The Past Through Tomorrow (84 page)

In any case, New Jerusalem must fall—and time was against us.

While we were worrying over this, a provisional constitutional convention was being held in the great auditorium of the university. Huxley opened it, refused again the title, offered by acclamation, of president—then told them bluntly that all laws since the inauguration of President Nehemiah Scudder were of no force, void, and that the old constitution and bill of rights were effective as of now, subject to the exigencies of temporary military control. Their single purpose, he said, was to work out orderly methods of restoring the old free democratic processes; any permanent changes in the constitution, if needed, would have to wait until after free elections.

Then he turned the gavel over to Novak and left.

I did not have time for politics, but I hid out from work and caught most of one afternoon session because Zebadiah had tipped me off that significant fireworks were coming up. I slipped into a back seat and listened. One of Novak’s bright young men was presenting a film. I saw the tail end of it only, but it seemed to be more or less a standard instruction film, reviewing the history of the United States, discussing civil liberty, explaining the duties of a citizen in a free democracy—not the sort of thing ever seen in the Prophet’s schools but making use of the same techniques which had long been used in every school in the country. The film ended and the bright young man—I could never remember his name, perhaps because I disliked him. Stokes? Call him Stokes, anyway. Stokes began to speak.

“This reorientation film,” he began, “is of course utterly useless in re-canalizing an adult. His habits of thought are much too set to be affected by anything as simple as this.”

“Then why waste our time with it?” someone called out.

“Please! Nevertheless this film was prepared for adults—provided the adult has been placed in a receptive frame of mind. Here is the prologue—” the screen lighted up again. It was a simple and beautiful pastoral scene with very restful music. I could not figure what he was getting at, but it was soothing; I remembered that I had not had much sleep the past four nights—come to think about it, I couldn’t remember when I had had a good night’s sleep. I slouched back and relaxed.

I didn’t notice the change from scenery to abstract patterns. I think the music continued but it was joined by a voice, warm, soothing, monotonous. The patterns were going round and around and I was beginning to bore…right…into…the…screen…

Then Novak had left his chair and switched off the projector with a curse. I jerked awake with that horrid shocked feeling that makes one almost ready to cry. Novak was speaking sharply but quietly to Stokes—then Novak faced the rest of us. “Up on your feet!” he ordered. “Seventh inning stretch. Take a deep breath. Shake hands with the man next to you. Slap him on the back, hard!”

We did so and I felt foolish. Also irritated. I had felt so good just a moment before and now I was reminded of the mountain of work I must move if I were to have ten minutes with Maggie that evening. I thought about leaving but the b. y. m. had started talking again.

“As Dr. Novak has pointed out,” he went on, not sounding quite so sure of himself, “it is not necessary to use the prologue on this audience, since you don’t need reorientation. But this film, used with the preparatory technique and possibly in some cases with a light dose of one of the hypnotic drugs, can be depended on to produce an optimum political temperament in 83% of the populace. This has been demonstrated on a satisfactory test group. The film itself represents several years of work analyzing the personal conversion reports of almost everyone—surely everyone in this audience!—who joined our organization while it was still underground. The irrelevant has been eliminated; the essential has been abstracted. What remains will convert a devout follower of the Prophet to free manhood—provided he is in a state receptive to suggestion when he is exposed to it.”

So
that
was why we had each been required to bare our souls. It seemed logical to me. Cod knew that we were sitting on a time bomb, and we couldn’t wait for every lunk to fall in love with a holy deaconess and thereby be shocked out of his groove; there wasn’t time. But an elderly man whom I did not know was on his feet on the other side of the hall—he looked like the pictures of Mark Twain, an angry Mark Twain. “Mr. Chairman!”

“Yes, comrade? State your name and district.”

“You know what my name is, Novak—Winters, from Vermont. Did you okay this scheme?”

“No.” It was a simple declarative.

“He’s one of your boys.”

“He’s a free citizen. I supervised the preparation of the film itself and the research which preceded it. The use of null-vol suggestion techniques came from the research group he headed. I disapproved the proposal, but agreed to schedule time to present it. I repeat, he is a free citizen, free to speak, just as you are.”

“May I speak now?”

“You have the floor.”

The old man drew himself up and seemed to swell up. “I shall! Gentlemen…ladies…comrades! I have been in this for more than forty years—more years than that young pup has been alive. I have a brother, as good a man as I am, but we haven’t spoken in many years—because he is honestly devout in the established faith and he suspects me of heresy. Now this cub, with his bulging forehead and his whirling lights, would ‘condition’ my brother to make him ‘politically reliable.’”

He stopped to gasp asthmatically and went on. “Free men aren’t ‘conditioned!’ Free men are free because they are ornery and cussed and prefer to arrive at their own prejudices in their own way—not have them spoonfed by a self-appointed mind tinkerer! We haven’t fought, our brethren haven’t bled and died, just to change bosses, no matter how sweet their motives. I tell you, we got into the mess we are in through the efforts of those same mind tinkerers. They’ve studied for years how to saddle a man and ride him. They started with advertising and propaganda and things like that, and they perfected it to the point where what used to be simple, honest swindling such as any salesman might use became a mathematical science that left the ordinary man helpless.” He pointed his finger at Stokes. “I tell you that the American citizen needs no protection from anything—except the likes of him.”

“This is ridiculous,” Stokes snapped, his voice rather high. “You wouldn’t turn high explosives over to children. That is what the franchise would be now.”

“The American people are not children.”

“They might as well be!—most of them.”

Winters turned his eyes around the hall. “You see what I mean, friends? He’s as ready to play God as the Prophet was. I say give ’em their freedom, give ’em their clear rights as men and free men and children under God. If they mess it up again, that’s their doing—but we have no right to operate on their minds.” He stopped and labored again to catch his breath; Stokes looked contemptuous. “We
can’t
make the world safe for children, nor for men either—and God didn’t appoint us to do it.”

Novak said gently, “Are you through, Mr. Winters?”

“I’m through.”

“And you’ve had
your
say, too, Stokes. Sit down.”

Then I had to leave, so I slipped out—and missed what must have been a really dramatic event if you care for that sort of thing; I don’t. Old Mr. Winters dropped dead about the time I must have been reaching the outer steps.

Novak did not let them recess on that account. They passed two resolutions; that no citizen should be subjected to hypnosis or other psychomanipulative technique without his written consent, and that no religious or political test should be used for franchise in the first elections.

I don’t know who was right. It certainly would have made life easier in the next few weeks if we had known that the people were solidly behind us. Temporarily rulers we might be, but we hardly dared go down a street in uniform at night in groups of less than six.

Oh yes, we had uniforms now—almost enough for one for each of us, of the cheapest materials possible and in the standard army sizes, either too large or too small. Mine was too tight. They had been stockpiled across the Canadian border and we got our own people into uniform as quickly as possible. A handkerchief tied around the arm is not enough.

Besides our own simple powder-blue dungarees there were several other uniforms around, volunteer brigades from outside the country and some native American outfits. The Mormon Battalions had their own togs and they were all growing beards as well—they went into action singing the long-forbidden “Come, Come, Ye Saints!” Utah was one state we didn’t have to worry about, now that the Saints had their beloved temple back. The Catholic Legion had its distinctive uniform, which was just as well since hardly any of them spoke English. The Onward Christian Soldiers dressed differently from us because they were a rival underground and rather resented our coup d’état—we should have waited. Joshua’s Army from the pariah reservations in the northwest (plus volunteers from all over the world) had a get-up that can only be described as outlandish.

Huxley was in tactical command of them all. But it wasn’t an army; it was a rabble.

The only thing that was hopeful about it was that the Prophet’s army had not been large, less than two hundred thousand, more of an internal police than an army, and of that number only a few had managed to make their way back to New Jerusalem to augment the Palace garrison. Besides that, since the United States had not had an external war for more than a century, the Prophet could not recruit veteran soldiers from the remaining devout.

Neither could we. Most of our effectives were fit only to guard communication stations and other key installations around the country and we were hard put to find enough of them to do that. Mounting an assault on New Jerusalem called for scraping the bottom of the barrel.

Which we did, while smothering under a load of paperwork that made the days in the old GHQ seem quiet and untroubled. I had thirty clerks under me now and I don’t know what half of them did. I spent a lot of my time just keeping Very Important Citizens who Wanted to Help from getting in to see Huxley.

I recall one incident which, while not important, was not exactly routine and was important to me. My chief secretary came in with a very odd look on her face. “Colonel,” she said, “your twin brother is out there.”

“Eh? I have no brothers.”

“A Sergeant Reeves,” she amplified.

He came in, we shook hands, and exchanged inanities. I really was glad to see him and told him about all the orders I had sold and then lost for him. I apologized, pled exigency of war and added, “I landed one new account in K.C.—Emery, Bird, Thayer. You might pick it up some day.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“I didn’t know you were a soldier.”

“I’m not, really. But I’ve been practicing at it ever since my travel permit, uh—got itself lost.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. I’ve learned to handle a blaster and I’m pretty good with a grenade now. I’ve been okayed for Operation Strikeout.”

“Eh? That code word is supposed to be confo.”

“It is? Better tell the boys; they don’t seem to realize it. Anyhow, I’m in. Are you? Or shouldn’t I ask that?”

I changed the subject. “How do you like soldiering? Planning to make a career of it?”

“Oh, it’s all right—but not
that
all right. But what I came in to ask you, Colonel, are you?”

“Eh?”

“Are you staying in the army afterwards? I suppose you can make a good thing out of it, with your background—whereas they wouldn’t let me shine brightwork, once the fun is over. But if by any chance you aren’t, what do you think of the textile business?”

I was startled but I answered, “Well, to tell the truth I rather enjoyed it—the selling end, at least.”

“Good. I’m out of a job where I was, of course—and I’ve been seriously considering going in on my own, a jobbing business and manufacturers’ representative. I’ll need a partner. Eh?”

I thought it over. “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “I haven’t thought ahead any farther than Operation Strikeout. I might stay in the army—though soldiering does not have the appeal for me it once had…too many copies to make out and certify. But I don’t know. I think what I really want is simply to sit under my own vine and my own fig tree.”

“‘—and none shall make you afraid,’” he finished. “A good thought. But there is no reason why you shouldn’t unroll a few bolts of cloth while you are sitting there. The fig crop might fail. Think it over.”

“I will. I surely will.”

MAGGIE AND I
were married the day before the assault on New Jerusalem. We had a twenty-minute honeymoon, holding hands on the fire escape outside my office, then I flew Huxley to the jump-off area. I was in the flagship during the attack. I had asked permission to pilot a rocket-jet as my combat assignment but he had turned me down.

“What for, John?” he had asked. “This isn’t going to be won in the air; it will be settled on the ground.”

He was right, as usual. We had few ships and still fewer pilots who could be trusted. Some of the Prophet’s air force had been sabotaged on the ground; a goodly number had escaped to Canada and elsewhere and been interned. With what planes we had we had been bombing the Palace and Temple regularly, just to make them keep their heads down.

But we could not hurt them seriously that way and both sides knew it. The Palace, ornate as it was above ground, was probably the strongest bombproof ever built. It had been designed to stand direct impact of a fission bomb without damage to personnel in its deepest tunnels—and that was where the Prophet was spending his days, one could be sure. Even the part above ground was relatively immune to ordinary HE bombs such as we were using.

We weren’t using atomic bombs for three reasons: we didn’t have any; the United States was not known to have had any since the Johannesburg Treaty after World War III. We could not get any. We might have negotiated a couple of bombs from the Federation had we been conceded to be the legal government of the United States, but, while Canada had recognized us, Great Britain had not and neither had the North African Confederacy. Brazil was teetering; she had sent a chargé d’affaires to St. Louis. But even if we had actually been admitted to the Federation, it is most unlikely that a mass weapon would have been granted for an internal disorder.