C. M. Kornbluth, page 45
And then he slipped through into blackness and silence.
Royland awoke sick and fuzzy; it was morning in the hut; there was no sign of Nahataspe. Well. Unless the old man had gotten to a phone and reported to the Laboratory, there were now jeeps scouring the desert in search of him and all hell was breaking loose in Security and Personnel.
He would catch some of that hell on his return, and avert it with his news about assembly time.
Then he noticed that the hut had been cleaned of Nahataspe’s few remaining possessions, even to the door cloth. A pang went through him; had the old man died in the night? He limped from the hut and looked around for a funeral pyre, a crowd of mourners. They were not there; the adobe cubes stood untenanted in the sunlight, and more weeds grew in the single street than he remembered. And his jeep, parked last night against the hut, was missing.
There were no wheeltracks, and uncrushed weeds grew tall where the jeep had stood.
Nahataspe’s God Food had been powerful stuff. Royland’s hand crept uncertainly to his face. No; no beard.
He looked about him, looked hard. He made the effort necessary to see details. He did not glance at the hut and because it was approximately the same as it had always been, concluded that it was unchanged, eternal. He looked and saw changes everywhere. Once-sharp adobe corners were rounded; protruding roof beams were bleached bone-white by how many years of desert sun? The wooden framing of the deep fortress-like windows had crumbled; the third building from him had wavering soot stains above its window boles and its beams were charred.
He went to it, numbly thinking: Phase 56c at least is settled. Not old Rip’s baby now. They’ll know me from fingerprints, I guess. One year?
Ten? I feel the same.
The burned-out house was a shambles. In one corner were piled dry human bones. Royland leaned dizzily against the doorframe; its charcoal crumbled and streaked his hand. Those skulls were Indian-he was anthropologist enough to know that. Indian men, women and children, slain and piled in a heap. Who kills Indians? There should have been some sign of clothes, burned rags, but there were none. Who strips Indians naked and kills them?
Signs of a dreadful massacre were everywhere in the house. Bullet-pocks in the walls, high and low. Savage nicks left by bayonets—and swords? Dark stains of blood; it had run two inches high and left its mark. Metal glinted in a ribcage across the room. Swaying, he walked to the boneheap and thrust his hand into it. The thing bit him like a razor blade; he did not look at it as he plucked it out and carried it to the dusty street. With his back turned to the burned house he studied his find. It was a piece of swordblade six inches long, hand-honed to a perfect edge with a couple of nicks in it. It had stiffening ribs and the usual blood gutters. It had a perceptible curve that would fit into only one shape: the Samurai sword of Japan.
However long it had taken, the war was obviously over.
He went to the village well and found it choked with dust. It was while he stared into the dry hole that he first became afraid. Suddenly it all was real; he was no more an onlooker but a frightened and very thirsty man. He ransacked the dozen houses of the settlement and found nothing to his purpose—a child’s skeleton here, a couple of cartridge cases there.
There was only one thing left, and that was the road, the same earth track it had always been, wide enough for one jeep or the rump-sprung station wagon of the Indian settlement that once had been. Panic invited him to run; he did not yield. He sat on the well curb, took off his shoes to meticulously smooth wrinkles out of his khaki G.I. socks, put the shoes on, and retied the laces loosely enough to allow for swelling, and hesitated a moment. Then he grinned, selected two pebbles carefully from the dust and popped them in his mouth. “Beaver Patrol, forward march,” he said, and began to hike.
Yes, he was thirsty; soon he would be hungry and tired; what of it? The dirt road would meet state-maintained blacktop in three miles and then there would be traffic and he’d hitch a ride. Let them argue with his fingerprints if they felt like it. The Japanese had got as far as New Mexico, had they? Then God help their home islands when the counterblow had come. Americans were a ferocious people when trespassed on. Conceivably, there was not a Japanese left alive …
He began to construct his story as he hiked. In large parts it was a repeated “I don’t know.” He would tell them: “I don’t expect you to believe this, so my feelings won’t be hurt when you don’t. Just listen to what I say and hold everything until the F.B.I, has checked my fingerprints. My name is—” And so on.
It was midmorning then, and he would be on the highway soon. His nostrils, sharpened by hunger, picked up a dozen scents on the desert breeze: the spice of sage, a whiff of acetylene stink from a rattler dozing on the shaded side of a rock, the throat-tightening reek of tar suggested for a moment on the air. That would be the highway, perhaps a recent hotpatch on a chuckhole. Then a startling tang of sulfur dioxide drowned them out and passed on, leaving him stung and sniffling and groping for a handkerchief that was not there. What in God’s name had that been, and where from? Without ceasing to trudge he studied the horizon slowly and found a smoke pall to the far west dimly smudging the sky. It looked like a small city’s, or a fair-sized factory’s, pollution. A city or a factory where “in his time” —he formed the thought reluctantly—there had been none.
Then he was at the highway. It had been improved; it was a two-laner still, but it was nicely graded now, built up by perhaps three inches of gravel and tar beyond its old level, and lavishly ditched on either side.
If he had a coin he would have tossed it, but you went for weeks without spending a cent at Los Alamos Laboratory; Uncle took care of everything, from cigarettes to tombstones. He turned left and began to walk westward toward that sky smudge.
I am a reasonable animal, he was telling himself, and I will accept whatever comes in a spirit of reason. I will control what I can and try to understand the rest—
A faint siren scream began behind him and built up fast. The reasonable animal jumped for the ditch and hugged it for dear life. The siren howled closer, and motors roared. At the ear-splitting climax Royland put his head up for one glimpse, then fell back into the ditch as if a grenade had exploded in his middle.
The convoy roared on, down the center of the two-lane highway, straddling the white line. First the three little recon cars with the twin-mount machine guns, each filled brimful with three helmeted Japanese soldiers. Then the high-profiled, armored car of state, six-wheeled, with a probably ceremonial gun turret astern—nickelplated gunbarrels are impractical—and the Japanese admiral in the fore-and-aft hat taking his lordly ease beside a rawboned, hatchet-faced SS officer in gleaming black. Then, diminuendo, two more little recon jobs …
“We’ve lost,” Royland said in his ditch meditatively. “Ceremonial tanks with glass windows—we lost a long time ago.” Had there been a Rising Sun insignia or was he now imagining that?
He climbed out and continued to trudge westward on the improved blacktop. You couldn’t say “I reject the universe,” not when you were as thirsty as he was.
He didn’t even turn when the put-putting of a westbound vehicle grew loud behind him and then very loud when it stopped at his side.
“Zeegail,” a curious voice said. “What are you doing here?”
The vehicle was just as odd in its own way as the ceremonial tank. It was minimum motor transportation, a kid’s sled on wheels, powered by a noisy little air-cooled outboard motor. The driver sat with no more comfort than a cleat to back his coccyx against, and behind him were two twenty-five pound flour sacks that took up all the remaining room the little buckboard provided. The driver had the leathery Southwestern look; he wore a baggy blue outfit that was obviously a uniform and obviously unmilitary. He had a nametape on his breast above an incomprehensible row of dull ribbons: MARTFIELD, E., 1218824, P/7 NQOTD43. He saw Royland’s eyes on the tape and said kindly: “My name is Martfield—Paymaster Seventh, but there’s no need to use my rank here. Are you all right, my man?”
“Thirsty,” Royland said. “What’s the NQOTD43 for?”
“You can read!” Martfield said, astounded. “Those clothes—”
“Something to drink, please,” Royland said. For the moment nothing else mattered in the world. He sat down on the buckboard like a puppet with cut strings.
“See here, fellow!” Martfield snapped in a curious, strangled way, forcing the words through his throat with a stagy, conventional effect of controlled anger. “You can stand until I invite you to sit!”
“Have you any water?” Royland asked dully.
With the same bark: “Who do you think you are?”
“I happen to be a theoretical physicist—” tiredly arguing with a dim seventh-carbon-copy imitation of a drill sergeant.
“Oh-hoh!” Martfield suddenly laughed. His stiffness vanished; he actually reached into his baggy tunic and brought out a pint canteen that gurgled. He then forgot all about the canteen in his hand, roguishly dug Royland in the ribs and said: “I should have suspected. You scientists! Somebody was supposed to pick you up—but he was another scientist, eh? Ah-hah-hah-hah!”
Royland took the canteen from his hand and sipped. So a scientist was supposed to be an idiot-savant, eh? Never mind now; drink. People said you were not supposed to fill your stomach with water after great thirst; it sounded to him like one of those puritanical rules people make up out of nothing because they sound reasonable. He finished the canteen while Martfield, Paymaster Seventh, looked alarmed, and wished only that there were three or four more of them.
“Got any food?” he demanded.
Martfield cringed briefly. “Doctor, I regret extremely that I have nothing with me. However if you would do me the honor of riding with me to my quarters—”
“Let’s go,” Royland said. He squatted on the flour sacks and away they chugged at a good thirty miles an hour; it was a fair little engine. The Paymaster Seventh continued deferential, apologizing over his shoulder because there was no windscreen, later dropped his cringing entirely to explain that Royland was seated on flour—”white flour, understand?” An over-the-shoulder wink. He had a friend in the bakery at Los Alamos. Several buckboards passed the other way as they traveled. At each encounter there was a peering examination of insignia to decide who saluted. Once they met a sketchily enclosed vehicle that furnished its driver with a low seat instead of obliging him to sit with legs straight out, and Paymaster Seventh Martfield almost dislocated his shoulder saluting first. The driver of that one was a Japanese in a kimono. A long curved sword lay across his lap.
Mile after mile the smell of sulfur and sulfides increased; finally there rose before them the towers of a Frasch Process layout. It looked like an oilfield, but instead of ground-laid pipelines and bass-drum storage tanks there were foothills of yellow sulfur. They drove between them—
more salutes from baggily uniformed workers with shovels and yard-long Stilson wrenches. Off to the right were things that might have been Solvay Process towers for sulfuric acid, and a glittering horror of a neo-Roman administration-and-labs building. The Rising Sun banner fluttered from its central flagstaff.
Music surged as they drove deeper into the area; first it was a welcome counterirritant to the pop-pop of the two-cycle buckboard engine, and then a nuisance by itself. Royland looked, annoyed, for the loudspeakers, and saw them everywhere—on power poles, buildings, gateposts. Schmaltzy Strauss waltzes bathed them like smog, made thinking just a little harder, made communication just a little more blurry even after you had learned to live with the noise.
“I miss music in the wilderness,” Martfield confided over his shoulder.
He throttled down the buckboard until they were just rolling; they had passed some line unrecognized by Royland beyond which one did not salute everybody—just the occasional Japanese walking by in business suit with blueprint-roll and slide rule, or in kimono with sword. It was a German who nailed Royland, however: a classic jack-booted German in black broadcloth, black leather, and plenty of silver trim. He watched them roll for a moment after exchanging salutes with Martfield, made up his mind, and said: “Halt.”
The Paymaster Seventh slapped on the brake, killed the engine, and popped to attention beside the buckboard. Royland more or less imitated him. The German said, stiffly but without accent: “Whom have you brought here, Paymaster?”
“A scientist, sir. I picked him up on the road returning from Los Alamos with personal supplies. He appears to be a minerals prospector who missed a rendezvous, but naturally I have not questioned the Doctor.”
The German turned to Royland contemplatively. “So, Doctor. Your name and specialty.”
“Dr. Edward Royland,” he said. “I do nuclear power research.” If there was no bomb he’d be damned if he’d invent it now for these people.
“So? That is very interesting, considering that there is no such thing as nuclear power research. Which camp are you from?” The German threw an aside to the Paymaster Seventh, who was literally shaking with fear at the turn things had taken. “You may go, Paymaster. Of course you will report yourself for harboring a fugitive.”
“At once, sir,” Martfield said in a sick voice. He moved slowly away pushing the little buckboard before him. The Strauss waltz oom-pah’d its last chord and instantly the loudspeakers struck up a hoppity-hoppity folk dance, heavy on the brass.
“Come with me,” the German said, and walked off, not even looking behind to see whether Royland was obeying. This itself demonstrated how unlikely any disobedience was to succeed. Royland followed at his heels, which of course were garnished with silver spurs. Royland had not seen a horse so far that day.
A Japanese stopped them politely inside the administration building, a rimless-glasses, office-manager type in a gray suit. “How nice to see you again, Major Kappel! Is there anything I might do to help you?”
The German stiffened. “I didn’t want to bother your people, Mr. Ito.
This fellow appears to be a fugitive from one of our camps; I was going to turn him over to our liaison group for examination and return.”
Mr. Ito looked at Royland and slapped his face hard. Royland, by the insanity of sheer reflex, cocked his fist as a red-blooded boy should, but the German’s reflexes operated also. He had a pistol in his hand and pressed against Royland’s ribs before he could throw the punch.
“All right,” Royland said, and put down his hand.
Mr. Ito laughed. “You are at least partly right, Major Kappel; he certainly is not from one of our camps! But do not let me delay you further. May I hope for a report on the outcome of this?”
“Of course, Mr. Ito,” said the German. He holstered his pistol and walked on, trailed by the scientist. Royland heard him grumble something that sounded like “Damned extraterritoriality!”
They descended to a basement level where all the door signs were in German, and in an office labeled wissenschaft-slichesicherheitsliaison Royland finally told his story. His audience was the major, a fat officer deferentially addressed as Colonel Biederman, and a bearded old civilian, a Dr. Piqueron, called in from another office. Royland suppressed only the matter of bomb research, and did it easily with the old security habit. His improvised cover story made the Los Alamos Laboratory a research center only for the generation of electricity.
The three heard him out in silence. Finally, in an amused voice, the colonel asked: “Who was this Hitler you mentioned?”
For that Royland was not prepared. His jaw dropped.
Major Kappel said: “Oddly enough, he struck on a name which does figure, somewhat infamously, in the annals of the Third Reich. One Adolf Hitler was an early Party agitator, but as I recall it he intrigued against the Leader during the War of Triumph and was executed.”
“An ingenious madman,” the colonel said. “Sterilized, of course?”
“Why, I don’t know. I suppose so. Doctor, would you—?”
Dr. Piqueron quickly examined Royland and found him all there, which astonished them. Then they thought of looking for his camp tattoo number on the left bicep, and found none. Then, thoroughly upset, they discovered that he had no birth number above his left nipple either.
“And,” Dr. Piqueron stammered, “his shoes are odd, sir—I just noticed.
Sir, how long since you’ve seen sewn shoes and braided laces?”
“You must be hungry,” the colonel suddenly said. “Doctor, have my aide get something to eat for—for the doctor.”
“Major,” said Royland, “I hope no harm will come to the fellow who picked me up. You told him to report himself.”
“Have no fear, er, doctor,” said the major. “Such humanity! You are of German blood?”
“Not that I know of; it may be.”
“It must be!” said the colonel.
A platter of hash and a glass of beer arrived on a tray. Royland postponed everything. At last he demanded: “Now. Do you believe me?
There must be fingerprints to prove my story still in existence.”
“I feel like a fool,” the major said. “You still could be hoaxing us. Dr.
Piqueron, did not a German scientist establish that nuclear power is a theoretical and practical impossibility, that one always must put more into it than one can take out?”
Piqueron nodded and said reverently: “Heisenberg. Nineteen fifty-three, during the War of Triumph. His group was then assigned to electrical weapons research and produced the blinding bomb. But this fact does not invalidate the doctor’s story; he says only that his group was attempting to produce nuclear power.”
“We’ve got to research this,” said the colonel. “Dr. Piqueron, entertain this man, whatever he is, in your laboratory.”
Piqueron’s laboratory down the hall was a place of astounding simplicity, even crudeness. The sinks, reagents, and balance were capable only of simple qualitative and quantitative analyses; various works in progress testified that they were not even strained to their modest limits. Samples of sulfur and its compounds were analyzed here. It hardly seemed to call for a “doctor” of anything, and hardly even for a human being. Machinery should be continuously testing the products as they flowed out; variations should be scribed mechanically on a moving tape; automatic controls should at least stop the processes and signal an alarm when variation went beyond limits; at most it might correct whatever was going wrong. But here sat Piqueron every day, titrating, precipitating, and weighing, entering results by hand in a ledger and telephoning them to the works!
