Beyond This Horizon (26 page)

“You sit tight,” said Felix, “and don’t go out of your apartment. I’ll do a little calling and see what can be worked out.”

The next friend was polite but regretful. Awfully sorry not to oblige Master Hamilton but he was acting under instructions. Could Master Hamilton speak with his principal? Now, really, that was hardly procedure. But he admitted that the circumstances were unusual—give him a few minutes, then he would phone back.

Hamilton received permission to speak to the principal; called him. No, the challenge could not be lifted—and the conversation was strictly under the rose. Procedure, you know. He was willing to accept a formal apology; he did not really wish to kill the man.

Hamilton explained that Smith would not accept the humiliation—could not, because of his psychological background. He was a barbarian and simply could not see things from a gentleman’s point of view. Hamilton identified Smith as the Man from the Past.

The principal nodded. “I know that now. Had I known that before, I would have ignored his rudeness—treated him as a child. But I didn’t know. And now, in view of what he did—well, my dear sir, I can hardly ignore it, can I?”

Hamilton conceded that he was entitled to satisfaction, but suggested it would make him publicly unpopular to kill Smith. “He is rather a public darling, you know. I am inclined to think that many will regard it as murder to force him to fight.”

The citizen had thought of that. Rather a dilemma, wasn’t it?

“How would you like to combat him physically—punish him the way he damaged you, only more so?”

“Really, my dear sir!”

“Just an idea,” said Hamilton. “You might think about it. May we have three days grace?”

“More, if you like. I told you I was not anxious to push it to a duel. I simply want to curb his manners. One might run into him anywhere.”

Hamilton let it go, and called Mordan, a common thing when he was puzzled. “What do you think I ought to do, Claude?”

“Well, there is no real reason why you should not let him go ahead and get himself killed. Individually, it’s his life; socially, he’s no loss.”

“You forget that I am using him as a translator. Besides, I rather like him. He is pathetically gallant in the face of a world he does not understand.”

“Mmm…well, in that case, we’ll try to find a solution.”

“Do you know, Claude,” Felix said seriously, “I am beginning to have my doubts about this whole custom. Maybe I’m getting old, but, while it’s lots of fun for a bachelor to go swaggering around town, it looks a little different to me now. I’ve even thought of assuming the brassard.”

“Oh, no, Felix, you mustn’t do that!”

“Why not? A lot of people do.”

“It’s not for you. The brassard is an admission of defeat, an acknowledgement of inferiority.”

“What of it? I’d still be myself. I don’t care what people think.”

“You’re mistaken, son. To believe that you can live free of your cultural matrix is one of the easiest fallacies to fall into, and has some of the worst consequences. You are part of your group whether you like it or not, and you are bound by its customs.”

“But they’re only customs!”

“Don’t belittle customs. It is easier to change Mendelian characteristics than it is to change customs. If you try to ignore them, they bind you when you least expect it.”

“But dammit! How can there be any progress if we don’t break customs?”

“Don’t break them—avoid them. Take them into your considerations, examine how they work, and make them serve you. You don’t need to disarm yourself to stay out of fights. If you did you would get into fights—I know you!—the way Smith did. An armed man need not fight. I haven’t drawn my gun for more years than I can remember.”

“Come to think about it, I haven’t pulled mine in four years or more.”

“That’s the idea. But don’t assume that the custom of going armed is useless. Customs always have a reason behind them, sometimes good, sometimes bad. This is a good one.”

“Why do you say that? I used to think so, but I have my doubts now.”

“Well, in the first place an armed society is a polite society. Manners are good when one may have to back up his acts with his life. For me, politeness is a
sine qua non
of civilization. That’s a personal evaluation only. But gunfighting has a strong biological use. We do not have enough things to kill off the weak and the stupid these days. But to stay alive as an armed citizen a man has to be either quick with his wits or with his hands, preferably both. It’s a good thing.

“Of course,” he continued, “our combativeness has to do with our ancestry and our history.” Hamilton nodded; he knew that Mordan referred to the Second Genetic War. “But we have preserved that inheritance intentionally. The Planners would not stop the wearing of arms if they could.”

“Maybe so,” Felix answered slowly, “but it does seem like there ought to be a better way to do it. This way is pretty sloppy. Sometimes the bystanders get burned.”

“The alert ones don’t,” Mordan pointed out. “But don’t expect human institutions to be efficient. They never have been; it is a mistake to think that they can be made so—in this millennium or the next.”

“Why not?”

“Because we
are
sloppy, individually—and therefore collectively. Take a look at a cageful of monkeys, at your next opportunity. Watch how they do things and listen to them chatter. You’ll find it instructive. You’ll understand humans better.”

Felix grinned. “I think I see what you mean. But what am I to do about Smith?”

“If he gets out of this, I think he had better wear a gun after this. Perhaps you can impress on him then that his life will depend on the softness of his words. But for the present—I know this chap he challenged. Suppose you suggest me as referee.”

“Are you going to let them
fight?
”

“In my own way. I think I can arrange for them to fight barehanded.” Mordan had delved back into his encyclopedic memory and had come put with a fact that Hamilton would not fully appreciate. Smith had come from a decadent period in which handfighting had become stylized as fist fighting, No doubt he was adept in it. It was necessary for one not to use the gun with which he was adept; it was equitable that the other not use fists, were he adept in their use. So Mordan wished to referee that he might define the rules.

It is not necessary to give overmuch attention to that rather unimportant and uncolorful little man, J. Darlington Smith. Hamilton was forced to withdraw as next friend, since Carruthers needed him at the time, and did not therefore see the encounter. He learned of it first by discovering that Smith was immobilized in an infirmary, suffering from some rather unusual wounds. But he did not quite lose the sight of his left eye and his other damages were mostly gone in a couple of weeks.

All of which happened some days later than the conversation with Mordan.

Hamilton turned back to his work. There were various little matters to attend to. One team of researchers in particular belonged to him alone. He had noticed when he was a boy that a physical object, especially a metallic one, brought near to his forehead above the bridge of the nose seemed to produce some sort of a response inside the head, not connected, apparently, with the physiological senses. He had not thought of it for many years, until the Great Research had caused him to think of such things.

Was it real, or was it imagination? It was a mere tightening of the nerves, an uneasy feeling, but distinct and different from any other sensation. Did other people have it? What caused it? Did it mean anything?

He mentioned it to Carruthers who had said, “Well, don’t stand there speculating about it. Put a crew to work on it.”

He had. They had already discovered that the feeling was not uncommon but rarely talked about. It was such a little thing and hard to define. Subjects had been found who had it in a more marked degree than most—Hamilton ceased being a subject for experimentation himself.

He called the crew leader. “Anything new, George?”

“Yes and no. We have found a chap who can distinguish between different metals nearly eighty per cent of the time, and between wood and metal every time. But we are still no nearer finding out what makes it tick.”

“Need anything?”

“No.”

“Call me if you need me. Helpful Felix the Cheerful Cherub.”

“Okay.”

It must not be supposed that Hamilton Felix was very important to the Great Research. He was not the only idea man that Carruthers had, not by several offices. It is probable that the Great Research would have gone on in much the same fashion, even during his lifetime, even if he had not been co-opted. But it would not have gone in quite the same way.

But it is hard to evaluate the relative importance of individuals. Who was the more important?—the First Tyrant of Madagascar, or the nameless peasant who assassinated him? Felix’s work had
some
effect. So did that of each of the eight-thousand-odd other individuals who took part at one time or another in the Great Research.

Jacobstein Ray called back before he could turn his mind to other matters. “Felix? You can come over and take your young hopeful away, if you will.”

“Fine. What sort of results?”

“Maddening. He started out with seven correct answers in a row, then he blew up completely. Results no better than random—until he stopped answering at all.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” remarked Hamilton, thinking of a certain flop-eared buck.

“Yes indeed. Went limp on us. I’d as leave try to stuff a snake down a hole.”

“Well, we’ll try another day. Meanwhile I’ll attend to
him
.”

“I’d enjoy helping you,” Jake said wistfully.

Theobald was just sitting, doing less than nothing, when Felix came in. “Hello, sport. Ready to go home?”

“Yes.”

Felix waited until they were in the family car and the pilot set on home before bracing him. “Ray tells me you didn’t help him very well.”

Theobald twisted a string around his finger. He concentrated on it.

“Well, how about it? Did you, or didn’t you?”

“He wanted me to play some stupid games,” the child stated. “No sense to them.”

“So you quit?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you told me you would help?”

“I didn’t
say
I would.”

Felix thought back. The child was probably right—he could not remember. But he had had a feeling of contract, the “meeting of minds.”

“Seems to me there was mention of a flop-eared rabbit.”

“But,” Theobald pointed out, “you said I could have it anyhow. You told me so!”

The rest of the trip home was mostly silence.

The Quick and the Dead

M
ADAME ESPARTERO CARVALA called again, unexpectedly and with no ceremony. She simply called by telephone and announced that she was coming to see them. She had informed Phyllis on the previous occasion that she expected to come back and see the baby. But more than four years had passed with no word from her; Phyllis had given up expecting her. After all, one does not thrust oneself on a member of the cosmically remote Board of Policy!

They had seen references to her in the news: Madame Espartero re-confirmed without opposition. Madame Espartero offers her resignation. The Grand Old Lady of the Board in failing health. Madame Espartero’s alternate selected by special election. Carvala rallies in her fight for life. Planners honor sixtieth year of service of the Oldest Member. Stereostories and news bits—she had become an institution.

Felix had thought when he saw her last that she looked older than any human being could. He realized when he saw her this time that he had been mistaken. She was still more incredibly frail and shrunken and she seemed to move with great effort. She compressed her lips tightly with each movement.

But her eye was still bright, her voice was still firm. She dominated her surroundings.

Phyllis came forward. “We are delighted. I never expected to see you again.”

“I told you I was coming back to see the boy.”

“Yes, I remember, but it has been a long time and you did not come.”

“No sense in looking a child over until he has shaped up and can speak for himself! Where is he? Fetch him in.”

“Felix, will you find him?”

“Certainly, my dear.” Felix departed, wondering how it was that he, a grown man and in full possession of his powers, could permit a little old woman, ripe for cremation, to get him so on edge. It was childish of him!

Theobald did not want to leave his rabbits. “I’m busy.”

Felix considered the plan of returning to the lounge and announcing that Theobald would receive Madame Espartero, if at all, at the rabbit run. But he decided that he could not do such a thing to Phyllis. “Look, son, there is a lady in there who wants to see you.”

No answer.

“Make up your mind,” Felix announced cheerfully. “Will you walk or do you prefer to be dragged? It makes no difference to me.”

Theobald looked slowly up his father’s sheer two meters and, without further comment, started for the house.

“Madame Espartero, this is Theobald.”

“So I see. Come to me, Theobald.” Theobald stood fast.

“Go to her, Theobald.” Phyllis spoke briskly; the boy complied at once. Felix wondered why it was that the child obeyed his mother so much more readily than his father. Damn it, he was good to the child and just with him. There must have been a thousand times when he had refrained from losing his temper with him.

Madame Carvala spoke to him in a low voice, too low for either Felix or Phyllis to catch. He glowered and tried to look away, but she insisted, caught his eye, and held it. She spoke again, and he answered, in the same low tones. They talked together for some minutes, quite earnestly. Finally she straightened up in her chair and said in a louder tone, “Thank you, Theobald. You may go now.”

He fled out of the house. Felix looked longingly after him, but decided he had to stay. He selected a chair as far across the room as manners permitted, and waited.

Carvala selected another cigar, puffed until she was the center of a cloud of blue smoke, and turned her attention exclusively to Phyllis. “He’s a sound child,” she announced. “Sound. He’ll do well.”