The Project Gutenberg eBook of Peace in the wilderness
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Peace in the wilderness

Author: Marion Zimmer Bradley

Illustrator: Ed Moritz


        
Release date: June 3, 2026 [eBook #78807]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: King-Size Publications, Inc., 1956

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78807

Credits: Tom Trussel (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Luminist Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PEACE IN THE WILDERNESS ***




                        Peace in the Wilderness

                        by Marion Zimmer Bradley




  _To explore the future with a myth-maker’s divining rod may be a
  highly dangerous undertaking. You may venture far from familiar
  landmarks and find yourself turning a sickly shade of green. But so
  sturdily built and tremendous is the “Trojan Horse” which Marion Z.
  Bradley has envisioned here that the iron clang of his hoofbeats may
  even now be deceiving the world of tomorrow. The strangest of strange
  events becomes terrifyingly real and suspense mounts high indeed in
  this unusual novelette by the author of_ JACKIE SEES A STAR.

  =Like the great wooden horse of Homeric legend were the Pharigs--an
  enemy at the gates of a new Ilium’s space-defended towers.=




The counterman was getting nervous.

Kerry Donalson was the last customer in the little cafe. The clatter
of dishes had completely subsided and to either side of him the
cracked white-tile counter and worn stools were bare and clean and
empty. Although Kerry was a well-dressed man far into his forties, the
counterman hovered disrespectfully around him, giving a perfunctory
toweling to surfaces already spotless. Finally, his starchy apron
a-crackle with audible irritation, he demanded, “You got far to go,
Mister? It’s getting close to curfew!”

As if to emphasize the man’s words, a blinding dazzle of white light
flared in the street outside, arching through the glass front of the
cafe.

“Not far,” Kerry said and paid no attention to the lights. For thirteen
years no street on Earth had been dark at night. And during all of
those years without darkness Earth had been in a state of total war.

A young man had come into the cafe with the lights, and was making his
way toward the far end of the counter. As the counterman turned toward
the new customer, Kerry pointedly buried himself in the front page of
the _Times-Telegram_. Behind his paper he turned his wrist to look at
the dial of his watch. _Half an hour before curfew_, the message had
said. _I’ll come up and speak to you. But don’t speak to me._

Kerry knew the headlines by heart, for he had scribbled his personal
blue-pencil okay on every story. For five years now he had been editor,
and part owner, of the _Times-Telegram_. Yet he continued to study the
columns, as if something might be hidden there that would give him a
clue to the mystery which had led him to seek a possibly dangerous
meeting with a total stranger.

The main story read: EX-GOVERNMENT SCIENTIST AFFIRMS MOON BASE
POSSIBLE. Earlier in the day Kerry had skimmed it professionally for
typographical errors, and now he shrugged off the story itself with
cynical amusement. It was nothing but a rehash of the usual hopeful
platitudes. The moon base project had been definitely abandoned.

United Earth had been trying for twelve years to set a rocket on
Luna, and before that, the Free Americas and the Asian Alliance had
ruthlessly trampled one another in a futile race for a satellite
station. But no drive, no known fuel could successfully propel a rocket
beyond the outer limits of Earth’s gravity.

That afternoon, Kerry had received a phone call from a dead man. Ben
Thrusher had been a rocket research-expert for the Government of the
Free Americas, but a tragic accident had made him one of the earliest
casualties in Earth’s war against the Pharigs. Or had it been an
accident?

Farther up the counter, he heard the waiter grumble, “Counter’s closed,
lad. Too near curfew. You want to get picked up by the Night Police?”

“I only came to meet a friend here,” the newcomer said.

Kerry, lifting his eyes from a routine headline, _Pharig Atrocities
Spark Curfew Crackdown in Dallas_, looked up quickly and found himself
staring at the face of a tanned youngster, maybe nineteen, maybe even
younger. He was wearing blue jeans and a leather jacket.

“You must be Mr. Donalson?” the youngster said.

Kerry stood up. “And you’re Lewis Fallon?” he asked.

The youngster nodded and touched Kerry’s extended hand briefly.

“I thought you wouldn’t show up,” Kerry said. “Coffee?”

“No time,” Fallon said. “Like the man said, it’s near curfew, and we
don’t want to get picked up by the Night Police, do we, now?” The youth
spoke with a faint inflection of sarcasm, looking past Kerry at the
recruiting poster which hung over the cash register.

                            AN EARTH DIVIDED
                          IS AN EARTH CONQUERED
                         _Join the Night Police_
                     _Serve in Your Own Community!_

Kerry shrugged into his overcoat, and flung a greenie on the counter.
The counterman, making change, sounded apologetic. “I didn’t mean to
hurry you up, Mister. Only I live way out in the suburbs and I don’t
want to go home under police escort again. My wife gets nervous.”

“That’s all right,” Kerry said. “Sorry I kept you from closing on time.”

He left the change and went out into the glare of the streetlights,
the Fallon youngster walking easily and warily at his side. He noticed
that Fallon glanced nervously to right and left as they came out, as if
he expected to see someone waiting. But the street was empty--a bare
illuminated cavern that stretched away for endless miles, white with
the billions of vapor-lamps that brightened every street and alley.

Earth was largely a continuous network of cities by now--and every inch
of the crammed countryside, every solitary lane or alley.

“I hope, if you have a wife,” Fallon said, “that she’s not the nervous
type.”

“I called Ruth before I left the _Times-Telegram_ building,” Kerry said.

Fallon jerked his head in sudden anger. “I should think you’d have had
sense enough to call her from a public telephone, Mr. Donalson! Damn
it, why do you think I went to the trouble to meet you way out here?”

That did it. Kerry stopped walking and faced the youth. “Look here,” he
said, “I’m not going another step with you until you tell me what this
is all about. Precisely where are we going, and why are you acting like
a criminal conspirator?”

Lew Fallon frowned. “I should have warned you. Your office phone--can
you swear it’s not tapped?”

“Of course it’s tapped,” Kerry said, startled. He did not need to be
reminded that newspapers--and other organs of information--were heavily
censored for purposes of public wartime morale.

Fallon jammed his hands down in his pockets and sighed. “Well, I’ve
brought you this far, so we may as well go on. But I don’t like it. If
that’s the kind of person you are--” he checked his rising anger with a
visible effort, and named a hotel halfway across town.

“But we can’t get _there_ before curfew, can we?” Kerry said. “Hadn’t
we better give our route and destination to the Night Police?”

Fallon turned abruptly, his young face tense in the bluish light. “Get
this, Mr. Donalson. I’m taking you to Ben Thrusher. If the Night Police
get wind of this you’ll lose the biggest news story of the year--to say
nothing of what would happen to Ben. It was Ben who wanted it this way.
Now, are you coming or aren’t you, and to hell with the curfew! I can
remember when it wasn’t a crime to be on the streets whenever you had
business to transact.”

Lawbreaking comes hard to a respectable man. “If you’d printed as many
stories of Pharig atrocities as I have,” Kerry told him, “you’d know
the curfew laws were for your own protection.”

Fallon muttered something under his breath, and went on. Kerry
followed, but he was not at all reassured. For many years only the
Night Police, equipped with neuron-guns, had dared to walk the streets
after curfew.

The Pharigs were immobile in daylight, but at night, despite the
inhibiting curfew lights, they marauded the world. If they escaped the
unknown menace of Pharig attack, there was still the dangerous risk of
a crippling neuron-blast.

Neuron-guns were fatal to the non-human Pharigs, and the Night Police
had orders to shoot first and ask questions afterward. The assumption
was that if you were human, a neuron-blast wouldn’t do you any lasting
damage.

It was assumed that anyone on the streets after curfew without police
escort--except in the protected areas reserved for necessary night
workers--was either a criminal or a Pharig. No honest or sane Earthman
had any business on the streets at that hour.

Kerry quickened his steps to match the hasty walk of the younger man.
And all at once a random, surprising memory darted through his brain
and he said aloud, “Lew Fallon!”

The youngster turned impatiently, and Kerry repeated, less sure of
himself, “Lew Fallon. But no, it can’t be! You’re much too young to be
the Lew Fallon who was killed by Pharigs eight years ago!”

“The rocket man? That was my father.” Lew Fallon’s mouth was tight. “He
wasn’t dead either--until a week ago.”

“I don’t understand,” Kerry said. “Ben Thrusher and I were roommates in
college, and we worked at a civilian center during the Three Days’ war.
He was about the best friend I had until the Pharig invasion came, and
the Army took Ben for rocket research. He and your father were killed
when the Pharigs sabotaged an experimental rocket.”

“Rubbish!” Fallon blurted out, then added quickly, “Look I can’t
explain. Ben Thrusher will have to do it.”

Kerry had thought, at first, that the whole thing was a cruel or
sinister hoax. But now the youngster’s attitude convinced him
otherwise. He hurried along, trying to match Fallon’s stride. It was
four minutes to curfew, and the streets were totally empty. But every
shadow where the arch of light fell away became the possible lurking
configuration of a concealed Pharig, or a uniformed Night Policeman.
And there were many shadows.

He slackened his pace, a hand to the stitch in his side, angry at
himself for the upsurge of excitement aroused by his own guilt. He
hadn’t broken any laws yet!

“This is the hotel,” Fallon said abruptly. He stopped, and added with a
shrug, “With just one minute to spare before curfew. Don’t inquire at
the desk. Go right up to Room four-o-seven.”

He swung about on his heels, and walked swiftly toward the rear of the
building.

Kerry started to follow, feeling a sudden desperate need to insist on
a further explanation. But the sudden wail of the curfew siren drowned
thought for a few seconds. When the noise died away he was standing
inside the lobby, and a bellboy was bolting the doors behind him.




                                   II


Kerry went on up. When he rapped at the door of Room 407, he was still
breathless from climbing and it occurred to him, perhaps tardily, that
he might be walking into a trap. But he put up his hand notwithstanding
and knocked once loudly, determined to end the mystery as quickly as
possible.

“Who is it?” called a muffled voice from within the room.

“It’s Kerry Donalson--”

“Come in.”

Kerry pushed the door open, and then stepped back in consternation. The
room was in total darkness.

The unseen voice arrested his retreat. “Wait! Don’t go. It’s me,
Kerry--”

“Ben!” Kerry moved quickly toward the sound, forgetting all caution. No
one could have imitated that peculiar nasal inflection, even though the
timbre of the voice itself had changed almost beyond recognition.

“Don’t put on the lights just yet,” Ben Thrusher warned from the
darkness. “I don’t want to frighten you off before you know it’s really
me. Remember Lavender Hall--the Marshall twins, Nancy and Norma, and
that old porch swing? How’s Ruthie? How’s my godson, little Phil? The
baby--Judith, wasn’t it? --must be almost ten years old now.”

Kerry found that his own voice was husky. “Okay, you’ve convinced me.
Now can I put some lights on?”

Ben coughed and his voice grew steadier. “Go ahead. Only--I’ve changed
a lot, Kerry.” Kerry found the light switch by the door, and managed to
flick it upward. A wide swath of light flooded the room. Kerry’s breath
caught in his throat and he hardly recognized his own voice whispering
hoarsely in the darkness.

“For God’s sake, Ben! I--I didn’t know--”

The thing on the bed stretched its mouth in a grimace that ought
to have been a smile, but wasn’t. The skull was hairless, the face
swollen; the lips a festering, toothless sore. The hands were wrapped
in bandages that bulged out, awkward and useless, below the split
sleeves of flannel pajamas.

Ben Thrusher moved his head slowly from side to side.

“Radiation burns,” he said, steadily. “It doesn’t hurt much at this
stage, Kerry. But now you know why I wanted you to recognize me first
in the dark.”

“My God,” Kerry murmured, and it was a prayer. “We--we thought you were
dead eight years ago. Did the Pharigs--”

“Pharigs!” Kerry was horrified to see Ben’s toothless mouth twist into
a wide, tormented smile. “I might have known you’d say that--”

“But how--how did it happen? Ben, have you seen a doctor?”

“No. When I came here I was still recognizably myself in a dim light. A
doctor would have reported to the Army, to make sure I’d die in a cell
and never get a chance to say what I’ve got to say.”

Kerry started, feeling suddenly convinced that Ben’s mind had been
unhinged by suffering. But his eyes--mere slits in angry flesh--met
Kerry’s with a steady calm.

“I’m not insane, Kerry. If you don’t believe me, call an ambulance. Or
to save trouble--call the Night Police. The outcome would be the same.
You’d never see or hear of me again. They’d hold me incommunicado and
my death would not be long delayed. If you’re in mortal terror of the
dictatorship, I can die all right without your help! Only I thought
you had courage enough from the old days. The courage to be an honest
newspaperman and tell the public the truth.”

“Sure,” Kerry soothed. “But first we’ve got to get you to a hospital,
old fellow. I won’t let them lock you up.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Again the slow, tormented smile. “Stop humoring me, Kerry.” One of the
bandaged hands moved, clumsily tugging at Kerry’s arm in an absurd but
heartbreaking gesture of reassurance. “The doctors couldn’t do much.
I’ve had it, Kerry. They’d just make sure I didn’t talk--”

Carefully Kerry lowered himself toward the bed. Ben winced, warding him
away with a clumsy forward movement of his shoulders. In tight-lipped
concern Kerry drew up a chair, and leaned forward.

“Why should they do a thing like that?” he asked.

“I’m _trying_ to tell you!” The raw flesh around Ben’s mouth contracted
in a spasm that could have been agony--or anger. “I’ll give you a story
that will shake the world!”

“If he can print it,” said a tight voice behind them. Lew Fallon came
in, shutting the door carefully behind him.

Instantly Ben twisted on the bed, in a convulsive movement of pain and
fear. “What does he mean? Kerry, tell me. I must know. Can you print
it? Do we still have a free press?”

“What the devil--” Kerry remembered that Ben was a very sick man, and
compassionately amended his tone. “Of course we have a free press. Why
not? Where have you been, to ask that?”

Ben Thrusher said, his voice muffled, “I’ve been on the moon.”

In three incredulous strides Kerry was across the room, uncradling the
telephone.

Lew Fallon took a catlike step toward him. “What are you going to do?”
he demanded.

Kerry let the dial spin back. “I’m going to call a doctor,” he said.
“Ben needs help.”

Lew Fallon wrenched the receiver from his hand. “Oh, no you’re not,” he
said, his voice defiant.

As Kerry broke away the bandaged man on the bed stirred. “Let him
alone, Lew,” Ben pleaded. Then, more quietly: “Kerry, you idiot, come
over here and listen to me. I’m not going to be able to talk much
longer. My throat’s giving me hell. I haven’t the time nor the strength
to spend hours softening you up and trying to convince you. You’ve got
to trust me, Kerry! I haven’t got many words left and I’ll be damned if
I’ll waste them--” His voice thinned and he lay back, his face ashen.
There were dark stains on the rumpled pillow.

Kerry returned to the bed, and sat down. He said, “Do you mean the
Pharigs have a prison base on--our moon?”

“No, not the Pharigs!” Ben spoke with a flare of furious energy, then
sank back helplessly, pressing one of his useless hands against his
throat.

Lew Fallon brought him a glass of water from a pitcher on the bureau,
and Kerry supported him while he drank it, in great greedy swallows.
Kerry could feel the fever heat in the man’s skin.

He pleaded, “Ben, if you’re afraid to go to a hospital, let me take you
home to Ruthie. I know a doctor who can be trusted--”

“Ruthie!” Ben’s eyes brightened in momentary warm gratefulness. Then
he shook his head. “Thanks, Kerry. But I’ve no intention of making
it difficult for her. I’ve only a day or two left. It’s just that--I
didn’t want to crawl in a hole and die like a rat without a word to
anybody.”

His eyes closed and Kerry thought for a moment that he had fainted. He
arose, and began to tiptoe across the room. Maybe he could persuade Lew
Fallon to some logical course of action.

But at the first step, Ben’s eyes opened. “Come back here, Kerry, and
sit down!” he said, raising himself with an effort. “I’m not dead yet!
The Army men picked up Chapman, and--_I’m_ supposed to have died in the
crash.” His voice held a brief trace of its old vigor, and he put a
completely steady hand to his ruined face.

“There was faulty radiation shielding in our ship. It was privately
built, but you’d be surprised if I told you who financed it. We didn’t
have proper facilities to test it. Quite as important, we weren’t fit
to stand acceleration. That takes young men--tough, experienced test
pilots. Fallon died when we took off. I made it--there and back. But
Chapman and I won’t live to be heroes. How about it, Kerry? Is the
story worth it?”

“Good God,” Kerry said simply. For a moment, his eagerness to get
all of the facts outweighed even his concern over Ben’s desperate
condition. A dozen urgent questions trembled on his tongue, but he
resolutely suppressed his curiosity.

“I still say you’d be better off at my house,” he said.

Lew Fallon crossed the room to stand beside him. “I’m afraid he’s
right,” he said. “There’s an alert out on the Night Police frequency.
I was listening just now. I knew it was a mistake to call you at the
newspaper building.”

Ben said in a barely audible whisper, “I don’t want to get you in
trouble if I can help it, Kerry. Or you either, Lew--”

Fallon made a reckless gesture of repudiation. “Trouble’s what I’m
looking for! This was a free country once! They owe me something for
all the years I thought my Dad was dead--”

Ben Thrusher sank back against the pillows, his body racked by coughs.
When the spasm quieted he muttered, “Remember, Kerry doesn’t know, and
we’ve no time now to explain. Can you get us out of here?”

“I guess so--if Mister Donalson isn’t afraid to take a few risks,”
Fallon said bitterly.

Kerry turned on him angrily. “Knock it off, will you? I’m here. Isn’t
that enough?”

Like many men who lead fairly dull lives and only daydream about
adventure, Kerry resented its intrusion into everyday life, and felt
almost personally indignant about what seemed like heroics on young
Fallon’s part. Still, in some obscure corner of his brain, he _knew_
that Ben was neither raving nor a madman.

Fallon had slipped out of the room, and Ben now lay with his eyes
closed. But Kerry, seeing the swollen lids flicker, guessed that the
dying man was only avoiding questions. It was vitally necessary for him
to hoard his small strength, but a furious impatience nagged at Kerry,
and he paced the room restlessly until young Fallon reappeared.

Over his arm the youth carried a huge, loose raincoat. He said to
Kerry, “The place is all locked up for curfew. But there’s a service
door. If we get caught, leave everything to me.” He went to the bed and
drew back the blankets.

“Do you think you can walk, Ben?” he asked, his voice tight with
concern.

Kerry gasped with horror. Ben’s feet were swollen to nearly three times
their normal size. Fallon produced an enormous pair of carpet-slippers,
slit them at toe and heel, and knelt to put them on the useless feet.

Ben forced himself painfully to a sitting position, and just as he did
so Lew broke into Kerry’s frozen dismay with a rasping, “Come and help
me, Mr. Donalson. Can’t you see we’ll have to carry him?”

They bundled the raincoat over Ben’s pajamas, lifting and supporting
him. Ben crossed the room in a shambling walk, dragging himself along
between Lew and Kerry as if the men were living crutches. Although he
did not say a word, Kerry felt him wince and heard the harsh catch of
breath each time he set one of the swollen feet to the ground. They
could only guess at his pain.

Somehow they got him into a small service elevator and rested,
breathing harshly--Ben was a large and heavy man--while it made a
creaky and slow descent.

The back door opened on a narrow areaway, lying deserted in a brilliant
vapor-light which brightened its every ugly crevice from the building
to the curb. They hoisted Ben bodily into the front seat of a small,
war-model electric automobile, and Kerry climbed in after him.

The big man sagged on Kerry’s shoulder. Kerry looked curiously at
Fallon as the youngster climbed into the driver’s seat.

As if sensing his apprehensive scrutiny Fallon explained, “We’ll take a
chance on the law of averages. How many Night Police are in the city?
They can’t check every street, and they usually concentrate on deserted
spots.”




                                  III


Lew Fallon drove the car down the main street. They encountered no
other car, and saw only one pedestrian--a solitary Night Cop lounging
in a doorway, his neuron-gun a luminescent halo on his hip. The police
officer did not even raise his head as their car’s lights swung across
his uniform.

Lew laughed, harshly and contemptuously. “See? They think the whole
city is so scared by now that no one would dare to be here without a
police permit!”

They were rapidly approaching Kerry’s street, and the newspaperman was
beginning to relax. He had almost convinced himself that the peaceful
drive was an anticlimax to a melodramatic prelude when a blinding shaft
of light crossed their headlights. One of the small, fast prowlies
darted from a side-street and completely blocked their passage,
blinking a menacing red signal.

Lew jammed on the brakes.

A uniformed man jumped from the prowlie, his right hand ghostly by the
phosphorescence around his neuron-gun. He strode up to the car.

“What is it this time?” he asked angrily. “Are you taking your wife to
the maternity hospital? If you’re not, your excuse had better be good.”

Kerry was startled. As was so often the case with law-abiding citizens,
it had never occurred to him that the Night Police had to deal with
such minor violations fairly often. In the news stories he printed
such violations were a serious matter and the Night Police fast on the
trigger. This particular officer had his neuron-gun in readiness, but
otherwise he sounded like an argumentative daytime traffic cop.

Lew completely lowered the front window. “I’m glad we ran into you,”
he said. “My friends and I were playing cards at my house and we
forgot the time. It was after curfew when we broke the game up, and
when I tried to call up for a police escort, my phone was out of order
and this guy’s wife is waiting for him. We called and called, but we
couldn’t even get the operator. So we decided to go out and hunt one
up.”

The nightman glanced in the window, his disinterested eyes passing over
Ben, sagging beneath the raincoat and slouch hat. He stared for an
instant at Kerry in his neat snap-brim and overcoat. Then he holstered
the neuron-gun.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll follow you.”

They pulled up before Kerry’s house, and the policeman got out of the
prowlie again and came to the car window. “I want to see you get in off
the street. Go on in right now. And another time, keep an eye on the
clock, will you?”

Lew grumbled, “Helluva note when it’s a crime to drive your friends
home--”

The policeman was bored, but courteous. “It’s no crime to be on the
street. But the law says you have to tell us beforehand for your own
protection. That way we know who you are and where you’ll be, and won’t
make the mistake of shooting you for a Pharig. You want me to radio for
a permit for you to drive home?”

Fallon looked at Kerry. “No thanks, we’ll spend the night here.”

“Sure, glad to have you.” Kerry said, picking up his cue. The policeman
lost interest and turned away.

For his benefit, Lew said in a loud voice, “Our friend here’s had one
too many. We’d better give him a hand or he’ll flop on his noggin.”

Grudgingly admiring Fallon’s quick thinking, Kerry helped him hoist
the sagging Ben out of the car. As they stumbled up the steps Kerry
saw, behind the curtained window of the front door, the silhouette of
a woman. He called out, and the door opened from inside. Swiftly they
hauled Ben over the threshold.

Ruth Donalson, her fingers still gripping the doorhandle, cried out in
relief as Kerry came toward her.

“Kerry! Oh darling, do you know what time it is? I was so frightened--”
Her eyes fell on the sagging man and all the blood ebbed from her face.

Lew Fallon moved, with a catlike swiftness, to slam the door before her
scream could reach the ears of the departing policeman.

The woman wailed “_Ben!_ What has _happened_ to you?”

“Be quiet, Ruthie,” Kerry urged. Ruth subsided and drew back, her eyes
wide with distress and pity.

Ben’s lips moved in their frightful smile. “Anyway you recognized me,
Ruthie,” he said. “That’s more than Kerry did.”

Ruth Donalson was quick to recover her self-control. “But you are hurt.
You’re sick! The front bedroom, Kerry, it’s closer. Let me go first and
pull down the shades.”

She hurried ahead, drawing down opaque blinds in a room of spacious
dimensions. There was a moment of waiting. They heard the prowlie roar
and drive away. Finally Ruth pulled down a blanket and let the two men
ease Ben Thrusher down on the clean sheets.

“What’s the matter with him, Kerry?” she demanded, while Lew Fallon
bent to help Ben out of the bursting slippers.

Ben Thrusher closed his eyes and said huskily, “Radiation burns. Don’t
worry, Ruthie--I’m in no great pain. It’s swell to see you again. You
go on to bed now. I’ve got to talk to Kerry while there’s still time.”

“Do as he says, dear,” Kerry said. “If there’s any trouble I want you
to be able to say honestly that you didn’t know anything about it.”

Ruth started to leave, then turned in bewildered uncertainty toward
Lew Fallon. Kerry, recalling himself, said: “Mr. Fallon--my wife. You
remember Dr. Fallon, Ruthie?”

Ruth nodded. “Yes, of course. And this young man is his son. I’m sorry
we haven’t another guest room. But I’ll make up a bed right away--”

“Please don’t bother,” Fallon protested. “I don’t think any of us will
do much sleeping.”

Kerry asked: “Are the kids in bed, dear?”

“Yes, hours ago--or they ought to be,” Ruth said. The words were hardly
out of her mouth when there was a sudden sound behind her.

“Phil!” Kerry snapped, catching sight of a small freckled face in the
doorway, “Go right back to bed this instant.”

“I heard the police car, Daddy--” the little boy started to protest.
But Ruth hurriedly blocked the door so that he could not see into the
room, and pulled it shut behind her.

Inside the room, Ben Thrusher said, “Ruthie hasn’t changed a bit, has
she? Bless her! Phil must be quite a boy by now,” he added with a faint
sigh.

“Did you really want to see the kid, Ben?”

Ben said quietly, “Sure. But I don’t want him to see _me_. Not like
this.”

Kerry said uncomfortably, “Ben, is there anything I can do for you,
anything you need? Should I try to get hold of that doctor I mentioned?”

But Ben’s eyes had slipped shut. Kerry drew up a chair, and sat
motionless at his old friend’s side for some minutes. In the back of
his mind he was still as concerned as ever about Ben. But the instincts
of a newspaperman are a recognizable syndrome. Hunger, thirst and sex
are minor tropisms compared to a newsman’s curiosity.

He got up and joined Lew Fallon, who had drawn the shade a little aside
and was looking out guardedly into the lighted street.

He said “They’re not likely to look for him here. And now don’t you
think you owe me some explanation of all this? I heard that the Army
closed down the rocket project--about the time Ben was supposed to have
been killed.”

Fallon let the shade fall into place, and turned around with a
gesture of bitter impatience. “And didn’t it ever strike you as being
deliberately planned? When the whole planet is in the throes of total
war with invaders from outer space why would the Army close down rocket
research at the precise moment when four top scientists disappear!”

Kerry thought he was beginning to understand. “You mean the project
just went underground? Then why--”

The bandaged man on the bed stirred. He said, “Let me tell it, Lew. No,
it wasn’t an Army ship. You might call me a--well, a fifth columnist.
The Army really thought I was dead. I covered my tracks pretty well.”
Ben’s voice had cleared a little, and was almost recognizable.

“Listen carefully, Kerry. When the Science draft took me in the Army
I was told I’d be working on rockets and guided missiles for the Free
Americas. We were all set to beat the Asian Alliance to the Moon. We
even had rocket-bombs with thermonuclear warheads to blast the Asians
right off the planet if they gave us any trouble. Then we’re confronted
with the Pharig threat, and immediately the Free Americas are rubbing
noses with the Asians. And what does Earth United Science Service order
me to do? Build solar power packs--cheap power for private homes. _War
effort_, they called it!”

“But the solar power project _was_ a wartime measure,” Kerry pointed
out. “The big central power-plants were too easy a target. Remember
when the Pharigs bombed Niagara and Grand Coulee? If we’d ever had a
complete power failure in those areas--”

“Considerate of them, wasn’t it--to wait until everyone in both areas
was using solar power,” said Ben quietly. “I know all the arguments
for decentralization, Kerry. I fell for it too--for a while. Do you
remember the big Pharig ships that crashed in Iceland and Tibet?”

On familiar ground now, Kerry said, “Sure. I went to Iceland to get the
story.”

Embittered laughter came from Ben’s ravaged throat. “I’ll bet you
didn’t get within a mile of it!”

“You lose your bet. I saw it from two hundred feet. But I wasn’t
allowed aboard, and the Army officials deliberately exposed all the
film we brought, so we couldn’t print photographs.”

“For the omnipresent reason of public morale, I suppose,” Ben
commented. “I wasn’t allowed aboard, either. Not a single man from the
rocket-research division was allowed aboard. But they couldn’t clamp
down on public information eight years ago the way they can today.
Pass or no pass, I decided I’d get to see the thing from the inside.
So, finally, I did get aboard. And I snooped and snooped until I found
it--” His voice thinned out.

Kerry had to prompt him. “Found what?”

“I still don’t know who slipped up and left it there for me to find,”
Ben said. “But when I saw it, I resigned. That Pharig ship was made
right here on Earth, Kerry. It didn’t come from outer space at all.”

Kerry looked at him, appalled. “Does that mean--that some men from the
rocket project sold out to the Pharigs?”

Lew Fallon cut in angrily, “Listen to what he _says_, will you, not to
your own ideas! Why do you think he had to disappear? He’s trying to
tell you that the ship was a big fake. There aren’t any Pharigs. There
never were any!”

If Ben had said it, Kerry might have dismissed it as delirium. He
stared at the hard-headed youth, then back at the dying man on the
bed, Ben’s hairless skull moved in silent agreement. When the silence
threatened to become unendurable, Kerry said quite reasonably, “But
that’s impossible.”

“Have you ever seen a Pharig? Has anyone you know ever seen one? What
do you know about the Pharigs? Not just what do you copy off the news
releases and the news wires and the propaganda releases of Earth
United, but what do you _really_ know?”

Kerry pressed his fingers against his eyes. “How do I know the south
pole exists? I’ve never been there. How do I know the moon’s not made
of green cheese? No, I’ve never seen a Pharig.”

“And neither has anybody else, because there aren’t any such creatures.”

“You’re crazy,” Kerry said. But to his surprise his voice carried no
conviction. He was trying to remember the different Pharig atrocity
stories he had printed in the last year. People brutally murdered in
the streets--buildings and property wrecked. Yet the crime rate was
falling so low that city after city was abolishing its prison system.
If the Pharigs did not exist, why were such inhuman acts committed?

He put the question in terrible puzzlement, adding, “Of course I’ve
never seen a Pharig. Not to my knowledge. But they’re humanoid. It
takes a neuron-gun charge to prove a man isn’t one, and if he is, there
isn’t enough left for an autopsy. For all I know, you could both be
Pharigs!”

“Convenient, isn’t it?” Ben Thrusher said, a bleak hopelessness in his
voice.

Lew Fallon interrupted. “Have you ever seen a single so-called Pharig
atrocity that couldn’t be the work of human vandals or hooligans?”

Kerry said helplessly, “There’s no arguing on those grounds.”

Ben twisted spasmodically on the bed, pressing his swollen face into
the pillow. His voice came out muffled. “No arguing with me. What about
you? You understand it better now. Even if the hoax could be exposed,
who’d believe it after thirteen years? And the longer it goes on, the
harder it would be to convince anyone. Oh hell, why didn’t I die in the
crash? After all I went through to get in touch with you--” He pounded
the pillow furiously with his swathed fists, then collapsed and lay
still, gasping and choking.

Kerry approached the bed and laid a hand on the quivering shoulders.
“Try to get some rest, old man. Can’t you tell me in the morning?”

Ben Thrusher rolled over. His face had visibly deteriorated in the last
few hours. Now it was a swollen, grotesque mask, unnaturally drained of
all expression.

Fallon said fiercely, “Give him a chance, will you? He hasn’t time to
argue every point with you! And if you believe in this non-existent
war, name one war plant that’s making anything in the shape of a
weapon! Why did we never use any of our stockpiled H-bombs against the
Pharigs?”

“In our own atmosphere?” Kerry demanded. “If we’d done that the
radioactive fallout would have endangered the lives of our own
citizens!”

“I _know_ what the war plants are making. Solar power packs. I’ll bet
you have one on this house right now?” He mimicked Kerry’s nod. “Cheap
proteins, yeast and fungi stuff, for the Famine Belt countries--”

“Well, what of that? An Earth divided is an Earth--”

“I’d rather you didn’t repeat that one-world propaganda excuse in my
presence,” Ben said weakly. “Why didn’t we accept the risks and wallop
the Pharigs right out of the Solar System?”

“When we didn’t even have space flight?”

Ben gave an almost inarticulate groan of protest. “We didn’t have
space flight? The everlasting hell we didn’t! I developed the drive
myself--my team, that is--and the Army of Earth United thanked us
politely, closed down the rocket project and told me to go build solar
power packs instead.”

His voice failed, and Fallon took up the story. It had taken them eight
years. Young Fallon did not know all of the details, but he sketched
them in. Eight years of being officially dead; eight years of hiding,
of working in secret.

He would not name the private enterprise and industries who had
financed the ship. But he was quite explicit about their reasons.
They were men, and groups of men, who for one reason or another hated
the new regime. They were men who had been appalled by what they
considered the betrayal of the Free Americas through cooperation with
the Asian Alliance and who rebelled against the military rule which the
population as a whole accepted as a necessity. They were above all men
who objected to the decentralized police law--for although the Army
of Earth United functioned on a planet-wide scale, there was no other
government more central than the local government of each city.

“But why,” Kerry asked, “would anyone deliberately set out to hoax a
whole world?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Ben Thrusher stirred against Ruthie’s embroidered
pillowcases. “Power. The seeds were planted far back in the Third World
War, when they first began giving the President special emergency
powers The Three Days’ War put the whole continent under martial law,
and now their non-existent Pharig invasion has done the same for the
whole world!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Kerry was almost beyond speech. He got up and paced the room in
silence. Finally he said: “It makes a kind of sense. Only maybe there
was an emergency you don’t know anything about. Would you rather have
the Free Americas and the Asian Alliance dropping bombs on each other?
Remember the Three Days’ War--”

“But we _won_ it!” Ben said fiercely. “We were a great nation then! We
could knock out half the world at the push of a button, and now--”

Fallon chimed in, “And now we have a non-existent war where nobody gets
killed except on paper, where the Asian Alliance no longer threatens
our very existence--”

“--and where scientists spend their valuable time and resources
fiddling with solar power and free food and birth control when we could
have freed the world and set our course for the stars.” Ben’s voice
shook with the intensity of his emotion. “Kerry, what have we got?”

Beyond the window, the curfew lights winked out.

“If you’re right,” Kerry said thoughtfully, “We’ve got what men have
been looking for since history began. We’ve got peace.”

Ben Thrusher shook his head. “_Solitudinem faciunt: pacem appelant_,”
he quoted with heavy bitterness. “They make a wilderness and call it
peace!”




                                   IV


Sunlight was streaming in through the window of Kerry’s private office.
He stared at the sheet of paper which he’d just removed from his
typewriter, and said--more to himself than to Lew Fallon--“Someone once
said that you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.”

“The hell you can’t!” Fallon’s voice was bitter. “It’s been done time
and time again! Hoaxes, even clumsy and silly ones, have thrown whole
states into panic until somebody in an ‘official’ position denied them.
This time, there were no denials, that’s all. What do people believe?
On a world as big as this one, by and large, they believe what they’re
told.”

Fallon leaned across Kerry’s desk. “Listen, I was a rookie in the Night
Police. I never saw a Pharig, but it never occurred to me to doubt
their existence. My training manuals told me how to fight them. I had
a special gun to kill them. My whole job was to keep people off the
streets to protect them against the Pharigs! If a crime was committed,
and we failed to actually catch somebody in the act, everyone assumed
that the Pharigs had done it. Humans weren’t supposed to be _capable_
of such things! I’m just learning what humans are capable of! A
thousand--even five hundred--people could know and share the secret,
and a whole world could be hoaxed!”

Kerry handed Fallon his editorial. “If we can get this into print we
can start people asking questions,” he said.

He was remembering all he had heard from Ben, and from young Fallon
after he had finally persuaded Ben to take a sedative and try to sleep.
Kerry himself had not slept at all. During his years as head of the
_Times-Telegram_ he had been content to print the news as he received
it. He had been content to be just another dupe in the human herd!

Now Ben Thrusher was giving his life so that the truth could come
out. The fact could not be disputed. If Ben had given himself up for
immediate medical attention, they might have been able to save him. By
the ghosts of all newsmen, here was a crusade worth taking on!

The youngster was musing over the editorial. “‘It has long been the
policy of this paper to print all the news without bias and without
questioning the sources, when we had reasonable assurance of the
integrity of those sources,’” he read aloud. “I like this part down
here better, though. ‘The people of the sabotaged former Government of
the Free Americas have been made the victim of the most audacious coup
in modern history--’”

Someone knocked at the door. When Kerry drew back the bolt and looked
out the morning sunlight glinted brightly on a metal service belt and
the sombre color of a uniform.

“Mr. Donalson?” the policeman asked.

Kerry nodded, and stepped back from the doorway.

The man showed credentials. “I believe you once knew a government
scientist by the name of Benedict Thrusher?” he said. “Is that correct?”

Kerry frowned. “Why, yes. We were very good friends at one time. When
he died eight years ago--” Kerry paused in consternation.

Lew Fallon’s muscles had gone rigid. He tried to telegraph to the
youth, with a casual nod, that what he was witnessing was just the
routine inquiry which he had been expecting all along. But it was no
use. He knew he had to get Lew Fallon out of the room before he did
something unwise.

Kerry said to the policeman, “Excuse me just a minute.” Then he pointed
to the editorial in Fallon’s hand. “Joe, take that down to the press
room and tell them to give it a box on the front page.”

He prayed that Fallon would see through the little comedy and would
obey him without question. He had a bad moment--fortunately the
policeman’s back was turned--when Fallon looked startled and indignant.
But he need not have been alarmed. Fallon glanced down at the editorial
and almost instantly departed.

“Check, Mr. Donalson,” Fallon said. Kerry tried not to let his relief
betray him. He turned abruptly and gave his attention to the policeman
again. “You were saying?”

The officer put his credentials away. “Please come with me, Mr.
Donalson,” he said. Kerry’s solar plexus knotted. “Do you mind telling
me why?” he demanded.

“I’d rather not say here,” the officer replied. Kerry stood up and
reached for his coat. It still might be the routine inquiry. More as a
test than as a real question. “May I call my wife?” he asked.

The policeman motioned Kerry to precede him through the door. “There’s
no need for that,” he said. “You’ll be coming right back.”

Kerry framed a silent “_Oh yeah?_” but he did not say it aloud. He
sagged despondently in the seat of the prowlie, while the siren
screamed through the jammed streets.

After a few minutes, he decided that a too-stubborn silence could be as
dangerously revealing as unguarded talk.

“Why am I being taken in a police car?” he asked, in a dignified way.
“Where am I going?”

The officer answered at once. “Your friend didn’t die, Mr. Donalson.
He’s up in the police-precinct hospital. I guess he asked for you.”

“Ben Thrusher?” Kerry felt trapped. He had been so sure that Ben would
be safe at his house. But if they had taken him from there, what might
have happened to Ruthie and the children? He found himself wishing that
Ben had chosen a man without wife or children to confide in.

The precinct station of the Night Police was an immense re-modelled
factory. Inside, the halls were dusty, and full of odd unfamiliar
smells. Only on the top floor was the corridor sanitary, and pungent
with the flavor of disinfectants. Still shepherded by the policeman,
Kerry found himself being hustled along behind the white-smocked back
of a capped nurse.

The policeman said in a whisper, outside a door, “Your friend’s in
there. I better warn you, he’s a mess. I guess the Pharigs had him
prisoner all these years. He looks like it, anyway.”

Kerry went in. The walls and the bed and pillows were a pale frosty
green. Ben’s face, against that cool background, was shocking, horribly
disintegrated even in the few hours since Kerry had last seen him.
A needle dripped fluid into an immobilized arm. The hands, tightly
re-bandaged, showed brownish stains through the white folds.

Across the bed, Kerry faced a tall darkly handsome man, uniformed--not
in the sombre color of the Night Police--but in the blazing blue of the
Army of Earth United. A commander’s stars sparkled on his sleeve.

Kerry said softly, “Ben--”

Ben’s eyes forced themselves open. A pallid flicker of recognition
stirred in them, and the hideous cavern of the mouth moved. From
somewhere back of it a deep despairing sound came, that might, or might
not, have been a word. Even that much effort twisted the ruined face
into spasms, and the tall man on the other side bent forward.

“Don’t try to talk,” he said gently. “Everything’s all right.”

Questions were screaming inside Kerry’s brain--questions Ben could
never answer and the police probably would turn aside. He stared in
fierce interrogation at the stranger, who bowed very slightly.

“Mr. Donalson?” the tall officer said, “I am Commander Shakhara Lal,
stationed in Delhi.” He offered his hand, but Kerry ignored it. The
commander walked around the bed. “I assure you, Mr. Donalson,” he said,
“we knew Ben Thrusher’s whereabouts long before he tried to contact
you. We had not the slightest desire to make him prisoner, although if
he had surrendered himself sooner--” he broke off, looking at Ben’s
inert body.

“Dr. Chapman is recovering nicely,” he added. He spoke perfect English,
but a certain extra precision and sibilance betrayed that it was not
his native language.

Kerry started to speak, but just then the face on the pillow suddenly
loosened and seemed to come apart. The nurse started forward, then
tightened her lips and said reproachfully, “He’s gone! If we’d had him
here a week ago--”

While the nurse drew the sheet over what had been Ben Thrusher, Kerry
stood motionless, unnerved by tension and grief and a sense of futile
wrath. He looked up suddenly and realized that Commander Lal seemed
equally unnerved.

The Indian was looking down at the shrouded form, and his fists were
tightly clenched. He said aloud, and not to Kerry, “If he could have
waited only three more years he would have seen the end of it. He could
have had the glory he deserved.”

He raised his head, and now he was speaking to Kerry. “There’s nothing
more that anyone can do now for him here. Mr. Donalson, will you join
me in the office downstairs?”

He left the room without a backward glance, walking with an air of
authority as if it never occurred to him that anyone could question his
orders. Kerry’s brain, cold with anger, began working again as soon as
he stepped out into the corridor. He knew that downstairs were precinct
headquarters, offices, the barracks of the city’s enormous force of
Night Police, and the detention cells where he supposed they’d hold him
incommunicado--like Ben’s colleague. But if he could get away--

They’d expect him to hide, naturally. What else does a fugitive do? But
all he wanted was to make sure that his editorial got printed and the
_Times-Telegram_ reached the streets.

After that he couldn’t disappear, or be listed as--he understood it
better now--another Pharig casualty. He could do that much for Ben’s
memory, and he would do it, or die in the attempt.

At the end of the corridor, past the elevators, a small and narrow
stairway led down to what was evidently a back alley. Kerry waited
until the commander had stepped into the elevator, followed by the
policeman who had brought Kerry here. Then he abruptly stepped back,
dodged, and made a break for the stairs.

Someone behind him gave a startled shout. There was the sound of a door
slamming shut, running feet, and then, just as Kerry reached the top
step, someone yelled, “Stop that crazy fool!”

A blinding light stabbed at Kerry’s eyes, and a paralyzing cold hit him
over the heart. Then every nerve and muscle contracted in agony and he
collapsed in a bundle of jerking reflexes. Conscious, but powerless to
control his body, he felt himself rolling, twisting and bumping, down
the stairs. His head struck marble, and he blacked out.




                                   V


Kerry became aware again of his surroundings very slowly. First there
was light and air and the jab of a needle in his biceps. Then his eyes
blinked open, and sunlight pierced them like another needle. There was
a painful prickling in every part of his body and he groaned when he
tried to move his feet. He was lying, without his coat and shoes, on a
hospital bed, and a young man in a white jacket was standing beside him.

“You wake up again? Good.” He looked down at Kerry, chuckling. “What
happened to you? A touch of the sun? Well, we’re all more or less crazy
these days. I’m afraid you’ll be stiff and sore for a few days; those
neuron-guns are no joke.”

He beckoned to a nurse, who brought a sterile tray. The interne rolled
back Kerry’s sleeve, dabbed at it and jabbed him again with a needle.

Kerry’s lips were still stiff. He put up his hand and rubbed at them
and managed to mumble, “What’s that?”

“Neurotone,” the interne said. “If you have much muscular pain, see
your own doctor and get another shot.” He turned to someone just
outside the door. “He’s all right now. He must have caught it right in
the chest. Good thing you have a strong heart, Mr. Donalson. A man your
age doesn’t want to take too many shocks like that.”

A policeman stood hesitant in the doorway. “Listen, Mister,” he said,
“I’m sorry I had to shoot you, only don’t you _never_ run away when
a policeman yells at you. You _know_ we can’t take chances with the
Pharigs!”

“You needn’t apologize, Sergeant,” said another voice behind him.

Kerry, stooping to lace his shoes, straightened and swung his feet
over the edge of the bed. He looked up at Commander Lal, who made a
dismissing motion at the policeman.

“A guilty conscience is a very bad thing to have around a police
station, Mr. Donalson,” said Commander Lal. “If you had waited for a
minute you would have known there was no charge against you. And just
to relieve your mind I may add that you will be perfectly free to leave
here in half an hour. However, I must first request the favor of an
interview.”

Downstairs in a small, windowless office, the commander took a seat
behind a battered desk, obviously not his own, and gestured Kerry to a
chair.

“Before we begin,” he said quietly, “I want to make one thing clear.
Ben Thrusher was brought here at his own request--a statement which the
members of your family can verify. At the last moment, I believe he
didn’t want to make trouble for you by dying in your house.”

His eyes, dark and level and severe, met those of Kerry across the
desk. “I assure you that you are in no personal danger,” he said. “On
the other hand, it is absolutely imperative that we keep you from
making--shall we say--irresponsible statements.”

The door to an inner office opened, and Lew Fallon, escorted by Night
Police, came in. He looked a trifle rumpled and sinister, with a torn
collar and the traces of a bloody nose, and he was accompanied by a
man whose face Kerry dimly recognized before memory could put a name
to him. He was Paul Chapman, the Australian rocketry expert who had
dropped out of sight at the same time as Ben Thrusher. He was bandaged
like Ben, and battered and toothless. But he was recognizable.

Commander Lal dropped a crumpled piece of paper on the desk. “I believe
that you’ll want to reconsider before printing this,” he said.

Kerry did not need to look at it to know that it was the editorial and
rough draft of the news story he had written. He crushed it in his hand.

Lew Fallon said bitterly, “I did the best I could, Mr. Donalson. Ben’s
dead now. Like my Dad. And for what?”

“Be quiet, Lew,” said Doctor Chapman in a resonant voice which had a
little of the same blurred quality as Ben’s, but was made sharper by an
accent of authority. “We appreciate what you did for Ben. Only--”

“Only it was the wrong thing,” the commander interrupted. “We all
appreciate it, and I, perhaps, most of all. But your mistaken kindness
killed him, Fallon.”

He leaned forward slightly, and said, “I shall be perfectly frank with
you, Mr. Donalson. If you were a farmer, or a plumber, or the manager
of a cigar store, we would let you talk all you pleased, for we could
be quite sure that no one would listen. We could always have you
confined--briefly of course--in a mental institution, as a precaution
against anyone believing you. Or at the worst--” he paused. “At the
worst we could have you listed as--another Pharig casualty.”

Fallon burst out, “And they call this a free world!”

The commander ignored him. “There are laws against inciting to riot,”
he said slowly, as if searching for the right words. “And you are in
the peculiar position of having a large communications medium at your
command. I assure you we would have no compunctions about invoking
those laws against you. However, we hope such drastic action may not be
necessary.

“At present, there are four other newspapers in your exact position.
One in Buenos Aires, one in Dallas, Texas, one in Bombay and one in
Sheffield, England. To the owners and editors of these newspapers, we
have made the identical revelation we are making to you. Ben Thrusher
was right. _There are no Pharigs._ There never were any.”

“So Ben was right,” Dr. Chapman repeated, looking hard at Kerry. “We’ve
actually got a military dictatorship.”

Commander Lal said, “We had a military dictatorship after the Three
Days’ War--or rather, we had two of them. The Asian Alliance--we
freely admit it--were planning to use plague germs in the next war,
and I don’t believe even your most rabid nationalists would deny that
the Free Americas were making rocket-bombs with radiocobalt warheads.
Atomic war is a lemming urge, and it would at least have remedied our
worst problem--overpopulation. Natural resources were going fast. Coal
and oil were virtually gone, and we had to save the heavy isotopes for
space flight, or we’d never get off the earth, and die on a worn out
planet.”

       *       *       *       *       *

He shrugged heavily. “The Pharig invasion was a desperate expedient.
The so-called military decision not to use H-bombs on the invaders was
another. Actually, all the thermonuclear weapons had been dismantled
to replace dwindling power resources until we could get workable solar
power--and to conserve something for space flight.”

“If you were saving heavy metals for space flight,” Kerry asked
bluntly, “why did the Earth United pigeonhole Ben Thrusher’s space
drive?”

Dr. Chapman started to answer, but the commander asked bluntly, “Do you
know what the birth rate is?”

Kerry didn’t. “I understood,” he remarked with sarcastic emphasis,
“that it was a statistic that could give aid and comfort to the enemy.”

“Any development of a new frontier tends to raise the birth rate
explosively. That’s fine. When we open the planets we’ll need a high
birth rate. But after the Three Days’ War--you remember--the crime wave
was so terrific that both the Americas and the Asian Alliance had to
throw their whole armies into policing.

“With the high birth rate and scarce food supplies, most families
couldn’t get along unless both parents worked. With neglected
children--and too few schools and teachers--crime skyrocketed. The
emergency--even a non-existent one from outer space--let us pass
drastic laws which the public wouldn’t have accepted in peacetime. Food
rationing. Conversion of luxury crops to food raising. The non-worker
law for mothers of families. That was unpopular, but it did cut down
juvenile crime!”

“And the curfew law,” Kerry said. “If there are no Pharigs, that’s
tyranny.”

“You’re perfectly right,” the commander said. “But the Night Police
drain off the unemployed population. It’s cheaper to pay them, as a
civilian army, than to maintain prison systems and public welfare
programs. If a man is unemployed or unemployable, he goes in the Night
Police and it’s up to him and his intelligence whether he sweeps the
streets or becomes responsible for the peace of a whole city.”

“So that was it!” Fallon muttered.

Commander Lal rose restlessly and paced the room. “The curfew
lights--crimes were worked mostly in darkness--brought the crime rate
down right away. Getting rid of unemployment and starvation took away
all excuse for crimes. There are no more victims of society. The only
criminals now are those who commit crimes of passion, and we don’t need
to be sentimental about them any more. Most crime is prevented and the
rest can be punished effectively. Attributing all crimes of violence
to the Pharigs made crime, in the public eye, equivalent to saying
inhuman or alien, and destroyed the superficial glamor around crime and
violence.”

Dr. Chapman raised a hand and made the very protest that was on Kerry’s
lips. “But in a free society, certainly man has inherent rights and
freedoms.”

The commander looked tired. “Yes. But freedom exists only where there
is elbowroom for a man to move without gouging his neighbor’s ribs. We
just don’t have it on Earth any more. And all idealistic statements to
the contrary, no honest man _needs_ that kind of freedom in these days.

“Men have short working hours and ample leisure. Any further freedom is
license we can’t afford. We’ve had to keep the population fed and in
order until we can find living space or a differential method of birth
control. I mean by that, a way to lower the birth rate without also
lowering the rate of intelligence-per-thousand.”

He looked at Kerry. “We could use your help.”

“To keep on hoaxing the people?”

“No, to un-hoax them, if that is an allowable expression.” Commander
Lal returned to his seat. “The Pharig invasion is almost over. When we
get out into space, it will be simply to stage a few mock battles and
defeat them conclusively--and forever.”

Fallon demanded “But why not tell them the truth?”

The Indian propped his elbows on the desk. He seemed worn out with his
long explanation. The blazing insignia of Earth United seemed a glaring
anachronism on his austere frame.

“There is an Indian proverb,” he began slowly, “concerning the man who
rode a tiger. He couldn’t stay on and he was afraid to get off. Now
that we’re on the verge of leading the people of Earth out into space
suppose we did reveal that the Pharig invasion was a hoax staged for
our own purposes. Then suppose we met a _real_ alien race?”

“Good lord!” said Kerry.

“It’s entirely possible.”

Chapman said, “I suppose history must eventually look at the Pharig
invasion as a kind of air-raid drill.”

“Yes,” the Indian agreed, “To see whether Earthmen were capable of
putting aside their individual concerns and functioning as a united
world.” With an apologetic smile he touched the insignia he wore.

Somehow to Kerry it seemed that the insignia was insignificant now
and the man himself was the symbol of a greater power. Kerry slowly
crumpled the editorial he still held in his hand, shredded it and
dropped the pieces on the desk.

“You win, Commander.”

Fallon said, “But Ben--and my father. What about them?”

“Ben Thrusher was a martyr,” Commander Lal said. He looked sorrowful,
almost shaken. “But he was a martyr only to a lie. Go and write that
editorial over again, Donalson. Make it an obituary instead, and make
it good. Ben Thrusher--and Doctor Fallon too--deserved it. Say, if you
want to, that they gave their lives for space flight. It’s true and
they ought to rest in peace. Because the discovery of space flight
means the end of the Pharigs. I’m not in a mood to think up famous last
words.”

_So even Ben’s death was to be converted to the sober uses of
expediency._

“Maybe his own last words would do!” Kerry said bitterly. “‘They make a
wilderness and call it peace!’”

The commander swung around. “Tacitus,” he said. “The words of a
barbarian chief inciting his tribe to revolt against Rome. But Rome
won, even though the barbarians sacked her. She kept peace, of a kind,
until the very barbarians who destroyed her found time to repent and
admire what they’d destroyed, and a few of them remembered enough to
preserve what they could.

“Even the decadence of Rome was valuable in its way, and so are the
curfew and Night Police. If they lasted, it would be genuine decadence.
It’s almost over. The day of the barbarians and pioneers will begin
again when the first rocket reaches Mars. But we’ve accomplished
something.”

Lal pointed to the recruiting sign on the office wall, which Kerry and
the others had taken so much for granted that they had not even noticed
it.

                            AN EARTH DIVIDED
                         IS AN EARTH CONQUERED!

“That sign means something,” the commander said. “Even Ben Thrusher
would have admitted that. Although he died fighting it.”

And Kerry left with the first lines of the obituary already ringing
in his head: “A martyr to the desire for freedom, Benedict Thrusher,
listed as a dead man for eight years, died today after wresting from
the Pharigs the secret of the space drive that will mean their eventual
extermination from Earth....”

And all the rest is written in history.




Transcriber’s Note:


 This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe, July 1956 (Vol. 5,
No. 6). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.

 Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but minor
inconsistencies have been retained as printed.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PEACE IN THE WILDERNESS ***


    

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.


START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg
electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
    of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online
    at www.gutenberg.org. If you
    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
  
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works
provided that:

    • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
        the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method
        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has
        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
        Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
        Literary Archive Foundation.”
    
    • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
        works.
    
    • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
        receipt of the work.
    
    • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
        distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
    

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg

Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516,
Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.