by Kris Neville
He awakened the following morning ravenously hungry and was hugely disappointed by breakfast. Even discounting his somewhat biased viewpoint, the food was inedible.
Freed accepted Shamar’s share eagerly with the comment, “It’ll taste better after you miss a few meals. It always does.”
An hour later, the jailer came to open the cell.
“Shamar the Worker? Get your stuff. We’re going.”
Ge-Ge was waiting in the reception room. Her hair had been especially waved for the occasion. She wore a suit newly pressed and gleaming. She had tears in her eyes.
She fled to his arms. “Darling!” she cried, caressing his face with childlike wonder. “Was it awful? Did they beat you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Darling, we’re going to get you out on bail. I’ve made all the arrangements. We just have to go to the Judge’s chambers for a minute, and they’ll let you go. Thank God you’re going to be out of this horrible place, at least for a little while.”
The jailer brought Shamar’s belt and his bag of possessions. Shamar signed a receipt for them and they went to the Judge.
The Judge said, “Please be seated.” He had a resonant and friendly voice. He went to his desk and sat down.
Ge-Ge and Shamar seated themselves before him.
“Ah, you young people,” he said. “Now, you must be Shamar the Worker, and you—”
“Garfling Germadpoldlt.”
“Of course.” He turned to Shamar. “I hate to see a fine young person like you in trouble, Shamar. It seems to me such a waste. Man and boy, for sixty years I’ve been a dedicated worker for the Party. Oh, Shamar, when I think of that glorious paradise to come—that time of wealth and plenty for all—that time when the riches and abundance of Mother Itra will, from Automation, overflow alike the homes of the rich and poor . . .”
They waited.
He continued. “Here I sit, year after year, Garfling and Shamar, judging my fellow men. Judging poor creatures who do not live the Dream. I sometimes feel that this is not the way. I sometimes feel my job is out there on the street corners, preaching the Dream, awakening the souls, telling the story of love and beauty and abundance in the life to come.
“Ah, me. But the world is not yet perfect, is it? And man’s understanding is imperfect. Here you are before me today, Shamar, with no visible means of support and no record of having paid productivity taxes. Oh, what a grim and fearful picture! In all your life have you ever once thought of your obligation to the future? You have failed yourself; you have failed the Party; and failed the future.
“Yet—in a larger sense—although this in no way militates against your own guilt—have we not failed you? How have we permitted a human soul to degrade himself to the point where we must punish him?”
Abruptly, the Judge stood up. “Well, I’ve done the best I can. I remand you to the custody of Miss Germadpoldlt. Your trial will be set at a later date. You are not to leave Xxla without permission of this court. And I hope my lecture today has fallen on fertile soil. It is not too late to correct your ways. And I may say, if I am the one who hears your case, your conduct between now and the trial may have some bearing on the outcome.”
They took a taxi back to his apartment. Ge-Ge trembled violently most of the way and nestled against him; they murmured their affection.
After he had been fed, she said nervously, “It was Von Stutsman who was responsible for your arrest. I should have known we couldn’t fight the Party. If he digs hard enough, nothing on Itra can save us.”
Finally, she went out to canvas lawyers.
She came back at dusk.
“Shamar, darling,” she said, “I’ve located him. I asked a lot of my friends, and he’s the best. He’s a big lawyer for left-wing people. I talked to him, I told him everything.”
“What! You told him everything?”
“Why, yes.”
“You, you told him I was an Earthman?” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Listen, Ge-Ge! I was arrested on a charge I could beat; now look what you’ve done. What makes you think he won’t turn me over to the Party? This is too big, now! This isn’t just a tax avoidance matter, this is treason for him.”
“It’s all right, darling,” she said soothingly, breaking free from him. “I had to tell him so he’d take the case. Why would a big man like him want to defend a common vagrant?”
Shamar closed his mouth. “But—you mean, he won’t tell anyone?”
“Of course not.”
“Has the man no patriotism?”
“Look, Shamar,” she said in exasperation, “you once asked me why the people in the street aren’t upset about Earth. I’m beginning to see the way you think. What you mean is, aren’t we afraid of Earth? Aren’t we afraid Earth would, oh, do something like invade us or something? That’s what you mean.”
“Of course it is.”
“Once upon a time,” she said, “when we first got space flight, the Party got all shook up about the possibility of some hostile force out there developing an interstellar drive and coming along and doing their will with us. They asked the computers about it. Invading and conquering a planet is such a vast technological undertaking that the mind just boggles at it. Don’t forget, we’ve got a warning network out there. They’re not very alert, or you wouldn’t have gotten through, but they wouldn’t miss an invasion fleet. There’s computer-controlled chemical rockets in orbit, and we’ve got a few sited on Itra that can blast down anything that slows up to try to land. It wouldn’t take one-hundredth, it wouldn’t take one-thousandth of the technological resources required to defend Itra that it would to attack her. Earth just simply can’t afford to attack us. They’d go broke trying. Every million dollars you spent to get here, we’d spend a thousand to keep you from landing.
“Oh, I suppose if Earth wanted to, they might figure out some way to blow up Itra. But where’s the profit in that? We’re not bothering you. Why spend all that money when it’s not going to get you one damn thing in return?”
The following day, Shamar called on the lawyer, Counselor Freemason.
Counselor Freemason inquired politely as to the state of his financial reserves. Shamar replied reassuringly.
“Good, good. That’s most encouraging. Most encouraging indeed. We need not place any limit on our ingenuity, then.
“I’ve been thinking about your case, Mr. Worker. The thing first to do, in my opinion, is to stir up public sympathy in your favor. It’s almost an ideal case. It has no real political overtones. It’s not as if you’re accused of anything serious. Well, I believe I can interest some friends of mine who are always deeply concerned with cases involving the infringement of an individual’s liberty—provided, of course, there are no political overtones. I can think of several good people who would be willing to head up a Defense Committee. The fact that we have and I’m talking now about as much as, oh, one hundred thousand dollars?” He paused interrogatively.
“I’m prepared to pay,” Shamar said.
“Maybe even more,” Councilman Freemason continued quickly. “We can come to that later. The important thing right now is to get down to work on your case.”
“Counselor Freemason, now, obviously I’m not a lawyer,” Shamar said, “and I know it’s bad business to tell a professional how to run his job. But I believe Miss Germadpoldlt explained the, ah, rather unusual delicacy of my own position. It would seem to me that the less publicity we got, the better.”
Counselor Freemason shook a pen at him. “A very good point, Mr. Worker. It shows you’re thinking, and I’m glad of the opportunity to explain the reasons for this recommendation. If I brazenly parade you before them, you see, by implication it means we’re not afraid of your background being examined. We have nothing to hide. Consequently, they will not look for anything. If, on the other hand, I’m cautious, fearful, defensive, they’ll ask themselves, ‘What’s Counselor Freemason trying to hide?’ And they’ll start digging into your past.
&n
bsp; “Now, I hope that clears that matter up to your satisfaction? Good. Good. I’ll get right to work on your case. Do you have anything else? Miss Germadpoldlt explained rather nicely, I think, yesterday. As far as anyone knows, you’re a man without papers. You’ve never paid any taxes but they have no proof you owe taxes. You won money in the lottery. You collected anonymously; lots of people do for perfectly valid reasons. Let them prove you didn’t win. The Party can’t be very interested in a man like that.
“So, I’ll raise an issue. Maybe we’ll suggest that any lottery winner is likely to be persecuted. The Party wants things to go smoothly. The lottery makes the people feel as if, you know, they actually own a piece of things. And too many people don’t have papers.
“My job is to take the specific and convert it to a vague general principle that a number of people feel deeply about. The Party will take the easy way out: they’re not dumb. They’ve learned from experience. You’re not worth that much trouble to them. Otherwise, there’ll be a period of aggravation, people without papers beating up police and things like that.”
Three days later, Shamar met with the newly formed Committee of One Hundred for Justice to Shamar the Worker.
There were five members of the Committee and Counselor Freemason in attendance. They briefed him on their initial activities.
They had printed letterheads and were circulating letters to people known to be friendly, with a hastily printed booklet giving the facts of the case.
“As you can see,” Counselor Freemason said, “we’re off to a very fast start. Um, the question naturally arises as to finances. I have advanced a certain amount out of my own pocket . . . We will need more than I can conveniently scrape together at the moment, and I’m reluctant to—ah—impose on the Committee for a loan insofar as—”
“I took the liberty of bringing along some cash,” Shamar said. “For current expenses and, of course, your retainer.”
They looked relieved. “Excellent, excellent. I might suggest, Mr. Worker, that we appoint one of the Committee as treasurer—perhaps Mrs. Freetle, here—” the lady smiled—“to take these financial worries off your mind. This will leave you free to devote yourself fully to activities defense.”
“Now that that’s out of the way,” one of the male Committee members said, “let’s get right down to business. As you can see, we’re moving fast. Our overall strategy is this. We must first establish a public image for you, Mr. Worker, an image the average man can identify with. Counselor Freemason has described your case to us. I simply don’t know what the Party’s coming to to permit a man like Von Stutsman to persecute you this way. Oh, I tell you, it makes my blood boil, Mr. Worker!”
Others of the Committee chimed in and the sentiment passed heatedly among them.
“Well,” said Counselor Freemason, “I guess that about winds it up for the moment. You all know where to reach me. Any time, day or night. I guess, Mr. Worker, if you’ll just turn the money over to Mrs. Freetle. And I think, Mr. Hall, if you’d hire that speech writer—what’s his name? McGoglhy?—to work with Mr. Worker on his speeches.”
“Speeches?” Shamar asked.
“You’re going to be our featured speaker at all the rallies, of course,” Mrs. Freetle said. “I know you will do splendidly, just splendidly! Your accent is so captivating. I’ve never heard anything quite like it.”
VI
On the evening of his first public appearance, Shamar was given a neatly typed speech. He rehearsed it hurriedly, stammers and all.
“Fellow citizens! As I stand here, looking over this sea of faces, hearing your applause and seeing how your hearts go out to one poor man in distress, it—I—Well, I’m deeply touched. I can’t tell you how much it means to me. I prepared a speech for tonight, but I’m not going to use it. I’m just going to stand here, instead, and tell you, just as the words come out, how I feel.” Here he would pause for applause and then continue. “Thank you so very much. Thank you. I know you’re all behind me—except for the police agents in the audience.” Here he would wait for laughter. “We all know them, don’t we? I see about a dozen. A dozen agents have come down here to find out what I’m going to say. Isn’t that ridiculous?” Here there would be mixed laughter, applause and cries in the affirmative. “All right! Thank you. I hope they get an earful tonight.”
Later in the speech he would demand, “Why are they doing this to me? I want you to tell me why. What have I done? What am I accused of doing? Well, I’ll tell you this—I’m not the kind of a man who is going to submit meekly to this persecution. I’m going to fight back. I’ve got a little money left from my lottery winnings, and I’ll spend every cent of it to fight these people doing this thing to me.” Here he would pause dramatically. “I want to leave you with this point. It’s not just Shamar the Worker that’s involved. What am I? A poor, itinerant laborer going from town to town. I’m nothing, I have never had anything, and I guess I never will have anything. I’m no rich black marketeer or businessman. I’m no fat politician. I’m just one little man. But it’s not me—and this is the point I want to leave you with—it’s not Shamar the Worker. He’s unimportant. What is important is that if they can do this to me, they can do it to you. If they can do it to Shamar the Worker today, next year one of you will be up here on this platform speaking just the way I am. So you see, this is your fight. It’s not me that’s important—it’s the principle that’s important—”
The meeting went brilliantly. Every time he paused, the audience responded just as the speech-writer had indicated. It was as if they were as well rehearsed as he.
The next night, another meeting. And another. And another. He slept no more than four hours a night when the campaign was in full swing. He spoke dozens of times into the bright glare of TV cameras. He paraded down a million streets in an open-topped car. Faces poured in front of his own; on and on they came. People with tears in their eyes cried, “God bless Shamar the Worker!” Once the Committee hired a brass band.
So, for two weeks, it went.
Then the Party threw him back in jail, in an apparent effort to deprive the movement of its momentum.
After three days, during which time Shamar was held incommunicado, Counselor Freemason obtained permission to interview his client.
“We’re making marvelous progress! Ge-Ge is turning into a most effective crusader. You should hear her when she cries, ‘Give me back my man!’ This is a wonderful development for us. It’s having the opposite of the intended effect. Von Stutsman has over-reached himself this time. The Party is going to have to back down, and it will cost him dearly.”
“How’s the finances?”
“Ge-Ge has given us some advances—”
“How much have you spent?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I haven’t been keeping track closely. Perhaps we’ve run a little more than we anticipated. The response, you see—”
Shamar returned to his cell wishing Earth’s printing presses had worked a little longer.
It took nearly two weeks to arrange for Ge-Ge to visit him. When she arrived, she was nearly on the point of tears.
“Oh, my darling, how I’ve missed you!”
She brought him up to date on the progress of his case. As Counselor Freemason had reported, his imprisonment merely increased the vigor of his supporters. Now they were at their highest pitch: a pitch which would be difficult to maintain.
“I’m just worried sick,” she said. “If the Party can hold out another week or two. I don’t want to worry you, Shamar, but I want you to know how you stand. Counselor Freemason says the worst that could happen would be a short prison sentence, no more than a year, for not filing tax forms. We could keep you out on appeal for quite a while.”
“Ge-Ge, how much have we spent so far?”
“About three hundred thousand dollars.”
“Good God! They’ll have it all when they get through! If I ever get back to Earth—”
“I don’t care about money,
Shamar! I just want you free!”
He took her shoulders. “Ge-Ge, suppose the Party can’t afford to back down? Maybe they feel they have to stand firm to prevent a lot of future trouble. And when Freemason gets all the money . . . then what chance will we stand? They might railroad me for years. They’ll make an example out of me. Now, are you willing to gamble? Everybody would jump at the chance to vote them out. If we could—”
“Please, Shamar,” Ge-Ge said. “All this voting thing you’ve always been so sold on is all right, I guess—but it just won’t work. To begin with, there isn’t any way to vote.”
“Maybe there is,” he said.
Shamar was still in jail the following day when Ge-Ge appeared on the TV program.
PAMDEN had been reluctant to release time to her. PAMDEN was Itra’s largest industrial co-operative—Plastics, Agricultural Machinery, Detergents, Electricity and Newsprint—and, being the most efficient, was responsible for operating the TV networks.
“Good heavens,” said the station executive. “Nobody can say we haven’t already given you coverage. Miss Germadpoldlt.”
“They’ve ordered you to stop!” she protested.
“They? The Party? Miss Germadpoldlt, do you honestly believe that? Nobody tells a station manager what to program. Believe me. There is no prior censorship whatsoever. But, on the other hand, we can’t turn over the TV stations to minority propaganda either.”
Ge-Ge argued and pleaded, and in the end the executive sighed wearily. “I think we’ve been more than fair. But for you—and this is a personal favor, Miss Germadpoldlt, because you are a young and attractive woman—for you, I will phone our program director and see if he can get you on the Noon Interview Show for tomorrow. It gives you the Itra-wide network, which is certainly more than anyone has the right to ask. You’ll have ninety seconds to make your case. That’s the best I can do.”