The Worlds Of Robert A Heinlein

  "That's better." Benz backed down the main tunnel, toward the main

  entrance, weed and drift choked for years. Its unused condition was their

  principal camouflage, but it could be negotiated.

  He backed away into the gloom, still covering them. The tunnel curved;

  shortly he was concealed by the bend.

  Dad Carter went scurrying in the other direction as soon as Benz no longer

  covered them. He reappeared at once, carrying something. "Heads down!" he

  shouted, as he passed through them and took out after Benz.

  "Dad!" shouted Morgan. But Carter was gone.

  Seconds later a concussion tore at their ears and noses.

  Morgan picked himself up and brushed at his clothes, saying in annoyed

  tones, "I never did like explosives in cramped quarters. Cleve ? Art. Go

  check on it. Move!"

  "Right, boss!" They were gone.

  "The rest of you get ready to carry out withdrawal plan ? full plan, with

  provisions and supplies. Jerry, don't disconnect either the receiver or the

  line-of-sight till I give the word. Margie will help you. Cathleen, get

  ready to serve anything that can't be carried. We'll have one big meal.

  'The condemned ate hearty.' "

  "Just a moment, Captain." McCracken touched his sleeve. "I had better get a

  message into Barclay."

  "Soon as the boys report. You better get back into town.

  "I wonder. Benz knows me. I think I'm here to stay."

  "Hm . . . well, you know best. How about your family?"

  McCracken shrugged. "They can't be worse off than they would be if I'm

  picked up. I'd like to have them warned and then arrangements made for them

  to rejoin me if possible."

  "We'll do it. You'll have to give me a new contact."

  "Planned for. This message will go through and my number-two man will step

  into my shoes. The name is Hobart ? runs a feed store on Pelham Street."

  Morgan nodded. "Should have known you had it worked out. Well, what we

  don't know ? " He was interrupted by Cleve, reporting.

  "He got away, Boss."

  "Why didn't you go after him?"

  "Half the roof came down when Dad chucked the grenade. Tunnel's choked with

  rock. Found a place where I could see but couldn't crawl through. He's not

  in the tunnel."

  "How about Dad?"

  "He's all right. Got clipped on the head with a splinter but not really

  hurt."

  Morgan stopped two of the women hurrying past, intent on preparations for

  withdrawal. "Here ? Jean, and you, Mrs. Bowen. Go take care of Dad Carter

  and tell Art to get back here fast. Shake a leg!"

  When Art reported Morgan said, "You and Cleve go out and find Benz. Assume

  that he is heading for Barclay. Stop him and bring him in if you can.

  Otherwise kill him. Art is in charge. Get going." He turned to McCracken.

  "Now for a message." He fumbled in his pocket for paper, found the poster

  notice that McCracken had given him, tore off a piece, and started to

  write. He showed it to McCracken. "How's that?" he asked.

  The message warned Hobart of Benz and asked him to try to head him off. It

  did not tell him that the Barclay Free Company was moving but did designate

  the "post office" through which next contact would be expected ? the men's

  rest room of the bus station.

  "Better cut out the post office," McCracken advised. "Hobart knows it and

  we may contact him half a dozen other ways. But I'd like to ask him to get

  my family out of sight. Just tell him that we are sorry to hear that Aunt

  Dinah is dead."

  "Is that enough?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay." Morgan made the changes, then called, "Margie! Put this in code and

  tell Jerry to get it out fast. Tell him it's the strike-out edition. He can

  knock down his sets as soon as it's out."

  "Okay, boss." Margie had no knowledge of cryptography. Instead she had

  command of jive talk, adolescent slang, and high school double-talk which

  would be meaningless to any but another American bobbysoxer. At the other

  end a fifteen-year-old interpreted her butchered English by methods which

  impressed her foster parents as being telepathy ? but it worked.

  The fifteen-year-old could be trusted. Her entire family, save herself, had

  been in Los Angeles on Final Sunday.

  Art and Cleve had no trouble picking up Benz's trail. His tracks were on

  the tailings spilling down from main entrance to the mine. The earth and

  rock had been undisturbed since the last heavy rain; Benz's flight left

  clear traces.

  But trail was cold by more than twenty minutes; they had left the mine by

  the secret entrance a quarter of a mile from where Benz had made his exit.

  Art picked it up where Benz had left the tailings and followed it through

  brush with the woodsmanship of the Eagle Scout he had been. From the

  careless signs he left behind Benz was evidently in a hurry and heading by

  the shortest route for the highway. The two followed him as fast as they

  could cover ground, discarding caution for speed.

  They checked just before entering the highway. "See anything?" asked Cleve.

  "No."

  "Which way would he go?"

  "The Old Man said to head him off from Barclay."

  "Yeah, but suppose he headed south instead? He used to work in Wickamton.

  He might head that way."

  "The Boss said to cover Barclay. Let's go."

  They had to cache their guns; from here on it would be their wits and their

  knives. An armed American on a highway would be as conspicuous as a nudist

  at a garden party.

  Their object now was speed; they must catch up with him, or get ahead of

  him and waylay him.

  Nine miles and two and a half hours later ? one hundred and fifty minutes

  of dog trot, with time lost lying in the roadside brush when convoys

  thundered past ? they were in the outskirts of Barclay. Around a bend, out

  of sight, was the roadblock of the Invaders' check station. The point was a

  bottleneck; Benz must come this way if he were heading for Barclay.

  "Is he ahead or behind us?" asked Cleve, peering out through bushes.

  "Behind, unless he was picked up by a convoy ? or sprouted wings. We'll

  give him an hour."

  A horse-drawn hayrack lumbered up the road. Cleve studied it. Americans

  were permitted no power vehicles except under supervision, but this farmer

  and his load could go into town with only routine check at the road block.

  "Maybe we ought to hide in that and look for him in town."

  "And get a bayonet in your ribs? Don't be silly."

  "Okay. Don't blow your top." Cleve continued to watch the rig. "Hey," he

  said presently. "Get a load of that!"

  "That" was a figure which dropped from the tail of the wagon as it started

  around the bend, rolled to the ditch on the far side, and slithered out of

  sight.

  "That was Joe!"

  "Are you sure?"

  "Sure! Here we go."

  "How?" Art objected. "Take it easy. Follow me." They faded back two hundred

  yards, to where they could cross the road on hands and knees through a

  drainage pipe. Then they worked up the other side to where Benz had

  disappeared in weeds.

  They found the place where he had been; grass and
weeds were still

  straightening up. The route he must have taken was evident ? down toward

  the river bank, then up-stream to the city. There were drops of blood. "Dad

  must have missed stopping him by a gnat's whisker," Cleve commented.

  "Bad job he didn't."

  "Another thing ? he said he was going to give himself up. I don't think he

  is, or he would have stayed with the wagon and turned himself in at the

  check station. He's heading for some hideout. Who does he know in Barclay?"

  "I don't know. We'd better get going."

  'Wait a minute. If he touches off an alarm, they'll shoot him for us. If he

  gets by the 'eyes', we've lost him and we'll have to pick him up inside.

  Either way, we don't gain anything by blundering ahead. We've got to go in

  by the chute."

  Like all cities the Invader had consolidated, Barclay was girdled by

  electric-eye circuits. The enemy had trimmed the town to fit, dynamiting

  and burning where necessary to achieve unbroken sequence of automatic

  sentries. But the "chute" ? an abandoned and forgotten aqueduct ? passed

  under the alarms. Art knew how to use it; he had been in town twice since

  Final Sunday.

  They worked back up the highway, crossed over, and took to the hills.

  Thirty minutes later they were on the streets of Barclay, reasonably safe

  as long as they were quick to step off the sidewalk for the occasional

  Invader.

  The first "post office," a clothesline near their exit, told them nothing ?

  the line was bare. They went to the bus station. Cleve studied the notices

  posted for inhabitants while Art went into the men's rest room. On the

  wall, defaced by scrawlings of every sort, mostly vulgar, he found what he

  sought: "Killroy was here." The misspelling of Kilroy was the clue ?

  exactly eighteen inches below it and six to the right was an address; "1745

  Spruce ? ask for Mabel."

  He read it as 2856 Pine ? one block beyond Spruce.

  Art passed the address to Cleve, then they set out separately, hurrying to

  beat the curfew but proceeding with caution ? at least one of them must get

  through. They met in the back yard of the translated address. Art knocked

  on the kitchen door. It was opened a crack by a middle-aged man who did not

  seem glad to see them. "Well?"

  'We're looking for Mabel."

  "Nobody here by that name."

  "Sorry," said Art. "We must have made a mistake." He shivered. "Chilly

  out," he remarked. "The nights are getting longer."

  "They'll get shorter by and by," the man answered.

  "We've got to think so, anyhow," Art countered.

  "Come in," the man said. "The patrol may see you." He opened the door and

  stepped aside. "My name's Hobart. What's your business?"

  'We're looking for a man named Benz. He may have sneaked into town this

  afternoon and found someplace to ?

  "Yes, yes," Hobart said impatiently. "He got in about an hour ago and he's

  holed up with a character named Moyland." As he spoke he removed a half

  loaf of bread from a cupboard, cut four slices, and added cold sausage,

  producing two sandwiches. He did not ask if they were hungry; he simply

  handed them to Art and Cleve.

  "Thanks, pal. So he's holed up. Haven't you done anything about it? He has

  got to be shut up at once or he'll spill his guts."

  'We've got a tap in on the telephone line. We had to wait for dark. You

  can't expect me to sacrifice good boys just to shut his mouth unless it's

  absolutely necessary."

  "Well, it's dark now, and we'll be the boys you mentioned. You can call

  yours off."

  "Okay." Hobart started pulling on shoes.

  "No need for you to stick your neck out," Art told him. "Just tell us where

  this Moyland lives."

  "And get your throat cut, too. I'll take you."

  "What sort of a guy is this Moyland? Is he safe?"

  "You can't prove it by me. He's a black market broker, but that doesn't

  prove anything. He's not part of the organization but we haven't anything

  against him."

  Hobart took them over his back fence, across a dark side street, through a

  playground, where they lay for several minutes under bushes because of a

  false alarm, then through many more backyards, back alleys, and dark

  byways. The man seemed to have a nose for the enemy; there were no more

  alarms. At last he brought them through a cellar door into a private home.

  They went upstairs and through a room where a woman was nursing a baby. She

  looked up, but otherwise ignored them. They ended up in a dark attic. "Hi,

  Jim," Hobart called out softly. "What's new?"

  The man addressed lay propped on his elbows, peering out into the night

  through opera glasses held to slots of a ventilating louvre. He rolled over

  and lowered the glasses, pushing one of a pair of earphones from his head

  as he did so. "Hello, Chief. Nothing much. Benz is getting drunk, it looks

  like."

  "I'd like to know where Moyland gets it," Hobart said. "Has he telephoned?"

  "Would I be doing nothing if he had? A couple of calls came in, but they

  didn't amount to anything, so I let him talk."

  "How do you know they didn't amount to anything?"

  Jim shrugged, turned back to the louvre. "Moyland just pulled down the

  shade," he announced.

  Art turned to Hobart. 'We can't wait. We're going in."

  Benz arrived at Moyland's house in bad condition. The wound in his

  shoulder, caused by Carter's grenade, was bleeding. He had pushed a

  handkerchief up against it as a compress, but his activity started the

  blood again; he was shaking for fear his condition would attract attention

  before he could get under cover.

  Moyland answered the door. "Is that you, Zack?" Benz demanded, shrinking

  back as he spoke.

  "Yes. Who is it?"

  "It's me ? Joe Benz. Let me in, Zack ? quick!"

  Moyland seemed about to close the door, then suddenly opened it. "Get

  inside." When the door was bolted, he demanded, "Now ? what's your trouble?

  Why come to me?"

  "I had to go someplace, Zack. I had to get off the street. They'd pick me

  up."

  Moyland studied him. "You're not registered. Why not?"

  Benz did not answer. Moyland waited, then went on, "You know what I can get

  for harboring a fugitive. You're in the Underground ? aren't you?"

  "Oh, no, Zack! I wouldn't do that to you. I'm just a ? a straggler. I gotta

  get registered, Zack."

  "That's blood on your coat. How?"

  "Uh . . . just an accident. Maybe you could let me have clean rags and some

  iodine."

  Moyland stared at him, his bland face expressionless, then smiled. "You've

  got no troubles we can't fix. Sit down." He stepped to a cabinet and took

  out a bottle of bourbon, poured three fingers in a water glass, and handed

  it to Benz. "Work on that and I'll fix you up.

  He returned with some torn toweling and a bottle. "Sit here with your back

  to the window, and open your shirt. Have another drink. You'll need it

  before I'm through."

  Benz glanced nervously at the window. "Why don't you draw the shade?"

  "It would attract attention. Honest people leave their shades up these

&nb
sp; days. Hold still. This is going to hurt."

  Three drinks later Benz was feeling better. Moyland seemed willing to sit

  and drink with him and to soothe his nerves. "You did well to come in,"

  Moyland told him. "There's no sense hiding like a scared rabbit. It's just

  butting your head against a stone wall. Stupid."

  Benz nodded. "That's what I told them."

  "Told who?"

  "Huh? Oh, nobody. Just some guys I was talking to. Tramps."

  Moyland poured him another drink. "As a matter of fact you were in the

  Underground."

  "Me? Don't be silly, Zack."

  "Look, Joe, you don't have to kid me. I'm your friend. Even if you did tell

  me it wouldn't matter. In the first place, I wouldn't have any proof. In

  the second place, I'm sympathetic to the Underground ? any American is. I

  just think they're wrong-headed and foolish. Otherwise I'd join 'em

  myself."

  "They're foolish all right! You can say that again."

  "So you were in it?"

  "Huh? You're trying to trap me. I gave my word of honor ? "

  "Oh, relax!" Moyland said hastily. "Forget it. I didn't hear anything; I

  can't tell anything. Hear no evil, see no evil ? that's me." He changed the

  subject.

  The level of the bottle dropped while Moyland explained current events as

  he saw them. "It's a shame we had to take such a shellacking to learn our

  lesson but the fact of the matter is, we were standing in the way of the

  natural logic of progress. There was a time back in '45 when we could have

  pulled the same stunt ourselves, only we weren't bright enough to do it.

  World organization, world government. We stood in the way, so we got

  smeared. It had to come. A smart man can see that."

  Benz was bleary but he did not find this comment easy to take. "Look,

  Zack-you don't mean you like what happened to us?"

  "Like it? Of course not. But it was necessary. You don't have to like

  having a tooth pulled ? but it has to be done. Anyhow," he went on, "it's

  not all bad. The big cities were economically unsound anyway. We should

  have blown them up ourselves. Slum clearance, you might call it."

  Benz banged his empty glass down. "Maybe so ? but they made slaves out of

  us!"

  "Take it easy, Joe," Moyland said, filling his glass, "you're talking

  abstractions. The cop on the corner could push you around whenever he

  wanted to. Is that freedom? Does it matter whether the cop talks with an

  Irish accent or some other accent? No, chum, there's a lot of guff talked

  about freedom. No man is free. There is no such thing as freedom. There are

  only various privileges. Free speech ? we're talking freely now, aren't we?

  After all, you don't want to get up on a platform and shoot off your face.

  Free press? When did you ever own a newspaper? Don't be a chump. Now that

  you've shown sense and come in, you are going to find that things aren't so

  very different. A little more orderly and no more fear of war, that's all.

  Girls make love just like they used to, the smart guys get along, and the

  suckers still get the short end of the deal."

  Benz nodded. "You're right, Zack. I've been a fool."

  "I'm glad you see it. Now take those wild men you were with. What freedom

  have they got? Freedom to starve, freedom to sleep on the cold ground,

  freedom to be hunted."

  "That was it," Benz agreed. "Did you ever sleep in a mine, Zack? Cold. That

  ain't half of it. Damp, too."

  "I can imagine," Moyland agreed. "The Capehart Lode always was wet."

  "It wasn't the Capehart; it was the Harkn ? " He caught himself and looked