He turned away. And froze. Bill had moved. Conger's fingers went to his
belt. _Half pressure_, he whispered to himself. _No more. Half
pressure._
He squeezed. The room leaped around him. He himself was protected by the
lining of his clothing, the plastic sheathing inside.
"My God--" Lora put her hands up. Conger cursed. He hadn't meant any of
it for her. But it would wear off. There was only a half-amp to it. It
would tingle.
Tingle, and paralyze.
He walked out the door without looking back. He was almost to the corner
when Bill came slowly out, holding onto the wall like a drunken man.
Conger went on.
* * * * *
As Conger walked, restless, in the night, a form loomed in front of him.
He stopped, holding his breath.
"Who is it?" a man's voice came. Conger waited, tense.
"Who is it?" the man said again. He clicked something in his hand. A
light flashed. Conger moved.
"It's me," he said.
"Who is 'me'?"
"Conger is my name. I'm staying at the Appleton's place. Who are you?"
The man came slowly up to him. He was wearing a leather jacket. There
was a gun at his waist.
"I'm Sheriff Duff. I think you're the person I want to talk to. You were
in Bloom's today, about three o'clock?"
"Bloom's?"
"The fountain. Where the kids hang out." Duff came up beside him,
shining his light into Conger's face. Conger blinked.
"Turn that thing away," he said.
A pause. "All right." The light flickered to the ground. "You were
there. Some trouble broke out between you and the Willet boy. Is that
right? You had a beef over his girl--"
"We had a discussion," Conger said carefully.
"Then what happened?"
"Why?"
"I'm just curious. They say you did something."
"Did something? Did what?"
"I don't know. That's what I'm wondering. They saw a flash, and
something seemed to happen. They all blacked out. Couldn't move."
"How are they now?"
"All right."
There was silence.
"Well?" Duff said. "What was it? A bomb?"
"A bomb?" Conger laughed. "No. My cigarette lighter caught fire. There
was a leak, and the fluid ignited."
"Why did they all pass out?"
"Fumes."
Silence. Conger shifted, waiting. His fingers moved slowly toward his
belt. The Sheriff glanced down. He grunted.
"If you say so," he said. "Anyhow, there wasn't any real harm done." He
stepped back from Conger. "And that Willet is a trouble-maker."
"Good night, then," Conger said. He started past the Sheriff.
"One more thing, Mr. Conger. Before you go. You don't mind if I look at
your identification, do you?"
"No. Not at all." Conger reached into his pocket. He held his wallet
out. The Sheriff took it and shined his flashlight on it. Conger
watched, breathing shallowly. They had worked hard on the wallet,
studying historic documents, relics of the times, all the papers they
felt would be relevant.
Duff handed it back. "Okay. Sorry to bother you." The light winked off.
When Conger reached the house he found the Appletons sitting around the
television set. They did not look up as he came in. He lingered at the
door.
"Can I ask you something?" he said. Mrs. Appleton turned slowly. "Can I
ask you--what's the date?"
"The date?" She studied him. "The first of December."
"December first! Why, it was just November!"
They were all looking at him. Suddenly he remembered. In the twentieth
century they still used the old twelve-month system. November fed
directly into December; there was no Quartember between.
He gasped. Then it was tomorrow! The second of December! Tomorrow!
"Thanks," he said. "Thanks."
He went up the stairs. What a fool he was, forgetting. The Founder had
been taken into captivity on the second of December, according to the
newspaper records. Tomorrow, only twelve hours hence, the Founder would
appear to speak to the people and then be dragged away.
* * * * *
The day was warm and bright. Conger's shoes crunched the melting crust
of snow. On he went, through the trees heavy with white. He climbed a
hill and strode down the other side, sliding as he went.
He stopped to look around. Everything was silent. There was no one in
sight. He brought a thin rod from his waist and turned the handle of it.
For a moment nothing happened. Then there was a shimmering in the air.
The crystal cage appeared and settled slowly down. Conger sighed. It was
good to see it again. After all, it was his only way back.
He walked up on the ridge. He looked around with some satisfaction, his
hands on his hips. Hudson's field was spread out, all the way to the
beginning of town. It was bare and flat, covered with a thin layer of
snow.
Here, the Founder would come. Here, he would speak to them. And here the
authorities would take him.
Only he would be dead before they came. He would be dead before he even
spoke.
Conger returned to the crystal globe. He pushed through the door and
stepped inside. He took the Slem-gun from the shelf and screwed the bolt
into place. It was ready to go, ready to fire. For a moment he
considered. Should he have it with him?
No. It might be hours before the Founder came, and suppose someone
approached him in the meantime? When he saw the Founder coming toward
the field, then he could go and get the gun.
Conger looked toward the shelf. There was the neat plastic package. He
took it down and unwrapped it.
He held the skull in his hands, turning it over. In spite of himself, a
cold feeling rushed through him. This was the man's skull, the skull of
the Founder, who was still alive, who would come here, this day, who
would stand on the field not fifty yards away.
What if _he_ could see this, his own skull, yellow and eroded? Two
centuries old. Would he still speak? Would he speak, if he could see it,
the grinning, aged skull? What would there be for him to say, to tell
the people? What message could he bring?
What action would not be futile, when a man could look upon his own
aged, yellowed skull? Better they should enjoy their temporary lives,
while they still had them to enjoy.
A man who could hold his own skull in his hands would believe in few
causes, few movements. Rather, he would preach the opposite--
A sound. Conger dropped the skull back on the shelf and took up the gun.
Outside something was moving. He went quickly to the door, his heart
beating. Was it _he_? Was it the Founder, wandering by himself in the
cold, looking for a place to speak? Was he meditating over his words,
choosing his sentences?
What if he could see what Conger had held!
He pushed the door open, the gun raised.
Lora!
He stared at her. She was dressed in a wool jacket and boots, her hands
in her pockets. A cloud of steam came from her mouth and nostrils. Her
breast was rising and falling.
Silently, they looked at each other. At last Conger lowered the gun.
"What is it?" he said. "What are you doing here?"
She pointed. She did not seem able to speak. He frowned; what was wrong
with her?
"What is it?" he said. "What do you want?" He looked in the direction
she had pointed. "I don't see anything."
"They're coming."
"They? Who? Who are coming?"
"They are. The police. During the night the Sheriff had the state police
send cars. All around, everywhere. Blocking the roads. There's about
sixty of them coming. Some from town, some around behind." She stopped,
gasping. "They said--they said--"
"What?"
"They said you were some kind of a Communist. They said--"
* * * * *
Conger went into the cage. He put the gun down on the shelf and came
back out. He leaped down and went to the girl.
"Thanks. You came here to tell me? You don't believe it?"
"I don't know."
"Did you come alone?"
"No. Joe brought me in his truck. From town."
"Joe? Who's he?"
"Joe French. The plumber. He's a friend of Dad's."
"Let's go." They crossed the snow, up the ridge and onto the field. The
little panel truck was parked half way across the field. A heavy short
man was sitting behind the wheel, smoking his pipe. He sat up as he saw
the two of them coming toward him.
"Are you the one?" he said to Conger.
"Yes. Thanks for warning me."
The plumber shrugged. "I don't know anything about this. Lora says
you're all right." He turned around. "It might interest you to know some
more of them are coming. Not to warn you--just curious."
"More of them?" Conger looked toward the town. Black shapes were picking
their way across the snow.
"People from the town. You can't keep this sort of thing quiet, not in a
small town. We all listen to the police radio; they heard the same way
Lora did. Someone tuned in, spread it around--"
The shapes were getting closer. Conger could, make out a couple of them.
Bill Willet was there, with some boys from the high school. The
Appletons were along, hanging back in the rear.
"Even Ed Davies," Conger murmured.
The storekeeper was toiling onto the field, with three or four other men
from the town.
"All curious as hell," French said. "Well, I guess I'm going back to
town. I don't want my truck shot full of holes. Come on, Lora."
She was looking up at Conger, wide-eyed.
"Come on," French said again. "Let's go. You sure as hell can't stay
here, you know."
"Why?"
"There may be shooting. That's what they all came to see. You know that
don't you, Conger?"
"Yes."
"You have a gun? Or don't you care?" French smiled a little. "They've
picked up a lot of people in their time, you know. You won't be lonely."
He cared, all right! He had to stay here, on the field. He couldn't
afford to let them take him away. Any minute the Founder would appear,
would step onto the field. Would he be one of the townsmen, standing
silently at the foot of the field, waiting, watching?
Or maybe he was Joe French. Or maybe one of the cops. Anyone of them
might find himself moved to speak. And the few words spoken this day
were going to be important for a long time.
And Conger had to be there, ready when the first word was uttered!
"I care," he said. "You go on back to town. Take the girl with you."
Lora got stiffly in beside Joe French. The plumber started up the motor.
"Look at them, standing there," he said. "Like vultures. Waiting to see
someone get killed."
* * * * *
The truck drove away, Lora sitting stiff and silent, frightened now.
Conger watched for a moment. Then he dashed back into the woods, between
the trees, toward the ridge.
He could get away, of course. Anytime he wanted to he could get away.
All he had to do was to leap into the crystal cage and turn the handles.
But he had a job, an important job. He had to be here, here at this
place, at this time.
He reached the cage and opened the door. He went inside and picked up
the gun from the shelf. The Slem-gun would take care of them. He notched
it up to full count. The chain reaction from it would flatten them all,
the police, the curious, sadistic people--
They wouldn't take him! Before they got him, all of them would be dead.
_He_ would get away. He would escape. By the end of the day they would
all be dead, if that was what they wanted, and he--
He saw the skull.
Suddenly he put the gun down. He picked up the skull. He turned the
skull over. He looked at the teeth. Then he went to the mirror.
He held the skull up, looking in the mirror. He pressed the skull
against his cheek. Beside his own face the grinning skull leered back at
him, beside _his_ skull, against his living flesh.
He bared his teeth. And he knew.
It was his own skull that he held. He was the one who would die. He was
the Founder.
After a time he put the skull down. For a few minutes he stood at the
controls, playing with them idly. He could hear the sound of motors
outside, the muffled noise of men. Should he go back to the present,
where the Speaker waited? He could escape, of course--
Escape?
He turned toward the skull. There it was, his skull, yellow with age.
Escape? Escape, when he had held it in his own hands?
What did it matter if he put it off a month, a year, ten years, even
fifty? Time was nothing. He had sipped chocolate with a girl born a
hundred and fifty years before his time. Escape? For a little while,
perhaps.
But he could not _really_ escape, no more so than anyone else had ever
escaped, or ever would.
Only, he had held it in his hands, his own bones, his own death's-head.
_They_ had not.
He went out the door and across the field, empty handed. There were a
lot of them standing around, gathered together, waiting. They expected a
good fight; they knew he had something. They had heard about the
incident at the fountain.
And there were plenty of police--police with guns and tear gas, creeping
across the hills and ridges, between the trees, closer and closer. It
was an old story, in this century.
One of the men tossed something at him. It fell in the snow by his
feet, and he looked down. It was a rock. He smiled.
"Come on!" one of them called. "Don't you have any bombs?"
"Throw a bomb! You with the beard! Throw a bomb!"
"Let 'em have it!"
"Toss a few A Bombs!"
* * * * *
They began to laugh. He smiled. He put his hands to his hips. They
suddenly turned silent, seeing that he was going to speak.
"I'm sorry," he said simply. "I don't have any bombs. You're mistaken."
There was a flurry of murmuring.
"I have a gun," he went on. "A very good one. Made by science even more
advanced than your own. But I'm not going to use that, either."
They were puzzled.
"Why not?" someone called. At the edge of the group an older woman was
watching. He felt a sudden shock. He had seen her before. Where?
He remembered. The day at the library. As he had turned the corner he
had seen her. She had noticed him and been astounded. At the time, he
did not understand why.
Conger grinned. So he _would_ escape death, the man who right now was
voluntarily accepting it. They were laughing, laughing at a man who had
a gun but didn't use it. But by a strange twist of science he would
appear again, a few months later, after his bones had been buried under
the floor of a jail.
And so, in a fashion, he would escape death. He would die, but then,
after a period of months, he would live again, briefly, for an
afternoon.
An afternoon. Yet long enough for them to see him, to understand that he
was still alive. To know that somehow he had returned to life.
And then, finally, he would appear once more, after two hundred years
had passed. Two centuries later.
He would be born again, born, as a matter of fact, in a small trading
village on Mars. He would grow up, learning to hunt and trade--
A police car came on the edge of the field and stopped. The people
retreated a little. Conger raised his hands.
"I have an odd paradox for you," he said. "Those who take lives will
lose their own. Those who kill, will die. But he who gives his own life
away will live again!"
They laughed, faintly, nervously. The police were coming out, walking
toward him. He smiled. He had said everything he intended to say. It was
a good little paradox he had coined. They would puzzle over it, remember
it.
Smiling, Conger awaited a death foreordained.