Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by Fox B. Holden

  Doug remained seated. The secretary was gathering her equipment. He dared ask her—what?

  She startled him when she spoke.

  “I’ll get the transcription coded and prepared for A priority transmission on the first open Venus channel. But if I may say so, Sir—not that he certainly hasn’t deserved it ever since his brother got him appointed—it’s too bad you could not have found some other way—I’ve always marvelled at the methods you’ve been able to devise to cope with him in the past. This was—but pardon me. Pm entirely out of place.”

  “No, no it’s all right. His brother?”

  “Why—yes of course, Gundar Tayne. The Director.”

  CHAPTER VI

  HE had thought like a child to have believed he could have done more than bluff. He had thought like a child to have taken the impossible gamble at all. Already he had committed a fatal error, and he knew that were it not for his physical appearance the farce would not have lasted ten seconds.

  Nonsense! Was not a high stake worth the toss of any dice? Perhaps he was slightly mad, but he had not thought like a child. Slightly mad, mad enough to suppose that to win happiness there must be courage, and with the courage, success, somehow.

  He could feel the solidity of the corridor floor beneath his feet as he followed her toward the panel at its end upon which the words Office of the Senior Quadrate stood boldly, with the insignia of the office inscribed beneath them.

  Fatal error be damned!

  He would satisfy Tayne! As soon as the panel of the large, private office slid shut behind them, he would countermand his order to the secretary and have her scrap the section of her records which was so much more damning to himself than it could ever be to Tayne. There would be some other way . . .

  Yes, it was politics. But it was the only weapon he knew, and for the moment he would have to wield it more skillfully than he ever had in his life.

  And idly, he wondered what they would do if he failed. If, somehow they saw through the disguise of his body . . .

  He knew what they would do. They would make him build a new Contraption, make him go. And the Contraption they would make him build—there was of course too great a chance that he and Dorothy would miss their own point in time, become hopelessly lost . . .

  And wouldn’t it be sheer idiocy to risk that?

  THE office was a miniature of the council chamber. It was ellipitical, furnished with two desks of smooth, soft-finished metal molded to fit the general configurations of the chamber itself, and planned for both business-like efficiency and personal comfort. The name-plate on the larger desk bore his insignia and said Douglas J. Blair; that on the smaller said Miss Jane Landis.

  He seated himself.

  “Miss Landis, about that report to the Director. Perhaps—perhaps as you suggested, it was in, shall we say, bad taste. Better file it. Future reference.”

  “Why Doug—what on Earth’s the matter?” She put the recording device on her desk, walked over to his. There was a look of concern on her face that he didn’t understand. What had he said wrong now? Whatever it was, there was no hint of suspicion in her look, only a vague puzzlement.

  Young, and pretty. A trap, perhaps—no, they hadn’t tumbled yet. Perhaps just Nature’s own trap and that was all. Funny, Doug thought, very funny. There were rules. Sometimes you were supposed to be thankful to Nature, worship her, hold her in awe—and other times, you were supposed to completely deny that she existed, and villify her if she had done too good a job. She had done a good job on Miss Landis.

  “Why, nothing. It is simply that—”

  “But why the ‘Miss’ Landis? Did I do something wrong? And the way you just went over and sat down . . .”

  “Sorry . . . sorry, Jane.” He smiled. “It’s Tayne. I think I handled him rather badly.”

  “Don’t worry so, Doug! I’ve never seen such a little thing get under your skin. Everyone knows he never got properly conditioned, even the Director himself. He’s a good games officer, and that’s that. He’s always trying to draw someone into a state of anger, and you told me yourself just yesterday that you’re his special target just for the job. It’s a good thing you didn’t blow up in there. What came over you—giving an order like that, I mean?”

  “I—let’s say I was confused for the moment.”

  “As long as he’s the only headquarters man like that there’s nothing to keep you so upset, Doug. Now come on—”

  She was behind the desk, a slender hand on the back of his chair.

  “Not—no not now Jane. Anyway you should appreciate my—”

  “Your position . . . yes . . . But Lisa’s not the jealous sort Doug, you know that. Your wife’s always been willing to share you with others . . .”

  “I—yes I know that of course . . .” Good Lord . . .

  He hadn’t even thought of it, hadn’t been ready. The entire setup of conventions would of course have so many differences—what was simple bad taste in his time-phase might be accepted as a matter of course here. And vice-versa perhaps—how was he to know? And he would have to know.

  “Doug . . .”

  He said nothing, and she withdrew a little.

  “Doug I’m sorry about getting out of line when I said what I did about the way you handled Tayne, if that’s what it is . . . I know my business and I know yours.”

  He remained silent, and she left his side of the desk.

  He tried to think, tried to remember the early days in the courtroom. And he must say something quickly—

  “No—no honestly I’m glad you said it. After all, how long have we known each other, Jane?”

  “Ever since—ever since your election to the Quadrature almost ten years ago.”

  “Yes—it’s a long time, isn’t it? Tell me, had you ever known anything about me before then?”

  “Why, only your name, your accomplishments. Your work for the great cause of politics and government as a journalist. I read a lot of your work. I thought there was never a man more devoted to his party since the formation of the Prelatinate itself. You were a great man then just as you are now, Doug—and you’re third in worship only to the Prelate General himself.”

  “Worship . . . you mean public admiration, respect . . .”

  “Doug, how can you say such a thing? It’s like—well, as if they’d said years ago that they—that they admired or respected their God!”

  He felt the muscles in his jaw slacken, caught-them.

  “There’s been a lot of progress since that era, of course. A lot of hard, exhausting work . . .” He was careful, lest any of his question-marks show. At any moment he could imagine her whirling upon him, shrieking “Imposter!”

  But she was taking the bait. “It seems impossible that there could ever have been a way of life without the Prelatinate, the Quadrature. Impossible even that there was once such a thing as war. How terrible it must have been—no conditioning, the constant killing of valuable adults . . .”

  HE let her words sink into his memory, pushed them, crammed them into it, then tried to make them follow through.

  “Ironic, isn’t it, that without such beastiality there might never have been a world as we know it now. I sometimes wonder how often they thought about the future—if they thought about it as we do today. You know, Jane, I think about the future a lot. Remember what we were talking about just the other day—a week or so ago, wasn’t it?”

  And he waited, tensed. Too far, perhaps—

  “Doug—Doug you mustn’t talk about that any more! The S-Council would have both of us in a minute if they ever heard us. The boys in white have sterilized people for less than talking about the desirability of inter-political marriages. But God, how I wish I’d been brought up a Liberal! Lisa wouldn’t have had a chance!”

  “I suppose it would’ve made the children a problem . . .”

  “An understatement if I ever heard one! Your twin sons—I bet they’re good solid Liberals by now! Do they—do they ever question, Doug? I
’ve often wondered about kids, brought up in the family party from the time they’re old enough to say Trelatinate’. Have Kurt and Ronal ever—do they ever show a streak of heresy—you know what I mean . . . I should think kids’d rebel, try out some ideas of their own.”

  “Well, did you ever, when you were a child?”

  “No—no I guess not. I see what you mean. If you come out with a really good question, there’s always an answer for you right out of the Constitutional Commandments.”

  “And of course no one dares challenge them!”

  “Doug!”

  “Oh, don’t misunderstand, Jane.” Almost, that time. He could feel the sweat start under his arms again. Dammit what an organization. They worshipped government, they were scrupulously careful to keep a perfect check-and-balance on political spheres of influence, they had such well-oiled machinery that even war was impossible.

  “Don’t worry, I don’t.”

  “I just meant that sometimes it really makes me realize what a wonderful balance we’ve achieved. Education, population.”

  “No form of birth control could ever have solved the problems of overcrowding and starvation and war as well as the games. You should know! Without work like yours, Doug, just think what the whole world could be like! There’d be the problem of enforcing the birth control laws again, knowing that every time they were violated the threat of unbalance would grow a little more.”

  The games again. What kind of magic, what kind of panacea were they? He thought of the teeming, overcrowded millions in Europe, Asia—World War I, World War II, Korea, the Puerto Rican revolution in 1955. New York and her East Side slums, Chicago, and—whatever it was he headed, it solved these things.

  “Guess I’d better get back to the big job,” he said then. “—Or Tayne’ll be your new boss! And then—”

  “Doug what a perfectly awful thing to say I You’ve got to stop worrying. Sometimes you’re hardly yourself—honestly, if I didn’t know you better I’d think you’d lost the old self-confidence, the old strut! Your voice even sounds kind of different. You’ve got to relax, mister.”

  “When I get things taken care of, maybe then . . . And I think—I think I can give them something they can’t say no to if I go over every detail once more—a whole re-study.” He watched her face closely, nerves taut for the first tell-tale sign that he’d fallen on his face. But she nodded.

  “Probably help. Shall I bring in the whole file for last year? Checklists, film-strips, the works?

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes. That’s what I want—the works.”

  NEATLY lettered on the file tab of the heavy folder she brought were the words WAR GAMES, 1957, and he did not understand.

  War Games, and she had said there was no war . . .

  Suddenly, he was afraid. Afraid to reach inside the folder, afraid to find what would tell him that for some fearful reason she had lied, that this beautiful, sparkling world was nothing but a lie . . .

  He read the file-tab again. WAR GAMES, 1957, it said. No—no he did not understand.

  He drew out the four thick volumes of bound records, the square can containing the film strips, the thin sheaf of check-lists.

  And he opened the personal record titled Senior Quadrate’s Report, May 1, 1957-May 7, 1957. Blair.

  And simply, directly, it began on the first page.

  Subject: War Games,1957:Notes.

  Location: Venus, northern mass, west: N Lat. 38° 24' to N Lat. 37° 12'—E Long. 41° 6' to E. Long 39° 12'

  Force: 1,231,693.

  Age range: Reg. 10 yrs. 1 mo, to 10 yrs. 4 mos. Av: 10 yrs. 2 ½ mos.

  Mortality: 483,912.

  Wounded In Action (Retrieved): 202,516.

  Balance: Minus 200 M; plus 173 WIA,

  Remarks: Within forgiveness margin.

  Conditioning: 3% held over.

  Personal observation: Full month training period completed by entire quadrant. For male children of the 10-year age level, exceptionally excellent military discipline this year. That I witnessed of the quadrants under Tayne, Klauss and Vladkow, they have experienced the same good results. Despite use of outmoded weapons, combat exceptionally vigorous, well-executed and effective. This was especially true in final phase, with all quadrants meeting on common front, nothern mass (See map, Final Phase,) at which time 692,511 were committed. Full day rest allowed all quadrants during transfer from southwestern mass of quadrants 2 and 4. Klauss is to be especially commended for this thoroughness in psychologically preparing his quadrant. Each of its members seemed completely convinced that battle was necessary to survival; I assume Klauss’ extraordinary success may be laid to a great extent on his expert use of the propaganda techniques so successful in the World War.

  Tayne is also to be commended, as is Vladkow, for having trained his quadrant to an admirably high degree of technical proficiency with both broadsword and mace. (See Recommendations, Final Report.)

  Removal of dead done with somewhat lower expedience than usual in all quadrants, due, however to the increased vigor on numerous occasions to . . .

  Doug shut his eyes.

  No. No, none of this was so. None of it . . .

  “Jane!”

  “Yes, Doug. Something—”

  “I want to see the strips—now, if possible.”

  “Hit on something already?”

  “The strips I said! Now!”

  “Of course—right away, Doug.” She pressed a stud in a panel flush with the desk-top. He knew he had startled her.

  But he had to see. If he could see, he’d understand. The words had made no sense at all, they were gibberish, crazy and he didn’t know what they meant.

  HE held his muscles rigid as he waited for the orderly she had summoned to prepare the recessed projector, inset wall-screen. Hurry, damn you, hurry!

  “Verbal commentary desired, sir?”

  “Oh—yes, yes of course.”

  “All ready then, sir.”

  “Go ahead then, go on.”

  The suffused lighting of the chamber suddenly dimmed, and Jane rose from her desk.

  “I’ll be in the eightieth level records library, sir, if I’m needed.”

  “I don’t—well if you wish, Miss Landis.” She left. Because she knew—yes, of course she’d known what was coming. And she had left—

  In full color, the pictures flashed on the screen.

  He watched, only subconsciously aware of the intermittent voice describing, evaluating, analyzing. He sat and watched as though there were not a mobile muscle in his sweating body.

  Ten-year-old children, some where beneath a fantastic milk-white sky, painting an impossible blue plain with the red of their own blood . . .

  The broadswords rose and fell with a savagery unknown to any but the ancient Turk, Mongol, Spartan. They glinted strangely in a daylight where there was no sun, and the piked maces swung in circles of red horror as they tore, smashed, at young, half-naked bodies . . .

  They swarmed across the wide, flat expanses of bush, blue grass, and the cries that issued from their throats as they charged like hunger-crazed beasts into the sword-points of their opponents were mercifully deleted; the maddened distortion of the features on their white, young faces was enough.

  The voice explained, pointed out, reconciled pre-calculated plans with facts as they transpired.

  The masses of mangled young flesh surged now forward now back, to either side; swelled, bunched, drove, fell writhing . . .

  He saw a head fall, a running body split in two down the back.

  “That’s all, that’s all!”

  There was bitter stuff in his throat and he fought to keep the violent sickness bottled inside him.

  “Yes, yes sir.”

  No no no no no!

  THE illumination had returned fully when Tayne walked in, saluted loosely. He carried something in his right hand.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s been an alteration in our rosters—Old Man himself, I had nothing to d
o with it. Here.”

  Senses still numbed, he took the thin plastisheets. He tried to get the words to make sense. Subject, transfer, quadrant 3 to quadrant I, attention, Quadrates concerned.

  “Apparently the Director thought it would be better this way. For myself, I don’t see that it could make any actual difference.”

  What was the man saying? What did—there it was. Ronal Blair.

  Kurt Blair: quadrant 3, Blair, to quadrant x, Tayne. By Command: Gundar Tayne, Director . . .

  His thoughts spun dizzily. Mike, Terry—no, those were not the names. The other Blair’s sons . . .

  This time, thank God, the other Blair’s sons . . .

  CHAPTER VII

  “I AM apparently a relatively high official in the government. It is called a Congressman. Although there are many others of equal and superior rank, I am well liked. I have a strong political following.”

  “Was there any suspicion?”

  “None at all. I had the good fortune, almost immediately upon discovering my role in this civilization, to gain access to a number of speech recordings our host had made. His voice is very little different than mine, and of course within about thirty minutes I had mastered his tone, his inflection, and his manner of speech. We shall have little or no difficulty.” They were seated in the living room of the house; in its den, two young boys were diligently working at the task their father had set them. The books were opened in an orderly array on the wide, polished floor. One read excerpts from the texts as the other quickly gained mastery of a portable typewriter, transcribed as his brother read aloud.

  “Father was correct in his reasoning . . . take this . . . with the desertion by Germany at the League of Nations, the stage for World War II was set. Failure of the Weimar Republic . . .”

  Their sheaf of notes had grown measurably in thickness since the first fact had been written on the first page the night before. The boy had written it slowly as he had begun mastery of the awkward writing machine—1. Washington defeats Cornwallis at Yorktown, Oct. 19, 1781 . . .