_There is always a breed immune to mass
hypnosis, and to them falls the duty of
rebellion.... The story, by a Brigham Young
University senior, that won the second award
of $500 in IF's College Science Fiction Contest_
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
A swirl of dust licked at the grass sandals of the men standing on
the hill. There were eight men, and they stood looking west over the
burned, gutted land that lay barren before them--barren except for a
series of huge mounds that lay in a depression far out from the hills
on the rocky plains.
"Do you still think we can make it?" asked a stocky man with a livid
scar that ran from his upper lip to his forehead. "I for one would
rather live alone and meagerly than not live at all."
The speaker received a stern glance from a tall hawk-nosed man wearing
a finely-worked leather belt, apparently a symbol of leadership.
"We have already agreed, remember, Franz? We have to succeed or
disappear off the face of the Earth. You may turn back if you wish. We
are going on."
Franz scowled, rubbed his scar and contemplated the mounds in the
distance. "You forget I have lived there. You have not. Well, maybe to
be a slave is not so bad after all. Or to die."
"If we die we will not go alone," said Sten, the leader. He turned to
the others. "Let's go. It will be dark soon."
The men moved single-file down through the hills without speaking.
As it grew dark they could feel the heat radiate from the sand. They
felt the heat press against them and silently praised Sten's wisdom in
waiting for the cold time of year before making the attempt. They wore
a tunic of coarse-woven cloth that hung loose from their shoulders, and
even that single garment was too warm here. They moved in silence, Sten
in the lead, followed by his brother, Johnathon, a smaller man with
wide shoulders and a quick smile.
A gibbous moon was showing over the mountains when they stopped.
Solemnly they gathered in a circle.
"We will separate now," Sten spoke softly. "Franz and Johnathon and
Karl and I will enter from the south. Bradley, you and the others will
find the way in from the north. You can find the place. If we're not
back at our last camp by morning of the third day, go on without us.
You have the map where the valley lies?"
The leader of the other group nodded.
"Then hurry. Until three days, then. Remember, the only hope lies in
us. Some of us have to make it!" The men separated with only a wave of
farewell and the two groups moved in opposite directions across the hot
sands.
Clouds covered the moon and it grew darker as the four men approached
the edge of the mounds. An ominous sense of foreboding fell over them.
It seemed they could feel the vibration of the city that lay beneath
them. Beneath them lay life--stilted, twisted, enslaved life, but life
nevertheless.
"Are you sure they don't post a guard?" Johnathon asked.
"Against what, the Root-Diggers?" Franz spat contemptuously. "No, they
are secure. They need fear nothing."
It was another hour before they found the tunnel and entered in single
file. Groping their way through the darkness, they finally felt a solid
wall rise in front of them. Franz made his way to the left, feeling his
way along the wall until he found a large box in a niche in the rock.
"It's here! It's still here after all."
"Good," Sten said. "All right, everybody up against the wall and push."
Karl, the biggest of the men, laughed as he eased his bulk against the
obstruction. "It would be real sport," he said, "to move this wall and
find one of their Steel-heads waiting for us."
Franz snickered. "It wouldn't be sport long, my friend. They're trained
from birth to be trigger-happy and there's nothing anyone in Panamia
fears more than the outside, or anything connected with it. And we're
outsiders."
The wall suddenly gave before them and they moved into a half-darkened
room. Carefully, in a sort of frozen silence, they moved the wall
back into place. The box had contained city clothes; and now the men
worked swiftly in the semi-darkness. When they were ready Franz walked
up and down making final adjustments in each of their uniforms. As he
finished, Sten laid his hand on his shoulder. "Franz, you'll take over
now. You know what everything is like here. We're placing ourselves in
your hands."
Franz shrugged his shoulders almost as if he were disinterested in the
drama in which they were taking part. His eyes searched the faces of
the men.
"So you want women, eh? You want to preserve our race--the glorious
animal, Man. Ha! I ask you to ponder for a moment, before it is too
late, whether this race is worth preserving. Men have been furthering
the race for milleniums and what has it come to? Consider if the earth
wouldn't prosper better without Man."
The men shifted uneasily. "Forget all that, Franz," Sten snapped.
"You know there must be an answer somewhere. This is our only chance.
Everything can't be dead."
Franz looked away. "As you wish. If you're determined to go through
with it, then let's start. But first, remember that you're Steel-heads,
bred and raised with no other thought than to carry out the will of
Him--The Leader. His will is your will. You do not think, you only act
according to orders. Don't look intelligent, that is suspect. Just
stare straight ahead and do what I tell you--or what any other officer
might tell you, for that matter. Remember, don't question anything!
Just follow orders."
He laid his hand on the door that led to the city, hesitated for
a brief instant, then swung it open. As the men entered, walking
stiffly with eyes coldly searching for the unknown, they were hit by a
high-pitched whine that filled the corridor and seemed to pierce deep
within them. The three men covered their ears with their hands and
cringed. But Franz stood straight and moved his head around to catch
the noise from all angles. His mouth opened and closed slowly as if he
were trying to pull the shrill noise deep within him. Finally he shook
his head, as a dog shakes off water, and gathered command of himself.
"It is The Leader," he said in a loud voice to overcome the whine.
"Soon you will not notice it. It is everywhere."
Sten removed his hands from his ears and felt the noise creep over him.
He shuddered, and felt beads of sweat form on his forehead as the sound
seemed to gnaw at his consciousness. Soon the others were able to bear
the noise with their ears uncovered, but they felt restless and uneasy.
"We're lucky not to have been seen," said Franz. "Come on."
They moved down the corridor in military formation, Franz leading and
the others following dumbly. The corridor was small and well-lighted.
Doors opened into cubicles every few feet, and the wall was lined
with wide view-screens that stared out, like probing and sullen
eyes. The men kept their eyes straight ahead, but occasionally they
flicked a glance sideways at the people that were passing them in both
directions. They halted as they reached the main corridor.
A loud buzzer rose above the whine, and people emerged from the doors
along the walls and passed them in silence. Eyes fixed on the ground. A
few talked as they went by, but none noticed the soldiers standing at
the edge of the corridor.
Three girls, walking in silence, paused before the men for a brief
instant, then passed on. Sten felt his eyes following the girls
hungrily. Catching himself, he pulled back to attention and nudged his
brother at his side. "Steel-head, Johnathon, remember?" Johnathon again
looked straight ahead and stifled the beginnings of a grin that tugged
at the corners of his mouth. Franz also stared after the girls, but his
eyes wore an amused expression, rather than the longing look of the
other men.
Franz spat out a curt order and they began to march down the corridor
again, the crowd making room for them automatically. Everywhere posters
glared at them from the walls. Some pictured a huge eye that stared out
with the words, "The Leader is watching." Others showed the smiling
faces of a throng of people. Underneath, in scarlet lettering was
emblazoned: "Panamia and The Leader March On--PROGRESS."
For an hour they marched through the city, ignored by the people
and apparently unaware of all that was happening around them. They
passed thousands of men and women, a milling mass, each immersed in a
grim stupor. Where the main corridors intersected they entered great
assembly places where huge view-screens were set up. They were always
turned on.
A shrill emotional voice blared out a constant stream of propaganda.
"People of Panamia, unite, work! The Root-Diggers must be repulsed! For
the glory of The Leader, for the glory of Panamia, we must accomplish
our utmost. We must give our all!"
"For The Leader! For Panamia!" the people shouted, rising momentarily
from their dull world, their eyes glazed with emotion. Banners beneath
the screens announced in large crimson letters: Service to The Leader
is glory to yourself and Panamia.
The soldiers stood watching tight-lipped. Franz's nostrils quivered as
the tumult of the demonstration thundered about them. His face took on
an eager look as he watched the people shouting in exaltation, a curt
movement of Sten's hand brought him back to the task at hand. He gave a
short barked order and the group moved on.
They had just reached an intersection and were standing awaiting
directions from Franz when a shout rang out. "Stop, Provost. You! What
are you doing here?" A short, ruddy-faced officer in thick-lensed
glasses strode up the corridor toward them, scowling. Sten cautiously
moved his head around to face the danger.
"Sten, attention! He'll know," Franz hissed from the side of his mouth.
Sten snapped back to attention, staring straight ahead.