Atkinson's eyes were black beneath his thick brows.
"You made that, didn't you?" Loveral asked.
"Yes, I made that," Atkinson said. "I made that and I made something
else. Another minute and I'll have that finished, too."
"George," said Loveral, stepping quietly forward, "I don't like to say
this, of course. You've been one of our very best members. But nobody
works here, George. We can't allow that. You know the rules."
"I know the rules, all right."
"Well, then," Loveral said, extending his hand toward the hammer, "we'll
just destroy this and whatever else you might have been making. We'll
just forget it ever happened. We'll get along real fine that way,
George. We'll just be such good friends."
"We'll just go to hell," said Atkinson, snatching his hammer away.
Loveral's smile disappeared. "I'll tell you, George. I have to mean
business with this. You know the reasons. If we allow anybody to work
here, then there's going to be trouble. That isn't our plan. We're here
to grow within ourselves and expand culturally. Not to commercialize a
beautiful world like Dream Planet."
Atkinson stood unmoving, and Loveral could see the way the man's muscles
were tight, like steel springs, and the way his eyes burned deep inside
their blackness.
"We've given you everything you need," Loveral explained, trying to
adjust the smile on his lips again. "Everybody has everything they want.
But, you see, if you sit there and work and make something that someone
else doesn't have, then the whole system is destroyed. Then someone will
want what you've made. We'll have jealousy and hatred and fighting. This
is the stuff of which wars are made, George. You know that. It starts
with small things like this, but it grows. When it does, the structure
of our life here will collapse. You wouldn't want that, would you,
George?"
"Yes!" Atkinson said, his mouth white at the edges. "I'd like to see the
whole rotten thing collapsed and blown to hell!"
Loveral's teeth snapped together and his lips grew tight. He could feel
a muscle jumping along his neck.
Atkinson looked at him with furious eyes. "What do you think it's like,
living this way? You're busy working twenty-four hours a day, while we
wander around this damned prison like the breathing dead. You can feel
sweat and aches in your bones from a hard day's work. Sleep is like
medicine to you, instead of another stretch of torture. You can forget
your own brain for a while by doing something with your hands. You can
relax because you can get tired. Not us, by God. Not us!"
"I envy you, George," Loveral said through his teeth.
"Oh, like hell you do. You treat us like we were helpless infants. You
feed and clothe us and do all our work, and you're so happy you damned
near split your guts."
"I'll take that, if you don't mind," Loveral said, reaching for the
hammer, his voice suddenly icy cold.
Atkinson slammed back against the table. "No, you won't. You won't take
anything more at all. You've taken our spirit and our pride and the
strength right out of our spines. You won't take anything more!"
"George?" Loveral said, but not moving any further.
Atkinson slid the hammer back of him onto the table, and his hands were
searching among a dozen scattered pieces of metal and wood. He watched
Loveral as he worked. "Let me show you what else I've made," he said.
"I'd hate to do it," Loveral said, "but I can stop your food, your
water, everything."
Atkinson's hands moved swiftly, assembling the pieces. He nodded. "You
can, but you won't."
"I have the only keys to the storage units. I control everything,
George."
"Correction," said Atkinson, holding an assembled revolver in his hands.
"You _did_."
* * * * *
Loveral looked at what Atkinson had in his hands. He blinked.
"You're nearly dead," Atkinson said.
Loveral looked at Atkinson, into his eyes. "If you wanted to kill me,
you could have done it some other way."
Atkinson shook his head. "Just this way. Just with something that took
me dozens of days and nights to make. With something that made me sweat
and swear to get. It was difficult--with no tools or proper
materials--but that made it all the better. Now I've got it finished,"
he said, pushing a bullet into the chamber, "and ready to use."
Loveral stood frozen, then he turned. "My dear," he said to the woman
who moved her mouth as though her voice had been pumped out of her. He
reached to touch her shoulder. She recoiled, as though his fingers held
poison. "George," he said, turning back to the black-eyed man.
"This is a great moment," Atkinson said, lifting the muzzle of the
revolver. "When I squeeze the trigger, it'll be like blowing the lock
off a prison door. I'll go yelling to the others, and we'll smash down
the whole goddamned place. We'll smash it down, so we'll have to rebuild
it. We'll pull apart every robot you've got. We'll tear apart the food
lockers and have a celebration for a week, and when we've gotten sick
from too much food, we'll start growing some more with our own hands.
We'll make forges for the men and looms for the women. We'll burn our
clothes and make new ones. We'll grow corn in the fields. We'll pump
water from the ground. You're finished, Loveral."
Loveral stared at the revolver. "George," he said, pleading. "The plans.
The beautiful, beautiful plans. All of you, you all wanted peace and
contentment. Time to think and dream. You all wanted to get away from
the work and the worry and the responsibility. You--"
Atkinson fired the gun into Loveral's stomach.
Loveral gestured at the air and fell to his knees. Atkinson threw his
gun through a window and grabbed his wife by the hand. "Hurry!" he said,
laughing. "Hurry!"
Loveral felt of the blood on his shirt and rested on his knees. He could
hear footsteps, racing through the house and out to the yard. He held
out his bloody hand and looked at it. Atkinson's voice pealed through
the warm clear air. "He's dead! Loveral's dead!"
There was a sound of sudden activity, and everywhere went the cry,
"Loveral's dead!"
Loveral sank to his haunches and opened his lips. The blood was there,
too. He could hear the shouts and the laughter, and then the tearing of
steel, the smashing of glass. He bent over his knees, trembling with a
sudden chill. The sound of destruction grew like thunder. "Why?" he said
in his dying throat. "Oh, why? It was what they said they wanted."