To Be Continued: The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume One

by Robert Silverberg

  “But we’re so hungry, Paul—when you’re hungry that’s the most important thing.”

  “What?” His voice was the bellow of an outraged bull. “What? You don’t know what you’re saying, woman. Eat before you go out of your mind completely. I’ll find some other way of getting food, but I’m not going to turn into a bloody cannibal. No longpork for Paul Katterson.”

  She said nothing. The single light-glow in the ceiling flickered twice.

  “Getting near shut-off time. Get the candles out, unless you’re sleepy,” he said. He had no chronometer, but the flickering was the signal that eight-thirty was approaching. At eight-thirty every night electricity was cut off in all residence apartments except those with permission to exceed normal quota.

  Barbara lit a candle.

  “Paul, Father Kennon was back here again today.”

  “I’ve told him not to show up here again,” Katterson said from the darkness of his corner of the room.

  “He thinks we ought to get married, Paul.”

  “I know. I don’t.”

  “Paul, why are you—”

  “Let’s not go over that again. I’ve told you often enough that I don’t want the responsibility of two mouths to feed, when I can’t even manage keeping my own belly full. This is the best—each of us on our own.”

  “But children, Paul—”

  “Are you crazy tonight?” he retorted. “Would you dare to bring a child into this world? Especially now that we’ve even lost the food from Trenton Oasis? Would you enjoy watching him slowly starve to death in all this filth and rubble, or maybe growing up into a hollow-cheeked little skeleton? Maybe you would. I don’t think I’d care to.”

  He was silent. She sat watching him, sobbing quietly.

  “We’re dead, you and I,” she finally said. “We won’t admit it, but we’re dead. This whole world is dead—we’ve spent the last thirty years committing suicide. I don’t remember as far back as you do, but I’ve read some of the old books, about how clean and new and shiny this city was before the war. The war! All my life, we’ve been at war, never knowing who we were fighting and why. Just eating the world apart for no reason at all.”

  “Cut it, Barbara,” Katterson said. But she went on in a dead monotone. “They tell me America once went from coast to coast, instead of being cut up into little strips bordered by radioactive no-man’s-lands. And there were farms, and food, and lakes and rivers, and men flew from place to place. Why did this have to happen? Why are we all dead? Where do we go now, Paul?”

  “I don’t know, Barbara. I don’t think anyone does.” Wearily, he snuffed out the candle, and the darkness flooded in and filled the room.

  Somehow he had wandered back to Union Square again, and he stood on 14th Street, rocking gently back and forth on his feet and feeling the lightheadedness which is the first sign of starvation. There were just a few people in the streets, morosely heading for whatever destinations claimed them. The sun was high overhead, and bright.

  His reverie was interrupted by the sound of yells and an unaccustomed noise of running feet. His Army training stood him in good stead as he dove into a gaping trench and hid there, wondering what was happening.

  After a moment he peeked out. Four men, each as big as Katterson himself, were roaming up and down the now deserted streets. One was carrying a sack.

  “There’s one,” Katterson heard the man with the sack yell harshly. He watched without believing as the four men located a girl cowering near a fallen building.

  She was a pale, thin, ragged-looking girl, perhaps twenty at the most, who might have been pretty in some other world. But her cheeks were sunken and coarse, her eyes dull and glassy, her arms bony and angular.

  As they drew near she huddled back, cursing defiantly, and prepared to defend herself. She doesn’t understand, Katterson thought. She thinks she’s going to be attacked.

  Perspiration streamed down his body, and he forced himself to watch, kept himself from leaping out of hiding. The four marauders closed in on the girl. She spat, struck out with her clawlike hand.

  They chuckled and grabbed her clutching arm. Her scream was suddenly ear-piercing as they dragged her out into the open. A knife flashed; Katterson ground his teeth together, wincing, as the blade struck home.

  “In the sack with her, Charlie,” a rough voice said.

  Katterson’s eyes steamed with rage. It was his first view of Malory’s butchers—at least, he suspected it was Malory’s gang. Feeling the knife at his side, in its familiar sheath, he half-rose to attack the four meat-raiders, and then, regaining his sense, he sank back into the trench.

  So soon? Katterson knew that cannibalism had been spreading slowly through starving New York for many years, and that few bodies of the dead ever reached their graves intact—but this was the first time, so far as he knew, that raiders had dragged a living human being from the streets and killed her for food. He shuddered. The race for life was on, then.

  The four raiders disappeared in the direction of Third Avenue, and Katterson cautiously eased himself from the trench, cast a wary eye in all directions, and edged into the open. He knew he would have to be careful; a man his size carried meat for many mouths.

  Other people were coming out of the buildings now, all with much the same expression of horror on their faces. Katterson watched the marching skeletons walking dazedly, a few sobbing, most of them past the stage of tears. He clenched and unclenched his fists, angry, burning to stamp out this spreading sickness and knowing hopelessly that it could not be done.

  A tall thin man with chiseled features was on the speaker’s platform now. His voice was choked with anger.

  “Brothers, it’s out in the open now. Men have turned from the ways of God, and Satan has led them to destruction. Just now you witnessed four of His creatures destroy a fellow mortal for food—the most terrible sin of all.

  “Brothers, our time on Earth is almost done. I’m an old man—I remember the days before the war, and, while some of you won’t believe it, I remember the days when there was food for all, when everyone had a job, when these crumpled buildings were tall and shiny and streamlined, and the skies teemed with jets. In my youth I traveled all across this country, clear to the Pacific. But the War has ended all that, and it’s God’s hand upon us. Our day is done, and soon we’ll all meet our reckoning.

  “Go to God without blood on your hands, brothers. Those four men you saw today will burn forever for their crime. Whoever eats the unholy meat they butchered today will join them in Hell. But listen a moment, brothers, listen! Those of you who aren’t lost yet, I beg you: save yourselves! Better to go without food at all, as most of you are doing, than to soil yourselves with this kind of new food, the most precious meat of all.”

  Katterson stared at the people around him. He wanted to end all this; he had a vision of a crusade for food, a campaign against cannibalism, banners waving, drums beating, himself leading the fight. Some of the people had stopped listening to the old preacher, and some had wandered off. A few were smiling and hurtling derisive remarks at the old man, but he ignored them.

  “Hear me! Hear me, before you go. We’re all doomed anyway; the Lord has made that clear. But think, people—this world will shortly pass away, and there is the greater world to come. Don’t sign away your chance for eternal life, brothers! Don’t trade your immortal soul for a bit of tainted meat!”

  The crowd was melting away, Katterson noted. It was dispersing hastily, people quickly edging away and disappearing. The preacher continued talking. Katterson stood on tip-toes and craned his neck past the crowd and stared down towards the east. His eyes searched for a moment, and then he paled. Four ominous figures were coming with deliberate tread down the deserted street.

  Almost everyone had seen them now. They were walking four abreast down the center of the street, the tallest holding an empty sack. People were heading hastily in all directions, and as the four figures came to the corner of 14th Street and Fourt
h Avenue only Katterson and the preacher still stood at the platform.

  “I see you’re the only one left, young man. Have you defiled yourself, or are you still of the Kingdom of Heaven?”

  Katterson ignored the question. “Old man, get down from there!” he snapped. “The raiders are coming back. Come on, let’s get out of here before they come.”

  “No. I intend to talk to them when they come. But save yourself, young man, save yourself while you can.”

  “They’ll kill you, you old fool,” Katterson whispered harshly.

  “We’re all doomed anyway, son. If my day has come, I’m ready.”

  “You’re crazy,” Katterson said. The four men were within speaking distance now. Katterson looked at the old man for one last time and then dashed across the street and into a building. He glanced back and saw he was not being followed.

  The four raiders were standing under the platform, listening to the old man. Katterson couldn’t hear what the preacher was saying, but he was waving his arms as he spoke. They seemed to be listening intently. Katterson stared. He saw one of the raiders say something to the old man, and then the tall one with the sack climbed up on the platform. One of the others tossed him an unsheathed knife.

  The shriek was loud and piercing. When Katterson dared to look out again, the tall man was stuffing the preacher’s body into the sack. Katterson bowed his head. The trumpets began to fade; he realized that resistance was impossible. Unstoppable currents were flowing.

  Katterson plodded uptown to his apartment. The blocks flew past as he methodically pulled one foot after another, walking the two miles through the rubble and deserted, ruined buildings. He kept one hand on his knife and darted glances from right to left, noting the furtive scurryings in the side streets, the shadowy people who were not quite visible behind the ashes and the rubble. Those four figures, one with the sack, seemed to lurk behind every lamppost, waiting hungrily.

  He cut into Broadway, taking a shortcut through the stump of the Parker Building. Fifty years before, the Parker Building had been the tallest in the Western world; its truncated stump was all that remained. Katterson passed what had once been the most majestic lobby in the world, and stared in. A small boy sat on the step outside, gnawing a piece of meat. He was eight or ten; his stomach was drawn tight over his ribs, which showed through like a basket. Choking down his revulsion, Katterson wondered what sort of meat the boy was eating.

  He continued on. As he passed 44th Street, a bony cat skittered past him and disappeared behind a pile of ashes. Katterson thought of the stories he had heard of the Great Plains, where giant cats were said to roam unmolested, and his mouth watered.

  The sun was sinking low again, and New York was turning dull grey and black. The sun never really shone in late afternoon any more; it sneaked its way through the piles of rubble and cast a ghostly glow on the ruins of New York. Katterson crossed 47th Street and turned down towards his building.

  He made the long climb to his room—the elevator’s shaft was still there, and the frozen elevator, but such luxuries were beyond dream—and stood outside for just a moment, searching in the darkness for the doorplate. There was the sound of laughter from within, a strange sound for ears not accustomed to it, and a food-smell crept out through the door and hit him squarely. His throat began to work convulsively, and he remembered the dull ball of pain that was his stomach.

  Katterson opened the door. The food-odor filled the little room completely. He saw Barbara look up suddenly, white-faced, as he entered. In his chair was a man he had met once or twice, a scraggly-haired, heavily bearded man named Heydahl.

  “What’s going on?” Katterson demanded.

  Barbara’s voice was strangely hushed. “Paul, you know Olaf Heydahl, don’t you? Olaf, Paul?”

  “What’s going on?” Katterson repeated.

  “Barbara and I have just been having a little meat, Mr. Katterson,” Heydahl said, in a rich voice. “We thought you’d be hungry, so we saved a little for you.”

  The smell was overpowering and Katterson felt it was all he could do to keep from foaming at the lips. Barbara was wiping her face over and over again with the napkin; Heydahl sat contentedly in Katterson’s chair.

  In three quick steps Katterson crossed to the other side of the room and threw open the doors to the little enclosed kitchenette. On the stove a small piece of meat sizzled softly. Katterson looked at the meat, then at Barbara.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked. “We have no money.”

  “I—I—”

  “I bought it,” Heydahl said quietly. “Barbara told me how little food you had, and since I had more than I wanted I brought over a little gift.”

  “I see. A gift. No strings attached?”

  “Why, Mr. Katterson! Remember, I’m Barbara’s guest.”

  “Yes, but please remember this is my apartment, not hers. Tell me, Heydahl—what kind of payment do you expect for this—this gift? And how much payment have you had already?”

  Heydahl half-rose in his chair. “Please, Paul,” Barbara said hurriedly. “No trouble, Paul. Olaf was just trying to be friendly.”

  “Barbara’s right, Mr. Katterson,” Heydahl said, subsiding. “Go ahead, help yourself. You’ll do yourself some good, and you’ll make me happy too.”

  Katterson stared at him for a moment. The half-light from below trickled in over Heydahl’s shoulder, illuminating his nearly bald head and his flowing beard. Katterson wondered just how Heydahl’s cheeks managed to be quite so plump.

  “Go ahead,” Heydahl repeated. “We’ve had our fill.”

  Katterson turned back to the meat. He pulled a plate from the shelf and plopped the piece of meat on it, and unsheathed his knife. He was about to start carving when he turned to look at the two others.

  Barbara was leaning forward in her chair. Her eyes were staring wide, and fear was shining deep in them. Heydahl, on the other hand, sat comfortably in Katterson’s chair, with a complacent look on his face that Katterson had not seen on anyone’s features since leaving the Army.

  A thought hit him suddenly and turned him icy-cold. “Barbara,” he said, controlling his voice, “what kind of meat is this? Roast beef or lamb?”

  “I don’t know, Paul,” she said uncertainly. “Olaf didn’t say what—”

  “Maybe roast dog, perhaps? Filet of alleycat? Why didn’t you ask Olaf what was on the menu. Why don’t you ask him now?”

  Barbara looked at Heydahl, then back at Katterson.

  “Eat it, Paul. It’s good, believe me—and I know how hungry you are.”

  “I don’t eat unlabeled goods, Barbara. Ask Mr. Heydahl what kind of meat it is, first.”

  She turned to Heydahl. “Olaf—”

  “I don’t think you should be so fussy these days, Mr. Katterson,” Heydahl said. “After all, there are no more food doles, and you don’t know when meat will be available again.”

  “I like to be fussy, Heydahl. What kind of meat is this?”

  “Why are you so curious? You know what they say about looking gift-horses in the mouth, heh heh.”

  “I can’t even be sure this is horse, Heydahl. What kind of meat is it?” Katterson’s voice, usually carefully modulated, became a snarl. “A choice slice of fat little boy? Maybe a steak from some poor devil who was in the wrong neighborhood one evening?”

  Heydahl turned white.

  Katterson took the meat from the plate and hefted it for a moment in his hand. “You can’t even spit the words out, either of you. They choke in your mouths. Here—cannibals!”

  He hurled the meat hard at Barbara; it glanced off the side of her cheek and fell to the floor. His face was flaming with rage. He flung open the door, turned, and slammed it again, rushing blindly away. The last thing he saw before slamming the door was Barbara on her knees, scurrying to pick up the piece of meat.

  Night was dropping fast, and Katterson knew the streets were unsafe. His apartment, he felt, was polluted; he could not go back to it
. The problem was to get food. He hadn’t eaten in almost two days. He thrust his hands in his pocket and felt the folded slip of paper with Malory’s address on it, and, with a wry grimace, realized that this was his only source of food and money. But not yet—not so long as he could hold up his head.

  Without thinking he wandered towards the river, towards the huge crater where, Katterson had been told, there once had been the United Nations buildings. The crater was almost a thousand feet deep; the United Nations had been obliterated in the first bombing, back in 2028. Katterson had been just one year old then, the year the War began. The actual fighting and bombing had continued for the next five or six years, until both hemispheres were scarred and burned from combat, and then the long war of attrition had begun. Katterson had turned eighteen in 2045—nine long years ago, he reflected—and his giant frame made him a natural choice for a soft Army post. In the course of his Army career he had been all over the section of the world he considered his country—the patch of land bounded by the Appalachian radioactive belt on one side, by the Atlantic on the other. The enemy had carefully constructed walls of fire partitioning America into a dozen strips, each completely isolated from the next. An airplane could cross from one to another, if there were any left. But science, industry, and technology were dead, Katterson thought wearily, as he stared without seeing at the river. He sat down on the edge of the crater and dangled his feet.

  What had happened to the brave new world that had entered the twenty-first century with such proud hopes? Here he was, Paul Katterson, probably one of the strongest and tallest men in the country, swinging his legs over a great devastated area, with a gnawing pain in the pit of his stomach. The world was dead, the shiny streamlined world of chrome plating and jet planes. Someday, perhaps, there would be new life. Someday.

  Katterson stared at the waters beyond the crater. Somewhere across the seas there were other countries, broken like the rest. And somewhere in the other direction were rolling plains, grass, wheat, wild animals, fenced off by hundreds of miles of radioactive mountains. The War had eaten up the fields and pastures and livestock, had ground all mankind under.