by Anthology
Silently, without apparent organization, but with only small confusion, the legion turned and moved off, rifles in hands. There were no orders, no beating of drums to announce to the world that the Leader was on the march again, but the movement of that body of men, all gradations of the same man, was impressive enough without fanfare as it turned into the road that led to Bresseldorf, only a mile away. Meyers saw a small cart coming toward them, watched it halt while the driver stared dumbly at the company approaching. Then, with a shriek that cut thinly over the distance, he was whipping his animal about and heading in wild flight toward the village.
“I think the peasants will cause no trouble, my Leader,” the scientist guessed, turning back to the shop. “No, the legion will be quartered by the time we reach them.”
And when the little car drove up into the village square half an hour later and the two men got out, the legion was quartered well enough to satisfy all prophets. There was no sign of the peasants, but the men from the future were moving back and forth into the houses and shops along the street, carrying foodstuffs to be cooked. Cellars and stores had been well gutted, and a few pigs were already killed and being cut up—not skillfully, perhaps, but well enough for practical purposes.
The Leader motioned toward one of the amateur butchers, a copy of himself who seemed perhaps two or three years older, and the man approached with frozen face. His knuckles, Meyers noted, were white where his fingers clasped around the butcher knife he had been using.
“The peasants—what happened?”
The legionnaire’s face set tighter, and he opened his mouth to say something; apparently he changed his mind after a second, shut it and shrugged. “Nothing,” he answered. “We met a peasant on the road who went ahead shouting about a million troops, all the Leader. When we got here, there were a few children and women running off, and two men trying to drag away one of the pigs. They left it behind and ran off. Nothing happened.”
“Stupid dolts! Superstition, no loyalty!” The Führer twisted his lips, frowning at the man before him, apparently no longer conscious that it was merely a later edition of himself. “Well, show us to the quarters you’ve picked for us. And have someone send us food and wine. Has a messenger been sent to the men at the tank depot?”
“You did not order it.”
“What—No, so I didn’t. Well, go yourself, then, if you . . . but, of course, you know where it is, naturally. Tell Hauptmann Immenhoff to expect me tomorrow and not to be surprised at anything. You’ll have to go on foot, since we need the car for the machine.”
The legionnaire nodded indicating one of the houses on the square. “You quarter here. I go on foot, as I knew I would.” He turned expressionlessly and plodded off to the north, grabbing up a half-cooked leg of pork as he passed the fire burning in the middle of the square.
The Leader and Meyers did not waste time following him with their eyes, but went into the house indicated, where wine and food were sent in to them shortly. With the help of one of the duplicates, space was quickly cleared for the machine, and a crude plank table drawn up for the map that came from the Leader’s bag. But Meyers had little appetite for the food or wine, less for the dry task of watching while the other made marks on the paper or stared off into space in some rapt dream of conquest. The hellish tumor inside him was giving him no rest now, and he turned to his machine, puttering over its insides as a release from the pain. Outside, the legion was comparatively silent, only the occasional sound of a man walking past breaking the monotony. Darkness fell just as more food was brought in to them, and the scientist looked out to see the square deserted; apparently the men had moved as silently as ever to the beds selected for the night. And still, the Führer worked over his plans, hardly touching the food at his side.
Finally he stirred. “Done,” he stated. “See, Meyers, it is simple now. Tomorrow, probably from the peasants who ran off, the enemy will know we are here. With full speed, possibly they can arrive by noon, and though we start early, fifteen miles is a long march for untrained men; possibly they would catch us on the road. Therefore, we do not march. We remain here.”
“Like rats in a trap? Remember, my Leader, while we have possibly ten thousand men with rifles, ammunition can be used but once—so that our apparently large supply actually consists of but fifty rounds at most.”
“Even so, we remain, not like rats, but like cheese in a trap. If we move, they can strafe us from the air; .if we remain, they send light tanks and trucks of men against us, since they travel fastest. In the morning, therefore, we’ll send out the auto with a couple of older men—less danger of their being suspected—to the depot to order Immenhoff here with one medium tank, a crew, and trucks of ammunition and petrol. We allow an hour for the auto to reach Immenhoff and for his return here. Here, they are duplicated to a thousand tanks, perhaps, with crews, and fueled and made ready. Then, when the enemy arrives, we wipe them out, move on to the depot, clean out our supplies there, and strike north to the next. After that—”
He went on, talking now more to himself than to Meyers, and the scientist only pieced together parts of the plan. As might have been expected it was unexpected, audacious, and would probably work. Meyers was no military genius, had only a rough working idea of military operations, but he was reasonably sure that the Leader could play the cards he was dealing himself and come out on top, barring the unforeseen in large quantities. But now, having conquered Europe, the Leader’s voice was lower, and what little was audible no longer made sense to the scientist, who drew out a cheap blanket and threw himself down, his eyes closed.
Still the papers and maps rustled, and the voice droned on in soft snatches, gradually falling to a whisper and then ceasing. There was a final rattling of the map, followed by complete silence, and Meyers could feel the other’s eyes on his back. He made no move, and the Leader must have been satisfied by the regular breathing that the scientist was asleep, for he muttered to himself again as he threw another blanket on the floor and blew out the light.
“A useful man, Meyers, now. But after victory, perhaps his machine would be a menace. Well, that can wait.”
Meyers smiled slightly in the darkness, then went back to forcing himself to sleep. As the Leader had said, such things could wait. At the moment, his major worry was that the Army of Occupation might come an hour too soon—but that also was nonsense; obviously, from the ranks of the legion, that could not be any part of the order of things. That which was would be, and he had nothing left to fear.
The Leader was already gone from the house when Meyers awoke. For a few minutes the scientist stood staring at the blanket of the other, then shrugged, looked at his watch, and made a hasty breakfast of wine and morphine; with cancer gnawing their vitals, men have small fear of drug addiction, and the opiate would make seeming normality easier for a time. There were still threads to be tied in to his own satisfaction, and little time left in which to do it.
Outside, the heavy dew of the night was long since gone, and the air was fully warmed by the sun. Most of the legion were gathered in the square, some preparing breakfast, others eating, but all in the same stiff silence that had marked their goings and comings since the first. Meyers walked out among them slowly, and their eyes followed him broodingly, but they made no other sign. One of the earlier ones who had been shaving with a straight razor stopped, fingering the blade, his eyes on the scientist’s neck.
Meyers stopped before him, half smiling. “Well, why not say it? What are you thinking?”
“Why bother? You know.” The legionnaire’s fingers clenched around the handle, then relaxed, and he went on with his shaving, muttering as his unsteady hand made the razor nick his skin. “In God’s will, if I could draw this once across your throat, Meyers, I’d cut my own for the right.”
Meyers nodded. “I expected so. But you can’t. Remember? You must obey your original implicitly ; you must not cause trouble for your original or Karl Meyers; you must not speak to us or others e
xcept as we demand. Of course, in a couple of days, the compulsion would wear away slowly, but by that time we’ll be out of reach of each other . . . No, back! Stay where you are and continue shaving; from the looks of the others, you’ll stop worrying about your hair shortly, but why hurry it?”
“Some day, somehow, I’ll beat it! And then, a word to the original—-or I’ll track you down myself! God!” But the threatening scowl lessened, and the man went reluctantly back to his shaving, in the grip of the compulsion still. Meyers chuckled dryly.
“What was and has been—will be.”
He passed down the line again, in and out among the mingled men who were scattered about without order, studying them carefully, noting how they ranged from trim copies of the Leader in field coat and well-kept to what might have been demented scavengers picking from the garbage cans of the alleys and back streets. And yet, even the oldest and filthiest of the group was still the same man who had come closer to conquering the known world than anyone since Alexander. Satisfied at last, he turned back toward the house where his quarters were.
A cackling, tittering quaver at his right brought him around abruptly to face something that had once been a man, but now looked more like some animated scarecrow.
“You’re Meyers,” the old one accused him. “Shh! I know it. I remember. Hee-yee, I remember again. Oh, this is wonderful, wonderful, wonderful! Do you wonder how I can speak? Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!”
Meyers backed a step and the creature advanced again, leering, half dancing in excitement. “Well, how can you speak? The compulsion shouldn’t have worn off so soon.”
“Hee! Hee-yee-yee! Wonderful!” The wreck of a man was dancing more frantically now, rubbing his hands together. Then he sobered sharply, laughter bubbling out of a straight mouth and tapering off, like the drippings from a closed faucet. “Shh! I’ll tell you. Yes, tell you all about it, but you mustn’t tell him. He makes me come here every day where I can eat, and I like to eat. If he knew, he might not let me come. This is my last day; did you know it? Yes, my last day. I’m the oldest. Wonderful, don’t you think it’s wonderful? I do.”
“You’re crazy!” Meyers had expected it, yet the realization of the fact was still a shock to him and to his Continental background of fear of mental unbalance.
The scarecrow figure bobbed its head in agreement. “I’m crazy, yes—crazy. I’ve been crazy almost a year now—isn’t it wonderful? But don’t tell him. It’s nice to be crazy. I can talk now; I couldn’t talk before—he wouldn’t let me. And some of the others are crazy, too, and they talk to me; we talk quietly, and he doesn’t know . . . You’re Meyers, I remember now. I’ve been watching you, wondering, and now I remember. There’s something else I should remember—something I should do; I planned it all once, and it was so clever, but now I can’t remember—You’re Meyers. Don’t I hate you?”
“No. No, Leader, I’m your friend.” In spite of himself, Meyers was shuddering, wondering how to break away from the maniac. He was painfully aware that for some reason the compulsion on which he had counted no longer worked; insanity had thrown the normal rules overboard. If this person should remember fully—Again Meyers shuddered, not from personal fear, but the fear that certain things still undone might not be completed. “No, great Leader, I’m your real friend. Your best friend. I’m the one who told him to bring you here to eat.”
“Yes? Oh, wonderful—I like to eat. But I’m not the Leader; he is . . . and he told me . . . what did he tell me? Hee! I remember again, he told me to find you; he wants you. And I’m the last. Oh, it’s wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. Now I’ll remember it all, I will. Hee-yee-yee! Wonderful. You’d better go now, Meyers. He wants you. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Meyers lost no time in leaving, glad for any excuse, but wondering why the Leader had sent for him, and how much the lunatic had told. He glanced at his watch again, and at the sun, checking mentally, and felt surer as he entered the quarters. Then he saw there was no reason to fear, for the Leader had his maps out again, and was nervously tapping his foot against the floor; but there was no personal anger in his glance. “Meyers? Where were you?”
“Out among the legion, my Leader, making sure they were ready to begin operations. All is prepared.”
“Good.” The Leader accepted his version without doubt. “I, too, have been busy. The car was sent off almost an hour ago—more than an hour ago—to the depot, and Immenhoff should be here at any moment. No sign of the enemy yet; we’ll have time enough. Then, let them come!”
He fell back to the chair beside the table, nervous fingers tapping against the map, feet still rubbing at the floor, keyed to the highest tension, like a cat about to leap at its prey. “What time is it? Hm-m-m. No sound of the tank yet. What’s delaying that fool? He should be here now. Hadn’t we best get the machine outside?”
“It won’t be necessary,” Meyers assured him. “I’ll simply run out a wire from the receiver to the tank when it arrives; the machine will work at a considerable distance, just as long as the subject is under some part of it.”
“Good. What’s delaying Immenhoff? He should have made it long ago. And where’s the courier I sent last night? Why didn’t he report back? I—”
“Hee-yee! He’s smart, Leader, just as I once was.” The tittering voice came from the door of their quarters, and both men looked up to see the old lunatic standing there, running his fingers through his beard. “Oh, it was wonderful! Why walk all that long way back when he knew it made n0 difference where he was—the machine will bring him back, anyhow. Wonderful, don’t you think it it was wonderful? You didn’t tell him to walk back.”
The Leader scowled, nodded. “Yes, I suppose it made no difference whether he came back or not. He could return with Immenhoff.”
“Not he, not he! Not with Immenhoff!”
“Fool! Why not? And get out of here!”
But the lunatic was in no hurry to leave. He leaned against the doorway, snickering. “Immenhoff’s dead—Immenhoff’s dead. Wonderful! He’s been dead a long time now. The Army of Occupation found him and he got killed. I remember it all now, how I found him all dead when I was the courier! So I didn’t come back, because I was smart, and then I was back without walking. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful! I remember everything now, don’t I?”
“Immenhoff dead? Impossible!” The Leader was out of the chair, stalking toward the man, black rage on his face. “You’re insane!”
“Hee! Isn’t it wonderful? They always said I was and now I am. But Immenhoff’s dead, and he won’t come here, and there’ll be no tanks. Oh, how wonderful, never to march at all, but just come here every day to eat. I like to eat . . . No, don’t touch me. I’ll shoot, I will. I remember this is a gun, and I’ll shoot, and the bullet will explode with noise, lots of noise. Don’t come near me.” He centered the automatic squarely on the Leader’s stomach, smirking gleefully as he watched his original retreat cautiously back toward the table.
“You’re mad at me because I’m crazy—” A sudden effort of concentration sent the smirk away to be replaced by cunning. “You know I’m crazy now! I didn’t want you to know, but I told you. How sad, how sad, isn’t it sad? No, it isn’t sad, it’s wonderful still, and I’m going to kill you. That’s what I wanted to remember. I’m going to kill you, Leader. Now isn’t that nice that I’m going to kill you?”
Meyers sat back in another chair, watching the scene as he might have a stage play, wondering what the next move might be, but calmly aware that he had no part to play in the next few moments. Then he noticed the Leader’s hand drop behind him and grope back on the table for the automatic there, and his curiosity was satisfied.
Obviously, the lunatic couldn’t have killed his original.
The lunatic babbled on. “I remember my plan, Leader. I’ll kill you, and then there won’t be any you. And without you, there won’t be any me. I’ll never have to hunt for clothes, or keep from talking, or go crazy. I won’t be at all, and i
t’ll be wonderful. No more twenty years. Wonderful, isn’t it wonderful? Hee-yee-yee! Oh, wonderful. But I like to eat, and dead men don’t eat, do they? Do they? Too bad, too bad, but I had breakfast this morning, anyhow. I’m going to kill you the next time I say wonderful, Leader. I’m going to shoot, and there’ll be noise, and you’ll be dead. Wonder—”
His lips went on with the motion, even as the Leader’s hand whipped out from behind him and the bullet exploded in his head with a sudden crash that split his skull like a melon and threw mangled bits of flesh out through the door, leaving half a face and a tattered old body to slump slowly toward the floor with a last spasmodic kick. With a wry face, the Führer tossed the gun back on the table and rolled the dead figure outside the door with his foot.
Meyers collected the gun quietly, substituting his watch, face up where he could watch the minute hand. “That was yourself you shot, my Leader,” he stated as the other turned back to the table.
“Not myself, a duplicate. What matter, he was useless, obviously, with his insane babble of Immenhoff’s death. Or—The tank should have been here long before! But Immenhoff couldn’t have been discovered!”
Meyers nodded. “He was—all the ‘secret’ depots were; I knew of it. And the body you just tossed outside wasn’t merely a duplicate—it was yourself as you will inevitably be.”
“You—Treason!” Ugly horror and the beginnings of personal fear spread across the Leader’s face, twisting the scar and turning it livid. “For that—”
Meyers covered him with the automatic. “For that,” he finished, “you’ll remain seated, Leader, with your hands on the table in clear view. Oh, I have no intention of killing you, but I could stun you quite easily; I assure you, I’m an excellent shot.”