by Chad Oliver
He had been a fool. He had accepted what Fitz-James had told him at its face value—at the value which Fitz-James himself had put on it. He had accepted the myth of their invincibility, accepted the fact that they were somehow “superior.” He had been told that he was helpless, and he had swallowed it.
Why had he been told anything at all?
He thought back, carefully, over what Fitz-James had told him. That was data. What could he make of it?
I’m dangerous to them, he thought. Why?
He examined the self-styled Advanced men. What was the one cardinal fact of their history, the one overriding principle? They had made a discovery very early, that of cooperation, and they had progressed a sum total of no distance since that time. They had never even developed the concept of cooperation to its logical conclusion. It had never even occurred to them to cooperate on equal terms with other men, even when it was to their own ultimate advantage. The deal they had offered Shackelford was a handout, a master’s reward to a good slave.
They were over-specialized. They had made a beautifully exact adjustment to an existing situation, and they had never changed it. They had developed techniques for enhancing their position, developed a wonderfully elaborate system for maintaining it, but they had never modified their basic adaptation even a particle. Their very existence depended upon a basic situation.
And now the situation was changing.
The Advanced men were so convinced of their own superiority they weren’t bothering to meet the changing conditions. They knew they would come out on top; they always had. Shackelford suddenly realized that Fitz-James was undoubtedly more progressive than the others in his grasp of the problem, and even he had exhibited an amazing nonunderstanding of the men he was trying to control. He had murdered a man’s wife and then extended his hand in tolerant friendship.
Shackelford poured himself a drink. Who was “superior”? What did the evidence show? It showed that the men who had been dominated and driven and tricked had slowly closed the gap between the two groups. It showed that they were catching up despite the best efforts of the others to stop them.
The Advanced men were too few to follow their cattle to the stars.
“We’re winning,” Shackelford said incredulously, loudly. “We’re winning.”
Or were they? The jockeying for position that was taking place all around him in the world suddenly assumed new and vast significance. If the spirit of free inquiry could be maintained, if men could be taught to keep open minds and search for truth—they would win. If darkness closed again, if truth were tabooed, if a totalitarian state dictated what should and should not be done—
The lonely battle of the searcher for truth was, with startling clarity, all-important. The men in the laboratories, the men who probed into minds to see what made them tick, the solitary worker living with a forgotten tribe in Africa—they were fighting the battle for all of mankind.
If they won, then man would ultimately triumph over his masters and go on to a destiny of his own making. There would be chaos and violence beyond imagining, but man would one day triumph.
When the time was right—
If they could keep the spark of truth alive—
There were others who knew. There were others who realized that the time was premature—that they had the toughest, loneliest job in the world to do—a job that had to be done….
“I’ll deny everything I’ve said, Bill,” the old man had said to him, so long ago. “I can’t help you any further, and you’d be wasting your time to come back to me. You’ll have to go your own way, as I went mine. You’ll understand, before you’re through. Just use your head, boy, just use your head, d’you see?”
Shackelford saw, at last. There was to be no glory in this fight, and no thanks. He didn’t care. His wife had died, and it was up to him to make her death something a little more than meaningless. He didn’t know, he couldn’t be sure, about the outcome. Could men learn? Could they keep climbing?
He didn’t know—but he had to try.
It was late in the semester before he had his answer.
It was a small thing, really, that told him what he had to know in order to go on living. It seemed, suddenly, that life was made up of small things, insignificant things, pushing and nudging and reacting in tiny darknesses where no one could see them. Small things made the difference: a plastic gear, a chance remark, a cell that functioned or died. All the big things, the sensational things, were simply the result of a mass of tiny reactions that could not be grasped and appreciated….
Even the atomic bomb.
Shackelford was lecturing on theory to his freshman class. It was a large classroom, empty of personality, filled with a blur of faces and the scratch and scribble of fountain pens as the students took notes. It was a cold and gloomy winter day, just before the Christmas holidays, and it was stuffy and warm in the room. All the windows were closed against the winter chill, and little eddies of cigarette smoke curled up toward the ceiling and formed a bluish, unmoving cloud there, a murky miniature heaven.
Shackelford talked, sitting on the edge of his desk, interested as always in his subject, but painfully aware of the fact that half of his class was mentally absent, despite the superficial bright eyes and intent postures.
“And so Morgan and the other early social evolutionists painted a charmingly simple and unreal picture of changing society,” he said, watching the blue smoke and wishing that he had mastered the technique of smoking while lecturing. “They felt that all peoples passed through successive stages, from Savagery to Barbarism to Civilization. They failed to take such factors as diffusion into consideration, and later work has proved them wrong in almost every detail—as, for instance, the case of various nomadic herders who never went through an agricultural stage. Despite Leslie White, most anthropologists today don’t take social evolution very seriously, and have turned for their answers to other concepts, such as those of Malinowski and Radcliffe-Brown in England….”
He paused, seeing a hand in the air. It belonged to—what was his name?—Barnes, that was it. “Yes, Mr. Barnes?” he said. “You had a question?”
“Yes, sir.” The voice was apologetic, but determined. “I beg your pardon, but how do you know that social evolution did not take place? Just because you disprove one particular sequence, does that invalidate the whole idea? Please understand that I’m not questioning your authority, but how can you possibly KNOW?”
Shackelford stared at the boy—he was only a kid—so young and earnest on the second row. He felt a warm glow in his stomach, and his hand shook a little. He broke his own rule and lit a cigarette. He remembered that other Bill Shackelford, long ago in a faraway world of spring, interrupting a professor …
“Pardon me, sir, but how do you KNOW?”
He looked at the kid on the second row. A nice kid, he thought, a kid from a pleasant home, a kid “going to college.” A kid cursed with a mind, but not knowing what that meant yet. A kid who might grow up and one day stand where Shackelford was standing now …
Bill Shackelford looked at him and thought: One day you may face it too, boy. One day you may find out the score in this game we are playing. One day you may wake up as I did, to find your wife vanished from your side. One day you may have to fight your fight as I fought mine—and by then I pray that you will be ready to win. And what can I say to you now, boy, so young and not knowing what you have to face? What can I offer you, one fighter to another, across a room that is ignorant of the battle around it? What can I say to you, that you may one day remember and know that you are not alone?
Shackelford said. “Your name is Barnes, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.” The voice was a little scared now. “Forrest Barnes.”
“Well, Forrest,” Shackelford said slowly, “you’ve just made an ‘A’ in this course, and I’d like to talk to you later. Your question is a good one, and I’m glad you asked it.” Glad, he thought. What a pitiful word. “Don’t ever take anything on aut
hority—think it through for yourself. Don’t ever stop asking questions, and remember, if you ever need a lift, that others are asking them too. You were dead right in your objection, and if you catch me up on anything else, just sing out. End of sermon—and thanks for your help.”
He went on with his lecture then, conscious of the sub-murmurings of the rest of the class. What a screwball, they were thinking. Where does Barnes get off making an ‘A’ before the final? His old man must be on the Board of Regents.
But Shackelford watched Barnes’ flushed and excited face, and he knew that what he had said had struck home. It was just a hot and stuffy classroom, but for Shackelford it was suddenly beautiful. He had found his answer. Could men learn, could they keep climbing? Was he a freak, or were there other men who would fight their way up to the truth?
Would man ever be free, free of the clay and free in the stars?
He knew now, at last and for always, that they would.
That evening, when Bill Shackelford walked through the evening across the cold campus, the weather was raw but he did not notice it. The cold wind blew and the mechanical city whined around the school, but there was a song in his heart.
Man would be free.
There were no flags, no cheering thousands, no triumphal music. But as he walked along, shoes clicking on the cold cement, toward his car and toward his empty home where a part of him had died, Bill Shackelford whistled a little tune into the teeth of the world.
ANACHRONISM
Jonathan Newcastle stretched out his long, black-clad arms and clawed the thin fingers of his skeletal hands. A spine-chilling laugh from out of the pits of hell threw cold mockery at the crouching world. His red eyes reached out for the silken girl, impaling her with terror. She shrank back against the iron of the corroded street light, her white face framed by her wild dark hair.
She screamed desperately and the cold echoes chased each other through the empty street.
Power sang a mad hymn through Jonathan Newcastle’s veins. He gathered himself, the tense muscles writhing in his arms. Now—
“Cut!” yelled the director.
Jonathan Newcastle smiled and lowered his arms. The fire died to smoldering coals in his eyes as he relaxed.
“That’s enough play-acting for one night, old girl,” he said, firing up a cigarette. “I’ve chased you up and down that street so many times I feel more like a track star than a vampire. What a life.”
“I’m sorry you find it boring,” Rita Reynolds said huskily.
“Don’t get me wrong, fair damsel. There’s nobody I’d rather chase up and down dark alleys, believe me. But I never catch up with you—”
Rita Reynolds arched her fantastic eyebrows and brushed back her soft hair.
“Perhaps that can be remedied soon,” she suggested.
“A consummation devoutly to be desired,” Jonathan Newcastle assured her. “Is that supper date still on?”
“Of course, darling. Just give me about twenty minutes to get this makeup off.”
“Carry on,” Jonathan Newcastle said, airily waving his hand. “But hurry—my chef is preparing something extra special.”
“Back in a flash.”
She left him with a tantalizing smile and swished off the set, her silk gown gleaming under the bright lights. Jonathan Newcastle nodded to the director and walked over to his dressing room, whistling cheerfully. He felt good. Tonight, at last, was the night. He was getting damned sick and tired of that miserable canned blood—so typical of their false, artificial, cynical civilization.
“Nice apartment you’ve got here,” observed Rita Reynolds, sinking into a comfortable armchair and crossing her slim legs.
“I find it amusing,” Jonathan Newcastle agreed. “It’s really quite an improvement over other dwelling places I’ve been forced to occupy in my time.”
“Ah, the hardships of the struggling artist.”
“You don’t know the half of it, my dear. Would you care for a drink before supper?”
“You can say that again, you nice man. Make it something demure and ladylike—Scotch and soda, say, with the accent on the Scotch.”
Jonathan Newcastle rubbed his hands together gleefully and bustled out into the kitchenette. Oh wonderful, wonderful! He’d show them, all right. They’d rue the day they’d laughed at Jonathan Newcastle! He hummed a little tune as he whipped up a potent Scotch and soda. He set the glass on the sink, poured himself out a tall glassful of dark red fluid from a pitcher in the electric refrigerator and added a couple of ice cubes. Nothing like an appetizer before dinner!
“Here you are, fair maiden,” he said, handing her the Scotch and soda. “Would you care to propose a toast?”
“Suppose we just drink to supper to start with,” Rita Reynolds suggested, smiling, “I’m starved.”
“Ah yes, to supper. That is most fitting, most fitting indeed. To supper, then.”
“Whee!” exclaimed Rita Reynolds. “This is a real drink.”
“I flatter myself that I am a true connoisseur of all forms of liquid refreshment,” Jonathan Newcastle told her. “You might almost say that I have devoted a lifetime to the subject.”
“Suppose you devote a little more to it and fix me another one of these time-bombs.”
“Delighted,” Jonathan Newcastle said, glancing at his watch. “Hmmm—ten twenty-five. Almost time for the re-broadcast of Louetta Warrens. Why don’t you switch on the radio like a good girl, and I’ll brew up some more dynamite in the kitchen.”
He hurried out and fixed two more drinks—both of them Scotch and soda this time. Didn’t want to spoil his dinner. All the modern psychologists frowned on eating between meals. He was beginning to get excited. The blood was racing through his veins and there was a faint flush on his pale face.
“I got her!” Rita sang out. “Catch this.”
Jonathan Newcastle sipped his drink thoughtfully. The old fire was beginning to burn in his eyes again. He paced up and down the room, listening.
“Hello everybody! This is Louetta Warrens right here in little old Hollywood bringing you news and views on your very favorite screen celebrities. My first exclusive:
“Jonathan Newcastle, sensational new horror star who scared you SILLY in ‘The Return of the Vampire’ and ‘The Bat in the Belfry’ is quite a character in real life as well. You just bet your little old life he is!
“Mr. Newcastle came out of nowhere and my! what a success he has been. He is a stirring tribute to American initiative and free enterprise, take it from your little old reporter. Under a special contract, Mr. Newcastle works only in the evenings when can really FEEL the parts he plays. The studio has found that it pays to indulge his whims—his flickers have made a pile of gold this year and bid fair to make more in the future.
“Mr. Newcastle regularly buys fresh blood, and surely all of you wonderful people remember that FUNNY picture of Mr. Newcastle posing with the nurse in the blood-bank—one of the cleverest publicity stunts that this little old reporter has heard of in many a moon. Hollywood needs more sound young businessmen like Mr. Newcastle.
“And that’s not all! The talented Mr. Newcastle writes his very own movies and is currently contributing his unusual tales to several national magazines. My goodness, his acting and writing are so convincing that they almost make a person believe that such things as vampires really exist. This little old reporter—”
Jonathan Newcastle switched off the radio and turned slowly around, his eyes blazing.
“She’s right, you know,” he whispered. “Vampires do exist, and I’m one of them.”
Rita Reynolds looked up from her drink in mild surprise.
“How’s that again?”
“I,” Jonathan Newcastle repeated solemnly, “am a vampire.”
“Charmed, I’m sure. Where’s your coffin?”
“In the bedroom, of course. Do you want to see it?”
“Not before supper, thanks. But I must say you’re quite original.”
> “Bah!” shouted Jonathan Newcastle, pacing rapidly up and down the room. “You little idiot!”
“Now hold on there, my good lad—”
“I am not a good lad and I will not hold on there. I’ve already waited two hundred years, and that’s too damned long! The time is now, do you hear?”
“My God, Jonathan, what on earth are you babbling about?”
“Too late to invoke the Deity, my fair damsel. Too late! It’s my turn now—I’ve been kicked around long enough. Oh, the suffering I’ve endured, the humiliation—”
“Now, now, suppose you just calm down and tell Rita all about it.”
“Calm down—hah! You fool, you don’t know what I’ve been through, how long I’ve waited! Oh, I thought I was so clever escaping from that terrible captain and all those accursed colonists—until I woke up with one of your stinking cities all around me, with all the lights and machines and smart people. Nobody believed in vampires anymore. I was powerless, do you hear? I’ve never lived in such a disgusting civilization.”
“You need a rest, Jonathan. You’ve been working too hard.”
“I do not need a rest—I need some action! They all thought it was so funny and called me the poor man’s Dracula—me, Jonathan Newcastle! They threw their mouldy science in my face and said there were no such things as vampires. Who ever found a vampire in a test tube? Oh, they’ve been clever these past few hundred years. They’ve taken their little stinks and atoms and destroyed everything worth having—legends, art, dreams! Where are your dreams now, eh? Where are your dreams?”
“I don’t know; they must be around here somewhere …”
“Knaves! Varlets! But I showed them—I showed them. I learned. Nobody pushes Jonathan Newcastle around, see? I beat them at their own game. There was still a place left for vampires—on the screen with all the other outmoded corn—in the movies! Oh they’re beginning to believe in vampires again, all right. You heard Louetta Warrens. And when they do, when they do—!”
“Well, that’s all very interesting, I’m sure,” Rita Reynolds said, smoothing her skirt down over her sleek legs. “And it is certainly a clever approach. But really, Jonathan, I’m frightfully hungry. You promised …”