Algis Budrys - Some Will Not Die

“Now—Philly’s in a bad spot. They’re down on the coast with Baltimore, Washington, and Wilmington right on their necks. That’s besides Camden. They won’t move up here until they’re sure of being safe from a push coming up from below. They can handle that three ways—lick the tar out of those people, bunch up with them in some loose alliance against us, or—and this is what I’m afraid of—start building up for a fast push in this direction before those other cities get set. Once they’ve got a lock on us, they can concentrate on holding off anybody else.”

He leaned forward. “Now. We’ve already assumed that whatever happens, we want our side on top.”

Something jumped in Jim Garvin’s solar plexus. They had, hadn’t they? It had already become a question of “How do we get them to do things our way?” But what other way was there? A man worked for himself, for what was his. A society—an organization of men—did the same. You fought for what was yours.

“All right, then,” Berendtsen said. “If Philly moved up here, and took over, I’d join them. So would everybody else. It wouldn’t be our society any more, but at least it would be a society. We’d get used to it in time, if we had to.

“The same thing works in our favor. If we take over another outfit, their citizens’ll join up with us. They may not like it. Some individuals will be holdouts to the bitter end. But, as a whole, that group will become part of us.

“Think it over.”

Berendtsen’s voice and expression had been completely neutral. He spoke as though he were reading off a column of figures, and when he stopped he settled back in his chair without any change of manner.

Matt nodded slowly. “I think you’re right. In general, and about Boston and Philadelphia. Both those outfits are being pushed. They’ll be moving faster than we will.”

Jim looked around again. Holland was nodding softly, and he himself had to agree.

He looked at Berendtsen, once again trying to understand what made his brother-in-law tick. There didn’t seem to be a fast answer, even though they had grown up together. He could guess what Ted would do in a particular circumstance, but he could never really get down to the basic motivation that made him do it. Somehow, he doubted if Mary could do any better. Both of them could penetrate his calm, withdrawn shell along certain fronts, but the whole Theodore Berendtsen—the man who lived in the whipcord body with the adding-machine mind—escaped them with unconscious elusiveness.

What does it? he thought. What was there hidden behind his brooding eyes that pulled each problem apart and allowed him to say “Hit it here, here, and there. Get that, and this part’ll collapse and let you get at the rest of it,” as coldly as though it were a piece of physical machinery to be stripped down and rebuilt until it functioned smoothly and without effort.

And now there was something new in the wind. Jim shot a fresh glance at his father. Matt was halftwisted in his chair, racked by arthritis. His right hand was almost completely useless. And if his mind was still clear, his eyes tired but alert, Ted’s thinking was just as straight, and he was out in the city every day, directing Ryder in the absorption of the neighboring New Jersey cities, while he himself cleaned out the Bronx and lower Westchester.

Jim looked up and caught Jack Holland’s eye. They grinned wryly at each other and then turned their attention back at Ted.

“There’s only one thing to do,” Berendtsen said, still not raising his voice. “No matter how fast they get set, down in Philadelphia, it’ll be two years at least before they come up this way. There’s no sign that Trenton’s anything but an independent organization yet.

“We need supplies. We need heavier weapons, more tools, more machinery. We need men who’re used to handling them. And we’ve got to nip Boston in the bud. We can’t stand to get caught between two forces.”

Holland stiffened in his chair. “You want to push up into New England now?”

Ted nodded. “We’ve got the men. They’re used to the idea of fighting aggressively, instead of just defending their personal property. They’ve got it through their heads that the best security lies in putting as much distance as possible between our frontier and their families. They’ve learned that a cooperative effort gets them more food and supplies than individual foraging.

“We’ll pick up more recruits as we go along. I don’t care what kind of set-up they’ve had up to now, ours is bigger. We can feed ’em and take care of their families better than anyone else.”

“That’s an awful lot of fighting,” Matt said.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Ted answered. “We’ll make the usual try at getting them to join us peacefully.”

Matt looked steadily at Gus Berendtsen’s son and said nothing, but Ted nodded slowly back, with a crooked smile on his face. “We’ll make the attempt, Matt.”

Jim looked at Holland, and Jack looked thoughtfully back. He was right, again. They’d have to make examples of the first few local organizations, but after that they’d be able to progress smoothly until they reached Boston. And, by then, their forces would have grown large enough to carry out the plan. Once they had New England to back them up, Philadelphia was no menace.

They both looked up and saw Matt’s eyes searching their faces. Jim saw Holland nod slowly, and then he nodded himself, because Ted was right.

Yes, Jim thought, he was right. Again. He had the answer, and there was no denying it.

“There’s going to be a lot of killing,” Jim said, but it was just for the record. What record, he didn’t know.

Berendtsen’s face softened, and for one moment Jim thought he had somehow managed to learn how to read minds. “I know,” he said gently, and it took a few seconds for Jim’s flash of irrationality to pass and for him to realize that Ted had been answering his spoken question.

“Well, what’d the great young white father come up with this time,” Bob asked him, his voice sarcastic.

Jim looked at his younger brother wearily. “Just a couple of ideas on what we’re going to do next.”

But the vagueness of the answer didn’t discourage Bob, and Jim realized that all he’d done was to offer him bait.

“Yeah? When’s he taking over?”

“For Sweet Willie’s sake, will you get off this kick and leave me alone!” Jim exploded.

“No,” Bob said, “I will not leave you alone.” The back of his own neck was red, but his eyes were snapping with some sort of perverse joy at having gotten under Jim’s skin. “You may not enjoy thinking, but I’m going to force your daily quota down your throat anyway. Berendtsen’s moving in on Dad as fast as he can, and you know it. He got his smell of power when he butchered his way through the West Side and he’s been aching for a chance to repeat the performance on a bigger scale. And you and Jack just sit there and let him push Dad around as much as he damn well likes!”

Jim sucked in a breath and looked steadily at Bob for a full minute before he trusted himself to speak. In the back of his mind, he admitted that he was a little afraid of these increasing verbal battles with his brother. Bob had read a lot of books, and he was constantly poking and prying around the city, camping in libraries for weeks at a time, or bringing the books home in his pack, carefully wrapped and handled more tenderly than his carbine. When Bob talked, words fit smoothly into words, building nets of step-by-step assertions that could snare a man in his own fumbling until he found himself running down into foolish silence while Bob just stood there and gibed at him with his eyes, cutting him with the slash of his grin.