“Excuse me,” said the specialist, who became violently sick in a bush. Returning he said, “ ’M not ordinarily weak like this, but—”
“I understand,” said a civil engineer. “It’s a pretty revolting notion at best.” He hefted a pick in his hand, and sighed.
“I don’t see why—” began the specialist in loud and irritated tones, only to be cut off by a terrified chorus of “shh!”
“Sorry,” he whispered. “I was saying that I don’t see why there aren’t special bodies of men for this sort of thing. I mean, why pick men like us to do work we haven’t studied?”
“Haven’t had the opportunity,” said a pianist. “And there’s good reason why we haven’t a body of men as you suggested.”
“I can’t think of it,” whispered the specialist.
“Assume,” said the pianist, “that there is a group chosen—by lot, I suppose—to keep in line all eccentrics like the gentlemen on whom we are about to call. Then how do we keep this group in line?”
The general practitioner pondered, and, still pondering, fell into a brook. “Sorry,” he gasped, being helped out. “But I have the answer to your question. How to keep them in line, I mean—if they misbehave you stop their salaries. Right?”
“No,” said the pianist. “Because if they’re trained to inflict suffering as a negative bribe to good conduct how are we to keep them from utilizing their training as a negative bribe to the end of exacting tribute?”
A historian unexpectedly spoke up: “In ancient days that technique was known as the ‘shakedown racket’.”
“Indeed,” said the general practitioner, pondering again. “There must be some way of insuring good conduct,” he brooded. “Why not set up two rival bodies of men to check on each other?”
“Because,” said the specialist, now quite won over, “they would either join forces—disastrous to the common welfare—or they would struggle openly for supremacy and the victor would assume that he had the right to oppress common folk.”
“I see,” sighed the general practitioner. “How much farther?”
“As I remember it,” said a radio engineer, “the message came from the plane as it lay half wrecked by their dwelling. That makes it about—there.” He pointed, and silhouetted in the starlight they could see the outlines of a monoplane. “Type ten,” said a transportation engineer, regretfully tightening his grip on an electric drill’s ponderous bit. “Shall we kill him first or get the girl to safety?”
“Kill him first, I say,” volunteered the historian. “All in favor?” There was a soft chorus of assent. “Well, then,” said the historian, “let’s get as close as possible before he wakes up.”
Stealthily they crept into the clearing and approached the little shack of boughs and trunks which had been flung together.
“Not bad,” whispered a structural operator. “Well chinked, ventilated—in a primitive way one couldn’t wish for anything better.”
The neuro-muscular specialist took a heavy pair of operative forceps from his bandolier, and pushed on the door. It swung open after offering only a slight resistance. The seven others crowded into the large room and distributed themselves strategically. The pianist squinted through the dark and whispered, “There he is. I mean they are.” Lying on a sort of semi-permanent bower were the two outlanders, side by side.
“I saw,” whispered the transportation engineer, “I hadn’t thought it was anything like that—”
“He probably threatened her,” said the specialist. “That must be it.” He raised his forceps and said uncertainly, louder than he had meant to, “Well!”
And Clark Stevens awoke. “Now,” he muttered, and his eyes opened. Like a shot from a gun, his lean body snapped into steely action. The specialist he grasped by the wrist, flung away like a rat.
There was a shrill intake of breath in the room, and the men with weapons poised were frozen where they stood. Every man there knew what should be done, what had to be done for the safety of their civilization, and had spent time studying the use of the weapon he carried. But they couldn’t do it. The genteel conditioning, in which all thoughts of physical violence had been carefully weeded out from birth, left them helpless before this man.
Stevens rose before them, and, in the gloom of the hut, his eyes blazed like twin embers of a burning city.
He uttered one inarticulate roar, and started for them. That galvanized them into action; they were capable of as swift motion as he, but in another direction. They dropped their weapons and lied.
Stevens watched the last of them vanish, then felt a hand take his.
“They—they didn’t hurt you?”
Silently he drew her through the door and their bare feet felt the loam of the clearing. The nightwind fanned their faces. He turned to her. “I made them run,” he laughed, and she smiled. Markett was used to the bursts of childlike glee, and she loved her husband. He had insisted upon some sort of ceremony which apparently was tied up with Roald. And beside the usual broad grin was a kind of shrewd, calculating glint.
“They can’t fight. They’ve forgotten how. But now they know it.”
“Then,” she whispered, “we’re safe.”
“Safe,” he repeated broodingly. “From men, yes. But they have their machines. And machines can be set to kill as well as to build. We must move on.”
Markett turned slowly and looked at the leanto where they had been living. She laughed, a little nervously.
“Strange,” she said. “At first I didn’t like our—home. It was small—smaller than any of the apartments in the District Dwellings. And we always had to go outdoors for water—cold water that I couldn’t drink because it hadn’t been distilled so that all the salts and taste had been removed. Must we go, Clark?”
He held her tighter. “It was our home,” he said, “but we must go on!”
FAR to the north, where sane men did not go, where enormous trees guarded the silent paths of animals to the water-hole, there was a fire, man-built, cunningly piled against the bole of a tree and slanted away from the wind so that it would burn through the long night as a bed of glowing embers, little tongues of blue flame leaping up now and again to warn off any bear or wildcat that might seek easy pickings among the silent forms huddled in a circle. Men they were, big men with gnarled beards and knotted shoulder-muscles, sleeping restlessly and lightly, with one hand lying near cunningly constructed spring-guns and flat, gleaming backswords, into whose steel blades had been let threads of blue and red enamel in glowing, wide designs.
The crack of a twig broke the stillness of the forest night. With a grunt, the largest of the men sat up, his fist closing tight around the hardwood hilt of his sword.
“Hibron?” he called softly. “Is it you?”
Through the dusk strode a figure—a huge-boney male whose hair and beard were like twisted, golden wires, whose loins were girded in the pelt of a lynx, and who carried a hardwood staff a weaker man could not have lifted. He thundered: “Who’re you and who d’ye take me for?”
Around the fire men sprang to their feet, gripping weapons and raising bows. Their leader held his sword at guard and eyed the stranger coldly. “I mistook you for a missing member of our party,” he said. “Name yourself, stranger.” There was an angry growl from the men around the fire; they advanced, their weapons twitching.
“Are you Fotchy?” spoke up a man in the background.
“Not Hibron nor Fotchy nor any of your people,” answered the stranger, surveying them. “I’m Clark Stevens, wildman and sworn enemy of the city people. Who are you?”
The bearded man lowered his sword. “Come by the fire, enemy of the Fotchy, for their enemies are our friends. Are you alone?”
Stevens beckoned into a brush and a slim, firm-muscled woman dressed briefly in patched remnants of cloth came forth. “Markett, my wife,” he explained. Then to her: “These men are our friends, but who they are, I do not know. They are honest people, I think. Let us sit by their fire.”
He and the woman crossed their legs before the blaze, and one of the band piled wood on top. As the flames rose, the forest shadows were driven back, and every pebble in the little clearing cast its long shadow on the ground. The black-bearded man seated himself before the two strangers and his people arranged themselves in council behind him.
“Selim, Stevens,” began the leader. “I am Isral, one of the judges of the clan of Hebers, expelled and hunted down by the accursed Fotchy these seven generations and more. Are you, too, hounded by the murderous, invading swine?” The firelight gleamed on his nose and played about his ourly beard and hair.
“These Fotchy,” said Stevens slowly. “I have never heard of them. But I am hounded by another kind, perhaps. I have forsworn the cities of gleaming metal and glass, with their tasteless water and pulpy food. This I have left to live in the wilderness with my wife, and for that reason, they seek to kill me. These Fotchy—who were they?”
Isral spat. “They came from over the ocean and conquered all things. They imprisoned women and tortured men. Their leaders grew fat and luxurious while the common people were ground into the earth. The Hebers (those who we are) were singled out for destruction, though no one seems to know why. All this have I heard from my father, and there is much in the Btory that is strange.
“The Hebers were driven into the wilderness one winter to die, but even then we were a hardy people and most of us survived the snow and sleet of the first season. There was trouble as the isolated people met and formed clans, and much struggling for power. In the midst of this they neglected to store up sufficient food for the next winter and many died. For years—twenty, thirty, perhaps—they lived as brutes, with little more than fire to aid them. But, as a new generation grew up, they learned to make things with their hands, to build crude machines, and to turn the laws of nature to the common welfare. And from this time, we have risen in numbers and the enjoyment of life.”
Isral held up a gleaming sword. “We work with iron and pottery and wood, as well as such metals as we can find in the mountains of the north; we have flocks of goats, sheep and bison. Although we live close to nature, we are not helpless before natural forces, though wholly dependent upon them. We whom you see here are a hunting party sent far south to capture living deer for breeding purposes.”
He fell silent and stared inquiringly at Stevens, who cast his eyes over the man, and solemnly extended his hands. The gold-bearded man grinned and said: “You are a real people. I will be your friend.” From the group behind Isral was a pleased murmur. “Then,” said Isral, “you will come with us to the North and live with us, and tell us all you can about the world you have left. There may be much that we can put to good use.”
“I will,” said Stevens. And he was thinking, “These men can fight!”
DR. ALFREED has begun by discussing the Stevens affair hotly in the Medicos Club; a colleague had mildly objected to his neglect of duty. Alfreed had flared up and called the colleague a dirty name. From then onward Alfreed’s progress was spectacular. There was a challenge to debate the question, and Alfreed had won hands down. His opponent had presented his case clearly and logically, then retired from the stage. Alfreed had walked on with a sneer, the subconscious necessity of defending him elf boiling in his breast.
His speech was like nothing that had been heard from the debating platform for a hundred years or more, for he began by lashing out bitterly at the private life of his opponent. Patiently the audience waited for him to get around to the issue in question, finding themselves strangely stirred by the wild denunciation. One man yelled from the floor: “He’s right! I’m for Alfreed!” and the cry was repeated in the hall.
At this the doctor frowned heavily on the audience. “Enough of this!” he barked. “You, my friend, have seen the menace of this wildman loose in our midst. I say to you: ‘Hunt him down! Clark Stevens must be destroyed!’ ”
The abrupt switch in logic disturbed the crowd not at all. For a hundred years or more they had lain fallow, ready for the first demagogue who came along with a phony cause and a platform technique. In a tremendous burst of enthusiasm the doctor was cheered off the platform and carried through the streets in a spontaneous demonstration, and the cry of the first man to rise had been mutilated into “Right for Alfreed!” which rang all over the city by nightfall.
Deposited at his doorstep the doctor made a gracious speech, referring to the menace of Clark Stevens, and, passing a hand before his eyes, begged to be excused. Once in his apartment, Alfreed fell into a chair, astonished at himself. As he analyzed the matter there had been a psychological necessity to excuse his own mistake by violence misdirected, or not directed at all. But it was a good thing at any rate. Knowing in his heart of hearts that what he told himself was not true, he pledged himself to release what he already thought of as “his men” as soon as the menace of Stevens was eliminated. Then he went to bed. But all night there rang beneath his window the cry or challenge: “Right for Alfreed!”
When he woke, it was to find that his men had been working fast, ranging over the city, spreading the news to their friends—news of this wonderful Dr. Alfreed who had emerged from public obscurity to denounce the dangerous maniac who had been permitted to menace the city by the softlings in administrative control.
His door-signal flashed. “Come,” he called luxuriously from his bed. “ ’Lo, Winters,” he greeted an agitated colleague who strode into the room.
“Alfreed,” snapped Winters, “how did you do it? And how are you going to stop them? It isn’t healthy, this concentration on the death of one man.”
“One ruthless, murdering maniac,” said the doctor coldly. “Do you call unhealthy the operation that removes a cancer?” He sat up in bed and brought his fist down emphatically on his knee. “No! The day that Clark Stevens dies I shall rest from my labors, but until then it must and shall be my only thought—and not mine alone but all the people in the city. And those who say otherwise shall be crushed!”
Winters stared him in the eye. “If you’re not mad,” he said, “you’re giving a very accurate imitation of megalomania. But, for the sake of the record, I assure you that I shall never be a Rightman, and that many others have told me the same. Alfreed, you’ll never get a majority in any election, so why continue a futile opposition?”
The doctor frowned. “Get out,” he said. “You will see hew a man gets what he wants. He takes it!”
As the door closed on Winters’ back he relaxed in bed. “Rightman,” did the old fool say? Not bad. Not bad at all. He leaped out of bed and dressed. He was nervous, almost hysterically so, As he strode down the corridor of the dwelling, his friends greeted him with cries of “Right!” They were on his side, he thought.
He had to make a speech in the breakfast room of the dwelling and left with the cry of “Right for Alfreed!” crashing in his ears. Time to organize now, he thought. The enthusiasm must not be allowed to die down, for once cold reason was permitted to set in, his cause was lost. There could be no such thing as full debate; he must imbue his followers with such a sense of their truth and right that they would, unthinkingly, stamp on the first murmur of opposition, without listening to what the opposer had to say. Had he really been fooling when he intimated to Winters that he would take over by force? Maybe. He didn’t know yet. First thing the Rightmen would need, he decided, would be some sort of identification. Badges—stars? No, these were too flimsy; they might get lost easily, or then some scoundrel who had no right to them, who did not swear allegiance to the cause, might get hold of them.
What was needed was an ensign more substantial—a staff, perhaps. How about a rod, he thought. A nice, heavy one, of course—it’d look better that way—and it should be painted with bright colors. They could even wear bandoliers and shorts of the same color. Red, of course. Red stood out, attracted attention, and was the color of enthusiasm and violence. The sight of solid red ranks would at once intimidate opposition and attract recruits. “Right Red,
” it should be called. “Right Red” for the “Rightmen.” It is the duty, he thought, of the Rightman to defend his person against irresponsible attacks, that he may be preserved for the good of the state.
And, a few hours later, these same words thundered through a microphone to all parts of the city; “It is the Duty of the Rightman to defend his person against irresponsible attacks that he may be preserved for service to the state!” And a thousand bright Red Staffs swung up in salute, while from the throats of the bearers came the chant: “Right for Alfreed! Right! Right! RIGHT!”
ISRAL pointed. “See, Stevens, the sharpened tops of the stockade; logs half buried, upright, ten feet out of the ground showing, so close together that a rabbit couldn’t squeeze through. We’re safe here from any animal or man, I think.”
“I see,” said Stevens, shifting his rucksack. “It’s most ingenious. But shouldn’t you have sentries posted there by the gates?”
“We usually do,” said Isral, puzzled. “I don’t understand—” He broke off sharply as his eyes caught something. “Thundering heavens! The gate’s open! Somebody’s going to catch hell from the judges for this. Come on!” he shouted at the straggling column of men carrying, in a sort of palanquin cage, the live deer they had gone so far South to capture. “I can’t understand it,” he mused fretfully as he and Stevens and Markett ran on the double. They halted before the picketed gate and Markett wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?” she asked.
Stevens grimaced at the foul stench that drifted over the high palisade, and turned to Isral for an answer. The Heber had forced his face into lines of composure, but beneath his weather-beaten tan, his skin was white with shock, “Fever,” he said, pushing open the gate. “But twice before it has come, and both times we were able to combat it. Now—look—”
Hopelessly he stretched forth his hand, and Stevens turned his head.
There was a long street of neat little houses, log houses, punctuated here and there by little shops of artisans. At the end of the street was a meeting-hall on which, in wood contrasting with the rough, unfinished logs on the outside, was nailed the six-pointed star, tribal symbol of the Hebers. But the pottery wheels and grindstones and forges before the shops were untended, and there was no smoke of cooking from the neat little chimneys of the houses. Lying in the street, or half hidden in doorways, were drawn, gaunt figures, women, children and old people.
Collected Short Fiction Page 28