Part 23 (1/2)
Littlejohn could see the face, now--the gigantic, wrinkled face, scarred and seared and seamed. It was a human face, but utterly alien to the humanity Littlejohn knew. Faces such as this one had disappeared from the earth a lifetime ago. At least, history had taught him that. History had not prepared him for the actual living presence of a--
”Naturalist!” Littlejohn gasped. ”You're a Naturalist! Yes, that's what you are!”
The apparition scowled.
”I am not a Naturalist. I am a man.”
”But you can't be! The war--”
”I am very old. I lived through your war. I have lived through your peace. Soon I shall die. But before I do, there is something else which must be done.”
”You've come here to kill me?”
”Perhaps.” The looming figure moved closer and stared down. ”No, don't try to summon help. When your servants saw me, they fled. You're alone now, Littlejohn.”
”You know my name.”
”Yes, I know your name. I know the names of everyone on the council.
Each of them has a visitor tonight.”
”Then it is a plot, a conspiracy?”
”We have planned this very carefully, through the long years. It's all we lived for, those few of us who survived the war.”
”But the council wasn't responsible for the war! Most of us weren't even alive, then. Believe me, we weren't to blame--”
”I know.” The gigantic face creased in senile simulation of a smile.
”n.o.body was ever to blame for anything, n.o.body was ever responsible.
That's what they always told me. I mustn't hate mankind for multiplying, even though population created pressure and pressure created panic that drove me mad. I mustn't blame Leffingwell for solving the overpopulation problem, even though he used me as a guinea-pig in his experiments. I mustn't blame the Yardsticks for penning me up in prison until revolution broke out, and I mustn't blame the Naturalists for bombing the place where I took refuge. So whose fault was it that I've gone through eighty years of a.s.sorted h.e.l.l? Why did I, Harry Collins, get singled out for a lifetime of misery and misfortune?” The huge old man bent over Littlejohn's huddled form. ”Maybe it was all a means to an end. A way of bringing me here, at this moment, to do what must be done.”
”Don't harm me--you're not well, you're--”
”Crazy?” The old man shook his head. ”No, I'm not crazy. Not now. But I _have_ been, at times, during my life. Perhaps we all are, when we attempt to face up to the complications of an average existence, try to confront the problems which are too big for a single consciousness to cope with in a single life-span. I've been crazy in the city, and crazy in the isolation of a cell, and crazy in the welter of war. And perhaps the worst time of all was when I lost my son.
”Yes, I had a son, Littlejohn. He was one of the first, one of Leffingwell's original mutations, and I never knew him very well until the revolution came and we went away together. He was a doctor, my boy, and a good one. We spent almost five years together and I learned a lot from him. About medicine, but that wasn't important then. I'm thinking of what I learned about love. I'd always hated Yardsticks, but my son was one, and I came to love him. He had plans for rebuilding the world, he and I and the rest of us. We were going to wait until the revolution ended and then help restore sanity in civilization.
”But the Naturalists flew over and dropped their bomb, and my boy died. Over four hundred of our group died there in the canyon--four hundred who might have changed the fate of the world. Do you think I can forget that? Do you think I and the few others who survived have ever forgotten? Can you blame us if we did go crazy? If we hid away out there in the western wilderness, hid away from a world that had offered us nothing but death and destruction, and plotted to bring death and destruction to that world in return?
”Think about it for a moment, Littlejohn. We were old men, all of us, and the world had given us only its misery to bear during our lifetimes. The world we wanted to save was destroying itself; why should we be concerned with its fate or future?
”So we changed our plans, Littlejohn. Perhaps the shock had been too much. Instead of plotting to rebuild the world, we turned our thoughts to completing its destruction. Our tools and texts were gone, buried in the rubble with the bodies of fine young men. But we had our minds.
Crazed minds, you'd call them--but aware of reality. The grim reality of the post-revolutionary years.
”We burrowed away in the desert. We schemed and we dreamed. From time to time we sent out spies. We knew what was going on. We knew the Naturalists were gone, that six-footers had vanished from a Yardstick world. We knew about the rehabilitation projects. We watched your people gradually evolve new patterns of living and learning. Some of the former knowledge was rescued, but not all. Our little group had far more learning than you've ever dreamed of. Fifty of us, between ourselves, could have surpa.s.sed all your scientists in every field.
”But we watched, and we waited. And some of us died of privation and some of us died of old age. Until, at last, there were only a dozen of us to share the dream. The dream of destruction. And we knew that we must act swiftly, or not at all.
”So we came into the world, cautiously and carefully, moving un.o.btrusively and un.o.bserved. We wanted to contemplate the corruption, seek out the weaknesses in your degenerate civilization. And we found them, immediately. Those weaknesses are everywhere apparent, for they are physical. You're one of a dying race, Littlejohn. Mankind's days are numbered. There's no need for grandiose schemes of reactivating warheads in buried missile-centers, of loosing thermo-nucs upon the world. Merely by killing off the central council here in New Chicagee, we can accomplish our objective. A dozen men die, and there's not enough initiative left to replace them. It's as simple as that. And as complicated.”