Collected Short Fiction, page 84
AN HOUR later, the jeep swung up the macadamized road that was the approach to the Outpost. As they reached the main gate, four men came bounding out to greet them.
In the lead was a short, asceticfaced man of sixty who ran like a boy of twenty—Erik Rodman, the UN Administrator of the Outpost, and chief non-military official on Regulus IV. He had reached the jeep with a comfortable ten-yard gap over his three companions. Two of these were Pilkin’s aides-de-camp; the third—Dr. David Gardner, a Methodist minister—was, at the moment, the only member of the clergy on the planet. Dr. Gardner was there by virtue of his Ph.D. in Anthropology, not his religious ordination. Despite great public outcry back on Earth, provisions for sending chaplains to the Outpost could not be made for any ship earlier than the third, which was scheduled for departure in a month. The planners—military men, chiefly—had seen fit to stock the Outpost with a full complement of engineers, anthropologists, biochemists, and other men who would have greater immediate utilitarian value on an alien world than priests or ministers or rabbis.
“Well?” Rodman demanded, as soon as Pilkin and Stein were out of the jeep.
“Five hundred of the True Faith in the valley,” Pilkin said briskly. “They’re armed and ready; I’d say war in six weeks.”
Rodman scowled. “We’ve gotten the same reports from the men up north observing the One Belief. They’re all set to march.”
Pilkin nodded grimly. “It looks nasty.” The General cleared his throat. “Let’s go inside and discuss tin’s at our ease, yes?”
3
THE REGULUS IV outpost consisted of a few acres of ground, dotted here and there with hurriedly-constructed but solidly-cast plastic buildings. Only one of them was more than a single story high—the Administration Building, which also housed the Communications Center. General Pilkin grimaced as they walked over to the Ad Building. “I wish we had a wall around this post.”
“It might help,” agreed Rodman.
“About six feet thick and twenty feet high. But I’m afraid it’s impracticable.” They went into the Ad Building and entered a large room which was furnished with a table and several chairs. Rodman gestured significantly at the chairs.
When they were comfortably seated, Rodman, who was presiding, turned to Jerry first. “Lieutenant Stein, as an engineer you’re not strictly involved with the business of this meeting. Your rank entitles you to stay if you wish, but you’re not required to sit in unless you want to.”
“That’s fine,” Jerry said. “I’d like to listen in, if it’s all right with everyone.”
“Very well.” The UN Administrator glanced at the taut ring of faces surrounding him. “Briefly, the situation is this: According to reconnaissance reports, the One Believers and the True Faith are massing for war. General Pilkin says that war’s six weeks away; and since that’s his particular province of knowledge, I’ll defer to his special training and accept that as fact.” Pilkin’s hand shot up. When he was called on, he said, “Of course, the necessity for my having to make a guess of this sort might have been obviated if you’d admitted that priest of the One Belief who came here for an audience last week.”
It seemed to Jerry that Rodman’s eyes flickered in something like anger at the General’s accusation, but the Administrator said, in as calm a voice as always, “I hardly think so, General. Dr. Gardner offered us ample reasons for refusing the audience, at the time the incident happened.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t understand them,” Pilkin put in, doggedly. “We had a perfectly good opportunity to extract strategic information from that priest, and—”
“Dr. Gardner,” Rodman interrupted sharply, “Would you care to re-establish the grounds on which we turned away the priest?”
THE MINISTER, a sturdy man with a white crewcut, smiled affably. “Anthropological research shows that in a case like this, admitting that priest to the Outpost would have been tantamount to blessing him, at this stage of the crisis. After all, until we know what direction this thing’s going into, we don’t dare show special favoritism toward any important representative of either group. That seems simple enough.”
Pilkin nodded curtly. “I understand. Very well, then: We remain aloof, I take it, until hostilities have ceased?”
Rodman frowned. “That would be, generally speaking, a sensible policy—and, indeed, it has been our policy right up to now. If you’ll remember, we had a good deal of very friendly contacts with Cothlani of both sects up until the time when it became apparent tire schism would erupt into a holy war. Since then, we’ve withdrawn completely from these contacts for just the reasons Dr. Gardner has offered. But now we have some new data which threatens to make that position an untenable one. Dr. Gardner, would you tell us exactly what your theory is?”
The anthropologist leaned forward, and lowered his voice as if he did not want what he had to say to go very far. “I’ve been studying the Cothlani religious works that we have, and I’ve been transcribing the notes I took in the early days of this Outpost, when our relations with the natives were still friendly. My double position as an anthropologist and as a spiritual leader makes it much easier for me to create the pattern from my data. And the pattern shaping up, I’m afraid, is a tragic one.”
“Explain further, please,” said Pilkin, impatiently.
“The anthropological data shows high rivalry between the two Cothlani sects, and a definite stigma of untruth applied to each other’s beliefs. In other words, the god of the True Faith is the only true god, and that of the One Belief is a demon, and vice-versa. It’s not an unusual religious pattern.” Gardner paused for a moment. “You follow me so far?”
“Of course,” Pilkin agreed.
“All right. This situation has been in existence for centuries—ever since the original split into two sects. But I’m afraid our coming has acted as a sort of catalysis to set off a new reaction, while we’ve remained uninvolved ourselves—is my chemistry right, Lieutenant Stein?”
Jerry, who had been listening with deep absorption, looked up in surprise at the sudden question, smiled selfconsciously.
“Yes—yes—certainly.”
“Let me be even more specific,” Gardner continued. “Each of the two sects on this planet is convinced that we are divinities of its own particular belief. If what General Pilkin says is true—and I believe it absolutely—then there will shortly be a bloody war to the finish, each side defending its claim to us. Since we have, of course, made no preference known to them, this is the only way they can settle the question of whose divinities we are.
“Now, bear in mind my earlier statement about their belief patterns. The side that comes out on top in this war is going to accept us as holy beings—but the side that loses will regard us as archdemons; this is only logical. Presumably, we’d been helping the side we really represented, and the side that’s losing can only assume we’re helping the other side; and therefore must be demons. So,” Gardner said, “so—the side that’s losing is going to attack us—make a desperation assault on this outpost of demons. And the Cothlani outnumber us ten million to one!”
THERE WAS a lengthy silence when Dr. Gardner finished speaking. Stein glanced around the table, looking first at Rodman’s face, then at Pilkin’s, then at Gardner’s. They all reflected the same feeling, the feeling that was uppermost in his own mind.
It was Pilkin who put it into words first. “Even with weapons a thousand times as effective as theirs, we’ll be wiped out.”
Rodman nodded. “This is the situation. We face a war in which whatever side loses is going to turn against us; and there is no retreat for us. The next ship’s not due for a month—and in any case we can’t evacuate, or hide, or do anything but sit here and wait.”
Pilkin frowned heavily; Stein could see the General almost visibly revolving some thought around in his mind. “I have a suggestion,” Pilkin said, finally.
“Yes, General?” Rodman asked.
“Suppose we were to subradio back to Earth for an extra-heavy supply of weapons. They’d be here within a month—ample time to prepare for the war.”
“It won’t work,” said Gardner. “They’ll sweep down on us in suicice waves; we can’t beat back an army of a million footsoldiers—even with atomic cannon.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” the General said reproachfully. “What I was about to suggest was that we distribute these extra weapons among one or the other set of Cothlani—it doesn’t matter which—and then publicly proclaim them as our choice. Give the chosen some training in elementary tactics, and they’ll mop up the others so fast that the losers won’t be able to bother us! Maybe we can’t defend ourselves; but if we let the True Faith, for example, do the fighting for us, we’re liable to come out all right even if the One Believers do try to retaliate against us.”
Jerry saw Gardner wince. The clergyman obviously found the idea distasteful in the extreme.
But Rodman was smiling. “You may very well have hit on the solution there.”
“I must protest, Mr. Rodman,” Gardner said hotly. “Such an action would be barbaric and inhuman, and—”
“One moment, Dr. Gardner. Look: the Outpost is faced with a life-or-death situation. You yourself have posed the alternatives for us: Either we do something, or one sect of the Cothlani will wipe us out. Now, I realize what the General has proposed may seem—shall we say—immoral, but a second look will show it is a highly practical solution.”
“I fail to understand how—”
“Simple,” Rodman said. “The war will happen, whether or not we like it. And half the Cothlani will be exterminated, perhaps more, no matter what we do. If we do nothing, tine country is laid waste and we are killed. If we arm one side, only half the country is laid waste, and we survive. It is a very elementary proposition.”
Gardner considered that for a long moment. Finally he looked up. “You are right,” he admitted. “We must arm one side.”
“I’ll begin training them immediately,” Pilkin said, happy to be engaging in some sort of action.
“Just one minute,” Rodman said gently. “Before we rush off to train Gothlani, General Pilkin, we have one further problem to deal with. And this, I fear, will not be so simple.”
“What now?” Pilkin demanded. “This, General: how do we decide which side to arm?”
PILKIN glanced at him blankly.
“Why, what possible difference could it make?” he asked innocently. “Both sides are of approximately equal fighting strength; they both seem to have the same sort of beliefs and outlook on life—why, it’s a sheer toss-up.” He reached in his pocket and drew forth a gleaming double eagle. “Here,” he said, offering the bright coin to Rodman. “Heads, the One Belief gets armed; Tails, the True Faith.”
“It doesn’t work out that simply, General,” the UN man objected. “What we’re called upon to do is to decide which of these two faiths we’re to exterminate. Am I right in saying, Dr. Gardner, that we don’t have sufficient data to make a choice between them?” The anthropologist nodded. “There are differences, but they’re ritualistic differences—not moral ones. So far as I can see, we have no criteria for judging which of the two sects is worth keeping.”
“There you are!” Pilkin crowed. Again he extended the gnarled-hand that held the coin. “We have to pick one, and it doesn’t matter a diddly-damn which it is. So let’s toss, and let me get about my business.”
“No,” Rodman snapped. Jerry Stein saw the muscles at the side of the Administrator’s jaws stirring convulsively. The man was undergoing high-order internal stress. “No,” he repeated. “I will not take the responsibility of destroying one of those peoples upon my own shoulders.”
General Pilkin folded his arms and stared angrily off into space. “This is no time for obeying the dictates of conscience, Mr. Rodman. We must take action—within the next week.”
“I know,” Rodman said uneasily. He stood up. “I’m going to have to pass the buck,” he declared bluntly; “I’m going to subradio Earth and explain the whole thing to them.”
“That’s reasonable enough,” Pilkin agreed. “They won’t have any qualms about telling you which side to wipe out; they’re too far away to care.”
THE MEETING broke up a few moments later, since no one seemed to have anything further to say.
Jerry Stein glanced at Rodman as the UN man walked silently past him. Rodman’s face was an icy mask. He was caught in a cleft stick, and he knew it; it hurt.
The others were not half so disturbed, Stein noticed. Gardner seemed more upset about the nature of the action they were about to perform than about Rodman’s private agony, while stony-faced Pilkin showed obvious irritation at the unmilitary way in which operations were being carried out in tire Outpost these days.
As for Lieutenant Jerome Stein, he had carefully refrained from saying anything. It was the smartest position; he was new in the Outpost, and his particular specialty had little to do with the crisis at hand, anyway. He had been present at the meeting solely as an onlooker, and his opinion was not called for.
But he had felt like applauding loudly when Rodman had announced he was going to pass the buck. It was, perhaps, not the noblest decision to make, but it was the most sensible. Rodman was in a position where he was likely to get in trouble no matter which side he marked for destruction; he was doing the right thing by avoiding all decision.
Jerry moved to the window of the hut and stared out. Night had fallen on Regulus IV, but the air, hot and dry during the day, still held warmth. He touched the opener and the window slid smoothly and automatically open.
There was a faint breeze blowing in from the north—from the country of the One Belief. It seemed to Stein that there were drumbeats drifting in with the breeze, a distant, muffled thumping that was the war-song of a people mobilizing for righteous war. Dark, heavy clouds lay across the pock-marked face of the midget moon that hung low near the horizon. Higher, the major moon was beginning its retrograde twirl through the sky.
One Belief drums coming in from the north, and Cothlani of the True Faith sharpening their spears in the pleasant lands below the equator. Nasty, Stein thought. Within six weeks, men would be on the march; and within a week after that, Cothlani would be dying of Earth-inflicted wounds.
Reflectively, Stein touched the switch and watched the window close. The sound of the drums floating on the night air disturbed him, and he wanted to shut them out. He looked at his watch; the shadow-hands read 2200. By now, Rodman had probably made contact with Earth, and before long he would know which Cothlani sect it was that would be earmarked for doom.
Somehow, he felt sure that whatever answer Earth gave was sure to be the wrong one.
STEIN WAS up early the next morning, half an hour before the trumpet would ring through the barracks. He had had an uneasy night, in which legions of cold-faced Cothlani had trooped unprotestingly forward into the blazing maw of an atomic converter for endless hours.
He dressed quickly and went downstairs, to tire main room of the building, hoping to find some other early-riser there. In his week in the Outpost, Jerry had discovered that everyone seemed to keep pretty much to himself; and even men he had known fairly well at Sahara Base, men who had once been gregarious and outgoing, now acted reserved and withdrawn. They were all living in the gloomy shadow of the oncoming war.
The main room was empty—almost. There was a small figure sitting hunched up at the far end of the long, bare hall, staring drearily at nothing in particular.
Rodman.
“Up early this morning, sir?”
Rodman glanced up and rubbed a forefinger against the side of his fleshless cheek. “Hello, Lieutenant Stein,” he said dully.
“Didn’t sleep well, sir?”
Rodman’s red-rimmed eyes told the story, even before he spoke. “I haven’t been to sleep at all yet, Jerry; I don’t feel much like sleeping.”
“Because of last night, you mean?” Stein took a seat alongside Rodman on the unpainted bench. The wood was cold and hard; the Regulus Outpost hadn’t had much time for comforts yet.
Rodman nodded slowly. “I called Earth, last night. Got through to the President after only eight intermediaries. Outlined the whole situation to him.”
Rodman fell silent.
“What did he say?” Jerry urged.
“Said he’d call me back,” the Administrator replied. “Had to discuss it with the cabinet first, or something.”
“Oh.” Rodman’s face was the picture of complete despair; the Administrator seemed to have lost all of his famed poise.
“He did,” Rodman went on. “The call came through at 0530; I sat up all night waiting for it.” He giggled, almost hysterically. “Guess what they decided!”
Jerry shrugged his shoulders. “To arm both sides?” he ventured.
“Very funny,” the Administrator replied mirthlessly. He turned to face Jerry, and smiled, with frightening lack of warmth. “You’re not quite correct, though. They discussed the situation for four hours, and then came to the conclusion that I’m the one who knows best what to do.”
“What?”
“That’s exactly what they said. The President himself explained that he was in no position to make a decision, but that I should, after mature consideration, take whatever steps my evaluation revealed as necessary. They agreed to accept it as official policy, taking full responsibility for my acts.”
“That’s some relief, anyway,” Jerry mumured, sensing the inanity of his remark.
“It’s no relief at all. Do I care whether this costs me my job or not? Think of me—the real me, not the public servant. I’m being asked to pass a sentence of death on half a world, just to save my own skin and the lives of a hundred Earthmen.”
