Collected Short Fiction, page 83
Then they forgot the lights and talked about themselves. Presently, the rest of the patients were wheeled in, and Gross, Harris, and Gibbon entered in a group and came over to the pair.
Martin gave up his chair to Gibbon, who smiled his thanks.
“I wonder what it’s all about?” remarked Harris. “Any ideas, Martin?”
“About what?—I don’t get you.”
“Didn’t you hear Robel’s heading us all in here for some sort of announcement in a few minutes?”
“No.”
“I suppose he didn’t bother to tell those who were already here. . . . Here he comes now.”
Dr. Robel came in alone, calm but alert. He surveyed the room, counting the occupants, and smiled slightly when he saw that all were present. There was a central platform from which sometimes musical recitals were given: he mounted it.
“Will you all please give me your attention.” The request was unnecessary: they were all watching him.
Hendrik Gibbon murmured: “Remember what I said about his bursting at the seams? Here comes the first split.”
Robel said: “The combined radio, television, and power station on Earth which supplies this institution is out of order We’re cut off from all communication. For our light and heat we’re dependent upon our emergency batteries. They should last at least two months, so you’ve nothing t® worry about.”
He paused. Then: “At least, you think you’ve nothing to worry about. But that’s your mistake. You, who’ve been so nursed and coddled, have been thrown on the scrap heap. Where you belong—you should have all died years ago. I tell you this: the beam from Earth is permanently off. The power station has been blown to atoms: the last time the Monthly was here I spoke with the man who planted the bomb. He was one of the crew, and a man of my faith. He told me the time for which the bomb was to be set. It was fifteen minutes ago, and it went off to the second. That’s the strength of the New Nazis—organization, timing. It was the strength of our glorious forebears. You may be sure that that was only one bomb among thousands which exploded at that second, and that the revolution has already succeeded—the Earth is in the power of the New Nazi armed forces. It had to come. Life is too strong a force to be fettered indefinitely by obsolete moral conventions or to be diverted into such blind alleys as the preservation of such fossils as yourselves. The weak, as ever, must go to the wall. The New Nazis aid only the strong and useful.”
Martin felt sick at heart.
Harris jumped up, red-faced with anger. He stood there glaring at Robel, clenching his great fists.
“Nazis!” he bawled. “Are we going to have that old rubbish over again? Good heavens, some snakes take a lot of killing! Now, look here, Robel—”
He started towards the platform.
“Come back, Harris,” said Gibbon, urgently. “Come back But Harris went on his way, bellowing: “You needn’t think and keep quiet.”
“You’re going to get away with this. You’re outnumbered here. If it comes to that, I can handle you myself.”
“Then handle this,” said Robel. He slipped a hand inside his jacket, and when it emerged it held one of the old-fashioned pistols from the last war. There was a click. Harris spun round. Martin caught a horrified glimpse of the base disk of a needle, like a dime stuck in the centre of his forehead. He knew there was three inches of intensely electrified steel behind the disk, lancing through Harris’s brain, and that the horrible ribbed head had opened and fastened like an anchor in the gray matter . . .
He retched as Harris fell full-length on the carpet. There were groans of horror all around. One feeble heart collapsed under the shock: its possessor died in his wheel-chair with no more than a single gasp.
Gross drew a shuddering breath. “He’s mad!”
“It’s a form of madness, but an inexcusable one,” said Gibbon, quietly.
Robel stood there calmly. He glanced at his gun, then put it away.
“I doubt whether I’ll ever need that again,” he said. “Our large and fiery-tempered friend here was the only possible source of trouble. He was the only one among you with any spirit. He could have made a good Nazi if he weren’t so wrong-headed and if his health had been better. The rest of you—” He laughed. “The rest of you I’d take on in a bunch with one hand tied behind my back. I needn’t have told you anything. I could have let you fade away in ignorance. But you can’t harm me, and I detest and despise the lot of you for wasting my time and ability. It pleases me to know you’ve one thought you can carry to your graves—Hitler is vindicated!”
His arm shot out in salute. His face set in the scowling, empty sternness of the soldier who has temporarily wiped out his own mind and become a robot respondent to any command given with authority if not with reason. He was willing to perform idiocy by numbers, in the cause of the greater idiocy.
He stepped down from the platform and marched out of the lounge, still staring fixedly ahead of him.
Gibbon stood up. “Please be calm, all of you. None of you is alone, we’re all in this together. But Robel is alone—remember that. He’s right in one thing—together our physical strength is no match for his. But we have intelligence, and we have each other’s moral support. That’s plenty, and we should be able to do something with it.”
“But what?” asked someone, shakily.
“I don’t know yet. First, I suggest a committee for action from those of us who are well enough to act. That can only be my (laughter and myself, Martin here, and Mr. Gross.
“What about the nurses?” asked Monica.
“I’m wondering about them, too. Mr. Gross, will you go and find out whether they’re for or against us?”
“Sure,” said Gross, not looking a bit sure. But he went.
Gibbon went and looked at the man who had died in his chair. He sighed, and came back to examine Harris, who was just as dead.
Gibbon sighed again. “I’m afraid we’ve lost our potentially most powerful ally—save one.”
“Who else is there?” said Martin, huskily, and cleared his throat.
“You,” said Gibbon, shooting him a penetrating glance from under his shaggy brows.
Martin said nothing. He felt the growing tightness in his chest which heralded another of his attacks.
Chapter IV
Half an hour later they were holding a council meeting in Hendrik Gibbon’s room. Gross had reported that three of the five nurses were Nazis, and had been selected personally by Robel. They were keeping the remaining pair locked in their rooms. Meantime, they told Gross, the patients could fend for themselves: they weren’t going to “run around after them any more.”
Gross said: “I said: ‘Look here, you can’t let them—’ And that big blonde piece snapped at me: ‘Can’t we? Are you going to make us?’ I looked at them. I think they were never nurses at all: Robel must have gotten hold of a trio of acrobats. Any one of ’em could have broken me in two. So I shut up and came away.”
“We’ll have to attend to the Amazons after we’ve dealt with Robel,” said Gibbon. “First things first.”
“I don’t want to sound defeatist,” said Martin slowly, “but even supposing we do gain control here, what then? We’ll still be at the mercy of the other maniacs on Earth who’ve cut our lifeline. How could we few cripples hope to beat that lot? They’ve got us by the windpipe to start with. If we defeat Robel or not, the situation remains the same: we’ve only two months of life left.”
“Two months of honourable life—or shame?” queried Gibbon, gently. “You’ve just seen a foul murder. Are you satisfied in your heart to let Robel get away with it, saying that it’s none of your business? My friend, the lesson to be learned is ‘He is dead who will not fight. And he who dies fighting has increase.’ We are civilization in little here but it is not size that matters, only standards. We’re standard-bearers for civilization. No, the situation would not remain the same if we defeated Robel. The difference is that between an honorable death or a damned disgraceful one. It’s a big difference. Don’t you feel that?”
Martin mumbled “I—I don’t know.” He sought the reproach in Monica’s eyes, but it wasn’t there. Instead, she looked sympathetic. He clutched at the straw.
“What do you think Monica?”
“That father’s perfectly right, of course. But I don’t limit the choice to death. I think even father’s being a defeatist there. We don’t know that Robel’s story is true. He says the power has been cut off. But he may merely have invented that yarn, and switched off the reception apparatus here for a time.”
“The video’s dead—I tried it,” interposed Gross.
“Perhaps only disconnected,” said Monica.
“But why?” Martin demanded. “What could be the point of such crazy behavior?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Monica. “I merely put it forward as an example that it doesn’t do to jump to conclusions. Perhaps Robel’s quite mad and doesn’t know what he is doing.”
“He knows what he’s doing, Monica, and he can largely control what he’s doing,” said her father. “If he were quite mad, there’d be no point in our punishing him. His fault lies in yielding to primitive lusts, for power, for sadism—heaven knows what’s lurking in his mind. He and his kind are a species of idiot, but only because they’re weak and have voluntarily relinquished control.”
“Weak!” exclaimed Gross. “I’d never say he was that. If he’s weak, then Pm—”
“You’re stronger than he is,” said Gibbon. “So am I. And Monica.” He turned to Martin. “And you could be stronger than any of us if you try.”
“I’ve never been any sort of a hero,” said Martin, gloomily. “My chest—”
“Chest nothing!” said Gibbon, sharply. “It’s all in your mind. And, by heaven, I’m going to have it out of your mind before very much longer! You’re jammed, but you’re the best weapon in our armory. We’ve got to make use of you. We’ve got to make use of all our resources. They’re precious few, lord knows. Now, let’s see what we can muster against Robel. Are there any more guns or lethal weapons in the place, Martin?”
“No. I’m pretty certain of that. No need for them—there’s nothing living on Mars except ourselves.”
“H’m. Handy with your fists, Martin?”
“Never fought anyone in my life. My ch—” Martin checked, and a slow flush spread over his cheeks.
It was Gross who looked sympathetic this time. Monica was staring at the floor, thinking.
“Pity,” said Gibbon. “You’re the only one here with any muscles. We’ll have to get them in working order. Now, has either of you any technical knowledge about electricity?”
“Not me,” said Martin and Gross together.
“Not even elementary knowledge?”
“No.”
“Nor me, either,” said Gibbon. “I’ve made psychiatry my whole life. I was thinking perhaps we could prepare a booby trap for Robel—hitch up a stair-rail or a door-knob or something to the main battery and electrocute him. Never mind. There’s more ways than one of killing a cat. Glass daggers, now—sharp splinters of glass. Fit handles to ’em, keep ’em in our pockets. Get within a yard of him, and then—remember the Ides of March! Exit the new Caesar. We’ll break the glass over a picture—his own portrait in the lounge: there’s poetic justice for you.”
Martin looked at him aghast.
The old man was relishing every moment of this, planning with gusto the violence and blood-letting. For a moment Martin thought bitterly: “All right for him! He’s too old to do it himself. But he knew underneath that Gibbon was no mere armchair warrior. The old man was guts all through, and if he could get near enough to Robel to stab him to the heart he’d attempt just that, even though his strength was probably quite inadequate. All the same, he told himself, it’s not so bad risking your life if you’ve had a long and full one, as Gibbon had had. But he himself was young, and he’d never really lived yet. It would be terrible never to see Earth again—most unfair.
And all the time he knew he was rationalizing his cowardice. Gross said: “Daggers are out. Only one firm supplied every piece of glass in this place—Unbreakable Glass Manufacturers Inc.”
“That’s a shame,” said Gibbon. “I use an electric razor. I suppose everyone does these days.”
“Everyone here,” said Gross.
“What about cutlery?” said Monica.
“All plastic,” said Gross. “It’d break if you tried to stab. We might cut his throat if he’d obligingly keep still while we sawed at it.”
Martin felt the old constriction at his own throat. He choked and gasped and fought for breath. He lay back in his chair, striving to unfasten his collar. Gross jumped to his aid.
“Martin, what is it?” asked Monica, concernedly. But he couldn’t answer.
“It’s one of his asthmatic attacks,” said Gross. “The worst will be over in an hour or so, but he’ll be weak for days.”
“Let him lie on my bed for a bit,” said Gibbon. Between them, they helped him onto the bed. He lay there with the room swimming about him and had but a single purpose—to breathe air into lungs which seemed to be constricted by invisible hands. They did what they could, but time was the only nurse.
Presently, they returned to their deliberations, and between his convulsions hazy snatches reached Martin:
“. . . chair-leg would make an effective blunt instrument.”
“. . . get shot down if you approached him carrying that.”
“. . . when he’s asleep But you bet the bedroom door’s locked.”
“. . . plenty on our hands nursing the others.”
“. . . undermine his confidence You with humor, Gross. Me, by suggestion. Then . . .”
He heard his own name mentioned a few times before he drifted off to sleep.
When he awakened, only Monica was there. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him.
“Feel any better?”
“A little. Still . . . somewhat short . . . of breath,” he panted. “Where . . . others?”
“They’ve taken over the nursing duties. There are a dozen to be fed and looked after, you know. I’ll have to go and help them soon, after I’m through nursing you. But I feel pretty helpless. What can I do? Is there anything you want?”
“No . . . thanks. Have you decided how to . . . kill Robel?”
“We-ell, it was all pretty vague—you know what these committees are. The general line we’re taking seems to be first to work on Robel’s nerves, sap his confidence, and when he’s weakened you’re to try to overpower him and get his gun. Then we’ll put him on trial—there can only be one verdict.”
Martin groaned inside Out of all the big talk by the others had come only this amorphous plan, the brunt of it falling on himself, who’d been too ill even to last out the meeting. Did democracy always have to combat totalitarinism with little more than a both-feet-off-the-ground optimism, divorced from reality? It was like making passes with a feather duster at a mad bull and blind-folding yourself first.
“I’m afraid Robel’s . . . too practical . . . to be shaken and much too tough . . . for me.”
“Perhaps. We’ll see, darling.”
Well, the “darling” was welcome, anyhow. Even if their future together was circumscribed.
Robel came striding into the room when they were all having lunch. He’d expected all these old crocks to shiver at his shadow. Instead, they ignored him, passed dishes to one another, conversed calmly. Gibbon had schooled them well.
Robel stood there watching them without a flicker of expression. Martin was uneasily aware of his regard, but like the others he pretended Robel wasn’t there.
“Who’s the cook?” demanded Robel of the company at large.
He might have been speaking in a vacuum. No one seemed to hear a sound.
Robel gripped Gross by his thin shoulder. The hairy hand tightened until beads of sweat broke on Gross’s brow.
“Who’s the cook?”
“I am,” said Gross, quietly.
“Then cook lunch for me at once. None of this wishy-washy salad stuff. I want a steak. Bring it to me in my room. And coffee.”
“What about your blondes?” said someone. “Can’t they cook? I thought Nazis could do everything.”
Robel let it pass. “I’ll expect to see you in a half-hour,” he said to Gross, and turned away.
“Mr. Gibbon, where did you put that cyanide?” said Gross, in a stage whisper.
“I’ll get it for you,” said Gibbon, gravely.
Robel stopped in his tracks. He turned deliberately. His gaze went from Gross to Gibbon and back again, as if he were judging how far they were serious. It was plain that the possibility of being poisoned hadn’t occurred to him before. Then he said: “Never mind, Gross, I’ll do it myself.”
A subdued titter ran round the table. Robel looked at them. A faint flush crept above his collar.
He said grimly: “Just remember this, the lot of you. You are alive on sufferance. You have food at all only because I allow it. You won’t feel like laughing when you come to the end of the food—in a month, on your present rations. It won’t worry me—I shan’t be here. But it’ll worry you.”
He left abruptly.
Gibbon stood up. “Thank you, gentlemen. We’re beginning to bother him a little. It’s the thin end of the wedge. Even the most self-sufficient man feels unsure of himself when the rest gang up on him. From the Doctor’s remarks, I presume he imagines that he’s going to be able to leave us here. That’s the next thing for us to work on.”
But the next thing Gibbon got to work on was Martin’s asthma. He asked Martin to visit him privately in his room Martin went along the same evening. Gibbon was standing by the window looking out over the restless upper surface of the Reddeth to the horizon which appeared so near on this small planet. Phobos moved in the west, a black ball against the sunset. The pinpoint of Deimos showed faintly in the dulling sky.
“Good evening,” said Martin.
The old man turned. He looked very frail, but his master purpose gave him a certain strength.
