After awhile he left, clutching his empty unused easel in a kind of greater desperation, it seemed—out through all the launchers and the Walls, the weapons tracking him, and seeing him go I felt I was watching a Dream at the very end of its road. He reeled toward the plastic valley of the steel dogs, and I went deeper into my complex to take me a calmness bath, and later I aimed to try with new nerve-strip rays to stay that trembling that had started up again all through my flesh-and-steel shell. Later I heard how he was met at the edge of the Valley by a little masquerade new-metal dog carrying the barest of plastic bones marked THIS FOR THE MEANING SEEKER. Of course it was a wide joke sent up from the Palace of the Witch, and that was why the air over the White Valley was suddenly alive with big clown-faced balloons and the long guns of laugh salvoing out a full Ho-ho salute. The masquerade dog, the gears and the punched cards in his head working perfectly, backed carefully away while the artist examined his bone. Handling it in other than the one prescribed way, of course, the artist caused the mined bone to explode, and his heart and colors and empty easel, as well as his metal shell and the few flesh-strips he owned, for a moment joined the Ho-ho salute and the big-balloon clown carnival high over White Witch Valley.
Considering his high seriousness, as well as the intensity of his try, it did seem, even to me, a most unsatisfactory way for him to go.
PENANCE DAY IN MODERAN
SO THE announcement went out by leaflet from Central that early-season day: ANNUAL SERVICES OF PENANCE—BRING TEARS.
It was just coming April when we moved through our fortress Walls and on out to the parade grounds of green plastic—all the great Stronghold masters of solemn-procession assembling. The vapor shield was white that day, with narrow strips of red strung through the sky, which strips we were reminded were of the ancient color of blood. And some of us could remember, though our blood is pale green now as, driven by our ever-last hearts, it hammers through our flesh-strips to nourish not only the flesh-strips but also to lubricate the new-metal alloy “replacement” and joints hinging flesh to steel.
We were a strange crew under a strange vapor shield that day, with the tin birds up from Central filling the ersatz sky, and the trees popping out of the yard-holes and bursting forth tin leaves of bright green as we passed. We hobbled toward the east, plop-plip-plap-plop over the glistening plastic, sometimes in ragged order by twos, for we were supposed to be in procession, but more often in huddles and lumps and knots of great masters fumbling toward the east as we struck rough ground, for we were not good at walking. Sometimes I wondered if Central did not do this each year just to humiliate us, and also to renew our faith in our Strongholds, for out of our Strongholds we, the great ones, are nothing.
Being Stronghold 10 I walked by Stronghold 9, when I was properly in procession. Stronghold 9 is situated my nearest most-adjacent enemy, and it was strange to be there so friendly-walking him, steel elbow to steel elbow, each with our tears dangling and jiggling in little plastic bags swung down from our new-metal hands. He was taller than I, but not so massive, and for one flesh-strip tingling moment of purest hate I felt sure that if it came to a stand-up go between us I could take him down with my two bare hands. But that was silly, of course, because we do not war that way in Moderan. It’s always just a matter of lying back at our panels and letting go with the launchers, seeing the walking doll bombs roll, hearing the Honest Jakes scream by and letting the high-up weird shrieking wreck-wrecks home down to the kill. So when the moment passed and I did not hate him closely, or want to take him down with my two bare hands, I said, “Greetings, Stronghold 9. In next week’s war I have some surprises for you. My Corps of Experimentation, you know—” I left it dangling, and he turned to me a sour face that was made more gruesome because it included a flesh-strip nose, a big and what was surely a family hallmark one that he had elected to keep. Most of us had long ago elected to take the new-alloy all-metal nose, because it was usually better shaped, withal more efficient and obviated cleaning problems. His little new-metal eyes fixed on me with unmasked hate. “So that’s why you have such a small bag of tears for the Day of Penance,” he suggested, his voice toned to ridicule. “On the Week of Atonement, instead of making tears, you prepared a blaster!”
“My bag of tears is adequate,” I said. “I am adequate in all things, as you know. And considerably better than adequate in those things on which we are scored.”
He turned away and burned, seethed with a rage, I knew, because I had told him right. I was the acknowledged mean-master of our province, my Stronghold with more major wars certified in the Book of Wars than any other Stronghold in our sector. Each year I received the Medal of Wars with my Stronghold number on it and the year engraved in gold. I dangled the latest one carelessly as we walked. “Next week,” I said as though talking to nothing in particular, “next week!”
Then we were caught in a jumble of masters as we hit rough ground again, straining hard in our hinge joints to walk with metallic precision, but finding it hard to go at all in our flesh-strips and steel parts, being not really designed for walking but more designed for sitting in war rooms of Strongholds and pressing the buttons of launchers. When we unscrambled I was walking by Stronghold 2.
Stronghold 2 was a very young master, as such things are reckoned in Moderan. He had not had his flesh-strip ratio firmed and his Stronghold awarded him longer than ten years. But we had had some dandy wars in that time, he and I, and he was certified in the Book as a comer. He was about my size and build, and I liked the open look of his face and the way his wide-set new-metal eyes regarded all things with a stare of reliable hate. A man to count on. But though I did not hate him more than the good clean necessary hate of our times, I decided to give him the needle, just for the fun of it. “Greetings, Stronghold 2,” I said. “Next week I expect to have my new blaster ready to go on the line. It’s a really new break-through in pulverization. My Corps of Experimentation, you know—” I let it dangle for awhile, while he walked on chewing his thoughts. “Let’s see,” I said after a bit, pretending to ruminate, “I believe—yes, I’m sure—they’ve assigned you and me to a Go. Next week.”
He turned those wide-set good eyes at me and said in a level voice, “We war, I know—next week.”
“Yes, we war.” Then I nudged his chest flesh-strip sharply with the point of my steel elbow in a friendly way and said, “You have not much to lose. You are a young Stronghold and have not much tradition. They probably assigned you to me and my new blaster because they want your plot smoothed down for a proposed museum of trees.”
“When they make yard-holes for trees in the plot where my Stronghold stands, your Walls will be not even remembered dust.” He looked at me full and steady with his new-metal eyes then. “I thought we could get along,” he continued, “have nice wars and all. I see I was fooled. But I guess this new invasion principle I’ve worked out—” And he left it there, hanging. We hobbled on in silence, toward the east. I liked this guy.
When we arrived at the place of the ceremony, I found I was alongside Stronghold 20, an ancient man of no more than passable record at war, and I, by hurrying, had just time to threaten him well-and-plenty with my new blaster. Then the ceremony started, and a most humiliating thing it was, as always. A little point-face man in a black robe, who was reputed to be able to live with ten per cent less flesh-strip than any Stronghold master, got up and told us the long dreary story about why the sky had red stripes for this day, what red blood was, how lucky we were not to have it, and all the tedious dull details of how we had come safely through a time when love and all the unreliability of it had tried to dominate man’s thinking. Then it was just a matter of listening to recordings of hate music for what seemed hours on end and between record changes hearing the little guy in the black robe rant at us about our duty to start the spring season, truly the beginning of the year, off with some really significant blasting.
When the last strident jumping note of the hate music had died away
into the red-striped vapor shield and the embarrassing silence had settled over the vast amphitheater it was time for the most earnest act of our humiliation. We were to march, single file, to the central dais where stood a tall black vessel and deposit our tears there. We went in the reverse order of our rank for the past year of blasting, which put me in our overall humiliation proudly last, as I alone had the War Medal for my greatness. It was an awesome and proud moment when I stood alone on the platform in all my past accomplished glory and dumped in my plastic bag of tears, as a symbol that even I, as man can never be, had not been perfect. The ceremonial tears, manufactured to exacting specifications in our Strongholds as an act of deepest humility, were a kind of penance for things we hadn’t done, blasters we hadn’t come up with, invasions we hadn’t made.
When the last of my tears had trickled into the vessel, the point-face man, enraptured now, standing by a control box at a far wall, pressed a button which caused a dark figure of truly magnificent features of reliability and hate to rise slowly out of the black vessel as though floated from terrible degradation on our penance tears. Then a second button was pressed to blast him high-skyward into the white, red-striped vapor shield as a symbol of our risen hopes and dedication to being better haters. It was, as always, the solemn high moment of our humiliation and penance, ending on a note of hope for our atonement and greater worthiness in war. Now we had before us of the day’s events only the tedious and vexing hard walk home, which we, now that the ceremony was over, could do as stragglers.
On the way back I plotted to walk for awhile with most of the Stronghold masters I hadn’t walked with on the way over. I dangled my War Medal nonchalantly and told them in an offhand way of my new blaster (which I didn’t really have at all) and talked of the good wars we had coming up with each other. Some shuddered noticeably in their flesh-strips and “replacements” while the others bluffed it out and told me of new blasters they were about to come up with and new theories of invasion and breaching of walls. All of us were bluffing, I felt sure, but it was a good idea and didn’t hurt a thing to exchange threats on this day, and withal I felt this had been a really successful pilgrimage of tears and truly a good sendoff for the great spring season of war.
STRANGE SHAPE IN THE STRONGHOLD
IT WAS to be a usual busy-busy day in the Stronghold, I thought, as I seated myself at the switch panel and glanced at the first part of my day-circle graphed and racing on the wall. I had sent some of the “boys” down to Lower Quarters to hack away at Special Worries, others were due for “replacements” and must be scheduled to Operations for the sawing out of the flesh and the fusing in of the “replacement” new-metal alloy, and still others, who had completed their “replacement” course and had hacked away at Special Worries for enough time to be thinking clean, must pack little Go-Now bags for departure into Middle Moderan.
Out of no sense of duty, and for the amusement of it all—in case you’re wondering—I’m using my Stronghold now as a training and “replacement” depot for lucky refugees from the Old Life in Far Wide. When they flee the Moral Know and blast in all flesh-blood-eagerness for their Joy and the forever-life of Automatics I set up their program straight away; standing no nonsense I let them know right off that they will be “replaced” with new-metal alloy right down to a minimum of flesh-strip holding them in shape. (The whole idea of our behavior and endurance in Moderan, it seems to me, is workable only through our great “replacement” program. I can think of no other way.) Should they show a conscience trend or come complete with moral-sense mental block trailing them like a black anchor dragging sand from the Old Life, I arrange for a Special Worries and a Slogans Course to set them thinking clean. In other words, I change these flesh-humpy, moral-quibbler slobs from Far Wide into lean clean citizens who can pack a Go-Now bag and slip into Middle Moderan to be part of the Program.
Mid-morning I lounged at the panel, very relaxed, and watched my day-circle still racing its schedule on the wall. I pulled a bit of air into my flexy-flex new-metal lungs and heaved a little gasp of utter satisfaction. Hard work, I thought, this changing slobs into lean clean citizens for the Program, but worth it. What a Joy to be in Moderan away from the mental clutter of the Moral Know and the heavy sand-drag anchor of conscience. And what an added Joy to be able to contribute to the Program and send my lean disciples into the middle of Joy Land, knowing that they, conscience-freed and moral-cleared, can blast a Wall down or hammer a neighbor’s head flat with the best of them.
But it must not be all work for the master. No! He must have his Joy too each day or he cannot stay properly moral-cleared for his conscience cutting and the block blasting. When the thin wedge of my day-circle colored up Rllax-Time Special-Joys Period, I swiftly ran a mental thumb through my range of choices. Among other things, I could match-fight the new-metal kitten and the diamond-tooth tiger cub again for my Rllax-Time amusement. What a contest that usually made! I could destroy a piece of a new neighbor’s Wall, perhaps, and desk fight him till all the “limited” destruction buttons of my Stronghold were thumbed to ON and all the air was filled with ugly shrieking havoc and the walking missiles were racing for his moat. What Joy! Or I might take the Statue Woman out from under the bed—the blonde and blue-eyed Miss Statue Woman out from under the bed!!!
Just as I had about settled on the latter as the top choice for my Joys, and the pale green blood in my flesh-strips was just starting to thicken and sing, as it always does when I think closely of the curves and hinges of the blue-eyed blonde Miss Statue Woman, who is my new-metal mistress, I, with the instinctive caution of the successful long-term refugee from destruction, turned to my viewer. Because once I am with my blue-stared lady and have thumbed her life switch to ON there is no turning back for me. Not even to save my Stronghold am I sure I could stop once my pale green blood has thickened and she is looking at me—blue eyes, dear blue metal eyes!
But blast; oh, ultimate Big Wreck irritating Joy-killer blast! A last sweep of the viewer before I could turn to Joys caught an Approach. The plains of Far Wide were dormant and safe, oh true; all White Witch Valley lay quietly sleeping with no movement at all breaking the patterns of sparkles emptying constantly skyward from that iron and plastic place. But the corridors of Folly Man! From there was bloomed a shape! It came on as I put the Miss Statue Woman completely out of my mind and settled to the grim business of survival. I thumbed all my weapons to Alert-Ready, put my weapons men on Stand-By. And I stood there trembling; in the middle of my eleven walls I died the little fright-deaths, as I always do when something is coming in to get me.
It was a vague shape. It walked upon the screen; it danced upon the screen. It struggled at times, it seemed, to be a shape at all. I worked with the tuner; I tried to sharpen him in; I tried to get dimensions. He came on, dancing, disappearing, appearing, but ever nearing in down the tight corridor between White Witch Valley and the blue-mist plains of Far Wide. My flesh-strips were raining cold sweat, my Warner was on and off, my weapons men were vibrating where they stood in doubt and I was clanking and tinkling against everything that I touched. My blood was so thin and watery now with apprehension, and I was so bent on saving myself at all costs, that I’m sure if the Miss Blue-Eyes could somehow have risen out from under the bed and turned her life switch full to ON and kissed me I would have remained as cold as old graves. But my Stronghold stood, all eleven Walls of it, high and adamant-thick, like a great iron-stone arsenal in the midst of threats wavering in.
I lost him completely. I swept the perimeter; I tuned again and again through the full range; I sent my Ultimate Contingency antennas high-skyward on their balloons. I tried everything; he was not there. And finally I did all that I knew to do. My “boys” were out there, some of them, with their little Go-Now bags, headed for their place in Middle Moderan. I knew that. But finally I did all that I knew to do. And when I am my real true self, normal and thinking clean, I would do this thing to forestall danger to me even if my blonde blue-eyed Mi
ss Statue Darling were out there, all her charms flash-dazzling, her life switch full to ON, in front of my first blasting gun. With me, it’s survival first, then Joys.
I rushed to that little room of thick-wall steel and lead, and there, amidst the rubber pads and the walls lined with cork-and-velvet puffs I handed the big orange switch to ON. It was, of course, the end for everything—my “boys” out there, birds, vegetation, stray mutants wandering the homeless plastic, spring-metal “wild” flowers bloomed by Season Control to soften the barren truce land—everything within a hundred miles and more swept clean, destroyed, unless behind the defenses of a Stronghold or in White Witch Valley. When I arose from the cork-and-velvet couch, where I had flung myself face-downward with steel fingers in my ears to lessen the shock from the weapons, and came out into the living space, I felt a great exhilaration. I always feel toned up after a Maximum Fire. It seems to me the ultimate great accomplishment of man, this release of great forces he has learned to control for his protection, to safekeep himself from his enemies, all other men. What else has man—?
And then I saw him! Standing over by the control bank of one of my Little Wrecks, a light missile of limited range, but almost ultimate destruction (I use it in war games with my toughest near neighbors), he was not looking at any of the dials. He was looking at—well—have you ever gone down a long tight corridor of mirrors in the Old Life after a long time of Special Bad? If you have, you will know. He was looking at me! Strange-eye-balled, evaluating, staring, he seemed to accuse. I was looking back, straight into his look, and suddenly knew, like knowing the signs of a flesh-strip dying, that nothing would do any good. I thought of Big Din, when I press buttons and a hell of noise breaks out all over my Stronghold; I thought of Sweet Sing, when I flip switches and for awhile it seems that one time there must really have been the angels and this is their sweet captured speech; I thought of Last-Go, when I’ll say the secret word to the concealed holes in the ceiling, the floor and the sides of the inmost room of my Stronghold and that will signal the demolition box in the mountain of the Last Hope Stand and my Stronghold will BLOW!!! I rejected all these ideas.
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