"I didn't say that! You're putting words in my mouth! You—"
"Calm yourself, Joe. Forget it." Moyland got up and drew down the shade. "You didn't say anything."
"Of course I didn't." Benz stared at his glass. "Say, Zack, where do I sleep? I don't feel good."
"You'll have a nice place to sleep any minute now."
"Huh? Well, show me. I gotta fold up."
"Any minute. You've got to check in first."
"Huh? Oh, I can't do that tonight, Zack. I'm in no shape."
"I'm afraid you'll have to. See me pull that shade down? They'll be along any moment."
Benz stood up, swaying a little. "You framed me!" he yelled, and lunged at his host.
Moyland sidestepped, put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down into the chair. "Sit down, sucker," he said pleasantly. "You don't expect me to get A-bombed just for you and your pals, do you?" Benz shook his head, then began to sob.
Hobart escorted them out of the house, saying to Art as they left, "If you get back, tell McCracken that Aunt Dinah is resting peacefully."
"Okay."
"Give us two minutes, then go in. Good luck."
Cleve took the outside; Art went in. The back door was locked, but the upper panel was glass. He broke it with the hilt of his knife, reached in and unbolted the door. He was inside when Moyland showed up to investigate the noise.
Art kicked him in the belly, then let him have the point in the neck as he went down. Art stopped just long enough to insure that Moyland would stay dead, then went looking for the room where Benz had been when the shade was drawn.
He found Benz in it. The man blinked his eyes and tried to focus them, as if he found it impossible to believe what he saw. "Art!" he got out at last. "Jeez, boy! Am I glad to see you! Let's get out of here—this place is 'hot.' "
Art advanced, knife out.
Benz looked amazed. "Hey, Art! Art! You're making a mistake. Art. You can't do this—" Art let him have the first one in the soft tissues under the breast bone, then cut his throat to be sure. After that he got out quickly.
Thirty-five minutes later he was emerging from the country end of the chute. His throat was burning from exertion and his left arm was useless—he could not tell whether it was broken or simply wounded.
Cleve lay dead in the alley behind Moyland's house, having done a good job of covering Art's rear.
It took Art all night and part of the next morning to get back near the mine. He had to go through the hills the entire way; the highway was, he judged, too warm at the moment.
He did not expect that the Company would still be there. He was reasonably sure that Morgan would have carried out the evacuation pending certain evidence that Benz's mouth had been shut. He hurried.
But he did not expect what he did find—a helicopter hovering over the neighborhood of the mine.
He stopped to consider the matter. If Morgan had got them out safely, he knew where to rejoin. If they were still inside, he had to figure out some way to help them. The futility of his position depressed him—one man, with a knife and a bad arm, against a helicopter.
Somewhere a bluejay screamed and cursed. Without much hope he chirped his own identification. The bluejay shut up and a mockingbird answered him—Ted.
Art signaled that he would wait where he was. He considered himself well hidden; he expected to have to signal again when Ted got closer, but he underestimated Ted's ability. A hand was laid on his shoulder.
He rolled over, knife out, and hurt his shoulder as he did so. "Ted! Man, do you look good to me!"
"Same here. Did you get him?"
"Benz? Yes, but maybe not in time. Where's the gang?"
"A quarter mile north of back door. We're pinned down. Where's Cleve?"
"Cleve's not coming back. What do you mean 'pinned down'?"
"That damned 'copter can see right down the draw we're in. Dad's got 'em under an overhang and they're safe enough for the moment, but we can't move."
"What do you mean 'Dad's got 'em'?" demanded Art. "Where's the Boss?"
"He ain't in such good shape, Art. Got a machine gun slug in the ribs. We had a dust-up. Cathleen's dead."
"The hell you say!"
"That's right. Margie and Maw Carter have got her baby. But that's one reason why we're pinned down—the Boss and the kid, I mean."
A mockingbird's call sounded far away. "There's Dad," Ted announced. "We got to get back."
"Can we?"
"Sure. Just keep behind me. I'll watch out that I don't get too far ahead."
Art followed Ted in, by a circuitous and, at one point, almost perpendicular route. He found the Company huddled under a shelf of rock which had been undercut by a stream, now dry. Against the wall Morgan was on his back, with Dad Carter and Dr. McCracken squatting beside him. Art went up and made his report.
Morgan nodded, his face gray with pain. His shirt had been cut away; bandaging was wrapped around his ribs, covering a thick pad. "You did well, Art. Too bad about Cleve. Ted, we're getting out of here and you're going first, because you're taking the kid."
"The baby? How—"
"Doc'll dope it so that it won't let out a peep. Then you strap it to your back, papoose fashion."
Ted thought about it. "No, to my front. There's some knee-and-shoulder work on the best way out."
"Okay. It's your job."
"How do
you
get out, boss?"
"Don't be silly."
"Look here, boss, if you think we're going to walk off and leave you, you've got another—"
"Shut up and scram!" The exertion hurt Morgan; he coughed and wiped his mouth.
"Yes, sir." Ted and Art backed away.
"Now, Ed—" said Carter.
"You shut up, too. You still sure you don't want to be Captain?"
"You know better than that, Ed. They took things from me while I was your deppity, but they wouldn't have me for Captain."
"That puts it up to you, Doc."
McCracken looked troubled. "They don't know me that well, Captain."
"They'll take you. People have an instinct for such things."
"Anyhow, if I am Captain, I won't agree to your plan of staying here by yourself. We'll stay till dark and carry you out."
"And get picked up by an infrared spotter, like sitting ducks? That's supposing they let you alone until sundown—that other 'copter will be back with more troops before long."
"I don't think they'd let me walk off on you."
"It's up to you to
make
them. Oh, I appreciate your kindly thoughts, Doc, but you'll think differently as soon as you're Captain. You'll know you have to cut your losses."
McCracken did not answer. Morgan turned his head to Carter. "Gather them around, Dad."
They crowded in, shoulder to shoulder. Morgan looked from one troubled face to another and smiled. "The Barclay Free Company, a provisional unit of the United States of America, is now in session," he announced, his voice suddenly firm. "I'm resigning the captaincy for reasons of physical disability. Any nominations?"
The silence was disturbed only by calls of birds, the sounds of insects.
Morgan caught Carter's eyes. Dad cleared his throat. "I nominate Doc McCracken."
"Any other nominations?" He waited, then continued, "All right, all in favor of Doc make it known by raising your right hand. Okay—opposed the same sign. Dr. McCracken is unanimously elected. It's all yours, Captain. Good luck to you."
McCracken stood up, stooping to avoid the rock overhead. "We're evacuating at once. Mrs. Carter, give the baby about another tablespoon of the syrup, then help Ted. He knows what to do. You'll follow Ted. Then Jerry. Margie, you are next. I'll assign the others presently. Once out of the canyon, spread out and go it alone. Rendezvous at dusk, same place as under Captain Morgan's withdrawal plan—the cave." He paused. Morgan caught his eye and motioned him over, "That's all until Ted and the baby are ready to leave. Now back away and give Captain Morgan a little air."
When they had withdrawn McCracken leaned over Morgan the better to hear his weak words. "Don't be too sure you've seen the last of me, Captain. I might join up in a few days."
"You might at that. I'm going to leave you bundled up warm and plenty of water within reach. I'll leave you some pills, too—that'll give you some comfort and ease. Only half a pill for you—they're intended for cows." He grinned at his patient.
"Half a pill it is. Why not let Dad handle the evacuation? He'll make you a good deputy—and I'd like to talk with you until you leave."
"Right." He called Carter over, instructed him, and turned back to Morgan.
"After you join up with Powell's outfit," whispered Morgan, "your first job is to get into touch with Brockman. Better get Mrs. Carter started right away, once you've talked it over with Powell."
"I will."
"That's the most important thing we've got to worry about, Doc. We've got to have unity, and one plan, from coast to coast. I look forward to a day when there will be an American assigned, by name, to each and every one of them. Then at a set time—zzzt!" He drew a thumb across his throat.
McCracken nodded. "Could be. It
will
be. How long do you think it will take us?"
"I don't know. I don't think about 'how long.' Two years, five years, ten years—maybe a century. That's not the point. The only question is whether or not there are any guts left in America." He glanced out where the fifth person to leave was awaiting a signal from Carter, who in turn was awaiting a signal from Art, hidden out where he could watch for the helicopter. "Those people will stick."
"I'm sure of that."
Presently Morgan added, "There's one thing this has taught me: You can't enslave a free man. Only person can do that to a man is himself. No, sir—you can't enslave a free man. The most you can do is kill him."
"That's a fact, Ed."
"It is. Got a cigarette, Doc?"
"It won't do you any good, Ed."
"It won't do me any harm, either—now, will it?"
"Well, not much." McCracken unregretfully gave him his last and watched him smoke it.
Later, Morgan said, "Dad's ready for you, Captain. So long."
"So long. Don't forget. Half a pill at a time. Drink all the water you want, but don't take your blankets off, no matter how hot you get."
"Half a pill it is. Good luck."
"I'll have Ted check on you tomorrow."
Morgan shook his head. "That's too soon. Not for a couple of days at least."
McCracken smiled. "I'll decide that, Ed. You just keep yourself wrapped up. Good luck." He withdrew to where Carter waited for him. "You go ahead, Dad. I'll bring up the rear. Signal Art to start."
Carter hesitated. "Tell me straight, Doc. What kind of shape is he in?"
McCracken studied Carter's face, then said in a low voice, "I give him about two hours."
"I'll stay behind with him."
"No, Dad, you'll carry out your orders." Seeing the distress in the old man's eyes, he added, "Don't you worry about Morgan. A free man can take care of himself. Now get moving."
"Yes, sir."
This story was tailored in length (1500 words) for Collier's as a short-short. I then tried it on the American Legion magazine—and was scolded for suggesting that the treatment given our veterans was ever less than perfect. I then offered it to several SF editors—and was told that it was not a science fiction story. (Gee whiz and Gosh wollickers!—space warps and FTL are science but therapy and psychology are not. I must be in the wrong church.)
But this story does have a major shortcoming, one that usually is fatal. Try to spot it. I will put the answer just after the end.
"The bravest man I ever saw in my life!" Jones said, being rather shrill about it.
We—Jones and Arkwright and I—were walking toward the parking lot at the close of visiting hours out at the veterans hospital. Wars come and wars go, but the wounded we have always with us—and damned little attention they get between wars. If you bother to look (few do), you can find some broken human remnants dating clear back to World War One in some of our wards.
So our post always sends out a visiting committee every Sunday, every holiday. I'm usually on it, have been for thirty years—if you can't pay a debt, you can at least try to meet the interest. And you do get so that you can stand it.
But Jones was a young fellow making his first visit. Quite upset, he was. Well, surely, I would have despised him if he hadn't been—this crop was fresh in from Southeast Asia. Jones had held it in, then burst out with that remark once we were outside.
"What do you mean by 'bravery'?" I asked him. (Not but what Jones had plenty to back up his opinion—this lad he was talking about was shy both legs and his eyesight, yet he was chin-up and merry.)
"Well, what do
you
mean by 'bravery'?" Jones demanded, then added, "sir." Respect for my white hair rather than my opinions, I think; there was an edge in his voice.
"Keep your shirt on, son," I answered. "What that lad back there has I'd call 'fortitude,' the ability to endure adversity without losing your morale. I'm not disparaging it; it may be a higher virtue than bravery—but I define 'bravery' as the capacity to
choose
to face danger when you are frightened by it."
"Why do you say 'choose'?"
"Because nine men out of ten meet the test when it's forced on them. But it takes something extra to face up to danger when it scares the crap out of you and there's an easy way to bug out." I glanced at my watch. "Give me three minutes and I'll tell you about the bravest man I've ever met."
I was a young fellow myself back between War One and War Two and had been in a hospital much like this one Arkwright and Jones and I had visited—picked up a spot on my lung in the Canal Zone and had been sent there for the cure. Mind you, this was years ago when lung therapy was primitive. No antibiotics, no specific drugs. The first thing they would try was a phrenectomy—cut the nerve that controls the diaphragm to immobilize the lung and let it get well. If that didn't work, they used artificial pneumothorax. If that failed, they did a "backdoor job"—chop out some ribs and fit you with a corset.