Beyond This Horizon

  “Not yet.”

  “Here they come!” Ba-bang! Bang! Hamilton had fired three times, winged three men. One of them stirred, attempted to raise himself and return the fire. He let him have one more bullet, which quieted him. “Thank you,” said Mordan.

  “For what?”

  “That was my file secretary. But I would rather have killed him myself.”

  Hamilton cocked an eyebrow at him. “I think you once told me that a public official should try to keep his personal feeling out of his work?”

  “That’s true…but there is no rule saying I can’t enjoy my work. I wish he had come in my door. I liked him.”

  Hamilton noted that Mordan had accounted for four more, silently, while Hamilton was so noisily stopping the rush at his own door. That made five at his door, one in between, and four at Mordan’s. “If they keep this up, they’ll have a barricade of living flesh,” he commented.

  “Formerly living,” Mordan corrected. “Haven’t you been at that same loophole a bit too long?”

  “I stand corrected on both counts.” He shifted to another spot, then called back, “How is it coming, girls?”

  “Martha got one,” Phyllis sang out.

  “Good for her! What’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m doing all right.”

  “Fine. Burn ’em so they don’t wiggle.”

  “They don’t,” she stated briefly.

  There were no more rushes. A portion of a head would peek out cautiously, its owner would blast once quickly without proper aim, the man would duck back. They returned the fire, but with little expectation of hitting anything. The targets never appeared twice in the same spot, and for split seconds only. They crept back and forth along the balcony, trying to enfilade the rooms beyond, but their antagonists had become cagy.

  “Claude… I just thought of something funny.”

  “So?”

  “Suppose I get killed in this. You get your own way in our argument, don’t you?”

  “Yes. What’s the joke?”

  “But if I get knocked over, you’ll probably be dead too. You told me my deposit was listed only in your mind. You win and you lose.”

  “Not exactly. I said it was not on file. But it’s identified in my will—my professional executor will carry out the plan.”

  “Oh, ho. So I’m a papa anyhow.” He fired once at a shape that suddenly appeared in his door. There was a yelp of anguish, and the shape drew back. “Lousy,” he deplored. “I must be losing my eyesight.” He banked a slug off the floor in front of his door, letting it thereby ricochet loosely in the room beyond. He did the same through Mordan’s door. “That’s to teach ’em to keep their heads down. Look, Claude—if you had your choice, which would you prefer: for both of us to be knocked over and thereby insure your own way about my hypothetical offspring, or for both of us to get through it and be back where we started?”

  Mordan considered the question. “I think I would rather try to argue around to my viewpoint. I’m afraid there isn’t much of the martyr spirit in me.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Somewhat later Mordan said, “Felix, I think they have taken to drawing our fire. I don’t think that was a face I shot at last time.”

  “I believe you’re right. I couldn’t have missed a couple of times lately.”

  “How many shots have you left?”

  Hamilton did not need to count; he knew—and it had been worrying him. He had had four clips when he left for the Hall of the Wolf—three in his belt, one in his gun, twenty-eight shots in all. The last clip was in his gun; he had fired two shots from it. He held up one hand, fingers spread. “How about you?”

  “About the same. I could use half charge for this sparring.” He thought a moment. “Cover both doors.” He crawled rapidly away through the stacks to where the two women kept guard on the rear door.

  Martha heard him and turned. “Look at this, chief,” she insisted, holding out her left hand. He looked—the first two joints of the forefinger were burned away and the tip of the thumb—cleanly cauterized. “Isn’t that a mess?” she complained. “I’ll never be able to operate again. No manipulation.”

  “Your assistants can operate. It’s your brain that counts.”

  “A lot you know about it. They’re clumsy—every blessed one of them. It’s a miracle they can dress themselves.”

  “I’m sorry. How many charges have you left?”

  The picture was no better here. Phyllis’s lady’s weapon had been only a twenty-gun to start with. Both Mordan’s and Monroe-Alpha’s were fifty-guns, but the gun expropriated from Monroe-Alpha had started the evening even more depleted than Mordan’s. Phyllis had withdrawn Martha from anything more than stand-by when she had been wounded, planning to use the gun herself when her own was exhausted.

  Mordan cautioned them to be still more economical with their shooting and returned to his post. “Anything happened?” he asked.

  “No. What’s the situation?”

  Mordan told him.

  Hamilton whistled tunelessly, his eye on his target. “Claude?”

  “Yes, Felix.”

  “Do you think we are going to get out of this?”

  “No, Felix.”

  “Hmmm… Well, it’s been a nice party.” A little later he added, “Damn it—I don’t want to die. Not just yet.

  Claude, I’ve thought of another joke.”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “What’s the one thing that could give life point to it—real point?”

  “That,” Mordan pointed out, “is the question I’ve been trying to answer for you all along.”

  “No, no. The question itself.”

  “You state it,” Mordan parried cautiously.

  “I will. The one thing that could give us some real basis for our living is to know for sure whether or not anything happens after we die. When we die, do we die all over—or don’t we?”

  “Hmm…granting your point, what’s the joke?”

  “The joke is on me. Or rather on my kid. In a few minutes I’ll probably know the answer. But he won’t. He’s sitting back there right now—in a way—sleeping in one of those freezers. And there is no way on earth for me to let him know the answer. But he’s the one that will need to know. Isn’t that funny?”

  “Hmm… If that’s your idea of a joke, Felix, I suggest that you stick to parlor tricks.”

  Hamilton shrugged jauntily. “I’m considered quite a wit in some circles,” he bragged. “Sometimes I wow myself.”

  “Here they come!” It was an organized rush this time, spreading fanwise from both doors. They were both very busy for perhaps two seconds, then it was over. “Any get through?”

  “Two, I think,” Mordan answered. “You cover the stairs. I’ll stay here.” It was not personal caution, but tactics. Mordan’s eye and hand were fast, but Hamilton was the younger, abler man.

  He watched the stairs on his belly, most of his body shielded by the stacks. He was lucky on the first shot—his man stuck his head up facing the other way. Hamilton sent him down with a hole in the back of his skull and his forehead blown away. He then shifted quickly to the far side of the stair well. But his gun was empty.

  The second man came up fast. Hamilton slugged him with the empty weapon and grappled, trying to get inside his range. The man almost fought free, dragging them both part way into the staircase, but Hamilton jerked back on his head, hard. There was a crunch of bone; he went limp.

  Hamilton reported back to Mordan.

  “Good. Where’s your gun?” Hamilton shrugged and spread his palms. “There ought to be two at the foot of the stairs,” he suggested.

  “You wouldn’t last long enough to stoop over for them. You stay up here. Go back and get Martha’s.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He crawled back, explained what he wanted, and told Martha to hide in the stacks. She protested. “Chief’s orders,” he lied. Then to Phyllis, “How are you doing, kid?”
>
  “All right.”

  “Keep your chin up and your head down.” He glanced at the meters on both guns. They had the same charge. He holstered Monroe-Alpha’s gun, shot a quick look at the door Phyllis was covering, then grabbed her chin, turned her face around, and kissed her quickly.

  “That’s for keeps,” he said, and turned away at once.

  Mordan reported no activity. “But there will be,” he added. “We don’t dare waste shots on casual targets and they will soon realize it.”

  It seemed an interminable wait. They grimly forbore accepting the targets they were offered. “I think,” said Mordan at last, “that we had better expend one charge on the next thing that appears. It might cause a worthwhile delay.”

  “You don’t have any silly notion that we are going to get out of this now, do you? I’ve begun to suspect that the monitors don’t even know this point was attacked.”

  “You may be right. But we’ll keep on.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  They had a target soon—plain enough to be sure that it was a man, and not a decoy. Mordan stung him. He fell in sight, but shots were scarce—he was allowed to crawl painfully back out of range.

  Hamilton looked up for a moment. “See here, Claude—it would be worthwhile, you know—to know what happens after the lights go out. Why hadn’t anyone tackled it seriously?”

  “Religions do. Philosophies do.”

  “That isn’t what I mean. It ought to be tackled the same as any other—” He stopped. “Do you smell anything?”

  Mordan sniffed. “I’m not sure. What does it smell like?”

  “Sweetish. It—” He felt suddenly dizzy, a strange sensation for him. He saw two of Mordan. “Gas. They’ve got us. So long, pal.” He tried to crawl to the passageway down which Phyllis was on duty, but he achieved only a couple of clumsy, crawling steps, fell on his face, and lay still.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “—the only game in town”

  IT WAS pleasant to be dead. Pleasant and peaceful, not monotonous. But a little bit lonely. He missed those others—serene Mordan, the dauntless gallantry of Phyllis, Cliff and his frozen face. And there was that funny little man, pathetic little man who ran the Milky Way Bar—what had he named him? He could see his face, but what had he named him? Herbie, Herbert, something like that—names didn’t taste the same when words were gone. Why had he named him Herbert?

  Never mind. The next time he would not choose to be a mathematician. Dull, tasteless stuff, mathematics—quite likely to give the game away before it was played out. No fun in the game if you knew the outcome. He had designed a game like that once, and called it Futility—no matter how you played, you had to win. No, that wasn’t himself, that was a player called Hamilton. Himself wasn’t Hamilton—not this game. He was a geneticist—that was a good one!—a game within a game. Change the rules as you go along. Move the players around. Play tricks on yourself.

  “Don’t you peek and close your eyes,

  “And I’ll give you something to make a s’prise!”

  That was the essence of the game—surprise. You locked up your memory, and promised not to look, then played through the part you had picked with just the rules assigned to that player. Sometimes the surprises were pretty ghastly, though—he didn’t like having his fingers burned off.

  No! He hadn’t played that position at all. That piece was an automatic, some of the pieces had to be. Himself had burned off that piece’s fingers, though it seemed real at the time.

  It was always like this on first waking up. It was always a little hard to remember which position Himself had played, forgetting that he had played all of the parts. Well, that was the game; it was the only game in town, and there was nothing else to do. Could he help it if the game was crooked? Even if he had made it up and played all the parts.

  But he would think up another game the next time. Next time…

  His eyes didn’t work right. They were open but he couldn’t see anything. A hell of a way to run things—some mistake.

  “Hey! What’s going on here?”

  It was his own voice. He sat up, the cloth fell from his eyes. Everything was too bright; his eyes smarted.

  “What’s the trouble, Felix?” He turned in the direction of the voice and strove to focus his aching eyes. It was Mordan, lying a few feet away from him. There was something he wanted to ask Mordan, but it escaped him.

  “Oh. Claude. I don’t feel right. How long have we been dead?”

  “We aren’t dead. You’re just a bit sick. You’ll get over it.”

  “Sick? Is that what it is?”

  “Yes. I was sick once, about thirty years ago. It was much like this.”

  “Oh—” There was still something he wanted to ask Mordan, but he couldn’t for the life of him recall what it was. It was important, too, and Claude would know. Claude knew everything—he made the rules.

  That was silly. Still, Claude would know.

  “Do you want to know what happened?” Mordan asked.

  Maybe that was it. “They gassed us, didn’t they? I don’t remember anything after that.” That wasn’t quite right—there was something else. He couldn’t recall.

  “We were gassed, but it was done by our own monitors. Through the conditioning system. We were lucky. No one knew we were under siege inside, but they could not be sure that all of the staff were out of the building—else they would have used a lethal gas.”

  His head was clearing now. He remembered the fight in detail. “So? How many were left? How many did we fail to get?”

  “I don’t know exactly, and it’s probably too late to find out. They are probably all dead.”

  “Dead? Why? They didn’t burn them after they were down, did they?”

  “No… But this gas we took is lethal without an immediate antidote—and I’m afraid that the therapists were a little bit over-worked. Our own people came first.”

  Hamilton grinned. “You old hypocrite. Say! How about Phyllis?”

  “She’s all right, and so is Martha. I ascertained that when I woke up. By the way, do you know that you snore?”

  “Do I really?”

  “Outrageously. I listened to your music for more than an hour. You must have had a heavier dose of gas than I had. Perhaps you struggled.”

  “Maybe. I wouldn’t know. Say, where are we?” He swung his legs out of bed, and attempted to stand. It was a foolish attempt; he just missed falling on his face.

  “Lie down,” ordered Mordan. “You won’t be fit for several hours yet.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Hamilton admitted, sinking back on the cushion. “Say, that’s a funny feeling. I thought I was going to fly.”

  “We’re next door to the Carstairs Infirmary, in a temporary annex,” Mordan continued. “Naturally, things are a bit crowded today.”

  “Is the party all over? Did we win?”

  “Of course we won. I told you the issue was never in doubt.”

  “I know, but I’ve never understood your confidence.”

  Mordan considered how to reply to this. “Perhaps,” he said, “it would be simplest to state that they never did have what it takes. The leaders were, in most cases, genetically poor types, with conceit far exceeding their abilities. I doubt if any one of them had sufficient imagination to conceive logically the complexities of running a society, even the cut-to-measure society they dreamed of.”

  “They talked as if they did.”

  Mordan nodded. “No doubt. It’s a common failing, and it’s been with the race as long as it has had social organization. A little business man thinks his tiny business is as complex and difficult as the whole government. By inversion, he conceives himself as competent to plan the government as the chief executive. Going further back in history, I’ve no doubt that many a peasant thought the job of the king was a simple one and that he could do it better if he only had a chance. What it boils down to is lack of imagination and overwhelming conceit.”

  “I
would never have thought them lacking in imagination.”

  “There is a difference between constructive imagination and wild, uncontrolled day dreams. One is psychopathic—megalomania—unable to distinguish between fact and fancy. The other is hardheaded. In any case, the fact remains that they did not have a single competent scientist, nor a synthesist of any sort, in their whole organization. I venture to predict that, when we get around to reviewing their records, we will find that the rebels were almost all—all, perhaps—men who had never been outstandingly successful at anything. Their only prominence was among themselves.”

  Hamilton thought this over to himself. He had noticed something of the sort. They had seemed like thwarted men. He had not recognized a face among them as being anyone in particular outside the Survivors Club. But inside the club they were swollen with self-importance, planning this, deciding that, talking about what they would do when they “took over.” Pipsqueaks, the lot of ’em.

  But dangerous pipsqueaks, no matter what Mordan said. You were just as dead, burned by a childish man, as you would be if another killed you.

  “Felix, are you still awake?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you recall the conversations we were having during the fight?”

  “Why, um—yes—yes, I think I do.”

  “You were about to say something when the gas hit us.”

  Hamilton was slow in replying. He recalled what had been on his mind but it was difficult to fit it into adequate words. “It’s like this, Claude. It seems to me that scientists tackle every problem but the important ones. What a man wants to know is ‘Why?’—all that science tells him is ‘What’.”

  “‘Why’ isn’t the business of science. Scientists observe, describe, hypothecate, and predict. ‘What’ and ‘How’ are their whole field; ‘Why’ doesn’t enter into it.”

  “Why shouldn’t ‘Why’ enter into it? I don’t want to know how far it is from here to the Sun; I want to know why the Sun is there—and why I am standing here looking at it. I ask what life is for, and they show me a way to make better bread.”