The door opened abruptly; a colonel of infantry was standing there, breathing hard, with an automatic rifle at port. “Is he dead?” he asked.
“Yes,” the A.P. man said. “If you’ll let me past—”
“Nobody leaves the room,” the colonel said grimly. “I represent General Slocum, Acting President of the Republic. The College of Electors is acting now to ratify—”
A burst of gunfire caught the colonel in the back; he spun and fell, with a single hoarse cry. More gunfire sounded through the White House. A Secret Serviceman ducked his head through the door: “President’s dead? You boys stay put. We’ll have this thing cleaned up in an hour—” He vanished.
The doctor sputtered his alarm and the newsmen ignored him with professional poise. The A.P. man asked: “Now who’s Slocum? Defense Command?”
I.N.S. said: “I remember him. Three stars. He headed up the Tactical Airborne Force out in Kansas four-five years ago. I think he was retired since then.”
A phosphorus grenade crashed through the window and exploded with a globe of yellow flame the size of a basketball; dense clouds of phosphorus pentoxide gushed from it and the sprinkler system switched on, drenching the room.
“Come on!” hacked the A.P. man, and they scrambled from the room and slammed the door. The doctor’s coat was burning in two or three places, and he was retching feebly on the corridor floor. They tore his coat off and flung it back into the room.
The U.P. man, swearing horribly, dug a sizzling bit of phosphorus from the back of his hand with a pen-knife and collapsed, sweating, when it was out. The I.N.S. man passed him a flask and he gurgled down half a pint of liquor. “Who flang that brick?” he asked faintly.
“Nobody,” the A.P. man said gloomily. “That’s the hell of it. None of this is happening. Just the way Taft the Pretender never happened in ’03. Just the way the Pentagon Mutiny never happened in ’67.”
“’68,” the U.P. man said faintly. “It didn’t happen in ’68, not ’67.”
The A.P. man smashed a fist into the palm of his hand and swore. “God-damn,” he said. “Some day I’d like to—” He broke off and was bitterly silent.
The U.P. man must have been a little dislocated with shock and quite drunk to talk the way he did. “Me too,” he said. “Like to tell the story. Maybe it was ’67 not ’68. I’m not sure now. Can’t write it down so the details get lost and then after a while it didn’t happen at all. Revolution’d be good deal. But it takes people t’ make revolution. People. With eyes ’n ears. ’N memories. We make things not-happen an’ we make people not-see an’ not-hear.…” He slumped back against the corridor wall, nursing his burned hand. The others were watching him, very scared.
Then the A.P. man caught sight of the Secretary of Defense striding down the corridor, flanked by Secret Servicemen. “Mr. Steiner!” he called. “What’s the picture?”
Steiner stopped, breathing heavily, and said: “Slocum’s barricaded in the Oval Study. They don’t want to smash in. He’s about the only one left. There were only fifty or so. The Acting President’s taken charge at the Study. You want to come along?”
They did, and even hauled the U.P. man after them.
The Acting President, who would be President Folsom XXV as soon as the Electoral College got around to it, had his father’s face—the petulant lip, the soft jowl—on a hard young body. He also had an auto-rifle ready to fire from the hip. Most of the Cabinet was present. When the Secretary of Defense arrived, he turned on him. “Steiner,” he said nastily, “can you explain why there should be a rebellion against the Republic in your department?”
“Mr. President,” Steiner said, “Slocum was retired on my recommendation two years ago. It seems to me that my responsibility ended there and Security should have taken over.”
The President Elect’s finger left the trigger of the auto-rifle and his lip drew in a little. “Quite so,” he said curtly, and, turned to the door. “Slocum!” he shouted. “Come out of there. We can use gas if we want.”
* * * *
The door opened unexpectedly and a tired-looking man with three stars on each shoulder stood there, bare-handed. “All right,” he said drearily. “I was fool enough to think something could be done about the regime. But you fat-faced imbeciles are going to go on and on and—”
The stutter of the auto-rifle cut him off. The President Elect’s knuckles were white as he clutched the piece’s forearm and grip; the torrent of slugs continued to hack and plow the general’s body until the magazine was empty. “Burn that,” he said curtly, turning his back on it. “Dr. Barnes, come here. I want to know about my father’s passing.”
The doctor, hoarse and red-eyed from the whiff of phosphorus smoke, spoke with him. The U.P. man had sagged drunkenly into a chair, but the other newsmen noted that Dr. Barnes glanced at them as he spoke, in a confidential murmur.
“Thank you, Doctor,” the President Elect said at last, decisively. He gestured to a Secret Serviceman. “Take those traitors away.” They went, numbly.
The Secretary of State cleared his throat. “Mr. President,” he said, “I take this opportunity to submit the resignations of myself and fellow Cabinet members according to custom.”
“That’s all right,” the President Elect said. “You may as well stay on. I intend to run things myself anyway.” He hefted the auto-rifle. “You,” he said to the Secretary of Public Opinion. “You have some work to do. Have the memory of my father’s—artistic—preoccupations obliterated as soon as possible. I wish the Republic to assume a war-like posture—yes; what is it?”
A trembling messenger said: “Mr. President, I have the honor to inform you that the College of Electors has elected you President of the Republic—unanimously.”
* * * *
Cadet Fourth-Classman Thomas Grayson lay on his bunk and sobbed in an agony of loneliness. The letter from his mother was crumpled in his hand: “—prouder than words can tell of your appointment to the Academy. Darling, I hardly knew my grandfather but I know that you will serve as brilliantly as he did, to the eternal credit of the Republic. You must be brave and strong for my sake—”
He would have given everything he had or ever could hope to have to be back with her, and away from the bullying, sneering fellow-cadets of the Corps. He kissed the letter—and then hastily shoved it under his mattress as he heard footsteps.
He popped to a brace, but it was only his roommate Ferguson. Ferguson was from Earth, and rejoiced in the lighter Lunar gravity which was punishment to Grayson’s Io-bred muscles.
“Rest, mister,” Ferguson grinned.
“Thought it was night inspection.”
“Any minute now. They’re down the hall. Lemme tighten your bunk or you’ll be in trouble—” Tightening the bunk he pulled out the letter and said, calvishly: “Ah-hah! Who is she?—” and opened it.
When the cadet officers reached the room they found Ferguson on the floor being strangled black in the face by spidery little Grayson. It took all three of them to pull him off. Ferguson went to the infirmary and Grayson went to the Commandant’s office.
The Commandant glared at the cadet from under the most spectacular pair of eyebrows in the Service. “Cadet Grayson,” he said, “explain what occurred.”
“Sir, Cadet Ferguson began to read a letter from my mother without my permission.”
“That is not accepted by the Corps as grounds for mayhem. Do you have anything further to say?”
“Sir, I lost my temper. All I thought of was that it was an act of disrespect to my mother and somehow to the Corps and the Republic too—that Cadet Ferguson was dishonoring the Corps.”
Bushwah, the Commandant thought. A snow job and a crude one. He studied the youngster. He had never seen such a brace from an Io-bred fourth-classman. It must be torture to muscles not yet toughened up to even Lunar gravity. Five minutes more and the boy
would have to give way, and serve him right for showing off.
He studied Grayson’s folder. It was too early to tell about academic work, but the fourth-classman was a bear—or a fool—for extra duty. He had gone out for half a dozen teams and applied for membership in the exacting Math Club and Writing Club. The Commandant glanced up; Grayson was still in his extreme brace. The Commandant suddenly had the queer idea that Grayson could hold it until it killed him.
“One hundred hours of pack-drill,” he barked, “to be completed before quarter-term. Cadet Grayson, if you succeed in walking off your tours, remember that there is a tradition of fellowship in the Corps which its members are expected to observe. Dismiss.”
After Grayson’s steel-sharp salute and exit the Commandant dug deeper into the folder. Apparently there was something wrong with the boy’s left arm, but it had been passed by the examining team that visited Io. Most unusual. Most irregular. But nothing could be done about it now.
* * * *
The President, softer now in body than on his election day, and infinitely more cautious, snapped: “It’s all very well to create an incident. But where’s the money to come from? Who wants the rest of Io anyway? And what will happen if there’s war?”
Treasury said: “The hoarders will supply the money, Mr. President. A system of percentage-bounties for persons who report currency-hoarders, and then enforced purchase of a bond issue.”
Raw materials said: “We need that iron, Mr. President. We need it desperately.”
State said: “All our evaluations indicate that the Soviet Premier would consider nothing less than armed invasion of his continental borders as occasion for all-out war. The consumer-goods party in the Soviet has gained immensely during the past five years and of course their armaments have suffered. Your shrewd directive to put the Republic in a war-like posture has borne fruit, Mr. President.…”
President Folsom XXV studied them narrowly. To him the need for a border incident culminating in a forced purchase of Soviet Io did not seem as pressing as they thought, but they were, after all, specialists. And there was no conceivable way they could benefit from it personally. The only alternative was that they were offering their professional advice and that it would be best to heed it. Still, there was a vague, nagging something.…
Nonsense, he decided. The spy dossiers on his Cabinet showed nothing but the usual. One had been blackmailed by an actress after an affair and railroaded her off the Earth. Another had a habit of taking bribes to advance favorite sons in civil and military service. And so on. The Republic could not suffer at their hands; the Republic and the dynasty were impregnable. You simply spied on everybody—including the spies—and ordered summary executions often enough to show that you meant it, and kept the public ignorant: deaf-dumb-blind ignorant. The spy system was simplicity itself; you had only to let things get as tangled and confused as possible until nobody knew who was who. The executions were literally no problem, for guilt or innocence made no matter. And mind-control when there were four newspapers, six magazines and three radio and television stations was a job for a handful of clerks.
No; the Cabinet couldn’t be getting away with anything. The system was unbeatable.
President Folsom XXV said: “Very well. Have it done.”
* * * *
Mrs. Grayson, widow, of New Pittsburgh, Io, disappeared one night. It was in all the papers and on all the broadcasts. Some time later she was found dragging herself back across the line between Nizhni-Magnitogorsk and New Pittsburgh in sorry shape. She had a terrible tale to tell about what she had suffered at the hands and so forth of the Nizhni-Magnitogorskniks. A diplomatic note from the Republic to the Soviet was answered by another note which was answered by the dispatch of the Republic’s First Fleet to Io which was answered by the dispatch of the Soviet’s First and Fifth Fleets to Io.
The Republic’s First Fleet blew up the customary deserted target hulk, fulminated over a sneak sabotage attack and moved in its destroyers. Battle was joined.
Ensign Thomas Grayson took over the command of his destroyer when its captain was killed on his bridge. An electrified crew saw the strange, brooding youngster perform prodigies of skill and courage, and responded to them. In one week of desultory action the battered destroyer had accounted for seven Soviet destroyers and a cruiser.
As soon as this penetrated to the flagship, Grayson was decorated and given a flotilla. His weird magnetism extended to every officer and man aboard the seven craft. They struck like phantoms, cutting out cruisers and battlewagons in wild unorthodox actions that couldn’t have succeeded but did—every time. Grayson was badly wounded twice, but his driving nervous energy carried him through.
He was decorated again and given the battlewagon of an ailing four-striper.
Without orders he touched down on the Soviet side of Io, led out a landing party of marines and bluejackets, cut through two regiments of Soviet infantry, and returned to his battlewagon with prisoners: the top civil and military administrators of Soviet Io.
They discussed him nervously aboard the flagship.
“He has a mystical quality, Admiral. His men would follow him into an atomic furnace. And—and I almost believe he could bring them through safely if he wanted to.” The laugh was nervous.
“He doesn’t look like much. But when he turns on the charm—watch out!”
“He’s—he’s a winner. Now I wonder what I mean by that?”
“I know what you mean. They turn up every so often. People who can’t be stopped. People who have everything. Napoleons. Alexanders. Stalins. Up from nowhere.”
“Suleiman. Hitler. Folsom I. Jenghis Khan.”
“Well, let’s get it over with.”
They tugged at their gold-braided jackets and signalled the honor guard.
Grayson was piped aboard, received another decoration and another speech. This time he made a speech in return.
* * * *
President Folsom XXV, not knowing what else to do, had summoned his cabinet. “Well?” he rasped at the Secretary of Defense.
Steiner said with a faint shrug: “Mr. President, there is nothing to be done. He has the fleet, he has the broadcasting facilities, he has the people.”
“People!” snarled the President. His finger stabbed at a button and the wall panels snapped down to show the Secret Servicemen standing in their niches. The finger shot tremulously out at Steiner. “Kill that traitor!” he raved.
The chief of the detail said uneasily: “Mr. President, we were listening to Grayson before we came on duty. He says he’s de facto President now—”
“Kill him! Kill him!”
The chief went doggedly on: “—and we liked what he had to say about the Republic and he said citizens of the Republic shouldn’t take orders from you and he’d relieve you—”
The President fell back.
Grayson walked in, wearing his plain ensign’s uniform and smiling faintly. Admirals and four-stripers flanked him.
The chief of the detail said: “Mr. Grayson! Are you taking over?”
The man in the ensign’s uniform said gravely: “Yes. And just call me ‘Grayson,’ please. The titles come later. You can go now.”
The chief gave a pleased grin and collected his detail. The rather slight, youngish man who had something wrong with one arm was in charge—complete charge.
Grayson said: “Mr. Folsom, you are relieved of the presidency. Captain, take him out and—” He finished with a whimsical shrug. A portly four-striper took Folsom by one arm. Like a drugged man the deposed president let himself be led out.
Grayson looked around the table. “Who are you gentlemen?”
They felt his magnetism, like the hum when you pass a power station.
Steiner was the spokesman. “Grayson,” he said soberly, “We were Folsom’s Cabinet. However, there is more that we have to tell yo
u. Alone, if you will allow it.”
“Very well, gentlemen.” Admirals and captains backed out, looking concerned.
* * * *
Steiner said: “Grayson, the story goes back many years. My predecessor, William Malvern, determined to overthrow the regime, holding that it was an affront to the human spirit. There have been many such attempts. All have broken up on the rocks of espionage, terrorism and opinion-control—the three weapons which the regime holds firmly in its hands.
“Malvern tried another approach than espionage versus espionage, terrorism versus terrorism and opinion-control versus opinion-control. He determined to use the basic fact that certain men make history: that there are men born to be mould-breakers. They are the Phillips of Macedon, the Napoleons, Stalins and Hitlers, the Suleimans—the adventurers. Again and again they flash across history, bringing down an ancient empire, turning ordinary soldiers of the line into unkillable demons of battle, uprooting cultures, breathing new life into moribund peoples.
“There are common denominators among all the adventurers. Intelligence, of course. Other things are more mysterious but are always present. They are foreigners. Napoleon the Corsican. Hitler the Austrian. Stalin the Georgian. Phillip the Macedonian. Always there is an Oedipus complex. Always there is physical deficiency. Napoleon’s stature. Stalin’s withered arm—and yours. Always there is a minority disability, real or fancied.
“This is a shock to you, Grayson, but you must face it. You were manufactured.
“Malvern packed the cabinet with the slyest double-dealers he could find and they went to work. Eighty-six infants were planted on the outposts of the Republic in simulated family environments. Your mother was not your mother but one of the most brilliant actresses ever to drop out of sight on Earth. Your intelligence-heredity was so good that we couldn’t turn you down for lack of a physical deficiency. We withered your arm with gamma radiation. I hope you will forgive us. There was no other way.
“Of the eighty-six you are the one that worked. Somehow the combination for you was minutely different from all the other combinations, genetically or environmentally, and it worked. That is all we were after. The mould has been broken, you know now what you are. Let come whatever chaos is to come; the dead hand of the past no longer lies on—”
The 34th Golden Age of Science Fiction: C.M. Kornbluth Page 58