in short order.
So you shut up.
Of course, you appreciated that the guys up top had their own problems and
plenty of them. You couldn’t help but notice these things. Power shortages, food
shortages, sewer-disposal problems—even the johns in the barracks were beginning
to stink up, and no one seemed able to unblock the crappers. And all these
epidemics didn’t help matters.
And now these miners. It was unbelievable. How in hell had they been able to fix
things the way they’d been fixed? Someone wasn’t running a very tight ship out
there. Some very red faces would be around when it was all sorted out. Not to
mention a few summary executions. Probably more than a few, come to think of it,
and it was a relief to realize that you hadn’t been involved in mine duty for a
good four months. So they couldn’t blame you.
Best thing to do under the circumstances was keep your head down; don’t make
waves, don’t attract attention. Let the upper echelons sort the mess out. Just
do your job and don’t talk back and don’t come up with wildies about criminal
elements in town being behind all this because those at the top knew what they
were about, and if they dumped on such theories the reason had to be because
they had the matter well in hand.
That had to be it.
Nevertheless, it was wise to take precautions. Even out here, in the north end
of town, outside the Big Man’s mansion—outside this sprawling, many-roomed
pre-Nuke dwelling place that had once belonged, or so you’d heard, to some guy
called Bank Manager, whatever that meant— it was wise to be wary.
You always had to stand, when you were on guard duty, out in the light, out in
the glare of the spotlights that lit up the area around the house, the lawns,
the driveway. That was where you had to be. You had to show yourself, holding
your piece, so that any guy who got past the electrified fencing and then the
outer ring of sentry-hides would see you and shit himself. That was the theory,
and as a theory it was fine, although of course the mere idea of anyone getting
up this far was ludicrous. Laughable. The last time anyone had tried to ice the
Big Man was—-well hell, it had to be all of a dozen years ago, and he’d been
crazy, and in any case what had happened to him had been so bad that anyone
trying the same trick would have to be triple crazy. As far as you could
remember—and you’d only been eight or nine at the time—they’d kept the sucker
alive for two whole weeks out in the center of town so everyone could see, on a
specially constructed platform, and for the last ten days of that two weeks he
was screaming to die, begging for it. How the hell they’d managed to keep him
alive, with not much skin on him, and things sticking into him and out of him
and up him and all, was beyond you. Unreal. Those guys—hell, they’d been real
clever, real talented. It was one of the reasons that made you want to be a sec
man when you grew up.
So no way was any guy going to be smart enough or brave enough or even stupid
enough to get this close to the Big House, and really what you were was a kind
of honor guard, and there was no danger whatsoever and it didn’t really matter
if you stood in the light at all.
In any case, these days the lights weren’t so damned bright as they used to be
and even here, even outside the residence of the Big Man, there were obviously
power supply problems, screwed-up generators and the like. You couldn’t help but
notice that a couple of the pylons this side of the house were in an alarming
state of disrepair, and one of them kept on flickering, which was a nuisance,
irritating to the eyes.
It felt safer in the shadows, the deep shadows, where no one could see you—not
that there was anyone out there to see you except your opposite number on the