He shook his head and said, “Oh, the rationalizing species that must invent gods and dogmas!” “Who’s Mahrud?” I asked.
I was getting so much data all at once that I was more mixed up than ever.
“Haven’t you ever seen Mahrud?” I asked.
“No, and I never shall. Those so-called gods just don’t exist, any more than the Allegory or the Ass. Nobody with a rational mind could believe in them. Unfortunately, the Brew, despite its many admirable qualities, does have a strong tendency to make one illogical, irrational, and susceptible to suggestion.”
He tapped his high forehead and said, “But I accept all the good things and reject the others. I’m quite happy.”
Shortly after this, we came out on a country road I recognized.
The Rational Man said, “We’ll be coming soon to my house. Would you two care to stop? We’ll have this squirrel to eat and lots of Brew from the well in the backyard. Some of my friends will be there, and we’ll have a nice intellectual talk before the orgy starts. You’ll find them congenial—they’re all atheists or agnostics.”
I shuddered at the idea of being asked to drink the hated Liquor. “Sorry,” I said. “We must be going. But tell me, as a matter of curiosity, how you caught that squirrel. You’re not carrying any weapon.”
“Can’t,” he replied, waving his book.
“Can’t? Why not?”
“No, not can’t. K-a-n-t. Kant. You see, the Brew has had this extraordinary effect on stimulating certain animals’ growth. More than that, it has, I’m sure, affected their cerebral systems. They seem much more intelligent than before. A combination of increase in size of brain and change in organization of neurons, probably. Whatever the effect, the change has been most remarkable in rodents. A good thing, too. Wonderful source of meat, you know.
“Anyway,” he continued, as he saw my increasing impatience, “I’ve found that one doesn’t need a gun, which no longer explodes in this area, anyway, nor a bow and arrow. All one has to do is locate an area abundant in squirrels and sit down and read aloud. While one is both enjoying and educating oneself, the squirrel, attracted by one’s monotonous voice, descends slowly from his tree and draws nearer.
“One pays no attention to him—one reads on. The beast sits close to one, slowly waving its bushy tail, its big black eyes fixed on one. After a while, one rises, closes the book, and picks up the squirrel, which is by now completely stupefied and never comes out of its state, not even when one takes it home and cuts it throat.
“I’ve found by experiment that one gets the best results by reading The Critique of Pure Reason. Absolutely stuns them. However, rabbits, for some reason, are more easily seduced by my reading Henry Millers Tropic of Capricorn. In the French translation, of course. Friend of mine says that the best book for the birds is Hubbard’s Dianetics, but one ought to take pride in one’s tools, you know. I’ve always caught my pheasants and geese with Three Contributions to the Theory of Sex.” We came to his estate and said good-by to him. Stepping up our pace, we walked for several miles past the many farmhouses along the gravel road. Some of these had burned down, but their occupants had simply moved into the barn. Or, if that had gone up in flames, had erected a lean-to.
“Well, why not?” asked Alice. “They don’t seem to have to work very hard to live in abundance. I’ve noticed we haven’t been bitten by mosquitoes, so noxious insects must have been exterminated. Sanitation shouldn’t bother them—the Brew kills all diseases, if we’re to believe that squirrel-reader. They don’t have much refuse in the way of tin cans, paper, and so on to get rid of. They all seem very happy and hospitable. We’ve had to turn down constant invitations to stop and eat and drink some Brew. And even,” she added with a malicious smile, “to participate in orgies afterward. That seems to be quite a respectable word now. I noticed that beautiful blonde back at the last farm tried to drag you off the road. You’ll have to admit that that couldn’t have happened Outside.”
“Maybe I am bald,” I snarled, “but I’m not so damned repulsive that no good-looking girl could fall in love with me. I wish I had a photo of Bernadette to show you. Bernadette and I were just on the verge of getting engaged. She’s only thirty and—”
“Has she got all her teeth?”
“Yes, she has,” I retorted. “She didn’t get hit in the mouth by a mortar fragment and then lose the rest of her upper teeth through an infection, with no antibiotics available because enemy fire kept her in a foxhole for five days.”
I was so mad I was shaking.
Alice answered softly, “Dan, I’m sorry I said that. I didn’t know.”
“Not only that,” I plunged on, ignoring her apology. “What have you got against me besides my teeth and hair and the fact that I thought of this conditioning idea and my superiors—including the President—thought enough of my abilities to send me into this area without ten thousand Marines paving the way for me? As far as that goes, why were you sent with me? Was it because your father happens to be a general and wanted to grab some glory for you and him by association with me? If that isn’t militaristic parasitism, what is? And furthermore…”
I raved on, and every time she opened her mouth, I roared her down. I didn’t realize how loud I was until I saw a man and a woman standing in the road ahead of us, watching intently. I shut up at once, but the damage was done.
As soon as we were opposite them, the man said, “Newcomer, you’re awfully grumpy.” He held out a bottle to me. “Here, drink. It’s good for what ails you. We don’t have any harsh words in Mahrudland.”
I said, “No, thanks,” and tried to go around them, but the woman, a brunette who resembled a cross between the two Rus-sells, Jane and Lillian, grabbed me around my neck and said, “Aw, come on, skinhead, I think you’re cute. Have a drink and come along with us. We’re going to a fertility ceremony at Jonesy’s farm. Polivinosel himself’ll be there. He’s deigning to mix with us mortals for tonight. And you can make love with me and ensure a good crop. I’m one of Poli’s nymphs, you know.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve got to go.” I felt something wet and warm flooding over my scalp. For a second, I couldn’t guess what it was. But when I smelled the hop-like Brew, I knew! And I responded with all the violence and horror the stuff inspired in me. Before the man could continue pouring the liquid over my head, I tore the woman’s grip loose and threw her straight into the face of her companion. Both went down.
After we had run about a quarter of a mile, I had to slow to a walk. My heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest, and my head was expanding to fill the dome of the sky. Even my setting-up exercises hadn’t fitted me for this.
However, I didn’t feel so bad when I saw that Alice, young and fit as she was, was panting just as hard.
“They’re not chasing us,” I said. “Do you know, we’ve penetrated this area so easily, I wonder how far a column of Marines could have gone if they’d come in tonight. Maybe it would have been better to try an attack this way.”
“We’ve tried four already,” said Alice. “Two by day, two by night. The first three marched in and never came back, and you saw what happened to the last.”
We walked along in silence for a while. Then I said, “Look, Alice, I blew my top a while ago, and we almost got into trouble. So why don’t we agree to let bygones be bygones and start out on a nice fresh foot?”
“Nothing doing! I will refrain from quarreling, but there’ll be none of this buddy-buddy stuff. Maybe, if we drank this Brew, I might get to liking you. But I doubt if even that could do it.”
I said nothing, determined to keep my mouth shut if it killed me.
Encouraged by my silence—or engaged—she said, “Perhaps we might end up by drinking the Brew. Our water is gone, and if you’re as thirsty as I am, you’re on fire. We’ll be at least fourteen hours without water, maybe twenty. And we’ll be walking all the time. What happens when we just have to have water and there’s nothing but the river to drink fr
om? It won’t be as if the stuff was poison.
“As a matter of fact, we know we’ll probably be very happy.
And that’s the worst of it. That X substance, or Brew, or whatever you want to call it, is the most insidious drug ever invented. Its addicts not only seem to be permanently happy, they benefit in so many other ways from it.“
I couldn’t keep silent any longer. “That’s dangerous talk!”
“Not at all, Mister Temper. Merely the facts.”
“I don’t like it!”
“What are you so vehement about?”
“Why?” I asked, my voice a little harder. “There’s no reason why I should be ashamed. My parents were hopheads. My father died in the state hospital. My mother was cured, but she burned to death when the restaurant she was cooking in caught fire. Both are buried in the old Meltonville cemetery just outside Onaback. When I was younger, I used to visit their graves at night and howl at the skies because an unjust God had allowed them to die in such a vile and beastly fashion. I…” Her voice was small but firm and cool. “I’m sorry, Dan, that that happened to you. But you’re getting a little melodramatic aren’t you?”
“Bare your naked soul? No, thanks, Dan. It’s bad enough to have to bare our bodies. I don’t want to make you sore, but there’s not much comparison between the old narcotics and this Brew.”
“There’s no degeneration of the body of the Brewdrinker? How do you know there isn’t? Has this been going on long enough to tell? And if everybody’s so healthy and harmless and happy, why did Polivinosel try to rape you?”
“I’m certainly not trying to defend that Jackass,” she said. “But, Dan, can’t you catch the difference in the psychic atmosphere around here? There seem to be no barriers between men and women doing what they want with each other. Nor are they jealous of each other. Didn’t you deduce, from what that Russell-type woman said, that Polivinosel had his choice of women and nobody objected? He probably took it for granted that I’d want to roll in the grass with him.”
“All right, all right,” I said. “But it’s disgusting, and I can’t understand why Durham made him a god of fertility when he seems to have hated him so.”
“What do you know about Durham?” she countered.
I told her that Durham had been a short, bald, and paunchy little man with a face like an Irish leprechaun, with a wife who henpecked him till the holes showed, with a poet’s soul, with a penchant for quoting Greek and Latin classics, with a delight in making puns, and with an unsuppressed desire to get his book of essays, The Golden Age, published.
“Would you say he had a vindictive mind?” she asked.
“No, he was very meek and forbearing. Why?”
“Well, my half-sister Peggy wrote that her steady, Polivinosel, hated Durham because he had to take his course to get a credit in the Humanities. Not only that, it was evident that Durham was sweet on Peggy. So, Polivinosel upset the doctor every time he got a chance. In fact, she mentioned that in her last letter to me just before she disappeared. And when I read in the papers that Durham was suspected of having murdered them, I wondered if he hadn’t been harboring his hate for a long time.”
“Not the doc,” I protested. “He might get mad, but not for long.”
“There you are,” she said triumphantly. “He changed Polivinosel into a jackass, and then he got soft-hearted and forgave him. Why not? He had Peggy.”
“But why wasn’t Polivinosel changed back to a man then?”
“All I know is that he was majoring in Agriculture, and, if I’m to believe Peggy’s letters, he was a Casanova.”
“No wonder you were a little sarcastic when I gave my lecture,” I said. “You knew more about those two than I did. But that doesn’t excuse your reference to my baldness and false teeth.”
She turned away. “I don’t know why I said that. All I do know is that I hated you because you were a civilian and were being given such authority and entrusted with such an important mission.” I wanted to ask her if she’d changed her mind. Also I was sure that wasn’t all there was to it, but I didn’t press the point. I went on to tell her all I knew about Durham. The only thing I kept back was the most important. I had to sound her out before I mentioned that.
“Yes,” I said. “He often used to lecture to us on what an opportunity the ancient gods lost. He said that if they’d taken the trouble to look at their mortal subjects, they’d have seen how to do , away with disease, poverty, unhappiness, and war. But he maintained the ancient gods were really men who had somehow or other gotten superhuman powers and didn’t know how to use them •(because they weren’t versed in philosophy, ethics, or science.
“He used to say he could do better, and he would then proceed to give us his lecture entitled How to Be a God and Like It. It used to make us laugh, because you couldn’t imagine anyone less divine than Durham.”
“I know that,” she said. “Peggy wrote me about it. She said that was what irked Polivinosel so. He didn’t understand that the doctor was just projecting his dream world into classroom terms. Probably he dreamed of such a place so he could escape from his wife’s nagging. Poor little fellow.”
“Poor little fellow, my foot!” I snorted. “He’s done just what he said he wanted to do, hasn’t he? How many others can say the same, especially on such a scale?”
“No one,” she admitted. “But tell me, what was Durham’s main thesis in The Golden Age?”
“He maintained that history showed that the so-called common man, Mr. Everyman, is a guy who wants to be left alone and is quite pleased if only his mundane life runs fairly smoothly. His ideal is an existence with no diseases, plenty of food and amusement and sex and affection, no worry about paying bills, just enough work to keep from getting bored with all play and someone to do his thinking for him. Most adults want a god of some sort to run things for them while they do just what they please.”
“Why,” exclaimed Alice, “he isn’t any better than Hitler or Stalin!”
“Not at all,” I said. “He could bring about Eden as we can see by looking around us. And he didn’t believe in any particular ideology or in using force. He…”
I stopped, mouth open. I’d been defending the Professor!
Alice giggled. “Did you change your mind?”
“No,” I said. “Not at all. Because the Professor, like my dictator, must have changed his mind. He is using force. Look at Polivinosel.”
“He’s no example. He always was an ass, and he still is. And how do we know he doesn’t like being one?”
I had no chance to reply. The eastern horizon was lit up by a great flash of fire. A second or two later, the sound of the explosion reached us.
We were both shocked. We had come to accept the idea that such chemical reactions just didn’t take place in this valley.
Alice clutched my hand and said sharply. “Do you think the attack has started ahead of schedule? Or is
stopped and murmured. “No, that’s crazy. I’ll wait until I get there before I make any more comments.” We left the gravel road and turned right onto a paved highway. I recognized it as the state route that ran
past the airfield and into Meltonville, about a mile and a half away. Another explosion lit up the eastern sky, but this time we saw it was much closer than we had first thought. We hurried forward, tense, ready to take to the woods if danger threatened. We had traveled about half
a mile when 1 stopped so suddenly that Alice bumped into me. She whispered, “What is it?”
“I don’t remember that creekbed ever being there,” I replied slowly. “In fact, I know it wasn’t there. I took a lot of hikes along here when I was a Boy Scout.” And there it was. It came up from the east, from Onaback’s general direction, and cut southwest, away
from the river. It slashed through the state highway, leaving a thirty-foot gap in the road. Somebody had
dragged two long tree trunks across the cut and laid planks between them to form a rough bridge. We crossed it an
d walked on down the highway, but another explosion to our left told us we were off the trail. This one, very close, came from the edge of a large meadow that I remembered had once been a parking lot for a trucking company.
Alice sniffed and said, “Smell that burning vegetation?” “Yes.” I pointed to the far side of the creek where the moon shone on the bank. “Look at those.” Those were the partly burned and shattered stalks and branches of plants about the size of pine trees.
They were scattered about forty feet apart. Some lay against the bank; some were stretched along the
bottom of the creekbed. What did it mean? The only way to find out was to investigate. So, as we came abruptly to the creeks end, which was surrounded by a ring of about a hundred people, we tried to elbow through to see what was so interesting.
We never made it, for at that moment a woman screamed, “He put in too much Brew!” A man bellowed, “Run for your lives!” The night around us was suddenly gleaming with bodies and clamorous with cries. Everybody was
running and pushing everybody else to make room. Nevertheless, in spite of their reckless haste, they
were laughing as if it was all a big joke. It was a strange mixture of panic and disdain for the panic. I grabbed Alice’s hand and started running with them. A man came abreast of us and I shouted. “What’s the danger?”
He was a fantastic figure, the first person I had seen with any clothing on. He wore a red fez with a tassel
and a wide green sash wound around his waist. A scimitar was stuck through it at such an angle it looked like a ducktail-shaped rudder. The illusion was furthered by the speed at which he was traveling.
“Huh?”
Again he yelled at me and sped on.
“What’d he say?” I panted at Alice. “I’ll swear he said ‘Horatio Hornblower.’”
“Sounded more like ‘Yorassiffencornblows,’” she replied.
That was when we found out why the crowd was running like mad. A lion the size of a mountain roared behind us—a blast knocked us flat on our faces—a wave of hot air succeeded the shock—a hail of rocks and clods of dirt pelted us. I yelped as I was hit in the back of one leg. For a moment, I could have sworn my leg was broken.
The Classic Philip Jose Farmer 1952-1964 Page 8
