Complete Short Fiction, page 24
“Shoot ’em!” snarled Mardue, the oldest man present.
“The damned young upstarts!” snapped Harlihan, airways minister.
There was a muttering among the older men that would have been good to hear if Kathleen hadn’t been so acutely aware of the sordid mind churnings that accompanied the low clamor. Hatred was there, and ugly fear, and doubt and arrogance, frustration and determination—all were there, a deadly tangle of mental squalor.
The faintest bit pale, John Petty faced that muttering; but Kier Gray leaped to his feet, eyes blazing, fists clenched: “Sit down, you unutterable fool! How dared you precipitate this crisis now, when we may have to change our entire slan policy? We’re losing, do you hear? We haven’t got a scientist to match the superscientists of the slan. What wouldn’t I give to have one of them on our side! To have, say, a slan like Peter Cross, who was stupidly murdered three years ago because the police who caught him were tainted by the mentality of the mob.
“Yes, I said mob. That’s all people are these days—a horrible, hopeless mob, a veritable beast we’ve helped build up with our propaganda. They’re afraid, mortally afraid for their babies; and we haven’t got a scientist who can think objectively on the matter—in fact, we haven’t got a scientist worthy of the name. What incentive is there for a. human being to spend a lifetime in research when in his mind is the deadening knowledge that all the discoveries he can hope to make have long since been perfected by the slans—that they’re waiting out there somewhere in secret caves, or written out on paper, ready for the day when the slans make their next attempt to take over the world?
“Our science is a wreck, our education a mass of lies; and every year the wreck of human aspirations and human hopes piles higher around us. Every year there’s greater dislocation, more poverty, more misery. Nothing is left to us but haired; and hatred isn’t enough. We’ve either got to terminate the slans or make terms with them and end this madness.”
KIER GRAY’S face was dark with the passion he had put into his words. And all the time, Kathleen saw, his mind was calm, watchful, cautious. Master of demagoguery, ruler of men, when he spoke again, his voice seemed flat in comparison, his magnificent baritone clear and soft:
“John Petty has accused me of wanting to keep this child alive. I want you all to think back over the past few months. Has Petty at any time ever remarked to you, laughingly, perhaps, that I intended to keep her alive? I know that he has, because it came to my ears. But you see what he’s been doing, subtly spreading the poison. Your political minds will tell you that he has forced me into this position: By killing her, I will seem to have yielded, and thereby will lose prestige.
“Therefore I intend to issue a statement saying that Kathleen Layton will not be executed. In view of our lack of knowledge of slans, she will be kept alive as a study subject. I personally am determined to make the best of her continued presence by observing the development of a slan to maturity; I have already made a tremendous body of notes on the subject.”
John Petty was on his feet. “Don’t try to shout me down!” he snarled. “You’ve gone too far. Next thing you’ll be handing over to the slans a continent on which they can develop these so-called superinventions of which we have heard so much but never seen. As for Kathleen Layton—by Heaven, you’ll keep her alive over my dead body! The slan women are the most dangerous of all. They’re the breeders, and they know their job, damn them—”
The words blurred for Kathleen. Into her mind, for the second time, had come an insistent question from Kier Gray: “How many present are for me unconditionally? Use your fingers to indicate.”
One startled look she sent him, and then her mind skewered into the welter of emotions and thoughts that flooded from the men. It was haul, for there were too many thoughts, too much interference; and besides, her lira in began to weaken as she saw the truth.
Somehow she had believed the older men were all for the leader. And they weren’t. In their minds was fear, a growing conviction that Kier Gray’s days were numbered, and they had better play along with the young, strong group.
At last, utterly dismayed, she casually held three fingers up. Three out of ten in favor, four definitely against, three wavering.
She couldn’t give him those last two figures because his mind didn’t ask for anything more. His whole brain was concentrated on her three fingers, his eyes the faintest bit wide and alarmed. For the barest moment it seemed to her that anxiety flickered through his thoughts.
And then the impassivity closed over his mind and countenance. He sat in his chair, like a figure of stone, cold and grim and deadly.
SHE COULDN’T take her eyes off the leader now. The strained realization came that here was a cornered man, racking his brain, searching back into his experience for a technique to turn the imminent defeat into a crushing victory. She struggled almost desperately to penetrate that icy brain, but his iron grip on his thoughts, the very lucid, straightforward motion of his mind, remained an unshakable barrier between them.
But in those surface thoughts she read his doubts, a queer uncertainty that yet held within it no fear, simply hesitation as to what he should do, could do next. That meant he had not really foreseen a crisis of such proportions, an organized opposition, a smoldering hatred of himself waiting only the opportunity to overthrow and destroy him. Her thought ended as John Petty snapped:
“I think we ought to take a vote on this matter now.”
Kier Gray began to laugh—a long, deep, cynical laugh that ended on a note of surprisingly good humor: “So you’d like a. vote on an issue that a moment ago you said I hadn’t even proved to be existent! Naturally, I refuse to appeal to the reason of those present any longer—the time for reason has passed when deaf ears are turned—but just for the sake of the record, a demand for a vote at this time is an implicit admission of guilt become openly arrogant, the result, no doubt, of the security engendered by the support of at least five, possibly more, of the council. Let me put one more of my cards on the table. I have known of this rebellion for some time and have prepared for it.”
“Bah!” snapped Petty. “You’re bluffing. I’ve watched you r every move. When we first organized this council we feared eventualities such as one man dispensing with the votes of the others, and the safeguards then set up are still in force. Each of us has a private army. My own guards are out there, patroling the corridor, and so are the guards of every member of the council, ready to rush at each other’s throats when the word is given. We are quite prepared to give it and take our chance of being killed in the battle that results.”
“Ah,” said Kier Gray softly, “now we’re out in the open.”
There was a shuffling of feet among the men, a chilling spray of thoughts; and then, to Kathleen’s dismay, Mardue, one of the three she had thought in unconditional support of Kier Gray, cleared his throat. She caught the thought of his weakening resolve before he spoke:
“Really, Kier, you’re making a mistake in regarding yourself as dictator. You’re only elected by the council; and we have a perfect right to elect someone in your place—someone, perhaps, who will be more successful in organizing the extermination of the slan.”
It was turn-coating with a vengeance; the rats were deserting the sinking ship and trying desperately now, Kathleen saw, to convince the new powers that their support was valuable.
In Hallihorn’s brain, too, the wind of thought was blowing in a new direction: “Yes, yes. Your talk about making a deal with the slans is treason—pure treason. That’s the one untouchable subject so far as the mo . . . the people are concerned. We must do something to exterminate the slans, and perhaps a more aggressive policy on the part of a more aggressive man—”
KIER GRAY smiled wryly; and still that uncertainty was in his brain—what to do, what to do? There was a vague suggestion of something else, a tensing to the situation, a darkening resolution to take a desperate chance. But nothing tangible, nothing clear, nothing real came to Kathleen.
“So,” Kier Gray said, still in his soft voice, “you would turn the chairmanship of this council over to a man who, a few days ago, allowed Jommy Cross, nine years old, probably the most dangerous slan alive today, to escape in his secret police car.”
“At least,” cried John Petty in a stung voice, “there’s one slan who won’t escape.” He stared malevolently at Kathleen, then turned triumphantly toward the others. “Here’s what we can do—execute her tomorrow; in fact, right now; and issue a statement that Kier Gray was removed from office because he had come to a secret agreement with the slans; and his refusal to kill Kathleen Layton was proof of it.”
It was the strangest thing in the world to be sitting there, listening to that death sentence and feeling no emotion, as if it wasn’t herself they were talking about. Her mind seemed far away, detached, and the murmur of agreement that rose up from the men also had that odd distortion of distance.
The smile faded from Kier Gray’s face: “Kathleen,” he said aloud, sharply, “we might as well stop playing. How many are against me?”
She stared at him blurrily and heard herself replying tearfully: “They’re all against you. They’ve always hated you because you’re so much smarter than they are, and because they think you’ve kept them down and overshadowed them, and it made it seem as if they’re not important.”
“So he uses her to spy on us,” John Petty snarled, but there was triumph in his rage. “Well, at least it’s pleasant to know that we’re all agreed on one thing: that Kier Gray is through.”
“Not all,” said Kier Gray mildly. “I disagree so violently that the eleven of you will face firing squads within ten minutes. I was undecided on such drastic action, but now there is absolutely no alternative and no going back because I have just taken an irrevocable action, I have pressed a button advising the eleven officers in command of your guard, your, most trusted advisors, and your heirs, that the hour has come.”
They stared at him stupidly, and there was a blur of thought that clambered into Kathleen’s bewildered brain. It didn’t make sense, what he was saying:
“You see, gentlemen, you failed to allow for a fatal flaw in human nature; the desire on the part of underlings for power is as great as your own. The solution to such a situation as came up today was suggested to me one day when Mr. Petty’s chief aid approached me with the offer that he would always be willing to replace Mr. Petty. I made it a definite policy then to explore the matter further, with very satisfying results, and saw to it that the men were on the scene for Kathleen’s eleventh birth—ah, here are the new councilors!”
THE DOOR burst open, and eleven grim young men with drawn revolvers came in. What happened then happened too swiftly for thought. There was a great shout from John Petty: “Your guns!” And the wailing cry of one man, “I didn’t bring one!” And then the crash of revolver shots filled the room with an echoing, re-echoing roar.
It was horrible to see the men on the floor, writhing, choking in their own blood. Through a blur, she saw one of the eleven councilors still standing, smoking gun in hand, and recognized John Petty. Abruptly, then, Kathleen’s brain cleared, and she understood what had happened.
John Petty had fired first. The man who had thought to replace him was dead, a motionless figure on the floor. Grim and pale, the chief of the secret police held his gun steady as a rock, pointed at Kier Gray.
“I’ll kill you,” he said, “before they can get me, unless you make a deal. I’ll play ball, naturally, now that you’ve turned the table so neatly.”
“Shall we let him have it, sir?” asked the leader of the ten officers, a lean, dark man with an aquiline face, and a clipped baritone voice, whose name, Kathleen saw, was Jem Lorry. It was hard to read his mind because he, too, had a power of control over himself that defied penetration, but there was enough of his character in his surface thoughts to show him, for what he was, a hard, ambitious man, utterly ruthless.
“No,” Kier Gray replied thoughtfully, “John Petty will be useful. He’ll have to agree that the other men were executed as a result of the investigations of his secret police disclosing secret arrangements with the slan. That will be the explanation—it always works on the poor, bewildered mass of fools outside. We owe the idea to Mr. Petty himself, but I think we were capable of thinking of it ourselves. However, his influence will be valuable in putting it over. In fact,” he mused cynically, “I believe the best method is to give Petty credit for the executions; that is, he was so horrified at his discoveries of their perfidy he acted on his own initiative, and then threw himself on my mercy, which, in view of the serious evidence he produced, I naturally granted at once. How’s that?”
Jem Lorry came forward, “Good stuff, sir. And now there’s one thing I’d like to make clear, and F speak for all the new councilors. We need you, your terrific reputation, your brains, and we’re willing to help make you a god to the people—in other words, to help consolidate your position beyond assailment—but don’t think you can make arrangements with our chief officers to kill m. That won’t work again.” Kier Gray said coldly: “It’s hardly necessary to tell me anything so obvious. Clear this carrion out, and then—we’ve got some planning to do. As for you, Kathleen, go to bed. You’re in the way now.”
As she hurried off, shaking now from intense reaction, Kathleen wondered: In the way? Did he just mean—Or did he mean—After the ruthless murders she had just witnessed, she couldn’t be sure of him, of anything. It was a long, long time before sleep came to her weary brain and body.
IV.
FOR JOMMY Cross there were long spells of utter darkness and mental blankness that merged finally into a steely gray light through which vague thoughts at last wove a web of reality. He opened his eyes, conscious that he was still very weak.
He was lying in a grim little room, staring up at a smeared, dirty ceiling, from which some of the plaster had fallen. The walls were an uneven gray, queerly, obscenely splotched with age. The pane of the single window was cracked and discolored; the light that forced through it fell across the end of the iron bedstead in a little dirty pool and lay there as if exhausted from the effort.
There was enough strength in its wan brightness to reveal bedclothes that were ragged remnants of what had once been gray blankets. At one edge, straw stuck out from the old torn mattress, and the whole thing stank with a stale, unaired odor so horrible that his mind cringed as from a physical blow.
Sick though he still was, he flung the foul blankets from him, and started to slip out of bed. A chain rattled menacingly, and there was sudden pain in his right ankle. He lay back, exhausted by his brief effort, and stunned. He was chained to this loathsome bed!
Heavy footsteps aroused him from the stupor into which he had fallen; he opened his eyes to see a tall, gaunt woman in a formless gray dress standing at the door, her black eyes gleaming down at him like bright beads.
“Ah,” she croaked. “Granny’s new boarder has come out of his fever, and now we can get acquainted. That’s good! That’s good!”
She rubbed her dry hands together raspingly. “We’re going to get along beautifully, aren’t we? But you’ve got to earn your keep. No slackers can leech off Granny. No, sir. We’ll have a heart-to-heart talk about that. Yes, yes,” she leered at him over clasped hands, “a heart-to-heart talk.”
Jommy stared up at the old woman in repelled fascination. As the thin, long, slightly stooped creature sank with a grunt onto the foot of the bed, he drew his legs up against his body, withdrawing as far from her as the chain would allow.
It struck him that he had never seen a face that more nearly expressed the malignant character behind the mask of old flesh. With rising disgust, he compared her thin, lined, egg-shaped head with the mind inside; and it was all there. Every twisted line in that wrecked face had its counterpart in the twisted brain. A whole world of lechery dwelt within the confines of that shrewd and putrid mind.
His thought must have shown in his face, for she snarled with sudden savagery: “Yes, yes, to look at Granny, you’d never think she was once a famous beauty. You’d never suspect that men once worshiped the white loveliness of her. But don’t forget that this old hag saved your life. Never forget that, or Granny may turn your ungrateful hide over to the police. And how they’d love to have you. How they would love it! But Granny’s kind to them as is kind to her and does as she wants.”
Granny! Was there ever a term of affection more prostituted than this old woman calling herself Granny! It outraged all sense of decency even to think of this creature as—human!
He searched her mind, trying to find in its depths her real name.
But there was only a blur of mind pictures of a silly, stage-struck girl, profligate with her charms, ruined, degraded to the level of the street, hardened and destroyed by adversity. Her identity was buried in a, cesspool of the evil she had done and thought. There was an endless story of thieving, there was the dark and horrible kaleidoscope of more loathsome crimes, there was murder committed—
SHUDDERING, immeasurably weary now that the first stimulus of her presence was fading, Jommy withdrew from the unclean nightmare, the utter abomination that was Granny’s mind. The old wretch leaned toward him, her eyes like gimlets drilling into his:
“It’s true,” she hissed, “that slans can read minds?”
