by William Tenn
This man—this Stranger—with his Stranger ambitions, his Stranger contempt, based on pure ignorance, for whatever was truly majestic and noble—what did he know of Mankind? What did he know of what it had meant to Thomas the Trap-Smasher to be chief of such a people?
He gave the Organizer the same recent history he'd given Roy, skipping much of the personal detail. Partly, he knew the Organizer wouldn't be interested in these minor touches; but partly, his rage at the outsider, standing there, nodding and grunting and checking off points to himself, his rage kept creeping into his voice and could only be controlled by cutting the story as short as possible.
Arthur the Organizer heard nothing but the words. "Well, now I know what happened to Thomas the Trap-Smasher and Mankind. So much for that," his attitude seemed to be. Eric felt as if he had been filling a storage pouch with exactly the right amount for the Organizer, who now thanked him, pulled the draw strings tight and dropped the pouch into his haversack.
"Pretty much like the others," Arthur summed up. "Leader killed, all his known followers exterminated, one, maybe two, manage to get away. The whole business a sudden stroke—chief meshing with chief, tribe with hostile tribe—little or no warning. A beautiful job of organization, I'd say, smooth, smooth as hell. Except, of course, for this inexcusably sloppy business of escapees like yourself and Roy here. But that, I'd lay to the lack of any overall coordinating control—there was no single individual running the whole show who was able to see it all in the round and pick out the weak spots. For a piece of what was essentially committee work, nicely done. Very nicely done."
"I'm glad you can enjoy it. Meanwhile, we—the movement—we're smashed, we're through."
The Organizer smiled and put an arm around his shoulder. "Not at all, boy. Not in the slightest. We merely enter upon a new phase. To quote the Ancestor-Science of our enemies: Action equals reaction. At the moment, reaction is dominant, so action—our action—must build up its strength and search for other paths. All human burrows are closed to us, but the Monster burrows are wide open. How about it—are you up to a little expedition?"
Eric stepped back and away from the friendly arm. "An expedition? To deep Monster territory? Why? For what?"
"To get more Alien-Science to back us up. In other words, to practice what we preach. Here we are Alien-Sciencers, and how much Alien-Science can we exhibit to potential converts? A little of this, a smidgen of that. What we have is tremendous—you yourself have good reason to know that—but it's all bits and pieces, not fully connected, not fully understood. Now, I say this," and here his voice rose, and Eric noticed that they had been slowly surrounded by most of the Strangers who could walk. "I say: if we're going to be Alien-Sciencers, let's be Alien-Sciencers all the way. Let's get the best, the strongest stuff the Monsters have. Let's get something that, when we bring it back to the burrows, will be absolutely irresistible, not merely as a weapon to back us up, but as an irrefutable proof of the validity of our beliefs. Let's get some Alien-Science that will blow Ancestor-Science to hell and gone forever."
Tired faces around them lit up under their glow lamps. "He's got it," someone said enthusiastically.
"He sure has. Arthur's found a way out."
"Good old Arthur. The Organizer. The old Organizer himself."
Even badly wounded men began to sit up and grin with excitement.
"What exactly," Eric asked in a cold, practical voice, "what exactly is it that we get?"
The Organizer turned and lifted one eyebrow at him for a long moment. "Now if we knew that," he chuckled and pointed up to the overhanging darkness, "we'd know as much as they, the Monsters, do, and our worries would be over. We don't know exactly. But we know of a place, at least Walter does, where the Monsters keep their strongest, most powerful weapons. Right, Walter?"
A nod from the short, chunky Weapon-Seeker as everyone turned to question him with their eyes. "I've heard of it, and I think I can find it. It's supposed to be the last word in Alien-Science."
"The last word in Alien-Science," Arthur repeated as if in awe. "Imagine what that must be like. Just imagine! Well, we go there and that's what we come away with. The last word! Then let the chiefs and the Female Society reactionaries stand up to us. Let them try. We'll show them what Alien-Science can do, won't we? We'll show them once and for all."
A man threw his spear up into the air and caught it. He whirled on a blood-dripping leg and shook the spear over his head. "Attaboy, Arthur," he yelled. "Let's show them so they never forget it!"
Eric saw that everyone around him, Roy included, was cheering and waving spears. He shrugged and waved his too. Arthur looked at him; his smile grew bigger, more expansive.
"So they'll never forget it," he repeated. "Now, let's get some sleep, and everyone who's able will hit the trail in the morning. I hereby declare it night."
Roy and Eric went to the edge of the crowd and bedded down together, back to back: they were, after all, the only two warriors of Mankind present. Just before he went to sleep, the Runner said over his shoulder: "What a great idea, isn't it, Eric? Great!"
"Well, at least," Eric muttered, "it keeps us busy and takes our minds off the fact that we're outlaws for the rest of our lives."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Wandering about next morning, before most of the others were up, Eric observed with contempt that sentries still had not been posted. He had taken it for granted that the leader of a war band would never let his men go through an entire sleep period without setting up a series of guard shifts to watch and give the alarm if enemies approached. True, he had reasoned out last night that, in the present state of resumed hostility in the burrows, they had little to fear from that direction, but that was only a logical hypothesis: one could not be certain. Besides, if a war band was going to function as a war band, function and survive, it had to go through the motions of discipline whether or not they were necessary.
In the face of such sloppy command work, he and Roy had better set up a personal on/off guard system between themselves every night. They wouldn't lose any rest: it was quite apparent that Strangers required much more sleep than the fighting men of Mankind.
Apparently, they also required much more talk. Never had Eric seen an expedition begin with so much discussion. He squatted off to one side, grinning and chuckling. Roy came over and sprawled beside him. He also found the Strangers hilarious.
First, there was the matter of who should go and who should stay. Badly wounded men definitely could not go. But how many should be left behind to take care of them? And what about a sewer detail to dispose of corpses? And should a reserve force be maintained here in their base: first, in case of an unexpected call on them from surviving Alien-Sciencers in the burrows, and second, if the main expeditionary body found that it needed help or supplies of any kind?
Where Thomas the Trap-Smasher would have announced his plans to respectfully nodding followers, Arthur the Organizer asked for suggestions on each point. There were plenty of suggestions.
Everyone had to be heard, complimented if he came up with something good, reasoned with if he didn't. An incredible amount of time was spent persuading one able-bodied man who felt he belonged on the expedition that he would be much more useful staying here among the wounded. Of course, in the end, Eric noticed with a good deal of interest, the arrangements were pretty much those Arthur the Organizer had seemed to want in the first place. And everyone got up with the feeling that it was what he had wanted too, all along.
He could handle men, even if he didn't know the first thing about giving orders.
Nor did he know the first thing about commanding an expedition on the move, Eric decided. Leaving behind them the wounded and the dying, as well as those who would serve as nurses, sewer detail and reserve, they set off in an impossibly long line of twenty-three talkative, gesticulating men, a line that straggled here, straggled there, and that was bunched at various points by especially friendly or argumentative groups.
One such group milled about Arthur, the commander of this overgrown war band, this expedition that was more like a wandering mob. Even in the low tunnel, where the walls were narrow and everyone had to bend over, a steady hum of discussion flowed back toward Eric from Arthur and his closer associates.
"Security, that was why they were able to smash us so suddenly. Our security was never tight enough. There were leaks."
"There are always leaks. The trouble was in our communications. We failed to hear about the leaks fast enough to plug them up."
"I think Walter's right. The trouble lay right there in security. All the chiefs had a spy system of one sort or another and we never really got going on counterespionage."
"In that case, how do you account for—"
Eric glanced back at Roy, who was staying the regulation distance of fifteen paces behind him. "Hear them?" he asked the Runner. "They're still fighting yesterday's battles. This is how they win. With their mouths."
"Oh, they're Strangers. What do you want? They don't do things our way and we don't do things theirs."
Eric was surprised. He and Roy had evidently reversed positions since yesterday when they had first met. Roy still found Stranger ways very funny, but was forcing himself to be tolerant of them. Why?
As the harsh white light of Monster territory expanded ahead of them, he slowed down and waited for Roy to catch up with him. He was curious about what was going on inside the Runner, the only member of this ridiculous crowd for whom he felt any kind of kinship.
But just as Roy came abreast, all the way up front, the first man in the long line stepped out from the piece of Monster furniture and into whiteness.
There was a rapid, chattering sound. The man screeched once, danced a single, mad, despairing step—and fell over on his face. Everyone froze.
After a while, the man who was next in line edged forward carefully, poked his head out and stared upward. They watched him relax. "Only one," he said in a loud, carrying whisper. "Only one and Dan's sprung it. Nothing else in sight."
Silently now, they crept forward and, one by one, slipped out of the exit. They formed a loose, nervous group around the dead man, eyes whipping from his contorted body to anywhere in the great Monster whiteness from which danger might abruptly materialize and focus on them.
The sprung trap hung from the enormous piece of furniture directly above, its wires hanging slack except for a fitful shudder which occasionally rippled through them like a last lingering memory of the life they had just taken.
Roy moved up to Eric and slung his spear. Then he put his hands on his hips and gestured at the trap with his chin. "We came across one of those about five auld lang synes ago. Your uncle knocked it out. You can't poke a spear in front of it—it won't go for a spear: there has to be living flesh. What you do, you stick your foot out under it and pull back fast. A bit too slow and," he clicked his tongue, "no foot."
Arthur the Organizer had been listening. "You know traps," he said to Roy. "We can use you up front as a scout. From now on, you travel well ahead of the main body."
"I know a bit about traps," Roy told him disgustedly, "but I'm no Trap-Smasher. I'm a Runner. You want a scout, at least use an Eye. Eric, here, is an Eye."
"Both of you then. You'll be our advance party. All right: somebody grab the body and take it back inside to headquarters for sewerage. We'll wait for you." He pointed to the trap and thought carefully for a few moments before speaking. "Now, the way I see it—and either of you feel free to correct me if you think I'm wrong—is that this trap was set in place a relatively short time ago. I base this hypothesis on a single fact: the trap wasn't there last sleep-period, when refugees were still arriving. If this is so—and mind you, I'm only thinking out loud, not coming to anything hard and fast just yet—we can conclude that it was all that coming and going of refugees and messengers, the noise and inevitable clumsiness of the wounded making their way here that attracted the Monsters' attention. They tend to set up traps in places where there are plentiful signs of our activity. All right: does my theory hold together so far?"
"Great, Arthur," said a man who had edged up. "Terrific. You're right on the head. What a mind! What I'm interested in is, where do you take the idea? How do you figure next?"
"What a mind!" Roy whispered bitterly to Eric. "To figure out that the trap was installed between last night and now—that takes an Organizer, that takes brains! Well, what can you expect? Guys don't even know the difference between a Runner and an Eye!"
Arthur, arms folded on his chest, head down, was walking back and forth in front of his anxiously listening followers. "Here's where I take the idea, at least as a preliminary approach. Understand, it's not completely worked out just yet. It seems to me that if the Monsters are aware of our activity in the neighborhood of this particular piece of furniture, if they've seen enough of us swarming in and out of it to justify a trap, and a brand new type of trap, at that, then it's likely that they're on the alert in this entire area. And that, in turn, leads to three conclusions. One, that a scouting party in advance of the main body is doubly necessary, and that the scouts have to be watchful as hell. Two, that until we're a good distance from here, the expedition proceeds in absolute silence, using nothing but hand signals for communication. And three, well, we ought to take a good hard look around before we start out. It's possible we're under observation by the Monsters at this very moment!"
At this, there was a startled look-around by the members of the expedition, all except Eric and Roy, who exchanged disgusted glances. As a matter of course, in the last few minutes, they had each been turning periodically in one direction and another to see if there were any sign of the Monsters in the surrounding whiteness. After a trap had claimed a victim, who but a stupid Stranger would do anything else?
But, a bit later, as they had gone off ahead of the rest along the piece of Monster furniture on their way to the distant wall, Roy's attitude seemed to have changed again.
"After all," he said, as if arguing with himself, "it's a pretty big war band, the size of Mankind's whole damn army roster. Takes a real Organizer to handle a bunch this size. An ordinary band captain—like your uncle, I mean—he wouldn't even know how to hold them together."
Eric laughed. "Holding them together isn't half as important as keeping them alive. I don't think Arthur will be too good at that."
The Runner grunted noncommittally. Eric puzzled over him in silence as they came to the junction of the furniture and wall, turning right in the direction of the doorway that Mankind had used to get back to the burrows. The door lay on the floor: it had still not been set in place since Eric had gone through. The two of them checked the area for new traps; then, without a word, they heaved the door up and worked it back into its socket. When they went on past it, further along the wall into Monster territory, they both grinned at each other happily: they had just acted as respectable warriors of Mankind.
But what was up with the Runner, Eric wondered? What was going on in his head that he should mock Arthur the Organizer one moment and determinedly find some way to praise him the next—even when he showed such obvious ineptitude as a band leader? There was no time to ask questions now: they were moving deeper into territory where only Roy had been before, and Eric's job was to follow quietly, learning the way, keeping his ears alert for the first vibrations that would warn of a Monster's floor-shaking approach.
Three hundred and twelve paces beyond the door was the rendezvous that the Organizer had set with them. Here, a block piece of Monster furniture came close to the wall, a smaller piece than the one they had been in during the night. Eric could see the top of it by twisting his head far back on his neck: it was oddly curved and there were great green knobs sticking out of it. They stopped there, grateful for its cover, and took their first deep breaths. Far off behind them, along the wall, they watched the main body of the expedition trudging a slow single file in their direction. Eric and Roy waved their hands high to indicate that the way wa
s safe.
When the answering waves indicated that the signal had been received, he turned to the Runner and put the question at last. Why this backing and filling, why this talking Arthur up when he was so unequivocally, ridiculously wrong?
Roy thought a moment before answering.
"He's not wrong. I mean he can't be: he's our leader."
"You know better than that, Roy! Not sending scouts ahead from the beginning, letting the men talk and clump up on expedition, not checking the exit overhang for a Monster trap—how far off can he be?"
"He's our leader," the Runner repeated doggedly. "Was your uncle any smarter, with all of his march discipline and trap-smashing? All right, just one mistake—enough to finish him and most of his band. Arthur's alive."
"He's alive because he was safe in Alien-Science Headquarters all through the blowup."
"I'm not interested in why, Eric. He's alive, and he's the only leader we've got. This band's the only people we've got. We've got to make the best of it and kind of, you know, show them we belong to them."
Eric stared past him into the glaring whiteness. Far off, hundreds upon hundreds of paces away, he could make out the dim outlines of the larder sacks in which the Monsters kept their food. Once, the powerful bands of Mankind had come to swarm upon those sacks and bring minute portions of the contents home to their women and their chief. Once, he and Roy had been proud to be reckoned warriors of Mankind. Now were they to start all over again and learn pride at being Strangers? And Strangers on the run, at that. Strangers without even women to guide them, to tell them what was right and what was wrong!
No, he didn't see it, and he said as much. "I'm not running my head into a spear any more for somebody else and his private plans."
"That's you," Roy agreed. "That's the way you've always been: a rebel, a troublemaker, an outsider. Me, I've always asked only to be allowed to go along with the other guys. Why do you think I became an Alien-Sciencer? Because our band was Alien-Science. If I'd been in an Ancestor-Science band, I'd be backing up the chief right next to Harold the Hurler and Stephen the Strong-Armed and all those reactionary bastards. I'd be carving up people like you and your uncle any time the Female Society told me to. And I'd believe in what I was doing, just as I believed in what I was doing when I followed your uncle and went around saying that Chief Franklin had to go and that the Female Society stood in the way of progress. Being in the center of a bunch of guys that you can trust because you know their thoughts and their thoughts are exactly the same as your thoughts—that's home, that's the only home there is. Everything else is hunger and danger and sleeplessness, with no one to guard your back."