"The man you are after has been dead for two centuries," the Speaker
said. "This is all that remains of him. And this is all you have with
which to find him."
For a long time Conger said nothing. He stared down at the bones, dimly
visible in the recess of the wall. How could a man dead centuries be
killed? How could he be stalked, brought down?
Conger was a hunter, a man who had lived as he pleased, where he
pleased. He had kept himself alive by trading, bringing furs and pelts
in from the Provinces on his own ship, riding at high speed, slipping
through the customs line around Earth.
He had hunted in the great mountains of the moon. He had stalked through
empty Martian cities. He had explored--
The Speaker said, "Soldier, take these objects and have them carried to
the car. Don't lose any part of them."
The soldier went into the cupboard, reaching gingerly, squatting on his
heels.
"It is my hope," the Speaker continued softly, to Conger, "that you will
demonstrate your loyalty to us, now. There are always ways for citizens
to restore themselves, to show their devotion to their society. For you
I think this would be a very good chance. I seriously doubt that a
better one will come. And for your efforts there will be quite a
restitution, of course."
The two men looked at each other; Conger, thin, unkempt, the Speaker
immaculate in his uniform.
"I understand you," Conger said. "I mean, I understand this part, about
the chance. But how can a man who has been dead two centuries be--"
"I'll explain later," the Speaker said. "Right now we have to hurry!"
The soldier had gone out with the bones, wrapped in a blanket held
carefully in his arms. The Speaker walked to the door. "Come. They've
already discovered that we've broken in here, and they'll be coming at
any moment."
They hurried down the damp steps to the waiting car. A second later the
driver lifted the car up into the air, above the house-tops.
* * * * *
The Speaker settled back in the seat.
"The First Church has an interesting past," he said. "I suppose you are
familiar with it, but I'd like to speak of a few points that are of
relevancy to us.
"It was in the twentieth century that the Movement began--during one of
the periodic wars. The Movement developed rapidly, feeding on the
general sense of futility, the realization that each war was breeding
greater war, with no end in sight. The Movement posed a simple answer to
the problem: Without military preparations--weapons--there could be no
war. And without machinery and complex scientific technocracy there
could be no weapons.
"The Movement preached that you couldn't stop war by planning for it.
They preached that man was losing to his machinery and science, that it
was getting away from him, pushing him into greater and greater wars.
Down with society, they shouted. Down with factories and science! A few
more wars and there wouldn't be much left of the world.
"The Founder was an obscure person from a small town in the American
Middle West. We don't even know his name. All we know is that one day he
appeared, preaching a doctrine of non-violence, non-resistance; no
fighting, no paying taxes for guns, no research except for medicine.
Live out your life quietly, tending your garden, staying out of public
affairs; mind your own business. Be obscure, unknown, poor. Give away
most of your possessions, leave the city. At least that was what
developed from what he told the people."
The car dropped down and landed on a roof.
"The Founder preached this doctrine, or the germ of it; there's no
telling how much the faithful have added themselves. The local
authorities picked him up at once, of course. Apparently they were
convinced that he meant it; he was never released. He was put to death,
and his body buried secretly. It seemed that the cult was finished."
The Speaker smiled. "Unfortunately, some of his disciples reported
seeing him after the date of his death. The rumor spread; he had
conquered death, he was divine. It took hold, grew. And here we are
today, with a First Church, obstructing all social progress, destroying
society, sowing the seeds of anarchy--"
"But the wars," Conger said. "About them?"
"The wars? Well, there were no more wars. It must be acknowledged that
the elimination of war was the direct result of non-violence practiced
on a general scale. But we can take a more objective view of war today.
What was so terrible about it? War had a profound selective value,
perfectly in accord with the teachings of Darwin and Mendel and others.
Without war the mass of useless, incompetent mankind, without training
or intelligence, is permitted to grow and expand unchecked. War acted to
reduce their numbers; like storms and earthquakes and droughts, it was
nature's way of eliminating the unfit.
"Without war the lower elements of mankind have increased all out of
proportion. They threaten the educated few, those with scientific
knowledge and training, the ones equipped to direct society. They have
no regard for science or a scientific society, based on reason. And this
Movement seeks to aid and abet them. Only when scientists are in full
control can the--"
* * * * *
He looked at his watch and then kicked the car door open. "I'll tell you
the rest as we walk."
They crossed the dark roof. "Doubtless you now know whom those bones
belonged to, who it is that we are after. He has been dead just two
centuries, now, this ignorant man from the Middle West, this Founder.
The tragedy is that the authorities of the time acted too slowly. They
allowed him to speak, to get his message across. He was allowed to
preach, to start his cult. And once such a thing is under way, there's
no stopping it.
"But what if he had died before he preached? What if none of his
doctrines had ever been spoken? It took only a moment for him to utter
them, that we know. They say he spoke just once, just one time. _Then_
the authorities came, taking him away. He offered no resistance; the
incident was small."
The Speaker turned to Conger.
"Small, but we're reaping the consequences of it today."
They went inside the building. Inside, the soldiers had already laid out
the skeleton on a table. The soldiers stood around it, their young faces
intense.
Conger went over to the table, pushing past them. He bent down, staring
at the bones. "So these are his remains," he murmured. "The Founder. The
Church has hidden them for two centuries."
"Quite so," the Speaker said. "But now we have them. Come along down the
hall."
They went across the room to a door. The Speaker pushed it open.
Technicians looked up. Conger saw machinery, whirring and turning;
benches and retorts. In the center of the room was a gleaming crystal
cage.
The Speaker handed a Slem-gun to Conger. "The important thing to
remember is that the skull must be saved and brought back--for
comparison and proof. Aim low--at the chest."
Conger weighed the gun in his hands. "It feels good," he said. "I know
this gun--that is, I've seen them before, but I never used one."
The Speaker nodded. "You will be instructed on the use of the gun and
the operation of the cage. You will be given all data we have on the
time and location. The exact spot was a place called Hudson's field.
About 1960 in a small community outside Denver, Colorado. And don't
forget--the only means of identification you will have will be the
skull. There are visible characteristics of the front teeth, especially
the left incisor--"
Conger listened absently. He was watching two men in white carefully
wrapping the skull in a plastic bag. They tied it and carried it into
the crystal cage. "And if I should make a mistake?"
"Pick the wrong man? Then find the right one. Don't come back until you
succeed in reaching this Founder. And you can't wait for him to start
speaking; that's what we must avoid! You must act in advance. Take
chances; shoot as soon as you think you've found him. He'll be someone
unusual, probably a stranger in the area. Apparently he wasn't known."
Conger listened dimly.
"Do you think you have it all now?" the Speaker asked.
"Yes. I think so." Conger entered the crystal cage and sat down, placing
his hands on the wheel.
"Good luck," the Speaker said.
"We'll be awaiting the outcome. There's some philosophical doubt as to
whether one can alter the past. This should answer the question once and
for all."
Conger fingered the controls of the cage.
"By the way," the Speaker said. "Don't try to use this cage for purposes
not anticipated in your job. We have a constant trace on it. If we want
it back, we can get it back. Good luck."
Conger said nothing. The cage was sealed. He raised his finger and
touched the wheel control. He turned the wheel carefully.
He was still staring at the plastic bag when the room outside vanished.
For a long time there was nothing at all. Nothing beyond the crystal
mesh of the cage. Thoughts rushed through Conger's mind, helter-skelter.
How would he know the man? How could he be certain, in advance? What had
he looked like? What was his name? How had he acted, before he spoke?
Would he be an ordinary person, or some strange outlandish crank?
Conger picked up the Slem-gun and held it against his cheek. The metal
of the gun was cool and smooth. He practiced moving the sight. It was a
beautiful gun, the kind of gun he could fall in love with. If he had
owned such a gun in the Martian desert--on the long nights when he had
lain, cramped and numbed with cold, waiting for things that moved
through the darkness--
He put the gun down and adjusted the meter readings of the cage. The
spiraling mist was beginning to condense and settle. All at once forms
wavered and fluttered around him.
Colors, sounds, movements filtered through the crystal wire. He clamped
the controls off and stood up.
* * * * *
He was on a ridge overlooking a small town. It was high noon. The air
was crisp and bright. A few automobiles moved along a road. Off in the
distance were some level fields. Conger went to the door and stepped
outside. He sniffed the air. Then he went back into the cage.
He stood before the mirror over the shelf, examining his features. He
had trimmed his beard--they had not got him to cut it off--and his hair
was neat. He was dressed in the clothing of the middle-twentieth
century, the odd collar and coat, the shoes of animal hide. In his
pocket was money of the times. That was important. Nothing more was
needed.
Nothing, except his ability, his special cunning. But he had never used
it in such a way before.
He walked down the road toward the town.
The first things he noticed were the newspapers on the stands. April 5,
1961. He was not too far off. He looked around him. There was a filling
station, a garage, some taverns, and a ten-cent store. Down the street
was a grocery store and some public buildings.
A few minutes later he mounted the stairs of the little public library
and passed through the doors into the warm interior.
The librarian looked up, smiling.
"Good afternoon," she said.
He smiled, not speaking because his words would not be correct; accented
and strange, probably. He went over to a table and sat down by a heap of
magazines. For a moment he glanced through them. Then he was on his feet
again. He crossed the room to a wide rack against the wall. His heart
began to beat heavily.
Newspapers--weeks on end. He took a roll of them over to the table and
began to scan them quickly. The print was odd, the letters strange. Some
of the words were unfamiliar.
He set the papers aside and searched farther. At last he found what he
wanted. He carried the _Cherrywood Gazette_ to the table and opened it
to the first page. He found what he wanted: