Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “They should have been executed!” Ward said.

  Senator Evans drew a slow breath. “My son,” he said softly, “as intelligent, civilized, humane creatures, we couldn’t do that. Our first task was to erase from our own hearts all of the prejudice and bitterness and hatred we had accumulated during those horrible war years.”

  “Very noble,” Ward said bitterly, “but how can you permanently stop dictatorships if you are squeamish about punishing those responsible for dictatorships?”

  “There are punishments besides death,” Senator Evans said mildly. “None as permanent,” Ward said. Ann leaned forward tensely, her blue eyes flashing.

  “Ward, I’m ashamed of you. You sound like a barbarian.”

  Ward looked at her helplessly, knowing that the gap between them was widening with his every utterance.

  Senator Evans cleared his throat.

  “We are straying from the point,” he said. “The war has long been history. Punishment of a humane sort has been meted out to those adjudged guilty by the World Court. Measures to enforce that punishment have been enacted for the last half-century. That is all part of the past which we are all so happy to forget. Now we are meeting here to decide on whether certain of these measures might be abolished. It is, I am almost certain, the unanimous opinion of this investigating committee that certain measures might be discontinued. Still, we are willing to listen to any reasonable arguments against their being abolished. In all fairness, Lieutenant Blackson, I must point out that you have as yet advanced no arguments.”

  “Senator Evans is right,” Commander Reynolds said ponderously. “My boy, if you have nothing to add to what you’ve already said, I feel sure we will be able to excuse you for the remainder of the hearing.”

  WARD felt a desperate feeling of helplessness, of incompetence, of muteness sweeping over him. The burning convictions that were almost a part of his soul, the certainty that his opinions were right, were just, seemed locked in his breast, incommunicable to anyone but his own inner self.

  He believed that the power-crazed dictators responsible for the tremendous and terrible war of the last century should have paid for their crimes with their lives. Of course some of the mad dogs had died before the war was over, but they had passed their swords to brutal and eager hands that soon became as bloody as their own had been. These men should have paid the extreme penalty for their ruthless violation of the laws of God and Man. Instead they had been exiled to a comfortable planetoid and there, were allowed to live out their lives in comfortable complacence.

  In the last days of the wars—as science had worked feverishly to produce new and deadlier weapons—the miracle of space travel had been accomplished. The humanitarian element who had pleaded for the lives of the military and diplomatic clique of the Axis nations had proposed exile into the void as an alternative to death.

  A war-weary world, sick of bloodshed and brutality, had agreed. The convicted military leaders of the Axis, some eight thousand in number, had been banished from Earth. Space patrol ships made monthly visits to the planetoid, which was located half-way between Mars and Earth, to see that no armaments were being built, that no troops were being trained and that no attempts were being made to construct spacecraft.

  However, as the years passed, the patrol ships had relaxed their vigilance. Inspection trips were put on an annual, instead of a monthly schedule. Then the patrols were reduced to two small observation ships which made a perfunctory stop at the planetoid every two or three years. Finally, in response to a public demand for economy, it had been proposed that the patrols be abolished altogether.

  THESE thoughts flashed swiftly through Ward’s mind as he faced the members of the committee that had been called to discuss the proposal. The members who, he realized with sickening finality, would vote unanimously in favor of the proposal.

  His eyes swung about the table desperately.

  “Instead of discontinuing the inspections patrols,” he said angrily, we should go back to the monthly or even weekly basis. And we should send fighting ships, not observations.”

  Major Slade smiled thinly.

  “I’m afraid you’re becoming a bit hysterical,” his tone was mockingly solicitous. “After all, my young friend, what do we have to fear from the handful of humanity on Exile Planetoid? They have no arms, no metals with which to make them and no means of crossing the void to attack us.”

  “People said that about the oceans,” Ward said. “Until a way of crossing them was discovered. Even then some people continued to believe it.”

  “The situation is hardly parallel,” Slade said. “Your obsession in regard to Exile Planetoid is almost dangerous, Lieutenant Blackson. Your complex seems to spring purely from a desire to persecute these poor peoples.”

  “Another thing,” Commander Reynolds said testily, “these patrols are a damned nuisance and I ought to know. Throws off fleet maneuvers for two months to send a fighting force halfway across the universe. They’re expensive too. Cuts into my appropriation like the very devil.”

  “May I interrupt again?” Senator Evans smiled. “Most important, we only serve to keep alive the spirit of hatred and prejudice by sending fighting ships on monthly patrols to Exile Planetoid. It indicates that we do not trust these people, that we are ready on an instant’s notice to blast them out of the universe. We must conquer their distrust of us, let them realize that we not only talk, but practice tolerance and good will. Then the day may soon come when we can welcome our exiled fellow human beings back to their rightful home on Earth.”

  “So they can blow it to pieces again?” Ward demanded.

  “Ward!” Ann spoke pleadingly.

  “Must you always nourish and cherish your bitterness for those poor wretches? They have suffered and their children have suffered for their sins. Isn’t that enough? We have work enough to do here without spending time and money tormenting them further. There are still homes and hospitals to rebuild, museums to erect, fields to cultivate, all kinds of jobs to be done on Earth. Why can’t we work out our destiny, and leave them work out theirs?”

  “THAT has been tried,” Ward said stubbornly, “and it has never worked. The persons on Exile Planetoid are no different than their ancestors who plunged the world into madness a hundred years ago. They are, or will be. motivated by the same mad craving for power, the same ruthless violation of the God-given rights of others. They must be watched. We have been lenient in allowing them to live and propagate. But let us not be stupid and allow them again to strike treacherously at our backs.”

  “Your imagination is astounding,” Major Slade said icily. “On Exile Planetoid are a mere handful of people, without arms, without equipment, in short, without anything, and you have them on the point of attacking the impregnable defenses of Earth. Furthermore, Lieutenant, the case record of Exile Planetoid is a testament to the peaceable nature of the exiles. Never has there been a case of revolt or antagonism against our patrol ships or their crews. In short the conduct of the entire pitiful colony has been exemplary.”

  “Then our job is to keep it that way,” Ward said explosively. “If the Japs and the Germans on Exile Planetoid are being good, it’s only because it’s the only thing they can do.”

  Commander Reynolds cleared his throat importantly and shuffled the papers before him.

  “Lieutenant Blackson,” he said, “we aren’t getting very far, are we? This committee has listened to your remarks carefully. I might remind you that your being granted permission to testify before this hearing was highly irregular. It was in deference to your greatly respected grandfather and father that we decided to let down the bars, so to speak, and listen to you. Now you have had your say and I trust you are appreciative. If you have nothing more to add, will you excuse us while we go on with the regular business of the committee?”

  Ward felt a heavy, hopeless pain lodge in his breast. He was being told to get out, but that wasn’t important. Important, was the fact that he had failed
miserably.

  “The patrols to Exile Planetoid will be discontinued,” he said almost to himself; his voice was dully bitter. He was stating a fact. A stupid, impossible, criminally careless fact. But still a fact.

  “That will be for the committee to decide,” Commander Reynolds said.

  Major Slade’s lean face twisted mockingly.

  “Not for young men with fanciful imaginations,” he added ironically.

  Ward looked at him for an instant, his fists knotting savagely. Then, with an effort, he throttled his black rage and strode from the room.

  CHAPTER II

  A Strange Attack

  WARD BLACKSON arrived at his apartment in the third level of upper metropolitan New York some two hours after he stalked from the committee room.

  He had spent the time walking blindly through the pedestrian layers of the city, his mind a seething cauldron of bitter hopelessness. Memories taunted and burned him. Memories of Ann Lear’s deep blue eyes and the contempt they held for him. Memories of Major Slade’s caustic mockery, Commander Reynolds’ patronizing smugness, blindness . . .

  Memories of Ann again. Walking together on West Point’s campus the day he received his commission as a lieutenant in the Army Space Fleet. Plans. Plans for two people, very young, very much in love. All smashed now.

  What else could he have done? That question bounced ceaselessly in his weary head. His convictions, his honor, the things he lived for, wouldn’t allow him to stand passively by while a criminally stupid committee planned to unleash the mad dogs on Exile Planetoid. Even though his action brought him into sharp conflict with his commanding officers, even though they alienated the affections of the girl he loved, even though it was a futile, helpless gesture, still it was a gesture he had to make.

  A bitter smile touched his lips as he opened the door of his dark apartment. Well, he had made the gesture. Now where was he?

  He was turning to flick the light switch when he heard the stealthy rustle of motion behind him. Almost instantly he started to wheel, but something blunt crashed into the back of his head, exploding a searing flash of pain before his eyes.

  He staggered and fell heavily to the floor. Dimly he felt rough hands turn him over. Something wet and bitter splashed in his face and doused his tunic. An instant later he heard swift footsteps, then a door slammed.

  Ward fought the darkness that was overwhelming him, but it was a losing fight. His head lolled helplessly as a smothering oblivion blanketed his senses . . .

  AN eternity later, a voice, a familiar voice, penetrated the black fog through which he was falling.

  “Ward! Get up! Try and stand on your feet.”

  Ward opened his eyes, tried desperately to bring the spinning room into focus. His head ached intolerably and there was the bitter stench of alcohol in his nostrils.

  Ann was kneeling beside him, tugging at his shoulders with both hands.

  “Stand up, Ward,” she said again. Her voice was a blend of humiliation and disgust. “You’re a disgraceful sight lying there.”

  She looked up helplessly to another figure who stood beside Ward’s inert form.

  “Please help me, Major Slade,” she said tearfully, “I can’t do a thing with him.”

  Ward focused his eyes on Major Slade’s thin expressionless face and he tried to raise himself on one elbow. Everything was horribly confused. The last he remembered was stepping into his room and being slugged from behind. Why Ann and Major Slade were here he had no idea.

  “I’m all right,” he said thickly.

  “You’re disgracefully drunk,” Ann said bitterly. “Take his other arm, Major.”

  Ward rubbed his aching head, dazedly.

  “Drunk?” he repeated. “Where’d you get that idea?”

  A wave of nausea swept over him then and he sank back to the floor, his senses reeling. He felt himself being dragged across the floor and lifted into a chair. Then a cold cloth was on his forehead and he opened his eyes again.

  Major Slade was looking down at him with well-bred disgust stamped on his thin, intelligent features.

  Glancing down Ward saw that his tunic had been soaked with some cheap alcoholic intoxicant. The stench of it was strong in the room.

  Ann changed the damp cold cloth on his head.

  Ward relaxed under the cool soothing touch of her hands. He realized that she thought he had passed out from too much strong drink. And from Major Slade’s expression, he obviously believed it too.

  “I was hit over the head,” he said wearily. “Someone was waiting for me when I returned here. I haven’t been drinking.”

  Major Slade pursed his flat lips thoughtfully.

  “I think,” he said, choosing his words with deliberate care, “that we had better leave it to the Martial Court to decide that question.”

  THE captain presiding as judge of the Martial Court was obviously reluctant to pass sentence.

  “Lieutenant Blackson,” he said, removing his glasses and leaning back in his chair, “it is my duty to pronounce sentence on you in accord with the findings of this court. Nevertheless, I hesitate to do so.”

  Ward stood before the long mahogany table, facing the six members of the Martial Court. His face was pale and set in hard, bitter lines that had appeared there in the past week. At the other end of the table sat Ann Lear and Major Slade. Ann had not looked at him once during the trial. She had given her testimony in a slow, halting voice, never lifting her eyes from the tightly crumpled handkerchief in her hands.

  The presiding officer drummed his fingers nervously on the smooth surface of the table.

  “We have examined the facts in this case with considerable thoroughness,” he said. “Your illustrious parentage and your own splendid record to date have been two factors taken into consideration. However, the ugly fact remains, supported by the unimpeachable testimony of Major Slade and Miss Lear, that you have been grossly guilty of unpardonable conduct. Miss Lear gave her testimony under considerable duress, I am afraid. But the fact that she has known you for many years, and has a natural sympathy for you, tends to make her evidence that much more conclusive.”

  The presiding officer glanced again at the sheet of paper lying before him on the table. Then he ran his hand irritably through his graying hair.

  “Lieutenant Blackson,” he said, “everyone can make a slip now and then. Youthful escapades are not altogether unusual among the officers of the fleet. Sometimes we have overlooked these peccadilloes, chalking them up to the exuberance of youth. Speaking frankly, I can say that we would be happy to take a similar view of your case, if you would admit your lapse and assure us that it would not happen again. But this story of yours about an attack by an unseen assailant strikes us as being an unmanly attempt to escape the consequences of your conduct. You have said you have no known enemies. Robbery was obviously not the motive of the attack, for nothing was taken from your person or room. Therefore we are forced to assume that the attack occurred only in your imagination. If you would admit this we might reconsider your case.”

  He paused and looked hopefully at Ward’s tightly set jaw. Then he shook his head and looked back to the paper on the table.

  “In that event,” he said slowly, “you force me to pronounce verdict. I have no other alternative.”

  HE paused again for an imperceptible instant, then moistened his lips and continued.

  “In the opinion of this court,” he read from the paper before him, “the accused, Lieutenant Blackson, has been found guilty of conduct unbecoming an officer of the United Nations Forces. The verdict of this court therefore, is that the accused shall be relieved of his commission as lieutenant in the United Space Forces, this action to take effect immediately.”

  There was a complete silence in the room as the verdict was read.

  No expression touched Ward’s face, but his eyes were as bleak as ice as he listened to the words that swept away everything in his life that was important to him.

  “Relieved
of his commission . . .”

  The echo of those words were branded into his soul for all time. Broken out of the service for disgraceful conduct. A dishonorable discharge. A black mark against a name that had been carried by some of the proudest heroes of Earth.

  He had expected it. It was the inevitable conclusion to the classic frame-up against him. Still, his blood was like ice water in his veins as the horrible import of the verdict became a reality.

  Face wooden, muscles straining, he stood in silence while an officer cut the insignia bars from his tunic jacket. Each snip of the shears cut away something of himself. And when it was over there was nothing left of Ward Blackson. A stranger stood in his place. A bitter, cold, steel-hard stranger, who swept the room with one contemptuous glance, then strode in silence toward the door.

  A cry sounded behind, but he walked on, more a machine than a man.

  “Ward!” the cry sounded again and broke off in a choking sob.

  Light, swift footsteps were beside him then, and Ann’s hand was clutching his arm.

  “Ward, listen to me,” she said imploringly.

  He stopped and stared straight ahead, not looking at her.

  “Was there something you wanted?” he asked.

  “Please look at me,” she whispered.

  HE turned slowly and saw the pain in her eyes and the dampness shining on her cheeks.

  “I’m looking at you,” he said.

  “I had to do it, Ward,” she said miserably. “I would rather have died than testify against you, but it was my duty. Don’t you understand? It was my duty.”

  He shrugged. “So? What difference does it make?”

  “It makes a difference to me, Ward.”

  Ward felt the anger, the bitterness, the disgust that was in him, boiling to the surface like scum on water.

  “So it makes a difference to you,” he said softly. “Isn’t that wonderful! That makes everything all right, doesn’t it? Your idea of duty is a nice inflexible God that you bum incense to and who makes everybody happy. Did you ever consider that trust is an important part of duty?”