by Chad Oliver
Stephen gripped his staff. “You watch that damned thing too much, Paul. You should be studying. You should be reading.”
“For Christ’s sake!” Paul turned to his mother. “What’s with him?”
Elizabeth fluttered her well-manicured hands. “Really, Stephen. I hardly know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything then. Paul is throwing his life away, can’t you see that? It’s not all over. There are things to do.”
“Paul does very well in school. He’s got a C average.”
Stephen said a word—traditional indeed, it went all the way back to Anglo-Saxon. “Paul is going to learn the important things. He’s going to be an engineer, a scientist. He’s going to do it if I have to beat him with this stick. I’ll call in the lineage elders….”
“Lineage elders!” Paul threw up his hands. “What’ll they do—buy a goat to sacrifice? You know what you are, Pops? You’re an Uncle Tom. A chief. A neocolonialist!”
Stephen advanced on him with his staff. Paul ran away and locked himself in his room.
Elizabeth looked at her husband, then lowered her eyes. She knew his moods. Stephen was a little mad sometimes. It was embarrassing, really. Why, he might even strike her.
“Fix me something to eat, Elizabeth. I’m going out.”
Stephen went into their bedroom and changed his clothes. He knew he would be out all night. His anger was gone. The despair was back. He had handled Paul badly, as usual. He could not reach the boy, could not make contact with him. And yet he had to get through to him. He had to try. If fathers gave up on their sons, there was no hope, no chance. He remembered his own father. God knows, he had had reason to drink.
He ate his dinner. Elizabeth said nothing to him. He touched her when he was through. “I’ll get the TV fixed tomorrow,” he said. It was an apology of a sort.
“Will you be back tonight?”
“No. I’m going out to check the herd.”
“You have no cows.”
“I have a few—for a while.”
She watched him go. Her face was hurt, puzzled. Stephen thought that the expression was better than the normal blankness.
He drove back into the park under the stars. The deep African night closed in around him, sheltering him. The blaze of the Nairobi lights was an intrusion, but he did not try to edit them out. You had to have the Nairobis to reach those stars.
He knew that the lions would be hunting this night. If he stopped the car he could hear their coughing roars, perhaps see their gleaming eyes. He did not stop, but it was not fear that prevented him. It was not lions that he feared. People were the problem, always, forever.
He drove to the silent field station and parked the Chevrolet. He walked to the holding pens. The cattle were there, the sixteen cows he had confiscated that day. They would be slaughtered after they had been inspected tomorrow. The meat would go to the hotels in Nairobi.
He opened the gate and went inside the pen. He closed the gate carefully behind him. He sat down on the earth. He had no plan. There was nothing he could do.
It was far different from the kraals he had known as a boy. The fence was steel, not thornbrush. There were no calves. There were no thatch-covered houses in the moonlight, no drums in the distance, no old man singing drunkenly along the trails.
But the smells were there, the warm rich milky smells of the cows. The cows were there, the feel of trodden earth and dung and hairy hides. There was a kind of continuity. A Kamba and his cows….
Stephen smiled, alone there in the great night. Perhaps he was a little mad. Perhaps a man had to be a little mad in these times. He knew that he would never surrender. He would do his job as best he could, preserving something. He would keep after Paul, all the Pauls. Study, learn, work. Find the way. And then go, take the long way home—
It might never happen. For him, it would certainly never happen. But there were other men, other times. Clans do not die. When he too was a forgotten ancestor, the clan would live.
Stephen stayed there with the good smells all that night. He watched the red sun rise over the hills. He said good-by to the cows and got in his car.
He drove down the paved road to Safariland. He parked by the gates in his zebra-painted Chevrolet. He watched the tourists come in for a new day. They were all the same—black, brown, yellow, white. Dead people, groping for life.
For you too, Stephen thought. For you. For you.
KING OF THE HILL
She floated there in the great nothing, still warm and soft and blue-green if you could eyeball her from a few thousand miles out, still kissed under blankets of clouds.
Mama Earth. Getting old now, tired, her blankets soiled with her own secretions, her body bruised and torn by a billion forgotten passions.
Like many a mother before her, she had given birth to a monster. He was not old, not as planets measure time, and there had been other children. But he was old enough. He had taken over.
His name?
You know it: there are no surprises left. Man. Big Daddy of the primates. The ape that walks like a chicken. Homo sap. Ah, the toolmaker, flapper of tongues, builder of fires, sex fiend, dreamer, destroyer, creator of garbage …
You know me, Al.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall—
Ant is the name, anthill is the game.
There were many men, too many men. They have names.
Try this one on for size: Sam Gregg. Don’t like it? Rings no bells? Not elegant enough? Wrong ethnic affiliation?
Few among the manswarm, if any, cared for Sam Gregg. One or two, possibly, gave a damn about his name. A billion or so knew his name.
Mostly, they hated his guts—and envied him.
He was there, Sam Gregg, big as life and twice as ugly.
He stuck out.
A rock in the sandpile.
They were after him again.
Sam Gregg felt the pressure. There had been a time when he had thrived on it; the adrenaline had flowed and the juices bubbled. Sure, and there had been a time when dinosaurs had walked the earth. Sam had been born in the year that men had first walked on the moon. (It had tickled him, when he was old enough to savor it. A man with the unlikely name of Armstrong, no less. And his faithful sidekick, Buzz. And good old Mike holding the fort. Jesus.) That made him nearly a century old. His doctors were good, the best. It was no miracle to live a hundred years, not these days. But he wasn’t a kid anymore, as he demonstrated occasionally with Lois.
The attacks were not particularly subtle, but they were civilized. That meant that nobody called you a son of a bitch to your face, and the assassins carried statistics and platitudes instead of knives and strangling cords.
Item. A bill had been introduced in Washington by good old Senator Raleigh, millionaire defender of the poor. Stripped of its stumbling oratorical flourishes, it argued that undersea development was now routine and therefore that there should be no tax dodges for phony risk capital investment. That little arrow was aimed straight at one of Sam’s companies—at several of them, in fact, although the somewhat dim-witted Raleigh probably did not know that. Sam could beat the bill, but it would cost him money. That annoyed him. He had an expensive hobby.
Item. Sam retained a covey of bright boys whose only job it was to keep his name out of the communications media. They weren’t entirely successful; your name is not known to a billion people on a word-of-mouth basis. Still, he had not been subjected to one of those full-scale, no-holds-barred, dynamic, daring personal close-ups for nearly a year now. One was coming up, on Worldwide. The mystery man—revealed! The richest man in the world—exposed! The hermit—trapped by fearless reporters! Sam was not amused. The earth was sick, blotched by hungry and desperate people from pole to shining pole. There had never been an uglier joke than pinning man’s future on birth control. A sick world needs a target for its anger. Sam’s only hope was to be inconspicuous. He had failed in that, and it would get him in the end. Still, he only needed a little more time �
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Item. The U.N. delegate from the Arctic Republic had charged that Arctic citizens of Eskimo descent were being passed over for high administrative positions in franchises licensed to operate in the Republic. “We must not and will not allow,” he said, “the well-known technical abilities of our people to serve as a pretext for modern-day colonial exploitation.” The accusation was so much rancid blubber, of course; Sam happened to like Eskimos as well as he liked anybody, and in any event he was always very careful about such things. No matter. There would be a hearing, facts would have to be tortured by the computers, stories would have to be planted, money would be spent. The root of all evil produced a popular shrub.
There were other items, most of them routine. Sam did not deal with them himself, and had not done so for fifty years. (“Mr. Gregg never does anything personally,” as one aide had put it in a famous interview.) Sam routed the problems down to subordinates; that was what they were for. Nevertheless, he kept in touch. A ruler who does not know what is going on in his empire can expect the early arrival of the goon squad that escorts him into oblivion. There were the usual appeals to support Worthy Causes, to contribute to Charity, to help out Old Friends. Sam denied them all without a qualm and without doing anything; his lieutenants had their orders. A penny saved …
Sam was not really worried; at worst he was harassed, which was the chronic complaint of executives. They were not on to him yet. There was no slightest hint of a leak where it counted. If that one ever hit the air cleaner there would be a stink they could smell in the moon labs.
Still, he felt the pressure. He was human, at least in his own estimation. There was a classic cure for pressure, known to students of language as getting away from it all. It was a cure that was no longer possible for the vast majority of once-human beings, for the simple reason that there was nowhere to go.
(“To what do you attribute your long and successful life, Mr. Gregg?” “Well, I pension off my wives so that I always have a young one, and I see to it that she talks very little. I drink a lot of good booze, but I never get drunk. I don’t eat meat. I count my money when I get depressed. If I feel tense, I knock about the estate until I feel better. I try to break at least three laws every day. I owe it all to being a completely evil man.”)
Sam Gregg could take the cure, and he did.
He did not have to leave his own land, of course.
Sam never left his Estate. (Well, hardly ever.)
He took the private tube down from his suite in the tower and stepped outside. That was the way he thought of it, but it was not precisely true. There was a miniature life-support pod that arched over a thousand acres of his property. It was a high price to pay for clean air, but it was the only way. Sam needed it and so did the animals.
There were two laws that he broke every day. In a world so strangled by countless tons of human meat that land per capita was measured in square feet, Sam Gregg owned more than a thousand acres. Moreover, he did nothing useful with that supremely illegal land. He kept animals on it. Even dogs and cats had been outlawed for a quarter of a century, and what passed for meat was grown in factory vats. When people are starving, wasting food on pets is a criminal act. (Who says so? Why, people do.) Most of the zoos were gone now, and parks and forests and meadows were things of the past.
Sam took a deep breath, drinking in the air. It was just right, and not completely artificial either. Cool it was, and fragrant with living smells: trees and wet-green grass and water that glided over rocks and earth that was soft and thick.
This was all that was left, a fact that Sam fully appreciated.
This was the world as it once had been, lost now and forever.
Man had come, mighty man. Oh, he was smart, he was clever. He had turned the seas into cesspools, the air into sludge, the mountains into shrieking cities. Someone had once said that one chimpanzee was no chimpanzee. It was true; they were social animals. But how about ten thousand chimpanzees caged in a square mile? That was no chimpanzee, also—that was crazy meat on a funny farm.
Oh, man was clever. He raped a world until he could not live with it, and then he screamed for help.
Don’t call me, Al. I’ll call you.
Sam shook his head. It was no good thinking about it. He could not ride to the rescue, not with all of his billions. He had no great admiration for his fellow men, and it would not matter if he had.
There was only one thing left to try.
Sam tried to close his mind to it. He had to stay alive a little longer, He had to relax, value, enjoy—
He walked along an unpaved trail, very likely the last one left on the planet. He breathed clean air, he felt the warmth of the sun glowing through the pod, he absorbed …
There were squirrels chattering in the trees, rabbits busy at rabbit business in the brush. He saw a deer, a beautiful buck with moss on his horns; the buck ran when he spotted Sam. He knew who the enemy was. He saw a thin raccoon, a female that stared at him from behind her bandit’s mask. She had three young ones with her and they were bold, but Mama herded them up into an oak and out of danger. He could see the three little masks peering down at him from the branches.
The trail wound along a stream of cold, fast water. Sam watched the dark olive shadows lurking in the pools. Trout, of course. Sam drew the line at bass and carp.
He came out of the trees and into a field of tall grass. There were yellow flowers and insects buzzed in the air. He sensed the closeness of shapes and forms, but he could not see them in the breeze-swept grass. There was life here, and death, and life again.
But not for long.
He turned and retraced his steps. He felt a little better.
The raccoons were still in the oak.
Sam went back inside. Back to the salt mine.
He worked hard until dinner.
“What was the exact hour?” Lois asked him, absently stroking one of her remarkable legs. (She had two of them.)
“I don’t remember,” Sam said. “I was very young.”
“Come on, Sam, I’m not stupid. You can’t tell me that with all the resources of your mysterious enterprises you can’t find out the exact time.”
“I am telling you. I don’t know.” Sam looked at her, which was always pleasant in a tense sort of way. Lois was sensual but there was no softness in her. She had a lacquered surface stretched like a drumhead over taut springs. She always looked perfect, but even her casual clothes were somehow formal. She never forgot herself. She was a challenge, which was fine once in a while. Sam was old enough to decline most challenges without dishonor.
Lois did not have to remind Sam that she had a brain. Sam never made that mistake. Her little reference to “mysterious enterprises” was an effective threat. At thirty, she had climbed the highest pinnacle on her scale of values: she was the wife of the richest man in the world. She didn’t want a settlement. She wanted it all. Sam had no children.
Bright, yes. Cunning, yes. Skilled, certainly. Faithful with her body, yes—Lois took no needless risks. But that fine-boned head enclosed a brain that was all output; not much of significance ever went in. The hard violet eyes looked out from jelly that had been molded in Neolithic times.
She would have made a dandy witch.
She spent her days puttering with expensive clothing and obscure cosmetics. She had a library of real books, thus proving her intellectual capacity. They were all about reincarnation and astrology. She considered herself something of an expert with horoscopes. A pun had frequently occurred to Sam in this connection, but he had refrained. He was not a cruel man.
“I want to do it for you,” she said. “You have decisions to make. It would help. Really, Sam.”
She was quite sincere, like all fanatics. It was a gift she could give him, and that was important to her. It was an ancient problem for women like Lois: what do you give to a man who has everything? The gag presents get pretty thin very quickly, and Sam was not a man who was easily convulsed.
He
sipped his drink, enjoying it. He always drank Scotch; the labs could create nothing better. “Well,” he said. “I haven’t a clue about the minute of my birth. I’d just as soon forget my birthday.”
Lois was patient. “It would be so simple to find out.”
“But I don’t give a damn.”
“I give a damn. What about me? It’s a small thing. I know the day, of course. But if the moons of Saturn were in the right position …”
Sam raised his eyebrows and took a large swallow of Scotch before he answered. “They are always in the right position,” he said carefully. “That’s the way moons are.”
“Oh, Sam.” She did not cry; she had learned some things.
Sam Gregg stood up to refill his glass. He did not like to have obtrusive robots around the house. Self-reliance and all that.
He was not unaware of himself. He did not look his age. He was a tall, angular man. There was still strength in him. His hair was gray, not white. His craggy face was lined but there was no flab on him. His brown eyes were sharp, like dirty ice.
Sam sometimes thought of himself as a vampire in one of the still-popular epics. (“Ah, my dear, velcome to Castle Mordor. A moment while I adjust my dentures.”) Splendid looking chap, distinguished even. But then, suddinkly, at the worst possible moment, he dissolves into a puff of primeval dust …
“Let’s go beddy-bye,” Sam said, draining his glass. “Maybe I can remember.”
“I’ll help you,” Lois said, reporting for duty.
“You’ll have to,” Sam agreed.
Sam worked very hard the next few weeks. He even found time to check the hour and the minute of his birth. He was being very careful indeed, trying to think of everything.
Lois was delighted. She retreated to her mystic stewpot, consulted her illustrated charts, talked it over with several dead Indians, and informed Sam that he was thinking about a long, long journey.
Sam didn’t explode into laughter.
His work was difficult because so much of it involved waiting. There were many programs to consider, all of them set in motion years ago. They had to mesh perfectly. They all depended on the work of other men. And they all had to be masked.
