The Postman

by David Brin

Yours sincerely,

  Gordon K.

  That last remark might be a little dangerous, but Gordon had to include it, if only to show Mrs. Thompson he wasn’t completely caught up by his own hoax—the scam that he hoped would get him safely across the almost lawless countryside to …

  To what? After all these years Gordon still wasn’t sure what it was he was looking for.

  Perhaps only someone, somewhere, who was taking responsibility—who was trying to do something about the dark age. He shook his head. After all these years, the dream would not quite die.

  He folded the letter into an old envelope, dribbled wax from a candle, and pressed it with a seal salvaged from the Oakridge Post Office. The letter went atop the “progress report” he had labored over earlier, a tissue of fantasy addressed to officials of a make-believe government.

  Next to the packet lay his postman’s cap. The lamplight flickered in the brass image of a Pony Express rider, Gordon’s silent companion and mentor for months now.

  Gordon had stumbled onto his new survival plan by quirk and coincidence. But now, in town after town, people fell over themselves to believe, especially when he actually delivered letters from places he had already visited. After all these years, it seemed people still longed forlornly for a lost, shiny age—an era of cleanliness and order and a great nation now lost. The longing overwhelmed their hard-won skepticism like a spring thaw cracking the icy crust over a stream.

  Gordon quashed a threatening sense of shame. No one alive was guiltless after the last seventeen years, and his scam actually seemed to do a little good in the towns he passed through. In exchange for supplies and a place to rest, he sold hope.

  One did what one had to do.

  There were two sharp raps on the door. Gordon called, “Come!”

  Johnny Stevens, the newly appointed Assistant Postmaster of Cottage Grove, poked his head in. Johnny’s boyish face bore a barely sprouted fuzz of almost blond beard. But his lanky legs promised a great cross-country stride, and he was reputed to be a dead shot.

  Who could tell? The lad might even deliver the mail.

  “Uh, sir?” Johnny was obviously reluctant to interrupt important business. “It’s eight o’clock. You’ll remember that the Mayor wanted to have a beer with you in the pub, since it’s your last night here in town.”

  Gordon stood up. “Right, Johnny. Thanks.” He grabbed his cap and jacket, then scooped up the phony report and the letter to Mrs. Thompson.

  “Here you are then. These are official packets for your first run over to Culp Creek. Ruth Marshall is postmistress there. She’ll be expecting somebody. Her folk will treat you well.”

  Johnny took the envelopes as if they were made of butterfly’s wings. “I’ll protect them with my life, sir.” The youth’s eyes shone with pride, and a fierce determination not to let Gordon down.

  “You’ll do no such thing!” Gordon snapped. The last thing he wanted was for a sixteen-year-old to get hurt protecting a chimera. “You’ll use common sense, like I told you.”

  Johnny swallowed and nodded, but Gordon wasn’t at all sure he understood. Of course the boy would probably just have an exciting adventure, following the forest paths farther than anyone from his village had traveled in over a decade, coming back a hero with tales to tell. There were still a few loner survivalists in those hills. But this far north of the Rogue River country the odds were Johnny’d make it to Culp Creek and back just fine.

  Gordon almost had himself convinced.

  He exhaled and gripped the young man’s shoulder. “Your country doesn’t need you to die for her, Johnny, but to live and serve her another day. Can you remember that?”

  “Yessir.” The lad nodded seriously. “I understand.”

  Gordon turned to blow out the candles.

  Johnny must have been rummaging in the ruins of Cottage Grove’s old post office, for out in the hall Gordon noticed the boy’s homespun shirt now bore a proud U.S. MAIL patch on the shoulder, the colors still bright after almost twenty years.

  “I’ve already got ten letters from people here in Cottage Grove and nearby farms,” Johnny said. “I don’t think most of them even know anybody back east. But they’re writing anyway for the excitement of it, and in hopes somebody will write back.”

  So at least Gordon’s visit had gotten people to practice their literacy skills a little. That was worth a few nights’ food and lodging. “You warned them that east of Pine View the route is slow yet, and not guaranteed at all?”

  “Sure. They don’t care.”

  Gordon smiled. “That’s okay then. The Postal Service has always carried mostly fantasies, anyway.”

  The boy looked at him, puzzled. But Gordon set his cap on his head and said nothing more.

  • • •

  Since departing the shards of Minnesota, so long ago, Gordon had seen few villages as prosperous and apparently happy as Cottage Grove. The farms now brought in a surplus most years. The militia was well drilled and—unlike at Oakridge—unoppressive. As hope of finding true civilization faded, Gordon had slowly reduced the scope of his dreams until a place like this seemed almost like Paradise.

  It was ironic, then, that the very hoax that had taken him safely this far through the suspicious mountain hamlets now kept him from remaining here. For in order to maintain his illusion, he had to keep moving.

  They all believed in him. If his illusion failed now, even the good people of this town would certainly turn on him.

  The walled village covered one corner of prewar Cottage Grove. Its pub was a large, snug basement with two big fireplaces and a bar where the bitter local homebrew was served in tall clay steins.

  Mayor Peter Von Kleek sat in a corner booth talking earnestly with Eric Stevens, Johnny’s grandfather and newly appointed Postmaster of Cottage Grove. The two men were poring over a copy of Gordon’s “Federal Regulations” as he and Johnny stepped into the pub.

  Back in Oakridge, Gordon had run off a few score copies on a hand-cranked mimeograph machine he had managed to get working in the old, deserted post office. A lot of thought and care had gone into those circulars. They had to have the flavor of authenticity, and at the same time present no obvious threat to local strongmen—giving them no reason to fear Gordon’s mythical Restored United States … or Gordon himself.

  So far those sheets had been his most inspired prop.

  Tall, gaunt-faced Peter Von Kleek stood and shook Gordon’s hand, motioning him to a seat. The bartender hurried over with two tall steins of thick brown beer. It was warm, of course, but delicious—like pumpernickel bread. The Mayor waited, puffing nervously on his clay pipe, until Gordon put his stein down with a lip-smacking sigh.

  Von Kleek nodded at the implied compliment. But his frown remained fixed. He tapped the paper in front of him. “These regulations here aren’t very detailed, Mr. Inspector.”

  “Call me Gordon, please. These are informal times.”

  “Ah, yes. Gordon. Please call me Peter.” The Mayor was clearly uncomfortable.

  “Well, Peter,” Gordon nodded. “The Restored U.S. Government has learned some hard lessons. One has been not to impose rigid standards on far-flung localities who have problems St. Paul City can’t even imagine, let alone regulate.”

  Gordon launched into one of his prepared pitches.

  “There’s the question of money, for instance. Most communities dropped prewar currency soon after the food center riots. Barter systems are the rule, and they usually work just fine, except when debt service turns into a form of slavery.”

  That much was all true. In his travels Gordon had seen versions of feudal serfdom rising all over. Money was a joke.

  “The federal authorities in St. Paul have declared the old currency moot. There are just too many bills and coins out there for sparse rural economies.

  “Still, we’re trying to encourage national commerce. One way is by accepting old-time two-dollar bills to pay postage for letters carried by U.S. Mail. They never w
ere very common, and are impossible to forge with present-day technology. Pre-1965 silver coins are also acceptable.”

  “We’ve already taken in over forty dollars’ worth!” Johnny Stevens interjected. “Folks are hunting all over for those old bills and coins. And they’ve started usin’ them to pay off barter debts too.”

  Gordon shrugged. It had started already. Sometimes the little things he added to his tale, simply in order to lend verisimilitude, took off by themselves in ways he had never expected. He couldn’t see how a little money put back into circulation, given value by a local myth in the “Restored U.S.,” could hurt these people much.

  Von Kleek nodded. He moved on to the next item.

  “This part here about no ‘coercion’ without elections—” He tapped the paper. “Well, we do have sort of regular town meetings, and people from the surrounding hamlets take part when something big is up. But I can’t rightly say I or my militia chief were ever really voted for … not in a real secret ballot, like it says here.”

  He shook his head. “And we’ve had to do some pretty drastic things, especially during the early days. I hope we’re not going to have that held too hard against us Mr. Inspe—Gordon. We really have been doin’ our best.

  “We have a school, for instance. Most of the younger kids attend after harvest. And we can make a start salvaging machines and voting like it says here.…” Von Kleek wanted reassurance; he was trying to catch Gordon’s eye. But Gordon lifted his beer mug in order not to meet his gaze.

  One of the major ironies he had found in his travels had been this phenomenon—that those who had fallen the least far into savagery were those who seemed the most ashamed of having fallen at all.

  He coughed, clearing his throat.

  “It seems … it seems to me you’ve been doing a pretty good job here, Peter. The past doesn’t matter as much as the future, anyway. I don’t think you have to worry about the federal government interfering at all.”

  Von Kleek looked relieved. Gordon was sure there would be a secret ballot election here within weeks. And the people of this area would deserve what they got if they elected anyone as their leader but this gruff, sensible man.

  “One thing bothers me.”

  It was Eric Stevens who spoke. The spry oldster had been Gordon’s obvious choice as postmaster. For one thing, he ran the local trading post, and was the best-educated man in town, with a prewar college degree.

  Another reason was that Stevens had appeared the most suspicious when Gordon rode into town several days before, proclaiming a new era for Oregon under the “Restored U.S.” Appointing him postmaster seemed to persuade him to believe, if only for his own prestige and profit.

  Only incidentally, he would also probably do a good job—as long as the myth lasted, at least.

  Old Stevens turned his beer stein on the table, leaving a broad oval ring. “What I can’t figure out is why nobody’s been out here from St. Paul City before.

  “Sure, I know you had to cross a helluva lot of wild country to get here, almost all of it on foot, you say. But what I want to know is why didn’t they just send somebody out in an airplane?”

  There was a brief silence at the table. Gordon could tell that townsmen nearby were listening in, as well.

  “Aw gramps!” Johnny Stevens shook his head in embarrassment for his grandfather. “Don’t you realize how bad the war was? All the airplanes and complicated machines were wrecked by that pulse thing that blasted all the radios and such right at the beginning of the war! Then, later on, there wouldn’t have been anybody around who knew how to fix ’em. And there’d be no spare parts!”

  Gordon blinked in brief surprise. The kid was good! He had been born after the fall of industrial civilization, yet he had a grasp of the essentials.

  Of course everyone knew about the electromagnetic pulses, from giant H-bombs exploded high in space, that had devastated electronic devices all over the world on that deadly first day. But Johnny’s understanding went beyond that to the interdependence of a machine culture.

  Still, if the kid was bright he must have gotten it from his grandfather. The older Stevens looked at Gordon archly. “That right, Inspector? No spares or mechanics left?”

  Gordon knew that explanation wouldn’t hold under close scrutiny. He blessed those long, tedious hours on broken roads since leaving Oakridge, when he had worked out his story in detail.

  “No, not quite. The pulse radiation, the blasts, and the fallout destroyed a lot. The bugs and riots and the Three-Year Winter killed many skilled people. But actually, it didn’t take long to get some machines going again. There were airplanes ready to fly within days. The Restored U.S. has scores of them, repaired and tested and waiting to fly.

  “But they can’t take off. They’re all grounded, and will be for years to come.”

  The old man looked puzzled. “Why’s that, Inspector?”

  “For the same reason you wouldn’t pick up a broadcast even if you put together a working radio,” Gordon said. He paused for effect.

  “Because of laser satellites.”

  Peter Von Kleek slapped the table. “Son of a bitch!” All over the room heads turned their way.

  Eric Stevens sighed, giving Gordon a look that had to be total acceptance … or admiration of a better liar than himself.

  “What … what’s a lay …?”

  “Laser sat,” Johnny’s grandfather explained. “We won the war.” He snorted at the famous marginal victory that had been trumpeted in the weeks before the riots began. “But the enemy must have left some sleeper satellites in orbit. Program ’em to wait a few months or years, then anything so much as lets out a peep over the radio, or tries to fly, and zap!” He sliced the air decisively. “No wonder I never picked up anything on my crystal set!”

  Gordon nodded. The story fit so well, it could even be true. He actually hoped so. For it might explain the silence, and the lonely emptiness of the sky, without the world having to be totally vacant of civilization.

  And how else to explain the slag heaps that remained of so many radio antennas he had passed in his travels?

  “What’s the government doing about it?” Von Kleek asked earnestly.

  Fairy tales, Gordon thought. His lies would grow more complex as he traveled until at last someone caught him up.

  “There are some scientists left. We hope to find facilities in California for making and launching orbital rockets.” He left the implication hanging.

  The others looked disappointed.

  “If only there was a way to take out the damned satellites sooner,” the Mayor said. “Think of all those aircraft, just sitting there! Can you imagine how surprised the next Holnist raiding party out of the damned Rogue River would be, to find us farmers backed up by the U.S. Air Force and some bloody A-10s!”

  He gave a whooshing sound and made diving motions with his hands. Then the Mayor did a pretty good imitation of a machine gun. Gordon laughed with the others. Like boys they lived briefly in a fantasy of rescue, and power to the good guys.

  Other men and women gathered around, now that the Mayor and the postal inspector had apparently finished their business. Someone pulled out a harmonica. A guitar was passed to Johnny Stevens, who proved to be quite gifted. Soon the crowd was singing bawdy folk songs and old commercial jingles.

  The mood was high. Hope was thick as the warm, dark beer, and tasted at least as good.

  It was later in the evening that he heard it for the first time. On his way out of the men’s room—grateful that Cottage Grove had somehow retained gravity-flow indoor plumbing—Gordon stopped suddenly near the back stairs.

  There had been a sound.

  The crowd by the fireplace was singing.… “Gather ’round and listen to my tale—a tale of a fateful trip.…”

  Gordon cocked his head. Had he imagined the other murmur? It had been faint, and his head was ringing a bit on its own from the beer.

  But a queer feeling at the back of his neck, an intuit
ion, refused to let go. It made him turn around and begin climbing the stairs, a steep flight rising into the building above the basement pub.

  The narrow passage was dimly lit by a candle at the halfway landing. The happy, drunken sounds of the songfest faded away behind him as he ascended slowly, careful of the creaking steps.

  At the top he emerged into a darkling hallway. Gordon listened fruitlessly for what felt like a long time. After some moments he turned around, writing it all off to an overworked imagination.

  Then it came again.

  … a series of faint, eerie sounds at the very edge of audibility. The half-memories they pulled forth sent a shiver up Gordon’s back. He had not heard their like since … since long, long ago.

  At the end of the dusty hallway faint light outlined a cracked door jamb. He approached, quietly.

  Bloop!

  Gordon touched the cold metal knob. It was free of dust. Someone was already inside.

  Wah-wah …

  The absent weight of his revolver—left in his guest room in supposedly safe Cottage Grove—made him feel half-naked as he turned the knob and opened the door.

  Dusty tarpaulins covered stacked crates filled with odds and ends, everything from salvaged tires to tools to furniture, a hoard put aside by the villagers against the uncertain future. Around one row of boxes came the source of that faint, flickering light. There were hushed voices just ahead, whispering in urgent excitement. And that sound—

  Bloop. Bloop!

  Gordon crept alongside the towers of musty crates—like unsteady cliffs of ancient sediment—growing more tense as he approached the end of the row. The glow spread. It was a cold light, without heat.

  A floorboard creaked under his foot.

  Five faces turned up suddenly, cast into deep relief by the strange light. In a breathless instant Gordon saw that they were children, staring up at him in terrified awe—the more so because they clearly recognized him. Their eyes were wide and they did not move.

  But Gordon cared about none of that, only about a little boxlike object that lay on an oval rug in the center of the small coven. He could not believe what he was seeing.