“And what does the first derivative show?”
Zeb hesitated and Novak took over. “You have to figure the second derivative,” he answered in a strained voice; “the rate is accelerating.”
“Well?”
The Psych Chief answered firmly but reluctantly, “On extrapolation, it will be three years and eight months before we can risk striking.”
Penoyer turned back to Huxley. “I have my answer, sir. With deep respect to General Novak and his careful scientific work, I say—win while we can! We may never have another chance.”
He had the crowd with him. “Penoyer is right! If we wait, we’ll be betrayed.”—“You can’t hold a thing like this together forever.”—“I’ve been underground ten years; I don’t want to be buried here.”—“Win… and worry about making converts when we control communications.”—“Strike now! Strike now!”
Huxley let them carry on, his own face expressionless, until they had it out of their systems. I kept quiet myself, since I was too junior to be entitled to a voice here, but I went along with Penoyer; I couldn’t see waiting nearly four years.
I saw Zeb talking earnestly with Novak. They seemed to be arguing about something and were paying no attention to the racket. But when Huxley at last held up a hand for silence Novak left his place and hurried up to Huxley’s elbow. The General listened for a moment, seemed almost annoyed, then undecided. Novak crooked a finger at Zeb, who came running up. The three whispered together for several moments while the council waited.
Finally Huxley faced them again. “General Novak has proposed a scheme which may change the whole situation. The Council is recessed until tomorrow.”
Novak’s plan (or Zeb’s, though he never admitted authorship) required a delay of nearly two months, to the date of the annual Miracle of the Incarnation. For what was contemplated was no less than tampering with the Miracle itself. In hindsight it was an obvious and probably essential stratagem; the psych boss was right. In essence, a dictator’s strength depends not upon guns but on the faith his people place in him. This had been true of Caesar, of Napoleon, of Hitler, of Stalin. It was necessary to strike first at the foundation of the Prophet’s power: the popular belief that he ruled by direct authority of God.
Future generations will undoubtedly find it impossible to believe the importance, the extreme importance both to religious faith and political power, of the Miracle of Incarnation. To comprehend it even intellectually it is necessary to realize that the people literally believed that the First Prophet actually and physically returned from Heaven once each year to judge the stewardship of his Divinely appointed successor and to confirm him in his office. The people believed this—the minority of doubters dared not open their faces to dispute it for fear of being torn limb from limb… and I am speaking of a rending that leaves blood on the pavement, not some figure of speech. Spitting on the Flag would have been much safer.
I had believed it myself, all my life; it would never have occurred to me to doubt such a basic article of faith—and I was what is called an educated man, one who had been let into the secrets of and trained in the production of lesser miracles. I believed it.
The ensuing two months had all the endless time-stretching tension of the waiting period while coming into range and before “Commence firing!” —yet we were so busy that each day and each hour was too short. In addition to preparing the still-more-miraculous intervention in the Miracle we used the time to whet our usual weapons to greater fineness. Zeb and his boss, Sector General Novak, were detached almost at once. Novak’s orders read “—proceed to BEULAHLAND and take charge of OPERATION BEDROCK.” I cut the orders myself, not trusting them to a clerk, but no one told me where Beulahland might be found on a map.
Huxley himself left when they did and was gone for more than a week, leaving Penoyer as acting C.-in-C. He did not tell me why he was leaving, of course, nor where he was going, but I could fill in. Operation Bedrock was a psychological maneuver but the means must be physical—and my boss had once been head of the Department of Applied Miracles at the Point. He may have been the best physicist in the entire Cabal; in any case I could guess with certainty that he intended at the very least to see for himself that the means were adequate and the techniques foolproof. For all I know he may actually have used soldering iron and screwdriver and electronic micrometer himself that week—the General did not mind getting his hands dirty.
I missed Huxley personally. Penoyer was inclined to reverse my decisions on minor matters and waste my time and his on details a top CO. can’t and should not cope with. But he was gone part of the time, too. There was much coming and going and more than once I had to chase down the senior department head present, tell him that he was acting, and get him to sign where I had initialed. I took to scrawling “I. M. Dumbjohn, Wing General F.U.S.A., Acting” as indecipherably as possible on all routine internal papers—I don’t think anybody ever noticed.
Before Zeb left another thing happened which really has nothing to do with the people of the United States and the struggle to regain their freedoms—but my own personal affairs are so tied into this account that I mention it. Perhaps the personal angle really is important; certainly the order under which this journal was started called for it to be “personal” and “subjective”—however I had retained a copy and added to it because I found it helped me to get my own confused thoughts straight while going through a metamorphosis as drastic as that from caterpillar into moth. I am typical, perhaps, of the vast majority, the sort of person who has to have his nose rubbed in a thing before he recognizes it, while Zeb and Maggie and General Huxley were of the elite minority of naturally free souls… the original thinkers, the leaders.
I was at my desk, trying to cope with the usual spate of papers, when I received a call to see Zeb’s boss at my earliest convenience. Since he already had his orders, I left word with Huxley’s orderly and hurried over.
He cut short the formalities. “Major, I have a letter for you which Communications sent over for analysis to determine whether it should be rephrased or simply destroyed. However, on the urgent recommendation of one of my division heads I am taking the responsibility of letting you read it without paraphrasing. You will have to read it here.”
I said, “Yes, sir,” feeling quite puzzled.
He handed it to me. It was fairly long and I suppose it could have held half a dozen coded messages, even idea codes that could come through paraphrasing. I don’t remember much of it—just the impact it had on me. It was from Judith.
“My dear John… I shall always think of you fondly and I shall never forget what you have done for me… never meant for each other… Mr. Mendoza has been most considerate… I know you will forgive me.
… he needs me; it must have been fate that brought us together… if you ever visit Mexico City, you must think of our home as yours… I will always think of you as my strong and wise older brother and I will always be a sister—“ There was more, lots more, all of the same sort—I think the process is known as ”breaking it gently.”
Novak reached out and took the letter from me. “I didn’t intend for you to have time to memorize it,” he said dryly, then dropped it at once into his desk incinerator. He glanced back at me. “Maybe you had better sit down, Major. Do you smoke?”
I did not sit down, but I was spinning so fast that I accepted the cigarette and let him light it for me. Then I choked on tobacco smoke and the sheer physical discomfort helped to bring me back to reality. I thanked him and got out—went straight to my room, called my office and left word where I could be found if the General really wanted me. But I told my secretary that I was suddenly quite ill and not to disturb me if it could possibly be helped.
I may have been there about an hour—I wouldn’t know—lying face down and doing nothing, not even thinking. There came a gentle tap at the door, then it was pushed open; it was Zeb. “How do you feel?” he said.
“Numb,” I answered. It did not occur to me to
wonder how he knew and at the time I had forgotten the “division head” who had prevailed upon Novak to let me see it in the clear.
He came on in, sprawled in a chair, and looked at me. I rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed. “Don’t let it throw you, Johnnie,” he said quietly. “ ‘Men have died and worms have eaten them—but not for love.’”
“You don’t know!”
“No, I don’t,” he agreed. “Each man is his own prisoner, in solitary confinement for life. Nevertheless on this particular point the statistics are fairly reliable. Try something for me. Visualize Judith in your mind. See her features. Listen to her voice.”
“Huh?”
“Do it.”
I tried, I really tried—and, do you know, I couldn’t. I had never had a picture of her; her face now eluded me.
Zeb was watching me. “You’ll get well,” he said firmly. “Now look here, Johnnie… I could have told you. Judith is a very female sort of woman, all gonads and no brain. And she’s quite attractive. Turned loose, she was bound to find a man, as sure as nascent oxygen will recombine. But there is no use in talking to a man in love.”
He stood up. “Johnnie, I’ve got to go. I hate like the mischief to walk out and leave you in the shape you are in, but I’ve already checked out and Grandfather Novak is ready to leave. He’ll eat me out as it is, for holding him up this long. But one more word of advice before I go—”
I waited. “I suggest,” he continued, “that you see a lot of Maggie while I’m away. She’s good medicine.”
He started to leave; I said sharply, “Zeb—what happened to you and Maggie? Something like this?”
He looked back at me sharply. “Huh? No. Not at all the same thing. It wasn’t… well, it wasn’t similar.”
“I don’t understand you—I guess I just don’t understand people. You’re urging me to see a lot of Maggie—and I thought she was your girl. Uh, wouldn’t you be jealous?”
He stared at me, laughed, and clapped me on the shoulder. “She’s a free citizen, Johnnie, believe me. If you ever did anything to hurt Maggie, I’d tear off your head and beat you to death with it. Not that you ever would. But jealous of her? No. It doesn’t enter the picture. I think she’s the greatest gal that ever trod shoe leather—but I would rather marry a mountain lioness.”
He left on that, leaving me again with my mouth open. But I took his advice, or Maggie took it for me. Maggie knew all about it—Judith, I mean— and I assumed that Zeb had told her. He hadn’t; it seemed that Judith had written to her first. In any case I didn’t have to look her up; she looked me up right after dinner that night. I talked with her a while and felt much better, so much so that I went back to my office and made up for time lost that afternoon.
Maggie and I made a habit thereafter of taking a walk together after dinner. We went on no more spelling bees; not only was there no time for such during those last days but also neither one of us felt like trying to work up another foursome with Zeb away. Sometimes I could spare only twenty minutes or even less before I would have to be back at my desk—but it was the high point of the day; I looked forward to it.
Even without leaving the floodlighted main cavern, without leaving the marked paths, there were plenty of wonderfully beautiful walks to take. If I could afford to be away as much as an hour, there was one place in particular we liked to go—north in the big room, a good half mile from the buildings. The path meandered among frozen limestone mushrooms, great columns, domes, and fantastic shapes that have no names and looked equally like souls in torment or great exotic flowers, depending on the mood one was in. At a spot nearly a hundred feet higher than the main floor we had found a place only a few feet off the authorized path where nature had contrived a natural stone bench. We could sit there and stare down at the toy village, talk, and Maggie would smoke. I had taken to lighting her cigarettes for her, as I had seen Zeb do. It was a little attention she liked and I had learned to avoid getting smoke caught in my throat.
About six weeks after Zeb had left and only days before M-Hour we were doing this and were talking about what it would be like after the revolution and what we would do with ourselves. I said that I supposed I would stay in the regular army, assuming that there was such and that I was eligible for it. “What will you do, Maggie?”
She exhaled smoke slowly. “I haven’t thought that far, John. I haven’t any profession—that is to say, we are trying our best to make the one I did have obsolete.” She smiled wryly. “I’m not educated in anything useful. I can cook and I can sew and I can keep house; I suppose I should try to find a job as a housekeeper—competent servants are always scarce, they say.”
The idea of the courageous and resourceful Sister Magdalene, so quick with a vibroblade when the need arose, tramping from one employment bureau to another in search of menial work to keep her body fed was an idea at once distasteful to me—“General Housework & Cooking, live in, Thur. eve. & alternate Sundays off; references required.” Maggie? Maggie who had saved my own probably worthless life at least twice and never hesitated nor counted the cost. Not Maggie!
I blurted out, “Look, you don’t have to do that.”
“It’s what I know.”
“Yes, but—well, why don’t you cook and keep house for me? I’ll be drawing enough to support both of us, even if I have to go back to my permanent rank. Maybe it isn’t much but—shucks! you’re welcome to it.”
She looked up. “Why, John, how very generous!” She crushed out the cigarette and threw it aside. “I do appreciate it—but it wouldn’t work. I imagine there will be just as many gossips after we have won as before. Your colonel would not like it.”
I blushed red and almost shouted, “That wasn’t what I meant at all!”
“What? Then what did you mean?”
I had not really known until the words came out. Now I knew but not how to express it. “I meant— Look, Maggie, you seem to like me well enough… and we get along well together. That is, why don’t we—” I halted, hung up.
She stood up and faced me. “John, are you proposing marriage—to me?”
I said gruffly, “Uh, that was the general idea.” It bothered me to have her standing in front of me, so I stood up, too.
She looked at me gravely, searching my face, then said humbly, “I’m honored… and grateful… and I am deeply touched. But—oh, no, Johnl” The tears started out of her eyes and she started to bawl. She stopped as quickly, wiping her face with her sleeve, and said brokenly, “Now you’ve made me cry. I haven’t cried in years.”
I started to put my arms around her; she pushed me back. “No, John! Listen to me first. I’ll accept that job as your housekeeper, but I won’t marry you.”
“Why not?”
“ ‘Why not?’ Oh, my dear, my very dear— Because I am an old, tired woman, that’s why.”
“Old? You can’t be more than a year or two older than I am—three, at the outside. It doesn’t matter.”
“I’m a thousand years older than you are. Think who I am—where I’ve been—what I’ve known. First I was ‘bride/ if you care to call it that, to the Prophet.”
“Not your fault!”
“Perhaps. Then I was mistress to your friend Zebadiah. You knew that?”
“Well… I was pretty sure of it.”
“That isn’t all. There were other men. Some because it was needful and a woman has few bribes to offer. Some from loneliness, or even boredom. After the Prophet has tired of her, a woman doesn’t seem very valuable, even to herself.”
“I don’t care. I don’t care! It doesn’t matter!”
“You say that now. Later it would matter to you, dreadfully. I think I know you, my dear.”
“Then you don’t know me. We’ll start fresh.”
She sighed deeply. “You think that you love me, John?”
“Uh? Yes, I guess that’s it.”
“You loved Judith. Now you are hurt—so you think you love me.”
“But— Oh, I
don’t know what love is! I know I want you to marry me and live with me.”
“Neither do I know,” she said so softly that I almost missed it. Then she moved into my arms as easily and naturally as if she had always lived there.
When we had finished kissing each other I said, “You will marry me, then?”
She threw her head back and stared as if she were frightened. “Oh, no!”
“Huh? But I thought—”
“No, dear, no! I’ll keep your house and cook your food and make your bed—and sleep in it, if you want me to. But you don’t need to marry me.”
“But—Sheol! Maggie, I won’t have it that way.”
“You won’t? We’ll see.” She was out of my arms although I had not let go. “I’ll see you tonight. About one—after everyone is asleep. Leave your door unlatched.”
“Maggie!” I shouted.
She was headed down the path, running as if she were flying. I tried to catch up, tripped on a stalagmite and fell. When I picked myself up she was out of sight.
Here is an odd thing—I had always thought of Maggie as quite tall, stately, almost as tall as I was. But when I held her in my arms, she was short. I had to lean way over to kiss her.
12
ON THE NIGHT of the Miracle all that were left of us gathered in the main communications room—my boss and myself, the chief of communications and his technical crew, a few staff officers. A handful of men and a few dozen women, too many to crowd into the comm shack, were in the main mess-hall where a relay screen had been rigged for them. Our underground city was a ghost town now, with only a skeleton crew to maintain communications for the commanding general; all the rest had gone to battle stations. We few who were left had no combat stations in this phase. Strategy had been settled; the hour of execution was set for us by the Miracle. Tactical decisions for a continent could not be made from headquarters and Huxley was too good a general to try. His troops had been disposed and his subordinate commanders were now on their own; all he could do was wait and pray.
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