Originally published in Science Fiction Stories, May 1958.
So far, all the signs were minor; but they were very definite. Mogden IV’s culture hovered on brink of danger.
One final test. Simmons lay the sets of onionskin graph paper one atop the other.
The penciled curve on each paper fitted neatly over the curve beneath it.
Slowly, with his mind deep in thought, he picked up the papers in one hand and pushed back his chair. Down a long corridor he carried them, and through a door marked:
IVAN E. WALLACE
Coordinator, Sociological Engineering Bureau
Wallace looked up as Simmons entered, his bland features widening into a smile. “Good afternoon, Jules” he greeted. “I got your call. You sounded as though you had come on something pretty important.”
The bland expression, Simmons knew, was a facade, covering a deceptively acute intellect. He laid the papers in his hand on the desk in front of Wallace. “Look these over, will you, Ivan? See if you arrive at the same conclusion I have.”
Wallace took up the papers, reading the heading on the first as he did so. “Cultural trends on the planet Mogden IV.” He examined each paper quickly, but thoroughly, before he looked up. His expression was quizzical.
“Now put them together,” Summons directed.
Wallace did as he was told. His eyes widened as he observed the super-imposed curves fitting neatly, one over the other. “Trouble,” he murmured.
“Complete breakdown imminent,” Simmons corrected.
“Beyond a doubt; we’d better send their government what you’ve found immediately.”
“That would be as futile as expecting a man to psychoanalyze his own neurosis.”
“Do you have something better in mind?”
“I have nearly two months accumulated annual leave,” Simmons said, apparently irrelevantly. “I’d like to take my vacation starting today.”
Wallace pushed the papers aside and picked up a yellow pencil. He did not raise his gaze from the desk as he revolved the pencil slowly between his fingers. “One of the articles of the Ten Thousand Worlds Charter,” he said, “stipulates that no World is to interfere in the internal affairs of other Worlds.”
“I am aware of that,” Simmons answered.
Wallace drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If I were asked to recommend a man for a job of this kind,” he said, “I would unhesitatingly choose you. You have the special kind of ability that goes above and beyond the scientific method. I suppose I would have to call it ‘intuition.’”
He paused once more, and seemed to be searching for the exact; words he wanted “However, you have this other quality also, which can hardly be regarded as an asset.” He cleared his throat in semi-embarrassment.
“If I weren’t your friend, Jules, I would not presume to speak to you like this.” Wallace said. “But you perhaps do not recognize the quality in yourself; you are an idealist. And in following your ideals you are inclined to be impractical. What you are contemplating might very well be a fool’s errand: The odds against your being able to help are great. I say that, despite the respect I have for your ability. And there would be grave danger; if you meddle, you are bound to step on some toes. And their owners are very apt to be powerful and ruthless men. You could easily lose your life.”
“Possibly you’re right,” Simmons answered. “And I appreciate your concern. But there are some things a man sees that he must do. Will you arrange for my leave?”
“I won’t ask why you want it,” Wallace said. “But if you intend what I presume you do, I would advise that you at least give it more consideration.” He raised his hand as Simmons opened his mouth to speak. “If you go to Mogden, and attempt to help them, you will be completely on your own. Officially I won’t even remember that you spoke to me about it.” Simmons knew where the conversation was leading.
He gave Wallace his opening. “As a private citizen I believe I am entitled to spend my vacation wherever I wish.”
“True.” Wallace pulled down a thick leather bound book from a wall shelf at his elbow. He leafed through it rapidly until he found what he sought. “Mogden IV,” he read. “A single continent planet on the outer fringe of the Orion’s Belt sector. Area of habitable continent 253,721 square miles. Population 251,000,000. Originally colonized by a French dissenter group. Retains many French customs, as well as French based language. Soil fertile. Exceptionally productive fish and sea food industry. Exportable products minor—despite this apparent general abundance. Nothing much other than vitamins of sea plant extraction, and collectors’ curios. Tourist trade negligible. Minimum contact and intercourse with outside Worlds.” He looked up. “Not much to go on. And one would have trouble finding a ship putting out for Mogden IV.”
“That’s right,” Simmons agreed.
“It just happens,” Wallace said, narrowing his gaze meditatively, “that I have a friend in the curio import business putting out a ship within a short time. He intends to touch Mogden IV on his first stop; he might be induced to take a passenger.”
“I’d need about three days,” Simmons said. “To pack, and to use the language machines.”
“As it happens my friend is due to leave in exactly three days,” Wallace observed.
* * * *
Earth’s envoy on Mogden IV received Simmons with an ill concealed lack of enthusiasm. His name was Baldwin Brown, he informed Simmons, and he would be happy to give any assistance necessary. However, he would have to be excused from small talk, as his time was strictly limited.
The man was older than he should have been for this relatively minor post, Simmons noted. Apparently he had risen as high in his service as he was ever going to. That might account for his air of curt civility.
Brown mixed a drink for Simmons, and one for himself, wrote a brief note—which, with Simmons’ letter of credit from home, would establish an account at a local bank—and made a call for hotel reservations. When he filled his glass a second time—before Simmons had half finished his—Simmons knew that his first estimate of the man as a frustrated dead-ender had been correct.
“You will find that your money has much greater purchasing power here than it had at home,” Brown raid.
Simmons had expected as much. With the universe made up of 95% hydrogen, and helium comprising the bulk of the remaining 5%, only a very small proportion was left for the heavy elements. With the perfection of faster-than-light Spacebridge and—in the course of twenty five centuries—the colonization of over ten thousand planets, Earth had turned out to be a non-typical speck of heavy-element impurities. All metals now were precious, and Earth was extremely wealthy.
“However,” Brown continued, “it would be wise to draw out no more money at one time than is necessary for your immediate needs. The native counters gradually lose their value with time. That may seem absurd to you, but I am convinced it is a more ideal commercial technique than our own. Here money circulates, and wealth is subject to little accumulation in the hands of a few. Real property is the only means of acquisition. Now if you have no further need for my…”
“There is one thing you can do for me,” Simmons interrupted. “My visit here is strictly personal. However, my work at home is sociological engineering. We have discovered some facts relating to Mogden’s culture that should prove of quite urgent concern to them. I would appreciate your giving the information to the proper authorities.” He explained, as simply as possible, what he had found.
Brown agreed to the request with little apparent interest.
* * * *
On the way to his hotel, Simmons stopped in at the local bank and drew out a thousand francs for current expenses.
At the hotel he unpacked, showered, and sent for a city directory.
He spent a short time searching for the name of someone with a profession similar to his own. Under the heading “Economist” he found the name Justin LeBlamc. The man also carried the sub-title of ‘Psychotherapist.’ A rather unlikely combination by Earth assumptions, but Simmons expected to find much here that was unlikely by Earth standards. He called the phone number listed and secured an appointment with LeBlamc for seven that evening.
That left him three free hours. And he wanted to waste no time. His investigation of Mogden’s social setup should begin as soon as possible. And the best method would be personal contact.
He knew that he would be doing a risky thing, mingling with the inhabitants—with the little knowledge he had of their customs and mores; but he wanted no escorted tour—and he had come expecting to take risks.
In the middle of the first block Simmons stopped at a clothing shop and bought a tight-breached suit of many colors, which the shopkeeper assured him was the height of local fashion. A yellow and red stripped cloak completed his attire. The flat pistol in his shoulder holster did not bulk out under the cloak. He left the shop and continued down the brick street that curved gently to his right.
Simmons had not gone far before he lost all sense of direction. Mogden’s capitol city’s streets were laid out in the form of wheels—with a central park as the hub of each wheel—and diagonal streets connecting each rim. This may not have seemed complex to the natives, but it thoroughly confused Simmons before he had walked four blocks.
The buildings of the city were all built of varied colored brick and plastic, or combinations, none of them being over three stories high. From the observation port, as his space ship landed, he had noted that the buildings were bunched closely together, and extended as far as he could see in every direction.
One resolution he had made before his sojourn into the city. To strictly mind his own business. Despite anything he might observe. The mores of a strange World such as Mogden IV, with little outside contact, they were bound to differ even more than normally. The easiest way to become involved in trouble would be to interfere in anything he observed. His role, he decided, must be one of alert passivity.
* * * *
Simmons was not to keep his resolution long. Within the first quarter hour he found himself walking behind a man as tall as himself, but whose shoulders were so broad that he appeared stocky. The man carried himself with an air of quiet, undeferential assurance.
Simmons was inattentively speculating on the man’s occupation, noting without considering that two pedestrians walked toward them, and that a gray haired old man poked with a stick at refuse at the entrance to an alley they were approaching. And when it happened Simmons was too stunned to move until it was over.
The tall stranger ahead of him twisted suddenly sideward and clutched the old man about the shoulders. With his right arm he circled the scrawny, whiskered neck and forced the man’s head back.
The oldster yelled once and kicked out frantically, spinning his attacker half around. As they faced him Simmons saw the gray haired one’s mouth open wide in the extremity of his pain, but no sound came from the straining lips. The tall man jerked back his right arm with sudden ruthless force, and Simmons heard a dull crunch.
He watched in shocked fascination as the old man’s body went limp and slid slowly down the front of his slayer.
The tall man’s face had held its same expression during the entire brief encounter. There was no anger or hate there, nothing except a determined efficiency. Now he looked down for a minute before he walked on.
Simmons came out of his stupor and looked quickly about for someone representing the law of the city. The only other persons in sight were the two men he had seen approaching earlier. They had watched the killing with little more than cursory interest, and now they moved on down the street.
With no thought for himself—only his indignation spurring him to act—Simmons drew the flat gun from his armpit and strode after the killer. He pushed the nose of his gun against the broad back ahead of him and gritted, “Keep walking!”
The other hesitated for only an instant before obeying. He turned his head and looked at Simmons over his shoulder. “Do I know you, sir?” he asked.
“You don’t,” Simmons answered curtly.
“May I ask where you are taking me?” he inquired.
“To the nearest policeman,” Simmons replied.
The tall man hesitated again, then shrugged and went on.
They found a green clad policeman around the next corner. “This man has just committed murder,” Simmons told him.
The green-clad raised his eyebrows slightly. He regarded the tall man and seemed to observe something about his dress. “A commissionaire?” he asked.
The other nodded. He drew a paper from his breast pocket and handed it to the officer. “My warrant,” he said. “You will find it signed by Peerre Delfac, the dead man’s second son.
The officer handed the paper back. “I will have the body collected,” he said. “You may go.”
He turned to Simmons. “I judge by your accent, sir,” he said, “that you are a stranger to our World. Allow me to assure you that this man’s activities, which you have just witnessed, were perfectly legal.” While his words were polite, his attitude was one of impatient tolerance. And in his eyes was the only partially concealed look of dislike for a foreigner.
“Is it legal on this World to kill a defenseless old man?” Simmons asked sarcastically.
The policeman shrugged with cynical indifference and walked away.
Chapter II
The tall man had not left as the policeman talked. Now he said to Simmons, “Our police are not sympathetic with what they regard as interference by outsiders, but I do not wish to appear as a monster to you. Will you allow me the pleasure of buying you a voyae?”
“Why should I drink with you?” Simmons asked gruffly.
“For no reason,” the tall man answered, “except, perhaps, to have your curiosity satisfied.”
Oddly, Simmons found himself almost liking the man; and by now he realized that he had somehow made a fool of himself. The other was probably evidencing great tolerance by treating him so civilly. Further, he needed to learn all he could of the local customs, as quickly as possible. This might be as good an opportunity as any. “I will accept your offer,” he said, not quite able to match the other’s courtesy.
“My name is Andrew Harris,” the tall man introduced himself, and bowed as Simmons gave his own name.
They walked side-by-side, without speaking further, until they passed a building that was obviously a drinking place. “Isn’t this one of your taverns?” Simmons asked.
For a moment, Harris seemed startled; then he smiled. “I forget that you are ignorant of our customs. This is a place of the Fishers. One of your obvious station does not drink with Fishers.”
This time, Simmons remembered to restrain himself from asking questions that might make him appear ridiculous.
A few doors beyond they came to another drinking place and entered.
They found a table against one wall and sat down.
“Two brandies,” Harris told the waiter who came to take their order. The place, Simmons noted readily, was much like Earth taverns.
“Now if I may be permitted to clear myself in your eyes,” Harris said, holding his voice in a question.
“I wish you would,” Simmons answered.
“On Mogden it is the duty of a son to kill his parents before they are too old. Most of the sons do not desire to perform the disagreeable task themselves. My profession is one known as commissionaire. We perform such unpleasant duties for others. I was committed by a man named Delfac—the old one’s second son—to kill him.”
“But what is the purpose of such senseless slaughter?” Simmons asked.
“Purpose? I know no purpose. Except that it is done—and it is recarn.”
“What does that mean?”
“Recarn? The old person will live again in the son’s next-born.”
“Then the expression must come from reincarnation,” Simmons mused. “Tell me, is that belief universal with you?”
“Of course,” Harris answered. “At least until recently. Of late years a semi-religious sect, headed by a man named Georg Graetin, has been preaching against it. Graetin has succeeded in convincing quite a large number of persons that the ‘duty’ is cruel and ungodly. His influence grows daily. There are even rumors that the Council is soon to accede to his demand that the practice be stopped. But the great majority of us regard him as an irresponsible fanatic.”
“I’m afraid I agree with Graetin,” Simmons commented.
“Do not you Earthians believe in recarn?”
“No,” Simmons answered. “And by every instinct and moral code we have, your killing of your old people is bloodthirsty and barbarous.”
“If I knew your customs I might regard many of them in the same light,” Harris said.
“That’s true, of course,” Simmons agreed. He recalled guiltily the killings on Earth made legal by wars. He decided to drop the subject. “May I ask you a question? Perhaps at the risk of violating your privacy?”
“My pleasure is yours,” Harris replied.
“Is your profession looked upon as…decent by the others of your World?”
Harris drew a thin cigar cube from a breast pocket and appeared thoroughly preoccupied with rounding it by rolling it between his palms, and lighting it. Nothing in the steel-like courtesy of his manner seemed changed as he spoke, yet his tone was gentle and dead as he said, “My profession is regarded with envy by those without the courage to adopt it.”
“I’m sorry,” Simmons said, instantly realizing that he had made another mistake. “I meant no offense.”
Abruptly Harris’ reserve broke, and he smiled wearily. “Do you Earthians ever feel the great need to talk?” Simmons nodded and waited, sensing that what this interesting man had to say would not be commonplace.
“I have never spoken like this to anyone before,” Harris said, “simply because there was no one to listen. No one that would understand, and not regard me as a weakling. But I find myself admiring your frankness, and I perceive a good thinking mind behind your questions. I will tell you how I regard myself.
“Every man has within him that which he is. The coward buries it, that he might not have to face its obligations. Or he expresses it only by surrender to the invigorating lunacy of herd action. The brave man follows this thing—though he may knew he will die sooner for it.
“My work is dangerous: Few commissionaires ever reach the age where their sons must give them recarn. Yet I do not claim to be a brave man. I have the desire—the inner need—to do those things which frighten most other men. I might state it by saying that I desire to live as if I were to die the next moment; that alone will satisfy me. By placing my life so that it is always in danger I find alcoves now and then that give me flashes of the stimulation I must have. And I am happy in the admiration I know I receive from those about me.”
Harris relaxed in his chair, “Now that I have told you this about myself do you see me as a vain fool?”
“Not at all,” Simmons answered. “While I may not agree with the way you follow your star, I admire your courage in doing it.”
The drinking place had gradually filled as they sat talking. Simmons noted that women and older girls mingled freely with the men.
Two women came up to their table as they talked and stood waiting expectantly. One was small and blonde, with meager beauty. The other was built on heroic proportions, with a skin fair and untinted, and hair combed in black waves to the back of her head. Her breasts were only partly obscured by a stiff cloth cowl that hung over them. “Are you gentlemen expecting?” she asked.
Here, as on Earth, Simmons reflected musingly, young maidens hunted in pairs. He grew aware that Harris and the girls were watching him, watching him, waiting for him to make the decision. He smiled uncertainly at the dark girl and said, “Thank you for asking. Perhaps later.”
She lifted her shoulders in the universal Mogden gesture, and the two girls walked away, swaying their hips gently as they wept.
“Would you not enjoy being in jostling harness with the bounteous one?” Harris asked, with a slight quirk at one corner of his lips.
Simmons felt himself reddening slowly. “I’m a married man,” he mumbled, feeling stiff and prudish as he said it.
Harris’ face registered surprise. “Is fidelity to one’s wife considered a virtue on Earth?”
“It is professed,” Simmons answered uncomfortably.
“If I wished to look for absurdity in your customs I could point to that,” Harris said. “It is our firm belief that chastity is a dangerous abstinence. It makes a man vulnerable to illness of the liver.” His small smile returned. “Fortunately, our women do their best to keep us free of liver complaint.”
Simmons smiled back. “How do your wives feel about that?”
“Our wives? If they do not like it they are wise to keep the silence. A husband has the right of life or death over his wife.”
Incredible, Simmons thought, but after a moment acknowledged to himself that such alien practices were to be expected here.
“You asked me if my profession was considered decent—at the risk of offending me,” Harris said. “I will take the same liberty with you. We consider that those who restrain their desire for women do so only because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.”
Simmons bowed with good grace. “On our World we would say ‘touché.’”
When Simmons left for his seven o’clock appointment with the economist-psychotherapist, LeBlamc, he felt that he had made his first friend on Mogden IV. He was startled to remember that, by his own standards, the man was a merciless killer.
* * * *
Simmons hired a cart drawn by a razorback Mogden pony to take him to the address LeBlamc had given him. He asked the driver to wait when they arrived.
LeBlamc met him at the door. He was a thin man, with a contrasting wed-fed face and jowls of fat at his jawbones. His expression was on of habitual melancholy, but his greeting was cordial.
“Come in,” he invited. “I am happy to meet you. I do not often have the pleasure of an outworlder for a guest.” He led Simmons to a parlor in the house and—making a small ceremony of it—mixed drinks for them in a large glass bowl. As they drank they exchanged small talk.
At the end of a half-hour Simmons managed to turn the conversation to the purpose of his visit and he told LeBlamc what he had learned of Mogden’s danger. “I thought perhaps you might have some information that would give me an idea of what could be wrong,” he concluded.
“I can’t start to think of what the trouble could be,” LeBlamc raid. “I can, of course, give you any amount of statistics—trade trends, commercial activities, and such that you might want. But what there could be in those figures that would indicate the danger to us I don’t know.”
“You have a democratic form of government, do you not?” Simmons asked.
“Ostensibly, yes,” LeBlamc answered; “but we haven’t had an election—in fact—since before I was born. Our Council replaces members lost by death or superannuation with picked candidates, running without opposition. I’m afraid you would have to call it an oligarchy.
“However,” he went on, “it is a benevolent oligarchy, and our citizens are quite well satisfied with it. If you are thinking of a discontent of the people being the disturbing factor you are mistaken.”
“I wasn’t really thinking of anything,” Simmons answered. “I’m merely searching desperately for some clue.”
“Tell me this,” LeBlamc said, “what could you do if you did find the trouble? To avert the disaster, some action would have to be taken, wouldn’t it. Do you feel capable of handling it alone?”
“If I gave the facts I found to your government they would take the steps necessary to prevent the disaster, would they not?”
LeBlamc thought that over for moment before he said, “I’m certain that they would, Rather, I doubt that you could convince them of the necessity. As I understand it, when you find what you are after, it will be something that affects the government, or at least a large segment of our society. The Council is composed of quite conservative men; I don’t believe you’d convince them very easily to do anything radical.”
“Then I might be able to avert the trouble without their help,” Simmons said. “When sociological engineering first reached the degree of proficiency where we were able to foretell these disasters, the prevalent theory was that a counteracting force should be inserted into the culture. When that was done it not only proved to be a tremendous task, but—surprisingly—more often than not it was unsuccessful, for reasons we have not yet been able to determine. Our later research indicated that usually one group—or even one man—in a special position, could be the direct cause. Removing them, or him, is like loosening the king pin in a log jam.”
* * * *
An hour later, LeBlamc looked at the clock on his study table. “I’m sorry that I must halt this interesting conversation,” he said. “Unless…” He paused. “Are you interested in psychiatry, M. Simmons?”
“Very much,” Simmons answered.
“I have been treating a Fisher who has the illusion that he is the illegitimate son of a Councilman; I believe I have the data necessary to complete the cure this evening. Would you care to stay and watch?”
Simmons was happy at this opportunity to further observe the Mogdenian social functioning. “I would appreciate your allowing me to stay,” he said. “I’ve heard these Fishers mentioned before. Just who are they?”
“They are the dregs of our civilization, M. Simmons.”
“Criminals?” Simmons asked.
“Not necessarily; they are merely a class of people on the substrata of our social order.”
“I didn’t know you had a class society.”
“We don’t,” LeBlamc assured him, “but the Fishers are different. They are called Fishers, incidentally, because of their work. They are prohibited by law from changing occupations, or marrying with others, and have interbred for generations. They have always been the least desirable group in our society.”
“But why are they discriminated against? Are they inferior in some way? Less intelligent, for example? Or is fishing regarded as degrading work?”
“Of course fishing is degrading. But I suppose their average intelligence is the same as the others of us.”
“Then why aren’t they given the opportunity to work in other trades and professions?”
“Why? It just isn’t done, M. Simmons.” LeBlamc was obviously becoming annoyed. “I suppose if you must have a reason, there is no outstanding one. But their deficiencies are legion. They lie, they steal, they have little honor—even among themselves—and their personal habits are often reprehensible. They are the lice of our civilization.” Simmons prudently decided not to argue further.
* * * *
The Fisher was young, not over eighteen. Though Simmons’ nostrils told him the lad needed a bath, he had fine, sensitive features, and large intelligent brown eyes. He sat in a straight chair, opposite the divan on which LeBlamc and Simmons sat, and kept his gaze mostly on the thick rug at his feet. He pulled continually at the edge of his cloak—which LeBlamc had not asked him to remove.
“His name is Michel,” LeBlamc said. He treated the lad with obvious condescension, and did not show him the courtesy of giving his first name, or of introducing him to Simmons.
“Do you still believe you are the son of a Councilman?” LeBlamc began his questioning.
“I’m certain of it,” the young man answered.
“Why?”
“I feel it.”
“That is hardly proof.”
The boy did not look at LeBlamc, nor raise his tone, but his voice was stubborn. “It is proof enough to convince me; such a strong feeling cannot be false.”
“Wouldn’t it more likely be a feeling prompted by your desire to better your station in life?”
Michel was silent.
“You have a fair education,” LeBlamc said conversationally, “and I find your intelligence quite above normal. In fact, you showed your good sense by coming to me to be cured of your neurosis.”
“I have no neurosis,” Michel answered evenly. “I came only because my mother asked me.”
“That is your trouble” LeBlamc said. “Your mother loves you, but she loves you too well. She has sheltered you from the hardships and problems with which you should have learned to cope before this. Now, when you are too old to lean on her any longer—when you must earn your own livelihood—you are unable to accept the fact. You hide behind this delusion of a higher birth.”
Again Michel was silent.
“I ask you this,” LeBlamc resumed his questioning. “Will you look with an open mind at the proof I will try to give you that you are mistaken in your belief?”
Michel nodded, doubtfully.
“Do you which of the Councilors is your father?” LeBlamc asked.
“I only know that it is one of the four.”
“Do you know the appearance of those four?”
“Very well.”
“Will you tell me what is the color of their eyes?”
After a moment of thought Michel answered. “They are all blue.”
“Do you know the appearance of the Councilors’ wives?”
“As well as I know that of their husbands.”
“What color is their eyes?”
By now Simmons understood where LeBlamc’s questions were leading. Michel, apparently, did not. He answered readily. “They are all blue also.”
“And the color of your mother’s eyes?”
“Blue.”
“Yet your eyes are brown!” LeBlamc delivered his declamation. “It is impossible for two blue-eyed parents to have a brown-eyed child.”
Michel’s gaze swept up in a movement in wild consternation to stare at LeBlamc; Simmons pitied the despair he read there then. But LeBlamc went unmercifully on. “Your father’s eyes are brown. You could have naturally been his child, and you are. Never doubt it.”
Michel cried out with a strangled sob, and ran from the house.
Chapter III
When Simmons left, late in the evening, M. LeBlamc rode with him in his hired pony-cart for the first half-mile. It seemed it was the custom on Mogden for the host to accompany his departing guest on the early part of his journey.
Simmons was made acquainted with still another custom when LeBlamc rather diffidently asked him if he would care to exchange cloaks. The wearing of a colored cloak in the evening was considered very bad taste. The exchange would cause him no inconvenience, LeBlamc explained, as he owned several of each type, and if he wore Simmons’ cloak on his short walk home, he would hardly expect to meet anyone at that hour of night.
At his hotel, Simmons unlocked the door of his room—and found that the place had been torn apart!
Bed sheets and clothing littered the floor, and bureau drawers had been turned over and their contents spilled out. At first Simmons assumed that some sneak-thief had broken in, but counters of native coin had been spilled out on the bed and left laying there. What could the intruder have been after?
It took a brief inventory to locate the missing articles: The sheets of graph paper with their marking of Mogden trends! But who had wanted them, and why? Simmons could not arrive at any satisfactory answer.
With a deliberate effort, he dismissed the matter from his mind. He had other problems that needed his immediate consideration. He straightened the room and stretched out in an easy chair and gave himself over to reviewing what he had learned and observed during his short time on the planet. Neatly and orderly he laid his facts out in his mind, as an accountant would set his figures in a ledger.
He had, first, the killing of the old man by Harris. Next, the system of monetary depreciation. The infidelity of husbands—though that was not as peculiar to Mogden; in practice, as it was in theory. The husbands’ life and death control over their wives. The subjugation, if not the actual persecution, of the Fishers. He made a mental note to investigate that more fully when he had the opportunity. And finally their conservative, benevolent, oligarchic government. Which was not unusual.
A rather extensive list. In reviewing them, the Mogden custom of killing their elders held his interest the strongest. But whether that was the element that threatened their civilization, or whether it stood out because of its blatantness—and the fact that he had been a graphic witness to its functioning—he did not know.
He could add to the list of what he had learned the information he had gathered before he left Earth: Mogden’s one land mass large enough to be classed as a continent, with an area of approximately 50,000 square miles. The remainder of the planet consisting of ocean, and infrequent islands of barren rock; all human life subsisted on the one continent—a population slightly in excess of 250,000,000. He paused and calculated the density of population. 5,000 per square mile. Very high. However, this was counterbalanced by the fact that the land was extremely fertile, and nearly half their food could be gotten from the fructuous sea.
After a few minutes of consideration the thought came to Simmons that the cause of Mogden’s danger might be overpopulation—despite the productiveness of its land and sea. A seeming paradox on these colonized Worlds, was that the more productive the World the more tendency it had to reach the point where it could no longer support its inhabitants. In an environment where the means of livelihood were easy to come by there was bound to be a high birth rate. And inevitably there came the time when there were more people than could be fed.
Conversely, a World deficient in the means of subsistence was usually held to slower rate of propagation by the scarcity of goods, and the proportion of energy that had to be expended toward bare existence.
He would need more time for consideration, and perhaps more facts. One especially: did Mogden have a problem of overpopulation? He would have liked very much to have the statistics on it.
Would it be possible to obtain them—this very night? Sometimes—with his intuitive approach of intangible problems—the answers came to him while he slept. He might wake up with the answer to Mogden’s problem solved—provided he had all the necessary facts.
For a time, he was tempted to take out fresh graph paper and search for the solution in the generally accepted statistical manner. That was the way it had to be done by those researchers without his peculiar gift of intuition. But they had no choice. Intuition could not be defined, nor could it be taught.
He discarded the idea of graphing with little consideration. The statisticians failed, when presented with such a problem as this, because they could not operate effectively in a situation where a crucial point is concealed, or unknown—as it was here.
Intuition, however, operated in a different manner, and brought generalizations distinctly different from the statistical. Intuition, or instinct, or insight—it had many names—is what first led to belief. Later, reason confirmed or refuted—that which intuition had suggested—by comparison with other beliefs no less instinctive, but supported by greater experience. If it proved compatible it was accepted as knowledge. And now, as always, intuition must come first.
For the immediate present, Simmons needed information on the degree of undernourishment on the planet. Where to get it? The answer was obvious. LeBlamc. Would it be too late to call him? Simmons’ reasoning and mental drive were at high peak now. He couldn’t sleep anyway, and he might be on the verge of finding his solution. He decided to risk an imposition on LeBlamc’s amiability.
A woman answered Simmons’ call. He never did learn who she was, but he presumed later that she was the economist’s wife. “May I speak to M. LeBlamc, if he hasn’t retired, please?” Simmons asked.
The woman’s voice sounded as though she had been crying. “M. LeBlamc is dead,” she answered wearily.
For an instant Simmons was unable to speak. It wasn’t possible, he thought. “You must be mistaken; I left him only an hour ago.”
“You are M. Simmons, the Earthian?” the woman asked. “He was killed just as he reached his home after leaving you.” Her voice broke and she hung up abruptly.
Simmons slid slowly back in his chair. LeBlamc dead. Could this World be mad with its blood-letting? Or was there something different here? Could it be that the killing of LeBlamc had to be placed in a different category from the others? Was this murder as atypical to Mogden as it would have been to Earth?
The evidence he had—all strictly observational—pointed to the conclusion that it was the latter. Who, then, could have killed LeBlamc? Michel? Hardly likely. Though the lad might feel he had justification, he was hardly the homicidal type.
As he pondered Simmons’ glance chanced to rest for a minute on LeBlamc’s cloak, laying across the foot of his bed. His back straightened.
The cloak!
He had exchanged cloaks with LeBlamc; LeBlamc had been killed while wearing his, Simmons cloak—shortly after; he had found his room ransacked on his return. The clues totaled, as plainly as the multiplying of two and two made four. The killers of LeBlamc had made a mistake. They had meant to kill Simmons!
But who were they? He had no time to speculate on it. Every minute he wasted now made his danger more acute. And there was so little he could do to counteract that danger. Should he run? To where? Should he fight? Whom did he have to fight? And how could he, alone, hope to hold his own against an unknown enemy, with probably infinitely more force at his command?
Simmons heard a small noise in the hall outside his room and was glad that he had locked the door. He rose and put out his light. Walking to the room’s one window he looked out. Across the street a man, faceless in the dark, stood with his head turned up toward Simmons’ window.
The net was already tight around him!
He needed help. Badly. He had one chance to get it. Harris.
Harris answered Simmons’ first call. Evidently the man was a light sleeper. “I’m in danger.” Simmons spoke hurriedly. “Will you help me?”
“But certainly,” Harris answered briskly. “Where are you now?”
Simmons told him. “I found my room torn apart when I came in tonight,” he added. “And a short time ago the economist, LeBlamc, was killed while wearing my cloak. I’m convinced that they meant to kill me. Watchers are stationed outside my room now.”
“Do you have any idea who they are?”
“No.”
“No matter. I will reach you within one third hour. Do not permit anyone to enter until I arrive. Use your gun if necessary.” Harris cut the connection.
Simmons groped in the dark for his chair, and let himself drop into it. Only when he tried to relax, and noted the unnormal rigidity of his stomach muscles, did he realize that he was afraid. He was glad to note that it was not the fear of panic. He took the safety catch off his pistol and laid it on his lap, and waited.
Twice Simmons heard movement in the hall, and once someone stealthily tried the knob of his door. But they made no attempt to force their way in.
Eventually there were three short raps on the door and Harris’ voice said, “Open up.”
Simmons crossed the room and let him in.
“We will have to move fast,” Harris said. “Are you ready to leave?”
Simmons nodded.
“Good.” Harris spoke rapidly. “I saw two of your shadows in the lobby downstairs, and another in the hall. I do not know who they are, but I’m certain that they recognized me. That may help. I have some small reputation in situations like this. And we have surprise on our side: the surprise that you are not alone.”
As he spoke he opened the door and looked out. He motioned with his hand and Simmons followed him into the hall.
“Keep your gun in your cloak pocket,” Harris instructed in an undertone. “With your finger on the trigger. When we come to them, keep them covered. And make certain that they know you are doing it.”
A man at the far end of the hall slid behind a turn in the corridor as he saw them approaching.
“Steady,” Harris cautioned Simmons.
At the head of the stairs Simmons looked down and saw two men blocking the passage at the foot. Obviously Harris saw them also, but he never paused. Purposefully he walked down the stairs toward the waiting men. Simmons noted then that Harris, too, had one hand in a cloak pocket.
When he reached a point one step from the waiting men, Harris stopped. “Get the hell out of my way,” he said very gently.
Involuntarily the two men stepped apart. As they stood undecided Harris strode between them. Simmons followed.
Outside they climbed into a pony cart which Harris had left waiting and rode away.
“We’re safe, at least temporarily,” Harris said. “These men are underlings. They will have to await instructions from their superiors before they will know how to cope with the change in the affairs.”
* * * *
In Harris’ apartment they held a hurried council, with Harris doing most of the planning and talking. “Our immediate problem is for a method of concealment,” he said. “And it can’t be here. By now they will have associated you with me. For you I must make the disguise.”
He walked to a wall cabinet and began taking down assorted jars and tubes and small instruments. “While you hide I will seek to learn who desires to kill you. When we know that, we will decide whether it is wiser to attempt negotiations, or to move against them. For now, rest your head back against the cushion of your chair.” As he spoke he put the jars and tubes on a table at Simmons’ right.
For fifteen minutes Harris’ deft fingers operated on Simmons’ face. He began by plucking hairs from the middle ends and upper sides of his eyebrows to change their slant. Also with the tweezers he changed Simmons hair line to a widow’s peak. He rubbed a pale yellow cream on his fingers and ran it through the hair until it separated into short ringlets.
Using a small cosmetic gun he sprayed a flesh-colored paste that hardened instantly across the bridge of Simmons’ nose and into the hollows of his cheeks. He pushed small air filters into Summons’ nostrils that gave them a wider flare. “Those give you the look of the sinus one,” he jested, without pausing in his work. Finally he covered Simmons’ face and hands with a lotion that tinted the skin several shades darker.
“You now have the appearance of a Fisher,” Harris said when he’d finished. “It will do.
“I have a secret exit,” he said, “for use in just such emergencies as this. It will let you out two blocks from here. The Fisher section is directly East. Start for there as soon as you get outside. It is only about two miles and you can walk. Once in the district you will have no trouble renting a room in a private home. Stay close to your room until noon tomorrow, when I will meet you at the main wharf, if I am able. If not we will meet there the second day. You will have no trouble finding the wharf.” He led Simmons to a door in the basement, shook hands briefly and let him through. “Keep to the right,” he cautioned.
* * * *
Harris was not at the wharf the next day when Simmons arrived. But he was not worried; he had developed a great confidence in the man’s ability.
On the way back to his rooming house he stopped at a used-book store and bought several Mogden histories.
He found Harris waiting at the wharf when he reached there the following noon.
“I have found what we sought,” Harris greeted him, “and you are in the worst possible trouble.”
“That I suspected,” Simmons answered. “But who is trying to kill me? And why?”
“Your death was ordered by the Council itself.”
Simmons considered that for a moment. It was not too surprising—in the light of what he had learned from LeBlamc about the Council. Another thought occurred to him.
“How about you now?” he asked Harris. “With your government on the other side, do you still wish to work for me?”
“I learned more—why you are here,” Harris said slowly. “I am a citizen contented with the Council, and loyal to them. But their persecution of you is prompted by their timidity, rather than their reason. They are malefic, when they should display gratitude; I will remain on your side.”
“I hesitate to accept your help, if it means you must operate outside your law,” Simmons said. “They would never permit you to escape punishment for opposing them.” #
“I have already weighed that,” Harris answered. “The Council is taking great pains to keep their connection with your avowed demise a close secret. They are afraid of the vigorous protest your death might incur from the Earth authorities. And we commissionaires work under a code that is quite specific as to the activities in which we can and cannot engage. If I, in their presumption, do not know who your enemies are, I cannot be held to account for protecting you against them.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Simmons said. “Do you have any plans for my future moves?”
“I have those,” Harris answered. “I do not understand how you know there is the danger to our World, but I have great faith that you are a competent man. I have arrived at the decision that the best means of concealing your person—and at the same time advancing your investigation—is for you to go to Graetin.”
“Graetin?”
“The leader of the group I mentioned to you that is in opposition to the putting away of the too old.”
“Will he accept me?” Simmons asked.
“He will. I visited with him during this morning, and explained the situation of yours. He evidenced a great sympathy. I am to take you to him.
Chapter IV
Graetin was a man with the face and figure of a bull. His outstanding features were large ears and great bony cheeks. His manner was abrupt and forceful, and he had the trick of looking at a visitor from under eyebrows pulled down into a scowl. Simmons learned very soon that he valued his own opinions very highly, and consistently monopolized every conversation.
“You have come to the right man,” he informed Simmons as they relaxed in his drawing room. “You want to know what is wrong with Mogden IV. I can tell you. It is a sick World, suffering from a neurosis that compels it to draw the blood of innocent victims. You probably know already of its senseless slaughter of ancient ones. Do you know also that husbands frequently slay their wives—for any pretext, or none at all—without violating any law? And that within the last few years the self-styled elite have initiated a new custom of slaying every third child at birth? And what—do the authorities do about this latest atrocity? They do not admit that it is permitted, but they condone it by refusing to punish the offenders. Is not the blood madness apparent to you?”
“I agree with you that they are not practices of which to be proud,” Simmons began. “However.”
“They are reprehensible!” Graetin interrupted. “I am not a provincial person, M. Simmons, bound by the mean prejudices and bigotry of this rustic World. I am much educated, and wealthy, and I have traveled on nearly two hundred Worlds. And I tell you the taking of a man’s life is a violation of basic morality, and cannot be justified by calling it a local custom. If there’s a God, I say He must hate us for what we do.”
“I was going to say,” Simmons tried again, “that while I am in sympathy with you on nearly everything you mention, I do not believe you have the solution. I was able to secure a few of your history books within the past few days and I find that the custom of killing your elders began well over fifteen hundred years ago. And husbands assumed mortal control over their wives a few centuries later. By now, those practices have become set characteristics of your culture. The threat to that culture, which we seek, must be some new force—a man, a practice, or an institution—which by its nature clashes with the culture’s established pattern, and threatens to destroy it.”
“You would know more about that than I,” Graetin said. “But I will wager that anything you find will lead back to this blood letting. Have you yet marked any symptoms that might indicate the danger?”
“Nothing concrete. But there are some aspects of your society that I would like to know more about. For one, your World’s religious beliefs. I would guess that their teachings quite closely parallel yours.”
“You are wrong, there,” Graetin replied. “In fact, their engrained religious philosophy has been the greatest hindrance to my cause. That philosophy might be stated simply thus: ‘It is as easy for the strong to be strong as it is for the weak to be weak.’ You can see the devitalizing futility of such a philosophy, can you not? The malefactor cannot be held morally accountable for his wicked deeds, because he is too weak to resist doing them. And there is little incentive to do good, for it will merit no praise. That is merely exercising one’s strength. And…” Graetin paused, seeming to enjoy what he was about to say, “That philosophy is even older than the customs you mentioned.”
Simmons pondered for a time. “Again I am in complete agreement with your views,” he said. “Now, perhaps, you can tell me something about the Fishers. How long have they suffered their persecution?”
“Nearly as long,” Graetin replied. “But of course that can have nothing to do with the danger. It is a normal thing; one must expect it.”
“Why do you say that?” Simmons asked. “I would think a man with your background and sympathies would recognize the injustice of that suppression.”
Graetin pushed out one arm in a gesture of brushing the argument aside. “The morality of it is too minor to concern me,” he said, “so I will not argue with you. I was considering merely its political aspect. You must know that the best way for a government to secure social solidarity is for it to acquire a war. There are no wars on Mogden: We have a universal government. The second best means of securing that social solidarity—especially for a government exercising absolute authority—is to have an oppressed minority. You can find many instances of it in your own Earth’s history. Back in your middle ages you had the Jews under Hitler; the bourgeois under Stalin and Lenin; Papists under Protestants; and heretics under the Catholics. The Fishers are ours.”
Simmons had to admit that the man was learned—he might even be forced to admit that he was wise. But the oppression of the Fishers stayed strong in his mind as a vital clue.
* * * *
The next few days, Simmons had other discussions with Graetin, and learned more of the cultural background of Mogden IV. The man was obstinate and more dogmatic than he himself realized, but he was a thinking man, and his interests extended to many fields.
During those few days Simmons gave the problem of Mogden’s imminent disaster much deep thought. By this time, he was certain, he had all, or nearly all, the facts he needed. Any day now some small occurrence or conversation would supply the stimulus that would trigger his intuition, and the answer would come tumbling out.
Many times he thought of the Fishers, and how they fitted into the pattern, especially when his intuition seemed bubbling just beneath the surface of his mind, waiting to break out. Somewhere there, he was positive, lay the vital clue. Often he wondered about the young Fisher, Michel. He still remembered the look of stark despair in his eyes when LeBlamc had shattered his hallucination.
Twice daily he received phone reports from Harris, and was assured that his hiding place was still a secret from his pursuers. However, Harris warned him each time not to leave Graetin’s house. He had too much ignorance of the small habits and daily behavior of the Mogdenians, Harris insisted, to risk exposing himself. Simmons agreed—but each time more reluctantly. He was safe where he was, but he was making no progress with his larger problem. His helplessness was slowly building up to a gray frustration.
On the third day he could wait no longer. The thought of the boy, Michel, had been pricking at his consciousness like a thistle burr in a thumb, and he had to find out what had happened to him. He decided to risk a visit to the Fisher district.
* * * *
Simmons had some acquaintance with the wharf sector and decided to begin his inquiries there. “Do you know a man named Michel?” he asked a passing Fisher.
“There is a Michel who owns a boat at the end of that small pier,” The Fisher answered, indicating the pier with a nod of his head.
“Thank you,” Simmons said. As he turned to walk on he noticed, without attaching any significance to it, that a young Fisher, in a blue, open-necked, sweater had stopped to listen to their conversation.
He found the man named Michel mending a strip of net. “Are you related to the boy who was a patient of the psycho-therapist, LeBlamc?” he asked.
“The young one was my nephew, sir,” the Fisher answered.
“And how is he now?”
“He is dead, Monsieur. He killed himself on the night he last visited M. LeBlamc.”
Simmons experienced a brief moment of shock—and his intuition moved with an almost tangible meshing of mental gears. He knew the danger that threatened Mogden IV!
* * * *
Simmons had walked back the length of the pier before he became aware, consciously, of what he was doing. And then it was because his intuition operated again, sounding a sharp note of alarm. He stopped and looked around. The only person near him was the Fisher in the open-necked blue sweater.
With an effort of will Simmons forced himself to let his glance pass over the Fisher with no display of interest. He weighed and measured the man with that glance and walked slowly up the street bordering the wharf sector.
At a store front with an oblique glass he observed his own reflection, and his heart sank as he saw the Fisher ten paces behind. His last doubt was gone. They had found him!
Danger acted as a mental stimulus and he knew he was thinking as clearly as he ever had in his life. All was not yet lost. If he kept moving, his pursuer would have no opportunity to put in a call and report his find—without losing him. And Simmons knew where he must go to be safe.
The international spaceport.
In the early days of interplanetary travel one of the main sources of stress and dissention had been the landing fields of the ships of space. So many wealth-hungry governments had laid custom and import duties on their fields—to be reciprocated in kind by punitive taxes of other governments—that both trade and amicable relations had been threatened. The trouble was resolved by placing the fields under international jurisdiction. Violators were subject to the penalty of isolation. The restrictions were rigidly observed.
If he could reach the spaceport Simmons knew they would not dare come after him. And he felt fully capable of coping with this one man, should he attempt to stop him.
But Simmons’ mind, despite its instinct for safety, would not cease its sharp functioning—and it carried his actions to their logical conclusion.
By fleeing, he was abandoning Mogden IV to its doom. And just at the moment when he knew what had to be done to save it.
Could he place his own safety before that of an entire World? Slowly his stride shortened, until he turned abruptly aside from his goal. He would return to Graetin’s house.
Once in the building, he went to the nearest phone and called Harris. He was fortunate enough to find him in. He talked for several minutes. After he finished he put in a quick call to his bank.
* * * *
Simmons made his way up the stairs and into Graetin’s study. He found Graetin bent over his writing desk, underlining passages in a black-covered book.
“Good day, my friend,” Graetin greeted him.
Simmons nodded soberly. He walked to a window facing on the main street and sat on its ledge. Against the gray brick building across the street the blue-sweatered Fisher leaned negligently.
Simmons had trouble beginning what he had to say. It was so difficult that when he did begin he found himself trying to reach his vital matter by a subtle, circuitous play of words.
“There is a beautiful and enlightening world of talk,” he said to a Graetin so puzzled and impressed with the gravity of Simmons’ manner that he was forgetting to frown, “in which everything makes sense. And there is another world—a more practical world—that is governed by the unintelligibility of necessity.”
“What are you trying to say?” Graetin demanded irritably.
Simmons sighed deeply. “I am trying to say,” he made his effort again, “that I have admired your zeal, I have enjoyed conversing with you, and that I am grateful to you for hiding me. But now the time comes when I must oppose you. And if you do not accept what I command without struggle, I must fight you. Perhaps even kill you.”
Graetin’s scowl returned while Simmons spoke. “You have said too much, M., not to say more.”
“Then I will be blunt.” Simmons abandoned any attempt at subtlety. “You are the entity that is the threat to Mogden IV!”
Graetin strode toward him, his face turning a mottled red. “You.” For the first time in Simmons’ experience Graetin was at a loss for words.
“You are a damned fool!” Graetin choked. He reached out and grabbed a fistful of Simmons’ blouse collar and twisted it with violent strength.
Calmly, with both hands, Simmons forced the fist to loosen its grip. “I will try to explain,” he said, “by telling you a story. A story of a Fisher boy who had a neurosis.
“His name was Michel,” Simmons went on as Graetin stood over him with his shoulders hunched and his body bent into a half-crouch. “He was sensitive, and intelligent. So sensitive and intelligent, that he could not bear the knowledge that he was doomed to a life of degradation, menial work, and the scorn of others actually no better than he. And without hope of ever being able to escape his fate. This boy invented a story—which he believed himself—that he had actually been born to a higher station.
“You, as a learned man, will recognize what had happened,” Simmons said. “Most insanity and neuroses are the same. A man is unable to cope with his environment, so he invents another world where he is someone better. On Earth the insane imagine they are semi-legendary figures, such as the general Napoleon, or the statesman-philosopher Jefferson.”
“Get on with it!” Graetin rasped.
“A psycho-therapist cured the Fisher boy of his neurosis. He was not wise enough to realize that the neurosis was the boy’s shield against a world with which he could not cope. There was only one escape left. The boy killed himself.”
Simmons glanced down into the street. Two men had joined the Fisher in blue. And another group was gathering farther down the roadway. He looked back at Graetin. The burly man’s scowl was still on his face, but it was strained now. As though it were fighting against some recognition.
“I think you see the simile,” Simmons said. “You were right when you said Mogden’s blood-letting was a neurosis—a planetary neurosis. But that neurosis is also its protection—as Michel’s was his. The environment Mogden cannot face without its neurosis is overpopulation. Overpopulation, with its unfavorable relationship between man and his environment, brings wholesale destruction of planetary resources, hunger, revolution, war, and wholesale extermination.
“And you, Georg Graetin, are the psycho-therapist trying to cure that neurosis!” Simmons looked into the street where more men were gathering. When he turned back Graetin was slumped in a chair. The light of anger was gone from his eyes, and a double chin had appeared on his face.
Simmons knew he was being cruel, but he had to finish what he had to say. “I hope that I can trust to your good reason to abandon your endeavors,” he said. “But I must be certain. I’ve made arrangements with a bank to supply Harris with any money he might need to accomplish a task. That task is to kill you if you persist in your efforts.”
Simmons made one attempt to soften the damage to Graetin’s crushed ego before he left. “There are other ways of continuing your fight—safely,” he said. “You can strive for a means of limiting Mogden’s births. It would be practical then to fight the forces that bring death—after you have interfered with the forces that bring life. That would be a very fine substitute for the killings that are necessary now.” He paused, but Graetin had nothing to say. “If, when I am gone, you decide to follow my counsel I will await with interest any correspondence you wish to have with me. And for now goodby and good luck.”
Graetin did not raise his head as Simmons walked out of the room.
* * * *
After the scene in Graetin’s study the ride with Harris to the international spaceport was almost an anti-climax. Once again Harris used his weapon of surprise, by riding a swift Mogden pony through the men surrounding Graetin’s home. Simmons was waiting, and sprang on the pony Harris led, and they were away before the Council’s men realized what was happening.
Three hours later Simmons rode in the spaceship cutting its way through the thin envelope of atmosphere surrounding the planet Mogden IV.
His vacation was over.