"We need your sensitives."
"Sensitives? Talk plainly, man. Tell me what you mean.
"Your witches and warlocks. Your medicine men, if you have such. People who can talk with trees, who bring the buffalo, who can divine the weather. Those who throw carven bones to see into the future."
Mad Wolf grunted. "And what would you do with those? We have very few of them. Why should we give the ones we have to you, who have disturbed the Sleepers?"
"I tell you there are no Sleepers. There were never any Sleepers."
The warden spoke. "There was one other among them who told us this same thing. A tall woman with emptiness in her eyes and a terrible face. ‘You are wrong, she told us, ‘there aren't any Sleepers. "
"Where is this woman now," Mad Wolf asked of Cushing, "with her empty eyes and her terrible face?"
"She stayed behind," said Cushing. "She is on the butte."
"Waking the Sleepers
"Goddammit, don't you understand? I've told you, there are no Sleepers."
"There was with you, as well, a man of metal, one once called a robot, a very ancient term that is seldom spoken now."
"It was the metal man," the warden said, "who killed the bear. This one who stands before us shot arrows, but it was the metal man who killed the bear, driving a lance into the chest."
"That is true," said Cushing. "My arrows did but little."
"So you admit," said Mad Wolf, "that there is a metal man."
"That is true. He may be the last one left and he is a friend of mine.
"A friend?"
Cushing nodded.
"Are you not aware," asked Mad Wolf, "that a robot, if such it be, is an evil thing—a survival from that day when the world was held in thrall by monstrous machines? That it's against the law to harbor such a machine, let alone be a friend of one?"
"It wasn't that way," said Cushing. "Back there, before the Collapse, I mean. The machines didn't use us; we used the machines. We tied our lives to them. The fault was ours, not theirs."
"You place yourself against the legends of the past?"
"I do," said Cushing, "because I have read the History."
Perhaps, he thought, it was not wise to argue so with this man sitting in the chair, to contradict so directly all that he had said. But it would be worse, he sensed, to buckle in to him. It would not do to show a weakness. There still might be reason here. Mad Wolf still might be willing, once the initial sparring had been done, to listen to the truth.
"The History?" asked Mad Wolf, speaking far too softly. "What is this history that you speak of?"
"A history written by a man named Wilson, a thousand years ago. It's at a university.
"The university on the bank of the Mississippi? That is where you came from—a sniveling, cowardly egghead hoeing his potato patch and huddling behind a wail? You come walking in here, as if you had a right, wanting what you call our sensitives
"And that's not all," said Cushing, forcing himself to speak as brashly as he could. "I want your blacksmiths and your spear- and arrow-makers. And I want the brain cases that you have."
"Ah, so," said Mad Wolf, still speaking softly. "This is all you want. You're sure there's nothing else?"
There was a secret amusement, a sly amusement, on the faces of the men who circled them. These men know their chief, knew the ways of him.
"That is all I'll need," said Cushing. "Given these things, it will be possible to find a better way of life."
"What is wrong with the way we live?" asked Mad Wolf. "What is bad about it? We have food to fill our bellies; we have far lands to roam in. We do not have to work. It is told that in the old days all men had to work. They woke and ate their breakfasts so they could get to work. They labored all the day and then went home again and tumbled early into bed so they could get up early to return to work. They had no time to call their own. For all this, they were no better off than we are. For all their labor, they got only food and sleep. This we get, and much more, and do not have to work for it. You have come from that egghead fort of yours to change all this, to go back to the olden ways, where we will labor dawn to dusk, working out our guts. You would wake the Sleepers, an event we have stationed guards all these centuries to guard against, so they cannot come ravening from the butte
"I have told you there are no Sleepers," Cushing said. "Can't you take my word for that? Up there on the butte is knowledge that men have gathered from the stars. Knowledge that will help us, not to regain the old days, which were bad, but to find a new way.
It was no use, he knew. They did not believe him. He had been mistaken. There was no reason here. They would never believe him.
"The man is mad," the warden said.
"Yes, he truly is," said Mad Wolf. "We have wasted time on him."
Someone who had come up behind him seized Cushing, almost gently, but when he lunged to get away, hard hands closed upon him, forced his arms behind him and held him helpless.
"You have sinned," Mad Wolf told him. "You have sinned most grievously." To the men who had their hands on Cushing, he said, "Tie him to the post."
The men who had stood in the circle now were breaking up, wandering away, and as they left, Cushing saw the post which until now had been hidden by their massed bodies. It stood no more than five feet high, fashioned from a new-cut tree, perhaps a cottonwood, with the bark peeled from it.
Without a word the men who held him forced him to the post, pulled his arms behind the post and tied them there, the thongs positioned in deep notches on either side of the post so he could not slide them free. Then, still without a word, they walked away.
He was not alone, however, for the gangs of small boys still were on the prowl.
He saw that he was in what appeared to be the center of the
encampment. The larger space where the post was planted was the hub of a number of streets that ran between the lodges.
A clod of dirt went humming past his head, another hit him in the chest. The gang of boys ran down the street, howling at their bravado.
For the first time, Cushing noticed that the sun had gone and the landscape darkened. An unnatural silence encompassed everything. A great black cloud, almost purple in its darkness, boiled out of the west. The first broken forerunners of the cloud, racing eastward, had covered the sun. Thunder rumbled far off, and above the butte a great bolt of lightning lanced across the heavy blackness of the cloud.
Somewhere in one of the lodges, he told himself, the principal men of the tribe, among them Mad Wolf and the warden, were deciding what was to be done with him. He had no illusions, no matter the form their decision took, what the end result would be. He pulled against the thongs, testing them. They were tight; there was no give in them.
It had been insane, of course, this gamble of his—that men still might listen to reason. He realized, with a faint, ironic amusement, that he'd not been given a chance to explain what it was all about. His conversation with Mad Wolf had been in generalities. The failure of his attempt, he knew, hung on the concept of the Sleepers, a myth repeated so many times over so long a time that it had taken on the guise of gospel. Yet, yesterday, when he had talked it over with the others, he had been convinced that if his arguments were properly presented, there was better than an even chance they would be listened to. It was his years at the university, he told himself, that had betrayed him. A man who dwelled in a place of sanity was ill-equipped to deal with reality, a reality that still was colored by Collapse fanaticism.
He wondered, with a quaint sense of unreality, what would happen now. None of those still on the butte was equipped to carry forward the work, even to attempt to begin to form the organization of an elite corps that over the years could wrest the secrets from the data banks. folio was canceled out; as a robot he had no chance at all. Through Meg, for all her ability, ran a streak of timidity that would make her helpless. Ezra and Elayne were simply ineffectual.