“I’d like to know where Moyland gets it," Hobart said. “Has he telephoned?"
“Would I be doing nothing if he had? A couple of calls came in, but they didn’t amount to anything, so I let him talk."
How do you know they didn’t amount to anything?" Jim shrugged, turned back to the louvre. “Moyland just pulled down the shade," he announced.
Art turned to Hobart. “We can’t wait. We’re going
Benz arrived at Moyland’s house in bad condition. The wound in his shoulder, caused by Carter’s grenade, was bleeding. He had pushed a handkerchief up against it as a compress, but his activity started the blood again; he was shaking for fear his condition would attract attention before he could get under cover.
Moyland answered the door. “Is that you, Zack?" Benz demanded, shrinking back as he spoke.
“Yes. Who is it?"
“It’s me — Joe Benz. Let me in, Zack — quick!"
Moyland seemed about to close the door, then suddenly opened it. “Get inside." When the door was bolted, he demanded, “Now — what’s your trouble? Why come to me?"
“I had to go someplace, Zack. I had to get off the street. They’d pick me up."
Moyland studied him. “You’re not registered. Why not?"
Benz did not answer. Moyland waited, then went on, “You know what I can get for harboring a fugitive. You’re in the Underground — aren’t you?"
“Oh, no, Zack! I wouldn’t do that to you. I’m just a — a straggler. I gotta get registered, Zack."
“That’s blood on your coat. How?"
“Uh … just an accident. Maybe you could let me have clean rags and some iodine."
Moyland stared at him, his bland face expressionless, then smiled. “You’ve got no troubles we can’t fix. Sit down." He stepped to a cabinet and took out a bottle of bourbon, poured three fingers in a water glass, and handed it to Benz. “Work on that and I’ll fix you up.
He returned with some torn toweling and a bottle. “Sit here with your back to the window, and open your shirt. Have another drink. You’ll need it before I’m through."
Benz glanced nervously at the window. “Why don’t you draw the shade?"
“It would attract attention. Honest people leave their shades up these days. Hold still. This is going to hurt."
Three drinks later Benz was feeling better. Moyland seemed willing to sit and drink with him and to soothe his nerves. “You did well to come in," Moyland told him. “There’s no sense hiding like a scared rabbit. It’s just butting your head against a stone wall. Stupid."
Benz nodded. “That’s what I told them."
“Told who?"
“Hunh? Oh, nobody. Just some guys I was talking to. Tramps."
Moyland poured him another drink. “As a matter of fact you were in the Underground."
“Me? Don’t be silly, Zack."
“Look, Joe, you don’t have to kid me. I’m your friend. Even if you did tell me it wouldn’t matter. In the first place, I wouldn’t have any proof. In the second place, I’m sympathetic to the Underground — any American is. I just think they’re wrong-headed and foolish. Otherwise I’d join 'em myself."
“They’re foolish all right! You can say that again."
“So you were in it?"
“Huh? You’re trying to trap me. I gave my word of honor —"
“Oh, relax!" Moyland said hastily. “Forget it. I didn’t hear anything; I can’t tell anything. Hear no evil, see no evil — that’s me." He changed the subject.
The level of the bottle dropped while Moyland explained current events as he saw them. “It’s a shame we had to take such a shellacking to learn our lesson but the fact of the matter is, we were standing in the way of the natural logic of progress. There was a time back in '45 when we could have pulled the same stunt ourselves, only we weren’t bright enough to do it. World organization, world government. We stood in the way, so we got smeared. It had to come. A smart man can see that."
Benz was bleary but he did not find this comment easy to take. “Look, Zack — you don’t mean you like what happened to us?"
“Like it? Of course not. But it was necessary. You don’t have to like having a tooth pulled — but it has to be done. Anyhow," he went on, “it’s not all bad. The big cities were economically unsound anyway. We should have blown them up ourselves. Slum clearance, you might call it."
Benz banged his empty glass down. “Maybe so — but they made slaves out of us!"
“Take it easy, Joe," Moyland said, filling his glass, “you’re talking abstractions. The cop on the corner could push you around whenever he wanted to. Is that freedom? Does it matter whether the cop talks with an Irish accent or some other accent? No, chum, there’s a lot of guff talked about freedom. No man is free. There is no such thing as freedom. There are only various privileges. Free speech — we’re talking freely now, aren’t we? After all, you don’t want to get up on a platform and shoot off your face. Free press? When did you ever own a newspaper? Don’t be a chump. Now that you’ve shown sense and come in, you are going to find that things aren’t so very different. A little more orderly and no more fear of war, that’s all. Girls make love just like they used to, the smart guys get along, and the suckers still get the short end of the deal."
Benz nodded. “You’re right, Zack. I’ve been a fool."
“I’m glad you see it. Now take those wild men you were with. What freedom have they got? Freedom to starve, freedom to sleep on the cold ground, freedom to be hunted."
“That was it," Benz agreed. “Did you ever sleep in a mine, Zack? Cold. That ain’t half of it. Damp, too."
“I can imagine," Moyland agreed. “The Capehart Lode always was wet."
“It wasn’t the Capehart; it was the Harkn —" He caught himself and looked puzzled.
“The Harkness, eh? That’s the headquarters?"
“I didn’t say that! You’re putting words in my mouth! You —"
“Calm yourself, Joe. Forget it.“Moyland got up and drew down the shade. “You didn’t say anything."
“Of course I didn’t." Benz stared at his glass. “Say, Zack, where do I sleep? I don’t feel good."
“You’ll have a nice place to sleep any minute now."
“Huh? Well, show me. I gotta fold up."
“Any minute. You’ve got to check in first."
“Huh? Oh, I can’t do that tonight, Zack. I’m in no shape."
“I’m afraid you’ll have to. See me pull that shade down? They’ll be along any moment."
Benz stood up, swaying a little. “You framed me!" he yelled, and lunged at his host.
Moyland sidestepped, put a hand on his shoulder
and pushed him down into the chair. “Sit down, sucker," he said pleasantly. “You don’t expect me to get A-bombed just for you and your pals, do you?"
Benz shook his head, then began to sob.
Hobart escorted them out of the house, saying to Art as they left, “If you get back, tell McCracken that Aunt Dinah is resting peacefully."
“Okay."
“Give us two minutes, then go in. Good luck."
Cleve took the outside; Art went in. The back door was locked, but the upper panel was glass. He broke it with the hilt of his knife, reached in and unbolted the door. He was inside when Moyland showed up to investigate the noise.
Art kicked him in the belly, then let him have the point in the neck as he went down. Art stopped just long enough to insure that Moyland would stay dead, then went looking for the room where Benz had been when the shade was drawn.
He found Benz in it. The man blinked his eyes and tried to focus them, as if he found it impossible to believe what he saw. “Art!" he got out at last. “Jeez, boy! Am I glad to see you! Let’s get out of here — this place is 'hot.’
Art advanced, knife out.
Benz looked amazed. “Hey, Art! Art! You’re making a mistake. Art. You can’t do this —" Art let him have the first one in the soft tissues under the breast bone, then c
ut his throat to be sure. After that he got out quickly.
Thirty-five minutes later he was emerging from the country end of the chute. His throat was burning from exertion and his left arm was useless — he could not tell whether it was broken or simply wounded.
Cleve lay dead in the alley behind Moyland’s house, having done a good job of covering Art’s rear.
It took Art all night and part of the next morning to get back near the mine. He had to go through the hills the entire way; the highway was, he judged, too warm at the moment.
He did not expect that the Company would still be there. He was reasonably sure that Morgan would have carried out the evacuation pending certain evidence that Benz’s mouth had been shut. He hurried.
But he did not expect what he did find — a helicopter hovering over the neighborhood of the mine.
He stopped to consider the matter. If Morgan had got them out safely, he knew where to rejoin. If they were still inside, he had to figure out some way to help them. The futility of his position depressed him — one man, with a knife and a bad arm, against a helicopter.
Somewhere a bluejay screamed and cursed. Without much hope he chirped his own identification. The bluejay shut up and a mockingbird answered him — Ted.
Art signaled that he would wait where he was. He considered himself well hidden; he expected to have to signal again when Ted got closer, but he underestimated Ted’s ability. A hand was laid on his shoulder.
He rolled over, knife out, and hurt his shoulder as he did so. “Ted! Man, do you look good to me!"
“Same here. Did you get him?"
“Benz? Yes, but maybe not in time. Where’s the gang?"
“A quarter mile north of back door. We’re pinned down. Where’s Cleve?"
“Cleve’s not coming back. What do you mean 'pinned down’?"
“That damned 'copter can see right down the draw we’re in. Dad’s got 'em under an overhang and they’re safe enough for the moment, but we can’t move."
“What do you mean 'Dad’s got 'em’?" demanded Art. “Where’s the Boss?"
“He ain’t in such good shape, Art. Got a machine gun slug in the ribs. We had a dust up. Cathleen’s dead."
“The hell you say!"
“That’s right. Margie and Maw Carter have got her baby. But that’s one reason why we"re pinned down — the Boss and the kid, I mean."
A mockingbird’s call sounded far away. “There’s Dad," Ted announced. “We got to get back."
“Can we?"
“Sure. Just keep behind me. I’ll watch out that I don’t get too far ahead."
Art followed Ted in, by a circuitous and, at one point, almost perpendicular route. He found the Company huddled under a shelf of rock which had been undercut by a stream, now dry. Against the wall Morgan was on his back, with Dad Carter and Dr. McCracken squatting beside him. Art went up and made his report.
Morgan nodded, his face gray with pain. His shirt had been cut away; bandaging was wrapped around his ribs, covering a thick pad. “You did well, Art. Too bad about Cleve. Ted, we’re getting out of here and you’re going first, because you’re taking the kid."
“The baby? How —"
“Doc’ll dope it so that it won’t let out a peep. Then you strap it to your back, papoose fashion."
Ted thought about it. “No, to my front. There’s some knee-and-shoulder work on the best way out."
“Okay. It’s your job."
“How do you get out, boss?"
“Don’t be silly."
“Look here, boss, if you think we’re going to walk off and leave you, you’ve got another —"
“Shut up and scram!" The exertion hurt Morgan; he coughed and wiped his mouth.
“Yes, sir." Ted and Art backed away.
“Now, Ed —" said Carter.
“You shut up, too. You still sure you don’t want to be Captain?"
“You know better than that, Ed. They took things from me while I was your deppity, but they wouldn’t have me for Captain."
“That puts it up to you, Doc."
McCracken looked troubled. “They don’t know me that well, Captain."
“They’ll take you. People have an instinct for such things."
“Anyhow, if I am Captain, I won’t agree to your plan of staying here by yourself. We’ll stay till dark and carry you out."
“And get picked up by an infrared spotter, like sitting ducks? That’s supposing they let you alone until sundown — that other 'copter will be back with more troops before long."
“I don’t think they’d let me walk off on you."
“It’s up to you to make them. Oh, I appreciate your kindly thoughts, Doc, but you’ll think differently as soon as you’re Captain. You’ll know you have to cut your losses."
McCracken did not answer. Morgan turned his head to Carter. “Gather them around, Dad."
They crowded in, shoulder to shoulder. Morgan looked from one troubled face to another and smiled. “The Barclay Free Company, a provisional unit of the United States of America, is now in session," he announced, his voice suddenly firm. “I’m resigning the captaincy for reasons of physical disability. Any nommat ions?"
The silence was disturbed only by calls of birds, the sounds of insects.
Morgan caught Carter’s eyes. Dad cleared his throat. “I nominate Doc McCracken."
“Any other nominations?" He waited, then continued, “All right, all in favor of Doc make it known by raising your right hand. Okay — opposed the same sign. Dr. McCracken is unanimously elected. It’s all yours, Captain. Good luck to you."
McCracken stood up, stooping to avoid the rock overhead. “We’re evacuating at once. Mrs. Carter, give the baby about another tablespoon of the syrup, then help Ted. He knows what to do. You’ll follow Ted.
Then Jerry. Margie, you are next. I’ll assign the others presently. Once out of the canyon, spread out and go it alone. Rendezvous at dusk, same place as under Captain Morgan’s withdrawal plan — the cave." He paused. Morgan caught his eye and motioned him over, “That’s all until Ted and the baby are ready to leave. Now back away and give Captain Morgan a little air."
When they had withdrawn McCracken leaned over Morgan the better to hear his weak words. “Don’t be too sure you’ve seen the last of me, Captain. I might join up in a few days."
“You might at that. I’m going to leave you bundled up warm and plenty of water within reach. I’ll leave you some pills, too — that’ll give you some comfort and ease. Only half a pill for you — they’re intended for cows." He grinned at his patient.
“Half a pill it is. Why not let Dad handle the evacuation? He’ll make you a good deputy — and I’d like to talk with you until you leave."
“Right." He called Carter over, instructed him, and turned back to Morgan.
“After you join up with Powell’s outfit," whispered Morgan, “your first job is to get into touch with Brockman. Better get Mrs. Carter started right away, once you’ve talked it over with Powell."
"I will."
“That’s the most important thing we’ve got to worry about, Doc. We’ve got to have unity, and one plan, from coast to coast. I look forward to a day when there will be an American assigned, by name, to each and every one of them. Then at a set time — zzzt!" He drew a thumb across his throat.
McCracken nodded. “Could be. It will be. How long do you think it will take us?"
“I don’t know. I don’t think about 'how long’. Two years, five years, ten years — maybe a century. That’s not the point. The only question is whether or not there are any guts left in America." He glanced out where the fifth person to leave was awaiting a signal from Carter, who in turn was awaiting a signal from Art, hidden out where he could watch for the helicopter. “Those people will stick."
“I’m sure of that."
Presently Morgan added, “There’s one thing this has taught me: You can’t enslave a free man. Only person can do that to a man is himself. No, sir — you can’t enslave
a free man. The most you can do is kill him."
“That’s a fact, Ed."
“It is. Got a cigarette, Doc?"
“It won’t do you any good, Ed."
“It won’t do me any harm, either — now, will it?"
“Well, not much." McCracken unregretfully gave him his last and watched him smoke it.
Later, Morgan said, “Dad’s ready for you, Captain. So long."
“So long. Don’t forget. Half a pill at a time. Drink all the water you want, but don’t take your blankets off, no matter how hot you get."
“Half a pill it is. Good luck."
“I’ll have Ted check on you tomorrow." Morgan shook his head. “That’s too soon. Not for a couple of days at least."
McCracken smiled. “I’ll decide that, Ed. You just keep yourself wrapped up. Good luck." He withdrew to where Carter waited for him. “You go ahead, Dad. I’ll bring up the rear. Signal Art to start."
Carter hesitated. “Tell me straight, Doc. What kind of shape is he in?"
McCracken studied Carter’s face, then said in a low voice, “I give him about two hours."
“I’ll stay behind with him."
“No, Dad, you’ll carry out your orders." Seeing the distress in the old man’s eyes, he added, “Don’t you worry about Morgan. A free man can take care of himself. Now get moving."
“Yes, sir."
On The Slopes Of Vesuvius
Written 1947; first appeared in Expanded Universe, 1980
“Paddy, shake hands with the guy who built the atom bomb," Professor Warner said to the bartender. “He and Einstein rigged it up in their own kitchen one evening."
“With the help of about four hundred other guys," amended the stranger, raising his voice slightly to cut through the rumble of the subway.
“Don’t quibble over details. Paddy, this is Doctor Mansfield. Jerry, meet Paddy — Say, Paddy, what is your last name?"
“Francis X. Hughes," answered the barkeep as he wiped his hand and stuck it out. “I’m pleased to meet any friend of Professor Warner."
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Hughes."
Off The Main Sequence Page 57
