“I’m Tree,” the sick man said, also extending his hand. When Barnes took it he found it unaccountably moist; it was difficult if not impossible for him to hold onto it—he let it drop at once.
Bonny said, “Jack, Mr. Barnes here is an authority on removing lambs’ tails after they’re grown and the danger of tetanus is so great.”
“I see,” Tree nodding. But he seemed only to be going through the motions; he did not seem really to care or even to understand. Reaching down he thumped the dog. “Barnes,” he said to the dog distinctly, as if he were teaching the dog the name.
The dog groaned. “. . brnnnnz … ” It barked, eying its master with gleaming hopefulness.
“Right,” Mr. Tree said, smiling. He displayed almost no teeth at all, just empty gums. Worse even than me, Barnes thought. The man must have been down below, near San. Francisco, when the big bomb fell; that’s one possibility, or it could simply be diet, as in my case. Anyhow, he avoided looking; he walked away, hands in his pockets.
“You’ve got a lot of land here,” he said over his shoulder. “Through what legal agency did you acquire title? The County of Marin?”
“There’s no title,” Mr. Tree said. “I just have use. The West Marin Citizens’ Council and the Planning Committee allow me, through Bonny’s good offices.”
“That dog fascinates me,” Barnes said, turning. “It really talks; it said my name clearly.”
“Say ‘good day’ to Mr. Barnes,” Mr. Tree said to the dog.
The dog woofed, then groaned, “Gddday, Mrbarnzzzzz.” It woofed again, this time eying him for his reaction.
To himself, Barnes sighed. “Really terrific.” he said to the dog. It whined and skipped about with joy.
At that, Mr. Barnes felt some sympathy for it. Yes, it was a remarkable feat. Yet—the dog repelled him as did Tree himself; both of them had an isolated, warped quality, as if by being out here in the forest alone they had been cut off from normal reality. They had not gone wild; they had not reverted to anything resembling barbarism. They were just plain unnatural. He simply did not like them.
But he did like Bonny and he wondered how the hell she had gotten mixed up with a freak like Mr. Tree. Did owning a lot of sheep make the man a great power in this small community; was it that? Or—was there something more, something which might explain the former—dead—teacher’s action in trying to kill Mr. Tree?
His curiosity was aroused; it was the same instinct, perhaps, that came into play when he spotted a new variety of mushroom and felt the intense need to catalogue it, to learn exactly which species it was. Not very flattering to Mr. Tree, he thought caustically, comparing him to a fungus. But it was true; he did feel that way, about both him and his weird dog.
Mr. Tree said to Bonny, “Your little girl isn’t along, today.”
“No,” Bonny said. “Edie isn’t well.”
“Anything serious?” Mr. Tree said in his hoarse voice. He looked concerned.
“A pain in her stomach, that’s all. She gets it every now and then; has as far back as I can remember. It’s swollen and hard. Possibly it’s appendicitis, but surgery is so dangerous, these days—“ Bonny broke off, then turned to Barnes. “My little girl, you haven’t met her … she loves this dog, Terry. They’re good friends, they talk back and forth by the hour when we’re out here.”
Mr. Tree said, “She and her brother.”
“Listen,” Bonny said, “I’ve gotten sick and tired of that. I told Edie to quit that. En fact, that’s why I like her to come out here and play with Terry; she should have actual playmates and not become so introverted and delusional. Don’t you agree, Mr. Barnes; you’re a teacher—a child should relate to actuality, not fantasy, isn’t that right?”
“These days,” Barnes said thoughtfully, “I can understand a child withdrawing into fantasy … it’s hard to blame him. Perhaps we all ought to be doing that.” He smiled, but Bonny did not smile back, nor did Mr. Tree.
Not for a moment had Bruno Bluthgeld taken his eyes off the new young teacher—if this actually was the truth; if this short young man dressed in khaki trousers and workshirt really was a teacher, as Bonny had said.
Is he after me, too? Bluthgeld asked himself. Like the last one? I suppose so. And Bonny brought him here … does that mean that even she, after all, is on their side? Against me?
He could not believe that. Not after all these years. And it had been Bonny who had discovered Mr. Austurias’ actual purpose in coming to West Main. Bonny had saved him from Mr. Austurias and he was grateful; he would not now be alive except for her, and he could never forget that, so perhaps this Mr. Barnes was exactly what he claimed to be and there was nothing to worry about. Bluthgeld breathed a little more relaxedly now; he calmed himself and looked forward to showing Barnes his new-born Suffolk lambs.
But sooner or later, he said to himself, someone will track me here and kill me. It’s only a matter of time; they all detest me and they will never give up. The world is still seeking the man responsible for all that happened and I can’t blame them. They are right in doing so. After all, I carry on my shoulders the responsibility for the death of millions, the loss of three-fourths of the world, and neither they nor I can forget that. Only God has the power to forgive and forget such a monstrous crime against humanity.
He thought, I would not have killed Mr. Austurias; I would have let him destroy me. But Bonny and the others—the decision was theirs. It was not mine, because I can no longer make decisions. I am no longer allowed to by God; it would not be proper. My job is to wait here, tending my sheep, wait for him who is to come, the man appointed to deal out final justice. The world’s avenger.
When will he come? Bluthgeld asked himself. Soon? I’ve waited yeas now. I’m tired … I hope it won’t be too much longer.
Mr. Barnes was saying, “What did you do, Mr. Tree, before you became a sheep rancher?”
“I was an atomic scientist,” Bluthgeld said.
Hurriedly, Bonny said, “Jack was a teacher; he taught physics. High school physics. That wasn’t around here, of course.’
“A teacher,” Mr. Barnes said. “Then we have something in common.” He smiled at Doctor Bluthgeld and automatically Bluthgeld smiled back. With nervousness Bonny watched the two of them, her hands clasped together, as if she were afraid that something was going to happen, something dreadful.
“We must see more of each other,” Bluthgeld said, somberly nodding. “We must talk.”
IX
When Stuart McConchie returned to the East Bay from his trip to the peninsula south of San Francisco he found that someone—no doubt a group of veterans living under the pier—had killed and eaten his horse, Edward Prince of Wales. All that remained was the skeleton, legs and head, a heap worthless to him or to anyone else. He stood by it, pondering. Well, it had been a costly trip. And he had arrived too late anyhow; the fanner, at a penny apiece, had already disposed of the electronic parts of his Soviet missile.
Mr. Handy would supply another horse, no doubt, but he had been fond of Edward Prince of Wales. And it was wrong to kill a horse for food because they were so vitally needed for other purposes; they were the mainstay of transportation, now that most of the wood had been consumed by the wood-burning cars and by people in cellars using it in the winter to keep warm, and horses were needed in the job of reconstruction—they were the main source of power, in the absence of electricity. The stupidity of killing Edward maddened him; it was, he thought, like barbarism, the thing they all feared. It was anarchy, and right in the middle of the city; right in downtown Oakland, in broad day. It was what he would expect the Red Chinese to do.
Now, on foot, he walked slowly toward San Pablo Avenue. The sun had begun to sink into the lavish, extensive sunset which they had become accustomed to seeing in the years since the Emergency. He scarcely noticed it. Maybe I ought to go into some other business, he said to himself. Small animal traps—it’s a living, but there’s no advancement possible in it. I mean, where can you rise to in a business like that?
The loss of his horse had depressed him; he gazed down at the broken, grass-infested sidewalk as he picked his way along, past the rubble which once had been factories. From a burrow in a vacant lot something with eager eyes noted his passing; something, he surmised gloomily, that ought to be hanging by its hind legs minus its skin.