Expanded Universe

by Robert A. Heinlein

  "And get a bayonet in your ribs? Don't be silly."

  "Okay. Don't blow your top." Cleve continued to watch the rig. "Hey," he said presently. "Get a load of that!"

  "That" was a figure which dropped from the tail of the wagon as it started around the bend, rolled to the ditch on the far side, and slithered out of sight.

  "That was Joe!"

  "Are you sure?"

  "Sure! Here we go."

  "How?" Art objected. "Take it easy. Follow me." They faded back two hundred yards, to where they could cross the road on hands and knees through a drainage pipe. Then they worked up the other side to where Benz had disappeared in weeds.

  They found the place where he had been; grass and weeds were still straightening up. The route he must have taken was evident—down toward the river bank, then upstream to the city. There were drops of blood. "Dad must have missed stopping him by a gnat's whisker," Cleve commented.

  "Bad job he didn't."

  "Another thing—he said he was going to give himself up. I don't think he is, or he would have stayed with the wagon and turned himself in at the check station. He's heading for some hideout. Who does he know in Barclay?"

  "I don't know. We'd better get going."

  "Wait a minute. If he touches off an alarm, they'll shoot him for us. If he gets by the 'eyes,' we've lost him and we'll have to pick him up inside. Either way, we don't gain anything by blundering ahead. We've got to go in by the chute."

  Like all cities the Invader had consolidated, Barclay was girdled by electric-eye circuits. The enemy had trimmed the town to fit, dynamiting and burning where necessary to achieve unbroken sequence of automatic sentries. But the "chute"—an abandoned and forgotten aqueduct—passed under the alarms. Art knew how to use it; he had been in town twice since Final Sunday.

  They worked back up the highway, crossed over, and took to the hills. Thirty minutes later they were on the streets of Barclay, reasonably safe as long as they were quick to step off the sidewalk for the occasional Invader.

  The first "post office," a clothesline near their exit, told them nothing—the line was bare. They went to the bus station. Cleve studied the notices posted for inhabitants while Art went into the men's rest room. On the wall, defaced by scrawlings of every sort, mostly vulgar, he found what he sought: "Killroy was here." The misspelling of Kilroy was the clue—exactly eighteen inches below it and six to the right was an address: "1745 Spruce—ask for Mabel."

  He read it as 2856 Pine—one block beyond Spruce. Art passed the address to Cleve, then they set out separately, hurrying to beat the curfew but proceeding with caution—at least one of them must get through. They met in the backyard of the translated address. Art knocked on the kitchen door. It was opened a crack by a middle-aged man who did not seem glad to see them. "Well?"

  "We're looking for Mabel."

  "Nobody here by that name."

  "Sorry," said Art. "We must have made a mistake." He shivered. "Chilly out," he remarked. "The nights are getting longer."

  "They'll get shorter by and by," the man answered.

  "We've got to think so, anyhow," Art countered.

  "Come in," the man said. "The patrol may see you." He opened the door and stepped aside. "My name's Hobart. What's your business?"

  "We're looking for a man named Benz. He may have sneaked into town this afternoon and found someplace to—"

  "Yes, yes," Hobart said impatiently. "He got in about an hour ago and he's holed up with a character named Moyland." As he spoke he removed a half loaf of bread from a cupboard, cut four slices, and added cold sausage, producing two sandwiches. He did not ask if they were hungry; he simply handed them to Art and Cleve.

  "Thanks, pal. So he's holed up. Haven't you done anything about it? He has got to be shut up at once or he'll spill his guts."

  "We've got a tap in on the telephone line. We had to wait for dark. You can't expect me to sacrifice good boys just to shut his mouth unless it's absolutely necessary."

  "Well, it's dark now, and we'll be the boys you mentioned. You can call yours off."

  "Okay." Hobart started pulling on shoes.

  "No need for you to stick your neck out," Art told him. "Just tell us where this Moyland lives."

  "And get your throat cut, too. I'll take you."

  "What sort of a guy is this Moyland? Is he safe?"

  "You can't prove it by me. He's a black market broker, but that doesn't prove anything. He's not part of the organization but we haven't anything against him."

  Hobart took them over his back fence, across a dark side street, through a playground, where they lay for several minutes under bushes because of a false alarm, then through many more backyards, back alleys, and dark byways. The man seemed to have a nose for the enemy; there were no more alarms. At last he brought them through a cellar door into a private home. They went upstairs and through a room where a woman was nursing a baby. She looked up, but otherwise ignored them. They ended up in a dark attic. "Hi, Jim," Hobart called out softly. "What's new?"

  The man addressed lay propped on his elbows, peering out into the night through opera glasses held to slots of a ventilating louvre. He rolled over and lowered the glasses, pushing one of a pair of earphones from his head as he did so. "Hello, Chief. Nothing much. Benz is getting drunk, it looks like."

  "I'd like to know where Moyland gets it," Hobart said. "Has he telephoned?"

  "Would I be doing nothing if he had? A couple of calls came in, but they didn't amount to anything, so I let him talk."

  "How do you know they didn't amount to anything?"

  Jim shrugged, turned back to the louvre. "Moyland just pulled down the shade," he announced.

  Art turned to Hobart. "We can't wait. We're going in.

  * * *

  Benz arrived at Moyland's house in bad condition. The wound in his shoulder, caused by Carter's grenade, was bleeding. He had pushed a handkerchief up against it as a compress, but his activity started the blood again; he was shaking for fear his condition would attract attention before he could get under cover.

  Moyland answered the door. "Is that you, Zack?" Benz demanded, shrinking back as he spoke.

  "Yes. Who is it?"

  "It's me—Joe Benz. Let me in, Zack—quick!"

  Moyland seemed about to close the door, then suddenly opened it. "Get inside." When the door was bolted, he demanded, "Now—what's your trouble? Why come to me?"

  "I had to go someplace, Zack. I had to get off the street. They'd pick me up."

  Moyland studied him. "You're not registered. Why not?"

  Benz did not answer. Moyland waited, then went on, "You know what I can get for harboring a fugitive. You're in the Underground—aren't you?"

  "Oh, no, Zack! I wouldn't do that to you. I'm just a—a straggler. I gotta get registered, Zack."

  "That's blood on your coat. How?"

  "Uh . . . just an accident. Maybe you could let me have clean rags and some iodine."

  Moyland stared at him, his bland face expressionless, then smiled. "You've got no troubles we can't fix. Sit down." He stepped to a cabinet and took out a bottle of bourbon, poured three fingers in a water glass, and handed it to Benz. "Work on that and I'll fix you up."

  He returned with some torn toweling and a bottle. "Sit here with your back to the window, and open your shirt. Have another drink. You'll need it before I'm through."

  Benz glanced nervously at the window. "Why don't you draw the shade?"

  "It would attract attention. Honest people leave their shades up these days. Hold still. This is going to hurt."

  Three drinks later Benz was feeling better. Moyland seemed willing to sit and drink with him and to soothe his nerves. "You did well to come in," Moyland told him. "There's no sense hiding like a scared rabbit. It's just butting your head against a stone wall. Stupid."

  Benz nodded. "That's what I told them."

  "Told who?"

  "Hunh? Oh, nobody. Just some guys I was talking to. Tramps."

/>   Moyland poured him another drink. "As a matter of fact you were in the Underground."

  "Me? Don't be silly, Zack."

  "Look, Joe, you don't have to kid me. I'm your friend. Even if you did tell me it wouldn't matter. In the first place, I wouldn't have any proof. In the second place, I'm sympathetic to the Underground—any American is. I just think they're wrong-headed and foolish. Otherwise I'd join 'em myself."

  "They're foolish all right! You can say that again."

  "So you were in it?"

  "Huh? You're trying to trap me. I gave my word of honor—"

  "Oh, relax!" Moyland said hastily. "Forget it. I didn't hear anything; I can't tell anything. Hear no evil, see no evil—that's me." He changed the subject.

  The level of the bottle dropped while Moyland explained current events as he saw them. "It's a shame we had to take such a shellacking to learn our lesson but the fact of the matter is, we were standing in the way of the natural logic of progress. There was a time back in '45 when we could have pulled the same stunt ourselves, only we weren't bright enough to do it. World organization, world government. We stood in the way, so we got smeared. It had to come. A smart man can see that."

  Benz was bleary but he did not find this comment easy to take. "Look, Zack—you don't mean you like what happened to us?"

  "Like it? Of course not. But it was necessary. You don't have to like having a tooth pulled—but it has to be done. Anyhow," he went on, "it's not all bad. The big cities were economically unsound anyway. We should have blown them up ourselves. Slum clearance, you might call it."

  Benz banged his empty glass down. "Maybe so—but they made slaves out of us!"

  "Take it easy, Joe," Moyland said, filling his glass, "you're talking abstractions. The cop on the corner could push you around whenever he wanted to. Is that freedom? Does it matter whether the cop talks with an Irish accent or some other accent? No, chum, there's a lot of guff talked about freedom. No man is free. There is no such thing as freedom. There are only various privileges. Free speech—we're talking freely now, aren't we? After all, you don't want to get up on a platform and shoot off your face. Free press? When did you ever own a newspaper? Don't be a chump. Now that you've shown sense and come in, you are going to find that things aren't so very different. A little more orderly and no more fear of war, that's all. Girls make love just like they used to, the smart guys get along, and the suckers still get the short end of the deal."

  Benz nodded. "You're right, Zack. I've been a fool."

  "I'm glad you see it. Now take those wild men you were with. What freedom have they got? Freedom to starve, freedom to sleep on the cold ground, freedom to be hunted."

  "That was it," Benz agreed. "Did you ever sleep in a mine, Zack? Cold. That ain't half of it. Damp, too."

  "I can imagine," Moyland agreed. "The Capehart Lode always was wet."

  "It wasn't the Capehart; it was the Harkn—" He caught himself and looked puzzled.

  "The Harkness, eh? That's the headquarters?"

  "I didn't say that! You're putting words in my mouth! You—"

  "Calm yourself, Joe. Forget it." Moyland got up and drew down the shade. "You didn't say anything."

  "Of course I didn't." Benz stared at his glass. "Say, Zack, where do I sleep? I don't feel good."

  "You'll have a nice place to sleep any minute now."

  "Huh? Well, show me. I gotta fold up."

  "Any minute. You've got to check in first."

  "Huh? Oh, I can't do that tonight, Zack. I'm in no shape."

  "I'm afraid you'll have to. See me pull that shade down? They'll be along any moment."

  Benz stood up, swaying a little. "You framed me!" he yelled, and lunged at his host.

  Moyland sidestepped, put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down into the chair. "Sit down, sucker," he said pleasantly. "You don't expect me to get A-bombed just for you and your pals, do you?" Benz shook his head, then began to sob.

  * * *

  Hobart escorted them out of the house, saying to Art as they left, "If you get back, tell McCracken that Aunt Dinah is resting peacefully."

  "Okay."

  "Give us two minutes, then go in. Good luck."

  Cleve took the outside; Art went in. The back door was locked, but the upper panel was glass. He broke it with the hilt of his knife, reached in and unbolted the door. He was inside when Moyland showed up to investigate the noise.

  Art kicked him in the belly, then let him have the point in the neck as he went down. Art stopped just long enough to insure that Moyland would stay dead, then went looking for the room where Benz had been when the shade was drawn.

  He found Benz in it. The man blinked his eyes and tried to focus them, as if he found it impossible to believe what he saw. "Art!" he got out at last. "Jeez, boy! Am I glad to see you! Let's get out of here—this place is 'hot.' "

  Art advanced, knife out.

  Benz looked amazed. "Hey, Art! Art! You're making a mistake. Art. You can't do this—" Art let him have the first one in the soft tissues under the breast bone, then cut his throat to be sure. After that he got out quickly.

  Thirty-five minutes later he was emerging from the country end of the chute. His throat was burning from exertion and his left arm was useless—he could not tell whether it was broken or simply wounded.

  Cleve lay dead in the alley behind Moyland's house, having done a good job of covering Art's rear.

  * * *

  It took Art all night and part of the next morning to get back near the mine. He had to go through the hills the entire way; the highway was, he judged, too warm at the moment.

  He did not expect that the Company would still be there. He was reasonably sure that Morgan would have carried out the evacuation pending certain evidence that Benz's mouth had been shut. He hurried.

  But he did not expect what he did find—a helicopter hovering over the neighborhood of the mine.

  He stopped to consider the matter. If Morgan had got them out safely, he knew where to rejoin. If they were still inside, he had to figure out some way to help them. The futility of his position depressed him—one man, with a knife and a bad arm, against a helicopter.

  Somewhere a bluejay screamed and cursed. Without much hope he chirped his own identification. The bluejay shut up and a mockingbird answered him—Ted.

  Art signaled that he would wait where he was. He considered himself well hidden; he expected to have to signal again when Ted got closer, but he underestimated Ted's ability. A hand was laid on his shoulder.

  He rolled over, knife out, and hurt his shoulder as he did so. "Ted! Man, do you look good to me!"

  "Same here. Did you get him?"

  "Benz? Yes, but maybe not in time. Where's the gang?"

  "A quarter mile north of back door. We're pinned down. Where's Cleve?"

  "Cleve's not coming back. What do you mean 'pinned down'?"

  "That damned 'copter can see right down the draw we're in. Dad's got 'em under an overhang and they're safe enough for the moment, but we can't move."

  "What do you mean 'Dad's got 'em'?" demanded Art. "Where's the Boss?"

  "He ain't in such good shape, Art. Got a machine gun slug in the ribs. We had a dust-up. Cathleen's dead."

  "The hell you say!"

  "That's right. Margie and Maw Carter have got her baby. But that's one reason why we're pinned down—the Boss and the kid, I mean."

  A mockingbird's call sounded far away. "There's Dad," Ted announced. "We got to get back."

  "Can we?"

  "Sure. Just keep behind me. I'll watch out that I don't get too far ahead."

  Art followed Ted in, by a circuitous and, at one point, almost perpendicular route. He found the Company huddled under a shelf of rock which had been undercut by a stream, now dry. Against the wall Morgan was on his back, with Dad Carter and Dr. McCracken squatting beside him. Art went up and made his report.

  Morgan nodded, his face gray with pain. His shirt had been cut away; bandaging was
wrapped around his ribs, covering a thick pad. "You did well, Art. Too bad about Cleve. Ted, we're getting out of here and you're going first, because you're taking the kid."

  "The baby? How—"

  "Doc'll dope it so that it won't let out a peep. Then you strap it to your back, papoose fashion."

  Ted thought about it. "No, to my front. There's some knee-and-shoulder work on the best way out."

  "Okay. It's your job."

  "How do you get out, boss?"

  "Don't be silly."

  "Look here, boss, if you think we're going to walk off and leave you, you've got another—"

  "Shut up and scram!" The exertion hurt Morgan; he coughed and wiped his mouth.

  "Yes, sir." Ted and Art backed away.

  "Now, Ed—" said Carter.

  "You shut up, too. You still sure you don't want to be Captain?"

  "You know better than that, Ed. They took things from me while I was your deppity, but they wouldn't have me for Captain."

  "That puts it up to you, Doc."

  McCracken looked troubled. "They don't know me that well, Captain."

  "They'll take you. People have an instinct for such things."

  "Anyhow, if I am Captain, I won't agree to your plan of staying here by yourself. We'll stay till dark and carry you out."

  "And get picked up by an infrared spotter, like sitting ducks? That's supposing they let you alone until sundown—that other 'copter will be back with more troops before long."

  "I don't think they'd let me walk off on you."

  "It's up to you to make them. Oh, I appreciate your kindly thoughts, Doc, but you'll think differently as soon as you're Captain. You'll know you have to cut your losses."

  McCracken did not answer. Morgan turned his head to Carter. "Gather them around, Dad."

  They crowded in, shoulder to shoulder. Morgan looked from one troubled face to another and smiled. "The Barclay Free Company, a provisional unit of the United States of America, is now in session," he announced, his voice suddenly firm. "I'm resigning the captaincy for reasons of physical disability. Any nominations?"