Off The Main Sequence

by Robert A. Heinlein

  There was a stir, but no comment. Most of them had lived in Barclay; all had ties there.

  “I guess you’re waiting for me," McCracken began. “We held a meeting as soon as this was posted. We weren’t all there — it’s getting harder to cover up even the smallest gathering — but there was no disagreement. We’re behind you but we want you to go a little easy. We suggest that you cut out pulling raids within, oh, say twenty miles of Barclay, and that you stop all killing unless absolutely necessary to avoid capture. It’s the killings they get excited about — it was killing of the district director that touched off St. Joe."

  Benz sniffed. “So we don’t do anything. We just give up — and stay here in the hills and starve."

  “Let me finish, Benz. We don’t propose to let them scare us out and keep us enslaved forever. But casual raids don’t do them any real harm. They’re mostly for food for the Underground and for minor retaliations. We’ve got to conserve our strength and increase it and organize, until we can hit hard enough to make it stick. We won’t let you starve. I can do more organizing among the farmers and some animals can be hidden out, unregistered. We can get you meat — some, anyhow. And we’ll split our rations with you. They’ve got us on 1800 calories now, but we can share it. Something can be done through the black market, too. There are ways."

  Benz made a contemptuous sound. Morgan looked at him.

  “Speak up, Joe. What’s on your mind?"

  “I will. It’s not a plan; it’s a disorderly retreat. A year from now we’ll be twice as hungry and no further along — and they’ll be better dug in and stronger. Where does it get us?"

  Morgan shook his head. “You’ve got it wrong. Even if we hadn’t had it forced on us, we would have been moving into this stage anyhow. The Free Companies have got to quit drawing attention to themselves. Once the food problem is solved we’ve got to build up our strength and weapons. We’ve got to have organization and weapons — nationwide organization and guns, knives, and hand grenades. We’ve got to turn this mine into a factory. There are people down in Barclay who can use the stuff we can make here — but we can’t risk letting Barclay be blasted in the meantime. Easy does it."

  “Ed Morgan, you’re kidding yourself and you know it."

  “How?"

  “'How?’ Look, you sold me the idea of staying on the dodge and joining up —"

  “You volunteered."

  “Okay, I volunteered. It was all because you were so filled with fire and vinegar about how we would throw the enemy back into the ocean. You talked about France and Poland and how the Filipinos kept on fighting after they were occupied. You sold me a bill of goods. But there was something you didn’t tell me —"

  “Go on."

  “There never was an Underground that freed its own country. All of them had to be pulled out of the soup by an invasion from outside. Nobody is going to pull us out."

  There was silence after this remark. The statement had too much truth in it, but it was truth that no member of the Company could afford to think about. Young Morrie broke it. “Captain?"

  “Yes, Morrie." Being a fighting man, Morrie was therefore a citizen and a voter.

  “How can Joe be so sure he knows what he’s talking about? History doesn’t repeat. Anyhow, maybe we will get some help. England, maybe — or even the Russians.

  Benz snorted. “Listen to the punk! Look, kid, England was smashed like we were, only worse — and Russia, too. Grow up; quit daydreaming."

  The boy looked at him doggedly. “You don’t know that. We only know what they chose to tell us. And there aren’t enough of them to hold down the whole world, everybody, everywhere. We never managed to lick the Yaquis, or the Moros. And they can’t lick us unless we let them. I’ve read some history too."

  Benz shrugged. “Okay, okay. Now we can all sing 'My Country 'Tis of Thee’ and recite the Scout oath. That ought to make Morrie happy —"

  “Take it easy, Joe!"

  “We have free speech here, don’t we? What I want to know is: How long does this go on? I’m getting tired of competing with coyotes for the privilege of eating jackrabbits. You know I’ve fought with the best of them. I’ve gone on the raids. Well, haven’t I? Haven’t I? You can’t call me yellow."

  “You’ve been on some raids," Morgan conceded.

  “All right. I’d go along indefinitely if I could see some sensible plan. That’s why I ask, 'How long does this go on?’ When do we move? Next spring? Next year?"

  Morgan gestured impatiently. “How do I know? It may be next spring; it may be ten years. The Poles waited three hundred years."

  “That tears it," Benz said slowly. “I was hoping you could offer some reasonable plan. Wait and arm ourselves — that’s a pretty picture! Homemade hand grenades against atom bombs! Why don’t you quit kidding yourselves? We’re licked!" He hitched at his belt. “The rest of you can do as you please — I’m through."

  Morgan shrugged. “If a man won’t fight, I can’t make him. You’re assigned noncombatant duties. Turn in your gun. Report to Cathleen."

  “You don’t get me, Ed. I’m through."

  “You don’t get me, Joe. You don’t resign from an Underground."

  “There’s no risk. I’ll leave quietly, and let myself be registered as a straggler. It doesn’t mean anything to the rest of you. I’ll keep my mouth shut — that goes without saying."

  Morgan took a long breath, then answered, “Joe, I’ve learned by bitter experience not to trust statements set off by 'naturally,’ 'of course,’ or 'that goes without saying.’"

  “Oh, so you don’t trust me?"

  “As Captain of this Company I can’t afford to. Unless you can get the Company to recall me from office, my rulings stand. You’re under arrest. Hand over your gun.

  Benz glanced around, at blank, unfriendly faces. He reached for his waist, “With your left hand, Joe!"

  Instead of complying, Benz drew suddenly, backed away. “Keep clear!" he said shrilly. “I don’t want to hurt anybody — but keep clear!"

  Morgan was unarmed. There might have been a knife or two in the assembly, but most of them had come directly from the dinner table. It was not their custom to be armed inside the mine.

  Young Morrie was armed with a rifle, having come from lookout duty. He did not have room to bring it into play, but Morgan could see that he intended to try. So could Benz.

  “Stop it, Morrie!" Morgan assumed obedience and turned instantly to the others. “Let him go. Nobody move. Get going, Joe."

  “That’s better." Benz backed down the main tunnel, toward the main entrance, weed and drift choked for years. Its unused condition was their principal camouflage, but it could be negotiated.

  He backed away into the gloom, still covering them. The tunnel curved; shortly he was concealed by the bend.

  Dad Carter went scurrying in the other direction as soon as Benz no longer covered them. He reappeared at once, carrying something. “Heads down!" he shouted, as he passed through them and took out after Benz.

  “Dad!" shouted Morgan. But Carter was gone.

  Seconds later a concussion tore at their ears and noses.

  Morgan picked himself up and brushed at his clothes, saying in annoyed tones, “I never did like explosives in cramped quarters. Cleve — Art. Go check on it. Move!"

  “Right, boss!" They were gone.

  “The rest of you get ready to carry out withdrawal plan — full plan, with provisions and supplies. Jerry, don’t disconnect either the receiver or the line-of-sight till I give the word. Margie will help you. Cathleen, get ready to serve anything that can’t be carried. We’ll have one big meal. 'The condemned ate hearty.’"

  “Just a moment, Captain." McCracken touched his sleeve. “I had better get a message into Barclay."

  “Soon as the boys report. You better get back into town."

  “I wonder. Benz knows me. I think I’m here to stay."

  “Hm … well, you know best. How about your family?"


  McCracken shrugged. “They can’t be worse off than they would be if I’m picked up. I’d like to have them warned and then arrangements made for them to rejoin me if possible."

  “We’ll do it. You’ll have to give me a new contact."

  “Planned for. This message will go through and my number-two man will step into my shoes. The name is Hobart — runs a feed store on Pelham Street."

  Morgan nodded. “Should have known you had it worked out. Well, what we don’t know —" He was interrupted by Cleve, reporting.

  “He got away, Boss."

  “Why didn’t you go after him?"

  “Half the roof came down when Dad chucked the grenade. Tunnel’s choked with rock. Found a place where I could see but couldn’t crawl through. He’s not in the tunnel."

  “How about Dad?"

  “He’s all right. Got clipped on the head with a splinter but not really hurt."

  Morgan stopped two of the women hurrying past, intent on preparations for withdrawal. “Here — Jean, and you, Mrs. Bowen. Go take care of Dad Carter and tell Art to get back here fast. Shake a leg!"

  When Art reported Morgan said, “You and Cleve go out and find Benz. Assume that he is heading for Barclay. Stop him and bring him in if you can. Otherwise kill him. Art is in charge. Get going." He turned to McCracken. “Now for a message." He fumbled in his pocket for paper, found the poster notice that McCracken had given him, tore off a piece, and started to write. He showed it to McCracken. “How’s that?" he asked.

  The message warned Hobart of Benz and asked him to try to head him off. It did not tell him that the Barclay Free Company was moving but did designate the “post office" through which next contact would be expected — the men’s rest room of the bus station.

  “Better cut out the post office," McCracken advised. “Hobart knows it and we may contact him half a dozen other ways. But I’d like to ask him to get my family out of sight. Just tell him that we are sorry to hear that Aunt Dinah is dead."

  “Is that enough?"

  Yes.

  “Okay." Morgan made the changes, then called, “Margie! Put this in code and tell Jerry to get it out fast. Tell him it’s the strike-out edition. He can knock down his sets as soon as it’s out."

  “Okay, boss." Margie had no knowledge of cryptography. Instead she had command of jive talk, adolescent slang, and high school double-talk which would be meaningless to any but another American bobbysoxer. At the other end a fifteen-year-old interpreted her butchered English by methods which impressed her foster parents as being telepathy — but it worked.

  The fifteen-year-old could be trusted. Her entire family, save herself, had been in Los Angeles on Final Sunday.

  Art and Cleve had no trouble picking up Benz’s trail. His tracks were on the tailings spilling down from the main entrance to the mine. The earth and rock had been undisturbed since the last heavy rain; Benz’s flight left clear traces.

  But trail was cold by more than twenty minutes; they had left the mine by the secret entrance a quarter of a mile from where Benz had made his exit.

  Art picked it up where Benz had left the tailings and followed it through brush with the woodsmanship of the Eagle Scout he had been. From the careless signs he left behind Benz was evidently in a hurry and heading by the shortest route for the highway. The two followed him as fast as they could cover ground, discarding caution for speed.

  They checked just before entering the highway. “See anything?" asked Cleve.

  “Which way would he go?"

  “The Old Man said to head him off from Barclay."

  “Yeah, but suppose he headed south instead? He used to work in Wickamton. He might head that way."

  “The Boss said to cover Barclay. Let’s go."

  They had to cache their guns; from here on it would be their wits and their knives. An armed American on a highway would be as conspicuous as a nudist at a garden party.

  Their object now was speed; they must catch up with him, or get ahead of him and waylay him.

  Nine miles and two and a half hours later — one hundred and fifty minutes of dog trot, with time lost lying in the roadside brush when convoys thundered past — they were in the outskirts of Barclay. Around a bend, out of sight, was the roadblock of the Invaders’ check station. The point was a bottleneck; Benz must come this way if he were heading for Barclay.

  “Is he ahead or behind us?" asked Cleve, peering out through bushes.

  “Behind, unless he was picked up by a convoy — or sprouted wings. We’ll give him an hour."

  A horse-drawn hayrack lumbered up the road. Cleve studied it. Americans were permitted no power vehicles except under supervision, but this farmer and his load could go into town with only routine check at the road block. “Maybe we ought to hide in that and look for him in town."

  “And get a bayonet in your ribs? Don’t be silly."

  “Okay. Don’t blow your top." Cleve continued to watch the rig. “Hey," he said presently. “Get a load of that!"

  “That" was a figure which dropped from the tail of the wagon as it started around the bend, rolled to the ditch on the far side, and slithered out of sight.

  “That was Joe!"

  “Are you sure?"

  “Sure! Here we go."

  “How?" Art objected. “Take it easy. Follow me." They faded back two hundred yards, to where they could cross the road on hands and knees through a drainage pipe. Then they worked up the other side to where Benz had disappeared in weeds.

  They found the place where he had been; grass and weeds were still straightening up. The route he must have taken was evident — down toward the river bank, then upstream to the city. There were drops of blood. “Dad must have missed stopping him by a gnat’s whisker," Cleve commented.

  Bad job he didn t.

  “Another thing — he said he was going to give himself up. I don’t think he is, or he would have stayed with the wagon and turned himself in at the check station. He’s heading for some hideout. Who does he know in Barclay?"

  “I don’t know. We’d better get going."

  “Wait a minute. If he touches off an alarm, they’ll shoot him for us. If he gets by the 'eyes,’ we’ve lost him and we’ll have to pick him up inside. Either way, we don’t gain anything by blundering ahead. We’ve got to go in by the chute."

  Like all cities the Invader had consolidated, Barclay was girdled by electric-eye circuits. The enemy had trimmed the town to fit, dynamiting and burning where necessary to achieve unbroken sequence of automatic sentries. But the “chute"—an abandoned and forgotten aqueduct — passed under the alarms. Art knew how to use it; he had been in town twice since Final Sunday.

  They worked back up the highway, crossed over, and took to the hills. Thirty minutes later they were on the streets of Barclay, reasonably safe as long as they were quick to step off the sidewalk for the occasional Invader.

  The first “post office," a clothesline near their exit, told them nothing — the line was bare. They went to the bus station. Cleve studied the notices posted for inhabitants while Art went into the men’s rest room. On the wall, defaced by scrawlings of every sort, mostly vulgar, he found what he sought: “Killroy was here." The misspelling of Kilroy was the clue — exactly eighteen inches below it and six to the right was an address: “1745 Spruce — ask for Mabel."

  He read it as 2856 Pine — one block beyond Spruce. Art passed the address to Cleve, then they set out separately, hurrying to beat the curfew but proceeding with caution — at least one of them must get through. They met in the backyard of the translated address. Art knocked on the kitchen door. It was opened a crack by a middle-aged man who did not seem glad to see them. “Well?"

  “We’re looking for Mabel."

  “Nobody here by that name."

  “Sorry," said Art. “We must have made a mistake." He shivered. “Chilly out," he remarked. “The nights are getting longer."

  “They’ll get shorter by and by," the man answered.

  “
We’ve got to think so, anyhow," Art countered.

  “Come in," the man said. “The patrol may see you." He opened the door and stepped aside. “My name’s Hobart. What’s your business?"

  “We’re looking for a man named Benz. He may have sneaked into town this afternoon and found someplace to —"

  “Yes, yes," Hobart said impatiently. “He got in about an hour ago and he’s holed up with a character named Moyland." As he spoke he removed a half loaf of bread from a cupboard, cut four slices, and added cold sausage, producing two sandwiches. He did not ask if they were hungry; he simply handed them to Art and Cleve.

  “Thanks, pal. So he’s holed up. Haven’t you done anything about it? He has got to be shut up at once or he’ll spill his guts."

  “We’ve got a tap in on the telephone line. We had to wait for dark. You can’t expect me to sacrifice good boys just to shut his mouth unless it’s absolutely necessary.

  “Well, it’s dark now, and we’ll be the boys you mentioned. You can call yours off."

  “Okay." Hobart started pulling on shoes.

  “No need for you to stick your neck out," Art told him. “Just tell us where this Moyland lives."

  “And get your throat cut, too. I’ll take you."

  “What sort of a guy is this Moyland? Is he safe?"

  “You can’t prove it by me. He’s a black market broker, but that doesn’t prove anything. He’s not part of the organization but we haven’t anything against him."

  Hobart took them over his back fence, across a dark side street, through a playground, where they lay for several minutes under bushes because of a false alarm, then through many more backyards, back alleys, and dark byways. The man seemed to have a nose for the enemy; there were no more alarms. At last he brought them through a cellar door into a private home. They went upstairs and through a room where a woman was nursing a baby. She looked up, but otherwise ignored them. They ended up in a dark attic. “Hi, Jim," Hobart called out softly. “What’s new?"

  The man addressed lay propped on his elbows, peering out into the night through opera glasses held to slots of a ventilating louvre. He rolled over and lowered the glasses, pushing one of a pair of earphones from his head as he did so. “Hello, Chief. Nothing much. Benz is getting drunk, it looks like."