Not This August (17 page)

“Now we find you here in a fairly important subheadquarters town after a 250-mile journey. People don’t make such journeys nowadays—not unless they’re helped either by us or their friends the Reds. And we know we didn’t help you. And with you is an unexplained person.”

That was with a jerk of the thumb at Mr. Sparhawk, who had indignantly withdrawn into the padmasana. Justin could see from the shape of his mouth that he was meditating on the syllable “Om.”

“And once you’re here you brazenly try to make contact with us. Our idea, Justin, is that this is a naïve attempt—motivated by Marxist fanaticism, perhaps—to infiltrate our group and put the finger on us for the Reds. If you have anything to say, speak up—but I suspect you’re going to wind up tonight in the Bee-Jay fertilizer division.”

The first thing Justin did was take off his shirt. They gasped at the bruises and sores. He told them: “They also drilled my teeth for six hours the other day. Can any of you comfortable masterminds say as much? No, I didn’t break. That’s because I’ve learned a great many things from the eccentric gentleman sitting in the corner there. One of them was patience and another was recklessness. You people could use some of both.

“I believe you when you tell me the senator and his two friends disappeared after they interviewed me. People are disappearing all the time in this year of grace. I presume they used their razor blades before they were questioned, so my information died with them. Now listen to it this time.

“
Yankee Doodle
was a diversionary dummy. The real bombardment satellite, about 99 per cent completed, is under Prospect Hill in Chiunga County in a limestone cavern. It needs electronics men and electronics parts. It needs an ace rocket-interceptor pilot. It needs a bombardier with plenty of VHB time and a background in math. Of course, if you people would rather spend your time holed up comfortably worrying about stool pigeons, that’s your business; I’m not running your campaign for you.”

Lowenthal was stunned by the outburst. He said shakily: “I used to hear a rumor when I was detached to the AEC—listen, Justin. We’ll quarantine you and pass the matter up higher for a decision as soon as possible—”

Justin put on his shirt and turned to the door.

“Justin!” Lowenthal snapped, pulling out a .45 pistol.

“Yes?” Justin asked mildly.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Out.”

“I’ll kill you if you take another step toward the door.”

“I suppose you will. Why should that stop me? Don’t you realize I was supposed to be shot for walking 250 miles to listen to your drivel about passing it up for a decision? Hell, man, I wasn’t supposed to get past one township line, let alone fifty! I was supposed to be shot for storing that hunk of A-bomb you picked up at my place. I was supposed to be shot for not reporting the top contact crew you sent. I was supposed to be shot for not turning over the bombardment satellite to the Reds as fast as my scared little legs could carry me.

“Go ahead and shoot, man. But if you don’t, if by some chance I get out of here, I’m going to rustle up some electronics men, some parts, and a crew while you good people are waiting for a decision from higher up. Good-by.”

He started for the door again. Lowenthal’s pistol slide went back with a click and forward with a thud. “Wait,” the psychologist said when Justin put his hand on the door.

“What do you want?” Justin demanded.

“I think,” Lowenthal said slowly, “you may have a valid point. Perhaps we do sometimes display a little less divine madness than we ought to—suppose, Justin, I send you off to Chiunga County in a sealed freight car tomorrow with our Dr. Dace. He’s the head of research and development for Bee-Jay. We can arrange a breakdown from overwork for him.”

Justin snapped: “Is your Dr. Dace a satellite crew, a team of electronics men, and half a ton of equipment?”

Dace himself, small, peppery, white-haired, and mean-eyed, got up and snarled, “You arrogant pup, who the hell do you think you are to survey a bombardment satellite? ‘Half a ton of equipment’—do you think that’s the same as half a ton of candy bars? Now sit down and shut up while we plan this thing through.” He suddenly looked conscience-stricken and added lamely: “Er, naturally we all appreciate the, uh, heroism you displayed in making the very arduous trip you did to re-establish contact with us…” He trailed off and sat down.

The discussion became general and complicated. After a while Lowenthal dismissed four men who seemed to have nothing to contribute on the technical side. Justin suspected they were to have been the firing squad.

Dace relentlessly probed Justin’s every recollection of the satellite’s appearance and scribbled notes. Lowenthal tsk-tsk’d because Justin had left Gribble on his own.

“What should I have done?” Justin demanded.

Lowenthal hesitated. “Maybe parked him in the cave. Or killed him.”

Justin found himself on his feet raving: “God help the human race if you thugs are its fighters for liberty. If we kill a man like Gribble in the name of security how are we different from the Reds or the Chinese? We don’t even have the excuses they have of ignorance and oppression and hunger. What kind of cowards are you that you’d kill a sick man so you won’t have to worry about betrayal?”

“Take it easy,” Lowenthal said. “You’ll kill before this is over.” Justin sat down, shaking. He knew he would. He also knew the psychologist was deliberately missing the point.

A little information about the rebellion as a whole seeped out of the general discussion. Justin could gather that there were many areas which had been quarantined like Chiunga County as too dangerous to work into the scheme. Elsewhere they had the dry wires, postmen, and traveling salesmen for communication. They had seeded professional soldiers across the country—Rawson was Chiunga County’s leader-to-be.

The situation in the great cities was either they were very strong at a given time or they were wiped out. The cities offered countless hiding places where arms could be stored and food cached and plans made. They offered countless volunteers—among whom were traitors. There were many people in the cities who had responded to the relentless psychological pressure of Red propaganda and thought they were sincere, idealistic Marxists. It was impossible to say without the latest word from the wires whether they had a working organization or a demoralized corporal’s guard in, for instance, New York. The organization in New York City had collapsed five times and risen six. Thousands had been shot in roundups; there were always thousands more to recruit.

“We don’t think,” Lowenthal said slowly, “the Reds realize the magnitude of it. They’re hypnotized by their fable of ‘counterrevolutionary wrecking.’ This handicaps them in dealing with the real situation. That’s how the Nazis were handicapped in dealing with underground organizations throughout Europe during World War Two. They were thunderstruck when the French underground recaptured Paris before the Allied troops arrived.”

“But the Allied troops were on their way,” Justin said pointedly.

“You’re right. Perhaps I should have cited the uprising of the Warsaw ghetto, where the remnants of the original population organized and supplied an army that held the Nazis at bay for ten days. I had uncles and cousins in Warsaw; I’ve often wondered since I got into this thing whether they fought in the uprising or whether they were shipped to an extermination camp before it happened.”

Justin had been in high school during that war. “How did the uprising come out?” he asked.

“They were killed to the last man, woman, and child,” Lowenthal said, surprised. “The ghetto was pounded into gravel by artillery.”

Dr. Dace snapped: “I’m sick and tired of your Warsaw Concerto, Sam. Let’s get on with the work.”

But after a while they were talking again. Justin learned that nobody there knew where Headquarters were, that the Russian railroad inspectors were free-wheeling, happy-go-lucky types whom it was easy to hoodwink and possible to bribe, that so far nobody had succeeded in corrupting an MVD man.

The situation across the Mississippi, under the Chinese, was more urgent than it was in the East under the Russians. The ancient Chinese contempt for human life led to executions for such things as smoking in public. There was some sort of decree posted everywhere in which every American was placed under suspended sentence of death for banditry and terrorism; any noncommissioned officer could execute the sentence for reasons which seemed sufficient to him. However, the language difference made organization and communication much easier. If the American cringed to the color-conscious invader, the invader was happy enough about that gratifying fact to neglect training sufficient officers in the difficult English language to police the mails and wires.

Somebody had a watch and announced that it was four-thirty and he for one wanted some sleep.

“One last item,” said Dace. “What about him?” That was Mr. Sparhawk, sleeping soundly on the concrete floor. The old man woke up at once and asked mildly: “What about me?”

“I’d like him to come along with us in the freight car,” Justin said. “We can keep him in the cave.”

“Freight car?” said Mr. Sparhawk disdainfully. “William, how am I supposed to preach and teach in a freight car? You’re acting awfully strange, I must say. I had no particular objections about coming to this town, because after all one must go somewhere. But now a freight car and a cave? Too foolish!”

Dr. Dace said: “I’ve heard about this egg. He preaches submission. Furthermore, he’s nuts. I say rub him out.”

“What a savage little man you are,” Mr. Sparhawk said wonderingly. “You know, it’s all very well to talk, but violence won’t do. I was a colonel in the Brigade of Guards, gentlemen; I know what I’m saying.”

“What
are
you saying?” Dace bristled.

“Why, that I saw the Guards break under the Russian armored attack on Salisbury Plain. I saw the capture of the Royal Family with my own eyes. Her Majesty, of course, was superb. But—it
was
defeat, you know. That was when I discovered there was a basic mistake. If the Guards could be broken and Her Majesty captured,
obviously
we’d been mistaken all along with our guns and rockets and bombs and the answer lay elsewhere. Since then I’ve been seeking it, gentlemen—”

“Mr. Sparhawk,” Justin said, “I wish you’d come along. I couldn’t have got this far without you. I don’t know whether I can finish it without you.”

“You want me for a mascot?” the old man asked wryly.

“Not a mascot. As—as a chaplain, I suppose,” Justin said.

“Well—I’ll come along,” Mr. Sparhawk said. “As a chaplain. You bloody-minded individuals can use some spiritual ministration in any case.”

Justin, without knowing why, felt immensely relieved. More, he had the impression that everybody else in the concrete storeroom was too.

“Where the hell have you been?” demanded Gus Feinblatt in an angry whisper.

They were in front of Croley’s store in Norton; Justin had walked down for sign-in day. The MVD
starsheey syerjahnt
was presiding inside the store over the book. Men and women apathetically walked in from time to time, found their place on the page, and signed. Then they stood around, or bought something, or just walked out.

“Where the hell were you last sign-in? For that matter, where the hell have you been all month?” whispered Feinblatt. “We had Stan Potocki sign in for you. When we found you were gone and that nut Gribble of yours couldn’t tell us anything, we had Stan practice for a week and then come in with a bunch of us early to sign for himself and another bunch late to sign for you. We could have been shot! You just shouldn’t have done it, Billy!”

“I had to,” Justin said. “Thanks, Gus.” He reached into his pocket and found a penny, a steel disk with a wreathed star on one side and the head of Tom Paine on the other. “Here,” he said. “Christmas Eve.” Gus took the penny automatically, looked bewildered, and Justin went into the store.

“Vot name?” The sergeant scowled.

“
Moyoh eemyah Yoostin
,” Billy said. “
Fermer
.”

The sergeant put his finger on the rectangle. He glanced at Justin and looked a little puzzled. Justin took the pen and looked at the signature above. It was a pretty bad imitation Potocki had done. With his trained fingers he imitated the imitation, trying not to
draw
the letters too obviously. It passed the sergeant’s comparison. Whether it would pass the later, leisurely comparison of the headquarters officer who was at least a part-time handwriting expert, he did not know.

Justin read a comic book—
Joe Hill, Hero of Labor
—for half an hour. At twelve noon a jeep came by for the sergeant; he closed his book grimly and drove off with it to the next hamlet down the line.

The store came to life then. Mr. Croley emerged from his cubbyhole to wait, dead pan, for customers to speak up. He sold some binder twine, fence staples, seed cake, cheese, imitation candy, and dark gray bread in a little flurry of business activity and then the store was empty again. Justin went to the counter.

“I’d like to talk in your office,” he said. The storekeeper lifted the counter flap and went in first. “I hear you have some surplus stuff.”

Croley sat at his small roll-top desk with the stuffed pigeon-holes and waited. Justin knew for what. He took out a bundle of money, big bills from Lowenthal’s safe.

“Don’t
have
any,” Croley said. “Know where there
is
some, maybe. Big difference.”

“Yeah. Big difference. Well, do you know where there might be some sacks of flour, dried peas, and beans? And case lots of canned horse meat, sugar, dried eggs, and tea?”

“Expensive stuff.”

Justin spread out the bills in a fan.

Croley took them and said ritually: “I dunno for sure but I think maybe Mrs. Sprenger down past the gravel pit might be able to help you. I’ll just write her a note about it.”

He wrote a note to Mrs. Sprenger on the back of an old sales slip and sealed it with a blob of flour paste. Justin got a glimpse, unavoidable in the tiny place unless he had turned his back, and saw that it seemed to be about flower seeds.