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For the present-day scholar, history must be seen as a vast procession of marching people, a line that just before its head—which is us or the present time—suddenly disappears from view, blocked by an impenetrable barrier. We can fully glimpse, from those books preserved for us, the ancient world. We see America and the Soviets, Christ and Napoleon, Great Britain and Babylon, Abraham Lincoln and Winston Churchill. Our vision of this past world—though by no means complete—can be traced clear from the dawn of early civilization to the apparent peak of man's technological achievement about the middle of the twentieth century.
But then the barrier falls. For a brief distance, we see nothing, for no records remain intact to describe the events that occurred during the time of the great collapse. We know that civilization perished. The signs of its death lie scattered all about us. But these indications—like the various indirect memories passed between fathers and sons—are mere shadows: they are not direct perceptions of real happenings. They hint at what may have occurred but prove nothing. Above all, no man alive today can accurately answer the one key question: if Western Civilization collapsed at the end of the twentieth century, what caused this to occur? Lacking direct vision, we can only guess. Dimly, the instant before the barrier intrudes, we glimpse certain possible precursors of doom: communism, inflation, industrial pollution, excessive waste, scarcity of natural resources, overpopulation, atomic weapons, moral decay. But which of these factors brought about the actual end of civilization we cannot say. Our ignorance remains nearly total. Since we do not know what caused civilization to collapse the first time, we have no way of knowing it cannot happen again. Our ignorance guides us toward caution. We must repeat none of the errors of the past, for among any of them may lie the seeds of our own destruction.
As to the actual events of the time—regardless of the causes—again we can only guess. The cities of the world no doubt suffered the worst. Millions must have perished among those bleak ruins. Only in the outlying areas, where technology remained less dominant, did certain men manage to retain a semblance of civilized human existence. We also know that a great migration must have occurred, as the survivors from the cities moved to the country. In this movement lay the origins of the human slavery of our own day. Remember, this is only speculation, for history to be history must consist of facts.
Yet even this vague vision of past history is severely limited, for it is predicated upon the faint knowledge of our petty senses and the world is much too vast to be easily encompassed by such meager tools.
Because we live in America, we can examine the nature of that continent with relative clarity. But what about Europe, Asia or Africa? What befell those peoples after our collapse? This question is one we are only beginning to answer.
With regard to Europe, certain fairly probable propositions can be advanced. There, in a continent of highly concentrated urban populations, the destruction that ravaged America reached even more terrible proportions. If America reverted to barbarism after the collapse, then the course of European civilization descended fully into savagery. All that reaches us today from the once mighty nations of Western Europe—Germany, Britain, France, and Italy—are reports of roving bands of marauders and cannibals. Famine runs rampant, and disease and plague are more common than the birds of the sky.
In Asia and Africa, both continents less dependent upon technology than the West, events took a much different path. There, two great nations soon prospered, while none suffered irreversible collapse. In India, the fall of the West led to a period of terrible famine, which succeeded in ending, within a single generation, the curse of severe overpopulation that had plagued India for centuries. The survivors of the famine, now well fed and ambitious, soon forged the Hindi Empire, currently controlling most of mainland Asia from the South China Sea to the Persian Gulf. Indian society, from what little we know, soon became totally dominated by argiculture. A tiny class of soldiers, priests, and philosophers administered the daily affairs of the empire, but it was (and is) the concept of the single-family farm that allowed this particular society to thrive where so many others perished.
The example of China is even more pertinent to our present needs. Shut off from the rest of civilization by mountains, deserts, and oceans, the Chinese suffered less than any other great nation from the effects of the collapse. After an initial change in government, a new and dynamic imperial dynasty emerged under the old Confucian principles of law and tradition. As in India, the peasant-farmer was the real backbone of the nation, but the Chinese, even more so than the Indians, managed to create a functioning society in which all people and things formed part of a single harmonious whole. In time, the Chinese became curious about the rest of the world, although unlike the Indians they possessed no territorial ambitions. Several expeditions of Chinese sailors visited various parts of Asia and Africa. It has even been suggested by some scholars that one such expedition might have visited the west coast of America some time after the great collapse, but this has never been established as fact.
William Stoner,
The Book of Stones, 2097.
EDITOR'S NOTE
The pages that herewith follow are the result of a series of lengthy interviews conducted by the undersigned scribe with a thin, frail, wrinkled man of indefinite though ancient age who presently resides in the Cascade village of Sno-hosh. This old man, known only as Michael, adamantly insists that he was a close friend and advisor of our late Grand Master, William Stoner, during the youth of both.
These interviews, your editor must mention, were not conducted under the best of circumstances. Michael is no longer a well man and often as we spoke his mind would drift into distant irrelevancies. As nearly as possible, the narrative has been transcribed in a voice that is Michael's own. In certain instances, however, your editor has been forced to intervene more directly to polish the author's often crude and vulgar phraseology in the interests of general comprehension. Michael is not only old and unwell but he is barely literate, a fact which adds, one must believe, to the general credibility of the narrative as a whole.
On that subject, however, your editor must generally reserve judgment. One point may be emphasized: not one aspect of this tale, in part or in whole, has as yet been finally contradicted by any other certain evidence. It is true that in no place in his own voluminous writings did William Stoner make reference to this man Michael, but it is also true that in no place did he make assertions that would invalidate the existence of such an individual.
—Richard Meredew
Official Historian & Scribe
Court of Seattle
I survived in those years by simple scrounging, which is to say I regarded staying alive as a willy-nilly proposition, one that I was not likely to fail.
Most rural folk, when they hear I scrounged for a living in the big cities, assume that I went clawing through ruin and rubble in hopes of uncovering a scrap or two of edible food, but this assumption strays so far from the cold reality that any experienced scrounger—especially me—can't help giggling when he hears it. I mean, really, scraps of food? Years and years after the collapse? The only edible commodity I ever found in the ruins came to my attention one time high in the skeleton remnants of what once must have been a 50-floor tower: I stumbled across a tin can of pork 'n' beans. Did I open the can and immediately eat those beans? Hell, no, only a fool would have. What I did was what any intelligent scrounger would have done after uncovering such a rare relic. I tucked the can carefully in my scroungebag and, that night, sold the relic to a rich collector in return for a week's good eating of beef, pork and eggs, plus a thick fur coat supposedly imported from the Hindi Empire itself. That last I immediately spotted as a lie—the Hindi Empire, if it existed at all in those years, would have had nothing to do with a bunch of savage bums like us Americans—but the coat was warm and I was grateful because that was a damn cold place in which to spend a winter during those years before somebody started making sulphur matches again.
I also found William Stoner himself in those ruins, but if he was edible, that kind of animal savagery was not in my nature.
I think it was, though, for the people who were chasing him.
Don't ask me what year that was, or month, or day, or hour. Watches were extinct and I'd never seen a calendar. It was a cold winter day; there was snow on the ground; and the city was called Seattle. I was scrounging as usual and had just lit upon a stroke of good luck.
It lay somehow undamaged at the bottom of the heap of broken plaster. The house I was in was a single-story, family dwelling barely scrounged in the past, because there'd always been so many big office buildings downtown. As soon as I blew the dust from the object, I recognized what it was. A collector had shown me a similar relic another time and told me if I'd bring him another like it he'd make me rich.
A coffee cup.
The outside—including the horseshoe handle—was painted a bright shade of red. Also, along one side, ran a series of blue scribbles: BILL JACKSON. At the time I couldn't read them.
While sitting there staring at my great find, turning the cup over and over in my hands and letting the full moonlight that was pouring through a window illuminate its shape, I heard the cries from outside.
They were loud, shrill and filled with agony—the type of cries a person in my profession used to hear a dozen times a night.
Still, something made me curious. Perhaps it was because the cries were obviously coming from a man and I was far more accustomed to hearing the wails of terror-stricken girls. Whatever the reason, clutching the precious coffee cup, I padded cautiously across the floor to the open window and peeked outside.
At first I could see nothing. As if acting upon my signal, the moment I'd started to move, the cries had ceased. The yard was filled with high, wild grass, and there were two big evergreens. I was about to turn away and go back to my scrounging when a combination of the full, yellow moon and the blanket of white snow finally illuminated the group.
I imagine there were a dozen of them. The wildest, ugliest, meanest-looking pack of scavengers I'd seen in months. Many people confuse scroungers and scavengers, but the former, like me, search for dead relics, while the latter, like them, hunt live specimens. In spite of the freezing cold, they were naked. Having cornered their prey against the outer wall of the house, they now moved toward him in a wide semicircle.
But what most interested me wasn't the scavengers— I'd seen too many of those beasts before—but their prey. I'd never seen such a small man. Standing with his back against the rotting wall, he seemed all skin and bone, without fat or muscle. Although he wore enough clothes to comfort two men, he was shivering so clearly it made me cold to watch. What was even more interesting than the little man himself, though, was what he held in his hand. If my eyes didn't deceive me, it was a gun. The little man waved it over his head in a vaguely threatening manner. I looked at the gun, then at my coffee cup. To any legitimate collector, that gun was worth as much as two times the value of the cup, and I've already explained the value of the cup.
I guess I was greedy The sensible tack would have meant playing a waiting game. Slide back into the shadows and be patient. Scavengers weren't interested in relics. They'd kill their prey, haul the little man away and leave anything that couldn't be eaten behind. Wait a few more moments and I could have my gun with no danger.
But accidents occur; fate plays funny games. I wanted that gun and I wasn't about to wait. Before I had thought out any course of action, I already had one foot out the window.
A split second later, the other followed.
"Hey, get away from there! Leave him alone!" It didn't matter what I shouted at them; the key was to get their attention.
I got it, all right—probably more than I wanted. All dozen spun in unison. When they saw me racing fitfully across the snow toward them, they just put their big hairy hands on their big hairy hips and grinned.
I could see I really had them scared.
The little man—their exposed spines now facing him—helped tremendously. He fell to his knees, dropped the gun, and began moaning and groaning in some strange tongue.
The one thing operating in my favor was the semicircle. It kept the scavengers spread out and allowed me to take them on one at a time.
Still, there were a dozen of them and just one of me. A fair fight? Hell, no. I'd pulverize the fiends.
I caught the first one, the point man, two meters in the air; the point of his jaw with the heel of my right foot. His head jerked back with a snap that could have been heard south of Tacoma. While he collapsed, I twisted in the air and landed right side up.
The next two hit me at the same time. Whether scavengers are born dumb or get that way on account of their diet, I'm not capable of saying. I know I never met a smart one. My knees dipped. My body flashed down. Crack! Skullbone struck skullbone. The two went down. I leaped up. Nine more to go.
My little friend had his gun out again. Stepping forward, he swung the weapon in front of him. The far-left scavenger, his attention fully focused on me, caught the butt square on the side of his empty head. Plop. The idiot hit the snow. I grinned at my newly found helper and gave him a grateful wave. Keep a tight hold on that gun, I wanted to tell him, but I was afraid he'd go nervous again.
The next two scavengers were mine. They didn't attack simultaneously, which allowed me to dispose of one, then the other. The first took two solid knuckle-whacks to the neck before he collapsed. The second caught my wicked right heel. Whap. I looked up to see that my shrunken friend had taken care of another inattentive scavenger. I was beginning to see that a gun didn't have to be loaded for it to be a handy weapon. I made a quick count of the bodies on the snow. A few were moving now but none to the point of being dangerous. "Just five to go," I told my friend as I advanced on the nearest enemy.
I should have known the odds were too desperate. For the five of them, I mean, not the two of us. They looked from one to another; they grunted and wailed; and then they turned and showed us their tails. It was a glorious sight to see. I grabbed my belly and bent over double, laughing. I was a cautious sort of man, never eager to fight, but when I did, I loved to win as much as any man.
"What's that?" It was my little friend pointing at my right hand.
"What's what?" Only then did I look. My belly collapsed, and I didn't feel like laughing. The handle of my precious cup dangled from my index finger. I could see blood on the jagged edges. And the cup itself was gone.
Like a stupid scavenger myself, I'd gone into battle still clutching the coffee cup.
Turning my head, I began to notice bits of broken glass scattered across the snow.
"I feel sick," I told my friend, swaying as I stood.
"Maybe we ought to go inside." He pointed to the house I'd foolishly deserted. "It's freezing cold out here."
I knew it wasn't any warmer in there. After checking to be sure he still had his gun and that none of the beaten scavengers was capable of causing further trouble, I gave him a nod and led the way toward the window. "I'm William Stoner," he told me as we went. "I like to be called Bill."
The name meant no more to me then than the title of the Hindi Emperor. "I'm Michael," I replied politely.
We crawled through the open window.
"This place is really a mess." He made an unhappy face and cleared a spot in the rubble, shoving plaster, wood, and glass aside. He sat down. "But I suppose you're used to this."
Something in his attitude rubbed me distinctly the wrong way. As I said, he was a little guy, short and scrawny, but his face was also as pinched as a bird's. He had white skin, clean teeth, and pink, soft hands. "What do you mean by that?" I asked, not so polite this time.
"Oh, I don't know." He seemed to spend most of his time grinning. "You live here, don't you?"
I pointed at the rubble surrounding us. "And I suppose you don't?"
"Oh, no." He shook his head as though I'd just said something incredibly stupid, like maybe the sky was green. "I'm only here by accident."
"Is that what you told the scavengers?"
I saw I'd punctured his complacency more than a little. He shivered. "Is that what those creatures were? You know, I forgot to thank you."
"You're welcome," I said.
"And what are you?" He seemed suddenly leery.
"I'm a scrounger."
"That's not—" he was holding his gun very tightly"—that's not the same thing?"
"Scroungers collect relics from the ruins and sell them to collectors. Scavengers collect idiots like you and eat them."
He was really shivering after that. I couldn't understand why—I'd saved him, hadn't I?
"Could I see that gun for a moment?" I reached out for it.
He shied back as if I'd demanded his skin. "What do you want with it?"
"I'm a scrounger, I told you. Since I saved your life, I figure you owe me something. With that gun, I can eat for a month."
"I can't give it to you."
I was starting to get mad. I mean, couldn't he get it through his head that I wasn't exactly asking him for a favor. "Why not? Aren't you grateful?"
"Sure, of course I am, but… well, it doesn't really belong to me."
"Nothing belongs to anybody in this world."
"This gun does." He decided to let me see a piece of it, a dark blot in the dimness of his hand. "My patron gave it to me when he sent me here. I tried to resist, but he said the cities were dangerous and I might need to protect myself. I guess he knew what he was talking about, after all."
"I guess he did. And you sure seemed to know how to use that thing."
"Oh, you mean when I hit those men?" He shook his head and stood, his eyes nearly level with my throat. "But that's not all. This gun also does this."
Before I could stop him, he'd turned the gun toward the ceiling. He must have pulled the trigger. There was a sound like a roll of thunder. Plaster rained down on my head. I dropped to my knees. "That—thing shoots," I managed.
"Sure, it does." Brushing himself off, he sat down again.
"But then why didn't you—you could have shot those scavengers."
"Oh, I didn't think it was necessary to go that far," replied William Stoner. "Something like this—" he held up the gun, while I ducked "—can kill people."
"But they would have killed you," I insisted.
"But they didn't." His tone was flat and factual. "You came along and luckily no one had to get killed at all."
Right then was when I should have grabbed his gun and run. The trouble was, I was actually afraid of him. It wasn't because he was brave or strong—it was because I thought he was crazy. And nothing ever scared me more than that.
So I stayed around that house for the next several hours, my eyes fixed eagerly on the gun. In that time, whether I wanted them or not, I was fed most of the details concerning William Stoner's life history. In return, all I had to surrender were bits and pieces of my own.
For the most part, I told lies.
The main point, Stoner kept insisting, was that he wasn't an urban man. He'd grown up somewhere out on the eastern prairie, and his parents were teachers. They'd both been employed by a big landowner named Sir Carstairs, and when they died in a plague, Carstairs decided to keep Bill around to teach his grandchildren.
"I was only 14 then," Stoner told me proudly, "but I'd read every book in the family library at least twice. Sir Carstairs knew he couldn't possibly find a better teacher than me anywhere. I'm 19 now."
"Go on," I told him, eyeing the gun.
Apparently, until a few weeks ago, everything had gone just delightfully for William Stoner. Then Sir Carstairs had called him in, given him the gun, and asked him to undertake a journey here to the city.
"Sir Carstairs," said Stoner, "had some papers he wished to transmit to a man in Seattle. He told me there was no one else on the estate he trusted as deeply as me, so he wanted me to be his messenger. If I'd wanted I could have refused, but of course I didn't. Sir Carstairs had treated me very well and I just couldn't be that ungrateful."
"What were these papers?" I asked, in a show of interest.
"They were letters. Private letters."
"You read them."
"Of course not. The letters weren't mine."
"You carried them from the eastern prairie clear to Seattle and never peeked." I made no effort to hide my skepticism.
"I most certainly did," he said, but I was sure he was lying.
"So what happened?" I asked.
Then he showed me his bleakest face. With his voice cracking from the strain, it seemed to take hours to pry the whole dull story out of him. He'd hitched rides to the city in food wagons. The man in Seattle he was supposed to deliver the letters to was named Fitch. (I'd never heard of him.) On Stoner's first night in the city, a gang of toughs waylaid him in the civilized zone, grabbed his precious papers and carried him down here to the ruins. That was last night, and he'd spent all day today wandering aimlessly. "I must recover those papers. I don't dare try to see Mr. Fitch without them, and if Sir Carstairs ever finds out how utterly I've failed, he'll release me for sure."
"So what's wrong with freedom?" I asked, pointedly.
You see, even though I'd always lived in the cities as a scrounger, while traveling from one place to another, I'd passed through a great deal of rural terrain. I knew the social system they practiced out there, and because of that, I also knew that William Stoner wasn't anyone's hired teacher. He was a slave, and slaves don't get released. That was why I personally preferred the urban life in spite of its obvious hardships. In the rural areas, unless you owned a good-sized chunk of land, you couldn't spend a week out there without getting grabbed and put up for sale. I could never stand to be another man's property. Even if my body and soul weren't worth a belch after dinner, at least I wanted to have hold of the ownership deed myself.
Stoner must have realized I knew the truth, because he didn't try to argue or bluster. "I don't know how to be free," he answered.
Right then, I don't know what came over me. (The gun, I'd like to think.) I reached out and I slapped him on the back. "Stick with me and I'll show you."
He stared at me, wide-eyed as a baby. "You'll help me find Mr. Fitch?"
"I'll help you be free."
"I am free." He said it sadly, shaking his head at the rubble around us.
"No, you're not." Squatting on my haunches, I got animated. The subject was one where I knew no moderation. "If I hadn't helped you out, you'd be a scavenger's dinner right now. Freedom doesn't just mean that nobody owns you. It means being able to live on your own, to survive with nobody's help. You can't do that, and until you can, you're not free."
"But what about Sir Carstairs?"
I touched him gently. "That should be the least of your worries. He's miles and miles away and right now you're here. You've got to learn how to live."
"But how?" He sounded truly desperate.
I stood up, drawing him with me. "I have a little place in the ruins that I call home. Come with me there. In the morning, when things are a bit safer. I'll show you."
"I can't thank you enough."
"Then don't bother." The last thing I wanted was his gratitude; I felt silly enough as it was. Starting toward the window, I suddenly drew up short. "Hey, don't forget the gun," I said.
"Oh—oh, sure." He went back for the weapon.
I stood there, shaking my weary head. What a task I had set out before me.
Things always look better in the morning, I've heard it said, but the proposition failed to extend to William Stoner. When I woke shortly past dawn, roiled over and gazed at the slumbering, snoring form of my companion, he looked just as innocent, naive and dumb as last night.
I stumbled to my feet.
When in Seattle, I always holed up in the same place. I'd come across it several years before and had never once been discovered there. I imagine some kids must have originally built the house way back before the collapse, but what an incredible bunch of kids they must have been. Not only was the tree 16 meters high and the house completely concealed by the upper branches, but the structure itself had three stories. I usually operated out of the middle room, but all three were warm and well insulated. When it rained—which it often did in wintertime Seattle—not a single drop ever leaked into my home. I'd stumbled upon the place purely by accident—spotted the worn rope ladder dangling from the old tree and got curious. Last night, when we'd climbed up, poor Stoner had almost died from fright.
Right now, he didn't look at all frightened. I'd never seen anyone sleep like that.
After an hour or so I finally woke him. As soon as he came to, I asked to see the gun. The weapon had been on my mind plenty, especially after I knew it was loaded. A gun like that could pry a fortune from a collector, but it might have other uses as well.
I balanced the gun in my hand and asked Stoner, "Do you have any more bullets for this thing?"
He nodded. "Sure, in my pack."
"Let me see them."
He dug into his pack and brought back a handful. I counted those bullets plus the ones already in the gun and came up with a decision. "We're going to keep this gun," I said, "you and me. Here I've been going through my whole life, ducking scavengers and toughs and thinking I had to do it with my brains alone. This gun could change everything. It means I can scrounge anyplace, anytime, and not worry about risks."
"Well, it really doesn't belong to us," Stoner said. He was peeking out the side window. The branches below kept most of the ground hidden from view, but the way Stoner swayed, you wouldn't have known it.
"But I thought we agreed," I said, pulling him back toward the middle of the room. "You were going to stay here and I was going to teach you how to live as a free man."
He still seemed wary of me. "Yes, but are you sure you need the gun for that?"
I nodded as though the answer was as plain as my own round, red nose. "Sure, I do."
"Well, in that case… all right." He suddenly brightened, slapping his hands. "So when do we start?"
I was puzzled. "Start what?"
"Start learning how to survive."
"Oh, that. Well, why not right now?"
He grinned and nodded, his jaw twitching on an unseen string. "Great."
My stomach was bothering me anyway. "Let's start by surviving some breakfast. How hungry are you?"
"I haven't eaten in two days," he confessed.
I made him wait in the treehouse until I descended the ladder and checked the terrain to make sure no stray toughs or scavengers lurked about. The area was clean—most of the riffraff never rises before noon—so I gave Stoner the high sign to join me. After hiding the ladder in its usual place, we set off in the direction of the civilized zone.
On the way I explained. "There's a collector over this way who owes me a free breakfast for a really great glass ashtray I brought him last week. He's a bit weak-minded, so I can probably get you a meal out of him, too."
"Is this the way you always live, Michael? I mean, do you get all of your meals from these collectors? What happens if you can't find anything to sell?"
"You mean like that coffee cup you made me break last night."
"I—I'm sorry about that." He actually looked as if he was, which was pretty silly. The choice had been between him and the cup; I thought it was crazy for him to vote for the cup.
"Forget it," I said, though I was the one who wouldn't. "When things like that happen, I either do what I'm doing today-—scrounge a meal for an old favor—or else I go hungry. The longest I ever went was nine days."
"But that's impossible." He seemed shocked at the prospect and reached down to grab at his belly for reassurance.
"For a slave, maybe, but not for a free man. Look, I've known people to go for weeks without a bite. It's uncomfortable but not impossible."
Of course the streets around us remained empty. We were still in the ruins, and only a handful of people like me ever dared to walk around openly during the day. Actually, Seattle wasn't nearly as bad a mess as most of the Eastern cities. These particular streets, the ones Stoner and I were walking now, had once made up the downtown business sector of the city, and all of them were at least passable. Sometime during the final collapse a real effort had been made to keep the streets clean. Huge piles of rubble and debris, some taller than three men laid head to head, attested to this attempt. The piles made great places for scrounging.
Stoner and I turned up a hill. Almost at once, he began to pant and gasp.
I still couldn't figure out what I was doing with this guy. The gun was part of it, sure, but I had that tucked firmly in my belt now, and I knew no weakling like him was about to take it away from me. In case I haven't already pointed it out, my life had long carried me in a lone-wolfish direction. I'd never had a partner before, except once long ago in Memfuss, a girl named Mellanie, and that had ended up hurting me like two kicks in the gut. Mellanie—I guess I was in love with her—made one mistake and got grabbed by a tough gang. When I found her body, I had to be sick before I could cry. With Stoner, there was much less danger of ensuing pain, of course, so maybe it was just loneliness that was bothering me. I liked talking to people, always had, and in my line of work there was seldom much chance of that. Besides, I felt sorry for the guy, and there was the matter of his slave status, too. If I could make a free person out of this dependent clod, then I would have to think of myself as worthy.
My collector friend lived at the top of the hill.
When we finally reached the crest, poor Stoner collapsed in a heap. He lay on the pavement—barely cluttered up here—and heaved his chest in an attempt to get some air. The sight depressed me, I'll tell you. This was the guy I was going to teach to survive? He couldn't even climb a typical Seattle hill.
While I was waiting for him to recover, a pair of lumpy matrons in coats walked by. The two were guarded by three armed men. Seeing us, the guards started to approach, knives drawn. Stupidly, I reached for the gun, but before I could do something dumb, one of the guards recognized me, and with a frown, he turned away and called off his partners.
"This must be the civilized zone," said Stoner. He was sitting up at last.
"If you want to call it that," I said. I hated those private guards more than anything else in the cities. They were common people like me but little better than slaves.
The collector I sought was named Arthur Priest. His house was a huge, ramshackle, wooden palace, completely furnished with rare antique relics. A friend of his, a kid who should have been out scrounging, let Stoner and I inside. Mr. Priest showed up a second later. He was short, fat, red-faced, with a voice like a breathless wheeze.
"Well, Michael." He also liked to purse his lips when he saw you—I felt like a side of meat under his sly eye. "You've brought a friend for me."
"This is Bill Stoner," I explained, moving out of the hall into the living room at once. I sat down in a big leather chair and pushed the button that made the seat recline. Peeking around my own feet, I told Priest, "Bill's a friend of mine, not yours."
"But that doesn't necessarily have to follow." Priest sat on his own wide couch. Tick-tick-tock-tick. Every cupboard in the room was stuffed with clocks. Timepieces were Priest's favorite relics.
"He's a new scrounger in town. I asked him to join me for breakfast here so he could get a chance to check out the things you like."
"I think anyone with a careful eye could tell that," Priest said. He pursed his lips a bit more. The kid who had opened the door tried to join us. Glaring, Priest shooed him off.
"Let's eat," I said, thrusting the chair seat up again.
"But haven't you brought me something first?" Priest said plaintively.
I had to talk fast. "Last night I uncovered a marvelous old coffee cup. It was painted bright red and had some writing on one side. It had a handle and was in absolutely perfect condition."
"You have it here?" His greed showed. Nothing in the world excited Priest more than a truly unique relic.
I shrugged to show the inconsequentiality of what followed: "Just after I uncovered the cup, some scavengers went by. I had to hide the thing and make a quick getaway. Tonight, I'll go back and retrieve it. That is, if you're interested."
"Of course I'm interested." He was annoyed because he knew I was holding him up.
"So was Mr. Burley when I talked to him before."
"Burley." His anger grew. "You're not going to waste such a splendid relic on that vulgar creature."
I let him see my widest, slyest smile. "Well, Mr. Burley did forget to offer us breakfast."
"An oversight that won't happen here." He returned my smile, just as slyly. "Thomas! Thomas!" He called his boy. "Tom, two breakfasts, please. Eggs and—"
"Steak," I finished for him.
"Steak," he added, though it hurt him.
The meal was just as delicious as I'd expected. Before we started, Priest left us, and I could hear him lumbering through the living room. Counting his precious clocks, no doubt. For some reason, he always thought I would try to pocket one or two.
"That wasn't true, was it?" Stoner asked me, as we ate. He was already getting wiser; he knew enough to whisper.
"What?" I asked innocently.
"About the cup. I thought you said it was broken."
"Oh, that cup." I grinned, first making sure that Thomas wasn't lurking about. "Well, either I'll have to find another one and fast, or else I'll just have to cross Mr. Priest off my list of customers."
"But what about this Mr. Burley? We haven't seen anyone like that, have we?"
"No, not yet, but for our next meal, we might just have to."
I definitely felt I was holding up my end of the bargain with Stoner. If he couldn't learn anything about survival while hanging around with me, then his chances of ever learning anything were pretty hopeless.
We had reached the coffee stage before Priest joined us again. The brew was served in wooden cups. I was tempted to press my advantage by demanding the use of a genuine relic but knew that even Priest had a limit.
He seated himself between Stoner and me and immediately concentrated his attention on Bill. "You've only just come to Seattle?"
Stoner nodded. He still seemed to be reeling from the impact of my lesson in deceit. "I arrived only two days ago."
"From what city?" Priest was only being polite—I knew he didn't want to talk to me—and I couldn't see any reason why Stoner shouldn't answer.
"I've never been in a city before. I lived in the eastern prairie."
"Your family owned land?" Priest no more thought that than I had.
"No, I was employed as a teacher. Sir Carstairs. Perhaps you've heard of him."
"No, I can't say I have. But what brought you here?"
Priest obviously assumed that Stoner was a runaway slave. Since I still wasn't entirely unconvinced of that myself, I kept silent and drank.
Stoner said, "My employer—Sir Carstairs—sent me here to deliver certain letters to a man named Fitch. Unfortunately, before I could do that, I was set upon by toughs and robbed."
"Fitch?" Priest sat up straight in his chair. "You know Fitch?"
"No, that's just it. I never had a chance to find him."
Something in Priest's attitude tweaked my curiosity. "What's with this guy, Fitch? Is he another collector I don't know about?"
"Fitch. No." Priest went instantly vague. "I don't believe so. You see, like William here, he only recently arrived here from the rural districts."
"He's a farmer?"
Priest smiled. But he was laughing at me, not with me, and I didn't like that at all. "Perhaps he is," was all I could get out of him.
I decided it was time to go. Draining my wooden cup, I stood up. "Mr. Priest, I'll be seeing you tomorrow morning," I promised.
"With the relic?" He stood with me.
"I guarantee it," I replied.
Stoner made a pained face but said nothing. I felt my training, so far, was proceeding satisfactorily.
Once we'd made our escape from Priest, I turned to Stoner on the street and asked him, "What's with this guy Fitch? Priest seemed to think he was someone important."
"I didn't hear him say that."
"He didn't say it—but he sure showed it. Are you positive you didn't happen to read any of those letters you carried?"
He looked offended again—I seemed to have that effect on him. "I told you I'd never do that." This time I halfway took his word. It even seemed possible that William Stoner just wasn't smart enough yet to tell a good lie and get away with it.
For lunch we visited the home of my good friend, Hector Burley, where Stoner and I shared a lovely repast of roast duck, candied yams, fresh peas and apple pie. Oddly enough, during the meal, the name of Fitch again came up, and Burley, like Priest, acted weird and evasive. When it was time to leave, I guaranteed Burley that I'd see him again first thing in the morning. "And I'll have that coffee cup relic for you then," I lied.
I was beginning to worry. If I had to go on like this much longer, I'd lose all my customers in Seattle and have to move to another city.
But—luck of lucks—that very night when Stoner and I returned to the house where I'd made my previous find, what should we uncover in the rubble but three cups identical to the one I'd broken. Stoner said the writing on the sides of the cups was people's names, and I told him in return that he was my private good-luck piece.
After that find, for the next week we had no problem eating like a couple of rural dukes.
I had to hand it to Stoner, too. He was a damn fast learner in many things. Before the end of our second week together, I sent him out alone one night scrounging. He returned well before dawn bearing a glass ashtray, three copper coins, half of a paperback book and—most wondrous of all—another painted coffee cup.
"We're rich," I cried, hugging him. "Another night like this and we both retire to a rural estate."
That was raw exaggeration, of course, but I was beginning to think the reason I'd taken on Stoner in the first place was that I was a genius.
He still didn't know how to tell a lie, but I figured that talent would come in time.
The one ugly note in our weeks together was that one dark night while scrounging together (unsuccessfully, I'm sorry to say), we ran into an old friend of mine.
We were operating in the downtown towers that night, way up on the twenty-eighth floor of a building where, in the moonlight, the dark vista of Puget Sound lay like a flat carpet far beneath our feet. I'd just left one office and gone into the next when, without warning, a voice five centimeters from my ear said my name.
I froze like water in a snowstorm.
"Michael, it's me, Cheri Dale."
We embraced and kissed and I called Stoner to see.
Cheri Dale was sort of a living legend among scroungers. Some used to say that she'd founded the profession all on her own, though Cheri herself denied this, insisting instead that she'd picked up the idea from a nameless old man she'd known way back around the time of the collapse. Either way, nobody'd ever scrounged as long or hard as Cheri herself. She must have been close to 60. A woman, yes, but built like a man of half her years. Once in Frisco I personally saw her take on 14 scavengers and set them running for their lives in three seconds flat. (Five of them didn't run—they were dead.) Cheri, like me, was strictly a lone-wolf operator, so when our paths accidentally crossed—like now—it was an occasion for rejoicing.
After exchanging the usual pleasantries (Cheri'd had no luck in the building, either—cleaned out years ago, we both decided), the three of us sat down beside the big open window and let the high cold western wind slap our bare faces.
"How long have you been here in Seattle?" I asked her.
In spite of the darkness, I could see she was eyeing Stoner with open suspicion. Then at last she must have decided he was safe, if not trustworthy, because she said, "Too long."
"Then how have I missed you?"
"I've been here three days." She drowned out my attempt at interruption. "And as soon as I get a stake—which apparently won't be tonight—I'm heading down to Portland."
"But that city's dead, cleaned out. Why go there from here? Look, I'll tell you the truth. The last couple of weeks since Bill and I started partnering I've been eating five meals a day. The houses around the downtown rim are full of relics. Go there tomorrow night and see if I'm not right."
She shook her head bleakly, staring out at the flat sea beneath us. "Fifty meals a day isn't worth my freedom, Michael. Yours maybe—you're young—but I'm too old to be a slave."
"Slave? What are you talking about?"
Now it was her turn to be confused. "Don't tell me you don't know. I thought you lived here."
"I do, but what's that got to do with slaves?" I could tell the subject made Stoner uncomfortable. "This is a city, not a rural dukedom."
"That is why I'm getting out. Look, I only got in three days ago, but I saw it that first night. There's slavers operating here. I was hiding out in a ruin along the waterfront when I saw a gang of them grab two boys. Neither kid could have been more than 20.
The slavers—a dozen rural toughs with dogs—chained them up and took them away."
"But you must be mistaken. It's against the law—"
"There is no law here."
"It's against the rules, then. You know the agreement. Anybody rich or crazy enough to live in the cities gets freedom in return."
"Well, apparently somebody disagrees, because I know what I saw that night—and the next night, too, the same party. I lived in the rural areas long enough to know slavers when I see them. And these were slavers."
All the time Cheri had been talking, I'd noticed Stoner twitching and hesitating between us, as if he wanted to comment. Now at last he managed to get the words out, and he didn't sound happy saying them. "I'm afraid she's right, Michael."
I spun on him, damn angry. "You mean you've seen these slavers, too? Why didn't you tell me?"
"No, not that." He spoke so quietly I had to strain to hear. "Do you remember those letters Sir Carstairs gave me to deliver?"
"Sure. I thought you didn't read them."
"Well, I didn't. Not really read them." He twitched crazily now—a lousy liar, as I said. "But once, while I was riding in a food wagon, they dropped out of my pocket and fell open. When I picked them up, I couldn't help glancing at one."
"Sure, you couldn't." I was being kind—I imagine he could've helped it if he'd tried. "So what did it say?"
"He can read?" said Cheri, amazed.
I nodded.
"It was all pretty vague and complicated and all I read was part of one letter, but Sir Carstairs—the letter was in his writing—seemed to be telling this man Fitch that the agents—that's the word he used—would be in the city shortly and that they expected to take 100 slaves."
"That was all?" I was prodding him. "Just 100 slaves taken from the city?"
He nodded. "That was all."
"And you never thought that maybe you could have told me about it?"
"But I didn't know it was important, Michael. I mean, it was only part of a letter. How did I know you'd get upset like this?"
I fixed my fiercest gaze on his face. "No, I don't suppose a born slave like you would know."
"Lay off him, Michael," Cheri said.
"I'd rather lay into him—with both feet and both fists. But I won't." I took a deep breath, struggling to be calm. "It's not his fault that he's stupid."
In retrospect, I think it was my pride that was hurt more than anything. As a scrounger, my personal survival depended on knowing my own environment inside out at any given second. And here were these slavers working in my city, and I hadn't even noticed them. Sure, Stoner could have helped by sharing his knowledge, but I was hardly going to live very long if I depended on him alone to save me.
I think Cheri understood that, too. When she told me a second time to shut up, I did.
That night on the way back to the treehouse, I saw the slavers for the first time. Like Cheri'd said, there were between ten and 14 of them—I didn't stop long enough to count—with maybe an equal number of dogs. The slavers herded three chained prisoners ahead of them. After a quick glance at that, I grabbed Stoner's arm and lit out of that area fast.
Safely home in the treehouse, I told Stoner, "Tomorrow isn't soon enough for me. I'm getting out of this city as fast as my feet can move."
He took a moment to absorb this information, then said, "And me?"
I glared. "What have you got to do with me?"
"I'd like to go with you if I could." He said it so politely I couldn't resist.
"I guess I did say you were my good-luck piece. All right. We'll leave tomorrow morning at dawn."
"But where are we going?"
That was the least of my problems. "Frisco or Oakland maybe. Who knows?" I gave him a friendly slap to show all was forgiven. "It's a hell of a big country, don't you know."
That same night Stoner gave me the first inkling that he, my new partner, might be a little something more than just a dumb rural hick in need of a friend to wipe his nose. I don't know how the conversation got around to the point, but I remember we'd mentioned the slavers again.
"It just seems so fruitless to me," he said, "so pointless. Our whole world went crazy years ago and collapsed, and it's as though nobody since has had the courage to look at what's left to see what could be done about it. Do you know, Michael, that before the collapse slavery hadn't existed in this country or most others for hundreds of years? And it shouldn't exist now. There's no reason for it, except that it somehow started again, and nobody has had the sense to say stop."
"They had machines to do all their work before the collapse." I felt proud that I knew that much. "Those machines are broken now, so we use people."
"Well, they had to use people to operate all those machines. No, Michael, that isn't it. Almost always, slavery has been the most inefficient possible system of labor. Why have it at all? I tell you, it just doesn't make sense."
I tried to laugh. "Well, tell the slavers that."
But he was serious. "No, not them. They're not the ones who make this system work. And that's the real point, Michael. Nobody does. Our whole world is out of control. There's nobody there to guide the way. It's wrong, it's stupid, but most of all, it's dangerous."
"Did you get all that out of those books you read?"
"No, because all those books are old. That's another thing. Nobody even writes books any more."
"Then why don't you?" I meant it as a joke, too.
He nodded solemnly. "I think I just might do that."
And I really believed him.
They were waiting for us.
I knew that the instant I turned the first corner the next morning and saw the big, bronzed rural tough waiting with his chains.
Fully aware of how stupid I'd been, I spun on a heel. "Run!" I cried to Stoner. "Slavers—run!"
They knew our movements so well that they must have been watching us for several days. That morning, as always, I'd checked out the land beneath the treehouse while Stoner waited above in case of trouble. Satisfied, I'd then called him down and we'd hidden the ladder. The slavers were too smart to grab us there. Instead, they recalled what I had neglected to worry about: that, each morning as regular as any of Mr. Priest's clocks, I always started off in the same direction toward the civilized zone.
And that's where they caught us.
For a moment too long, Stoner simply froze, staring at me in utter horror.
"I said run—move!" I gave him a hard shove, then darted around him.
I found out later that he never even managed to untrack his feet. The slavers grabbed him right there.
I wasn't about to be taken that easily.
Running for the corner, I glanced back once and noted three of them in pursuit. They hadn't brought their mutts—too obvious in the daylight—and I was glad of that. Being a city boy, I hated and feared all animals unable to talk. The situation looked good. I knew how to run well. Hitting the next corner, I darted around it.
Four more of them awaited me there. I saw the chains. One man reached out with arms as big around as my thighs. Another sprang for my feet. I danced and kicked. Somehow—a miracle—I broke free.
By then the other three had caught up.
I still knew how to fight. Standing free, I could kick. I let the nearest man have my left heel across his broad throat, then spun to deliver a wide right chop. With two of them down, this was a perfect moment to run. I gave it a good effort, but someone had sneaked up behind and his huge arms strangled my chest.
I lowered my head toward my knees and, simultaneously, shrugged my shoulders and shook my spine. The man—all 115 kilos of him—rose up like a bloated balloon. I shook my shoulders again and he went over. His head struck a pile of rubble. I heard him groan and saw the pool of blood.
Something hit me. What it was I never did find out for sure, but the wound was sharp and jagged and a good eight centimeters long. Miraculously, I stayed on my feet even then, weaving like a drunk in a stupor. I saw the grinning fat face of another attacker. He was laughing at me, mocking my helplessness. I saw his fist rising like a flying bird. I tried to lift my hands to protect my face but the muscles refused to respond to command. He hit me square on the jaw. This time, even if I'd wanted, I couldn't stand up. The pavement spiraled toward me. I tried to twist my head to avoid the rocks and rubble. Just before I hit, a terrible thought assaulted my mind.
Now I am a slave.
Then I struck the ground and the ensuing darkness was a blessing.
When I woke up, the world around me was gray and dim and uncertain. My body jolted as if I were caught in a permanent earthquake. My head ached and the pain was unbearable. Screaming, I reached for my skull. My hands closed around something soft and wet. Thinking it had to be blood, broken bone, and flecks of brain, I screamed even louder, then was very sick.
The next time I woke up, the light wasn't as bright and my head wasn't as sore. I realized that the bouncing resulted from riding in a wagon. I touched my head. A wet bandage, I decided, not a broken skull.
In the darkness, I noticed William Stoner crouched near me. He had a girl with him—a plump-faced blonde, with thick, moist lips.
"This is Rhonda," Stoner told me. "She saved your life."
Smiling—which took one hell of an effort—I said, "Thank you, Rhonda." The words caught in my throat and I had to speak twice to make my meaning clear. Then I asked the obvious question, "Where are we?"
Stoner explained.
Apparently, after thumping me, the slavers tossed my unconscious body into a wagon and drove off. Stoner, also riding in the wagon, felt sick when he saw me. "I thought you were already dead," he said, "because there was blood everywhere." He had tried to feel my pulse but could find nothing. Then Rhonda, who happened to be riding in the same wagon, crawled over. She felt my skull, rubbed my heart and announced, "He'll live." Then she screamed like a mouse chased by an army of fleet-footed cats.
As a result the driver stopped the wagon and, accompanied by two brawny guards, came to investigate. Drawing back the canvas flap, he glared in at the prisoners—all of whom were chained, I should add, except myself. "Who's screaming back here?"
"I am," Rhonda told him. "This man is dying."
"Oh, no, he's not. Somebody just hit him, that's all."
"Somebody just cracked his skull, you mean. Look, driver, I used to work with a doctor. If he doesn't get help soon, he'll die."
The driver didn't look pleased, nor did the guards. To a slaver, any live man was at least worth his weight—and that included even me. "What kind of help?"
"A bandage for a start—to stop the bleeding. And special foods. He has to be strong."
"We don't have any special foods."
"Then at least give me a bandage—and some clean water."
She did manage to get that much from them, and fortunately, the wagon soon came to a halt while additional slaves were captured. Rhonda said this was what had really saved my life. The day of rest made all the difference in the world.
Even then, I had recovered only fitfully. When the slaver boss came around to inspect his most recent acquisitions, he had ordered me dumped outside. "This guy isn't worth carrying."
Stoner had tried protesting, but it was Rhonda again who saved the day. She laughed in the slaver's face.
"What's so funny?" he asked, glaring.
"You are." Her voice was calm and mocking. "Here you nearly kill a man in order to capture him, and then when he's almost recovered, you throw him away and lose everything."
"He doesn't look recovered to me."
She paused long enough for someone to get the idea. "Rhonda used to work with a doctor," came a helpful voice—Stoner's—from the rear.
The guard bit his lip carefully. "And you say he's almost recovered."
"He'll be sitting up in another day."
"Then you just helped make him a slave." The slaver turned away. "Chain up the lot of them. They'll be moving out at dawn."
"And that was four days ago," Stoner said, grinning.
I battled for a smile, too. "Then I guess you really did save my life."
By this time my eyes had plenty of time to grow accustomed to the dark, nightlike interior of the canvas-covered wagon. I found out that my ankles were chained to a central iron pipe. Besides Stoner, Rhonda and myself, I counted seven others bound with us. Five were men, one a woman, and the seventh a young girl perhaps 13 years old. None of them paid the slightest attention to me, my friends or my problems. They didn't talk to each other and seemed only dimly aware of anyone else's existence. Each one seemed engrossed in his own thoughts. I later learned that this sort of preoccupation was a common characteristic of slavery. A person stopped caring about anything he couldn't personally control and the only thing left for him to control was the direction of his own private thoughts.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Well, we don't know that yet," Stoner said. "I'm fairly familiar with the local geography, but inside here it's almost impossible to tell."
"They stop the wagons and let us get out three times a day," Rhonda said. "Right after feeding time."
"You said wagons?"
She nodded. "A train of them. I couldn't count. Maybe 50."
"Fifty wagons." I was amazed at the scope of the endeavor and tried to compute. "That's 500 slaves if each one's full."
"And I bet they are."
"But what would anyone need with that many slaves? I'm sure Stoner could tell you they already have plenty of their own."
"I think we're going north," Stoner said, "not east."
"North? But there's nothing north of Seattle but woods and forests."
Both Stoner and Rhonda nodded. "That's why we don't know where we're going."
The next morning I finally got a chance to try out my bruised legs and found to my surprise that they supported my body quite adequately. What I saw was no help in solving the mystery.
A long line of canvas wagons stretched along a wide wheel-rutted dirt roadway; on either side rose a forest of tall evergreens.
"Well, this does look like the north," I told Rhonda.
"No talking during the rest period," called the raw-edged voice of our driver.
I glowered at him and stalked away. We outnumbered them ten to one and escape should have been easy with a little coordination, but I could guess why no one had attempted it: in these surroundings there just didn't seem to be any place worth running to.
Despite this, I definitely would have tried a getaway myself, except for one thing: with every step I took my head split with pain, my knees wobbled and my eyes did dizzy flips. I certainly wasn't going to be able to run anywhere.
I could only hope we'd reach our destination soon so I could make a decent effort there.
The driver herded us back into the wagons. A whip cracked and a horse wheezed.
"Well, what do you think, Michael?" Rhonda asked. Stoner was chained on the other side of the wagon this time.
"I think I'm in no shape to run away," I admitted.
"Not now, you mean," she said.
I nodded. "Not now."
Later in the day, when Stoner was chained next to me again, he leaned toward my ear as if bumped there by accident and suddenly whispered, "Do you remember that loaded gun I had?"
I could hardly keep my heart from bursting with excitement. "You've got it with you." I strained to keep from shouting.
"No, not exactly."
"Well, what?" Fortunately, none of ,the others seemed to pay us any attention. Rhonda stared curiously, but one of us could talk to her later.
"The slaver who captured us—do you remember him?"
I remembered a lot more than one slaver but said, "Yes."
"Well, I gave the gun to him."
It took real effort not to groan or swear. "That's real helpful."
"No, listen, Michael. Remember when you had me empty the gun?"
That I most certainly did remember. "I didn't want to get shot by accident."
"Sure, but what good's a gun without bullets?"
I was halfway beginning to understand what he was driving at. "You mean you still have the bullets?"
He nodded toward his pants pockets. "Every one of them." He laughed but still kept his voice low. "It was funny. When they grabbed me, I thought of the gun right away and knew I wasn't going to be able to hide it. So, while the rest of them were chasing you, I gave the gun to the one slaver and asked him to keep it for me. He thought it was a real find—you know how much one of those is worth. Later, when they finally got around to searching me, they found the bullets, but nobody had any idea what they were, so I said they were used in fishing. Since it was Seattle and so many people do fish they believed me."
"But that still leaves us without a gun."
"The man driving the wagon two in front of ours?"
I nodded, though I hadn't really noticed him.
"Well, he's the one with the gun."
This time I did smile. What he'd told me was definitely worth keeping in mind. "There's no way we can get to it now," I said, shaking my ankle chains.
"No, but later," he suggested.
"It may be our only way."
If there was another, I didn't find it during the remainder of our journey. We followed a strict and cautious routine. Three meals a day followed by three brief periods of exercise. The rest of the time, night and day, we were kept chained in our wagons.
After five more days of travel, by which time my head had nearly reverted to normal, our wagon train finally came to the end of its journey.
Our driver came around, unchained us one at a time and pointed to the gap in the rear canvas.
"No food?" I asked politely.
"This isn't dinnertime. We've reached the line. '
"The line? What line?"
"Get out and stretch your feet and you'll see."
I took his advice but at first I still couldn't figure out what was going on. We seemed to be camped at the bottom of a low valley. Off to one side of the road in neat rows were several lines of low ramshackle cabins. I could see curious faces peering at us from the open windows, and guards were posted outside each door. Between the cabins and the road lay something it took me some moments to recognize. Iron bars intersected by wooden planks seemed to be inserted in the smooth ground.
Stoner figured out what was going on before I did. His voice quivered in real awe: "It's a railway line. They're building a railroad."
That piece of information was all I needed to complete the picture. "You mean we're building it," I said.
Those ramshackle huts and peering faces: they belonged to our predecessors. There would be no simple planting and harvesting work for our group of slaves; we would be expected to work and work hard.
The other covered wagons had all been emptied by now. I made no attempt to make an accurate count of the total cargo but my original estimate wasn't far off: there were at least 500 of us.
A man emerged from the interior of one of the cabins. From the way he was dressed—in splendid pink and gold silks—and from the manner of deference he produced in our guards, I immediately guessed that this must be our master. Waving at the guards, he directed them to move us closer. They hurried to oblige, herding us into a thick massed bunch. Somehow Rhonda, Stoner and I ended up standing next to the man in silks.
He spoke to us in a strong, authoritarian voice. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, though his tone said slaves, "before my people move you into your new homes I want to be certain that you thoroughly understand the situation you face. For those of you who haven't yet figured it out, we're building a railroad here, a line that will eventually stretch from Seattle in the south clear to Calgary City in the east. This happens to be the very first new stretch of railroad track to be laid since the collapse itself, and I feel deeply privileged to be in charge of this project. I don't, however, expect you to share my feelings. You're here as slaves and nothing more. I'll expect you to work 12 good hours each day. Any who won't work will be eliminated. The others will be fed three times a day. Don't even think about escape: our present location lies several weeks distant from any human habitation. The weather is remarkably warm and clear at this moment but that won't last long. Each of you will soon be known and identified. Anyone found missing will be hunted down and killed as a lesson to the others. Besides my guards, I have nearly 20 dogs. When the job is finished, all of you will be released. The smart ones among you will be patient from the beginning. The rest can try to escape if they want—but they won't succeed."
Never having been a slave before, I didn't know better. Clearing my throat, I asked, "And how long will this be?"
Thunderstruck, the man glared at me.
Too late to turn back, I went on, "I meant how long till the railroad's finished. I'd like to know the limit of my patience."
One of the guards started for me. I could see the big wooden club dangling in his hand and I prepared to resist. Nobody was ever going to hit me on the head again if I had any say in the matter.
The master waved at the guard to back off. "A fair question," he said, letting his smooth voice show that he was still very much in charge here. "But don't you think that will depend more on you than me? The harder you work, the sooner you will be done. That's all I have to say."
It wasn't nearly enough to satisfy me, but apparently that wasn't the point.
Stoner had spoken before I could stop him. "Mr. Fitch," he said. "Mr. Fitch, please, don't you remember me?"
The master—Fitch, I now found out—stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at Stoner, who approached him, raising his hands as if to shield his face.
Stoner halted a few centimeters from Fitch. "I came to you from Sir Carstairs, remember? With the letters, except somebody robbed me?"
"I remember nothing of the kind," said Fitch.
"But I belong to him. To Sir Carstairs. I'm his household slave. You can't keep me. It's against the law." For a moment, I actually thought Stoner intended to drop to his knees and beg. I couldn't see how one slavemaster was any different from another, but Stoner seemed to think it was important.
Fitch didn't. He glared contemptuously for a brief moment, then turned on his heel. "Guards," I heard him say, "get this man back into the ranks."
Stoner tried to go after him. That was a mistake. The club-wielding guard who had started for me now could finish his task. I heard the sharp, nauseating crack of wood against bone.
Poor Stoner dropped in a heap.
"He's dead!" cried Rhonda beside me. She tugged at my arm. "Why didn't you help him? He's dead."
I could plainly see Stoner's chest rising and falling. "I didn't help him because he was being stupid," I said. "That's something he has to learn not to do on his own."
Two of the guards picked up Stoner and carried him toward the cabins. The other guards came forward and began splitting us into groups. Leaning over, I told Rhonda, "Make sure we end up in the same cabin with Stoner."
"Then you do want to help him?" she said.
"I want to help him learn how not to be stupid."
I've been workin' on the railroad
All the live long day
I've been workin' on the railroad
Just to pass the time away.
That was a noxious little ditty someone came up with during our third day of work. Its popularity lasted no more than two shifts and by that time I was as thoroughly sick of the song as I was of the work itself.
Stoner recovered quickly, as I'd guessed he would. Along with the three of us, the cabin contained half a dozen other slaves. Five were typical city toughs—two I even suspected of being scavengers—and when they left us alone and stayed to themselves I was glad. The sixth, incredibly, was an old woman. She wasn't—at least initially—much more gregarious than the toughs but after our first day's work, when I noticed her swinging an iron pick like a strong man, I couldn't restrain myself from asking her age.
"Sixty-one," she said. Her teeth were brown and ground to stubs. Her wrinkled face, creased like soft squeezed clay, was topped by a thatch of wispy, white hair. "And all the last 42 as a slaver'
"Then you're used to this kind of work," I said, nursing my own blisters.
She shook her head. "Nobody's ever used to this kind of work. Not even a mule."
Of course, I was pretty mad at Stoner. Pleading a variety of aching joints and sore bones, he had managed to evade my questions for two days. When I'd try to press him, Rhonda would glare and I'd end up backing off in deference to her.
On the third day I cornered him, though. We'd just finished our daily cold shower when I grabbed his arm and forced him against a wall. He winced as the splintered wood scratched his bare behind. "Don't, Michael," he pleaded.
I wasn't about to be put off. Most of the men were still showering, and I knew the guards wouldn't try to move any of us out until everyone was finished. Two of them, balancing their clubs in meaty hands, gave me ugly glances, but I knew neither would be eager to intervene unless I became really violent.
And I didn't intend to do that.
"Look, Bill," I said, keeping hold of his arm but adopting a friendly tone, "you told me you never met this guy Fitch. But you recognized him the other day. He knew you, too. I want to know exactly what's going on. Did you get nabbed by toughs or didn't you?"
"Yes, yes." He spoke hastily, as if striving to be done with a terrible ordeal. "That part's true. The men grabbed me before I could reach Mr. Fitch."
"And they took the letters?"
"Yes. Maybe they thought I had relics."
Too many men began emerging from the showers. I realized if I wanted to squeeze anything out of Stoner, I'd have to hurry. "Then what?" I gave him an ungentle shake. "Tell it all."
"Then I went to see Mr. Fitch. I mean, what else could I do? I'd been entrusted with a mission and I'd failed. Mr. Fitch had a right to know."
"And what did your Mr. Fitch say?"
He smiled as if recollecting a happy memory. "He told me not to worry about it. The city was an ugly, violent place and he was simply glad I hadn't been harmed."
"Fitch told you that?" I couldn't disguise my disbelief. "You went to him, confessed you'd lost some precious letters, and that's what he said?"
Stoner looked almost embarrassed. "Well, I did tell him what the letters contained."
"Oh-ho," I said. "These are the same letters you didn't read."
"It was an accident. I was riding—"
"What?" The story sounded much too familiar to be endured again. "I don't care about that. What did the letters say?"
"They talked about permission. That's all. Permission for Mr. Fitch to build his railroad across Sir Carstairs's land."
"That's all?"
"Some general stuff, too."
"Such as?"
"Well, how Fitch was going to acquire labor and how he was going to build. Just that sort of stuff."
I sighed, too tired to hold him a moment longer. "In other words, from the time you met me, you already knew everything there was to know about this project and you didn't say a word. Bill, would you mind telling me why?"
He answered without hesitation: "I wanted to be free. After I left Mr. Fitch, I was supposed to turn around and go home. But I didn't. You know that. I stayed in Seattle. I just couldn't leave. All my life I'd been a slave. I had to know what it was like to be free."
"But what did that have to do with Fitch? You still could've told me what you knew and stayed free."
"No, you were my only way, Michael. I knew I couldn't survive alone. I didn't know how—you kept telling me that yourself, and I believed you. And I knew how you felt about slavery. If you'd known what Fitch was planning, you'd have left Seattle for a safer city. Left Seattle—and left me."
"How do you know that?"
That brought him up short. "You wouldn't have?"
I shook my head slowly. "No."
His eyes grew wider. "You'd have taken me with you?"
"Sure. We were partners, weren't we?"
"But I thought—I guess I just assumed—you kept me around for someone to talk to. A new city and you would find new people."
"Who needs that? No, Bill, I kept you around because I liked you. It wasn't a one-way proposition. You're a lot smarter than I am and I could learn from you."
"But you should have told me that."
I sighed and shook my head. That just wasn't a thing one person usually told another. But Bill Stoner wasn't a guy I could stay mad at for very long.
Still, it was at least several weeks before I completely forgave him.
I couldn't help thinking: if only he had told me.
Why, I could've been in Frisco by now.
The longer it went on, the more miserable the work became. We laid an average of a kilometer of track each day and then had to turn around and hike back to our cabins. The clean skies vanished before long, and once the rains started, they didn't stop. One man in our cabin caught some bad air in his lungs. Rhonda, who tried to care for him, said it was a disease called pneumonia, but the man died anyway. He wasn't alone. The guards used an area of hilly land behind the cabins for a graveyard.
Rhonda wanted to protest to Fitch. "There's no point to this unless he wants us all dead. You can't work people this hard under these conditions and expect them to live long."
"Maybe that is what he wants," I suggested.
"But what good are any of us to him dead?"
The old woman—Naomi—laughed. "I can see you've never been a slave before, dear. We may be worth nothing to the man dead, but we sure are easily replaced."
Within a month of our arrival, we found out what she meant. A wagon train pulled up in front of the cabins and disgorged a brand new crew of 50 men.
We could drop like flies, the air was always full of new ones.
Although I'd long since decided not to hate him, I took pains to avoid Stoner's company as much as possible during our supposed leisure hours. In the cramped quarters of the cabin, that was hardly easy and I even contemplated making a move. If it hadn't been for Rhonda, I probably would have.
The problem was Stoner's mouth. No matter how hard we'd worked on any particular day, he always managed to reserve enough stamina to allow him to chatter for three hours afterward.
He was convinced that the railroad shouldn't be built. "It's wrong," he'd say, "completely wrong, and if only I could have a chance to talk to Mr. Fitch, I know I could explain it to him."
Having heard all this a dozen times before, I couldn't conceal a yawn. "Then try it. The worst you'll get is another knock on the head."
"No, that's not the point. The point is that Fitch is making the same mistake they made before. A railroad. Don't you see what that means, Michael? It's industry—it's progress. That's what destroyed society before."
"I thought you wanted things to change," I said. (A mistake, I later learned. The best policy was to keep quiet and let him run down of his own accord.)
"I want this chaos to end, yes, this slavery and decadence and casual violence. But I don't want to return to what destroyed us before. I want to build a new world, Michael, one that isn't dependent on either slaves or machines, one where every man is free and can do what he wants to."
"Then you're living in the wrong place," I said, "because this world isn't that."
"But we can make it be that." He was fervent—and serious.
"Maybe you should check that out with Fitch first."
"I'd like to," he said. .
But now he managed to not be stupid. He made no real effort to get close to Fitch. What he did do, however, was start talking to the guards a lot. Since I didn't like the thugs, I didn't pay much attention until one day, after a particularly exhausting shift of rain-soaked work, Rhonda came to me. She said, "I think you'd better talk to Bill. He's planning an escape."
My first reaction was anger: how dare he try that without my help? My second reaction was just irritation: what was that idiot Stoner doing now?
"How do you know?" I asked her.
"Naomi overheard him talking to one of the guards. They're in it together. She didn't catch the details, but I don't want to see him do something stupid and wind up hurt."
"No, neither do I." Stoner wasn't in the hut. "When he comes back from the latrine, I'll talk to him."
But Stoner didn't return. That bothered me at first—no one had seen him leave, either—but I was too beat to worry very long. I fell asleep like a dying dog.
It was pitch dark when Stoner shook me awake. I came to angrily, like a swimmer escaping a drowning pool, and only his high, bleating voice kept me from whacking him.
"Michael, no, it's me, Bill!"
"What do you want?" I growled. Even with his shouting, no one else had been disturbed. Our sleep was too precious to be easily invaded.
"It's tonight—we're running away. Where's Rhonda? She has to go with us."
"Now what are you raving about?" I remembered what Rhonda'd told me about Stoner's escape plans. "What kind of crazy scheme is this?"
His voice sounded hurt. "It's nothing crazy, Michael. Don't you remember the gun Sir Carstairs gave me?"
I remembered it, though not too clearly any more. "Sure. You gave it to a guard."
"And he's here right now. I found him again and now he's returning it to me."
Some of this actually sounded plausible, but I still didn't much like it. "Why should he do that?"
Stoner giggled. "Because I have the bullets. Except he doesn't know that. You see, I told him how I used to be a scrounger. He doesn't like working up here any more than we do."
"I doubt that."
The hurt returned to his voice. "No, it's true. He used to be a small farmer before Fitch stole his home. He had his own land and worked it with his family."
From the envy and adoration in Stoner's tone, he might have been speaking of a god in paradise.
"So what?"
"So I told him if we escaped and he came with us, we could sell the gun in Seattle and he'd have enough money to buy more land."
"And he believed that?"
Another giggle, this one full of pride. "It took me some time to convince him."
While he went to wake Rhonda, I lay there contemplating the possibilities. Could it work? We had a gun and the help of a guard. And wasn't I desperate enough to risk just about anything?
But even if we did get free, where would we go? It was a big, empty world out there. Fitch knew that as well as I did.
Stoner crawled back to my side. "I told her everything I told you."
"And what did she say?"
"She said she wants to know what you say."
So it was all up to me. "Let's go," I said, sitting up at last. "I guess we don't, have much to lose."
Stoner led the way to the cabin door. At this time of night it was normally kept locked, but when he touched the knob, the door creaked slowly open.
I felt Rhonda's eager hand touch mine. "This isn't as crazy as it sounds, is it?" she whispered to me.
"I'm afraid it is," I said.
"You're not going?"
"Oh, I'm going, all right."
Stoner waved us through the door. I let him go first, then followed Rhonda out. I saw a few flickers of light—torches—burning in distant cabins, but right here it was hard to make out my own feet. I grabbed Rhonda's hand and told her to clutch Stoner. I didn't want us to get separated. Blinking my eyes rapidly, I headed forward. If Stoner knew where he was leading us, he gave no indication.
Suddenly, we weren't alone. Doubling my fist, I started to swing at the vague face in the night. Stoner caught my arm in time and said, "Michael, no—this is him."
The friendly guard, he meant. I dropped my hand. "You're going with us?"
"I'm Keller." The name meant no more to me than the face. For years I'd prided myself on the ability to never forget a person. But these guards—they all looked the same.
"Any problems, Keller?" Stoner asked. We were walking again, Keller in the lead now. I still didn't know where.
"It's gone beautifully, just beautifully. We'll be able to walk out.'
"How so?" I asked. "You're not the only guard."
"No, but—" he broke into snickers "—the others are indisposed."
I stopped cold then, refusing to take another step. I didn't like this man and I wasn't nuts about his little joke. "You better explain what you mean and do it quick. I'm not Stoner—I like to know what's going on."
"Bill and I worked it out. The men are sick. Before they ate tonight, I spiked the stewpot."
"You poisoned them?"
"No, not dead. Just sick. I know all about the local vegetation. I used to own a farm of my own not far from here. That was before Fitch moved in and chased everybody out."
"Stoner told me about your past life." I still didn't feel particularly sympathetic. "But isn't Fitch apt to be suspicious, all of his men coming down sick at once?"
"He'll never know about it. You think any of the men would dare go to him and complain? They're all scared to death of him."
"Does that include you?"
"Me?" He laughed but not as convincingly as before. "He's not that tough."
I wasn't quite so sure of that myself, especially since my definition of an intelligent man was one who knew when to be scared. But I also knew we were wasting time just standing here talking. If we seriously intended to escape, it wouldn't do to wait around until a guard or two happened to recover.
"Lead on," I told Keller.
He moved us away from the lights, which I thought was a good idea. Nobody talked. Rhonda held my hand but the moonlight was now sufficient for us to make our way. Off in the distance, I heard a man groaning: one of Keller's sick guards.
Suddenly, long before I expected it, the forest loomed in front of us. The sight was enough to bring me back to reality temporarily, and I was forced to face a question I had been avoiding: once we managed to escape from this place, what were we going to do?
Spurred by the sight of the dim, thick forest, I was about to voice this question, when Stoner distracted me. He had his hands in his pockets and was making a funny jangling noise.
It took me a moment to figure out what he was doing. Then I remembered: the bullets. Of course. They were still safely in his pockets. Stoner was trying to get up the nerve to ask Keller about the gun.
I beat him to it. "Keller." I held him back from entering the forest. "The gun Stoner gave you—we'll need it."
"I've got it." He tried to pull away from me.
"Give it." I held out my hand.
I saw he intended to argue. "Why should I?"
"Because you don't know how to use it. Because the gun won't work without bullets and I've got the bullets." I let my hand twitch. "Now give."
He hesitated. Stoner was banging the bullets together louder than ever and I couldn't figure how Keller stayed stupid so long. "Give the gun to Michael," Stoner said. "Please."
Keller relented with a sigh. He reached toward his waistband and suddenly stopped. "It's not there," he said. "It's gone."
"Don't get funny."
"No, it's true." He tugged on his shirt and felt his clothes. "I know I had it—I must have dropped it."
I still didn't believe a word he said, not even then. It took the sound of a shot to convince me. I heard Keller groan. Then he fell on his face at my feet.
My reactions were as swift as ever: I grabbed Rhonda and began to run. I must have managed two steps when a firm voice, out of the surrounding darkness, said "Halt where you are or we'll shoot."
I halted.
Stoner had already hoisted his hands in the air.
Mr. Fitch emerged from the darkness. He held a gun—Stoner's gun, I was willing to bet—at waist level. The barrel was pointed straight at my gut. Two guards accompanied him. Neither looked ill.
"Keller blabbed," I said.
"Keller was a fool," Fitch confirmed. He kicked the body. It didn't budge. Fitch grinned. "Now he's dead."
"And us?" I asked.
"You mean, do I intend to kill you?" He shook his head. "No, not right away. Keller betrayed my trust. You three owed me nothing."
"And we still don't," I said, not wanting him to think I was grateful.
"I wouldn't say that." He grinned.
"I didn't ask you for my life."
"No, but you will." He jerked the gun at me. It was time to head for home. "Take a good look at all of this," he suggested, with an expansive wave of his free hand. "You may not see this world again for some time."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Have you ever heard of the old term 'solitary confinement'?"
At first I was cocky enough to think this couldn't be so bad. After all, hadn't I been living pretty much on my own my whole life?
I soon learned, though.
I never did get a really clear look at my prison. Fitch and his helpers slipped me into it that same night and I wasn't in any mood at the time for concentrated observation. Later on, I came to know the inside so well I think I could draw an accurate picture of the place even now.
It was made of bricks. Hard, firm, smooth bricks, not the kind that crumble easily. The floor was packed dirt. The dimensions were—at most—two meters by two meters by one and a half meters. I couldn't stand up straight. Somewhere in the ceiling or one of the walls there must have been a hole, but I never found it. They brought food once a day and I never saw who did it. I was always asleep when it happened and that meant they were somehow able to watch me. When, or where, or how, I never knew. Much about that prison is still a mystery to me.
But it was the darkness that got to me more than anything else. I'd seen blind men before and felt sorry for them, hoping I'd never be that way myself. The thing was, when I pitied those sightless men, it was always because they lived in a visual world without being able to see. My problem was the reverse: I was able to see, but the darkness made my world—I know it wasn't much at the time anyway—invisible.
But it was more than that. It didn't take me long to realize it. First of all, there was me—my body. In that pitch blackness, I began to lose my sense of self. Without visual confirmation, I ceased believing in my own reality. I could think—yes—I could even talk and make other sounds. But what did that mean? Who was thinking? Who was talking? Where was the body?
The effect was that I lived in a dream world. I floated through reality. In spite of the cramped quarters, my body didn't ache. I lay on my back, on my sides; I may have stood on my head. None of it mattered. My eyes might have been shut or open. How could I know the difference?
And not just me. The whole exterior world. Without light, time ceased to have any meaning. I could have been kept in that hole for a day or a year. It might have been winter or summer. A dozen springs could have come and gone and I'd never have known. At first, I felt the cold. The floor pressed against my body like a slick, moist, melting sheet of ice. I shivered and shook, quivered and trembled. But only for a short time. When my body went away, I was no longer cold, and with that went my last reminder of the outside world.
I'd known madmen before. They were scarce but not extinct in the cities of the time. Most died. Survival has little sympathy for madness. But I recalled one man. He was a raving lunatic when his fits grabbed him. He would wander about talking to beings only he could see. He called them by pet names and spoke of mutual acquaintances. In my pen, I suppose I was scarcely different from this madman. Only one thing distinguished us. I lacked his invisible friends. In my lunacy, I was alone.
Sunlight struck my eyes like a sheet of fire. I screamed, whined, groveled. Until the wall fell open, I'd forgotten that was the way they'd brought me in. Strong arms carried me out. I couldn't bear the pain of the white light. They took me away.
My recuperation, I later learned, occupied a full week. I was kept in one of the guards' cabins, better insulated than those allotted the slaves, and fed and bathed regularly. Eventually, I managed to sit up. Somewhat later, I was able to see.
Finally, I discovered that I could speak again.
That was when Fitch came to see me. I knew him at once. Throughout my ordeal, his face had barely left what had remained of my conscious mind.
He sat down beside my bunk—a sheet of thin wood suspended a meter above the floor—and said, "You're a very strong man. I think you know that."
His words failed to make any sense to me. I had to mull them over for a long moment. "What makes you say that?" I spoke haltingly; the words seemed to stick to my tongue.
"Do you have any idea how long you were in that hole?"
I shook my head. I would have laughed at the absurdity of his question, but amusement was still beyond me. "I'm not sure."
"Sixty-eight days."
"No." I couldn't believe that. It seemed like years to me.
"I find it hard to accept, too." He shook his head as if in wonderment, "And that's why I'm here."
My past life remained a jumbled mess of half-memories. I could only slightly recall the escape attempt. Fitch's presence puzzled me still.
"I need an overseer. Not a guard. An overseer. Someone to make these people work hard and make sure they do the job right. I want you for that position."
"I can't." I was referring to my new weakness but he misunderstood.
"You won't be a slave. You'll be paid. I'll expect you to stay with me only till the work's done."
I said, "Yes." What else could I do? I was a beaten man. If he'd offered me an opportunity to feast on my own left leg, I'd have jumped at the chance. What I'd lost was the ability to say no. It would be an unfortunate while before I got it back.
Fitch let me have my own cabin. After what I'd been accustomed to, the place might have been a crystal palace. The floor was wood; there were three glass windows. The front door, when shut, let in no more than a faint wisp of cool night air.
During the daylight hours, I wandered freely through the encampment. Once a guard escorted me down the line to where the work was in progress. Only then, computing hastily, did I realize that this camp couldn't possibly be located in the same place as the one where we had begun our work. The guard confirmed my guess. This was a second, entirely new set of cabins some 30 kilometers from the first. At some point in my imprisonment I had been moved. I remembered nothing of it.
The work of laying the tracks only vaguely interested me. I watched the picks and shovels rising and falling and observed the nailing of the ties. The slaves paid no more attention to me than I did to them. Once I passed Rhonda. I knew her, and she knew me. In horror, she stared after me. I did nothing.
Stoner was not capable of such subtlety. It wasn't till late in the day that I happened to run across him, and as soon as I did, he dropped his pick and came racing over to greet me. A guard shouted angrily but Stoner saw nothing or no one but me, his old friend.
"Michael! Michael!" His eyes were misty with tears of joy. "We heard you were all right."
I nodded coolly. "Yes, I'm fine." I made my voice as dead and dull as a ghost's. Later, I realized how appropriate this had been.
"They wouldn't tell us anything," Stoner babbled, staring deep into my cold eyes. "They said you were locked up."
"Me, but not you." I sounded more accusatory than I'd intended, but this, too, went over his head.
"Yes, that's true." I believed the fact had never occurred to him before. "I wonder why."
I couldn't enlighten him about that, so I turned away. When he tried to follow, a guard intervened and drove him back to the line. As he went, Stoner kept turning and staring. I don't know what he expected me to do.
After that, I decided not to visit the work area any more. I knew what they were doing. I didn't have to watch day after day.
Unfortunately, Fitch had other ideas. He visited me in my cabin the same night I returned from the line and told me straight out I'd start work the next day.
"Doing what?" My actual duties had never been made clear.
"I'm going to put you right down on the line. Your job will be to make sure the slaves work hard. This is a big job and I knew from the beginning it was going to take a long time, but I'll be frank. I'm very disappointed with the progress we've made so far. If the work doesn't start moving much faster, I'm going to be at the bottom of a great big hole with no way out. I have no intention of letting that happen."
"And you blame the slaves?"
"No, not really. I knew I'd have trouble with them, but the problem is I expected the guards to help. I recruited these men from my own area, made sure they were familiar with slave labor and assumed I'd have no trouble. But this work is different from farming. When you're harvesting a crop you can afford to be casual. These slaves loaf and the guards do nothing. I think they're half afraid of them."
"The slaves are different, too," I suggested.
"Yes, that's exactly it. These slaves are used to being lazy. Most have never worked a day in their lives. They're tough, too, and mean. Is it true that some of you city folk are actually cannibals?"
"I've heard that rumor."
He didn't press me. "I'll expect you to punish the slaves if they won't work. I'll expect you to make them work no matter how. Do that, and you'll have a soft, permanent job. Fail and I'll put you back on the line. The choice is yours."
"I've already told you I'll do it."
"Then be ready tomorrow at dawn. You'll ride down the line with the guards." Standing up, he turned to go.
"Just a minute, Mr. Fitch," I called after him. "There is one other point I'd like to get straight. Why me? How come I've been blessed with this soft job?"
He grinned at me. "Haven't you figured that out yet?"
I admitted I hadn't.
"Why else would I do it? Self-protection. I saw how you stood up under solitary. Most men, after that many days, would be nearly dead, on their knees and begging to be buried. You're a tough guy, Michael. If I'd put you back with the slaves, I don't think I'd ever want to turn my back on them or you. This is the safest thing I can do. With you on my side, not theirs, that's one less worry in my life."
"Yes, I see what you mean." Strangely enough, I didn't like it. I knew I ought to feel pleased at the implied compliment, but instead his words had disturbed me. I felt dirty, soiled. But the contamination was inside.
But I said nothing as he left.
Never had I felt lonelier than I did that next morning. If Fitch trusted me, obviously he was very much alone. The guards glared nastily at me as our handcar rattled down the tracks. Several times, more from my own discomfort than anything else, I tried to make conversation. The men ignored me completely. I began to doubt my own reality till one of the guards, a skinny, pinch-faced man, told me bluntly, "Look, we don't like you and we don't expect you to like us. So why don't you just shut up?"
I could've started a fight over that but finally decided Fitch wouldn't approve. I got nasty in return. "What's wrong? Are you jealous that I stole your job?"
"That job," he said, "you can have."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I was getting really angry.
"It means you better shut up before somebody throws you over the side and you have to walk."
I could see it was hopeless. Either I fought or I shut up. Only from deference to Fitch did I decide on the latter alternative. I would've made a note of the pinch-faced guard for later retaliation, except that it was clear his feelings were not unique.
So I wasn't even good enough for the guards. I could hardly wait till the slaves saw me.
Fitch only made things worse. As soon as the slaves arrived, he ordered the guards to herd them in close, then he made a speech. As he went on and on, I stood beside him, my eyes deliberately fixed on my feet. He talked all about me. Who I was and what I would be doing. "This man is an old friend of yours," he finished, "and you know you can trust him. He wants to see this railroad line built the same as I do. Cooperate with him and we'll all be happy."
From the moment the slaves turned to work, I could tell from their sullen walk that happiness wasn't about to reign supreme. For one thing, I found it especially difficult to fall into the routine of my duties. During the first two hours, I merely wandered, as self-conscious as a chunk of good steak dropped in the middle of a plate of raw beans. The guards glared contemptuously at me, while the slaves just stood and stared. A few times, spotting particularly blatent slackers, I moved toward them. Each time, though, I halted short, knowing it wouldn't do any good.
The slaves weren't taking me seriously. They all thought of me as one of their own and thus felt no fear. Men leaned on their shovels as I passed. One young woman sat down in a ditch, clasped her head in her hands and didn't move for ten minutes. After a time, I felt their laughter. Unlike the guards, they didn't hate me. In fact, the opposite was true: they liked me. Now, they were thinking, we don't even have to pretend to work.
All the time I felt Fitch's careful, studious gaze fixed upon me. He had rigged up a high tower close to the site and spent the days high up there where he could observe without being seen. My spine trembled under his watchful eye. I knew I had to do something—and quick—or lose my job. But it had to be good. I couldn't just rant and rave or knock lazy heads; the guards did that, and I sensed that Fitch expected more of me.
I finally spotted Stoner. He was working near the front of the line, digging up the earth before the rails were laid. The physical labor of the past few months had done him good. He seemed much bigger now and far stronger. There were lines in his face I'd not noticed before. Even his stance was different. Stoner wasn't a boy any longer; he had become a man.
As I approached him, he stopped working. He grabbed hold of the butt of his shovel, leaned his weight against it and grinned at me. The men and women working with him, seeing this, did the same. By the time I reached his side, nobody was working at all.
"Hi, Michael," he began, big grin firmly fixed. "I'm really glad to see you again because after yesterday I was worried that you might go away."
For the first time I noticed Rhonda standing among the other workers. She stared at me with an expression of bemusement and fear. Unlike Stoner, she at least possessed some inkling of what was happening.
"Shut up," I said bluntly. I stood only a few centimeters from Stoner. At the sound of my voice, the others went stiff with surprise. Only Stoner himself remained unmoved.
"But, Michael, don't you—?"
I sensed this was exactly enough. Standing as still as I possibly could, I reached casually out and chopped his throat with the side of my hand. My solitary imprisonment had in no way affected my physical talents. Stoner dropped like a rock. He twisted on the ground, gripping his wounded throat and retching.
"The rest of you get back to work," I said. "Now!"
As I'd anticipated, they moved only fitfully. Their pleasure had turned to hate but they weren't afraid yet. Rhonda looked as though she had just been confronted by her own private nightmares.
"Guards!" I called out. "I want two guards over here."
They came reluctantly. One was the pinch-faced man from the handcar and both had seen me strike Stoner.
"Hold him up," I told the pinch-faced man. To the other, I said, "Bring me a piece of rope. Two meters long. No more."
"I don't have any rope," he said.
"That isn't what I said. I said get some."
While the second guard headed toward Fitch's tower, the first struggled to bring Stoner to his feet. Smiling coldly, I watched for a moment, before reaching up to rip Stoner's shirt off his back.
"Turn him around," I said. "I want you to see his face."
The guard started to complain but something in my manner must have convinced him to shut up. He did as I'd directed. Stoner made little soft bleating noises in his throat. I think he was still stunned, not fully aware of what was going on around him.
I made the pinch-faced guard support Stoner until the other guard returned with the rope. None of the slaves was even pretending to work. I ignored them. When I finished with Stoner, I expected them to know what I meant.
Taking the rope, I tied a tight knot in one end, then gripped the other in my fist. "Hold him tight," I told the guard, then swung. I wasn't kind. The first lash cut a slim red streak across the width of Stoner's back. The second raised a welt. The third drew blood. Strangely, as I continued, no one made a sound. Stoner tried, whimpering briefly, then fell silent. I thought he had become unconscious and couldn't help being glad.
After laying the whip upon his back an even dozen times, I told the guard, "Release him."
Stoner dropped to the ground without a sound.
I stared at him for a minute, knowing everyone else was doing likewise. Then I turned on the slaves. "I said get to work—I mean now."
They did—and quickly.
My eyes accidentally caught Rhonda's face. I saw her lips move. What she was telling me wasn't nice.
"Two of you," I told the guards, "carry him up the line and put him on a handcar. Take him back to the encampment. We won't make him work today. If he isn't out tomorrow, it'll be another dozen."
My orders were not questioned. The guards moved obediently to carry out my wishes.
As I moved back toward the main line, I felt Fitch's gaze fixed on me. I had to stifle an urge to turn and glare at his tower. This is what you wanted; now are you happy"? I felt like asking him.
I didn't do that. After all, I had to admit, he hadn't made me do
it. But I didn't want to face that yet.
It was a tough job, and I believe I did it well.
As time passed, the daily amount of work produced by the slaves more than doubled. The camp was moved twice, then a third time. For one thing, the land became flatter and smoother than before.
But Fitch said I deserved all the credit he could provide. And I refused nothing he offered me.
In time he let me choose two assistants to work under me. The first names I gave him were Stoner and Rhonda, but Rhonda, when approached, refused the offer. I wasn't surprised.
Fitch himself rejected Stoner. "Perhaps you haven't heard about it yet, but this former friend of yours has developed quite a reputation among the slaves as an agitator."
"Bill Stoner?" Of course I found that pretty hard to believe.
"That's what I've been told. Apparently, he's damn good at it, too. If one of the guards hadn't accidentally overheard one of his talks, I still wouldn't know anything about it."
"What sort of agitation? Escape?"
"No, that's what's odd about it. As far as I can figure out, his message seems to be that my railroad is wrong, that it shouldn't be built. I can't seem to find out why."
"I think I could tell you."
"Oh?" He lifted his brows casually. "He's talked this way to you, too?"-
"Sure, but it's harmless. He's read some books and let them go to his head."
"Then you don't think I should take any action?"
I shook my head, pleased that he would seek my advice. "Nobody important would listen to him anyway."
"And this has nothing to do with the fact that he's your friend?"
I restrained a flash of anger. "That was a long time ago."
"Of course it was. And, to prove to you that I understand, if you really want him as an assistant, then take him."
I had no choice but to shake my head. "I don't think so—not after what you just said."
"Maybe we could convert him."
"That's not my job."
So I recruited Naomi, the tough old woman, and a brash young kid named Tom Bittman, who reminded me a lot of myself. (Tom'd been a scrounger, too.) The three of us worked well together. Tom prowled the work line, inflicting punishments, while Naomi stayed off to the side and made herself available for slave complaints, a means for letting them blow off their grievances. Since everybody trusted Naomi—even if she was working for me—she got plenty of complaints, which she then proceeded to lay in my lap. I mentioned a few things to Fitch—most of the complaints dealt with the rotten food or the cold cabins—but I don't think anything ever came of them. Still, everybody was just a little bit happier.
I eventually came to figure out that not only was I Fitch's prize overseer, but oddly enough, I was also becoming his best friend. Who else did he have? The guards—to a man—hated him. The slaves? That was equally absurd. No, I was the one man in the camp who didn't want Fitch dead in a minute. Sometimes I wondered if that wasn't the real reason he'd chosen to elevate me.
Many evenings, after the slaves were safely on their way back to camp, Fitch and I went up into his tower. He had a neat little nest up there, complete with soft chairs, plenty to eat and sometimes even a little flat beer. As the sun dipped below the western horizon, he and I sat and ate and drank and talked. I was careful with my words, but Fitch often talked very freely.
He'd tell me about his future plans. "This railroad is only the beginning, Michael, the pimple on the rump of what I intend to build. Even from here, you can't see it all. I'm acquiring land. From here clear to the ocean, it's all mine. Sure, you smile at that now." I hadn't smiled. "I know it sounds funny. What's the point, you wonder. Why does this madman want to own kilometers and kilometers of trees and hills?"
I sipped my beer, listening intently. Somehow, when he got going like this, Fitch reminded me a lot of Stoner. I could never understand what motivated either man. They were both dreamers, which I admired, but they didn't really make sense.
He pointed a finger at me. "Because I don't intend to let it stay this way. We live like animals, Michael. The people in the cities, the people on the land, are not men; they're wild beasts. We don't know where we're going. We muddle along, doing what we think is right, with no thought to tomorrow."
I shrugged. "Who even knows for sure if there'll be a tomorrow?"
He nodded firmly. "Yes, that's just the point. We can't just let tomorrow happen—we have to make it happen. Do you know what I intend to do with this land I told you about? I'm going to build a city. A magnificent place. And I'm going to bring every thinker I can find to work there. There's so much we used to know that's been forgotten. You think this railroad is something? Michael, did you know that people used to fly through the air in machines? They went to the moon and walked on it. I'm not making any of this up."
"But that was what destroyed the world," I said.
"No, it wasn't." He was certain. "That's where everyone has been wrong. It wasn't the machines that caused the collapse. It was the men who ran them. They didn't plan. It was anarchy. There was no one man who could say, yes, do that, or no, don't"
"And you intend to be that man?"
He nodded. "The man who starts it, yes."
"Well, best of luck." I knew that sounded lame, but what else could I say when he'd just told me he intended to rule the world.
"If I succeed, luck will have nothing to do with it. I'm building an army, Michael. Not here—on my estate near the coast. We're making guns. They're primitive weapons, not nearly as good as the antique Stoner had. More often than not, when fired, they go off in the poor man's hands. But I know it's necessary. People don't understand what I'm doing. I have to make them understand."
"You've made a good start here." I intended it as a compliment.
He made a sour face. "You mean these slaves? No, Michael, that's just it. If there's one thing my plans intend, it's the end of slavery. When the machines come back—when they're finally placed under the control of one lone man—then nobody will ever have to be a slave again."
"That sounds like a nice idea," I said.
"But I'll need your help."
"Mine?" I became cagey. Old suspicions didn't die fast.
"This railroad—I can't stay here much longer. In a few weeks, a few months, I'm going to leave. When I do, I want you to come with me. I have another job for you."
"Overseer again?"
He shook his head. "No, commander." I swear his eyes went wild with passion. "I'm asking you to take command of my army. I intend to attack the rural districts first. I'll need their loyalty before I can move farther. Seattle will be next. I already know how to control the city. I want your help, Michael."
I sipped my beer and studied his face. I knew there was only one answer I could give. "Of course I'll help you, Mr. Fitch." I hoped my voice rang with the proper solemnity. "In fact, I'd consider it an honor."
We shook hands then. Two men from totally different backgrounds with totally different ideas.
And we'd just agreed to work together to conquer the world.
After Fitch's offer to put me in command of his army, I decided it was high time I finalized my escape plans. So far, I had only figured out exactly how to get away from the camp itself. I had no idea where to go or how to get there. I wanted no repetition of the mess that had occurred the last time. I knew, if I tried to escape again and Fitch caught me, he might never let me out of that box until I was indeed crawling on my knees and begging to be killed.
I went to see old Naomi. In the past I'd made a point of stopping off to see her frequently in the evenings to discuss the slaves' grievances. That way, nobody was likely to become suspicious.
Her private cabin wasn't as big as mine; it lacked windows; and the floor was just dirt. I sat down on one of the thin blankets she had placed on the floor and tried to figure out the slyest way of handling this. She watched me casually.
"What do you hear from the slaves," I finally began, "about plans for escape?"
"Nothing."
"You won't tell me?"
She smiled, which didn't do wonders for her old face. "They won't tell me. I'm your partner now, Michael, and you're Fitch's. That makes me the enemy. None of them is apt to tell me anything."
"But you accepted the job when I offered it."
"Sure. Out there on the line, I'd be dead by now. I may be a tough old bird but I'm not immortal. So now I'm alive, but don't expect me to be happy about it."
This wasn't going quite the way I'd planned it. I tried another tack. "Well, haven't you ever thought about escape yourself?"
"Sure."
"And?"
She met my gaze frankly. "And what?"
"And what are your plans?"
"Michael, Michael." She shook her head slowly from side to side. "Look, either you're trying to trap me into saying something stupid so that you can turn me in to Fitch, or else you're trying to make me say something stupid so that it'll be all right for you to do the same. That first idea doesn't make much sense to me, so I'm betting you're up to theory number two. Go ahead and spill it. Say something stupid. If you don't trust me that far, then I don't think we should plan on working together anyway."
I had to hand it to old Naomi. "I want to escape," I said. The words sounded dangerous and fearsome in the air, but there was no way now of drawing them back.
"That isn't stupid. So do I."
"And I think I know a way."
"Give the guards belly aches?"
"No." I could almost smile at that painful memory. "The handcars. At night they aren't in use. If we could grab one and work up some speed, we could rush right past the guards. The line runs for kilometers back the way we came. There are all sorts of places where we could jump off."
She nodded thoughtfully. "I like that. It's much, much better than trying to run on foot. The only problem is that big forest out there. I don't think either one of us is equipped to survive in the wilderness. We'd die inside of a week."
I had thought of that, without coming to much of a solution. "It's a risk we have to take—or else stay here."
"It's more than a risk, Michael; it's a certainty."
"Maybe. But there's no other way."
"I think there might be. You see, years and years ago, I used to be a nun. I'd had one master who gave me my freedom and with no place else to go I wandered into a monastery. I liked it and stayed there. While I was—"
I couldn't let her go on. "What's a nun?"
"Oh. I'm sorry. They don't have them in the cities, do they? Years and years ago, right after the collapse, everything was in a terrible mess, so I've been told. Roving bands of city people wandered around the countryside, burning and killing and looting. They'd abandoned the cities because the cities were burning, too. Nobody was safe. It was nearly impossible to find anything to eat. When the world's in that much of a mess, only two things can be done: either you try to save it, or else you run away with it. Unfortunately, then as now, there was nobody around capable of saving it."
"So who ran away?" I asked.
"The people I'm trying to tell you about. The Christians. There used to be a lot of different kinds, but they all had one thing in common. They believed that a being known as Christ was the incarnation of God."
"Then why didn't this Christ save it?"
"Because He had been dead for more than a couple of thousand years. The point is that these people who believed in Him felt very ashamed of what was happening in the world. Maybe there was something they could have done to prevent the collapse from happening."
"Was there?"
She shrugged. "Frankly, I doubt it, but the Christians didn't know that and they felt they ought to do something. That's why the monasteries sprung up. It had happened once before in history after the fall of another great empire, a thousand years earlier still. This time, the Christians established small, self-sufficient communities for themselves and moved in together. They worked and farmed, but more than that, they tried to preserve as much of the old knowledge as possible. They built libraries filled with old books and guarded them with their lives. Most of the monasteries were quickly destroyed but a few survived, and after things quieted down a bit, they actually prospered. I spent five years in one: The best and freest years of my life."
"Then why did you leave?"
She shrugged. "I was bored and decided to see what city life was like. I started walking. I didn't get ten kilometers before a slaver grabbed me. It was a mistake, but I was young and could afford a few."
"But what's the point of this? It's all very interesting but…"
She brightened then. "While I was a nun, one of my duties was to help the various monasteries keep in contact with one another. I had a horse and in my nun's garb I had nothing to fear from the slavers. Two days ago, while I was sitting out there waiting for some slave to come along and tell me why he didn't like his dinner, I started looking around at my surroundings. Suddenly it came back to me. I knew this place. I'd been here before. Not a day's ride that way—" she pointed up the line "—there's a big thriving monastery.
Or at least there was. That was 40 years ago. A lot may have happened since."
I carefully considered what she'd said. Even if this monastery no longer existed, what did we have to lose? "And you think we ought to head for it?"
She nodded. "We could double back. That ought to throw Fitch's dogs completely off our scent."
"Do you think he knows about the monastery?"
She nodded. "Probably. It's located on his land. He knows and we know but the point is, he doesn't know we know. I don't think he'd look for us there."
I nodded my agreement. "It's worth the gamble."
"Then there are only two other points to decide. When do we go, and who goes with us."
"Stoner and Rhonda go," I said.
She nodded. "I figured that. Anyone else?"
"Not for me." It was either everyone or no one and there wasn't room for everyone.
"Then it'll be just the four of us. Now, when?"
I told her about Fitch's offer.
She shook her head sadly. "If it was anybody else, I'd laugh. An army equipped with broken guns designed to conquer the world. With Fitch, I'll take it seriously."
"Either way," I pointed out, "it places a limit on our time. The way I see it, our best bet is to wait as long as possible. The more time I spend with Fitch, the more he trusts me. The longer we wait, the easier it'll be to get away."
"That's fine with me." She didn't sound happy. "But what about the other two?"
"I don't understand. I haven't even talked to them yet, if that's what you mean."
"No, I mean for us one day is pretty much like the rest. But they have to work. We don't want to wait too long and find them dead of exhaustion."
She had a point. "I think they can hold up."
"They're dying like squashed bugs out there."
"I know, but not Stoner and Rhonda."
She smiled faintly. "I hope you're right, Michael."
I hoped I was, too, but in the end it didn't matter because Stoner didn't let it.
Less than a week after my discussion with Naomi, my other assistant, Tom Bittman, came to my cabin early one evening and said, "We have to do something about this guy, Stoner."
I tried not to show my concern. "Why? What's he doing?"
"You know what he's doing; Talking crazy talk. It's gotten so he won't even shut up when he's supposed to be working. I just came from talking to a couple of the guards. They say Stoner's trying to get the slaves to refuse to work. We can't kill all of them; and that's his ideal."
"He has a point, you know."
"Maybe, but he's forgetting the fact that we can kill him."
I felt sad about poor Tom Bittman. As I mentioned, he reminded me a lot of myself, except that there seemed to be one important thing missing from his makeup. I don't know—maybe it was simply normal human kindness. I don't like to build myself up at another man's expense, but Tom Bittman was the last man on earth I'd ever allow a look at my naked spine.
"I'll talk to Stoner."
"Mr. Fitch has already said he wants him in solitary."
For the first time I got really mad at him. "You talked to Fitch? You're not supposed to ever—"
"You weren't around." He shrugged, refusing to conceal his sneer—or his lie. Bittman knew about my past friendship with Stoner. He was letting me know— almost tactfully—that I still wasn't fully trusted.
"And it's an order, too," Bittman went on. "Mr. Fitch said to lock Stoner up right away."
Fighting to be calm, I stood. "I'll go get him," I said.
"I think I ought to go, too." Bittman moved with me. I saw that sneer of his again.
"All right." I tried not to betray my sense of irritation. "But first get Naomi."
He stopped. "Her? How come?"
I made myself sound angry. "Because I want her there with us. The slaves trust her, that's why. I don't intend to set off a riot when I walk in to grab Stoner."
He thought about that, then shrugged. "I guess it makes sense." He glared at me from the doorway. "Wait here."
I nodded and made as if to sit. "I will."
Once he was gone, I knew I had to think fast. If Stoner was put in solitary, then any chance of escape was finished. A weak guy like him could never survive that ordeal.
Turning slowly, I surveyed the room. I was going to miss the relative plushness of these furnishings. Under the present circumstances, I could not risk taking anything with me. From here on out, it was goodbye to all this. I just hoped I wouldn't regret this escape later.
But it was hard enough playing at being a no-good traitor without actually becoming one to boot.
When Naomi arrived with Bittman, there was no way to let her know my intentions, but she was smart and quick, and I believed she understood what had to be done.
As the three of us crossed the yard toward the slave cabins, Naomi asked me, "How come you wanted me along?"
I gave her the same answer I'd given Bittman. He visibly relaxed.
"I've noticed this guy before," Naomi said. "He talks too much. They say he used to be a friend of yours."
"I knew him slightly in Seattle. We were grabbed together." I tried a mocking smile, making sure Bittman saw it, too. "He talked too much then, too."
Suddenly, I had a frightening feeling that she and I were fooling nobody except ourselves. I wished it wasn't too late to shut up.
When we reached the right cabin, I stopped the two of them in front of the door. I knew this part had to be handled exactly right or we'd be dead for sure. "You two go in and get him," I said. "If they don't see me, they may not be suspicious."
Bittman once more narrowed his eyes, but again, in the end, he nodded. "That makes sense."
"And—" as an afterthought "—bring the woman too."
"What woman?"
"Her name's Rhonda. She's blonde, pretty. Anything Stoner's involved in, she's in it with him."
"Mr. Fitch didn't say anything about any woman."
"Mr. Fitch doesn't know these slaves as well as I do."
"It's still not an order."
I was on the point of making it one when Naomi pitched in. "Michael's right," she said. "The girl's probably behind all of this. Stoner's dumb but she's a smart one. Mr. Fitch won't like it if we only do half a job."
"All right." Fear of failing proved an excellent way of convincing him. "I suppose we can put more than one in solitary."
"And if Mr. Fitch doesn't like it," Naomi said, "he can always send her back in the morning."
"Yes, I guess that makes sense," agreed Bittman.
I stood back as Bittman unlocked the cabin door and the two of them went inside. From within, I overheard the muffled rumble of voices but not a single word was clear. I hoped Naomi somehow managed to let Stoner and Rhonda suspect our real purpose, but it didn't seem likely with Bittman there.
From the glare Rhonda shot me as she appeared, I realized that Naomi had been unable to say anything! If Rhonda's mouth hadn't been quivering with anger, I'm sure she would have spit at me.
At the sight of me Stoner stopped. "Michael? What are you doing here? Are we free?"
"You're anything but free." Bittman shoved both Stoner and Rhonda forward. "You're traitors."
As Rhonda's glare deepened, there was nothing I could do except follow them across the ground.
When we reached the point farthest from the lights, I knew it was time to move. All during our walk, I'd circumspectly maneuvered myself till I was walking slightly to the left and rear of Bittman.
Naomi, in the lead, must also have sensed that the time was right. Halting suddenly in her tracks, she gasped and pointed straight ahead. "What's that?" she cried.
Bittman stopped and stared. "I don't see—"
All I'd hoped was that one blow would prove enough. If it didn't, and Bittman had time to yell, we'd really be in a mess.
One blow was sufficient. Swinging neatly around, I clipped Bittman squarely on the throat. Still fully conscious, he tried to yell. His voice failed him completely. He couldn't manage a squeak.
A second blow, to the back of his neck, felled him.
Stoner and Rhonda stared at me in such utter amazement that Naomi laughed aloud.
"What's wrong with you two? Didn't you trust your friend?"
I thought Stoner was going to jump into my arms, his smile was that wild.
To prevent that, I quickly said, "We don't have time to chat. Bittman won't stay asleep forever. We have to hurry."
Stoner turned aimlessly toward the forest.
I yanked him back. "Not that way—this way." I pointed down the line.
Rhonda wanted to argue that decision, but Naomi told her to shut up; I was already on my way. When we reached the track, I hopped aboard the nearest handcar and waved at the others to join me.
Rhonda balked. "That won't take us anywhere."
"It'll take us out of here."
She deliberately ignored me. "Not that way." She pointed in the direction the handcar was turned. "That's where we were."
"And it's also where we're going." Naomi started to pump. "Either hop on or stay behind."
Rhonda hopped. Her knee brushed mine and she drew back as if singed. I didn't have time for old hatreds. Shoving Naomi aside, I took over the pumping of the car. The noise of the metal wheels on the tracks was as noisy as an army marching past. I saw a light burning distantly in Fitch's tower, but I feared the guards most.
I needn't have. Our plans had been well laid, and Naomi was right all along. As we approached the two men who were guarding the tracks, the best they could do was turn and gape, openmouthed, at us. I think they both recognized me, which made their confusion even deeper. I shouted, "Out of the way! Emergency! Let us pass!" It sounded like such a good idea that the others took up the cry. I could hear Rhonda's voice booming in my ears. "Out of the way! Out of the way!"
The guards were wonderfully obedient. The handcar sped by them. Behind, a new voice began yelling. Bittman, I decided.
But he was too late now. On both sides the forest flashed by us. We were free.
Naomi touched my arm. "Go a fair distance but not too far. We want to beat the dogs but we're still going to have to double back."
I nodded and gestured agreement. The noise from the car and the whipping beat of the wind prevented any further discussion.
When I felt we'd traveled far enough—perhaps a 15-minute journey—I began to apply the brake. After the handcar finally stopped, I leaped off over the side and asked the others for help. Together, we lifted the handcar and shoved it deep into the adjoining thicket of forest. After camouflaging it, I stood with my hands on my hips. I allowed myself a long moment of happiness and satisfaction, then turned to Naomi. "What now?"
She nodded and spoke slowly. "This won't be easy, because I can't guarantee I'll find the way. To start with we'd better head into the forest. The guards should be coming along the tracks soon."
I expected them at any minute myself. Naomi wandered off, poking at the forest's edge. When she found a narrow trail, she called the rest of us over. "Let's just head up here as far as we can go. Walk carefully and try not to disturb the foliage. I don't think we ought to rest until dawn at least."
As we moved along the trail, Rhonda followed along, asking questions. Her hostility was so evident that I refused to answer with more than a grunt. Sensing the antagonism, Naomi dropped behind me and described our plans to Rhonda and Stoner.
As nearly as I could determine from my rudimentary knowledge of the stars, the trail wound around till it began to lead us back toward the handcar. Since that was the direction we desired, we continued along that route. At one point, I thought I heard loud voices echoing through the woods. I halted and gestured at the others to do likewise. The four of us stood poised, listening, but heard nothing.
"They can't know where we are," Naomi said. "Even if it is them, we're still lost."
"Unless somebody already told them," Rhonda said. I assumed she must mean me.
"Don't be stupid," Naomi said. "Why would he do that?"
"Who knows why he does anything?" Rhonda asked.
At dawn, we dropped in exhaustion. I don't think any of us could have taken another step if a dozen demons had come raging at our heels. The forest remained as dark and unfathomable as ever. We crouched beneath the shielding branches of a massive fir tree.
"We shouldn't rest much past midday," Naomi said. "Even if we are heading in the right direction, we still have a long walk ahead of us."
"With nothing to eat," Stoner said, longingly.
"I'm afraid it couldn't be helped."
"I know, but I sure wish I'd eaten more of that slop last night for dinner."
"If you had," Rhonda said, "you'd probably just be sick now."
As I'd half anticipated, Naomi and Stoner fell asleep quickly. Once they had, Rhonda and I sat staring at one another. To say I was uncomfortable is like saying a dying man feels ill. I would have slept myself, but knew I was too exhausted.
Finally, she said, "Is it all right if I talk now?"
"As long as you try to make sense," I said.
She flared. "Me? What about you? Are you trying to say you've made much sense lately?"
"I got you out of that mess back there, didn't I? Without me, you'd still be working on the railroad."
"And I may be again." To avoid disturbing the others, she moved closer to me. "But I'm not talking about then. I'm talking about before."
I saw it was no use trying to bluster. "Does it matter? Bill isn't mad."
"Bill is never mad. But I am. You hurt him. You hurt all of us. I want to know why, Michael. Was it all an act?"
I started to say yes. That was a marvelous solution she'd offered me. It was also a lie. I told the truth: "No."
"Then how much was and how much wasn't? I trust you now. I don't know why, but I do. I wish you'd tell me everything."
I knew that was best, but one of the hardest things on earth is for any man to peep into the churnings of his own mind and pick out the occasional truthful fragments. "When I first came out of that pen, I was crazy. You don't know what it was like—you never can—so I won't try to tell you. It scrambled my brain. When Mr. Fitch asked me to work for him, all I wanted was to do the best job possible."
"So when you whipped Stoner you meant it?"
I nodded shamefully. "I was trying to hold onto my job."
She considered that. "I think I understand. Not all of it, of course, but enough. And I'm glad you've been honest with me. I don't think I'd like you very much, Michael, if you hadn't been."
"As far as saving myself, I meant it. Afterward I think the first thing I felt was guilt. My conscience started telling me I was wrong, so I tried to make amends, tried to make myself feel better, but I didn't know how."
"Was that when you asked me to be your assistant?"
"Yes. And you refused. That was when I started to think. I had to try to understand why you didn't want to help me. Eventually—it was like finding silver stones in a muddy pool—the answers came to me."
"And then what?"
"Then for a few days—maybe only a few hours—I loathed myself and everything I'd done. That didn't stop till I began to plan this escape. After that, I didn't have to think about the past any more."
"And now it's over."
I nodded. "And now I'm thinking again."
"About what?"
"About how rotten I was."
"And you're sorry?""
"Sure, but what good's that?"
"None at all, and that's why I'm not sure you should be. Was it your fault? You're a strong person, Michael, a lot stronger than me or Stoner or even Naomi. If any of us had gone through what you did, we'd be dead."
"Maybe that would have been better."
She shook her head, actually smiling. "No—never. You saved us, didn't you?"
"I tried."
"Then forget it. Forget all that ugliness we left behind. In a few days we'll be safe, and then none of it will seem to matter in the least. Let's sleep now."
I leaned back, letting the tree shade me. My body was relaxed. I knew I could easily sleep now. "I hope you're right, Rhonda." My eyes were already shut.
"I am. I know I am."
For the first time in months—since the moment my freedom had ended—I drifted off to sleep truly glad to be alive.
It was nice being able to feel that way again.
I decided I'd rather die than go back.
I suppose that after ten dreadful days of trudging through apparently endless forest, the sought-for monastery had long since ceased to exist as anything more than a vague, distant reward, an illusion one yearned for but never really attained.
Therefore, when we actually stumbled around a nook in the trail and saw it—something snapped in my mind.
The monastery itself consisted of a single, brown building, a few adjoining sheds, and a low white picket fence; mildly delirious, I saw it as a beautiful palace.
And I was no longer Michael, scrounger-at-large and former slave overseer to Mr. Fitch, I was none other than Prince Michael. I was living a fairy tale.
A beautiful princess lived inside this wonderful palace, and if I could find and rescue her from a fire-breathing dragon, then she would be my bride.
I began to crawl forward. A spell lay across the land, impeding my movements. Even my knees refused to obey the commands of my mind, and I had to pull myself bodily across the land using no more than my bleeding fingertips.
The palace loomed closer. Its great shadow fell upon me. I knew I would soon be there.
Then the giant gates swung open. I drew back, screaming, no more able to flee than advance.
It was the dragon—and it was coming for me.
I felt the heat of its flaming breath, smelled the stench of its foul body, heard the raw, rasping tone of its beastly cry.
I raised my eyes and saw the dragon looming above me.
It was here that my fantasy ended—I never did find the princess herself.
The dragon transformed itself into a frail old man dressed in a baggy, black burlap robe. Crouching beside me, he held my head in his withered, trembling hands and said, "I'm Brother Sylvester. May I be of help to you?"
To me, these words made absolutely no sense at all. Then I passed
out.
I awoke in darkness; only a faint light trickled through a single glass window. Sitting up, I realized I was lying in a huge, warm, snuggly bed piled with sheets and blankets. Throwing off the covers, I actually tried to stand.
My knees buckled. My feet swayed. I collapsed, striking my tailbone hard on the wood floor.
The sound of the impact must have alerted the young man outside. Attired in black burlap, like my other ghostly friend, he threw open the big door and burst inside.
Seeing me seated upon the floor, he stopped in apparent terror. "I'm Brother Phillip. May I help you?"
"Yes." I kept a tight grip on myself. "Tell me just one thing, will you?"
"Of course." His large blue eyes radiated the depth of his concern.
"Are you—is any of this—just what around here is really real?"
That confused him. (In retrospect, I can see why.) He avoided my question in the time-worn fashion. He asked me another.
"Would you like to eat dinner now?"
I forgot all about such minor concerns as the nature of reality. I said, "Yes." I think I may have shouted.
Brother Phillip turned and hurried out, scattering dust with the long hem of his robe.
I must have sent him for a mental loop. He'd completely forgotten that I was still stuck on the floor.
Somehow I managed to make it back to bed.
A moment after I was settled, Brother Phillip returned, bearing a tray heaped with the following: bread, milk, butter, beef, potatoes, corn, green peas and carrots, both cooked and raw.
While I ate, he talked, and eventually I managed to establish a semblance of reality in my mind.
I was now a guest at the monastery of St. Jude. I asked (through a mouthful of raw carrots) if St. Jude was the name of the old man who had met me earlier on the edge of the woods.
"St. Jude died many centuries ago," Brother Phillip replied. "That was Brother Sylvester, our elder."
"Oh, yes, he did mention that."
Brother Phillip went on to tell me that my friends were all okay, though nobody was exactly up and running around. Two were asleep, he said, while the third was awake and eating. When he added, "A most fascinating individual: we shared a most interesting conversation concerning the question of medieval church ethics," I immediately identified my wakeful partner as Stoner.
When I finished eating, I asked if it was all right if I did some visiting. Brother Phillip said he'd be glad to accompany me.
Stoner's room proved to be a nearly exact duplicate of my own, though located at the opposite end of the big house. On the way there, I saw a great many more monks. Several times, I was sure it was Brother Sylvester I was passing, though Brother Phillip said no. Almost all—Phillip himself was a rare exception-—were old men. I counted no more than two women, and no one was younger than 60.
Stoner greeted me from his bed with a full, bright smile. My knees were still inclined to buckle, so Brother Phillip helped me to a chair, then stood aside. Stoner said happily, "Isn't this a remarkable place, Michael? Just think—all these men and all these facilities devoted to nothing but learning. If I'd known such places as this existed, I would have left Sir Carstairs years ago."
"What I want to know," I said, with a backward glance at Phillip, "is whether they are willing to let us stay here until we've fully recovered."
"The monastery is always open to the helpless," replied Phillip.
"See?" said Stoner. "They won't throw us out. Now that that's settled, I intend to hunker down right here and begin my work. I can't think of a better place for it."
I was amazed at how Stoner had escaped slavery unscarred. But then he was used to it, wasn't he? "Work? What work?"
From some hidden nook beneath the bedcovers, he suddenly produced and unfuried a sheaf of papers. The top sheet was covered with scribblings. "Why, my book, of course. What else?"
"A book?" I was impressed. All the people I'd known in my whole life—including, alas, me—couldn't even read a book.
"I began it back on the railroad." He tapped his forehead. "All I have to do is write it down."
After that spot of weirdness, Naomi was a relief. She and I sat down with old Brother Sylvester to discuss the current situation. We decided in advance to stick close to the truth; in spite of his years and wrinkles, Brother Sylvester was nobody's dummy. When we explained our past, he denounced slavery as a foul desecration of all Christian principles. I asked what that meant practically, and he said it meant we were free people in the eyes of the monks and therefore welcome to remain at the monastery until we recovered from our ordeal. I thanked him for that, but Naomi wanted to know what would happen afterward. Brother Sylvester said we'd have to leave, except, if we wished, we could elect to join the brotherhood, in which case we were welcome to stay forever. I figured that one out right away. With all the old men around, I suspected Sylvester was badly in need of some young, fresh blood. Naomi mentioned her past service as a nun, while Sylvester gazed at her through hooded eyes.
"Yes, of course, I remember you," he replied at the end.
"And I remember you, too. Perfectly."
I left them alone and went outside. A lovely flower garden, awash with springtime color, lay behind the main monastery building. I met Rhonda there, and Stoner, bearing his sheaf of papers, joined us sometime later.
The weeks we spent at St. Jude's monastery weren't exactly overflowing with excitement, but they were restful and, after months of slavery, cleansing. I had come into that place feeling as though my skin was caked with filth and grime, though maybe it wasn't my skin at all. (Brother Sylvester would have said it was my soul that was soiled.) Each day I spent there— especially out back in that flower garden, a thing I'd rarely experienced in my life—a little bit of the filth faded away. By the time I departed, I was darn near clean again.
One day Rhonda and I sat facing each other in the garden. Stoner found a plot of free grass and flopped down. A few minutes later, the young monk, Brother Phillip, came out and joined Stoner. I wondered for a moment if he'd been sent to spy on us and then decided it didn't matter anyway.
This was maybe two weeks after our arrival. We were fully recovered by then, fat and happy at least, but none of us had yet thought about leaving. Now Rhonda brought up the subject in a roundabout way.
"I think Naomi is going to want to stay," she said.
I nodded. "I've thought that, too."
"She used to live in one of these places; it was the happiest time of her life, and now she's old."
"I can understand that." I tried to express some of my own more difficult feelings. "This is a great place to come when everything else gets too much. The outside world, I mean. This is a place to gain perspective, to see things as they are, to find out what's important and what isn't."
"And you've done that."
"I'm starting to." Stoner and Brother Phillip were arguing softly. It was easy to forget about them.
"But you won't stay?"
I shook my head. "No, I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
"Can't. They have a religion. I'm not ready for that."
"You mean you don't believe?"
"No, it's not that, either." These conversations had never been easy for me. As I said before, life for me was just to be lived; I'd rarely tried to examine it. "It's just that… well, it seems to me you have to know about this life, earthly life, before you can begin to worry about things like gods. I don't believe or disbelieve. I just haven't learned enough yet even to know."
"Brother Sylvester wouldn't agree with that. He'd tell you faith must come from the heart, not the brain."
I noticed that Stoner and Brother Phillip had fallen silent. They were listening to me. I became embarrassed and tried to seek safer terrain. "You've been talking to him?"
"Sure. You ought to try it yourself."
Stoner tried to open his mouth, but Rhonda spun and signaled him to be quiet. I said, "No, I don't think so."
"You're afraid."
Normally, any intimation of cowardice on my part would have set me burning, but not this time. "I just don't want to quit yet."
"Quit what?"
"Life, I guess."
"This is life, too." She indicated the garden that was so darn beautiful. "Maybe this is more real than that."
I knew she was beating me. Stoner let his mouth flap like a silly fish out of water, but he knew enough to keep silent. "There's something I want to do first."
"You mean Fitch."
I saw that she'd caught me, but I didn't mind. The truth was going to have to come out eventually. "I intend to kill him," I said.
"I thought so."
"You won't go with me?" All the unspoken questions were suddenly being voiced one after another.
She thought for a moment. "I'll go."
"Me, too, Michael," said Stoner, finding his chance to speak at last. His intentions had never been in doubt.
"When?" I asked her.
"Not yet. I think—I think we'll know when it's time to go."
I agreed with her there. "Then we'll wait."
She nodded. "Yes."
A week or so later, when Rhonda had gone with Naomi and some of the monks to gather food from the monastery's nearby farm, Stoner came out and joined me in the flower garden. I sat on a bench, my feet plunked up on the edge of a table. Stoner crouched with his head hanging nearly between his knees. He clutched his pile of papers close to his chest.
"Is something wrong?" I asked as I took a swallow of my apple juice.
''Everything," he said.
"But nothing in particular?" I was having a hard time to keep from laughing. As a slave, he'd been beaten and whipped, and that had never bothered him. Now, all of a sudden, he was depressed.
"It's this book. I just showed it to Brother Sylvester."
"He didn't like it?"
"No, he said he thought it was brilliant."
"And that's why you're sad?"
"No, it's what he said besides that."
One time a scrounger acquaintance of mine had me pull a back tooth of his that was rotten. Talking to Stoner, I was reminded of that painful ordeal. "And what was that?"
"He said there weren't any solutions. Just problems. He said I did a brilliant job explaining what was wrong with our world, but everybody knew that. He said what we needed was somebody to explain how to put it right again."
"I thought you knew that."
He shook his head bleakly. "I thought I did, too."
"And you don't?"
"Not enough. I can say that it's wrong, for instance, for Mr. Fitch to build railroads. I can say, if he does that, then we're just headed in the same direction that caused the collapse. But I can't say what Fitch should do instead. I can't say it because I don't know."
For the first time, it struck me that Fitch and Stoner weren't all that different. Both men wanted very badly to save the world, but neither had the slightest idea how. I tried to be reassuring. "Maybe you ought to put your book aside and wait until you do."
"But when will that be?"
"Now how would I know that, Bill?"
"I guess you wouldn't. But I can't wait. There isn't time. Things are happening too fast. I've got to get this out—" he slapped his papers "—and let people know what to do."
His urgency puzzled me. "What's the hurry? You're young yet. The world isn't apt to run away and hide before you have a chance to save it."
"But what if Fitch gets there first?"
"Why should he?"
"Haven't you heard? He's coming here tomorrow. He wants to use the library. I've spent hours in that place, and I know what's there."
"What is?" A burst of hate took control of. my body, which stiffened uncontrollably. What Fitch had done to me was something I would never forget.
(EDITOR'S NOTE: Michael's expressions of hatred toward Fitch may seem somewhat inexplicable at this time, but it is your editor's belief that they are largely motivated by events yet to come. It must be remembered that the author is an old man, and his memory may occasionally lead him into paths where confusion tends to block the way.)
"The most dreadful information you can imagine. How to make things, build things. Ugly things—things that kill."
That wasn't what interested me, though. "Who told you Fitch was coming here?"
"Brother Phillip mentioned it. He takes care of the library, you know."
I didn't know that, but it didn't particularly interest me, either. "Not Brother Sylvester?"
"No."
"Did you ask him?"
"No. I saw no reason to."
I lost my patience. This was the man who wanted to save the world? He didn't even know how to live in it. "Didn't it ever dawn on you? Fitch still happens to own us. How do you know he isn't coming here to reclaim his property?"
"I told you he's coming to use the library." Stoner was actually smug. The totality of his trust amazed me. "How would he even know we're here?"
"Because maybe Brother Sylvester told him." I stood up, knocking over the bench.
Stoner rushed after me. "Wait, Michael, where are you going?"
"To find out what's going on here."
"But I already told you that—"
I broke away from him. "I'm tired of hearing what you say. I think it's about time people started talking to me directly."
As I turned away, I saw that I'd stung him. I felt momentarily lousy about that, but it was his own fault.
Fortunately or unfortunately, on my way to confront Brother Sylvester, I ran into Rhonda and Naomi on their way back from the farm. Both looked so mellow that I hated to ruin their day. I did anyway.
Neither was as upset or angry as me, but both were at least concerned, and after Stoner, that was a relief.
The three of us trudged up to see Brother Sylvester.
I could tell from his frown the moment we entered his private office, he knew what we wanted.
"What's this about Fitch coming here?" I said. Subtlety, as I may have pointed out, was not one of my charms.
The old man sighed and pointed to the chairs in front of his desk. We all sat down and he said, "I intended to tell you tonight."
"Well, we got advance word."
He seemed more sad than angry or nervous. His hands moved slowly, tentatively, across the flat, bare expanse of his desk. I thought he was searching for something but couldn't figure out what.
"Do you remember," he said, "when you first came here I said there'd be a time when you'd have to go?"
I nodded, stifling the urge to be smart. I wanted to find out first what he was up to.
"I'm afraid this is the time. You see—I know I never mentioned this before—but Mr. Fitch happens to own this land. We're poor people. We have no money. Without Mr. Fitch's assistance, the monastery would have closed many years ago."
"Mr. Fitch," I put in brutally, "owns us, too."
Naomi was kicking herself out loud. "We should have known. He owns everything else around here. We should have figured it out."
"In return for his help," Brother Sylvester said, "the monastery library is preserved and made open to him.
In the past, he has frequently made use of it. Tomorrow, he is coming to do the same."
The door opened. Stoner. Seeing us, his eyes went wide. "Brother Phillip told me—"
"Sit down," said Brother Sylvester. There was one more vacant chair.
"So now you want us to go," I said grimly. "To avoid irritating your protector."
Brother Sylvester winced. Stoner acted bewildered, but Naomi managed to keep him quiet.
Sylvester said, "Perhaps at some future time, compromise will no longer be necessary. Maybe if this young man—" he meant Stoner "—finishes his ideas, that time will soon be with us. I knew what Mr. Fitch represented when he first came to me. I accepted his offer with reluctance. Perhaps I should add that a similar reluctance overcame many of my brothers when you first appeared here. Most felt that we should not shield you."
"Well, it was really big of you to compromise," I spat out.
"I think it was," said Naomi, and she meant it.
"So the present picture is that we go," I said. "We leave here tonight—"
"Tomorrow morning will be soon enough," Sylvester insisted.
"We leave and never grace your door again. But what I want to know is what happens tomorrow. Do you tell Fitch or don't you?"
"I don't," he said.
"And your brothers?" I recalled what he'd said about their "reluctance."
"You must trust them."
I stood up. "Well, I don't. I can't. You took us in here and treated us like little children. We got fat and happy and lazy. We never guessed at the rot that lay around us."
"Before you go," Sylvester said, forgiving me my outburst, "visit the kitchen. You'll need food."
I started to refuse but then realized that starving to death would prove nothing. I held out my hand to Rhonda. "Are you going with me?"
She didn't look happy, but she stood. "I guess I am."
Stoner wasn't much less bewildered than before. "I'm ready, too, Michael."
Only Naomi remained seated. She looked straight at Brother Sylvester. "I think you know what I want."
He nodded. "You may stay."
"You will protect me?"
"You'll be one of us."
"Thank you," she said softly. "That's all I wanted to know."
For some reason, this angered me more than anything. Turning on my heel, too furious even to speak, I fled from the office. Distantly, I heard footsteps trailing after me. When I turned, I saw that it was Stoner.
I stopped and waited.
After a long while, Rhonda came, too. Her face was red, and I refused to ask why.
Together, we headed for the kitchen.
Afterward, I had to pause and ask myself exactly what had set me off. Sure, Brother Sylvester had deliberately kept important information from us, but he had also protected and cared for us and actually had saved our lives. What had caused me to get so mad at him?
I finally realized I hadn't been so much angry at Brother Sylvester as at myself. His compromise was no more than a pale reflection of my own.
As we fled through the night, this knowledge tempered my anger considerably. At Rhonda's urging, I agreed to wait long enough to obtain detailed directions for reaching Seattle. One of the monks ran up to us and offered the use of a horse and wagon. I said no. Rhonda explained that what I'd meant was yes. She told me if I expected her to wander lost and on foot through that forest out there, then I could go by myself. I did an about-face and accepted his offer.
Brother Phillip suddenly appeared. Tears filled his eyes as he told Stoner how grateful he was for his company and ideas. I tapped my foot impatiently and glared at the empty air. At last our wagon was brought around. I practically had to drag Stoner away. Brother Phillip waved a tearful farewell. The horse was an old nag. I grabbed the reins and off we went.
Less than an hour after we left the monastery, dawn began to brighten the eastern sky. Thoroughly exhausted, I pulled the wagon over to the side of the narrow, mud-caked road and lay in the back to rest. Stoner and Rhonda were soon snoring. At one point, hearing the noise of many horses, I looked up. A party was passing. At its front—I'd have known him anywhere—rode Fitch.
When I made a move to stand up, Rhonda grabbed me. "Michael, don't be stupid," she whispered.
The passing horsemen stared at the wagon and me peeping over the edge.
Fortunately, Fitch had already ridden too far to spot me.
"But I want to kill him," I insisted, irrationally.
"And us, too? Do you think you can kill him without the rest of them killing us in return?"
I knew she was right. With a bitter sigh, I dropped back to the floor of the wagon. Another day would come—it must. There were too many days locked up in that tiny cage that I had to repay.
All three of us agreed that Seattle should be our destination. The roads leading there were nonexistent, however, and we soon had to cut cross-country. The monks had kindly stocked the wagon with supplies sufficient to last a couple of days. After that, we began stopping at the occasional farmhouses we passed and asking for food in return for work. Few people refused us, but the end result was a tremendous delay in our journey. I'd often traveled from city to city in a similar fashion but this time the slowness irritated me. I'd been away from the city too long. My real home was there. I had to get back.
We had been on the road nearly two weeks when we spotted the first signs of destruction. Seeking food, we followed a winding dirt road that seemed likely to have a house at the end of it. Rhonda spotted the rising cloud of smoke. She pointed. "I wonder what that's all about."
"Maybe somebody cooking meat," I replied optimistically. She and I were sitting side by side immediately behind the horses. Stoner, strangely silent, was crouched in the back of the wagon, scribbling on his papers.
"The fire looks too big for that," Rhonda said.
"Maybe it's a big cow."
But it wasn't. The cloud of smoke dwindled to a tiny black puff even before we reached a point where we could see. Topping a rise, Rhonda and I looked down into the snug valley below.
"I think it used to be a house," I said, staring at the smoldering pile of ashes below.
"A farm." Rhonda pointed. "See? That part was the barn."
"I wonder what—"
"Look," she said, pointing again. "There's people."
I saw them now. Three figures, waving. "Should we go down?" I asked.
"Maybe they need help."
But, if they did, they had a funny way of showing it at first. As I drew the wagon to a halt, one of the figures separated himself from the others—a woman and child—and came toward us. He held a long, vicious-looking knife in front of him and looked as if he intended to use it.
Stoner finally glanced up from the pages of his book and, seeing the man advancing on us, gave a loud yelp of surprise.
This attracted the man's attention. He halted and asked Stoner, "Haven't you done enough to us already? What do you want now? Do we have to die before you're satisfied?"
Stoner shook his head in bewilderment. I prepared to defend myself against the knife.
Rhonda, whose head was cooler than most, said calmly, "You must have us confused with someone else. We've never been here before."
"Neither had they," the man said bitterly, but I detected a change in his attitude. He spoke of someone else now, not us.
"Who are 'they'?" I asked tentatively, attempting to match Rhonda's calm tone.
"Those men, those soldiers, whatever they were." His eyes narrowed. "You didn't see them?"
"We just got here," replied Rhonda. She pointed back the way we'd come. "From the monastery of St. Jude. Do you know where that is?"
"Never heard of it." But he seemed less suspicious. "They came from that way, too."
"But ahead of us," I pointed out.
"That's true."
"We merely wanted work," Stoner said.
This reduced the man to laughter, but there was little joy in the gesture. He waved at the smoking ruins behind him. "Sure, you can work helping me rebuild all this. Though what's the point? Your friends will just return and burn me out again."
"They're not our friends," Rhonda said firmly. "Whoever they are."
This seemed to convince him. He shook his head apologetically. "No, I guess they aren't. Sorry. You're strangers—so were they. You can't blame me for accusing you."
I thought I could but, in view of the destruction he'd suffered, decided to play fair. I helped Rhonda and Stoner to the ground and the three of us followed the man. He introduced himself as Stephen Cox. The woman was his wife, Jane, and the child was their son.
"And you mean to say somebody came here and deliberately set your house on fire?" I thought it was time to get back to the original subject.
"They wanted—what did they call it?"
"Allegiance," said Jane, with no sign of comprehension.
"They wanted that," Cox said, "but what they really wanted was a portion of my grain. There were maybe 25 or 30 of them, all on horses, dressed funny. When I said I didn't have enough to spare, they said they were commanded to destroy anyone who got in their way. I told them to try it. They did. You see what's left."
"They visited Ted Arthur yesterday. He rode over last night and told us about it." This was Jane speaking. "Ted gave them his grain. He admitted he was too scared to do anything else."
"They were an army," shrugged Cox.
"But there aren't any armies," I said, but a familiar chill struck my spine. Fitch. Of course.
"The leader of these men," I said. "Could you describe him? Did anyone say his name?"
"They said it," said Cox, "but I don't remember."
"I do," said Jane. "It's not something I'll ever likely forget."
"Was it Fitch?" I suggested.
She nodded. "That was it."
Cox himself looked suspiciously at me again. I mollified him with our story. "This man Fitch held us prisoner for some months. He was trying to build a railroad to the east and wanted us to work for him. We refused and finally escaped. We hid in a monastery."
"I've heard about this railroad," Cox said. "It's supposed to go all the way into Seattle."
"That's what Fitch intends."
"Do you think he came here looking for you?"
I shook my head firmly, not wanting to be made the scapegoat for all his problems. "He doesn't know we're in this area."
He seemed to believe me. In any event, after that, it proved nearly impossible to shut him up. My belly ached and I was eager to be gone. One thing for sure, we wouldn't find food here.
It was close to sunset before I reached the wagon and urged the horse away. Cox and his family, three forlorn figures amid the ashes, waved to us. I tried to avoid looking back. After all, how worse off than us were they?
After we'd gone over the rise that cut the burned farmhouse from view, Rhonda turned to me and said, "Well, what do you think?"
"I think we'd better be very careful from here on out."
"And Fitch?"
"He offered me command of his army once. He said he wanted to conquer Seattle. Fitch is trying to start his own country."
"Why?"
"That's something you'd have to ask him."
"I think I can answer it," Stoner said, leaning over my shoulder. He'd been so quiet since our arrival at the farmhouse that I'd nearly forgotten his presence. "Fitch is an aberration. He wants to bring back the old days. He wants industry, war, nations and leaders. But he can't succeed. History never repeats itself exactly. He's bound to fail."
"And how many people have to die before he finds that out?" Rhonda asked.
Stoner couldn't answer that question.
We reached the neighboring farm before nightfall.
The man of the house greeted us without pleasure and gave his name as Ted Arthur.
I said, "A friend of yours told us about you. Stephen Cox. We just left him."
"He sent you here?" The prospect did not appear to please him.
"Not exactly, no." I told Arthur the full story of our visit with Mr. and Mrs. Cox.
"I knew it," he said, when I finished. "I told him last night. That man Fitch meant serious business. I warned Cox, but he wouldn't listen."
"Maybe he didn't have any grain to spare," I suggested.
Arthur laughed hollowly. "If he didn't before, he sure doesn't now, does he?"
I asked after the possibility of doing work in return for food.
Arthur said no. "I'm afraid I'm not much in the mood for company right now." He stepped into his house and slammed the door.
I looked at Rhonda and clutched my stomach. "Now Fitch is causing us to starve."
"Maybe we ought to head another way."
"Sure." I waved expansively at our surroundings. "Just tell me which way."
Rhonda decided to treat it as a joke. She pointed straight up at the moon. "Try that way."
I laughed, too. After all, why not? Couldn't we use a bit of fun?
It was a week before we chanced upon another farm. In the meantime, we managed as well as possible on a diet of blackberries, nuts, stream water, and weeds. Sometime in the middle of that ordeal, I brought down a wild chicken with the makeshift slingshot I'd put together out of a tree twig and some stretched vine. It was a lucky shot. We gobbled up the chicken in one meal—we were famished by then—and I never came nearer than a meter to hitting anything afterward.
This farm, however, appeared happily occupied. We spotted smoke, but it billowed, from a brick chimney the proper way. A deep, wide, empty ditch cut across the ground in front of the farmhouse but, behind it, stretching into the dim distance, lay ripe fields ready for plucking. I stared at the waving cornstalks and unashamedly let my hungry mouth drool.
"They can't refuse us," sighed Rhonda.
"Don't even think about it," I warned.
Stoner moaned. "I'm hungry."
"What a surprise." I clicked my tongue. The horse, probably as hungry as we were, trotted obediently down the dirt path. We passed a clump of blackberries. What a pleasure not to have to stop and gorge. (I just hoped they'd still be there if we came back empty handed.)
A lone man greeted us with a wide smile. Seeing that, I could have uttered a whoop.
"What can I do for you?" The man stepped forward and held out his hand.
I took his palm in mine and said, "I'm Michael. This is Bill and Rhonda and we're looking for work."
He was short and scrawny, with shrunken cheeks partially concealed by a few days' growth of beard. "I'm Samuel. This is my place but I'm afraid there's no work now."
"Oh."
He must have sensed the meaning behind my obvious disappointment. "But you're welcome to stay and eat as long as you like. I live alone here and there's nobody else for kilometers around. When you're ready to go, I'll let you take whatever you can carry."
I'd once heard an old story about a man named Santa Claus, who used to visit small children on special days to give them whatever gifts they desired. As far as I was concerned, Samuel beat Santa Claus hands down as a giver of precious gifts. "We'd really appreciate that," I sighed.
"Then come on in." He gestured to the door behind. "I was just preparing to eat, too."
I thought for a moment I'd have to battle Rhonda and Stoner to see which of us got inside first.
Over dinner, as our bellies filled up, and our minds fell at ease, Samuel explained his generosity. Sipping apple juice from a cup, he looked at me and said, "Have you ever heard anything about a man named Fitch?"
If I didn't choke on my food, it was only because I'd halfway anticipated something like this. I flashed Stoner a glare to keep his mouth shut and said, "I think I've heard the name."
"How about the rest of you?"
"Why do you ask?" said Rhonda.
I wasn't sure if such a blunt approach was about to make this sly old guy spill what he knew. He considered the question while chewing a bite of chicken, then spit out a chunk of bone. "Because he's threatening to burn down this place. It seems he wants a portion of my grain and he also wants me to make him my leader." Samuel frowned. "I moved out here years ago so I wouldn't have to bother with leaders. Men like this Fitch own slaves, and I don't intend to be one."
I could have told him a lot about Fitch and slavery, but I contented myself with a measure of the truth. "Then this Fitch must be the same man I was thinking of. A few days ago we met up with a family." I told him about the Coxes. "We arrived too late and could do nothing to help."
Samuel's eyes lit up in evident pleasure. "Then you're willing to help me?"
"Well," I said, "it depends on what you have in mind."
He explained that Fitch had visited him two nights ago. "He came riding in at the head of 20 men. I'd seen nothing like it before in my life. Some of them even seemed to have guns. Of course, I didn't think they worked, but one of them fired off a shot and I decided differently."
"So what happened?" I intended to keep my options open. I wanted to find out first exactly how Fitch was operating.
Samuel said that Fitch had wasted no time in stating his demands. He bragged about burning several other farmhouses and claimed that people were either his friends or his enemies. For his friends, he guaranteed armed protection whenever they needed it. "I asked him protection from what," shrugged Samuel, laughing. "He didn't answer, but I guess it was pretty obvious."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him I'd have to ask my wife."
"But you said you were alone."
He grinned. "That's right."
My estimate of Samuel's slyness increased considerably. He knew how to think quickly and that talent is always admirable.
"And what did Fitch say?"
"He promised to come back. We set tomorrow as the day because I said my wife would be back then." He suddenly turned and smiled at Rhonda. "By the way, would you be interested in having a husband?"
She shook her head, more pleased than anything. "Not right now, I'm afraid."
"If you ever change your mind, I'll be here."
I hoped that was the truth, though with Fitch involved, I frankly doubted it. "How do you think we can help you?"
"You have any ideas?"
I shook my head. "There's more of them than us."
"I noticed that myself." Then he told me what he had in mind. "I needed the extra days to think up a plan. What do you think of it?"
Rhonda spoke up before I could. "Michael, I'm going to help no matter what you decide. What Fitch is doing is wrong. Maybe we can stop him."
I doubted there was much chance of that. Still, I saw no reason to tell her so. "I was just about to say yes myself."
"And me, too," added Stoner, shoveling food.
I saw what he meant. The dinner tasted even better now than before.
As we labored that next day, starting work at dawn with strong backs and fond hopes, we definitely banked on Fitch and his soldiers not showing till after sunset. That was most likely, we all agreed; blackmail worked best in the dark of night. Still, if Fitch fooled us and came thundering in at noon, we were caught, the place would be burned and we might be killed, too.
This worried me. Turning to Samuel as we worked together, I pointed out, "Even with the three of us helping, you're going to be lucky to get this finished in time. How'd you intend to spring this trap alone?"
He grinned, pausing in his work to wipe his face. "Why do you think I was so glad to see you?"
"Well, I'd thought it was because you were friendly."
He continued grinning. "Sure, that too," he admitted. "Before you came last night, I was ready to give up and run."
"I just hope you were right in changing your mind."
"Then you better dig quick," he chuckled, "and make sure, I was right."
We labored as a group. First, there was the digging to be finished and the telltale dirt to be hauled away. Then we carried the leaves from the orchard out back and piled them deep in the hole. Then we dug a little ways away and carted this dirt on top of the leaves. Sunset caught us hauling heavy buckets of water from the small, nearby stream.
Then we were done. Samuel tested the trap with a long stick and said he was satisfied.
"They're going to have to be lured this way," I warned. "We can't trust wholly to chance."
"I better do the luring," said Samuel. "If they see you here, they might start thinking."
"But how will you avoid falling into your own trap?" asked Stoner, who had worked as hard as any of us. I was proud of him.
"Easy," Samuel said. "I've got an old ladder out back. I'll lay it across here, then hop along the rungs."
"Don't slip," I warned.
Staring at the trap, he shook his head. "I sure won't."
Waiting, as I may have mentioned, is something I hate doing. The ordeal that night, even if we were finished, was worse than most. I was eager to see Fitch again. I still wanted to kill him. In my whole life up till then, I hadn't killed even a dozen men and then only in the purest self-defense. This time, I couldn't wait. In my mind Fitch had come to represent my own worst tendencies. If I got rid of him, then I would be a good guy for a change. (Of course, I was neglecting that I hadn't exactly been an angel in my pre-Fitch scrounger days, either.)
The army finally showed an hour later. It was easy to see them coming because of the bright torches they held. Rhonda, Stoner and I knelt in the darkness on the opposite side of our trap. As discussed earlier, Samuel went casually forward to meet them.
He started off, as planned, by asking what they wanted.
A voice that I didn't recognize as belonging to Fitch repeated the demands made before. "We must have your final word now. Either you agree to help or else you are an enemy."
Wasting no time, Samuel backed off. He sneered. "You wouldn't dare touch me."
"We're there, aren't we?" The voice betrayed both impatience and boldness. "Give us your answer. There's no use resisting."
Samuel halted his backward motion and pretended to consider. He stood at the very brink of the trap.
"Well, what do you say?" urged the soldier.
"I say nuts to you." Then he swore. I was amazed by the variety of his language. Here I was, child of the city streets, and here Samuel was, hick farmer, and yet I was the one humbled by the stream of invective flowing from his lips.
Fitch's soldiers must have experienced feelings similar to mine, but they were more passionate about it. Even their horses sounded angry. Before Samuel could turn on a heel, the mass of them came bearing down on him.
I watched him hop through the trap, his feet kicking gracelessly, and couldn't help wincing. I guess I'd underestimated the old coot. He wasn't pretty about it, but he was spry. When he reached our side safely, Rhonda darted from hiding and threw her arms around him. The excitement was contagious. I had to restrain myself to keep from kissing Stoner.
The horsemen—I counted ten of them—hit the ditch a moment later. Their faces showed clearly in the torchlight and I watched them tumble down.
What we'd done was this: finished the ditch Samuel had been digging—it measured three meters deep and about the same across; filled the bottom with old leaves; added a layer of loose dirt on top of that; and sprayed the whole mess with water.
The result: the horses, plowing straight ahead, crashed like so many trees felled by lumberjacks. Their riders plunged down beside them.
Samuel, Stoner, Rhonda, and I held sticks. Stoner and I circled the ditch. Of the ten riders, five never reappeared. They'd fallen the wrong way—headfirst, I assumed—and simply drowned in the muck. Three of the remaining five struggled briefly, then perished. The last two reached the safety ladder and clawed briefly toward shore. Stoner and I bopped them with our clubs. They went down and stayed down.
I felt sorrier for the horses than the men. The four of us struggled to save as many of the poor animals as possible.
It was a mess, but we got three out.
Then we sat down to cheer, except that death—even in a righteous cause—is never much fun. Even Samuel barely chuckled.
"He wasn't there," said Rhonda, who was a sight, clothes torn, body clothed in mud.
"Fitch—I know," I replied.
"What do you think became of him?" Stoner asked.
"Maybe he's decided to let his soldiers do his dirty work for him."
"You're talking about the big boss?" Samuel asked. "The one who came here before?"
I nodded.
"Well, I didn't see him, either, and I was looking. That means they'll probably be back."
After all that effort, I hated to agree, but he was right. "He'll wonder what happened to his ten men."
"And come here with blood in his eye. What about it? You willing to stick and fight? I'll feed you for as long as you like."
I couldn't speak for Stoner or Rhonda. "I have to move on. I want to get to Seattle. That's my home." I didn't see any need to tell him that further resistance looked hopeless to me.
"The rest of you?" he said.
"I want to go with Michael," Stoner said.
"Me, too," said Rhonda. She added, "I hope you don't think we're afraid."
Samuel shook his head, though I wasn't so sure he didn't carry a few doubts. "I'm no fool myself. This ought to be it for me." He glanced around, and even in the deep darkness, I felt he was surveying the whole of his land. "Time to move on."
"You can come with us," I said impulsively.
"Seattle?" He shook his head. "No, I'll head north. North or east, where there's free land and no slavers and no armies. I don't need much in life—I'll find it there."
"Well, good luck." I stood. "At least we gave them a good fight." I indicated the muddy ditch and what it contained.
"Stay for breakfast," he said.
My stomach spoke for me. "All right."
True to his past word, Samuel refused to let us go in the morning before he'd piled the back of our wagon full of enough supplies to last us a week. And we now had two horses pulling the wagon.
By now, we were so far off our original course that I had only a vague idea of where Seattle lay. Samuel couldn't offer much help. He suggested we stick to the main roads and ask questions when we stopped.
I said nothing at the time—not wishing to frighten the others—but I guessed that by now the main roads belonged to Fitch.
So we took a roundabout route, where we met few people. A week or so after leaving Samuel, we suddenly ran straight into the sea.
Of course I'd seen the great ocean before, but I still marked it down as one of the few truly awesome sights a man can witness. Even someone as unschooled as I can't help knowing the world is more ocean than land and that this particular sea—the Pacific, it's called—is the biggest single thing in the world. You peer out endlessly and can't see the other side. You hear the noise of those huge waves breaking. In view of the ocean, I felt as tiny, dumb and insignificant as a bug. Even when Stoner said, "What is it?" my mood remained unbroken.
"It's the Pacific Ocean," I replied.
"Wow. I knew there was a reason I stayed with you."
There's no better or bigger highway in all creation than the Pacific Ocean. All we had to do was follow the beach south and eventually we'd reach Seattle. Along the way, if nothing else, there'd be clams and crabs to eat. I knew about catching them, too, having followed this path a time before.
Reaching the ocean slightly after midday, we turned and followed the shoreline for a brief stretch till we came to a stream. Weary from traveling, we decided to pause here and drink some fresh water.
Darkness was coming when Stoner stood up suddenly and thrust a finger out at the water. "Key, look!" 'he cried. "Out there—a ship!"
Now that was something I hadn't seen in my life. I looked where Stoner pointed: a huge, bright orange sail. (Stoner told me later that was the proper term.)
"It can't be Fitch."
Stoner laughed. "If it was him, he'd have a steamship. No, it has to be somebody else."
"But who?" I knew many of the people living near the coast used small boats for fishing, but this ship dwarfed anything I'd previously seen or heard tell of.
Stoner waved his hands at the vessel.
After a moment's hesitation, my curiosity no less than his, I decided not to make him stop.
The sail continued to approach. Rhonda waved, too. I studied the ship itself. That thing, I realized, was big enough to carry 50 men or more.
In fact, the strip proved much too large to reach shore. When it dropped anchor, we lowered our hands and waited patiently. The sun set and the water spread wide with red. A small boat—more like those I'd known before—broke off from the main ship and came toward us. I counted three bobbing heads.
Oddly, in spite of its weirdness, the scene didn't strike me as sinister. That bright orange sail helped reassure me. I'd always been strongly influenced by colors—perhaps it came from living in dank, gray cities. If the sail had been black, I might have been scared.
We stood at the edge of the shore and waited for the rowboat to reach us. Stoner was the first to notice. "Those men have brown skins," he said.
"Yes," I nodded. The boat was near enough that I could see clearly. "Chinese or Japanese. There's plenty like them in Frisco."
I had a sudden feeling, though, that these men had come a longer way than that. The way they dressed—in bright, colorful tunics—was nothing I'd seen before in Frisco or anyplace else. But I kept my feelings to myself. We'd be finding out the truth soon enough.
The rowboat touched the beach.
Stoner, Rhonda and I stood frozen as the men climbed out of the boat. While two of them beached the craft upon the shore, the third stepped toward us. He was tall, with clear black eyes and a firm, positive walk. When he reached us, he paused and nodded slightly. "You are American people." He spoke clearly but carefully. His remark had been intended almost as a question.
"Yes, aren't you?" asked Stoner.
The man smiled politely. "I have come from China."
Now that my suspicions had been confirmed, I grew to doubt them myself. "That's impossible."
The man shrugged. "You once visited us. We have returned the favor."
"But why?" That question sounded so silly I could have kicked myself even then.
"Ask yourselves that, not me. I am merely copying your own ancient tradition."
The two sailors joined us, though both kept silent and stood slightly to the rear. "My name is Michael," I said, "and this is Rhonda and Bill. We—we welcome you to our land."
Again, that slight nod. "I am Fung Tu and I accept your welcome with extreme pleasure."
Now what!, I wondered.
Fung Tu invited us to join him for dinner aboard his sailing ship. I started to refuse. Sure, whatever he had to offer no doubt beat clams and crabs—even if we could uncover any in the dark—but I didn't like his attitude. Even though he'd phrased his invitation as a question, his tone carried the stink of command, and I didn't like being ordered about by some stranger.
Stoner said, "Don't you think that's a great idea, Michael?"
Rhonda added, "I sure am hungry enough."
"Then join us now." Fung Tu indicated the rowboat.
Nobody seemed to have noticed that I'd said nothing. In the end, I decided to be agreeable and kept quiet.
I didn't at all enjoy the trip out to the ship. The rowboat, with five aboard, was far too crowded for comfort. The darkness didn't help much, either. Even though I couldn't see the big waves surrounding us, I sure could feel them. The boat rocked and swayed. My stomach felt funny.
If it hadn't been for Stoner, who gripped the wooden side of the rowboat like a scrounger clutching a unique relic, I might have worried I was turning into a coward.
The boat's crew—I counted a couple of dozen sailors as we proceeded to Fung Tu's private quarters— paid little attention to us. To me, this indicated one of two things. Either Fung Tu had lied about coming from
China, or else his men were incredibly well-disciplined. When I overheard a couple of sailors talking, I decided the second possibility was the right one. Whatever they said, the language was nothing close to English.
Fung Tu shared his table with us. Soon after our arrival, a well-dressed man appeared with the food. It consisted of things I'd never eaten before. There were many strange vegetables and chunks of chicken and beef. I ate everything but expected to get sick. (I didn't—the food was superb.)
Fung Tu, who used narrow sticks instead of a fork and spoon for eating, never said a word till the three of us finished. I went along with the gag and kept quiet myself. Stoner and Rhonda stayed busy filling their faces.
After the arrival of a bitter wine, Fung Tu finally broke the silence. "I have come here," he explained, answering the question I'd asked on the beach, "because of sheer human curiosity. Once your people lived among us and were very powerful, then for many years we heard nothing of you."
"We hear very little about your country, either," Stoner said.
"Oh, there is little to say of China." I didn't believe that modesty act for a moment.
Stoner suddenly launched into a detailed description of recent American history. I listened closely myself, because much of what he said was new to me, too. He started with the collapse, proceeded through the fall of the last national government and ended with the reinstitution of slavery and the first industrial re-awakenings. (Some of these terms I'm copping from Stoner.) "Now," he said, "there is even a powerful man named Fitch who is attempting to form a real nation in this locale. He has an army and believes he can conquer and rule the nearby cities."
Fung Tu shook his head sadly. "Do you Americans ever learn from your past mistakes?" I thought that was pretty patronizing of him.
But Stoner grinned. "That's exactly what I keep telling them myself."
"But tell me more of this man Fitch," requested Fung Tu. When Stoner obeyed, Fung Tu replied with further questions. I let the two of them talk and contented myself with the wine. At last, apparently satisfied, Fung Tu spoke of his own land. "In China your economic collapse brought an end to the ruling dynasty of the time. With the absence of Western trade goods, some chaos also ensued, but this was quickly ended by the new rulers."
"What kind of rulers do you have?" Rhonda asked, expressing a degree of interest that surprised me. "Do you have a king or emperor?"
"We are ruled by what you might call an oligarchy. Our brightest men are permitted to make the decisions that affect the common good."
"And how are these bright boys chosen?" Maybe the wine was getting to me. I felt light-headed and acted nasty. "Do you bring them out and line them up and see who shines the most?"
Fung Tu seemed incapable of taking offense. He smiled politely at my joke. "We use a system of examinations to determine who may rule."
"China was once ruled by communists," Stoner told me. "Those were
people who believed that everyone should work equally. I read about
them in an old book."
"Mao Tse-tung," said Fung Tu, briefly reverting to his own language. He beamed at Stoner. "You are familiar with the history of my country?"
"I've read a few things," Stoner said. "Books are very scarce here, I'm afraid, only a few people can read. Although…" He paused and took a deep breath, clearly gearing himself up for some dramatic revelation, "although I'm trying to write a book of my own right now."
"How interesting," exclaimed Fung Tu, still beaming. "And what is the subject of your work?"
"Well, that's the problem. What I want to do is offer some sort of full-scale solution, a way of ending the present chaos without bringing back the machines that caused the collapse in the first place. A friend of mine—a local religious leader—told me I covered the problems very well but was weak on the solutions."
Fung Tu nodded. "I would be grateful for an opportunity to read this book. When it is finished, that is."
"Well, I do happen to have the manuscript with me," Stoner said. He reached under his shirt and drew out the wrinkled pages. "It's not finished but you can look at it if you want."
"What a pleasure." Fung Tu stood and indicated Stoner Should do the same. "We must retire to my lower stateroom. Michael, Rhonda." Again, that slight nod that dimly resembled a formal bow. "You must please excuse us. Finish your food and my crew will gladly show you to your rooms."
After the two of them had darted away, I made a sour face at Rhonda. "Can you believe all that?"
"He seemed quite sincere to me," she said.
"I didn't say he wasn't. But I do say he's trying to suck us dry of information while giving nothing in return. That's a sly man if I've ever seen one. Don't trust him."
"He's just crossed an ocean to see us. Don't you think he should be interested?"
"How do we know he doesn't have another dozen ships hidden out to sea? Keep in mind that we don't know one thing for certain about this guy."
"Oh, Michael, you're just too suspicious. Fung Tu doesn't want to conquer America. He just wants to visit and explore."
"Come on." I pushed the wine away. "Let's take a walk." The steadily rocking boat was getting to me. My stomach turned over.
"All right."
We stepped outside. The cold ocean wind made me shiver but I'd suffered through much worse. I moved toward the edge of the deck in search of fresher air.
I never made it that far. Three of Fung Tu's biggest sailors suddenly blocked my path. They grinned in unison.
I tried going around them, but when I moved, so did they.
I felt almost sick enough to fight, but Rhonda restrained my hand. "Not here, Michael."
I saw what she meant. The odds were too much stacked the wrong way. "What do you want?" I asked the sailors.
One of them uttered a broken form of English. "Go down. Your room. Orders of the captain."
"I think we weren't supposed to take a walk," I told Rhonda.
"They could just be following orders. Fung Tu did say they'd show us our rooms."
"I think they intend to." The sailor who had spoken was already moving toward a door that apparently led below. He waved a finger at me and grinned. His two partners loomed behind.
I shrugged. "Since we're not fighting, we may as well go."
Our rooms—if they could be called that—were located side by side. The thick air below deck further irritated my queasy stomach. I let Rhonda disappear inside her room, then accepted a big sailor's invitation to inspect my own. Except for a hammock stretched between two walls, the room was quite empty. I thought it stunk, too.
Crawling inside the hammock, I tried to ignore the foul air.
The sailor left me alone.
It wasn't till much later that I managed to reach the door. Surprisingly, the knob turned in my hand, but when I stepped into the corridor, a pair of grinning, burly sailors blocked my path. I went back inside. To show the sailors I knew what was up, I gave the door a vicious slam. I blew out the oil lamp on the floor and stumbled back to the hammock.
I was awakened what seemed seconds later by a bright light. When I got my eyes open, I found Stoner lurking above me. He held a lamp in his hands and seemed to want to smile. "Get that thing away from my face," I cried.
He obeyed, backing swiftly away. But I was awake by then. I sat up and saw him gazing around the room. "What do you want?"
He turned and faced me. "Fung Tu said I was supposed to sleep here."
"Don't tell me I have to share this hammock?"
"No." He pointed to a pile heaped in one corner. "He gave me a floor mat and some blankets."
"Then why wake me up?"
He squatted on the floor beneath me. "Well, actually, I sort of wanted to talk." He let me have a glimpse of a book he held in a hand. "Fung Tu gave me this to read. It's fascinating. I can't get it out of my mind."
I knew, when Stoner got like this, there was no way of shutting him up short of removing his tongue. With a groan, I evacuated my hammock. My stomach turned a flipflop as I crossed the floor. "All right." I dropped in a heap. "Go ahead and talk."
"Well, this book is about a man named Confucius, who lived in China more than 2700 years ago, but Fung Tu says that what Confucius wrote and believed is what the Chinese live by even today."
"And what was that?" I asked, trying to sound interested.
"Well, a lot of things, and of course I couldn't read all of it. What impressed me the most was how much Confucius believed in tradition. A son should do only what his father had done before him. What that means is, if you can just teach the father to do the right thing, then you don't have to worry about trouble in the future. Confucius was also the one who came up with the idea of letting only the brightest people rule. He invented the system of examinations that's still in use today. He believed that a good ruler was one who led through example alone. If he did right, then his people would, too."
"I'm sure that's very interesting for the Chinese." I stifled a yawn. My stomach grumbled audibly.
"But don't you see, Michael? This is the clue I've needed. This is what's going to save our country. All we have to do is adopt Confucian principles to our present needs and there's the solution I've been searching for."
"How so?" I couldn't really see his point.
"Because America now is a lot like China when Confucius first taught. We have to find the right way to live in harmony with ourselves and our world. And this—" he tapped the book soundly "—is the right way."
"Maybe for you," I snapped, "but I'm not letting somebody who's been dead for thousands of years tell me how to live."
"But, Michael, don't you see? This is the only answer." In his excitement, he stood and came charging at me.
I held up a restraining hand. "Bill, calm down. I'm sorry, but I just don't think you've looked far enough to be saying that yet."
Okay, so I was wrong. So I was present at one of the great moments in history and made a total fool of myself. Maybe I'm not a genius.
I understood how serious Stoner was three days later when I came up on deck. He stood near the side of the boat and I saw him tearing something and tossing the pieces over the edge of the ship.
Curious, I approached him. "What's that there?"
"Oh." He backed off, surprised. "Oh, it's just my book."
"You're throwing it away?" Knowing how much that stupid book meant to him, I couldn't believe what he was doing.
"I have to." He tore some of the pages in two and dropped the shreds into the water. "It's all wrong."
"But even Brother Sylvester said some of it was right."
"What does he know? Michael, I know what I'm doing. I have to write a whole new book."
"Well, good luck." He'd genuinely shaken me. Maybe I was getting some inkling of the importance of what was going on. And maybe not. I never did fully succeed in figuring Stoner out.
Fung Tu never admitted we were his prisoners. He preferred calling us his guests. The trouble was, no matter how much noise I made, we were never given a chance to return to shore. I briefly considered making a dash for freedom, but the ocean was deep, the farthest I'd ever swum was a narrow river and the hassle involved wasn't worth the reward.
Except for the general boredom and a certain amount of pain involved in sleeping in a hammock, I didn't exactly suffer anguish aboard the Chinese boat. The food, though always weird, turned tasty after a bit of experience, and compared to the recent famine of the long trek, anything chewable was welcome. Rhonda and I spent most of our time together, as we were soon given free run of the ship. Stoner remained cloistered with Fung Tu, either above or below deck. You couldn't look at Stoner any more without getting a long lecture filled with names like Confucius, Mencius, and similar Chinese philosophers dead and buried since halfway back to creation.
I learned to tolerate Stoner's outbursts well enough, but what did bother me was Fung Tu's unwillingness to go ashore. Occasionally—no more than once a week, usually less often—a small party of sailors rowed away. Within a day or two, they came back, bearing freshly killed meat or some vegetables. Fung Tu said he believed he could learn more about America listening to the three of us than he could exploring a tiny strip of coastline. I thought I saw his point and winked at Rhonda. "See," I told her later, when we were alone. "Didn't I tell you right off? He's sucking our brains dry and giving nothing in return."
"Are you sure that's his fault, not ours? Stoner seems to be getting a lot out of this visit."
"Sure, but that's all garbage."
"Are you positive of that?"
I still didn't like Fung Tu—don't misunderstand me on that point. But I was more or less convinced he didn't intend either to kill me or invade my country, so I chose to let him go.
I had long since stopped counting days—the unchanging ocean seemed to halt the flow of real time— but it was at least a month after our arrival when Stoner showed me the guns. He had them piled on deck—three huge boxes of them—and he said Fung Tu had made a gift.
"But do they shoot?" I said.
Stoner nodded. "Fung Tu says they do. There's rifles and pistols and everything."
"And bullets?"
He opened the top box and showed me a string of cartridges.
"Look," I said, "what's the point of this? You're not thinking of starting an army, are you?"
He lowered his voice, although no one stood near us—Rhonda was down below washing her hair. "As a matter of fact, I am."
"You?"
"Why not? I mean, what else can I do? Fung Tu and I have talked the whole matter over. I can't go on this way. Even if I wrote a book and finished it, who would read it except a few wealthy landowners and they're my enemies anyway?"
"Then who are your friends?"
"The people. You and Rhonda and Brother Sylvester and Naomi and Samuel. Everyone we've ever met and talked to. Those are the people I want to save."
"With guns."
"How else?"
Well, he had me there all right. All I could offer was a weak, "Then why save them at all?"
"Because the world we live in is a mess. Look, Michael, what man has the right idea? He does, you know. His answers are all wrong but he has the right technique. Fitch, that's who."
"Don't tell me you want to conquer the world, too?"
"No, Michael, just part of it."
What was weird, standing there beside him and his crates of guns, I didn't laugh. Did I believe him? Yes, I did. For the first time. I thought he knew what he wanted and how to go about getting it. In a way, he scared me. "You're crazy, Bill."
"No, not me. Them." He waved at the shoreline. "I'm going to make them sane again."
"Well, good luck." I started to move away.
"Wait, Michael." He came after me. "Michael, I showed you those guns for a reason."
Somehow I sensed what was coming. "What reason?"
"I want you to command my army for me."
That was what I'd sensed. "Sure," I said, lightly "You recruit them, I'll lead them."
Later in the day, when I told Rhonda about what Stoner had said, she didn't laugh, either. "Michael, he meant it," she said. "Fung Tu has really changed him. He used to be crazy and silly. Now he's just crazy."
As we watched the rowboat bearing three sailors— none of whom was Fung Tu—drift back toward the Chinese ship, I don't think any one of us was unaware of how greatly things had changed since we'd last stood upon dry land.
But amazingly enough, right behind where we were standing, our old horses and wagon awaited us. When I expressed surprise, Stoner said smugly that he'd known about it all along. "Fung Tu had some of his men take care of the horses while we were aboard."
Something about this casual revelation irritated me very much. "What men are you talking about? I thought Fung Tu had decided to stay on the boat and talk to us?"
Stoner remained unconcerned. "Oh, sure, but you can't very well expect him to ignore the land entirely. He's had three different parties covering this area all the time we were here."
"And he told you all this?"
"Sure. The last of the parties just returned yesterday. That's why he decided we could go."
"He didn't happen to also tell you why all these parties were necessary."
"I didn't see any reason to ask. It seemed pretty obvious to me. His emperor sent him here to explore. The men charted the local area, collected samples of wildlife and game, even spied on some households. I told Fung Tu it wasn't necessary—I could tell him everything he needed to know—but I guess he wanted to be sure."
"I'm sure he did," I replied sarcastically. The idea of all those strange men crawling through the local woods still didn't set well with me, but Stoner was right. It did make sense.
"He's a great man," Stoner insisted, speaking as much to himself as me or Rhonda. "A great and wonderful man."
I assumed he meant Fung Tu but didn't intend to ask.
As the tiny boat was swallowed up inside the shadow of the bigger vessel, Stoner turned at last and went over to survey the three crates of guns he had brought with him. "Better help me load these on the wagon," he said.
"You're taking them with you? To Seattle?"
"You don't expect me to raise an army out here, do you?"
I knew from recent experience it was hopeless trying to reason with him. Even if I came out on top in the argument, he always had the last word. "But you did promise to be my commander," he would remind me.
"Yes, I guess I did," I'd say, knowing it was already too late to bite off the tip of my own stupid tongue.
"It's too dark to go anywhere now. We'll eat, then wait till dawn."
Stoner still accepted my advice on such matters as this. "We'd still better get the guns off the ground. It may get damp tonight."
I agreed to help him. It took Rhonda's assistance to lift the crates. They were damn heavy.
By the time we finished, it was too dark to see anything more than a bobbing tiny light far out on the water. The light remained as we ate and prepared for bed.
In the morning, when we woke, the light was gone.
And so was the boat.
Stoner seemed ready to cry again.
"Don't worry," I said. "Fung Tu's not apt to forget you, either."
"Why not?"
"Because, as far as he's concerned, you must be the typical American." I had to laugh at that concept. "Too bad he didn't let me take him down to Seattle. I could have let him see a few scavengers. That would have opened his eyes."
"Fung Tu isn't interested in the rabble. He only wants to know the elite."
"Like you?" This kind of talking always made me mad. I wasn't a big thinker and admitted it. Where I came from, big thinkers died too quick. I didn't like people such as Stoner and Fung Tu treating me like a fool.
"And you, too, Michael," said Stoner. He gave me a reassuring pat on the back. "Don't forget—you're my commander."
We drove toward Seattle. I wasn't quite as eager to get back home as before, but it still seemed the sensible way to head. Even if Fitch was there, didn't I have a grudge to settle with him? I guess the stay on the boat had affected me, too. I found that I no longer hated Fitch with the same unbearable passion. I guess even the ugliest memories become dulled in time.
I wanted to keep the wagon as close to the shoreline as possible, but some sharp cliffs soon cut us off from the ocean, and I turned the horses farther inland. Eventually, we crossed a wide dirt road, one containing a few stray clumps of the old asphalt, and I swung onto it. We passed another wagon later that day, so I stopped and asked the driver, "Is this road to Seattle?"
He nodded, glancing suspiciously at me. "It is if that's where you want to go."
"Any reason why we shouldn't?" The man was the first person we'd met since leaving the Chinese. Somehow, I felt reassured just chatting with him.
"It depends," he said, "on what you're looking for."
I was beginning to dislike his attitude. I do not enjoy riddles. "Why should we be looking for anything?"
"You don't know about the army?" His eyes said he didn't think that was possible.
I made up a quick lie. "We went fishing and our boat drifted away from shore. We've been lost for more than a month."
"That's about when the army passed through here."
"What army?" This was getting monotonous. After all, how many armies could there be?
"The one that went down and conquered Seattle."
"Oh." The news wasn't entirely unexpected but that didn't lessen the impact. "How did he do that?"
The man grinned, though without pleasure. "Give me 1000 slaves and I could do it, too."
I suddenly understood where Fitch had been getting his army. I wondered if the railroad was ever going to be completed. Fitch had apparently had too many new ideas boiling to accomplish some of the old ones first.
"Well, thanks for the information."
"You're welcome." He was staring at the gun crates and water cans stacked in the back of the wagon.
I wasn't in the mood to explain that, so I urged the horses to move along.
"So what do we do now?" I asked Stoner, once the man was out of sight. At the time I didn't recognize the irony. What was I doing asking Stoner for advice?
"I don't see how our plans should be altered, Michael."
"If Fitch has an army that big, they're apt to be checking who comes into the city. Do you want us to ride in there with these guns in the back of the wagon?"
"Oh, we'll hide those," Stoner agreed. He paused and stared off into the distance. "Until we need them, that is."
I let that pass. "What about you, Rhonda? We could head back inland, you know. It ought to be safer there now."
"Oh, whatever you two decide." I watched her fake disinterest. "I'm just along for the ride, same as always."
So we decided we'd continue on to Seattle. I was beginning to wonder whether I wasn't just along for the ride, too.
As we proceeded, very little worth noting occurred. We kept to the same road and although we passed several horse-drawn wagons and an even larger number of pedestrians, we seldom paused to speak to anyone. Those we did approach told the same story of Fitch's conquest of the city. Strangely, as we neared Seattle, the reported size of Fitch's army increased. I was afraid that by the time we passed the city limits, we might be facing a million armed men or more.
One day we did have to face some. Fortunately, there were only three.
As soon as I spotted their dust rising behind, I got leery. But they were riding fast and the land was flat on both sides of the highway. With no place to hide, I stuck to the road. Rhonda sat beside me, while Stoner snored in the rear.
I didn't want to keep turning my head to look, so I estimated their approach by ear. When they passed the wagon and I got my first clear look at them, my heart sank to my knees. Rhonda yipped in fear. There couldn't be any doubt what these men represented. Their hips and shoulders were armed with knives and swords. Worse, they were ugly, mean-looking, and they were smiling.
The men spread the horses out across the roadway and came to a halt. I received the distinct impression we weren't supposed to pass.
I briefly considered a mad dash for it, but their mounts were fresh and strong-looking and none pulled a wagon loaded with guns and ammunition.
I drew my horses to a stop.
That was when I noticed—my heart reached my feet this time—the gun stuck deep in the belt of one of the men.
"Well, what have we here?" asked the horseman with the gun. "A wagonload of free food, huh?" He clicked his tongue. His horse approached the wagon. The other two men remained as they were.
"It's not free," I said. "We're selling it."
"Farmers?" He stopped his horse so close I could have kissed him. It wasn't a pleasant idea. He had a face dredged up from the worst of my dreams.
"Yes. This is my wife."
"How much for the lot?"
"Money?"
"Sure, yours."
"Mine?" The stupid act was on purpose. I was stalling. After all the hassle we'd been through, this couldn't be the end.
"You pay us enough—" the horseman never stopped flashing his rotten teeth "—and we'll take the whole mess off your hands."
I started to reply but he rode past me. "What's this here?" He indicated the crates. "You trying to hide something from us?"
"It's just food and water," I lied.
"And what's this funny stuff written on it?"
I felt like telling him the truth: it's Chinese writing, you idiot.
Unfortunately, there wasn't time. Before I could utter a word, the horseman's face suddenly exploded.
The horseman never made a sound. He fell off his horse and lay still. The horse itself seemed simply puzzled.
So were the other two horsemen. Out of desperation, I drove the wagon toward them. Before I got very close, they scattered. One went one way off the road, the second went the other. Swiveling my head, I watched them disappear into the far distance.
Stoner was moaning. I turned around and looked at him. He held some sort of stubby rifle in one hand and was rubbing that same shoulder with the other. "I think it tore my arm off," he said. "I never felt anything like that in my life."
Rhonda jumped off the wagon and went back to investigate the horseman's body. I waited impatiently for her to return.
When she did, she looked at Stoner. "You just killed a man," she said.
"I know." A strange gleam had entered his eye, though his shoulder still pained him. "And I did it this time without anyone's help."
I felt like telling him it wouldn't have been so easy without the gun. "I just hope those two don't come back with an army."
"Oh, I wouldn't have let them go if they had been likely to do that. They're deserters."
"How do you know?"
"I thought it was obvious. Fitch's army is in Seattle. He wouldn't have men running around loose way out here."
"Well, I hope you're right."
"We'd still better get out of here."
That was his best idea of the day.
When we got too close to Seattle, I gave up on the highway and started cross-country. Even then, I was nervous when we passed homes and families. "Look," I finally insisted, stopping the wagon at a point where the high skeleton towers of the city center were clearly visible, "I'm not going to get caught by a real army with all this stuff in the back of my wagon. Either we hide the guns out here, or else you can go in alone."
"I was just thinking the same thing, Michael." Stoner surveyed the nearby terrain. "But I haven't found a good hiding spot, have you?"
"Then maybe we ought to look for one."
"That's okay by me." It struck me once again how he was making the final decisions now instead of me. The odd thing was, except for a tiny amount of irritation, this change didn't bother me much. I trusted Stoner now. Maybe not as much as he had once trusted me. But I trusted him.
We hit upon an old, long-abandoned, burned-out house as our hiding place. It reminded me of the place where I'd first met Stoner, but that seemed like ages ago now.
The house had a full basement. We circled around until nightfall and then, under cover of darkness, unloaded the guns and stored them underground. Stoner was worried they might get wet. I finally agreed to cover the crates with our blankets. Working in total darkness, we fumbled and stumbled but eventually finished our task.
Outside and in the wagon again, Stoner asked me not to go yet. Closing his eyes, he sat stock still for a long time.
"Now what?" I asked, curious as well as impatient.
"I'm memorizing the location."
"You're what?"
He opened his eyes. "Fung Tu taught me the trick. This way, when we've got our army and we're ready to move, I can lead everyone out here."
"Why not just remember the streets? That's how I'm going to do it."
"No, this is better. Fung Tu says every point in space and time is an individual event capable of being known. All I have to do is accept the essence of this place and I'll never forget it."
"I don't intend to forget the street names, either."
Later I was even more glad that we'd disposed of the guns. Turning back toward the faint lights of the city, we drove carefully forward. We had gone perhaps three kilometers when a detachment of Fitch's army met us. I counted as many as 20 men in the group and two were carrying oil lamps. The men were on foot, and their leader held a rifle.
"Halt," he cried out, waving his lantern.
"Whoa," I told the horses. The three of us sat together for warmth. With him sitting so close, at least I didn't have to worry about Stoner attempting another round of target practice. (But that was unfair—Stoner was smart enough to count odds, too.)
The soldier—he even wore a uniform of sorts—spoke crisply. "Are you aware that it is illegal for you to be out after dark?"
I not only wasn't aware, I could hardly believe it. The city was a lawless place. If a person couldn't go out, how could he eat? What about the scroungers and scavengers? "We only just arrived from the rural districts," I said.
"Your goods will have to be confiscated." The soldier turned, waved his lantern, and called four additional men from the ranks.
"You can't take our horses," I said.
"It's required. Your horses and wagon. Please step down." He reached toward his gun but did not draw it.
I saw that any sort of argument on my part would be useless. I followed orders and made sure Rhonda and Stoner did, too.
The four soldiers hopped into the wagon and received whispered instructions from their superior. Then they drove off.
"You must take immediate shelter for the night. In the morning, find the food distribution point nearest you and go there. Food and work will be provided."
"Work?"
"The exact nature of your tasks will be explained then."
"We don't want to work," Rhonda said. She had ripped the exact words from the tip of my tongue.
The soldier, from respect for her beauty, was more polite to her: "Then you will not be allowed to eat, I'm afraid. Those are the rules our commander has made."
"Fitch?" asked Stoner.
"You know him?" The soldier seemed surprised.
"He used to own land near us."
"Oh." I saw he wasn't entirely satisfied, though he didn't seem ready yet to press the point.
"We'd better take shelter," I suggested.
"Yes," Rhonda agreed, surveying the nearby buildings.
"Be careful where you choose. There's still some ugly toughs hanging around here. I've even heard they've been known to kill and—well—they eat people.'
I was glad to see his attention had been deflected from our knowledge of Fitch. "Thank you for your advice."
"Glad to give it."
The city suddenly seemed incredibly sinister and mysterious. When we left the comforting lamps of the soldiers, this mood only increased.
"Let's hurry up and find some place," Rhonda said.
Despite my anxiety about scavengers, I agreed with her. Knowing their past tendencies as well as I did, I picked out a small, badly ravaged cottage set back from the rutted street. "They like big houses," I explained. "They usually run in packs. It's easier to catch people that way."
"They may have had to change now that the soldiers have come."
"Let's hope not."
But the cottage—in spite of all our uncertainty— proved to be welcomely empty. I curled up on the floor, Rhonda beside me. We both shivered. The last of our blankets had been confiscated, too.
Stoner paced, too excited to sleep. "This is turning out even better than I'd hoped. Look at what Fitch has already done for us. He's established control. He's really ruling this city. That means, all we have to do is get rid of him and we're on our way."
I was tempted to ask where we were on our way to but wasn't sure I wanted to hear his answer. "Shut up and let us sleep."
But he didn't.
When morning came (even Stoner eventually gave out and went to sleep), we found the food distribution point with no difficulty. We stepped outside, watched the slow crowd moving past and joined them. After a walk of several blocks, we found ourselves standing in a long line. There were many soldiers standing about but only a few carried guns.
At the end of the line was a box of red apples. Stoner, Rhonda, and I received one each. A soldier tapped Stoner's chest, then mine. He said, "You two, over there." His finger directed us toward a milling group of young men. I was hesitant to come too near. They looked like scavengers to me.
Rhonda started to accompany us. The soldier grabbed her arm. "No, women over there."
"But this is my husband—and a friend."
"You'll see them later. Over there." He indicated a second milling mob—young women this time. I thought they looked like scavengers, too.
I didn't think this was the time for us to begin our rebellion. "Meet us here," I told Rhonda.
She looked hesitant. "Please wait."
Stoner and I joined the mob. Rhonda's group left the area first. A squad of soldiers escorted them off toward the city center.
I tried to talk to some of the men around us. One told me that the work wasn't hard. I asked what work. He said, "It's something different every day. Sometimes, it's food—they've started gardens all over the city. Sometimes, it's digging ditches. Once we even tore down a big building."
"Doesn't it bother you? Working for someone else?"
"I'm also eating their food. It isn't bad. I lived here five years and I could never be sure I'd eat the next day. This is better."
Stoner also circulated through the mob. I lost sight of him briefly and spotted him again only through his widely waving arms. I started to move over toward him, but the soldiers arrived then, and the mob caught me in its grasp as we were hastened through the streets.
Our task for the day, it turned out, was indeed digging ditches. For sanitation, I assumed, which would be a welcome change. Picks and shovels were provided. The weeks of leisure since my term as a slave on the railroad had made me soft. My palms sprouted blisters, my spine ached with pain, my feet burned with soreness. The soldiers ensured we worked without undue rest all that morning. They weren't brutal about it—unlike slave overseers—but they were firm.
When lunch arrived—a cold vegetable soup and peaches—the leader of the soldiers cut three men out of our ranks and told them they could not eat. "If you start working this afternoon, you may get dinner."
I waited to see how the hungry men would react. In the end, though complaining long and bitterly, they stayed and did work harder.
As the afternoon shift proceeded and my pains quickly returned, I often caught sight of Stoner. He was smart enough to work as hard as any man, but he also showed fewer ill effects than the rest of us. As often as possible, he circulated among the men. I knew he must be spouting rebellion. I couldn't believe he was having much success.
The sun had nearly touched the horizon when the soldiers finally told us to stop. Dropping my shovel in the ditch, I staggered back to level ground. Stoner came loping toward me. He wore a big smile. In my exhaustion, I hated seeing that grin hanging there.
"They do understand me," he whispered excitedly, when we met. "Michael, it's perfect. There's no good reason why they should work this hard for Fitch when they could do the same for their own benefit."
"Theirs or yours?"
He shrugged. "Is there a difference? We're all people!"
I examined his new followers. These men were among the worst garbage of urban life: scavengers, toughs, punks, failed scroungers. "But what are you going to do with them? These people are worth nothing."
He shook his head. "People everywhere are all the same. It's the leaders who make the difference. Proper example is everything."
"Your example?"
"And yours, too."
"Did Confucius say that?"
"Say what?"
"Never mind." I wasn't sure myself.
The soldiers were kind enough to escort us back to our original embarkation point. On the way, Stoner kept up his steady flow of conspiratorial whisperings. I suddenly realized he must believe he was recruiting an army for me. I shivered at the thought.
Dinner awaited us on the corner. It was a bigger meal than before—genuine slices of beef—and I ate as if famished again. After a time, a group of women arrived and I spotted Rhonda among them. She looked just as tired and drawn as me, but I was glad to see her. After picking up her own dinner, she came over and sat beside me. Stoner was off talking again.
"We were planting trees," she said. "All along the streets—a tree every few meters."
"It sounds like Fitch intends to stay here."
"I saw him, too," she said.
"Fitch?" I felt some of the old fury flowing back into my veins. "How?"
"Oh, it was nothing special. He just happened to ride past me. He looked different—bigger, if you know what I mean. There were soldiers all around. I kept my head down, though I don't think he'd remember me, do you?"
"Me, if any of us," I said.
Stoner just happened to join us at this moment. He made Rhonda repeat what she'd told me. "I thought so," he announced, which sounded impressive, although I never figured out what it was supposed to mean. "You didn't happen to see where he went?"
"Just down the street."
"That's too bad. You see, if I knew where he lived, it would make my work a lot easier."
"I know where."
"You do?" His eyes grew wide like an excited child's.
"Sure, we passed it on the way. It's just a house—a big one, though. A lot of men were working around it. Somebody told me the commander lives there—that's Fitch."
"You'll have to show it to me."
I interrupted. "Some other day." The amount of daylight still remaining was barely enough to see each other's faces. "Remember the curfew. We don't want to get caught out again."
Our fellow workmen had almost all dispersed by then. I was eager to find better quarters than the house we'd occupied the night before, but Stoner was strangely adamant. He wanted to go back to the same place again. As we argued, the darkness grew thicker. I had to give in and let him lead.
As I stepped through the broken doorway I sensed the presence of trouble. Then I saw them. A dozen dim figures. Even in the near darkness, I easily recognized them as scavengers.
There are times in life when it's easy to hesitate or delay. Those are the times when people get killed. In spite of all my mental fatigue and physical pain, I didn't hesitate. I went straight for the nearest figure, drew back my hand and chopped his throat. As he gagged, I kicked out, laying my toe neatly in a man's belly. As he collapsed, I spun again. One of them was attacking me. I swung.
"Michael!" he screamed.
I averted my blow just in time. The force of hitting so much empty air nearly knocked me over. I thought I was somebody's dinner for sure.
"Michael, they're friends," said Stoner. He restrained my arms. "They're here to talk."
At least that explained his eagerness to come back here. I glanced briefly at the two men I'd struck. Neither looked especially close to death. "Don't you think you could have told me?"
"I thought you might object."
"I do."
"We have to talk about what we're going to do."
"Then do it some other time, some other place. I dropped to the floor, still wary of these intruders. "I'm tired."
"I think Bill's right, Michael. We can hardly defeat Fitch alone. These people have to help us."
Put that way, I couldn't very well disagree. Still, how much meaning did the whole thing have for me? Did I really want to defeat Fitch? And, if I did, how hard was I willing to work to achieve that end? The trouble was, I'd never taken Stoner seriously before. Rhonda was doing that now. I knew it was a change for her, too.
"All right," I said. "Talk. I'm listening."
Stoner merely led the meeting. What he was after, I soon figured out, was information. How many troops occupied the city? How many guns did they have? How closely was Fitch himself personally guarded? How did the people feel about the army? About Fitch?
Strangely, there wasn't one thing he asked that wasn't satisfactorily answered. These people knew a lot about their own world. I shouldn't have been surprised, in my time as a scrounger, I'd known all that, too. It was necessary to survive.
Fitch's army probably numbered around 3000 men. Maybe one man in 20—if that—carried a gun. Fitch never went anywhere alone and he kept a private armed guard around his house at night. A few people—mostly my old collector friends—hated Fitch and his army. The people of the ruins were of mixed emotions. They appreciated Fitch for the way he was feeding them, but they didn't like working or being told what to do.
"What would they say," asked Stoner, "about a ruler who didn't tell them what to do?"
"Then he wouldn't be a ruler," said one man, a shade brighter than most.
"No," Stoner agreed, "but he would be a leader."
The meeting went on after that. Stoner raised several possibilities for getting rid of Fitch. These plans ranged from the direct (break into his house and kill him) to the indirect (refuse to work until Fitch agreed to leave the city). Most of the ideas—including several suggestions from the audience—danced between the two poles. No final decision had to be arrived at tonight. We had plenty of time. Stoner knew he was going to need an army bigger than this one.
After the meeting was officially—by Stoner—declared ended, he stood up and came over to me. "Michael, can I talk to you alone for a moment?" He kept his voice low so nobody could overhear.
"Outside?" I suggested. I had expected to find him pleased by the meeting. Instead, he seemed almost depressed. I swore this was a guy I could no longer figure out.
Outside, we stood in the shadows fronting the rear of the house. Somebody had made a habit of dumping garbage here. The yard smelled.
"Michael, I'm afraid I made a mistake."
I shook my head, totally confused by now. "What mistake?"
"Coming here. I should have trusted my own ideas. I always said Fitch was wrong. You can't build the kind of world I want in a city like this. I should have stayed in the rural districts and done what I wanted out there."
"But Fitch must control those, too."
"That's not what's important. Fitch is just an abberation. I don't just want to destroy things, and that's all I can do here. I want to build things."
"So does Fitch." The conversation had turned more serious than what I was used to.
"But for different reasons."
"Of course. And that's why you have to start here. You can't run away. Go out into the rural districts and Fitch will still be there. It's the same as two scroungers searching for relics in the same little room. Space is limited—there's only room for one. You and Fitch can't both rebuild the world. Kick him out of the way first. Then do what you want."
"And that's what you think I should do, Michael?"
I understood now how much he still depended on me. I remembered the innocent kid I had saved from the hungry scavengers that long ago night in this same city. "I think it's what you have to do."
I could feel his smile, though it was much too dark to see. "Thank you, Michael."
"You're welcome." Whether he knew it or not—and I was positive he didn't—he had also helped me reach a decision. I was with Stoner now until the end. I wanted Fitch to fall for one very simple reason, not personal revenge or private hatred, but because I wanted Stoner to succeed. "We better go inside."
"I know—I'm tired."
I was glad to hear that he was human, after all. "Tomorrow we've got a lot to do."
"What?"
"We've got to start building," I said. And that remark didn't seem silly or stupid or innocent—not to my ears, anyway.
Our newly found scavenger friends were already asleep. I stepped carefully over them until I spotted Rhonda. She grabbed my arm and pulled me down. Politely, Stoner found his own free chunk of floor.
"What was that all about?" she asked.
I told her.
"So what are we going to do?"
"Kill Fitch," I said bluntly, "and scatter his army."
"How?"
"That," I said, "is the one thing I haven't figured out yet."
I didn't sleep that night. With my mind firmly made up to take some action, I was faced with the problem of what to do. The solution lay with Fitch and the best answer to that problem had to be simple murder. What held this developing little military empire together? Only one thing, one person, and that was Fitch himself. Eliminate him, and the soldiers would go home. Kill Fitch, and his nation would collapse before it was really built. Murder was an ugly word and I no longer had such hatred for Fitch personally. And Fitch wasn't trying to kill me. Once, perhaps he had, but that threat was long past, so it was difficult to work myself up to it. That was why I sat up all that night. I wanted desperately to find another answer.
Why me? Why not Stoner? I pondered those two linked questions, as well. After all, no matter what, I still wasn't terribly interested in conquering or saving the world. Given my fondest wishes, I would be let alone by every other man and allowed to live my own life on my own terms. It was Stoner, not me, who was all hot and eager to remake civilization after his own image. Why not let him handle the dirty work, too? I could help him, push him, urge him. I didn't also have to jerk the trigger.
But I knew that was impossible. Okay, Stoner had indeed killed people before. On the road here, he had committed—with his shotgun—a murder not much less cold blooded than the one I now planned. Stoner was capable of killing Fitch, sure, but that wasn't the real point. To remake the world, Stoner must not be allowed to wallow in its earthly filth. He had said it often enough himself. A leader must rule by example, not force. If he killed Fitch, Stoner might briefly reign in his place, but what would the difference be? One murderer (Stoner) stepping into the dead shoes of another murderer (Fitch). I knew what the results would be, too. Stoner would have to start an army to protect himself against his enemies. Then, when that became too tough, he'd have to send the army out to find his enemies before they found him first. It would all end up with another killer, a dead man named Stoner, and a brand-new boss. I knew, if Stoner wanted to win, he had to break this terrible chain before it could really get started. People aren't stupid. They could tell the difference between a killer and a king.
It was strictly up to me to make sure Stoner came out looking like a king. That meant I had to be the dirty man. Fitch would die, but I would do it.
Timing was my biggest problem. I couldn't just step outside, wander the streets, find Fitch and plug him. I had to wait till the moment was ripe. And for that I had to depend upon Stoner.
The next morning, I told him. "I sat up all last night thinking, and the way I see it, the best thing for us to do now is just talk to people and convince them we have the right answers."
"But what about Fitch?" he asked.
"I don't think we should worry about him. Not yet anyway. We have to act as if he doesn't exist. Once we have the people on our side, then we can deal with him."
"Without violence?"
"Sure," I lied.
"Good." He gave me a distant look, hesitated, then went on. "Remember on the road here when I killed that soldier?"
"I remember."
"Well, I can't get that out of my head. It seemed so easy then—I was more concerned about the pain in my shoulder than the fact that a man was dead. But I can't forget him. Who was he? Did he have a wife? Children? Friends? How could I just take his life that way? Who did I think I was?"
I saw that Stoner was genuinely distraught by the memory, and frankly I was glad to see that. "He would have done the same to you. And never worried about it."
"But that hardly makes what I did right."
I nodded.
"I don't want ever to have to do that again. We've got the guns buried outside the city. Is there any way we can defeat Fitch without using them?"
"Then let's handle it the way I suggested."
He was agreeable. "Fine."
The scavengers who had joined us last night looked no better to my eyes this morning, but what did impress me was the way they all waited until Stoner appeared among them. I don't think they would have moved all day if he hadn't stepped forward to tell them how and where. He was becoming a true leader fast. There wasn't any doubt of that.
Stoner spoke to them. "We're all going to go to work today the same as always, though I want you to know I appreciate your coming here last night to talk. From now on, this house will remain my headquarters. I want you to talk to your friends and fellow workers. Tell them what my opinions are and see if they agree.
The only way we can defeat Fitch and take control of our own lives again—and good lives this time, not the ugliness we lived before—is to stand together as a group. Anyone you talk to who says he's interested, please tell him where I live. I'll talk to any man, any night. I think this is the only way we'll ever succeed."
Again the men seemed impressed by his words. Many stopped on their way outside to tell Stoner they would be glad to do as he'd asked. When Stoner, Rhonda, and I were alone in the house, I looked across the room at her. "Maybe we ought to be going now, too. I'm hungry."
"Yes, let's," agreed Stoner.
All three of us were separated that day. I marched back to the ditches, and while the work wasn't any easier than the previous day, my body, in spite of no sleep, seemed stronger. By the time the day ended and I reached my dinner on the corner, I could still stand. Rhonda had spent another day planting trees. When I asked if she'd seen Stoner, she shook her head.
We returned to our usual house to find Stoner there already. The tiny living room overflowed with strangers. I counted 30, then gave up. Stoner, who sat somewhere in the middle of this mob, grinned and talked. I stood silently for a moment and watched him. He spoke about the necessity of ending slavery. What impressed me was that this subject, which had little private significance for anyone present, stirred his audience. Small conversational groups broke away from the main body. Discussions sprang up everywhere. And these people were scroungers and toughs, I had to keep reminding myself. Most of the time, few of them appeared capable of speaking more than a half dozen words without getting hopelessly muddled.
"Michael, there you are."
I turned at the sound of this vaguely familiar voice and found myself looking at Naomi, the old woman who had slaved with us on Fitch's railroad. She had a smile on her face but didn't seem surprised to see me.
"I thought you decided to stay on at the monastery."
"I did, but I got bored very quickly. Prayers and readings. Peace and quiet. I have nothing against any of that, but I guess it's just not enough for me any more. When I was a girl, I loved it, but since then I've changed more than that sort of life has. Brother Sylvester said he understood. I thought that was nice of him."
"But why did you come here?"
"For the same reason as you, I suppose. Stay out in the rural districts and someone will make you his slave. I'd had enough of that, too. I thought I'd try city life for a change. I sure didn't expect it to be like this."
"Well, it didn't used to be. Fitch has changed everything."
"So they tell me. It's why I came here."
"To see us?"
"To see Stoner. Though I've got to admit I didn't connect the name. The last few days, that's all I've been hearing about. Stoner said this and Stoner said that. I decided it was time I found out for myself what he really was saying. So I came here, and what do I find? Nothing but that little ex-slave friend of mine."
"He's changed since then, Naomi. A lot has happened to us. We've all changed."
"For the better, I see."
I appreciated her saying that. When Rhonda joined us, I left the two of them to exclaim delightedly at seeing each other and wandered off to listen to Stoner.
As the days went by, each much like the last, I began to worry that Stoner might soon attract too much fame. The last thing I wanted was a pile of Fitch's troops to come barging in on us and haul Stoner away. To prevent that, I made it a policy to move our dwelling place each night. I cut down on the open meetings and convinced Stoner to stay away from work most days. I feared these necessary steps might backfire and slow down the movement we'd already started. Oddly, the opposite seemed true. The less people actually saw of him, the more Stoner became a popular figure. I heard his name on everyone's lips. He was more of a mystery now. Many people had met him but few knew his present whereabouts. Rumors spread quickly. Stoner was leading an army. Stoner was building a new rural community. I kept my own thoughts private. Few people identified me with Stoner. They might have visited the old house, but I had been only another man present. Only a tiny handful knew I was Stoner's best friend.
One night, a house a block away from where we were staying burned to the ground. I learned later that a squad of soldiers had set the blaze. They were looking for Stoner. The reason they hadn't simply invaded the house was because the present set of rumors suggested Stoner was armed with the most dangerous antique weapons. The soldiers were actually afraid of him.
I retaliated by ordering Stoner not to go outside, day or night, where he could be seen. He didn't like that at all. "How can I talk to these people and tell them what I believe if I have to stay hidden all the time?"
"You've already talked to them. They already believe. Leave it at that."
"But how can I? Nothing has changed, has it?"
"It will. Trust me. The right time is almost here." He agreed to do as I asked, but if he trusted me, I didn't trust him. I set Naomi, who stayed with us now, to guard him. I impressed upon her the danger involved and she promised to do the best she could.
But that couldn't provide anything more than a temporary pause. I knew the moment I had supposedly been waiting for had now come to pass. It was time for me to act.
The following day, as we left our current house for the nearest food distribution point, I asked Rhonda if she was really hungry.
"Sure. Why shouldn't I be?"
"Remember, you told me once you knew where Fitch lived. I wondered if you'd mind taking off from work today and showing me that place. We can always scrounge some food later."
"Why? What do you want to see Fitch's house for?"
I briefly considered revealing my intentions to her, then decided against it. The fewer people who knew of my plans, the better, and the fewest possible number was one—me. "I thought it would be a good idea. Later on, when things start to happen, we're all going to have to know."
"What things?"
I shrugged. "Whatever we decide on."
It took a few more minutes but she agreed to show me. We turned toward the downtown area. Food distribution points occupied approximately every fifth corner we passed, but none of the many soldiers we saw tried to halt our walk. I thought that was probably the most intelligent aspect of Fitch's policy; he refused to use any sort of coercion. A person worked only if he wanted. If he didn't, though, the problem of eating was squarely on his shoulders, and suspected thieves were usually shot on the spot.
The number of passing soldiers increased as we proceeded. Fitch's house occupied a city block all its own. As Rhonda had originally described it, the house was a big one and quite well-preserved. The windows were covered with boards, and a squad of soldiers, every one of them armed, circled the house. From the opposite side of the street, Rhonda and I watched for several minutes. I kept my eyes fastened on the front door of the house. I counted three men coming out— all were soldiers. I counted two additional men going in. After the second man—not a soldier—had disappeared through the door, I told Rhonda, "Maybe we'd better get out of here."
A couple of the guards seemed to be eyeing us suspiciously from across the street. Since I'd found out all I really needed to know, I saw no reason to hang around and attract attention.
Rhonda wasn't very happy with me. She disliked hard work as much as I did, but she refused to believe that the trip to Fitch's house was worth the loss of three good meals. I promised to make it up to her another day and, when we passed one of the food distribution points, managed to grab a pair of fat, red apples. I gave them both to her. One thing about scrounging: it builds a pair of quick hands.
In spite of the curfew, I decided that night would still be my best time to move. We made a lonely, haggard, unpleasant group that evening. Since none of us had worked all day, there was no food to be shared. Stoner groaned the loudest. After his brief period of fame, this constant inactivity was getting to him.
I waited till most of the complaining had died down and the sun had snuck from the sky, then motioned to Rhonda that I wanted to see her outside.
We hid in a dark nook. "I've got to go out for a while," I explained, "and if something happens I may not get back tonight. I want you to take care of Stoner. Go ahead and work unless it's absolutely necessary not to. And don't worry. I'll be all right."
She squeezed my arm. "Goodbye, Michael."
I didn't like her tone. "Hey, don't say it like that. I'm not going out to die. I'll be back."
"Can you promise me that?"
I decided to stick with the truth. "No."
"Then I'm going to say it like that."
We parted.
I still recalled the best methods for moving through the dark city streets without being seen. I kept to the blackest alleyways and the deepest shadows. Twice, wandering soldiers nearly spotted me, but both times I froze in my steps and escaped detection.
As I climbed the hilly streets leading to my destination, I hesitantly exposed myself more openly to view. Fortunately, Fitch's control didn't appear to extend this far. I passed a man walking a small dog. That gave me heart. I knew I must be near.
If the ruins of Seattle had been nearly transformed by Fitch's occupation, the civilized zone upon the big hill seemed totally unaltered. Lights burned in nearly all the houses; pedestrians moved freely about; and there were no soldiers. According to what I'd heard, Fitch had largely left this area alone. He depended upon the traders to feed his army and didn't dare cross them. I hoped all that was true.
The private guards continued to roam the streets as well. As with the soldiers, I kept my distance from them.
When I reached Priest's house, I decided not to knock on the door. Using the shadows cast by the big trees to shield me, I darted toward the big front window and peeked through. Priest was seated in the living room, surrounded by his clocks. He was reading from an old book. In a distant corner, a young boy sat cross-legged on the floor. He seemed to be doing nothing except waiting for Priest to issue new orders.
Under the circumstances excessive subtlety seemed unnecessary. I slipped past the window, stepped to the door, and knocked boldly.
When the boy answered, I slugged him square on the jaw.
Stepping over the body, I moved inside the house. The boy hadn't uttered a peep. I went into the living room and stood silently. Priest, in his chair, wheezed as he read.
I coughed.
He must have jumped a meter into the air, screaming all the while.
When he saw me, his face went pale. "Michael, you frightened me," he said.
"I thought I might have." I moved farther into the room on poised feet. Sometimes, I knew, Priest kept more than one helper on the premises. "Didn't you hear me knock?"
He pursed his plump lips angrily. "Yes, but that boy knows better than to let anyone in here unannounced."
"I asked him to make it a surprise."
"Still, he should have known better than—"
I stood directly over his chair and enjoyed the mental advantage my height gave me. "I told him to make it a surprise."
Priest's fear had evaporated to the point where he felt secure enough to get angry. "What do you want here? If you have a relic, show it to me. Otherwise, I'm busy."
I was remembering how little I had ever liked this man My right hand shot out and caught hold of the fabric of his tunic. I squeezed his round neck. "I want to know what you were doing in the ruins today?"
"How dare you?" he managed, gagging.
"At Mr. Fitch's private residence."
His eyes started to pop. I thought he was playacting. My grip was nowhere near that tight. "My movements are none of your business. Daniel! Daniel!"
I glanced toward the doorway. Daniel, apparently, was the boy I'd laid to sleep. "He won't be coming." I squeezed his neck tighter. This time he really had something to complain about. His face got red, then blue. "Tell me what I want to know." I released him. He was no good to me dead.
He sat, gasping, wheezing, and gagging.
"Now talk," I said, when he caught his breath.
"Why… why should it interest you?"
"Just talk. I'll decide if it interests me."
"I'm a trader by profession. Mr. Fitch, as you know, has recently occupied the ruins with an eye toward repairing them. I've been helping him and he's been helping me. It's simply a business proposition and of no great interest to anyone else."
"Are you good friends?"
He pursed his lips. I could see he was recalling something disagreeable. I guessed that Fitch liked Priest no more than I did. "I wouldn't say that."
"How often do you see him?"
"Once or twice a week. It's really—" He stopped, turning suddenly sly. "Would you mind telling me—without the dramatics—why you want to know all this?"
"Because, tomorrow, you're going to see Fitch again. And because tomorrow I'm going with you."
"But that's impossible. Fitch guards himself like a treasure. No one sees him unless he wants to see them."
"Then it'll be up to you to convince him he wants to see me."
"I can't do that. I'd be risking my own position." I watched him struggle to be calm. "Michael, if you want, simply tell me what you wish to say, and I'll be more than willing to relay the message to Fitch."
I grinned. "I don't want to say anything—I want to do something."
"Well, what?"
"I want to kill Fitch."
That got him gasping and wheezing.
"And if you refuse to help, then I'll have to kill you, too."
"But his men have guns. I've seen them—they work. Michael, you'll get us both killed. You aren't even armed."
"Sure, I am." I let him see my hands. "I have these, don't I?"
He moaned, whether from fear or worry or simple frustration I didn't know.
"Will you take me there or not?" I tried to appear threatening. "Tell me now—I'm not kidding."
"I'll try."
I raised a hand. "Try hard?"
"Yes, yes." He winced.
I dropped my hand. "Then stay where you are. I'll be right back."
He sat low in his soft chair and grasped his head in his hands.
I paused in the doorway. "I'll be listening. If you take one step, I'll be in here to make sure you don't take a second."
Then I went and found some rope and tied Daniel's hands and feet. He wasn't awake yet, but he was breathing. To be on the safe side, I stuffed a gag between his teeth, then deposited the body in a convenient closet.
When I got back to the living room, Priest was waiting for me. He turned his big, sorrowful eyes on my face. "Michael, won't you ever tell me what this is all about?"
"We're going to save the world, Mr. Priest," I replied, patting his knee kindly. "You and me—we really are."
In order to get the rest I knew I needed, I took what remained of the rope I had used to bind poor Daniel and tied Priest to his chair. He whined and bleated, complaining he was too old and tender for such mistreatment, but I calmed him somewhat by promising not to make the knots too tight. I was as good as my word in this instance. I figured Priest was too old and tender to do much escaping, either.
In the morning when he opened his eyes, Priest gasped in surprise. In the restful world of sleep, he had forgotten all about the dreaded horror (me) that had come creeping by last night. Then I realized it was simply because he didn't recognize me.
"It's Michael," I explained and pointed at my clothes. "I decided I'd better borrow these. Daniel's, I assume?"
He nodded speechlessly.
"After all, I can't go visiting a man as powerful as Fitch when I look like a battered scavenger." I rather liked my outfit personally. The silk pants were perhaps a bit extreme, and my bare knees far from pretty, but I loved the bright rainbow colors of the shirt and vest and enjoyed wearing the three-cornered hat so that one tip nearly covered my eye.
Poor Priest still wasn't quite ready to talk.
I knelt beside him and unfastened the ropes. "My name is Michael Sullivan. I'm your sister's son—"
"I don't have a sister." I was at least glad to hear him speak.
"Does Fitch know that?"
"I don't see how." Freed, he stretched his arms and legs, moaning softly.
"Then you have a sister. Or you did. She's dead now, and I own her land. It's in Oregon. A huge ranch. I raise cattle. I want to see Fitch to find out if I can work a deal with him where I herd my cattle all the way up here to Seattle and he pays me back in slaves and relics."
He nodded distastefully. I assumed it was the idea of being related to me that he disliked.
"Anything wrong with it?" I asked.
"Just one point." I was pleased to see that he realized the veracity of this story could mean both our lives. "I'm a trader. I live just by handling such deals. What reason do you have for needing to see Mr. Fitch personally?"
"Because I don't trust you to handle anything for me."
"But I'm your uncle."
"That's why Fitch will believe it. He'll see that I know you too well."
I stirred Priest from his chair and got him into some acceptable clothes. On the way through the kitchen, I grabbed two apples and a thin knife.
I made sure Priest saw the knife. "I'm going to carry this with me. One false word from you once we're out of here and in the streets and I'll bury the blade in your throat."
"Don't be a fool, Michael. The guards search everyone who wants to see Fitch."
"Then I'll get rid of it before then. But I'm not kidding. Hear me?"
He nodded. My control over him had obviously lessened with the coming of the day. Perhaps I had overextended myself—made too many threats.
But it was too late to back out now or find new tactics. I waved him toward the front door. "Let's go." I bit into the apple. Fresh.
Few people were up and around this early in the civilized zone. I didn't have to start worrying about Priest until we'd descended from the hills and reached the central city streets. Even here, we passed only a few work parties. I steered Priest as far away from the milling soldiers as possible. I played with the knife in a pocket. I didn't know whether he was frightened or just cautious. He made no attempt to cause any trouble.
We soon reached Fitch's house. As before, the soldiers lounged in front. Before approaching, I took Priest's arm and squeezed tightly. He gasped. At the same moment, I let the knife drop from my fingers. The guards couldn't see. "If we get caught," I said, "you're in this with me. Fitch will never excuse you for letting me get this far. You'll be blamed, too."
I saw from the pain in his face that I'd guessed accurately. Priest must know Fitch as well as I did and be aware that Fitch was not a man who easily forgave another's weaknesses.
Keeping my grip on Priest's arm, I led him firmly across the street. The guard closest to the front door moved to intercept us. "Good morning, Mr. Priest." He stood so that he blocked our way and looked questioningly at me.
"This is my nephew, Michael Sullivan," explained Priest. "He and I need to discuss a matter of business with Mr. Fitch."
"You have an appointment?"
Priest shook his head. I thought he was acting well enough, but the possibility existed that he was dropping all sorts of clues as to my real identity without my being aware of it.
If so, the guard didn't seem to be aware, either. "Do you want me to fetch Mr. Brenner?"
"Yes, please do," said Priest.
The guard escorted us as far as the doorway, then slipped inside alone. I caught a glance of more soldiers—at least three—lounging inside. Priest breathed heavily now that we were alone.
"Who is Mr. Brenner?" I asked, keeping my voice low so that it wouldn't pierce the closed door.
"Fitch's chief assistant. A former slave. He must pass on all visitors."
We waited much too long. I got impatient. Except for the line of soldiers, the street remained empty. There was something sinister and unpleasant about this absence of human life. I could sense that Priest was as nervous as me.
At last, Mr. Brenner appeared. He was barely a boy—thin as an arrow and dressed as a soldier. He looked at Priest with frank contempt and said, "You were here only yesterday."
"Yes, I know, but this is my nephew."
"So the guard told me."
I nodded. Any more familiar greeting seemed unwarranted by Brenner's chilly mood.
Priest continued to do the talking. "He arrived only late yesterday and cannot remain in the city long. He owns a large ranch in Oregon and wishes to discuss the possibility with Mr. Fitch of furnishing beef to the city."
Brenner studied me carefully. It was plain he didn't think I looked much like a rancher, and I had to admit he was right. "What's wrong with Portland?"
I saw this was a trick question designed to lure me out. "There's no control there and few traders. I don't want to get involved in that sort of situation." I only hoped this was true. I hadn't been in Portland in two years; the situation might have changed.
Apparently, it hadn't. Brenner seemed almost satisfied. "You won't have that difficulty with Mr. Fitch. But today is a bad day."
"I have to leave tonight." I thought this was better; I preferred doing my own lying. Nonetheless, I kept a watchful eye on Priest.
"Why not let Priest do your negotiating for you?"
I realized this would be one of my strongest points. "I prefer handling that sort of thing myself."
Brenner looked at Priest, then at me. I saw a faint smile cross his thin lips. "Come inside."
I had to restrain myself from heaving a sigh of relief as the heavy door shut behind us. "I'll be back in a moment." Brenner left us standing there.
I had counted accurately. There were three guards. One of them politely asked me to extend my arms. He patted my clothes, then did the same to Priest. The hallway was barely furnished. The white plaster showed many cracks, especially in the ceiling, but the house itself seemed remarkably well preserved. Fitch had chosen well.
Brenner did not return right away. I strained to make pleasant conversation with Priest. I talked about my ranch and family in Oregon. He answered in monosyllables. I asked after his collection of relics. He said he'd given up the hobby now that the scroungers had been forced to go to work. I didn't like that answer—it struck too close to me—but the guards appeared not even to hear us.
When Brenner returned, he looked unhappy. "Mr. Fitch can see you but only for a few minutes. We've received rumors of some difficulty among the people. They're refusing to work today."
I didn't like the sound of that at all, but it would be out of character for me to sound too concerned. "Nothing you can't handle, I'm sure."
"Not unless they're all willing to starve to death."
I laughed pleasantly and followed Brenner. Deeper inside the house, more guards appeared. I tried not to let this bother me. I had entered this house originally with little expectation of ever getting out alive. The additional guards only made this more certain. I wasn't losing anything—only confirming it.
We went up a flight of stairs. This second floor corridor was empty. Priest nodded meaningfully toward the door at the end of the hall. This, I guessed, was where Fitch would be found.
Brenner knocked twice. A firm voice said, "Enter."
We did.
Fitch sat in a big chair, his big hands extended along the soft, padded arms. When we entered, he looked up.
I readied myself to spring at once.
As his eyes passed quickly over me, I relaxed. Immediate action would not be necessary.
Fitch failed to recognize me.
Somehow this failure only deepened my will to act. What he had done to me, and now he didn't even remember any of it.
"Your name is Sullivan?" He looked straight at me. I thought I spotted a vague sort of curiosity in his gaze. He didn't remember me yet, but he was at least intrigued.
"Michael Sullivan," I said. Brenner had left the room. The three of us were alone now. I edged forward.
"Your cousin, Priest?"
"My nephew, sir." Priest couldn't conceal his fear. I realized the emotion fit. Fitch disliked Priest, and Priest knew it. "From Oregon. A big rancher."
"I'm not entirely convinced I have much more need for beef. It's too costly to feed to the people, and I seem to be able to obtain enough to satisfy my troops."
I took another step. That made four. "I won't ask for much in the way of payment. I think a deal would be worth your while." A fifth step.
Fitch frowned. I could see his memory clicking. "Haven't we met before?" he finally asked.
I nodded tightly. "I think it's possible."
''When? Did you used to live near here?"
"I lived in Seattle itself once." I continued stepping. When I stood within arm's reach of the chair, I halted. A single blow. To the throat. I could risk nothing more. I tensed my hand, relaxed my arm, gauged the trajectory. My mind was a deliberate blank. If I thought about what I had to do, I would surely fail.
"I've never been here before myself."
I could hear Priest's heavy breath behind my back. I locked my eyes to those of Fitch. "When we met before, you offered me a job."
"I did?" Behind his confusion, faint recollection glowed.
"Slave overseer," I said tersely.
The gasp of recognition I had sought came at last. As Fitch fell back, I swung. My hand moved at lightning speed. I saw his throat open and waiting. I knew, if I hit him correctly, he would die instantly. Priest screamed in horror.
And Fitch blocked the blow with the edge of his arm.
I cried out, my hand numb. This was the one thing I had failed to take into account: Fitch knew how to fight as well as I did.
He tipped his chair and went over. I went after him. He reached his knees. I bowled him over.
"Guard! Guard!" Priest was crying. "Help! Murder!"
Everything outside the immediate range of my sight blurred. I saw Fitch's face, his throat. My hands closed around his neck. I squeezed. The fingers stung. His own hands came up, tore at my face, searched for the eyes.
Dimly, I heard the door bang open. There were shouts—Priest's voice, and another—probably Brenner's. Footsteps banged and crashed. I held Fitch's neck in my grasp and tried to choke the life out of him.
"Michael!" I screamed at him in a rage. "You didn't remember me. I'm Michael—Michael! You kept me in a cage. You tried to destroy me. I'm Michael!"
I knew he remembered me now. His eyes bulged. His face grew dark and bloated. His hands flopped weakly against my face.
Then there were two hands around my own neck, reaching around from the back. I felt the pain but refused to be moved. My hands grew stronger. I squeezed. Then I heard a shout:
"Get back! Get out of the way! I can't hit him with you there!"
The hands around my throat went away. I took a deep, healthy gasp of air. A sharp click resounded. A wisp of spittle dripped from Fitch's flacid lips. His face was blue—or purple. More than anything in all eternity, I wanted his poor life to be over.
I thought of Stoner and Rhonda waiting.
I heard the shot. It sounded loud and clear in my consciousness. For a long time, I thought that was all there would be. Just that one shot—disembodied, cut off from myself.
Then I felt the bullet driving through the flesh of my back, and I knew I was hit. There was no need to cry out. Why should a dead man scream?
My hands stayed tight and firm on Fitch's neck.
I was so thoroughly convinced that I was dead that when I first woke up in bed, I assumed this must be the afterlife.
Then, blinking rapidly, I managed to identify the faint blur that loomed near the door of the pale room. The blur was a man, a soldier in uniform.
There couldn't be soldiers in heaven, I decided. Not only was I alive; I must have failed. The soldier was one of Fitch's men.
I think I cried out once and then lost consciousness.
The next time I awoke, the room was the same, the soldier was the same, but the girl wasn't. She sat beside my bed, her hand holding my wrist, and she smiled when she noticed my eyes were open. "Michael," she said, softly, joyously.
It was Rhonda.
"Is he dead?" My voice sounded unreal, disembodied. "Fitch? Did I kill him?"
The joy fled from her face. "You did," she said.
I felt no pleasure, but relief. "It had to be done."
"I suppose so."
"Are we prisoners?"
"Us? No. This is our house."
"But what about him?" I tried to point at the soldier, but when I moved, a terrible pain shot up and down my spine.
She laid a restraining hand on my bare chest. I noticed then that the middle part of my body was wrapped in white bandages. "Don't do that. The soldier is one of ours."
"We have soldiers?"
The joy had not returned. "We won, Michael."
She refused to answer any more questions, just sat with me quietly. Eventually, I must have dozed off and when I woke the next time, she was still there. "I've brought you some soup. Please try to eat it." The soldier had gone.
I ate. The soup was warm and tasteless. I liked the feel of it sliding down my throat and into my belly. Rhonda took the empty bowl away, then came back and sat beside me. "If that stays down, we can talk. I just don't want you to tire yourself."
"I feel fine," I lied.
"Michael, you were shot in the back and the bullet went all the way through you. You can't feel fine."
"Well, I do feel like talking."
"Why?"
"Because I want to know why I'm not dead."
"Because you're so strong. And because, I imagine, you didn't want to die."
"That's all it takes?"
She blushed lightly. "I think I may have helped."
"I think you may have saved my life. Again."
"I wanted to."
"Tell me what happened."
"When?"
"After I was shot."
"Well, we didn't really know what to do. I wanted to rush the house as soon as we saw you go inside, but Stoner said that too many people would die if we tried that, and we had to wait for you to succeed. I knew, if we waited that long, you would be dead, but Stoner said he couldn't justify saving your life at the cost of 20 others, and I guess he was right. I didn't feel that way at the time—I didn't care about anything except that you shouldn't die—but Stoner wouldn't listen to me."
"He shouldn't have. But who were these men with you? And what were you doing watching me go inside?"
"You don't think we intended to let you die without a chance? As soon as you left that night, I told Stoner what I thought you planned to do."
"I told you not to tell anyone."
"So? You're not my boss."
I could have gotten mad then, but my body was still too weak for any such strong emotions. "So what did Stoner say?"
"He agreed that we should move right away. That night, we both went out and found 20 people we could trust. Then we found 20 more and told them to spread the word. Be ready for trouble in the morning. A big bang was about to blow. Don't be obvious about it; don't tell the soldiers anything; but don't get too involved in your work, either. A lot of people, I understand, didn't show up for work the next morning, and that nearly alerted the soldiers, but only Stoner and I knew the full scoop, and of course we couldn't be caught."
"Where were you?"
"With the first 20 men. We snuck into the houses across the street from Fitch's headquarters and waited for you to show up. It seemed to take forever the next day. Then you came with that fat man and we watched you both go inside."
"That was Priest. How is he?"
"All right, I suppose. It was funny. We wanted to reward him—for helping you—but he refused to stay around even that long. He said he had to get home. I couldn't understand it. He kept talking about somebody locked in a closet.
I laughed, not the wisest gesture to make. I winced in pain. "But what did you do?"
"Waited. What else could we do? Stoner said we shouldn't move till the soldiers on guard indicated the right time. I studied them for what seemed like hours. Then we heard a shot. I didn't think you had a gun. The soldiers rushed inside. I ran out of the house and after them. It wasn't till I got through the door that I looked back and saw Stoner and the others following."
"And nobody tried to stop you?"
"They were all packed into that one little room upstairs. Fitch, I could tell right away, was dead. It was awful. Then I saw you in a pile of blood. Two soldiers had guns pointed at your face. I screamed at them to get out of the way. They did. I think I just surprised them."
"I can see how that might happen," I murmered admiringly.
"I looked at you. I saw the wound in your stomach and realized the bullet must have entered from the back. Some of our people helped me; even the soldiers helped. We saved you. Somehow the bullet had missed hitting anything vital. When it was safe, we brought you here. This is our new headquarters."
"And Stoner is in charge?"
"Sure. Who else? He's just kept on with what Fitch was doing before, but the people don't grumble quite as much."
"I'd like to see him."
"I'm sure you will. The first time you woke up, I could hardly keep him away. He had to go up to the civilized zone to talk to some traders, but when he comes back you'll see him."
"So we won," I said.
She nodded but then sighed. "That's what they say." Rhonda had to restrain Stoner to keep him from embracing me when he showed up later in the day. Once she had calmed him down, she took her departure. I made her promise to come back as soon as she could. She said she was going to get me some more soup.
Stoner's eyes glowed as he observed me. "Michael, you don't, know how worried I've been. You looked so awful that day. The blood was everywhere, and then you wouldn't wake up. But now you're alive, and everything's fine."
"Rhonda says I still can't move around for another week."
"That's not important. What's important is that you're alive. You're alive, and we're free."
"Tell me what you've been doing," I said. A sudden, unexpected change came over his face. He looked sad and shook his head sorrowfully. "It hasn't worked, Michael. I've tried everything I can think of, but it just won't work here."
"What won't?" I didn't understand him. "My society. My civilization. There's too much junk; too much clutter in the cities. Fitch is dead, but all I can do here is assume his place. That isn't enough, Michael. We have to do more."
"So what do you intend to do?" Speaking of these serious matters was difficult. My brain hadn't yet regained its full power of concentration.
Stoner brightened somewhat. "I've thought it over. I'm going to move, Michael, leave the city. Fitch ruled a rural empire. I'm going to go out and pick up what he left behind."
"And all the people here? Those that believed in you?"
"I know that's a problem, but they'll just have to decide. Anyone who wants to can come with me. It won't be easy. They'll have to learn to be self-sufficient. The cities destroyed our people once. We have to start anew in a place where we're free to be different." I nodded, admitting he was right. Rhonda returned. She helped me sit up, then placed the soup on a tray in my lap. I was able to feed myself. "And you want me to go with you?" I said to Stoner. "Is that right?"
"Well, of course, Michael. You and I have been through so much together. Rhonda, too. I've already spoken to Naomi and she can hardly wait to go. I could never get along without you."
"Then what happened here?" I asked pointedly. "While I've been sleeping in bed, you've taken effective control of a city."
"Well, that was easy. I took over from Fitch." I was shaking my head. "No, Bill, I appreciate what you're saying, but you're wrong. You don't need me. If anything, I'll hinder what you want to do now, not help. I'm lousy at thinking. I'm good at doing things. I killed Fitch because you couldn't and shouldn't have. But this is my home. If you leave the city, it'll soon be just the way it was before. And that's my world, Bill. It's where I live and do the best. It's my home. I'm staying."
Stoner looked stricken, as though I had suddenly turned on him with outstretched claws, but there was no way I could explain any better than I already had. I sipped my soup.
"Michael's right," said Rhonda, coming over. "It doesn't mean he doesn't believe in you or doesn't admire you, Bill. It's just that Michael is a different person and has to do what's best for him."
"There's no way I can get you to change your mind?" Stoner asked.
"No way at all," I said.
"And me, too," Rhonda said suddenly.
I looked at her. "You what?"
"I'm staying here with you."
"But you can't."
"But I am." She laid a finger upon my lips and smiled. "And I don't care whether you like it or not."
This time even Stoner didn't try to protest. One thing about Rhonda: when she made up her mind, that was the end of it.
Somehow I couldn't get mad about it, either. Rhonda had saved my life at least twice.
I decided she would be a very handy person to have around.
"Thank you," I told her later, after Stoner had left us.
"You're welcome," she said softly.
Stoner delayed his departure from the city until I had recovered sufficiently from my wounds to stand outside and watch him leave. He even looked a true ruler. He rode a white horse; he wore brilliant silks; and the men and women he led cheered him as they stood waiting to go.
I also surveyed the people who lined the streets, here stood the scroungers, scavengers and toughs who, with me, would soon regain control of the city. It was difficult to determine how they felt right now. With Stoner's departure, the food they had had access to would disappear. They would still have to work, though after their own fashion now. I decided that they were not unhappy. As much as I despised them, these people were more like me than they were like Stoner. There were bonds between us. We believed in living and dying and little else. If, unlike Stoner, we were incapable of saving the world, neither were we apt to go around destroying it.
Rhonda stood beside me. Together we watched Stoner as he gathered himself to depart. A long, tearful (on Stoner's part) goodbye had already passed between us. I was glad there was nothing left to do but watch.
With a final wave of his hat (I think, until the very end, Stoner expected me to change my mind and go with him), Stoner nudged his horse forward. I observed his bobbing head until the bulk of the men following had obscured it from view.
"I hope he'll be all right," Rhonda said, squeezing my hand.
"Do you have any doubts? He's already started on a new book."
"It takes more than books to survive."
"For us, yes. For him, I'm not so sure."
The mob that had gathered to watch now quickly dispersed. I saw people eyeing one another suspiciously. By nightfall, Seattle would be itself again. Except for a few sanitation ditches, some new trees and clean houses, the city would show no sign that men like Fitch and Stoner had once lived here.
"I'll show you to my treehouse," I told her. "If it's still there."
As we walked, passing through streets familiar to me from old times, she said, "This must all feel funny to you. All we've been through—you've been through— and the end is just the same as the beginning."
"You're different," I replied, squeezing her hand gently with mine.
"Sure, but what else?"
I let a gleam creep into my eye. "Well, we're rich for one thing."
"We are?"
"Sure. And we owe all that to Stoner and Fung Tu."
"But we don't have a thing. No money—it'll be useless here anyway—and no goods."
"Then you've forgotten." I was toying with her. Not very nice—but fun.
"Forgotten what?"
"Why, the guns, of course. The three crates. Don't you remember we hauled them all this way so that we could shoot poor Fitch."
"And they're buried in that house."
"Exactly. Guns. Rifles. Real bullets. Chinese guns. You don't know how precious those will be among the collectors. We'll rest tonight. Sneak some food in from the old headquarters. But first thing tomorrow morning we go find those guns."
"I can hardly wait."
"Me, either." I mused thoughtfully for a moment. "I wonder if Priest would be interested in a deal?"
Although the old man did not here cease in his ruminations, it soon became evident that no further mention of William Stoner would occur and your editor thus interrupted the interviews and took his leave.
Throughout the period during which the original interviews were being revised, a number of my fellow scribes asked for and received the privilege of reviewing the basic material of the narrative. A number of disputes thus arose, though no evidence was ever raised to contradict a specific assertion, but the most heated of these centered about the author's claim that a meeting had occurred between William Stoner and a party of Chinese sailors. Because of the dispute and also because of the fantastic nature of this claim, I initiated a correspondence with one Ho Tao Ling, official court historian to the emperor Moon. Due to the importance of this matter, publication of this narrative has been deliberately withheld until such time as the correspondence reached a definite conclusion. What therefore follows herewith, as a general postscript to Michael's narrative, is an attempt to portray in dramatic terms the substance of this correspondence. In no instance has any assertion been made that cannot be thoroughly substantiated by Chinese court records presently in the possession of the undersigned. The series of questions formulated at the end and placed within the mind of the late sailor, Fung Tu, are, one must believe, as yet unanswered.
—Richard Meredew
Official Historian & Scribe
Court of Seattle
Even though he was now quite alone upon the wide shaded porch with Chiang Te Ping, official court historian to the Emperor Moon, Fung Tu realized that ancient ritual necessitated that he remain silent, sipping tea, eating only an occasional bite, smiling, bowing, nodding, until Chiang himself signalled that the period of proper meditation was at an end. What amused Fung wasn't the necessity of the time-honored ritual, but rather his own impatience at its seemingly unendurable duration. What is wrong with me, he wondered quizzically. Have I spent so much time in the West these last few years that I am beginning to think like an American? Time, he reminded himself, was merely an endless procession of interrelated moments, and thus to hurry was a pointless process, like a goat butting its head against impenetrable stone. Old Chiang sipped his tea and smiled graciously. He knew this ritual well. For him, it seemed as natural and harmonious as the steady turning of the earth. Fung Tu desperately wished he could somehow duplicate the old man's emotion, but so far such detachment eluded him.
The porch outside Chiang's modest house, where the two men ate, overlooked the great imperial palace of Peking. From where he crouched beside the low table, Fung Tu could observe one flat, slanting palace wall as sheer as glass and as sparkling as jade. Within lived the emperor himself, a boy of twelve at present, and the swelling number of court nobles, retainers, and hangers-on. The new Moon dynasty was now in its fourth generation, but already, as history dictated must happen, the blood ran less thickly than before. The previous emperor, this boy's paternal grandfather, had ruled capably during the early years of his reign but had slipped inexorably into quiet debauchery as middle age approached. Since then, the court had ruled the daily affairs of the nation, while the emperor played, and now this situation would certainly prevail. The dynasty itself would, of course, continue, while the bureaucracy slowly rotted from within. Chiang Te Ping placed the final collapse of the Moon dynasty some ten additional generations in the future. Still, Fung Tu often wondered at the shape of history's dominant arch: how quickly things rose and how slowly they fell.
The season was gentle spring. A cool wind blew. Fung Tu felt more and more at ease here. Thick cherry blossoms covered the trees that surrounded the palace, and a clean, almost tender, fragrance permeated the air. Fung had reached the shores of China only ten days earlier. A glorious parade of dancers and soldiers had guided him to Peking, where yesterday he had met with the boy emperor and his chief advisors. But it was today—as he met with Chiang—that constituted the true conclusion of his long voyage.
Suddenly, without advance warning, Chiang Te Ping snapped his
fingers. Fung Tu hastily lowered his empty teacup to the tabletop and
settled calmly back. A servant appeared from within the house and
slowly gathered the dishes and cups onto a silver tray. Fung Tu used
the opportunity to cast a curious glance at his host. Chiang, though as
frail as a reed and close to ninety years, retained much of the
positive vigor of a powerful youth. His fingernails were worn clipped
closely to the skin, at odds with the present high court style, and his
gray hair was drawn tightly back in a neat, round bun. Fung recalled
the old story of how Chiang, who recorded the court annals daily in his
own hand, had once aroused the curiosity of the old emperor. He had
demanded to see what was being written of his own reign. Two armed
soldiers visited Chiang's residence and demanded the pertinent papers,
but Chiang met them at the door and, exposing his bare chest, said
bluntly, "You may have my life, but you may never have my mind. What I
write is intended to guide our children. I would forsake my father
before I betrayed them." The soldiers, deeply impressed by Chiang's
quiet courage, returned to the palace. The emperor never dared send
them forth again.
The servant, neatly balancing his tray, departed.
Now, at long last, Chiang Te Ping spoke. "You have accomplished your mission, good friend." The remark was at least partly intended as a question.
Fung Tu bowed slightly. "Honored sir, I believe that I have."
"Excellent." Chiang smiled and also bowed. "Then please relate the details of your journey."
Fung Tu spoke carefully of the actual physical progress of his voyage. He had reached land upon the coast of Peru and then sailed slowly northward. Only near Canada did he at last succeed in establishing contact with the sort of man for whom he had been seeking. He told Chiang Te Ping about a young American, William Stoner, and the old historian nodded without comment...
Fung, as he continued speaking, recalled the first time he and Chiang had spoken on this same porch four years before. They had, after eating, spoken then of Fung's past voyages, his celebrated trips to the Hindi Empire and Africa. It was Chiang who, without prelude, had then suggested the possibility of a voyage to America.
Fung Tu had at first resisted the idea. "Great scholar, I fear that such a long ocean voyage may lie beyond the present capabilities of our fleet. My current intentions are to circumnavigate the African continent and eventually reach Europe."
Chiang, obviously disappointed, had stroked his bearded chin. "The Hindus report only savagery there."
Fung Tu had nodded. "That is true, and yet should we not attempt to confirm such theories?"
"In time, yes," Chiang had agreed. "But first I must show you certain truths." When he had snapped his fingers, a young retainer promptly emerged from the house. The boy had carried a wide sheet of heavy cardboard, which he placed upon the bare tabletop. Fung Tu, leaning forward, had studied the markings and writings inscribed upon the sheet. He had recognized this object as an historian's chart, a record designed to show past events and calculate probable future ones. "Do you understand what you are seeing?" Chiang had asked, with uncharacteristic bluntness.
"Not fully."
"This is," Chiang had said, tracing one line with a fingertip, "the course of our present dynasty. Here, you see, is the end. And this—" he had touched a place where the line jumped suddenly higher "—represents the rise of a new dynasty."
"But it ends so abruptly."
"Do you know why?"
"Internal rebellion, I suppose."
"No, external conquest. American conquest." Chiang had settled back.
Fung might have asked how Chiang knew this to be true, but he had long ago learned never to question a scholar concerning his own specialty. Since Chiang was an historian, if he said that China would fall to the West within a few centuries, then he was only telling what his special wisdom told him to be true.
"And what do you wish me to do to prevent this?"
"Please answer a question first. Ask yourself, would China ever attempt to conquer America?"
"No, of course not," Fung said automatically.
"And why not?"
"Because such an act would violate every principle that makes our people great."
"Then shouldn't we, in our own defense, attempt to instill these same principles within the Americans?"
Fung had considered the idea. The way Chiang described it, the solution had seemed so simple. "Then I will voyage to America," he had finally said.
But that was four years past, and Fung now admitted that many times afterward, during the course of the long, tedious voyage up the American coast, he had suffered a great many doubts and hesitations.
And then he met William Stoner.
"And so," said Chiang, "you believe that this man Stoner on his own will succeed in establishing within America a Confucian state?"
"I believe so now, yes."
"Why, great sailor?"
"Because William Stoner believes what we believe, and because what we believe is correct."
"Yet you gave him guns."
Fung nodded. "I did."
"Why?"
"To confirm my own expectations, I gave Stoner the guns to see if he would use them."
"Did he?"
"I sent two sailors after him to find out. They followed Stoner to this city, Seattle, and studied his activities. The rebellion succeeded and the guns were not used."
"That is welcome news. Yet did you not unnecessarily tempt this man Stoner?"
"I believe not. Without my guns, he would have obtained others, found different weapons. I afforded him the choice of two paths, the right and the wrong. Fortunately, he elected the right way."
"And I am pleased," sighed Chiang. "You have served well and our kingdom has won."
Fung nodded automatically. "Indeed we have, kind sir." Yet, even as he sat here, basking in Chiang's smiling approval, with the great imperial palace so near, he wondered: have we won, after all? Who, in other words, had manipulated whom? Was it himself? Or Stoner?
Only time could answer these questions, and time was the one quantity not even Chiang Te Ping, in spite of his charts and graphs, could ever hope to control.