there was no way for a man with foresight to avoid becoming a leader.
Morgan and Dad Carter entered the mine by a new shaft and tunnel which
appeared on no map, by a dry rock route which was intended to puzzle even a
blood-hound. They crawled through the tunnel, were able to raise their
heads when they reached the armory, and stepped out into the common room of
the colony, the largest chamber, ten by thirty feet and as high as it was
wide.
Their advent surprised no one, else they might not have lived to enter. A
microphone concealed in the tunnel had conveyed their shibboleths before
them. The room was unoccupied save for a young woman stirring something
over a tiny, hooded fire and a girl who sat at a typewriter table mounted
in front of a radio. She was wearing earphones and shoved one back and
turned to face them as they came in.
"Howdy, Boss!"
"Hi, Margie. What's the good word?" Then to the other, "What's for lunch?"
"Bark soup and a notch in your belt."
"Cathleen, you depress me."
"Well . . . mushrooms fried in rabbit fat, but darn few of them."
"That's better."
"You better tell your boys to be more careful what they bring in. One more
rabbit with tularemia and we won't have to worry about what to eat."
"Hard to avoid, Cathy. You just be sure you handle them the way Doc taught
you." He turned to the girl. "Jerry in the upper tunnel?"
"Yes."
"Get him down here, will you?"
"Yes, sir." She pulled a sheet out of her typewriter and handed it to him,
along with others, then left the room.
Morgan glanced over them. The enemy had abolished soap opera and singing
commercials but he could not say that radio had been improved. There was an
unnewsy sameness to the propaganda which now came over the air. He checked
through while wishing for just one old-fashioned, uncensored newscast.
"Here's an item!" he said suddenly. "Get this, Dad � "
"Read it to me, Ed." Dad's spectacles had been broken on Final Sunday. He
could bring down a deer, or a man, at a thousand yards � but he might never
read again.
"'New Center, 28 April � It is with deep regret that Continental
Coordinating Authority for World Unification, North American District,
announces that the former city of St. Joseph, Missouri, has been subjected
to sanitary measures. It is ordered that a memorial plaque setting forth
the circumstances be erected on the former site of St. Joseph as soon as
radioactivity permits. Despite repeated warnings the former inhabitants of
this lamented city encouraged and succored marauding bands of outlaws
skulking around the outskirts of their community. It is hoped that the sad
fate of St. Joseph will encourage the native authorities of all North
American communities to take all necessary steps to suppress treasonable
intercourse with the few remaining lawless elements in our continental
society.' "
Dad cocked a brow at Morgan. "How many does that make since they took
over?"
"Let's see . . . Salinas . . . Colorado Springs . . . uh, six, including
St. Joe."
"Son, there weren't more than sixty million Americans left after Final
Sunday. If they keep up, we'll be kind of thinned out in a few years."
"I know." Morgan looked troubled. "We've got to work out ways to operate
without calling attention to the towns. Too many hostages."
A short, dark man dressed in dirty dungarees entered from a side tunnel,
followed by Margie. "You wanted me, Boss?"
"Yes, Jerry. I want to get word to McCracken to come in for a meeting. Two
hours from now, if he can get here.
"Boss, you're using radio too much. You'll get him shot and us, too."
"I thought that business of bouncing it off the cliff face was foolproof?"
"Well . . . a dodge I can work up, somebody else can figure out. Besides,
I've got the chassis unshipped. I was working on it."
"How long to rig it?"
"Oh, half an hour � twenty minutes."
"Do it. This may be the last time we'll use radio, except as utter last
resort."
Okay, boss.
The meeting was in the common room. Morgan called it to order once all were
present or accounted for. McCracken arrived just as he had decided to
proceed without him. McCracken had a pass for the countryside, being a
veterinarian, and held proxy for the colony's underground associates in
Barclay.
America, is now in session," Morgan announced formally. "Does any member
have any item to lay before the Company?"
He looked around; there was no response. "How about you?" he challenged Joe
Benz. "I heard that you had some things you thought the Company ought to
hear."
Benz started to speak, shook his head. "I'll wait."
"Don't wait too long," Morgan said mildly. "Well, I have two points to
bring up for discussion � "
"Three," corrected Dr. McCracken. "I'm glad you sent for me." He stepped up
to Morgan and handed him a large, much folded piece of paper. Morgan looked
it over, refolded it, and put it in his pocket.
"It fits in," he said to McCracken. "What do the folks in town say?"
"They are waiting to hear from you. They'll back you up � so far, anyway."
"All right." Morgan turned back to the group. "First item � we got a
message today, passed by hand and about three weeks old, setting up another
provisional government. The courier was grabbed right under our noses.
Maybe he was a stooge; maybe he was careless � that's neither here nor
there at the moment. The message was that the Honorable Albert M. Brockman
proclaimed himself provisional President of these United States, under
derived authority, and appointed Brigadier General Dewey Fenton commander
of armed forces including irregular militia � meaning us � and called on
all citizens to unite to throw the Invader out. All formal and proper. So
what do we do about it?"
"And who the devil is the Honorable Albert M. Brockman?" asked someone in
the rear.
"I've been trying to remember. The message listed government jobs he's
held, including some assistant secretary job � I suppose that's the
'derived authority'
angle. But I can't place him."
"I recall him," Dr. McCracken said suddenly. "I met him when I was in the
Bureau of Animal Husbandry. A career civil servant . . . and a stuffed
shirt."
There was a gloomy silence. Ted spoke up. "Then why bother with him?"
The Leader shook his head. "It's not that simple, Ted. We can't assume that
he's no good. Napoleon might have been a minor clerk under different
circumstances. And the Honorable Mr. Brockman may be a revolutionary genius
disguised as a bureaucrat. But that's not the point. We need nationwide
unification more than anything. It doesn't matter right now who the titular
leader is. The theory of derived authority may be shaky but it may be the
only way to get everybody to accept one leadership. Little bands like ours
can never win back the country. We've got to have unity � and that's why we
&nb
sp; can't ignore Brockman."
"The thing that burns me," McCracken said savagely, "is that it need never
have happened at all! It could have been prevented."
"No use getting in a sweat about it," Morgan told him. "It's easy to see
the government's mistakes now, but just the same I think there was an
honest effort to prevent war right up to the last. It takes all nations to
keep the peace, but it only takes one to start a war."
"No, no, no � I don't mean that, Captain," McCracken answered. "I don't
mean the War could have been prevented. I suppose it could have been �
once. But everybody knew that another war could happen, and everybody �
everybody, I say, knew that if it came, it would start with the blasting of
American cities. Every congressman, every senator knew that a war would
destroy Washington and leave the country with no government, flopping
around like a chicken with its head off. They knew � why didn't they do
something!"
"What could they do? Washington couldn't be protected."
''Do? Why, they could have made plans for their own deaths! They could have
slapped through a constitutional amendment calling for an alternate
president and alternate congressmen and made it illegal for the alternates
to be in target areas � or any scheme to provide for orderly succession in
case of disaster. They could have set up secret and protected centers of
government to use for storm cellars. They could have planned the same way a
father takes out life insurance for his kids. Instead they went stumbling
along, fat dumb, and happy, and let themselves get killed, with no
provision to carry out their sworn duties after they were dead. Theory of
'derived authority', pfui! It's not just disastrous; it's ridiculous! We
used to be the greatest country in the world � now look at us!"
"Take it easy, Doc," Morgan suggested. "Hindsight is easier than
foresight."
"Hmm! I saw it coming. I quit my Washington job and took a country
as I am?"
"Hmm . . . well � you're right, but we might just as well worry over the
Dred Scott Decision. Let's get on with the problem. How about Brockman?
Ideas?"
"What do you propose, boss?"
"I'd rather have it come from the floor."
"Oh, quit scraping your foot, boss," urged Ted. "We elected you to lead."
"Okay. I propose to send somebody to backtrack on the message and locate
Brockman � smell him out and see what he's got. I'll consult with as many
groups as we can reach, in this state and across the river, and well try to
manage unanimous action. I was thinking of sending Dad and Morrie."
Cathleen shook her head. "Even with faked registration cards and travel
permits they'd be grabbed for the Reconstruction Battalions. I'll go."
"In a pig's eye," Morgan answered. "You'd be grabbed for something a danged
sight worse. It's got to be a man."
"I am afraid Cathleen is right," McCracken commented. "They shipped
twelve-year-old boys and old men who could hardly walk for the Detroit
project. They don't care how soon the radiation gets them � it's a plan to
thin us out."
"Are the cities still that bad?"
"From what I hear, yes. Detroit is still 'hot' and she was one of the first
to get it."
"I'm going to go." The voice was high and thin, and rarely heard in
conference.
"Now, Mother � " said Dad Carter.
"You keep out of this, Dad. The men and young women would be grabbed, but
they won't bother with me. All I need is a paper saying I have a permit to
rejoin my grandson, or something."
McCracken nodded. "I can supply that."
Morgan paused, then said suddenly, "Mrs. Carter will contact Brockman. It
is so ordered. Next order of business," he went on briskly. "You've all
seen the news about St. Joe � this is what they posted in Barclay last
night." He hauled out and held up the paper McCracken had given him. It was
a printed notice, placing the City of Barclay on probation, subject to the
ability of "local authorities" to suppress "bands of roving criminals".
There was a stir, but no comment. Most of them had lived in Barclay; all
had ties there.
"I guess you're waiting for me," McCracken began. "We held a meeting as
soon as this was posted. We weren't all there � it's getting harder to
cover up even the smallest gathering � but there was no disagreement. We're
behind you but we want you to go a little easy. We suggest that you cut out
pulling raids within oh, say twenty miles of Barclay, and that you stop all
killing unless absolutely necessary to avoid capture. It's the killings
they get excited about � it was killing of the district director that
touched off St. Joe."
Benz sniffed. "So we don't do anything. We just give up � and stay here in
the hills and starve."
"Let me finish, Benz. We don't propose to let them scare us out and keep us
enslaved forever. But casual raids don't do them any real harm. They're
mostly for food for the Underground and for minor retaliations. We've got
to conserve our strength and increase it and organize, until we can hit
hard enough to make it stick. We won't let you starve. I can do more
organizing among the farmers and some animals can be hidden out and
unregistered. We can get you meat � some, anyhow. And we'll split our
rations with you. They've got us on 1800 calories now, but we can share it.
Something can be done through the black market, too. There are ways."
Benz made a contemptuous sound. Morgan looked at him.
"Speak up, Joe. What's on your mind?"
"I will. It's not a plan; it's a disorderly retreat. A year from now we'll
be twice as hungry and no further along � and they'll be better dug in and
stronger. Where does it get us?"
Morgan shook his head. "You've got it wrong. Even if we hadn't had it
forced on us, we would have been moving into this stage anyhow. The Free
Companies have got to quit drawing attention to themselves. Once the food
problem is solved we've got to build up our strength and weapons. We've got
to have organization and weapons � nationwide organization and guns,
knives, and hand grenades. We've got to turn this mine into a factory.
There are people down in Barclay who can use the stuff we can make here �
but we can't risk letting Barclay be blasted in the meantime. Easy does
it."
"Ed Morgan, you're kidding yourself and you know it."
"How?"
"How? Look, you sold me the idea of staying on the dodge and joining up � "
"You volunteered."
"Okay, I volunteered. It was all because you were so filled with fire and
vinegar about how we would throw the enemy back into the ocean. You talked
about France and Poland and how the Filipinos kept on fighting after they
were occupied. You sold me a bill of goods. But there was something you
didn't tell me � "
"Go on."
"There never was an underground that freed its own country. All of them had
to be pulled out of the soup by an invasion from outside. Nobody is going
to pull us out.
There was silence after this remark. The statement had too much truth in
it, but it was truth that no member of the Company could afford to think
about. Young Morrie broke it. "Captain?"
"Yes, Morrie." Being a fighting man, Morrie was therefore a citizen and a
voter.
"How can Joe be so sure he knows what he's talking about? History doesn't
repeat. Anyhow, maybe we will get some help. England, maybe � or even the
Russians."
Benz snorted. "Listen to the punk! Look, kid, England was smashed like we
were, only worse � and Russia, too. Grow up; quit daydreaming."
The boy looked at him doggedly. "You don't know that. We only know what
they chose to tell us. And there aren't enough of them to hold down the
whole world, everybody, everywhere. We never managed to lick the Yaquis, or
the Moros. And they can't lick us unless we let them. I've read some
history too."
Benz shrugged. "Okay, okay. Now we can all sing My Country 'Tis of Thee and
recite the Scout oath. That ought to make Morrie happy-"
"Take it easy, Joe!"
"We have free speech here, don't we? What I want to know is, How long does
this go on? I'm getting tired of competing with coyotes for the privilege
of eating jackrabbits. You know I've fought with the best of them. I've
gone on the raids. Well, haven't I? Haven't I? You can't call me yellow."
"You've been on some raids," Morgan conceded.
"All right. I'd go along indefinitely if I could see some sensible plan.
That's why I ask, 'How long does this go on?" When do we move? Next spring?
Next year?"
Morgan gestured impatiently. "How do I know? It may be next spring; it may
be ten years. The Poles waited three hundred years."
"That tears it," Benz said slowly. "I was hoping you could offer some
reasonable plan. Wait and arm ourselves � that's a pretty picture! Homemade
hand grenades against atom bombs! Why don't you quit kidding yourselves?
We're licked!" He hitched at his belt. "The rest of you can do as you
please � I'm through."
Morgan shrugged. "If a man won't fight, I can't make him. You're assigned
noncombatant duties. Turn in your gun. Report to Cathleen."
"You don't get me, Ed. I'm through."
"You don't get me, Joe. You don't resign from an Underground."
"There's no risk. I'll leave quietly, and let myself be registered as a
straggler. It doesn't mean anything to the rest of you. I'll keep my mouth
shut � that goes without saying."
Morgan took a long breath, then answered, "Joe, I've learned by bitter
experience not to trust statements set off by 'naturally', 'of course', or
'that goes without saying'."
"Oh, so you don't trust me?"
"As Captain of this Company I can't afford to. Unless you can get the
Company to recall me from office, my rulings stand. You're under arrest.
Hand over your gun.
Benz glanced around, at blank, unfriendly faces. He reached for his waist.
"With your left hand, Joe!"
Instead of complying, Benz drew suddenly, backed away. "Keep clear!" he
said shrilly. "I don't want to hurt anybody � but keep clear!"
Morgan was unarmed. There might have been a knife or two in the assembly,
but most of them had come directly from the dinner table. It was not their
custom to be armed inside the mine.
Young Morrie was armed with a rifle, having come from lookout duty. He did
not have room to bring it into play, but Morgan could see that he intended
to try. So could Benz.
"Stop it, Morrie!" Morgan assumed obedience and turned instantly to the
others. "Let him go. Nobody move. Get going, Joe."