Dark Yesterday [The Classic Tomorrow Trilogy]

by Arthur Leo Zagat

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  Renaissance E Books

  www.renebooks.com

  Copyright ©

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  THE “TOMORROW” TRILOGY

  DARK YESTERDAY

  By

  ARTHUR LEO ZAGAT

  A Renaissance E Books publication

  ISBN 1-58873-794-2

  All rights reserved

  Copyright 1939, Arthur Leo Zagat, renewed

  Reprinted courtesy the Ackerman Agency

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

  For information:

  Publisher@renebooks.com

  PageTurner Editions/Futures-Past Science Fiction

  FIRST BOOK PUBLICATION

  ARTHUR LEO ZAGAT'S “TOMORROW” SAGA

  Vol. I: Dark Yesterday

  Tomorrow

  Children of Tomorrow

  Vol. II: Thunder Tomorrow

  Bright Flag of Tomorrow

  Thunder Tomorrow

  Vol. III: Sunrise Tomorrow

  Sunrise Tomorrow

  The Long Road to Tomorrow

  ABOUT THIS AUTHOR AND BOOK

  Arthur Leo Zagat (1895-1949) was a prolific author, highly regarded for his many fine science fiction, mystery, and weird horror stories during the 1930s and ‘40s. A graduate of Fordham University Law School, Zagat began to sell stories while at college and never entered the legal profession. Instead, he devoted himself to writing, and with such success that, by the time of his death, he had sold more than five hundred stories and novels. Zagat was best known for his novel Seven Out of Time, a tale of seven humans abducted to the far future where they are studied by a highly-advanced race that has lost the capacity for emotion. However, many critics consider his “Tomorrow” series of novellas and novels, written during the late 1930s, in which young Americans lead a rebellion against a foreign conqueror, to be Zagat's finest work. In it, he draws on his experiences in the military during both World Wars for the realistic background and ingenuity with which his young Americans fight a superior foe. Arthur Leo Zagat died on the night of August 3, 1945, bringing to an end a distinguished career in science fiction, and beyond.

  The Editors

  Note: When this story of the future was written there were no jet planes, no television, no computers, nor many other items that the real future would bring into existence. Women were mostly confined to the domestic sphere and only a few men felt that women were their equals who could accomplish any thing a man could. Minorities, particularly those of non-European descent, rarely appeared or were mentioned in mainstream fiction, and were often caricatured when they did. The stories are based on the science of their era, and do not present a picture of the scientific understandings of today.

  PART ONE

  TOMORROW

  CHAPTER I: THE LOST ONES

  Dikar was on his knees, his head bowed against the side of his cot, his hands palm to palm. The fragrance of the dried grass with which his mattress was stuffed was in his nostrils, the rabbit fur of his blanket soft and warm against his forehead. Behind him there were two long rows of cots, eleven in each, separated by a wide space. At every cot knelt one of the Bunch, but the only sound was a low drone.

  Dikar's own murmur was a part of that drone. “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. And should I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Dikar used, as all of them did, the prayer they had learned before the terror had come. They had never been taught another.

  Dikar stayed on his knees as behind him there was a rustle of lifting bodies, a chatter of voices. One cried out, loud above the others, “Hey, fellers!” Jimlane it was. “Who took my bow and arrows an’ didn't bring ‘em back?” His changing voice, deep at first, broke into a high squeal. “If I ketch the guy—"

  "They're out by the Fire Stone, foolish.” That was Tomball. “I seen you leave ‘em there yourself. You'll be leavin’ your head somewhere one these days, an’ forget where. You're sure the prize dumby of the Bunch."

  The other Boys laughed, tauntingly. Dikar heard them, and he didn't quite hear them.

  He was waiting for a soft hand to stroke his hair, for sweet, low tones to say, “The good Lord bless you, my son, and give you pleasant dreams.” He knew they would not come. Hand and voice were vanished in the mists of Long-Ago, curtained from Dikar by the dark Time of Fear before which, as he very dimly recalled, everything had been different from what it was now. But always, when he had said his “now-I-lay-me,” he waited for them...

  "Quit callin’ me a dumby,” Jimlane squealed. “You gotta quit it."

  "Who's gonna make me, dumby? You?"

  Dikar rose to his feet, sighing, the burden of his leadership once more heavy upon him.

  From the blaze on the Fire Stone, a wavering light came in through the unglazed, oblong openings in the wall of the long narrow Boys’ House. It bathed with red the stalwart, naked bodies; nut-brown skin under which flat muscles moved smoothly.

  Tomball was out in the space between the cots, his bulging arms hanging loose at his sides, his adolescent, chunky jaw black-stubbled, his eyes, too closely set, glittering between slitted lids.

  Jimlane faced him and was little more than half his size. Puny, his hairless countenance rashed with small pimples, the kid's upper lip trembled but he stood his ground in mid-aisle as the other advanced, slow and threatening.

  "Yes, me,” Jimlane answered him bravely. “I ain't scared uh you, you big bully."

  "You ain't, huh,” Tomball grunted, closing the distance between them as Dikar got into motion. “Then I'll teach you to be."

  Tomball had hold of Jimlane's wrist and was twisting it, his shadowed lip curling. The smaller lad's face went white with pain. His free hand twisted, batted at his tormentor's hairy belly. Tomball grinned and kept on twisting. His victim bent almost double, agonized, but still there was no whimper from the youngster...

  Dikar's fingers closed on Tomball's arm and dug into the hard muscle. “No fair,” Dikar said. “Break!"

  Tomball loosed Jimlane, jerked free of Dikar's hold and swung around. “Says who?” he growled, a redness in his black, small eyes that was not put there by the light. He was a quarter-head taller than Dikar and broader across the shaggy chest, and his thighs were twice the span of Dikar's. “Oh, it's you!"

  "It's me,” Dikar said quietly. “And I'm orderin’ you to quit pickin’ on Jimlane an’ on the other little fellows who don't take your guff.” Dikar was lean-flanked and lithe-limbed, his hair and his silken beard yellow as the other's was black, his eyes a deep, shining blue.

  "There will be no bullyin’ here, so long as I'm Boss of the Bunch."

  Their code, like their talk, had been preserved unchanged from their young childhood, back before the Days of Fear. Isolated, they had no adult models to copy as they grew to young manhood.

  "Yeah?” Tomball said through lips thin and straight beneath their sparse covering of sprouting hairs, and somehow Dikar knew what he was going to say next. It had been coming for a long time and now it was here and Dikar was not altogether sorry.

  Tomball said it: “As long as you're Boss.” Two gray spots pitted the skin at the corners of his flat nose. “Maybe. But it's time you made room for
someone else, Dikar. For me."

  By Tomball's increasing unwillingness to obey orders, by his sulking and his endless whisperings with those of the Boys who had to be watched lest they shirk their share of work, Dikar had known the challenge was coming.

  He had thought out his answer and was ready with it. “All right,” he said, low voiced and very calm. “I'll call a Full Council tomorrow, of the Boys an’ the Girls. I'll tell ‘em why I think I should keep on being Boss an’ you'll tell ‘em why you think I should not, an’ then the Bunch will decide."

  A murmur ran around the ring of Boys that had close-packed about Dikar and Tomball.

  "No!” Tomball refused. “It wasn't the Bunch decided you should be Boss in the first place. It was the Old Ones.” He paused, and a meaningful grin widened his mouth. “Or so you say."

  "Maybe,” Dikar smiled, surprised he could smile. “Maybe, Tomball, you'd like to ask the Old Ones if they picked me to be Boss when they brought us here and left us. Maybe you'd like to climb down the Drop an’ ask ‘em whether you or I should be Boss from now on."

  The Boys gasped in the ring around them, and Dikar's own skin crawled at the back of his neck.

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  Down, down as far as the Mountain Don which the Bunch lived was high, fell the great Drop that fully circled its base. Straight up and down was the Drop's riven rock, and so barren of foothold that no living thing could hope to scale it.

  Below, for a space twice as wide across as the tallest of the trees in the forest that robed the Mountain, were tumbled stones as big as the Boy's House and bigger. White and angry waters fumed beneath the stones, and beneath stones and waters were the Old Ones.

  Dikar himself had seen these things, from the topmost branch of a certain tree that gave a view of them, but not even Dikar had ever gone out from the concealing curtain of the forest to the brink of the Drop, for of all the Must-Nots the Old Ones had left behind, this was the most fearful; "You must not go out of the woods. You must not go near the edge of the Drop."

  Thinking of all this as he stared into the red hate in Tomball's eyes, Dikar asked, “Do you dare, Tomball, climb down the Drop an’ talk to the Old Ones?"

  "Smart,” Tomball sneered. “You think you're smart, don't you? You want me to go down there an’ that way be rid of me. Well, it don't work, see? I'm just as smart as you are."

  Dikar spread his hands. “You will not let the Bunch decide between us, an’ you will not ask the Old Ones. How, then, do you want this thing settled?"

  "How? How have you yourself ordered scraps between the Boys settled? Dikar! I dare you to fight out with me, fists, or sticks or knives even, who's gonna be Boss of the Bunch—you or me."

  "No fair,” Jimlane cried out at that. “I say it's no fair. Tomball's bigger than Dikar an’ heavier."

  "No fair,” Steveland yelped. Billthomas yelled, “We cry the dare no fair.” But others were shouting, “Fight!” Fredalton and Halross and rabbit-faced Carlberger. “They gotta fight it out. It's Dikar's own Rule an’ he's gotta stick by it."

  Most of the Boys shouted, “Fight!

  "Shut up!" Dikar bellowed. “Shut up, all of you,” and at once the yelling stopped. But the ring had shrunk till he could feel their breaths on his back and heard little whimpers in the Boys’ throats and read their eyes, shining in the changing light of the Fire. “You dare me fight to decide who'll be Boss,” Dikar said to Tomball, taking up the ritual he himself had set. “Do you cry a fight between us two fair?"

  A cord in Tomball's short neck twitched. “I cry us equal-matched.” (By the Rule, Dikar had a right to appeal to the Bunch from Tomball's lying response.) “If you refuse my dare, Dikar, I will cry you yellow, an’ claim the right about which we scrap.” Reading the eyes in the ring, Dikar saw that if he appealed and the Bunch said he and Tomball were not equal matched, he might remain Boss in name, but Boss in truth he would be no longer. “That is the Rule you yourself have made.” Tomball abandoned the ritual. “And you gotta stick by it."

  Dikar's lips still smiled. “That is the rule I have made, Tomball. But this over which we scrap is no bird brought down by an unmarked arrow nor question of whose turn it is to bring water from the spring. Who shall be Boss affects not only you an’ me, but the whole Bunch. Is it right that it be decided in the way such small scraps are decided?” Dikar pretended to ask that of Tomball, but his eyes asked the question of all the eyes in the crowded circle, and the eyes had already answered him when Tomball spoke again.

  "It is right,” Tomball voiced the verdict of the eyes. “It is the only way that is right. You gotta fight me or crawl.” There was triumph in his voice, and triumph in his swagger. Tomball had weight on his side, and reach and strength, and he knew he was already as good as Boss.

  Dikar knew it too, and his heart was heavy, but he smiled still. “All right,” he said. “We fight, Tomball. With bare fists."

  The Boys hurrahed, the sound like the bay of the dogpack when they've brought down their prey under the trees. Even Steveland and Billthomas hurrahed, and though Jimlane was silent his pale eyes danced with the dancing red light of the Fire.

  Dikar listened, thinking what Tomball would do as Boss of the Bunch; whether he would let his pals shirk work, whether he would see that the corn patches were weeded, and the water tank cleaned, and the roofs of the Boys’ House and the Girls’ House kept patched against the rains and the snows and the cold.

  It was worry about these things and others like them that weighted Dikar's heart. He knew how painfully he had learned, in the long years since the Bunch had come to the Mountain, all the many little irksome tasks that must be done for the good of the Bunch; and he remembered that Tomball had always scoffed at them.

  For himself Dikar would be happy to be no longer Boss. It meant being lonely—for the Boss must have no pal, lest he be accused of favoring his friend over any other. It meant carrying a heavy freight of care through the day, and lying sleepless through the night, and never knowing rest. It meant assigning the hunters to the chase, whose joys he never knew; to judging the games and never playing them; to punish when Rules were broken but never breaking Rules just for the fun of it and finding the punishment worth it.

  "What are we waiting for?” Tomball's growl broke into Dikar's thoughts. “Come on outside an’ let's go."

  "No,” Dikar said. “We fight tomorrow, before the whole Bunch. Tonight, now, we sleep. Already it is Bed-Time, an’ long past."

  "I want to fight now,” Tomball insisted, standing his ground. “I don't want to wait till tomorrow."

  The smile faded from Dikar's lips, and he felt tiny muscles knot along the ridge of his jaw, beneath his yellow beard. “Bed-Time is not my Rule, but a Rule of the Old Ones. Perhaps, when you are Boss, Tomball, you will let the Bunch break it, but I am still Boss, an’ I do not. To bed, Tomball. To bed, all of you. Right away!"

  Dikar's eyes locked with Tomball's, and blue eyes and black held for a long minute and there was no sound in the Boys’ House, and no movement at all. Then the black eyes fell, and Tomball muttered, “It's the Old Ones I obey, Dikar, not you,” and the ring broke up into Boys hurrying to their cots.

  Dikar stood spread-legged, the firelight playing on his tall, well-knit form, his chest moving quietly with his slow breathing, the taut hollow of his belly heaving, his eyes somber as he watched the Boys obey him—perhaps for the last time.

  He didn't feel Jimlane's fingers squeeze his. He didn't hear Jimlane's whisper, “I hope you win tomorrow, Dikar. Gee, how I hope you win."

  Dikar stood there while the curtains woven from slender withes were dropped over the window-openings, shutting out the red light of the Fire that the Girls tended tonight.

  He stood there, unmoving, till the excited whisperings along the walls of the Boys’ House had faded, and the scrape of the fur blankets along skin had ended, and there were no more creakings. Then he turned and padded to his own cot, and knelt beside it.

  Dikar's lips moved, but the wo
rds came. He was sending them out through the wall, past the leaping flames on the great, flat Fire Stone, past the Girls’ House into the night-darkened woods.

  He was speaking to a Presence there, a Someone he had never seen and never heard, but had always known to be there, because He showed His work in the carpet of the leaves underfoot, in the tall and stately trees, in the wind that rustled through the woods’ green roof and the sunlight that shimmered through it.

  "I don't care what happens to me tomorrow, Sir,” Dikar told Him. “I don't care how much Tomball hurts me, or what he does to me if he wins. It's the Bunch I ask you to take care of. Please, Sir. If Tomball is too strong for me, tomorrow, an’ he licks me, please make it all right for him to be Boss. Please make him smart enough to be a good Boss. Please make him be a better Boss for the Bunch than me. They're good kids, Sir, the Boys an’ the Girls, an’ mostly they obey the Rules the Old Ones left, an’ You ought to take care of them. You will take care of them, Sir, won't you?"

  Dikar's lips stopped moving, but he stayed on his knees a little while longer, his head bent as if he were listening.

  He heard nothing but the soft breathing sounds, and the wind's treetop whisper, and the insect chorus of the night.

  When at last he stirred and climbed into his cot and drew his fur blanket up over him he was comforted.

  CHAPTER II: THE NIGHTMARE THAT WAS TRUE

  Sleep's deep emptiness claimed Dikar swiftly and wholly, as always it claims one whose weariness is clean and physical.

  A voice came into the nothingness, the voice for which Dikar waited each Bed-Time after he'd said his Now-I-lay-me.

  ...Mom's voice it was that came through the open door of the dark room where Dick Carr had awakened. Something in Mom's voice made Dick afraid: tears, and a trying hard to hide the tears, and a smile that he somehow knew hurt Morn more than the tears.

  "Take care of yourself,” Mom was saying, “and come back soon."