"As a full man, what will be your value to Mankind?"
"I will steal for Mankind whatever it needs. I will defend Mankind
against all outsiders. I will increase the possessions and knowledge of
the Female Society so that the Female Society can increase the power
and well-being of Mankind."
"And all this you swear to do?"
"And all this I swear to do."
The Chief turned to Eric's uncle. "As his sponsor, do you support his
oath and swear that he is to be trusted?"
With just the faintest hint of sarcasm in his voice, Thomas the
Trap-Smasher replied: "Yes. I support his oath and swear that he is to
be trusted."
There was a rattling moment, the barest second, when the chief's eyes
locked with those of the band leader. With all that was on Eric's mind
at the moment, he noticed it. Then the chief looked away and pointed to
the women on the other side of the burrow.
"He is accepted as a candidate by the men. Now the women must ask for
proof, for only a woman's proof bestows full manhood."
The first part was over. And it hadn't been too bad. Eric turned
to face the advancing leaders of the Female Society, Ottilie, the
Chieftain's First Wife, in the center. Now came the part that scared
him. The women's part.
As was customary at such a moment, his uncle and sponsor left him when
the women came forward. Thomas the Trap-Smasher led his band to the
warriors grouped about the Throne Mound. There, with their colleagues,
they folded their arms across their chests and turned to watch. A man
can only give proof of his manhood while he is alone; his friends
cannot support him once the women approach.
It was not going to be easy, Eric realized. He had hoped that at least
one of his uncle's wives would be among the three examiners: they were
both kindly people who liked him and had talked to him much about
the mysteries of women's work. But he had drawn a trio of hard-faced
females who apparently intended to take him over the full course before
they passed him.
Sarah the Sickness-Healer opened the proceedings. She circled him
belligerently, hands on hips, her great breasts rolling to and fro like
a pair of swollen pendulums, her eyes glittering with scorn.
"Eric the Only," she intoned, and then paused to grin, as if it were a
name impossible to believe, "Eric the Singleton, Eric the one and only
child of either his mother or his father. Your parents almost didn't
have enough between them to make a solitary child. Is there enough in
you to make a man?"
* * * * *
There was a snigger of appreciation from the children in the distance,
and it was echoed by a few growling laughs from the vicinity of the
Throne Mound. Eric felt his face and neck go red. He would have fought
any man to the death for remarks like these. Any man at all. But who
could lift his hand to a woman and be allowed to live? Besides, one of
the main purposes of this exhibition was to investigate his powers of
self-control.
"I think so," he managed to say after a long pause. "And I'm willing to
prove it."
"Prove it, then!" the woman snarled. Her right hand, holding a long,
sharp-pointed pin, shot to his chest like a flung spear. Eric made his
muscles rigid and tried to send his mind away. That, the men had told
him, was what you had to do at this moment: it was not you they were
hurting, not you at all. You, your mind, your knowledge of self, were
in another part of the burrow entirely, watching these painful things
being done to someone else.
The pin sank into his chest for a little distance, paused, came out.
It probed here, probed there; finally it found a nerve in his upper
arm. There, guided by the knowledge of the Sickness-Healer, it bit and
clawed at the delicate area until Eric felt he would grind his teeth
to powder in the effort not to cry out. His clenched fists twisted
agonizingly at the ends of his arms in a paroxysm of protest, but he
kept his body still. He didn't cry out; he didn't move away; he didn't
raise a hand to protect himself.
Sarah the Sickness-Healer stepped back and considered him. "There
is no man here yet," she said grudgingly. "But perhaps there is the
beginnings of one."
He could relax. The physical test was over. There would be another one,
much later, after he had completed his theft successfully; but that
would be exclusively by men as part of his proud initiation ceremony.
Under the circumstances, he knew he would be able to go through it
almost gaily.
Meanwhile, the women's physical test was over. That was the important
thing for now. In sheer reaction, his body gushed forth sweat which
slid over the bloody cracks in his skin and stung viciously. He felt
the water pouring down his back and forced himself not to go limp,
prodded his mind into alertness.
"Did that hurt?" he was being asked by Rita, the old crone of a
Record-Keeper. There was a solicitous smile on her forty-year-old face,
but he knew it was a fake. A woman as old as that no longer felt sorry
for anybody. She had too many aches and pains and things generally
wrong with her to worry about other people's troubles.
"A little," he said. "Not much."
"The Monsters will hurt you much more if they catch you stealing from
them, do you know that? They will hurt you much more than we ever
could."
"I know. But the stealing is more important than the risk I'm taking.
The stealing is the most important thing a man can do."
* * * * *
Rita the Record-Keeper nodded. "Because you steal things Mankind needs
in order to live. You steal things that the Female Society can make
into food, clothing and weapons for Mankind, so that Mankind can live
and flourish."
He saw the way, saw what was expected of him. "No," he contradicted
her. "That's not why we steal. We live on what we steal, but we do not
steal just to go on living."
"Why?" she asked blandly, as if she didn't know the answer better than
any other member of the tribe. "Why do we steal? What is more important
than survival?"
Here it was now. The catechism.
"_To hit back at the Monsters_," he began. "_To drive them from the
planet, if we can. Regain Earth for Mankind, if we can. But, above all,
hit back at the Monsters...._"
He ploughed through the long verbal ritual, pausing at the end of each
part, so that the Record-Keeper could ask the proper question and
initiate the next sequence.
She tried to trip him once. She reversed the order of the fifth and
sixth questions. Instead of "_What will we do with the Monsters when we
have regained the Earth from them?_" she asked, "_Why can't we use the
Monsters' own Alien-Science to fight the Monsters?_"
Carried along by mental habit, Eric was well into the passage beginning
"_We will keep them as our ancestors kept all strange animals, in a
place called a zoo, or we will drive them into our burrows and force
them to live as we have lived_," before he realized the switch and
stopped in confusion. Then he got a grip on himself, sought the right
answer in his memory with calmness, as his uncle's wives had schooled
him to do, and began again.
"_There are three reasons why we cannot ever use Alien-Science_,"
he recited, holding up his hand with the thumb and little finger
closed. "_Alien-Science is non-human, Alien-Science is inhuman,
Alien-Science is anti-human. First, since it is non-human_,"
he closed his forefinger, "_we cannot use it because we can never
understand it. And because it is inhuman, we would never want to use it
even if we could understand it. And because it is anti-human and can
only be used to hurt and damage Mankind, we would not be able to use
it so long as we remain human ourselves. Alien-Science is the opposite
of Ancestor-Science in every way, ugly instead of beautiful, hurtful
instead of helpful. When we die, Alien-Science would not bring us to
the world of our ancestors, but to another world full of Monsters._"
* * * * *
All in all, it went very well, despite the trap into which he had
almost fallen.
But he couldn't help remembering the conversation with his uncle in the
other burrow. As his mouth reeled off the familiar words and concepts,
his mind kept wondering how the two fitted together. His uncle was
Alien-Science, and, according to his uncle, so had been his parents.
Did that make them non-human, inhuman, anti-human?
And what did it make him? He knew his religious duty well: he should at
this moment be telling all Mankind about his uncle's horrible secret.
The whole subject was far too complicated for someone with his limited
experience.
When he had completed the lengthy catechism, Rita the Record-Keeper
said: "And this is what you say about the science of our ancestors. Now
we will find out what the science of our ancestors says about you."
She signaled over her shoulder, without turning her head, and two young
girls--female apprentices--pulled forward the large record machine
which was the very center of the tribe's religious life. They stepped
back, both smiling shyly and encouragingly at Eric the Only.
He knew the smiles meant little more than simple best wishes from
apprentices of one sex to apprentices of the other, but even that was
quite a bit at the moment. It meant that he was much closer to full
status than they. It meant that, in the opinion of unprejudiced,
disinterested observers, his examination was proceeding very well
indeed.
_Singleton_, he thought fiercely to himself. _I'll show them what a
singleton can do!_
Rita the Record-Keeper turned a knob at the top of the squat machine
and it began to hum. She flung her arms up, quiveringly apart, and all,
warriors, women, children, apprentices, even the chief himself, all
bowed their heads.
"Harken to the words of our ancestors," she chanted. "Watch closely the
spectacle of their great achievements. When their end was upon them,
and they knew that only we, their descendants, might regain the Earth
they had lost, they made this machine for the future generations of
Mankind as a guide to the science that once had been and must be again."
The old woman lowered her arms. Simultaneously, heads went up all over
the burrow and stared expectantly at the wall opposite the record
machine, waiting for the magic message.
"Eric the Only," Rita called, spinning the dial on the left of the
machine with one hand and stabbing at it randomly with the forefinger
of the other. "This is the sequence in the science of our ancestors
that speaks for you alone. This is the appointed vision under which
you will live and die."
* * * * *
He stared at the wall, breathing hard. Now he would find out what his
life was to be about--_now_! His uncle's vision at this moment, years
ago, had suggested the nickname he came to bear: the Trap-Smasher. At
the last initiation ceremony, a youth had called forth a sequence in
which two enormous airborne vehicles of the ancestors had collided.
They'd tried to cheer the boy up, but he'd known his fate was upon him.
Sure enough, he had been caught by a monster in the middle of his Theft
and dashed to pieces against a wall.
Even then, Eric decided, he'd rather have that kind of a sequence than
the awful emptiness of a _blank_ vision. When, every once in a while,
the machine went on and showed nothing but a blinding white rectangle,
the whole tribe knew that the youth being examined had no possibility
of manhood in him at all. And the machine was never wrong. A boy who'd
drawn a blank vision inevitably became more and more effeminate as he
grew older without ever going out on his Theft. He tended to shun the
company of warriors and to ask the women for minor tasks to perform.
The machine of the ancestors looked at a boy and told exactly what he
was and what he would become.
It had been great, that science which had produced this machine,
no doubt about it. There was a power source in it which was
self-contained, and which was supposed to be like the power behind all
things. It would run almost forever, if the machine were not tampered
with--although who could dream of tampering with it? In its visions
were locked, not only the secrets of every individual human being,
but enormous mysteries which the whole of Mankind had to solve before
it could work out its salvation through the rituals and powers of the
ancestral science.
Now, however, there was only one small part of Mankind that concerned
Eric. Himself. His future. He waited, growing more and more tense as
the power hum from the machine increased in pitch. And suddenly there
was a grunt of awe from the entire burrow of people as a vision was
thrown upon the wall.
He hadn't drawn a blank. That was the most important thing. He had been
given an authentic ancestral vision.
"Scattergood's does it again!" a voice blared, as the picture projected
on the wall showed people coming from all directions, wearing the
strange body wrappings of the ancestors. They rushed, men, women,
children, from the four corners of the glittering screen to some
strange structure in the center and disappeared into its entrance. More
and more poured in, more and more kept materializing at the edges and
scrambling toward the structure in the center.
"Scattergood's does it again!" the vision yelled out at them. "The
sale of sales! The value of values! Only at Scattergood's three stores
tomorrow. Binoculars, tape recorders, cameras, all at tremendous
reductions, many below cost. Value, value, value!"
Now the vision showed only objects. Strange, unfamiliar objects such as
the ancestors used. And as each object appeared, the voice recited a
charm over it. Powerful and ancient magic this, the forgotten lore of
Ancestor-Science.
"Krafft-Yahrmann Exposure Meters, the best there is, you've heard about
them and now you can buy them, the light meter that's an eye-opener,
a price to fit every pocketbook, eight dollars and ninety-five cents,
tomorrow at Scattergood's, absolutely only one to a customer.
"Kyoto Automatic Eight-Millimeter Movie Cameras with an f 1.4 lens and
an electric eye that does all the focusing and gives you a perfect
exposure every single time. As low as three dollars a week. The supply
is limited, so hurry, hurry, hurry!"
* * * * *
Eric watched the sequence unfold, his hands squeezing each other, his
eyes almost distended in reverence and concentration. This was the clue
to his life, to what he might become. This was the sequence that the
record machine of the ancestors, turned on at random, had vouchsafed as
a prophecy of his future.
All knowledge was in that machine--and no possibility of error.
But Eric was getting worried. The vision was so strange. Sometimes
there would be a vision that baffled even the wisest women. And that
meant the youth who had called it forth would always be a puzzle, to
himself and all of Mankind.
Let it not happen to him! O ancestors, O science, O record machine, let
it not happen to him!
Let him only have a clear and definite vision so that his personality
could be clear and definite for the rest of his life!
"Our special imported high-power precision binoculars," the voice
roared on as a man appeared in the vision and brought one of the
strange objects up to his eyes. "If we told you the manufacturer's
name, you'd recognize it immediately. 7 x 50, only fourteen dollars
and ninety-five cents, _with case_. 10 x 50, only fifteen dollars and
ninety-five cents, _with case_. You see further, you see clearer, you
pay less. You always pay less at Scattergood's. Rock-bottom prices!
Skyscraper values! Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, at Scattergood's
annual week-after-Hallowe'en Sale!"
There was a click as the vision went off abruptly to be replaced by a
white rectangle on the wall of the burrow. Eric realized that this was
all the clue there was to be to his life. What did it mean? Could it be
interpreted?
Anxiously, now, he turned to Ottilie, the Chieftain's First Wife. He
turned to her as everyone else in Mankind was now turning, Sarah the
Sickness-Healer and Rita the Record-Keeper amongst them.
Only Ottilie could read a vision, only short, squat, imperious Ottilie.
The Chieftain's First Wife was her title of honor and her latest title,
but long before she had acquired that, long before even she had become
Head of the Female Society, she had been Ottilie the Augur, Ottilie the
Omen-Teller, Ottilie who could walk in her mind from the homey burrow
of the present into the dark, labyrinthine corridors of the future,
Ottilie who could read signs, Ottilie who could announce portents.
* * * * *
It was as Ottilie the Augur that she could pick out the one new-born
babe in a litter of three that had to be destroyed because, in some
way or other, it would one day bring death to its people. It was as
Ottilie the Augur that, upon the death of the old chief, she had chosen
Franklin the Father of Many Thieves to take over the leadership of
Mankind since he stimulated the most propitious omens. In everything
she had been right. And now, once again it was as Ottilie the Augur
that she threw her arms over her head and twisted and swayed and moaned
as she sought deep inside herself for the meaning of Eric's vision, it
was as Ottilie the Augur and not as Ottilie the Chieftain's First Wife,
for that she had been only since Franklin had ascended the Throne Mound.
The scratches and holes gouged in his body by Sarah the Sickness-Healer
had begun to ache badly, but Eric shrugged off their annoyance. Could
his vision be interpreted? And _how_ would it be interpreted?
Whatever Ottilie saw in the vision would stick to him for the rest
of his life, much closer than the dried blood upon his arms and legs
and chest. How could you possibly interpret such a vision? Eric the
Scattergood? That was meaningless. Eric the Value?
No, that was a little better, but it was dreadfully vague, almost as
bad as a blank vision.
He stared past Ottilie's writhing figure to where his uncle stood,
surrounded by his band, a little to the left of the Throne Mound.
Thomas the Trap-Smasher was watching Ottilie and grinning with all his
teeth.
What did he find so funny, Eric wondered desperately? Was there nothing
holy to him? Didn't he realize how important it was to Eric's future
that his vision be readable, that he get a name to be proud of? What
was funny in Ottilie's agony as she gave birth to Eric's future?
He realized that Ottilie was beginning to make coherent sounds. He
strained his ears to listen. This, this was it. Who he really was. Who
he would be, for all his life.
"Three times," Ottilie mumbled in a voice that steadily grew clearer
and louder, "three times our ancestors gave Eric his name. Three
repetitions they made. Three different ways they called on him to
become what their science needed him to be. And all of you heard it,
and I heard it, and Eric heard it too."
Which, Eric puzzled, which among the many strange magical statements
had contained his name and his life's-work? He waited for the Augur to
come out with it. He had almost given up breathing.
Her body relaxed now, her hands hanging at her sides, Ottilie was
speaking to them in a sharp, authoritative voice as she stared at the
wall of the burrow where the vision had appeared.
"'A light meter that's an eye-opener,' the Ancestor-science said," she
reminded them. "And 'an electric eye that does all the focusing.' And
'you see further, you see clearer, you pay less,' the Record-Machine
told us of Eric. What the ancestors want of Eric is unmistakable, what
he must be if we are to hit back at the Monsters and regain the Earth
which is rightfully ours."
* * * * *
Thank the record machine, thank each and every ancestor! At least the
message had been unmistakable. But what precisely had it been?
Ottilie the Augur, the Omen-Teller, turned to face him now where he
stood apart from the rest of eagerly-watching Mankind. He straightened
up and stood stiffly to learn his fate.
"Eric," she said. "Eric the Only, Eric the Singleton, you go out
now to make your Theft. If you are successful and return alive, you
will become a man. And as a man you will no longer be Eric the Only,
you will be Eric the Eye. Eric the Eye, Eric the Espier, Eric who
seeks out the path for Mankind. Eric who hits back at the Monsters
with his eye, his open eye, his electric eye, his further-seeing,
clearer-seeing, less-paying eye. For this is the word of the ancestors,
and all of you have heard it."
At last Eric could take a deep breath, and he did so now, noisily, in
common with the whole of Mankind who had been hanging on Ottilie's
words. Eric the Eye--that was what he was to be. If he was
successful ... and if he lived.
Eric the Eye. Eric the Espier. Now he knew about himself. It was fixed,
and for all time. It was a good name to bear, a fine personality to
have. He had been very fortunate.
Rita the Record-Keeper and her daughter Harriet the History-Teller,
rolled the record machine back into its accustomed holy place, the
niche in the wall behind the Throne Mound. Despite the sacred quality
of the act in which she was engaged, the younger woman could not take
her eyes off Eric. He was a person of consequence now, or at least
would be when he returned. Other young and mating-aged women, he
noticed, were looking at him the same way.
He began to walk around in a little circle before Mankind, and, as he
walked, he strutted. He waited until Ottilie, no longer the Augur now,
no longer the Omen-Teller, but once more the Chieftain's First Wife--he
waited until she had returned to her place at the head of the Female
Society, before he began to sing.
He threw back his head and spread out his arms and danced proudly,
stampingly, before Mankind. He spun around in great dizzying circles
and leaped in the air and came down with wrenching spasmodic twists of
his legs and arms. And as he danced, he sang.
He sang out of the pride that racked his chest like a soul coughing,
out of the majesty of the warrior-that-was-to-be, out of his sure
knowledge of self. And he sang his promise to his fellows:
I am Eric the Eye,
Eric the Open Eye,
Eric the Electric Eye,
Eric the Further-Seeing,
Clearer-Seeing, Less-Paying Eye.
Eric the Espier--
Eric who finds and points out the way.
Are you lost in a strange place?
I will show you the path to your home.
Does the burrow break off in too many branches?
I will pick out the best one and Mankind shall walk through in safety.
Are there enemies about, hidden traps, unthought-of dangers?
I will see them and give warning of them in time.
I will walk at the head of the line of warriors and see for them,
And they shall be confident and they shall conquer--
For they have Eric the Espier to lead the way and point the path!
* * * * *
So he sang as he danced before Mankind, under the enormous glow lamps
of its great central burrow. He sang of his mission in life as just
a few short auld lang synes ago he had heard Roy the Runner, at his
initiation, sing of the fleetness and swiftness that he would soon be
the master of; as his Uncle Thomas had sung long before that of his
coming ability to detect and dismantle traps; as once his own father
had sung of the robberies he was to commit, of the storerooms he would
empty for the benefit of Mankind. He sang and he leaped and he whirled,
and all the while the watching host of Mankind beat time with its feet
and hands and played chorus in the litany of his triumph.
Then came a loud grunt from Franklin the Father of Many Thieves. The
noise stopped. Eric danced to a quivering halt, his body wet all over,
his limbs still trembling.
"That is what is to be," Franklin pointed out, "once the Theft has
been made. But first, first comes the Theft. Always before manhood
comes the Theft. Now let us speak of your Theft."
"I will go into the very home of the Monsters," Eric announced proudly,
his head thrown back before the chief. "I will go into their home
alone, with no companion but my own weapons, as a warrior should. I
will steal from them, no matter what the danger, no matter what the
threat. And what I steal, I will bring back for the use and enjoyment
of Mankind."
Franklin nodded and made the formal reply. "That is good, and it is
spoken like a warrior. What do you promise to steal from the Monsters?
For your first Theft must be a promise made in advance and kept, kept
exactly."
Now they were at it. Eric glanced at his uncle for support. Thomas the
Trap-Smasher was staring off in a different direction. Eric licked his
lips. Well, maybe it wouldn't be too bad. After all, a youth going off
on his first Theft had complete freedom of choice.
"I promise to make my theft in the third category," he said, his voice
trembling just a little.
The results were much more than he had anticipated. Franklin the Father
of Many Thieves yelped sharply. He leaped off the Royal Mound and stood
gaping at Eric for a while. His great belly and fat arms quivered with
disbelief.
"The third category, did you say? The _third_?"
Eric, thoroughly frightened now, nodded.
Franklin turned to Chief Wife Ottilie. They both peered through the
ranks of Mankind to where Thomas the Trap-Smasher stood in the midst
of his band, seemingly unconcerned by the sensation that had just been
created.
"What _is_ this, Thomas?" the chief demanded, all ceremony and
formality gone from his speech. "What are you trying to pull? What's
this third category stuff you're up to?"
Thomas the Trap-Smasher turned a bland eye upon him. "What am _I_ up
to? I'm not up to a damn thing. The boy's got a right to pick his
category. If he wants to steal in the third category, well, that's his
business. What have I got to do with it?"
The chief stared at him for a few moments longer. Then he swung back to
Eric and said shortly: "All right. You've chosen. The third category it
is. Now let's get on with the feast."
* * * * *
Somehow it was all spoiled for Eric. The initiation feast that preceded
a first Theft--how he had looked forward to it! But he was apparently
involved in something going on in Mankind, something dangerous and
unsavory.
The chief obviously considered him an important factor in whatever
difficulty had arisen. Usually, an initiate about to depart on a Theft
was the focus of all conversation as Mankind ate in its central burrow,
the women squatting on one side, the men on the other, the children at
the far ends where light was dim. But at this meal, the chief made only
the most necessary ritual remarks to Eric. His eyes kept wandering from
him to Thomas the Trap-Smasher.
Once in a while, Franklin's eyes met those of Ottilie, his favored and
first wife, across the feast that had been spread the length of the
burrow. He seemed to be saying something to her, although neither of
them moved their lips. Then they would nod at each other and look back
to Eric's uncle.
The rest of Mankind became aware of the strained atmosphere: there was
little of the usual laughter and gaiety of an initiation feast. The
Trap-Smasher's band had pulled in tightly all around him; most of them
were not even bothering to eat but sat watchful and alert. Other band
captains--men like Stephen the Strong-Armed and Harold the Hurler--had
worried looks on their faces as if they were calculating highly
complex problems.
Even the children were remarkably quiet. They served the food over
which the women had said charms much earlier, then scurried to their
places and ate with wide eyes aimed at their elders.
All in all, Eric was distinctly relieved when Franklin the Father of
Many Thieves belched commandingly, stretched, and lay back on the floor
of the burrow. In a few minutes, he was asleep, snoring loudly.
Night had officially begun.