by Chad Oliver
He listened to them all, weighing and balancing carefully what each man said. He had to be right. He had to be sure. Time was running out; the world would be awake soon, and he and Lynna must not be found in Wilson’s home. He turned to the Old Man, who had been sitting motionless before the fire, eyes glittering, saying nothing.
“What do you think?” he asked him. “What should we do?”
The Old Man looked up, his dirty white beard etched in the glow from the fire. His weary face was stamped with the strange contradictions of time—resignation and rebellion, bitterness and love, despair and hope.
“Brighton,” he said quietly, as if the two of them were alone, “you are a leader. The others feel your strength and they trust you. The decision is yours to make. I am very old; perhaps I have lived too long already. But the others—the people here in this room, the death-touched automatons left in the world, the countless generations that may never be born—are depending on you. A burden of inconceivable significance, a destiny that no one here may possibly grasp, rests on you. It is too much to ask of any man; no man can be infallible, no man can be right every time. And yet, for reasons that you know, you must try. You must do the best you can.”
Brighton looked at him, and at the others huddled around the great fire. He was staggered by the realization, full and complete, of what the Old Man had said. The dark, tangled webs of fate and the unguessed and unknowable paths of history had somehow, incomprehensibly, led to this—to this fugitive cavern, to these few souls, to him. And he was no superman, no being touched with supernatural powers. He was only a man. Was that enough?
He faced them all, with icy doubt gnawing inside him and a resolved determination in his lonely eyes—eyes that were lonely for the life he had never lived, the world he had never known.
“We must make a break, clean and simple,” he told them flatly. “It is too late—it may have always been too late—for stealth and politics and halfway measures. We have got to choose one way of the other and stick to it. There will be no going back.”
Silence. The fire threw great shadows on the walls.
“We must leave here—now, within the hour—and hack and tear our way through to the roof of the world—to life or to death. If there are any among you who are afraid, now is the time to get out. You will not be harmed, and no one need ever know that you were with us in this room.”
For a moment, nothing. Then, slowly, wordlessly, two men got to their feet—Hatcher and Lewis. Taking their women with them, they walked out of the cavern. They were ashamed and did not look back.
“All right,” Brighton said to the rest, his heart warming to them. “Thank you for your confidence. We haven’t much time—get all the tools and the food and the weapons you can carry and bring them back here. We start in an hour. Be careful; don’t let anyone see you. If you are seen, it is your responsibility to make sure that it is not reported to the council before we have a chance to get away. Good luck.”
There was a murmur of voices. Men and women filed out of the room, smiles on their faces. Brighton was proud of them. He put his arm around Lynna and read approval in the Old Man’s eyes. He stood silently, gazing into the fire, thinking.
While the world was still hushed with sleep, Brighton led them out. Seventeen shadows filed through a ghost world they were leaving forever, loaded down with all they could carry. They were careful to make no sound. Furtively, almost holding their breaths, they slipped through the world like sleepwalkers in a sleeping land.
Brighton set a fast pace through the twisted tunnels. No one complained. The dark figures picked their way steadily through the rocks, their flaming torches throwing crawling shadows on the wet walls of the world. Voices murmured, and echoes crept back and forth, chasing themselves through the dead tunnels.
Brighton led them on, his eyes restless in the uncertain light. The sounds of clambering feet almost concealed the cold, distant drip of water—but he could still hear it. It trickled relentlessly in his brain. He was tired, and he knew that the others would have to stop and rest. He stopped them in a small alcove and watched with burning eyes as they collapsed in exhaustion on the hard rocks. He forced himself to stay awake, his hand on Lynna’s shoulder as she slept.
Unasked, Wilson sat with him, shivering. Brighton looked at the prone figure of the Old Man. He was pathetic in his weakness, and yet, even in sleep, his strength was evident. He had said nothing since their flight, but had kept up wordlessly. Brighton wondered about him—the one man who had understood him best. How long could he last? What kept him going? Would he ever see the world of his dreams?
“How much further?” Wilson asked.
“We should make it in a few hours now,” Brighton said.
“Do you think we can really get through?”
“I don’t know. We have a chance.”
“What if we break through and find that the world is still deadly, the way it was when the gods fled from it?”
“Well, if it is, we won’t have much time to worry about it,” Brighton smiled. “We’ll have to wait and see; that’s all.”
Wilson yawned and gazed blankly at the darkness around them. Brighton watched him with tired eyes. He was a good man, Wilson. He deserved something better than death. Brighton felt sick inside. Could he bring them through, all of them? Or was he leading them only to suicide? The blind leading the blind! He shook his head and pressed his fingers to his throbbing temples. It was hard to keep awake—he noticed that Wilson was dozing now. He was alone.
Brighton stuck it out for five hours and then he got the others up. They yawned and trembled in the chill of the caves. They looked at the darkness around them and listened to the cold drip of the water. They didn’t know that Brighton had not had any rest. They swallowed some food concentrates and drank some water.
They went on.
When they stumbled into the blocked tunnel that marked the end of the world that they had known, Brighton wasted no time. He was numb with exhaustion and his eyes were streaked with red, but he drove his unwilling brain to think clearly. He divided the men and women into shifts and instructed them in clearing away the choking rocks. He got the work started and left word that he was to be called at the first sign of anything unusual. Then he found a welcome hollow in the wall of the world and surrendered himself to instantaneous sleep.
Brighton’s sleep was a strange fantasy of white emptiness across which black splotches of sound marched from the world around him. He was aware of, but did not hear, the disembodied mutter of voices, the clatter of rocks, the clank of tools.
The hours whispered by, until the white blankness became alive with black spots that whirled and expanded and grew into oceans of black through which poured currents of phantom sound. Something …
“Brighton!”
“Wake up, Brighton. Wake up, wake up, wake—”
He moaned and rolled over on the damp rocks.
“Brighton—the people, the Council! They’re coming!”
Sleep vanished as if it had never been; consciousness hit Brighton like a splash of cold water. He leaped to his feet, senses acutely alert.
It was true. Someone was coming. He could hear the sounds of voices and scuffling feet. He turned to James, who had awakened him.
“Quickly now! How many of them are there?”
“About a hundred, I think.” James’ voice was frightened, nervous. “That’s what Hayes said; he saw them first.”
Brighton nodded, surprised at his own calm.
“Come on,” he said, working his way back to the others. They stood among heaps of excavated rock, waiting for him. There was no panic, but they looked uncertain. He took over, reassuring them with his confidence.
“Take it easy,” he told them. “We can handle anything they can throw at us.”
Can we? A voice within him whispered.
“Two of you hide in the rocks on each side. The rest of you line up. Grab anything that you can use as a weapon. Don’t do anything u
ntil I give the word.”
It’s five to one against us if they fight.
“Now just hang on—don’t worry.”
What if we lose? What if we lose?
They waited.
The light of their torches preceded the men from the Council. The sound of their voices became an ominous, muted rumble. Wentworth came into view, with the others behind him. Brighton couldn’t count them all.
“We’ve got the Decree of Council,” Wentworth said smugly. “We’re not going to let you defy the gods and destroy the world!”
The others roared their approval.
“You’ve got five minutes to get out of here,” Brighton told him flatly. There was no hint of his inner anxiety in his voice.
Wentworth laughed—fat, pompous, dead-white. “You’re not bluffing us, Brighton! We’re five to one against you. Maybe you don’t like this world, but we do—and intend to go on living in it. You’re not going to kill us with your wild ideas!”
The others pressed forward behind him, shouting.
“We’re not bluffing,” Brighton said coldly. Something within him laughed at this patent lie. “If you come any closer, not one of you will live ten seconds.”
Wentworth hesitated and Brighton knew that he had to follow through with something—anything. It was now or never. He tried to relax his tense muscles and motioned the others to stay where they were. He advanced toward Wentworth alone, his closed hand, palm upward, outstretched.
“We’re not bluffing,” Brighton repeated, walking slowly forward. “Before you murder yourself and everyone with you I think you’d better have a look at what I have in my hand. Not all the old weapons were lost. We’ve found some of them, and we’re ready to use them.”
Wentworth watched him uncertainly. Would it work? Brighton knew that the centuries of dull lethargy had not been without effect; these people had no stomach for a real fight. Wentworth couldn’t be sure that there was nothing in his hand—and Wentworth was anything but eager to risk Wentworth’s life.
Brighton stopped when he was still several paces from Wentworth. His hand remained outstretched but at too high an angle to enable Wentworth to see anything clearly. He was cool now; he had himself under control. He isolated the corner of his mind that was a black pit of fear. He refused to think about what would happen if he failed.
“Have a look, Wentworth,” he said softly. “Have a look and then see how much fighting you want to do.”
In spite of himself, Wentworth edged closer. “You haven’t got anything in your hand,” he said without conviction.
“You’d better have a look, Wentworth. In two minutes my men will use their weapons. Have you ever seen a man burned to a black cinder?”
There was silence except for the nervous breathing of the men. Wentworth was afraid to move closer and Brighton stood where he was, waiting.
“One minute, Wentworth,” Brighton said.
The men behind Wentworth murmured uncertainly. Wentworth moved closer, hesitantly, straining to see what was in Brighton’s hand. Brighton waited until exactly the right moment. Then, with desperate speed, he took one quick step forward, caught Wentworth’s fat shoulder with his outstretched hand, and spun him around. Wentworth shrieked and Brighton whipped his right arm into an iron lock around his neck. His left hand unsheathed his knife and pressed the sharp blade into Wentworth’s flabby neck until the blood came. The thing was all over in seconds.
“All right,” Brighton whispered coldly. “Tell them to get out of here—fast, or you’re a dead man.”
Wentworth’s pale body trembled with fear. “Go back,” he screamed. “Go back, go back!”
His men whispered among themselves and began to press forward, fingering their weapons. Brighton cut into Wentworth with the knife.
“No,” Wentworth yelled. “Don’t come any closer. He’ll kill me—and you’ll be responsible, all of you. You know the penalty for killing a Council Guard! The gods will avenge me! Go back—go tell the Council what happened. Go back, go back—”
The men stopped in confusion. They looked at Wentworth, the sweat pouring from his white face. They looked at Brighton, his eyes meeting theirs with steady strength. They looked at the men lined up against the end of the blocked passage, ready and waiting. Slowly, muttering, they turned and began to retrace their steps through the dark tunnel of twisted rock. The light from their torches vanished and the sound of their voices was lost in the distance.
Brighton put his knife away and turned the shaking, terrified Wentworth around.
“The hero,” he whispered. “The hero!”
He hit him once and left his fat body lying in a heap on the rocks. He didn’t know whether he was alive or dead, and he didn’t much care.
“Come on,” he said to the others. “Let’s get back to work.”
Time dragged on and the hours blended together into one blurred vision of sweat and metal and rock. They hacked and tore the rocks out of the tunnel and piled them in the wide passage through which they had come, accomplishing the double purpose of clearing the tunnel and establishing a protective wall behind them. They dug and chipped and hauled until it seemed that they had never done anything else.
They had no way of knowing what sort of progress they were making—the rocks ahead might extend for miles or inches. They didn’t know. It might never end. No one, not even Brighton, knew for certain where they were going. The world around them might well be all there was.
The end was a shock. One minute there was the interminable rock ahead of them and the next—light. A tiny square of light, no larger than a man’s fist and more brilliant than fire. It hurt their eyes. They fell back, staring at it.
Brighton couldn’t think. In a daze, he crawled into the tunnel and tore at the choking mass of rocks with a strength he never knew he possessed. The intense, incredible beam of light stabbed through his white skin. It widened perceptibly as he strained at the rocks. Others joined him and they fought the rocks in a frenzy of unreasoning joy.
They were suddenly—out. They were out, and Brighton staggered down a rocky hill, trying to adjust his stunned eyes. He couldn’t see, but an unaccustomed warmth swept over him and he was conscious of a ball of fire floating over his head. The soft air was sweet and moving gently. He fell face downward in some spongy stuff that was like moss but wasn’t. The heat beat on his back. He stared at the strange floor of this new world and touched it with his hands. It was green.
His vision cleared a little and he made out a cool shadow beneath a dark shaft with green branches. He crawled into it and called to the others. He didn’t know what he said, but they came. He was beyond thought. His eyes were adjusting. He could see.
It was impossible—wonderfully, deliriously impossible. After a lifetime of darkness and encircling rock, he saw color and broad, rolling fields. A vivid blue with drifting patches of white arched over his head. Green plains surrounded him and he could see towering mountains in the distance. The sweet air caressed his face.
He found Lynna’s hand and pressed it wordlessly. They had found it. They had found what had been the home of the gods. It lay all around them, and the gods had come home again.
“Look,” Wilson said finally. “The ball of fire—it’s falling.”
It was true. The sun was settling gently in the west, throwing long, cool shadows across the green world. Outlined on the horizon they could see the jumbled ruins of what might once have been a city.
The Old Man was silent, tears in his eyes, content just to look at last on the world he had dreamed of for so long. Brighton watched the hot sun settle across the green fields and knew what it meant to be happy.
“It will be back,” he said, nodding at the distant ball of flame. “It must go around the world.”
They were silent as the soft shadows crept across the land and they lighted their torches. It was not yet dark, but they could sense the coming of the night.
“I say let’s go back and close that tunnel,” Hayes sa
id finally. “We gave them their chance and they didn’t take it. This is our world now—we fought for it and we found it. They haven’t earned a share in it.”
“They wouldn’t fit in,” James agreed. “We should start over now. We’ve got a chance really to do something—and they’re not going to ruin it!”
There was a general murmur of agreement.
The Old Man shook his head. “There is room enough for all,” he said quietly.
Brighton sat in the cool breeze and wondered. It was true that the others had had a chance and not taken it. Indeed, they had actively opposed them and would have killed them all if they had been able. They had condemned him to death, and Lynna with him. They were riddled with superstition, dull, weak. They could contribute little and might do great harm.
Still—he didn’t know. They were his people, he had lived his life among them. They could not all be bad. And there were the children—pitifully few with their lost, hopeless eyes.
“No,” he said finally. “We won’t block the tunnel again. If we’re going to start over again, that would be a bad beginning. We won’t seek them out—they would kill us if we did. But if they come to us in peace we won’t harm them. It is not for us to say who is to die and who is to live.”
He whispered to Lynna and left her where she was. Alone, he walked through the green grass and the soft breezes of a summer evening, torch in hand. He could not know the strange cycles and destinies that were lost in the waiting vastnesses of time. He was ignorant of the full significance of this tiny moment, lost and forgotten in the shadows of history. But he did sense, as for the first time he saw the splendor of the stars, that he and what he had done had an importance far beyond his wildest imaginings.
He walked through the starlit field of what a few hundred years before had been Atlantis, breathing the sweet night air. He wondered about the future, and about himself and his people. Could they succeed where gods had faltered? He shook his head. Probably, almost undoubtedly, they would fail.
But they would try, for that was what it meant to be a man.