The World Jones Made

  Everything was in miniature. A doll’s house: tiny furniture, tiny silverware, a replica of any kitchen but on a reduced scale. From the table, Cussick picked up a wax-impregnated copy of the Wall Street Journal. “They read this?” he demanded, incredulous.

  “Certainly.” Rafferty took him down a tiny corridor and into a side room. “This is the quarters of one of them—Frank, his name is. Look around. You’ll see books, recording tapes, clothing like our own. These are people! Human beings, in the cultural, spiritual, moral, and psychological sense. Intellectually, they’re as close to us as—” He gestured. “Closer to us than some of those howling maniacs out there, with their signs and slogans.”

  “My God,” Cussick said, locating a chess set, an electric razor, a pair of suspenders and, tacked up on the wall, a girlie calendar. On the dresser was a book edition of James Joyce’s Ulysses. “They’re mutants, aren’t they? Wartime deviants?”

  “No,” Rafferty answered, “they’re my children.”

  “Figuratively, you mean.”

  “No, I mean literally. I’m their father. Their embryos were removed from my wife’s womb and placed in an artificial membrane. I sired each one of them; my wife and I are the parents of the whole group.”

  “But,” Cussick said slowly, “then they’re deliberate mutants.”

  “Certainly. For over thirty years I’ve worked with them, developing them according to our program. Each one is a little more perfected. We’ve learned a lot . . . most of the first ones died.”

  “How many are there?”

  “There have been forty, in all. But only eight are alive: seven in the Refuge and one infant still in a separate incubator. It’s delicate work, and we have no body of knowledge to draw from.” The drab little doctor spoke calmly; he was merely stating facts. His kind of pride went beyond any boasting.

  “Artificially-bred mutants,” Cussick said, prowling around the cramped room. “That’s why they have a common environment.”

  “You’ve seen some of the war-time sports?”

  “Quite a few.”

  “Then you won’t be shocked. It’s a little difficult to take, at first. And in a way, I suppose, it’s almost funny. I’ve seen doctors laugh out loud. They’re small; they’re frail; they have a kind of worried frown. Like me. They toil around the Refuge; they argue and discourse and fight and fret and make love. They have a complete community. The Refuge is their world and in it they form a total organic society.”

  “What’s their purpose?” Cussick demanded. Dimly, he was already beginning to grasp the point of the project. “If they can’t live outside, on Earth—”

  “That’s it,” Rafferty said, matter-of-factly. “They’re not supposed to live on Earth. They’re intended to live on Venus. We tried to develop a group for survival on Mars, but nothing came of it. Mars and Earth are too different—but Venus is a little more likely. This Refuge, this miniature world, is an exact replica of the conditions our scout ships found on Venus.”

  12

  OUTSIDE THE MINIATURE compound building, Doctor Rafferty bent down and showed Cussick one of the sponges indigenous to the Refuge. “This is artificial. But there are legitimate sponges like this on Venus; they were brought here and our teams made models.”

  “Why not simply transplant them? Won’t the real thing grow in here?”

  “I’ll explain why, a little later.” Getting to his feet he led Cus­sick to the edge of a small lapping lake. “And these are fakes, too.” From the water Rafferty grabbed a wriggling snake-like creature, with short, stubby legs that thrashed furiously. Swiftly, Rafferty twisted the head; the head came off and the creature stopped moving. “A mechanical contraption—you can see the wiring. But again, an exact model of genuine Venusian fauna.” He restored the head; once more the creature began flopping. Rafferty tossed it back in the water and it swam happily off.

  “Those mountains,” Cussick said, pointing up. “That’s a backdrop based on the Venusian scene?”

  “Right.” Rafferty started briskly off. “We can go up there, if you want. They step around their mountains all the time.”

  As the two men strode from rock to rock, Rafferty went on with his explanation.

  “This Refuge is a school, as well as an environment. It’s designed to shape them, to equate them to a nonterrestrial milieu. When they go to Venus, they’ll be prepared—at least, as well as we can arrange. Probably some of them will die; they may very well be damaged by the change. After all, we can’t be infallible; we’ve done the best we can to imitate conditions there, but it’s not letter-perfect.”

  “Wait,” Cussick interrupted. “They themselves—they’re not modeled after Venusian humanoid life-forms?”

  “No,” Rafferty agreed. “They’re new creations, not imitations. The original human embryos were altered on the phenotype principle: we subjected them to nonterrestrial conditions—specifically, to a scale of stresses similar to those operating on Venus. The stresses were intricate; we had plenty of failures. As soon as the altered babies were born they were popped into V-type incubators: media again reproducing the Venusian pattern. In other words, we warped each embryo, and we continued to apply the stresses after the babies were born. As you realize, if human colonists land on Venus they won’t survive. Fedgov has tried that; it’s a matter of record. But if there were a few specific physical changes, it might be possible to keep a colony alive. If we could arrange graded steps, in-between stages, locks through which they could pass . . . acclimatization is what we wanted. Adaptation, actually. In time, we knew, the progeny would mutate in response to external pressures. Gradually, subsequent generations would be remolded along survival lines. Many would die but some would struggle along. Eventually we’d have a quasi-human species, not physically like ourselves, but, nonetheless, human beings. Altered men, fit to live on Venus.”

  “I see,” Cussick said. “This is Fedgov’s solution.”

  “Absolutely. We’ll never find the exact conditions we have here on Earth—no two planets are identical. Good God, we’re lucky to find Venus, a planet with our density, with gravity, moisture, warmth. Naturally, it’s a literal hell for you and me. But it doesn’t take much to turn heaven into hell—a rise in temperature of ten degrees, an increase of one percent humidity.” Kicking at a blue-black lichen creeping up the side of a flat rock, Rafferty continued: “We could have waited a thousand years, done it the long way. Fed human settlers in, one load after another, sent off countless ships, started a colony. People would have died like flies. They would have been miserable. Nature can afford it, but we can’t. Our people would have loathed it.”

  “Yes,” Cussick agreed, “that’s already been shown.”

  “Eventually, the results would have been the same. But would we have been willing to take the losses? I think we would have backed down. We don’t have thousands of years and millions of lives to give; we would have given up, pulled our colonies home. Because, in the final analysis, we don’t want to adapt to other planets: we want them to conform to us. Even if we found one second Earth it wouldn’t be enough. Here, in this project, we have the seed of a much greater future. If this works, if the Venus mutants survive, we can go on and perfect our techniques. Develop mutant colonies for various other planets, for more radical environments. Eventually, we can populate the universe—survive anywhere. If we succeed, we’ll have conquered totally. The human species will be indestructible. This Refuge, this closed enclave, and my work—all this looks artificial. But what I’ve done is try to speed up natural evolution. I’ve tried to systemize it, cut out the randomness, the waste, the aimlessness of it. Instead of sending Earthmen to Venus we’re going to send Venusians. When they get there, they won’t find an alien, hostile world; they’ll find their real world, the genuine world they’ve already known—as a model. They’ll find the ultimate realization of this cramped replica.”

  “Do they know this?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

/>   “Because,” Rafferty said, “it was essential they think nobody was responsible for their situation. If they had known we deliberately altered them, made them unfit to live on Earth, they would never have forgiven us. Over two decades in this Refuge—victims of a scientific experiment. They’ve always been told they’re natural mutants, war-time mutants, like the others. They were picked without their permission. They were involuntary subjects, and many of them died. You think they would ever have forgiven us, knowing we had done this to them?”

  “But they’ll find out eventually.”

  “They’ll find out when they reach Venus. Then, for all practical purposes, it doesn’t matter. Because we won’t be there; they’ll be on their own. Resentment will be absurd at that point. They’ll be glad of their alteration—good God, it’ll mean survival! On Venus you and I would be the freaks, incapable of survival. On Venus we would need Refuges.”

  After a thoughtful moment, Cussick asked: “When can I see these Venusians?”

  “I’ll arrange it. Within a few days, certainly. All this turmoil has upset our routine, and they feel it, too. They’re as tense as we are.”

  Twenty-four hours later, while he was involved in transferring his papers to San Francisco, Cussick saw the Venusian mutants for the first time.

  At the bottom floor of the building Doctor Rafferty met him. It was two o’clock in the morning and the street was cold and foggy. “I called you because this is an excellent opportunity,” Rafferty said, guiding him toward the ascent ramp. “Our small friends get somewhat excited, once in awhile. They’ve decided they can lick any man in the house.”

  After the Van had returned the half-conscious mutants to their Refuge, Cussick and Rafferty stood together on the fog-drenched sidewalk. The futility of the mutants’ struggle hung in the darkness; both men felt the oppressive nearness of defeat.

  “Maybe you’re right about Jones,” Rafferty said finally. “Maybe he’s only human.” He got out his car keys and started toward his parked car. “But it’s like fighting the ocean. We’re going under, sinking every day. A civilization drowning in the deluge. The new flood.”

  “The divine force,” Cussick said ironically.

  “We can’t destroy Jones. We can only hope there’s something beyond him, something on the other side.” Rafferty opened his car door and got in. “You can dismantle the street-blocks if you want. But keep them handy.”

  “I will,” Cussick said. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” Rafferty said. The motor started, and the car drove off. Cussick was left alone. Chill tendrils of fog billowed around him: he shivered, realizing how it must have seemed to the four mutants. Frail little creatures with their hopes, their confused dreams, not knowing who or what they were . . . and outside their glass womb, waiting for them, the night and the gray marching shapes: the Jones Organization.

  Cussick walked slowly along the dark sidewalk until he came to the first police barricade. “Okay,” he told the helmeted sergeant. “You can unscramble it now.”

  The sergeant paid no attention to him; the squad of police were standing around their relay phones, listening fixedly to a closed-circuit audiocast.

  Irritably, Cussick started to grab the officer by the shoulder. About that time he comprehended what he was hearing; he forgot the sergeant, Rafferty, the barricades, the Venusian mutants. Crouching down, he forced his way close to the speaker; rigidly, he listened.

  “ . . . the first stages of the attack brought into Security hands at least fifty percent of the criminal ringleaders. Throughout major metropolitan areas, weapons-teams are rounding up remaining policy-level personnel. The action is proceeding in orderly fashion . . . there is very little overt resistance. Reverend Floyd Jones himself has been reported wounded in a skirmish between his supporters and police units. A report from New York describes major street fighting between fanatical mobs and police tanks. All weapons-police in that area are ordered to report to their dispatch points; previous instructions are automatically cancelled. To repeat the original notification: the Supreme Council of the Federal World Government has declared the organization designated as Patriots United to be illegal, and all members of said organization are hereby classed as criminal elements. The enabling legislation instructs secret-service police to arrest on sight and turn over to Public Courts all members of the organization Patriots United, and all persons affiliated with subgroups such as the Youth Loyalty League, the Women’s . . .”

  Cussick turned away, his body half-frozen with the night cold. He stamped his feet, blew on his hands, flapped his arms around him. So Pearson had gone into action. The Council had ratified his program: Jones and his organization were being rounded up, sentenced, and dispersed to various labor camps. Under Clause Two, probably, the statute giving Security the authority to arrest members of charismatic cults that threatened the free dissemination of the principles of Relativism. A deliberately vague clause, put on the books as catch-all legislation: to cover any and all situations not otherwise controlled.

  But Jones must have known. The organization must have expected the attack. One year ago, Jones must have anticipated that in his stern outrage, Pearson would go ahead, would make one great final effort to smash the burgeoning movement. Kaminski’s betrayal had goaded Pearson on; he wanted to move, do something, make some last attempt to save Fedgov, before the whole thing was decided. But in Jones’ mind it had already been decided.

  As he stood listening to the police audiocast, Cussick wondered how Jones could possibly be caught off guard. Arrested and wounded. Unless, of course, he wanted to be arrested. Unless it was his plan to be shot. In that case, Pearson had probably sealed the final disposition of Fedgov.

  Possibly, even probably, Pearson, in his furious desire to act, had made Jones’ victory an absolute certainty.

  13

  THE CROWD ROARED. In the afternoon of that historic day the crowd blurred in the heat of the sun, and its combined voices thundered approval of the small man standing on the platform, the tiny figure that gestured and spoke and waved its arms. Loudspeakers carried the speech, amplified the original voice until it bellowed over the surge of crowd-noise. Beyond the mass of people were the ruins that had been Frankfurt, Germany.

  “My friends,” Jones shouted, “the entrenched plutocracy has tried to silence me. But they have grown soft; like great parasites they sit behind their desks running the world. They have grown fat on us; they have feasted well. But it is going to end. I can see it.”

  Shouted approval.

  “We must strike out!” Jones raved on. “Beyond the world, beyond the dead systems. It is our destiny. The race cannot be denied its future. Nothing will stop us. We cannot be defeated.”

  On and on he went. And somewhere, standing silently among the spectators, untouched by the feverish harangue, waited the police assassin.

  He had been a soldier in the war. He was a crack shot, with a suitcase full of medals. In the last stages of the war he became a professional assassin. The chance of his shot missing the target was one in a million.

  On the day of the speech, Pratt was driven from the labor camp at Manresa, Spain, to the outskirts of Frankfurt. As the long, lowslung car purred over the twisting roads, he went over in his mind the way he was going to do it. There wasn’t much to think about; his whole body was geared to the job ahead. After awhile he put his head back against the luxurious seat and enjoyed the pull of the powerful turbine.

  The car let him off in a deserted area, a patch of ruin and gaping bomb craters that hadn’t been reconstructed. Pratt sat down among the ruins, got out his lunch, and ate. Then he wiped his mouth, picked up his rifle, and trudged toward town. It was one-thirty; he had plenty of time. Along the road moved people and vehicles, a constant swell of individuals moving in to hear Jones. Pratt joined them; he was one of many. As he walked, he carried his rifle openly. It was a war-rifle, the one he had used in the final confused days. His decorations permitted him to carry it; the rifl
e was a badge of honor.

  The speech did not interest him. He was too practical a man to be moved by the excited tumult of words. As Jones shouted and gestured, the lean-jawed soldier prowled around, looking for the point at which the march would originate, the spot where Jones would take command of his gray troopers.

  This part of Frankfurt still lay in rubble. A residential section, it was the last to be repaired. The inhabitants were living in temporary barracks erected by the Government. As Jones’ speech came to an end, groups of organization workers collected here and there, obviously in pre-arranged patterns. Pratt, standing with his rifle, watched with interest.

  Before him lay what looked like a cement wheel. The wheel was a solid mass of followers, assembled together in a single grim heap. The crossed-retort flag fluttered on all sides. Everybody had armbands or uniforms. Ahead of the wheel of gray lay an open stretch of Landstrasse, the still undamaged highway leading into the town. The highway had existed from the time of the Third Reich; it had been constructed by the Nazi engineering genius, Doktor Todt, and his O. T. Gruppe. It was an excellent highway. In a little while, the gray wheel would unwind and march down it, toward the town.

  The police had carefully cleared all traffic from the highway. Police patrols walked up and down the deserted strip, waving people angrily back. A few children and a stray dog scampered excitedly ahead of them.

  The noise was already deafening. Milling lumps of spectators were breaking away from the nearby field, making toward the assembly point. Pratt winced as groups surged against him, their eyes glassy, mouths open and half-clogged with stale cheers. Lifting his rifle he climbed up on a heap of rubble, out of the way.

  A corps of newspaper reporters with flash cameras were taking pictures of the crowd and the gray mass of organization agents that formed the first ranks. Helmeted police were everywhere, in pairs and threes. They all carried weapons; they looked cruel and uneasy in their brown uniforms. Where the stretch of highway began, four ambulances had been parked, two on each side. Elaborate TV equipment had been set up nearby; the technicians and medical teams stood joking and lounging. The reporters took pictures of them, too. They were taking pictures of everything.