Sixth Column by Robert A. Heinlein
“Maybe,” said Ardmore, “we had better omit the halo effect in the next city we penetrate.”
“Too late. Our official designation here is ‘holy men who wear halos.’ It’s our trademark.”
“So? Jeff, I think you’ve done a wonderfully good job of covering up.”
“There is one more hazard. It’s a slow one, a time bomb.”
“Eh?”
“Money. We’ve got too much money. That’s a suspicious circumstance.”
“But you had to have money to operate.”
“How well I know it. It has been the only thing that enabled us to get away with it so far. These people are even more corruptible than Americans, Chief; with us it is a frowned-upon dereliction; with them it’s an essential part of their culture. A good thing, too—we now have the respected position of the goose that lays the golden eggs.”
“But why do you call it a time bomb? Why is it a hazard at all?”
“Remember what happened to the goose in the story? Some day some smart laddie is going to wonder where the goose gets all that gold and take him apart to find out. In the meantime all the recipients of our cumshaw are closing their eyes to the suspicious circumstances and getting as much as they can while the getting is good. I’m betting that each one will keep his mouth shut about his take, as long as he can get away with it. I doubt if the Hand knows that we seem to have an unlimited supply of American gold coins. But some day he will find out; that’s the time bomb element. Unless he can be bribed, too—in a polite way, of course—he will start some very embarrassing investigations. Somewhere up the line we’ll run into an official more interested in knowing the facts than in sticking out his palm. Before that day rolls around we had better be set to move!”
“Hmm… I suppose so. Well, Jeff, do the best you can and get us some ‘priest’ recruits up here as fast as you can. If we had one hundred dependable men, as talented in handling people as you are, we could set ‘D’ Day a month from now. But it may take years and, as you say, events may trip us up before we can move.”
“You can see why I have trouble finding ‘priest’ recruits? Loyalty isn’t enough; a special aptitude for kidding the public is necessary. I learned it as a hobo. Alec really hasn’t got it; he’s too honest. However I may have one recruit now—a chap named Johnson.”
“Yes? What about him?”
“He used to be a real estate salesman and he has a very convincing manner. The PanAsians put him out of business, of course, and he’s anxious to avoid the labor camps. I’ve been feeling him out.”
“Well, if you think he’ll do, send him up. Perhaps I can look him over there.”
“Huh?”
“I’ve been thinking while I listened. Jeff, I don’t know enough about the field situation; I’ve got to come see for myself. If I am going to direct this show, I’ve got to understand it. I can’t do it from a hole in the ground; I’m falling out of touch.”
“I thought that was settled a long time ago, boss.”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you going to leave Calhoun as acting C.O.?”
Ardmore remained silent for several moments, then said, “Damn you, Jeff.”
“Well, are you?”
“Oh, very well! Let’s drop the matter!”
“Don’t get sore, boss. I’ve been trying to give you the whole picture; that’s why I’ve talked so long.”
“I’m glad you did. I want you to repeat it, in much more detail. I’ll put Estelle on and have her make a recording of everything you’ve got to say. We’ll work up an instruction manual for student ‘priests’ from your lecture.”
“O.K., but let me call you back. I’ve got a service in ten minutes.”
“Can’t Alec even run a service?”
“He does and he’s O. K. He preaches a better sermon than I do. But it’s my best recruiting time, Major; I study the crowd and talk to them individually afterwards.”
“O.K., O.K. I’m switching off.”
“’Bye.”
Services were crowded by now. Thomas did not fool himself that the creed of the great god Mota was the drawing card; even while the service proceeded, at the sides of the hall tables were being piled high with food, purchased with Scheer’s fine gold. But Alec put on a good show. It seemed to Jeff, as he listened to him preach, that the old mountain man had somehow reconciled his strange new job with his conscience so thoroughly that he actually believed that he was preaching his own religion, in symbols of course and with odd ritual—but his voice carried conviction.
“If he keeps that up,” Jeff told himself, “we’ll have women fainting in the aisles. Maybe I should tell him to soft-pedal it.”
But without untoward incident Alec reached the final hymn. The congregation sang with verve, then trooped toward the tables. Sacred music had at first been a problem until Jeff had hit on the dodge of putting new words to the commonest American patriotic music. It served a double purpose; anyone who listened closely could hear the old words, the true words, being sung by the bolder spirits present.
Jeff circulated around among his flock while they ate, patting the heads of children, pronouncing blessings—and listening. As he passed a man got up from his place and stopped him. It was Johnson, the former real estate salesman. “A word with you, Holy One?”
“What is it, my son?”
Johnson indicated that he wanted to speak privately; they drew away from the crowd over into the shadow of the altar. “Holy One, I don’t dare go back to my room tonight.”
“Why not, my son?”
“I still haven’t been able to get my work card validated. Today was my last day of grace. If I go home it’s the camps for me.”
Jeff looked grave. “You know that the servers of Mota do not preach resistance to mundane authority.”
“You wouldn’t turn me out to be arrested?”
“We do not refuse sanctuary. Perhaps it is not as bad as you think it is, my son; perhaps if you stay here tonight, tomorrow you may find someone to hire you and validate your card.”
“I can stay, then?”
“You may stay.” Thomas decided that Johnson might as well stay from then on; if he measured up, he would be sent to the Citadel for final test. If not, Johnson could stay as an unenlightened helper around the temple—the temple needed more help every day, especially in the kitchen.
When the crowd had gone Jeff locked the door, then checked through the building personally to make sure that none but the resident help and those who had been granted overnight sanctuary were still inside. There were more than a dozen of these refugees; Jeff was studying some of them as prospective recruits.
Inspection completed and the place tidied up, Jeff shooed everyone but Alec upstairs to the second-floor dormitory rooms; he locked the door to the staircase after them. This was a nightly routine; the altar with its many marvelous gadgets was safe from snoopers, as it had a shield of its own, controlled by a switch in the basement—nonetheless Jeff did not want anyone attempting to get at it. The avowed reason for the nightly lock up was, of course, a piece of holy mumbo-jumbo having to do with the “sacredness” of the lower floor.
Alec and Jeff went down into the basement, locking after them a heavy, steel-sheathed door. Their apartment was a large room, housing the power unit for the altar, the communicator back to the base, and the same two cots Peewee Jenkins had gotten for them on their first day in Denver. Alec undressed, went into the adjoining bath, and got ready for bed. Jeff peeled off his robes and turban, but not his beard; it was now homegrown. He put on overalls, stuck a cigar in his mouth, and called the base.
For the next three hours he dictated, over Alec’s snores. Then he, too, went to bed.
Jeff woke up with a feeling of unease. The lights had not switched on; therefore it was not the morning alarm that had wakened him. He lay very still for a moment, then reached down beside him on the floor and recovered his staff.
Someone was in the room, other than Alec, s
Johnson was standing in front of the communicator. Some sort of complicated goggles covered his eyes; in his hand was a black-light projector.
“Stand where you are,” Jeff said quietly.
The man whirled around, then shoved the goggles up on his forehead. He stood for a moment, blinking at the light.
Quite suddenly a vortex pistol appeared in his other hand. “Don’t make any sudden moves, Pop,” he snapped. “This is no toy.”
“Alec!” Jeff called out. “Alec! Wake up.”
Alec sat up, at once alert. He glanced around and dived for his staff. “I’ve got us both screened,” Jeff said rapidly. “Now you grab him but don’t kill him.”
“Make a move and you get it,” warned Johnson.
“Don’t be foolish, my son,” Jeff answered. “The great god Mota protects his own. Put down that gun.”
Without wasting time on speech Alec was setting the controls on his staff. It took him some time; he had had only practice drills in the use of the tractor and pressor beams. Johnson watched him fumbling, looked uncertain, then fired at him point blank.
Nothing happened; Jeff’s shield soaked up the energy.
Johnson looked amazed; he looked still more amazed and rubbed his hand a moment later when Alec snatched the gun from his hand with a tractor beam. “Now,” said Jeff, “tell us, my son, why you saw fit to violate the mysteries of Mota?”
Johnson looked around at him, his eyes showing apprehension but still defiant. “Stow that Mota stuff. I wasn’t kidded.”
“The Lord Mota is not mocked.”
“Stow it, I tell you. How do you explain that stuff?” He hooked a thumb at the communicator.
“The Lord Mota need not explain. Sit down, my son, and make your peace with him.”
“Sit down, my eye. I’m walking straight out of here. If you birds don’t want this place swarming with slanties, you won’t try to stop me. I wouldn’t turn in a white man unless he made trouble for me.”
“You are implying that you are a common thief?”
“Watch what you call me. You guys have been throwing gold around; anybody is bound to take an interest in it.”
“Sit down.”
“I’m leaving.”
He turned away. Jeff said, “Nail him, Alec!—but don’t hurt him.”
The injunction slowed Alec down. Johnson was halfway up the stairs before Alec snatched his feet from under him. Johnson fell heavily, striking his head.
Unhurriedly Jeff got up and put on his robes. “Sit on him, Alec, with your staff. I’ll reconnoiter.” He went upstairs, was gone a few minutes, and returned. Johnson was stretched on Alec’s cot, dormant. “Not much damage,” Jeff reported. “The upper door’s lock was merely picked. No one was awake; I relocked it. The lower door’s lock will have to be replaced; he used something or other that melted it. That door really should have a shield; I must speak to Bob about that.” He glanced at the figure. “Still out?”
“Not really. He was coming to; I gave him sodium pentothal.”
“Good! I want to question him.”
“So I figured.”
“Anesthesia?”
“No, just a babble dose.”
Thomas nipped one of Johnson’s earlobes with a thumbnail and twisted viciously. The victim stirred. “Darn near anesthesia—must be the knock on his head. Johnson! Can you hear me?”
“Mmm, Yes.”
Thomas questioned him patiently for many minutes. Finally Alec stopped him. “Jeff, do we have to listen to any more of this? It’s like staring down into a cess pool.”
“It makes me want to vomit, too, but we’ve got to get the dope.” He went on. Who paid him? What did the PanAsians expect to find out? How did he report back? When was he due to report next? Who else was in the organization? What did the PanAsians think of the temple of Mota? Did his boss know that he was here tonight?
And finally: what had induced him to go against his own people?
The drug was wearing off now. Johnson was almost aware of his surroundings, but his censors were still down and he spoke with a savage disregard of what his hearers might think of him. “A man’s got to look out for himself, doesn’t he? If you’re smart you can get along anywhere.”
“I guess we just aren’t smart, Alec,” Thomas commented. He sat still for several minutes, then said, “I think he’s told us everything he knows. I’m trying to decide just what to do with him.”
“If I give him another shot he may talk some more.”
Johnson said, “You can’t make me talk!” He seemed unaware that he already had talked.
Thomas struck him across the face with the back of his hand. “Shut up, you. You’ll talk whenever we give you the needle. Right now you’ll keep quiet.” He went on to Alec, “There is a bare chance that they might get more out of him if we shipped him back to base. But I don’t think so and it would be difficult and dangerous. If we got caught with him or if he escaped, the jig would be up. I think we had best dispose of him here and now.”
Johnson looked stunned and tried to sit up, but Alec’s staff kept him pinned to the cot. “Hey! What are you talking about? That’s murder!”
“Give him another shot, Alec. We can’t have him raising Cain while we work.”
Howe said nothing, but quickly made the injection. Johnson tried to squirm away from it, then struggled a little before he gave in to the drug. Howe straightened up. His face was almost as disturbed as Johnson’s had been. “Did you mean that the way it sounded, Jeff? If so, I didn’t sign up for murder, either.”
“It’s not murder, Alec. We are executing a spy.”
Howe chewed his lip. “It wouldn’t bother me a bit, I guess, to kill a man in a fair fight. But to tie him down and butcher him, like he was a hog, turns my stomach.”
“Executions are always like that, Alec. Ever see a man die in a gas chamber?”
“But it is murder, Jeff. We don’t have the authority to execute him.”
“I have the authority, Alec. I am a commanding officer, acting independently, in war time.”
“But consarn it, Jeff, you didn’t even give him a drumhead court-martial.”
“A trial is for the purpose of establishing guilt or innocence. Is he guilty?”
“Oh, he’s guilty all right. But a man’s entitled to a trial.”
Jeff took a long breath. “Alec, I used to be a lawyer. The whole purpose of the complicated structure of western jurisprudence in criminal matters, as built up over the centuries, has been to keep the innocent from being convicted and punished through error. It sometimes lets the guilty go free in the process, but that’s not the purpose. I don’t have the personnel nor the time to form a military court and give this man a formal trial—but his guilt has been established with much more certainty than a court could possibly establish it and I don’t propose to endanger my command and risk the ultimate outcome of the war by extending to him the protections that were devised to protect the innocent.
“If I could cut out his memory and turn him loose to report back that all he found was a screwy church and a lot of hungry people eating, I would do it, not to avoid the chore of killing him, but because it would confuse the enemy. I can’t possibly turn him loose—”
“I didn’t want you to do that, Jeff!”
“Shut up, soldier, and listen. If I turn him loose with the knowledge he has gained, the PanAsians will get it, the same way we made him talk, even if he tried to hold it back. We haven’t the facilities to keep him here; it is dangerous to ship him back to base. I intend to execute him now.” He paused.
Alec said diffidently, “Captain Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“Why don’t you call up Major Ardmore and see what he thinks?”
“Because there is no reason to. If I have to ask him to make up my
Howe’s mouth quivered, but he said nothing. The two carried the unconscious man into the adjoining room. Before the temple was “consecrated” Thomas had had a partition knocked out between the janitor’s toilet and the space adjoining and in that space had had an old-fashioned bath tub installed. They dumped him in the tub.
Howe wet his lips. “Why in the tub?”
“Because it will be a bloody mess.”
“You aren’t going to use your staff?”
“No, it would take me an hour to disassemble it and take out the suppressor circuit for the white-man band of frequencies. And I’m not sure I could get it back together right. Give me that straight razor of yours and get out.”
Howe got the razor and came back. He did not hand it over. “You ever butchered a hog?” he inquired.
“No.”
“Then I know more about how to do it.” Stooping, he lifted Johnson’s chin. The man breathed heavily and grunted. Howe made one quick slash and the man’s throat was cut. He dropped the head, stood up and stared at the spreading red stream. He spat in it, then stepped to the wash stand and cleaned his razor.
Jeff said, “I guess I spoke too hastily, Alec.”
Alec did not look up. “No,” he said slowly, “not a bit too hastily. I guess it takes some time to get used to the notion of war.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Well, let’s dispose of this thing.”
Despite a very short night Jeff Thomas was up unusually early as he wanted to report to Ardmore before the morning service. Ardmore listened carefully to the account, then said, “I’ll send Scheer down to install a shield on the basement door. Some such rig will be standard for all temple installations from now on. How about Howe? Do you want to send him back?”