our strength, about, in the collision between the Valley Forge and the Ypres; that disastrous mess on the ground had run our casualties up over 80 per cent and the powers-that-be decided that it was impossible to put the outfit back together with the survivors—close it out, put the records in the archives, and wait until the scars had healed before reactivating Company K (Wildcats) with new faces but old traditions.
Besides, there were a lot of empty files to fill in other outfits.
Sergeant Jelal welcomed us warmly, told us that we were joining a smart outfit, “best in the Fleet,” in a taut ship, and didn’t seem to notice our ear skulls. Later that day he took us forward to meet the Lieutenant, who smiled rather shyly and gave us a fatherly little talk. I noticed that Al Jenkins wasn’t wearing his gold skull. Neither was I—because I had already noticed that nobody in Rasczak’s Roughnecks wore the skulls.
They didn’t wear them because, in Rasczak’s Roughnecks, it didn’t matter in the least how many combat drops you had made, nor which ones; you were either a Roughneck or you weren’t—and if you were not, they didn’t care who you were. Since we had come to them not as recruits but as combat veterans, they gave us all possible benefit of doubt and made us welcome with no more than that unavoidable trace of formality anybody necessarily shows to a house guest who is not a member of the family.
But, less than a week later when we had made one combat drop with them, we were full-fledged Roughnecks, members of the family, called by our first names, chewed out on occasion without any feeling on either side that we were less than blood brothers thereby, borrowed from and lent to,
included in bull sessions and privileged to express our own silly opinions with complete freedom—and have them slapped down just as freely. We
even called non-coms by their first names on any but strictly duty occasions. Sergeant Jelal was always on duty, of course, unless you ran across him dirtside, in which case he was “Jelly” and went out of his way to behave as if his lordly rank meant nothing between Roughnecks.
But the Lieutenant was always “The Lieutenant”—never “Mr. Rasczak,” nor even “Lieutenant Rasczak.” Simply “The Lieutenant,” spoken to and of in the third person. There was no god but the Lieutenant and Sergeant Jelal was his prophet. Jelly could say “No” in his own person and it might be
subject to further argument, at least from junior sergeants, but if he said, “The Lieutenant wouldn’t like it,” he was speaking ex cathedra and the matter was dropped permanently. Nobody ever tried to check up on whether or not the Lieutenant would or would not like it; the Word had been spoken.
The Lieutenant was father to us and loved us and spoiled us and was nevertheless rather remote from us aboard ship—and even dirtside . . . unless we reached dirt via a drop. But in a drop—well, you wouldn’t think that an officer could worry about every man of a platoon spread over a hundred square miles of terrain. But he can. He can worry himself sick over each one of them. How he could keep track of us all I can’t describe, but in the midst of a ruckus his voice would sing out over the command circuit: “Johnson! Check squad six! Smitty’s in trouble,” and it was better than even money that the Lieutenant had noticed it before Smith’s squad leader.
Besides that, you knew with utter and absolute certainty that, as long as you were still alive, the Lieutenant would not get into the retrieval boat without you. There have been prisoners taken in the Bug War, but none from Rasczak’s Roughnecks.
Jelly was mother to us and was close to us and took care of us and didn’t spoil us at all. But he didn’t report us to the Lieutenant—there was
never a court-martial among the Roughnecks and no man was ever flogged. Jelly didn’t even pass out extra duty very often; he had other ways of paddling us. He could look you up and down at daily inspection and simply say, “In the Navy you might look good. Why don’t you transfer?”—and get results, it being an article of faith among us that the Navy crew members slept in their uniforms and never washed below their collar lines.
But Jelly didn’t have to maintain discipline among privates because he maintained discipline among his non-coms and expected them to do
likewise. My squad leader, when I first joined, was “Red” Greene. After a couple of drops, when I knew how good it was to be a Roughneck, I got to feeling gay and a bit too big for my clothes—and talked back to Red. He didn’t report me to Jelly; he just took me back to the washroom and gave me a medium set of lumps, and we got to be pretty good friends. In fact, he recommended me for lance, later on.
Actually we didn’t know whether the crew members slept in their clothes or not; we kept to our part of the ship and the Navy men kept to theirs, because they were made to feel unwelcome if they showed up in our country other than on duty—after all, one has social standards one must maintain, mustn’t one? The Lieutenant had his stateroom in male officers’ country, a Navy part of the ship, but we never went there, either, except on
duty and rarely. We did go forward for guard duty, because the Rodger Young was a mixed ship, female captain and pilot officers, some female Navy ratings; forward of bulkhead thirty was ladies’ country—and two armed M.I. day and night stood guard at the one door cutting it. (At battle stations that door, like all other gastight doors, was secured; nobody missed a drop.)
Officers were privileged to go forward of bulkhead thirty on duty and all officers, including the Lieutenant, ate in a mixed mess just beyond it. But
they didn’t tarry there; they ate and got out. Maybe other corvette transports were run differently, but that was the way the Rodger Young was run— both the Lieutenant and Captain Deladrier wanted a taut ship and got it.
Nevertheless guard duty was a privilege. It was a rest to stand beside that door, arms folded, feet spread, doping off and thinking about nothing .
. . but always warmly aware that any moment you might see a feminine creature even though you were not privileged to speak to her other than on duty. Once I was called all the way into the Skipper’s office and she spoke to me—she looked right at me and said, “Take this to the Chief Engineer, please.”
My daily shipside job, aside from cleaning, was servicing electronic equipment under the close supervision of “Padre” Migliaccio, the section leader of the first section, exactly as I used to work under Carl’s eye. Drops didn’t happen too often and everybody worked every day. If a man didn’t have any other talent he could always scrub bulkheads; nothing was ever quite clean enough to suit Sergeant Jelal. We followed the M.I. rule; everybody fights, everybody works. Our first cook was Johnson, the second section’s sergeant, a big friendly boy from Georgia (the one in the western hemisphere, not the other one) and a very talented chef. He wheedled pretty well, too; he liked to eat between meals himself and saw no reason why other people shouldn’t.
With the Padre leading one section and the cook leading the other, we were well taken care of, body and soul—but suppose one of them bought it? Which one would you pick? A nice point that we never tried to settle but could always discuss.
The Rodger Young kept busy and we made a number of drops, all different. Every drop has to be different so that they never can figure out a pattern on you. But no more pitched battles; we operated alone, patrolling, harrying, and raiding. The truth was that the Terran Federation was not then able to mount a large battle; the foul-up with Operation Bughouse had cost too many ships, ’way too many trained men. It was necessary to take time to heal up, train more men.
In the meantime, small fast ships, among them the Rodger Young and other corvette transports, tried to be everywhere at once, keeping the enemy off balance, hurting him and running. We suffered casualties and filled our holes when we returned to Sanctuary for more capsules. I still got the shakes every drop, but actual drops didn’t happen too often nor were we ever down long—and between times there were days and days of shipboard life among the Roughnecks.
It was the happiest period of my life although I was never quite consciously aware of it—I did my full share of beefing just as everybody else did, and enjoyed that, too.
We weren’t really hurt until the Lieutenant bought it.
I guess that was the worst time in all my life. I was already in bad shape for a personal reason: My mother had been in Buenos Aires when the Bugs smeared it.
I found out about it one time when we put in at Sanctuary for more capsules and some mail caught up with us—a note from my Aunt Eleanora, one that had not been coded and sent fast because she had failed to mark for that; the letter itself came. It was about three bitter lines. Somehow she seemed to blame me for my mother’s death. Whether it was my fault because I was in the Armed Services and should have therefore prevented the raid, or whether she felt that my mother had made a trip to Buenos Aires because I wasn’t home where I should have been, was not quite clear; she managed to imply both in the same sentence.
I tore it up and tried to walk away from it. I thought that both my parents were dead—since Father would never send Mother on a trip that long by herself. Aunt Eleanora had not said so, but she wouldn’t have mentioned Father in any case; her devotion was entirely to her sister. I was almost correct—eventually I learned that Father had planned to go with her but something had come up and he stayed over to settle it, intending to come along the next day. But Aunt Eleanora did not tell me this.
A couple of hours later the Lieutenant sent for me and asked me very gently if I would like to take leave at Sanctuary while the ship went out on her next patrol—he pointed out that I had plenty of accumulated R&R and might as well use some of it. I don’t know how he knew that I had lost a member of my family, but he obviously did. I said no, thank you, sir; I preferred to wait until the outfit all took R&R together.
I’m glad I did it that way, because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been along when the Lieutenant bought it . . . and that would have been just too much to be borne. It happened very fast and just before retrieval. A man in the third squad was wounded, not badly but he was down; the assistant section leader moved in to pick up—and bought a small piece of it himself. The Lieutenant, as usual, was watching everything at once—no doubt he had checked physicals on each of them by remote, but we’ll never know. What he did was to make sure that the assistant section leader was still alive; then made pickup on both of them himself, one in each arm of his suit.
He threw them the last twenty feet and they were passed into the retrieval boat—and with everybody else in, the shield gone and no interdiction, was hit and died instantly.
I haven’t mentioned the names of the private and of the assistant section leader on purpose. The Lieutenant was making pickup on all of us, with his last breath. Maybe I was the private. It doesn’t matter who he was. What did matter was that our family had had its head chopped off. The head of the family from which we took our name, the father who made us what we were.
After the Lieutenant had to leave us Captain Deladrier invited Sergeant Jelal to eat forward, with the other heads of departments. But he begged to be excused. Have you ever seen a widow with stern character keep her family together by behaving as if the head of the family had simply stepped out and would return at any moment? That’s what Jelly did. He was just a touch more strict with us than ever and if he ever had to say: “The
Lieutenant wouldn’t like that,” it was almost more than a man could take. Jelly didn’t say it very often.
He left our combat team organization almost unchanged; instead of shifting everybody around, he moved the assistant section leader of the second section over into the (nominal) platoon sergeant spot, leaving his section leaders where they were needed—with their sections—and he moved me from lance and assistant squad leader into acting corporal as a largely ornamental assistant section leader. Then he himself behaved as if the Lieutenant were merely out of sight and that he was just passing on the Lieutenant’s orders, as usual.
It saved us.
CH:11
I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat.
—W. Churchill, XXth century soldier-statesman
As we came back into the ship after the raid on the Skinnies—the raid in which Dizzy Flores bought it, Sergeant Jelal’s first drop as platoon leader
—a ship’s gunner who was tending the boat lock spoke to me: “How’d it go?”
“Routine,” I answered briefly. I suppose his remark was friendly but I was feeling very mixed up and in no mood to talk—sad over Dizzy, glad that we had made pickup anyhow, mad that the pickup had been useless, and all of it tangled up with that washed-out but happy feeling of being back in the ship again, able to muster arms and legs and note that they are all present. Besides, how can you talk about a drop to a man who has never made one?
“So?” he answered. “You guys have got it soft. Loaf thirty days, work thirty minutes. Me, I stand a watch in three and turn to.” “Yeah, I guess so,” I agreed and turned away. “Some of us are born lucky.”
“Soldier, you ain’t peddlin’ vacuum,” he said to my back.
And yet there was much truth in what the Navy gunner had said. We cap troopers are like aviators of the earlier mechanized wars; a long and busy military career could contain only a few hours of actual combat facing the enemy, the rest being: train, get ready, go out—then come back, clean up the mess, get ready for another one, and practice, practice, practice, in between. We didn’t make another drop for almost three weeks and that on a different planet around another star—a Bug colony. Even with Cherenkov drive, stars are far apart.
In the meantime I got my corporal’s stripes, nominated by Jelly and confirmed by Captain Deladrier in the absence of a commissioned officer of our own. Theoretically the rank would not be permanent until approved against vacancy by the Fleet M.I. repple-depple, but that meant nothing, as the casualty rate was such that there were always more vacancies in the T.O. than there were warm bodies to fill them. I was a corporal when Jelly said I was a corporal; the rest was red tape.
But the gunner was not quite correct about “loafing”; there were fifty-three suits of powered armor to check, service, and repair between each drop, not to mention weapons and special equipment. Sometimes Migliaccio would down-check a suit, Jelly would confirm it, and the ship’s weapons engineer, Lieutenant Farley, would decide that he couldn’t cure it short of base facilities—whereupon a new suit would have to be broken out of stores and brought from “cold” to “hot,” an exacting process requiring twenty-six man-hours not counting the time of the man to whom it was being fitted.
We kept busy.
But we had fun, too. There were always several competitions going on, from acey-deucy to Honor Squad, and we had the best jazz band in several cubic light-years (well, the only one, maybe), with Sergeant Johnson on the trumpet leading them mellow and sweet for hymns or tearing the steel right off the bulkheads, as the occasion required. After that masterful (or should it be “mistressful”?) retrieval rendezvous without a
programmed ballistic, the platoon’s metalsmith, PFC Archie Campbell, made a model of the Rodger Young for the Skipper and we all signed and Archie engraved our signatures on a base plate: To Hot Pilot Yvette Deladrier, with thanks from Rasczak’s Roughnecks, and we invited her aft to
eat with us and the Roughneck Downbeat Combo played during dinner and then the junior private presented it to her. She got tears and kissed him
—and kissed Jelly as well and he blushed purple.
After I got my chevrons I simply had to get things straight with Ace, because Jelly kept me on as assistant section leader. This is not good. A man ought to fill each spot on his way up; I should have had a turn as squad leader instead of being bumped from lance and assistant squad leader to corporal and assistant section leader. Jelly knew this, of course, but I know perfectly well that he was trying to keep the outfit as much as possible the way it had been when the Lieutenant was alive—which meant that he left his squad leaders and section leaders unchanged.
But it left me with a ticklish problem; all three of the corporals under me as squad leaders were actually senior to me—but if Sergeant Johnson bought it on the next drop, it would not only lose us a mighty fine cook, it would leave me leading the section. There mustn’t be any shadow of doubt when you give an order, not in combat; I had to clear up any possible shadow before we dropped again.
Ace was the problem. He was not only senior of the three, he was a career corporal as well and older than I was. If Ace accepted me, I wouldn’t have any trouble with the other two squads.
I hadn’t really had any trouble with him aboard. After we made pickup on Flores together he had been civil enough. On the other hand we hadn’t had anything to have trouble over; our shipside jobs didn’t put us together, except at daily muster and guard mount, which is all cut and dried. But you can feel it. He was not treating me as somebody he took orders from.
So I looked him up during off hours. He was lying in his bunk, reading a book, Space Rangers against the Galaxy—a pretty good yarn, except that I doubt if a military outfit ever had so many adventures and so few goof-offs. The ship had a good library.
“Ace. Got to see you.”
He glanced up. “So? I just left the ship, I’m off duty.” “I’ve got to see you now. Put your book down.”
“What’s so aching urgent? I’ve got to finish this chapter.”
“Oh, come off it, Ace. If you can’t wait, I’ll tell you how it comes out.”
“You do and I’ll clobber you.” But he put the book down, sat up, and listened.
I said, “Ace, about this matter of the section organization—you’re senior to me, you ought to be assistant section leader.”
“Oh, so it’s that again!”
“Yep. I think you and I ought to go see Johnson and get him to fix it up with Jelly.”
“You do, eh?”
“Yes, I do. That’s how it’s got to be.”
“So? Look, Shortie, let me put you straight. I got nothing against you at all. Matter of fact, you were on the bounce that day we had to pick up Dizzy; I’ll hand you that. But if you want a squad, you go dig up one of your own. Don’t go eyeing mine. Why, my boys wouldn’t even peel potatoes for you.”
“That’s your final word?”
“That’s my first, last, and only word.”
I sighed. “I thought it would be. But I had to make sure. Well, that settles that. But I’ve got one thing on my mind. I happened to notice that the washroom needs cleaning . . . and I think maybe you and I ought to attend to it. So put your book aside . . . as Jelly says, non-coms are always on duty.”
He didn’t stir at once. He said quietly, “You really think it’s necessary, Shortie? As I said, I got nothing against you.” “Looks like.”
“Think you can do it?” “I can sure try.”
“Okay. Let’s take care of it.”
We went aft to the washroom, chased out a private who was about to take a shower he didn’t really need, and locked the door. Ace said, “You got any restrictions in mind, Shortie?”
“Well . . . I hadn’t planned to kill you.”
“Check. And no broken bones, nothing that would keep either one of us out of the next drop—except maybe by accident, of course. That suit you?”
“Suits,” I agreed. “Uh, I think maybe I’ll take my shirt off.”
“Wouldn’t want to get blood on your shirt.” He relaxed. I started to peel it off and he let go a kick for my kneecap. No wind up. Flat-footed and not tense.
Only my kneecap wasn’t there—I had learned.
A real fight ordinarily can last only a second or two, because that is all the time it takes to kill a man, or knock him out, or disable him to the point where he can’t fight. But we had agreed to avoid inflicting permanent damage; this changes things. We were both young, in top condition, highly trained, and used to absorbing punishment. Ace was bigger, I was maybe a touch faster. Under such conditions the miserable business simply has to go on until one or the other is too beaten down to continue—unless a fluke settles it sooner. But neither one of us was allowing any flukes; we were professionals and wary.
So it did go on, for a long, tedious, painful time. Details would be trivial and pointless; besides, I had no time to take notes.
A long time later I was lying on my back and Ace was flipping water in my face. He looked at me, then hauled me to my feet, shoved me against a bulkhead, steadied me. “Hit me!”
“Huh?” I was dazed and seeing double. “Johnnie . . . hit me.”
His face was floating in the air in front of me; I zeroed in on it and slugged it with all the force in my body, hard enough to mash any mosquito in poor health. His eyes closed and he slumped to the deck and I had to grab at a stanchion to keep from following him.
He got slowly up. “Okay, Johnnie,” he said, shaking his head, “I’ve had my lesson. You won’t have any more lip out of me . . . nor out of anybody in the section. Okay?”
I nodded and my head hurt. “Shake?” he asked.
We shook on it, and that hurt, too.
Almost anybody else knew more about how the war was going than we did, even though we were in it. This was the period, of course, after the Bugs had located our home planet, through the Skinnies, and had raided it, destroying Buenos Aires and turning “contact troubles” into all-out war, but before we had built up our forces and before the Skinnies had changed sides and become our co-belligerents and de facto allies. Partly effective interdiction for Terra had been set up from Luna (we didn’t know it), but speaking broadly, the Terran Federation was losing the war.
We didn’t know that, either. Nor did we know that strenuous efforts were being made to subvert the alliance against us and bring the Skinnies over to our side; the nearest we came to being told about that was when we got instructions, before the raid in which Flores was killed, to go easy on the Skinnies, destroy as much property as possible but to kill inhabitants only when unavoidable.
What a man doesn’t know he can’t spill if he is captured; neither drugs, nor torture, nor brainwash, nor endless lack of sleep can squeeze out a secret he doesn’t possess. So we were told only what we had to know for tactical purposes. In the past, armies have been known to fold up and quit because the men didn’t know what they were fighting for, or why, and therefore lacked the will to fight. But the M.I. does not have that weakness. Each one of us was a volunteer to begin with, each for some reason or other—some good, some bad. But now we fought because we were M.I.
We were professionals, with esprit de corps. We were Rasczak’s Roughnecks, the best unprintable outfit in the whole expurgated M.I.; we climbed into our capsules because Jelly told us it was time to do so and we fought when we got down there because that is what Rasczak’s Roughnecks do.
We certainly didn’t know that we were losing.
Those Bugs lay eggs. They not only lay them, they hold them in reserve, hatch them as needed. If we killed a warrior—or a thousand, or ten thousand—his or their replacements were hatched and on duty almost before we could get back to base. You can imagine, if you like, some Bug supervisor of population flashing a phone to somewhere down inside and saying, “Joe, warm up ten thousand warriors and have ’em ready by Wednesday . . . and tell engineering to activate reserve incubators N, O, P, Q, and R; the demand is picking up.”
I don’t say they did exactly that, but those were the results. But don’t make the mistake of thinking that they acted purely from instinct, like termites or ants; their actions were as intelligent as ours (stupid races don’t build spaceships!) and were much better co-ordinated. It takes a minimum of a
year to train a private to fight and to mesh his fighting in with his mates; a Bug warrior is hatched able to do this.
Every time we killed a thousand Bugs at a cost of one M.I. it was a net victory for the Bugs. We were learning, expensively, just how efficient a
total communism can be when used by a people actually adapted to it by evolution; the Bug commissars didn’t care any more about expending soldiers than we cared about expending ammo. Perhaps we could have figured this out about the Bugs by noting the grief the Chinese Hegemony gave the Russo-Anglo-American Alliance; however the trouble with “lessons from history” is that we usually read them best after falling flat on our chins.
But we were learning. Technical instructions and tactical doctrine orders resulted from every brush with them, spread through the Fleet. We learned to tell the workers from the warriors—if you had time, you could tell from the shape of the carapace, but the quick rule of thumb was: If he comes at you, he’s a warrior; if he runs, you can turn your back on him. We learned not to waste ammo even on warriors except in self-protection; instead we went after their lairs. Find a hole, drop down it first a gas bomb which explodes gently a few seconds later, releasing an oily liquid which evaporates as a nerve gas tailored to Bugs (it is harmless to us) and which is heavier than air and keeps on going down—then you use a second grenade of H.E. to seal the hole.
We still didn’t know whether we were getting deep enough to kill the queens—but we did know that the Bugs didn’t like these tactics; our intelligence through the Skinnies and on back into the Bugs themselves was definite on this point. Besides, we cleaned their colony off Sheol completely this way. Maybe they managed to evacuate the queens and the brains . . . but at least we were learning to hurt them.
But so far as the Roughnecks were concerned, these gas bombings were simply another drill, to be done according to orders, by the numbers, and on the bounce.
Eventually we had to go back to Sanctuary for more capsules. Capsules are expendable (well, so were we) and when they are gone, you must return to base, even if the Cherenkov generators could still take you twice around the Galaxy. Shortly before this a dispatch came through breveting Jelly to lieutenant, vice Rasczak. Jelly tried to keep it quiet but Captain Deladrier published it and then required him to eat forward with the other officers. He still spent all the rest of his time aft.
But we had taken several drops by then with him as platoon leader and the outfit had gotten used to getting along without the Lieutenant—it still hurt but it was routine now. After Jelal was commissioned the word was slowly passed around among us and chewed over that it was time for us to name ourselves for our boss, as with other outfits.
Johnson was senior and took the word to Jelly; he picked me to go along with him as moral support. “Yeah?” growled Jelly. “Uh, Sarge—I mean Lieutenant, we’ve been thinking—”
“With what?”
“Well, the boys have sort of been talking it over and they think—well, they say the outfit ought to call itself: ‘Jelly’s Jaguars.’” “They do, eh? How many of ’em favor that name?”
“It’s unanimous,” Johnson said simply.
“So? Fifty-two ayes . . . and one no. The noes have it.” Nobody ever brought up the subject again.
Shortly after that we orbited at Sanctuary. I was glad to be there, as the ship’s internal pseudo-gravity field had been off for most of two days before that, while the Chief Engineer tinkered with it, leaving us in free fall—which I hate. I’ll never be a real spaceman. Dirt underfoot felt good. The entire platoon went on ten days’ rest & recreation and transferred to accommodation barracks at the Base.
I never have learned the co-ordinates of Sanctuary, nor the name or catalogue number of the star it orbits—because what you don’t know, you can’t spill; the location is ultra-top-secret, known only to ships’ captains, piloting officers, and such . . . and, I understand, with each of them under orders and hypnotic compulsion to suicide if necessary to avoid capture. So I don’t want to know. With the possibility that Luna Base might be taken and Terra herself occupied, the Federation kept as much of its beef as possible at Sanctuary, so that a disaster back home would not necessarily mean capitulation.
But I can tell you what sort of a planet it is. Like Earth, but retarded.
Literally retarded, like a kid who takes ten years to learn to wave bye-bye and never does manage to master patty-cake. It is a planet as near like
Earth as two planets can be, same age according to the planetologists and its star is the same age as the Sun and the same type, so say the astrophysicists. It has plenty of flora and fauna, the same atmosphere as Earth, near enough, and much the same weather; it even has a good-sized moon and Earth’s exceptional tides.
With all these advantages it barely got away from the starting gate. You see, it’s short on mutations; it does not enjoy Earth’s high level of natural radiation.
Its typical and most highly developed plant life is a very primitive giant fern; its top animal life is a proto-insect which hasn’t even developed
colonies. I am not speaking of transplanted Terran flora and fauna—our stuff moves in and brushes the native stuff aside.
With its evolutionary progress held down almost to zero by lack of radiation and a consequent most unhealthily low mutation rate, native life forms
on Sanctuary just haven’t had a decent chance to evolve and aren’t fit to compete. Their gene patterns remain fixed for a relatively long time; they aren’t adaptable—like being forced to play the same bridge hand over and over again, for eons, with no hope of getting a better one.
As long as they just competed with each other, this didn’t matter too much—morons among morons, so to speak. But when types that had evolved on a planet enjoying high radiation and fierce competition were introduced, the native stuff was outclassed.
Now all the above is perfectly obvious from high school biology . . . but the high forehead from the research station there who was telling me about this brought up a point I would never have thought of.
What about the human beings who have colonized Sanctuary?
Not transients like me, but the colonists who live there, many of whom were born there, and whose descendants will live there, even unto the umpteenth generation—what about those descendants? It doesn’t do a person any harm not to be radiated; in fact it’s a bit safer—leukemia and some types of cancer are almost unknown there. Besides that, the economic situation is at present all in their favor; when they plant a field of (Terran) wheat, they don’t even have to clear out the weeds. Terran wheat displaces anything native.
But the descendants of those colonists won’t evolve. Not much, anyhow. This chap told me that they could improve a little through mutation from other causes, from new blood added by immigration, and from natural selection among the gene patterns they already own—but that is all very minor compared with the evolutionary rate on Terra and on any usual planet. So what happens? Do they stay frozen at their present level while the rest of the human race moves on past them, until they are living fossils, as out of place as a pithecanthropus in a spaceship?
Or will they worry about the fate of their descendants and dose themselves regularly with X-rays or maybe set off lots of dirty-type nuclear explosions each year to build up a fallout reservoir in their atmosphere? (Accepting, of course, the immediate dangers of radiation to themselves in order to provide a proper genetic heritage of mutation for the benefit of their descendants.)
This bloke predicted that they would not do anything. He claims that the human race is too individualistic, too self-centered, to worry that much about future generations. He says that the genetic impoverishment of distant generations through lack of radiation is something most people are simply incapable of worrying about. And of course it is a far-distant threat; evolution works so slowly, even on Terra, that the development of a new species is a matter of many, many thousands of years.
I don’t know. Shucks, I don’t know what I myself will do more than half the time; how can I predict what a colony of strangers will do? But I’m sure of this: Sanctuary is going to be fully settled, either by us or by the Bugs. Or by somebody. It is a potential utopia, and, with desirable real estate so scarce in this end of the Galaxy, it will not be left in the possession of primitive life forms that failed to make the grade.
Already it is a delightful place, better in many ways for a few days R&R than is most of Terra. In the second place, while it has an awful lot of civilians, more than a million, as civilians go they aren’t bad. They know there is a war on. Fully half of them are employed either at the Base or in war industry; the rest raise food and sell it to the Fleet. You might say they have a vested interest in war, but, whatever their reasons, they respect the uniform and don’t resent the wearers thereof. Quite the contrary. If an M.I. walks into a shop there, the proprietor calls him “Sir,” and really seems to mean it, even while he’s trying to sell something worthless at too high a price.
But in the first place, half of those civilians are female.
You have to have been out on a long patrol to appreciate this properly. You need to have looked forward to your day of guard duty, for the
privilege of standing two hours out of each six with your spine against bulkhead thirty and your ears cocked for just the sound of a female voice. I suppose it’s actually easier in the all-stag ships . . . but I’ll take the Rodger Young. It’s good to know that the ultimate reason you are fighting actually exists and that they are not just a figment of the imagination.
Besides the civilian wonderful 50 per cent, about 40 per cent of the Federal Service people on Sanctuary are female. Add it all up and you’ve got the most beautiful scenery in the explored universe.
Besides these unsurpassed natural advantages, a great deal has been done artificially to keep R&R from being wasted. Most of the civilians seem to hold two jobs; they’ve got circles under their eyes from staying up all night to make a service man’s leave pleasant. Churchill Road from the Base to the city is lined both sides with enterprises intended to separate painlessly a man from money he really hasn’t any use for anyhow, to the pleasant accompaniment of refreshment, entertainment, and music.
If you are able to get past these traps, through having already been bled of all valuta, there are still other places in the city almost as satisfactory (I mean there are girls there, too) which are provided free by a grateful populace—much like the social center in Vancouver, these are, but even more welcome.
Sanctuary, and especially Espiritu Santo, the city, struck me as such an ideal place that I toyed with the notion of asking for my discharge there when my term was up—after all, I didn’t really care whether my descendants (if any) twenty-five thousand years hence had long green tendrils like everybody else, or just the equipment I had been forced to get by with. That professor type from the Research Station couldn’t frighten me with that no radiation scare talk; it seemed to me (from what I could see around me) that the human race had reached its ultimate peak anyhow.
No doubt a gentleman wart hog feels the same way about a lady wart hog—but, if so, both of us are very sincere.
There are other opportunities for recreation there, too. I remember with particular pleasure one evening when a table of Roughnecks got into a
friendly discussion with a group of Navy men (not from the Rodger Young) seated at the next table. The debate was spirited, a bit noisy, and some Base police came in and broke it up with stun guns just as we were warming to our rebuttal. Nothing came of it, except that we had to pay for the furniture—the Base Commandant takes the position that a man on R&R should be allowed a little freedom as long as he doesn’t pick one of the “thirty-one crash landings.”
The accommodation barracks are all right, too—not fancy, but comfortable and the chow line works twenty-five hours a day with civilians doing all the work. No reveille, no taps, you’re actually on leave and you don’t have to go to the barracks at all. I did, however, as it seemed downright preposterous to spend money on hotels when there was a clean, soft sack free and so many better ways to spend accumulated pay. That extra hour in each day was nice, too, as it meant nine hours solid and the day still untouched—I caught up sack time clear back to Operation Bughouse.
It might as well have been a hotel; Ace and I had a room all to ourselves in visiting non-com quarters. One morning, when R&R was regrettably drawing to a close, I was just turning over about local noon when Ace shook my bed. “On the bounce, soldier! The Bugs are attacking.”
I told him what to do with the Bugs. “Let’s hit dirt,” he persisted.
“No dinero.” I had had a date the night before with a chemist (female, of course, and charmingly so) from the Research Station. She had known Carl on Pluto and Carl had written to me to look her up if I ever got to Sanctuary. She was a slender redhead, with expensive tastes. Apparently Carl had intimated to her that I had more money than was good for me, for she decided that the night before was just the time for her to get acquainted with the local champagne. I didn’t let Carl down by admitting that all I had was a trooper’s honorarium; I bought it for her while I drank what they said was (but wasn’t) fresh pineapple squash. The result was that I had to walk home, afterwards—the cabs aren’t free. Still, it had been worth it. After
all, what is money?—I’m speaking of Bug money, of course.
“No ache,” Ace answered. “I can juice you—I got lucky last night. Ran into a Navy file who didn’t know percentages.”
So I got up and shaved and showered and we hit the chow line for half a dozen shell eggs and sundries such as potatoes and ham and hot cakes and so forth and then we hit dirt to get something to eat. The walk up Churchill Road was hot and Ace decided to stop in a cantina. I went along to see if their pineapple squash was real. It wasn’t, but it was cold. You can’t have everything.
We talked about this and that and Ace ordered another round. I tried their strawberry squash—same deal. Ace stared into his glass, then said, “Ever thought about greasing for officer?”
I said, “Huh? Are you crazy?”
“Nope. Look, Johnnie, this war may run on quite a piece. No matter what propaganda they put out for the folks at home, you and I know that the
Bugs aren’t ready to quit. So why don’t you plan ahead? As the man says, if you’ve got to play in the band, it’s better to wave the stick than to carry
the big drum.”
I was startled by the turn the talk had taken, especially from Ace. “How about you? Are you planning to buck for a commission?”
“Me?” he answered. “Check your circuits, son—you’re getting wrong answers. I’ve got no education and I’m ten years older than you are. But
you’ve got enough education to hit the selection exams for O.C.S. and you’ve got the I.Q. they like. I guarantee that if you go career, you’ll make sergeant before I do . . . and get picked for O.C.S. the day after.”
“Now I know you’re crazy!”
“You listen to your pop. I hate to tell you this, but you are just stupid and eager and sincere enough to make the kind of officer that men love to follow into some silly predicament. But me—well, I’m a natural non-com, with the proper pessimistic attitude to offset the enthusiasm of the likes of you. Someday I’ll make sergeant . . . and presently I’ll have my twenty years in and retire and get one of the reserved jobs—cop, maybe—and marry a nice fat wife with the same low tastes I have, and I’ll follow the sports and fish and go pleasantly to pieces.”
Ace stopped to wet his whistle. “But you,” he went on. “You’ll stay in and probably make high rank and die gloriously and I’ll read about it and say proudly, ‘I knew him when. Why, I used to lend him money—we were corporals together.’ Well?”
“I’ve never thought about it,” I said slowly. “I just meant to serve my term.”
He grinned sourly. “Do you see any term enrollees being paid off today? You expect to make it on two years?”
He had a point. As long as the war continued, a “term” didn’t end—at least not for cap troopers. It was mostly a difference in attitude, at least for the present. Those of us on “term” could at least feel like short-timers; we could talk about: “When this flea-bitten war is over.” A career man didn’t say that; he wasn’t going anywhere, short of retirement—or buying it.
On the other hand, neither were we. But if you went “career” and then didn’t finish twenty . . . well, they could be pretty sticky about your franchise even though they wouldn’t keep a man who didn’t want to stay.
“Maybe not a two-year term,” I admitted. “But the war won’t last forever.” “It won’t?”
“How can it?”
“Blessed if I know. They don’t tell me these things. But I know that’s not what is troubling you, Johnnie. You got a girl waiting?”
“No. Well, I had,” I answered slowly, “but she ‘Dear-Johned’ me.” As a lie, this was no more than a mild decoration, which I tucked in because Ace
seemed to expect it. Carmen wasn’t my girl and she never waited for anybody—but she did address letters with “Dear Johnnie” on the infrequent occasions when she wrote to me.
Ace nodded wisely. “They’ll do it every time. They’d rather marry civilians and have somebody around to chew out when they feel like it. Never you mind, son—you’ll find plenty of them more than willing to marry when you’re retired . . . and you’ll be better able to handle one at that age. Marriage
is a young man’s disaster and an old man’s comfort.” He looked at my glass. “It nauseates me to see you drinking that slop.” “I feel the same way about the stuff you drink,” I told him.
He shrugged. “As I say, it takes all kinds. You think it over.” “I will.”
Ace got into a card game shortly after, and lent me some money and I went for a walk; I needed to think.
Go career? Quite aside from that noise about a commission, did I want to go career? Why, I had gone through all this to get my franchise, hadn’t I?—and if I went career, I was just as far away from the privilege of voting as if I had never enrolled . . . because as long as you were still in uniform you weren’t entitled to vote. Which was the way it should be, of course—why, if they let the Roughnecks vote the idiots might vote not to make a drop. Can’t have that.
Nevertheless I had signed up in order to win a vote. Or had I?
Had I ever cared about voting? No, it was the prestige, the pride, the status . . . of being a citizen. Or was it?
I couldn’t to save my life remember why I had signed up.
Anyhow, it wasn’t the process of voting that made a citizen—the Lieutenant had been a citizen in the truest sense of the word, even though he
had not lived long enough ever to cast a ballot. He had “voted” every time he made a drop. And so had I!
I could hear Colonel Dubois in my mind: “Citizenship is an attitude, a state of mind, an emotional conviction that the whole is greater than the part
. . . and that the part should be humbly proud to sacrifice itself that the whole may live.”
I still didn’t know whether I yearned to place my one-and-only body “between my loved home and the war’s desolation”—I still got the shakes every drop and that “desolation” could be pretty desolate. But nevertheless I knew at last what Colonel Dubois had been talking about. The M.I. was mine and I was theirs. If that was what the M.I. did to break the monotony, then that was what I did. Patriotism was a bit esoteric for me, too large- scale to see. But the M.I. was my gang, I belonged. They were all the family I had left; they were the brothers I had never had, closer than Carl had ever been. If I left them, I’d be lost.
So why shouldn’t I go career?
All right, all right—but how about this nonsense of greasing for a commission? That was something else again. I could see myself putting in twenty years and then taking it easy, the way Ace had described, with ribbons on my chest and carpet slippers on my feet . . . or evenings down at
the Veterans Hall, rehashing old times with others who belonged. But O.C.S.? I could hear Al Jenkins, in one of the bull sessions we had about such things: “I’m a private! I’m going to stay a private! When you’re a private they don’t expect anything of you. Who wants to be an officer? Or even a sergeant? You’re breathing the same air, aren’t you? Eating the same food. Going the same places, making the same drops. But no worries.”
Al had a point. What had chevrons ever gotten me?—aside from lumps.
Nevertheless I knew I would take sergeant if it was ever offered to me. You don’t refuse, a cap trooper doesn’t refuse anything; he steps up and takes a swing at it. Commission, too, I supposed.
Not that it would happen. Who was I to think that I could ever be what Lieutenant Rasczak had been?
My walk had taken me close to the candidates’ school, though I don’t believe I intended to come that way. A company of cadets were out on their parade ground, drilling at trot, looking for all the world like boots in Basic. The sun was hot and it looked not nearly as comfortable as a bull session
in the drop room of the Rodger Young—why, I hadn’t marched farther than bulkhead thirty since I had finished Basic; that breaking-in nonsense was past.
I watched them a bit, sweating through their uniforms; I heard them being chewed out—by sergeants, too. Old Home Week. I shook my head and walked away from there—
—went back to the accommodation barracks, over to the B.O.Q. wing, found Jelly’s room.
He was in it, his feet up on a table and reading a magazine. I knocked on the frame of the door. He looked up and growled, “Yeah?” “Sarge—I mean, Lieutenant—”
“Spit it out!”
“Sir, I want to go career.”
He dropped his feet to the desk. “Put up your right hand.”
He swore me, reached into the drawer of the table and pulled out papers.
He had my papers already made out, waiting for me ready to sign. And I hadn’t even told Ace. How about that?
CH:12
It is by no means enough that an officer should be capable. . . . He should be as well a gentleman of liberal education, refined manners, punctilious courtesy, and the nicest sense of personal honor. . . . No meritorious act of a subordinate should escape his attention, even if the reward be only one word of approval. Conversely, he should not be blind to a single fault in any subordinate.
True as may be the political principles for which we are nowcontending . . . the shipsthemselves must be ruled under a system of absolute despotism.
I trust that I have nowmade clear to you the tremendous responsibilities. . . . We must do thebest we can with what we have.
—John Paul Jones, September 14, 1775; excerpts from a letter to the naval committee of the N.A. insurrectionists
The Rodger Young was again returning to Base for replacements, both capsules and men. Al Jenkins had bought his farm, covering a pickup— and that one had cost us the Padre, too. And besides that, I had to be replaced. I was wearing brand-new sergeant’s chevrons (vice Migliaccio) but I had a hunch that Ace would be wearing them as soon as I was out of the ship—they were mostly honorary, I knew; the promotion was Jelly’s way of giving me a good send-off as I was detached for O.C.S.
But it didn’t keep me from being proud of them. At the Fleet landing field I went through the exit gate with my nose in the air and strode up to the quarantine desk to have my orders stamped. As this was being done I heard a polite, respectful voice behind me: “Excuse me, Sergeant, but that
boat that just came down—is it from the Rodger—”
I turned to see the speaker, flicked my eyes over his sleeves, saw that it was a small, slightly stoop-shouldered corporal, no doubt one of our—
“Father!”
Then the corporal had his arms around me. “Juan! Juan! Oh, my little Johnnie!”
I kissed him and hugged him and started to cry. Maybe that civilian clerk at the quarantine desk had never seen two non-coms kiss each other before. Well, if I had noticed him so much as lifting an eyebrow, I would have pasted him. But I didn’t notice him; I was busy. He had to remind me to take my orders with me.
By then we had blown our noses and quit making an open spectacle of ourselves. I said, “Father, let’s find a corner somewhere and sit down and
talk. I want to know . . . well, everything!” I took a deep breath. “I thought you were dead.”
“No. Came close to buying it once or twice, maybe. But, Son . . . Sergeant—I really do have to find out about that landing boat. You see—”
“Oh, that. It’s from the Rodger Young. I just—”
He looked terribly disappointed. “Then I’ve got to bounce, right now. I’ve got to report in.” Then he added eagerly, “But you’ll be back aboard
soon, won’t you, Juanito? Or are you going on R&R?”
“Uh, no.” I thought fast. Of all the ways to have things roll! “Look, Father, I know the boat schedule. You can’t go aboard for at least an hour and a
bit. That boat is not on a fast retrieve; she’ll make a minimum-fuel rendezvous when the Rog completes this pass—if the pilot doesn’t have to wait over for the next pass after that; they’ve got to load first.”
He said dubiously, “My orders read to report at once to the pilot of the first available ship’s boat.”
“Father, Father! Do you have to be so confounded regulation? The girl who’s pushing that heap won’t care whether you board the boat now, or
just as they button up. Anyhow they’ll play the ship’s recall over the speakers in here ten minutes before boost and announce it. You can’t miss it.” He let me lead him over to an empty corner. As we sat down he added, “Will you be going up in the same boat, Juan? Or later?”
“Uh—” I showed him my orders; it seemed the simplest way to break the news. Ships that pass in the night, like the Evangeline story—cripes, what a way for things to break!
He read them and got tears in his eyes and I said hastily, “Look, Father, I’m going to try to come back—I wouldn’t want any other outfit than the Roughnecks. And with you in them . . . oh, I know it’s disappointing but—”
“It’s not disappointment, Juan.” “Huh?”
“It’s pride. My boy is going to be an officer. My little Johnnie—Oh, it’s disappointment, too; I had waited for this day. But I can wait a while longer.” He smiled through his tears. “You’ve grown, lad. And filled out, too.”
“Uh, I guess so. But, Father, I’m not an officer yet and I might only be out of the Rog a few days. I mean, they sometimes bust ’em out pretty fast and—”
“Enough of that, young man!” “Huh?”
“You’ll make it. Let’s have no more talk of ‘busting out.’” Suddenly he smiled. “That’s the first time I’ve been able to tell a sergeant to shut up.”
“Well . . . I’ll certainly try, Father. And if I do make it, I’ll certainly put in for the old Rog. But—” I trailed off.
“Yes, I know. Your request won’t mean anything unless there’s a billet for you. Never mind. If this hour is all we have, we’ll make the most of it—
and I’m so proud of you I’m splitting my seams. How have you been, Johnnie?”
“Oh, fine, just fine.” I was thinking that it wasn’t all bad. He would be better off in the Roughnecks than in any other outfit. All my friends . . . they’d take care of him, keep him alive. I’d have to send a gram to Ace—Father like as not wouldn’t even let them know he was related. “Father, how long have you been in?”
“A little over a year.” “And corporal already!”
Father smiled grimly. “They’re making them fast these days.”
I didn’t have to ask what he meant. Casualties. There were always vacancies in the T.O.; you couldn’t get enough trained soldiers to fill them. Instead I said, “Uh . . . but, Father, you’re—Well, I mean, aren’t you sort of old to be soldiering? I mean the Navy, or Logistics, or—”
“I wanted the M.I. and I got it!” he said emphatically. “And I’m no older than many sergeants—not as old, in fact. Son, the mere fact that I am twenty-two years older than you are doesn’t put me in a wheel chair. And age has its advantages, too.”
Well, there was something in that. I recalled how Sergeant Zim had always tried the older men first, when he was dealing out boot chevrons. And Father would never have goofed in Basic the way I had—no lashes for him. He was probably spotted as non-com material before he ever finished Basic. The Army needs a lot of really grown-up men in the middle grades; it’s a paternalistic organization.
I didn’t have to ask him why he had wanted M.I., nor why or how he had wound up in my ship—I just felt warm about it, more flattered by it than any
praise he had ever given me in words. And I didn’t want to ask him why he had joined up; I felt that I knew. Mother. Neither of us had mentioned her
—too painful.
So I changed the subject abruptly. “Bring me up to date. Tell me where you’ve been and what you’ve done.” “Well, I trained at Camp San Martín—”
“Huh? Not Currie?”
“New one. But the same old lumps, I understand. Only they rush you through two months faster, you don’t get Sundays off. Then I requested the
Rodger Young—and didn’t get it—and wound up in McSlattery’s Volunteers. A good outfit.”
“Yes, I know.” They had had a reputation for being rough, tough, and nasty—almost as good as the Roughnecks.
“I should say that it was a good outfit. I made several drops with them and some of the boys bought it and after a while I got these.” He glanced at
his chevrons. “I was a corporal when we dropped on Sheol—”
“You were there? So was I!” With a sudden warm flood of emotion I felt closer to my father than I ever had before in my life.
“I know. At least I knew your outfit was there. I was about fifty miles north of you, near as I can guess. We soaked up that counterattack when they
came boiling up out of the ground like bats out of a cave.” Father shrugged. “So when it was over I was a corporal without an outfit, not enough of us left to make a healthy cadre. So they sent me here. I could have gone with King’s Kodiak Bears, but I had a word with the placement sergeant—
and, sure as sunrise, the Rodger Young came back with a billet for a corporal. So here I am.”
“And when did you join up?” I realized that it was the wrong remark as soon as I had made it—but I had to get the subject away from McSlattery’s
Volunteers; an orphan from a dead outfit wants to forget it. Father said quietly, “Shortly after Buenos Aires.”
“Oh. I see.”
Father didn’t say anything for several moments. Then he said softly, “I’m not sure that you do see, Son.” “Sir?”
“Mmm . . . it will not be easy to explain. Certainly, losing your mother had a great deal to do with it. But I didn’t enroll to avenge her—even though I had that in mind, too. You had more to do with it—”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Son, I always understood what you were doing better than your mother did—don’t blame her; she never had a chance to know, any
more than a bird can understand swimming. And perhaps I knew why you did it, even though I beg to doubt that you knew yourself, at the time. At least half of my anger at you was sheer resentment . . . that you had actually done something that I knew, buried deep in my heart, I should have done. But you weren’t the cause of my joining up, either . . . you merely helped trigger it and you did control the service I chose.”
He paused. “I wasn’t in good shape at the time you enrolled. I was seeing my hypnotherapist pretty regularly—you never suspected that, did you?
—but we had gotten no farther than a clear recognition that I was enormously dissatisfied. After you left, I took it out on you—but it was not you, and I knew it and my therapist knew it. I suppose I knew that there was real trouble brewing earlier than most; we were invited to bid on military components fully a month before the state of emergency was announced. We had converted almost entirely to war production while you were still in training.
“I felt better during that period, worked to death and too busy to see my therapist. Then I became more troubled than ever.” He smiled. “Son, do you know about civilians?”
“Well . . . we don’t talk the same language. I know that.”
“Clearly enough put. Do you remember Madame Ruitman? I was on a few days leave after I finished Basic and I went home. I saw some of our friends, said goodby—she among them. She chattered away and said, ‘So you’re really going out? Well, if you reach Faraway, you really must look up my dear friends the Regatos.’
“I told her, as gently as I could, that it seemed unlikely, since the Arachnids had occupied Faraway.
“It didn’t faze her in the least. She said, ‘Oh, that’s all right—they’re civilians!’” Father smiled cynically. “Yes, I know.”
“But I’m getting ahead of my story. I told you that I was getting still more upset. Your mother’s death released me for what I had to do . . . even though she and I were closer than most, nevertheless it set me free to do it. I turned the business over to Morales—”
“Old man Morales? Can he handle it?”
“Yes. Because he has to. A lot of us are doing things we didn’t know we could. I gave him a nice chunk of stock—you know the old saying about
the kine that tread the grain—and the rest I split two ways, in a trust: half to the Daughters of Charity, half to you whenever you want to go back and take it. If you do. Never mind. I had at last found out what was wrong with me.” He stopped, then said very softly, “I had to perform an act of faith. I
had to prove to myself that I was a man. Not just a producing-consuming economic animal . . . but a man.”
At that moment, before I could answer anything, the wall speakers around us sang: “—shines the name, shines the name of Rodger Young!” and a girl’s voice added, “Personnel for F.C.T. Rodger Young, stand to boat. Berth H. Nine minutes.”
Father bounced to his feet, grabbed his kit roll. “That’s mine! Take care of yourself, Son—and hit those exams. Or you’ll find you’re still not too big
to paddle.”
“I will, Father.”
He embraced me hastily. “See you when we get back!” And he was gone, on the bounce.
In the Commandant’s outer office I reported to a fleet sergeant who looked remarkably like Sergeant Ho, even to lacking an arm. However, he lacked Sergeant Ho’s smile as well. I said, “Career Sergeant Juan Rico, to report to the Commandant pursuant to orders.”
He glanced at the clock. “Your boat was down seventy-three minutes ago. Well?”
So I told him. He pulled his lip and looked at me meditatively. “I’ve heard every excuse in the book. But you’ve just added a new page. Your father, your own father, really was reporting to your old ship just as you were detached?”
“The bare truth, Sergeant. You can check it—Corporal Emilio Rico.”
“We don’t check the statements of the ‘young gentlemen’ around here. We simply cashier them if it ever turns out that they have not told the truth. Okay, a boy who wouldn’t be late in order to see his old man off wouldn’t be worth much in any case. Forget it.”
“Thanks, Sergeant. Do I report to the Commandant now?”
“You’ve reported to him.” He made a check mark on a list. “Maybe a month from now he’ll send for you along with a couple of dozen others. Here’s your room assignment, here’s a checkoff list you start with—and you can start by cutting off those chevrons. But save them; you may need them later. But as of this moment you are ‘Mister,’ not ‘Sergeant.’”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me ‘sir.’ I call you ‘sir.’ But you won’t like it.”
I am not going to describe Officer Candidates School. It’s like Basic, but squared and cubed with books added. In the mornings we behaved like privates, doing the same old things we had done in Basic and in combat and being chewed out for the way we did them—by sergeants. In the afternoons we were cadets and “gentlemen,” and recited on and were lectured concerning an endless list of subjects: math, science, galactography, xenology, hypnopedia, logistics, strategy and tactics, communications, military law, terrain reading, special weapons, psychology of leadership, anything from the care and feeding of privates to why Xerxes lost the big one. Most especially how to be a one-man catastrophe yourself while keeping track of fifty other men, nursing them, loving them, leading them, saving them—but never babying them.
We had beds, which we used all too little; we had rooms and showers and inside plumbing; and each four candidates had a civilian servant, to make our beds and clean our rooms and shine our shoes and lay out our uniforms and run errands. This service was not intended as a luxury and was not; its purpose was to give the student more time to accomplish the plainly impossible by relieving him of things any graduate of Basic can already do perfectly.
Six days shalt thou work and do all thou art able, The seventh the same and pound on the cable.
Or the Army version ends:—and clean out the stable, which shows you how many centuries this sort of thing has been going on. I wish I could catch just one of those civilians who think we loaf and put them through one month of O.C.S.
In the evenings and all day Sundays we studied until our eyes burned and our ears ached—then slept (if we slept) with a hypnopedic speaker droning away under the pillow.
Our marching songs were appropriately downbeat: “No Army for mine, no Army for mine! I’d rather be behind the plow any old time!” and “Don’t wanta study war no more,” and “Don’t make my boy a soldier, the weeping mother cried,” and—favorite of all—the old classic “Gentlemen Rankers” with its chorus about the Little Lost Sheep: “—God ha’ pity on such as we. Baa! Yah! Bah!”
Yet somehow I don’t remember being unhappy. Too busy, I guess. There was never that psychological “hump” to get over, the one everybody hits in Basic; there was simply the ever-present fear of flunking out. My poor preparation in math bothered me especially. My roommate, a colonial from
Hesperus with the oddly appropriate name of “Angel,” sat up night after night, tutoring me.
Most of the instructors, especially the officers, were disabled. The only ones I can remember who had a full complement of arms, legs, eyesight, hearing, etc., were some of the non-commissioned combat instructors—and not all of those. Our coach in dirty fighting sat in a powered chair, wearing a plastic collar, and was completely paralyzed from the neck down. But his tongue wasn’t paralyzed, his eye was photographic, and the savage way in which he could analyze and criticize what he had seen made up for his minor impediment.
At first I wondered why those obvious candidates for physical retirement and full-pay pension didn’t take it and go home. Then I quit wondering. I guess the high point in my whole cadet course was a visit from Ensign Ibañez, she of the dark eyes, junior watch officer and pilot-under-
instruction of the Corvette Transport Mannerheim. Carmencita showed up, looking incredibly pert in Navy dress whites and about the size of a paperweight, while my class was lined up for evening meal muster—walked down the line and you could hear eyeballs click as she passed— walked straight up to the duty officer and asked for me by name in a clear, penetrating voice.
The duty officer, Captain Chandar, was widely believed never to have smiled at his own mother, but he smiled down at little Carmen, straining his face out of shape, and admitted my existence . . . whereupon she waved her long black lashes at him, explained that her ship was about to boost
and could she please take me out to dinner?
And I found myself in possession of a highly irregular and totally unprecedented three-hour pass. It may be that the Navy has developed hypnosis
techniques that they have not yet gotten around to passing on to the Army. Or her secret weapon may be older than that and not usable by M.I. In any case I not only had a wonderful time but my prestige with my classmates, none too high until then, climbed to amazing heights.
It was a glorious evening and well worth flunking two classes the next day. It was somewhat dimmed by the fact that we had each heard about Carl—killed when the Bugs smashed our research station on Pluto—but only somewhat, as we had each learned to live with such things.
One thing did startle me. Carmen relaxed and took off her hat while we were eating, and her blue-black hair was all gone. I knew that a lot of the Navy girls shaved their heads—after all, it’s not practical to take care of long hair in a war ship and, most especially, a pilot can’t risk having her hair floating around, getting in the way, in any free-fall maneuvers. Shucks, I shaved my own scalp, just for convenience and cleanliness. But my mental picture of little Carmen included this mane of thick, wavy hair.
But, do you know, once you get used to it, it’s rather cute. I mean, if a girl looks all right to start with, she still looks all right with her head smooth. And it does serve to set a Navy girl apart from civilian chicks—sort of a lodge pin, like the gold skulls for combat drops. It made Carmen look distinguished, gave her dignity, and for the first time I fully realized that she really was an officer and a fighting man—as well as a very pretty girl.
I got back to barracks with stars in my eyes and whiffing slightly of perfume. Carmen had kissed me good-by.
The only O.C.S. classroom course the content of which I’m even going to mention was: History and Moral Philosophy.
I was surprised to find it in the curriculum. H. & M. P. has nothing to do with combat and how to lead a platoon; its connection with war (where it is
connected) is in why to fight—a matter already settled for any candidate long before he reaches O.C.S. An M.I. fights because he is M.I.
I decided that the course must be a repeat for the benefit of those of us (maybe a third) who had never had it in school. Over 20 per cent of my
cadet class were not from Terra (a much higher percentage of colonials sign up to serve than do people born on Earth—sometimes it makes you wonder) and of the three-quarters or so from Terra, some were from associated territories and other places where H. & M. P. might not be taught. So I figured it for a cinch course which would give me a little rest from tough courses, the ones with decimal points.
Wrong again. Unlike my high school course, you had to pass it. Not by examination, however. The course included examinations and prepared papers and quizzes and such—but no marks. What you had to have was the instructor’s opinion that you were worthy of commission.
If he gave you a downcheck, a board sat on you, questioning not merely whether you could be an officer but whether you belonged in the Army at
any rank, no matter how fast you might be with weapons—deciding whether to give you extra instruction . . . or just kick you out and let you be a civilian.
History and Moral Philosophy works like a delayed-action bomb. You wake up in the middle of the night and think: Now what did he mean by
that? That had been true even with my high school course; I simply hadn’t known what Colonel Dubois was talking about. When I was a kid I thought it was silly for the course to be in the science department. It was nothing like physics or chemistry; why wasn’t it over in the fuzzy studies where it belonged? The only reason I paid attention was because there were such lovely arguments.
I had no idea that “Mr.” Dubois was trying to teach me why to fight until long after I had decided to fight anyhow.
Well, why should I fight? Wasn’t it preposterous to expose my tender skin to the violence of unfriendly strangers? Especially as the pay at any rank was barely spending money, the hours terrible, and the working conditions worse? When I could be sitting at home while such matters were
handled by thick-skulled characters who enjoyed such games? Particularly when the strangers against whom I fought never had done anything to me personally until I showed up and started kicking over their tea wagon—what sort of nonsense is this?
Fight because I’m an M.I.? Brother, you’re drooling like Dr. Pavlov’s dogs. Cut it out and start thinking.
Major Reid, our instructor, was a blind man with a disconcerting habit of looking straight at you and calling you by name. We were reviewing events after the war between the Russo-Anglo-American Alliance and the Chinese Hegemony, 1987 and following. But this was the day that we heard the news of the destruction of San Francisco and the San Joaquin Valley; I thought he would give us a pep talk. After all, even a civilian ought to be able to figure it out now—the Bugs or us. Fight or die.
Major Reid didn’t mention San Francisco. He had one of us apes summarize the negotiated treaty of New Delhi, discuss how it ignored
prisoners of war . . . and, by implication, dropped the subject forever; the armistice became a stalemate and prisoners stayed where they were—on one side; on the other side they were turned loose and, during the Disorders, made their way home—or not if they didn’t want to.
Major Reid’s victim summed up the unreleased prisoners : survivors of two divisions of British paratroopers, some thousands of civilians, captured mostly in Japan, the Philippines, and Russia and sentenced for “political” crimes.
“Besides that, there were many other military prisoners,” Major Reid’s victim went on, “captured during and before the war—there were rumors that some had been captured in an earlier war and never released. The total of unreleased prisoners was never known. The best estimates place the number around sixty-five thousand.”
“Why the ‘best’?”
“Uh, that’s the estimate in the textbook, sir.”
“Please be precise in your language. Was the number greater or less than one hundred thousand?” “Uh, I don’t know, sir.”
“And nobody else knows. Was it greater than one thousand?” “Probably, sir. Almost certainly.”
“Utterly certain—because more than that eventually escaped, found their ways home, were tallied by name. I see you did not read your lesson
carefully. Mr. Rico!”
Now I am the victim. “Yes, sir.”
“Are a thousand unreleased prisoners sufficient reason to start or resume a war? Bear in mind that millions of innocent people may die, almost
certainly will die, if war is started or resumed.”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir! More than enough reason.”
“‘More than enough.’ Very well, is one prisoner, unreleased by the enemy, enough reason to start or resume a war?”
I hesitated. I knew the M.I. answer—but I didn’t think that was the one he wanted. He said sharply, “Come, come, Mister! We have an upper limit
of one thousand; I invited you to consider a lower limit of one. But you can’t pay a promissory note which reads ‘somewhere between one and one
thousand pounds’—and starting a war is much more serious than paying a trifle of money. Wouldn’t it be criminal to endanger a country—two countries in fact—to save one man? Especially as he may not deserve it? Or may die in the meantime? Thousands of people get killed every day in accidents . . . so why hesitate over one man? Answer! Answer yes, or answer no—you’re holding up the class.”
He got my goat. I gave him the cap trooper’s answer. “Yes, sir!” “‘Yes’ what?”
“It doesn’t matter whether it’s a thousand—or just one, sir. You fight.”
“Aha! The number of prisoners is irrelevant. Good. Now prove your answer.”
I was stuck. I knewit was the right answer. But I didn’t know why. He kept hounding me. “Speak up, Mr. Rico. This is an exact science. You have
made a mathematical statement; you must give proof. Someone may claim that you have asserted, by analogy, that one potato is worth the same
price, no more, no less, as one thousand potatoes. No?” “No, sir!”
“Why not? Prove it.” “Men are not potatoes.”
“Good, good, Mr. Rico! I think we have strained your tired brain enough for one day. Bring to class tomorrow a written proof, in symbolic logic, of your answer to my original question. I’ll give you a hint. See reference seven in today’s chapter. Mr. Salomon! How did the present political organization evolve out of the Disorders? And what is its moral justification?”
Sally stumbled through the first part. However, nobody can describe accurately how the Federation came about; it just grew. With national governments in collapse at the end of the XXth century, something had to fill the vacuum, and in many cases it was returned veterans. They had lost a war, most of them had no jobs, many were sore as could be over the terms of the Treaty of New Delhi, especially the P.O.W. foul-up—and they knew how to fight. But it wasn’t revolution; it was more like what happened in Russia in 1917—the system collapsed; somebody else moved in.
The first known case, in Aberdeen, Scotland, was typical. Some veterans got together as vigilantes to stop rioting and looting, hanged a few people (including two veterans) and decided not to let anyone but veterans on their committee. Just arbitrary at first—they trusted each other a bit, they didn’t trust anyone else. What started as an emergency measure became constitutional practice . . . in a generation or two.
Probably those Scottish veterans, since they were finding it necessary to hang some veterans, decided that, if they had to do this, they weren’t going to let any “bleedin’, profiteering, black-market, double-time-for-overtime, army-dodging, unprintable” civilians have any say about it. They’d do what they were told, see?—while us apes straightened things out! That’s my guess, because I might feel the same way . . . and historians agree
that antagonism between civilians and returned soldiers was more intense than we can imagine today.
Sally didn’t tell it by the book. Finally Major Reid cut him off. “Bring a summary to class tomorrow, three thousand words. Mr. Salomon, can you give me a reason—not historical nor theoretical but practical—why the franchise is today limited to discharged veterans?”
“Uh, because they are picked men, sir. Smarter.”
“Preposterous!” “Sir?”
“Is the word too long for you? I said it was a silly notion. Service men are not brighter than civilians. In many cases civilians are much more
intelligent. That was the sliver of justification underlying the attempted coup d’état just before the Treaty of New Delhi, the so-called ‘Revolt of the Scientists’: let the intelligent elite run things and you’ll have utopia. It fell flat on its foolish face of course. Because the pursuit of science, despite its social benefits, is itself not a social virtue; its practitioners can be men so self-centered as to be lacking in social responsibility. I’ve given you a hint, Mister; can you pick it up?”
Sally answered, “Uh, service men are disciplined, sir.”
Major Reid was gentle with him. “Sorry. An appealing theory not backed up by facts. You and I are not permitted to vote as long as we remain in the Service, nor is it verifiable that military discipline makes a man self-disciplined once he is out; the crime rate of veterans is much like that of civilians. And you have forgotten that in peacetime most veterans come from non-combatant auxiliary services and have not been subjected to the full rigors of military discipline; they have merely been harried, overworked, and endangered—yet their votes count.”
Major Reid smiled. “Mr. Salomon, I handed you a trick question. The practical reason for continuing our system is the same as the practical reason for continuing anything: It works satisfactorily.
“Nevertheless, it is instructive to observe the details. Throughout history men have labored to place the sovereign franchise in hands that would guard it well and use it wisely, for the benefit of all. An early attempt was absolute monarchy, passionately defended as the ‘divine right of kings.’
“Sometimes attempts were made to select a wise monarch, rather than leave it up to God, as when the Swedes picked a Frenchman, General Bernadotte, to rule them. The objection to this is that the supply of Bernadottes is limited.
“Historic examples ranged from absolute monarch to utter anarch; mankind has tried thousands of ways and many more have been proposed,
some weird in the extreme such as the antlike communism urged by Plato under the misleading title The Republic. But the intent has always been moralistic: to provide stable and benevolent government.
“All systems seek to achieve this by limiting franchise to those who are believed to have the wisdom to use it justly. I repeat ‘all systems’; even the so-called ‘unlimited democracies’ excluded from franchise not less than one-quarter of their populations by age, birth, poll tax, criminal record, or other.”
Major Reid smiled cynically. “I have never been able to see how a thirty-year-old moron can vote more wisely than a fifteen-year-old genius . . . but that was the age of the ‘divine right of the common man.’ Never mind, they paid for their folly.
“The sovereign franchise has been bestowed by all sorts of rules—place of birth, family of birth, race, sex, property, education, age, religion, et cetera. All these systems worked and none of them well. All were regarded as tyrannical by many, all eventually collapsed or were overthrown.
“Now here are we with still another system . . . and our system works quite well. Many complain but none rebel; personal freedom for all is greatest in history, laws are few, taxes are low, living standards are as high as productivity permits, crime is at its lowest ebb. Why? Not because our voters are smarter than other people; we’ve disposed of that argument. Mr. Tammany—can you tell us why our system works better than any used by our ancestors?”
I don’t know where Clyde Tammany got his name; I’d take him for a Hindu. He answered, “Uh, I’d venture to guess that it’s because the electors are a small group who know that the decisions are up to them . . . so they study the issues.”
“No guessing, please; this is exact science. And your guess is wrong. The ruling nobles of many another system were a small group fully aware of their grave power. Furthermore, our franchised citizens are not everywhere a small fraction; you know or should know that the percentage of citizens among adults ranges from over eighty per cent on Iskander to less than three per cent in some Terran nations—yet government is much the same everywhere. Nor are the voters picked men; they bring no special wisdom, talent, or training to their sovereign tasks. So what difference is there between our voters and wielders of franchise in the past? We have had enough guesses; I’ll state the obvious: Under our system every voter and officeholder is a man who has demonstrated through voluntary and difficult service that he places the welfare of the group ahead of personal advantage.
“And that is the one practical difference.
“He may fail in wisdom, he may lapse in civic virtue. But his average performance is enormously better than that of any other class of rulers in history.”
Major Reid paused to touch the face of an old-fashioned watch, “reading” its hands. “The period is almost over and we have yet to determine the
moral reason for our success in governing ourselves. Now continued success is never a matter of chance. Bear in mind that this is science, not wishful thinking; the universe is what it is, not what we want it to be. To vote is to wield authority; it is the supreme authority from which all other authority derives—such as mine to make your lives miserable once a day. Force, if you will!—the franchise is force, naked and raw, the Power of the Rods and the Ax. Whether it is exerted by ten men or by ten billion, political authority is force.
“But this universe consists of paired dualities. What is the converse of authority? Mr. Rico.”
He had picked one I could answer. “Responsibility, sir.”
“Applause. Both for practical reasons and for mathematically verifiable moral reasons, authority and responsibility must be equal—else a balancing takes place as surely as current flows between points of unequal potential. To permit irresponsible authority is to sow disaster; to hold a man responsible for anything he does not control is to behave with blind idiocy. The unlimited democracies were unstable because their citizens were not responsible for the fashion in which they exerted their sovereign authority . . . other than through the tragic logic of history. The unique ‘poll tax’ that we must pay was unheard of. No attempt was made to determine whether a voter was socially responsible to the extent of his literally unlimited authority. If he voted the impossible, the disastrous possible happened instead—and responsibility was then forced on him willy-nilly and destroyed both him and his foundationless temple.
“Superficially, our system is only slightly different; we have democracy unlimited by race, color, creed, birth, wealth, sex, or conviction, and anyone may win sovereign power by a usually short and not too arduous term of service—nothing more than a light workout to our cave-man ancestors. But that slight difference is one between a system that works, since it is constructed to match the facts, and one that is inherently unstable. Since sovereign franchise is the ultimate in human authority, we insure that all who wield it accept the ultimate in social responsibility—we require each person who wishes to exert control over the state to wager his own life—and lose it, if need be—to save the life of the state. The maximum
responsibility a human can accept is thus equated to the ultimate authority a human can exert. Yin and yang, perfect and equal.”
The Major added, “Can anyone define why there has never been revolution against our system? Despite the fact that every government in history has had such? Despite the notorious fact that complaints are loud and unceasing?”
One of the older cadets took a crack at it. “Sir, revolution is impossible.” “Yes. But why?”
“Because revolution—armed uprising—requires not only dissatisfaction but aggressiveness. A revolutionist has to be willing to fight and die—or he’s just a parlor pink. If you separate out the aggressive ones and make them the sheep dogs, the sheep will never give you trouble.”
“Nicely put! Analogy is always suspect, but that one is close to the facts. Bring me a mathematical proof tomorrow. Time for one more question— you ask it and I’ll answer. Anyone?”
“Uh, sir, why not go—well, go the limit? Require everyone to serve and let everybody vote?” “Young man, can you restore my eyesight?”
“Sir? Why, no, sir!”
“You would find it much easier than to instill moral virtue—social responsibility—into a person who doesn’t have it, doesn’t want it, and resents having the burden thrust on him. This is why we make it so hard to enroll, so easy to resign. Social responsibility above the level of family, or at most of tribe, requires imagination—devotion, loyalty, all the higher virtues—which a man must develop himself; if he has them forced down him, he will vomit them out. Conscript armies have been tried in the past. Look up in the library the psychiatric report on brainwashed prisoners in the so-called ‘Korean War,’ circa 1950—the Mayor Report. Bring an analysis to class.” He touched his watch. “Dismissed.”
Major Reid gave us a busy time.
But it was interesting. I caught one of those master’s-thesis assignments he chucked around so casually; I had suggested that the Crusades were
different from most wars. I got sawed off and handed this: Required: to prove that war and moral perfection derive from the same genetic inheritance. Briefly, thus: All wars arise from population pressure. (Yes, even the Crusades, though you have to dig into trade routes and birth rate
and several other things to prove it. ) Morals—all correct moral rules—derive from the instinct to survive; moral behavior is survival behavior above the individual level—as in a father who dies to save his children. But since population pressure results from the process of surviving through others, then war, because it results from population pressure, derives from the same inherited instinct which produces all moral rules suitable for human beings.
Check of proof: Is it possible to abolish war by relieving population pressure (and thus do away with the all-too-evident evils of war) through constructing a moral code under which population is limited to resources?
Without debating the usefulness or morality of planned parenthood, it may be verified by observation that any breed which stops its own increase gets crowded out by breeds which expand. Some human populations did so, in Terran history, and other breeds moved in and engulfed them.
Nevertheless, let’s assume that the human race manages to balance birth and death, just right to fit its own planets, and thereby becomes peaceful. What happens?
Soon (about next Wednesday) the Bugs move in, kill off this breed which “ain’ta gonna study war no more” and the universe forgets us. Which still may happen. Either we spread and wipe out the Bugs, or they spread and wipe us out—because both races are tough and smart and want the same real estate.
Do you know how fast population pressure could cause us to fill the entire universe shoulder to shoulder? The answer will astound you, just the flicker of an eye in terms of the age of our race.
Try it—it’s a compound-interest expansion.
But does Man have any “right” to spread through the universe?
Man is what he is, a wild animal with the will to survive, and (so far) the ability, against all competition. Unless one accepts that, anything one says
about morals, war, politics—you name it—is nonsense. Correct morals arise from knowing what Man is—not what do-gooders and well-meaning old Aunt Nellies would like him to be.
The universe will let us know—later—whether or not Man has any “right” to expand through it.
In the meantime the M.I. will be in there, on the bounce and swinging, on the side of our own race.
Toward the end each of us was shipped out to serve under an experienced combat commander. This was a semifinal examination, your ’board- ship instructor could decide that you didn’t have what it takes. You could demand a board but I never heard of anybody who did; they either came back with an upcheck—or we never saw them again.
Some hadn’t failed; it was just that they were killed—because assignments were to ships about to go into action. We were required to keep kit bags packed—once at lunch, all the cadet officers of my company were tapped; they left without eating and I found myself cadet company commander.
Like boot chevrons, this is an uncomfortable honor, but in less than two days my own call came.
I bounced down to the Commandant’s office, kit bag over my shoulder and feeling grand. I was sick of late hours and burning eyes and never catching up, of looking stupid in class; a few weeks in the cheerful company of a combat team was just what Johnnie needed!
I passed some new cadets, trotting to class in close formation, each with the grim look that every O.C.S. candidate gets when he realizes that possibly he made a mistake in bucking for officer, and I found myself singing. I shut up when I was within earshot of the office.
Two others were there, Cadets Hassan and Byrd. Hassan the Assassin was the oldest man in our class and looked like something a fisherman had let out of a bottle, while Birdie wasn’t much bigger than a sparrow and about as intimidating.
We were ushered into the Holy of Holies. The Commandant was in his wheel chair—we never saw him out of it except Saturday inspection and parade, I guess walking hurt. But that didn’t mean you didn’t see him—you could be working a prob at the board, turn around and find that wheel chair behind you, and Colonel Nielssen reading your mistakes.
He never interrupted—there was a standing order not to shout “Attention!” But it’s disconcerting. There seemed to be about six of him.
The Commandant had a permanent rank of fleet general (yes, that Nielssen); his rank as colonel was temporary, pending second retirement, to permit him to be Commandant. I once questioned a paymaster about this and confirmed what the regulations seemed to say: The Commandant got only the pay of a colonel—but would revert to the pay of a fleet general on the day he decided to retire again.
Well, as Ace says, it takes all sorts—I can’t imagine choosing half pay for the privilege of riding herd on cadets.
Colonel Nielssen looked up and said, “Morning, gentlemen. Make yourselves comfortable.” I sat down but wasn’t comfortable. He glided over to a coffee machine, drew four cups, and Hassan helped him deal them out. I didn’t want coffee but a cadet doesn’t refuse the Commandant’s hospitality.
He took a sip. “I have your orders, gentlemen,” he announced, “and your temporary commissions.” He went on, “But I want to be sure you understand your status.”
We had already been lectured about this. We were going to be officers just enough for instruction and testing—“supernumerary, probationary, and temporary.” Very junior, quite superfluous, on good behavior, and extremely temporary; we would revert to cadet when we got back and could be busted at any time by the officers examining us.
We would be “temporary third lieutenants”—a rank as necessary as feet on a fish, wedged into the hairline between fleet sergeants and real officers. It is as low as you can get and still be called an “officer.” If anybody ever saluted a third lieutenant, the light must have been bad.
“Your commission reads ‘third lieutenant,’” he went on, “but your pay stays the same, you continue to be addressed as ‘Mister,’ the only change in uniform is a shoulder pip even smaller than cadet insignia. You continue under instruction since it has not yet been settled that you are fit to be officers.” The Colonel smiled. “So why call you a ‘third lieutenant’?”
I had wondered about that. Why this whoopty-do of “commissions” that weren’t real commissions? Of course I knew the textbook answer.
“Mr. Byrd?” the Commandant said.
“Uh . . . to place us in the line of command, sir.”
“Exactly!” Colonel glided to a T.O. on one wall. It was the usual pyramid, with chain of command defined all the way down. “Look at this—” He pointed to a box connected to his own by a horizontal line; it read: ASSISTANT TO COMMANDANT (Miss Kendrick).
“Gentlemen,” he went on, “I would have trouble running this place without Miss Kendrick. Her head is a rapid-access file to everything that happens around here.” He touched a control on his chair and spoke to the air. “Miss Kendrick, what mark did Cadet Byrd receive in military law last
term?”
Her answer came back at once: “Ninety-three per cent, Commandant.”
“Thank you.” He continued, “You see? I sign anything if Miss Kendrick has initialed it. I would hate to have an investigating committee find out how often she signs my name and I don’t even see it. Tell me, Mr. Byrd . . . if I drop dead, does Miss Kendrick carry on to keep things moving?”
“Why, uh—” Birdie looked puzzled. “I suppose, with routine matters, she would do what was necess—”
“She wouldn’t do a blessed thing!” the Colonel thundered. “Until Colonel Chauncey told her what to do—his way. She is a very smart woman and understands what you apparently do not, namely, that she is not in the line of command and has no authority.”
He went on, “‘Line of command’ isn’t just a phrase; it’s as real as a slap in the face. If I ordered you to combat as a cadet the most you could do would be to pass along somebody else’s orders. If your platoon leader bought out and you then gave an order to a private—a good order, sensible and wise—you would be wrong and he would be just as wrong if he obeyed it. Because a cadet cannot be in the line of command. A cadet has no military existence, no rank, and is not a soldier. He is a student who will become a soldier—either an officer, or at his former rank. While he is under
Army discipline, he is not in the Army. That is why—”
A zero. A nought with no rim. If a cadet wasn’t even in the Army—“Colonel!”
“Eh? Speak up, young man. Mr. Rico.”
I had startled myself but I had to say it. “But . . . if we aren’t in the Army . . . then we aren’t M.I. Sir?” He blinked at me. “This worries you?”
“I, uh, don’t believe I like it much, sir.” I didn’t like it at all. I felt naked.
“I see.” He didn’t seem displeased. “You let me worry about the space-lawyer aspects of it, son.” “But—”
“That’s an order. You are technically not an M.I. But the M.I. hasn’t forgotten you; the M.I. never forgets its own no matter where they are. If you are struck dead this instant, you will be cremated as Second Lieutenant Juan Rico, Mobile Infantry, of—” Colonel Nielssen stopped. “Miss Kendrick, what was Mr. Rico’s ship?”
“The Rodger Young.”
“Thank you.” He added, “—in and of TFCT Rodger Young, assigned to mobile combat team Second Platoon of George Company, Third Regiment, First Division, M.I.—the ‘Roughnecks,’” he recited with relish, not consulting anything once he had been reminded of my ship. “A good outfit, Mr. Rico—proud and nasty. Your Final Orders go back to them for Taps and that’s the way your name would read in Memorial Hall. That’s why we always commission a dead cadet, son—so we can send him home to his mates.”
I felt a surge of relief and homesickness and missed a few words. “. . . lip buttoned while I talk, we’ll have you back in the M.I. where you belong. You must be temporary officers for your ’prentice cruise because there is no room for deadheads in a combat drop. You’ll fight—and take orders—
and give orders. Legal orders, because you will hold rank and be ordered to serve in that team; that makes any order you give in carrying out your assigned duties as binding as one signed by the C-in-C.
“Even more,” the Commandant went on, “once you are in line of command, you must be ready instantly to assume higher command. If you are in a one-platoon team—quite likely in the present state of the war—and you are assistant platoon leader when your platoon leader buys it . . . then . . .
you . . . are . . . It!”
He shook his head. “Not ‘acting platoon leader.’ Not a cadet leading a drill. Not a ‘junior officer under instruction.’ Suddenly you are the Old Man,
the Boss, Commanding Officer Present—and you discover with a sickening shock that fellow human beings are depending on you alone to tell them what to do, how to fight, how to complete the mission and get out alive. They wait for the sure voice of command—while seconds trickle away
—and it’s up to you to be that voice, make decisions, give the right orders . . . and not only the right ones but in a calm, unworried tone. Because it’s a cinch, gentlemen, that your team is in trouble—bad trouble!—and a strange voice with panic in it can turn the best combat team in the Galaxy into
a leaderless, lawless, fear-crazed mob.
“The whole merciless load will land without warning. You must act at once and you’ll have only God over you. Don’t expect Him to fill in tactical
details; that’s your job. He’ll be doing all that a soldier has a right to expect if He helps you keep the panic you are sure to feel out of your voice.” The Colonel paused. I was sobered and Birdie was looking terribly serious and awfully young and Hassan was scowling. I wished that I were
back in the drop room of the Rog, with not too many chevrons and an after-chow bull session in full swing. There was a lot to be said for the job of assistant section leader—when you come right to it, it’s a lot easier to die than it is to use your head.
The Commandant continued: “That’s the Moment of Truth, gentlemen. Regrettably there is no method known to military science to tell a real
officer from a glib imitation with pips on his shoulders, other than through ordeal by fire. Real ones come through—or die gallantly; imitations crack up.
“Sometimes, in cracking up, the misfits die. But the tragedy lies in the loss of others . . . good men, sergeants and corporals and privates, whose only lack is fatal bad fortune in finding themselves under the command of an incompetent.
“We try to avoid this. First is our unbreakable rule that every candidate must be a trained trooper, blooded under fire, a veteran of combat drops. No other army in history has stuck to this rule, although some came close. Most great military schools of the past—Saint Cyr, West Point, Sandhurst, Colorado Springs—didn’t even pretend to follow it; they accepted civilian boys, trained them, commissioned them, sent them out with no battle experience to command men . . . and sometimes discovered too late that this smart young ‘officer’ was a fool, a poltroon, or a hysteric.
“At least we have no misfits of those sorts. We know you are good soldiers—brave and skilled, proved in battle—else you would not be here. We know that your intelligence and education meet acceptable minimums. With this to start on, we eliminate as many as possible of the not-quite- competent—get them quickly back in ranks before we spoil good cap troopers by forcing them beyond their abilities. The course is very hard— because what will be expected of you later is still harder.
“In time we have a small group whose chances look fairly good. The major criterion left untested is one we cannot test here; that undefinable something which is the difference between a leader in battle . . . and one who merely has the earmarks but not the vocation. So we field-test for it.
“Gentlemen!—you have reached that point. Are you ready to take the oath?”
There was an instant of silence, then Hassan the Assassin answered firmly, “Yes, Colonel,” and Birdie and I echoed.
The Colonel frowned. “I have been telling you how wonderful you are—physically perfect, mentally alert, trained, disciplined, blooded. The very
model of the smart young officer—” He snorted. “Nonsense! You may become officers someday. I hope so . . . we not only hate to waste money and time and effort, but also, and much more important, I shiver in my boots every time I send one of you half-baked not-quite-officers up to the Fleet, knowing what a Frankensteinian monster I may be turning loose on a good combat team. If you understood what you are up against, you
wouldn’t be so all-fired ready to take the oath the second the question is put to you. You may turn it down and force me to let you go back to your permanent ranks. But you don’t know.
“So I’ll try once more. Mr. Rico! Have you ever thought how it would feel to be court-martialed for losing a regiment?”
I was startled silly. “Why—No, sir, I never have.” To be court-martialed—for any reason—is eight times as bad for an officer as for an enlisted man. Offenses which will get privates kicked out (maybe with lashes, possibly without) rate death in an officer. Better never to have been born!
“Think about it,” he said grimly. “When I suggested that your platoon leader might be killed, I was by no means citing the ultimate in military disaster. Mr. Hassan! What is the largest number of command levels ever knocked out in a single battle?”
The Assassin scowled harder than ever. “I’m not sure, sir. Wasn’t there a while during Operation Bughouse when a major commanded a brigade, before the Soveki-poo?”
“There was and his name was Fredericks. He got a decoration and a promotion. If you go back to the Second Global War, you can find a case in which a naval junior officer took command of a major ship and not only fought it but sent signals as if he were admiral. He was vindicated even though there were officers senior to him in line of command who were not even wounded. Special circumstances—a breakdown in communications. But I am thinking of a case in which four levels were wiped out in six minutes—as if a platoon leader were to blink his eyes and find himself commanding a brigade. Any of you heard of it?”
Dead silence.
“Very well. It was one of those bush wars that flared up on the edges of the Napoleonic wars. This young officer was the most junior in a naval vessel—wet navy, of course—wind-powered, in fact. This youngster was about the age of most of your class and was not commissioned. He carried the title of ‘temporary third lieutenant’—note that this is the title you are about to carry. He had no combat experience; there were four
officers in the chain of command above him. When the battle started his commanding officer was wounded. The kid picked him up and carried him
out of the line of fire. That’s all—make a pickup on a comrade. But he did it without being ordered to leave his post. The other officers all bought it
while he was doing this and he was tried for ‘deserting his post of duty as commanding officer in the presence of the enemy.’ Convicted. Cashiered.”
I gasped. “For that? Sir.”
“Why not? True, we make pickup. But we do it under different circumstances from a wet-navy battle, and by orders to the man making pickup. But
pickup is never an excuse for breaking off battle in the presence of the enemy. This boy’s family tried for a century and a half to get his conviction reversed. No luck, of course. There was doubt about some circumstances but no doubt that he had left his post during battle without orders. True,
he was green as grass—but he was lucky not to be hanged.” Colonel Nielssen fixed me with a cold eye. “Mr. Rico—could this happen to you?” I gulped. “I hope not, sir.”
“Let me tell you how it could on this very ’prentice cruise. Suppose you are in a multiple-ship operation, with a full regiment in the drop. Officers drop first, of course. There are advantages to this and disadvantages, but we do it for reasons of morale; no trooper ever hits the ground on a hostile planet without an officer. Assume the Bugs know this—and they may. Suppose they work up some trick to wipe out those who hit the ground first . . . but not good enough to wipe out the whole drop. Now suppose, since you are a supernumerary, you have to take any vacant capsule instead of being fired with the first wave. Where does that leave you?”
“Uh, I’m not sure, sir.”
“You have just inherited command of a regiment. What are you going to do with your command, Mister? Talk fast—the Bugs won’t wait!”
“Uh . . .” I caught an answer right out of the book and parroted it. “I’ll take command and act as circumstances permit, sir, according to the tactical
situation as I see it.”
“You will, eh?” The Colonel grunted. “And you’ll buy a farm too—that’s all anybody can do with a foul-up like that. But I hope you’ll go down swinging—and shouting orders to somebody, whether they make sense or not. We don’t expect kittens to fight wildcats and win—we merely expect them to try. All right, stand up. Put up your right hands.”
He struggled to his feet. Thirty seconds later we were officers—“temporary, probationary, and supernumerary.”
I thought he would give us our shoulder pips and let us go. We aren’t supposed to buy them—they’re a loan, like the temporary commission they represent. Instead he lounged back and looked almost human.
“See here, lads—I gave you a talk on how rough it’s going to be. I want you to worry about it, doing it in advance, planning what steps you might take against any combination of bad news that can come your way, keenly aware that your life belongs to your men and is not yours to throw away
in a suicidal reach for glory . . . and that your life isn’t yours to save, either, if the situation requires that you expend it. I want you to worry yourself sick
before a drop, so that you can be unruffled when the trouble starts.
“Impossible, of course. Except for one thing. What is the only factor that can save you when the load is too heavy? Anyone?” Nobody answered.
“Oh, come now!” Colonel Nielssen said scornfully. “You aren’t recruits. Mr. Hassan!” “Your leading sergeant, sir,” the Assassin said slowly.
“Obviously. He’s probably older than you are, more drops under his belt, and he certainly knows his team better than you do. Since he isn’t carrying that dreadful, numbing load of top command, he may be thinking more clearly than you are. Ask his advice. You’ve got one circuit just for that.
“It won’t decrease his confidence in you; he’s used to being consulted. If you don’t, he’ll decide you are a fool, a cocksure know-it-all—and he’ll be right.
“But you don’t have to take his advice. Whether you use his ideas, or whether they spark some different plan—make your decision and snap out orders. The one thing—the only thing!—that can strike terror in the heart of a good platoon sergeant is to find that he’s working for a boss who can’t
make up his mind.
“There never has been an outfit in which officers and men were more dependent on each other than they are in the M.I., and sergeants are the glue that holds us together. Never forget it.”
The Commandant whipped his chair around to a cabinet near his desk. It contained row on row of pigeonholes, each with a little box. He pulled out one and opened it. “Mr. Hassan—”
“Sir?”
“These pips were worn by Captain Terrence O’Kelly on his ’prentice cruise. Does it suit you to wear them?” “Sir?” The Assassin’s voice squeaked and I thought the big lunk was going to break into tears. “Yes, sir!”
“Come here.” Colonel Nielssen pinned them on, then said, “Wear them as gallantly as he did . . . but bring them back. Understand me?” “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”
“I’m sure you will. There’s an air car waiting on the roof and your boat boosts in twenty-eight minutes. Carry out your orders, sir!” The Assassin saluted and left; the Commandant turned and picked out another box. “Mr. Byrd, are you superstitious?”
“No, sir.”
“Really? I am, quite. I take it you would not object to wearing pips which have been worn by five officers, all of whom were killed in action?” Birdie barely hesitated. “No, sir.”
“Good. Because these five officers accumulated seventeen citations, from the Terran Medal to the Wounded Lion. Come here. The pip with the brown discoloration must always be worn on your left shoulder—and don’t try to buff it off! Just try not to get the other one marked in the same fashion. Unless necessary, and you’ll know when it is necessary. Here is a list of former wearers. You have thirty minutes until your transportation leaves. Bounce up to Memorial Hall and look up the record of each.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Carry out your orders, sir!”
He turned to me, looked at my face and said sharply, “Something on your mind, son? Speak up!”
“Uh—” I blurted it out. “Sir, that temporary third lieutenant—the one that got cashiered. How could I find out what happened?”
“Oh. Young man, I didn’t mean to scare the daylights out of you; I simply intended to wake you up. The battle was on one June 1813 old style
between USF Chesapeake and HMF Shannon. Try the Naval Encyclopedia; your ship will have it.” He turned back to the case of pips and frowned.
Then he said, “Mr. Rico, I have a letter from one of your high school teachers, a retired officer, requesting that you be issued the pips he wore as a third lieutenant. I am sorry to say that I must tell him ‘No.’”
“Sir?” I was delighted to hear that Colonel Dubois was still keeping track of me—and very disappointed, too.
“Because I can’t. I issued those pips two years ago—and they never came back. Real estate deal. Hmm—” He took a box, looked at me. “You could start a new pair. The metal isn’t important; the importance of the request lies in the fact that your teacher wanted you to have them.”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
“Or”—he cradled the box in his hands—“you could wear these. They have been worn five times . . . and the last four candidates to wear them have all failed of commission—nothing dishonorable but pesky bad luck. Are you willing to take a swing at breaking the hoodoo? Turn them into good-luck pips instead?”
I would rather have petted a shark. But I answered, “All right, sir. I’ll take a swing at it.”
“Good.” He pinned them on me. “Thank you, Mr. Rico. You see, these were mine, I wore them first . . . and it would please me mightily to have them brought back to me with that streak of bad luck broken, have you go on and graduate.”
I felt ten feet tall. “I’ll try, sir!”
“I know you will. You may now carry out your orders, sir. The same air car will take both you and Byrd. Just a moment—Are your mathematics textbooks in your bag?”
“Sir? No, sir.”
“Get them. The Weightmaster of your ship has been advised of your extra baggage allowance.”
I saluted and left, on the bounce. He had me shrunk down to size as soon as he mentioned math.
My math books were on my study desk, tied into a package with a daily assignment sheet tucked under the cord. I gathered the impression that Colonel Nielssen never left anything unplanned—but everybody knew that.
Birdie was waiting on the roof by the air car. He glanced at my books and grinned. “Too bad. Well, if we’re in the same ship, I’ll coach you. What ship?”
“Tours.”
“Sorry, I’m for the Moskva.” We got in, I checked the pilot, saw that it had been pre-set for the field, closed the door and the car took off. Birdie added, “You could be worse off. The Assassin took not only his math books but two other subjects.”
Birdie undoubtedly knew and he had not been showing off when he offered to coach me; he was a professor type except that his ribbons proved that he was a soldier too.
Instead of studying math Birdie taught it. One period each day he was a faculty member, the way little Shujumi taught judo at Camp Currie. The
M.I. doesn’t waste anything; we can’t afford to. Birdie had a B.S. in math on his eighteenth birthday, so naturally he was assigned extra duty as instructor—which didn’t keep him from being chewed out at other hours.
Not that he got chewed out much. Birdie had that rare combo of brilliant intellect, solid education, common sense, and guts, which gets a cadet marked as a potential general. We figured he was a cinch to command a brigade by the time he was thirty, what with the war.
But my ambitions didn’t soar that high. “It would be a dirty, rotten shame,” I said, “if the Assassin flunked out,” while thinking that it would be a dirty,
rotten shame if I flunked out.
“He won’t,” Birdie answered cheerfully. “They’ll sweat him through the rest if they have to put him in a hypno booth and feed him through a tube.
Anyhow,” he added, “Hassan could flunk out and get promoted for it.” “Huh?”
“Didn’t you know? The Assassin’s permanent rank is first lieutenant—field commission, naturally. He reverts to it if he flunks out. See the regs.”
I knew the regs. If I flunked math, I’d revert to buck sergeant, which is better than being slapped in the face with a wet fish any way you think about it . . . and I’d thought about it, lying awake nights after busting a quiz.
But this was different. “Hold it,” I protested. “He gave up first lieutenant, permanent grade . . . and has just made temporary third lieutenant . . . in order to become a second lieutenant? Are you crazy? Or is he?”
Birdie grinned. “Just enough to make us both M.I.”
“But—I don’t get it.”
“Sure you do. The Assassin has no education that he didn’t pick up in the M.I. So how high can he go? I’m sure he could command a regiment in battle and do a real swingin’ job—provided somebody else planned the operation. But commanding in battle is only a fraction of what an officer does, especially a senior officer. To direct a war, or even to plan a single battle and mount the operation, you have to have theory of games, operational analysis, symbolic logic, pessimistic synthesis, and a dozen other skull subjects. You can sweat them out on your own if you’ve got the grounding. But have them you must, or you’ll never get past captain, or possibly major. The Assassin knows what he is doing.”
“I suppose so,” I said slowly. “Birdie, Colonel Nielssen must know that Hassan was an officer—is an officer, really.” “Huh? Of course.”
“He didn’t talk as if he knew. We all got the same lecture.”
“Not quite. Did you notice that when the Commandant wanted a question answered a particular way he always asked the Assassin?” I decided it was true. “Birdie, what is your permanent rank?”
The car was just landing; he paused with a hand on the latch and grinned. “PFC—I don’t dare flunk out!”
I snorted. “You won’t. You can’t!” I was surprised that he wasn’t even a corporal, but a kid as smart and well educated as Birdie would go to
O.C.S. just as quickly as he proved himself in combat . . . which, with the war on, could be only months after his eighteenth birthday. Birdie grinned still wider. “We’ll see.”
“You’ll graduate. Hassan and I have to worry, but not you.”
“So? Suppose Miss Kendrick takes a dislike to me.” He opened the door and looked startled. “Hey! They’re sounding my call. So long!” “See you, Birdie.”
But I did not see him and he did not graduate. He was commissioned two weeks later and his pips came back with their eighteenth decoration— the Wounded Lion, posthumous.
CH:13
Youse guys think this deleted outfit is a blankety-blank nursery. Well, it ain’t! See?
—Remark attributed to a Hellenic corporal before the walls of Troy, 1194 B.C.
The Rodger Young carries one platoon and is crowded; the Tours carries six—and is roomy. She has the tubes to drop them all at once and enough spare room to carry twice that number and make a second drop. This would make her very crowded, with eating in shifts, hammocks in passageways and drop rooms, rationed water, inhale when your mate exhales, and get your elbow out of my eye! I’m glad they didn’t double up while I was in her.
But she has the speed and lift to deliver such crowded troops still in fighting condition to any point in Federation space and much of Bug space; under Cherenkov drive she cranks Mike 400 or better—say Sol to Capella, forty-six light-years, in under six weeks.
Of course, a six-platoon transport is not big compared with a battle wagon or passenger liner; these things are compromises. The M.I. prefers speedy little one-platoon corvettes which give flexibility for any operation, while if it was left up to the Navy we would have nothing but regimental transports. It takes almost as many Navy files to run a corvette as it does to run a monster big enough for a regiment—more maintenance and housekeeping, of course, but soldiers can do that. After all, those lazy troopers do nothing but sleep and eat and polish buttons—do ’em good to have a little regular work. So says the Navy.
The real Navy opinion is even more extreme: The Army is obsolete and should be abolished.
The Navy doesn’t say this officially—but talk to a Naval officer who is on R&R and feeling his oats; you’ll get an earful. They think they can fight any war, win it, send a few of their own people down to hold the conquered planet until the Diplomatic Corps takes charge.
I admit that their newest toys can blow any planet right out of the sky—I’ve never seen it but I believe it. Maybe I’m as obsolete as Tyrannosaurusrex. I don’t feel obsolete and us apes can do things that the fanciest ship cannot. If the government doesn’t want those things done, no doubt they’ll
tell us.
Maybe it’s just as well that neither the Navy nor the M.I. has the final word. A man can’t buck for Sky Marshal unless he has commanded both a regiment and a capital ship—go through M.I. and take his lumps and then become a Naval officer (I think little Birdie had that in mind), or first become an astrogator-pilot and follow it with Camp Currie, etc.
I’ll listen respectfully to any man who has done both.
Like most transports, the Tours is a mixed ship; the most amazing change for me was to be allowed “North of Thirty.” The bulkhead that separates ladies’ country from the rough characters who shave is not necessarily No. 30 but, by tradition, it is called “bulkhead thirty” in any mixed
ship. The wardroom is just beyond it and the rest of ladies’ country is farther forward. In the Tours the wardroom also served as messroom for enlisted women, who ate just before we did, and it was partitioned between meals into a recreation room for them and a lounge for their officers. Male officers had a lounge called the cardroom just abaft thirty.
Besides the obvious fact that drop & retrieval require the best pilots (i.e., female), there is very strong reason why female Naval officers are assigned to transports: It is good for trooper morale.
Let’s skip M.I. traditions for a moment. Can you think of anything sillier than letting yourself be fired out of a spaceship with nothing but mayhem and sudden death at the other end? However, if someone must do this idiotic stunt, do you know of a surer way to keep a man keyed up to the point where he is willing than by keeping him constantly reminded that the only good reason why men fight is a living, breathing reality?
In a mixed ship, the last thing a trooper hears before a drop (maybe the last word he ever hears) is a woman’s voice, wishing him luck. If you don’t think this is important, you’ve probably resigned from the human race.
The Tours had fifteen Naval officers, eight ladies and seven men; there were eight M.I. officers including (I am happy to say) myself. I won’t say “bulkhead thirty” caused me to buck for O.C.S. but the privilege of eating with the ladies is more incentive than any increase in pay. The Skipper was president of the mess, my boss Captain Blackstone was vice-president—not because of rank; three Naval officers ranked him; but as C.O. of the strike force he was de facto senior to everybody but the Skipper.
Every meal was formal. We would wait in the cardroom until the hour struck, follow Captain Blackstone in and stand behind our chairs; the Skipper would come in followed by her ladies and, as she reached the head of the table, Captain Blackstone would bow and say, “Madam President . . . ladies,” and she would answer, “Mr. Vice . . . gentlemen,” and the man on each lady’s right would seat her.
This ritual established that it was a social event, not an officers’ conference; thereafter ranks or titles were used, except that junior Naval officers and myself alone among the M.I. were called “Mister” or “Miss”—with one exception which fooled me.
My first meal aboard I heard Captain Blackstone called “Major,” although his shoulder pips plainly read “captain.” I got straightened out later. There can’t be two captains in a Naval vessel so an Army captain is bumped one rank socially rather than commit the unthinkable of calling him by the title reserved for the one and only monarch. If a Naval captain is aboard as anything but skipper, he or she is called “Commodore” even if the skipper is a lowly lieutenant.
The M.I. observes this by avoiding the necessity in the wardroom and paying no attention to the silly custom in our own part of the ship.
Seniority ran downhill from each end of the table, with the Skipper at the head and the strike force C.O. at the foot, the junior midshipmen at his right and myself at the Skipper’s right. I would most happily have sat by the junior midshipman; she was awfully pretty—but the arrangement is planned chaperonage; I never even learned her first name.
I knew that I, as the lowliest male, sat on the Skipper’s right—but I didn’t know that I was supposed to seat her. At my first meal she waited and nobody sat down—until the third assistant engineer jogged my elbow. I haven’t been so embarrassed since a very unfortunate incident in kindergarten, even though Captain Jorgenson acted as if nothing had happened.
When the Skipper stands up the meal is over. She was pretty good about this but once she stayed seated only a few minutes and Captain Blackstone got annoyed. He stood up but called out, “Captain—”
She stopped. “Yes, Major?”
“Will the Captain please give orders that my officers and myself be served in the cardroom?” She answered coldly, “Certainly, sir.” And we were. But no Naval officer joined us.
The following Saturday she exercised her privilege of inspecting the M.I. aboard—which transport skippers almost never do. However, she simply walked down the ranks without commenting. She was not really a martinet and she had a nice smile when she wasn’t being stern. Captain Blackstone assigned Second Lieutenant “Rusty” Graham to crack the whip over me about math; she found out about it, somehow, and told Captain Blackstone to have me report to her office for one hour after lunch each day, whereupon she tutored me in math and bawled me out when my “homework” wasn’t perfect.
Our six platoons were two companies as a rump battalion; Captain Blackstone commanded Company D, Blackie’s Blackguards, and also
commanded the rump battalion. Our battalion commander by the T.O., Major Xera, was with A and B companies in the Tours’ sister ship Normandy Beach—maybe half a sky away; he commanded us only when the full battalion dropped together—except that Cap’n Blackie routed certain reports and letters through him. Other matters went directly to Fleet, Division, or Base, and Blackie had a truly wizard fleet sergeant to keep
such things straight and to help him handle both a company and a rump battalion in combat.
Administrative details are not simple in an army spread through many light-years in hundreds of ships. In the old Valley Forge, in the RodgerYoung, and now in the Tours I was in the same regiment, the Third (“Pampered Pets”) Regiment of the First (“Polaris”) M.I. Division. Two battalions formed from available units had been called the “Third Regiment” in Operation Bughouse but I did not see “my” regiment; all I saw was PFC
Bamburger and a lot of Bugs.
I might be commissioned in the Pampered Pets, grow old and retire in it—and never even see my regimental commander. The Roughnecks had a company commander but he also commanded the first platoon (“Hornets”) in another corvette; I didn’t know his name until I saw it on my orders to
O.C.S. There is a legend about a “lost platoon” that went on R&R as its corvette was decommissioned. Its company commander had just been promoted and the other platoons had been attached tactically elsewhere. I’ve forgotten what happened to the platoon’s lieutenant but R&R is a routine time to detach an officer—theoretically after a relief has been sent to understudy him, but reliefs are always scarce.
They say this platoon enjoyed a local year of the flesh-pots along Churchill Road before anybody missed them.
I don’t believe it. But it could happen.
The chronic scarcity of officers strongly affected my duties in Blackie’s Blackguards. The M.I. has the lowest percentage of officers in any army of record and this factor is just part of the M.I.’s unique “divisional wedge.” “D.W.” is military jargon but the idea is simple: If you have 10,000 soldiers, how many fight? And how many just peel potatoes, drive lorries, count graves, and shuffle papers?
In the M.I., 10,000 men fight.
In the mass wars of the XXth century it sometimes took 70,000 men (fact!) to enable 10,000 to fight.
I admit it takes the Navy to place us where we fight; however, an M.I. strike force, even in a corvette, is at least three times as large as the transport’s Navy crew. It also takes civilians to supply and service us; about 10 per cent of us are on R&R at any time; and a few of the very best of us are rotated to instruct at boot camps.
While a few M.I. are on desk jobs you will always find that they are shy an arm or leg, or some such. These are the ones—the Sergeant Hos and the Colonel Nielssens—who refuse to retire, and they really ought to count twice since they release able-bodied M.I. by filling jobs which require fighting spirit but not physical perfection. They do work that civilians can’t do—or we would hire civilians. Civilians are like beans; you buy ’em as needed for any job which merely requires skill and savvy.
But you can’t buy fighting spirit.
It’s scarce. We use all of it, waste none. The M.I. is the smallest army in history for the size of the population it guards. You can’t buy an M.I., you can’t conscript him, you can’t coerce him—you can’t even keep him if he wants to leave. He can quit thirty seconds before a drop, lose his nerve and not get into his capsule and all that happens is that he is paid off and can never vote.
At O.C.S. we studied armies in history that were driven like galley slaves. But the M.I. is a free man; all that drives him comes from inside—that
self-respect and need for the respect of his mates and his pride in being one of them called morale, or esprit de corps.
The root of our morale is: “Everybody works, everybody fights.” An M.I. doesn’t pull strings to get a soft, safe job; there aren’t any. Oh, a trooper
will get away with what he can; any private with enough savvy to mark time to music can think up reasons why he should not clean compartments or break out stores; this is a soldier’s ancient right.
But all “soft, safe” jobs are filled by civilians; that goldbricking private climbs into his capsule certain that everybody, from general to private, is doing it with him. Light-years away and on a different day, or maybe an hour or so later—no matter. What does matter is that everybody drops. This
is why he enters the capsule, even though he may not be conscious of it.
If we ever deviate from this, the M.I. will go to pieces. All that holds us together is an idea—one that binds more strongly than steel but its magic power depends on keeping it intact.
It is this “everybody fights” rule that lets the M.I. get by with so few officers.
I know more about this than I want to, because I asked a foolish question in Military History and got stuck with an assignment which forced me to
dig up stuff ranging from De Bello Gallico to Tsing’s classic Collapse of the Golden Hegemony. Consider an ideal M.I. division—on paper, because you won’t find one elsewhere. How many officers does it require? Never mind units attached from other corps; they may not be present during a ruckus and they are not like M.I.—the special talents attached to Logistics & Communications are all ranked as officers. If it will make a memory man, a telepath, a senser, or a lucky man happy to have me salute him, I’m glad to oblige; he is more valuable than I am and I could not replace him if I lived to be two hundred. Or take the K-9 Corps, which is 50 per cent “officers” but whose other 50 per cent are neodogs.
None of these is in line of command, so let’s consider only us apes and what it takes to lead us.
This imaginary division has 10,800 men in 216 platoons, each with a lieutenant. Three platoons to a company calls for 72 captains; four companies to a battalion calls for 18 majors or lieutenant colonels. Six regiments with six colonels can form two or three brigades, each with a short general, plus a medium-tall general as top boss.
You wind up with 317 officers out of a total, all ranks, of 11,117.
There are no blank files and every officer commands a team. Officers total 3 per cent—which is what the M.I. does have, but arranged somewhat differently. In fact a good many platoons are commanded by sergeants and many officers “wear more than one hat” in order to fill some utterly necessary staff jobs.
Even a platoon leader should have “staff ”—his platoon sergeant.
But he can get by without one and his sergeant can get by without him. But a general must have staff; the job is too big to carry in his hat. He needs a big planning staff and a small combat staff. Since there are never enough officers, the team commanders in his flag transport double as his planning staff and are picked from the M.I.’s best mathematical logicians—then they drop with their own teams. The general drops with a small combat staff, plus a small team of the roughest, on-the-bounce troopers in the M.I. Their job is to keep the general from being bothered by rude strangers while he is managing the battle. Sometimes they succeed.
Besides necessary staff billets, any team larger than a platoon ought to have a deputy commander. But there are never enough officers so we make do with what we’ve got. To fill each necessary combat billet, one job to one officer, would call for a 5 per cent ratio of officers—but 3 per cent is all we’ve got.
In place of that optimax of 5 per cent that the M.I. never can reach, many armies in the past commissioned 10 per cent of their number, or even 15 per cent—and sometimes a preposterous 20 per cent! This sounds like a fairy tale but it was a fact, especially during the XXth century. What kind
of an army has more “officers” than corporals? (And more non-coms than privates!)
An army organized to lose wars—if history means anything. An army that is mostly organization, red tape, and overhead, most of whose “soldiers” never fight.
But what do “officers” do who do not command fighting men?
Fiddlework, apparently—officers’ club officer, morale officer, athletics officer, public information officer, recreation officer, PX officer,
transportation officer, legal officer, chaplain, assistant chaplain, junior assistant chaplain, officer-in-charge of anything anybody can think of—even
nursery officer!
In the M.I., such things are extra duty for combat officers or, if they are real jobs, they are done better and cheaper and without demoralizing a fighting outfit by hiring civilians. But the situation got so smelly in one of the XXth century major powers that real officers, ones who commanded
fighting men, were given special insignia to distinguish them from the swarms of swivel-chair hussars.
The scarcity of officers got steadily worse as the war wore on, because the casualty rate is always highest among officers . . . and the M.I. nevercommissions a man simply to fill a vacancy. In the long run, each boot regiment must supply its own share of officers and the percentage can’t be raised without lowering the standards—The strike force in the Tours needed thirteen officers—six platoon leaders, two company commanders and two deputies, and a strike force commander staffed by a deputy and an adjutant.
What it had was six . . . and me.
TABLE OF ORGANIZATION
“Rump Battalion” Strike Force—
Cpt. Blackstone (“first hat”)
Fleet Sergeant
I would have been under Lieutenant Silva, but he left for hospital the day I reported, ill with some sort of twitching awfuls. But this did not necessarily mean that I would get his platoon. A temporary third lieutenant is not considered an asset; Captain Blackstone could place me under Lieutenant Bayonne and put a sergeant in charge of his own first platoon, or even “put on a third hat” and take the platoon himself.
In fact, he did both and nevertheless assigned me as platoon leader of the first platoon of the Blackguards. He did this by borrowing the Wolverine’s best buck sergeant to act as his battalion staffer, then he placed his fleet sergeant as platoon sergeant of his first platoon—a job two grades below his chevrons. Then Captain Blackstone spelled it out for me in a head-shrinking lecture: I would appear on the T.O. as platoon leader, but Blackie himself and the fleet sergeant would run the platoon.
As long as I behaved myself, I could go through the motions. I would even be allowed to drop as platoon leader—but one word from my platoon sergeant to my company commander and the jaws of the nutcracker would close.
It suited me. It was my platoon as long as I could swing it—and if I couldn’t, the sooner I was shoved aside the better for everybody. Besides, it was a lot less nerve-racking to get a platoon that way than by sudden catastrophe in battle.
I took my job very seriously, for it was my platoon—the T.O. said so. But I had not yet learned to delegate authority and, for about a week, I was around troopers’ country much more than is good for a team. Blackie called me into his stateroom. “Son, what in Ned do you think you are doing?”
I answered stiffly that I was trying to get my platoon ready for action.
“So? Well, that’s not what you are accomplishing. You are stirring them like a nest of wild bees. Why the deuce do you think I turned over to you
the best sergeant in the Fleet? If you will go to your stateroom, hang yourself on a hook, and stay there! . . . until ‘Prepare for Action’ is sounded, he’ll hand that platoon over to you tuned like a violin.”
“As the Captain pleases, sir,” I agreed glumly.
“And that’s another thing—I can’t stand an officer who acts like a confounded kaydet. Forget that silly third-person talk around me—save it for generals and the Skipper. Quit bracing your shoulders and clicking your heels. Officers are supposed to look relaxed, son.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And let that be the last time you say ‘sir’ to me for one solid week. Same for saluting. Get that grim kaydet look off your face and hang a smile on it.”
“Yes, s—Okay.”
“That’s better. Lean against the bulkhead. Scratch yourself. Yawn. Anything but that tin-soldier act.”
I tried . . . and grinned sheepishly as I discovered that breaking a habit is not easy. Leaning was harder work than standing at attention. Captain Blackstone studied me. “Practice it,” he said. “An officer can’t look scared or tense; it’s contagious. Now tell me, Johnnie, what your platoon needs. Never mind the piddlin’ stuff; I’m not interested in whether a man has the regulation number of socks in his locker.”
I thought rapidly. “Uh . . . do you happen to know if Lieutenant Silva intended to put Brumby up for sergeant?”
“I do happen to know. What’s your opinion?”
“Well . . . the record shows that he has been acting section leader the past two months. His efficiency marks are good.”
“I asked for your recommendation, Mister.”
“Well, s—Sorry. I’ve never seen him work on the ground, so I can’t have a real opinion; anybody can soldier in the drop room. But the way I see it, he’s been acting sergeant too long to bust him back to chaser and promote a squad leader over him. He ought to get that third chevron before we drop—or he ought to be transferred when we get back. Sooner, if there’s a chance for a spaceside transfer.”
Blackie grunted. “You’re pretty generous in giving away my Blackguards—for a third lieutenant.”
I turned red. “Just the same, it’s a soft spot in my platoon. Brumby ought to be promoted, or transferred. I don’t want him back in his old job with somebody promoted over his head; he’d likely turn sour and I’d have an even worse soft spot. If he can’t have another chevron, he ought to go to repple-depple for cadre. Then he won’t be humiliated and he gets a fair shake to make sergeant in another team—instead of a dead end here.”
“Really?” Blackie did not quite sneer. “After that masterly analysis, apply your powers of deduction and tell me why Lieutenant Silva failed to transfer him three weeks ago when we arrived around Sanctuary.”
I had wondered about that. The time to transfer a man is the earliest possible instant after you decide to let him go—and without warning; it’s better for the man and the team—so says the book. I said slowly, “Was Lieutenant Silva already ill at that time, Captain?”
“No.”
The pieces matched. “Captain, I recommend Brumby for immediate promotion.” His eyebrows shot up. “A minute ago you were about to dump him as useless.”
“Uh, not quite. I said it had to be one or the other—but I didn’t know which. Now I know.” “Continue.”
“Uh, this assumes that Lieutenant Silva is an efficient officer—”
“Hummmph! Mister, for your information, ‘Quick’ Silva has an unbroken string of ‘Excellent—Recommended for Promotion’ on his Form Thirty- One.”
“But I knew that he was good,” I plowed on, “because I inherited a good platoon. A good officer might not promote a man for—oh, for many reasons—and still not put his misgivings in writing. But in this case, if he could not recommend him for sergeant, then he wouldn’t keep him with the team—so he would get him out of the ship at the first opportunity. But he didn’t. Therefore I know he intended to promote Brumby.” I added, “But I can’t see why he didn’t push it through three weeks ago, so that Brumby could have worn his third chevron on R&R.”
Captain Blackstone grinned. “That’s because you don’t credit me with being efficient.” “S—I beg pardon?”
“Never mind. You’ve proved who killed Cock Robin and I don’t expect a still-moist kaydet to know all the tricks. But listen and learn, son. As long as this war goes on, don’t ever promote a man just before you return to Base.”
“Uh . . . why not, Captain?”
“You mentioned sending Brumby to Replacement Depot if he was not to be promoted. But that’s just where he would have gone if we hadpromoted him three weeks ago. You don’t know how hungry that non-com desk at repple-depple is. Paw through the dispatch file and you’ll find a demand that we supply two sergeants for cadre. With a platoon sergeant being detached for O.C.S. and a buck sergeant spot vacant, I was under complement and able to refuse.” He grinned savagely. “It’s a rough war, son, and your own people will steal your best men if you don’t watch ’em.” He took two sheets of paper out of a drawer. “There—”
One was a letter from Silva to Cap’n Blackie, recommending Brumby for sergeant; it was dated over a month ago.
The other was Brumby’s warrant for sergeant—dated the day after we left Sanctuary. “That suit you?” he asked.
“Huh? Oh, yes indeed!”
“I’ve been waiting for you to spot the weak place in your team, and tell me what had to be done. I’m pleased that you figured it out—but only middlin’ pleased because an experienced officer would have analyzed it at once from the T.O. and the service records. Never mind, that’s how you gain experience. Now here’s what you do. Write me a letter like Silva’s; date it yesterday. Tell your platoon sergeant to tell Brumby that you have put him up for a third stripe—and don’t mention that Silva did so. You didn’t know that when you made the recommendation, so we’ll keep it that way. When I swear Brumby in, I’ll let him know that both his officers recommended him independently—which will make him feel good. Okay, anything more?”
“Uh . . . not in organization—unless Lieutenant Silva planned to promote Naidi, vice Brumby. In which case we could promote one PFC to lance . .
. and that would allow us to promote four privates to PFC, including three vacancies now existing. I don’t know whether it’s your policy to keep the
T.O. filled up tight or not?”
“Might as well,” Blackie said gently, “as you and I know that some of those lads aren’t going to have many days in which to enjoy it. Just remember that we don’t make a man a PFC until after he has been in combat—not in Blackie’s Blackguards we don’t. Figure it out with your platoon sergeant and let me know. No hurry . . . any time before bedtime tonight. Now . . . anything else?”
“Well—Captain, I’m worried about the suits.” “So am I. All platoons.”
“I don’t know all the other platoons, but with five recruits to fit, plus four suits damaged and exchanged, and two more downchecked this past week and replaced from stores—well, I don’t see how Cunha and Navarre can warm up that many and run routine tests on forty-one others and get it all done by our calculated date. Even if no trouble develops—”
“Trouble always develops.”
“Yes, Captain. But that’s two hundred and eighty-six man-hours just for warm & fit, and plus a hundred and twenty-three hours of routine checks. And it always takes longer.”
“Well, what do you think can be done? The other platoons will lend you help if they finish their suits ahead of time. Which I doubt. Don’t ask to borrow help from the Wolverines; we’re more likely to lend them help.”
“Uh . . . Captain, I don’t know what you’ll think of this, since you told me to stay out of troopers’ country. But when I was a corporal, I was assistant to the Ordnance & Armor sergeant.”
“Keep talking.”
“Well, right at the last I was the O&A sergeant. But I was just standing in another man’s shoes—I’m not a finished O&A mechanic. But I’m a pretty darn good assistant and if I was allowed to, well, I can either warm new suits, or run routine checks—and give Cunha and Navarre that much more time for trouble.”
Blackie leaned back and grinned. “Mister, I have searched the regs carefully . . . and I can’t find the one that says an officer mustn’t get his hands dirty.” He added, “I mention that because some ‘young gentlemen’ who have been assigned to me apparently had read such a regulation. All right, draw some dungarees—no need to get your uniform dirty along with your hands. Go aft and find your platoon sergeant, tell him about Brumby and order him to prepare recommendations to close the gaps in the T.O. in case I should decide to confirm your recommendation for Brumby. Then tell him that you are going to put in all your time on ordnance and armor—and that you want him to handle everything else. Tell him that if he has any problems to look you up in the armory. Don’t tell him you consulted me—just give him orders. Follow me?”
“Yes, s—Yes, I do.”
“Okay, get on it. As you pass through the cardroom, please give my compliments to Rusty and tell him to drag his lazy carcass in here.”
For the next two weeks I was never so busy—not even in boot camp. Working as an ordnance & armor mech about ten hours a day was not all that I did. Math, of course—and no way to duck it with the Skipper tutoring me. Meals—say an hour and a half a day. Plus the mechanics of staying alive
—shaving, showering, putting buttons in uniforms and trying to chase down the Navy master-at-arms, get him to unlock the laundry to locate clean
uniforms ten minutes before inspection. (It is an unwritten law of the Navy that facilities must always be locked when they are most needed. )
Guard mount, parade, inspections, a minimum of platoon routine, took another hour a day. But besides, I was “George.” Every outfit has a
“George.” He’s the most junior officer and has the extra jobs—athletics officer, mail censor, referee for competitions, school officer, correspondence courses officer, prosecutor courts-martial, treasurer of the welfare mutual loan fund, custodian of registered publications, stores officer, troopers’ mess officer, et cetera ad endless nauseam.
Rusty Graham had been “George” until he happily turned it over to me. He wasn’t so happy when I insisted on a sight inventory on everything for which I had to sign. He suggested that if I didn’t have sense enough to accept a commissioned officer’s signed inventory then perhaps a direct order would change my tune. So I got sullen and told him to put his orders in writing—with a certified copy so that I could keep the original and endorse the copy over to the team commander.
Rusty angrily backed down—even a second lieutenant isn’t stupid enough to put such orders in writing. I wasn’t happy either as Rusty was my roommate and was then still my tutor in math, but we held the sight inventory. I got chewed out by Lieutenant Warren for being stupidly officious but he opened his safe and let me check his registered publications. Captain Blackstone opened his with no comment and I couldn’t tell whether he approved of my sight inventory or not.
Publications were okay but accountable property was not. Poor Rusty! He had accepted his predecessor’s count and now the count was short— and the other officer was not merely gone, he was dead. Rusty spent a restless night (and so did I!), then went to Blackie and told him the truth.
Blackie chewed him out, then went over the missing items, found ways to expend most of them as “lost in combat.” It reduced Rusty’s shortages to a few days’ pay—but Blackie had him keep the job, thereby postponing the cash reckoning indefinitely.
Not all “George” jobs caused that much headache. There were no courts-martial; good combat teams don’t have them. There was no mail to censor as the ship was in Cherenkov drive. Same for welfare loans for similar reasons. Athletics I delegated to Brumby; referee was “if and when.” The troopers’ mess was excellent; I initialed menus and sometimes inspected the galley, i.e., I scrounged a sandwich without getting out of dungarees when working late in the armory. Correspondence courses meant a lot of paperwork since quite a few were continuing their educations, war or no war—but I delegated my platoon sergeant and the records were kept by the PFC who was his clerk.
Nevertheless “George” jobs soaked up about two hours every day—there were so many.
You see where this left me—ten hours O&A, three hours math, meals an hour and a half, personal one hour, military fiddlework one hour, “George” two hours, sleep eight hours; total, twenty-six and a half hours. The ship wasn’t even on the twenty-five-hour Sanctuary day; once we left we went on Greenwich standard and the universal calendar.
The only slack was in my sleeping time.
I was sitting in the cardroom about one o’clock one morning, plugging away at math, when Captain Blackstone came in. I said, “Good evening, Captain.”
“Morning, you mean. What the deuce ails you, son? Insomnia?” “Uh, not exactly.”
He picked up a stack of sheets, remarking, “Can’t your sergeant handle your paperwork? Oh, I see. Go to bed.” “But, Captain—”
“Sit back down. Johnnie, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I never see you here in the cardroom, evenings. I walk past your room, you’re at your desk. When your bunkie goes to bed, you move out here. What’s the trouble?”
“Well . . . I just never seem to get caught up.”
“Nobody ever does. How’s the work going in the armory?” “Pretty well. I think we’ll make it.”
“I think so, too. Look, son, you’ve got to keep a sense of proportion. You have two prime duties. First is to see that your platoon’s equipment is ready—you’re doing that. You don’t have to worry about the platoon itself, I told you that. The second—and just as important—you’ve got to be ready to fight. You’re muffing that.”
“I’ll be ready, Captain.”
“Nonsense and other comments. You’re getting no exercise and losing sleep. Is that how to train for a drop? When you lead a platoon, son, you’ve got to be on the bounce. From here on you will exercise from sixteen-thirty to eighteen hundred each day. You will be in your sack with lights out at twenty-three hundred—and if you lie awake fifteen minutes two nights in a row, you will report to the Surgeon for treatment. Orders.”
“Yes, sir.” I felt the bulkheads closing in on me and added desperately, “Captain, I don’t see howI can get to bed by twenty-three—and still get everything done.”
“Then you won’t. As I said, son, you must have a sense of proportion. Tell me how you spend your time.”
So I did. He nodded. “Just as I thought.” He picked up my math “homework,” tossed it in front of me. “Take this. Sure, you want to work on it. But why work so hard before we go into action?”
“Well, I thought—”
“‘Think’ is what you didn’t do. There are four possibilities, and only one calls for finishing these assignments. First, you might buy a farm. Second,
you might buy a small piece and be retired with an honorary commission. Third, you might come through all right . . . but get a downcheck on your Form Thirty-One from your examiner, namely me. Which is just what you’re aching for at the present time—why, son, I won’t even let you drop if you show up with eyes red from no sleep and muscles flabby from too much chair parade. The fourth possibility is that you take a grip on yourself . . . in which case I might let you take a swing at leading a platoon. So let’s assume that you do and put on the finest show since Achilles slew Hector and I pass you. In that case only—you’ll need to finish these math assignments. So do them on the trip back.
“That takes care of that—I’ll tell the Skipper. The rest of those jobs you are relieved of, right now. On our way home you can spend your time on math. If we get home. But you’ll never get anywhere if you don’t learn to keep first things first. Go to bed!”
A week later we made rendezvous, coming out of drive and coasting short of the speed of light while the fleet exchanged signals. We were sent Briefing, Battle Plan, our Mission & Orders—a stack of words as long as a novel—and were told not to drop.
Oh, we were to be in the operation but we would ride down like gentlemen, cushioned in retrieval boats. This we could do because the Federation already held the surface; Second, Third, and Fifth M.I. Divisions had taken it—and paid cash.
The described real estate didn’t seem worth the price. Planet P is smaller than Terra, with a surface gravity of 0.7, is mostly arctic-cold ocean and rock, with lichenous flora and no fauna of interest. Its air is not breathable for long, being contaminated with nitrous oxide and too much ozone. Its one continent is about half the size of Australia, plus many worthless islands; it would probably require as much terra-forming as Venus before we could use it.
However, we were not buying real estate to live on; we went there because Bugs were there—and they were there on our account, so Staff thought. Staff told us that Planet P was an uncompleted advance base (prob. 87 ± 6 per cent) to be used against us.
Since the planet was no prize, the routine way to get rid of this Bug base would be for the Navy to stand off at a safe distance and render this ugly spheroid uninhabitable by Man or Bug. But the C-in-C had other ideas.
The operation was a raid. It sounds incredible to call a battle involving hundreds of ships and thousands of casualties a “raid,” especially as, in the meantime, the Navy and a lot of other cap troopers were keeping things stirred up many light-years into Bug space in order to divert them from reinforcing Planet P.
But the C-in-C was not wasting men; this giant raid could determine who won the war, whether next year or thirty years hence. We needed to learn more about Bug psychology. Must we wipe out every Bug in the Galaxy? Or was it possible to trounce them and impose a peace? We did not know; we understood them as little as we understand termites.
To learn their psychology we had to communicate with them, learn their motivations, find out why they fought and under what conditions they would stop; for these, the Psychological Warfare Corps needed prisoners.
Workers are easy to capture. But a Bug worker is hardly more than animate machinery. Warriors can be captured by burning off enough limbs to make them helpless—but they are almost as stupid without a director as workers. From such prisoners our own professor types had learned important matters—the development of that oily gas that killed them but not us came from analyzing the biochemistries of workers and warriors, and we had had other new weapons from such research even in the short time I had been a cap trooper. But to discover why Bugs fight we needed to study members of their brain caste. Also, we hoped to exchange prisoners.
So far, we had never taken a brain Bug alive. We had either cleaned out colonies from the surface, as on Sheol, or (as had too often been the case) raiders had gone down their holes and not come back. A lot of brave men had been lost this way.
Still more had been lost through retrieval failure. Sometimes a team on the ground had its ship or ships knocked out of the sky. What happens to such a team? Possibly it dies to the last man. More probably it fights until power and ammo are gone, then survivors are captured as easily as so many beetles on their backs.
From our co-belligerents the Skinnies we knew that many missing troopers were alive as prisoners—thousands we hoped, hundreds we were sure. Intelligence believed that prisoners were always taken to Klendathu; the Bugs are as curious about us as we are about them—a race of individuals able to build cities, starships, armies, may be even more mysterious to a hive entity than a hive entity is to us.
As may be, we wanted those prisoners back!
In the grim logic of the universe this may be a weakness. Perhaps some race that never bothers to rescue an individual may exploit this human
trait to wipe us out. The Skinnies have such a trait only slightly and the Bugs don’t seem to have it at all—nobody ever saw a Bug come to the aid of another because he was wounded; they co-operate perfectly in fighting but units are abandoned the instant they are no longer useful.
Our behavior is different. How often have you seen a headline like this?—TWO DIE ATTEMPTING RESCUE OF DROWNING CHILD. If a man gets lost in the mountains, hundreds will search and often two or three searchers are killed. But the next time somebody gets lost just as many volunteers turn out.
Poor arithmetic . . . but very human. It runs through all our folklore, all human religions, all our literature—a racial conviction that when one human needs rescue, others should not count the price.
Weakness? It might be the unique strength that wins us a Galaxy.
Weakness or strength, Bugs don’t have it; there was no prospect of trading fighters for fighters.
But in a hive polyarchy, some castes are valuable—or so our Psych Warfare people hoped. If we could capture brain Bugs, alive and undamaged, we might be able to trade on good terms.
And suppose we captured a queen!
What is a queen’s trading value? A regiment of troopers? Nobody knew, but Battle Plan ordered us to capture Bug “royalty,” brains and queens,
at any cost, on the gamble that we could trade them for human beings.
The third purpose of Operation Royalty was to develop methods: how to go down, how to dig them out, how to win with less than total weapons.
Trooper for warrior, we could now defeat them above ground; ship for ship, our Navy was better; but, so far, we had had no luck when we tried to go down their holes.
If we failed to exchange prisoners on any terms, then we still had to: (a) win the war, (b) do so in a way that gave us a fighting chance to rescue our own people, or (c)—might as well admit it—die trying and lose. Planet P was a field test to determine whether we could learn how to root them out.
Briefing was read to every trooper and he heard it again in his sleep during hypno preparation. So, while we all knew that Operation Royalty was laying the groundwork toward eventual rescue of our mates, we also knew that Planet P held no human prisoners—it had never been raided. So there was no reason to buck for medals in a wild hope of being personally in on a rescue; it was just another Bug hunt, but conducted with massive
force and new techniques. We were going to peel that planet like an onion, until we knewthat every Bug had been dug out.
The Navy had plastered the islands and that unoccupied part of the continent until they were radioactive glaze; we could tackle Bugs with no
worries about our rear. The Navy also maintained a ball-of-yarn patrol in tight orbits around the planet, guarding us, escorting transports, keeping a spy watch on the surface to make sure that Bugs did not break out behind us despite that plastering.
Under the Battle Plan, the orders for Blackie’s Blackguards charged us with supporting the prime Mission when ordered or as opportunity presented, relieving another company in a captured area, protecting units of other corps in that area, maintaining contact with M.I. units around us— and smacking down any Bugs that showed their ugly heads.
So we rode down in comfort to an unopposed landing. I took my platoon out at a powered-armor trot. Blackie went ahead to meet the company commander he was relieving, get the situation and size up the terrain. He headed for the horizon like a scared jack rabbit.
I had Cunha send his first sections’ scouts out to locate the forward corners of my patrol area and I sent my platoon sergeant off to my left to
make contact with a patrol from the Fifth Regiment. We, the Third Regiment, had a grid three hundred miles wide and eighty miles deep to hold; my piece was a rectangle forty miles deep and seventeen wide in the extreme left flank forward corner. The Wolverines were behind us, Lieutenant Khoroshen’s platoon on the right and Rusty beyond him.
Our First Regiment had already relieved a Vth Div. regiment ahead of us, with a “brick wall” overlap which placed them on my corner as well as ahead. “Ahead” and “rear,” “right flank” and “left,” referred to orientation set up in dead-reckoning tracers in each command suit to match the grid of the Battle Plan. We had no true front, simply an area, and the only fighting at the moment was going on several hundred miles away, to our arbitrary right and rear.
Somewhere off that way, probably two hundred miles, should be 2nd platoon, G Co, 2nd Batt, 3rd Reg—commonly known as “The Roughnecks.”
Or the Roughnecks might be forty light-years away. Tactical organization never matches the Table of Organization; all I knew from Plan was that
something called the “2nd Batt” was on our right flank beyond the boys from the Normandy Beach. But that battalion could have been borrowed from another division. The Sky Marshal plays his chess without consulting the pieces.
Anyhow, I should not be thinking about the Roughnecks; I had all I could do as a Blackguard. My platoon was okay for the moment—safe as you can be on a hostile planet—but I had plenty to do before Cunha’s first squad reached the far corner. I needed to:
Locate the platoon leader who had been holding my area.
Establish corners and identify them to section and squad leaders.
Make contact liaison with eight platoon leaders on my sides and corners, five of whom should already be in position (those from Fifth and First Regiments) and three (Khoroshen of the Blackguards and Bayonne and Sukarno of the Wolverines) who were now moving into position.
Get my own boys spread out to their initial points as fast as possible by shortest routes.
The last had to be set up first, as the open column in which we disembarked would not do it. Brumby’s last squad needed to deploy to the left flank; Cunha’s leading squad needed to spread from dead ahead to left oblique; the other four squads must fan out in between.
This is a standard square deployment and we had simulated how to reach it quickly in the drop room; I called out: “Cunha! Brumby! Time to spread ’em out,” using the non-com circuit.
“Roger sec one!”—“Roger sec two!”
“Section leaders take charge . . . and caution each recruit. You’ll be passing a lot of Cherubs. I don’t want ’em shot at by mistake!” I bit down for my private circuit and said, “Sarge, you got contact on the left?”
“Yes, sir. They see me, they see you.”
“Good. I don’t see a beacon on our anchor corner—” “Missing.”
“—so you coach Cunha by D.R. Same for the lead scout—that’s Hughes—and have Hughes set a new beacon.” I wondered why the Third or Fifth hadn’t replaced that anchor beacon—my forward left corner where three regiments came together.
No use talking. I went on: “D.R. check. You bear two seven five, miles twelve.” “Sir, reverse is nine six, miles twelve scant.”
“Close enough. I haven’t found my opposite number yet, so I’m cutting out forward at max. Mind the shop.” “Got ’em, Mr. Rico.”
I advanced at max speed while clicking over to officers’ circuit: “Square Black One, answer. Black One, Chang’s Cherubs—do you read me? Answer.” I wanted to talk with the leader of the platoon we were relieving—and not for any perfunctory I-relieve-you-sir: I wanted the ungarnished word.
I didn’t like what I had seen.
Either the top brass had been optimistic in believing that we had mounted overwhelming force against a small, not fully developed Bug base—or the Blackguards had been awarded the spot where the roof fell in. In the few moments I had been out of the boat I had spotted half a dozen armored suits on the ground—empty I hoped, dead men possibly, but ’way too many any way you looked at it.
Besides that, my tactical radar display showed a full platoon (my own) moving into position but only a scattering moving back toward retrieval or still on station. Nor could I see any system to their movements.
I was responsible for 680 square miles of hostile terrain and I wanted very badly to find out all I could before my own squads were deep into it. Battle Plan had ordered a new tactical doctrine which I found dismaying: Do not close the Bugs’ tunnels. Blackie had explained this as if it had been his own happy thought, but I doubt if he liked it.
The strategy was simple, and, I guess, logical . . . if we could afford the losses. Let the Bugs come up. Meet them and kill them on the surface. Let them keep on coming up. Don’t bomb their holes, don’t gas their holes—let them out. After a while—a day, two days, a week—if we really did have overwhelming force, they would stop coming up. Planning Staff estimated (don’t ask me how!) that the Bugs would expend 70 per cent to 90 per cent of their warriors before they stopped trying to drive us off the surface.
Then we would start the unpeeling, killing surviving warriors as we went down and trying to capture “royalty” alive. We knew what the brain caste looked like; we had seen them dead (in photographs) and we knew they could not run—barely functional legs, bloated bodies that were mostly nervous system. Queens no human had ever seen, but Bio War Corps had prepared sketches of what they should look like—obscene monsters larger than a horse and utterly immobile.
Besides brains and queens there might be other “royalty” castes. As might be—encourage their warriors to come out and die, then capture alive anything but warriors and workers.
A necessary plan and very pretty, on paper. What it meant to me was that I had an area 17 × 40 miles which might be riddled with unstopped Bug holes. I wanted co-ordinates on each one.
If there were too many . . . well, I might accidentally plug a few and let my boys concentrate on watching the rest. A private in a marauder suit can cover a lot of terrain, but he can look at only one thing at a time; he is not superhuman.
I bounced several miles ahead of the first squad, still calling the Cherub platoon leader, varying it by calling any Cherub officer and describing the pattern of my transponder beacon (dah-di-dah-dah).
No answer—
At last I got a reply from my boss: “Johnnie! Knock off the noise. Answer me on conference circuit.”
So I did, and Blackie told me crisply to quit trying to find the Cherub leader for Square Black One; there wasn’t one. Oh, there might be a non- com alive somewhere but the chain of command had broken.
By the book, somebody always moves up. But it does happen if too many links are knocked out. As Colonel Nielssen had once warned me, in the dim past . . . almost a month ago.
Captain Chang had gone into action with three officers besides himself; there was one left now (my classmate, Abe Moise) and Blackie was trying to find out from him the situation. Abe wasn’t much help. When I joined the conference and identified myself, Abe thought I was his battalion commander and made a report almost heartbreakingly precise, especially as it made no sense at all.
Blackie interrupted and told me to carry on. “Forget about a relief briefing. The situation is whatever you see that it is—so stir around and see.” “Right, Boss!” I slashed across my own area toward the far corner, the anchor corner, as fast as I could move, switching circuits on my first
bounce. “Sarge! How about that beacon?”
“No place on that corner to put it, sir. A fresh crater there, about scale six.”
I whistled to myself. You could drop the Tours into a size six crater. One of the dodges the Bugs used on us when we were sparring, ourselves on the surface, Bugs underground, was land mines. (They never seemed to use missiles, except from ships in space.) If you were near the spot, the ground shock got you; if you were in the air when one went off, the concussion wave could tumble your gyros and throw your suit out of control.
I had never seen larger than a scale-four crater. The theory was that they didn’t dare use too big an explosion because of damage to their troglodyte habitats, even if they cofferdammed around it.
“Place an offset beacon,” I told him. “Tell section and squad leaders.”
“I have, sir. Angle one one oh, miles one point three. Da-di-dit. You should be able to read it, bearing about three three five from where you are.” He sounded as calm as a sergeant-instructor at drill and I wondered if I were letting my voice get shrill.
I found it in my display, above my left eyebrow—long and two shorts. “Okay. I see Cunha’s first squad is nearly in position. Break off that squad, have it patrol the crater. Equalize the areas—Brumby will have to take four more miles of depth.” I thought with annoyance that each man already had to patrol fourteen square miles; spreading the butter so thin meant seventeen square miles per man—and a Bug can come out of a hole less than five feet wide.
I added, “How ‘hot’ is that crater?”
“Amber-red at the edge. I haven’t been in it, sir.”
“Stay out of it. I’ll check it later.” Amber-red would kill an unprotected human but a trooper in armor can take it for quite a time. If there was that much radiation at the edge, the bottom would no doubt fry your eyeballs. “Tell Naidi to pull Malan and Bjork back to amber zone, and have them set
up ground listeners.” Two of my five recruits were in that first squad—and recruits are like puppies; they stick their noses into things.
“Tell Naidi that I am interested in two things: movement inside the crater . . . and noises in the ground around it.” We wouldn’t send troopers out through a hole so radioactive that mere exit would kill them. But Bugs would, if they could reach us that way. “Have Naidi report to me. To you and me, I mean.”
“Yes, sir.” My platoon sergeant added, “May I make a suggestion?” “Of course. And don’t stop to ask permission next time.”
“Navarre can handle the rest of the first section. Sergeant Cunha could take the squad at the crater and leave Naidi free to supervise the ground- listening watch.”
I knew what he was thinking. Naidi, so newly a corporal that he had never before had a squad on the ground, was hardly the man to cover what looked like the worst danger point in Square Black One; he wanted to pull Naidi back for the same reasons I had pulled the recruits back.
I wondered if he knew what I was thinking? That “nutcracker”—he was using the suit he had worn as Blackie’s battalion staffer, he had one more circuit than I had, a private one to Captain Blackstone.
Blackie was probably patched in and listening via that extra circuit. Obviously my platoon sergeant did not agree with my disposition of the platoon. If I didn’t take his advice, the next thing I heard might be Blackie’s voice cutting in: “Sergeant, take charge. Mr. Rico, you’re relieved.”
But—Confound it, a corporal who wasn’t allowed to boss his squad wasn’t a corporal . . . and a platoon leader who was just a ventriloquist’s dummy for his platoon sergeant was an empty suit!
I didn’t mull this. It flashed through my head and I answered at once. “I can’t spare a corporal to baby-sit with two recruits. Nor a sergeant to boss four privates and a lance.”
“But—”
“Hold it. I want the crater watch relieved every hour. I want our first patrol sweep made rapidly. Squad leaders will check any hole reported and get beacon bearings so that section leaders, platoon sergeant and platoon leader can check them as they reach them. If there aren’t too many, we’ll put a watch on each—I’ll decide later.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Second time around, I want a slow patrol, as tight as possible, to catch holes we miss on the first sweep. Assistant squad leaders will use snoopers on that pass. Squad leaders will get bearings on any troopers—or suits—on the ground; the Cherubs may have left some live wounded. But no one is to stop even to check physicals until I order it. We’ve got to know the Bug situation first.”
“Yes, sir.” “Suggestions?”
“Just one,” he answered. “I think the squad chasers should use their snoopers on that first fast pass.”
“Very well, do it that way.” His suggestion made sense as the surface air temperature was much lower than the Bugs use in their tunnels; a camouflaged vent hole should show a plume like a geyser by infrared vision. I glanced at my display. “Cunha’s boys are almost at limit. Start your parade.”
“Very well, sir!”
“Off.” I clicked over to the wide circuit and continued to make tracks for the crater while I listened to everybody at once as my platoon sergeant revised the pre-plan—cutting out one squad, heading it for the crater, starting the rest of the first section in a two-squad countermarch while keeping the second section in a rotational sweep as pre-planned but with four miles increased depth; got the sections moving, dropped them and caught
the first squad as it converged on the anchor crater, gave it its instructions; cut back to the section leaders in plenty of time to give them new beacon bearings at which to make their turns.
He did it with the smart precision of a drum major on parade and he did it faster and in fewer words than I could have done it. Extended-order powered suit drill, with a platoon spread over many miles of countryside, is much more difficult than the strutting precision of parade—but it has to be exact, or you’ll blow the head off your mate in action . . . or, as in this case, you sweep part of the terrain twice and miss another part.
But the drillmaster has only a radar display of his formation; he can see with his eyes only those near him. While I listened I watched it in my own display—glowworms crawling past my face in precise lines, “crawling” because even forty miles an hour is a slow crawl when you compress a formation twenty miles across into a display a man can see.
I listened to everybody at once because I wanted to hear the chatter inside the squads.
There wasn’t any. Cunha and Brumby gave their secondary commands—and shut up. The corporals sang out only as squad changes were necessary; section and squad chasers called out occasional corrections of interval or alignment—and privates said nothing at all.
I heard the breathing of fifty men like muted sibilance of surf, broken only by necessary orders in the fewest possible words. Blackie had been right; the platoon had been handed over to me “tuned like a violin.”
They didn’t need me! I could go home and my platoon would get along just as well. Maybe better—
I wasn’t sure I had been right in refusing to cut Cunha out to guard the crater; if trouble broke there and those boys couldn’t be reached in time, the excuse that I had done it “by the book” was worthless. If you get killed, or let someone else get killed, “by the book” it’s just as permanent as any other way.
I wondered if the Roughnecks had a spot open for a buck sergeant.
Most of Square Black One was as flat as the prairie around Camp Currie and much more barren. For this I was thankful; it gave us our only chance of spotting a Bug coming up from below and getting him first. We were spread so widely that four-mile intervals between men and about six minutes between waves of a fast sweep was as tight a patrol as we could manage. This isn’t tight enough; any one spot would remain free of observation
for at least three or four minutes between patrol waves—and a lot of Bugs can come out of a very small hole in three to four minutes. Radar can see farther than the eye, of course, but it cannot see as accurately.
In addition we did not dare use anything but short-range selective weapons—our own mates were spread around us in all directions. If a Bug popped up and you let fly with something lethal, it was certain that not too far beyond that Bug was a cap trooper; this sharply limits the range and force of the frightfulness you dare use. On this operation only officers and platoon sergeants were armed with rockets and, even so, we did not expect to use them. If a rocket fails to find its target, it has a nasty habit of continuing to search until it finds one . . . and it cannot tell a friend from foe; a brain that can be stuffed into a small rocket is fairly stupid.
I would happily have swapped that area patrol with thousands of M.I. around us, for a simple one-platoon strike in which you know where your own people are and anything else is an enemy target.
I didn’t waste time moaning; I never stopped bouncing toward that anchor-corner crater while watching the ground and trying to watch the radar picture as well. I didn’t find any Bug holes but I did jump over a dry wash, almost a canyon, which could conceal quite a few. I didn’t stop to see; I simply gave its co-ordinates to my platoon sergeant and told him to have somebody check it.
That crater was even bigger than I had visualized; the Tours would have been lost in it. I shifted my radiation counter to directional cascade, took readings on floor and sides—red to multiple red right off the scale, very unhealthy for long exposure even to a man in armor; I estimated its width and depth by helmet range finder, then prowled around and tried to spot openings leading underground.
I did not find any but I did run into crater watches set out by adjacent platoons of the Fifth and First Regiments, so I arranged to split up the watch by sectors such that the combined watch could yell for help from all three platoons, the patch-in to do this being made through First Lieutenant Do Campo of the “Head Hunters” on our left. Then I pulled out Naidi’s lance and half his squad (including the recruits) and sent them back to platoon, reporting all this to my boss, and to my platoon sergeant.
“Captain,” I told Blackie, “we aren’t getting any ground vibrations. I’m going down inside and check for holes. The readings show that I won’t get too much dosage if I—”
“Youngster, stay out of that crater.” “But Captain, I just meant to—”
The next nine hours were tedious. We had been preconditioned for forty hours of duty (two revolutions of Planet P) through forced sleep, elevated
blood sugar count, and hypno indoctrination, and of course the suits are self-contained for personal needs. The suits can’t last that long, but each man was carrying extra power units and super H.P. air cartridges for recharging. But a patrol with no action is dull, it is easy to goof off.
I did what I could think of, having Cunha and Brumby take turns as drill sergeant (thus leaving platoon sergeant and leader free to rove around): I gave orders that no sweeps were to repeat in pattern so that each man would always check terrain that was new to him. There are endless patterns to cover a given area, by combining the combinations. Besides that, I consulted my platoon sergeant and announced bonus points toward honor squad for first verified hole, first Bug destroyed, etc.—boot camp tricks, but staying alert means staying alive, so anything to avoid boredom.
Finally we had a visit from a special unit: three combat engineers in a utility air car, escorting a talent—a spatial senser. Blackie warned me to expect them. “Protect them and give them what they want.”
“Yes, sir. What will they need?”
“How should I know? If Major Landry wants you to take off your skin and dance in your bones, do it!” “Yes, sir. Major Landry.”
I relayed the word and set up a bodyguard by subareas. Then I met them as they arrived because I was curious; I had never seen a special talent at work. They landed beside my right flank and got out. Major Landry and two officers were wearing armor and hand flamers but the talent had no armor and no weapons—just an oxygen mask. He was dressed in a fatigue uniform without insignia and he seemed terribly bored by everything. I was not introduced to him. He looked like a sixteen-year-old boy . . . until I got close and saw a network of wrinkles around his weary eyes.
As he got out he took off his breathing mask. I was horrified, so I spoke to Major Landry, helmet to helmet without radio. “Major—the air around here is ‘hot.’ Besides that, we’ve been warned that—”
“Pipe down,” said the Major. “He knows it.”
I shut up. The talent strolled a short distance, turned and pulled his lower lip. His eyes were closed and he seemed lost in thought. He opened them and said fretfully, “How can one be expected to work with all those silly people jumping around?”
Major Landry said crisply, “Ground your platoon.”
I gulped and started to argue—then cut in the all-hands circuit: “First Platoon Blackguards—ground and freeze!”
It speaks well for Lieutenant Silva that all I heard was a double echo of my order, as it was repeated down to squad. I said, “Major, can I let them
move around on the ground?” “No. And shut up.”
Presently the senser got back in the car, put his mask on. There wasn’t room for me, but I was allowed—ordered, really—to grab on and be towed; we shifted a couple of miles. Again the senser took off his mask and walked around. This time he spoke to one of the other combat engineers, who kept nodding and sketching on a pad.
The special-mission unit landed about a dozen times in my area, each time going through the same apparently pointless routine; then they moved on into the Fifth Regiment’s grid. Just before they left, the officer who had been sketching pulled a sheet out of the bottom of his sketch box and handed it to me. “Here’s your sub map. The wide red band is the only Bug boulevard in your area. It is nearly a thousand feet down where it enters but it climbs steadily toward your left rear and leaves at about minus four hundred fifty. The light blue network joining it is a big Bug colony; the only places where it comes within a hundred feet of the surface I have marked. You might put some listeners there until we can get over there and handle it.”
I stared at it. “Is this map reliable?”
The engineer officer glanced at the senser, then said very quietly to me, “Of course it is, you idiot! What are you trying to do? Upset him?”
They left while I was studying it. The artist-engineer had done double sketching and the box had combined them into a stereo picture of the first thousand feet under the surface. I was so bemused by it that I had to be reminded to take the platoon out of “freeze”—then I withdrew the ground listeners from the crater, pulled two men from each squad and gave them bearings from that infernal map to have them listen along the Bug highway and over the town.
I reported it to Blackie. He cut me off as I started to describe the Bug tunnels by co-ordinates. “Major Landry relayed a facsimile to me. Just give me co-ordinates of your listening posts.”
I did so. He said, “Not bad, Johnnie. But not quite what I want, either. You’ve placed more listeners than you need over their mapped tunnels. String four of them along that Bug race track, place four more in a diamond around their town. That leaves you four. Place one in the triangle formed by your right rear corner and the main tunnel; the other three go in the larger area on the other side of the tunnel.”
“Yes, sir.” I added, “Captain, can we depend on this map?” “What’s troubling you?”
“Well . . . it seems like magic. Uh, black magic.”
“Oh. Look, son, I’ve got a special message from the Sky Marshal to you. He says to tell you that map is official . . . and that he will worry about everything else so that you can give full time to your platoon. Follow me?”
“Uh, yes, Captain.”
“But the Bugs can burrow mighty fast, so you give special attention to the listening posts outside the area of the tunnels. Any noise from those four outside posts louder than a butterfly’s roar is to be reported at once, regardless of its nature.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When they burrow, it makes a noise like frying bacon—in case you’ve never heard it. Stop your patrol sweeps. Leave one man on visual observation of the crater. Let half your platoon sleep for two hours, while the other half pairs off to take turns listening.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You may see some more combat engineers. Here’s the revised plan. A sapper company will blast down and cork that main tunnel where it comes nearest the surface, either at your left flank, or beyond in ‘Head Hunter’ territory. At the same time another engineer company will do the same where that tunnel branches about thirty miles off to your right in the First Regiment’s bailiwick. When the corks are in, a long chunk of their main street and a biggish settlement will be cut off. Meanwhile, the same sort of thing will be going on a lot of other places. Thereafter—we’ll see. Either the Bugs break through to the surface and we have a pitched battle, or they sit tight and we go down after them, a sector at a time.”
“I see.” I wasn’t sure that I did, but I understood my part: rearrange my listening posts; let half my platoon sleep. Then a Bug hunt—on the surface if we were lucky, underground if we had to.
“Have your flank make contact with that sapper company when it arrives. Help ’em if they want help.”
“Right, Cap’n,” I agreed heartily. Combat engineers are almost as good an outfit as the infantry; it’s a pleasure to work with them. In a pinch they fight, maybe not expertly but bravely. Or they go ahead with their work, not even lifting their heads while a battle rages around them. They have an unofficial, very cynical and very ancient motto: “First we dig ’em, then we die in ’em,” to supplement their official motto: “Can do!” Both mottoes are literal truth.
“Get on it, son.”
Twelve listening posts meant that I could put a half squad at each post, either a corporal or his lance, plus three privates, then allow two of each group of four to sleep while the other two took turns listening. Navarre and the other section chaser could watch the crater and sleep, turn about, while section sergeants could take turns in charge of the platoon. The redisposition took no more than ten minutes once I had detailed the plan and given out bearings to the sergeants; nobody had to move very far. I warned everybody to keep eyes open for a company of engineers. As soon as each section reported its listening posts in operation I clicked to the wide circuit: “Odd numbers! Lie down, prepare to sleep . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five—sleep!”
A suit is not a bed, but it will do. One good thing about hypno preparation for combat is that, in the unlikely event of a chance to rest, a man can be put to sleep instantly by post-hypnotic command triggered by someone who is not a hypnotist—and awakened just as instantly, alert and ready to fight. It is a life-saver, because a man can get so exhausted in battle that he shoots at things that aren’t there and can’t see what he should be fighting.
But I had no intention of sleeping. I had not been told to—and I had not asked. The very thought of sleeping when I knew that perhaps many thousands of Bugs were only a few hundred feet away made my stomach jump. Maybe that senser was infallible, perhaps the Bugs could not reach us without alerting our listening posts.
Maybe—But I didn’t want to chance it.
I clicked to my private circuit. “Sarge—”
“Yes, sir.”
“You might as well get a nap. I’ll be on watch. Lie down and prepare to sleep . . . one . . . two—” “Excuse me, sir. I have a suggestion.”
“Yes?”
“If I understand the revised plan, no action is expected for the next four hours. You could take a nap now, and then—”
“Forget it, Sarge! I am not going to sleep. I am going to make the rounds of the listening posts and watch for that sapper company.” “Very well, sir.”
“I’ll check number three while I’m here. You stay here with Brumby and catch some rest while I—”
“Johnnie!”
I broke off. “Yes, Captain?” Had the Old Man been listening?
“Are your posts all set?”
“Yes, Captain, and my odd numbers are sleeping. I am about to inspect each post. Then—” “Let your sergeant do it. I want you to rest.”
“But, Captain—”
“Lie down. That’s a direct order. Prepare to sleep . . . one . . . two . . . three—Johnnie!”
“Captain, with your permission, I would like to inspect my posts first. Then I’ll rest, if you say so, but I would rather remain awake. I—”
Blackie guffawed in my ear. “Look, son, you’ve slept for an hour and ten minutes.”
“Sir?”
“Check the time.” I did so—and felt foolish. “You wide-awake, son?”
“Yes, sir. I think so.”
“Things have speeded up. Call your odd numbers and put your even numbers to sleep. With luck, they may get an hour. So swap ’em around, inspect your posts, and call me back.”
I did so and started my rounds without a word to my platoon sergeant. I was annoyed at both him and Blackie—at my company commander because I resented being put to sleep against my wishes; and as for my platoon sergeant, I had a dirty hunch that it wouldn’t have been done if he weren’t the real boss and myself just a figurehead.
But after I had checked posts number three and one (no sounds of any sort, both were forward of the Bug area), I cooled down. After all, blaming a sergeant, even a fleet sergeant, for something a captain did was silly. “Sarge—”
“Yes, Mr. Rico?”
“Do you want to catch a nap with the even numbers? I’ll wake you a minute or two before I wake them.” He hesitated slightly. “Sir, I’d like to inspect the listening posts myself.”
“Haven’t you already?”
“No, sir. I’ve been asleep the past hour.”
“Huh?”
He sounded embarrassed. “The Captain required me to do so. He placed Brumby temporarily in charge and put me to sleep immediately after
he relieved you.”
I started to answer, then laughed helplessly. “Sarge? Let’s you and I go off somewhere and go back to sleep. We’re wasting our time; Cap’n Blackie is running this platoon.”
“I have found, sir,” he answered stiffly, “that Captain Blackstone invariably has a reason for anything he does.”
I nodded thoughtfully, forgetting that I was ten miles from my listener. “Yes. You’re right, he always has a reason. Mmm . . . since he had us both sleep, he must want us both awake and alert now.”
“I think that must be true.” “Mmm . . . any idea why?”
He was rather long in answering. “Mr. Rico,” he said slowly, “if the Captain knew he would tell us; I’ve never known him to hold back information. But sometimes he does things a certain way without being able to explain why. The Captain’s hunches—well, I’ve learned to respect them.”
“So? Squad leaders are all even numbers; they’re asleep.” “Yes, sir.”
“Alert the lance of each squad. We won’t wake anybody . . . but when we do, seconds may be important.” “Right away.”
I checked the remaining forward post, then covered the four posts bracketing the Bug village, jacking my phones in parallel with each listener. I
had to force myself to listen, because you could hear them, down there below, chittering to each other. I wanted to run and it was all I could do not to let it show.
I wondered if that “special talent” was simply a man with incredibly acute hearing.
Well, no matter how he did it, the Bugs were where he said they were. Back at O.C.S. we had received demonstrations of recorded Bug noises; these four posts were picking up typical nest noises of a large Bug town—that chittering which may be their speech (though why should they need to talk if they are all remotely controlled by the brain caste?), a rustling like sticks and dry leaves, a high background whine which is always heard at a settlement and which had to be machinery—their air conditioning perhaps.
I did not hear the hissing, cracking noise they make in cutting through rock.
The sounds along the Bug boulevard were unlike the settlement sounds—a low background rumble which increased to a roar every few moments, as if heavy traffic were passing. I listened at post number five, then got an idea—checked it by having the stand-by man at each of the
four posts along the tunnel call out “Mark!” to me each time the roaring got loudest. Presently I reported. “Captain—”
“Yeah, Johnnie?”
“The traffic along this Bug race is all moving one way, from me toward you. Speed is approximately a hundred and ten miles per hour, a load goes past about once a minute.”
“Close enough,” he agreed. “I make it one-oh-eight with a headway of fifty-eight seconds.” “Oh.” I felt dashed, and changed the subject. “I haven’t seen that sapper company.”
“You won’t. They picked a spot in the middle rear of ‘Head Hunter’ area: Sorry, I should have told you. Anything more?”
“No, sir.” We clicked off and I felt better. Even Blackie could forget . . . and there hadn’t been anything wrong with my idea. I left the tunnel zone to inspect the listening post to right and rear of the Bug area, post twelve.
As with the others, there were two men asleep, one listening, one stand-by, I said to the stand-by, “Getting anything?” “No, sir.”
The man listening, one of my five recruits, looked up and said, “Mr. Rico, I think this pickup has just gone sour.” “I’ll check it,” I said. He moved to let me jack in with him.
“Frying bacon” so loud you could smell it!
I hit the all-hands circuit. “First platoon up! Wake up, call off, and report!”
—And clicked over to officers’ circuit. “Captain! Captain Blackstone! Urgent!” “Slow down, Johnnie. Report.”
“‘Frying bacon’ sounds, sir,” I answered, trying desperately to keep my voice steady. “Post twelve at co-ordinates Easter Nine, Square Black One.”
“Easter Nine,” he agreed. “Decibels?”
I looked hastily at the meter on the pickup. “I don’t know, Captain. Off the scale at the max end. It sounds like they’re right under my feet!” “Good!” He applauded—and I wondered how he could feel that way. “Best news we’ve had today! Now listen, son. Get your lads awake—” “They are, sir!”
“Very well. Pull back two listeners, have them spot-check around post twelve. Try to figure where the Bugs are going to break out. And stay awayfrom that spot! Understand me?”
“I hear you, sir,” I said carefully. “But I do not understand.”
He sighed. “Johnnie, you’ll turn my hair gray yet. Look, son, we want them to come out, the more the better. You don’t have the firepower to handle them other than by blowing up their tunnel as they reach the surface—and that is the one thing you must not do! If they come out in force, a regiment can’t handle them. But that’s just what the General wants, and he’s got a brigade of heavy weapons in orbit, waiting for it. So you spot that
breakthrough, fall back and keep it under observation. If you are lucky enough to have a major breakthrough in your area, your reconnaissance will be patched through all the way to the top. So stay lucky and stay alive! Got it?”
“Yes, sir. Spot the breakthrough. Fall back and avoid contact. Observe and report.” “Get on it!”
I pulled back listeners nine and ten from the middle stretch of “Bug Boulevard” and had them close in on co-ordinates Easter Nine from right and left, stopping every half mile to listen for “frying bacon.” At the same time I lifted post twelve and moved it toward our rear, while checking for a dying away of the sound.
In the meantime my platoon sergeant was regrouping the platoon in the forward area between the Bug settlement and the crater—all but twelve men who were ground-listening. Since we were under orders not to attack, we both worried over the prospect of having the platoon spread too widely for mutual support. So he rearranged them in a compact line five miles long, with Brumby’s section on the left, nearer the Bug settlement. This placed the men less than three hundred yards apart (almost shoulder to shoulder for cap troopers), and put nine of the men still on listening stations within support distance of one flank or the other. Only the three listeners working with me were out of reach of ready help.
I told Bayonne of the Wolverines and Do Campo of the Head Hunters that I was no longer patrolling and why, and I reported our regrouping to Captain Blackstone.
He grunted. “Suit yourself. Got a prediction on that breakthrough?”
“It seems to center about Easter Ten, Captain, but it is hard to pin down. The sounds are very loud in an area about three miles across—and it seems to get wider. I’m trying to circle it at an intensity level just barely on scale.” I added, “Could they be driving a new horizontal tunnel just under the surface?”
He seemed surprised. “That’s possible. I hope not—we want them to come up.” He added, “Let me know if the center of the noise moves. Check on it.”
“Yes, sir. Captain—” “Huh? Speak up.”
“You told us not to attack when they break out. If they break out. What are we to do? Are we just spectators?”
There was a longish delay, fifteen or twenty seconds, and he may have consulted “upstairs.” At last he said, “Mr. Rico, you are not to attack at or
near Easter Ten. Anywhere else—the idea is to hunt Bugs.” “Yes, sir,” I agreed happily. “We hunt Bugs.”
“Johnnie!” he said sharply. “If you go hunting medals instead of Bugs—and I find out—you’re going to have a mighty sad-looking Form Thirty- One!”
“Captain,” I said earnestly. “I don’t ever want to win a medal. The idea is to hunt Bugs.” “Right. Now quit bothering me.”
I called my platoon sergeant, explained the new limits under which we would work, told him to pass the word along and to make sure that each man’s suit was freshly charged, air and power.
“We’ve just finished that, sir. I suggest that we relieve the men with you.” He named three reliefs.
That was reasonable, as my ground listeners had had no time to recharge. But the reliefs he named were all scouts.
Silently I cussed myself for utter stupidity. A scout’s suit is as fast as a command suit, twice the speed of a marauder. I had been having a nagging feeling of something left undone, and had checked it off to the nervousness I always feel around Bugs.
Now I knew. Here I was, ten miles away from my platoon with a party of three men—each in a marauder suit. When the Bugs broke through, I was going to be faced with an impossible decision . . . unless the men with me could rejoin as fast as I could. “That’s good,” I agreed, “but I no longer need three men. Send Hughes, right away. Have him relieve Nyberg. Use the other three scouts to relieve the listening posts farthest forward.”
“Just Hughes?” he said doubtfully.
“Hughes is enough. I’m going to man one listener myself. Two of us can straddle the area; we know where they are now.” I added, “Get Hughes down here on the bounce.”
For the next thirty-seven minutes nothing happened. Hughes and I swung back and forth along the forward and rear arcs of the area around Easter Ten, listening five seconds at a time, then moving on. It was no longer necessary to seat the microphone in rock; it was enough to touch it to the ground to get the sound of “frying bacon” strong and clear. The noise area expanded but its center did not change. Once I called Captain Blackstone to tell him the sound had abruptly stopped, and again three minutes later to tell him it had resumed; otherwise I used the scouts’ circuit and let my platoon sergeant take care of the platoon and the listening posts near the platoon.
At the end of this time everything happened at once.
A voice called out on the scouts’ circuit, “‘Bacon Fry’! Albert Two!”
I clicked over and called out, “Captain! ‘Bacon Fry’ at Albert Two, Black One! ”—clicked over to liaison with the platoons surrounding me: “Liaison flash! ‘Bacon frying’ at Albert Two, Square Black One”—and immediately heard Do Campo reporting: “‘Frying bacon’ sounds at Adolf Three, Green Twelve.”
I relayed that to Blackie and cut back to my own scouts’ circuit, heard: “Bugs! Bugs! HELP!” “Where?”
No answer. I clicked over. “Sarge! Who reported Bugs?”
He rapped back, “Coming up out of their town—about Bangkok Six.”
“Hit ’em!” I clicked over to Blackie. “Bugs at Bangkok Six, Black One—I am attacking!” “I heard you order it,” he answered calmly. “How about Easter Ten?”
“Easter Ten is—” The ground fell away under me and I was engulfed in Bugs.
I didn’t know what had happened to me. I wasn’t hurt; it was a bit like falling into the branches of a tree—but those branches were alive and kept jostling me while my gyros complained and tried to keep me upright. I fell ten or fifteen feet, deep enough to be out of the daylight.
Then a surge of living monsters carried me back up into the light—and training paid off; I landed on my feet, talking and fighting: “Breakthrough at Easter Ten—no, Easter Eleven, where I am now. Big hole and they’re pouring up. Hundreds. More than that.” I had a hand flamer in each hand and was burning them down as I reported.
“Get out of there, Johnnie!” “Wilco! ”—and I started to jump.
And stopped. Checked the jump in time, stopped flaming, and really looked—for I suddenly realized that I ought to be dead. “Correction,” I said, looking and hardly believing. “Breakthrough at Easter Eleven is a feint. No warriors.”
“Repeat.”
“Easter Eleven, Black One. Breakthrough here is entirely by workers so far. No warriors. I am surrounded by Bugs and they are still pouring out, but not a one of them is armed and those nearest me all have typical worker features. I have not been attacked.” I added, “Captain, do you think this could be just a diversion? With their real breakthrough to come somewhere else?”
“Could be,” he admitted. “Your report is patched through right to Division, so let them do the thinking. Stir around and check what you’ve reported. Don’t assume that they are all workers—you may find out the hard way.”
“Right, Captain.” I jumped high and wide, intending to get outside that mass of harmless but loathsome monsters.
That rocky plain was covered with crawly black shapes in all directions. I overrode my jet controls and increased the jump, calling out, “Hughes!
Report!”
“Bugs, Mr. Rico! Zillions of ’em! I’m a-burnin’ ’em down!”
“Hughes, take a close look at those Bugs. Any of them fighting back? Aren’t they all workers?” “Uh—” I hit the ground and bounced again. He went on, “Hey! You’re right, sir! How did you know?”
“Rejoin your squad, Hughes.” I clicked over. “Captain, several thousand Bugs have exited near here from an undetermined number of holes. I have not been attacked. Repeat, I have not been attacked at all. If there are any warriors among them, they must be holding their fire and using workers as camouflage.”
He did not answer.
There was an extremely brilliant flash far off to my left, followed at once by one just like it but farther away to my right front; automatically I noted time and bearings. “Captain Blackstone—answer!” At the top of my jump I tried to pick out his beacon, but that horizon was cluttered by low hills in Square Black Two.
I clicked over and called out, “Sarge! Can you relay to the Captain for me?” At that very instant my platoon sergeant’s beacon blinked out.
I headed on that bearing as fast as I could push my suit. I had not been watching my display closely, my platoon sergeant had the platoon and I had been busy, first with ground-listening and, most lately, with a few hundred Bugs. I had suppressed all but the non-com’s beacons to allow me to see better.
I studied the skeleton display, picked out Brumby and Cunha, their squad leaders and section chasers. “Cunha! Where’s the platoon sergeant?” “He’s reconnoitering a hole, sir.”
“Tell him I’m on my way, rejoining.” I shifted circuits without waiting. “First Platoon Blackguards to second platoon—answer!” “What do you want?” Lieutenant Khoroshen growled.
“I can’t raise the Captain.” “You won’t, he’s out.” “Dead?”
“No. But he’s lost power—so he’s out.” “Oh. Then you’re company commander?”
“All right, all right, so what? Do you want help?” “Uh . . . no. No, sir.”
“Then shut up,” Khoroshen told me, “until you do need help. We’ve got more than we can handle here.”
“Okay.” I suddenly found that I had more than I could handle. While reporting to Khoroshen, I shifted to full display and short range, as I was almost closed with my platoon—and now I saw my first section disappear one by one, Brumby’s beacon disappearing first.
“Cunha! What’s happening to the first section?”
His voice sounded strained. “They are following the platoon sergeant down.”
If there’s anything in the book that covers this, I don’t know what it is. Had Brumby acted without orders? Or had he been given orders I hadn’t heard? Look, the man was already down a Bug hole, out of sight and hearing—is this a time to go legal? We would sort such things out tomorrow. If any of us had a tomorrow—
“Very well,” I said. “I’m back now. Report.” My last jump brought me among them; I saw a Bug off to my right and I got him before I hit. No worker, this—it had been firing as it moved.
“I’ve lost three men,” Cunha answered, gasping. “I don’t know what Brumby lost. They broke out three places at once—that’s when we took the casualties. But we’re mopping them—”
A tremendous shock wave slammed me just as I bounced again, slapped me sideways. Three minutes thirty-seven seconds—call it thirty miles. Was that our sappers “putting down their corks”? “First section! Brace yourselves for another shock wave!” I landed sloppily, almost on top of a group of three or four Bugs. They weren’t dead but they weren’t fighting; they just twitched. I donated them a grenade and bounced again. “Hit ’em
now!” I called out. “They’re groggy. And mind that next—”
The second blast hit as I was saying it. It wasn’t as violent. “Cunha! Call off your section. And everybody stay on the bounce and mop up.”
The call-off was ragged and slow—too many missing files as I could see from my physicals display. But the mop-up was precise and fast. I ranged around the edge and got half a dozen Bugs myself—the last of them suddenly became active just before I flamed it. Why did concussion daze them more than it did us? Because they were unarmored? Or was it their brain Bug, somewhere down below, that was dazed?I
The call-off showed nineteen effectives, plus two dead, two hurt, and three out of action through suit failure—and two of these latter Navarre was repairing by vandalizing power units from suits of dead and wounded. The third suit failure was in radio & radar and could not be repaired, so Navarre assigned the man to guard the wounded, the nearest thing to pickup we could manage until we were relieved.
In the meantime I was inspecting, with Sergeant Cunha, the three places where the Bugs had broken through from their nest below. Comparison with the sub map showed, as one could have guessed, that they had cut exits at the places where their tunnels were closest to the surface.
One hole had closed; it was a heap of loose rock. The second one did not show Bug activity; I told Cunha to post a lance and a private there with orders to kill single Bugs, close the hole with a bomb if they started to pour out—it’s all very well for the Sky Marshal to sit up there and decide that holes must not be closed, but I had a situation, not a theory.
Then I looked at the third hole, the one that had swallowed up my platoon sergeant and half my platoon.
Here a Bug corridor came within twenty feet of the surface and they had simply removed the roof for about fifty feet. Where the rock went, what caused that “frying bacon” noise while they did it, I could not say. The rocky roof was gone and the sides of the hole were sloped and grooved. The map showed what must have happened; the other two holes came up from small side tunnels, this tunnel was part of their main labyrinth—so the other two had been diversions and their main attack had come from here.
Can those Bugs see through solid rock?
Nothing was in sight down that hole, neither Bug nor human. Cunha pointed out the direction the second section had gone. It had been seven minutes and forty seconds since the platoon sergeant had gone down, slightly over seven since Brumby had gone after him. I peered into the darkness, gulped and swallowed my stomach. “Sergeant, take charge of your section,” I said, trying to make it sound cheerful. “If you need help, call Lieutenant Khoroshen.”
“Orders, sir?”
“None. Unless some come down from above. I’m going down and find the second section—so I may be out of touch for a while.” Then I jumped down in the hole at once, because my nerve was slipping.
Behind me I heard: “Section!”
“First squad! ”—“Second squad! ”—“Third squad!”
“By squads! Followme!”—and Cunha jumped down, too. It’s not nearly so lonely that way.
I had Cunha leave two men at the hole to cover our rear, one on the floor of the tunnel, one at surface level. Then I led them down the tunnel the second section had followed, moving as fast as possible—which wasn’t fast as the roof of the tunnel was right over our heads. A man can move in sort of a skating motion in a powered suit without lifting his feet, but it is neither easy nor natural; we could have trotted without armor faster.
Snoopers were needed at once—whereupon we confirmed something that had been theorized: Bugs see by infrared. That dark tunnel was well lighted when seen by snoopers. So far it had no special features, simply glazed rock walls arching over a smooth, level floor.
We came to a tunnel crossing the one we were in and I stopped short of it. There are doctrines for how you should dispose a strike force underground—but what good are they? The only certainty was that the man who had written the doctrines had never himself tried them . . . because, before Operation Royalty, nobody had come back up to tell what had worked and what had not.
One doctrine called for guarding every intersection such as this one. But I had already used two men to guard our escape hole; if I left 10 per cent of my force at each intersection, mighty soon I would be ten-percented to death.
I decided to keep us together . . . decided, too, that none of us would be captured. Not by Bugs. Far better a nice, clean real estate deal . . . and
with that decision a load was lifted from my mind and I was no longer worried.
I peered cautiously into the intersection, looked both ways. No Bugs. So I called out over the non-coms’ circuit: “Brumby!”
The result was startling. You hardly hear your own voice when using suit radio, as you are shielded from your output. But here, underground in a network of smooth corridors, my output came back to me as if the whole complex were one enormous wave guide:
“BRRRRUMMBY!”
My ears rang with it.
And then rang again: “MR. RRRICCCO!”
“Not so loud,” I said, trying to talk very softly myself. “Where are you?” Brumby answered, not quite so deafeningly, “Sir, I don’t know. We’re lost.”
“Well, take it easy. We’re coming to get you. You can’t be far away. Is the platoon sergeant with you?” “No, sir. We never—”
“Hold it.” I clicked in my private circuit. “Sarge—”
“I read you, sir.” His voice sounded calm and he was holding the volume down. “Brumby and I are in radio contact but we have not been able to make rendezvous.”
“Where are you?”
He hesitated slightly. “Sir, my advice is to make rendezvous with Brumby’s section—then return to the surface.” “Answer my question.”
“Mr. Rico, you could spend a week down here and not find me . . . and I am not able to move. You must—” “Cut it, Sarge! Are you wounded?”
“No, sir, but—”
“Then why can’t you move? Bug trouble?”
“Lots of it. They can’t reach me now . . . but I can’t come out. So I think you had better—”
“Sarge, you’re wasting time! I am certain you know exactly what turns you took. Now tell me, while I look at the map. And give me a vernier reading on your D.R. tracer. That’s a direct order. Report.”
He did so, precisely and concisely. I switched on my head lamp, flipped up the snoopers, and followed it on the map. “All right,” I said presently. “You’re almost directly under us and two levels down—and I know what turns to take. We’ll be there as soon as we pick up the second section. Hang on.” I clicked over. “Brumby—”
“Here, sir.”
“When you came to the first tunnel intersection, did you go right, left, or straight ahead?” “Straight ahead, sir.”
“Okay. Cunha, bring ’em along. Brumby, have you got Bug trouble?”
“Not now, sir. But that’s how we got lost. We tangled with a bunch of them . . . and when it was over, we were turned around.”
I started to ask about casualties, then decided that bad news could wait; I wanted to get my platoon together and get out of there. A Bug town with no bugs in sight was somehow more upsetting than the Bugs we had expected to encounter. Brumby coached us through the next two choices and I tossed tanglefoot bombs down each corridor we did not use. “Tanglefoot” is a derivative of the nerve gas we had been using on Bugs in the past— instead of killing, it gives any Bug that trots through it a sort of shaking palsy. We had been equipped with it for this one operation, and I would have swapped a ton of it for a few pounds of the real stuff. Still, it might protect our flanks.
In one long stretch of tunnel I lost touch with Brumby—some oddity in reflection of radio waves, I guess, for I picked him up at the next intersection. But there he could not tell me which way to turn. This was the place, or near the place, where the Bugs had hit them.
And here the Bugs hit us.
I don’t know where they came from. One instant everything was quiet. Then I heard the cry of “Bugs! Bugs!” from back of me in the column, I turned—and suddenly Bugs were everywhere. I suspect that those smooth walls are not as solid as they look; that’s the only way I can account for the way they were suddenly all around us and among us.
We couldn’t use flamers, we couldn’t use bombs; we were too likely to hit each other. But the Bugs didn’t have any such compunctions among themselves if they could get one of us. But we had hands and we had feet—
It couldn’t have lasted more than a minute, then there were no more Bugs, just broken pieces of them on the floor . . . and four cap troopers down.
One was Sergeant Brumby, dead. During the ruckus the second section had rejoined. They had been not far away, sticking together to keep from getting further lost in that maze, and had heard the fight. Hearing it, they had been able to trace it by sound, where they had not been able to locate us by radio.
Cunha and I made certain that our casualties were actually dead, then consolidated the two sections into one of four squads and down we went— and found the Bugs that had our platoon sergeant besieged.
That fight didn’t last any time at all, because he had warned me what to expect. He had captured a brain Bug and was using its bloated body as a shield. He could not get out, but they could not attack him without (quite literally) committing suicide by hitting their own brain.
We were under no such handicap; we hit them from behind.
Then I was looking at the horrid thing he was holding and I was feeling exultant despite our losses, when suddenly I heard close up that “frying bacon” noise. A big piece of roof fell on me and Operation Royalty was over as far as I was concerned.
I woke up in bed and thought that I was back at O.C.S. and had just had a particularly long and complicated Bug nightmare. But I was not at
O.C.S.; I was in a temporary sick bay of the transport Argonne, and I really had had a platoon of my own for nearly twelve hours.
But now I was just one more patient, suffering from nitrous oxide poisoning and overexposure to radiation through being out of armor for over an hour before being retrieved, plus broken ribs and a knock in the head which had put me out of action.
It was a long time before I got everything straight about Operation Royalty and some of it I’ll never know. Why Brumby took his section underground, for example. Brumby is dead and Naidi bought the farm next to his and I’m simply glad that they both got their chevrons and were wearing them that day on Planet P when nothing went according to plan.
I did learn, eventually, why my platoon sergeant decided to go down into that Bug town. He had heard my report to Captain Blackstone that the “major breakthrough” was actually a feint, made with workers sent up to be slaughtered. When real warrior Bugs broke out where he was, he had concluded (correctly and minutes sooner than Staff reached the same conclusion) that the Bugs were making a desperation push, or they would not expend their workers simply to draw our fire.
He saw that their counterattack made from Bug town was not in sufficient force, and concluded that the enemy did not have many reserves—and decided that, at this one golden moment, one man acting alone might have a chance of raiding, finding “royalty” and capturing it. Remember, that was the whole purpose of the operation; we had plenty of force simply to sterilize Planet P, but our object was to capture royalty castes and to learn how to go down in. So he tried it, snatched that one moment—and succeeded on both counts.
It made it “mission accomplished” for the First Platoon of the Blackguards. Not very many platoons, out of many, many hundreds, could say that; no queens were captured (the Bugs killed them first) and only six brains. None of the six were ever exchanged, they didn’t live long enough. But the Psych Warfare boys did get live specimens, so I suppose Operation Royalty was a success.
My platoon sergeant got a field commission. I was not offered one (and would not have accepted)—but I was not surprised when I learned that he had been commissioned. Cap’n Blackie had told me that I was getting “the best sergeant in the fleet” and I had never had any doubt that Blackie’s opinion was correct. I had met my platoon sergeant before. I don’t think any other Blackguard knew this—not from me and certainly not from him. I doubt if Blackie himself knew it. But I had known my platoon sergeant since my first day as a boot.
His name is Zim.
My part in Operation Royalty did not seem a success to me. I was in the Argonne more than a month, first as a patient, then as an unattached casual, before they got around to delivering me and a few dozen others to Sanctuary; it gave me too much time to think—mostly about casualties, and what a generally messed-up job I had made out of my one short time on the ground as platoon leader. I knew I hadn’t kept everything juggled the way the Lieutenant used to—why, I hadn’t even managed to get wounded still swinging; I had let a chunk of rock fall on me.
And casualties—I didn’t know how many there were; I just knew that when I closed ranks there were only four squads where I had started with six. I
didn’t know how many more there might have been before Zim got them to the surface, before the Blackguards were relieved and retrieved.
I didn’t even know whether Captain Blackstone was still alive (he was—in fact he was back in command about the time I went underground) and I had no idea what the procedure was if a candidate was alive and his examiner was dead. But I felt that my Form Thirty-One was sure to make me a buck sergeant again. It really didn’t seem important that my math books were in another ship.
Nevertheless, when I was let out of bed the first week I was in the Argonne, after loafing and brooding a day I borrowed some books from one of the junior officers and got to work. Math is hard work and it occupies your mind—and it doesn’t hurt to learn all you can of it, no matter what rank you are; everything of any importance is founded on mathematics.
When I finally checked in at O.C.S. and turned in my pips, I learned that I was a cadet again instead of a sergeant. I guess Blackie gave me the benefit of the doubt.
My roommate, Angel, was in our room with his feet on the desk—and in front of his feet was a package, my math books. He looked up and looked surprised. “Hi, Juan! We thought you had bought it!”
“Me? The Bugs don’t like me that well. When do you go out?”
“Why, I’ve been out,” Angel protested. “Left the day after you did, made three drops and been back a week. What took you so long?” “Took the long way home. Spent a month as a passenger.”
“Some people are lucky. What drops did you make?” “Didn’t make any,” I admitted.
He stared. “Some people have all the luck!”
Perhaps Angel was right; eventually I graduated. But he supplied some of the luck himself, in patient tutoring. I guess my “luck” has usually been people—Angel and Jelly and the Lieutenant and Carl and Lieutenant Colonel Dubois, yes and my father, and Blackie . . . and Brumby . . . and Ace
—and always Sergeant Zim. Brevet Captain Zim, now, with permanent rank of First Lieutenant. It wouldn’t have been right for me to have wound up senior to him.
Bennie Montez, a classmate of mine, and I were at the Fleet landing field the day after graduation, waiting to go up to our ships. We were still such brand-new second lieutenants that being saluted made us nervous and I was covering it by reading the list of ships in orbit around Sanctuary
—a list so long that it was clear that something big was stirring, even though they hadn’t seen fit to mention it to me. I felt excited. I had my two dearest wishes, in one package—posted to my old outfit and while my father was still there, too. And now this, whatever it was, meant that I was about to have the polish put on me by “makee-learnee” under Lieutenant Jelal, with some important drop coming up.
I was so full of it all that I couldn’t talk about it, so I studied the lists. Whew, what a lot of ships! They were posted by types, too many to locate otherwise. I started reading off the troop carriers, the only ones that matter to an M.I.
There was the Mannerheim! Any chance of seeing Carmen? Probably not, but I could send a dispatch and find out.
Big ships—the new Valley Forge and the new Ypres, Marathon, El Alamein, Iwo, Gallipoli, Leyte, Marne, Tours, Gettysburg, Hastings, Alamo, Waterloo—all places where mud feet had made their names to shine.
Little ships, the ones named for foot sloggers: Horatius , Alvin York, Swamp Fox, the Rog herself, bless her heart, Colonel Bowie, Devereux, Vercingetorix, Sandino, Aubrey Cousens, Kamehameha, Audie Murphy, Xenophon, Aguinaldo—
I said, “There ought to be one named Magsaysay.”
Bennie said, “What?”
“Ramón Magsaysay,” I explained. “Great man, great soldier—probably be chief of psychological warfare if he were alive today. Didn’t you ever study any history?”
“Well,” admitted Bennie, “I learned that Simón Bolívar built the Pyramids, licked the Armada, and made the first trip to the moon.” “You left out marrying Cleopatra.”
“Oh, that. Yup. Well, I guess every country has its own version of history.”
“I’m sure of it.” I added something to myself and Bennie said, “What did you say?”
“Sorry, Bernardo. Just an old saying in my own language. I suppose you could translate it, more or less, as: ‘Home is where the heart is.’” “But what language was it?”
“Tagalog. My native language.”
“Don’t they talk Standard English where you come from?”
“Oh, certainly. For business and school and so forth. We just talk the old speech around home a little. Traditions. You know.”
“Yeah, I know. My folks chatter in Español the same way. But where do you—” The speaker started playing “Meadowland”; Bennie broke into a grin. “Got a date with a ship! Watch yourself, fellow! See you.”
“Mind the Bugs.” I turned back and went on reading ships’ names: Pal Maleter, Montgomery, Tchaka, Geronimo— Then came the sweetest sound in the world: “—shines the name, shines the name of Rodger Young!”
I grabbed my kit and hurried. “Home is where the heart is”—I was going home.
CH:14
Am I my brother’s keeper?
—Genesis IV:9
Howthink ye? If a man have an hundred sheep, and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray?
—Matthew XII:12
Howmuch then is a man better than a sheep?
—Matthew XVIII:12
In the Name of God, the Beneficent, the Merciful . . . whoso saveth the life of one, it shall be as if he had saved the life of all mankind.
Each year we gain a little. You have to keep a sense of proportion.
—The Koran, Sûrah V, 32
“Time, sir.” My j.o. under instruction, Candidate or “Third Lieutenant” Bearpaw, stood just outside my door. He looked and sounded awfully young, and was about as harmless as one of his scalp-hunting ancestors.
“Right, Jimmie.” I was already in armor. We walked aft to the drop room. I said, as we went, “One word, Jimmie. Stick with me and keep out of my way. Have fun and use up your ammo. If by any chance I buy it, you’re the boss—but if you’re smart, you’ll let your platoon sergeant call the signals.”
“Yes, sir.”
As we came in, the platoon sergeant called them to attention and saluted. I returned it, said, “At ease,” and started down the first section while Jimmie looked over the second.
Then I inspected the second section, too, checking everything on every man. My platoon sergeant is much more careful than I am, so I didn’t find anything, I never do. But it makes the men feel better if their Old Man scrutinizes everything—besides, it’s my job.
Then I stepped out in the middle. “Another Bug hunt, boys. This one is a little different, as you know. Since they still hold prisoners of ours, we can’t use a nova bomb on Klendathu—so this time we go down, stand on it, hold it, take it away from them. The boat won’t be down to retrieve us; instead it’ll fetch more ammo and rations. If you’re taken prisoner, keep your chin up and follow the rules—because you’ve got the whole outfit
behind you, you’ve got the whole Federation behind you; we’ll come and get you. That’s what the boys from the Swamp Fox and the Montgomery
have been depending on. Those who are still alive are waiting, knowing that we will show up. And here we are. Now we go get ’em.
“Don’t forget that we’ll have help all around us, lots of help above us. All we have to worry about is our one little piece, just the way we rehearsed
it.
“One last thing. I had a letter from Captain Jelal just before we left. He says that his new legs work fine. But he also told me to tell you that he’s got
you in mind . . . and he expects your names to shine!
“And so do I. Five minutes for the Padre.”
I felt myself beginning to shake. It was a relief when I could call them to attention again and add: “By sections . . . port and starboard . . . prepare for drop!”
I was all right then while I inspected each man into his cocoon down one side, with Jimmie and the platoon sergeant taking the other. Then we buttoned Jimmie into the No. 3 center-line capsule. Once his face was covered up, the shakes really hit me.
My platoon sergeant put his arm around my armored shoulders. “Just like a drill, Son.” “I know it, Father.” I stopped shaking at once. “It’s the waiting, that’s all.”
“I know. Four minutes. Shall we get buttoned up, sir?”
“Right away, Father.” I gave him a quick hug, let the Navy drop crew seal us in. The shakes didn’t start up again. Shortly I was able to report: “Bridge! Rico’s Roughnecks . . . ready for drop!”
“Thirty-one seconds, Lieutenant.” She added, “Good luck, boys! This time we take ’em!” “Right, Captain.”
“Check. Now some music while you wait?” She switched it on: “To the everlasting glory of the Infantry—”
The End
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