Carlson smiled at him with deep appreciation. “And you’ll persuade Alice to leave tomorrow, sir?”
Alice let her hands drop, exhaustedly. “No. I’ll stay. Nothing can make me go. Not even if you refuse to see me again, Arthur.” She was no longer weeping; her pretty face had become stern. “Let’s not talk about it again. As you’ve said about your men, I’ll have to take my chances, too.”
“It will make your father very unhappy, Alice.”
She smiled sadly. “He must take his chances, Arthur.”
Mr. Steffens let his arm drop from her shoulders. He sat down wearily, and puffed at his pipe. They watched him as he stared at the fire. Finally, he spoke: “I’m sixty-five years old. For most of my life I was a soldier. I was retired at my own request, because, I said, my health was failing. But the truth was, as you both know, that I couldn’t stand the wars any longer, the senseless and hopeless wars, the permanent militarism, the design for endless death and destruction. When I accepted the mandate of the Conclave that I become President of the United States when tyranny is overthrown in my country, I felt it was my duty to accept. Now, I’m not so sure. I’m not sure I can face, again, the pattern of violence which will inevitably emerge before we can restore liberty and the Constitution and peace. The evil in this nation, and in the world, is so well established now that it won’t give up without enormities. Can I face that? Can I remember to be a soldier again, firm and without fear or tiredness? I don’t know.”
Alice was alarmed, and forgot her own wretchedness. “Father, you were almost elected president at one time, and only fraud and lies defeated you. You were willing, then. Why should you consider changing your mind now, when we need you so?”
He smiled at her affectionately. “I’m not sure a military man should ever be president, let us say, not even a military man who has always hated militarism.”
Carlson said, with cold and angry emphasis: “It is because you were a military man who hated militarism that you are best fitted to lead the restored Republic, sir. You would be the first to discover the incipient signs of the disease whenever they appeared.”
Mr. Steffens was silent. Carlson waited, then spoke bitterly: “You aren’t deserting us now, sir?”
The older man winced, then smiled. “No. I’m not deserting you. I only hope I am strong enough—”
He stood up, drooping, and appeared to have forgotten Arthur and his daughter. His face was the face of an old and disillusioned man, carved by sorrow and suffering. Then, very slowly, his shoulders straightened, and he turned away, walking firmly and stiffly from the room as a soldier might walk to his post. Carlson and Alice watched him go, in silence, and they heard the door close behind him.
The fire muttered on the hearth, and the autumn wind became a roar in the quiet. Before Carlson could move or speak, Alice had put her arms about his neck and pressed her body to his. She did not cry again; she only stood, fiercely silent, and held him to her until he, involuntarily, closed his arms around her and let his cheek fall upon her hair.
“It’s no use, Alice,” he said.
But she held him and would not let him go.
When Durant entered the vestibule on his way outside, he discovered that his Guards had been changed for two others, younger, quicker and slighter men, and officers. They saluted him, and informed him that they were under orders not to leave him alone at any time, and that they had replaced the first two Guards at the directive of the Chief Magistrate.
“What was wrong with Tim and Jack?” asked Durant irritably. “Sergeants, but good fellows. Why do I need two lieutenants? I’m swarming with men from the regular Army as it is—a lieutenant, two captains and a sergeant.”
One of the guards smiled a little disdainfully, but replied with politeness: “We have our orders, Colonel, and the Picked Guard is now your bodyguard.” He and his companion saluted, and courteously stood aside, waiting for him to leave the vestibule.
Durant decided he liked neither of his bodyguards, and he debated going back and asking Carlson to be relieved of them. He looked at the Guard at his right, a young man with a lean, smooth face and eyes like polished blue glass. “What’s your name, Lieutenant?”
Again the smart salute which had in it the faint scorn of the Picked Guard for the regular army, a scorn just perceptible because it was so elaborately courteous. “Beckett, sir. John Beckett.” Durant shrugged, having been fully aware of the scorn, and turned to the other young man, his eyebrows raised. “Sadler, sir. Chard Sadler.”
There was something about Sadler which caught Durant’s lively attention, something vaguely familiar. Sadler’s face was slightly gaunt, with a prominent nose jutting sharply from it. He had a straight thin mouth and brown eyes so inflexible in their expression, and so unyielding as he stared at Durant, that the latter was taken aback. Then even as Durant studied him, the expression went from his eyes and they revealed nothing at all but disciplined blankness. Why, God damn it, thought Durant, he looks as if he hates me!
Disturbed, Durant said: “I’ve seen you somewhere, Sadler. And you’ve seen me. Where was it?”
Sadler frowned and tilted his head, puzzled. “I never saw you before, Colonel.” He had a harsh, clipped voice, and the intonations were not new to Durant.
“We both arrived yesterday, from Section 2,” said Beckett. “We never saw you until tonight, sir.”
Durant, still disturbed, went out into the night. The rain had stopped. He got into his car with his Guards, who sat one on each side of him; the driver, a regular Army youth, started the car and they rolled away in silence. Durant almost forgot Beckett on his left, for his whole attention was centered on Sadler. The latter watched everything they passed with the alertness of a savage animal, yet he made no movement of any kind and hardly seemed to breathe. I know I’ve seen him somewhere, thought Durant, with increasing uneasiness, acutely aware of the intent and unblinking ferocity beside him. It gave him a rueful little satisfaction to make, openly, the sign against the evil eye. If either of the Guards saw the gesture, Durant could not tell. He hoped they did; he hoped they knew what it meant.
Unlike the other two Guards, these could not be drawn into conversation. He was determined that they should not dog him at every moment. He occupied himself with little plans. His aversion for them became almost intolerable. He remembered the compassion he had felt for Tim and Jack, but there was no compassion in him for these two.
The car had to halt at a black and windy corner, for a fleet of mighty trucks was rolling across the intersection, loaded with war materials. They rumbled and roared in the empty darkness, their malignant headlights glaring before them, washing up a tide of livid light on the brick walls and cold windows of the sleeping houses. They passed, and the car went on. Now Durant could see the distant pulsing and ebbing of the fiery chimneys of the war plants; they threw a shadow of dull flame against the cloudy night sky. Infernal fires lit to the mad gods of war, fires which sleeplessly devoured a nation’s substance and a nation’s life, thought Durant, with a fresh onset of despair. Hurry! Hurry! he said to himself. Almighty God—hurry!
He remembered the news he had read earlier in the day. It was reported jubilantly that Rio de Janeiro and Buenos Aires had been subjected to “another atomic and hydrogen bomb attack by our fliers.” So many lies were circulated by the Government that Durant felt a little hope that this was a lie, also. He thought of those white and brilliant cities with their great boulevards and grand parks and statues, and he shivered. According to official reports all this now lay shattered and broken, and the mountains looked down on steaming and blazing ruins. “Three million dead!” the newspapers had screamed. Almighty God, repeated Durant in his heart, let it not be true. The hope died in him, and the despair was a heavy sickness in his flesh. He seemed to see the whole violated world before him, with its smashed cities and polluted fields, and its multitudes streaming in wild hunger from place to place, falling upon each other to kill and rob in their insane frenzy and
in ther insane desire to live another hour, another day, another week. Dialectical materialism! Man was paying with his blood, and the reddened earth was paying with him, for the disease which he had embraced. “—pray for us sinners now, and in the hour of our death—” Pray, pray, but hurry, hurry!
“Cigaret, sir?” asked Sadler. Durant, hardly knowing what he did, fumbled with trembling fingers at the package offered him. A light flashed into his face, and he looked into Sadler’s eyes. He could not turn away; those eyes hypnotized him. For they had lost their inflexible expression, and were narrowed and curious and reflective, and the hatred in them had gone.
Sadler applied the light to Durant’s cigaret, then blew it out. Durant smoked, his throat dry and his heart throbbing. What had he done that had changed Sadler’s eyes? What movement, in his distress, had he made? He could not know that, but he knew with stronger and frightening certainty that he had seen those eyes before, and that very look. An impression, dim and fleeting, came to him of greenness and quiet and a voice. What voice? A voice lower and slower than Sadler’s and without its harshness.
The car gathered speed in the empty streets, and soon it was rolling out into the country. Absorbed both in his fear and despair, Durant came to himself with a start as the car turned up the driveway of the Lincoln house. Only one light showed in a lower window. His men had gone to bed, and he was alone with the Picked Guards, and he must get rid of them some way. They entered the house, the Guards carrying their packs, and Durant looked about for Dr. Dodge. But the old man was not in sight. Silently, the three men climbed the stairs. Neither Beckett nor Sadler glanced around them with any interest. But when Durant attempted to enter his room first, Sadler murmured something, brushed by him, hand on gun, and turned on the lights. Durant, harassed beyond control, exclaimed: “Good God, do you expect a murderer in here?”
“Orders, sir,” replied Sadler. Durant watched him as he walked rapidly to the closets, opened and examined them, and scrutinized every possible hiding place.
“I give orders here, Sadler,” said Durant, with exasperation. He sat down on the bed, fuming. Beckett had stationed himself at the door, and Sadler pulled down the shades at the windows.
“We have our orders from the Chief Magistrate, Colonel,” said Beckett, staring at Durant with his glassy blue eyes. Durant began to feel excessively foolish and angry.
“I don’t know where you fellows will sleep. All my men are on this floor. And you can’t expect to get in bed with me!” Durant laughed shortly. “Look, I’ve lived here for months and nobody’s even fired a blank cartridge at me. Why don’t you go downstairs and sleep on the sofas, or sit there and look into each other’s eyes?”
“One of us can sleep, but one of us must stay awake,” replied Sadler. “Orders.” He repeated the word mechanically.
“The hell with your orders!” said Durant, getting up. “I can trust my men.” He went to the wall and pulled a rope. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to have some whisky before I go to bed. On second thought, it’s an ‘order’ for you, too.”
He went to his chest of drawers. In one of them he kept the box of drugs which he had had to use when his broken arm had been healing. Powerful sedatives. Surreptitiously, he palmed two capsules. Both the Guards were watching him with disciplined attention, and he hoped fervently that they had not seen his actions. He opened another drawer, pretended to be searching for something. He overturned a heap of his Army shirts, and then stopped, rigid. Under them was a neat pile of old civilian garments, a shirt, a pair of trousers, a thin coat, a tie.
Durant could feel his face turning white. He smoothed down the Army shirts, and his hands shook. He closed the drawer. It could only be Dr. Dodge, he thought. He turned as a knock sounded on the door. “It’s all right,” he began, but Sadler had wheeled, had taken out his gun. Beckett’s gun was also in his hand, and he was opening the door slowly, poised for action.
Dr. Dodge stood on the threshold, blind and mute and automatic as ever. He gave no sign that he saw either of the Guards or their guns.
Durant muttered an obscenity. “I called for him, you fools. Put away those damned things. You’ll scare the old man to death. Dodge, these are my Guards. Don’t let them frighten you. They’re just boys, playing. It’s all in fun. Bring us some whisky.”
Dr. Dodge advanced feebly into the room, catching Durant’s slight and furtive gesture. “Whisky?” he murmured. He came closer to Durant, then stopped at Beckett’s command. Beckett approached, ran his hands briefly over him.
“Leave him alone,” said Durant, and caught the old man’s arm. “You’ll have him fainting on us.” He slipped his hand down Dr. Dodge’s arm very rapidly, and pressed the capsules into the other’s palm. They disappeared immediately from his fingers. Beckett moved away.
It was only clever acting, of course, but Dr. Dodge started from Durant as if struck. “There, you see, you’ve frightened the hell out of him,” Durant said. And then he saw Dr. Dodge’s face. The flesh had turned ghastly, the dead eyes had come alive, and were protruding and glittering, blazing with incredulity. The sunken mouth was open and shaking. All at once, the old man began to tremble violently, and a horrible gasping sound came from his throat.
Astounded, Durant followed the direction of Dr. Dodge’s eyes. They were fixed on Chard Sadler. Sadler had become as pale as death, and as motionless. Beckett had gone to his post at the door, and was occupied in replacing his gun and tightening his belt.
Then Durant knew. He looked from one face to the other, and he knew. These were father and son. The features he had thought familiar, and the voice he had believed familiar—all this was not his imagination, after all. He was profoundly shocked.
“Something wrong?” asked Beckett, from his post. “What’s the matter, Chard?” He made a step toward them.
Durant said, and his voice was hoarse: “There’s nothing wrong. You’ve just frightened this poor old man.” He stepped between Sadler and Beckett; he seized Dr. Dodge’s shoulders in his hands. He shook him, and turned him so that Beckett might not see his face. “Dr. Dodge,” he said urgently, and shook him again. “Don’t be afraid. Do you hear me? Don’t be afraid.”
The old man’s trembling became less violent, but he gazed over Durant’s shoulder with passionate intensity. He was silent now. Durant could feel Sadler behind him, not moving, only standing there and gazing back at his father.
“Don’t be afraid,” Durant repeated. “Only my Guards, which the Chief Magistrate assigned to me tonight. Beckett and Sadler.” He said, very slowly yet emphatically: “Beckett at the door. Sadler, right here. Sadler.”
“Sadler,” whispered Dr. Dodge. And then his eyes filled with tears and his mouth worked, and his shoulders, so stiff in Durant’s hands, sagged. His head dropped on his chest, and his feeble breath came raggedly.
“What’s the matter with the old fool?” asked Beckett, from the door. “Need any help, sir?”
“You’ve just frightened him,” said Durant, impatiently. Then Sadler was beside him. Sadler took Dr. Dodge in his arms. He held him a moment, then dropped him into a chair. He said to Durant without emotion. “It looks as if the old man needs the whisky, Colonel.” He looked into Durant’s eyes, and Durant saw fear or depression in them.
Durant thought rapidly. He turned to Beckett, who was all alertness. “There’s a cabinet in the dining room, against the wall facing the door. You’ll find glasses there, and whisky. Better bring them up here. The old man’s almost out of his wits because of you fellows. Probably has reason to be, too. Go on, Beckett.”
Beckett saluted briskly, and went out, closing the door after him. Durant waited a moment, then tiptoed to the door. He opened it a crack and peered out. The hall was empty, and Beckett’s boots were clattering on the stairs. Durant shut the door. Sadler was standing before his father, and they were regarding each other in agonized silence.
“I thought you were dead,” whispered the doctor at last. Sadler made a distr
acted gesture to quiet him. Durant said: “I know, Sadler. You remember I thought I’d seen you before.”
Sadler wheeled toward him. Durant recoiled in alarm, with an exclamation. Dr. Dodge caught his son’s arm.
“Don’t!” he murmured. “We are friends.”
“Friends!” muttered Sadler, his hand involuntarily feeling for his gun. “He’s reduced you to this, and you call him a friend!”
Dr. Dodge put his hand over his son’s. “We must talk fast, Clair.” His voice was strong and quick. “I’m here as house labor for Lincoln, a farmer. This young man—” He stopped, and smiled weakly at Durant. “What does it matter? We have no time to talk, now.” He laid his cheek against his son’s sleeve, and closed his eyes. “My son, my son! I thought they had killed you. They told me that. They said you were dead—caught as a Minute—”
“Hush!” whispered Sadler, with fierce tenderness. He put his hand on his father’s head, and Durant saw the fingers trembling. He glanced imploringly at Durant. “I’m sorry, sir. But my father—” He halted.
“Can we trust you, Colonel?” he asked, urgently. “Surely you wouldn’t injure this old man more than he has been injured?”
“How could I injure him?” asked Durant. “I’ve only been a little kind to him. I know nothing about him, except that he is your father. If you enjoy being a member of the Picked Guard, that’s your own business.” He regarded Sadler without expression.
Sealed in from each other, for the sake of each other, thought Durant. Never knowing each other, never daring to know each other. He made a rapid gesture, and Sadler moved away from his father, and Dr. Dodge leaned back in his chair in a collapsed attitude. A moment later Beckett came in, carrying a tray of glasses and bottles. He placed the tray on a table and regarded the bottles with satisfaction.
Dr. Dodge pushed himself to his feet and tottered to the table. Durant watched him anxiously. He saw one capsule drop into one glass, and sighed with relief. The old man poured the whisky into the glasses, moving as slowly and carefully as possible. His son stood at a distance, inscrutable and still pale. Durant thought: I was probably marked out by Sadler to be killed, when the time comes. I can rest easy about that, I suppose, if Dodge ever has the chance to talk to him. Just the same, it’s not a very happy idea.