A mood of black frustration swept over him and some perverse stubbornness of his human nature rebelled at this supine abnegation. He knew that he was going to die, and his one last defiant act would be to die in a way of his own choosing. He walked straight ahead.
As he opened the door and stepped into a long green-carpeted room he found himself facing three guards. They held guns and the guns were all aimed at him.
Even before he observed that the guards were firing, he felt the killing slugs enter his body. He knew the bullets had reached vital organs and that he was about to die. Within him he felt the Force, angry and rebuking.
He felt a wrench at the core of his body structure—and he was walking—walking—endlessly—down a long corridor. On the walls to either side of him were the figures of harvesters painted on yellow murals. His body was alive and vital. He walked on, through a doorway and out into a courtyard before he realized what had happened. The Force had turned time backward! He was once more on his way to shoot Koski. He was exactly the same as he had been the last time but with the addition of his memories of having been shot. And the silent warning that came to him never to expect another second chance. That could not be repeated.
This time when he came to the fatal door there was no surge of rebellion and he did not hesitate. He walked around the house until he came to the basement entrance. Cement steps led downward. Two guards were waiting for him there. One guard fell as Buckmaster fired, but he knew with a terrible certainty that he would not be able to kill the other in time to save himself.
The guard’s bullet crashed into Buckmaster’s diaphragm and his body jerked once but it did not stop its determined pacing forward. Buckmaster fired again but even as he did he felt a second bullet enter his body. It pierced his heart and he knew that he was dead. With dimming vision he watched the guard fall over on his side as his own bullet found its mark.
Even as Buckmaster realized that the bitter fever of life was over for him he knew that his body would not stop. Without any directive from the brain it was using the last of the suspended energy in its blood and muscles to walk forward, driving with an awful exertion.
On he walked into the cement lined room. The General stood there, oblivious to the noise about him. The hair on the crown of his head parted violently as the bullet from the gun in Buckmaster’s hand it its mark.
The gun became a weight too heavy for Buckmaster’s lifeless fingers and dropped to the floor. The last spark of life flickered for a brief moment where it had fled in some inner recess of his brain and he felt the Force for the last time. Two words it spoke, “Well done,” and he knew that at last his job was finished. Now he would return home!
* * * *
Buckmaster had reasoned well, considering his natural limitations. But the truth he had discovered was, like most truths, only part of a greater truth.
In the far reaches of infinity, beyond the outermost boundaries of space, a thought-voice spoke. “Am I going to die?” it asked.
“Not now,” a second entity answered. “The crisis is past.”
“Will the sickness come again?”
“Not this particular form of malevolent psychosis,” the second entity replied. “But perhaps you had better tell me all the facts you know so that I can advise you about the future.”
“My project, I still believe, was magnificent,” the sick entity began. “From the energy of my essence I materialized a world of infinitesimal creatures. I gave them time and space, and built a background of a universe for their wonderment and speculation. They dwelt on their world, lived their lives, and made their tiny, though admirable, advances as they saw their destiny. And then, suddenly, when all seemed beautiful, something went wrong, and I was ill unto death. What did I do that was not right?”
“I believe you made your mistake when you gave your creatures free will. They developed their malignancies, as well as their admirabilities. When they developed a malignancy of such virulence that they were in a position to destroy themselves, you made yourself vulnerable to death, through them. The shock of that devastation to you would have killed you. Tell me, were your creatures aware that they were figments of your mind?”
“Some grasped inklings of it, though none were certain. One, a Baruch Spinoza, came as close to the truth as it was possible, for their finite minds. He wrote: We are the flitting forms of a being greater than ourselves, and endless while we die. Our bodies are cells in the body of the race, our race is an incident in the drama of life; our minds are the fitful flashes of an eternal light. Our mind, in so far as it understands, is an eternal mode of thinking, which is determined by another mode of thinking, and this one again by another, and so on to infinity. That was magnificent. While others who caught inklings of the truth believed that I was an ultimate being, he realized that I, too, had an ultimate being whom I worshipped.”
“Also, if he had been able to perceive how close you were to death,” the second entity said, “he would have realized that you were mortal, which no ultimate being can be.”
“How were you able to circumvent the disaster that so nearly befell me?”
“I sent a segment of my own mentality into your conceived world. I gave it a name, implanted a memory of a past into its mind, and that same memory into the minds of those creatures with whom it was supposed to have come into contact, in its past. Through that segment I was able to destroy the awful potentiality, as well as the creature who controlled it. The secret now rests with the dead.”
“Is there any chance of a similar recurrence?”
“That chance will always exist as long as you persist in allowing your creatures to have free will. I would advise yon to destroy it.”
For a time the patient was silent. “No,” it said finally, “without that free will their existence and my entire project would be futile. I will let the free will remain and bear any consequences.”
“That, of course, is your own choosing,” the other said.
And so man kept his greatest possession.
POSTMAN’S HOLIDAY
Originally published in Science Fiction Stories, May 1958.
So far, all the signs were minor; but they were very definite. Mogden IV’s culture hovered on brink of danger.
One final test. Simmons lay the sets of onionskin graph paper one atop the other.
The penciled curve on each paper fitted neatly over the curve beneath it.
Slowly, with his mind deep in thought, he picked up the papers in one hand and pushed back his chair. Down a long corridor he carried them, and through a door marked:
IVAN E. WALLACE
Coordinator, Sociological Engineering Bureau
Wallace looked up as Simmons entered, his bland features widening into a smile. “Good afternoon, Jules” he greeted. “I got your call. You sounded as though you had come on something pretty important.”
The bland expression, Simmons knew, was a facade, covering a deceptively acute intellect. He laid the papers in his hand on the desk in front of Wallace. “Look these over, will you, Ivan? See if you arrive at the same conclusion I have.”
Wallace took up the papers, reading the heading on the first as he did so. “Cultural trends on the planet Mogden IV.” He examined each paper quickly, but thoroughly, before he looked up. His expression was quizzical.
“Now put them together,” Summons directed.
Wallace did as he was told. His eyes widened as he observed the super-imposed curves fitting neatly, one over the other. “Trouble,” he murmured.
“Complete breakdown imminent,” Simmons corrected.
“Beyond a doubt; we’d better send their government what you’ve found immediately.”
“That would be as futile as expecting a man to psychoanalyze his own neurosis.”
“Do you have something better in mind?”
“I have nearly two months accumulated annual leave,” Simmons said, apparently irrelevantly. “I’d like to take my vacation starting today.”
&nbs
p; Wallace pushed the papers aside and picked up a yellow pencil. He did not raise his gaze from the desk as he revolved the pencil slowly between his fingers. “One of the articles of the Ten Thousand Worlds Charter,” he said, “stipulates that no World is to interfere in the internal affairs of other Worlds.”
“I am aware of that,” Simmons answered.
Wallace drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If I were asked to recommend a man for a job of this kind,” he said, “I would unhesitatingly choose you. You have the special kind of ability that goes above and beyond the scientific method. I suppose I would have to call it ‘intuition.’”
He paused once more, and seemed to be searching for the exact; words he wanted “However, you have this other quality also, which can hardly be regarded as an asset.” He cleared his throat in semi-embarrassment.
“If I weren’t your friend, Jules, I would not presume to speak to you like this.” Wallace said. “But you perhaps do not recognize the quality in yourself; you are an idealist. And in following your ideals you are inclined to be impractical. What you are contemplating might very well be a fool’s errand: The odds against your being able to help are great. I say that, despite the respect I have for your ability. And there would be grave danger; if you meddle, you are bound to step on some toes. And their owners are very apt to be powerful and ruthless men. You could easily lose your life.”
“Possibly you’re right,” Simmons answered. “And I appreciate your concern. But there are some things a man sees that he must do. Will you arrange for my leave?”
“I won’t ask why you want it,” Wallace said. “But if you intend what I presume you do, I would advise that you at least give it more consideration.” He raised his hand as Simmons opened his mouth to speak. “If you go to Mogden, and attempt to help them, you will be completely on your own. Officially I won’t even remember that you spoke to me about it.” Simmons knew where the conversation was leading.
He gave Wallace his opening. “As a private citizen I believe I am entitled to spend my vacation wherever I wish.”
“True.” Wallace pulled down a thick leather bound book from a wall shelf at his elbow. He leafed through it rapidly until he found what he sought. “Mogden IV,” he read. “A single continent planet on the outer fringe of the Orion’s Belt sector. Area of habitable continent 253,721 square miles. Population 251,000,000. Originally colonized by a French dissenter group. Retains many French customs, as well as French based language. Soil fertile. Exceptionally productive fish and sea food industry. Exportable products minor—despite this apparent general abundance. Nothing much other than vitamins of sea plant extraction, and collectors’ curios. Tourist trade negligible. Minimum contact and intercourse with outside Worlds.” He looked up. “Not much to go on. And one would have trouble finding a ship putting out for Mogden IV.”
“That’s right,” Simmons agreed.
“It just happens,” Wallace said, narrowing his gaze meditatively, “that I have a friend in the curio import business putting out a ship within a short time. He intends to touch Mogden IV on his first stop; he might be induced to take a passenger.”
“I’d need about three days,” Simmons said. “To pack, and to use the language machines.”
“As it happens my friend is due to leave in exactly three days,” Wallace observed.
* * * *
Earth’s envoy on Mogden IV received Simmons with an ill concealed lack of enthusiasm. His name was Baldwin Brown, he informed Simmons, and he would be happy to give any assistance necessary. However, he would have to be excused from small talk, as his time was strictly limited.
The man was older than he should have been for this relatively minor post, Simmons noted. Apparently he had risen as high in his service as he was ever going to. That might account for his air of curt civility.
Brown mixed a drink for Simmons, and one for himself, wrote a brief note—which, with Simmons’ letter of credit from home, would establish an account at a local bank—and made a call for hotel reservations. When he filled his glass a second time—before Simmons had half finished his—Simmons knew that his first estimate of the man as a frustrated dead-ender had been correct.
“You will find that your money has much greater purchasing power here than it had at home,” Brown raid.
Simmons had expected as much. With the universe made up of 95% hydrogen, and helium comprising the bulk of the remaining 5%, only a very small proportion was left for the heavy elements. With the perfection of faster-than-light Spacebridge and—in the course of twenty five centuries—the colonization of over ten thousand planets, Earth had turned out to be a non-typical speck of heavy-element impurities. All metals now were precious, and Earth was extremely wealthy.
“However,” Brown continued, “it would be wise to draw out no more money at one time than is necessary for your immediate needs. The native counters gradually lose their value with time. That may seem absurd to you, but I am convinced it is a more ideal commercial technique than our own. Here money circulates, and wealth is subject to little accumulation in the hands of a few. Real property is the only means of acquisition. Now if you have no further need for my…”
“There is one thing you can do for me,” Simmons interrupted. “My visit here is strictly personal. However, my work at home is sociological engineering. We have discovered some facts relating to Mogden’s culture that should prove of quite urgent concern to them. I would appreciate your giving the information to the proper authorities.” He explained, as simply as possible, what he had found.
Brown agreed to the request with little apparent interest.
* * * *
On the way to his hotel, Simmons stopped in at the local bank and drew out a thousand francs for current expenses.
At the hotel he unpacked, showered, and sent for a city directory.
He spent a short time searching for the name of someone with a profession similar to his own. Under the heading “Economist” he found the name Justin LeBlamc. The man also carried the sub-title of ‘Psychotherapist.’ A rather unlikely combination by Earth assumptions, but Simmons expected to find much here that was unlikely by Earth standards. He called the phone number listed and secured an appointment with LeBlamc for seven that evening.
That left him three free hours. And he wanted to waste no time. His investigation of Mogden’s social setup should begin as soon as possible. And the best method would be personal contact.
He knew that he would be doing a risky thing, mingling with the inhabitants—with the little knowledge he had of their customs and mores; but he wanted no escorted tour—and he had come expecting to take risks.
In the middle of the first block Simmons stopped at a clothing shop and bought a tight-breached suit of many colors, which the shopkeeper assured him was the height of local fashion. A yellow and red stripped cloak completed his attire. The flat pistol in his shoulder holster did not bulk out under the cloak. He left the shop and continued down the brick street that curved gently to his right.
Simmons had not gone far before he lost all sense of direction. Mogden’s capitol city’s streets were laid out in the form of wheels—with a central park as the hub of each wheel—and diagonal streets connecting each rim. This may not have seemed complex to the natives, but it thoroughly confused Simmons before he had walked four blocks.
The buildings of the city were all built of varied colored brick and plastic, or combinations, none of them being over three stories high. From the observation port, as his space ship landed, he had noted that the buildings were bunched closely together, and extended as far as he could see in every direction.
One resolution he had made before his sojourn into the city. To strictly mind his own business. Despite anything he might observe. The mores of a strange World such as Mogden IV, with little outside contact, they were bound to differ even more than normally. The easiest way to become involved in trouble would be to interfere in anything he observed. His role, he decided, must be
one of alert passivity.
* * * *
Simmons was not to keep his resolution long. Within the first quarter hour he found himself walking behind a man as tall as himself, but whose shoulders were so broad that he appeared stocky. The man carried himself with an air of quiet, undeferential assurance.
Simmons was inattentively speculating on the man’s occupation, noting without considering that two pedestrians walked toward them, and that a gray haired old man poked with a stick at refuse at the entrance to an alley they were approaching. And when it happened Simmons was too stunned to move until it was over.
The tall stranger ahead of him twisted suddenly sideward and clutched the old man about the shoulders. With his right arm he circled the scrawny, whiskered neck and forced the man’s head back.
The oldster yelled once and kicked out frantically, spinning his attacker half around. As they faced him Simmons saw the gray haired one’s mouth open wide in the extremity of his pain, but no sound came from the straining lips. The tall man jerked back his right arm with sudden ruthless force, and Simmons heard a dull crunch.
He watched in shocked fascination as the old man’s body went limp and slid slowly down the front of his slayer.
The tall man’s face had held its same expression during the entire brief encounter. There was no anger or hate there, nothing except a determined efficiency. Now he looked down for a minute before he walked on.
Simmons came out of his stupor and looked quickly about for someone representing the law of the city. The only other persons in sight were the two men he had seen approaching earlier. They had watched the killing with little more than cursory interest, and now they moved on down the street.
With no thought for himself—only his indignation spurring him to act—Simmons drew the flat gun from his armpit and strode after the killer. He pushed the nose of his gun against the broad back ahead of him and gritted, “Keep walking!”
The other hesitated for only an instant before obeying. He turned his head and looked at Simmons over his shoulder. “Do I know you, sir?” he asked.
The 19th Golden Age of Science Fiction Page 10