Although “Day of Truce” originally appeared in the February 1963 issue of Galaxy Magazine, it is intriguing to note that a cryptic entry in one of the author’s journals, dated October of 1957, says, simply: “Did a lot of work on Kid War story.” It would be four and a half years before “Day of Truce” would be mailed out—so is this the story that cryptic notes references? If so, it would have been an extraordinary delay; getting the copy out was ground into old newspapermen like Clifford Simak.
This is a disturbing story in many ways, and I find myself wondering if this is a sort of counterpoint to stories like “Neighbor.”
The evening was quiet. There was no sign of the Punks. Silence lay heavily across the barren and eroded acres of the subdivision and there was nothing moving—not even one of the roving and always troublesome dog packs.
It was too quiet, Max Hale decided.
There should have been some motion and some noise. It was as if everyone had taken cover against some known and coming violence—another raid, perhaps. Although there was only one place against which a raid could possibly be aimed. Why should others care, Max wondered; why should they cower indoors, when they had long since surrendered?
Max stood upon the flat lookout-rooftop of the Crawford stronghold and watched the streets to north and west. It was by one of these that Mr. Crawford would be coming home. No one could guess which one, for he seldom used the same road. It was the only way one could cut down the likelihood of ambush or of barricade. Although ambush was less frequent now. There were fewer fences, fewer trees and shrubs; there was almost nothing behind which one could hide. In this barren area it called for real ingenuity to effect an ambuscade. But, Max reminded himself, no one had ever charged the Punks with lack of ingenuity.
Mr. Crawford had phoned that he would be late and Max was getting nervous. In another quarter hour, darkness would be closing in. It was bad business to be abroad in Oak Manor after dark had fallen. Or, for that matter, in any of the subdivisions. For while Oak Manor might be a bit more vicious than some of the others of them, it still was typical.
He lifted his glasses again and swept the terrain slowly. There was no sign of patrols or hidden skulkers. There must be watchers somewhere, he knew. There were always watchers, alert to the slightest relaxation of the vigilance maintained at Crawford stronghold.
Street by street he studied the sorry houses, with their broken window panes and their peeling paint, still marked by the soap streaks and the gouges and the red-paint splashes inflicted years before. Here and there dead trees stood stark, denuded of their branches. Browned evergreens, long dead, stood rooted in the dusty yards—yards long since robbed of the grass that once had made them lawns.
And on the hilltop, up on Circle Drive, stood the ruins of Thompson stronghold, which had fallen almost five years before. There was no structure standing. It had been leveled stone by stone and board by board. Only the smashed and dying trees, only the twisted steel fence posts marked where it had been.
Now Crawford stronghold stood alone in Oak Manor. Max thought of it with a glow of pride and a surge of painful memory. It stood because of him, he thought, and he would keep it standing.
In this desert it was the last oasis, with its trees and grass, with its summer houses and trellises, with the massive shrubbery and the wondrous sun dial beside the patio, with its goldfish-and-lily pond and the splashing fountain.
“Max,” said the walkie-talkie strapped across his chest.
“Yes, Mr. Crawford.”
“Where are you located, Max?”
“Up on the lookout, sir.”
“I’ll come in on Seymour Drive,” said Mr. Crawford’s voice. “I’m about a mile beyond the hilltop. I’ll be coming fast.”
“The coast seems to be quite clear, sir.”
“Good. But take no chances with the gates.”
“I have the control box with me, sir. I can operate from here. I will keep a sharp lookout.”
“Be seeing you,” said Crawford.
Max picked up the remote control box and waited for his returning master.
The car came over the hill and streaked down Seymour Drive, made its right-hand turn on Dawn, roared toward the gates.
When it was no more than a dozen feet away, Max pushed the button that unlocked the gates. The heavy bumper slammed into them and pushed them open. The buffers that ran along each side of the car held them aside as the machine rushed through. When the car had cleared them, heavy springs snapped them shut and they were locked again.
Max slung the control-box strap over his shoulder and went along the rooftop catwalk to the ladder leading to the ground.
Mr. Crawford had put away the car and was closing the garage door as Max came around the corner of the house.
“It does seem quiet,” said Mr. Crawford. “Much quieter, it would seem to me, than usual.”
“I don’t like it, sir. There is something brewing.”
“Not very likely,” said Mr. Crawford. “Not on the eve of Truce Day.”
“I wouldn’t put nothing past them dirty Punks,” said Max.
“I quite agree,” said Mr. Crawford, “but they’ll be coming here tomorrow for their day of fun. We must treat them well for, after all, they’re neighbors and it is a custom. I would hate to have you carried beyond the bounds of propriety by overzealousness.”
“You know well and good,” protested Max, “I would never do a thing. I am a fighter, sir, but I fight fair and honorable.”
Mr. Crawford said, “I was thinking of the little gambit you had cooked up last year.”
“It would not have hurt them, sir. Leastwise, not permanently. They might never have suspected. Just a drop or two of it in the fruit punch was all we would have needed. It wouldn’t have taken effect until hours after they had left. Slow-acting stuff, it was.”
“Even so,” said Mr. Crawford sternly, “I am glad I found out in time. And I don’t want a repeat performance, possibly more subtle, to be tried this year. I hope you understand me.”
“Oh, certainly, sir,” said Max. “You can rely upon it, sir.”
“Well, good night, then. I’ll see you in the morning.”
It was all damn foolishness, thought Max—this business of a Day of Truce. It was an old holdover from the early days when some do-gooder had figured maybe there would be some benefit if the stronghold people and the Punks could meet under happy circumstance and spend a holiday together.
It worked, of course, but only for the day. For twenty-four hours there were no raids, no flaming arrows, no bombs across the fence. But at one second after midnight, the feud took up again, as bitter and relentless as if had ever been.
It had been going on for years. Max had no illusions about how it all would end. Some day Crawford stronghold would fall, as had all the others in Oak Manor. But until that day, he pledged himself to do everything he could. He would never lower his guard nor relax his vigilance. Up to the very end he would make them smart for every move they made.
He watched as Mr. Crawford opened the front door and went across the splash of light that flowed out from the hall. Then the door shut and the house stood there, big and bleak and black, without a sliver of light showing anywhere. No light ever showed from the Crawford house. Well before the fall of night he always threw the lever on the big control board to slam steel shutters closed against all the windows in the place. Lighted windows made too good a nighttime target.