9 Tales of Space and Time Page 9

  “I am treating a patient. Sometimes I soothe him. Sometimes I reason with him. And once in a while I bawl the hell out of him! But all the time I am saying the same thing to him. Over and over. In different ways.”

  Brandt Cardozo stood for a time, looking down at the raft where Tasker lay sprawled on his back. After a while he nodded.

  “Ever see an execution, Pierre?” Cardozo’s voice was very cold. “No.”

  “You will. Now—please help me get Tasker back to his cell.”

  “Certainly.” Malory looked curiously at his friend. “What are you going to do now, Brandt?”

  “I’m going to treat my sick community, Dr. Malory. This time, I’m going to try shock treatment . . .”

  The four-man procession clumped stolidly across the floor of the warehouse, reached the big door that led to the loading yard, and stopped.

  “Open the door, Vanni,” Brandt Cardozo ordered.

  Tasker’s cell had been a small room in the warehouse, the one permanent structure they had completed. Vanni, a stocky machinist’s mate, stepped from where he stood by the bound Tasker, swung a clumsy lockbar out of its slot, and pushed the heavy door open.

  The four men moved out into the loading yard. Their pace faltered.

  “What’s the matter?” Cardozo growled. “Keep it moving. Fast!”

  “Uh . . . that it?” mumbled the other guard, McCann, a one-time video scenesetter. His narrow shoulders shook a little.

  “That’s it. And the sooner we get there, the sooner it will be over.”

  At the far end of the yard stood a bark-covered, newly sawed post about eight feet high. Ten feet from it stood five men, four with flame rifles. The fifth, medical bag in hand, was Dr. Malory. Several yards be; hind them, in four ragged rows, stood some fifty-odd members of the community.

  As they marched to the post, Brandt Cardozo checked the silent witnesses. Hrdlicka stood calm—, by Cardozo’s request in the first row—the sandy-haired jury foreman beside him. Arrayed on either side of those two were members of the jury and at the extreme end of the line, away from the post, stood Lisa Giovannetti.

  At that moment an unidentified man slipped furtively into the first row and stood, eager eyes flickering from Tasker to the post and back again. Brandt Cardozo sighed. There was always at least one of those . . . Always a twisted sadist, savoring another human being’s terror and death.

  He shrugged. Perhaps even that would help. Make it even worse for the others.

  For this was his shock treatment . . . a public execution.

  After the Council had revoked the law forbidding the death penalty and instituted capital punishment, it had hurriedly decreed that all details of an execution be left to the discretion of the penologist.

  So Brandt Cardozo had ordered that all officials of the sentencing court should be present at any execution . . . as well as no less than 35 members of the public. He further stipulated that any other adult resident of the community could attend if he or she so desired.

  Cardozo checked them off in his mind . . . no women . . . a good sign. He scowled suddenly.

  “Halt!” he barked.

  Tasker’s escort stopped. They were very near the post. Cardozo strode over and ranged himself in front of .the witnesses. “Where’s Citizens’ Counsel Blair?” he snapped.

  Heads turned. There were a few whispers. Feet shuffled. The whispering grew into an audible murmur.

  “I requested all court officers to be assembled at least twenty minutes before the time for execution.”

  “Um. Blair doesn’t seem to be present,” Hrdlicka murmured.

  Cardozo forced all expression from his voice. “The Citizens’ Counsel cannot evade the responsibilities of his office. Nor will this execution proceed without him.”

  He turned toward the firing squad.

  “Grover!” he called. A rifleman left the line and trotted up to him.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Go out in the town, locate Counselor Blair, bring him here. On the double! You are to use force if necessary.”

  Grover saluted and ran off.

  Brandt Cardozo turned back and stared hard at the witnesses. It was apparent that the resentment on their faces was not toward him. But . . . it couldn’t matter, now.

  “I am sorry,” he told them formally. “The execution of David Tasker, if it proceeds according to law, must be delayed for a few moments.”

  He turned his back on them and walked stiffly over to the little cluster of men that was the condemned and his killers.

  Tasker jerked his head up and looked about him. Then he seemed to notice, for the first time, that his arms were bound.

  “Hey!” His voice was uncertain, worried. “What’s going on here?” Malory cleared his throat. “What’s going on, I said!”

  “You are about to die by shooting for the murder of Leon Jacoby,” Cardozo said quietly. “If you can understand spiritual counsel, Tasker, ask for it now. As soon as Citizens’ Counsel Blair gets here, I’ll read you the death warrant and—”

  “Death warrant!”

  Tasker screamed.

  Then he struggled so violently that, for a moment, he broke loose from Vanni’s grip. Dragging McCann with him, he staggered toward Cardozo.

  “You said . . .” he screamed. “You said—they wasn’t gonna be no pill-box—no gas!”

  Malory moved, but Vanni was faster. The guard regained his grip on Tasker’s writhing arm and helped McCann pull the twisting, gasping killer to a stop.

  “Take it easy, Dave,” Vanni panted. “This is no good, fella—”

  “Don’t kill me!” Tasker babbled. “You said they was no killings—I remember—the girl told me—now, please, please—get my mouthpiece, I gotta right to an appeal—it’s against the law—”

  “I told you yesterday that the law had been changed. Made retroactive . . . not that you know what that big word means. I told you there was no hope, Tasker.”

  “I was doped. Oh, my God . . .”

  “Jesus Christ,” muttered McCann.

  “It won’t hurt, Dave,” soothed Vanni. His voice lacked conviction.

  “Please, please—Vanni—we was pals on the ship—”

  Hrdlicka stepped forward from his line.

  “Brandt! Can’t you do something?”

  McCann and Vanni were now wrestling with the screaming Tasker. Despite his bound arms, the condemned was battling furiously, hunching his shoulders and lunging bull-like in every direction. Tossing appearances to the winds, Vanni climbed on Tasker’s back and tried to put on a half-nelson. But Tasker still screamed.

  Cardozo bowed to Hrdlicka.

  “Prisoners sometimes become violently hysterical when death gets this close to them, Your Honor,” he said politely.

  “It’s more than that!” snapped Malory. “The dakarine has worn off, Brandt!”

  “You’ve got to do something!” Hrdlicka cried, his heavy rumble gone. “This—this is dreadful!”

  “I don’t wanna die!” With a mighty frenzy, Tasker threw off Vanni, wrenched free from McCann, flung himself on the ground before Cardozo. “Please,” he began to crawl, “you got no right—I shouldn’t have to die—I been a sick man—please!”

  “Do something, for Christ’s sake!” McCann screamed suddenly.

  “I’ve been afraid of this,” Malory said, his quiet voice strangely sedate, “I have a narcotic, if the penologist permits . . .”

  Cardozo stared down at the groveling Tasker. Now—it was really quite true—the poor wretch was no more than a symbol, a postulate in an argument.

  He nodded his head.

  The guards hauled Tasker to his feet and managed to hold him quiet while Dr. Malory administered a hypodermic. Tasker sighed, then went limp. His head hobbled, then his whole body leaned forward a little as the two guards held him upright.

  Cardozo felt, rather than heard a gusty sigh of relief from the witnesses.

  At that moment Blair trotted in, Grover a pace behind
him, his rifle aimed at Blair’s back.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” cried the little man. He pranced up to Brandt Cardozo. “I shall report this outrage! This man broke into my room—menaced me with a gun—”

  “Mr. Blair! Lower your voice, please. You are in the presence of a man about to die.”

  “Uh—yes. Sorry. But—”

  “Mr. Blair, you were required by law to attend this execution. Your tardiness has distressed everyone. Now, please take your proper place among the witnesses so that we can get this business over with.”

  “I was indisposed!” Blair bridled. “And further, sir, I will not be driven about at gunpoint.” He saw the slumping Tasker. “What’s he doing? More dramatics?”

  Cardozo waited the barest fraction of a pause. Malory sensed the urgency, turned to Blair and said, with completely professional detachment, “Oh—my doing, Mr. Citizens’ Counselor. The dakarine wore off, as I prognosed, you’ll remember, and the condemned man was frightened into hysterics. With Mr. Cardozo’s permission, I gave him a shot. He’s unconscious, doesn’t know what’s about to happen . . . That doesn’t matter, of course.”

  “But it does!” Blair shrilled. “The condemned man must—”

  A loud, disjointed cry from the witnesses cut him off. He gaped a little, looked uncertainly about him, was checked when Brandt Cardozo raised his hand. The crowd quieted.

  Hrdlicka very ostentatiously stepped back into line.

  There was quiet.

  “Grover,” said Brandt Cardozo.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “If Counselor Blair does not take his proper place among the witnesses—immediately—you will put him there.”

  Blair, very pale now, glanced at Tasker, then shot a look at Brandt Cardozo. From Cardozo his gaze flickered to the stark post. His pallor became a little greenish. Then he hurried over to the group of spectators. Two jurors gave him room.

  “Take your place with the firing squad, Grover,” Cardozo ordered. “All right, Vanni—McCann—tie him up there.”

  They walked Tasker over to the post and strapped him to it. He leaned stiffly forward, straps restraining him at his knees, waist and shoulders.

  Cardozo stepped in front of him and lifted the death warrant. It had been scribed on a sheet of the Tonia’s notepaper by the one battered salvaged portable.

  He read it slowly, then, moving deliberately, stepped back and a few paces to one side.

  “The sentence of death will now be carried out,” he said loudly. “Ready!”

  The squad lifted their rifles.

  “Aim.”

  “Fire.”

  There was a hiss of blue flame.

  Tasker’s dirty shirt smoked suddenly, his body jerked and he slumped even more.

  Cardozo beckoned to Malory and the two of them strode over to the post. The doctor put fingers to Tasker’s wrist. After an endless moment he took them away. His voice wasn’t quite steady as he said, “I pronounce this man dead.”

  There was a thud behind them. Malory and Cardozo jerked their heads around and saw Hugo Blair lying on the ground, face downward. Malory moved uncertainly.

  “Leave him be,” a juror called out. “He’s just passed out.”

  Cardozo stared a moment at the fidgeting witnesses, then said, “The execution of David Tasker has been carried out as prescribed by the law of the New World. You will please leave the place of execution immediately, in a quiet and orderly manner.”

  They all started toward the yard-gate, walking fast. One or two looked down at Blair as they passed him. One man suddenly put his hand to his mouth, gazed frantically about him, then ran for the gate.

  No one laughed at him.

  Brandt Cardozo saw that none of the silent crowd stepped any nearer to the unconscious Blair than they had to.

  R. BRETNOR

  3

  GENIUS OF THE SPECIES

  Is a Russian peasant ever smart? How wise is a cat? What could a combination of the two species really do to defend themselves against “The man who tells everyone else what to do”?

  Force curtains, commissars, purges, dogs, and rodents are but a few of the trials and tribulations faced by cat and peasant alike in this wonderful short fantasy.

  Reginald Bretnor, like most good humorists, is, at heart, a very serious person who knows human nature well. Ailurophile readers will quickly discover that he knows cat nature very well, too. He reminds one in this story of writers like John Collier and H. H. Munro . . . and either might well be proud of it. Bretnor is the type of craftsman whose own reputation may someday be as great.

  As we stated in the Introduction, Bretnor rivals the appeal of his own bravura pieces with subtle and charming fantasies of this sort. Indeed, his final stature as a humorous writer may very well stand upon facile cameos like “Genius of the Species” when the wild (though merry) antics of his creations like Papa Schimmelhorn are forgotten.

  3

  GENIUS OF THE SPECIES

  CHILDREN, WE AREN’T PROUD OF DEAR LITTLE EMILY FOR being so smart and asking such a clever question? Of course we are! It shows that she’s thinking for herself, and I’m going to do my very best to answer it. Let’s all go outside first, though, and curl up in the sun. One can’t help feeling sorry for these poor creatures in their cages, but the noise they make is simply deafening. You can’t seem to train them, no matter how you try.

  There, isn’t that better? Now we can hear ourselves think, and I can tell you how it happened. It all began before you were born, in a big, cold city where there was a man who told everyone else what to do . . .

  Yes, Gilbert dear, they let him get away with it. Why did they?

  Goodness, I don’t know. It’s just one of the mysteries of nature, I suppose.

  Anyhow, one day this man called a meeting of his chief assistants, all of whom showed up wearing gold braid and medals and very anxious expressions because he looked so angry. He waited until they were seated around his long table. Then, in a ferocious voice, he said, “I suppose, Comrades, that you know maybe a little about Marxist history? I suppose you know how in 1962 the famous Malenkov Curtain replaced our old Iron one? Maybe some of you even are knowing what the Malenkov Curtain is for?”

  They all nodded hastily. “Yes, yes. Yes, indeed, Comrade Little Red Father,” they chorused.

  He ignored them. “I will tell you!” he shouted. “It extends from the North Pole to Tibet, from Shanghai to Romania. It kills everything right away—nothing that lives can get through it, not even a microbe. It burns up any metal that tries to go through, also anything radioactive like bombs. It allows sunlight in, but it stops all the waves of the radio. Inside it we are safe from the Fascist aggressors, from their atom-bomb bases up on the moon, from their Wall Street Journal!”

  He paused. Immediately they all started cheering, “Long live our great Generalissimo! Long live the Malenkov Curtain! Down with the moon!”

  He waited until they had finished. “So maybe you think this Malenkov Curtain is such a fine thing?” he said with a sneer. “Maybe you think it is good that everyone knows we are safe from attack? You are wrong! Because of this Malenkov Curtain—and something that happened this morning—we are now in great peril!”

  The other men at the table exchanged startled glances. One or two of them cried, “Down with the Malenkov Curtain!” rather weakly.

  “Malenkov was a genius like me,” continued the man who told everyone else what to do. “He invented the Curtain to protect us from the capitalists until we were set to attack them. He certainly never intended that it should protect them from us. But he allowed two Austrian scientists whom he caught in the war to do part of the work. They were saboteurs! They claimed that they had invented it. And they installed the machines under the Curtain itself, making them work from the gravity of the earth so that they would never run down. Then they betrayed Malenkov into having them purged before they could tell anyone else how it worked. Comrades, we were sealed in!”

&n
bsp; He hammered his fist on the table, “And now I shall tell you what happened this morning!” he roared. “This morning, in the Siberian village of Yutsk, a person named Elmer Pumpett was liquidated. He was an American, captured alive in Korea a long time ago. He was seventy-three years of age, and was posing as an innocent slave laborer in a leg-iron foundry. Under questioning, he admitted that he had once earned two so-called merit badges for his work in a gang of counter-revolutionary wreckers. Comrades, the liquidation of Elmer Pumpett was a crisis in the history of the glorious Revolution!” He snarled at them very unpleasantly. “You are dismayed? You think that Elmer Pumpett was of no importance? You think that we are liquidating thousands like him every day? Well, you are fools! The Malenkov Curtain isolates us from the West. It is impenetrable. We cannot turn it off. Therefore, Elmer Pumpett was the last Fascistic-capitalistic-imperialistic saboteur.

  He was the last corrupt lackey of the plutocratic Wall Street bosses. He was the last Hitlerite-Trotskyite-Titoite spy. He was the very last decadent, warmongering bourgeois exploiter of the toiling masses in our entire world! Comrades, do you know what that means?”

  None of them said anything.

  “It means that we no longer can pretend that there is any danger to the State. Therefore there is no need for concentration camps, for liquidations, for our huge army, for the Special Secret Police, or even”—he glared at a sharp-nosed little man at the far end of the table—“for the Ordinary Secret Police. In short, there is no longer any need for us. What do you think of that?”

  His listeners were appalled. They turned pale and started squirming in their chairs and ran their fingers around inside the collars of their uniforms.

  An ugly, fat fellow jumped up. “Deviationist!” he screamed at the sharp-nosed little man. “This is the fault of your Ordinary Secret Police—liquidating valuable enemies!—wasting our national resources!” Another of the comrades waved a fistful of papers. “I have here,” he shouted, “a report on those who keep books overdue from the libraries. Traitors! Enemies of the people! We can liquidate them”