LEFT!
The Minister of Propaganda looked at the report as though it might suddenly turn into Stalin and bite him. “No,” he said firmly. “No, Witter. If this is false, it is false. If it is true, we dare not admit it.”
“I don’t see why,” Witter argued. “It’s that song. I’ve been checking up for a long time, and it’s the only logical answer. The thing has swept the German-speaking world. Or it soon will.”
“And what harm can a song do?”
Witter tapped the report. “You read this. The troops breaking ranks and doing…what is it?…snake dances! And singing that piece all the while.”
“Forbid them to sing it.” But the minister’s voice was dubious.
“Ja, but can they be forbidden to think it? They always think of what is verboten. They can’t help it. It’s a basic human instinct.”
“That is what I mean when I said we couldn’t admit the menace of this—song, Witter. It mustn’t be made important to Germans. If they consider it merely as an absurd string of words, they’ll forget it. Eventually,” the minister added.
“The Führer—”
“He must not know. He must not hear about this. He is a nervous type, Witter; you realize that. I hope he will not hear the song. But, even if he does, he must not realize that it is potentially dangerous.”
“Potentially?”
The minister gestured significantly. “Men have killed themselves because of that song. The scientist Schneidler was one. A nervous type. A manic-depressive type, in fact. He brooded over the fact that the ginger—that the phrases stuck in his mind. In a depressive mood, he swallowed poison. There have been others. Witter, between ourselves, this is extremely dangerous. Do you know why?”
“Because it’s—absurd?”
“Yes. There is a poem, perhaps you know it—life is real, life is earnest. Germany believes that. We are a logical race. We conquer through logic, because Nordics are the superrace. And if supermen discover that they cannot control their minds—”
Witter sighed. “It seems strange that a song should be so important.”
“There is no weapon against it. If we admit that it is dangerous, we double or triple its menace. At present, many people find it hard to concentrate. Some find rhythmic movements necessary—uncontrollable. Imagine what would happen if we forbade the people to think of the song.”
“Can’t we use psychology? Make it ridiculous—explain it away?”
“It is ridiculous already. It makes no pretense at being anything more than an absurd string of nearly meaningless words. And we can’t admit it has to be explained away. Also, I hear that some are finding treasonable meanings in it, which is the height of nonsense.”
“Oh? How?”
“Famine. The necessity for large families. Even desertion of the Nazi ideal. Er…even the ridiculous idea that gingerbread refers to—” The minister glanced up at the picture on the wall.
Witter looked startled, and, after a hesitant pause, laughed. “I never thought of that. Silly. What I always wondered was why they were starving when there was still plenty of gingerbread. Is it possible to be allergic to gingerbread?”
“I do not think so. The gingerbread may have been poisoned—a man who would desert his family might have cause to hate them, also. Perhaps hate them enough to—Captain Witter!”
There was a blank silence. Presently Witter got up, heiled, and departed, carefully breaking step. The minister looked again at the picture on the wall, tapped the bulky report before him, and shoved it away to examine a typewritten sheaf which was carefully labeled IMPORTANT. It was important. In half an hour the Führer would broadcast a speech, one for which the world had been waiting. It would explain certain things about dubious matters, such as the Russian campaign. And it was a good speech—excellent propaganda. There were to be two broadcasts, the first to Germany, the second to the rest of the world.
The minister rose and walked back and forth on the rich carpet. His lip lifted in a sneer. The way to conquer any enemy was to crush him—face him and smash him. If the rest of Germany had his own mentality, his own self-confidence, that ridiculous song would lose all its force.
“So,” the minister said. “It goes so. Left. Left. Left a wife and seventeen children—so. It cannot harm me. It can get no hold on my mind. I repeat it, but only when I wish to do so; and I wish to do so to prove that the doggerel is futile—on me, anyway. So. Left. Left. Left a wife—”
Back and forth strode the Minister of Propaganda, his hard, clipped voice snappily intoning the phrases. This wasn’t the first time. He often repeated the song aloud—but, of course, merely to prove to himself that he was stronger than it.
Adolf Hitler was thinking about gingerbread and Russia. There were other problems, too. It was difficult being Leader. Eventually, when a better man came along, he would step out, his work done. The well-worn record slipped from its groove, and Hitler pondered the speech he held. Yes, it was good. It explained much—why things had gone wrong in Russia, why the English invasion had failed, why the English were doing the impossible by way of raiding the continent. He had worried about those problems. They were not really problems, but the people might not understand, and might lose confidence in their Führer. However, the speech would explain everything—even Hess. Goebbels had worked for days on the psychological effects of the speech, and it was, therefore, doubly important that it go through without a hitch. Hitler reached for an atomizer and sprayed his throat, though that was really unnecessary. His voice was in top shape.
It would be distressing if—
Pfui! There would be no hitch. The speech was too important. He had made speeches before, swayed people with the weapon of his oratory. The crucial point, of course, was the reference to Russia and the ill-fated spring campaign. Yet Goebbels had a beautiful explanation; it was true, too.
“It is true,” Hitler said aloud.
Well, it was. And sufficiently convincing. From the Russian discussion he would go on to Hess, and then—
But the Russian question—that was vital. He must throw all his power into the microphones at that moment. He rehearsed mentally. A pause. Then, in a conversational voice, he would say, “At last I may tell you the truth about our Russian campaign, and why it was a triumph of strategy for German arms—”
He’d prove it, too.
But he must not forget for a moment how vitally important this speech was, and especially the crucial point in it. Remember. Remember. Do it exactly as rehearsed. Why, if he failed—
There was no such word.
But if he failed—
No. Even if he did—
But he wouldn’t. He mustn’t. He never had. And this was a crisis. Not an important one, after all, he supposed, though the people were no longer wholeheartedly behind him. Well, what was the worst that could happen? He might be unable to make the speech. It would be postponed. There could be explanations. Goebbels could take care of that. It wasn’t important.
Don’t think about it.
On the contrary, think about it. Rehearse again. The pause. “At last I may tell you—”
It was time.
All over Germany people were waiting for the speech. Adolf Hitler stood before the microphones, and he was no longer worried. At the back of his mind, he created a tiny phonograph record that said, over and over, “Russia. Russia. Russia.” It would remind him what to do, at the right moment. Meanwhile, he launched into his speech.
It was good. It was a Hitler speech.
“Now!” said the record.
Hitler paused, taking a deep breath, throwing his head arrogantly back. He looked out at the thousands of faces beneath his balcony. But he wasn’t thinking about them. He was thinking of the pause, and the next line; and the pause lengthened.
Important! Remember! Don’t fail!
Adolf Hitler opened his mouth. Words came out. Not quite the right words.
Ten seconds later A
dolf Hitler was cut off the air.
It wasn’t Hitler personally who spoke to the world a few hours later. Goebbels had had a record made, and the transcription, oddly enough, didn’t mention Russia. Or any of the vital questions that had been settled so neatly. The Führer simply couldn’t talk about those questions. It wasn’t mike fright, exactly. Whenever Hitler reached the crucial point in his speech, he turned green, gritted his teeth, and said—the wrong thing. He couldn’t get over that semantic block. The more he tried, the less he succeeded. Finally Goebbels saw what was happening and called it off.
The world broadcast was emasculated. At the time there was considerable discussion as to why Hitler hadn’t stuck to his announced program. He’d intended to mention Russia. Why, then—
Not many people knew. But more people will know now. In fact, a lot of people in Germany are going to know. Things get around there. Planes go over and drop leaflets, and people whisper, and they’ll remember a certain catchy German stanza that’s going the rounds.
Yeah. Maybe this particular copy of Astounding will find its way to England, and maybe an R. A. F. pilot will drop it near Berlin, or Paris, for that matter. Word will get around. There are lots of men on the continent who can read English.
And they’ll talk.
They won’t believe, at first. But they’ll keep their eyes open. And there’s a catchy little rhythm they’ll remember. Some day the story will reach Berlin or Berchtesgarten. Some day it’ll reach the guy with the little mustache and the big voice.
And, a little while later—days or weeks, it doesn’t matter—Goebbels is going to walk into a big room, and there he’s going to see Adolf Hitler goose-stepping around and yelling:
LEFT
LEFT
LEFT a wife and SEVenteen children in STARVing condition with NOTHing but gingerbread
LEFT—
The Iron Standard
Alien races didn’t have to be either friendly or unfriendly; they could be stubbornly indifferent—with serious effect.
“So the ghost won’t walk for a year—Venusian time,” Thirkell said, spooning up cold beans with a disgusted air.
Rufus Munn, the captain, looked up briefly from his task of decockroaching the soup. “Dunno why we had to import these. A year plus four weeks, Steve. There’ll be a month at space before we hit Earth again.”
Thirkell’s round, pudgy face grew solemn. “What happens in the meantime? Do we starve on cold beans?”
Munn sighed, glancing through the open, screened port of the spaceship Goodwill to where dim figures moved in the mists outside. But he didn’t answer. Barton Underhill, supercargo and handy man, who had wangled his passage by virtue of his father’s wealth, grinned tightly and said, “What d’you expect? We don’t dare use fuel. There’s just enough to get us home. So it’s cold beans or nothing.”
“Soon it will be nothing,” Thirkell said solemnly. “We have been spendthrifts. Wasting our substance in riotous living.”
“Riotous living!” Munn growled. “We gave most of our grub to the Venusians.”
“Well,” Underhill murmured, “they fed us—for a month.”
“Not now. There’s an embargo. What do they have against us, anyhow?”
Munn thrust back his stool with sudden decision. “That’s something we’ll have to figure out. Things can’t go on like this. We simply haven’t enough food to last us a year. And we can’t live off the land—” He stopped as someone unzipped the valve screen and entered, a squat man with high cheekbones and a beak of a nose in a red-bronze face.
“Find anything, Redskin?” Underhill asked.
Mike Soaring Eagle tossed a plastisac on the table. “Six mushrooms. No wonder the Venusians use hydroponics. They have to. Only fungi will grow in this sponge of a world, and most of that’s poisonous. No use, skipper.”
Munn’s mouth tightened. “Yeah. Where’s Bronson?”
“Panhandling. But he won’t get a fal.” The Navaho nodded towards the port. “Here he comes now.”
After a moment the others heard Bronson’s slow footsteps. The engineer came in, his face red as his hair. “Don’t ask me,” he murmured. “Don’t say a word, anybody. Me, a Kerry man, trying to bum a lousy fal from a shagreen-skinned so-and-so with an iron ring in his nose like a Ubangi savage. Think of it! The shame will stay with me forever.”
“My sympathy,” Thirkell said. “But did you get any fals?”
Bronson glared at him. “Would I have taken his dirty coins if he’d offered them?” the engineer yelled, his eyes bloodshot. “I’d have flung them in his slimy face, and you can take my word for it. I touch their rotten money? Give me some beans.” He seized a plate and morosely began to eat.
Thirkell exchanged glances with Underhill. “He didn’t get any money,” the latter said.
Bronson started back with a snort. “He asked me if I belonged to the Beggars’ Guild! Even tramps have to join a union on this planet!”
Captain Munn scowled thoughtfully. “No, it isn’t a union, Bronson, or even much like the medieval guilds. The tarkomars are a lot more powerful and a lot less principled. Unions grew out of a definite social and economic background, and they fill a purpose—a check-and-balance system that keeps building. I’m not talking about unions; on Earth some of ’em are good—like the Air Transport—and some are graft-ridden, like Undersea Dredgers. The tarkomars are different. They don’t fulfil any productive purpose. They just keep the Venusian system in its backwater.”
“Yes,” Thirkell said, “and unless we’re members, we aren’t allowed to work—at anything. And we can’t be members till we pay the initiation fee—a thousand sofals.”
“Easy on those beans,” Underhill cautioned. “We’ve only ten more cans.”
There was silence. Presently Munn passed cigarettes.
“We’ve got to do something, that’s certain,” he said. “We can’t get food except from the Venusians, and they won’t give it to us. One thing in our favor: the laws are so arbitrary that they can’t refuse to sell us grub—it’s illegal to refuse legal tender.”
Mike Soaring Eagle glumly sorted his six mushrooms. “Yeah. If we can get our hands on legal tender. We’re broke—broke on Venus—and we’ll soon be starving to death. If anybody can figure out an answer to that one—”
This was in 1964, three years after the first successful flight to Mars, five years since Dooley and Hastings had brought their ship down in Mare Imbrium. The Moon, of course, was uninhabited, save by active but unintelligent algae. The big-chested, alert Martians, with their high metabolism and their brilliant, erratic minds, had been friendly, and it was certain that the cultures of Mars and Earth would not clash. As for Venus, till now, no ship had landed there.
The Goodwill was the ambassador. It was an experiment, like the earlier Martian voyage, for no one knew whether or not there was intelligent life on Venus. Supplies for more than a year were stowed aboard, dehydrates, plastibulbs, concentrates and vitamin foods, but every man of the crew had a sneaking hunch that food would be found in plenty on Venus.
There was food—yes. The Venusians grew it, in their hydroponic tanks under the cities. But on the surface of the planet grew nothing edible at all. There was little animal or bird life, so hunting was impossible, even had the Earthmen been allowed to retain their weapons. And in the beginning it had seemed like a gala holiday after the arduous space trip—a year-long fete and carnival in an alien, fascinating civilization.
It was alien, all right. The Venusians were conservative. What was good enough for their remote ancestors was quite good enough for them. They didn’t want changes, it seemed. Their current set-up had worked O.K. for centuries; why alter it now?
The Earthmen meant change—that was obvious.
Result: a boycott of the Earthmen.
It was all quite passive. The first month had brought no trouble; Captain Munn had been presented with the keys of the capital city, Vyring,
on the outskirts of which the Goodwill now rested, and the Venusians brought food in plenty—odd but tasty dishes from the hydroponic gardens. In return, the Earthmen were lavish with their own stores, depleting them dangerously.
And the Venusian food spoiled quickly. There was no need to preserve it, for the hydroponic tanks turned out a steady, unfailing supply. In the end the Earthmen were left with a few weeks’ stock of the food they had brought with them, and a vast pile of garbage that had been lusciously appetizing a few days before.
Then the Venusians stopped bringing their quick-spoiling fruits, vegetables and meat-mushrooms and clamped down. The party was over. They had no intention of harming the Earthmen; they remained carefully friendly. But from now on it was Pay as You’re Served—and no checks cashed. A big meat-mushroom, enough for four hungry men, cost ten fals.
Since the Earthmen had no fals, they got no meat-mushrooms—nor anything else.
In the beginning it hadn’t seemed important. Not until they got down to cases and began to wonder exactly how they could get food.
There was no way.
So they sat in the Goodwill eating cold beans and looking like five of the Seven Dwarfs, a quintet of stocky, short, husky men, big-boned and muscular, especially chosen for their physiques to stand the rigors of space flight—and their brains, also specially chosen, couldn’t help them now.
It was a simple problem—simple and primitive. They, the representatives of Earth’s mightiest culture, were hungry. They would soon be hungrier.
And they didn’t have a fal—nothing but worthless gold, silver and paper currency. There was metal in the ship, but none of the pure metal they needed, except in alloys that couldn’t be broken down.
Venus was on the iron standard.
“—there’s got to be an answer,” Munn said stubbornly, his hardbitten, harsh face somber. He pushed back his plate with an angry gesture. “I’m going to see the Council again.”
“What good will that do?” Thirkell wanted to know. “We’re on the spot, there’s no getting around it. Money talks.”
The Best of Henry Kuttner Page 30