Beyond This Horizon

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “You’re way out of date. They used to have a notion of that sort, but it was silly—contra-biological.” It occurred to her that Hamilton’s faulty orientation might have its origin in the injudicious application of that outmoded, unfounded theory. The natural urges of mothers had prevented it ever being applied thoroughly in most cases, but his case was different. He had been what was, to her, the most tragic thing on earth—a baby that never left the development center. When she found one of these exceptions among her own charges she lavished on it extra affection and a little over. But she said nothing of this to him.

  “Why,” she continued, “do you think animals lick their young?”

  “To cleanse them, I suppose.”

  “Nonsense! You can’t expect an animal to appreciate cleanliness. It’s a caress, an expression of instinctive affection. So-called instincts are instructive, Felix. They point to survival values.”

  He shrugged. “We’re here.”

  They entered the restaurant—a pay-restaurant—he had chosen, and went to a private room reserved for them. They started the meal in silence. His usual sardonic humor was dampened by the thing in the back of his mind. This business of the Survivors Club—he had entered into it light-heartedly, but now it was developing ominous overtones which worried him. He wished that Mordan—the government, rather—would act.

  He had not gotten ahead as fast in the organization as he had hoped. They were anxious to use him, willing to accept, to demand, his money, but he still had not obtained a clear picture of the whole network. He still did not know who was senior to McFee Norbert, nor did he know the numbers of the whole organization.

  Meantime, daily the tightrope became more difficult to walk.

  He had been permitted to see one thing which tended to show that the organization was older and larger than he had guessed. McFee Norbert had escorted him personally, as one of the final lessons in his education in the New Order, to a place in the country, location carefully concealed from Hamilton, where he was permitted to see the results of clandestine experiments in genetics.

  Beastly little horrors!

  He had viewed, through one-way glass, “human” children whose embryonic gills had been retained and stimulated. They were at home in air or water, but required a humid atmosphere at all times. “Useful on Venus, don’t you think?” McFee had commented.

  “We assumed too readily,” he continued, “that the other planets in this system were not useful. Naturally the leaders will live here, most of the time, but with special adaptation, quite useful supporting types could remain permanently on any of the planets. Remind me to show you the anti-radiation and low-gravity types.”

  “I’d be interested,” Hamilton stated truthfully but incompletely. “By the way, where do we get our breeding stock?”

  “That’s an impertinent and irrelevant question, Hamilton, but I’ll answer you. You are a leader type—you’ll need to know eventually. The male plasm we supply ourselves. The females were captured among the barbarians—usually.”

  “Doesn’t that mean rather inferior stock?”

  “Yes, surely. These are simple experiments. None of them will be retained. After the Change, it will be another story. We’ll have superior stock to start with—you, for example.”

  “Yes, of course.” He did not care to pursue that line. “No one has ever told me just what our plans are for the barbarians.”

  “No need for juniors to discuss it. We’ll save some of them for experimentation. In time, the rest will be liquidated.”

  A neat but sweeping plan, Hamilton had thought. The scattered tribes of Eurasia and Africa, fighting their way back up to civilization after the disasters of the Second War, consigned without their consent or knowledge to the oblivion of the laboratory or death. He decided to cut off McFee’s ears a bit at a time.

  “This is possibly the most stimulating exhibit,” McFee had continued, moving on. Hamilton had looked where he was directed. The exhibit appeared to be a hydrocephalic idiot, but Hamilton had never seen one. His eyes saw an obviously sick child with a head much too big for it. “A tetroid type,” McFee stated. “Ninety-six chromosomes. We once thought that was the secret of the hyperbrain, but we were mistaken. The staff geneticists are now on the right track.”

  “Why don’t you kill it?”

  “We will, presently. There is still something to be learned from it.”

  There were other things—things that Hamilton preferred not to think about. He felt now that, if he managed to get through that test without displaying his true feelings, he had been damned lucky!

  The proposed extermination of the barbarians reminded him of another matter. Most curiously, the strange advent of John Darlington Smith had had an indirect effect on the plans of the Survivors Club. The compelling logic of the plans for the New Order called automatically for the deaths of the inefficient and sickly control naturals, as well as the deaths of synthesists, recalcitrant geneticists, counter-revolutionaries in general.

  The plans for the latter aroused no opposition to speak of, but many of the club members had a sentimental fondness for control naturals. They regarded them with the kindly paternal contempt that members of a ruling class frequently feel for subject “inferior” races. Just what to do about this psychological problem had delayed the zero hour of the Change.

  The Adirondack stasis gave a means.

  McFee had announced the tactical change the evening of the very day that Smith had called on Hamilton. Control naturals were to be placed in stasis for an indefinite period. It was an entirely humane procedure; the prisoners would be unhurt by their stay and would emerge in the distant future. McFee had asked Hamilton what he thought of the scheme, after the meeting.

  “It should be popular,” Hamilton had admitted. “But what happens after they are let out?”

  McFee had looked surprised, then laughed. “We are practical men, you and I,” he had said in a low voice.

  “You mean…”

  “Surely. But keep your mouth shut.”

  Phyllis decided that it was time to interrupt his morose preoccupation. “What’s eating you, Filthy?” she inquired. “You haven’t said two words since we sat down.”

  He returned to his surroundings with a start. “Nothing important,” he lied—wishing that he could unburden himself to her. “You haven’t been chatty yourself. Anything on your mind?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, “I’ve just selected the name for our son.”

  “Great jumping balls of fire! Aren’t you being just a little premature? You know damned well we aren’t ever going to have children.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “Hummph! What name have you picked for this hypothetical offspring?”

  “Theobald—‘Bold for the People,’” she answered dreamily.

  “‘Bold for the—’ better make it Jabez.”

  “Jabez? What does it mean?”

  “‘He will bring sorrow.’”

  “‘He will bring sorrow!’ Filthy, you’re filthy!”

  “I know it. Why don’t you forget all this business, give that noisy nursery a miss, and team up with me?”

  “Say that slowly.”

  “I’m suggesting matrimony.”

  She appeared to consider it. “Just what do you have in mind?”

  “You write the ticket. Ortho-spouse, registered companion, legal mate—any contract you want.”

  “To what,” she said slowly, “am I to attribute this sudden change of mind?”

  “It isn’t sudden. I’ve been thinking about it ever since…ever since you tried to shoot me.”

  “Something’s wrong here. Two minutes ago you were declaring that Theobald was impossibly hypothetical.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said hastily. “I didn’t say a word about children. That’s another subject. I was talking about us.”

  “So? Well, understand this, Master Hamilton. When I get married, it will not be to a man who regards it as sort of a
super-recreation.” She turned her attention back to her dinner.

  A thick silence followed for several minutes. He broke it.

  “Sore at me?”

  “No. Filthy, you’re such a rat.”

  “Yeah, I know that, top. Finished?”

  “Yes. Coming home with me?”

  “I’d like to, but I can’t tonight.”

  After he left her he went straight to the Hall of the Wolf. A full round-up had been ordered for that evening, no reason given but no excuses accepted. It happened also to be his first meeting since he had been promoted to the minor dignity of section leader.

  The door of the clubroom stood open. A few members assembled inside were being moderately noisy and convivial, in accordance with doctrine. It was even possible that a stranger, or two, was present. Such presence was desired when nothing was going on. Later, they would be gently dismissed.

  Hamilton wandered in, said hello to a couple of people, drew himself a stein of beer, and settled down to watch a dart game taking place in one end of the lounge.

  Some time later, McFee bustled in, checked over the company by sight, picked up two section leaders by eye, and signalled them with a jerk of his head to get rid of the one remaining outsider. The stranger had been well lubricated; he was reluctant to leave, but presented no real problem. When he was gone and the doorway had relaxed, he said, “To business, brothers.” To Hamilton he added, “You attend conference tonight, you know.”

  Hamilton started to acknowledge the order, when he felt a touch on his shoulder and a voice behind him. “Felix. Oh, Felix!”

  He turned around, half recognizing the voice. Nevertheless, it was only his animal quickness which enabled him to cover up in time. It was Monroe-Alpha.

  “I knew you were one of us,” his friend said happily. “I have been wondering when—”

  “Get to your section room,” McFee said sternly.

  “Yes, sir! See you later, Felix.”

  “Sure thing, Cliff,” Hamilton responded heartily.

  He followed McFee into the council room, glad of the brief chance to get his raging thoughts in order. Cliff! Great Egg—Cliff! What in the Name of Life was he doing in this nest of vermin? Why hadn’t he seen him? He knew why, of course—a member of one section was extremely unlikely to meet a member of another. Different instruction nights and so on. He cursed the whole system. But why Cliff? Cliff was the gentlest, kindest man who ever packed a gun. Why would he fall for this rot?

  He considered the idea that Monroe-Alpha might be an agent provocateur, like himself—and amazed to find him there. Or perhaps not amazed—he might know Hamilton’s status even though Hamilton did not know his. No, that did not make sense. Cliff didn’t have the talent for the deception required. His emotions showed on his sleeve. He was as pellucid as air. He couldn’t act worth a damn.

  McFee was speaking. “Leaders, I have been ordered to transmit to you great news!” He paused. “The Change is upon us.”

  They stirred, alert, attentive. Hamilton sat up. Hell’s delight! he thought, the ship about to raise and I have to be saddled with that holy fool Cliff.

  “Bournby!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You and your section—prime communications. Here’s your spool. Memorize it at once. You’ll cooperate with the chief of propaganda.”

  “Right.”

  “Steinwitz, your section is assigned to Power Center. Take your spool. Harrickson!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It went on and on, Hamilton listened with half his mind, face impassive, while he tried to think himself out of his predicament. Mordan had to be warned—that was primary!—at the earliest possible moment at which he could break clear. After that, if there was some way to save the fool from his folly, he would try it.

  “Hamilton!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Special assignment. You will—”

  “Just a moment, Chief. Something has come to my attention that constitutes a danger to the movement.”

  “Yes?” McFee’s manner was impatient and frosty.

  “Junior member Monroe-Alpha. I want him assigned to me.”

  “Impossible. Attend your orders.”

  “I am not being undisciplined,” Hamilton stated evenly. “I happen to know this man better than any of you. He is erratic and inclined to be hysterical. He’s a deviant type, but personally devoted to me. I want him where I can keep an eye on him.”

  McFee tapped the table impatiently. “Utterly impossible. Your zeal exceeds your sense of subordination. Don’t repeat the error. Furthermore, if what you say is true, he is better off where he is—you couldn’t use him. Mosely—you’re his section leader. Watch him. If necessary, burn him down.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, Hamilton—” Hamilton realized with sinking heart that his attempt to find a way out for Monroe-Alpha had simply placed his friend in greater jeopardy. He was snapped to attention by McFee’s succeeding words. “At the time of action, you will get yourself admitted to the Moderator for Genetics—Mordan. Burn him down at once, being particularly careful not to give him a chance to draw.”

  “I know his speed,” Hamilton said dryly.

  McFee relaxed a trifle. “You need no help on the assignment, as you are one man who can get in to see him easily—as you and I know.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So it’s just as well that you haven’t been assigned a section. I imagine you’ll enjoy this assignment; you have a personal interest, I think.” He favored Hamilton with a sly smile.

  Very, very small pieces, thought Hamilton. But he managed an appropriately grim smile and answered, “There’s something in what you say.”

  “Ah, yes! That’s all, gentlemen. No one is to leave until I give the word—then by ones and twos. To your sections!”

  “When do we start?” someone ventured.

  “Read your spools.”

  Hamilton stopped McFee on the way to the lounge. “I have no spool. When is the zero time?”

  “Oh, yes. As a matter of fact, it hasn’t been assigned yet. Be ready from now on. Stay where you can be reached.”

  “Here?”

  “No. At your apartment.”

  “I’ll leave, then.”

  “No, don’t. Leave when the rest do. Come have a drink with me and help me relax. What was that song about the Rocket Pilot’s Children? It tickled me.”

  Hamilton spent the next hour helping The Great Man relax.

  Monroe-Alpha’s section was dismissed shortly before McFee released them. Hamilton used his new seniority to see to it that he and his friend were among the first groups to filter out. Once outside Monroe-Alpha, tense and excited by the prospect of action, started to babble. “Shut up,” Hamilton snapped.

  “Why, Felix!”

  “Do as you’re told,” he said savagely. “To your apartment.”

  Monroe-Alpha continued in sulky silence, which was just as well. Hamilton wanted no talk with him until he had him alone. In the mean time he had his eye open for a telephone. The distance was short—a few flights and a short slide-a-way. They passed two booths. The first was occupied, the second showed a glowing transparency: OUT OF SERVICE. He swore to himself and continued.

  They passed a monitor, but he despaired of getting his message across to a routine-indoctrinated mind. They hurried on to Monroe-Alpha’s home. Once inside and the door sealed behind them, Hamilton stepped quickly to his friend’s side and relieved him of his weapon before Monroe-Alpha had time to realize what he was up to.

  Monroe-Alpha stepped back in surprise. “What did you do that for, Felix?” he protested. “What’s up? Don’t you trust me?”

  Hamilton looked him up and down.

  “You fool,” he said bitterly. “You utter, stupid, hysterical fool!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Thou, beside me, in the wilderness”

  “FELIX! What do you mean? What’s come over you?” His expression was so com
pletely surprised, so utterly innocent of wrongdoing, that Hamilton was momentarily disconcerted. Was it possible that Monroe-Alpha, like himself, was in it as an agent of the government and knew that Hamilton was one also?

  “Wait a minute,” he said grimly. “What’s your status here? Are you loyal to the Survivors Club, or are you in it as a spy?”

  “A spy? Did you think I was a spy? Was that why you grabbed my gun?”

  “No,” Hamilton answered savagely, “I was afraid you weren’t a spy.”

  “But—”

  “Get this. I am a spy. I’m in this thing to bust it up. And, damn it, if I were a good one, I’d blow your head off and get on with my work. You bloody fool, you’ve gummed the whole thing up!”

  “But…but Felix, I knew you were in it. That was one of the things that persuaded me. I knew you wouldn’t—”

  “Well, I’m not! Where does that put you? Where do you stand? Are you with me, or against me?”

  Monroe-Alpha looked from Hamilton’s face to the gun in his fist, then back to his face. “Go ahead and shoot,” he said.

  “Don’t be a fool!”

  “Go ahead. I may be a fool—I’m not a traitor.”

  “Not a traitor—you! You’ve already sold out the rest of us.”

  Monroe-Alpha shook his head. “I was born into this culture. I had no choice and I owe it no loyalty. Now I’ve had a vision of a worthwhile society. I won’t sacrifice it to save my own skin.”

  Hamilton swore. “‘God deliver us from an idealist.’ Would you let that gang of rats run the country?”

  The telephone said softly but insistently, “Someone’s calling. Someone’s calling. Someone’s—” They ignored it.

  “They aren’t rats. They propose a truly scientific society and I’m for it. Maybe the change will be a little harsh but that can’t be helped. It’s for the best—”

  “Shut up. I haven’t time to argue ideologies with you.” He stepped toward Monroe-Alpha, who drew back a little, watching him.

  Hamilton suddenly, without taking his eyes off Monroe-Alpha’s face, kicked him in the groin. “Someone’s calling. Someone’s calling.” Hamilton holstered his gun—fast—bent over the disabled man and punched him in the pit of the stomach, not with his fist but with stiffened fingers. It was nicely calculated to paralyse the diaphragm—and did. He dragged Monroe-Alpha to a point under the telephone, placed a knee in the small of his back, and seized his throat with the left hand.