Collected Short Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  Not so pridefully he read: “—inclined towards pomposity of manner somewhat ludicrous in one of his years, though not unsuccessful in dominating the crew by his bearing—”

  And: “—highly profitable disposal of our gems; a feat of no mean importance since the College and Order must, after all, maintain itself.”

  And: “—cleared the final and crucial hurdle with some mental turmoil if I am any judge, but did clear it. After some twenty years of indoctrination in unrealistic non-violence, the youth was confronted with a situation where nothing but violence would serve, correctly evaluated this, and applied violence in the form of a truncheon to the head of a Lyran signal officer, thereby demonstrating an ability to learn and common sense as precious as it is rare.”

  And, finally, simply: “Recommended for training.”

  “Training?” gasped Alen. “You mean there’s more?”

  “Not for most, boy. Not for most. The bulk of us are what we seem to be: oily, gun-shy, indispensable adjuncts to trade who feather our nest with percentages. We need those percentages and we need gun-shy Heralds.”

  Alen recited slowly: “Among other evils which being unarmed brings you, it causes you to be despised.”

  “Chapter 14,” said blackboard mechanically. “We leave such clues lying by their bedsides for twenty years, and most never notice them. For the few of us who—”

  “Will I learn to throw a knife like you?” asked Alen impelled and fascinated at once by the idea.

  “On your own time, if you wish. Mostly it’s ethics and morals so you’ll be able to weigh the values of such things at knife-throwing.”

  “Ethics! Morals!”

  “We started as missionaries, you know.”

  “Everybody knows that. But the Great Utilitarian Reform . . .”

  “Some of us,” said blackboard dryly, “think it was neither great, nor utilitarian, nor a reform.”

  It was a staggering idea. “But we’re spreading utilitarian civilization!” protested Alen. “Or if we’re not, what’s the sense of it all?”

  Blackboard told him: “We have our different motives. One is a sincere utilitarian; another is a gambler—happy when he’s in danger and his pulses are pounding. Another is proud and likes to trick people. More than a few conceive themselves as servants of mankind. I’ll let you rest for a bit now.” He rose.

  “But you?” asked Alen hesitantly.

  “Me? You will find me in Chapter Twenty-Six,” grinned blackbeard. “And perhaps you’ll find someone else.” He closed the door behind him.

  Alen ran through the chapter in his mind, puzzled, until—that was it.

  It had a strange and inevitable familiarity to it as if he had always known that he would be saying it aloud, welcomingly, hi this cramped cubicle aboard a battered starship:

  “God is not willing to do everything, and thus take away our free will and that share of glory which belongs to us.” THE END

  Gunner Cade

  First of three parts. Gunner Cade had intelligence, loyalty, an immense technical skill in combat—and a philosophy. But never in his life had he been required to think—and he did his thinking only under the most violent pressure!

  I.

  Far below the sleeping loft, in ancient cellars of reinforced concrete, a relay closed in perfect silent automaton adjustment; up through the Chapter House, the tiny noises multiplied and increased. The soft whir of machinery in the walls; the gurgle of condensing fluid in conditioners; the thumping of cookers where giant ladles stirred the breakfast mash; the beat of pistons pumping water to the top.

  Gunner Cade, consecrate Brother in the Order of Armsmen, compliant student of the Klin Philosophy, and loyal citizen of the Realm of Man, stirred in his sleepbag on the scrubbed plastic floor. He half-heard the rising sounds of the machinery of the House, and recognized the almost imperceptible change in the rhythm of-the air blowers. Not quite awake, he listened for the final sound of morning, the scraping noise of the bars at windows and gates, as they drew back reluctantly into the stone walls.

  It is fitting that the Emperor rules.

  It is fitting that the Armsmen serve the Emperor through the Power Master and our particular Stars.

  While this is so all will be well, to the end of time.

  The words came to his mind without effort, before he opened his eyes. He had not fumbled for them since his sixth year when, between his parents and himself, it had been somehow settled that he would become a Brother of the Order. For at least the six-thousandth time, his day began with the conscious affirmation of Klin.

  The bars grated in their grooves, and at the instant, the first light struck through the slits of windows overhead. Cade shivered inside the scanty insulation of his bag and came fully awake, at once aware of the meaning of the chill. This was a Battle Morn.

  The air blew steadily stronger and colder from the conditioners, tingling against his skin as Cade slipped from his sleepbag and folded it, deflated, into the precise small package that would fit the pocket of his cloak. Timing each action by the habits of thirteen years, he unbuckled his gun belt, removed the gun, and closed away the belt and sleepbag in the locker that held his neatly folded uniform. It was by now reflexive action to open the gun and check the charge, then close the waterproof seal.

  Battle Morn! With mounting elation, Cade performed each meticulous detail of the morning routine, his body operating like the smooth machine it was, while his mind woke gradually to the new day. He thought vaguely of Commoners lolling late in bed, mumbling a morning thought of the Emperor and breaking their fast at a grossly-laden table. He thought vaguely of Klin Teachers waking with subtle and elaborate propositions that proved what any Gunner feels hi his bones. He thought vaguely of his own Star of France, doubtless haggard this morning after a night vigil of meditation on the fitting course.

  He thought, too, of the Emperor—the Given Healer; the Given Teacher; the Given Ruler—but, like a gun’s blast came the thought: this is not fitting.

  Guiltily Cade brought his attention back to the bare room, and saw with dismay that Gunner Harrow still lay in his bag, yawning and stretching.

  His indecent gaping was infectious; Cade’s mouth opened first with amazement, then to say sharply: “Battle Morn, Brother!”

  “How does it find you?” Harrow replied.

  What kind of Chapter House did they have on Mars?

  “Awake,” Cade answered coolly, “and ready for a good death if that is fitting—or a decorous life if I am spared today.”

  The Marsman seemed to miss the reprimand entirely but he climbed out of his bag, and began to deflate it.

  “How long till shower?” he asked.

  “Seconds,” was Cade’s contemptuous answer. “Perhaps twenty or thirty.”

  The Marsman sprang to life with a speed that would have done him credit under other circumstances. Cade watched with disgust as the other Gunner rushed for the wall cabinet and stuffed away his sleepbag, still unfolded, not yet fully drained of last night’s air. The gun belt was thrown in on top, and the cabinet door slammed shut, with only an instant left to seal the waterclosures of the gun. Then the ceiling vents opened, and the needle spray showered down and around the room. A cool invigorating stream of water splattered against the naked bodies of the men, swept around to cascade down the three walls of the room, and drained out through the floor vent, leaving just enough dampness for the scouring by Novices when the Gunners had left the room.

  Cade took his eyes from the Marsman, and tried to tear away his thoughts as well. He watched devoutly while the water struck each wall in turn, touching his gun to his lips: For the Teacher, at the first impact; to his chest, For the Healer, at the next; and at the last, the long wall to his brow, with awe, For the Ruler, the Emperor.

  He tried not to think of Harrow in the room beside him, saluting the cleansing waters with an unchecked charge in his gun. It was true then, what they said about conditions on Mars. Laxity at any time was bad enough, b
ut to let the peril of sloth pass from the previous day through the purifying waters of a Battle Morn was more than Cade could understand. A Novice might meet the shower unprepared; an Armiger might fail to check his charge beforehand; but how did Harrow ever rise to the rank of Gunner? And why was such a one sent to Cade on the eve of battle? Even now, his own Battle Morn meditations were disturbed.

  Anger is a peril at all times. And anger, is acutely unfitting on Battle Morn before the Klin Teacher’s lesson. Cade refused to think of it further. The water vents closed and he dressed without regard for the Marsman.

  Each garment had its thought, soothing and enfolding: they brought peace.

  Undersuit: Like this the Order embraces the Realm.

  Shirt: The Order protects the Power Master, slave of the brain, loyal heart of the Realm.

  Hose: Armsmen are sturdy pillars; without them the Realm cannot stand, but without the Realm the Order cannot live.

  Boots: Armsmen march where the Emperor wills; that is their glory.

  Helmet: The Order protects the Emperor—the Given Teacher, the Given Healer, the Given Ruler—the brain and life of the Realm.

  Cloak: Like this the Order wraps the Realm and shields it.

  Again he touched his gun: to his lips, for the Teacher; to his chest, for the Healer; to his brow, with awe, for the Ruler, the Emperor.

  Briskly he released the waterclosures and dropped his gun into the belt on his hip. A gong sounded in the wall and Cade went to a cabinet for two steaming bowls of concentrate, freshly prepared in the mash cookers far below.

  “Brother?” said Harrow, as they settled cross-legged on the floor to eat.

  Silence at this time was customary but not mandatory, Cade reminded himself—and Harrow was new to this Chapter.

  “Yes, Brother,” he said.

  “Are there other Marsmen among us?”

  “I know no others,” Cade said shortly. “How would it concern you?”

  “It would please me,” Harrow said formally. “A man likes to be among his own people in time of battle.”

  Cade could not answer him at first. What sort of talk was this? One didn’t call himself “a man” in the Order. There were Novices, Armigers, Gunners, the Gunners Superior and the wonderful old Arle who was Gunner Supreme. They were your Brothers, elder or younger.

  “You are among your own people,” he said gently, refusing to let himself be led into the peril of anger. “We are all your Brothers.”

  “But I am new among you,” the other said. “My Brothers here are strangers to me.”

  That was more reasonable. Cade could still remember his first battle for the Star of France, after he left the Denver Chapter where he spent his youth. “Your Brothers will soon be beside you hi battle,” he reminded the newcomer. “An Armsman who has fought by your side is no stranger.”

  “That will be tomorrow,” Harrow smiled. “And if I live through today, I shall not be here long after.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Back to Mars!”

  “How can that be?” Cade demanded. “Mars-born Gunners fight for Earthy Stars. Earth-born Gunners fight for the Star of Mars. That’s fitting.”

  “Perhaps so, Brother; perhaps so. But a letter from my father at home says our Star has petitioned the Emperor to allow him all Mars-born Armsmen, and I would be one of them.”

  “Your Star is the Star of France,” said Cade sharply. He himself had received Harrow’s assignment yesterday sealed by the Power Master, and counter-sealed by the Gunner Supreme. He was silent a moment, then could contain himself no longer. “By all that’s fitting,” he asked, “what sort of talk is it? Why does an Armsman speak of himself as a . . . a man? And how can you think of ‘your own people’ other than your Brothers in arms?”

  The Mars-born Gunner hesitated. “It’s newer on Mars. Six hundred years isn’t a long time. We have a proverb: ‘Earth is changeless but Mars is young.’ And families—I ant descended from Erik Hogness and Mary Lara, who mapped the northern hemisphere long ago. I know my cousins because of that. Do you know anything about your eight-times-great grandfather or what he may have done?”

  “I presume,” said Cade stiffly, “that he did what was fitting to his station as I will do what is fitting to mine.”

  “Exactly,” said Harrow, and fell silent—disconcertingly resembling a man who had wrung an admission from an opponent and won an argument by it.

  Cade went stiffly to the door and opened it, leaving the empty bowls for Harrow to return. The line of Armsmen came in sight down the corridor and they waited at attention to take their place among the Gunners, marching in silence and with downcast eyes along the route of procession to the lectory.

  Seated on the front row of benches with twenty rows apiece of Armigers and Novices behind, Cade was grateful that the Klin Teacher had not yet arrived. It left time for him to dispel the perilous mood of irritation and suspicion. By the time the man did appear, he was properly calm.

  It was fitting to be a Gunner; it was fitting to be a Klin Teacher; they were almost brothers in their dedication. The glow almost vanished when the man began to speak.

  Cade had heard many Teachers who’d been worse; it made not a particle of difference in the Klin Philosophy whether it was expounded by a subtle, able Teacher or a half-trained younger son of a Star, as this fellow appeared to be; what was fitting was fitting and would be until the end of time. But on a Battle Morn, Cade thought, a senior teacher might have been a reasonable tribute. The peril of pride, came a thought like a gun’s blast, and he recoiled. In contrition he listened carefully, marking the youngster’s words.

  “Since the creation of the worlds ten thousand years ago the Order of Armsmen has existed and served the Emperor through the Power Master and the particular Stars. Klin says of armed men: ‘They must be poor, because riches make men fear to lose them and fear is unfitting in an Armsman. They must be chaste because love of woman makes men love their rulers—the word rulers here means, as always, Klin, the Emperor—less. They must be obedient because the consequence of disobedience is to make men refuse even the most gloriously profitable death.’ These are the words of Klin, set down ten thousand years ago at the creation of the worlds.”

  It was wonderful, thought Cade, wonderful how it all had occurred together: the creation of the worlds, the Emperor to rule them, the Order to serve him and the Klin Philosophy to teach them how to serve. The fitness and beautiful economy of it never failed to awe him. He wondered if this creation was somehow THE Fitness, the original of which all others were reflections.

  The Teacher leaned forward, speaking directly to those in the front row. “You Gunners are envied, but you do not envy. Klin says of you Gunners: ‘They must be always occupied with fiddling details’—I should perhaps explain that a fiddle was a musical instrument; fiddling hence means harmonious, or proper. Another possibility is that fiddling is an error for fitting, but our earliest copies fail to bear this out—with fiddling details so they will have no time to think. Let armed men think and the fat’s in the fire.’ ”

  Good old Klin! thought Cade affectionately. He liked the occasional earthy metaphors met with in the “Reflections on Government.” Stars and their courts sometimes diverted themselves for a day or two by playing at Commoners’ life; the same playfulness appeared in Klin when he took an image from the kitchen or the factory. The Teacher was explaining the way Klin’s usage of think as applied to anybody below the rank of a Star was equated with the peril of pride, and how the homely kitchen-metaphor meant nothing less than universal ruin. “For Klin, as usual, softens the blow.”

  Irresistibly Cade’s thoughts wandered to a subject he loved. As the young Teacher earnestly expounded, the Gunner thought of the grandeur of the Klin Philosophy: how copies of the “Reflections” were cherished in all the Chapter Houses of the Order, in all the cities of all the Stars of Earth, on sparsely-settled Venus, the cold moons of the monster outer planets, on three man-made planetoids, and on Mars
. What could be wrong with Harrow? How could he have gone awry with the Klin Philosophy to guide him? Was it possible that the Teachers on Mars failed to explain Klin adequately? Even Commoners on Earth heard Teachers expound the suitable portions of the Philosophy. But Cade was warmly aware that the Armsmen’s study of Klin was more profound and pure than the Commoners’.

  “. . . So I come to a subject which causes me some pain.” Cade brought his mind back sharply to the words of the Teacher. This was the crucial part, the thing he had been waiting to hear. “It is not easy to contemplate willful wickedness, but I must tell you that unfit deeds fill the heart of the Star of Muscovy. Through certain sources our Star of France has learned that pride and greed possess his Brother to the North. With sorrow he discovered that the Star of Muscovy intends to occupy Alsace-Lorraine with his Gunners. With sorrow he ordered your Superior to make ready for whatever countermeasures may be fit, and it has been done. As you know, this is Battle Morn.”

  Cade’s heart thumped with rage at the proud and greedy Star of Muscovy.

  “Klin says of such as the Star of Muscovy: ‘The wicked you have always with you. Make them your governors.’ Governors is used metaphorically, in the obsolete sense of a device to regulate the speed of a heat engine—hence, the passage means that when a wicked person is bent on unfit deeds, you should increase your efforts towards fit and glorious deeds to counter him. There are many interesting images in the Reflections drawn from the world of pre-electronic—but that is by the way. I was saying that this is Battle Morn, and that before the sun has set many of you may have died. So I say to all of you, not knowing which will have the fortune: go on your fitting and glorious task without the peril of pride, and remember that there is nobody in the Realm of Man who would-not eagerly change places with you.”

  The Teacher stepped down and Cade bowed his head for the thought: The Klin Philosophy in a Gunner is like the charge in his gun. It was a favorite of his, saying so much in so little if you had only a moment, but if you had more time it went on and on, drawing beautifully precise parallels for every circuit and element of the gun. But there was no time for that; the Superior, the Gunner Superior to the Star of: France, had appeared. He cast a worried little glance at a window, through which the sun could be seen, and began at once: