“The root of all evil, they called it.” Plato turned and watched several of the children playing tag 30 yards away. “Men and women committed all manner of immoral and wicked acts to acquire monetary wealth.”
“It’s a good thing the Family doesn’t use money,” Spartacus stated.
“We’re fortunate. With only slightly over six dozen members, the Family is small enough so that we don’t need it. Each of us performs our work to the best of our ability, and we all share in the fruits of the Tillers’
efforts,” Plato said.
“Wasn’t our system called Communism before the Big Blast?”
Spartacus asked, referring to World War III by the slang expression the majority of the Family used.
“Our system is called sharing,” Plato expounded. “Any resemblance to Communism, the tyrannical scourge of the planet, is purely superficial. If the Family were larger, we would require an efficient economic system.
Capitalism was the best, but even Capitalism is only as good as the Capitalists practicing it.”
“What was wrong with Communism?” Spartacus queried.
“Think back to your history studies,” Plato directed. “Remember how it was before the war erupted. Global Communism was on the verge of collapse. Communism stifles individual initiative, and contains a major, fatal flaw. No economic system can survive when it forces the worker to become a slave to the idler. Also, the Soviet Communists, and the other Communist Governments, were determined atheists. No social system that denies the reality of the Spirit can long survive. I firmly believe that the Communists realized their system was close to falling apart, that it was disintegrating under their very noses, and they pressed the nuclear button as much in desperation as for any other reason. They probably believed the propaganda disseminated by both sides, that a nuclear conflict was survivable. The ignorant, destructive idiots!”
“I’ve got another question,” Spartacus declared.
“What is it?” Plato was pleasantly surprised by this behavior of Spartacus. He had erroneously assumed Spartacus was a lot like Hickok: living for the moment with nary a thought about profound matters.
“You mentioned that the Communists denied the Spirit, and that reminded me of something I’ve wanted to ask for some time, but kept forgetting to bring up. We, the Family, call the Creative Force the Spirit.
In many of the books in the library, I’ve noticed that before the Big Blast they called the Spirit by another name. They usually used the term God.
So how come we use the Spirit instead of God?”
“You amaze me!” Plato was sincerely surprised by this unexpected philosophical interest of Spartacus. “Your question is easily answered.
You’re right in that the prewar society did use the designation God, or Lord, for the First Source. Unfortunately, the terms lacked any special significance to the average user. They were commonly taken in vain. The term God was routinely prostituted by incorporation into a standard curse word, ‘goddamn.’ Some people could use the word six times in a seven-word sentence. Our Founder was a religious man, and this verbal violation of the special relationship existing between Man and Maker revolted him. He urged the Family to avoid using the crude slang, and to adopt instead the term Spirit. To this day, the Family usually employs the word Spirit when referring to the Divine Presence.”
“So that explains it,” Spartacus said.
Plato stood and stretched. “I’d best be getting along. Nadine will have my supper waiting, and she can become quite cross if I’m detained.”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Spartacus stated. “Don’t worry about the guard schedules. I have everything worked out, which Triad is supposed to be on duty and when.”
“You’re doing a superb job. Blade will be proud of you.” Plato smiled.
“And thank you for the stimulating conversation. It has perked me right up!”
“My pleasure,” Spartacus said, satisfied with himself. He had wanted to rouse Plato from his depression, and he knew there were few pursuits Plato relished more than an invigorating chat. He watched the Family’s adored Leader shuffle off toward his cabin. The current situation had to be rough on the old man. Plato loved Blade as though he were his own son, and now Blade was hundreds of miles from the Home in northwestern Minnesota, preparing to fight the Doktor to the death.
Spartacus gazed up at the darkening sky, noting the first visible stars.
What was Blade doing at this very moment? he wondered.
Chapter Three
Catlow, Wyoming. Located on U.S. Highway 85 between the junctions of Highways 18 and 16. Present population: approximately 400. Catlow was one of the many communities which had sprung up after World War III, after the Government had evacuated thousands of people into the area later known as the Civilized Zone. The Constitutional Republic of the United States had deteriorated into a dictatorship controlling most of Wyoming, Colorado, eastern Arizona, New Mexico, Oklahoma, the northern half of a state once called Texas, and most of Montana, as well as the former states of Kansas and Nebraska. Catlow was one of the northernmost settlements in Wyoming, and a garrison of 40 Government troops were stationed there.
All of these facts flitted through Blade’s mind as he viewed the town using binoculars. He was lying on a small rise 200 yards north of the outskirts of Catlow. The town had quieted considerably since darkness had fallen. Lights had come on all over the place, indicating the town had electricity.
How long would it be, he speculated, before the garrison commander became concerned about the 12 missing troopers?
How soon before a patrol was sent out to ascertain why the work detail was overdue?
Blade glanced over his shoulder at the SEAL, parked on the highway below.
The SEAL. Kurt Carpenter’s most important legacy to the Family, a gift costing Carpenter millions. He had wisely foreseen the need for an exceptional vehicle after World War III, knowing conventional cars and trucks would only last as long as fuel was obtainable and parts could be replaced. Consequently, Carpenter had personally financed the research on and construction of the SEAL. The Solar-Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle, more commonly referred to by the acronym SEAL.
The SEAL was van-like in its contours, its body composed of a heat-resistant and shatterproof plastic, tinted green to enable those within to see out but preventing anyone outside from looking in. The SEAL’s source of power was the sun; sunlight was collected by two revolutionary solar panels affixed to the roof. The energy was then converted and stored in a bank of six singular batteries, stored in a lead-lined case under the transport. Four huge tires completed the exterior picture.
Almost.
Because, after the automakers had completed this prototype, Carpenter had spent even more money, hiring skilled mercenaries, weapons experts, who had modified the vehicle, installing various armaments.
Blade saw a buckskin-clad figure emerge from the SEAL and climb toward his position. He glanced through the binoculars one more time, then turned to face his friend. “Why didn’t you stay in the SEAL?” he inquired.
“I got tired of hearin’ Orson bellyache, pard,” Hickok said as he knelt alongside Blade. “I reckoned I’d best skedaddle before I was tempted to call him out.”
Blade stared at the vehicle, frowning. “Bringing him along was a mistake,” he stated.
“It wasn’t our idea,” Hickok reminded him. “Plato was the one who said each outfit should send at least one fighter.”
“At least Orson can fight,” Blade commented. “He proved that when we ambushed those twelve earlier.”