Suddenly the support was gone and he sprawled awkwardly, cool air striking his face. The barrier was gone as if turned off by a distant switch, gone as though it had never existed.
He made his way across the shattered earth. On a high crest he saw the lights of dwellings far ahead. It was so long since man had lived above ground, had been able to show lights during the night.
Once again there were tears on his face, but this time they were tears of joy and thanksgiving.
After the conference, held for the sake of convenience in the great hall deep under the mountains, five of them rode up in the elevator: President Rider, Martin Rhode and the three guards.
The wall was already rolled back in the observation room. Stanford Rider’s shoulders were straighter than they had been in many a day. Martin Rhode was still lean and haggard from his experience.
The conference of the heads of nations at which Martin Rhode had given a detailed summary of his eight days of captivity had been over for a half-hour.
“I hope I made them understand, sir,” Martin said.
They stood side by side looking out across the wild and lovely mountains. “They understood,” Rider said simply.
“How long will all this last, sir?” Martin asked.
“What do you mean, Rhode?”
“Before we got to war again. Before it all starts over again.”
Rider’s smile was amused. “Ah, the pessimism of youth! No, Rhode, I believe that you have underestimated the effect of all this. You must realize that for a few moments a great and deadly fear was implanted in the minds of men. Fear of the unknown. Fear of distant worlds and stronger beings. We all know now that the universe is peopled by beings more terrible than ourselves, and no man living will forget that fear. It will find its way into song and story.
“You see, Rhode, we know for a certainty that to survive we must put an end to wars of man against man. We have come to the end of that particular era. The volcano, now five thousand feet high, is a living memorial to the narrowness of our escape. From now on all nations will begin to forget the narrow boundaries of nationalism and begin to think of the human race as a unit. Our combined resources will bring the stars closer.”
The fervor of his tone had increased as he had spoken, and Martin Rhode was infected by his enthusiasm. For the first time, the dream seemed possible.
Rider sighed. “But you’ve got to do more than to listen to an old man mumble his dreams, Rhode. It is stupid for me to try to make the gesture of thanking you in the name of humanity. Your own continued existence is your reward. I’ve lined up a series of conferences with the top technologists of all nations. They intend to pick your brains, Rhode, and find out just a little bit about the power crystals.”
Martin felt sharp disappointment. There was something else...
Rider laughed. “You don’t have a poker face, my boy. And I guess I’m teasing you a little. Those conferences will start the day after tomorrow. In the meantime I took the liberty of sending for a... a certain young woman. She should be here by now.”
Martin turned quickly toward the elevator, then regained control of himself, turned back and said, “Thank you, sir.”
But Stanford Rider had already forgotten his presence. The lean man was standing, his hands locked behind him, looking out over the fair land where he and all his people could once again walk free and unafraid in the light of the sun.
All Our Yesterdays
Originally published in Super Science Stories, April 1949; as John Wade Farrell.
One man sat in his death cell, hoping for the miracle he knew would never come. Another watched him, owl-eyed, across the abyss of time; and neither dreamed that their lives were bound up together — that of these two, who were separated by centuries, one must die for the other!
It is more than a problem of focus. It is more than a question of intellectual curiosity. Though the tendency is for divergence to swing back to norm, it is recognized that objective interference in any case may have a long range effect sufficient to cause objective alterations in present society. Thus, the entertainment quotient of Crime-seeking is perforce limited to those tenth-level mentalities where, due to knowledge, thalamic motivations can be recognized as such, and discounted. Any attempt by a tenth-level mentality to indoctrinate any lesser mentality in Crime-seeking procedure will result in social isolation for an indefinite period. The clearest analogy of the danger of objective interference is that of the primitive man who, clinging to a limb, saws it off between his body and the trunk of the tree.
John Homrik sucked on the cigarette butt until the red ring crept close to his fingers, then with rigid nails he snapped it against the steel wall of the cell. The sparks showered, died.
“Like that,” he thought. “Just like that.” Please be seated, Mr. Homrik. We want to put this black cap over your head. You don’t mind if we strap your arms down. Of course not.
Heeney, the guard, sat on the far side of the corridor. The kitchen chair was incongruous, red and cream, chipped paint. He had thumbs under the gunbelt and a slant of sun into the deathhouse cell block picked out the enlarged pores of Heeney’s pendulous nose, the blackheads at the corners of his loose mouth.
Homrik walked over to the cell door, felt the chill of the bars in his sweating palms. He looked steadily at Heeney, was half amused to see Heeney turn away rather than meet his glance.
“Suppose it was you in here, Heeney,” he said softly.
“I didn’t kill any dames,” Heeney said sullenly.
“That’s right. Neither did I, Heeney. Suppose, knowing your own innocence, you were in here, like I am. What would you do? What would you say?”
“I wouldn’t be in there,” Heeney said.
Homrik grinned and there was no humor in it. “I’m in here, Heeney. And I didn’t kill a ‘dame’. I didn’t kill anybody.”
Heeney scowled, said, “Fella, I’m not as smart as you are. But if it was me, I wouldn’t die before I made a full confession. It would make me feel better. You ought to get it off your chest.”
John Homrik laughed. “You too, Heeney. You too.” He walked over, sat on the cot, lit another cigarette. He looked at his hands, fingers outspread. The long months of prison hadn’t faded all of the deep tan. His hands were deft and steady. They had called them the hands of a killer. And these were the hands that so soon would be forever stilled. Coffin hands. Rotting hands. Cold and dead after the convulsive twitch when the current hit.
With a quick movement he put them behind him. A sad knowledge filled him. He was innocent of murder, but no man would ever believe it. The pattern of the trial had been too clear.
“Yes, I knew that Anna had been unfaithful. But she was just a kid. Just eighteen. I forgave her. Certainly I forgave her. I tried to keep her from punishing herself over it. She wanted to kill herself. That was no good. That would solve nothing. I wanted to keep what we had. The two of us. Love and a home. No, it wasn’t gone. Yes, I forgave her. I was away for a year. He saw her loneliness. I forgave her. It didn’t matter. Only Anna mattered to me. We were together again. She wept. I comforted her. In the night I woke up. She wasn’t beside me.”
Stentorian voice, pointing finger. “And, John Homrik, you would have the jury believe that this child bride, this young girl, left your side in the darkness of the night of June eleventh, took the puppy’s leash, knotted it about her throat, stood on a chair, tied it around the stem pipe and then kicked the chair away?”