Simmons was made acquainted with still another custom when LeBlamc rather diffidently asked him if he would care to exchange cloaks. The wearing of a colored cloak in the evening was considered very bad taste. The exchange would cause him no inconvenience, LeBlamc explained, as he owned several of each type, and if he wore Simmons’ cloak on his short walk home, he would hardly expect to meet anyone at that hour of night.
At his hotel, Simmons unlocked the door of his room—and found that the place had been torn apart!
Bed sheets and clothing littered the floor, and bureau drawers had been turned over and their contents spilled out. At first Simmons assumed that some sneak-thief had broken in, but counters of native coin had been spilled out on the bed and left laying there. What could the intruder have been after?
It took a brief inventory to locate the missing articles: The sheets of graph paper with their marking of Mogden trends! But who had wanted them, and why? Simmons could not arrive at any satisfactory answer.
With a deliberate effort, he dismissed the matter from his mind. He had other problems that needed his immediate consideration. He straightened the room and stretched out in an easy chair and gave himself over to reviewing what he had learned and observed during his short time on the planet. Neatly and orderly he laid his facts out in his mind, as an accountant would set his figures in a ledger.
He had, first, the killing of the old man by Harris. Next, the system of monetary depreciation. The infidelity of husbands—though that was not as peculiar to Mogden; in practice, as it was in theory. The husbands’ life and death control over their wives. The subjugation, if not the actual persecution, of the Fishers. He made a mental note to investigate that more fully when he had the opportunity. And finally their conservative, benevolent, oligarchic government. Which was not unusual.
A rather extensive list. In reviewing them, the Mogden custom of killing their elders held his interest the strongest. But whether that was the element that threatened their civilization, or whether it stood out because of its blatantness—and the fact that he had been a graphic witness to its functioning—he did not know.
He could add to the list of what he had learned the information he had gathered before he left Earth: Mogden’s one land mass large enough to be classed as a continent, with an area of approximately 50,000 square miles. The remainder of the planet consisting of ocean, and infrequent islands of barren rock; all human life subsisted on the one continent—a population slightly in excess of 250,000,000. He paused and calculated the density of population. 5,000 per square mile. Very high. However, this was counterbalanced by the fact that the land was extremely fertile, and nearly half their food could be gotten from the fructuous sea.
After a few minutes of consideration the thought came to Simmons that the cause of Mogden’s danger might be overpopulation—despite the productiveness of its land and sea. A seeming paradox on these colonized Worlds, was that the more productive the World the more tendency it had to reach the point where it could no longer support its inhabitants. In an environment where the means of livelihood were easy to come by there was bound to be a high birth rate. And inevitably there came the time when there were more people than could be fed.
Conversely, a World deficient in the means of subsistence was usually held to slower rate of propagation by the scarcity of goods, and the proportion of energy that had to be expended toward bare existence.
He would need more time for consideration, and perhaps more facts. One especially: did Mogden have a problem of overpopulation? He would have liked very much to have the statistics on it.
Would it be possible to obtain them—this very night? Sometimes—with his intuitive approach of intangible problems—the answers came to him while he slept. He might wake up with the answer to Mogden’s problem solved—provided he had all the necessary facts.
For a time, he was tempted to take out fresh graph paper and search for the solution in the generally accepted statistical manner. That was the way it had to be done by those researchers without his peculiar gift of intuition. But they had no choice. Intuition could not be defined, nor could it be taught.
He discarded the idea of graphing with little consideration. The statisticians failed, when presented with such a problem as this, because they could not operate effectively in a situation where a crucial point is concealed, or unknown—as it was here.
Intuition, however, operated in a different manner, and brought generalizations distinctly different from the statistical. Intuition, or instinct, or insight—it had many names—is what first led to belief. Later, reason confirmed or refuted—that which intuition had suggested—by comparison with other beliefs no less instinctive, but supported by greater experience. If it proved compatible it was accepted as knowledge. And now, as always, intuition must come first.
For the immediate present, Simmons needed information on the degree of undernourishment on the planet. Where to get it? The answer was obvious. LeBlamc. Would it be too late to call him? Simmons’ reasoning and mental drive were at high peak now. He couldn’t sleep anyway, and he might be on the verge of finding his solution. He decided to risk an imposition on LeBlamc’s amiability.
A woman answered Simmons’ call. He never did learn who she was, but he presumed later that she was the economist’s wife. “May I speak to M. LeBlamc, if he hasn’t retired, please?” Simmons asked.
The woman’s voice sounded as though she had been crying. “M. LeBlamc is dead,” she answered wearily.
For an instant Simmons was unable to speak. It wasn’t possible, he thought. “You must be mistaken; I left him only an hour ago.”
“You are M. Simmons, the Earthian?” the woman asked. “He was killed just as he reached his home after leaving you.” Her voice broke and she hung up abruptly.
Simmons slid slowly back in his chair. LeBlamc dead. Could this World be mad with its blood-letting? Or was there something different here? Could it be that the killing of LeBlamc had to be placed in a different category from the others? Was this murder as atypical to Mogden as it would have been to Earth?
The evidence he had—all strictly observational—pointed to the conclusion that it was the latter. Who, then, could have killed LeBlamc? Michel? Hardly likely. Though the lad might feel he had justification, he was hardly the homicidal type.
As he pondered Simmons’ glance chanced to rest for a minute on LeBlamc’s cloak, laying across the foot of his bed. His back straightened.
The cloak!
He had exchanged cloaks with LeBlamc; LeBlamc had been killed while wearing his, Simmons cloak—shortly after; he had found his room ransacked on his return. The clues totaled, as plainly as the multiplying of two and two made four. The killers of LeBlamc had made a mistake. They had meant to kill Simmons!
But who were they? He had no time to speculate on it. Every minute he wasted now made his danger more acute. And there was so little he could do to counteract that danger. Should he run? To where? Should he fight? Whom did he have to fight? And how could he, alone, hope to hold his own against an unknown enemy, with probably infinitely more force at his command?
Simmons heard a small noise in the hall outside his room and was glad that he had locked the door. He rose and put out his light. Walking to the room’s one window he looked out. Across the street a man, faceless in the dark, stood with his head turned up toward Simmons’ window.
The net was already tight around him!
He needed help. Badly. He had one chance to get it. Harris.
Harris answered Simmons’ first call. Evidently the man was a light sleeper. “I’m in danger.” Simmons spoke hurriedly. “Will you help me?”
“But certainly,” Harris answered briskly. “Where are you now?”
Simmons told him. “I found my room torn apart when I came in tonight,” he added. “And a short time ago the economist, LeBlamc, was killed while wearing my cloak. I’m convinced that they meant to kill me. Watchers are stationed outside my room now.”
“No.”
“No matter. I will reach you within one third hour. Do not permit anyone to enter until I arrive. Use your gun if necessary.” Harris cut the connection.
Simmons groped in the dark for his chair, and let himself drop into it. Only when he tried to relax, and noted the unnormal rigidity of his stomach muscles, did he realize that he was afraid. He was glad to note that it was not the fear of panic. He took the safety catch off his pistol and laid it on his lap, and waited.
Twice Simmons heard movement in the hall, and once someone stealthily tried the knob of his door. But they made no attempt to force their way in.
Eventually there were three short raps on the door and Harris’ voice said, “Open up.”
Simmons crossed the room and let him in.
“We will have to move fast,” Harris said. “Are you ready to leave?”
Simmons nodded.
“Good.” Harris spoke rapidly. “I saw two of your shadows in the lobby downstairs, and another in the hall. I do not know who they are, but I’m certain that they recognized me. That may help. I have some small reputation in situations like this. And we have surprise on our side: the surprise that you are not alone.”
As he spoke he opened the door and looked out. He motioned with his hand and Simmons followed him into the hall.
“Keep your gun in your cloak pocket,” Harris instructed in an undertone. “With your finger on the trigger. When we come to them, keep them covered. And make certain that they know you are doing it.”
A man at the far end of the hall slid behind a turn in the corridor as he saw them approaching.
“Steady,” Harris cautioned Simmons.
At the head of the stairs Simmons looked down and saw two men blocking the passage at the foot. Obviously Harris saw them also, but he never paused. Purposefully he walked down the stairs toward the waiting men. Simmons noted then that Harris, too, had one hand in a cloak pocket.
When he reached a point one step from the waiting men, Harris stopped. “Get the hell out of my way,” he said very gently.
Involuntarily the two men stepped apart. As they stood undecided Harris strode between them. Simmons followed.
Outside they climbed into a pony cart which Harris had left waiting and rode away.
“We’re safe, at least temporarily,” Harris said. “These men are underlings. They will have to await instructions from their superiors before they will know how to cope with the change in the affairs.”
* * * *
In Harris’ apartment they held a hurried council, with Harris doing most of the planning and talking. “Our immediate problem is for a method of concealment,” he said. “And it can’t be here. By now they will have associated you with me. For you I must make the disguise.”
He walked to a wall cabinet and began taking down assorted jars and tubes and small instruments. “While you hide I will seek to learn who desires to kill you. When we know that, we will decide whether it is wiser to attempt negotiations, or to move against them. For now, rest your head back against the cushion of your chair.” As he spoke he put the jars and tubes on a table at Simmons’ right.
For fifteen minutes Harris’ deft fingers operated on Simmons’ face. He began by plucking hairs from the middle ends and upper sides of his eyebrows to change their slant. Also with the tweezers he changed Simmons hair line to a widow’s peak. He rubbed a pale yellow cream on his fingers and ran it through the hair until it separated into short ringlets.
Using a small cosmetic gun he sprayed a flesh-colored paste that hardened instantly across the bridge of Simmons’ nose and into the hollows of his cheeks. He pushed small air filters into Summons’ nostrils that gave them a wider flare. “Those give you the look of the sinus one,” he jested, without pausing in his work. Finally he covered Simmons’ face and hands with a lotion that tinted the skin several shades darker.
“You now have the appearance of a Fisher,” Harris said when he’d finished. “It will do.
“I have a secret exit,” he said, “for use in just such emergencies as this. It will let you out two blocks from here. The Fisher section is directly East. Start for there as soon as you get outside. It is only about two miles and you can walk. Once in the district you will have no trouble renting a room in a private home. Stay close to your room until noon tomorrow, when I will meet you at the main wharf, if I am able. If not we will meet there the second day. You will have no trouble finding the wharf.” He led Simmons to a door in the basement, shook hands briefly and let him through. “Keep to the right,” he cautioned.
* * * *
Harris was not at the wharf the next day when Simmons arrived. But he was not worried; he had developed a great confidence in the man’s ability.
On the way back to his rooming house he stopped at a used-book store and bought several Mogden histories.
He found Harris waiting at the wharf when he reached there the following noon.
“I have found what we sought,” Harris greeted him, “and you are in the worst possible trouble.”
“That I suspected,” Simmons answered. “But who is trying to kill me? And why?”
“Your death was ordered by the Council itself.”
Simmons considered that for a moment. It was not too surprising—in the light of what he had learned from LeBlamc about the Council. Another thought occurred to him.
“How about you now?” he asked Harris. “With your government on the other side, do you still wish to work for me?”
“I learned more—why you are here,” Harris said slowly. “I am a citizen contented with the Council, and loyal to them. But their persecution of you is prompted by their timidity, rather than their reason. They are malefic, when they should display gratitude; I will remain on your side.”
“I hesitate to accept your help, if it means you must operate outside your law,” Simmons said. “They would never permit you to escape punishment for opposing them.” #
“I have already weighed that,” Harris answered. “The Council is taking great pains to keep their connection with your avowed demise a close secret. They are afraid of the vigorous protest your death might incur from the Earth authorities. And we commissionaires work under a code that is quite specific as to the activities in which we can and cannot engage. If I, in their presumption, do not know who your enemies are, I cannot be held to account for protecting you against them.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Simmons said. “Do you have any plans for my future moves?”
“I have those,” Harris answered. “I do not understand how you know there is the danger to our World, but I have great faith that you are a competent man. I have arrived at the decision that the best means of concealing your person—and at the same time advancing your investigation—is for you to go to Graetin.”
“Graetin?”
“The leader of the group I mentioned to you that is in opposition to the putting away of the too old.”
“Will he accept me?” Simmons asked.
“He will. I visited with him during this morning, and explained the situation of yours. He evidenced a great sympathy. I am to take you to him.
Chapter IV
Graetin was a man with the face and figure of a bull. His outstanding features were large ears and great bony cheeks. His manner was abrupt and forceful, and he had the trick of looking at a visitor from under eyebrows pulled down into a scowl. Simmons learned very soon that he valued his own opinions very highly, and consistently monopolized every conversation.
“You have come to the right man,” he informed Simmons as they relaxed in his drawing room. “You want to know what is wrong with Mogden IV. I can tell you. It is a sick World, suffering from a neurosis that compels it to draw the blood of innocent victims. You probably know already of its senseless slaughter of ancient ones. Do you know also that husbands frequently slay their wives—for any pretext, or none at all—without violating any law? And tha
t within the last few years the self-styled elite have initiated a new custom of slaying every third child at birth? And what—do the authorities do about this latest atrocity? They do not admit that it is permitted, but they condone it by refusing to punish the offenders. Is not the blood madness apparent to you?”
“I agree with you that they are not practices of which to be proud,” Simmons began. “However.”
“They are reprehensible!” Graetin interrupted. “I am not a provincial person, M. Simmons, bound by the mean prejudices and bigotry of this rustic World. I am much educated, and wealthy, and I have traveled on nearly two hundred Worlds. And I tell you the taking of a man’s life is a violation of basic morality, and cannot be justified by calling it a local custom. If there’s a God, I say He must hate us for what we do.”
“I was going to say,” Simmons tried again, “that while I am in sympathy with you on nearly everything you mention, I do not believe you have the solution. I was able to secure a few of your history books within the past few days and I find that the custom of killing your elders began well over fifteen hundred years ago. And husbands assumed mortal control over their wives a few centuries later. By now, those practices have become set characteristics of your culture. The threat to that culture, which we seek, must be some new force—a man, a practice, or an institution—which by its nature clashes with the culture’s established pattern, and threatens to destroy it.”
“You would know more about that than I,” Graetin said. “But I will wager that anything you find will lead back to this blood letting. Have you yet marked any symptoms that might indicate the danger?”
“Nothing concrete. But there are some aspects of your society that I would like to know more about. For one, your World’s religious beliefs. I would guess that their teachings quite closely parallel yours.”
“You are wrong, there,” Graetin replied. “In fact, their engrained religious philosophy has been the greatest hindrance to my cause. That philosophy might be stated simply thus: ‘It is as easy for the strong to be strong as it is for the weak to be weak.’ You can see the devitalizing futility of such a philosophy, can you not? The malefactor cannot be held morally accountable for his wicked deeds, because he is too weak to resist doing them. And there is little incentive to do good, for it will merit no praise. That is merely exercising one’s strength. And…” Graetin paused, seeming to enjoy what he was about to say, “That philosophy is even older than the customs you mentioned.”
The 19th Golden Age of Science Fiction Page 12
