“I mean to. I’m going deer hunting, to a place up in the mountains, along the old Pennsylvania-New York state line. A little community of about a thousand people, where everybody, men, women and children, can read.”
Lancedale was interested. “A community of Literates?”
Cardon shook his head. “Not Literates-with-a-big-L; just people who can read and write,” he replied. “It’s a kind of back-eddy sort of place, and I imagine, a couple of hundred years ago, the community was too poor to support one of these ‘progressive’ school systems that made Illiterates out of the people in the cities. Probably couldn’t raise enough money in school taxes to buy all the expensive audio-visual equipment, so they had to use old-fashioned textbooks, and teach the children to read from them. They have radios, and TV, of course, but they also have a little daily paper, and they have a community library.”
Lancedale was thoughtful, for a moment. “You know, Frank, there must be quite a few little enclaves of lower-case-literacy like that, in back-woods and mountain communities, especially in the west and the south. I’m going to make a project of finding such communities, helping them, and getting recruits from them. They’ll fit into the Plan. Well, I’ll be seeing you some time tomorrow, I suppose?”
He watched Cardon go out, and then poured a glass of port for himself and sipped slowly, holding the glass to the light and watching the ruby glow it cast on the desk top. It had been over thirty years ago, when he had been old Jules de Chambord’s assistant, that the Plan had been first conceived. De Chambord was dead these twenty years, and he had taken the old man’s place, and they had only made the first step. Things would move faster, now, but he would still die before the Plan was completed, and Frank Cardon, whom he had marked as his successor, would be an old man, and somebody like young Ray Pelton would be ready to replace him, but the Plan would go on, until everybody would be literate, not Literate, and illiteracy, not Illiteracy, would be a mark of social stigma, and most people would live their whole lives without personal acquaintance with an illiterate.
There were a few years, yet, to prepare for the next step. The white smocks would have to go; Literates would have to sacrifice their paltry titles and distinctions. There would have to be a re-constitution of the Fraternities. Wilton Joyner and Harvey Graves and the other Conservative Literates would have to be convinced, emotionally as well as intellectually, of the need for change. There were a few of the older brothers who could never adjust their thinking; they would have to be promoted to positions with higher salaries and more impressive titles and no authority whatever.
But that was all a matter of tactics; the younger men, like Frank Cardon and Elliot Mongery and Ralph Prestonby, could take care of that. Certain changes would occur: A stable and peaceful order of society, for one thing. A rule of law, and the liquidation of these goon gangs and storm troops and private armies. If a beginning at that were made tomorrow, using the battle at Pelton’s store to mobilize public opinion, it would still take two decades to get anything really significant done. And a renaissance of technological and scientific progress—Today, the manufacturers changed the ’copter models twice a year—and, except for altering the shape of a few chromium-plated excrescences or changing the contours slightly, they were the same ’copters that had been buzzing over the country at the time of the Third World War. Every month, the pharmaceutical companies announced a new wonder drug—and if it wasn’t sulfa, it was penicillin, and if it wasn’t penicillin it would be aureomycin. Why, most of the scientific research was being carried on by a few Literates in the basements of a few libraries, re-discovering the science of two centuries ago.
He sighed, and finished his port, and, as he did probably once every six months, he re-filled the glass. He’d be seventy-two next birthday. Maybe he’d live long enough to see—
THE END
THE RETURN (1954)
Written with John J. McGuire
Altamont cast a quick, routine, glance at the instrument panels and then looked down through the transparent nose of the helicopter at the yellow-brown river five hundred feet below. Next he scraped the last morsel from his plate and ate it.
“What did you make this out of, Jim?” he asked. “I hope you kept notes, while you were concocting it. It’s good.”
“The two smoked pork chops left over from yesterday evening,” Loudons said, “and that bowl of rice that’s been taking up space in the refrigerator the last couple of days together with a little egg powder, and some milk. I ground the chops up and mixed them with the rice and the other stuff. Then added some bacon, to make grease to fry it in.”
Altamont chuckled. That was Loudons, all right; he could take a few left-overs, mess them together, pop them in the skillet, and have a meal that would turn the chef back at the Fort green with envy. He filled his cup and offered the pot.
“Caffchoc?” he asked.
Loudons held his cup out to be filled, blew on it, sipped, and then hunted on the ledge under the desk for the butt of the cigar he had half-smoked the evening before.
“Did you ever drink coffee, Monty?” the socio-psychologist asked, getting the cigar drawing to his taste.
“Coffee? No. I’ve read about it, of course. We’ll have to organize an expedition to Brazil, some time, to get seeds, and try raising some.”
Loudons blew a smoke ring toward the rear of the cabin.
“A much overrated beverage,” he replied. “We found some, once, when I was on that expedition into Idaho, in what must have been the stockroom of a hotel. Vacuum-packed in moisture-proof containers, and free from radioactivity. It wasn’t nearly as good as caffchoc. But then, I suppose, a pre-bustup coffee drinker couldn’t stomach this stuff we’re drinking.” He looked forward, up the river they were following. “Get anything on the radio?” he asked. “I noticed you took us up to about ten thousand, while I was shaving.”
Altamont got out his pipe and tobacco pouch, filling the former slowly and carefully.
“Not a whisper. I tried Colony Three, in the Ozarks, and I tried to call in that tribe of workers in Louisiana; I couldn’t get either.”
“Maybe if we tried to get a little more power on the set—”
That was Loudons, too, Altamont thought. There wasn’t a better man at the Fort, when it came to dealing with people, but confront him with a problem about things, and he was lost. That was one of the reasons why he and the stocky, phlegmatic social scientist made such a good team, he thought. As far as he, himself, was concerned, people were just a mysterious, exasperatingly unpredictable, order of things which were subject to no known natural laws. That was about the way Loudons thought of things; he couldn’t psychoanalyze them.
He gestured with his pipe toward the nuclear-electric conversion unit, between the control-cabin and the living quarters in the rear of the box-car-sized helicopter.
“We have enough power back there to keep this windmill in the air twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, for the next fifteen years,” he said. “We just don’t have enough radio. If I’d step up the power on this set any more, it’d burn out before I could say, ‘Altamont calling Fort Ridgeway.’”
“How far are we from Pittsburgh, now?” Loudons wanted to know.
Altamont looked across the cabin at the big map of the United States, with its red and green and blue and yellow patchwork of vanished political divisions, and the transparent overlay on which they had plotted their course. The red line started at Fort Ridgeway, in what had once been Arizona It angled east by a little north, to Colony Three, in northern Arkansas; then sharply northeast to St. Louis and its lifeless ruins; then Chicago and Gary, where little bands of Stone Age reversions stalked and fought and ate each other; Detroit, where things that had completely forgotten that they were human emerged from their burrows only at night; Cleveland, where a couple of cobalt bombs must have landed in the lake and drenched everything with radioactivity that still lingered after two centuries; Akron, where vegetati
on was only beginning to break through the glassy slag; Cincinnati, where they had last stopped—
* * * *
“How’s the leg, this morning, Jim?” he asked.
“Little stiff. Doesn’t hurt much, though.”
“Why, we’re about fifty miles, as we follow the river, and that’s relatively straight.” He looked down through the transparent nose of the ’copter at a town, now choked with trees that grew among tumbled walls. “I think that’s Aliquippa.”
Loudons looked and shrugged, then looked again and pointed.
“There’s a bear. Just ducked into that church or movie theater or whatever. I wonder what he thinks we are.”
Altamont puffed slowly at his pipe, “I wonder if we’re going to find anything at all in Pittsburgh.”
“You mean people, as distinct from those biped beasts we’ve found so far? I doubt it,” Loudons replied, finishing his caffchoc and wiping his mustache on the back of his hand. “I think the whole eastern half of the country is nothing but forest like this, and the highest type of life is just about three cuts below Homo Neanderthalensis, almost impossible to contact, and even more impossible to educate.”
“I wasn’t thinking about that; I’ve just about given up hope of finding anybody or even a reasonably high level of barbarism,” Altamont said. “I was thinking about that cache of microfilmed books that was buried at the Carnegie Library.”
“If it was buried,” Loudons qualified. “All we have is that article in that two-century-old copy of Time about how the people at the library had constructed the crypt and were beginning the microfilming. We don’t know if they ever had a chance to get it finished, before the rockets started landing.”
They passed over a dam of flotsam that had banked up at a wrecked bridge and accumulated enough mass to resist the periodic floods that had kept the river usually clear. Three human figures fled across a sand-flat at one end of it and disappeared into the woods; two of them carried spears tipped with something that sparkled in the sunlight, probably shards of glass.
“You know, Monty, I get nightmares, sometimes, about what things must be like in Europe,” Loudons said.
Five or six wild cows went crashing through the brush below. Altamont nodded when he saw them.
“Maybe tomorrow, we’ll let down and shoot a cow,” he said. “I was looking in the freezer-locker; the fresh meat’s getting a little low. Or a wild pig, if we find a good stand of oak trees. I could enjoy what you’d do with some acorn-fed pork. Finished?” he asked Loudons. “Take over, then; I’ll go back and wash the dishes.”
They rose, and Loudons, favoring his left leg, moved over to the seat at the controls. Altamont gathered up the two cups, the stainless-steel dishes, and the knives and forks and spoons, going up the steps over the shielded converter and ducking his head to avoid the seat in the forward top machine-gun turret. He washed and dried the dishes, noting with satisfaction that the gauge of the water tank was still reasonably high, and glanced out one of the windows. Loudons was taking the big helicopter upstairs, for a better view.
Now and then, among the trees, there would be a glint of glassy slag, usually in a fairly small circle. That was to be expected; beside the three or four H-bombs that had fallen on the Pittsburgh area, mentioned in the transcripts of the last news to reach the Fort from outside, the whole district had been pelted, more or less at random, with fission bombs. West of the confluence of the Allegheny and Monongahela, it would probably be worse than this.
“Can you see Pittsburgh yet, Jim?” he called out.
“Yes; it’s a mess! Worse than Gary; worse than Akron, even. Monty! Come here! I think I have something!”
Picking up the pipe he had laid down, Altamont hurried forward, dodging his six-foot length under the gun turret and swinging down from the walkway over the converter.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Smoke. A lot of smoke, twenty or thirty fires, at the very least.” Loudons had shifted from Forward to Hover, and was peering through a pair of binoculars. “See that island, the long one? Across the river from it, on the north side, toward this end. Yes, by Einstein! And I can see cleared ground, and what I think are houses, inside a stockade—”
* * * *
Murray Hughes walked around the corner of the cabin, into the morning sunlight, lacing his trousers, with his hunting shirt thrown over his bare shoulders, and found, without much surprise, that his father had also slept late. Verner Hughes was just beginning to shave. Inside the kitchen, his mother and the girls were clattering pots and skillets; his younger brother, Hector, was noisily chopping wood. Going through the door, he filled another of the light-metal basins with hot water, found his razor, and went outside again, setting the basin on the bench.
Most of the ware in the Hughes cabin was of light-metal; Murray and his father had mined it in the dead city up the river, from a place where it had floated to the top of a puddle of slag, back when the city had been blasted, at the end of the Old Times. It had been hard work, but the stuff had been easy to carry down to where they had hidden their boat, and, for once, they’d had no trouble with the Scowrers. Too bad they couldn’t say as much for yesterday’s hunting trip!
As he rubbed lather into the stubble on his face, he cursed with irritation. That had been a bad-luck hunt, all around. They’d gone out before dawn, hunting into the hills to the north, they’d spent all day at it, and shot one small wild pig. Lucky it was small, at that. They’d have had to abandon a full-grown one, after the Scowrers began hunting them. Six of them, as big a band as he’d ever seen together at one time, and they’d gotten between them and the stockade and forced them to circle miles out of their way. His father had shot one, and he’d had to leave his hatchet sticking in the skull of another, when his rifle had misfired.
That meant a trip to the gunsmith’s, for a new hatchet and to have the mainspring of the rifle replaced. Nobody could afford to have a rifle that couldn’t be trusted, least of all a hunter and prospector. And he’d had words with Alex Barrett, the gunsmith, just the other day. Not that Barrett wouldn’t be more than glad to do business with him, once he saw that hard tool-steel he’d dug out of that place down the river. Hardest steel he’d ever found, and hadn’t been atom-spoiled, either.
He cleaned, wiped and stropped his razor and put it back in the case; he threw out the wash-water on the compost-pile, and went into the cabin, putting on his shirt and his belt, and passed on through to the front porch, where his father was already eating at the table. The people of the Toon liked to eat in the open; it was something they’d always done, just as they’d always liked to eat together in the evenings.
He sweetened his mug of chicory with a lump of maple sugar and began to sip it before he sat down, standing with one foot on the bench and looking down across the parade ground, past the Aitch-Cue House, toward the river and the wall.
“If you’re coming around to Alex’s way of thinking—and mine—it won’t hurt you to admit it, son,” his father said.
He turned, looking at his father with the beginning of anger, and then grinned. The elders were constantly keeping the young men alert with these tests. He checked back over his actions since he had come out onto the porch.
To the table, sugar in his chicory, one foot on the bench, which had reminded him again of the absence of the hatchet from his belt and brought an automatic frown. Then the glance toward the gunsmith’s shop, and across the parade ground, at the houses into which so much labor had gone; the wall that had been built from rubble and topped with pointed stakes; the white slabs of marble from the ruined building that marked the graves of the First Tenant and the men of the Old Toon. He had thought, in that moment, that maybe his father and Alex Barrett and Reader Rawson and Tenant Mycroft Jones and the others were right—there were too many things here that could not be moved along with them, if they decided to move.
It would be false modesty, refusal to see things as they were, not to admit that he was the leader
of the younger men, and the boys of the Irregulars. And last winter, the usual theological arguments about the proper chronological order of the Sacred Books and the true nature of the Risen One had been replaced by a violent controversy when Sholto Jiminez and Birdy Edwards had reopened the old question of the advisability of moving the Toon and settling elsewhere. He’d been in favor of the idea himself, but, for the last month or so, he had begun to doubt the wisdom of it. It was probably reluctance to admit this to himself that had brought on the strained feelings between himself and his old friend the gunsmith.
“I’ll have to drill the Irregulars, today,” he said. “Birdy Edwards has been drilling them, while we’ve been hunting. But I’ll go up and see Alex about a new hatchet and fixing my rifle. I’ll have a talk with him.”
He stepped forward to the edge of the porch, still munching on a honey-dipped piece of corn bread, and glanced up at the sky. That was a queer bird; he’d never seen a bird with a wing action like that. Then he realized that the object was not a bird at all.
His father was staring at it, too.
“Murray! That’s…that’s like the old stories from the time of the wars!”
But Murray was already racing across the parade ground toward the Aitch-Cue House, where the big iron ring hung by its chain from a gallows-like post, with the hammer beside it.
* * * *
The stockaded village grew larger, details became plainer, as the helicopter came slanting down and began spiraling around it. It was a fairly big place, some forty or fifty acres in a rough parallelogram, surrounded by a wall of varicolored stone and brick and concrete rubble from old ruins, topped with a palisade of pointed poles. There was a small jetty projecting out into the river, to which six or eight boats of different sorts were tied; a gate opened onto this from the wall. Inside the stockade, there were close to a hundred buildings, ranging from small cabins to a structure with a belfry, which seemed to have been a church, partly ruined in the war of two centuries ago and later rebuilt. A stream came down from the woods, across the cultivated land around the fortified village; there was a rough flume which carried the water from a dam close to the edge of the forest and provided a fall to turn a mill wheel.
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