by John Brunner
She started.
“Think I’m crazy, Peg? I can read it on your face.” He leaned forward earnestly. “So do I, much of the time. And yet ... I can’t be sure. I think perhaps I may really be very sane. If you want me to spell out what’s happened to me, I’ll have to disappoint you. It can’t be described, and if it doesn’t show it isn’t true. It’s just that—well, somewhere under this bald ugly dome of mine there’s a sense of certainty. Knowledge. As though this sweaty summer shoveling garbage has taught me something no one else understands.” He drew a deep breath.
“Peg, I think I may be able to save the world. Do you believe me?”
She stared at him for a long while. “I—” she tried to say, and found the next word wouldn’t follow. She went on staring. Calm face. Level mouth. Those odd, unfamiliar halves of eyebrows. The glasses which—where had they been when she saw that lightning in his eyes? They had seemed to melt away, not be there at all, so she was looking direct into his soul.
Voicelessly, at last: “If anyone can, it must be you.”
“Fine.” He gave a grave smile and leaned back. “So where do I begin? I came to New York because it seemed logical. I thought maybe the Petronella Page show. If they’ll have me.”
“If they’ll have you?” Peg almost upset her glass. “Lord, they’d throw out Prexy himself to make a slot for Austin Train! Give you the whole hour without commercials!”
“Do you think so?” He blinked at her with surprising shyness. “I’ve been away so long, and—”
She banged the table with her fist. “Austin, for heaven’s sake! Don’t you realize you’re the most powerful man in the country right now? Whatever you think about the people who call themselves Trainites, they picked the name because you exist. Everyone’s on your side who can’t afford contract medical care for his kids—black, white, young, old! You’ve just crossed the States west to east. What do you see everywhere from Watts to Tomkins Square? The skull and crossbones, right? And the slogan, too—‘Stop, you’re killing me!’ They’re waiting for you, Austin! Waiting with their tongues hanging out!”
“I know!” His tone was almost a cry. “But I don’t want that!”
“You’ve got it,” she said ruthlessly. “What you do with it is up to you. I tell you this, though, and I mean it. I don’t know about saving the world, but I’m damned certain if you don’t speak up this country won’t get through the winter without civil war.”
There was a long cold silence. He punctuated it by uttering a single word: “Yes.”
And then let it resume.
Eventually, however, he seemed to reassemble himself from many far-distant places, and said in a casual voice, “You know something odd? I can’t remember the name of the guy who hit on that symbol.”
“What, the skull and crossbones? I thought you did.”
“No, it was the designer they assigned to my books at International Information. He had a little logo made of it and put it next to the number on every page. And I’ve forgotten his name. It isn’t fair. He ought to have the credit for it.”
“Maybe he’d rather not,” Peg said.
“In that case I sympathize,” Austin grunted, staring at the backs of his hands on the table. “I have this terrible feeling sometimes that I’ve stopped being myself. Do you understand that? I mean, I’ve been taken over—made over—into the patron saint of bombing, sabotage, arson, murder, God knows what. Maybe rape! If the skull and crossbones has a meaning, it’s a warning. Like the international radiation sign. Instead of that, it’s what everyone scrawls when they break a store-window in a fit of drunken rage, break into a bank vault, steal a car. It’s an excuse for anything.”
“So what’s new about that? It happened to the Suffragettes in England. Any petty criminal would write ‘Votes for Women’ as he left the scene. And people did it deliberately, too, to discredit the movement. Women’s Lib had a dose of the same medicine.”
“I guess you’re right.” Absently he was sketching the stylized form of the symbol on the table, using the liquid from the wet rings their glasses had left. There were no coasters. Trainites had branded them a waste of paper, like disposable towels, and this was one case where they’d made their opinion felt.
“Yes,” he went on, “but if something could be said to have driven me crazy, it’s knowing I’ve been converted into a person who doesn’t exist.”
“But you do exist.”
“I think so.”
“Then get up and prove it.” Peg checked her watch. “When do you want to be put on the Page show?”
“You really think you can fix it?”
“I keep telling you, honey! You’re past the point at which you have to fix that kind of thing! You just ask.”
“So let’s ask.” He drained his glass. “Where’s a phone?”
DIRECT HIT
Target: Grand Forks Missile Base, North Dakota.
Means: a psychotomimetic drug introduced into supposedly secure groceries delivered to the home of Major Eustace V. Barleyman, one of the officers responsible for the group of eleven Minutemen code-named “Five West Two.” He ingested it in a portion of stewed prunes while breakfasting alone after his tour of duty.
Effect: he nearly killed his son Henry, aged six, and his daughter Patricia, aged four.
Suspect: any Tupa sympathizer with access to the food.
The implications were serious.
Martial law took off like a forest fire.
THE GENUINE ARTICLE
“Christ, it’s going to pull the biggest audience in television history! The Wednesday after Labor Day, when everyone’s broke because of the holiday and staying home! We’ve got to lean on them!”
“Leaning on ABS is out of the question. Damn Prexy’s loud mouth! First time we ever had a president with all the news media gunning for him!”
“Then we’ll have to lean on Train. Ah—it is Train, is it? Not one of these stinking ringers?”
“Hell, yes, it all fits. We had a report from LA months ago that he was working on a garbage gang under the name of Smith, but he skipped and after that we got screwed up by the phonies. We had a check run on the prints he left on his beer-glass, though. He’s Train.”
“Any idea why he’s chosen now to come out of hiding?”
“Must be big, that’s all we know.”
“What would he regard as big enough?”
“Maybe something that would lead to Prexy being impeached?”
“Well, in that case— Ah, shit. You’re putting me on.”
“I don’t know if I am or not, I swear I don’t. But it’s definite that when ABS start their spot announcements, twenty or thirty million people will head for their TV sets at a run, wanting to be told what to do. Now I know what Germans must have felt like waiting to see how Hitler did in the elections.”
“I guess so. Well, he’ll just have to vanish, won’t he? Get on to Special Operations and—”
“He thought of that.”
“What?”
“He’s given ABS a tape to be broadcast if he doesn’t make the show. We can’t get at it; it’s in ABS’s safety-deposit at Manufacturers Hanover. And if he isn’t on the show, you can rely on Page to make maximum capital out of that.”
“He’s got us over a barrel, then.”
“Yes.”
INSUSCEPTIBLE OF RIGOROUS ANALYSIS
Justice: The inquiry established that there was no psychotomimetic drug in any sample of Nutripon held at the warehouse. It cannot have been this substance which caused the riot at the plant. That has been proven absolutely, even to the satisfaction of the UN.
Defense: On the other hand, analysis of the groceries at Major Barleyman’s home shows that such a drug had been introduced into several items. The characteristics correspond
PORTION OF TRANSCRIPT OMITTED
ACCESSIBLE ONLY TO PERSONNEL WITH
TRIPLE-A-STAR SECURITY CLEARANCE
found to cause unpredictable mental disturbances and ot
her unacceptable side effects. Consequently no studies of it have been conducted since 1963.
Intelligence: It’s relevant here that several informants have advised us of an alleged synthesis of the substance which the Tupas claim to have found in relief food at San Pablo, carried out in Havana on the basis of Duval’s work in Paris.
Health: Putting that together with the now definitely established fact that the timing and location of the first outbreaks of that crippling enteritis coincide with a journey made by a foreign national during the preceding couple of weeks, ostensibly for legitimate business purposes ...
Agriculture: And nobody can make me believe that these damned jigras acquired immunity to such a wide range of pesticides without help. Nor that a responsible and respected firm of importers could simply have overlooked the presence of the wrong kind of worm in so many of their consignments.
State: So it’s obvious that we don’t have to deal with the work of an isolated fanatic, like those fire-balloon raids on San Diego.
President: Yes, there’s only one possible conclusion. I’d appreciate at your earliest convenience your views on whether or not to make the matter public, but there can’t be any doubt any longer. The United States is under attack.
SEPTEMBER
MOTHER-RAPERS
... ’Mid fume and reek
That caused unmanly Tears to lave my cheek,
Black-vis’d as Moors from soil, and huge of thew,
The Founders led me ever onward through
Th’ intolerable Mirk. The furnace Spire
They broach’d, and came a sudden gout of Fire
That leach’d the precious Water from my corse
And strain’d my Vision with such awful force
It seem’d I oped my eyes to tropic Sun
Or lightning riving Midnight’s dismal dun,
Or stood amaz’d by mighty Hekla’s pit.
I marvel’d how Man, by his GOD-sent wit,
Thus tam’d the salamander Element
And loos’d the Metal in the mountain pent
To make us Saws, and Shears, and useful Plows,
Swords for our hands, and Helmets for our brows,
The surgeon’s Scalpel, vehicle of Health,
And all our humble Tools for gaining wealth ...
—“De Arte Munificente,” Seventeenth century
STANDSTILL
... unanimously ascribed to fear of Trainite atrocities by traffic experts across the nation. In many places the car-per-hour count was the lowest for thirty years. Those who did venture out this Labor Day often did not meet with the welcome they expected. In Bar Harbor, Maine, townsfolk formed vigilante patrols to turn away drivers of steam and electric cars, persons carrying health foods, and other suspected Trainites. Two fatalities are reported following clashes between tourists and residents. Two more occurred at Milford, Pennsylvania, when clients at a restaurant, angered at not obtaining items listed on the menu, fired it with gasoline bombs. The owner later claimed that supplies had been interrupted by food-truck hijackers. Commenting on the event by the shore of his private lake in Minnesota, Prexy said, quote, Any man has a right to his steak and potatoes, unquote. California: experts assessing mortar damage to the Bay Bridge ...
FRAUGHT
“We can’t go on,” Hugh said doggedly. “The scene’s too fraught. Christ, I been stopped and searched four times in two days.”
“And your ID didn’t stand up?” Ossie snapped.
“Shit, if it hadn’t would I be here? But for how much longer? No, Ossie, we have to let the kid go.”
“But his old man hasn’t come across!”
“That stinking mother never going to come across!” Carl snapped. “He has the Abraham complex in a big way.”
“And Hector is sick,” Kitty said. She was unusually sober. “Hardly ate anything for a week. And his shit—ugh! All stinky and wet. And he sweats rivers.”
The other two present were Chuck and Tab, the original co-conspirators. Ossie appealed to them.
“Hugh’s right,” Chuck said. He scratched his crotch absently; fleas and crabs were worse than ever around the Bay. Tab nodded agreement.
“We got to scatter if we turn him loose,” Ossie said after a pause. He was frowning, but he sounded as though he’d been expecting this decision for a good while.
“No skin,” Hugh said. “He’s seen us, sure, but he doesn’t know who any of us are. Except me, and that’s my problem.” Saying that made him feel heroic. He’d been rehearsing. “Ossie, he only knows you as ‘Austin Train,’ doesn’t he?”
“Did you see ABS found Train?” Kitty put in.
“Sure!”—in chorus from them all, and Ossie continued.
“And I tell you one thing straight! If that bastard doesn’t say what needs to be said, I’m going to walk clear to New York and tear him into little pieces. Unless someone beats me to it.”
“Yeah,” Hugh said, and reverted to the subject. “Well, the rest of us he knows by first names, but there are thousands of Hughs and Chucks and Tabs. And Kittys. Sorry about the pad, baby.”
She shrugged. “Nothing here I specially want. I can pack all my gear in the one bag.”
“But we can’t just like take him down to the street and let him go,” Tab said, worrying.
“When he’s asleep, we simply drift,” Hugh countered. “We leave the door unlocked. When he wants to, he walks out.”
“If he’s too sick?” Kitty said.
“Shit, he’s not going to die in twenty-four hours. Give ourselves that much start, then call the pigs to come look for him if he hasn’t made it on his own feet ... Ossie, what’re you doing?”
Ossie had taken a scratch-pad and a pen. Without looking up, he said, “Drafting the note we should leave behind. Got to make our point. Now we gave the kid the best food, like from Puritan, right? And regular water because there’s no don’t-drink notice in force. So if he fell sick it’s because of the filthy mothers who are screwing up the world, right?”
Nods.
“All because his old man loves money more than his son, right? Wouldn’t give water-purifiers to the poor.”
“Maybe he did them a favor,” Carl said.
“What?”
“Up in Colorado they’re all getting blocked with bacteria. It’s a scandal. Talking about suing the makers.”
“Won’t mention that,” Ossie said.
Darkness. But starred with the brilliant horrible images of nightmare. He was sick at his stomach. He was wet with perspiration. His penis hurt, his anus hurt, his belly hurt. He screamed for someone to come to him.
No one answered.
He fell off the bed when he tried to stand up, bruised his hip and his left elbow. Staggering to the door to hammer on it, he knocked against the chamber pot and splashed urine and liquid excrement over his feet.
Banging the door opened it. He was too giddy to realize what had happened and was all set to beat on it again. His fists struck air. He fell forward, crying and moaning. Beyond, a room with soiled mattresses covering the floor. Some light from a street lamp. The sky was dark. It was the first time in eternities that he’d seen the sky.
He shouted again, hoarsely, and the world swam. He had fever, he was sure of that. And ached. And there was a foulness inside his pants, fore and aft. Hell. This was hell. The world ought to be clean, sweet, pure!
Weaker and weaker, he hobbled moaning toward the front door of the apartment and found that open, too, giving on to stairs, and he fell down those two or three at a time. At the foot a filthy hallway where children certainly, adults maybe, had relieved themselves. Like paddling in a sewer. But he made it to the street door. Clawed himself up to reach the catch on it. There was a step beyond. He fell down that also, sprawled on hard sidewalk, screaming.
“I’m Hector Bamberley! Help me! There’s a reward! My father will give you a reward!”
But boys stoned or crazy were a common sight, and anyhow everyone knew that Roland Bamberley had dow
nright refused to offer a reward for his son, for fear the kidnappers might receive it. It was more than an hour before any of the rare passers-by took him seriously, and by then he had lapsed into delirium.
Besides, the air had deprived him of his voice within a few minutes, and then it was hard to make out what he was trying to say through the bouts of coughing and vomiting.
“Well, doctor?” Leaner than his older brother Jacob, dedicated to exercise and what outdoor life was nowadays possible because he was proud of his stringy, tough, Western-pioneer good looks, Roland Bamberley addressed the masked man emerging from the hospital ward.
The doctor, removing his mask, passed his hand wearily across his forehead. He said, “Well... !”
“Tell me!” Stern, like a patriarch secure in the knowledge that God approved of him.
“It’s a long list,” the doctor said, and sat down, taking a notepad from the pocket of his white coat. “He’s had a couple of lucid intervals, but much of the time he’s been —uh—rambling. Let’s see ... Oh, yes. Says he’s been well fed. Says the kidnappers gave him nothing but stuff from Puritan and kept complaining about how expensive it was. He’s had regular breakfast, lunch and supper. But he had to drink tap-water. Straight tap-water.”
“And?” No emotion discernible.
“He has hepatitis. Acute. He’s running a high fever, about one-oh-one point eight. Also he has violent diarrhea, enteritis or dysentery I imagine, though I’ll have to wait for a stool culture on that. Those are the most important things.”
“What about the rest?”
It was an order. The doctor sighed and licked his lips. “Well ... A skin complaint. Minor. Impetigo. It’s endemic in the slums around here. One of his eyes is a bit inflamed, probably conjunctivitis. That’s endemic, too. And his tongue is patched and swollen—looks like moniliasis. Fungus complaint. What they call thrush. And of course he had body-lice and fleas.”
