He lifted his fist and shook it over his head with fierce frenzy. “You won’t win! Maybe you’ll overthrow our authority this once, but we always come back and you never recognize us until we’ve got our boots on your necks! You even help us, until it’s too late! You let governments shackle newspapers in the name of ‘national security,’ and you get all patriotic and submit to ‘controls,’ and taxes, and you march out to wars with your silly faces shining, and you worship ‘free speech’ and let us take advantage of it until we have you where we want you!”
His excitement became frantic. His whole body was convulsed by his laughter; his eyes shot glances of such malignance and contempt at Durant that the latter involuntarily shrank.
Then Durant said, quietly but steadily: “You won’t win again, Beckett. With the help of God, you won’t win, not ever again.”
But Beckett shook his head and replied, with savage mirth: “We always win; you always lose. Because we use your slogans while we put chains around your necks! And we wave your flags, while we’re making our own.”
Suddenly, the terrible light left his face, and it became abruptly dark and grave He had forgotten Durant in one instant. He was looking, now, at Sadler, whose gun was pointing at his chest.
“I guess you can’t do anything but kill me, Chard.” And now his voice was almost gentle. “I’d do the same thing in your place; if I’d known about you before, I’d have killed you. It’s always you or me, all the time, isn’t it?”
“Wait,” said Durant, and his sickness was a huge lump in his chest, cutting off his breath. He had to struggle to speak again. “I can’t have you do this to your friend, Sadler. We can put him under arrest, throw him into the Military prison, keep him there until it’s all over—”
Sadler replied, not looking at him, but only at Beckett: “No, Colonel. You could order him put in solitary, but he’d find a way to communicate with our enemies. There’d be no way to stop him. And that would be the end of you, no matter how well you were guarded. The Chief Magistrate warned me, particularly, to watch you.”
Beckett started. “The Chief Magistrate?”
“Yes,” said Sadler, with tiredness in his voice. “I don’t know if he knows about you, Johnny, but he’s one of us.”
Beckett sagged momentarily.
“You see,” continued Sadler softly, “we really have won, after all. If you are everywhere, we are, too.”
He lifted his gun, and his face was stark and gaunt in the wild white light. Durant caught his arm, and he said with involuntary passion: “I’m sick of all this killing! There must be another way—”
Beckett burst into a tremendous shout of laughter. He pointed his finger at Durant. “You think you have ‘won,’ you damned fool? ‘Sick of killing,’ eh? With your kind of minds, how can you win? You dirty weaklings!”
“May God have mercy on your soul,” said Durant. No one heard him, for there was a stupendous crash of sound, and Beckett threw up his arms. He swung about once, staggered, then fell into the snow face down.
The moon poured its argent light down on the white earth. Flakes of whipped snow winged their silent way through the bright air like colored insects. But there was an acrid smell in the sweet clarity, and there was a man in the soft whiteness who was dead. A frightful enemy, who was dead. A man who was dead, a young man, thought Durant. A young man corrupted and polluted by evil, but not a man born evil. He had been fashioned into what he was.
Sadler stood with the smoking gun in his hand. His head had fallen on his chest; he seemed to be in a trance. Durant wanted to speak to him, but had no words for such anguish; Sadler was beyond comforting.
Silently, then, Durant offered up a prayer for the young man who had died. It was a bitter prayer, and Durant had to struggle to withhold hatred for the men who had perverted that soul. He found it easier to pray: “Almighty God, preserve our children from corruption by the men of evil, as this soul was corrupted. May our future generations turn from the wicked ones each hour of their lives; let them recognize the vile when they appear so that they may be armed spiritually and morally against them.”
He put his hand gently on Sadler’s shoulder. “Let us go,” he said.
But Sadler looked down at his dead friend. Then he turned to Durant, and he was weeping. “It’s cold,” he stammered. “We can’t leave him here in the snow. It’s too cold.”
He bent and lifted Beckett in his arms, and carried him ahead of Durant, as a brother might carry his brother, or a father his child. There were dark and silent and shrinking figures standing in the white fields now, anonymous figures that had been brought out by the crash of the gun. They moved aside as Sadler carried his friend, and they stared mutely at the dead face upturned to the moon, and the face above it, hardly less dead.
“There’s nothing I can say to you that’ll help you,” said Durant to Sadler, as they waited in Durant’s room for an answer to his call for the Chief Magistrate.
They had conducted an uninspired conversation concerning Beckett’s “suicide” for the benefit of the spidery dictaphone behind the picture on the wall. They had expressed a dull horror, which, however, had not been hypocritical; most of the remarks had been made by Durant, with Sadler merely muttering or sighing. Now the wires had been detached, and Durant could speak with misery and pity.
The effort to talk for the edification of the unseen listeners had been too much for Sadler. He sat in his chair, which was pushed against the door, and he had covered his face with his hands. Durant watched him compassionately. He went on: “Beckett wasn’t like the rest of them, like Sheridan, for instance. He hadn’t been born evil. So, we’ve got to fight harder, now, to save the millions of our young men from spiritual obliteration, and their children from slavery.”
Sadler did not remove his hands from his face, but he replied in a smothered voice: “That’s the only consolation I have.” After a moment or two, he dropped his hands; he was totally exhausted, and his eyes had fallen far back in their sockets and their lids were swollen and red.
Dr. Dodge knocked on the door, and Sadler admitted him. The old man was carrying a tray of whisky. He regarded his son with pain and sadness. “I’ve covered him up, downstairs,” he said, in his feeble voice. “He—he looks very—” He stopped, for Sadler had made an agonized gesture. “I know,” said Dr. Dodge. He put the tray on a table, and his furrowed face became stern and hard. He looked into space, and added: “It wasn’t your fault; it wasn’t even the fault of Beckett. It happened because of my generation. I killed your friend, Clair. I killed thousands like you. In my classrooms, in my writings, in my speeches. In everything I did, years ago. That’s my punishment, and the punishment of my contemporaries.”
The telephone rang, and it took all Durant’s efforts to raise himself and answer it. “Curtiss, sir,” he said. His voice was thick and uncertain. “I’m sorry to report that Beckett, one of the Guards you assigned to me, committed suicide about two hours ago. I don’t know just how it happened. We were standing in the snow, then all at once—he shot himself in the chest.”
There was a little humming silence, then Carlson said with concern: “I’m greatly distressed by the news. In looking over Beckett’s dossier, recently, I noted that he had been confined to some mental institution when he was about eighteen.” Carlson paused. “There was no reason to believe he’d have a relapse at any time, and his conduct had been sane and exemplary after his release. Please accept my regrets. And convey to Sadler my condolences. The two young men have always been very much attached to each other.”
“Yes,” said Durant wearily, looking briefly at Sadler who stood in the center of the room like a man caught in a nightmare.
Carlson went on, in his grave, calm voice: “I shall order three Picked Guards to fly to you immediately, Curtiss. In the meantime, don’t admit anyone into your room. I don’t doubt the integrity and devotion of your officers, of course, but I’d prefer that you remain closely guarded by my men, who are alerted alwa
ys for any possible enemy. Army men don’t always realize danger. Too confident. The Picked Guards are never confident, of anyone, at any time. Especially the men I am sending you.”
Durant decoded: “You can rely on these; they are Minute Men. Some way, you’ve been too careless of yourself. You have a spy among your associates.”
Who? thought Durant: Grandon, Bishop, Edwards, Keiser? Grandon, of course!
“In these uneasy days,” Carlson resumed, “my appointed officers should take every precaution. I’m sorry to say that matters have become somewhat alarming, though I hope that it is only a temporary restlessness. In fact, I’m sure it is.”
“Watch for the third and last signal,” Durant decoded. “Very soon. We must move rapidly, for we’re in desperate danger.”
Durant said: “I haven’t noticed any ‘restlessness’ in Philadelphia and adjacent areas, sir. Everything is calm. The people are happy and contented and are anticipating our celebration of Democracy Day.”
“Good,” replied Carlson. “I meant to call you tonight, even if I hadn’t had this call from you. You are going to have two distinguished guests, I learned today. Mr. Howard Regis of Washington, head of the Federal Bureau of Home Security. He replaced Mr. Reynolds, you know. And Mr. Dean Burgess, head of the Confederated Association of Labor Unions, also from Washington.”
Durant was greatly alarmed. There had been nothing in Carlson’s last remark to indicate any private information about Regis and Burgess. So Durant stuttered: “Mr. Regis? I—I’ve never met him. As able as Mr. Reynolds, sir?”
Carlson said coldly: “Very able. I know him well, and Mr. Burgess is a close friend of mine. They’ll be staying at my home in the country, so there’ll be no necessity for you to provide quarters for them. Extend every courtesy to both these gentlemen during their stay.”
Durant flushed, for Carlson had told him: “I shall tell you nothing. You must conduct yourself as if you were what you appear to be. That is the only way to protect you.”
Carlson was continuing: “When your three new Picked Guards arrive, they’ll have their instructions about poor Beckett’s body, and it’ll be removed at once for return to Beckett’s parents. I shall send them a message immediately. Good night, Colonel. Take extra precautions during Democracy Day.”
He hung up abruptly. Durant turned to Dr. Dodge, who was detaching the dictaphone which he had attached during Durant’s conversation with Carlson. Durant motioned him to attach the wires again. He said to Sadler: “Three Picked Guards are arriving by midnight to assist you, Chard. Then you can have some rest. As for me, I’m going to sleep immediately. My arm’s bothering me; after all, I’ve had two accidents to it in the past few months, and so I’ll take a sedative. Wake me when the guards arrive. I’ll have my dinner with them.”
“Good night, Colonel,” said Sadler abstractedly. “I’ll be sitting here by the door.”
Dr. Dodge detached the wires. Durant said hurriedly: “Regis is coming. I don’t know what he is. From all indications, I’d say he’s another Reynolds. He and Dean Burgess are going to address the people on Democracy Day.”
Dr. Dodge left the room in order to prepare Durant’s and Sadler’s dinner trays. Sadler seated himself at the door, his gun in his hand as usual. He looked at Durant and said, with an effort: “Things are getting pretty bad, sir?”
Durant frowned. “I’d say that the heads of the State in Washington are more than just aware that something is happening. They don’t dare move just yet.”
He added, with disgust: “I’ve certainly been generous about myself! I must have been very easy to spot.”
“No, Colonel,” said Sadler. “I’ve watched you very carefully. You’re a good actor, and sometimes I’ve thought that you actually believed yourself to be a member of the Military.” He smiled a little at Durant’s embarrassment. “I think you’ve got the FBHS spies confused; they don’t know if you are just too zealous as a military man, or an enemy of theirs. You see, I haven’t told you everything.”
“No?”
Sadler shook his head. “Johnny and I—” He stopped and glanced away. “You see, Johnny and I sometimes talked about you. Not often, because we didn’t have the opportunity. It was only lately that Johnny expressed his suspicions of you to me, and hinted about his extra-curricular activities as a spy for the FBHS.”
Durant brooded on this. He exclaimed: “This is getting on my nerves! Damn it, I know it sounds childish, but how long can a man go on expecting a bullet or a knife any minute?”
Sadler smiled again, sadly. “Well, Colonel, think of all the others in the same predicament.”
Dr. Dodge returned with the supper tray, and said to his son: “You don’t have to examine or taste the colonel’s portion, Clair. I kept watch on the food.” He hesitated. “However, there was the ham which I had previously prepared for tonight. I left it on the stove for about half an hour. As usual, I gave a piece to one of the dogs.” His old face darkened. “The dog died almost immediately.”
Durant was freshly aghast. He swore viciously. “Who was in the house at the time, Doctor?”
“No stranger, that I know of. It was this morning, before you all left. The Lincolns had had no opportunity to touch the ham, or to be in its vicinity. So, it might have been Beckett.” Dr. Dodge eyed his son compassionately for a moment. “However, I don’t think it was Beckett, for he and Clair were with you during that half hour. Your own men, Colonel, followed you a few minutes later in their own car.”
“Or, it could be a farm laborer, or a spy in the guise of a farm laborer, right here on the premises.”
Dr. Dodge said: “No. I’ve thought of that. Not one of them was about the house. They were at work, and our friends would have reported any absence of a fellow worker. You haven’t forgotten, have you, Colonel, that our people are watching you to see that no harm comes to you?”
Then, thought Durant, it was definitely one of his four officers who had tried to kill him. If he had eaten that ham, his Guards would have eaten some of it, too. There would have been three murders, at least. They’re getting desperate, Durant said to himself. They are taking all kinds of chances. Well, Durant’s thoughts continued, they seem a little more desperate than we are, and that’s some consolation.
He had little appetite for his supper, and Sadler ate nothing. The moon had gone; a fresh blizzard howled about the warm house. Durant drank his hot coffee, hoping that the chill shivering in his bones would subside. He could not forget the dead man lying downstairs in the glare of the lights which never went out. He could not forget Sadler carrying his friend in his arms through the snow. There were bloodstains on Sadler’s uniform.
Sadler sat at the door, his reddened eyes fixed on nothing. Dr. Dodge sat in a chair near Durant, and looked at his son. The wind thundered against the windows, but this was the only sound. Durant, all at once, could not stand the waiting and ominous silence.
“What do you want me to give you for Christmas, Dr. Dodge?” he asked, trying to smile.
The old man slowly turned his face to him, and answered quietly: “A gun, Colonel.”
“Chard,” said Durant. “Beckett’s gun. You still have it?”
Sadler looked at his father somberly. Then he withdrew Beckett’s gun from his own holster and threw it at the doctor’s feet. The gesture was one of weary contempt. Dr. Dodge picked it up, and his hands trembled as he pretended to examine it. “It won’t be missed?”
“If it is,” said Durant, “it doesn’t matter. Things are moving too fast. We have to take reckless chances now.”
Dr. Dodge held the gun in both his hands. Then he feebly got to his feet. “Kill,” he murmured. “We helped to bring this about—all this killing.” He pushed the gun in his pocket, and picked up the supper tray. Sadler moved aside so his father could leave, and though Dr. Dodge hesitated, imploringly, at the door, Sadler turned aside his head. Well, thought Durant with compassion, that’s how it is. The fathers have earned the loathing of their son
s.
He thought of his own children. He had not betrayed them. He was fighting for their lives, and something more precious than their lives: their right to live as free men in a free world. His fortitude returned.
He saw he could not talk to Sadler, as Sadler, at his post by the door, had forgotten him. So he picked up a book, lit a cigarette, and tried to read. However, the events of the night had robbed him of concentration. He found himself reading, over and over, that famous passage in Robert Cheswick’s The Turn of Destiny, published just before Cheswick’s arrest and subsequent execution as a “subversive.”
“That which, among the ethics of men and the government of men, is not man-centered, is evil. The abstract, therefore, should be concerned only with the fields of mathematics and physics and kindred sciences, if it is to remain harmless. Once any scientist or layman or politician or government departs from anthropomorphic values, or advances any concept unconcerned with those values, society is in danger. Man is not an abstract; his emotions, his spirit, his virtues and his vices are not abstracts, and are treated so only to his peril, and to the obliteration of his personality. We have seen the evil of the abstract approach to man in all authoritarian governments, where man as a spirit has been derided and discounted, and where his flesh has been regarded as a machine. The living creature, drenched with soul, is a mysterious but none the less potent entity, fired with dreams and possessed of enigmatic memories beyond his immediate experience. Any attempt to measure these, or to control or ‘channel’ them, or to subject them to a slide-rule, or any other ‘scientific’ calculation, including what is called ‘psychiatry,’ is to invite madness. There is a point beyond which those who ‘study’ man dare not go.”