The 19th Golden Age of Science Fiction

by Charles V. De Vet

  “You don’t,” Simmons answered curtly.

  “May I ask where you are taking me?” he inquired.

  “To the nearest policeman,” Simmons replied.

  The tall man hesitated again, then shrugged and went on.

  They found a green clad policeman around the next corner. “This man has just committed murder,” Simmons told him.

  The green-clad raised his eyebrows slightly. He regarded the tall man and seemed to observe something about his dress. “A commissionaire?” he asked.

  The other nodded. He drew a paper from his breast pocket and handed it to the officer. “My warrant,” he said. “You will find it signed by Peerre Delfac, the dead man’s second son.

  The officer handed the paper back. “I will have the body collected,” he said. “You may go.”

  He turned to Simmons. “I judge by your accent, sir,” he said, “that you are a stranger to our World. Allow me to assure you that this man’s activities, which you have just witnessed, were perfectly legal.” While his words were polite, his attitude was one of impatient tolerance. And in his eyes was the only partially concealed look of dislike for a foreigner.

  “Is it legal on this World to kill a defenseless old man?” Simmons asked sarcastically.

  The policeman shrugged with cynical indifference and walked away.

  Chapter II

  The tall man had not left as the policeman talked. Now he said to Simmons, “Our police are not sympathetic with what they regard as interference by outsiders, but I do not wish to appear as a monster to you. Will you allow me the pleasure of buying you a voyae?”

  “Why should I drink with you?” Simmons asked gruffly.

  “For no reason,” the tall man answered, “except, perhaps, to have your curiosity satisfied.”

  Oddly, Simmons found himself almost liking the man; and by now he realized that he had somehow made a fool of himself. The other was probably evidencing great tolerance by treating him so civilly. Further, he needed to learn all he could of the local customs, as quickly as possible. This might be as good an opportunity as any. “I will accept your offer,” he said, not quite able to match the other’s courtesy.

  “My name is Andrew Harris,” the tall man introduced himself, and bowed as Simmons gave his own name.

  They walked side-by-side, without speaking further, until they passed a building that was obviously a drinking place. “Isn’t this one of your taverns?” Simmons asked.

  For a moment, Harris seemed startled; then he smiled. “I forget that you are ignorant of our customs. This is a place of the Fishers. One of your obvious station does not drink with Fishers.”

  This time, Simmons remembered to restrain himself from asking questions that might make him appear ridiculous.

  A few doors beyond they came to another drinking place and entered.

  They found a table against one wall and sat down.

  “Two brandies,” Harris told the waiter who came to take their order. The place, Simmons noted readily, was much like Earth taverns.

  “Now if I may be permitted to clear myself in your eyes,” Harris said, holding his voice in a question.

  “I wish you would,” Simmons answered.

  “On Mogden it is the duty of a son to kill his parents before they are too old. Most of the sons do not desire to perform the disagreeable task themselves. My profession is one known as commissionaire. We perform such unpleasant duties for others. I was committed by a man named Delfac—the old one’s second son—to kill him.”

  “But what is the purpose of such senseless slaughter?” Simmons asked.

  “Purpose? I know no purpose. Except that it is done—and it is recarn.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Recarn? The old person will live again in the son’s next-born.”

  “Then the expression must come from reincarnation,” Simmons mused. “Tell me, is that belief universal with you?”

  “Of course,” Harris answered. “At least until recently. Of late years a semi-religious sect, headed by a man named Georg Graetin, has been preaching against it. Graetin has succeeded in convincing quite a large number of persons that the ‘duty’ is cruel and ungodly. His influence grows daily. There are even rumors that the Council is soon to accede to his demand that the practice be stopped. But the great majority of us regard him as an irresponsible fanatic.”

  “I’m afraid I agree with Graetin,” Simmons commented.

  “Do not you Earthians believe in recarn?”

  “No,” Simmons answered. “And by every instinct and moral code we have, your killing of your old people is bloodthirsty and barbarous.”

  “If I knew your customs I might regard many of them in the same light,” Harris said.

  “That’s true, of course,” Simmons agreed. He recalled guiltily the killings on Earth made legal by wars. He decided to drop the subject. “May I ask you a question? Perhaps at the risk of violating your privacy?”

  “My pleasure is yours,” Harris replied.

  “Is your profession looked upon as…decent by the others of your World?”

  Harris drew a thin cigar cube from a breast pocket and appeared thoroughly preoccupied with rounding it by rolling it between his palms, and lighting it. Nothing in the steel-like courtesy of his manner seemed changed as he spoke, yet his tone was gentle and dead as he said, “My profession is regarded with envy by those without the courage to adopt it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Simmons said, instantly realizing that he had made another mistake. “I meant no offense.”

  Abruptly Harris’ reserve broke, and he smiled wearily. “Do you Earthians ever feel the great need to talk?” Simmons nodded and waited, sensing that what this interesting man had to say would not be commonplace.

  “I have never spoken like this to anyone before,” Harris said, “simply because there was no one to listen. No one that would understand, and not regard me as a weakling. But I find myself admiring your frankness, and I perceive a good thinking mind behind your questions. I will tell you how I regard myself.

  “Every man has within him that which he is. The coward buries it, that he might not have to face its obligations. Or he expresses it only by surrender to the invigorating lunacy of herd action. The brave man follows this thing—though he may knew he will die sooner for it.

  “My work is dangerous: Few commissionaires ever reach the age where their sons must give them recarn. Yet I do not claim to be a brave man. I have the desire—the inner need—to do those things which frighten most other men. I might state it by saying that I desire to live as if I were to die the next moment; that alone will satisfy me. By placing my life so that it is always in danger I find alcoves now and then that give me flashes of the stimulation I must have. And I am happy in the admiration I know I receive from those about me.”

  Harris relaxed in his chair, “Now that I have told you this about myself do you see me as a vain fool?”

  “Not at all,” Simmons answered. “While I may not agree with the way you follow your star, I admire your courage in doing it.”

  The drinking place had gradually filled as they sat talking. Simmons noted that women and older girls mingled freely with the men.

  Two women came up to their table as they talked and stood waiting expectantly. One was small and blonde, with meager beauty. The other was built on heroic proportions, with a skin fair and untinted, and hair combed in black waves to the back of her head. Her breasts were only partly obscured by a stiff cloth cowl that hung over them. “Are you gentlemen expecting?” she asked.

  Here, as on Earth, Simmons reflected musingly, young maidens hunted in pairs. He grew aware that Harris and the girls were watching him, watching him, waiting for him to make the decision. He smiled uncertainly at the dark girl and said, “Thank you for asking. Perhaps later.”

  She lifted her shoulders in the universal Mogden gesture, and the two girls walked away, swaying their hips gently as they wept.

  “Would you no
t enjoy being in jostling harness with the bounteous one?” Harris asked, with a slight quirk at one corner of his lips.

  Simmons felt himself reddening slowly. “I’m a married man,” he mumbled, feeling stiff and prudish as he said it.

  Harris’ face registered surprise. “Is fidelity to one’s wife considered a virtue on Earth?”

  “It is professed,” Simmons answered uncomfortably.

  “If I wished to look for absurdity in your customs I could point to that,” Harris said. “It is our firm belief that chastity is a dangerous abstinence. It makes a man vulnerable to illness of the liver.” His small smile returned. “Fortunately, our women do their best to keep us free of liver complaint.”

  Simmons smiled back. “How do your wives feel about that?”

  “Our wives? If they do not like it they are wise to keep the silence. A husband has the right of life or death over his wife.”

  Incredible, Simmons thought, but after a moment acknowledged to himself that such alien practices were to be expected here.

  “You asked me if my profession was considered decent—at the risk of offending me,” Harris said. “I will take the same liberty with you. We consider that those who restrain their desire for women do so only because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.”

  Simmons bowed with good grace. “On our World we would say ‘touché.’”

  When Simmons left for his seven o’clock appointment with the economist-psychotherapist, LeBlamc, he felt that he had made his first friend on Mogden IV. He was startled to remember that, by his own standards, the man was a merciless killer.

  * * * *

  Simmons hired a cart drawn by a razorback Mogden pony to take him to the address LeBlamc had given him. He asked the driver to wait when they arrived.

  LeBlamc met him at the door. He was a thin man, with a contrasting wed-fed face and jowls of fat at his jawbones. His expression was on of habitual melancholy, but his greeting was cordial.

  “Come in,” he invited. “I am happy to meet you. I do not often have the pleasure of an outworlder for a guest.” He led Simmons to a parlor in the house and—making a small ceremony of it—mixed drinks for them in a large glass bowl. As they drank they exchanged small talk.

  At the end of a half-hour Simmons managed to turn the conversation to the purpose of his visit and he told LeBlamc what he had learned of Mogden’s danger. “I thought perhaps you might have some information that would give me an idea of what could be wrong,” he concluded.

  “I can’t start to think of what the trouble could be,” LeBlamc raid. “I can, of course, give you any amount of statistics—trade trends, commercial activities, and such that you might want. But what there could be in those figures that would indicate the danger to us I don’t know.”

  “You have a democratic form of government, do you not?” Simmons asked.

  “Ostensibly, yes,” LeBlamc answered; “but we haven’t had an election—in fact—since before I was born. Our Council replaces members lost by death or superannuation with picked candidates, running without opposition. I’m afraid you would have to call it an oligarchy.

  “However,” he went on, “it is a benevolent oligarchy, and our citizens are quite well satisfied with it. If you are thinking of a discontent of the people being the disturbing factor you are mistaken.”

  “I wasn’t really thinking of anything,” Simmons answered. “I’m merely searching desperately for some clue.”

  “Tell me this,” LeBlamc said, “what could you do if you did find the trouble? To avert the disaster, some action would have to be taken, wouldn’t it. Do you feel capable of handling it alone?”

  “If I gave the facts I found to your government they would take the steps necessary to prevent the disaster, would they not?”

  LeBlamc thought that over for moment before he said, “I’m certain that they would, Rather, I doubt that you could convince them of the necessity. As I understand it, when you find what you are after, it will be something that affects the government, or at least a large segment of our society. The Council is composed of quite conservative men; I don’t believe you’d convince them very easily to do anything radical.”

  “Then I might be able to avert the trouble without their help,” Simmons said. “When sociological engineering first reached the degree of proficiency where we were able to foretell these disasters, the prevalent theory was that a counteracting force should be inserted into the culture. When that was done it not only proved to be a tremendous task, but—surprisingly—more often than not it was unsuccessful, for reasons we have not yet been able to determine. Our later research indicated that usually one group—or even one man—in a special position, could be the direct cause. Removing them, or him, is like loosening the king pin in a log jam.”

  * * * *

  An hour later, LeBlamc looked at the clock on his study table. “I’m sorry that I must halt this interesting conversation,” he said. “Unless…” He paused. “Are you interested in psychiatry, M. Simmons?”

  “Very much,” Simmons answered.

  “I have been treating a Fisher who has the illusion that he is the illegitimate son of a Councilman; I believe I have the data necessary to complete the cure this evening. Would you care to stay and watch?”

  Simmons was happy at this opportunity to further observe the Mogdenian social functioning. “I would appreciate your allowing me to stay,” he said. “I’ve heard these Fishers mentioned before. Just who are they?”

  “They are the dregs of our civilization, M. Simmons.”

  “Criminals?” Simmons asked.

  “Not necessarily; they are merely a class of people on the substrata of our social order.”

  “I didn’t know you had a class society.”

  “We don’t,” LeBlamc assured him, “but the Fishers are different. They are called Fishers, incidentally, because of their work. They are prohibited by law from changing occupations, or marrying with others, and have interbred for generations. They have always been the least desirable group in our society.”

  “But why are they discriminated against? Are they inferior in some way? Less intelligent, for example? Or is fishing regarded as degrading work?”

  “Of course fishing is degrading. But I suppose their average intelligence is the same as the others of us.”

  “Then why aren’t they given the opportunity to work in other trades and professions?”

  “Why? It just isn’t done, M. Simmons.” LeBlamc was obviously becoming annoyed. “I suppose if you must have a reason, there is no outstanding one. But their deficiencies are legion. They lie, they steal, they have little honor—even among themselves—and their personal habits are often reprehensible. They are the lice of our civilization.” Simmons prudently decided not to argue further.

  * * * *

  The Fisher was young, not over eighteen. Though Simmons’ nostrils told him the lad needed a bath, he had fine, sensitive features, and large intelligent brown eyes. He sat in a straight chair, opposite the divan on which LeBlamc and Simmons sat, and kept his gaze mostly on the thick rug at his feet. He pulled continually at the edge of his cloak—which LeBlamc had not asked him to remove.

  “His name is Michel,” LeBlamc said. He treated the lad with obvious condescension, and did not show him the courtesy of giving his first name, or of introducing him to Simmons.

  “Do you still believe you are the son of a Councilman?” LeBlamc began his questioning.

  “I’m certain of it,” the young man answered.

  “Why?”

  “I feel it.”

  “That is hardly proof.”

  The boy did not look at LeBlamc, nor raise his tone, but his voice was stubborn. “It is proof enough to convince me; such a strong feeling cannot be false.”

  “Wouldn’t it more likely be a feeling prompted by your desire to better your station in life?”

  Michel was silent.

  “You have a fair education,” LeBlamc said conversational
ly, “and I find your intelligence quite above normal. In fact, you showed your good sense by coming to me to be cured of your neurosis.”

  “I have no neurosis,” Michel answered evenly. “I came only because my mother asked me.”

  “That is your trouble” LeBlamc said. “Your mother loves you, but she loves you too well. She has sheltered you from the hardships and problems with which you should have learned to cope before this. Now, when you are too old to lean on her any longer—when you must earn your own livelihood—you are unable to accept the fact. You hide behind this delusion of a higher birth.”

  Again Michel was silent.

  “I ask you this,” LeBlamc resumed his questioning. “Will you look with an open mind at the proof I will try to give you that you are mistaken in your belief?”

  Michel nodded, doubtfully.

  “Do you which of the Councilors is your father?” LeBlamc asked.

  “I only know that it is one of the four.”

  “Do you know the appearance of those four?”

  “Very well.”

  “Will you tell me what is the color of their eyes?”

  After a moment of thought Michel answered. “They are all blue.”

  “Do you know the appearance of the Councilors’ wives?”

  “As well as I know that of their husbands.”

  “What color is their eyes?”

  By now Simmons understood where LeBlamc’s questions were leading. Michel, apparently, did not. He answered readily. “They are all blue also.”

  “And the color of your mother’s eyes?”

  “Blue.”

  “Yet your eyes are brown!” LeBlamc delivered his declamation. “It is impossible for two blue-eyed parents to have a brown-eyed child.”

  Michel’s gaze swept up in a movement in wild consternation to stare at LeBlamc; Simmons pitied the despair he read there then. But LeBlamc went unmercifully on. “Your father’s eyes are brown. You could have naturally been his child, and you are. Never doubt it.”

  Michel cried out with a strangled sob, and ran from the house.

  Chapter III

  When Simmons left, late in the evening, M. LeBlamc rode with him in his hired pony-cart for the first half-mile. It seemed it was the custom on Mogden for the host to accompany his departing guest on the early part of his journey.