Time Travel Omnibus, page 265
“This pretender must be tried according to our laws. The members of the Pack Council will now come forward and take their places at the foot of Kuvurna, in readiness to administer the high justice before all the people.
“But first I will remind the Council and the Pack that a Man, it is plain, should know a Man and welcome him as a brother; whereas from this who calls himself a Man our lord Kuvurna has turned away his face.”
The fact that at that precise moment Kuvurna was gazing point-blank at Doody with a fixed and foolish grin, the while he blew small bubbles between his teeth, did not seem to disturb the speaker or his wide-eyed and attentive listeners. For some reason, Doody was reminded of the fact that most primitive idols wear bay windows and vacuous smirks.
From among the assembled dogmen, a round dozen individuals were wriggling and pushing their respective ways forward, and were beginning to form in a close huddle before Kuvurna’s royal palanquin. This brow-beaten-looking handful must be the council—the rude beginning of a representative form of government, whose scanty influence was vastly overbalanced by that of the priests with their backing of divine omnipotence. They stood, shuffling their feet uneasily and eying Doody with some hostility—the high priest’s statement of Kuvurna’s position on the subject evidently carried much weight with them.
This Heliogabalus of the dogmen advanced swiftly to confront the “jury,” as Doody’s twentieth-century mind insisted on labeling them. His face was twisted, and his wasted old figure—clad only in a garment which resembled nothing more than a soiled towel wrapped around his waist with ends dangling—quivered with a fierce ecstasy compounded equally of religious fervor and burning hatred. His voice shook with the same feverish intensity, as, with one sidelong glance at Doody, he began in the singsong of one reciting from some ancient and holy record:
“Before you sit in righteous judgment, O Council of the Pack, I conjure you to remember the true belief, given to our ancestors of old, that the truth might be theirs and their children’s:
“For Man created the dog in His own image; in the image of Man created He him.
“And He said to him, be fruitful, and multiply, and cover the Earth, that in all the Earth may the aspect of My face be known, through all the ages of all the time to come.
“And for all his days shall the dog serve Man, because He created him, who was as the dust of the earth, and without understanding.”
Doody did not hear the priest’s voice grind on with the rasping indictment. He was lost in a blaze of sudden revelation that was like apotheosis; the lost piece of the great puzzle had been all at once supplied, and now he knew the answer to all his blind questioning.
His quick mind fitted the jigsaw together, constructed a picture of what had happened thousands of years in the past, when the dogmen had first come into being. Somewhere in the slough of rotting earthman civilization, a fine mind or minds had been born—rising, perhaps for the space of one lifetime only—above the sluggish apathy of degeneration, able to foresee but not to check the oncoming doom.
Perhaps they had been of the scientist rulers of that latter-day state, with its unlimited technical resources at their disposal. But more probably they had been rebels, daring, audacious.
They had seen the extinction of humanity approaching; and for man they had made the last great gesture, the passing of the torch—the bestowal of man’s erect form, his wonderful hands, and his immense stored knowledge upon a younger, stronger race.
What choice more logical for man’s successor than that of man’s age-old, trustworthy companion, the companion who had never forsaken him throughout a long, confused history of fifty thousand years? It had been no magic for the mighty science of that sunset age—to set the dog upon two feet, to alter body and brain and give him speech, to make him—by planned mutations, fine juggling of germ cells—outwardly a human creature. “That in all the Earth may the aspect of My face be known”—when man himself is dead and vanished from the universe.
Only a short time ago Doody had despised himself for belonging to a species which included such a creature as Kuvurna. But now he felt a brief, warm glow of pride—pride that his race, before it fell utterly, had risen high enough to make its last significant act one of exalted unselfishness and dedication to the hope of a future it would never know.
“—consider then the facts, O Council, and decide whether this one is not a liar and impostor worthy only of the meanest death!”
Doody came out of his cosmic reverie in time to hear the close of the high priest’s hysterically vindictive speech. He glanced at the withered little dogman almost in pity, and, with a new understanding, over the jam-packed, breathless crowd which swayed back and forth, straining to catch a glimpse of their god and of the far more godlike prisoner.
“Prepare for death, stranger,” snarled the priest, advancing to shake a knobby, clenched paw at the object of his hate. “Or perhaps in your ignorance you know no rites of preparation. But die you shall, and soon.”
Doody ignored his fury in haughty silence, but his lips half formed the word, “Perhaps.” He meant that to be a big perhaps.
His gaze fell once more on the dogmen’s witless deity. His lips curled in a mirthless smile which brought shocked surprise into the faces of the watching priests. He was thinking—an activity which, in Doody’s type, usually results in action—and his thought ran thus:
Humanity, being of sound mind and clear judgment—if only for a briefly lucid flash on the down path of its existence—had made its last will and testament. And the heir apparent of human civilization was not this loathsome last-born of the corrupt old race.
The council had gone into a deliberative huddle. Kuvurna drowsed in stupid torpor, lulled to a mindless serenity by the rhythm of the wide-headed fans with which his attendants kept the air above him moving. The rest of the assemblage sweltered uncomplainingly beneath the sinking but still blistering sun. A gurgling snore bubbled in him.
The high priest squatted like a deformed spider beside the litter of his man god, scrawling aimlessly in the dust and muttering to himself, but keeping an unwinking, murderous gaze on Doody. The latter scowled back, then affected a carefree, rakish grin, white teeth flashing in his dark face. It must have nettled the old hellhound considerably, for he bounded suddenly to his feet and whipped round to face the jury in high impatience.
“You have debated long enough, O Council of the Pack!” he snapped. “Let us hear your judgment upon the impostor!”
A dogman of more than usually heavy build, with a great red beard that tumbled fanwise over his massive chest, shuffled forward, nodding vigorous and jerky approval of the high priest’s words, very like a child who knows he will be slapped if he does not say the right thing. He opened his mouth with diffidence to say the right thing, but Doody broke in.
“Hold on a minute!” he exploded, half enraged, half amused. “Am I to have no chance to speak in my own defense?”
The high priest whirled wrathfully, stood rigid for a moment, his skinny body vibrating like a tuning fork with the intensity of his passion. When he spoke, though, his voice had the quiet deadliness of a bushmaster’s hiss. “Speak, then!”
“Very well, I will speak—and I have plenty to say,” said Doody softly, and the amusement in his voice was genuine, if bitter. His hand had slipped unnoticed inside his coat and had closed on something there. He raised his voice, made it carry to the massed hundreds of the dogmen, silent and patient under the burning afternoon sun: “However, I first wish to state that the question of my human or canine nature is of small importance. There is another issue, though; one of great moment.
“What should be on trial, her.e and now—as man or dog may plainly see if he is not blinded by superstition or fear or sacerdotal lies—is the right of this bloated, depraved, hydrocephalic idiot who calls himself a Man, or any other like him, to rule over you, O strong young people!
“Look at him. What is he but a swollen parasite on the community, unable to feed or care for himself? Any of your young warriors, dog or not, is a better man. And I say to you in solemn truth that you are not dogs any longer, for I knew you when you were dogs, and I see that now you have become men!”
A murmur swept over the crowd and was followed by a rising babble of confusion that became a roar. The dog people surged to and fro, each trying to find room to gesture wildly and expound the revolutionary new idea to his neighbor. Some recoiled, shocked by the mad atheism of Doody’s claims, horrified by the ruthless demolition of cherished tradition. But many of the younger ones grasped at it eagerly, for it went through the blood like a swift fever, a thrilling fever that urged instant action.
Doody watched, smiling still faintly—triumphantly. He wondered if the world had not lost an excellent firebrand political speaker when he had taken up time exploring. Even now shrill cries were raveling out from the tangle of chaotic hubbub; spears were lifted threateningly above the mob. Even Kuvurna had roused enough to blink incuriously and purse his lips as if in mild disapproval of such behavior.
But the man god’s high priest was like one possessed as he saw his world rocking and crumbling around him, tottering on the verge of the final clash into oblivion. His face, as he fought his way toward Doody through the surging rabble, was terrible, unhuman. His eyes glared madly, his lips were drawn far back in a frightful snarl to display his long canine teeth. Over the surf roar of the crowd rose his piercing scream:
“Seize him! Seize the impostor! He is nothing but a dog—a dog who is not faithful! Kill him—eeeyaaaah!”
The last was a sheer animal shriek of unbearable rage as, with a bronze knife gleaming wickedly in his bony claw, the high priest hurled himself headlong upon Doody. The American wheeled half about to avoid the point and threw a left-handed punch with muscle and weight behind it; the blow collided midway with the dogman’s chin, and each of the two went staggering backward—Doody to make a lightning recovery, the high priest to roll over and over and lie sprawling, a limp bundle under the trampling feet of the crowd.
Through the milling mob, armed priests were thrusting toward the blasphemer of their faith, while their brethren ringed close about the divine litter, a dangerous cordon. But for the moment a space was clear about the stranger from time; he shook himself and took a deep breath, and then—
“Of course, I couldn’t stay to see the rest of the show,” said Doody regretfully. “But before I pulled out for the good old twentieth century, I took just time enough to jerk the pin from my emergency Mills bomb and let it fly with three seconds to go. If the old arm hasn’t lost its knack since my baseball days, that hand grenade went squarely into the bulging paunch of the feeble-minded Kuvurna himself.
“That’s the final argument I mentioned. I hope it did its bit to give the heirs of human civilization a fair start on the Earth. The world is going to the dogs, Johnny, and the sooner it arrives, the better. The dogmen were—are—will be—primitive, of course; but some day they will have progressed sufficiently to decipher the ancient records of stored knowledge, which the lost race has left behind. But I think they will really come into their heritage when they learn to call themselves men.”
“You were right,” I said, without preamble.
“Eh?” Doody’s dark eyes opened drowsily; his thoughts might have been far away, down that long road he had journeyed to the dim and far-off time of the dogmen.
“It makes me—think,” I confessed, studying the white tablecloth beneath the mellow, indirect lighting; but I fancied that I, too, could peer a little way into the mist of years. “You’ve followed the human race to its final end—you have yet to find its beginning. Perhaps it is another of the cycles—the beginning and end of the race are the same, and we are only the unknowing heirs of an elder culture—that of the beings men call gods. But somewhere there must be a true beginning—”
“Somewhere,” said Doody softly, as if the word was. sweet. “Some day. Perhaps I will seek it out—some day.”
THE END.
MY NAME IS LEGION
Lester del Rey
Hitler should, no doubt, be given something special in the way of exile when we finish this war. Our personal choice would be this one; we like the idea.
Bresseldorf lay quiet under the late-morning sun-too quiet. In the streets there was no sign of activity, though a few faint banners of smoke spread upward from the chimneys, and the dropped tools of agriculture lay all about, scattered as if from sudden flight. A thin pig wandered slowly and suspiciously down Friedrichstrasse, turned into an open door cautiously grunted in grudging satisfaction, and disappeared within. But there were no cries of children, no bustle of men in the surrounding fields, nor women gossiping or making preparations for the noon meal. The few shops, apparently gutted of foodstuffs, were bare, their doors flopping open. Even the dogs were gone.
Major King dropped the binoculars to his side, tight lines about his eyes that contrasted in suspicion with his ruddy British face. “Something funny here, Wolfe. Think it’s an ambush?”
Wolfe studied the scene. “Doesn’t smell like it, major,” he answered. “In the Colonials, we developed something of a sixth sense for that, and I don’t get a hunch here. Looks more like a sudden and complete retreat to me, sir.”
“We’d have had reports from the observation planes if even a dozen men were on the roads. I don’t like this.” The major put the binoculars up again. But the scene was unchanged, save that the solitary pig had come out again and was rooting his way down the street in lazy assurance that nothing now menaced him. King Shrugged, flipped his hand forward in a quick jerk, and his command moved ahead again, light tanks in front, troop cars and equipment at a safe distance behind, but ready to move forward instantly to hold what ground the tanks might gain. In the village, nothing stirred.
Major King found himself holding his breath as the tanks reached antitank-fire distance, but as prearranged, half of them lumbered forward at a deceptive speed, maneuvered to two abreast to shuttle across Friedrichstrasse toward the village square, and halted. Still, there was no sign of resistance. Wolfe looked at the quiet houses along the street and grinned sourly.
“If it’s an ambush, major, they’ve got sense. They’re waiting until we send in our men in the trucks to pick them off then, and letting the tanks alone. But I still don’t believe it; not with such an army as he could throw together.”
“Hm-m-m.” King scowled, and again gave the advance signal.
The trucks moved ahead this time, traveling over the rough road at a clip that threatened to jar the teeth out of the men’s heads, and the remaining tanks swung in briskly as a rear guard. The pig stuck his head out of a door as the major’s car swept past, squealed, and slipped back inside in haste. Then all were in the little square, barely big enough to hold them, and the tanks were arranged facing out, their thirty-seven millimeters raking across the houses that bordered, ready for an instant’s notice. Smoke continued to rise peacefully, and the town slumbered on, unmindful of this strange invasion.
“Hell!” King’s neck felt tense, as if the hair were standing on end. He swung to the men, moved his hands outward. “Out and search! And remember—take him alive if you can! If you can’t, plug his guts and save his face—we’ll have to bring back proof!”
They broke into units and stalked out of the square toward the houses with grim efficiency and rifles ready, expecting guerrilla fire at any second; none came. The small advance guard of the Army of Occupation kicked open such doors as were closed and went in and sidewise, their comrades covering them. No shots came, and the only sound was the cries of the men as they reported “Empty!”
Then, as they continued around the square, one of the doors opened quietly and a single man came out, glanced at the rifles centered on him, and threw up his hands, a slight smile on his face. “Kamerad!” he shouted toward the major; then in English with only the faintest of accents: “There is no other here, in the whole village.” Holding onto the door, he moved aside slightly to let a search detail go in, waited for them to come out. “You see? I am alone in Bresseldorf; the Leader you seek is gone, and his troops with him.”
Judging by the man’s facial expression that he was in no condition to come forward, King advanced; Wolfe was at his side, automatic at ready. “I’m Major King, Army of Occupation. We received intelligence from some of the peasants who fled from here yesterday that your returned Führer was hiding here. You say—”
“That he is quite gone, yes; and that you will never find him, though you comb the earth until eternity, Major King. I am Karl Meyers, once of Heidelberg.”
“When did he leave?”
“A matter of half an hour or so—what matter? I assure you, sir, he is too far now to trace. Much too far!”
“In half an hour?” King grimaced. “You underestimate the covering power of a modern battalion. Which direction?”
“Yesterday,” Meyers answered, and his drawn face lighted slightly. “But tell me, did the peasants report but one Führer?”
King stared at the man in surprise, taking in the basically pleasant face, intelligent eyes, and the pride that lay, somehow, in the bent figure; this was no ordinary villager, but a man of obvious breeding. Nor did he seem anything but completely frank and honest. “No,” the major conceded, “there were stories. But when a band of peasants reports a thousand Führers heading fifty thousand troops, we’d be a little slow in believing it, after all.”
“Quite so, major. Peasant minds exaggerate.” Again there was the sudden lighting of expression. “Yes, so they did—the troops. And in other ways, rather than exaggerating, they minimized. But come inside, sirs, and I’ll explain over a bottle of the rather poor wine I’ve found here. I’ll show you the body of the Leader, and even explain why he’s gone—and when.”
