Cities in Flight

by James Blish

  While he waited, Amalfi ticked over the possibilities. This was all in all developing into a most curious affair, quite unlike anything he had ever been involved in before. It thus far consisted mostly of interludes and transitions, with only a small scatter of decision-points upon which action might be possible. In this sense even the events which most recalled to him the events of his earlier life seemed to be reshaping themselves into the pattern of his old age, not only allowing for but requiring a much greater exercise of reflection and an intensive weighing of values. Reflexive action was out of the question; it was possible only from some fixed guiding principle, such as “the survival of the city”; such an axiom, if it persists and dominates for a long time, allows many decisions to be reached via the reflex arc with almost no intervening intellection—one automatically jumped in the right direction, like a cat turning itself over in mid-air. No such situation existed now; the values to be weighed were mutually contradictory.

  It had to be assumed, first of all, that Jorn did not know the situation on New Earth in detail; he had simply reacted as a good strategist should to capitalize upon an unexpected victory in an unexpected quarter, and almost surely did not know that his blockading fleet was holding three hostages, let alone who those hostages were. It would be impossible to intimidate him on this matter; it would be wiser not to give him the information at all. After all, the first intent of the call was to get the bumpkin army disbanded and the dismounted spindillies out of action; but it would not do to convince him out of hand that his coup on New Earth could not possibly stick, since that would result in his withdrawing his blockade and the hostages with it. Better to serve both ends, if it could be swung that way: to convince Jorn that the putsch had better be abandoned forthwith, but not so thoroughly as to alarm him into thinking he might lose part of his navy if he took his time about calling the putsch off.

  It looked like a large order. It meant that the danger which Jorn the Apostle would have to be made to suspect would have to be as much ideological as it was military. As a military commander of considerable proven ability, Jorn could not but be familiar with the corruption of an occupying force by the standards and customs of the nation that it occupies—and jehads and crusades were particularly subject to this kind of corrosion. Whether he was wholly a believer in the brand of Fundamentalism he preached, or not, he would not want his followers to lose faith in the doctrine under which he had sailed so successfully thus far; that was the hold over them that he had chosen to exercise, so that if they lost that, he himself would have nothing left, regardless of what his personal beliefs might be.

  Unhappily, there was no ideology available on New Earth which looked capable of corrupting the Warriors of God; they would doubtless indulge in a good deal of wristwatch collecting, a very ancient term for a timeless syndrome of a peasant army holding a territory relatively rich in consumer goods, but Jorn would anticipate that and discount it; but there was no idea inherent in the culture of New Earth which seemed strong enough to sway the Warriors from their simple, direct and centrally oriented point of view. One would have to be manufactured; at least there was no lack of raw materials.

  One apparent pitfall in this course was that of taking Jorn the Apostle at his own public valuation and attempting to reach into and alarm that part of his mind where his real religion lived. Amalfi had no way of knowing whether this would work or not, and prudence dictated that it not be tried; he had to assume instead that a man as successful as Jorn had been in the world of affairs was a sophisticated man on most subjects, whether he was sophisticated as a theologian or not. The latter was even beside the point; wherever the truth lay, he would be quick to detect any attempt to push his religious buttons, since he had proven that he knew the art himself.

  And, Amalfi thought suddenly, if Jorn were to turn out to be exactly as devout in his back-cluster superstitions as his public utterances suggested, pushing that button might well result in a genuine disaster. With such people, that button is a demolition button; if you touch it successfully, you shatter the man. Of course if would be necessary to treat Jorn pro forma as if every public word Jorn had uttered had been uttered in the utmost sincerity and out of the deepest kind of belief, not only because Jorn too would know that unknown numbers of others might be listening in, but to avoid attacking the man’s image of himself irrelevantly and to no purpose. The forms had no bearing on the final outcome; it would be dangerous to assume that Jorn was identical personally with his public self only in the substance of Amalfi’s approach to him. There would be no harm in acknowledging to him, implicitly, his claim to be every inch a Fundamentalist; but it would be fatal to expect him to panic if he got a Dirac ’cast claiming to be from Satan—

  “READY WITH JORN THE APOSTLE, MR. MAYOR.”

  Amalfi suddenly found himself thinking at emergency speed; the City Fathers’ excusable lapse—doubtless nobody had bothered to tell them that Amalfi had not been Mayor since the problem of the Ginnangu-Gap had arisen—reminded him that he had failed to decide whether or not to identify himself to Jorn. There was a small possibility that Jorn came of the peasant stock which the Okies had found sweating under the tyranny of the bindlestiff city of IMT; a slightly larger possibility that he was a descendant of the rulers of IMT itself; but by far the greatest likelihood was that he was a child or grandchild of Amalfi’s own people and so would know very well indeed who Amalfi was. To identify himself, then, would give Amalfi a certain leverage, but it would also present certain disadvantages—

  However, the die was already cast; the City Fathers had called him the Mayor on the circuit, so Jorn had better be told at once that it was not Hazleton he was talking to. Bluff it out? Possible; but there lay the danger of using the Dirac: the instrument made it possible for any listener to tell Jorn, now or later, whatever facts Amalfi attempted for strategic reasons to withhold—

  “READY, MR. MAYOR.”

  Well, there was no help for that now. Amalfi said into the microphone:

  “Go ahead.”

  Immediately, the screen came alight. He was getting old; he had forgotten to tell the City Fathers to limit the call to audio only, so in actuality he had never had the option of withholding his identity. Well, regret was futile; and in fact he watched the face of Jorn the Apostle swimming into view before him with the keenest curiosity.

  It was, startlingly, a very old face, narrow, bony and deeply lined, with bushy white eyebrows emphasizing the sunken darkness of the eyes. Jorn had been off the anti-agathics for at least fifty years, if indeed he had ever taken one. The realization was a profound and unexpected visceral shock.

  “I am Jorn the Apostle,” the ancient face said. “What do you want of me?”

  “I think you should pull off of New Earth,” Amalfi said. It was not at all what he had intended to say; it was in fact wholly contrary to the entire chain of reasoning he had just worked through. But there was something about the face that compelled him to say what was on his mind.

  “I am not on New Earth,” Jorn said. “But I take your meaning. And I take it there are many people on New Earth who share your opinion, Mr. Amalfi, as is only natural. This does not affect me.”

  “I didn’t expect it to, just as a simple statement of opinion,” Amalfi said. “But I can offer you good reasons.”

  “I will listen. But do not expect me to be reasonable.”

  “Why not?” Amalfi said, genuinely surprised.

  “Because I am not a reasonable man,” Jorn said patiently. “The uprising of my followers on New Earth took place without orders from me; it is a gift which God himself has placed in my hand. That being the case, reason does not apply.”

  “I see,” Amalfi said. He paused. This was going to be tougher to bring off than he had dreamed; in fact, he had his first doubt as to whether it could be brought off at all. “Are you aware, sir, that this planet is a hotbed of Stochasticism?”

  Jorn’s bushy eyebrows lifted slightly. “I know that the Stochastics are
strongest and most numerous on New Earth,” he said. “I have no way of knowing how deeply the philosophy has penetrated the populace of New Earth as a whole. It is one of the things I mean to see stamped out.”

  “You’ll find that impossible. A mob of farm boys can’t eradicate a major philosophical system.”

  “But how major is it?” Jorn said. “In terms of influence? I admit I have the impression that much of New Earth may be corrupted by it, but I have no certain knowledge that this is so. At the distance from New Earth that I am forced to operate, I may well be magnifying it in my mind, especially since it is so completely antithetical to the Word of God; it would be natural for me to assume that the homeland of Stochasticism is also a ‘hotbed’ of it. But I do not know this to be true.”

  “So you will risk the souls of the Warriors of God on the assumption that it is not true.”

  “Not necessarily,” Jorn said. “Considering the forces for which you speak, Mr. Amalfi, it is so plainly to your advantage to exaggerate the influence of Stochasticism; your very use of the tool suggests that, since I cannot think you mean me any advantage. I suspect that in actuality the Stochastics, like intellectuals at all times and in all places, are largely out of touch with the general assumptions of the culture in which they are operating; and that the people of New Earth are no more Stochastics than they are Warriors of God or anything else describable as a school of thought. If any label applies, they are simply a people who are no longer describable as Okies.”

  Amalfi sat there and sweated. He had met his match and he knew it.

  “And if you are wrong?” he said at last. “If Stochasticism is as ingrained on this planet as I’ve tried to warn you it is?”

  “Then,” Jorn the Apostle said, “I must take the risk. My Warriors on New Earth are farm boys, as you have pointed out. I doubt that Stochasticism will make much headway with them; they will shrug it off, as contrary to common sense. They will be mistaken in that estimate, but how could they know that? Ignorance is the defense God the Father has given them, and I think it will be sufficient.”

  There was the cue. Amalfi could only hope that it had not come too late.

  “Very well,” he said, rather more grimly than he had intended. “Events will put us both to the proof; there is no more to be said.”

  “No,” Jorn said, “there is this much more: you may actually have meant to do me a service, Mr. Amalfi. If it so proves out, then I will give the devil his due—one must be honest even with evil, there is no other good course. What do you want of me?”

  And thus the verbal sparring-match had come so quickly to full circle; and this time there was no way to remain ignorant of, let alone to evade, the purport of the question. It was not political; it was personal; and it had been intended that way from the beginning.

  “You could return me three hostages which your blockading fleet is holding,” Amalfi said. His mouth tasted of aloes. “A woman and two children.”

  “Had you asked for that in the beginning,” Jorn the Apostle said, “I would have given it to you.” Was it actually pity in his voice? “But you have placed their lives upon the block of your own integrity, Mr. Amalfi. So be it; if I become convinced that I must lose New Earth because of Stochasticism, I will return the three before I withdraw my blockading squadron; otherwise, not. And, Mr. Amalfi—”

  “Yes?” Amalfi whispered.

  “Bear in mind what is at stake, and do not let your ingenuity overwhelm you. I know well that you are fabulously inventive; but human lives should not hang upon the success of a work of art. Go with God.” The screen was dark.

  Amalfi mopped his forehead with a trembling hand. With his last words, Jorn the Apostle had succeeded in telling the whole story of Amalfi’s life, and it had not made comfortable listening.

  Nevertheless, he hesitated only a moment longer. Though Jorn had probably already seen through the improvision which had occurred to Amalfi—late enough so that he had been unable to betray that, too, to Jorn over the Dirac for the universe to hear—there was no other course open but to try to carry it through. The alternative which Jorn had proposed actually came out to the same thing in the end: that of transforming a lie into the truth. If this was an art, as Amalfi had good reason to know it was, it was at the same time not a “work of art,” but only a craft; it was Jorn himself now who was committing human lives to the dictates of a work of art, that elaborate fiction which was his religion.

  Being careful, this time, to cut the screen out of the circuit in advance, Amalfi called the Mayor’s office.

  “This is the Commissioner of Public Safety,” he told the robot secretary. In ordinary times the machine would know well enough that there was no such office, but the confusion over there now must be such that the pertinent memory banks must by now have been by-passed; he felt reasonably confident that the phrase, a code alarm of long standing in the Okie days would get through to Hazleton; as in fact it did in short order.

  “You are late calling in,” Mark’s voice said guardedly. “Your report is overdue. Can’t you report your findings in person?”

  “The situation is too fluid to permit that, Mr. Mayor,” Amalfi said. “At present I’m making rounds of the perimeter stations in the old city. Off-duty Warriors are trying to sightsee here, and of course with so much live machinery—”

  “Who is that?” another voice said, farther in the background. Amalfi recognized it; it was the authoritative voice that had spotted the open phone when the Warriors had first arrested Hazleton. “We can’t permit that!”

  “It’s the Commissioner of Public Safety, a man named de Ford,” Hazleton said. Amalfi grinned tightly. De Ford had in actuality been Hazleton’s predecessor as city manager; he had been shot seven centuries ago. “And of course we can’t permit that. Besides all the loose energy there is about the old city, much of it is derelict. De Ford, I thought you knew that the Warriors’ own general put the city off limits.”

  “I tell them that,” Amalfi said, in a tone of injured patience. “They just laugh and say they’re not Warriors on their own time.”

  “What!” said the heavy voice.

  “That’s what they say,” Amalfi said doggedly. “Or else they say that they’re nobody’s man but their own, and that in the long run nobody owns anybody else. They sound like they’ve been sitting with some Village Stochastic, though they’ve got it pretty garbled. I suppose the philosophers don’t try to teach the pure doctrine in the provinces.”

  “That’s beside the point,” Mark said sternly. “Keep them out of the city—that’s imperative.”

  “I’m trying, Mr. Mayor,” Amalfi said. “But there’s a limit to what I can do. Half of them are toting spindillies, and you know what would happen if one of those things were fired over here, even once. I’m not going to risk that.”

  “Be sure you don’t; but keep trying. I’ll see what can be done about it from this end. There’ll be further instructions; where can I reach you?”

  “Just leave the call in the perimeter sergeant’s office,” Amalfi said. “I’ll pick it up on my next round.”

  “Very good,” Hazleton said, and clicked out. Amalfi set up the necessary line from the perimeter station to the control tower and sat back, satisfied for the moment, though with a deeper uneasiness that would not go away. The seed had been planted, and there was no doubt that Hazleton had understood the move and would foster it. It was highly probable that Jorn the Apostle had already ordered an inquiry made of his officers on Earth, questioning the substance of Amalfi’s claims; they would of course report back that they had had no trouble of that kind, but the inquiry itself would sensitize them to the subject

  Amalfi turned on the tower’s FM receiver and tuned for New Earth’s federal station. The next step would be stiffer off-limits orders to Warriors on leave, and he wanted to be sure he heard the texts. Unless Jorn’s officers phrased those orders with an unlikely degree of sophistication, they would result in some actual sightseers in the city
—and of course there were no longer any perimeter sergeants, nor was there even a definable perimeter except in the minds of the City Fathers. Somebody was bound to get hurt.

  That would be one incident “de Ford” would not report: “I didn’t hear about it. I’m sorry, but I can’t be everywhere at once. I’ve been trying to fend these boys off from the City Fathers—they want to ask them a lot of questions about the history of ideas that would tie the machines up for weeks. I’ve been telling the boys that I don’t know how to operate the City Fathers, but if one of them points a spindilly at me and says ‘Put me through, or else’—well—”

  That speech would necessarily mark the demise of the “Commissioner of Public Safety,” since it would almost surely result in the posting of a uniformed, on-duty Warrior patrol around or in the Okie city itself; Amalfi would then have to go underground, and the rest would be up to Mark. What, specifically, Hazleton would do could not be anticipated, nor did Amalfi want to know about it when it happened. One of the defects of the program was the fact that it was, as Jorn had suspected, based on a lie, whereas a good deception ought to contain some fundamental stone of truth to stub the toes of the sane and the suspicious. To put the matter with brutal directness, there was no possibility that the local Warriors would be corrupted by Stochasticism, and there never had been. Even if the program succeeded and Jorn withdrew his men, he would interrogate them closely before he gave Amalfi back his hostages; and if everything that he found out bore Amalfi’s stamp it would be too consistent to be convincing. That was why Hazleton’s improvisations had to be his own from here on out, and as unknown to Amalfi as possible until it was too late for Amalfi to undo them even had he wished to.