“No!” Judith burst out.
We had forgotten about Judith, and we both swung round to stare at her, towering above us, her eyes blazing.
“No!” she repeated. “It’s all starting to make sense!”
“What the hell do you mean?” I demanded.
She advanced into the cell, standing between us. “Grainer was a Caesar on the surface, but he was a pagan at heart. He saw himself as the Leader sacrificing himself for the people. The King must die! The Royal victim! One of the oldest and most universal of human myths.”
“And the biggist pile of bullshit I’ve ever heard!”
“Bullshit perhaps.” Futrell was smiling up at her. “But bullshit of a superior quality.”
“Grainer was either a megalomaniac—or else he was inspired! He saw himself as the Chosen One. That might have been blasphemous—but it wasn’t crazy. Not for the man who had held the fate of the world in his hands. Twice. Once on Moonbase. Again when he arranged rapprochement. Especially when the second was a result of the first. Lobachevsky trusted him because he had saved Lobachevsky’s life.”
She was making a terrible kind offense. But a sense too silly to consider. “He must have gone mad!”
“He wanted to go out as a hero. To be remembered by history—if there is any history after this mess—as the President who saved civilization long enough for the Affluence to get its act together. Not as the President who went down with the chaos.” Futrell looked at his hands, cracked his knuckles. “He left me to do the rough stuff.”
“He picked the right man for that!” I was still groping for Grainer’s logic. His planning had always been so exact, his ideas so definite. Old questions were reviving in my mind. Why had so many people let themselves be involved in the assassination? Why had he exposed himself so openly at the end of that red carpet? Why had Sherry turned traitor? Had she known that Grainer was seeking his own death? If she had, then my killing of her had been true murder, even if she had hated him as she had claimed. But perhaps that had only been another of her stratagems. The image of her slumped on that sofa, the blood running down between her breasts, swamped my vision. I put my head in my hands. I would never know! I would never know!
Judith’s fingers were stroking my hair. “Forget it all, Gavin! Arnold Grainer’s death was his personal sacrifice—whatever his reason. Randolph was the only man who could persuade people there was hope for some kind of a future, who could persuade them to work for it. He gave meaning to many lives which otherwise would have become meaningless. And Futrell here was the kind of man needed to drive them on after hope was running thin.” She turned to him. “Where is President Randolph?”
“Dead!” Futrell gave another of his ugly smiles. “I strengthened Sherando to serve as his refuge. After two days there he shot himself! Not as any sacrifice. From despair!”
I lunged toward him. I wanted to smash his smiling face. Judith held me back. “Let him be, Gavin. He carried on with Grainer’s plan.” Then she swung on him. “Was persecuting the Settlements part of that plan?”
Futrell shook his head.
“Then why have you been attacking us?”
“Not my doing! The Government’s response to popular re-
quest. Five years ago most Americans regarded Believers as a bunch of religious nuts, heretics, or quasicommunists. During the draft your Settlements were bolt-holes for draft-dodgers hiding behind a fake religion. Or cowards who’d taken to the hills during some nuclear scare. Americans who had dropped out of mainstream America while claiming the rights and privileges of American citizens.”
“We paid our taxes! We never caused any trouble.”
“But you had your private radio network with Settlements in foreign countries. An international conspiracy, but too unimportant to become an issue when the Affluence was in full flood. Just a bunch of misguided fools trying to live the simple life. The woods were full of survivalists preparing for some giant shitstorm.” He looked up at Judith. “You know what changed that, as well as I do.”
“We escaped Impermease.”
“Most people had never heard of Impermease. All they could see were Settlements still full of kids while maternity wards were closing down for lack of business. So they made a natural assumption-—you Believers were somehow responsible for their daughters’ sterility. That if you were left alone you’d inherit the Earth within a couple of generations. And that you’d planned it that way.”
“Lies—and you knew it!”
“Sure—but why should we worry about a gang of bolters who’d already opted out?” Futrell gave another ugly smile. “Anyway, by then our credibility was nil. A statement by us that you weren’t involved would only have convinced people you were.”
“So you sent in your thugs to rape our women!”
“We sent in disciplined troops to rescue your women. To free your brainwashed girls and give them a chance of living decent lives. Married to men. Not mated to doves!”
“Doves that drove off your Troopers and put you in this cell!”
Futrell scowled. “That was bad luck.”
“And good shooting!” Someone was tapping at the door. “Judy, who the hell’s that?”
It was Chuck Yackle. He stepped into the cell, breathing heavily, his bald head gleaming. “Ahh—there you are, Mister Gavin. Ranula's due to arrive in an hour. Where are you going to put the mothers with young babies?”
Where was I going to put them? I stopped myself from telling Yackle where he could. “Have ’em stay aboard until Enoch’s got the tunnel clear. Tell the crew, and any other freedom fighters you can round up, to lend Enoch a hand. This place won’t be secure until we’ve got those gates closed.” “Yes—of course!” Yackle mopped his forehead, hitched up his gunbelt, and noticed Futrell. “I’m Chairman Yackle. Er—who are you?”
“Meet Gerald Futrell,” said Judith. “Attorney General of the United States.”
“The Attorney General! I hope they’re looking after you properly, Mister Futrell.”
“I’m just deciding whether or not to hang him,” I said. “Hang him? I trust you won’t. There have been too many killed already today.” He sighed. “Remember Mister Gavin, revenge debases just anger.” And he departed on that platitude.
Futrell looked after him. “Who’s that wimp?”
“Our spiritual leader. One of the doves who grounded your vultures!” I turned to Judith. “How long before this bastard’s fit to travel?”
“About a week.”
“Then tell Midge he’s all hers. Tell her to take him away as soon as he’s strong enough to survive. Turn him loose, as you promised, unharmed. And unarmed! Dump him at Fairhaven. Let him take a walk through the woods.”
“He’ll go to Sherando.”
“If he makes it—he deserves it. And Anslinger deserves him!” I looked around my old cell, then I went to ease off the ventilator grill and reach up the duct. My manuscript was still hidden round the elbow and I pulled it out. Filthy with dust, it was still legible. I flung it on the bed. “Here’s something to read while you’re waiting.” I stood in front of him, staring down at him. “And here’s something to remember. Grainer told you to protect Helga and Gloria. And you can’t even remember who they were! Well—they were two beautiful women who were murdered. For that you’ll pay. Here or in Hell!”
Judith tugged my sleeve. “Come on! Leave him! There’s still lots to be done.”
There was still too much. I needed time to think, and time was the last thing I was allowed. Because I was credited with capturing the Pen people were asking me how to consolidate our victory and what to do with our prisoners. Because I was the combat commander I must count our dead, comfort our wounded, and console our bereaved.