‘Efficient ...’ murmured X. A fine thing beautiful—he recognised that. He could tell just by looking.
The Curator fell silent. He seemed lost in contemplation of the Luger and X could understand it. He had already begun to love the pistol, to want it for himself, to possess it.
He didn’t ask himself why. At first it didn’t matter, the Luger was just desirable—only a beautiful and well-made thing the reason he could talk to the Curator. Every day X hurried to look at the Luger and listen to his friend the Curator.
It was the Curator’s fault. A gun was for killing—a pistol had that one purpose. Even antique guns were illegal, there were penalties for having any weapon. Even being too interested in something like the Luger might attract the attention of the Generator. As the days went by it got more risky to look at the pistol, but X found he had to go, he was fascinated and he went as often as he dared.
His obsession grew and X became more frightened. He would sidle down the corridors, devise new routes through the great Halls to reach the Luger. He scurried through there, looking anxiously in case the lenses began to move. If the Curator wasn’t present X would only permit himself ten seconds in front of the pistol. Sometimes, when he was away from the Weapons Hall, he began to wonder where the weapon was leading him.
‘There is only this one particular Luger left,’ said the Curator. ‘There is only this one 9-mm model, eight-inch barrel, exhibited here with the long holster and shoulder stock, the back sight set on the rear of the barrel, calibrated from one hundred to eight hundred metres ...
‘1914, the year of manufacture. 1914 ad in the old reckoning. The Long Barrelled Model. The stock fits on to the butt. Very accurate, meant for artillery men, machinegun crews, people like that who didn’t want to be encumbered with full-size rifles. No safety in the grip, the thumb catch only.’ There was a cord that looped through the trigger guard and held the weapon on to its mount. Even as the Curator talked X was thinking that he would need pliers. Even then he had gone so far as thinking he would need to cut the cord.
It was mad and X knew it. But he always returned. He would look hungrily, saunter past the Luger, go on thirty yards to the London-made shot guns, then circle back to the magic case where the Luger lay. He seemed to spend his days creeping back to peep in at it.
Shot guns were all right, sporting guns were pretty in their way, but it was the hand guns, the rifled pistols that were the thing. They were for the big job, for killing men. To have that power in your hand! The thought turned X cold. The Luger had come to dominate his life, the sensuous appeal there, the power. It was the Curator’s fault for showing him.
* * * *
On the thirtieth day he gave in and decided he must have the Luger. The idea dominated his imagination, there was singing in his ears and the columns swayed and he knew that he would never be right until he had it in his hand.
He was leaving the Weapons Hall, blinking out into the sun down the broad white steps there. Pigeons scattered and clattered up against the distant trees, the hazy pink and cream mansions over there. It was beautiful and the music was lovely too, it always was like that in the nice part of the Capital.
X’s head rocked, he slipped on the steps, he tried to watch the pigeons. He crossed the square and the Guards eyed him, he struggled to walk as if he’d never thought of the Luger.
One of the pigeons had separated from the flock and circled him as he moved towards the Barrier. X saw it and knew then that the Generator had seen him and that he was being watched. A man learned to notice things like that in the Capital. He realised that he dare not be near the Luger again. Not the way he had been, not for a long time, perhaps not ever. It was like a kick in the stomach.
That was when X really decided he must have it. Perhaps he’d only been admiring it before. To have it—his hackles rose at the thought—to hold it! Even if it was only once and only for the few moments before the Guard came he must have it once before he died, he couldn’t face the thought of not seeing it again. He had a feeling of destiny, that he had to have it whatever he chose to do. It was mad. All the time a part of his mind knew it was mad.
But the weapon meant so much to him. It was so much more than a cunningly shaped steel lump from ancient times. A weapon like that—it was from a time when men had really controlled their destiny, from before the Generator, from before any of the clever machines.
In these days the Generator did everything. Men didn’t decide, men were trapped in an eternal holiday. X thought bitterly how humanity had been usurped and how most people didn’t care.
But the Luger—the Luger! A man loaded it. A man jacked the first round up into the breech ... you decided where that spinning bullet would strike and when! The pistol was a comfort to X, it had controls. A man decided what it would do. It was power!
X passed through the Barrier. There were other things there, he blundered down a row of aeroplanes, then there were the things called motor bicycles all arranged under their transparent domes. X went down the ramp and admired the machines as he passed. They were shaped for men, not the other way about. They were all from that wonderful free era before the Generator when things had been so good. In X’s days you couldn’t breathe without something measuring it.
X admired the machines on the Ramp, but it was the Luger that meant so much to him. He couldn’t love a Spitfire to his chest. There were other things, but they were too big to steal. What he wanted was the Luger, that was the very essence of the good era. He knew he had to have it, the Luger, and he had to have the pliers to cut it free.
He looked up and the pigeon flashed its single eye. When it saw him look up it dropped back and X was able to duck down an alley to his left. The Old Capital crowded right up to the Barrier and a man could really lose himself among the shambles of wooden huts and tenements that filled the once-broad streets.
X didn’t head for his own place. The Generator would have that, the Guard would get him there for sure. There was cheering from down by the river. He knew he would be safer in the crowds so he went that way.
The shouting grew louder above the music. X would have to find a new place before the lights went out, a man didn’t want to move about the Old Capital after dark. The Generator didn’t like it for one thing and anyway someone would probably club you for what you had.
There were banners over the crowd’s heads. X saw splendid costumes move above the people, great epaulets and splendid flowered hats. It was a cavalcade on a path above the river, horses still gave men stature, even in this late age. A man mounted could still kid himself he owned everything even if the race had sold out to the Generator. Even the President could sit up straight on a horse. X moved in the shadows, half seeing what went past.
It was the Generator that ruled, made the Capital what it was. X climbed steps, stood on a balcony there, looking down and thinking of the way things were and the individuality of the ancient Luger. He leaned on the balustrade, rust flaked off, fell on to the people. There were always crowds when the President rode by, but mostly the streets and alleys were empty and wet. There was always cheering when the processions went by, but X thought maybe it was really for the horses. They were splendid above the people, polished and magnificent, it was the men on them that meant nothing.
A black shiny Guard pointed his goggles up at X and waved him down into the crowd. X saw him take the projector off his pack and hurried down.
The World President himself went past. Perhaps five feet tall, but he wore high, golden heels and his horse was taller than the others. Blond hair, more gold there in the torque that twined through it, his make-up was artfully chosen to minimise the slightly bulbous nose and the watery blue eyes. His tunic was white and spangled with small green flowers, the President wore it loose above his skin-tight pants. He smiled all the time from the height of his still, plastic horse as the hovering platform brought him slowly along the river. He came so close that even through the distortions of the dome and masking gauze X could
see the wrinkles on the age-marked face.
The procession went past and everybody cheered, X with the rest of them. It was the Generator he hated, not the President. Anyway, the dancers had been good and the music tremendous in that dark place.
The people closed in after the procession, followed it as it went down stream. X was left among the trampled flowers, watching the palm fronds turn slowly on the water as they drifted away. As the lights dimmed the sparkle of the ceremonial helmets disappeared over the grey people. It was almost funny how they liked the President. X was sure they really meant the cheering, he could see that they were disappointed to see the President go. Perhaps it was that he was a bright thing for them, a change—they enjoyed the pageantry, the illusion that at least one man was still high in the order of things.
‘Come, Quick! This way!’ There was a thin man in a long grey coat tugging at X’s elbow. X put his face back into the shadows and looked at him. You had to be careful in the Old Capital.
‘Tools!’ The man leaned in close and hissed the word at X’s ear. It was a Dealer.
Tools were good. X had tried to buy tools before. They were beautiful too, truthful and strong, like the Luger. X took a chance and went with the Dealer.
It was only the criminals who wanted tools. Burglars, but they didn’t have to do it, it was all in fun. Everything was taken care of, people were all fed and given their pleasures. People didn’t even have to live in the Old Capital, not in that decayed and dirty jungle, not since the Happiness Generator organised the world. Everybody could live what the Generator called ‘a full life’, except that there were always those who had to act free. That was why there were still criminals, men did those things for the danger, for the fear, to compete against the Guard and each other, against the Generator itself, so that they could have risk and depend on themselves.
In a way it was a mystery, a contrariness that even the Generator did not fully understand. The bloodymindedness of humanity; it was allowed for, there were laws and a thousand petty regulations for men to break and feel free.
It was why the Old Capital was dangerous. There was rape and murder there between the sparse lights, all the old crimes and the new ones too. Dangerous and dirty, the people diseased and depraved—and it was all a game that they played as if it was real, it was a game the Generator had invented for them. It was crazy, they died and cheated for their game but really they knew it was as false as the President.
X shook his head. Men had always been like that. That quality had put them where they were, brought them up from apes and caves. It was the Generator that had turned it sour when it made the Old Capital. X thought of the Luger and laughed at himself. That was crazy too, loving that thing, deciding to steal it. Everyone was as crazy as he was.
The Dealer pulled him into shadow where the lenses couldn’t reach them. He shot narrow eyes right and left, then opened his coat so X could see the tools looped inside it.
‘Pliers?’ When the man spoke it was from the side of his mouth. He had some good things there. Two sorts of hammer, chisels too, and a saw. He dropped one side of his coat and showed X where the pliers were. One pair was really old, but the others were what X needed.
‘See them,’ X whispered and held out his hand. He’d seen pliers that had been fused closed to be legal.
‘Money.’ The grey man rubbed his fingers together. His eyes flicked left and right over X’s shoulder. It was only fair. X handed over a small piece of platinum he had saved. The Dealer tried it with a cell and a meter and then passed over the pliers. The jaws were okay and so was the cutter. The cylinder was almost half charged. It would do.
‘Five hundred,’ said the Dealer.
X didn’t argue. He paid and put the tool away. When he looked up the Dealer was smiling. He was happy, it wasn’t the money, it was the act of trade that counted, the dealing in illegal things. X grinned, people all had their little games.
When the Dealer was gone X went back with the crowd through the darkness up the ramp to the Barrier. He wasn’t being followed, it was easy, he could always lose surveillance in the Old Capital. The Generator didn’t really mind what happened down there.
The steps up to the Weapons Hall looked clean. There was shade there under the trees and that was welcome in the clear glare of the sun. On the top step X turned and there was nothing unusual. There were only the bright milling people and the occasional Guard moving them on like some black, shiny sheep dog. Nobody even saw X.
He entered and padded silently down the space between the field guns. He loosened his neckpiece, passed old machineguns mounted on iron wheels, X knew them from before and they were on his way.
The tanks were good too. Solid things, steel, the early ones heavily riveted. Male and Female they were labelled— MkIV, Tiger and Centurian, Sherman and Stalin. X moved between the massive bulks, crouched under the lenses. He felt safer among the tanks, there was nothing that could see through them.
He saw himself reflected in long cases. He looked hot. Sweat ran on his forehead, his eyebrows, dribbled down his face but he still felt cold. He looked for people to avoid them but the place was empty. He scurried from case to case, waiting in secret places, hiding from nobody. Tension made his shoulders ache, his heart was beating like a hammer and his eyes were full of tears. The sound of his breathing deafened him, as he drew near the beautiful Luger he began to hold his breath.
Then the Luger was in front of him and it filled all his vision. It was magic, it was all his mind, it was all his thought.
X got his hand on the case and stood flattened against its coolness while he controlled his shaking legs. A mile to the right, where the plasma guns started, a column of sunlight struck down and turned the floating dust to gold. X listened but he could only hear his heart. Even the music had stopped, it was as if the world was waiting for what he would do.
He pulled on his gloves. He had to remember to breathe. He swung his arm and smashed the case with the pliers. It took only two blows and that surprised him. The noise was terrible.
His hand closed on the Luger and he was suddenly amazed that he should have got so far. Somehow he hadn’t expected it... it was as if he hadn’t intended to really do it. The weight of the weapon surprised him too. Its hard touch. Its reality.
X pulled out the Luger as far as he could and closed the cutting part of the pliers on the cord. When he twisted and closed his hand the pressure hissed and the jaws clamped tight. It took three bites and the valve was wide open.
When the cord parted the pliers were exhausted. X dropped them and held the Luger in both hands. It was everything, it filled his world.
‘Stand still !’ X straightened slowly and put his hands up. It was the Curator’s voice, familiar but full of disappointment. ‘You had to have it—you had to steal it!’
X could see him in a hanging wedge of the broken case. He had a Guard projector and his old hands fumbled as he got out his communicator.
‘A thief out of the Old Capital! I thought you were something more. I thought I could call you my friend ...’ X watched the Curator’s lips tremble as he spoke. The Luger was heavy to hold up and X was suddenly sorry for what he had done.
‘Can’t you see that it’s for everyone to look at? An inspiration to help keep up the old values ? Too important for one man to own. How will things ever be better if people like you steal and act like this way in the Old Capital?’
X wanted to answer that he couldn’t help himself, that it was inevitable, a destined thing, that he loved the Luger. The Curator lifted his communicator, his eyes moved to it, he was too close to X.
X whirled and brought his right fist swinging down. The Curator ducked and his foot slipped on the mosaic floor. The shocker bolt smashed more cases behind X and the ozone smell drove him mad. He couldn’t bear to lose the Luger, not now. He could stop at nothing.
He got balance while the Old Man was still slipping. X hit him a big blow with his left fist. He thought how like one of those
old boxing films it was except that he was still holding the Luger.
The Curator went down. His skull struck the paving with a wet noise like an egg breaking. He didn’t move and he didn’t make a sound. Blood ran out of his ears.
Fear shook X, elation came too, and then horror. The Curator was his friend. Alarms broke out. Bells and flashing lights filled the Hall.
The blood stopped flowing, the legs straightened and then relaxed. It dawned on X that the Curator wasn’t going to move again. That he was dead and X had killed him. It was against everything. He hadn’t meant to ... it was so sudden, it had all happened by itself. It was a sort of hell.
Sirens came and were getting louder. X saw the brass polished sensor tubes begin to search. People came from somewhere. Not the Guard yet, but holiday people running and screaming and pointing at him. A lens caught him. He saw it twist to focus, then all the sensors twitched towards him.
New Writings in SF 19 - [Anthology] Page 8