by Algis Budrys
“Now?”
Berendtsen nodded. “It’s the best time. The Army’s dispersed, but the men haven’t really had a chance to start talking yet. It’ll be days before the general public has more than a faint notion that there’s been something odd going on.”
“You shouldn’t have sent Eisner away,” Mary declared with sudden fierceness. “You convinced everybody that you were guilty. They were positive Eisner just didn’t want to face the consequences of what he’d been doing under your orders. So what will they think of the man who gave those orders?”
Berendtsen shrugged. “Does it make any difference what they think? Does it make any difference whether I’m the bloody butcher they think I am or not? Eisner and his men are free, and heading west.”
He smiled suddenly. “I just ordered him out. He turned west of his own accord.”
Mary jumped up. “And does that satisfy you? Does it make you happy to know that the great Master Plan is being carried out, that Berendtsen’s dream of unification goes marching on, even if only to that small extent?”
Berendtsen sighed as the knock fell on the door again. “I don’t care whose plan it is, or what it’s called. I do know that I gave Eisner an order I couldn’t possibly enforce. He carried it out anyway.”
He got up and went to the door, opening it. “How are you, Bob?” he said.
Robert Garvin looked at him silently for a moment. Then he exhaled loudly, as though sighing in relief at the long-delayed accomplishment of a complex and difficult task.
“You’re being called upon to answer charges of treason,” he said bluntly. “Your trial begins tomorrow.”
It was three weeks, not two, when Jack Holland came back with A Company, and Jim, sitting outside the barn with his legs in crude casts, winced as he saw them. There were four armored cars now, with wounded riding on their decks, and the last car was being towed by the one ahead. He ran his eyes over the marchers, counting, and didn’t believe the count until he saw Jack’s face.
“We’re done,” Holland said bluntly, dropping down beside him. “We couldn’t beat off an attack by archers, right now.”
“What’d you run into?” Jim asked, not knowing what else to say.
“The gamut. Bazookas, mortars, fragmentation grenades, antipersonnel mines…Name it, and we got it. And we’re not recruiting, Jim. We can beat ’em, but we can’t recruit ’em. They just aren’t interested. They’re scared white at first, and then they find out we won’t flay them alive for breathing in the wrong direction. Then some of them get sassy. But mostly they just sit and stare at us as if we were conquerors, or something. We gave them the offer every time before we moved in. We put up signs, we broadcast, we yelled. But they wouldn’t trust us enough to listen. Then we have to knock them over, and that makes us conquerors. The conquerors of South Jersey! I don’t know, Jim. It’s the creepiest goddamned feeling I’ve ever had. It’s nothing like it used to be.”
Jim nodded. “I’ve been getting my licks at it. They’re so full of this Bogeyman Berendtsen stuff that nothing’s going to penetrate. We’re all right, catch? Even if we are the monster’s men. But Berendtsen himself? Brr!”
“You know what kind of rifles they’re using, Jim?”
“M-16s.”
“The woods are full of them.”
“Horton’s been a busy boy around here, I see,” Jim said sourly. “I’ve been thinking about that bridge. That was awfully easy getting across.”
“Yeah,” Holland agreed. “One lousy little man playing roadblock. If we hadn’t found anybody, we’d have reported it to Ted. If we found too many, we’d have reported that. But we found just about what we expected to. We were suckered into this, all right.”
“You figure Ted wasn’t supposed to trust Philly?”
“Ahuh. Makes sense. He splits off a healthy piece of his army. He doesn’t go with the whole army, though—he’s not supposed to think it’s really going to be rugged, and do that, because whoever’s behind this knows damn well the AU can’t be stopped by anything this side of hell. If Ted went down here and smelled a rat, he’d turn around and knock Philly on its ear all over again. And if he got mad enough, he might come roaring into New York, instead of feeling his way like he’s doing now—or was doing, I guess.”
“Sounds like the kind of thing somebody with real brains would dream up.”
“A whole bunch of them, more than likely. I don’t think there’s any one man that can out-think Ted,” Holland said.
“I wonder what Bob’s doing these days,” Jim said half to himself, his eyes narrowing. “Anyway, here we sit, dying on the vine.”
“With the farmers hacking at the roots, yeah.”
Jim wet his lips. He asked the unnecessary question. “You tried to get ahold of Ted?”
“Sure.” Holland sighed. “I’ve been trying, for the last two weeks. All I get is some snotnose in New York. ‘Relay all messages through me, please!’ ” he mimicked viciously.
Jim closed his eyes, letting his head sink. “Ted knew what he was doing, making us an independent command.”
Even if we couldn’t get up even a rousing football scrimmage, the shape we’re in, he thought.
“He knew why he wanted Eisner in Manhattan with him, too,” Holland said. “Boy, can’t you just see those rolling roadblocks cleaning up Manhattan like nobody’s business?”
Suddenly they stopped and looked at each other, realizing the scale on which they had been thinking. This was more than just Horton, playing out some game of his own. This was New York and Philadelphia working together. This was a whole nation, suddenly aligned against them.
And that night, there was the first message from New York.
To Officer Commanding, A Company and attached armored units, Army of Unification. From Interim Commander-in-Chief. Orders follow:
You will proceed immediately to demobilize all units AU under your command, permitting each man to retain his personal equipment and weapons. Common supplies will be held under interim custody until arrival of civil governor, your former military district. Maintain volunteer militia force to keep order if necessary. Such militia units are not to display AU insignia of any nature. Keep frequency open for further orders. Do not initiate independent messaging.
Hollis,
Interim C.I.C.
Holland looked at Garvin, who had been moved into the communications center the men had knocked together. “You ever heard of anyone named Hollis?” he asked.
Jim looked up. “I guess there are a lot of people in New York nowadays that we never heard of.” He stared hopelessly down at his immobilized legs. “I wonder what happened to Ted?” he asked, conscious of the lost note in his voice. But both of them knew that it no longer mattered. Somewhere in New York, the initiative of leadership had been taken up by other men, with other purposes. The AU was dead, and the purpose behind it had ended. Ted Berendtsen had kept some sort of appointment with history, and even if he lived, his time was over. And when the force that had been he and his work was ended, the arm that he had stretched out into this last territory was as powerless as all the rest.
They were finished. Cut off and finished.
“What do we do?” Jim asked.
“What can we do?” Holland answered. “We do what Boston and Tampa did. We’re licked. There’s nothing we have to say about it anymore. It’s still one nation—one organization. We don’t run it anymore, but we’ve still got to work in it, to keep it alive, just because it is an organization.”
He grinned crookedly. “Ted was right—again.”
But the messages had not ended. They listened to a general broadcast from New York, and, following orders, broadcast it over a public address system to the general population.
This is Robert Garvin, President of the Constitutional Council for the Second Free American Republic.
Once again, we are free. The power of the Army of Unification has been broken, and this nation, risen from the ash of dissolution and hopelessness,
can once more grow, broad and prosperous, toward the sun. From Maine to Florida, we are one people, one union, inseparable and unyoked. We are a nation of free men armed, each equal to the other, each a brother to the other, each firm in his resolve that no one man shall again impose his twisted will on other men.
The right to bear arms is inherent in each of us. The right to subjugate is not. No man may say to another “You will do thus and so because I decree it, because I have gathered up an army to pillage your home and rob you of your substance.”
Soon, civil governors will be sent to you. They will establish an organization whereby a free election may be held. You will be asked to elect local officers to administer your territory under the general supervision of the governor.
People of the Second Free American Republic, we bring you liberty.
Holland spat. “We bring you civil governors, rather than an army,” he said bitterly. “Please excuse the fact that these officers have been appointed by us. Didn’t we do it in the name of liberty? And who the hell do they think gave them their precious union in the first place?”
Jim grinned sadly. “I guess Ted always knew that when the people chose a new government, it wouldn’t be one that approved of Berendtsen.”
“Did you notice something, though?” Holland pointed out. “No mention of Ted. Just a couple of passing references. They’re not sure yet—not sure at all that it’s safe to really go all-out and call him names. They’re nervous.”
“I wonder what’s going on in New York?” Jim Garvin asked. What he felt about Bob, he kept to himself.
III
Robert Garvin sat easily in his chair, flanked by the other judges, looking down at the man who stood below their rostrum.
Garvin smiled thinly, and a little regretfully. He felt the weight of what he had done. But he had done it nevertheless, because in doing it he had fulfilled his greater duty to freedom, to liberty from oppression, to liberty from such as Berendtsen.
He leaned forward. “Theodore Berendtsen, you have been found guilty of treason against the human rights of the citizens of the Second Free American Republic. Have you anything to say before sentence is passed upon you?”
It did not matter what he said, now. Whatever words Berendtsen might have were weightless now. He had no Army. He had no weapons.
Garvin touched the carbine resting against his chair. Weapons were the mark of a man’s freedom, and all free men carried them now. To be sure, some of them looked ludicrous, but, nevertheless, the symbol was there. Touch me not!
Berendtsen seemed to be hesitating, as though undecided whether to speak or not.
Berendtsen had no personal weapons.
He began to speak:
“I did not come here to defend myself,” he said. “For I am indefensible. I have burned, killed, and looted, and my men have done worse, at times…”
Robert Garvin hardly heard the words. He sat patiently, not listening, but nevertheless watching the man. Berendtsen was standing with his hands hanging loosely at his sides, his head up. It was impossible to tell, from this angle, what he might be looking at.
Garvin felt a ripple of excitement sweep momentarily over the small audience, even reaching the judges’ bench. He shrugged inwardly. Undoubtedly, his brother-in-law had scored some emotional point or other.
But emotional points were things you could score all day, and still not change the facts. Garvin had built his way to power on emotional points—what counted was the cold logical ideal behind them. You could sway a crowd with semantics. Make it do things for you. But this was not a crowd. These were Berendtsen’s judges, their verdict already delivered, their sentence a foregone conclusion.
“Robert Garvin!”
Garvin’s head snapped up, and his eyes re-focused on Berendtsen.
“You have given the people personal weapons,” Berendtsen was saying. “You have told them that, from this day onward, they were free to bear arms; that they were equal, one and several, with all other men. That, henceforth, no man might tell him what was theirs and what was not. That each man was inviolable, and that no man is master.”
Garvin nodded automatically, realizing only later that there was no need for him to do so.
“Well, then, Bob,” Berendtsen said softly, as though they were once more across a dinner table from each other, “who gave you the right to confer the right?”
Something jumped behind Garvin’s eyes.
“We bore arms, once. Each and every one of us. We had to. Gradually, we began to live so that we no longer had to. Despite the theories, some of us bore our arms uncomfortably, and were glad to lay them down when there were no longer snipers in the streets. Some of us were free to enter peaceful pursuits—such as politics.”
Despite the time, and place, there was a ripple of laughter that grated at Robert Garvin’s nerves before it died down.
Berendtsen smiled thinly up at Garvin. “You are where you are today because you did not bear arms—because there was an organization of free men, ready to return to the weapons if need be, but glad to have laid them down, who were cooperating in a civilization which had time to support an individual such as yourself. Those who bear arms are their own administrators. Those who do not, need others to administer to them.
“So you are here, an administrator elected by an organization, and you have given them their weapons back. You have practically forced those weapons on them, distributing them on streetcorners willy-nilly. But, once more, I’d like to know—who gave you the right?”
Berendtsen smiled wryly. “It would seem that I did. I built the organization that supports you. I built it without knowing what sort of society it would evolve. I never for a moment thought that any one man could be so wise, so foresighted as to impose his personal concept of the ideal society. I simply built a union, and left its structure to the people.”
He looked squarely up at Garvin. “You have given the people rifles, and thought that you were giving them weapons. But people have a deadlier weapon than anything a gunsmith could design.
“People want to be safe, and comfortable. If safety and comfort are to be found in guns, then they will take up guns—of their own accord, in their own need. And when safety and comfort are found in libraries, then the guns rust.”
The quiet, troubled and yet somehow untroubled eyes bored away at Garvin’s foundations.
“You think that men like yourself direct the people. Undoubtedly, you grant me that status, as well. You are wrong. We exist—we find our way into the pages of those history books which are written from the wrong viewpoint—because, for however long or short a time it is, the people think there is safety and comfort in us.”
He laughed shortly and finished. “They are often wrong. But they repair their errors.”
Garvin felt every eye in the room on his face. Probably, he had turned a little pale. It was only natural, with the strain of what he had to do.
“Theodore Berendtsen, you have been convicted of treason, and the citizens of this Republic are aware of your crime. You are sentenced to go about whatever pursuits you choose, unarmed.”
Berendtsen bowed his head. Garvin saw, for the first, startling time, that he was far older than he seemed—that his stomach bulged a little, and that his face was completely exhausted.
Then Berendtsen looked up for one last time, and Robert Garvin saw the underlying expression of his face, always there, no matter what superficial mood might flicker across it. He understood what had been giving him the constant impression that Berendtsen was still the same calm, somehow unassailable man who had taken so many meals on the other side of the table.
* * *
A running series of directives came into the communications shack in New Jersey:
To all units, interim military command, SFAR: Be advised that the following former officers of the disbanded Army of Unification are enemies of the people:
Samuel Ryder
Randolph Willets
John Eisner
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All efforts are to be made to intercept these men, together with renegade units as they may command. These men have been proscribed. They are not in any way representatives of the SFAR or the Constitutional Council. You will attempt to capture these men and hold them for transportation back to New York, where they will be held for courts-martial. Any citizen, civilian or militia, attempting to aid or encourage these men, is summarily classified as an enemy of the people, and the above orders apply to such persons. Any person of undoubted civilian status, engaging in seditious discussion of these men is to be arrested immediately and held for the judgment of the civil governor. Any member of the militia engaging in similar talk is to be court-martialed immediately, the extreme sentence to be death by firing squad. Any militia officers refusing to carry out these orders will be arrested at the discretion of the highest ranking loyal officer, who will carry out the directives above and assume command.
Hollis,
Commander-in-Chief, SFAR
Jim looked incredulously at Holland. “What do you think’s happened?”
Holland, his face grave, shook his head. “I’m not sure—but I think I know why Ted wanted Eisner with him. I’m pretty sure John’s last orders were to point his cars west.”
“You think Ted’s with him?”
Holland’s face held a queer expression for a moment. “Not in the flesh.”
To all units, interim military command, SFAR: Be advised that the renegade military units under the command of former AU officers Eisner, Willets, and Ryder have fled out of the borders of the SFAR under determined pursuit by units of the New York Popular Militia. The rebels suffered heavy losses. Our units returned intact.
Holland and Garvin laughed savagely.
Be further advised that any evidences of Berendtsenism among the populace or in the ranks of military units are to be dealt with summarily.
