It was without much hope that Durant reminded himself that their parents remembered, and might be able to reeducate their young people. After all, their parents, years ago, had betrayed the Republic, themselves, in the name of “security,” and if they now regretted it, their age, their sufferings over decades, might very possibly have diminished their initiative and their faith, if they had not entirely extinguished them.
In all eras, Durant thought drearily, older men looked to youth for encouragement and strength and enthusiasm. But now we must look to the old, no matter how tired they are, no matter how numbed. They, and only they, could save their children, even in the days of deliverance. Veined and withered hands must take up the lights to banish the darkness; youth might follow, quaking with terror. To them, the darkness had been the day. The light might be too much for them. The parents had surrendered their children and their children’s freedom to the enemy; from the enemy they must rescue them.
The old would have to restore old meanings to present terminology. Unity; duty; sacrifice; discipline; freedom; democracy. These had been corrupted and perverted to mean regimentation, slavery, forced labor, thought control, war and death. A whole new lexicon had come into being by direction of evil men. Words were not changeless things, abstractions. They were symbols of emotion, which was never static. The young were the victims of evil semantics; the idiot jargon of time-serving scientists had become part of the vocabulary of the schools. The scientists had been among the very first to betray America, and though they were now controlled by the Military, their enthusiasm for The Democracy had increased through the years. Not to the scientists, then (once considered by sentimentalists to be the clear-eyed sages of the centuries), but to the homely old and middle-aged would youth have to turn for the nobility of words. Not to teachers and instructors and professors would youth be compelled to appeal for the meaning of charity, pride, courage and faith, but to old clergymen now starving in cellars and attics.
Age, which in its youth had invoked the terror, must now destroy it. The murderers detested and feared the middle-aged and the old, for they distrusted their memories. Their harshest laws had been directed against those who might remember the days of freedom and faith and private enterprise and honor, and who might still cherish within themselves the thought of God.
It was a most frightful and pressing problem, not only for America, but for all the world. The Dark Ages must always be overcome by those who have immediate memory of light, or the Dark Ages endure for centuries.
Haunted by these thoughts, Durant felt in himself the wild necessity for haste. Yet, nothing happened but dull routine, dull silence. He could not endure his present existence. Sometimes, with alarm, he found himself thinking as a military man, acting like a military man. By empathy, he could realize the predicament of thousands of secret men like himself: temporarily, at least, they would discover themselves thinking in accordance with their behavior. How frail a thing was human nature, how easily seduced, how easily self-betrayed!
There was no amusement, no recreation for Durant. He never attended the State theatres or “festivals” or parties. He rarely, if ever, saw Colburn or Alice Steffens or the ambiguous Morrow. He caught infrequent glimpses of the Lincolns; they scuttled away each time they glimpsed him, bending their heads so that he might not see their faces. He told himself that “things were going on behind the scenes.” If they were, he had no inkling. His very eyes became less quick. Had they been alert he might have noticed that the soldiers on the streets were haggard, their expressions strained, and that they no longer patrolled singly or in mere pairs, but in squads. He might have noticed that they whispered among themselves furtively. He might have seen that the faces of the people had become tense and turbulent, and he might have smelled the fire of subterranean violence in the dank air of early winter. Because he was waiting for something huge and dramatic, something explosive and universal, he missed the very signs which he should have observed.
It was true that a war plant in the suburbs of Philadelphia had burned down. But he considered it only a baseless rumor that sabotage was behind it. Over a hundred women had invaded the food warehouses in the city, and had made off with considerable provender, but Durant believed this to be a mere desperate act of starvation. A very prosperous farmer not far from the Lincolns had been shot in his open field; two homes of influential MASTS had been destroyed by fire only two weeks ago. A freight train, carrying tons of war materials had been derailed near the city, and the contents had mysteriously exploded. Durant discounted the rumors that this, too, had been sabotage. There was a rumor, not even recorded in the newspapers, that in Section 17 a group of five officers, emerging from their cars, had been clubbed to death on the open streets of Chicago by assassins who disappeared in a crowd which strangely swallowed them up. Another rumor, reported to Durant by Bishop, was to the effect that four members of the FBHS had been found dead of knife-wounds in their offices, in Cleveland. There were more rumors of desertions by young recruits from the Armed Forces in various Sections, and an even wilder rumor that in Minneapolis a mob had set upon a detachment of soldiers who were leading traitorous men and women to the military prison, and had freed the victims. There was a rumor of an abortive revolt in Section 10, which had formerly been called Canada.
Rumors, rumors, said Durant, impatiently. There were always rumors. He refused to listen to any more, finally. He was waiting for the loud call to arms; he was waiting for spontaneous and gigantic events. He forgot that small and smoldering fires in a forest usually merge together to become a destroying holocaust. He was beginning to breathe the tainted air of drabness into his lungs; what should have excited him, what should have had tremendous meaning for him, escaped him entirely.
Democracy Day had been substituted for Christmas Day, and it was the only holiday which the people were permitted to enjoy. Celebrations were stimulated; the President spoke enthusiasitically from New York. There were parades for the children, indoctrination parades, in which huge and obscene images of “capitalists,” “enemies,” and “traitors” were carried through the streets, led by blazing bands. Extra rations of food were issued, even whisky was temporarily available for the people. Speakers exhorted in gaily decked halls and in what once were churches. And irony of ironies, banners appeared everywhere displaying the image of the great Statue of Liberty, mingling themselves with the flags of The Democracy.
In fact, the whole national attention was turned in the direction of that statue. The President was always flown over it, to drop flowers on its mighty shoulders. Wreaths were laid on its majestic feet. Its crown streamed with lights, which illuminated the massive features below. Tugs shrieked as they gushed by it, and warships saluted with thunderous salvos. At twilight, on Democracy Day, the President would deliver his speech on “our great liberties, derived from the blood and sacrifice of noble men.” The people, temporarily freed from uniformity and colorlessness, would become almost insane with rapture and release. The cities, feebly lighted all the rest of the year to save coal, bathed themselves in brilliance. It was a great day, a day to be anticipated all year. It was a day which had no other significance for the young; in the dimmed minds of the old and the middle-aged it was a day of mourning for a God who had been banished.
A week before Christmas, Durant arrived at his office, even more depressed and dull-eyed than usual, even more disheartened. He found on his desk, which had been cleared for its presence, a sealed letter from the Chief Magistrate. He had received no other letters from Carlson before, except infrequent directives, and these had been unsealed. Durant’s officers were all excitement, and Grandon called his attention to the letter immediately. He opened it, his hands shaking. It read innocuously enough.
“I know you are extremely busy these days, and so you need not interpret my invitation as a command. However, if you have time, you might like to come to New York for the celebration of Democracy Day. I understand there will be even more enthusiasm displayed this yea
r than in other years, because the people are extremely determined that the present conflict be resolved as soon as possible in order that peace and prosperity may be restored.
“We are very pleased with your work, and I shall make it a point to bring you to the attention of our beloved President, even if you cannot spare yourself from Philadelphia in these arduous days.
“The celebration of Democracy Day in Philadelphia ought to be very pleasant for you, and so you must not regret it if you cannot visit New York on this occasion. Though Philadelphians are more staid than New Yorkers, I understand that they are not too restrained on this day.
“In the event work keeps you, I must reconcile myself to your absence, and, in the meantime, I send you my personal expressions of regard and affection.”
Durant put down the letter. He could hardly breathe; he knew his face was suffused. His officers were waiting eagerly for his comment. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his face. “Warm in here, isn’t it?” he remarked. His voice sounded queer in his own ears. Then he made himself laugh. He tapped the letter. “Nothing important, boys. Just an invitation from the Chief Magistrate to visit New York on Democracy Day. I don’t think I’ll go, however.”
They were disappointed. Grandon lingered for a moment, then walked away. Durant was alone at his desk, and he struggled to control his fierce agitation. The first alert! There would be three, if possible, or at least two. He reread the letter, carefully decoding. Only a short message: “Insurrections and incidents mounting daily in all Sections. Our men inciting, aided unknowingly by the privileged groups. Do not leave your post. Do not leave your post! Guard yourself constantly; increase pressure. Wait the next alert. Destroy this letter immediately.”
Beckett and Sadler were watching him closely. He became aware of this scrutiny when he happened to glance up. Beckett’s mouth was slightly open, his eyes slightly narrowed. Sadler looked strained and pale. Had he betrayed himself in any way? He cursed the mobility of his face, and said to his Guards: “I suppose you boys would like to go to New York? I’d like to, myself, but it’s impossible.” They saluted, but made no answer.
The presence of the Picked Guard was very irksome to Grandon, Keiser and Bishop and Edwards. They felt themselves insulted, their honor called into question. They ignored the Guards, and the Guards ignored them. They never spoke to each other. Durant was sometimes impatient with them all, but understood.
He left the letter carelessly folded and tossed aside on his desk. Unknown to him, three pairs of eyes concentrated on it, three minds began to plot ways and means of knowing its contents. Durant’s intuition, or extra sensory perception, began to detect the intensity and desire of those minds without his conscious knowledge. He only knew that under all his enormous excitement was a faint flutter of uneasiness. Finally, in the midst of his planning for the immediate future, in view of the commands in the message, his eyes kept straying back to the letter which lay negligently on a corner of his desk. Impatiently, he abandoned his greater plans for the moment, and began to think of a way to destroy the letter without arousing the most minute of suspicions.
It came to him with a kind of thrilling shock that matters must indeed be moving desperately one way or another for Carlson to have written him in the new code of the Minute Men, which enemies even now might have broken. It had been a terrible risk, yet Carlson had taken the risk, Carlson the extremely cautious and wary. Apparently, it will soon be time, and the risk has to be taken, thought Durant. We either succeed, in one last gigantic effort, or we die. The days of waiting were ended. He stared at the letter. He pretended to be engaged in the deepest thought, and began to move objects abstractedly on his desk, picking up a pen, writing a few words on a report, dropping the pen, yawning, lighting cigarets, scribbling absentmindedly on a note, throwing the note aside, scratching his chin, rubbing the back of his head. He did not glance at his officers and Guards; he appeared to have forgotten them. Yet, all the time, the flutter of uneasiness in him sharpened, became more immediate. He picked up the letter, yawned widely again, leaned back in his chair, scanned the contents of the letter, threw it aside impatiently. He laid it face down on his desk, took up his pen again, and asked Grandon to bring him the dossier of Mr. Remington, the local spokesman for the MASTS.
Grandon brought him the folder, Durant opened it and began to scribble rapidly on the back of the letter, as if it were a mere scrap of paper to be tossed later into the wastebasket. Once the letter was actually under his fingers, the uneasiness subsided a little. He could give his attention completely to his plans.
“Increase pressure.” He wrote down Mr. Remington’s name first, followed it with others, made notes. How to increase pressure more? He had it! He called for the folder of Walter Morrow, who was head of the Grange, and for the thin folder of Karl Schaeffer, now the district director of the local FBHS since the execution of Alex Sheridan. He called for the folder of Ben Colburn, or “Mr. Woolcott,” of the Bureau of Mobilized Labor. He mused as he glanced through the letter folder. He had seen his best friend but three times during the past months, and then only formally, on matters of business.
He lifted the telephone receiver and put in a call for Colburn. He said coldly: “About that Trenchard matter, Mr. Woolcott. What has happened to it?”
Colburn answered as remotely: “We could get very little evidence. Possibly a malicious neighbor. I’m afraid we’ll have to let him go. We tried our usual methods, but elicited nothing.”
“Well,” said Durant warningly, “be sure to investigate everything. After all, two people said he was in the vicinity of the intersection where three of my soldiers were assassinated.” Then he let his voice become friendly. “By the way, are you going to New York for Democracy Day? I’ve received an invitation from the Chief Magistrate, but I’m afraid I can’t accept it.”
He waited tensely for the reply. It came, casually enough: “Yes, I did receive an invitation, but like you, Colonel, I can’t accept, either.”
So, all the Minute Men had been alerted, everywhere; Durant’s voice became cold and threatening: “I’m not questioning your thoroughness, Woolcott, but I really want an exhaustive investigation of Trenchard. He’s no fool; he was once a newspaper publisher, and though he’s now a machine shop worker in a plant, he probably harbors subversive thoughts. Send him over to me tomorrow. You know I only want justice. I’m thinking of sending for some other men, too, and I’m going to ask reporters to be present in order that the people can see that the Military are not the oppressors traitors report us to be.”
Colburn replied: “I’ll have Trenchard there at ten o’clock tomorrow, Colonel. We always wish to cooperate fully with the Military, as you know.”
He hung up, then made other calls. He was aware, more than ever, of the alertness of at least three men in the room. He scribbled more notes on the back of Carlson’s letter, scratched out some, added others. Finally as if he had completed that immediate work, he put the letter in one of his pockets, and announced he was going to the washroom reserved for him. Accompanied by his relentless Guards, he left his office. Sadler went ahead of him, as usual, entered the small washroom, examined every possible hiding place for bombs or any other automatic lethal objects which might have been placed in strategic positions. This took some time. Durant said impatiently: “What if I have diarrhea one of these days, while you boys fool around? The washroom’s always guarded on the outside by a soldier, anyway, and there’s no window.”
Sadler answered, in his neutral voice: “Perhaps there might be a traitorous soldier, Colonel.” He smiled at Durant, and continued: “In the event of diarrhea, we’d have to take a chance.”
Durant went into the closet, but before shutting the door, he asked: “Would one of you fellows like to stand in here with me, too?” He slammed the door irritably while Sadler and Beckett laughed. He took the letter out of his pocket. He’d have to eat the damned thing; he dared not burn it because of the two immediately outside the door. Stiff off
icial paper. His mouth and throat were dry enough. Moodily, he carefully tore off a piece, while he flushed the toilet noisily. He put the piece in his mouth, and was astounded when it dissolved like butter on his tongue. He could thrust big sections into his mouth, and they would melt away into a liquid which he could swallow without effort. In a few seconds the whole letter had gone. He was much intrigued; apparently his saliva had a disintegrating effect which water might not have had. The paper had not been the gelatine affair of the old means of communication between the Minute Men. Now Durant was more deeply impressed than ever by the gravity of the situation, and the need for haste. Carlson must have some sheets of this paper which so completely resembled official paper; the fact that he had taken the risk of using it was another indication of the pressure of immediate events.
Durant removed a sheet of notes, which he had made a few days ago, from an inside pocket, folded the sheet so that it would deceive any watchful eye, and put it in the pocket which had held Carlson’s letter. He hummed a little, opened the door and rejoined his Guards. He went back to his office. Was it his imagination, or did a number of eyes glance furtively at his pocket?
He tried to work. But his thoughts were too strong and excited, and even fearful. He began to remember the “rumors” which had been brought to him, and which he had dismissed impatiently. Apparently, they were not mere rumors. Now he recalled things he had seen only with his unconscious eye, the faces of the people on the street, the sound of louder voices on the street corners, the apprehensive expressions of soldiers on patrol work. He recalled the “smell of violence” in the air lately. Why had he overlooked these significant signs? He was disgusted with himself for his obtuseness.
The Devil's Advocate: The Epic Novel of One Man's Fight to Save America From Tyranny Page 32