“Have you a solution to offer, then, for the coming generations?” asked Mr. Burgess.
Dr. Healy considered intently. “In a way, yes. Of course,” and he mouthed the word with distaste, “there is always religion, or superstition, as we call it. It has a very useful purpose. It numbs man’s natural fear of his environment and his fellowman, and sublimates his dependence on the objective world to the subjective. That, strange to say—and it’s always been a mystery to some of us—brings peace and courage and fortitude to millions. So, for one thing, we should cultivate religion as strenuously as possible in the lives of the masses, not to debase them”—and he cleared his throat sheepishly—“but, I must admit, to strengthen them and give them a sense of personal dignity and value.”
“I see,” said Durant, thoughtfully. “And it’s very clear now why evil men bent on enslaving their fellows destroy or weaken religion first. It’s very necessary, for these men, to eliminate a ‘sense of personal dignity and value’ in the people, because men of dignity and value will never become slaves.”
“You see,” went on the doctor warmly, “when a nation threatens another nation the people of the latter forget their factionalism, their local antagonisms, their political differences, their suspicions of each other, their religious hostilities, and band together as one unit. Leaders know that, and that is why so many of them whip up wars during periods of national crisis, or when the people become discontented and angry. The leaders stigmatize the enemy with every vice they can think of, every evil and human depravity. They stimulate their people’s natural fear of all other men by channeling it into a defined fear of just certain men, or nations. Attacking another nation, then, acts as a sort of catharsis, temporarily, on men’s fear of their immediate neighbors. This is the explanation of all wars, all racial and religious hatreds, all massacres, and all attempts at genocide.”
“In short,” said Mr. Regis, “we must stimulate man’s natural formless fear of his fellows by showing him that his fellowman will enslave him if he possibly can. Not the men of other nations, but his immediate neighbor. Every man, then, will be a vigilante for freedom. I can see that you were never an idealist.”
Dr. Healy hesitated. But his excitement over his own ideas made him say quickly and positively: “There are never really any idealists, Mr. Regis. There are people who hate narrowly and murderously. They never hate ideas, in spite of what sentimentalists might believe. They hate definite groups of people, the successful, the proud, the independent, the strong. Scratch an idealist, and you’ll find a desperately inadequate man consumed by envy. You’ll also find that he has a very dominant characteristic: he is an egotist who believes that the world has not given him the honors he deserves, and that the world is deliberately, and malevolently, determined that he shall never be honored. So, for the purpose of hatred, he settles on some group in society who he is convinced is frustrating him, and despising him. I think that explains why certain personalities find absolutism or Communism or any kind of authoritarianism the answer to their inner conflicts. By embracing such ideas, these ‘idealists’ see a way by which they can revenge themselves on those they envy, who are ‘frustrating’ them. However, to accept this realistic explanation of their burning desire to ‘improve’ what they call ‘conditions,’ would further lacerate their egoes. It would be unbearable. So they explain to themselves, and very loudly to others, that they are moved by the prevailing ‘injustice’ of society in general against what the idealist calls ‘groups,’ or any other sharply defined segments of the population. The fact that they are eager and willing to use violence or aggression against the people they subconsciously envy is a dead giveaway.”
Mr. Regis said gently: “You see why, Doctor, we called you a realist. And why you’ll be so invaluable to us. Of course, the real credit for your discovery goes to Colonel Curtiss.”
Durant, the incurable sentimentalist, said surlily: “Don’t congratulate me. I’m not sure I like these realists. The good doctor served the State very ably, realist though he is. I don’t like these people who can be bought, and be enthusiastic for anyone who buys them. There has to be some honor.”
“There never was, really,” replied Dr. Healy, who was smiling. “But some things are less dishonorable than others. Everything is relative, Colonel. Besides, I had to make a living, didn’t I? But don’t misunderstand me. I didn’t make this State; I found myself in it. As a realist, and a psychiatrist, I had to accept my environment. A better environment, for everybody, will not displease me.”
The black and white countryside flashed by, and the men in the car were silent. The farmhouses they passed had a curious air of abandonment. A moon, like a skull, peered from the sky. The cavalcade of cars gathered speed, accompanied by the Picked Guard on their motorcycles.
Now they turned in on the road which led to the Chief Magistrate’s country residence. Mr. Regis said musingly: “I suppose it could all be refined down to this: we must teach the people to fear and hate slavery more than they fear and hate freedom, and responsibility. Man must come of age, or man must die.”
But Dr. Healy was not listening. If he had any remaining doubts as to the magnitude of what was taking place in the nation tonight, he lost them now. For the road to the great country house of the Chief Magistrate was lined with hundreds of somber-faced soldiers with rifles ready. Detachments of Picked Guards stood in front of them, guns in hand. The landscape blazed with such enormous lights that full noon could not have been more revealing. They obliterated shadows, and the winter trees stood starkly on the white parklike land, which had an unearthly brilliance. Soldiers patrolled across it in a solid line, tramping through the snow, the skirts of their coats whipped behind them by the strong wind. The fierce and wolflike dogs Durant too well remembered raced beside them, watching everything with their phosphorescent and savage eyes.
As the cars approached nearer and nearer to the house, Durant saw that the ranks of the soldiers became more and more massive. There must have been thousands of these patrolling young men. They circled the house; they covered the snowy ground. Their rifles bristled like thickets. Durant was startled and amazed. Who had given orders that these soldiers be gathered here? As the commanding officer of this Section it was his duty, and his, alone, to direct the troops.
Then he knew. It was by order of the Chief Magistrate, who wished to guard his friends in the coming days of upheaval. These were soldiers he could trust; these were the Picked Guards he could trust. The Armed Forces, then, were also in revolt.
The house was as lofty and elegant as Durant remembered. Fires danced in every room, reflected themselves on the diamond-paned windows. The large bedrooms were warm, prepared for occupation. So, thought Durant, we are to remain here for a short, indefinite time. His own bedroom contained three beds, and he was informed by a man servant that this was so two of his Picked Guards would always be with him.
“Well, boys,” said Durant to Sadler and young Griffis, “it seems that we’re to have a little luxury, for a time at least.” He was filled with high excitement and some apprehension. He told himself that a man in his position should be all sternness and preoccupation and heroism. It was somewhat deflating to admit that he was also considerably frightened. He reassured himself with the thought that this was infinitely better than waiting for the coming terror in the vulnerable precincts of the Lincoln farm. He went to the windows to satisfy himself again that the grounds were indeed swarming with soldiers.
Young Tom Griffis’ eyes glistened with completely joyous anticipation. He sat on one of the beds and bounced happily. Even Sadler’s moroseness lessened. He said: “It’s going to be a relief not to have to carry a gun in my hand every minute. I know some of the fellows down there, sir. I know who and what they are. You can even look out of the windows, Colonel, without expecting a shot.” However, he pulled the curtains across the windows, for the lights outside, so blinding, so stunning in their wide intensity, penetrated into the room.
There was a quick knock on the white paneled door, and instinctively Sadler and Griffis put their hands on their guns. Then, laughing, Tom opened the door. A captain of the Picked Guard stood there, and Tom and Sadler saluted. “I have a message for the colonel,” said the captain, and advanced into the room. Durant turned idly, then stiffened. For the captain was Bob Lincoln, hard-faced, black eyes cold and bitter, body strong and upright in his uniform.
Durant’s hand fell on his gun, and he half withdrew it. Young Lincoln ignored the gesture. He saluted ceremoniously. “I have a confidential message for the colonel,” he said.
“No!” cried Durant. “What the hell are you doing here, Lincoln?” He began to splutter in his anger and fright. He turned to Sadler and young Griffis, his blood ringing in his ears. “This is Bob Lincoln, son of our involuntary host, John Lincoln. I—I—arrest him at once, Sadler! He must be a spy, he must be—”
Sadler answered: “I know all about Captain Lincoln, sir. He isn’t a spy. He was appointed captain of the Picked Guards by the Chief Magistrate, himself.”
Captain Lincoln regarded Durant with a saturine smile. “Sorry, sir, that you didn’t know.”
Durant’s fear and rage increased. He felt trapped. He could think of nothing to do but shout. He opened his mouth, but he had lost his voice. He would be murdered in this room! He recalled his doubts of Sadler, of all of them. If the Minute Men were desperate, then the others were desperate, too, and would stop at nothing. His wet hand fumbled for his gun, and withdrew it. He croaked: “I’m going to kill you, Lincoln. I know what you are.”
The captain did not move. The saturnine quality of his smile lessened; it became amused and a little sad.
“I can only stay a few minutes, Colonel,” he said. “If the colonel kills me he’ll have to answer for it to the Chief Magistrate, and to Mr. Regis. I beg the colonel to listen to me.”
Durant pointed the gun at Lincoln’s belly. He backed away from Sadler and Griffis, who were frowning and alarmed.
Lincoln’s mouth compressed itself impatiently. “I must speak to the colonel in private,” he said. “The colonel may take my gun, if he wishes, if he doesn’t trust me.” He waited. Durant had reached a wall; his dark face was livid, and his gun remained pointed steadily at the captain.
“I overheard you and Grandon plotting together last spring,” he said. Helplessness flooded him, and he put his hand on the trigger of his gun. If he died, at least another would die with him. His old claustrophobia clutched at his throat. “I know what you are. How you deceived the Chief Magistrate, I don’t know, but you aren’t deceiving me, Lincoln.”
“But the colonel is deceiving himself,” replied Lincoln, who had paled. He spoke earnestly. “I have been a Minute Man for at least three years. In spite of my father. Or, I should say, because of my father.” He watched Durant apprehensively, then lifted his hand and made the signals of the Minute Men. Durant laughed a little, hysterically.
“Easy to come by.” He glanced at young Griffis. “Go down at once and inform Mr. Regis that I have a spy here.” He had no hope, now, that Tom would obey, but the boy, after an apologetic look at Lincoln, began to move toward the door. Lincoln watched him go, and shrugged. “It’s foolish to warn Mr. Regis. He knows all about me. I’ve been one of his personal Guards for months, in Washington.”
Tom Griffis paused at the door, and looked at Durant. The wildest thoughts were rushing through Durant’s mind, incredulous and fantastic thoughts. But he said, as harshly as possible: “Wait, Tom. Let this man talk. What about you and Grandon, Lincoln?”
Lincoln was visibly relieved. He said quietly: “Grandon joined the Army for the reason you did, Colonel. But he’s not a Minute Man. He was doing this by himself. Grandon, sir, is not Grandon. He is the nephew of Mr. Burgess. What their real name is, I don’t know.”
Durant suddenly remembered Grandon’s fainting fit at the Stadium. He, himself, began to feel dazed, and the gun sagged in his hand.
“Grandon didn’t know who Mr. Burgess was, until he saw him today,” Lincoln was going on. “I understand it was a bad minute or two, according to Grandon, with whom I’ve just talked.” He smiled. “Grandon’s an impulsive feller. Colonel, what did you hear Grandon and me talking about last spring?”
“You were talking of me,” said Durant. He straightened the gun again and his eyes raged at Lincoln. “I was a ‘plotter,’ you said. You had an idea I was a ‘spy.’ You said that the time would come when you’d kill me, for you suspected that I wasn’t what I was supposed to be.”
Lincoln concentrated on this. He scowled. He thought for a few moments. Then he said: “The colonel was mistaken. We weren’t talking about you, sir. We were talking about one of your executive officers.”
“Grandon tried to poison me and my guards,” said Durant, with disbelief.
Lincoln smiled for the first time. “I know he did. He told me. You see, Colonel, we all have had to work in isolated cells, and it was rare when any of us recognized another. But the colonel knows this. Grandon and I, until today, had no idea of what you really were. We thought you were what you appeared to be, a military man, and so our enemy. We discussed you once or twice, but not where you heard us first. You were marked off to be killed, by one of us, when this day came. It was a shock to us when we were told of your real identity. Grandon guessed it in the Stadium today, and he was terrified when he remembered he tried to kill you.”
Durant pondered this in growing bewilderment. He scratched his left ear with his left index finger. Sadler and Griffis were smiling.
Lincoln went on: “I found Gracie, Colonel. She told me about you, and that night. I told Grandon today, and he’s very happy about it. I began to suspect who you really were after I found Gracie. By that time, I was a lieutenant in the Picked Guard. The poor girl was working under an assumed name in a factory. She didn’t like it,” added Lincoln, laughing a little.
Durant was not convinced. He said: “If you showed me a mountain of credentials, Lincoln, I wouldn’t believe you. I remember the way you looked at me, on your father’s farm.”
“I thought you were just a military man, and not what you really are,” repeated Lincoln, with impatience. “I didn’t care what you did to my father. I’ve always despised him. I hated you for what you appeared to be, that’s all. Colonel, I’m here now for just one purpose. Two of your men are FBHS spies. They know all about you; they know all about everything. They’re fanatics. They’re planning on killing you almost immediately, even though they know they’ll be killed, themselves, for it. They know they’ve lost. That won’t stop them, though, from doing as much damage, themselves, before they’re shot. The colonel knows all about the zealots.”
“You mean two of my men, who are in this house, are FBHS men?” cried Durant incredulously.
“Yes,” said Lincoln. “And we’ve got to find out who they are immediately. Even here, Colonel, your life is in danger. We can’t risk it; the Chief Magistrate is holding me responsible for your survival.” He eyed Durant gravely. “Grandon, we know, is not your enemy. But two of the other three men, Bishop, Edwards and Keiser, are spies. They’re authentic military men, in the bargain.” He swung toward Sadler and Griffis so abruptly that Durant, in his agitation, almost pulled the trigger of his gun. “Well?” demanded Lincoln. “Have you taken care of things?”
Griffis saluted. He said: “Yes, Captain. They’ve all had blank cartridges in their guns the last few days.”
“Good,” said Lincoln. He went to the door and one of the Picked Guards on sentry duty there saluted. “Go and find the executive officers of Colonel Curtiss, and Sergeant Keiser, and tell them that the colonel invites them for a drink in his room,” he commanded. He shut the door, and ignoring the trembling gun in Durant’s hand, he went to the big wardrobes and closets and examined them. He beckoned to Sadler and Griffis. “We can hide in these,” he said.
“Wait a minute!” exclaimed Durant. “You mean I’m to face them alone? What if one or two
of them really have bullets in their guns? God damn it, I don’t want to be shot!”
Lincoln hesitated, his hand on the door of a closet. “I think we can be almost sure they don’t have real bullets. However, Colonel, it’s a chance we must take. We can’t have those men here, in this house. We can’t let them loose, either. We believe that at least fifty percent of the Army is with us. However, there are the others. We can’t overthrow The Democracy without some bloodshed, you know.” He motioned to Sadler and Griffis to hide themselves in one of the closets.
Durant had had considerable to absorb today, and this was too much for him. He could believe nothing; he could believe everything. The one grim salient fact remained, however. It was apparent that someone was going to try to kill him. The idea appalled him, and he was almost overwhelmed. This is the time I should be brave and bold, or something, he told himself. Well, I’m not. I think I’m going to be sick.
Despairingly, he saw a closet door shut on Lincoln. He looked at his gun. Should he hold it, or not? If what Lincoln had told him was true, it was his duty to be very subtle indeed, and lead the spies to betray themselves, not only for his own sake but for the sake of his friends. I’m as subtle as a sore toe, he thought. Again, he had an impulse to shout frantically, to bring anybody, no matter what happened. He swallowed hard several times in a miserable attempt to lessen his panic. I’m trapped, anyway, he said to himself. There’s no way of escaping. He heard soft music coming from downstairs. He was due to join the others in less than fifteen minutes. The music mocked him. In a few moments he would probably be dead, here, in this pleasant bedroom, here with thousands of soldiers and Picked Guards all about him, here with his friends about to go downstairs to eat a fine dinner in celebration of the day of deliverance! Mr. Regis, who was to be President, who might be killed unless the spies were discovered—He, himself, was expendable, it seemed.
The Devil's Advocate Page 44
