The Worlds Of Robert A Heinlein

by Robert A. Heinlein

there was no way for a man with foresight to avoid becoming a leader.

  Morgan and Dad Carter entered the mine by a new shaft and tunnel which

  appeared on no map, by a dry rock route which was intended to puzzle even a

  blood-hound. They crawled through the tunnel, were able to raise their

  heads when they reached the armory, and stepped out into the common room of

  the colony, the largest chamber, ten by thirty feet and as high as it was

  wide.

  Their advent surprised no one, else they might not have lived to enter. A

  microphone concealed in the tunnel had conveyed their shibboleths before

  them. The room was unoccupied save for a young woman stirring something

  over a tiny, hooded fire and a girl who sat at a typewriter table mounted

  in front of a radio. She was wearing earphones and shoved one back and

  turned to face them as they came in.

  "Howdy, Boss!"

  "Hi, Margie. What's the good word?" Then to the other, "What's for lunch?"

  "Bark soup and a notch in your belt."

  "Cathleen, you depress me."

  "Well . . . mushrooms fried in rabbit fat, but darn few of them."

  "That's better."

  "You better tell your boys to be more careful what they bring in. One more

  rabbit with tularemia and we won't have to worry about what to eat."

  "Hard to avoid, Cathy. You just be sure you handle them the way Doc taught

  you." He turned to the girl. "Jerry in the upper tunnel?"

  "Yes."

  "Get him down here, will you?"

  "Yes, sir." She pulled a sheet out of her typewriter and handed it to him,

  along with others, then left the room.

  Morgan glanced over them. The enemy had abolished soap opera and singing

  commercials but he could not say that radio had been improved. There was an

  unnewsy sameness to the propaganda which now came over the air. He checked

  through while wishing for just one old-fashioned, uncensored newscast.

  "Here's an item!" he said suddenly. "Get this, Dad � "

  "Read it to me, Ed." Dad's spectacles had been broken on Final Sunday. He

  could bring down a deer, or a man, at a thousand yards � but he might never

  read again.

  "'New Center, 28 April � It is with deep regret that Continental

  Coordinating Authority for World Unification, North American District,

  announces that the former city of St. Joseph, Missouri, has been subjected

  to sanitary measures. It is ordered that a memorial plaque setting forth

  the circumstances be erected on the former site of St. Joseph as soon as

  radioactivity permits. Despite repeated warnings the former inhabitants of

  this lamented city encouraged and succored marauding bands of outlaws

  skulking around the outskirts of their community. It is hoped that the sad

  fate of St. Joseph will encourage the native authorities of all North

  American communities to take all necessary steps to suppress treasonable

  intercourse with the few remaining lawless elements in our continental

  society.' "

  Dad cocked a brow at Morgan. "How many does that make since they took

  over?"

  "Let's see . . . Salinas . . . Colorado Springs . . . uh, six, including

  St. Joe."

  "Son, there weren't more than sixty million Americans left after Final

  Sunday. If they keep up, we'll be kind of thinned out in a few years."

  "I know." Morgan looked troubled. "We've got to work out ways to operate

  without calling attention to the towns. Too many hostages."

  A short, dark man dressed in dirty dungarees entered from a side tunnel,

  followed by Margie. "You wanted me, Boss?"

  "Yes, Jerry. I want to get word to McCracken to come in for a meeting. Two

  hours from now, if he can get here.

  "Boss, you're using radio too much. You'll get him shot and us, too."

  "I thought that business of bouncing it off the cliff face was foolproof?"

  "Well . . . a dodge I can work up, somebody else can figure out. Besides,

  I've got the chassis unshipped. I was working on it."

  "How long to rig it?"

  "Oh, half an hour � twenty minutes."

  "Do it. This may be the last time we'll use radio, except as utter last

  resort."

  Okay, boss.

  The meeting was in the common room. Morgan called it to order once all were

  present or accounted for. McCracken arrived just as he had decided to

  proceed without him. McCracken had a pass for the countryside, being a

  veterinarian, and held proxy for the colony's underground associates in

  Barclay.

  "The Barclay Free Company, a provisional unit of the United States of

  America, is now in session," Morgan announced formally. "Does any member

  have any item to lay before the Company?"

  He looked around; there was no response. "How about you?" he challenged Joe

  Benz. "I heard that you had some things you thought the Company ought to

  hear."

  Benz started to speak, shook his head. "I'll wait."

  "Don't wait too long," Morgan said mildly. "Well, I have two points to

  bring up for discussion � "

  "Three," corrected Dr. McCracken. "I'm glad you sent for me." He stepped up

  to Morgan and handed him a large, much folded piece of paper. Morgan looked

  it over, refolded it, and put it in his pocket.

  "It fits in," he said to McCracken. "What do the folks in town say?"

  "They are waiting to hear from you. They'll back you up � so far, anyway."

  "All right." Morgan turned back to the group. "First item � we got a

  message today, passed by hand and about three weeks old, setting up another

  provisional government. The courier was grabbed right under our noses.

  Maybe he was a stooge; maybe he was careless � that's neither here nor

  there at the moment. The message was that the Honorable Albert M. Brockman

  proclaimed himself provisional President of these United States, under

  derived authority, and appointed Brigadier General Dewey Fenton commander

  of armed forces including irregular militia � meaning us � and called on

  all citizens to unite to throw the Invader out. All formal and proper. So

  what do we do about it?"

  "And who the devil is the Honorable Albert M. Brockman?" asked someone in

  the rear.

  "I've been trying to remember. The message listed government jobs he's

  held, including some assistant secretary job � I suppose that's the

  'derived authority'

  angle. But I can't place him."

  "I recall him," Dr. McCracken said suddenly. "I met him when I was in the

  Bureau of Animal Husbandry. A career civil servant . . . and a stuffed

  shirt."

  There was a gloomy silence. Ted spoke up. "Then why bother with him?"

  The Leader shook his head. "It's not that simple, Ted. We can't assume that

  he's no good. Napoleon might have been a minor clerk under different

  circumstances. And the Honorable Mr. Brockman may be a revolutionary genius

  disguised as a bureaucrat. But that's not the point. We need nationwide

  unification more than anything. It doesn't matter right now who the titular

  leader is. The theory of derived authority may be shaky but it may be the

  only way to get everybody to accept one leadership. Little bands like ours

  can never win back the country. We've got to have unity � and that's why we

&nb
sp; can't ignore Brockman."

  "The thing that burns me," McCracken said savagely, "is that it need never

  have happened at all! It could have been prevented."

  "No use getting in a sweat about it," Morgan told him. "It's easy to see

  the government's mistakes now, but just the same I think there was an

  honest effort to prevent war right up to the last. It takes all nations to

  keep the peace, but it only takes one to start a war."

  "No, no, no � I don't mean that, Captain," McCracken answered. "I don't

  mean the War could have been prevented. I suppose it could have been �

  once. But everybody knew that another war could happen, and everybody �

  everybody, I say, knew that if it came, it would start with the blasting of

  American cities. Every congressman, every senator knew that a war would

  destroy Washington and leave the country with no government, flopping

  around like a chicken with its head off. They knew � why didn't they do

  something!"

  "What could they do? Washington couldn't be protected."

  ''Do? Why, they could have made plans for their own deaths! They could have

  slapped through a constitutional amendment calling for an alternate

  president and alternate congressmen and made it illegal for the alternates

  to be in target areas � or any scheme to provide for orderly succession in

  case of disaster. They could have set up secret and protected centers of

  government to use for storm cellars. They could have planned the same way a

  father takes out life insurance for his kids. Instead they went stumbling

  along, fat dumb, and happy, and let themselves get killed, with no

  provision to carry out their sworn duties after they were dead. Theory of

  'derived authority', pfui! It's not just disastrous; it's ridiculous! We

  used to be the greatest country in the world � now look at us!"

  "Take it easy, Doc," Morgan suggested. "Hindsight is easier than

  foresight."

  "Hmm! I saw it coming. I quit my Washington job and took a country

  practice, five years ahead of time. Why couldn't a congressman be as bright

  as I am?"

  "Hmm . . . well � you're right, but we might just as well worry over the

  Dred Scott Decision. Let's get on with the problem. How about Brockman?

  Ideas?"

  "What do you propose, boss?"

  "I'd rather have it come from the floor."

  "Oh, quit scraping your foot, boss," urged Ted. "We elected you to lead."

  "Okay. I propose to send somebody to backtrack on the message and locate

  Brockman � smell him out and see what he's got. I'll consult with as many

  groups as we can reach, in this state and across the river, and well try to

  manage unanimous action. I was thinking of sending Dad and Morrie."

  Cathleen shook her head. "Even with faked registration cards and travel

  permits they'd be grabbed for the Reconstruction Battalions. I'll go."

  "In a pig's eye," Morgan answered. "You'd be grabbed for something a danged

  sight worse. It's got to be a man."

  "I am afraid Cathleen is right," McCracken commented. "They shipped

  twelve-year-old boys and old men who could hardly walk for the Detroit

  project. They don't care how soon the radiation gets them � it's a plan to

  thin us out."

  "Are the cities still that bad?"

  "From what I hear, yes. Detroit is still 'hot' and she was one of the first

  to get it."

  "I'm going to go." The voice was high and thin, and rarely heard in

  conference.

  "Now, Mother � " said Dad Carter.

  "You keep out of this, Dad. The men and young women would be grabbed, but

  they won't bother with me. All I need is a paper saying I have a permit to

  rejoin my grandson, or something."

  McCracken nodded. "I can supply that."

  Morgan paused, then said suddenly, "Mrs. Carter will contact Brockman. It

  is so ordered. Next order of business," he went on briskly. "You've all

  seen the news about St. Joe � this is what they posted in Barclay last

  night." He hauled out and held up the paper McCracken had given him. It was

  a printed notice, placing the City of Barclay on probation, subject to the

  ability of "local authorities" to suppress "bands of roving criminals".

  There was a stir, but no comment. Most of them had lived in Barclay; all

  had ties there.

  "I guess you're waiting for me," McCracken began. "We held a meeting as

  soon as this was posted. We weren't all there � it's getting harder to

  cover up even the smallest gathering � but there was no disagreement. We're

  behind you but we want you to go a little easy. We suggest that you cut out

  pulling raids within oh, say twenty miles of Barclay, and that you stop all

  killing unless absolutely necessary to avoid capture. It's the killings

  they get excited about � it was killing of the district director that

  touched off St. Joe."

  Benz sniffed. "So we don't do anything. We just give up � and stay here in

  the hills and starve."

  "Let me finish, Benz. We don't propose to let them scare us out and keep us

  enslaved forever. But casual raids don't do them any real harm. They're

  mostly for food for the Underground and for minor retaliations. We've got

  to conserve our strength and increase it and organize, until we can hit

  hard enough to make it stick. We won't let you starve. I can do more

  organizing among the farmers and some animals can be hidden out and

  unregistered. We can get you meat � some, anyhow. And we'll split our

  rations with you. They've got us on 1800 calories now, but we can share it.

  Something can be done through the black market, too. There are ways."

  Benz made a contemptuous sound. Morgan looked at him.

  "Speak up, Joe. What's on your mind?"

  "I will. It's not a plan; it's a disorderly retreat. A year from now we'll

  be twice as hungry and no further along � and they'll be better dug in and

  stronger. Where does it get us?"

  Morgan shook his head. "You've got it wrong. Even if we hadn't had it

  forced on us, we would have been moving into this stage anyhow. The Free

  Companies have got to quit drawing attention to themselves. Once the food

  problem is solved we've got to build up our strength and weapons. We've got

  to have organization and weapons � nationwide organization and guns,

  knives, and hand grenades. We've got to turn this mine into a factory.

  There are people down in Barclay who can use the stuff we can make here �

  but we can't risk letting Barclay be blasted in the meantime. Easy does

  it."

  "Ed Morgan, you're kidding yourself and you know it."

  "How?"

  "How? Look, you sold me the idea of staying on the dodge and joining up � "

  "You volunteered."

  "Okay, I volunteered. It was all because you were so filled with fire and

  vinegar about how we would throw the enemy back into the ocean. You talked

  about France and Poland and how the Filipinos kept on fighting after they

  were occupied. You sold me a bill of goods. But there was something you

  didn't tell me � "

  "Go on."

  "There never was an underground that freed its own country. All of them had

  to be pulled out of the soup by an invasion from outside. Nobody is going

 
to pull us out.

  There was silence after this remark. The statement had too much truth in

  it, but it was truth that no member of the Company could afford to think

  about. Young Morrie broke it. "Captain?"

  "Yes, Morrie." Being a fighting man, Morrie was therefore a citizen and a

  voter.

  "How can Joe be so sure he knows what he's talking about? History doesn't

  repeat. Anyhow, maybe we will get some help. England, maybe � or even the

  Russians."

  Benz snorted. "Listen to the punk! Look, kid, England was smashed like we

  were, only worse � and Russia, too. Grow up; quit daydreaming."

  The boy looked at him doggedly. "You don't know that. We only know what

  they chose to tell us. And there aren't enough of them to hold down the

  whole world, everybody, everywhere. We never managed to lick the Yaquis, or

  the Moros. And they can't lick us unless we let them. I've read some

  history too."

  Benz shrugged. "Okay, okay. Now we can all sing My Country 'Tis of Thee and

  recite the Scout oath. That ought to make Morrie happy-"

  "Take it easy, Joe!"

  "We have free speech here, don't we? What I want to know is, How long does

  this go on? I'm getting tired of competing with coyotes for the privilege

  of eating jackrabbits. You know I've fought with the best of them. I've

  gone on the raids. Well, haven't I? Haven't I? You can't call me yellow."

  "You've been on some raids," Morgan conceded.

  "All right. I'd go along indefinitely if I could see some sensible plan.

  That's why I ask, 'How long does this go on?" When do we move? Next spring?

  Next year?"

  Morgan gestured impatiently. "How do I know? It may be next spring; it may

  be ten years. The Poles waited three hundred years."

  "That tears it," Benz said slowly. "I was hoping you could offer some

  reasonable plan. Wait and arm ourselves � that's a pretty picture! Homemade

  hand grenades against atom bombs! Why don't you quit kidding yourselves?

  We're licked!" He hitched at his belt. "The rest of you can do as you

  please � I'm through."

  Morgan shrugged. "If a man won't fight, I can't make him. You're assigned

  noncombatant duties. Turn in your gun. Report to Cathleen."

  "You don't get me, Ed. I'm through."

  "You don't get me, Joe. You don't resign from an Underground."

  "There's no risk. I'll leave quietly, and let myself be registered as a

  straggler. It doesn't mean anything to the rest of you. I'll keep my mouth

  shut � that goes without saying."

  Morgan took a long breath, then answered, "Joe, I've learned by bitter

  experience not to trust statements set off by 'naturally', 'of course', or

  'that goes without saying'."

  "Oh, so you don't trust me?"

  "As Captain of this Company I can't afford to. Unless you can get the

  Company to recall me from office, my rulings stand. You're under arrest.

  Hand over your gun.

  Benz glanced around, at blank, unfriendly faces. He reached for his waist.

  "With your left hand, Joe!"

  Instead of complying, Benz drew suddenly, backed away. "Keep clear!" he

  said shrilly. "I don't want to hurt anybody � but keep clear!"

  Morgan was unarmed. There might have been a knife or two in the assembly,

  but most of them had come directly from the dinner table. It was not their

  custom to be armed inside the mine.

  Young Morrie was armed with a rifle, having come from lookout duty. He did

  not have room to bring it into play, but Morgan could see that he intended

  to try. So could Benz.

  "Stop it, Morrie!" Morgan assumed obedience and turned instantly to the

  others. "Let him go. Nobody move. Get going, Joe."