satisfied with it. But it has never been out of print, has appeared in fourteen
languages, and has earned a preposterous amount in book royalties alone; I should
not kick. Nevertheless I cringe whenever I consider its shortcomings.
My next fiction (here following) was FREE MEN. Offhand it appears to be a
routine post-Holocaust story, and the details-idioms, place names, etc.-justify that
assumption. In fact it is any conquered nation in any century-
FREE MEN
“That makes three provisional presidents so far,” the Leader said. “I wonder
how many more there are?” He handed the flimsy sheet back to the runner, who placed
it in his mouth and chewed it up like gum.
The third man shrugged. “No telling. What worries me-” A mockingbird
interrupted. “Doity, doity, doity,” he sang. “Terloo, terloo, terloo,
Page 87
purty-purtypurty-purty.”
The clearing was suddenly empty.
“As I was saying,” came the voice of the third man in a whisper in the
Leader’s ear, “it ain’t how many worries me, but how you tell a de Gaulle from a
Laval. See anything?”
“Convoy. Stopped below us.” The Leader peered through bushes and down the
side of a bluff. The high ground pushed out toward the river here, squeezing the
river road between it and the water. The road stretched away to the left, where the
valley widened out into farmland, and ran into the outskirts of Barclay ten miles
away.
The convoy was directly below them, eight trucks preceded and followed by
halftracks. The following halftrack was backing, vortex gun cast loose and ready for
trouble. Its commander apparently wanted elbow room against a possible trap.
At the second truck helmeted figures gathered
around its rear end, which was jacked up. As the Leader watched he saw one wheel
temoved.
“Trouble?”
“I think not. Just a breakdown. They’ll be gone soon.” He wondered what was
in the trucks. Food, probably. His mouth watered. A few weeks ago an opportunity
like this would have meant generous rations for all, but the conquerors had
smartened up.
He put useless thoughts away. “It’s not that that worries me, Dad,” he
added, returning to the subject. “We’ll be able to tell quislings from loyal
Americans. But how do you tell men from boys?”
“Thinking of Joe Benz?”
“Maybe. I’d give a lot to know how far we can trust Joe. But I could have
been thinking of young Morrie.”
“You can trust him.”
“Certainly. At thirteen he doesn’t drink-and he wouldn’t crack if they
burned his feet off. Same with Cathleen. It’s not age or sex-but how can you tell?
And you’ve got to be able to tell.”
There was a flurry below. Guards had slipped down from the trucks and
withdrawn from the road when the convoy had stopped, in accordance with an orderly
plan for such emergencies. Now two of them returned to the convoy, hustling between
them a figure not in uniform.
The mockingbird set up a frenetic whistling.
“It’s the messenger,” said the Leader. “The dumb fool! Why didn’t he lie
quiet? Tell Ted we’ve seen it.”
Dad pursed his lips and whistled: “Keewah, keewah, keewah, terloo.”
The other “mockingbird” answered, “Terloo,” and shut up.
“We’ll need a new post office now,” said the Leader. “Take care of it, Dad.”
“Okay.”
“There’s no real answer to the problem,” the Leader said. “You can limit
size of units, so that one person can’t give away too many-but take a colony like
ours.
It needs to be a dozen or more to work. That means they all have to be dependable,
or they all go down together. So each one has a loaded gun at the head of each other
one.”
Dad grinned, wryly. “Sounds like the United Nations before the Blow Off.
Cheer up, Ed. Don’t burn your bridges before you cross them.”
“I won’t. The convoy is ready to roll.”
When the convoy had disappeared in the distance, Ed Morgan, the Leader, and
his deputy Dad Carter stood up and stretched. The “mockingbird” had announced safety
loudly and cheerfully. “Tell Ted to cover us into camp,” Morgan ordered.
Dad wheepled and chirruped and received acknowledgement. They started back
into the hills. Their route was roundabout and included check points from which they
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