If this invasion ever really develops, these locals haven’t got a chance.
When they finally burst into the Student Center the raiders were long gone. The fireplace was cold. Tracks in the muddy street led westward, toward the coastal passes and the sea.
The victims of the massacre were found laid out in the old cafeteria, ears and other… parts… removed as trophies. The villagers stared at the havoc the automatic rifles had wrought, rediscovering uncomfortable memories of the early days.
Gordon had to remind them to get a burial detail together.
It was a frustrating morning. There was no way to prove who the bandits had been. Not without following them. And Gordon wasn’t about to try with this reluctant band of farmers. They already wanted to go home to their tall, safe stockade. Sighing, Gordon insisted that they make one more stop.
In the dank, ruined university gymnasium he found his mail sacks — one untouched where he had hidden it, the other torn open, letters scattered and trodden on the floor.
Gordon put on an irate show of fury for the benefit of the locals, who hurried obsequiously to help him collect and bag the remains. He played the role of the outraged postal inspector to the hilt, calling down vengeance on those who dared interfere with the mail.
But this time it was really only an act. Inside, all Gordon could think of was how hungry and tired of it all he was.
The slow, plodding ride back in a chill fog was sheer hell. But the ordeal went on at Harrisburg. There Gordon had to go through all the motions again… passing out a few letters he had collected in the towns south of Eugene… listening to tearful jubilation as a couple of lucky ones learned of a relative or friend thought long dead… appointing a local postmaster… enduring another silly celebration.
The next day he awoke stiff and sore and a little feverish. His dreams had been dire — all ending with a questioning, hopeful look in a dying woman’s eyes.
Nothing the villagers could say would make him remain another hour. He saddled a fresh horse, secured the mailbags, and headed north immediately after breakfast.
It was time, at last, to go see Cyclops.
5. CORVALLIS
May 18, 2011
Transmittal via: Shedd, Harrisburg, Creswell, Cottage Grove, Culp Creek, Oakridge, to Pine View
Dear Mrs. Thompson,
Your first three letters finally caught up with me in Shedd, just south of Corvallis. I can’t tell you how glad I was to get them. And news from Abby and Michael too — I’m very happy for them both, and I hope it will be a girl.
I note that you’ve expanded your local mail route to include Gilchrist, New Bend, and Redmond. Enclosed are temporary warrants for the postmasters you recommended, to be confirmed later. Your initiative is to be applauded.
The news of a change in regime in Oakridge was welcome. I hope their revolution lasts.
It was quiet in the paneled guest room as the silver fountain pen scritch-scratched across the slightly yellowed paper. Through the open window, with a pale moon shining amid scattered night clouds, Gordon could hear distant music and laughter from the hoedown he had left a little while ago, pleading fatigue.
By now Gordon was accustomed to these exuberant first-day festivities, as locals pulled out the stops for the visiting “Government Man.” The biggest difference here was that he had not seen so many people in one place since the food center riots, long, long ago.
The music was still of the land; with the Fall, people everywhere had returned to the fiddle and the banjo, to simple fare and square dances. In many ways it was all so very familiar.
But there are other differences as well.
Gordon rolled his fountain pen in his fingers and touched the letters from his friends in Pine View. Arriving with serendipitous timing, they had been real help in establishing his bona fides. The mail courier from the southern Willamette — a man Gordon himself had appointed only two weeks ago — had arrived on a steaming mount and refused even a glass of water until he reported to “the Inspector.”
The earnest youth’s behavior emphatically dissolved all remaining doubts the locals might have had. His fairy tale still worked.
For now, at least.
Gordon picked up the pen again and wrote.
By now you’ll have received my warning of a possible invasion by Rogue River survivalists. I know you’ll take appropriate measures for the defense of Pine View. Still, here in the strange domain of Cyclops I find it hard to get anyone to take the threat seriously. By today’s standards they’ve been at peace here a very long time. They treat me well, but people apparently think I am exaggerating the threat.
Tomorrow, at last, I have my interview. Perhaps I can persuade Cyclops itself of the danger.
It would be sad if this strange little society led by a machine fell to the barbarians. It is the finest thing I have seen since leaving the civilized east.
Gordon amended the remark in his own mind. The lower Willamette was the most civilized area he had encountered in fifteen years, period. It was a miracle of peace and prosperity, apparently wrought entirely by an intelligent computer and its dedicated human servants.
Gordon stopped writing and looked up as the lamp by his desk flickered. Under a chintz shade, the forty-watt incandescent bulb winked once more, then returned to a steady glow as the wind generators two buildings away regained their stride. The light was soft, but Gordon found his eyes watering each time he looked at it for even a little while.
He still had not gotten over it. On arriving in Corvallis he had seen his first working electric light in over a decade, and had been forced to excuse himself even as local dignitaries gathered to welcome him. He took refuge in a washroom to hide until he could regain his composure. It just wouldn’t do for a supposed representative of the “Government in Saint Paul City” to be seen weeping openly at the sight of a few flickering bulbs.
Corvallis and its environs are divided into independent boroughs, each supporting about two or three hundred people. All the land hereabouts is cultivated or ranched, using modern farming arts and hybrid seed the locals raise themselves. They have managed to maintain several prewar strains of bio-engineered yeast, and produce medicines and fertilizers from them.
Of course they’re limited to horse plows, but their smithies make implements from high-quality steel. They have even started producing hand-built water- and wind-power turbines — all designed by Cyclops, of course.
Local craftsmen have expressed an interest in trading with customers to the south and east. I’ll enclose a list of items they’re willing to barter for. Copy it and pass it along the line, will you?
Gordon had not seen so many happy, well-fed people since before the war, nor heard laughter so easy and often. There was a newspaper and a lending library, and every child in the valley got at least four years of schooling. Here, at last, was what he had been looking for since his militia unit broke up in confusion and despair, a decade and a half ago — a community of good people engaged in a vigorous effort to rebuild.
Gordon wished he could be a part of it, not a con artist ripping them off for a few nights’ meals and a free bed.
Ironically, these people would have accepted the old Gordon Krantz as a new citizen. But he was indelibly branded by the uniform he wore and by his actions back at Harrisburg. If he revealed the truth now, he was certain they would never forgive him.
He had to be a demigod in their eyes, or nothing at all. If ever a man was trapped in his own lie …
Gordon shook his head. He would have to take the hand he had been dealt. Perhaps these people really could use a mailman.