Colburn took the wheel, nodded at his doubtful chauffeur, and he and Durant drove on by themselves, in silence.
Then Colburn said: “I’ve heard a rumor that in spite of the new war there’ll be some money to mend the streets. I hope so. We broke two springs last week, and that’s expensive for the Government. We can’t afford extra expense with the new war effort. It’s a terrible thing. Why does The Democracy have to be attacked every few years? Why can’t the rest of this damned world leave us in peace? Who would have thought that those goddamned South American countries would have blown up the Panama Canal on us without a warning?”
Durant turned to his host impulsively, but Colburn gave him a stern look. Durant felt chilled and stifled. Was the menace here with them, within the confines of this car? Colburn was pointing through the windshield at the motor. Durant involuntarily grasped the window handle and let the window slide down. He must have air. Claustrophobia had taken him by the throat and he had a smothering sensation.
He made himself say with simulated anger: “Sometimes I think it’s about time we cleaned up the whole—world! We’ve been too easy. Well, I don’t suppose South America will take long. They’ve had it very good down there all these years. No wars, no need to defend themselves. We were always here to take care of their interests, while they became rich and prosperous. Maybe when we control them they’ll learn their lesson. They’re bursting with nitrates and copper and food and chemicals and other natural resources. We can use them.”
The two men laughed but their eyes were savage. Colburn said: “I’ve made four trips to the South American countries. While we were defending this hemisphere and blowing our natural resources away in defensive wars, South America grew fatter and more arrogant. We’ll teach them a lesson. Some of my friends don’t agree with me, but I’m convinced that all of the South American republics are out for imperialistic control of this hemisphere. They think we’re weakened and now is the time to strike. I don’t believe their hydrogen bombs are as good as ours. They’ve hardly perfected the atom bomb. We’ll have their cities in ruins in two months!”
He went on, then, to explain the work of his Bureau to Durant, who made appropriate and interested comments. Colburn was very enthusiastic. “We’ve done an excellent job in this area. The people cooperate very well, and understand the gravity of these constant emergencies. Their conscript wages aren’t too large, but they’ll be willing to sacrifice in the way of new taxes. Besides, they’ve been promised a thousand extra calories a day in the factory cafeterias. They’re pleased, too, with the increased rations for their children in the school meals. I think you won’t find a more cooperative mass of people than you’ll find in Philadelphia, Major.”
The car rolled out into the brighter sun of the countryside. Colburn did something to a dial on the dashboard, and the motor suddenly spluttered, caught, spluttered again, then stopped. Colburn swore. “I thought the carburetor had been attended to,” he said. “Know anything about motors, Major?”
“No,” said Durant. Colburn sighed. “I know very little myself. I wish, now, that we’d kept Joe. Well, there’s nothing to do but to get out and see what’s wrong.”
They stepped out into the warm spring sunshine. The roads were empty, staring white at the sky. Colburn, muttering profanely, lifted the hood of the car. Durant stood beside him. Colburn pointed to a mass of wires and parts, and Durant bent down to peer. There, almost completely hidden under the motor block, was a small black box. Couburn said cheerfully, making a pretense of adjustment: “There, I think it’s all right now. Probably some dirt in the gas. Would you mind turning on the ignition for me, Major? I’ll stand here to see how it goes.”
Durant got into the car, turned the ignition key, stepped on the gas pedal. The motor roared. He saw that Colburn had something small and white in his hand on which he was writing. Durant recognized the object. It was the gelatine pad used by Minute Men for communicating with their fellows. The thin sheet could then be chewed and swallowed and completely digested. Colburn shouted: “Fine! Everything’s all right!” He painfully climbed back into the car and handed Durant the almost transparent little sheet of paper. He had written:
“Carlson sent you? God, I’m glad to see you, Andy! Thought I’d collapse when I heard your voice. Things must be moving fast. Time’s running out.”
Colburn said, watching the road: “We ought to be there in ten minutes. Nice little place, and good food. Reserved for the various bureau officers.” He pushed the pad and pencil in his pocket, and Durant folded the slip of paper, chewed it carefully, and when it was liquid, swallowed it. He had noticed that the paper had a small watermark: “Best for cigarets!”
Durant reached into Colburn’s pocket, and using his uninjured hand, wrote: “Carlson, yes. How many of us around here that you’ve recognized?”
Colburn glanced at the slip, shook his head, and quickly pointed one finger at his friend. Durant then ate the paper again. Only two, then, who knew each other.
“Look at that view,” said Colburn. “Let’s stop here a minute. It’s my favorite spot. You can see the mountains in the distance, and some water. It’s been a hard winter, and I want to enjoy every minute of this weather. Let’s walk around a little.”
They got out again, and strolled away, chatting inconsequentially. Durant saw that Colburn was carefully measuring the distance from the parked car. The walked off the road and reached a small high knoll of green grass and pale green poplar trees, the new leaves glittering in the sun. Not a soul was in sight, though in a distant field cattle moved about contentedly, and beyond them stood a red silo and farmhouse. The two men halted in the little grove of trees.
“Ben!” said Durant, in a low voice.
Colburn turned to him and put his hand on Durant’s shoulder. “Andy,” he said. They smiled at each other uncertainly. Colburn went on: “We can’t stay way from that damned car more than a couple of minutes, or there’ll be suspicion. So, I’ll talk fast. I don’t know where my family is, and I don’t suppose you know where yours is, either. Andy, the worst part of it for me is not being able to practice my profession. Never will, I suppose. Let me look at your arm. They broke it, eh?”
“And your leg,” said Durant hurriedly. “Damn it, do they have to cripple us?”
Colburn lifted his brows with a quizzical expression. “You forget that it all has to look genuine. Then men who ‘crippled’ us are authentic Picked Guards.” He glanced at his watch. “Never mind. Christian? Our friends?”
“Eight killed. They talked. Christian and I were the only ones of our Ten Group who survived. I don’t know where Christian is, except that he is to help force the wealthy into revolt. I have the farmers.”
Colburn nodded with satisfaction. “Good. And I do in this Section what Christian is to do where he has been sent. Andy, be careful. Don’t trust anyone. This will probably be the last time we can talk alone. We mustn’t be seen together too often nor must we appear to be too friendly. Remember: everything you say anywhere, in your offices, your rooms, is overheard. And you must never let anyone suspect that you know you are under surveillance. If they learn you know, then you’ll disappear, as old Major Burnes disappeared.”
He pressed Durant’s shoulder hard. “The major was a harmless old soldier, all honor and pride. He was seventy, and he had never known what had happened to this country. Until one day when he found out that his rooms were wired, and his car. He tore the whole apparatus apart, raving mad. He knew, then; the whole thing burst in on his mind. He couldn’t stand it. No, he wasn’t arrested, or murdered. He committed suicide, before they could get to him. You see, he and I had become friends; he trusted me. He sent me a letter just before he shot himself. What they did with his body is something I’ll never know.”
Colburn’s voice was insistent yet flat. He dropped his hand from Durant’s shoulder and stared over the peaceful countryside. He began to talk as if to himself. “There’s nothing left, for any of us, but to do the work
we must do. You’ve been told that. You must never forget it. We have no life of our own. We can have no friends. Andy, I think of the days when we worked together, in secrecy. We had hope and excitement and youth. We haven’t any of them now. We can’t even have a memory, not of our families or of our past lives. We will make the future, but the future isn’t for us.”
Durant’s mouth set in stubborn silence. He looked at the worn and exhausted profile of his friend, who had removed himself from any friendship. Durant shook his head slightly. He said: “You implied to me that Zimmer knows something about you, Ben. Do you know what it is?”
“No. But he does know something. He’s an FBHS man. He isn’t sure, and he won’t report me until he is certain. Then, I’ll have to die, as the major died.”
“Why you, Ben? Why not Zimmer? It’s important that you live, and that he die. We’re at war, Ben, and we’re fighting. Zimmer must die, and soon.”
Colburn turned to him, and said musingly: “I’ve thought of that. I’ve thought of killing him, myself. But I suppose I’d be immediately suspected.” His hands became fists, and he spoke faster. “He’s a murderer, a thief, a spy, an extortioner. I happen to know of a few wretches he’s been blackmailing and torturing, under threat of some trumped-up exposure. But who will kill him?”
Durant glanced down at his broken arm, grimly. “I could do it myself, but for this. I was well trained in commando action. A gun’s out of the question.” He smiled. “But I’m an expert knife-thrower. I think I put him off the track. Imply to him, tomorrow, that you’re thinking of not issuing those directives conscripting the domestics of the MASTS and the bureaucrats. Be sincere; consult him. Listen to him. Pretend to be persuaded by his arguments, unwillingly. Don’t do anything at all—until he is dead.”
Colburn regarded him gravely and sadly. “I am a physician, and I’ve never killed yet, nor authorized anyone to kill. But this is what they have driven me to do. Andy, you can’t throw a knife with that arm. You’d—”
“Leave it to me,” said Durant. “There are ways. Accidents, for instance. Don’t think of it again. I’ll find a way.”
Colburn leaned against the trunk of a tree. “I’m tired,” he whispered. “I’m awfully damned tired. You’ll be tired, too, before it’s over.” Then he straightened up, and pushed Durant affectionately. “Don’t let me discourage you. It’s wonderful to see you; I couldn’t help letting down when I saw you again. From this time on we’re merely new acquaintances. So it’s really good-bye, Andy, for the sake of our work and our lives. And now, let’s go back to the car.”
Durant looked at him with consternation. “You’re sending me back to my isolation? Just when we’ve found each other?”
“Yes. That’s how it has to be. But we’ll be in constant communication, officially, of course, and always on guard. Don’t forget: never trust anyone.”
He walked on a few steps, but Durant hung behind, studying the ground somberly. With some anxiety, Colburn beckoned to him, then returned, and Durant said, with a bitterness that seemed to pour uncontrollably from him: “I don’t know! It’s getting worse. I start to think—What if we can’t trust ourselves, either? What, when we overthrow this military dictatorship Will we step right into their shoes? I tell you, Ben, I’m afraid. Oh, I know we’ll take over for a ‘little’ period of adjustment, and then we’ll delegate all authority back to the civilian authority! That’s what we say. Now.”
Colburn nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking of that, too. In more senses than one, man can’t trust himself or his neighbor Modern civilization, as long as sixty or seventy years ago, having rid itself of theology, thereby lost all sense of obligation to anything or anyone. There is the root of our confusion. We have enlisted the best of the clergy, we Minute Men, because we know that materialistic confusion must give way to a supernatural order by which men can establish their own physical and temporal codes. We are striving for a point of reference, and the only one which can ever be pertinent to man is the Divine point of reference. Only then will affirmations have any verity.”
Durant frowned. Colburn continued: “There’ll be some among us who will be fascinated by sudden power, and will want to perpetuate it for themselves. We’ve got to believe that there are more of us who will always remember why we fought.”
Durant burst out: “I’ve about come to the point of believing this foul world isn’t worth saving, anyway!”
Colburn smiled. “Yes, it is, Andy.”
“For my children?” Durant spat.
“No, for myself. The only reality you’ll ever know is your own, and what you make of it. What duty you owe to any man you owe to yourself, and your own salvation.”
Colburn sighed. “I get discouraged, too. Andy, isn’t it strange how even such an absolute thing as totalitariansim takes on the worst characteristics of its particular people? Russian totalitarianism was a medieval one, suggestive of black dungeons, moats, drawbridges, dark towers and secret passages; German totalitarianism was the utmost in a modern, glittering nightmare, all efficiency and heart of chromium. British totalitarianism, though military like all of the other enormities, had a drab Cockney flavor, a fish-and-chips-and-tea dreariness, a colorless monotony. And ours—ours took on the raw confusion, the noisy superficiality, the blind expediency and kindergarten ruthlessness, which have distinguished our national character in the twentieth century. They all had only one central uniformity: hatred, and the will-to-power which hatred breeds.”
Durant said: “It’s an old aphorism, but without hatred there would be no armies, and without armies there would be no generals, and without generals there would be no military dictatorships. It all comes back to the people, themselves. We’ve had only about two Presidents in this century who preferred peace to war, and how the rainbow generals flayed them! And how the people enjoyed the spectacle! Bread and circuses. The old formula.”
They got into the car, and Colburn said cheerfully: “Well, that’s where I’d like to build a house! Restful, away from the city.”
“I don’t know why you don’t just move in on the country folk, as the Army is doing now, according to my directive,” said Durant. Colburn uttered an exclamation of genuine astonishment, and then he laughed aloud. Durant laughed, also. “Nothing too good for the Army, Mr. Woolcott! Nothing too good for the Government people, either. Why not move in on them, too?”
“There won’t be room enough when you get all your men quartered,” said Colburn, with delight. “But if there is, let me know. It’ll be a great pleasure to follow your example. Why shouldn’t we bureaucrats enjoy good food and fresh air as well as the farmers? Besides, the countrymen have become too arrogant. They forget who rules this country.”
Durant, enjoying himself, thought that he could hear many ears prick up with interest somewhere back in Philadelphia. For the benefit of these ears, he said: “Let’s think about it, for you Government men, as well as for the Army.”
Upon his return to the city, Durant visited his doctor and dentist. They were fawning and servile individuals, and, looking at them with contempt, Durant remembered what his father and older friends had once told him of the ancient and honorable profession of medicine. There had been a time when physicians had been men of independence, pride and stature. They had reached this present level of degradation not so much by pressure of governmental totalitarian agencies as by their own lack of self-respect and courage, their own unwillingness to fight for the liberty of their profession. True, there had been hundreds of incompetents among them, twenty or thirty years ago, who could not make a living in free competition, and who had been eager to surrender their freedom for a nationalized salary. But these had been a minority. It was the cynicism, the absence of character and resolution among the majority of the profession which had reduced it to a slave service.
“Long before the enemy beats on the door of your house, you have opened the farther gates to him,” one of Durant’s teachers had told him.
The den
tist misinterpreted Durant’s visible contempt for him as a man for the military officer’s contempt for him as a mere civilian. He prattled nervously of his son’s elevation to the rank of second lieutenant in the Army, trying to ingratiate himself with this scowling terror in uniform. Durant merely grunted. The bridge which replaced his lost teeth was excellent. He wanted to express some gratitude, but held it back. He pounded noisily out of the dentist’s office, in glowering arrogance. The doctor was a younger man, and there was an expression of sensitivity and weariness on his face. Durant had noticed this before, with interest. So, he rallied, harassed and annoyed the doctor as much as possible, sneering at his profession, baiting him as a civilan and therefore of no particular importance. He was gratified to see, that, in spite of the doctor’s silence and attitude of quiescence, there was a sudden gleam of hatred in the other man’s eye.
Durant found himself too weary to go to work. He suggested that though it was only half-past three he and his officers return to Lincoln’s farm. Then he detected disappointment on the faces of all of them, and upon questioning, the older officers confessed that they had all been invited to a party to be given that evening by a very wealthy industrialist. Durant, against his better judgment, then suggested that they remain in the city and recruit some ordinary soldier to drive him back to the farm, they to retain one of the military automobiles for their own use later in the evening.
He then turned to Lieutenant Grandon, and said: “Will you call Lincoln and tell him I’d like Gracie’s company tonight?”
Grandon said, in a dull monotone, looking away from Durant: “I’ve already telephoned him.” He did not let Durant see his face or his eyes.
“Good,” said Durant cheerfully. The other officers beamed their thanks at him. Not a “heavy” military bastard after all, they thought; not a “rank-puller.” Maybe, though, he just wanted to be alone with Grace Lincoln. At any rate, they were happy, and wished him well with the girl.
The Devil's Advocate: The Epic Novel of One Man's Fight to Save America From Tyranny Page 16
