Collected Short Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  With a little cry of alarm, Markett bent over the form of a child and felt its pulse and skin. “Still alive,” she said anxiously. “How do you combat this?”

  “A kind of berry,” replied Isral. “But there were none growing this year when we left. They were small and bitter.”

  “I know the general type,” said Markett. “The bark does just as well, if you soak it in water. Have you any of the wood about?”

  “Here,” replied the Heber, pointing to a bush outside the gate. “This is the kind that grows the berries. And there are others in the forest.” He turned to the bearers. “You!” he barked. “Go pull up every fever-bush you can find and bring it here. You, Samel, draw clean water from the Old Well and fill some tubs. Wash them first. You three, dig a trench. Some of our people are past any service save that.”

  “That settles it,” broke in Stevens grimly. “You can’t live here any longer.”

  “Why not, friend?” asked Isral, his eyes on the men who were carrying out his orders.

  “This sort of thing might strike you any moment. To save those who are still here, we have to kill every fever-bush by uprooting and stripping the bark. How many people live here?”

  “There are about two thousand in this suburb. Of these, one thousand may already have died; others have fled to our other cities and towns. In them, if the plague has not been spread; and we have means of keeping it down if there is time for warning; we have seventy thousands in all.”

  “Seventy thousand,” Stevens whispered to himself. Then, with a great roar, he cried: “We’ll do it!”

  “What?”

  “Go South—all of us, men, women and children. We can do it easily—take the city from which I fled and live there, peacefully and healthily.” Isral stared at him. “How can we take a great city of the South?”

  “Isral,” answered Stevens, “you don’t know what has happened to men in the great cities. They have become soft and helpless. A score of them, all armed, came after me, and fled at the first sign of opposition. A band of determined infants could take the city, for these city-dwellers are incapable of violence. What do you say to that, friend?”

  “I say,” declared Heber slowly, “that we’ll do it!”

  THE HISTORIAN faced the little group of men, sweeping the small room with a glance. “Where’s Denning?” he asked.

  The General Practitioner coughed. “The Rightmen got him,” he said. “Since Alfreed linked up the entire scientific council with what he calls the subversives, none of us have been able to appear in public safely. Denning’s apartment was raided last night and I think he’s been liquidated.”

  The Neuro-specialist drummed the table-top nervously. “It’s incredible the way this psychopathia has spread all over the city. In three short months Alfreed and his followers have become so powerful that they do not need to intimidate opposition; they’re a majority.”

  “You’re wrong there,” said the Historian. “They make a lot of noise. But the investigation has shown—well, let’s hear it from first hand sources. Would you please repeat what you told me this morning, Gallacher?”

  A tall, thin man arose. “Despite appearance to the contrary,” he began, “Alfreed has only succeeded in winning over a certain part of the population. Those people who have succumbed, and become Rightmen, are those whose social position has been such as to require a minimum training in social consciousness and responsibility, those whose functions are such to require the minimum application of intelligence.

  “These people, despite the facilities that the city offers, have been leading very narrow, cramped lives. Their emotional attainment has been very low, frustrated in many cases. Thus, the terrific emotional appeal of Alfreed’s insane program has swept them away, made them willing followers.”

  “What,” asked the Practitioner, “has been the actual range of violence and intimidation on the part of the Rightmen?”

  “Enough to have a demoralizing effect upon the city as a whole. In fact, enough to make many feel insecure to such an extent that they would join the Rightmen sheerly for self-protection. The cases of violence against citizens, although still small in number, have been increasing, and have been sufficiently ferocious to paralyze, almost completely, any attempt at public opposition.”

  “Quite right,” agreed the Historian. “You were correct in one sense,” he said to the Neuro-specialist. “Alfreed does not need a majority to win an election, or to seize power now. He can either intimidate the citizens into voting for him, or to refrain from voting at all.”

  “What has been done to combat Alfreed, without using his own methods, of course?” asked an engineer.

  “Rightmen have been captured by the ambulance squads, interrogated, then treated with Regulators. The interesting thing is that, once removed from Alfreed’s influence, they return to normal very quickly, and a bit of Regulating makes them permanently immune.”

  “The difficulty is,” he went on, “that, so far, the psychopathic has spread more quickly than the antidote. What we must do is set machines to capture the Rightmen, Alfreed in particular, and regulate them. We cannot afford to use violence ourselves because of the deadly effects it has upon those involved in its use.”

  The Historian nodded. “We must move quickly,” he stated, “because I greatly think that Alfreed will make an open bid for full power very shortly. Unless there is something else to come up, gentlemen, I suggest we adjourn and get to work.”

  A TENT camp for women, children and the animals had been pitched far outside the city, and the forty-thousand armed men of Heber were swinging down one of the great, outmoded superhighways which led into the city. Overhead circled spotting planes, a vivid red in hue, marked with symbols strange to the Hebers, and even to Markett and Stevens. “Something must have happened in the city,” the girl hazarded. They could see it not far off, and from it issued along the highway men marching in ragged file, with none of the snap and precision of the Hebers.

  “Fools!” spat Stevens. “If they want to reduce our numbers why don’t they drop weights from those planes?” Markett was shocked. “That’s a very clever idea,” she said. “I wonder that nobody’s thought of it before.”

  “They haven’t the military mind,” said Stevens. “Such things do not occur to them.” The men from the city were drawing nearer; calmly the Hebers unshipped their weapons, front ranks armed with spring-bows, rear ranks with throwing darts and the savage backswords that could cut down a grizzly bear in midcharge.

  An especially large plane roared overhead, and, from it, thundered a great voice. “Halt your forces!”

  “Dr. Alfreed!” cried Markett. “That little fool’s trying to order us around.”

  “Ignore that,” advised Stevens. “Go straight ahead. Meet that mob and you won’t find any resistance worth speaking of.”

  “I have arranged for everything,” said Isral serenely. “Quarter will be given when asked; corpses will not be mutilated, and no vengeance for our own casualties will be taken once resistance has stopped. We will accept them as equals once we have the city in our hands.” He fell silent and the tension grew as the two armies marched toward one another at a steady gait. The huge red plane of Dr. Alfreed yawped hysterical injunctions at the advancing Hebers, who didn’t even look up.

  Then, suddenly, there was a brief exchange of throwing-weapons and the armies made contact. Automatically they split up into groups, clubbing and slashing. Stevens waded into the thick of it, swinging a broadsword. He was startled to see that all the enemy were wearing vivid red shorts and bandoliers and were uniformly armed with heavy, short clubs. Remembering the timorous party that had first sought to kill him, he was dazed at the savagery with which the city men came to attack, with a suicidal disregard for their own safety and lives.

  Further speculation he could not indulge in, for he was hard-pressed by a piquet of men who charged with strange cries of “Right for Alfreed!” One he spitted on his point; another’s legs were cut away f
rom beneath him, and a third landed a wild blow on Stevens’ shoulder before the sizzling sweep of the backsword cut him down.

  Stevens’ head was curiously clear in the midst of the turmoil. With a mental start, he realized that something had happened; that this sort of thing no longer seemed glorious. He was not afraid; he saw it as a necessity, but now he realized that his only desire was to get it over with as soon as possible and have done with violence and fighting fellow men. Mechanically he fell in line with a spearhead of Hebers and worked his way along it to the apex; there he stayed, slashing and parrying till a concerted attack from behind dissolved it into skirmishing knots of men.

  But now, from the city, came forth things that made the warriors gasp in amazement. Metal cylinders, upright, wheeled, each equipped with tentacle-like projections. They bore down upon the fray, plunging into the ranks of the red-clad fighters. For a moment, Stevens thought them to be reinforcements, but, now, he saw that the machines were for another purpose. The tentacles lashed out and seized the red-clad warriors firmly, yet, it appeared, carefully, so as not to do them harm, and, when their arms were full, turned and made back for the city.

  Stevens swung wide of a head that bobbed, and a red club came down on his head, while another crashed into his ear. The world spun around, then the ground reached up and struck him sharply. And, suddenly, it was night. “Hold your head up,” said a voice. Stevens opened his eyes. “Markett,” he whispered. “What is it?”

  “Concussion. You’ve been unconscious for three days. And what days!” She rolled her eyes.

  “Exciting? What happened?”

  “We were on the verge of losing the battle—they had us outnumbered—when the pursuit machines attacked the Rightmen—that’s what the red-clad fighters are called. That completely demoralized them, and they broke and fled back toward the city. We were almost too amazed to know what to do, but Isral ordered us on, so we advanced after them. When we were almost upon the entrance, a voice came through calling me.”

  “You?”

  “Yes. The council was watching the whole affair through tele-screens in the control room. They asked us what we wanted, who we were, and so forth. Isral and I explained, and they offered to take us in if we would lay down our weapons and promise to come peacefully; if we did not, they said they had a sort of gas which would make us all lose consciousness.”

  “So you agreed?”

  “Certainly. You see, they explained about the Rightmen, too. The people we were fighting are not the city’s army; they were a sort of club taking orders from Dr. Alfreed. A historian told me that it was what you call a dictatorship. They had seized control of the city (although the council had escaped and continued to work opposition, preparing the pursuit machines, etc.) and were beating down the people, not allowing any freedom of speech, so when they saw that we were losing, the people came out and attacked the Rightmen from behind. At the same time the pursuit machines came out, because, of course, no one except the council knew that there was a weapon which could be used against Alfreed’s army.

  “It was really the citizens who won because there were not enough of the pursuit machines to beat the Rightmen; as they could do was to create confusion in the Rightmen ranks, and work demoralization by carrying off fighters.”

  Stevens was silent for a moment, then: “What happened to the Rightmen—those who weren’t killed?”

  “They were Regulated, Alfreed among them, and all came out sane again.”

  “And Isral—the Hebers?”

  “Doing fine; they’re going into arts and crafts, something which the Chief Historian says has been a lost function with us. We needed them badly.”

  He scratched his head. “Somehow,” he said, “I feel different. I’m not the old, frightened Clark Stevens that I once was; and I’m not the man I was when I first ran away with you.

  “I want to live here, in the city. Yet I’m still not satisfied with it. It has to be changed.”

  He broke off as the Neuro-specialist came in. “Hello,” he said, “what’s up?”

  “ ’Lo, Stevens,” replied the man. “Feeling all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “We want you on the council. There was a faction that wanted to regulate you again, but most of us agree that we need men of your kind here, so long as they’re not extremists. You seem to have levelled off to just the right point to make you valuable.”

  He nodded. “Strange, Clement, but I feel the same about you fellows. At one time, I thought you were all fit for scrapping, but now I see that the city needs you as much as it does me. I think that’s the answer: we need all kinds of people; no one kind can be permitted to dominate, but no one kind can be suppressed, either.”

  “Of course,” said Markett. “After that one big burst of violent battle, you worked the ego of Roald the Viking almost completely out of your psychology. Only the part that I like, that I love, is left—and I think that will stay put.”

  Stevens reached out and took her hand.

  “I—I’d like to wear cloth again instead of leather, Clark.” Markett said—and both men laughed.

  The Martians are Coming

  When the inebriated experimenters invited the Martians to come to Earth, they didn’t really mean it, but when the Martians took them at their word and sent a thousand armed ships . . .

  WHITLOWE’S EYES bulged; as if in a trance he continued working the can-opener around and around the container of beans. “Gary,” he called softly. No answer from the cellar. “Gary!” he repeated, raising his voice slightly. At the noise, the wicked serpentine head before him swayed and grew nearer. A side-winder, thought Whitlowe, and here am I with nothing more lethal than a can-opener near me. What was holding up Gary?

  A big head poked through the cellar door. “What’s eating—?” his colleague began. Abruptly he glimpsed the rattler and disappeared down the cellar again. “Traitor!” hissed Whitlowe from the corner of his mouth. The snake darted its tongue convulsively and the man cranked at the beans convulsively, not stirring a centimeter from the kitchen chair. One move, he thought, and—

  Blam!The snake collapsed as if it had been cut from a string; Whitlowe dropped the beans, and the can went clattering along the floor. “Thanks,” he said not turning. Then he stood up shakily, reached for a bottle. When a full half-pint of the stuff had gurgled down his throat, he mutely passed it to Gary. The big man frowned and put it down.

  “No time for comedy,” he commented. “Do you see any more around?”

  “Wasn’t that one enough?” asked Whitlowe, spurning the limp corpse of the rattler. “I spilled the beans for its sake.”

  Gary was reloading his pistol. “Now that’s settled,” he said, “let’s start unpacking. I don’t think there’s anything more dangerous around now than mosquitoes.”

  “That’s okay—I’m well anointed with citronella.” They passed into the living room of the shack and attacked divers well-padded boxes and crates. Whitlowe tore off the top of a huge case and smiled happily. “Sweet of you,” he murmured, lifting from its depths one of many gleaming bottles.

  “Okay,” said Gary shortly. “If you can’t work when you’re sober, then I have to do the logical thing.”

  There was silence for a long while as the two scattered haphazard bits and sections of apparatus on the plank floor of the shack. A yellow-jacket buzzed aimlessly about until, having made up its mind that Gary was planning it no good, it veered from its course and stung him on the elbow. “Dammit!” roared the big man, slamming his huge palm against the insect. He turned slowly on Whitlowe. “You!” he said, breathing heavily.

  “Cut it out, Gary,” begged his colleague. “We’ve gone over it all a dozen times.”

  “You miserable little drunk,” whispered Gary poisonously; “not enough that you lose us a good job, but you have to publish a declaration to the world that we—just a couple of half-baked feature writers—are going to communicate with Mars!”

  “Well,” hedged Whitlow
e, “it seemed like a good idea at the time.” Then, with a flash of spirit, he snapped: “And what’s more, we can do it! We didn’t work three years of overtime for nothing—you’d be just content to stick at the grind until people got tired of us and we were canned. Our Public! What a prize collection of chumps and mutts they must be to swallow the tripe we’ve been dishing out. ‘Will Future Man Be Bald?’ ‘Will Giant Ants Rule the World?’ ‘When the Moon Falls, What?’ It’s about time we quit that junk and did something. You’d never have dared to publish our findings, so I did.”

  Gary grinned sourly. “So here we are in the great North woods,” he stated, “the eyes of the world on us, and loaded down with scads of equipment paid for by subscription. And if we don’t communicate with Mars, where are we? In jail, that’s where—fraud—obtaining money under false pretenses. Hell! Let’s get to work!”

  ABOUT THREE HOURS later empty bottles and a maze of gleaming tubes indicated that something had been accomplished. “And a good job, too,” proclaimed Whitlowe, rocking on his heels.

  “It’ll do,” grunted the other. “How about power?”

  Whitlowe unpacked a new fuel battery, then proceeded to make intricate alterations on it with the aid of the junk piled in the center of the floor. “What setting?” he asked, fingering a dial.

  “Lowest possible amperage; highest possible voltage.”

  “Right,” answered the small, dark man, fumbling with a pressure switch. He connected the heavy leads of the battery to studs in the mechanism. Gary slid indicators on a computing machine, referring to a planetary chart. “It’s aimed,” he said, lifting the weight which set a clockwork mechanism into motion. Quiet ticking meant that the thrice bent beam of the apparatus was following Mars in its sweep about the sun.