Collected Fiction

by Kris Neville

  I’ve got to warn him! Herb thought.

  He turned and ran. The Oligarch! I’ve got to warn him! Breath sobbed in his throat.

  William watched the fleeing figure. He reached out a hand to stay him. He could not believe his own miscalculation. He stood, limp and defeated. There was no will left in him. Bleak betrayal was a heavy winged vampire.

  There was no place to go.

  He sat down.

  It was all very logical for the first time in his life. Some where in time the Oligarchy had invented the menace as a device to gain (or to retain) power. They had saturated the people with ignorance, ridiculed thought, and eliminated freedom until the menace could not be challenged. They had established a closed and consistent system that could justify anything. And now that he had gotten outside, stepped beyond it, by denying its ultimate premise, the immensity of the fraud was mind staggering. There was no combating it as long as one lived inside. There have, he thought, been other Earths. Nothing outside the system must be permitted to intrude.

  He put his head in his arms and began to cry.

  That was how they found him when they came to kill him.

  HERB did not watch the kill.

  He went straight to his cot and lay down and waited for the news to come. He heard the rustle of voices in the corridor as the hunt was being organized.

  He was still trembling with disgust: a Destructionist! The very word sent a shudder through his body. To think that William, of them all, that William, would have been one seemed impossible. Still, you could never tell. A neighbor, a friend . . . You could never tell who might be.

  How could they think? What sort of creatures could they be? Herb’s imagination shrank from the task. It was one thing to hate the Oligarchy, but it was quite another to favor the end of the Universe.

  The rustle of voices diminished. They were after him. They would get him.

  Herb thought: Perhaps with this one action I have saved the Universe. When this becomes known on Brionimar, when it is learned how I, single handed, exposed the menace, then they will . . .

  But suppose William was right?

  Never before had such a thought even fought for recognition, and now, without warning, it erupted in naked completeness. It was an electric shock.

  No! he shrieked, no!

  He was sitting erect. He was clammy with icy perspiration. His whole body was suddenly silent and listening, every muscle and nerve strained in the direction of the hunt.

  He lay back.

  No, he thought.

  THE next day the Oligarch called him in.

  “I want to thank you again, Herb.” He watched his words sink into naked flesh. “If you had not told me, I would never have suspected. But for you, he—he might have succeeded.” Herb refused to look into the Oligarch’s face. I did right, he thought. I did what I had to do, what anyone would have done.

  “I know it has been a shock,” the Oligarch said. “You were very fond of William.”

  Herb’s lips twisted silently.

  “I want to tell you a story,” the Oligarch said. “Listen, listen carefully. It is about a man called Bud and what he did.”

  Herb was not listening; and then suddenly he was listening. The Oligarch told the story, and when he was done, leaned forward, waiting. It was as if Herb had just heard the most important story in the world.

  “His brother’s head,” the Oligarch whispered, “he traded his brother’s head for power . . .” There was something about the idea that reached deep into the ancient folk shadows of Herb’s mind and stood as a symbol. But he did not understand about symbols: only their compulsive effects. All his rage and frustration and guilt crystalized around Bud. If he could only see Bud fall and gasp and die, he would have vindicated morality and done all that he could do in the name and cause of justice.

  “You may go,” the Oligarch said. “Think about what I’ve told you.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  NORMA missed Herb. There was the glamor of the unknown about him and the appeal of the familiar. He was two individuals, a little boy, confused and puzzled and mute and needing her, and a man, strong and wise and belonging to a strange world she could not enter as she had entered all too easily the masculine world of Earth.

  She was with Frank when Bud made his television announcement.

  Bud beamed happily in the glare of uncounted millions of dollars of publicity. “At my invitation,” he said, the starmen have consented to return.”

  Frank winced to see what he thought to be a decent cause advancing the personal fortunes of a fool, a hypocrit, and a coward.

  Bud—it was a little difficult to imagine (without having heard it) how he managed it—at the high point of his speech inserted a few remarks about home, mother, and the virtues of honesty and hard work. He was, he explained, a poor but honest man, holding certain principles dear to his heart. He was at a loss to account for the fact that he had been chosen to lead this great crusade for the starmen. “We can thank All Mighty God that they have consented to return. They will return. I do not believe there are enough Communists in the country today to prevent it.”

  Frank shuddered to think what might happen now. Suppose Bud should—God, no!—become President out of all this; suppose the people, in gratitude, or the politicians seeking a popular hero, contrived his election.

  Frank felt that he might have erred in using bad means to gain good ends. For Bud, hunting subversives, socialists, liberals, and critics, could rapidly reduce the country to conformism and with native ingenuity, pervert starscience into a political weapon.

  The first radio message, on Earth frequency, to the President requested that Bud be given the job of handling all negotiations. If, it said, Senator Council finds it in his heart to accept the responsibility.

  Many people did not understand the last.

  Bud did.

  THE morning of the day the starmen returned, Norma came into Bud’s office. She was practically bursting with excitement. Thoughts of what their knowledge would contribute to Earth, the marvelous advances in medicine, in physics, in art that hovered just within reach . . .

  On her way through the secretary’s office, she passed a slight, nattily dressed-man wearing a hat.

  For a puzzled second she furrowed her brow. Then memory came. He had been investigated by the Senate Crime Committee. She bit her lip in exasperation. Why would Bud be willing to see someone like that?

  “Wasn’t that—?” she demanded, bursting into Bud’s office.

  He got up with quick awkwardness. His face was bloodless. “Ohhhhhh,” he sighed. “I didn’t expect—Hello, Sis.”

  “Wasn’t that—?” she began again.

  “It’s, it’s, it’s, he, he.” Bud indicated the box on his desk. “From an old friend.”

  “What’s wrong? Don’t you feel well, Bud?”

  “Fine, fine,” Bud said. “I feel fine . . . I’m very busy just now.”

  Norma sat down. The box rested on the desk between them. Warily Bud sank into his chair. She saw his face framed above the box, almost as if the head were hanging suspended and bodiless, and she felt an unaccountable tremor of superstitious fear.

  “You poor dear,” she said.

  “You’ve been worrying so much about the starmen . . . You’re losing weight. Have Frank give you a checkup, Bud; you ought to take things easier.”

  “. . . I will. I’ve been intending to . . . I’ll have him look me over. Where is he; do you know where he is?”

  “He went out last night. I expect him back any time.”

  He stood up. He was calmer now. He rested one hand on the box. “Yes, I wouldn’t worry. He’ll show up. I am tired, terribly tired. You saw the Secret Service men out there? They’re out to kill me, Norma! Senator Stilson is hiring them!”

  Norma started to protest.

  “I tell you, they are. If the Secret Service weren’t out there to protect me, I’d be dead right now. But God has given me a job to do. I can’t let them
kill me until I have done His will.”

  “Bud, you’re just overworked. Nobody’s trying to do a thing like that. Frank says it’s just publicity, and I thought . . .”

  “Ahhhhh,” Bud said darkly. “Would the President have assigned me a body guard if it weren’t true? Would he? There are extremists in this country—Communists and Socialists—who stop at nothing to prevent the starmen from coming back. Even Frank . . .”

  Norma’s face grew a shade paler. “But he’s the one . . .”

  “You can never tell! But I’ll tell you this. I pray every night, Sis. I get down on my knees, and I pray that God will let me live long enough.” Bud’s mind suddenly flashed back to his childhood, and he remembered praying that God would let him assassinate Stalin. God needed only to arm him and transport him to the Kremlin. He could have done the rest. He shook his head darkly again. “You don’t understand the dangers.” He felt courageous. It took guts to face the Communist menace.

  She wanted to run. She clenched her fists. This is Bud, your brother, she thought. He’s just upset. “I just wanted to see you for a moment,” she said. “It wasn’t about anything important.”

  Bud rubbed his hand caressingly over the box. “Yes?”

  “I’ll let you get back to work.” She stood up and started for the door.

  “Don’t worry about Frank!” Bud said sharply. “He’s all right. Nothing’s happened to him.” Norma was gone.

  Bud began to cry, and looking at the box, he whispered, “It’s all your fault. You made me do it. You did, you made me!”

  CHAPTER IX

  HERB knew, even before the spider ships touched ground, that he was going to murder Bud.

  The ships were motionless. Slowly suspense mounted. At last one ship opened its port. The landing ladder spun away.

  Down came the Oligarch, alone, dressed simply in a solid color double breasted suit. A businessman’s suit. There was something reassuring and normal about him. There was initial silence, and then the cheer rose and thundered.

  He went directly to the platform. President Wilkerson advanced to meet him. Their hands joined, and a pleasantry passed unheard beneath the cheering. The Oligarch surveyed the welcoming party of Congressmen, foreign diplomats, and government officials. He saw Bud. He crossed to him.

  The cheer became deafening.

  They exchanged a few whispered words. Lip readers might have caught the question and the assent. Then, smiling, they turned to the public. Nodding, waving, Bud (visibly upset about something) tried to give the impression of recognizing each face individually. The Oligarch bowed his head modestly.

  Herb watched from the port of the spider ship. He clenched his fists angrily. If only he had a weapon of some sort.

  The President spoke briefly.

  Then, as the Oligarch moved toward the speaker’s platform, Herb dropped swiftly down the ladder. His feet touched the ground.

  The Oligarch watched from the corner of his eye. Herb moved toward the crowd. The crowd leaned forward to catch the Oligarch’s every word.

  And he was cleansed. He was free of all responsibility: it was now between Herb and Bud. If Herb succeeded . . .

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began.

  They were hushed.

  “Thank you for your reception. I stand today before . . .” His voice translated into a billion volts, blanketed the world with supersonic vibrations made audible by millions of loudspeakers.

  He needed pay no attention to his speech. His mind was floating free, and his body was light and youthful. There were only a few more things to be done, and then his role would be finished.

  “On this momentous occasion,” the Oligarch continued.

  Herb was free of the worst of the crowd. He resisted an impulse to run. He, too, was wearing a businessman’s suit. It was the same one he had worn hearings. In it, he was for the indistinguishable from an Earthman. He pulled his hat lower over his face and pushed his way outward. Faces turned, eyes alerted with curiosity, shoulders shrugged, faces turned away. Herb did not know that Norma had seen him and was now trying to fight her way free of humanity to follow him.

  The Oligarch continued his speech. His grim and gloomy reflections vanished. He peered out at the Earth faces with genuine benevolence. IPs not in my hands any longer, he wanted to tell them. One of your Senators will make the ultimate decision, unless one of my star men kills him first.

  And then inwardly he chuckled. Or perhaps, he could have said, my starman will experience some incident, perhaps even a trivial one, that will awaken him to the fact that the universe is not in danger. In which event, he will not be able to convince you of the danger to Earth. For in due time, I will announce his escape as a dangerous lunatic.

  HERB’S feet moved rhythmically against the sidewalk. For one moment, there was a sense of freedom and impending loss. No more dream forms, his feet seemed to echo.

  No

  more

  dream

  forms . . .

  And coloring it, the perception of the world around him, the bright air, the hot sun, the colors and the gentle wind. Perhaps the colors were most startling, for on Brionimar there was universal drabness that approached decay. The Oligarchy struck out at all frivolity, sensing danger to itself in all sensuous pleasure.

  And then the beauty, the sheer, heart-stopping beauty of freedom and color burst on him; his conditioning collapsed. Earth knowledge surged across his memories.

  It must not die, he thought, forgetting hatred in beauty. It must not, because there is so much that is good, that is noble, that is sad and mighty . . .

  “Hello,” Norma said breathlessly.

  He whirled. For an instant he was terrified. He saw that she was alone.

  He relaxed. Warmth grew within him. “Hello.” Until now, it had not occurred to him that he might have been followed.

  “Why did you—?”

  A radio was blaring somewhere, and as he looked at her, both of them half laughing, they both heard the announcement that would be headlined shortly in the papers, as:

  RENEGADE STARMAN ESCAPES SHIP. FEAR INSANE, SAYS GEORGE.

  EARTH AUTHORITIES ALERTED. (Full description of escapee on page two.)

  THIS MAN IS ARMED AND DANGEROUS.

  CHAPTER X

  HERB hunched his shoulders as if to ward off a suspected blow. Norma’s eyes mirrored fright and uncertainty, and she moved half a step from him.

  Grasping her arm at the elbow, he said, “We have to get off the streets.”

  Norma wanted to twist away from him and run.

  “You’ve got to help me hide!” The pressure seemed threatening.

  “Let me go!”

  He dropped his hand instantly. “You’ve got to help me.”

  From the expression on his face, she knew that she had nothing to fear. She felt ashamed of herself.

  “We can go to my hotel,” she said.

  Once in the hotel, Herb’s eyes darted around the four walls of the living room.

  “There are no microphones,” Norma said.

  They stood just inside the door. Norma turned and walked decisively to the divan. She sat down. “I think you’d better explain.”

  “I . . . I need some money,” Herb said. “There’s something I have to get.”

  “What is it?”

  “I . . . Please trust me, please,” he said.

  She hesitated; then: “How much do you need?”

  “A . . . hundred dollars. Could you let me have—loan me—that much?”

  Norma knew he was not insane; there was something here that she did not understand, but it was not insanity. Her emotions went out to him. She saw the present situation only in personal terms, their own relationship. She saw no wider implications. Intuition, she would have called it. Decisively, she phoned for the bellboy and when he came, gave him a check for the management to cash.

  While they were waiting for the money, she said, “Won’t you tell me—?”

  “I can’
t. I can’t. I wish I could. Please, if you’ll—” he hesitated, and then, with sickness and loathing, said, “trust me.”

  The money came.

  “I’ll try to pay you back; make it up to you some way . . .”

  “That’s all right. Where are you going? What are you going to buy?”

  Perhaps it was the desire to shock her, to destroy her faith in him, perhaps and more probably, it was the need to confess (and hope for absolution) that he said: “I want to buy a gun.”

  “Why do you want a gun?” Herb, still standing, tried to memorize her face. He was acutely aware of his isolation. He wanted to go to her side, to talk rapidly, to reveal the cruel and horrible compulsion that was driving him—and most of all, to enlist her aid and her understanding. He needed to know that one single individual in the whole Universe could appreciate his attempt to meet his own standard of truth and morality.

  “Tell me. Maybe Bud will be able to help you out of your trouble . . . He’s my brother . . .” The complexity of emotions that burst upon him was almost impossible to understand. He had thought of her—if he had actually thought of the connection at all—as an employee of Bud’s, perhaps, but no more than that. He asked incredulously: “Frank was your brother?”

  “You mean . . . is my brother?”

  “Yes . . . I, yes, of course.”

  “What did you mean: was my brother?” Uneasiness settled deep inside her. “Has something happened to him?”

  “No. No. It was a grammatical error.” Herb thought the sentence too stiff for credence. But she seemed reassured.

  “I’ll get Bud to help you. And Frank, too. Perhaps the three of us can get you out of any trouble you’re in. I’m sure the starmen will be fair. If it’s something you’ve done . . .”

  “No! Don’t talk to Bud! Don’t tell him you’ve seen me. You mustn’t!”