Way of a Rebel, Page 2

spent much time worrying about ethics andcreeds and political philosophies. He'd had a job to do, and he did it,and he sometimes sneered at people who could wax starry-eyed aboutpatriotism and such. It didn't make sense. The old school spirit wasokay for football games, and even for small-time wars, but he had neverfelt much of it. He hadn't needed it in order to be a good fighter. Hefought because it was considered the "thing to do," because he liked thepeople he had to live with, and because those people wouldn't have agood opinion of him if he didn't fight. People never needed much of aphilosophic motive to make them do the socially approved things.

  He moistened his lips nervously and stared at the microphone. He wasscared. Scared to run away. He had never been afraid of a _fight_,frightened maybe, but not afraid. Why now? _It takes a lot of courage tobe a coward_, he thought, but the word _coward_ made him wince. Hegroped blindly for a reasonable explanation of his desire to desert. Hewanted to talk to somebody about it, because he was the kind of man whocould think best in an argument. But there was no one to talk to exceptthe radio.

  The computer's keyboard was almost at his elbow. He stared at it for amoment, then slowly typed:

  DATA: WIND OUT OF THE NORTH, WAVE FACTOR 0.50 ROUGHNESS SCALE.

  INSTRUCTIONS: SUGGEST ACTION.

  The machine chewed on the entry noisily for a few seconds, thenanswered: INSUFFICIENT DATA.

  He nodded thoughtfully. That was his predicament too: insufficient dataabout his own motives. How could a man trust himself to judge wisely,when his judgement went completely against that of his society? He typedagain.

  DATA FOR HYPOTHETICAL PROBLEM: YOU HAVE JUST SOLVED A NAVIGATIONALPROBLEM WHOSE SOLUTION REQUIRES COURSE DUE WEST. THREE OTHER COMPUTERSSOLVE SAME PROBLEM AND GET COURSE DUE SOUTH. MALFUNCTION NOT EVIDENT INANY OF FOUR COMPUTERS.

  INSTRUCTIONS: FURNISH A COURSE.

  The computer clattered for awhile, then typed: SUGGESTION: MALFUNCTIONINDICATORS ARE POSSIBLY MALFUNCTIONING. IS DATA AVAILABLE?

  He stared at it, then laughed grimly. His _own_ malfunction-indicatorwasn't telling him much either. With masochistic fatalism he touched thekeyboard again.

  DATA NOT AVAILABLE. FURNISH A COURSE.

  The computer replied almost immediately this time: COURSE: DUE WEST.

  Mitch stared at it and bit his lip. The machine would follow its ownsolution, even if the other three contradicted it. Naturally--it would_have_ to follow its own solution, if there was no indication ofmalfunction. But could a human being make such a decision? Could a mandecide, "I am right, and everyone else is wrong?"

  _No evidence of malfunction_, he thought. _I am not a coward. Neither amI insane._

  His heart cried: "I am disgusted with this purposeless war. I shall quitfighting it."

  He sighed deeply, then arose. There was nothing else to do. The atomicengines could go six months without refueling. There were enoughundersea rations to last nearly that long.

  He switched on the radio again, goosed the engines to full speed, andafter a moment's thought, swung around on a northeasterly heading. Hisfirst impulse had been to head south, aiming for Yucatan, or theGuianas--but that impulse would also be the first to strike his pursuerswho were sure to come.

  A new voice was growling on the radio, and he recognized it as CaptainBarkley, his usually jovial, slightly cynical commanding officer."Listen, Mitch--if you can hear me, better answer. What's wrong with youanyhow? I can't hold off much longer. If you don't reply, I'll have tohunt you down. You're ordered to proceed immediately to the nearestbase. Over."

  Mitch wanted to answer, wanted to argue and fume and curse, hoping thathe could explain his behaviour to his own satisfaction. But they mightnot be certain of his exact location, and if he used the radio,half-a-dozen direction-finders would swing around to aim along hissignal, and Barkley would plot the half-a-dozen lines on the map in hisoffice before speaking crisply into his telephone: _all right, boys--gethim! 29 deg. 10' North, 79 deg. 50' West. Use a P-charge if you can't spot himby radar or sonar._

  Mitch left the controls in the hands of the computer and went up tostand in the conning tower with the churning spray washing his face.Surfaced, the sub could make sixty knots, and he meant to stay surfaceduntil there were hints of pursuit.

  * * * * *

  A three-quarter moon was rising in gloomy orange majesty out of thequiet sea. It made a river of syrupy light across the water to the east,and it heightened his sense of unreality, his feeling of detachment fromdanger.

  Is it always like this, he wondered? Can a man toss aside his society soeasily, become a traitor with so little logical reason? A day ago, hewould not have dreamed it possible. A day ago, he would have proclaimedwith the cynical Barkley, "A sailor's got no politics. What the hell'sit to me if Garson is Big Boss? I'm just a little tooth in a big gear.Uncle pays my keep. I ask no questions."

  And now he was running like hell and stealing several million bucksworth of Uncle's Navy, all because Garson's pomposity and a radiooperator's voice got under his skin. How could a man be so crazy?

  But no, that _couldn't_ be it, he thought. Jeezil! He must have somebetter reason. Sort of a last straw, maybe. But he had been conscious ofno great resentment against the war or the Navy or the government.Historically speaking, wars had never done a great deal of harm--no moreharm than industrial or traffic accidents.

  Why was this war any different? It promised to be more destructive thanthe others, but that was drawing a rather narrow line. Who was he todraw his bayonet across the road and say, "Stop here. This is thelimit."

  Mitch turned his back toward the whipping spray and stared aft along thephosphorescent, moon-swept wake of his mechanical shark. The radio wasstill barking at him with Barkley's clipped tones.

  "Last warning, Laskell! Get on that microphone or suffer theconsequences! We know where you are. I'll give you fifteen minutes, thenwe'll come get you. Over and out."

  Thanks for the warning, Mitch thought. In a few minutes, he would haveto submerge. His eyes swept the moon-washed heavens for signs ofaircraft, and he watched the dark horizon for hints of pursuit.

  He meant to keep the northeasterly course for perhaps ten hours, thenturn off and cruise southeast, passing below Bermuda and on out into thecentral Atlantic. Then south--perhaps to Africa or Brazil. A fugitivefor the rest of his days.

  "Sugar William Niner Zero," barked the radio. "This is CommsubfleetJaybird. Over."

  Mitch moistened his lips nervously. The voice was no longer Barkley's.Commsubfleet Jaybird was Admiral Harrinore. He chuckled bitterly then,realizing that he was still automatically startled by rank. He remainedin the conning tower, listening.

  "Sugar William Niner Zero, this is Commsubfleet Jaybird. If you willobey orders immediately, I guarantee that you will be allowed to acceptsummary discipline. No court martial if you comply. You are to return tobase at once. Otherwise, we shall be forced to blast you out of theocean as a deserter to the enemy. Over."

  So that was it, he thought. They were worried about the sub falling intoSoviet paws. Some of its equipment was still classified "secret",although the Reds probably already had it.

  No, he wasn't deserting to the enemy. Neither side was right in thestruggle, although he preferred the West's brand of wrongness to thebloodier wrongness of the Reds. But a man in choosing the lesser of twoevils must first decide whether the choice really _has to be made_, andif there is not a third and more desirable way. Before picking a weaponfor self-destruction, it might help to reason whether or not suicide isreally necessary.

  He smiled sardonically into the gray gloom, knowing that his thinkingwas running backwards, that he had acted before reasoning why, that hewas rationalizing in an attempt to soothe himself and absolve himself.But a lot of human thinking occurred beneath the level of consciousness,down in the darker regions of the mind where it was not allowed tobecome conscious lest it bring shame to the thinker. And perhaps he hadreasoned it all out in that mental half-world where thoughts are inne
rghosts, haunting the possessed man with vague stirrings of uneasiness,leading him into inexplicable behaviour.

  I am free now, he told himself. I have given them my declaration ofindependence, and I am an animal struggling to survive. Living insociety, a man must submit to its will, but now I am divorced from it,and I shall live apart from it if I live at all, and I shall owe itnothing. The "governed" no longer gives his consent. How many times havemen said, "If you don't like the system here, why don't you get out?"Well, he was getting out, and as a freeborn human animal, born as asavage into the world, he had that right, if he had any rights at all.

  He grunted moodily and lowered himself down into the belly of the sub.They would be starting the search soon. He sealed the hatches and openedthe water intakes after slowing to a crawl. The sub shivered andsettled. The indicator crept to ten