“You are relieved of office, Mr. Prime Minister. I shall conduct the affairs of our country until the war is over. Safe conduct will be provided for the representatives of the enemy. Hostilities will be resumed at once. And that —" he pointed at Dr. Groot and bristled in rage — “that meddler must be removed — completely."
Groot sat quietly, making no attempt to resist his captors. But under the table, his shoe pressed down on a button concealed in the rug. In another room some relays clicked.
And the music started.
Not children’s music this time. No, rather the Ride of the Valkyrie, the Marseillaise. Not these exactly, but rather that quality of each, and of every martial song, that promises men Valhalla after battle.
The field marshal heard it and stopped in his tracks; his fine old head reared up, listening. The two officers grasping Groot heard it, and dropped his arms. One by one almost every one of the uniformed men stood up and quested for the sound. Here and there an occasional rock-coated dignitary joined them. Almost immediately they formed a column of fours and swung away down the great hall, their heels pounding to two-four time.
At the end of the hall a tapestry swung aside and revealed … nothingness … nothingness, in a large frame. '
The column marched into the blackness. When the last man had disappeared, Grout released the pressure from the button. The blackness vanished, leaving an empty frame, with the wall just beyond it. A murmur of expelled breath filled the room.
The Prime Minister turned to Grout and dabbed at his brow with a fine linen handkerchief. “Good God, man, where have you sent them?"
Grout shook his head. “I am sorry. I do not know."
“You don’t know?"
“No. You see, I anticipated some trouble, but did not have time to fasten the other end of my 'pin’."
The Prime Minister was horror-stricken.
“Poor old John," he muttered.
Grout nodded soberly. “Yes. I am sorry I had to do it. Poor old John. He was such a good man — I liked him so very much."
Free Men
Written 1947; first appeared in The Worlds of Robert A. Heinlein, 1966
“That makes three provisional presidents so far," the Leader said. “I wonder how many more there are?" He handed the flimsy sheet back to the runner, who placed it in his mouth and chewed it up like gum.
The third man shrugged. “No telling. What worries me —" A mockingbird interrupted. “Doity, doity, doity," he sang. “Terloo, terloo, terloo, purty-purtypurty-purty."
The clearing was suddenly empty.
“As I was saying," came the voice of the third man in a whisper in the Leader’s ear, “it ain’t how many worries me, but how you tell a de Gaulle from a Laval. See anything?"
“Convoy. Stopped below us." The Leader peered through bushes and down the side of a bluff. The high ground pushed out toward the river here, squeezing the river road between it and the water. The road stretched away to the left, where the valley widened out into farmland, and ran into the outskirts of Barclay ten miles away.
The convoy was directly below them, eight trucks preceded and followed by halftracks. The following halftrack was backing, vortex gun cast loose and ready for trouble. Its commander apparently wanted elbow room against a possible trap.
At the second truck helmeted figures gathered around its rear end, which was jacked up. As the Leader watched he saw one wheel removed.
“Trouble?"
“I think not. Just a breakdown. They’ll be gone soon." He wondered what was in the trucks. Food, probably. His mouth watered. A few weeks ago an opportunity like this would have meant generous rations for all, but the conquerors had smartened up.
He put useless thoughts away. “It’s not that that worries me, Dad," he added, returning to the subject. “We’ll be able to tell quislings from loyal Americans. But how do you tell men from boys?"
“Thinking of Joe Benz?"
“Maybe. I’d give a lot to know how far we can trust Joe. But I could have been thinking of young Morrie."
“You can trust him."
“Certainly. At thirteen he doesn’t drink — and he wouldn’t crack if they burned his feet off. Same with Cathleen. It’s not age or sex — but how can you tell? And you’ve got to be able to tell."
There was a flurry below. Guards had slipped down from the trucks and withdrawn from the road when the convoy had stopped, in accordance with an orderly plan for such emergencies. Now two of them returned to the convoy, hustling between them a figure not in uniform.
The mockingbird set up a frenetic whistling.
“It’s the messenger," said the Leader. “The dumb fool! Why didn’t he lie quiet? Tell Ted we’ve seen it."
Dad pursed his lips and whistled: “Keewah, keewah, keewah, terloo."
The other “mockingbird" answered, “Terloo," and shut up.
“We’ll need a new post office now," said the Leader. “Take care of it, Dad."
“Okay."
“There’s no real answer to the problem," the Leader said. “You can limit size of units, so that one person can’t give away too many — but take a colony like ours.
It needs to be a dozen or more to work. That means they all have to be dependable, or they all go down together. So each one has a loaded gun at the head of each other one."
Dad grinned, wryly. “Sounds like the United Nations before the Blow Off. Cheer up, Ed. Don’t burn your bridges before you cross them."
“I won’t. The convoy is ready to roll."
When the convoy had disappeared in the distance, Ed Morgan, the Leader, and his deputy Dad Carter stood up and stretched. The “mockingbird" had announced safety loudly and cheerfully. “Tell Ted to cover us into camp," Morgan ordered.
Dad wheepled and chirruped and received acknowledgement. They started back into the hills. Their route was roundabout and included check points from which they could study their back track and receive reports from Ted. Morgan was not worried about Ted being followed — he was confident that Ted could steal baby 'possums from mama’s pouch. But the convoy breakdown might have been a trap — there was no way to tell that all of the soldiers had got back into the trucks. The messenger might have been followed; certainly he had been trapped too easily.
Morgan wondered how much the messenger would spill. He could not spill much about Morgan’s own people, for the “post office" rendezvous was all that he knew about them.
The base of Morgan’s group was neither better nor worse than average of the several thousand other camps of recalcitrant guerrillas throughout the area that once called itself the United States. The Twenty Minute War had not surprised everyone. The mushrooms which had blossomed over Washington, Detroit, and a score of other places had been shocking but expected — by some.
Morgan had made no grand preparations. He had simply conceived it as a good period in which to stay
footloose and not too close to a target area. He had taken squatter’s rights in an abandoned mine and had stocked it with tools, food, and other useful items. He had had the simple intention to survive; it was during the weeks after Final Sunday that he discovered that there was no way for a man with foresight to avoid becoming a leader.
Morgan and Dad Carter entered the mine by a new shaft and tunnel which appeared on no map, by a dry rock route which was intended to puzzle even a bloodhound. They crawled through the tunnel, were able to raise their heads when they reached the armory, and stepped out into the common room of the colony, the largest chamber, ten by thirty feet and as high as it was wide.
Their advent surprised no one, else they might not have lived to enter. A microphone concealed in the tunnel had conveyed their shibboleths before them. The room was unoccupied save for a young woman stirring something over a tiny, hooded fire and a girl who sat at a typewriter table mounted in front of a radio. She was wearing earphones and shoved one back and turned to face them as they came in.
“Howdy, Boss!"
“Hi, Margie. Wha
t’s the good word?" Then to the other, “What’s for lunch?"
“Bark soup and a notch in your belt."
“Cathleen, you depress me."
“Well … mushrooms fried in rabbit fat, but darn few of them."
“That’s better."
“You better tell your boys to be more careful what they bring in. One more rabbit with tularemia and we won’t have to worry about what to eat."
“Hard to avoid, Cathy. You must be sure you handle them the way Doc taught you." He turned to the girl. “Jerry in the upper tunnel?"
“Yes."
“Get him down here, will you?"
“Yes, sir." She pulled a sheet out of her typewriter and handed it to him, along with others, then left the room.
Morgan glanced over them. The enemy had abolished soap opera and singing commercials but he could not say that radio had been improved. There was an unnewsy sameness to the propaganda which now came over the air. He checked through while wishing for just one old-fashioned, uncensored newscast.
“Here’s an item!" he said suddenly. “Get this, Dad —"
“Read it to me, Ed." Dad’s spectacles had been broken on Final Sunday. He could bring down a deer, or a man, at a thousand yards — but he might never read again.
“'New Center, 28 April — It is with deep regret that Continental Coordinating Authority for World Unification, North American District, announces that the former city of St. Joseph, Missouri, has been subjected to sanitary measures. It is ordered that a memorial plaque setting forth the circumstances be erected on the former site of St. Joseph as soon as radioactivity permits. Despite repeated warnings the former inhabitants of this lamented city encouraged and succored marauding bands of outlaws skulking around the outskirts of their community. It is hoped that the sad fate of St. Joseph will encourage the native authorities of all North American communities to take all necessary steps to suppress treasonable intercourse with the few remaining lawless elements in our continental society.
Dad cocked a brow at Morgan. “How many does that make since they took over?"
“Let’s see … Salinas … Colorado Springs … uh, six, including St. Joe."
“Son, there weren’t more than sixty million Americans left after Final Sunday. If they keep up, we’ll be kind of thinned out in a few years."
“I know." Morgan looked troubled. “We’ve got to work out ways to operate without calling attention to the towns. Too many hostages."
A short, dark man dressed in dirty dungarees entered from a side tunnel, followed by Margie. “You wanted me, boss?"
“Yes, Jerry. I want to get word to McCracken to come in for a meeting. Two hours from now, if he can get here."
“Boss, you’re using radio too much. You’ll get him shot and us, too."
“I thought that business of bouncing it off the cliff face was foolproof?"
“Well … a dodge I can work up, somebody else can figure out. Besides, I’ve got the chassis unshipped. I was working on it."
“How long to rig it?"
“Oh, half an hour — twenty minutes."
“Do it. This may be the last time we’ll use radio, except as utter last resort."
“Okay, boss."
The meeting was in the common room. Morgan called it to order once all were present or accounted for. McCracken arrived just as he had decided to proceed without him. McCracken had a pass for the countryside, being a veterinarian, and held proxy for the colony’s underground associates in Barclay.
“The Barclay Free Company, a provisional unit of the United States of America, is now in session." Morgan announced formally. “Does any member have any item to lay before the Company?"
He looked around; there was no response. “How about you?" he challenged Joe Benz. “I heard that you had some things you thought the Company ought to hear.
Benz started to speak, shook his head. “I’ll wait."
“Don’t wait too long," Morgan said mildly. “Well, I have two points to bring up for discussion —"
“Three," corrected Dr. McCracken. “I’m glad you sent for me." He stepped up to Morgan and handed him a large, much folded piece of paper. Morgan looked it over, refolded it, and put it in his pocket.
“It fits in," he said to McCracken. “What do the folks in town say?"
“They are waiting to hear from you. They’ll back you up — so far, anyway."
“All right." Morgan turned back to the group. “First item — we got a message today, passed by hand and about three weeks old, setting up another provisional government. The courier was grabbed right under our noses. Maybe he was a stooge; maybe he was careless — that’s neither here nor there at the moment. The message was that the Honorable Albert M. Brockman proclaimed himself provisional President of these United States, under derived authority, and appointed Brigadier General Dewey Fenton commander of armed forces including irregular militia — meaning us — and called on all citizens to unite to throw the Invader out. All formal and proper. So what do we do about it?"
“And who the devil is the Honorable Albert M. Brockman?" asked someone in the rear.
“I’ve been trying to remember. The message listed government jobs he’s held, including some assistant secretary job — I suppose that’s the 'derived authority’ angle. But I can’t place him."
“I recall him," Dr. McCracken said suddenly. “I met him when I was in the Bureau of Animal Husbandry. A career civil servant … and a stuffed shirt."
There was a gloomy silence. Ted spoke up. “Then why bother with him?"
The Leader shook his head. “It’s not that simple, Ted. We can’t assume that he’s no good. Napoleon might have been a minor clerk under different circumstances. And the Honorable Mr. Brockman may be a revolutionary genius disguised as a bureaucrat. But that’s not the point. We need nationwide unification more than anything. It doesn’t matter right now who the titular leader is. The theory of derived authority may be shaky but it may be the only way to get everybody to accept one leadership. Little bands like ours can never win back the country. We’ve got to have unity — and that’s why we can’t ignore Brockman."
“The thing that burns me," McCracken said savagely, “is that it need never have happened at all! It could have been prevented."
“No use getting in a sweat about it," Morgan told him. “It’s easy to see the government’s mistakes now, but just the same I think there was an honest effort to prevent war right up to the last. It takes all nations to keep the peace, but it only takes one to start a war."
“No, no, no — I don’t mean that, Captain," McCracken answered. “I don’t mean the War could have been prevented. I suppose it could have been — once. But everybody knew that another war could happen, and everybody — everybody, I say, knew that if it came, it would start with the blasting of American cities. Every congressman, every senator knew that a war would destroy Washington and leave the country with no government, flopping around like a chicken with its head off. They knew — why didn’t they do something!"
“What could they do? Washington couldn’t be protected."
“Do? Why, they could have made plans for their own deaths! They could have slapped through a constitutional amendment calling for an alternate president and alternate congressmen and made it illegal for the alternates to be in target areas — or any scheme to provide for orderly succession in case of disaster. They could have set up secret and protected centers of government to use for storm cellars. They could have planned the same way a father takes out life insurance for his kids. Instead they went stumbling along, fat, dumb, and happy, and let themselves get killed, with no provision to carry out their sworn duties after they were dead. Theory of 'derived authority,’ pfui! It’s not just disastrous; it’s ridiculous! We used to be the greatest country in the world — now look at us!"
“Take it easy, Doc," Morgan suggested. “Hindsight is easier than foresight."
“Hummm! I saw it coming. I quit my Washington job and took a country
practice, five years ahead of time. Why couldn’t a congressman be as bright as I am?"
“Hmmm … well — you’re right. But we might just as well worry over the Dred Scott Decision. Let’s get on with the problem. How about Brockman? Ideas?"
“What do you propose, boss?"
“I’d rather have it come from the floor."
“Oh, quit scraping your foot, boss," urged Ted. “We elected you to lead."
“Okay. I propose to send somebody to backtrack on the message and locate Brockman — smell him out and see what he’s got. I’ll consult with as many groups as we can reach in this state and across the river, and we’ll try to manage unanimous action. I was thinking of sending Dad and Morrie."
Cathleen shook her head. “Even with faked registration cards and travel permits they’d be grabbed for the Reconstruction Battalions. I’ll go."
“In a pig’s eye," Morgan answered. “You’d be grabbed for something a danged sight worse. It’s got to be a man."
“I am afraid Cathleen is right," McCracken commented. “They shipped twelve-year-old boys and old men who could hardly walk for the Detroit project. They don’t care how soon the radiation gets them — it’s a plan to thin us out."
“Are the cities still that bad?"
“From what I hear, yes. Detroit is still 'hot’ and she was one of the first to get it."
“I’m going to go." The voice was high and thin, and rarely heard in conference.
“Now, Mother —" said Dad Carter.
“You keep out of this, Dad. The men and young women would be grabbed, but they Won’t bother with me. All I need is a paper saying I have a permit to rejoin my grandson, or something."
McCracken nodded. “I can supply that."
Morgan paused, then said suddenly, “Mrs. Carter will contact Brockman. It is so ordered. Next order of business," he went on briskly. “You’ve all seen the news about St. Joe — this is what they posted in Barclay last night." He hauled out and held up the paper McCracken had given him. It was a printed notice, placing the City of Barclay on probation, subject to the ability of “local authorities" to suppress “bands of roving criminals."
Off The Main Sequence Page 55
