Part 8 (1/2)
”Why, I guess you can believe that if you want to,” Pop said and let out a soft breath. ”Seems to me you need a lot of coincidences and happenstances to make that theory hold water, but you sure can believe it if you want to. I got no way, Ray, to prove to you I'm telling the truth except to say I am.”
”Right,” I said and then I threw the next one at him real fast. ”What's more, Pop, weren't you traveling in this plane to begin with? That cuts a happenstance. Didn't you hop out while we were too busy with the Pilot to notice and just _pretend_ to be coming from the cracking plant?
Weren't the b.u.t.tons locked because you were the Pilot's prisoner?”
Pop creased his brow thoughtfully. ”It could have been that way,” he said at last. ”Could have been--according to the evidence as you saw it.
It's quite a bright idea, Ray. I can almost see myself skulking in this cabin, while you and Alice--”
”You were skulking somewhere,” I said. I finished s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g in the knife and gave Alice back her hand. ”I'll repeat it, Pop,” I said. ”We're two to one. You'd better talk.”
”Yes,” Alice added, disregarding my previous hint. ”You may have given up fighting, Pop, but I haven't. Not fighting, nor killing, nor anything in between those two. Any least thing.” My girl was being her most pantherish.
”Now who says I've given up _fighting_?” Pop demanded, rearing a little again. ”You people a.s.sume too much, it's a dangerous habit. Before we have any trouble and somebody squawks about me cheating, let's get one thing straight. If anybody jumps me I'll try to disable them, I'll try to hurt them in any way short of killing, and that means hamstringing and rabbit-punching and everything else. Every least thing, Alice. And if they happen to die while I'm honestly just trying to hurt them in a way short of killing, then I won't grieve too much. My conscience will be reasonably clear. Is that understood?”
I had to admit that it was. Pop might be lying about a lot of things, but I just didn't believe he was lying about this. And I already knew Pop was quick for his age and strong enough. If Alice and me jumped him now there'd be blood let six different ways. You can't jump a man who has a dozen knives easy to hand and not expect that to happen, two to one or not. We'd get him in the end but it would be gory.
”And now,” Pop said quietly, ”I _will_ talk a little if you don't mind.
Look here, Ray ... Alice ... the two of you are confirmed murderers, I know you wouldn't tell me nothing different, and being such you both know that there's nothing in murder in the long run. It satisfies a hunger and maybe gets you a little loot and it lets you get on to the next killing. But that's all, absolutely all. Yet you got to do it because it's the way you're built. The urge is there, it's an overpowering urge, and you got nothing to oppose it with. You feel the Big Grief and the Big Resentment, the dust is eating at your bones, you can't stand the city squares--the Porterites and Mantenors and such--because you know they're whistling in the dark and it's a dirty tune, so you go on killing. But if there were a decent practical way to quit, you'd take it. At least I think you would. When you still thought this plane could take you to Rio or Europe you felt that way, didn't you? You weren't planning to go there as murderers, were you? You were going to leave your trade behind.”
It was pretty quiet in the cabin for a couple of seconds. Then Alice's thin laugh sliced the silence. ”We were dreaming then,” she said. ”We were out of our heads. But now you're talking about practical things, as you say. What do you expect us to do if we quit our trade, as you call it--go into Walla Walla or Ouachita and give ourselves up? I might lose more than my right hand at Ouachita this time--that was just on suspicion.”
”Or Atla-Hi,” I added meaningfully. ”Are you expecting us to admit we're murderers when we get to Atla-Hi, Pop?”
The old geezer smiled and thinned his eyes. ”Now that wouldn't accomplish much, would it? Most places they'd just string you up, maybe after tickling your pain nerves a bit, or if it was Manteno they might put you in a cage and feed you slops and pray over you, and would that help you or anybody else? If a man or woman quits killing there's a lot of things he's got to straighten out--first his own mind and feelings, next he's got to do what he can to make up for the murders he's done--help the next of kin if any and so on--then he's got to carry the news to other killers who haven't heard it yet. He's got no time to waste being hanged. Believe me, he's got work lined up for him, work that's got to be done mostly in the Deathlands, and it's the sort of work the city squares can't help him with one bit, because they just don't understand us murderers and what makes us tick. We have to do it ourselves.”
”Hey, Pop,” I cut in, getting a little interested in the argument (there wasn't anything else to get interested in until we got to Atla-Hi or Pop let down his guard), ”I dig you on the city squares (I call 'em cultural queers) and what sort of screwed-up fatheads they are, but just the same for a man to quit killing he's got to quit lone-wolfing it. He's got to belong to a community, he's got to have a culture of some sort, no matter how disgusting or nutsy.”
”Well,” Pop said, ”don't us Deathlanders have a culture? With customs and folkways and all the rest? A very tight little culture, in fact.
Nutsy as all get out, of course, but that's one of the beauties of it.”
”Oh sure,” I granted him, ”but it's a culture based on murder and devoted wholly to murder. Murder is our way of life. That gets your argument nowhere, Pop.”
”Correction,” he said. ”Or rather, re-interpretation.” And now for a little while his voice got less old-man harsh and yet bigger somehow, as if it were more than just Pop talking. ”Every culture,” he said, ”is a way of growth as well as a way of life, because the first law of life is growth. Our Deathland culture is devoted to growing _through_ murder _away from_ murder. That's my thought. It's about the toughest way of growth anybody was ever asked to face up to, but it's a way of growth just the same. A lot bigger and fancier cultures never could figure out the answer to the problem of war and killing--_we_ know that, all right, we inhabit their grandest failure. Maybe us Deathlanders, working with murder every day, unable to pretend that it isn't part of every one of us, unable to put it out of our minds like the city squares do--maybe us Deathlanders are the ones to do that little job.”
”But h.e.l.l, Pop,” I objected, getting excited in spite of myself, ”even if we got a culture here in the Deathlands, a culture that can grow, it ain't a culture that can deal with repentant murderers. In a _real_ culture a murderer feels guilty and confesses and then he gets hanged or imprisoned a long time and that squares things for him and everybody.
You need religion and courts and hangmen and screws and all the rest of it. I don't think it's enough for a man just to say he's sorry and go around glad-handing other killers--_that_ isn't going to be enough to wipe out his sense of guilt.”
Pop squared his eyes at mine. ”Are you so fancy that you have to have a sense of guilt, Ray?” he demanded. ”Can't you just see when something's lousy? A sense of guilt's a luxury. Of course it's not enough to say you're sorry--you're going to have to spend a good part of the rest of your life making up for what you've done ... and what you will do, too!
But about hanging and prisons--was it ever proved those were the right thing for murderers? As for religion now--some of us who've quit killing are religious and a lot of us (me included) aren't; and some of the ones that are religious figure (maybe because there's no way for them to get hanged) that they're d.a.m.ned eternally--but that doesn't stop them doing good work. I ask you now, is any little thing like being d.a.m.ned eternally a satisfactory excuse for behaving like a complete rat?”
That did it, somehow. That last statement of Pop's appealed so much to me and was completely crazy at the same time, that I couldn't help warming up to him. Don't get me wrong, I didn't really fall for his line of chatter at all, but I found it fun to go along with it--so long as the plane was in this shuttle situation and we had nothing better to do.
Alice seemed to feel the same way. I guess any b.u.g.g.e.r that could kid religion the way Pop could got a little silver star in her books.