One

by David Karp

  “You think Hughes was risking your friendship by telling you the truth about yourself?” Lark asked, feeling that at any moment Cumbers would say it, name the heresy. For it was heresy. He knew it in his bones. Hughes had uttered his first heresy and it would be his last. Wright, who was now leaning forward in his chair, his hands clutching its arms, his face tense and drawn, knew it, too.

  “Well, sure he was,” Cumbers said. “After all, people are always asking us for advice and for the truth but you and I know damn well that’s not what they want. They want to be told that they’re right and a set of pretty lies that’ll make them feel right. But Hughes wasn’t going to do that because he knew that if he lied to me he’d be betraying our friendship.” Cumbers stopped and colored faintly, as if he had inadvertently admitted something shameful or embarrassing.

  “Go on, Mr. Cumbers,” Lark said softly, feeling numb now. Nothing would stop Cumbers now. The avalanche was still out of sight and out of hearing. But there was an uneasiness in the air, a certain terrible silence, and the smell of loose rock dust hanging about him.

  “Well, he went on to say that I was the sort of person who had to join things, to feel that I belonged even if I had to give up being Cumbers—the Cumbers I’ve always been. It hasn’t been a happy thing being Cumbers, sir. I told Hughes that. He said he understood. He said it isn’t happy being a hollow person because when you’re just yourself, outside of everything else, it’s lonely and frightening. He gave me the feeling that he wouldn’t blame me if I joined the Church of State. But I couldn’t decide. I asked him if he would and he said no, he wouldn’t. He said he was Hughes, an individual, and he wouldn’t give up being an individual.”

  Lark’s eyes grew bleak with an awful sense of loss. Cumbers talked on but it was meaningless talk. He had heard Hughes’ heresy. It was the vanity, the ego, the drive to be and to retain the individual. It had been a short-lived experiment. Not twenty or thirty or forty years but just eighteen days. Less than that since the heresy had been spoken on Christmas Eve. Just seven days since Hughes had left the hospital and heresy had recurred. Lark looked at Wright, who now sat back in his chair, impassive, no longer listening. What was going on in that mind? Lark no longer cared. The world would go back to Wright and Burden and their sort in twenty years, thirty years. Lark no longer cared.

  “That’s all,” he said to Cumbers brutally. Cumbers stopped in midsentence, looking uncertainly from Lark to Wright, wondering what he had said out of place.

  “Don’t you want any more of a report, sir?” Cumbers asked.

  “No. Your report’s quite complete, thank you,” Lark said, recovering. “We’ll call you again when we need you, Mr. Cumbers.” Cumbers rose then with a hesitant smile, nodded both to Lark and to Doctor Wright, and half sidled, half bowed his way out of Lark’s office. When the door had closed Lark looked at Wright. The political analyst kept his eyes down.

  “Don’t take too much comfort out of this, Doctor,” Lark said, his heart shrinking with rage. “Hughes was just an experiment. We’ll run hundreds of such experiments in the next twenty years. We’ll have the answer when we need it.” Lark was almost hissing now. “You see if we don’t have the answer in time.”

  Wright looked up at Lark now, the weak eyes intent on him. “You’ll never have the answer,” Wright said softly, “not if you have two hundred years. And you don’t have that much time at all.”

  “You’ll be alive when we have the answer, Doctor Wright. I’ll personally see to that.”

  “God grant me that much life,” Wright said, rising from his chair.

  “That’s the first time you’ve mentioned God in a conversation, Doctor,” Lark said softly, puzzled.

  “Is it?” Wright said calmly. “Well, imagine me turning to God at this stage of my life. You know, Lark, I used to be a churchgoer—long, long ago. I left because I thought science was the answer.”

  “And you’re going back to religion now for the answer?” Lark asked with a sneer that he could not keep out of his voice.

  “Oh, no. I’m not a hypocrite, Lark. I’m going back to church just for one visit. To thank God for whatever it was He gave us that can’t be bullied out of us—not by torture, not by lies, not by threats, no, not even by kindness.” Wright walked out then without glancing at Lark.

  Lark looked at the door for a long moment before he turned to his phone, pressed a button, and asked for the Commissioner’s office.

  “This is Lark,” he said softly into the mouthpiece. “We’re going to have to implement the order of execution against Hughes, sir. I have evidence of recurred heresy. Yes, sir.” Lark checked the calendar on his desk. “Thursday, the seventh of January, sir. If that meets with your approval. Thank you, sir. No, I don’t feel too badly. I only feel that we have to be more resourceful in the future. We’ll find the right combination of techniques eventually. Yes, sir.” Lark depressed the disconnect pin and waited a moment for his line to clear and then pressed for the operator. “Medical Division, please. Doctor Emmerich.” Lark waited until Doctor Emmerich answered. “This is Lark. The order of execution against Hughes will be effective at 4:00 a.m., January 7. Will you kindly arrange for death by embolism? Yes, the order of execution will be read to him in my office on Wednesday at noon, which gives us the required sixteen hours. Yes, Doctor, this will be confirmed by written order today. What? No, I don’t feel too badly about him. We’ll have to keep on trying, that’s all. Thank you for your cooperation in the case.”

  Lark hung up, pulled the dictation machine over, and dictated the memoranda necessary to implement the order of execution of a heretic named Hughes. His final bit of work for the day was the dictation of a letter to Hughes directing him to appear at the Deputy Commissioner’s office at noon, January 6. When he had done that he sat in his chair for a long time listening to the even thud of his heart.

  ii

  At a few moments before noon on Wednesday, the sixth of January, Hughes presented himself to the male secretary in the anteroom of the Deputy Commissioner’s office and offered the letter to the secretary. The secretary told him to sit down and wait a few moments and the Deputy Commissioner would see him.

  Hughes sat down, crossing his legs at the ankles, looking at the room with a curious and lively eye. The letter had given no reason for his summons but Hughes had his own ideas. He did not want to discuss those ideas with Cumbers or any of the other clerks in the quartermaster section because it would have seemed vain on his part. He had done his work well, caught on to the hang of things quickly. The supervisor of the chalk board room had openly congratulated him and his very first rating had been “excellent”—something that newcomers to the section rarely got. The work was really simple and Hughes found lots of time in which to daydream as he worked. He did not yet know the procedures for applying for advancement in his job, but he would go about seeing to that in due time. Meanwhile this letter from the Deputy Commissioner had impressed his supervisor. A Deputy Commissioner was nothing to be sneezed at and his supervisor knew it. Hughes had always felt that he had made an impression on people in the hospital while he was there. He had been a good patient—an intelligent patient—not one of the general run as, say, Cumbers, decent as he was, might have been. He knew that there was keen competition in all the departments of the State for the best brains in government and the Department of Internal Examination was always on the lookout for a man of ability. He had heard from the clerks that they actually scouted other branches of the State for good men. Well, he thought with a smile, he was a good man. Perhaps they’d start him in a minor position with the Department. He did not much mind that. One had to start somewhere. Of course, all the scrambling the various governmental departments went through for the best brains and talent was justified. They knew how imperative it was to have thoughtful men, men with independent minds, men who were not mere rubber stamps but true individuals.

  Hughes smiled at his own vanity and resolved to keep it more to himself. He noticed
that vanity offended some people and the last thing he wanted to do was to offend anyone.

  “The Deputy Commissioner will see you now, Mr. Hughes,” the secretary said, putting down the phone.

  Just noon, Hughes noted, looking at the clock on the secretary’s desk. Well, that was one good thing—they were punctual.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  David Karp was born in Manhattan in 1922. He graduated from City College and served in the Signal Corps during the Second World War. In the 1950s and ’60s, Karp published a number of novels, including mainstream literary works as well as crime and noir novels issued as paperback originals. His biggest success was One (1953), a dystopian tale that critics ranked with Orwell’s 1984 and Huxley’s Brave New World. Karp was also a prolific writer for television, scripting episodes of popular series like The Untouchables, The Defenders, and Quincy M.E. Karp died in 1999.