This Crowded Earth Read online

  6. Harry Collins--2012

  Harry crouched behind the boulders, propping the rifle up between therocks, and adjusted the telescopic sights. The distant doorway spranginto sharp focus. Grunting with satisfaction, he settled down to hisvigil. The rifle-barrel had been dulled down against detection byreflection, and Harry's dark glasses protected him against the glareof the morning sun. He might have to wait several hours now, but hedidn't care. It had taken him twelve years to come this far, and hewas willing to wait a little while longer.

  _Twelve years._ Was it really that long?

  A mirror might have answered him; a mirror might have shown him theharsh features of a man of forty-two. But Harry needed no mirror. Hecould remember the past dozen years only too easily--though they hadnot been easy years.

  Surviving the river was only the beginning. Animal strength carriedhim through that ordeal. But he emerged from the river as an animal; awounded animal, crawling through the brush and arroyo outside thesouthern Colorado canyon.

  And it was animal cunning which preserved him. He'd wandered severaldays until he encountered Emil Grizek and his outfit. By that time hewas half-starved and completely delirious. It took a month until hewas up and around again.

  But Emil and the boys had nursed him through. They took turns caringfor him in the bunkhouse; their methods were crude but efficient andHarry was grateful. Best of all, they asked no questions. Harry'sstatus was that of a hunted fugitive, without a Vocational Apt recordor rating. The authorities or any prospective employers would inquireinto these things, but Emil Grizek never seemed curious. By the timeHarry was up and around again, he'd been accepted as one of the bunch.He told them his name was Harry Sanders, and that was enough.

  Two months after they found him, he'd signed on with Emil Grizek andfound a new role in life.

  Harry Collins, advertising copywriter, had become Harry Sanders,working cowhand.

  There was surprisingly little difficulty. Grizek had absenteeemployers who weren't interested in their foreman's methods, just aslong as he recruited his own wranglers for the Bar B Ranch. Nobodydemanded to see Apt cards or insisted on making out formalwork-reports, and the pay was in cash. Cowhands were hard to come bythese days, and it was an unspoken premise that the men taking on suchjobs would be vagrants, migratory workers, fugitives from justice andinjustice. A generation or so ago they might have become tramps--butthe last of the hoboes had vanished along with the last of the freighttrains. Once the derelicts haunted the canyons of the big cities;today there was no place for them there, so they fled to the canyonsof the west. Harry had found himself a new niche, and no questionsasked.

  Oddly enough, he fitted in. The outdoor life agreed with him, and in amatter of months he was a passable cowpoke; within a year he was oneof Grizek's top hands.

  He learned to ride a bucking jeep with the best of them, and he couldspot, single out, and stun a steer in forty seconds flat; then use hiselectronic brander on it and have the critter back on its feet in justunder a minute.

  Work was no problem, and neither was recreation. The bunkhouse offeredcrude but adequate facilities for living; old-fashionedair-conditioning and an antique infra-red broiler seemed good enoughfor roughing it, and Cookie at least turned out real man-sized meals.Eating genuine beef and honest-to-goodness baked bread was a treat,and so was having the luxury of all that space in the sleepingquarters. Harry thrived on it.

  And some of the other hands were interesting companions. True, theywere renegades and mavericks, but they were each of them unique andindividual, and Harry enjoyed listening to them fan the breeze duringthe long nights.

  There was Big Phil, who was pushing sixty now. But you'd never knowit, not unless you got him to talking about the old days when he'dbeen a boy in Detroit. His daddy had been one of the last of the UnionMen, back in the days of what they used to call the Organized LaborMovement. He could tell you about wage-hour agreements and theRailroad Brotherhood and contract negotiations almost as if he knew ofthese things through personal experience. He even remembered theDemocratic Party. Phil got out when the government took over and setup Vocational Apt and Industrial Supervision; that's when he driftedwest.

  Tom Lowery's family had been military; he claimed to have been amember of the last graduating class ever to leave West Point. When thearmament race ended, his prospects of a career vanished, and hesettled down as a guard at Canaveral. Finally, he'd headed for theopen country.

  Bassett was the scholar of the outfit. He could sit around and quoteold-time book-authors by the hour--classic writers like Prather andSpillane. In another age he might have been a college professor oreven a football coach; he had an aptitude for the arts.

  And there was Lobo, the misogynist, who had fled a wife and elevenchildren back in Monterey; and Januzki, who used to be mixed up withone of those odd religious cults out on the Coast. He bragged he'dbeen one of the Big Daddy-Os in the Beat Generationists, and he arguedwith Bassett about some old-time evangelist named Kerouac.

  * * * * *

  Best of all, though, Harry liked talking to Nick Kendrick. Nick'shobby was music, and he treasured his second-hand stereophonic unitand collection of tapes. He too was a classicist in his way, and therewas many a long winter night when Harry sat there listening to ancientfolk songs. The quaint atonalities of progressive jazz and thechildishly frantic rhythms of "cool sounds" were somehow soothing andreassuring in their reminder of a simple heritage from a simpler age.

  But above all, these men were wranglers, and they took a peculiarpride in the traditions of their own calling. There wasn't a one ofthem who wouldn't spend hours mulling over the lore of the range andthe prairie. They knew the Great Names from the Great Days--EugeneAutry, Wyatt Earp, the legendary Thomas Mix, Dale Robertson, Paladin,and all the others; men who rode actual horses in the era when theWest was really an untamed frontier.

  And like the cowboys they were, they maintained the customs of otherdays. Every few months they rode a bucking helicopter into some rawwestern town--Las Vegas, or Reno, or even over to Palm Springs--todrink recklessly in the cocktail lounges, gamble wildly at the slots,or "go down the line" with some telescreen model on location foroutdoor ad-backgrounds. There were still half a dozen such sin-citiesscattered throughout the west; even the government acknowledged theneed of lonely men to blow off steam. And though Ag Culture officiallydisapproved of the whole cowhand system, and talked grimly of settingup new and more efficient methods for training personnel and handlingthe cattle ranges, nothing was ever done. Perhaps the authorities knewthat it was a hopeless task; only the outcasts and iconoclasts had thetemperament necessary to survive such loneliness under an open sky.City-dwelling conformists just could not endure the monotony.

  But even Emil Grizek's hands marvelled at the way Harry lived. Henever joined them in their disorderly descent upon the scarlet citiesof the plain, and most of the time he didn't even seem to watch thetelescreen. If anything, he deliberately avoided all possible contactwith civilization.

  Since he never volunteered any information about his own past, theyprivately concluded that he was just a psychopathic personality.

  "Strong regressive and seclusive tendencies," Bassett explained,solemnly.

  "Sure," Nick Kendrick nodded, wisely. "You mean a Mouldy Fig, like."

  "Creeping Meatball," muttered cultist Januzki. Not being religiousfanatics, the others didn't understand the reference. But graduallythey came to accept Harry's isolationist ways as the norm--at least,for him. And since he never quarreled, never exhibited any signs ofdissatisfaction, he was left to his own pattern.

  Thus it was all the more surprising when that pattern was rudely andabruptly shattered.

  Harry remembered the occasion well. It was the day the Leff Law wasofficially upheld by the Supremist Courts. The whole business cameover the telescreens and there was no way of avoiding it--you couldn'tavoid it, because everybody was talking about it and everybody waswatching.

  "Now
what do you think?" Emil Grizek demanded. "Any woman wants ababy, she's got to have those shots. They say kids shrink down intonothing. Weigh less than two pounds when they're born, and never growup to be any bigger than midgets. You ask me, the whole thing's plumbloco, to say nothing of psychotic."

  "I dunno." This from Big Phil. "Reckon they just about have to dosomething, the way cities are filling up and all. Tell me every spotin the country, except for the plains states here, is busting at theseams. Same in Europe, Africa, South America. Running out of space,running out of food, all over the world. This man Leffingwell figureson cutting down on size so's to keep the whole shebang going."

  "But why couldn't it be done on a voluntary basis?" Bassett demanded."These arbitrary rulings are bound to result in frustrations. And canyou imagine what will happen to the individual family constellations?Take a couple that already has two youngsters, as of now. Suppose thewife submits to the inoculations for her next child and it's born witha size-mutation. How in the world will that child survive as a midgetin a family of giants? There'll be untold damage to the personality--"

  "We've heard all those arguments," Tom Lowery cut in. "The Naturalistshave been handing out that line for years. What happens to the newgeneration of kids, how do we know they won't be mentally defective,how can they adjust, by what right does the government interfere withprivate lives, personal religious beliefs; all that sort of thing. Forover ten years now the debate's been going on. And meanwhile, time isrunning out. Space is running out. Food is running out. It isn't aquestion of individual choice any longer--it's a question of groupsurvival. I say the Courts are right. We have to go according to law.And back the law up with force of arms if necessary."

  "We get the message," Januzki agreed. "But something tells me there'llbe trouble. Most folks need a midget like they need a monkey on theirbacks."

  "It's a gasser, pardners," said Nick Kendrick. "Naturalists don't digthis. They'll fight it all along the line. Everybody's gonna be allshook up."

  "It is still a good idea," Lobo insisted. "This Dr. Leffingwell, hehas made the tests. For years he has given injections and no harm hascome. The children are healthy, they survive. They learn in specialschools--"

  "How do you know?" Bassett demanded. "Maybe it's all a lot ofmotivationalist propaganda."

  "We have seen them on the telescreens, no?"

  "They could be faking the whole thing."

  "But Leffingwell, he has offered the shots to other governments besideour own. The whole world will adopt them--"

  "What if some countries don't? What if our kids become midgets and theAsiatics refuse the inoculations?"

  "They won't. They need room even more than we do."

  "No sense arguing," Emil Grizek concluded. "It's the law. You knowthat. And if you don't like it, join the Naturalists." He chuckled."But better hurry. Something tells me there won't be any Naturalistsaround after a couple of years. Now that there's a Leff Law, thegovernment isn't likely to stand for too much criticism." He turned toHarry. "What do you think?" he asked.

  Harry shrugged. "No comment," he said.

  But the next day he went to Grizek and demanded his pay in full.

  "Leaving?" Grizek muttered. "I don't understand. You've been with usalmost five years. Where you going, what you intend to do? What's gotinto you all of a sudden?"

  "Time for a change," Harry told him. "I've been saving my money."

  "Don't I know it? Never touched a penny in all this time." Grizek rana hand across his chin. "Say, if it's a raise you're looking for, Ican--"

  "No, thanks. It's not that. I've money enough."

  "So you have. Around eighteen, twenty thousand, I reckon, what withthe bonuses." Emil Grizek sighed. "Well, if you insist, that's the wayit's got to be, I suppose. When you plan on taking off?"

  "Just as soon as there's a 'copter available."

  "Got one going up to Colorado Springs tomorrow morning for the mail. Ican get you aboard, give you a check--"

  "I'll want my money in cash."

  "Well, now, that isn't so easy. Have to send up for a special draft.Take a week or so."

  "I can wait."

  "All right. And think it over. Maybe you'll decide to change yourmind."

  But Harry didn't change his mind. And ten days later he rode a 'copterinto town, his money-belt strapped beneath his safety-belt.

  From Colorado Springs he jetted to Kancity, and from Kancity toMemphisee. As long as he had money, nobody asked any questions. Heholed up in cheap airtels and waited for developments.

  It wasn't easy to accustom himself to urbanization again. He had beenaway from cities for over seven years now, and it might well have beenseven centuries. The overpopulation problem was appalling. Theoutlawing of private automotive vehicles had helped, and the clearingof the airlanes served a purpose; the widespread increase in the useof atomic power cut the smog somewhat. But the synthetic food wasfrightful, the crowding intolerable, and the welter of rules andregulations attending the performance of even the simplest humanactivity past all his comprehension. Ration cards were in universaluse for almost everything; fortunately for Harry, the black marketaccepted cash with no embarrassing inquiries. He found that he couldsurvive.

  But Harry's interest was not in survival; he was bent upondestruction. Surely the Naturalists would be organized and planning away!

  Back in '98, of course, they'd been merely an articulate minoritywithout formal unity--an abstract, amorphous group akin to the"Liberals" of previous generations. A Naturalist could be a Catholicpriest, a Unitarian layman, an atheist factory hand, a governmentemployee, a housewife with strong prejudices against governmentalcontrols, a wealthy man who deplored the dangers of growingindustrialization, an Ag Culture worker who dreaded the dwindling ofindividual rights, an educator who feared widespread employment ofsocial psychology, or almost anyone who opposed the concept of MassMan, Mass-Motivated. Naturalists had never formed a single class, asingle political party.

  Surely, however, the enactment of the Leffingwell Law would haveunited them! Harry knew there was strong opposition, not only on thehigher levels but amongst the general population. People would beafraid of the inoculations; theologians would condemn the process;economic interests, real-estate owners and transportation magnates andmanufacturers would sense the threat here. They'd sponsor and they'dsubsidize their spokesmen and the Naturalists would evolve into anefficient body of opposition.

  So Harry hoped, and so he thought, until he came out into the cities;came out into the cities and realized that the very magnitude of MassMan mitigated against any attempt to organize him, except as acreature who labored and consumed. Organization springs fromdiscussion, and discussion from thought--but who can think in chaos,discuss in delirium, organize in a vacuum? And the common citizen,Harry realized, had seemingly lost the capacity for group action. Heremembered his own existence years ago--either he was lost in a crowdor he was alone, at home. Firm friendships were rare, and family unitssurvived on the flimsiest of foundations. It took too much time andeffort just to follow the rules, follow the traffic, follow theincessant routines governing even the simplest life-pattern in theteeming cities. For leisure there was the telescreen and theyellowjackets, and serious problems could be referred to the psych inroutine check-ups. Everybody seemed lost in the crowd these days.

  Harry discovered that Dr. Manschoff had indeed lied to him; mentaldisorders were on the increase. He remembered an old, old book--one ofthe very first treatises on sociological psychology. _The LonelyCrowd_, wasn't it? Full of mumbo-jumbo about "inner-directed" and"outer-directed" personalities. Well, there was a grain of truth in itall. The crowd, and its individual members, lived in loneliness. Andsince you didn't know very many people well enough to talk to,intimately, you talked to yourself. Since you couldn't get away fromphysical contact with others whenever you ventured abroad, you stayedinside--except when you had to go to work, had to line up forfood-rations or supplies, had to wait for hours for your check-ups onoff-days.
And staying inside meant being confined to the equivalent ofan old-fashioned prison cell. If you weren't married, you lived in"solitary"; if you were married, you suffered the presence offellow-inmates whose habits became intolerable, in time. So youwatched the screen more and more, or you increased your quota ofsedation, and when that didn't help you looked for a real escape. Itwas always available to you if you searched long enough; waiting atthe tip of a knife, in the coil of a rope, the muzzle of a gun. Youcould find it at the very bottom of a bottle of pills or at the verybottom of the courtyard outside your window. Harry recalled lookingfor it there himself, so many years ago.

  But now he was looking for something else. He was looking for otherswho shared not only his viewpoint but his purposefulness.

  Where were the Naturalists?

  Harry searched for several years.

  _The press?_

  But there were no Naturalists visible on the telescreens. The news andthe newsmakers reflected a national philosophy adopted manygenerations ago by the Founding Fathers of mass-communication in theirinfinite wisdom--"_What's good for General Motors is good for thecountry._" And according to them, everything happening was good forthe country; that was the cardinal precept in the science ofautobuyology. There were no Arnold Ritchies left any more, and theprinted newzine seemed to have vanished.

  _The clergy?_

  Individual churches with congregations in physical attendance, seemeddifficult to find. Telepreachers still appeared regularly everySunday, but their scripts--like everyone else's--had been processed inadvance. Denominationalism and sectarianism had waned, too; all ofthese performers seemed very much alike, in that they were vigorous,forthright, inspiring champions of the _status quo_.

  _The scientists?_

  But the scientists were a part of the government, and the governmentwas a one-party system, and the system supported the nation and thenation supported the scientists. Of course, there were still privatelaboratories subsidized for industrial purposes, but the men whoworked in them seemed singularly disinterested in social problems. Ina way, Harry could understand their position. It isn't likely that adedicated scientist, a man whose specialized research has won him aNobel Prize for creating a new detergent, will be worldly enough toface unpleasant realities beyond the walls of his antiseptic sanctum.After all, there was precedent for such isolationism--did the saintedBetty Crocker ever enlist in any crusades? As for physicians,psychiatrists and mass-psychologists, they were the very ones whoformed the hard core of Leffingwell's support.

  _The educators, then?_

  Vocational Apt was a part of the government. And the poor pedagogues,who had spent generations hacking their way out of the blackboardjungles, were only too happy to welcome the notion of a comingmillennium when their small charges would be still smaller. Eventhough formal schooling, for most youngsters, terminated at fourteen,there was still the problem of overcrowding. Telescreening andteletesting techniques were a help, but the problem was essentially aphysical one. And Leffingwell was providing a physical solution.Besides, the educators had been themselves educated, throughVocational Apt. And while they, and the government, fervently upheldthe principle of freedom of speech, they had to draw the linesomewhere. As everyone knows, freedom of speech does not mean freedomto _criticize_.

  _Business men?_

  Perhaps there were some disgruntled souls in the commercial community,whose secret heroes were the oil tycoons of a bygone era or theold-time Stock Exchange clan united under the totems of the bull orthe bear. But the day of the rugged individualist was long departed;only the flabby individualist remained. And he had the forms to fillout and the inspectors to contend with, and the rationing to worryabout and the taxes to meet and the quotas to fulfill. But in the longrun, he managed. The business man worked for the government, but thegovernment also worked for him. His position was protected. And if thegovernment said the Leff Shots would solve the overpopulationproblem--_without_ cutting down the number of consumers--well, wasthat really so bad? Why, in a generation or so there'd be even _more_customers! That meant increased property values, too.

  It took Harry several years to realize he'd never find Naturalistsorganized for group action. The capacity for group action had vanishedas the size of the group increased. All interests were interdependent;the old civic, fraternal, social and anti-social societies had nopresent purpose any more. And the once-familiar rallying-points--whetherthey represented idealistic humanitarianism or crass self-interest--hadvanished in the crowd. Patriotism, racialism, unionism, had all beenlost in a moiling megalopolitanism.

  There were protests, of course. The mothers objected, some of them. AgCulture, in particular, ran into difficulties with women who revivedthe quaint custom of "going on strike" against the Leff Law andrefused to take their shots. But it was all on the individual level,and quickly coped with. Government medical authorities met the womenat checkup time and demonstrated that the Leff Law had teeth in it.Teeth, and scalpels. The rebellious women were not subdued, slain, orsegregated--they were merely sterilized. Perhaps more would have comeof this if their men had backed them up; but the men, by and large,were realists. Having a kid was a headache these days. This newbusiness of injections wasn't so bad, when you came right down to it.There'd still be youngsters around, and you'd get the same allotmentfor extra living space--only the way it worked out, there'd be moreroom and the kids would eat less. Pretty good deal. And it wasn't asif the young ones were harmed. Some of them seemed to be a lot smarterthan ordinary--like on some of the big quizshows, youngsters of eightand nine were winning all those big prizes. Bright little ones. Ofcourse, these must be the ones raised in the first special school thegovernment had set up. They said old Leffingwell, the guy who inventedthe shots, was running it himself. Sort of experimenting to see howthis new crop of kids would make out....

  It was when Harry learned about the school that he knew what he mustdo.

  And if nobody else would help him, he'd act on his own. There mightnot be any help from organized society, but he still had disorganizedsociety to turn to.

  * * * * *

  He spent the next two years and the last of his money finding a way.The pattern of criminality had changed, too, and it was no easy matterto find the assistance he needed. About the only group crime stillflourishing was hijacking; it took him a long while to locate a smallunder-cover outfit which operated around St. Louie and arrange toobtain a helicopter and pilot. Getting hold of the rifle was stillmore difficult, but he managed. And by the time everything wasassembled, he'd found out what he needed to know about Dr. Leffingwelland his school.

  As he'd suspected, the school was located in the old canyon, right inthe same buildings which had once served as experimental units. Howmany youngsters were there, Harry didn't know. Maybe Manschoff wasstill on the staff, and maybe they'd brought in a whole new staff.These things didn't matter. What mattered was that Leffingwell was onthe premises. And a man who knew his way about, a man who worked aloneand to a single purpose, could reach him.

  Thus it was that Harry Collins crouched behind the boulder that brightMay morning and waited for Dr. Leffingwell to appear. The helicopterhad dropped him at the upper end of the canyon the day before, givinghim a chance to reconnoitre and familiarize himself with the terrainonce again. He'd located Leffingwell's quarters, even seen the manthrough one of the lower windows. Harry had no trouble recognizinghim; the face was only too familiar from a thousand 'casts viewed on athousand screens. Inevitably, some time today, he'd emerge from thebuilding. And when he did, Harry would be waiting.

  He shifted behind the rocks and stretched his legs. Twelve years hadpassed, and now he'd come full circle. The whole business had startedhere, and here it must end. That was simple justice.

  _And it is justice_, Harry told himself. _It's not revenge._ Becausethere'd be no point to revenge; that was only melodramatic nonsense.He was no Monte Cristo, come to wreak vengeance on his crueloppressors. And he was no madman, no vic
tim of a monomaniacalobsession. What he was doing was the result of lengthy and logicalconsideration.

  If Harry Collins, longtime fugitive from a government treatmentcenter, tried to take his story to the people, he'd be silencedwithout a hearing. But his story must be heard. There was only one wayto arrest the attention of a nation--with the report of a rifle.

  A bullet in Leffingwell's brain; that was the solution of the problem.Overnight the assassin would become a national figure. They'dundoubtedly try him and undoubtedly condemn him, but first he'd havehis day in court. He'd get a chance to speak out. He'd give all thevoiceless, unorganized victims of the Leff Law a reason forrebellion--and offer them an example. If Leffingwell had to die, itwould be in a good cause. Moreover, he deserved to die. Hadn't hekilled men, women, infants, without mercy?

  _But it's not revenge_, Harry repeated. _And I know what I'm doing.Maybe I was disturbed before, but I'm sane now. Perfectly logical.Perfectly calm. Perfectly controlled._

  Yes, and now his sane, logical, calm, controlled eyes noted that thedistant door was opening, and he sighted through the 'scope andbrought his sane, logical, calm, controlled hand up along the barrelto the trigger. He could see the two men emerging, and the shorter,plumper of the two was Leffingwell. He squinted at the high foreheadwith its receding hairline; it was a perfect target. A little squeezenow and he knew what would happen. In his sane, logical, calm,controlled mind he could visualize the way the black hole would appearin the center of that forehead, while behind it would be the torn anddripping redness flecked with gray--

  "What are you doing?"

  Harry whirled, staring; staring down at the infant who stood smilingbeside him. It _was_ an infant, that was obvious enough, and implicitin the diminutive stature, the delicate limbs and the oversized head.But infants do not wear the clothing of pre-adolescent boys, they donot enunciate with clarity, they do not stare coolly and knowingly attheir elders. They do not say, "Why do you want to harm Dr.Leffingwell?"

  Harry gazed into the wide eyes. He couldn't speak.

  "You're sick, aren't you?" the child persisted. "Let me call thedoctor. He can help you."

  Harry swung the rifle around. "I'll give you just ten seconds to clearout of here before I shoot."

  The child shook his head. Then he took a step forward. "You wouldn'thurt me," he said, gravely. "You're just sick. That's why you talkthis way."

  Harry leveled the rifle. "I'm not sick," he muttered. "I know what I'mdoing. And I know all about you, too. You're one of them, aren't you?One of the first of Leffingwell's brood of illegitimates."

  The child took another step forward. "I'm not illegitimate," he said."I know who I am. I've seen the records. My name is Harry Collins."

  Somewhere the rifle exploded, the bullet hurtling harmlessly overhead.But Harry didn't hear it. All he could hear, exploding in his ownbrain as he went down into darkness, was the sane, logical, calm,controlled voice of his son.