A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  Franz shrugged his shoulders almost as if he were disinterested in the drama in which they were taking part. His eyes searched the faces of the men.

  “So you want women, eh? You want to preserve our race—the glorious animal, Man. Ha! I ask you to ponder for a moment, before it is too late, whether this race is worth preserving. Men have been furthering the race for milleniums and what has it come to? Consider if the earth wouldn’t prosper better without Man.”

  The men shifted uneasily. “Forget all that, Franz,” Sten snapped. “You know there must be an answer somewhere. This is our only chance. Everything can’t be dead.”

  Franz looked away. “As you wish. If you’re determined to go through with it, then let’s start. But first, remember that you’re Steel-heads, bred and raised with no other thought than to carry out the will of Him—The Leader. His will is your will. You do not think, you only act according to orders. Don’t look intelligent, that is suspect. Just stare straight ahead and do what I tell you—or what any other officer might tell you, for that matter. Remember, don’t question anything! Just follow orders.”

  He laid his hand on the door that led to the city, hesitated for a brief instant, then swung it open. As the men entered, walking stiffly with eyes coldly searching for the unknown, they were hit by a high-pitched whine that filled the corridor and seemed to pierce deep within them. The three men covered their ears with their hands and cringed. But Franz stood straight and moved his head around to catch the noise from all angles. His mouth opened and closed slowly as if he were trying to pull the shrill noise deep within him. Finally he shook his head, as a dog shakes off water, and gathered command of himself.

  “It is The Leader,” he said in a loud voice to overcome the whine. “Soon you will not notice it. It is everywhere.”

  Sten removed his hands from his ears and felt the noise creep over him. He shuddered, and felt beads of sweat form on his forehead as the sound seemed to gnaw at his consciousness. Soon the others were able to bear the noise with their ears uncovered, but they felt restless and uneasy.

  “We’re lucky not to have been seen,” said Franz. “Come on.”

  They moved down the corridor in military formation, Franz leading and the others following dumbly. The corridor was small and well-lighted. Doors opened into cubicles every few feet, and the wall was lined with wide view-screens that stared out, like probing and sullen eyes. The men kept their eyes straight ahead, but occasionally they flicked a glance sideways at the people that were passing them in both directions. They halted as they reached the main corridor.

  A loud buzzer rose above the whine, and people emerged from the doors along the walls and passed them in silence. Eyes fixed on the ground. A few talked as they went by, but none noticed the soldiers standing at the edge of the corridor.

  Three girls, walking in silence, paused before the men for a brief instant, then passed on. Sten felt his eyes following the girls hungrily. Catching himself, he pulled back to attention and nudged his brother at his side. “Steel-head, Johnathon, remember?” Johnathon again looked straight ahead and stifled the beginnings of a grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. Franz also stared after the girls, but his eyes wore an amused expression, rather than the longing look of the other men.

  Franz spat out a curt order and they began to march down the corridor again, the crowd making room for them automatically. Everywhere posters glared at them from the walls. Some pictured a huge eye that stared out with the words, “The Leader is watching.” Others showed the smiling faces of a throng of people. Underneath, in scarlet lettering was emblazoned: “Panamia and The Leader March On—PROGRESS.”

  For an hour they marched through the city, ignored by the people and apparently unaware of all that was happening around them. They passed thousands of men and women, a milling mass, each immersed in a grim stupor. Where the main corridors intersected they entered great assembly places where huge view-screens were set up. They were always turned on.

  A shrill emotional voice blared out a constant stream of propaganda. “People of Panamia, unite, work! The Root-Diggers must be repulsed! For the glory of The Leader, for the glory of Panamia, we must accomplish our utmost. We must give our all!”

  “For The Leader! For Panamia!” the people shouted, rising momentarily from their dull world, their eyes glazed with emotion. Banners beneath the screens announced in large crimson letters: Service to The Leader is glory to yourself and Panamia.

  The soldiers stood watching tight-lipped. Franz’s nostrils quivered as the tumult of the demonstration thundered about them. His face took on an eager look as he watched the people shouting in exaltation, a curt movement of Sten’s hand brought him back to the task at hand. He gave a short barked order and the group moved on.

  They had just reached an intersection and were standing awaiting directions from Franz when a shout rang out. “Stop, Provost. You! What are you doing here?” A short, ruddy-faced officer in thick-lensed glasses strode up the corridor toward them, scowling. Sten cautiously moved his head around to face the danger.

  “Sten, attention! He’ll know,” Franz hissed from the side of his mouth.

  Sten snapped back to attention, staring straight ahead.

  The squat officer confronted Franz. “Who assigned you to this block?”

  Franz saluted. “Security sent us to check on a disturbance near here.”

  The officer’s eyes narrowed. “Disturbance? I have heard of no disturbance.”

  “That is of no matter. We were sent.”

  The squat officer stared hard at Franz. “Hmm, I see. And what is your rank number, Provost?”

  Franz told him a number that he remembered.

  The officer looked them over searchingly, his lower lip protruding in obvious contempt. “Very well, carry on. But Provost, I’ll remember you!” He stood watching as they marched away, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with the palm of his hand.

  Sten felt a sickening void in his stomach as they marched past the officer. Surely the man suspected. Would it all end right here, before they even had a chance to get started? He felt the reassuring pressure of the knife inside his belt, the one weapon that Franz had advised, and resolved that, if it should be necessary, their lives would be sold dearly.

  After a while they turned into a series of side passage-ways and Franz stopped before the door to one of the cubicles. The corridor was empty, and they were out of range of the view-screens. Johnathon relaxed against the wall and sighed. “What a sight. I never expected it to be as bad as this. Did you notice the look in most of their eyes? It’s a dull, glazed almost dead look. They’re nothing more than beaten animals.”

  “Easy,” Franz cautioned, “wait till we get inside.”

  He pressed the button on the door. A woman’s voice came through the door panel. “What do you want?”

  “Open. In the name of The Leader. It is a Provost.”

  Slowly the door swung open and the men saw a small brunette standing before them. “What do you want?” she repeated in the same monotone.

  “Interrogation!” Franz pushed his way inside. The others followed.

  The woman stood against the wall cowering from the soldiers. Franz searched around the apartment carefully, then confronted the woman.

  “Do you not know me?”

  The woman stared into his eyes. Finally she said, “No, no, I don’t know you.”

  “Do you not remember Jeannine? The girl you worked with? Remember the plans? The plans to leave here and go outside to build a new life?”

  Her chin quivered as she tried to speak. “Yes, now I remember. You are Franz, Jeannine’s lover. That was before The Leader found out and . . . and sent Jeannine away. You disappeared, I thought you had been sent away, too. It is hard to remember. You know we are ordered to forget the past. What . . . what do you want of me?”

  Franz motioned to the men with him, “We are from the outside.”

  The woman recoiled with a gasp and backed even cl
oser to the wall. “Root-Diggers!”

  Sten stepped forward. “No, we’re not Root-Diggers. We’re the men of Boru. We’ve come to lead you and others like you to freedom.”

  “Barbarians!” the woman snarled. “You’re planning to overthrow Panamia!” She lunged wildly at the switch that would have turned on her view-screen. Sten caught her and pushed her back against the wall. The woman screamed once before Sten slapped her, then she sobbed into her hands.

  “Shut up!” Sten commanded. “We mean no harm. We have come only to lead out to freedom those who wish to go.”

  “You are against The Leader.” Franz laughed. “Let’s say we hope to outwit him.”

  The woman drew back. “That is impossible, he cannot be outwitted. The Leader is all.”

  Johnathon looked up from the corner where he was examining the view-screen. “That may be, but we intend to have a try at it.”

  Karl, who had been leaning against the door, suddenly sat down on a hard bench against the wall. “Damn,” he complained, “this whining noise gives me a headache.”

  The woman allowed herself a moment of curiosity. “What whining noise? There is no noise.”

  “They are conditioned to it,” Franz spoke to Sten. “It’s a part of their lives. We never hear the pounding of our hearts.”

  The woman sat down on the bench and buried her face in her hands.

  “Tell me,” Sten said, “Has she no husband?”

  “Husband? In Panamia there is no such thing. Everyone lives alone. When they reach maturity, they are summoned to a meeting with The Leader, and mated with him or one of his representatives. That is all. The child is raised by The Leader’s nurses. It is all a very impersonal business. They never speak of it.”

  The lights in the apartment dimmed. Immediately the woman rose and walked mechanically to a bunk set in the wall, curled up, and was asleep almost before the men could notice her.

  “What was that?”

  “Just The Leader’s signal that it is time for sleep,” Franz said. “Did you see how she obeyed?”

  “They live like clockwork,” Sten muttered.

  Several hours later the lights came on again. The woman rose without speaking to the men, who had slept on the floor, and sat down at the table to eat.

  “Hey, don’t we get invited to breakfast?” asked Karl, sitting up in the corner.

  Johnathon sniffed the air. “From the smell of it I don’t think I want any.”

  The woman looked up annoyed. “When are you going to leave? I have to go to my work. It’s important to Panamia.” This last was said with a fierce pride.

  “Will she be missed?” Sten asked Franz.

  “Yes, but they allow one day away for illness. The second day they check.”

  “Don’t Worry,” Sten told the woman. “We will leave when we have what we came for.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Freedom.”

  “But you say freedom is outside. Why didn’t you stay?”

  “Because there must be freedom for our children—and for their children.”

  “You have children?” she looked interested.

  “We shall soon.”

  “Yes,” she said scornfully, “freedom for the children of the Root-Diggers. But you come to Panamia for that freedom!”

  “We told you we’re not Root-Diggers,” Johnathon said. “You can hardly compare us with that tribe of poor devils. But even their state is better than living like a slave in Panamia.”

  The woman laughed bitterly. “If you are not Root-Diggers, why do you come to hurt Panamia and The Leader? It is because of you people that we are warred upon and must always sacrifice.”

  Franz rose and faced the woman. “Kathryn, you’re wrong,” he said. “The Root-Diggers are not warring with Panamia. They are only men and women like ourselves who have been banned from Panamia. The Leader had them purged before they were forced outside so that they are sterile and have only half their wits. They have to live like animals, eating roots and berries and bugs and insects. Those are the Root-Diggers your Leader uses to frighten you.”

  The woman clenched her fists until the knuckles showed white.

  “You lie!” she screamed. “The Leader tells the truth.”

  “No, it’s not a lie. We have all seen them,” Sten said quietly.

  The men sat in silence while the woman wept.

  Karl reached out and ate a bit of the woman’s food. “What sort of gruel is this stuff, I wonder. It needs salt.”

  “Salt,” commented Franz, “is the greatest luxury in the city. Because of the Root-Diggers, you know. There is a grave shortage. The people crave it more than anything else and will go to any lengths to get an extra ration of it.”

  Sten shook his head. “And they blame it on those poor beasts outside.” He rose and began nervously pacing the floor. “Franz, we have to move quickly. The others will leave if we don’t meet them on time. Do you think she will go with us? Will she help us get others?”

  “Who knows about her?” Franz shrugged. “I know some others here who may want to go. We can see them now, but someone has to stay here with Kathryn.”

  Sten watched the hungry eyes of Karl and Johnathon as they looked at the now silent woman, sitting dejectedly at the table.

  “I’ll stay,” he said.

  The two men moved reluctantly as they followed Franz from the room. Sten sat in silence after they were gone, watching the woman, who was staring sullenly at the table top. He felt the pressure of the room close in on him, and wished he were back in the openness of the mountains. With a start he realized that he no longer noticed the whine unless he listened for it, and that the sound somehow created a feeling of warmth within him. He rose, slammed his fist into his open palm, and shook the woman vigorously.

  “Kathryn, how would you like to leave here? Go to a new land, a valley that is still green and fertile? There you could look up at the sky and live and feel free—and raise your children free.”

  Kathryn looked up dumbfounded. “I couldn’t leave here. What would I do? Don’t you know that this is real freedom? Here where we have The Leader to take care of everything for us?”

  “No! This is bondage. Being told when to sleep and when to eat and what to eat, and slaving for a grain of salt.”

  “Do you have salt?” she seemed incredulous.

  “Out there, Kathryn, you can have as much as you want. Believe me, this is no good. Where is the purpose of your life? Man wasn’t born to be a slave to anyone or anything, but to build his own life. You’re a woman, meant to have children, to mother them, and teach them, and love them, doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it before.”

  “You must think about it! Would you have it all end here? Living always at the command of an unknown voice?”

  The woman’s eyes searched the room, as if seeking some sign of reassurance. “But . . . I’ve never thought of any other kind of life. I’m happy here!”

  “Happy? Being a living robot? You’ve never touched real happiness. Think, Kathryn. Think hard about this. It’s the most important thing in the world.”

  She turned from the man and looked at the wall.

  IT WAS several hours before Franz and the others returned. Kathryn was in her bunk, her eyes shut, an instrument clamped to her temples.

  Franz breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind them. “Whew, that’s not good for the nerves! Every time we turned a corner we ran into that officer we met yesterday. I think he’s watching us.”

  “Sten,” Johnathon said excitedly, “you should have gone with us. Most of the people wouldn’t even listen, but there was a girl who was interested. I’ve never seen anything like her, Sten. She’s so soft and small and . . .”

  Karl interrupted enthusiastically. “And she has a friend that’s coming with her! Her name’s Stella—I touched her and she’s smoother than anything I ever felt. I . . . I think she ma
y go with us.”

  Sten and Franz stood soberly watching the child-like joy of the two men, a new joy, something unquenchable that burned deep within them.

  “These people are mindless fools,” Franz snorted. “Most of them didn’t even remember me. The Leader’s forgetting treatments are pretty strong stuff, I guess. ‘The Past is Forgotten, the Future is the Glory of The Leader’, that’s the motto.”

  “No wonder the poor souls seem mindless,” said Sten soberly. “But what about the girls they’re so happy about?” he motioned to the table where Karl and Johnathon were glibly comparing notes on the girls they had met.

  “They didn’t remember me either, but they seemed to be able to think independently. They also thought of some others who might be interested. What will we do if we get too many?”

  “We’ll take anyone who wants to go. At least, as many as we can. The important thing is that we get enough to start again outside.” He pointed to the nook where Kathryn was still curled in the foetal position.

  “What’s Kathryn doing, Franz? She’s been like that for an hour.”

  Franz’s eyes held a look of pity. “It is the one recreation that The Leader allows them. It’s hard to explain exactly what it is, but you are carried away by it. It’s something like a drug, yet it’s mechanical. Something like music or sweet voices washes over you and you dream. For a time, you actually live.”

  Sten shuddered. “The only reality is dreams then, eh? Tell me, are these people actually capable of love?”

  “It’s completely foreign to them, but they are human beings, and I suppose love is innate in us all. I found it here once, you know.” Sten looked away as Franz stared hard at the floor.

  The tension was broken by a knock at the door, and three women followed by a single man entered. When they had exchanged greetings and been seated, Sten stood up in the middle of the room. Kathryn, who had wakened from her dreaming, sat watching wideeyed.