They walked past rows of abandoned offices in the last government
office building in the world--two men who looked vastly different, but
who had crucial similarities.
Josef Kimmensen had full lips trained to set in a tight, thin line, and
live, intelligent eyes. He was tall and looked thin, though he was not.
He was almost sixty years old, and his youth and childhood had been
such that now his body was both old for its years and still a compact,
tightly-wound mechanism of bone and muscle fiber.
Or had been, until an hour ago. Then it had failed him; and his one
thought now was to keep Jem Bendix from finding out how close he was to
death.
Jem Bendix was a young man, about twenty-eight, with a broad, friendly
grin and a spring to his step. His voice, when he spoke, was low and
controlled. He was the man Josef Kimmensen had chosen to replace him as
president of the Freemen's League.
The building itself was left over from the old regime. It was perhaps
unfortunate--Kimmensen had often debated the question with himself--to
risk the associations that clung to this building. But a building is
only a building, and the dust of years chokes the past to death. It was
better to work here than to build a new set of offices. It might seem a
waste to leave a still-new building, and that might tend to make people
linger after their jobs had finished themselves. This pile of cracking
bricks and peeled marble facings would be falling in a heap soon, and
the small staff that still worked here couldn't help but be conscious
of it. It was probably a very useful influence.
They walked through the domed rotunda, with its columns, echoing
alcoves, and the jag-topped pedestals where the old regime's statues
had been sledge-hammered away. The rotunda was gloomy, its skylight
buried under rain-borne dust and drifted leaves from the trees on the
mountainside. There was water puddled on the rotten marble floor under
a place where the skylight's leading was gone.
Kimmensen left the day's letters with the mail clerk, and he and Bendix
walked out to the plaza, where his plane was parked. Around the plaza,
the undergrowth was creeping closer every year, and vine runners were
obscuring the hard precision of the concrete's edge. On all sides, the
mountains towered up toward the pale sun, their steep flanks cloaked in
snow and thick stands of bluish evergreen. There was a light breeze in
the crystalline air, and a tang of fir sap.
Kimmensen breathed in deeply. He loved these mountains. He had been
born in the warm lowlands, where a man's blood did not stir so easily
nor surge so strongly through his veins. Even the air here was
freedom's air.
As they climbed into his plane, he asked: "Did anything important come
up in your work today, Jem?"
Jem shrugged uncertainly. "I don't know. Nothing that's urgent at the
moment. But it might develop into something. I meant to speak to you
about it after dinner. Did Salmaggi tell you one of our families was
burned out up near the northwest border?"
Kimmensen shook his head and pressed his lips together. "No, he
didn't. I didn't have time to see him today." Perhaps he should have.
But Salmaggi was the inevitable misfit who somehow creeps into every
administrative body. He was a small, fat, tense, shrilly argumentative
man who fed on alarms like a sparrow. Somehow, through election
after election, he had managed to be returned as Land Use Advisor.
Supposedly, his duties were restricted to helping the old agricultural
districts convert to synthetic diets. But that limitation had never
restrained his busybody nature. Consultations with him were full of
sidetracks into politics, alarmisms, and piping declamations about
things like the occasional family found burned out.
* * * * *
Kimmensen despaired of ever making the old-fashioned politician types
like Salmaggi understand the new society. Kimmensen, too, could feel
sorrow at the thought of homesteads razed, of people dead in the midst
of what they had worked to build. It was hard--terribly hard--to think
of; too easy to imagine each might be his own home. Too easy to come
upon the charred embers and feel that a horrible thing had been done,
without taking time to think that perhaps this family had abused its
freedom. Sentiment was the easy thing. But logic reminded a man that
some people were quarrelsome, that some people insisted on living their
neighbors' lives, that some people were offensive.
There were people with moral codes they clung to and lived by, people
who worshipped in what they held to be the only orthodox way, people
who clung to some idea--some rock on which their lives rested. Well and
good. But if they tried to inflict these reforms on their neighbors,
patience could only go so far, and the tolerance of fanaticism last
just so long.
Kimmensen sighed as he fumbled with his seat belt buckle, closed the
power contacts, and engaged the vanes. "We're haunted by the past,
Jem," he said tiredly. "Salmaggi can't keep himself from thinking like
a supervisor. He can't learn that quarrels between families are the
families' business." He nodded to himself. "It's a hard thing to learn,
sometimes. But if Salmaggi doesn't, one of these days he may not come
back from his hoppings around the area."
"I wouldn't be worrying, Joe," Jem said with a nod of agreement.
"But Salmaggi tells me there's a fellow who wants to get a group of
men together and take an army into the northwest. This fellow--Anse
Messerschmidt's his name--is saying these things are raids by the
Northwesters."
"Is he getting much support?" Kimmensen asked quickly.
"I don't know. It doesn't seem likely. After all, the Northwesters're
people just like us."
Kimmensen frowned, and for one bad moment he was frightened. He
remembered, in his youth--it was only twenty-eight years ago--Bausch
strutting before his cheering crowds, bellowing hysterically about
the enemies surrounding them--the lurking armies of the people to the
south, to the east, the northwest; every compass point held enemies
for Bausch. Against those enemies, there must be mighty armies raised.
Against those enemies, there must be Leadership--firm Leadership:
Bausch.
"Armies!" he burst out. "The day Freemen organize to invade another
area is the day they stop being Freemen. They become soldiers, loyal to
the army and their generals. They lose their identification with their
homes and families. They become a separate class--an armed, organized
class of military specialists no one family can stand against. And on
that day, freedom dies for everybody.
"You understand me, don't you, Jem? You understand how dangerous talk
like this Messerschmidt's can be?" Kimmensen knew Bendix did. But it
was doubly important to be doubly assured, just now.
Bendix nodded, his quick, easy smile growing on his face. "I feel the
same way, Joe." And Kimmensen, looking at him, saw that Jem meant
it. He had watched Jem grow up--had worked with him for the past ten
years. They thought alike; their logic followed the same, inevitable
paths. Kimmensen couldn't remember one instance of their disagreeing on
anything.
The plane was high in the air. Below them, green forests filled the
valleys, and the snow on the mountaintops was red with the light of
sunset. On the east sides of the slopes, twilight cast its shadows.
Kimmensen looked down at the plots of open ground, some still in crops,
others light green with grass against the dark green of the trees. Off
in the far west, the sun was half in the distant ocean, and the last
slanting rays of direct light reflected from the snug roofs of houses
nestled under trees.
Here is the world, Kimmensen thought. Here is the world we saw in the
times before we fought out our freedom. Here is the world Dubrovic
gave us, working in the cold of his cellar, looking like a maniac
gnome, with his beard and his long hair, putting circuits together by
candle-light, coughing blood and starving. Here is the world Anna and I
saw together.
That was a long time ago. I was thirty-two, and Anna a worn thirty,
with silver in her fine black hair, before we were free to build the
house and marry. In the end, we weren't as lucky as we thought, to have
come through the fighting years. The doctors honestly believed they'd
gotten all the toxins out of her body, but in the end, she died.
Still, here it is, or almost. It isn't given to very many men to have
their dreams come true in their lifetimes.
* * * * *
Kimmensen's house stood on the side of a mountain, with its back to the
north and glass walls to catch the sun. There was a patio, and a lawn.
Kimmensen had been the first to break away from the old agricultural
life in this area. There was no reason why a man couldn't like
synthetic foods just as well as the natural varieties. Like so many
other things, the clinging to particular combinations of the few basic
flavors was a matter of education and nothing else. With Direct Power
to transmute chemicals for him, a man was not tied to cows and a plow.
The plane settled down to its stand beside the house, and they got out
and crossed the patio. The carefully tended dwarf pines and cedars
in their planters were purple silhouettes against the sky. Kimmensen
opened the way into the living room, then slid the glass panel back
into place behind them.
The living room was shadowy and almost dark, despite the glass.
Kimmensen crossed the softly whispering rug. "Apparently Susanne hasn't
come home yet. She told me she was going to a party this afternoon."
He took a deep, unhappy breath. "Sit down, Jem--I'll get you a drink
while we're waiting." He touched the base of a lamp on an end table,
and the room came to life under a soft glow of light. The patio went
pitch-black by comparison.
"Scotch and water, Jem?"
Bendix held up a thumb and forefinger pressed together. "Just a pinch,
Joe. A little goes a long way with me, you know."
Kimmensen nodded and went into the kitchen.
The cookers were glowing in the dark, pilot lights glinting. He touched
the wall switch. The light panels came on, and he took glasses out of
the cupboard. Splashing water from the ice-water tap, he shook his
head with resigned impatience.
Susanne should have been home. Putting the dinner in the cookers and
setting the timers was not enough, no matter how good the meal might
be--and Susanne was an excellent meal planner. She ought to have been
home, waiting to greet them. He wouldn't have minded so much, but she'd
known Jem was going to be here. If she had to go to the Ennerth girl's
party, she could have come home early. She was insulting Jem.
Kimmensen opened the freezer and dropped ice cubes into the glasses.
She never enjoyed herself at parties. She always came home downcast and
quiet. Yet she went, grim-faced, determined.
He shook his head again, and started to leave the kitchen. He stopped
to look inside the cookers, each with its Direct Power unit humming
softly, each doing its automatic work perfectly. Once the prepared
dishes had been tucked inside and the controls set, they could be left
to supervise themselves. One operation followed perfectly upon another,
with feedback monitors varying temperatures as a dish began to brown,
with thermocouples and humidity detectors always on guard, built into
an exactly balanced system and everything done just right.
He touched the temperature controls, resetting them just a trifle to
make sure, and went back out into the living room. He took the bottle
of carefully compounded Scotch out of the sideboard, filled two shot
glasses, and went over to Bendix.
"Here you are, Jem." He sat down jerkily, dropping rather than sinking
into the chair.
Dying angered him. He felt no slowdown in his mind--his brain, he was
sure, could still chew a fact the way it always had. He felt no drying
out in his brain cells, no mental sinews turning into brittle cords.
He'd been lucky, yes. Not many men had come whole out of the fighting
years. Now his luck had run out, and that was the end of it. There were
plenty of good men long in the ground. Now he'd join them, not having
done badly. Nothing to be ashamed of, and a number of grounds for quiet
pride, if truth be told. Still, it made him angry.
"Susanne ought to be home any moment," he growled.
Jem smiled. "Take it easy, Joe. You know how these kids are. She
probably has to wait 'til somebody else's ready to leave so she can get
a lift home."
Kimmensen grunted. "She could have found a way to get home in time. I
offered to let her take the plane if she wanted to. But, no, she said
she'd get a ride over."
The puzzled anger he always felt toward Susanne was making his head
wag. She'd annoyed him for years about the plane, ever since she
was eighteen. Then, when he offered her its occasional use after
she'd reached twenty-five, she had made a point of not taking it. He
couldn't make head or tail of the girl. She was quick, intelligent,
educated--she was potentially everything he'd tried to teach her to be.
But she was willful--stubborn. She refused to listen to his advice. The
growing coldness between them left them constantly at swords' points.
He wondered sometimes if there hadn't been something hidden in Anna's
blood--some faint strain that had come to the surface in Susanne and
warped her character.
No matter--she was still his daughter. He'd do his duty toward her.
* * * * *
"This is really very good, Joe," Jem remarked, sipping his drink.
"Excellent."
"Thank you," Kimmensen replied absently. He was glaringly conscious
of the break in what should have been a smooth evening's social flow.
"Please accept my apologies for Susanne's thoughtlessness."
Jem smiled. "There's nothing to apologize for, Joe. When the time
comes for her to settle down, she'll do it."
"Tell me, Jem--" Kimmensen started awkwardly. But he had to ask. "Do
you like Susanne? I think you do, but tell me anyhow."
Jem nodded quietly. "Very much. She's moody and she's headstrong. But
that'll change. When it does, I'll ask her."
Kimmensen nodded to himself. Once again, his judgment of Bendix was
confirmed. Most young people were full of action. Everything had to
be done now. They hadn't lived long enough to understand how many
tomorrows there were in even the shortest life.
But Jem was different. He was always willing to wait and let things
unfold themselves. He was cautious and solemn beyond his years. He'd
make Susanne the best possible husband, and an excellent president for
the League.
"It's just as well we've got a little time," Jem was saying. "I was
wondering how much you knew about Anse Messerschmidt."
Kimmensen frowned. "Messerschmidt? Nothing. And everything. His kind're
all cut out of the same pattern."
Jem frowned with him. "I've seen him once or twice. He's about my age,
and we've bumped into each other at friends' houses. He's one of those
swaggering fellows, always ready to start an argument."
"He'll start one too many, one day."
"I hope so."
Kimmensen grunted, and they relapsed into silence. Nevertheless, he
felt a peculiar uneasiness. When he heard the other plane settling down
outside his house, he gripped his glass tighter. He locked his eyes on
the figure of Susanne walking quickly up to the living room wall, and
the lean shadow behind her. Then the panel opened, and Susanne and her
escort stepped out of the night and into the living room. Kimmensen
took a sudden breath. He knew Susanne, and he knew that whatever she
did was somehow always the worst possible thing. A deep, pain-ridden
shadow crossed his face.
Susanne turned her face to look up at the man standing as quietly as
one of Death's outriders beside her.
"Hello, Father," she said calmly. "Hello, Jem. I'd like you both to
meet Anse Messerschmidt."