He stopped typing and studied the paper. Then he went on.
“…to the new owners, for whose guarantee of adequate protection the Company is maintaining through my own self and two other responsible employees a constant watch over…”
He stopped, scowling. There was something wrong with the sentence. He took a second piece of yellow paper and scratched a few lines of words with his fountain pen. He read them over carefully, pondering. Then he got up from the desk and went over to the window. He opened the window and returned to his place before the typewriter.
He pulled the paper out of the typewriter and inserted a fresh sheet.
“I, Verne Tildon, representing the American Metals Development Company, have been given responsibility in the following matters to arrange and otherwise bring about in the best possible manner the main physical transfer of all holdings and real assets…”
Suddenly he leaped up. Somebody had come up on the porch. Strange light feet. Not Carl. Not Barbara. He listened, frozen. There was no sound, only silence. Maybe he had been mistaken.
The sound came again. Somebody was standing on the porch. The doorknob turned slowly. Verne’s heart thudded. He glanced around the office. What the hell—no hammer, nothing. Where was Carl? Carl was big.
The door opened. A small man peered uncertainly inside, blinking and bobbing nervously. A thin Oriental face turned in Verne’s direction.
“Hello,” the Oriental said.
“Who are you?”
The man came in, shutting the door behind him. Verne did not move. The man was small and slender. It was hard to tell how old he was. Perhaps forty. He wore a faded uniform of the last war, cloth leggings and metal-soled boots. In his left hand was a small cap.
“Who am I?” the man echoed. His voice was dry and nasal, as if he had a cold. He reached into his coat and brought out an envelope. “You may examine these, if you wish. My papers.”
Verne took the envelope and opened it. Cards and documents, written in Oriental characters, stamped and signed, with tiny photographs of the man, rows of numbers and seals.
“I can’t read these.”
“They are to inform you that we will be moving in here in a few days. I have come a little ahead of time to make sure everything is in order.”
“You represent the new owners?”
“I represent the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference. At this time the All-China People’s Congress is not in convocation. Supreme power of the People’s Republic of China is therefore vested at this time in the Chinese People’s PCC.”
“I see,” Verne said. “In a few days? I thought we had more time than that. This comes as somewhat of a shock. Just a few days?”
“Two or three days. I came on ahead. If everything is in order the change can be made at once. We were not sure if you had been able to evacuate your personnel on time.”
Verne hesitated. “Do you want to sit down?”
“Thank you.” The little Chinese sat down by the desk, crossing his legs. He took out a package of Russian cigarettes and put one in his mouth.
Verne sat down across from him. He watched the Chinese light his cigarette. The matches did not seem to work. Several of them were needed before the cigarette was going.
“You speak American,” Verne said. “Are there Americans around?”
“Oh, no. I learned American in Peoria. Ten years ago. I was there on a business trip.”
Verne put out his hand. “My name is Tildon. Verne Tildon.” They shook hands.
“Harry Liu.”
Verne studied him. Harry Liu was pale and slight. His face was flat and expressionless. He was beginning to become bald. His hands were long and the fingers thin. On one finger was a heavy metal ring.
“You don’t look like your name ought to be Harry.”
Harry Liu smiled. “Use any name you wish, then.”
“You’re a soldier?”
“Oh, yes. For a long time. I have not been active for a number of years. On the Long March I injured my leg. It was a very long way.”
“Yes. It was a long way. I remember.”
“I wonder what Kafka would have thought about it. You recall his story, ‘The Great Wall of China.’ He told how the people in one part of China might be paying taxes to an emperor, long since dead, not knowing of the new emperor. The country is so large… I walked most of the distance. Near the end I went on in one of the trucks, when my leg gave out.”
Verne nodded. “I suppose historians will someday call that one of the turning points in history.”
“It depends, I think, on what kind of historians exist in the future.”
“But it did represent something. An end to something and the beginning of something else. Maybe the end of a cycle. As Toynbee or Vico would say.”
“Yes, the cyclic historians.”
“Some of them seem to think our time is going into a period like the Roman period. About the time of Christ. Or later. When the Empire began to retreat. When the pax was beginning to break up.”
Harry Liu smiled. “Would you say, then, that you are the last of the Romans? I wonder what that would make us. It’s an interesting analogy.”
“Interesting?”
“It would seem to make us the first Christians.”
Verne stood up. “Is there anything you want me to show you before you go? Any of the installations?”
“Yes. It might be a good idea. I’m supposed to see what condition the grounds are in.”
Verne opened the door and walked out onto the porch. “I’ll show you what you want to see.”
Harry Liu joined him. “Fine.”
They walked down the porch steps, onto the road. Verne saw a little light bicycle parked a few yards down. He walked up to it. “This is yours?”
“Yes.”
It was a Russian-built bike. Verne examined it. When he was finished he and Harry Liu walked down the road, away from the office.
“What do you want to see?” Verne said.
“Nothing in particular. The main question was whether you had removed your staff and closed down all the processing.”
“We have.”
“How many people remain here?”
“Three. Myself and two others. We’re supposed to turn the ground over to you.” Verne was deep in thought, scowling as he walked along.
“Is anything wrong?” Harry Liu asked.
“Your analogy. To the Romans.”
“Not mine,” Harry said. “I didn’t create it.”
“My analogy, then. That we’re the last of the old world. The old Romans. And you’re the new. The first Christians.”
“Yes?”
“I’m wondering about the Dark Ages, That’s what the Christians brought. Brutality, cruelty, force. The end of reason and freedom. Serfdom. The Middle Ages. The lowest ebb in history. Each person living on a tiny hunk of ground like an animal. Chained to it. No hope, no education. Just enough food and clothing to keep him alive. Slavery—under a different name.”
“But that’s not all.”
“Oh?”
“There was the Church. Don’t forget that. Was it really so dark? Look what the Church gave him, a chance for eternal life, a meaning for his existence. The Church explained why he was alive. And it gave him the key to salvation.”
“It promised him salvation. Empty promises to keep people in line. They sucked the people dry. Worked them to death. Fairy tales, glitter and pomp to make up for their empty lives. Don’t you remember what Lenin said?”
“‘The opiate of the people.’” Harry Liu nodded. “I remember. God, the Holy Trinity, the Virgin Birth. It doesn’t mean much to us today. But it meant a lot, then. I wonder if it was really so dark. The Dark Ages. We call them dark, but there was a spiritual activity there, a strong spiritual feeling. They didn’t consider their times dark. The early Christians were willing to die for their Church, for what they believed.”
“They were swindled.”
&n
bsp; “By our standards. But our emphasis is so much different. We have lost interest in their things. The idea of God. The hierarchy, physical and moral. The levels, earth to water to air to fire. The universe in which a moral God moved. In which there was a visible rise to purity from the gross earth below, to more pure water, to the heavens, and finally to God’s realm, the fire beyond the heavens, the stars. And someday every man was taken up there, lifted and purified.”
“Empty words.”
“Perhaps. And perhaps the New Christians bring only empty words, too. Promises. Promises and a new Dark Age. Brutality and ignorance, and the end of reason. But our words have meaning for us, the way their words had a meaning for them. The Holy Trinity. Empty words—now. But not empty then.”
Verne glanced at Harry Liu curiously. “Do you believe in God?”
“I? Oh, no. But it depends on what you mean by God. We took down the ikons and put up pictures of a man instead, and perhaps he is our god. Some of us may bow down in front of him, before his will, and it said that he can do no wrong.” Harry Liu considered. “So perhaps we have the Holy Trinity back again, in a new form. Old wine in new bottles. We have restored a lost age. And perhaps the brutality and ignorance, too.”
Verne stopped to light his pipe. Harry Liu’s eyes followed the flick of the lighter with interest.
“A pipe lighter,” Verne said. “Quite a gadget.” He passed it to the little Chinese.
Harry Liu studied it. “Yes. Much better than these.” He tapped his box of Chinese matches in the pocket of his coat. “Only a few of them light.” He held Verne’s lighter out.
An impulse seized Verne. “Keep it.”
“The lighter?”
“You can have it. I can get another easily. A present. From the old world to the new.” He smiled grimly.
Harry slid the lighter into his coat. “Thank you.” He was silent for a time. “The others. You said there were two others here.”
“Yes. A woman and a young boy.”
“Where are they?”
“Off someplace. Probably listening to his treatise on ethics. At least, that’s what they say they do.”
“Do you have doubts?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they’re reading. It doesn’t matter.”
“What are they like, the woman and the young boy?”
Verne shrugged. “Nothing unusual.”
“Is the woman young? Is she attractive?”
“As a matter of fact she’s a girl I had an affair with, years ago.”
“Does the young boy know?”
“I doubt it. I doubt if she’d mention it. It wasn’t too pleasant. She was very young at the time.”
“And you were much older, of course.”
“Of course.”
“You and I are perhaps the same age,” Harry Liu said thoughtfully. “We are getting old. I am getting bald and your hair is thinning. It was not like that when you and the girl had your affair, I assume.”
“It had started.”
“I wonder why an affair between a young woman and an older man should be unpleasant. In China such things are common. But they’re not usually unpleasant.”
“She wasn’t even twenty. It was at a vacation resort in New England. She was staying with some college people. We met by accident. I drove her back down in my car. She didn’t know what was happening. I took her to a motel and pushed her into bed. It’s a good way to learn realism.”
“Your society places such a value on realism. I noticed it when I was in Peoria.”
“Don’t you?”
Harry Liu set his lips. “What is wonderful about the real world? Atoms and void. I will tell you a very interesting fact. In our society, we older people are forbidden by law to destroy the fantasies of youth. In fact, we create fairy tales for them to believe.”
“So I’ve heard. Your scientists are under the thumb of the politicians. They can’t tell the truth about the world. And the artists the same way.”
“That’s so. Like the science of the Middle Ages. Our science and art are bent to social needs. Servants of our political planning.”
“Slaves of your new religion. You approve?”
“I think so.”
“You want a country of children? You want to keep them from growing up and learning the truth about things?”
Harry Liu smiled. “Are we doing that? Perhaps.”
“It’s vicious. What are you? A new Church with a new pope, ruling the people with an iron club, dictating to them, telling them what to think and do and believe—”
“Yes. We direct them now. And hope they will be able to direct themselves, someday. I and my group are almost gone, the group that knows our tales are fairy tales. Fantasies. Those who are coming will believe them and call them truth. They won’t want to grow out of them. They will not even know there is such a thing as growing out of them. And I will not tell them, because I can’t. It is the law. And it is a very wise law.”
“You don’t want them to know.”
“It’s for their own good. Atoms and void… It is social realities that count. That must come first. All other truths must be bent. Art, science. We provide them with myths, wise myths. As the Church did. They are not literally so. But they are wise. They have meaning. They will help, when they are needed.”
Verne and Harry Liu walked along in silence, neither of them speaking. At last they came to the huge heaps of slag, the quarries dug out of the ground, the miles of rubbish and scrap that had been discarded, voided by the great machines and factories.
“This is the end,” Verne said, stopping. “There’s nothing more from here on. We might as well go back.”
They walked back.
“Well?” Verne said finally. “What are you going to do with it? It’s all yours. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. It’s not for me to decide.”
“Are you going to use it? Or break it all up?”
“Some things will be destroyed. We need parts, tools, materials. But everything will be reworked. We will have to change everything.” Harry Liu kicked at a piece of rock in the road. “We’ll cart off all the piles of rubbish. Tear down the towers. A lot of cleaning will have to be done. And then reworking, reforming. Changes everywhere.”
“For good ends, I hope.”
“Good? Good, beautiful, truthful. I wonder.”
“You wonder?”
They had come to Harry Liu’s bicycle. The little Chinese swung himself onto the saddle, lowering himself in place. “I wonder if such things are real. Remember what your famous judge said. Pilate. The judge in the Bible.”
“Pontius Pilate.”
“He said one very good thing. ‘What is truth?’”
“But Christ said, ‘I am the truth.’”
Harry glanced at him. He smiled, a thin hard smile. “‘I am the truth.’ Precisely.”
Verne felt a cold chill. “So that’s it.”
Harry Liu moved off down the road, balancing himself expertly on the bike, a thin man, very small, in his faded uniform. Verne watched him as he grew smaller and smaller, bouncing up and down slightly, holding onto the handlebars with both hands, his face expressionless.
Verne turned to go. All at once he paused.
Harry Liu had halted the bike. Verne watched him, puzzled. Harry Liu groped in his coat pocket. He brought out something. Very carefully he dropped it onto the road and stepped on it, grinding the heel of his boot into it. The remains sparkled in the sunlight.
Verne’s lighter.
Verne shuddered. “My God.” He made his way back toward the office. When he looked again Harry Liu was gone. “My God.” He shook his head, dazed. “So that’s what it will be…”
Carl and Barbara walked slowly along the paths. In the warm sunlight Barbara’s hair was beginning to dry out. The stream of water that had been trickling down her neck had stopped.
Her clothing no longer clung to her. Some of her spirits began to flow back a little.
>
“How do you feel now?” Carl asked.
“All right.”
“That’s good.” They continued in silence for a time. Presently they came to the women’s dormitory. Carl stopped. He waited for Barbara to speak.
“Want to sit around while I change?” Barbara said, finally.
“I should go on and get something to eat. I’ve been up a long time. I’m hungry.”
“If you want to wait I’ll eat with you later.”
Carl considered.
“Hurry up,” Barbara said impatiently. “Make up your mind. I want to get inside and change.”
“Lead the way.”
They walked up the steps into the building. On the second floor Barbara opened the door to her room. They went inside.
“Not bad,” Carl said, looking around. “Those are pretty flowers in the vase there.” He wandered around the room, gazing at the prints on the walls and the books.
“I’ll leave you,” Barbara said.
“Yes, go ahead. I’ll try not to be in the way.” Carl was standing before the bookcase, his hands behind his back, his head tilted to one side, trying to read the titles of the books. Barbara went to the closet and took down her dark slacks. From the dresser she nabbed a white shirt.
“I’ll be back soon.” Barbara left the room. She hurried down the hall to the bathroom. In a moment hot water was running in the tub. She stripped off her damp clothes.
Soon she was sitting in the tub, letting the hot water pour around her. She sank down into the water as it rose higher and higher. Odd how warm water could take the dampness out of a person. She sighed with relief as the water filled up the tub, covering her more and more. There was no pleasure like a hot bath.
For a long time she lay stretched out in the tub, her hands resting on the rim. She was relaxed, at peace. After all, she had not been in real danger, If she had started to drown Carl would have saved her. Probably he would have waded out, picked her up, and carried her back to shore explaining the Archimedean principle of the displacement of volume and the loss of proportional weight of a body immersed in water…
She laughed nervously. Would he have done that? It would be like him, lecturing and announcing in a booming voice. Maybe he would be too busy explaining to save her. Maybe he would stand over her as she drowned, lecturing and talking, on and on.
Gather Yourselves Together Page 28
