Part 3

* * * * *

One question of Harkway's kept coming back to Cudyk. "Would you live in a universe drenched with blood?"

Rack would, of course; for others there was a tragic dilemma. For them, the race had come to the end of a road that had its beginning in prehistory. Every step of progress on that way had been accomplished by bloodshed, and yet the goal had always been a world at peace. It had been possible to live with the paradox when the road still seemed endless: before the first Earth starships discovered that humanity was not alone in the universe.

Human beings were like a fragile crystalline structure, enduring until the first touch of air; or like a cyst that withers when it is cut open. The winds of the universe blew around them now, and there was no way to escape from their own nature.

The way forward was the way back; the way back was the way forward.

There was no peace except the peace of surrender and death. There was no victory except the victory of chaos.

As the priest had remarked, there were many theories about the Collapse. It was said that the economy of Earth had been wrecked by interstellar imports; it was said that the rusts and blights that had devastated Earth's fields were of alien origin; it was said that the disbanding of the Space Navy, after the Altair Incident, had broken Earth's spirit. It was said that the emigrations, both before and after the Famines, had bled away too much of the trained manpower that was Earth's life-blood.

The clear fact was that the human race was finished: dying like Neanderthal faced by Cro-Magnon; dying like the hairy Ainu among the Japanese. It was true that hundreds of millions of people lived on Earth much as they had done before, tilling their fields, digging stones from the ground, laboring over the handicrafts which sustained the men of the Quarter in their exile.

Humanity had passed through such dark ages before.

But now there was no way to go except downward.

If the exiles in their ghettoes, on a hundred planets of the galaxy, were the lopped-off head of the race, then the ferment of theories, plans, and policies that swirled through them stood for the last fitful fantasies in the brain of a guillotined man.

And on Earth, the prelates, the robber barons, the petty princes were ganglia: performing their mechanical functions in a counterfeit of intelligence, slowing, degenerating imperceptibly until the last spark should go out.

Cudyk fingered the manuscript which lay on the desk before him. It was the last thing he had written, and it would never be finished. He had hunted it up, this morning, out of nostalgia, or perhaps through some obscure working of that impulse that made him look out at the stars each night.

There were twenty pages, the first chapter of a book that was to have been his major work. It ended with the words:

"The only avenue of escape for humanity is...."

He had stopped there, because he had realized suddenly that he had been deliberately deceiving himself; that there was no avenue. The scheme he had meant to propose and develop in the rest of the book had one thing in common with those he had demolished in the first pages. It would not work.

Cudyk thought of those phantom chapters now, and was grateful that he had not written them. He had meant to propose that the exiles should band together on some unpeopled planet, and rear a new generation which would be given all the knowledge of the old, save for two categories: military science and astronomy. They would never be told, never guess that the bright lights of their sky were suns, that the suns had planets and the planets people. They would grow up free of that numbing pressure; they would have a fresh start.

It had been the grossest self-deception. You cannot put the human mind in chains. Every culture had tried it, and every culture had failed....

He pulled open a drawer of his desk and put the manuscript into it. A folded note dropped to the floor as he did so. Cudyk picked it up and read again:

_You are requested to attend a meeting which will be held at 8 Washington Avenue at 10 hours today. Matters of public policy will be discussed._

It was not signed; no signature was needed, nor any threatened alternative to complying with the "request". Cudyk glanced at his wristwatch, made on Oladi by spidery, many-limbed creatures to whom an ordinary watch movement was a gross mechanism. The dial showed the Galactic Standard numerals which corresponded to ten o'clock.

Cudyk stood up wearily and walked out past the carved screen. He said to Nick, "I'll be back in an hour or so."

Eight Washington Avenue was The Little Bear, half a block from the corner where he had first met Harkway, a block and a half from the spot where Harkway's corpse had been left in a doorway. Two more associations, Cudyk thought. After twenty-five years, there were so many that he could not move a foot in the Quarter, glance at a window or a wall, without encountering one of them. And this was another thing to remember about a ghetto: you were crowded not only in space but in time. The living were the most transient inhabitants of the Quarter.

* * * * *

Cudyk stepped through the open door of The Little Bear, saw the tables empty and the floor bare. The bartender, Piljurovich, jerked his thumb toward the stairs. "You're late," he said in Russian. "Better hurry."

Cudyk climbed the stairs to the huge second-floor dining hall, where the Russians and Poles held their periodic revels. The room was packed tight with a silent mass of men. At the far end, Rack sat on a chair placed on a table. He stopped in mid-sentence, stared coldly at Cudyk, and then went on.

"--or against me. From now on, there won't be any more neutrals. I want you to understand this clearly. For one thing, your lives may depend on it."

He paused, glancing around the room. "By now you all know that James Harkway was executed last night. His crime was treason against the human race. There are some of you here who have been, or will be, guilty of the same crime. To them I have nothing more to say. To the others, those who have considered themselves neutral, I say this: First, New Earth needs all of you and has earned your allegiance. Second, those of you who remain on an enemy planet in spite of this warning will not live to regret it if that planet is selected for attack.

"You have two months to make up your minds and to close your affairs. At the end of that time, a New Earth transport will call here to take off those who decide to go. It will be the last New Earth ship, and I warn you that you had better not count on Galactic transportation after that date."

He stood up. "That's all."

The audience was over. Rack waited, standing on the table, thumbs hooked into his belt, jacket over his shoulders, like a statue of himself, while the crowd moved slowly out of the room. It was ludicrous, but you could not laugh.

Two months. For almost twenty years Rack had been a minor disturbance in the Quarter, no more important or dangerous or mad than a dozen others; appearing suddenly, at night, staying for a few days, disappearing again for a month, or two, or six. He brought stolen goods to Ferguson--furs from Drux Uta, perhaps, or jewels from Thon--and Ferguson paid him in Galactic currency, reselling the merchandise later, some on Palumbar, some on a dozen other worlds, for twenty times the price he paid. Rack had a following among the younger men of the Quarter; two or three a year joined him. Occasionally there were rumors in the Quarter of Rack's close calls with the Galactic Guard. It had never been a secret that he was building military installations on some far-off planet. But now, for the first time, Cudyk realized that Rack was actually going to make war on the universe.

Whatever the result, the least it meant was the end of the Quarter.

The stairs were choked. Cudyk worked his way down, to find the barroom filled with little knots of men, talking in low voices. Only a few were drinking.

Someone called his name, and then a hand grasped his sleeve. It was Speros Moulios, the grey little tobacco dealer, whose two sons drank too much. "Mr. Cudyk, please, what do you think? Should we go, like he says?"

The others of the group followed him; in a moment Cudyk was surrounded. He felt helpless. "I can't advise you, Mr. Moulios," he said. "To be truthful, I don't know what I am going to do myself."

Nobilio Villaneuva, the druggist, said, "I have worked fifteen years, saved all my money. What am I going to do with it if I go to this New Earth? And what about my daughter?"

Someone came elbowing his way through the crowd. He signaled to Cudyk. "Laszlo!" It was bald, cheerful Mike Moskowitz, one of the Quarter's two doctors. He said, "Some of the fellows want to form a delegation, to go back and ask Rack some questions. They asked me to serve, but I've got to get back to the hospital. Same thing with Seu, he's got six things on his hands already. Father Exarkos isn't here. Will you take over? Good. I'll see you later."

Cudyk sighed. The men around him were watching him expectantly. He stepped over to the bar, picked up an empty glass and rapped with it on the counter until the room quieted.

"It's been suggested," he said, "that a delegation be formed to ask Captain Rack for more information. Do you all want that?"

There was an affirmative murmur.

"All right," said Cudyk. "Nominations?"

They ended up with a committee of five: Cudyk as spokesman, Moulios, Chong Yin, the painter Prokop Vekshin, and the town clerk, Martin Paz. Cudyk had slips of paper passed out, and collected a hundred-odd questions, most of them duplicates and some of them incoherent. Paz made a neat list of those that remained, and the delegation moved toward the stairs.

* * * * *

At the foot of the stairway Cudyk saw Burgess standing, blinking uncertainly around him. He dropped back and put his hand on the man's arm. "Hello, Louis. I'm glad to see you. How is Kathy?"

Burgess straightened a trifle. "Oh--Laszlo. She's all right, thank you. Feeling a little low, just now, of course...." His voice trailed off.

"Of course," said Cudyk sympathetically. "I wish there were something I could do."

"No--no, there's nothing. Time will cure her, I suppose. Where are you going now?"

Cudyk explained. "Were you at the meeting, earlier?" he asked.

"No. I was not invited. I only heard--ten minutes ago. Perhaps it would be all right if I came upstairs with you? In that way--But if I would be a nuisance--" His features worked.

Cudyk felt obscurely uneasy. He recalled suddenly that it was a long time since he had seen Burgess looking perfectly normal. He said reluctantly, "I think it will be all right. Why not? Come along."

Rack was sitting at the end of the long table on the far side of the room, talking to Ferguson. Ferguson's hatchet-man, Vic Smalley, was leaning watchfully against the far wall. Monk and Spider sat at Rack's left. De Grasse, pale and red-eyed, sat halfway down the table, away from the others. He stared at the table in front of him, paying no attention to the rest.

Cudyk had heard that De Grasse was still with Rack, and had wondered what he had done to expiate his sin. The obvious answer was one that he had not wanted to believe: that De Grasse had been given the task of murdering Harkway.

He had done it, probably, with a tormented soul and under Rack's eye, but he had done it. So much, Cudyk thought wearily, for the selfless nobility of man.

Rack looked up expressionlessly as the five men approached. "Yes?"

Cudyk said, "We have been chosen to ask you some questions about your previous statement."

"Ask away," said Rack, leaning back in his chair. Before him was a glass of the dark, smoky liquor Ferguson imported for his special use. He was smoking a tremendously long, black Russian cigarette.

Cudyk took the list from Paz and read the first question. "What is the status of New Earth as to housing, utilities and so on?"

"Housing and utilities are adequate for the present population," said Rack indifferently. "More units will be built as needed."

Paz scribbled in his notebook. Cudyk read, "Will every new colonist be expected to serve as a member of New Earth's fighting forces?"

Rack said, "Every man will work where he's needed. Common sense ought to tell you that middle-aged men with pot bellies and no military training won't be asked to man battleships."

"What is the size of New Earth's navy?"

"Next question."

"Will new colonists be allowed to retain their personal fortunes?"

Rack stared at him coldly. "The man who asked that," he said, "had better stay in the Quarter. If by his personal fortune he means Galactic currency, he can use it to stuff rat-holes. Any personal property of value to the community, and in excess of the owner's minimum needs, will be commandeered and dispensed for the good of the community."

"Will new colonists be under military dis--"

"Look out!" said De Grasse suddenly. He lurched to his feet, upsetting his chair.

Someone stumbled against Paz, who fell heavily across Cudyk's legs, bringing him down. Someone else shouted. From the floor, Cudyk saw Burgess standing quietly with a tiny nickeled revolver in his hand.

"Please don't move, Mr. Ferguson," said Burgess. "I don't trust you. All of you, stand still, please."

Cudyk carefully got his legs under him and slowly stood up. The men on the other side of the table were still sitting or standing where they had been a moment before. De Grasse stood in an attitude of frozen protest, one big hand flat against his trousers pocket. He looked comically like a man who has left the house without his keys.

They must have taken his gun away, Cudyk thought, after that affair yesterday.

Monk and the aged Spider were sitting tensely, trying to watch Rack and Burgess at the same time. Rack, as always, was inhumanly calm. Ferguson looked frightened. The gunman, Vic Smalley, had straightened away from the wall; he looked alert and unworried.

"Captain Rack," said Burgess, "you killed that man Harkway."

Rack said nothing.

"I did it," De Grasse said hoarsely. "If you have to shoot somebody, shoot me."

Burgess turned slightly. Rack, without seeming to hurry, picked up the glass in front of him and half rose to fling the black liquor at Burgess' face.

The gun went off. Burgess stumbled back a step and then toppled over, with a knife-handle sprouting magically between neck and shoulder. De Grasse came hurtling across the table top, dived onto Burgess' prostrate body and came up with the gun. Not more than two seconds had gone by since Rack lifted the glass.

The delegates were moving away, leaving a clear space around De Grasse and Burgess. Cudyk heard some of them clattering down the stairs.

Rack was leaning over the table, supporting himself with one hand, while the other rested at his waist. His attitude, together with his frozen expression, suggested that he was merely bending over to examine Burgess' body. But in the next moment he turned slightly, lifted the hand that was pressed to his side, and looked at the dark stain that was spreading over his shirt.

De Grasse stood up. Cudyk went to Burgess and knelt beside him. The man was conscious and moving feebly. "Lie still," said Cudyk. Someone pushed his shoulder roughly, and he looked up to see De Grasse transferring the revolver from his left hand to his right. The youngster's lips were compressed. "Get out of the way," he said harshly.

"No," said Rack. "Leave him alone." He sat down carefully. After a moment De Grasse went around the table and joined him.

Cudyk lifted Burgess' jacket carefully. There was not much bleeding, and he did not think the wound was dangerous. Burgess said weakly, "Did I kill him, Laszlo?"

"No," said Cudyk. "No one was killed."

Burgess turned his head away.

There were footsteps on the stairs, and Moskowitz came into the room, followed by Lee Far and two men with a stretcher. Moskowitz glanced at Burgess and at Rack, then knelt beside Burgess without a word. He pulled out the knife expertly, pressing a wad of bandage around the wound.

"I'll take that," said Spider, bending over with his grey hand outstretched.

Moskowitz dropped the knife on the floor and went on bandaging Burgess. Spider picked it up, glared at the doctor and went back around the table.

Cudyk waited until Moskowitz had finished with Burgess and started probing for the bullet in Rack's side. Following the stretcher bearers down the stairs, he went out into the clear morning sunlight.

* * * * *

There was never any end to it. The Quarter was like a tight gravitational system, with many small bodies swinging around each other in eccentric orbits, and the whole shrinking in upon itself as time went on, so that it grew more and more certain that one collision would engender half a dozen more.

And in the mind, too, each event went on forever. Cudyk remembered Burgess, in the stretcher as he was being carried home, weeping silently because he had failed to kill the man who had murdered his daughter's lover. And he remembered Rack, sitting silent and weary as he waited for Moskowitz to attend to him: sitting without anger for the man who had shot him, sitting with patience, filled with his own inner strength.

And De Grasse, tortured soul, who had once more shown himself willing to sacrifice himself to any loyalty he felt.

Even Monk, even Spider, lived not for himself but for Rack.

There were all the traditional virtues, dripping their traditional gore: nobility, self-sacrifice, patience, even generosity. By any test except the test of results, Rack was a great man and Burgess another.

And the test of results was a two-edged razor: for by that test, Cudyk himself was a total failure, a nonentity.

He thought, _We are the hollow men, we are the stuffed men...._

When every action led to disaster, those who did nothing were damned equally with those who acted.

* * * * *

Someone touched Cudyk's arm as he left Chong Yin's. He turned and saw that it was Ferguson.

"I've got something to say to you, Cudyk. I saw you were busy talking to Father Exarkos in there, so I didn't bother you. Besides, it's private. Come on down to my place."

The man was doing him an honor, Cudyk realized, in approaching him personally instead of sending an underling. And now, as Ferguson stood waiting for him to reply, Cudyk saw that there was something curiously like appeal in his eyes.

"All right, if you wish," he said. "But I will have to go back to the shop within an hour--Nick has not had his lunch."

"I won't keep you that long," Ferguson said.

They turned at the corner and walked down Washington, past Town Hall to The Little Bear. Beyond this point, everything was Ferguson's: the dance hall, the casino, the bawdy house, the two cafes and three bars, and the two huge warehouses at the end of the avenue. But it was the casino that Ferguson meant when he said "my place".

A white-aproned boy got up hurriedly and opened the heavy doors when they approached. Ferguson strode past without looking at him, and Cudyk followed across the long, empty room. Dust covers shrouded the roulette table, the chuck-a-luck layout, faro, chemin-de-fer, dice and poker tables. The bar was deserted, bottles and glasses neatly stacked.

Ferguson led the way up a short flight of stairs to the overhanging balcony at the end of the room. He opened the door with a key--a rarity in the Quarter, since cylinder locks were available only by scavenging on Earth, and had to be imported, whereas a mechanism used by the Niori as a mathematical toy could be readily adapted into an efficient combination lock.

The low-ceilinged room was furnished with a blond-wood desk and swivel chair, a long, pale green couch and two chairs upholstered in the same fabric: all Earth imports, scavenged from stocks manufactured before the Collapse. The carpet was a deeper green. There were three framed pictures on the walls: a blue-period Picasso, a muted oyster-white and grey Utrillo and a small Roualt clown.

Ferguson was watching him. "Just like my place in Chicago," he said. "You never saw it before, did you?"

"No," Cudyk said. "I have never been in the Casino until now."

"Sit down," said Ferguson, pointing to one of the upholstered chairs. He pulled out the swivel chair and leaned back in it. He nodded toward the glass which formed the entire front wall of the room. "Sittin' up here, I can see everything that goes on downstairs. I got a phone--" he laid his hand on it--"that communicates with the cashier's booth in every room. I can handle the whole place from here, and I don't have to be bothered by the goofs if I don't want to. Also, that glass is bullet proof. It's Niori stuff, ten times better than anything we had back home. They tell me you couldn't get through it with a bazooka."

Cudyk said nothing.

"What I wanted to talk to you about--" said Ferguson, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "You understand, Cudyk, this is confidential. Strictly between us."

"I don't want any confidence that will be difficult to keep," said Cudyk.

"What do you mean?"

"If it is something that touches the safety of the Quarter--"

Ferguson waved his hand impatiently. "No, it's nothing like that. I just don't want it to get around too early. All right, use your own judgment. Here it is.

"Rack's coming back in about three weeks with his transport, to pick up anybody that wants to go to New Earth. I'm not going, and neither are any of my boys. On the other hand, I'm not going to stay here either. It isn't healthy any more.

"I don't know what Rack's got, but I've got a pretty good idea he's got enough to raise a lot of hell. Now you can figure the angles for yourself: maybe he won't bomb this planet because he thinks he can still make some use of the Quarter--but that's a big maybe. Even if he doesn't, it's a dead cinch there's going to be trouble. The Niori know he comes here, even if they can't prove it, and when the war starts they're going to be sore."

"Tell me something," said Cudyk after a moment. "If you knew all this long ago--and you must have, since you have been so closely associated with Rack--why did you help Rack, and so force yourself to leave Palumbar?"

Ferguson grinned and shrugged. "I'm not complaining," he said. "Rack never fooled me. I got mine, and he got his--it was a business arrangement. When you figure everything in, I can clear out now and I'm still ahead. See, you got to figure that nothing lasts forever. If I hadn't played along with Rack, he would have taken his business somewhere else. Maybe I could have stayed here a little longer, but then again, maybe I would have stayed too long. This way, I got my information in advance, and I got my profit from dealing with Rack.

"As a matter of fact, he thinks I and all my outfit are going to be on that transport when it goes back to his base. He knows I wouldn't take a chance on staying here when the shooting starts. What he doesn't know is that I got someplace else to go, and a way to get there."

He sat back in his chair again. "I got a Niori-built freighter hidden back in the hills. Had it for eight years now. It'll carry five hundred people, and fuel and provisions for a year, on top of the cargo. And I got a planet picked out where nobody will bother me--not Rack, and not the Galactics."

* * * * *

He took a cigar box from the desk and offered it to Cudyk. Cudyk shook his head, showing his pipe.