Bendix paced back and forth, perspiration shining wetly on his face in the light from the overhead bulb. "It's not fair," he said huskily. "It's not a true election. It doesn't represent anything." He looked at Kimmensen desperately. "It's notfair, Joe!"
Kimmensen sighed. "All right, Jem. I assume you brought the necessary equipment—the screwdriver, the insulation, and so forth?"
After another half hour, Bendix looked across the room at Kimmensen. The removed panel lay on the floor at his feet, its screws rocking back and forth inside its curvature. "Joe, it's still not enough."
Kimmensen nodded, listening to the totals on the receiver.
"How many are you switching now?" he asked.
"One out of every three Messerschmidt votes is registering for me."
"Make it one out of two," Kimmensen said harshly.
They barely caught up with Messerschmidt's total. It was a close election. Closer than any Kimmensen had ever been in before. Bendix replaced the panel. They put out the room light and climbed back up to the ground level offices, bringing the chairs with them.
"Well, Joe, it's done." Bendix whispered though there was no one listening.
"Yes, it is."
"A thing like this creeps over you," Jem said in a wondering voice. "You begin by telling yourself you're only rectifying a mistake people would never make if they had time to think. You set a figure—one out of five. One person out of five, you say to yourself, would switch his own vote, given the chance. Then you wonder if it might not be one out of four—and then three.... Joe, I swear when I first suggested we go down there tonight, I hadn't a thought of doing—what we did. Even when I put the insulation and wire in my pocket, I never thought I'd—"
"Didn't you?" Kimmensen said. He felt disinterested. They'd had to do it, and they'd done it. Now the thing was to forget about it. "Good night, Bendix."
He left him and walked slowly through the corridors left over from another time. He went down the front steps and out into the plaza.
He found Messerschmidt waiting for him. He was standing in the shadow of the plane's cabin, and the plaza lights barely showed his face. Kimmensen stopped still.
Messerschmidt's features were a pale ghost of himself in the darkness. "Didn't you think I'd make spot-checks?" he asked with pity in his voice. "I had people voting at timed intervals, with witnesses, while I checked the running total."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Messerschmidt nodded slowly. "Mr. Kimmensen, if I'd thought for a minute you'd do something like that, I'd have had some of my men in that building with you." His hands moved in the only unsure gesture Kimmensen had ever seen him make. "I had a good idea of how the vote would go. When it started right, and suddenly began petering out, I had to start checking. Mr. Kimmensen, did you really think you could get away with it?"
"Get away with what? Are you going to claim fraud—repudiate the election? Is that it?"
"Wait—wait, now—Mr. Kimmensen, didn't you rig the vote?"
"Are you insane?"
Messerschmidt's voice changed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kimmensen. Once more, I have to apologize. I ought to have known better. Bendix must have done it by himself. I should have known—"
"No. No," Kimmensen sighed, "forget it, Messerschmidt. We did it together."
Messerschmidt waited a long moment. "I see." His voice was dead. "Well. You asked me if I was going to repudiate the election."
"Are you?"
"I don't know, yet. I'll have to think. I'll have to do something, won't I?"
Kimmensen nodded in the darkness. "Somehow, you've won and I've lost." Suddenly, it was all welling up inside him. "Somehow, you've arranged to win no matter what decent men do!"
"All right, Mr. Kimmensen. Have it your way."
"Whatever you plan to do now, I'll be home. If you should need me for a firing squad or some similar purpose."
Messerschmidt made an annoyed sound. "Mr. Kimmensen, you're notorious for your dramatics, but I think that's going too far." He walked away into the darkness.
Kimmensen climbed into his plane, sick at the night that covered him, and furious at Messerschmidt's ruthlessly sharp mind.
There was no one at home. He walked methodically through the house, doggedly opening Susanne's empty closets. Then he sat down in the living room with the lights off, staring out into the starlit, moonless night. He nodded sharply to himself.
"Of course," he said in the dark. "She'd be one of his timed voters." Then he sat for a long time, eyes straight ahead and focussed on nothing, every fold of his clothing rigidly in place, as though he were his own statue.
CHAPTER VII
Until, hours later, orange flowers burst in the valley below. He came erect, not understanding them for a moment, and then he ran out to the patio, leaning over the parapet. On the faint wind, he heard the distant sound of earth and houses bursting into vapor. In the valleys, fire swirled in flashes through the dark, and against the glare of burning trees he saw bobbing silhouettes of planes. Men were far too small to be seen at this distance, but as firing stabbed down from the planes other weapons answered from the ground.
Suddenly, he heard the flogging of a plane in the air directly overhead. He jumped back, reaching for his weapon, before he recognized Jem Bendix's sportster. It careened down to his landing stage, landing with a violent jar, and Bendix thrust his head out of the cabin. "Joe!"
"What's happening?"
"Messerschmidt—he's taking over, in spite of the election! I was home when I saw it start up. He and his followers're cutting down everybody who won't stand for it. Come on!"
"What are you going to do?"
Bendix's face was red with rage. "I'm going to go down there and kill him! I should have done it long ago. Are you coming with me?"
Why not?Kimmensen grimaced.Why wait to die here?
He clambered into the plane and buckled his seat belt. Bendix flung them up into the air. His hands on the wheel were white and shaking as he pointed the plane along the mountain slope and sent them screaming downward. "They're concentrated around the office building, from the looks of it," he shouted over the whine of air. "I should have known he'd do this! Well, I'm League President, by God, and I'm going to settle for him right now!"
If you don't kill us first, Kimmensen thought, trying to check over his weapon. Bendix was bent over the wheel, crouched forward as though he wanted to crash directly into the plaza where Kimmensen could see running men.
They pulled out of the dive almost too late. The plane smashed down through the undergrowth behind the office building. Bendix flung his door open and jumped out while the plane rocked violently.
Kimmensen climbed out more carefully. Even here, in the building's shadow, the fires around the plaza were bright enough to let him see. He pushed through the tangled shrubbery, hearing Bendix breaking forward ahead of him. Bendix cleared the corner of the building. "I see him, Joe!"
Kimmensen turned the corner, holding his weapon ready.
He could see Messerschmidt standing in a knot of men behind the wreckage of a crashed plane. They were looking toward the opposite slope, where gouts of fire were winking up and down the mountainside. Kimmensen could faintly hear a snatch of what Messerschmidt was shouting: "Damn it, Toni, we'll pull back when I—" but he lost the rest. Then he saw Bendix lurch out of the bushes ten feet behind them.
"You! Messerschmidt! Turn around!"
Messerschmidt whirled away from the rest of the men, instinctively, like a great cat, before he saw who it was. Then he lowered the weapon in his hand, his mouth jerking in disgust. "Oh—it's you. Put that thing down, or point it somewhere else. Maybe you can do some good around here."
"Never mind that! I've had enough of you."
Messerschmidt moved toward him in quick strides. "Listen, I haven't got time to play games." He cuffed the weapon out of Bendix's hand, rammed him back with an impatient push against his chest, and turned back to his men. "Hey, Toni, can you tell if those Northwesters're moving down here yet?"
Kimmensen's cheeks sucked in. He stepped out into the plaza, noticing Bendix out of the corners of his eyes, standing frozen where Messerschmidt had pushed him.
Kimmensen came up to Messerschmidt and the man turned again. His eyes widened. "Well, Mr. Kimmensen?"
"What's going on?"
Messerschmidt grunted. He pointed up the mountain. "There they are. I suppose they knew they had to move fast once I repudiated the election. They began airdropping men about a half hour ago. They're thick as flies up there, and they'll be coming down here as soon as they're through mopping up. That ought to be in a few minutes."
"Northwesters."
"That's right, Mr. Kimmensen.
"Well."
Messerschmidt smiled thinly. "I suppose you've guessed Susie's at my house?"
"Will she be all right?"
Messerschmidt nodded. "It's fortified. That's our next holding point when we fall back from here." His face was grave.
"Isn't there any chance of stopping them?"
Messerschmidt shook his head. "None. They're military specialists, Mr. Kimmensen. We don't have any trained men."
"I see."
Messerschmidt looked at him without any perceptible triumph in his eyes. "It seems, Mr. Kimmensen, that they have men like us in the Northwest, too. Unfortunately, theirs seem to have moved faster."
"What're you going to do?"
Messerschmidt looked up the mountain and shrugged. "Nothing. We got some of them in the air, but the rest are down. We may have weapons as good as theirs, but they know how to use them in units. It's quite simple. We'll try to hold and kill as many as we can when they come at us. We'll keep retreating and holding as long as we can, and when we reach the sea, if we get that far, we'll drown."
Kimmensen frowned. "Their men are concentrated on that mountain?"
"Yes."
"And you're just going to stand still and let the League be wiped out?"
"Just what, Mr. Kimmensen, would you like me to do?" Messerschmidt looked at him in fury. "I don't have time to train an army of our own. They've got us cold."
"Messerschmidt, I see eight men here with weapons."
"As far as anything we can accomplish goes, we might as well use them to toast sandwiches."
"We can scour that mountainside. Down to bare rock."
Messerschmidt blanched. "You're joking."
"I amnot!"
"There are people of ours up there."
"There are people of ours all through this area. When the Northwesters are finished up there, they'll fan out and burn them all down, a little bit at a time."
Messerschmidt looked at Kimmensen incredulously. "I can't do it. There's a chance some of our people up there'll be able to slip out."
"By that time, the Northwesters'll be down here and dispersed."
Messerschmidt started to answer, and stopped.
"Messerschmidt, if you're going to do anything, you'd best do it immediately."
Messerschmidt was shaking his head. "I can't do it. It's murder."
"Something much more important than human life is being murdered on that mountain at this moment."
"All right, Kimmensen," Messerschmidt exploded, "if you're so hot for it,yougive the order! There're something like a hundred League families up there. Half of them're still alive, I'd say. If the election's void, you're still president. You take the responsibility, if you can."
"I can."
"Just like that."
"Messerschmidt, the defense of freedom is instantaneous and automatic."
"All right, Mr. Kimmensen," Messerschmidt sighed. He turned to his men. "You heard him. It's his order. Aim at the mountain." He bared his teeth in a distorted laugh. "In freedom's name—fire!"
Kimmensen watched it happen. He kept his face motionless, and he thought that, in a way, it was just as well he hadn't long to live.
But it was done, and, in a way, his old dream was still alive. In a way, Messerschmidt's hands were tied now, for in the end the Freemen defeated the trained armies and no one could forget the lesson in this generation.
He looked down at the ground. And in a way, Messerschmidt had won, because Kimmensen was dying and Messerschmidt had years.
That seemed to be the way of it. And Messerschmidt would someday die, and other revolutions would come, as surely as the Earth turned on its axis and drifted around the sun. But no Messerschmidt—and no Kimmensen—ever quite shook free of the past, and no revolution could help but borrow from the one before.
Well, Bausch, Kimmensen thought to himself as the face of the mountain slowly cooled and lost color, I wonder what we'll have to say to each other?