David Brin - The Postman

But this time it was really only an act. Inside, all Gordon could think of was how hungry and tired of it all he was.

The slow, plodding ride back in a chill fog was sheer hell. But the ordeal went on at Harrisburg. There Gordon had to go through all the motions again… passing out a few letters he had collected in the towns south of Eugene… listening to tearful jubilation as a couple of lucky ones learned of a relative or friend thought long dead… appointing a local postmaster… enduring another silly celebration.

The next day he awoke stiff and sore and a little feverish. His dreams had been dire — all ending with a questioning, hopeful look in a dying woman’s eyes.

Nothing the villagers could say would make him remain another hour. He saddled a fresh horse, secured the mailbags, and headed north immediately after breakfast.

It was time, at last, to go see Cyclops.

May 18, 2011

Transmittal via: Shedd, Harrisburg, Creswell, Cottage Grove, Culp Creek, Oakridge, to Pine View

Dear Mrs. Thompson,

Your first three letters finally caught up with me in Shedd, just south of Corvallis. I can’t tell you how glad I was to get them. And news from Abby and Michael too — I’m very happy for them both, and I hope it will be a girl.

I note that you’ve expanded your local mail route to include Gilchrist, New Bend, and Redmond. Enclosed are temporary warrants for the postmasters you recommended, to be confirmed later. Your initiative is to be applauded.

The news of a change in regime in Oakridge was welcome. I hope their revolution lasts.

It was quiet in the paneled guest room as the silver fountain pen scritch-scratched across the slightly yellowed paper. Through the open window, with a pale moon shining amid scattered night clouds, Gordon could hear distant music and laughter from the hoedown he had left a little while ago, pleading fatigue.

By now Gordon was accustomed to these exuberant first-day festivities, as locals pulled out the stops for the visiting “Government Man.” The biggest difference here was that he had not seen so many people in one place since the food center riots, long, long ago.

The music was still of the land; with the Fall, people everywhere had returned to the fiddle and the banjo, to simple fare and square dances. In many ways it was all so very familiar.

But there are other differences as well.

Gordon rolled his fountain pen in his fingers and touched the letters from his friends in Pine View. Arriving with serendipitous timing, they had been real help in establishing his bona fides. The mail courier from the southern Willamette — a man Gordon himself had appointed only two weeks ago — had arrived on a steaming mount and refused even a glass of water until he reported to “the Inspector.”

The earnest youth’s behavior emphatically dissolved all remaining doubts the locals might have had. His fairy tale still worked.

For now, at least.

Gordon picked up the pen again and wrote.

By now you’ll have received my warning of a possible invasion by Rogue River survivalists. I know you’ll take appropriate measures for the defense of Pine View. Still, here in the strange domain of Cyclops I find it hard to get anyone to take the threat seriously. By today’s standards they’ve been at peace here a very long time. They treat me well, but people apparently think I am exaggerating the threat.

Tomorrow, at last, I have my interview. Perhaps I can persuade Cyclops itself of the danger.

It would be sad if this strange little society led by a machine fell to the barbarians. It is the finest thing I have seen since leaving the civilized east.

Gordon amended the remark in his own mind. The lower Willamette was the most civilized area he had encountered in fifteen years, period. It was a miracle of peace and prosperity, apparently wrought entirely by an intelligent computer and its dedicated human servants.

Gordon stopped writing and looked up as the lamp by his desk flickered. Under a chintz shade, the forty-watt incandescent bulb winked once more, then returned to a steady glow as the wind generators two buildings away regained their stride. The light was soft, but Gordon found his eyes watering each time he looked at it for even a little while.

He still had not gotten over it. On arriving in Corvallis he had seen his first working electric light in over a decade, and had been forced to excuse himself even as local dignitaries gathered to welcome him. He took refuge in a washroom to hide until he could regain his composure. It just wouldn’t do for a supposed representative of the “Government in Saint Paul City” to be seen weeping openly at the sight of a few flickering bulbs.

Corvallis and its environs are divided into independent boroughs, each supporting about two or three hundred people. All the land hereabouts is cultivated or ranched, using modern farming arts and hybrid seed the locals raise themselves. They have managed to maintain several prewar strains of bio-engineered yeast, and produce medicines and fertilizers from them.

Of course they’re limited to horse plows, but their smithies make implements from high-quality steel. They have even started producing hand-built water- and wind-power turbines — all designed by Cyclops, of course.

Local craftsmen have expressed an interest in trading with customers to the south and east. I’ll enclose a list of items they’re willing to barter for. Copy it and pass it along the line, will you?

Gordon had not seen so many happy, well-fed people since before the war, nor heard laughter so easy and often. There was a newspaper and a lending library, and every child in the valley got at least four years of schooling. Here, at last, was what he had been looking for since his militia unit broke up in confusion and despair, a decade and a half ago — a community of good people engaged in a vigorous effort to rebuild.

Gordon wished he could be a part of it, not a con artist ripping them off for a few nights’ meals and a free bed.

Ironically, these people would have accepted the old Gordon Krantz as a new citizen. But he was indelibly branded by the uniform he wore and by his actions back at Harrisburg. If he revealed the truth now, he was certain they would never forgive him.

He had to be a demigod in their eyes, or nothing at all. If ever a man was trapped in his own lie …

Gordon shook his head. He would have to take the hand he had been dealt. Perhaps these people really could use a mailman.

So far I haven’t been able to find out much about Cyclops itself. I’ve been told that the supercomputer does not govern directly, but insists that all the villages and towns it serves live together peaceably and democratically. In effect, it has become judge-arbitrator for the entire lower Willamette, all the way north to the Columbia.

The Council tells me Cyclops is very interested in seeing a formal mail route created, and has offered every assistance. He … I mean, it… seems anxious to cooperate with the Restored U.S.

Everyone, of course, was glad to hear that they would soon be in contact with the rest of the country again -

Gordon looked at the last line for a long moment, his pen poised, and realized that he simply couldn’t go on with the lies tonight. It was no longer amusing, knowing Mrs. Thompson would read through them.

It made him feel sad.

Just as well, he thought. I have a busy day tomorrow. He covered the pen and got up to prepare for bed.

While he washed his face, he thought about the last time he had met one of the legendary supercomputers. It had been only months before the war, when he was an eighteen-year-old sophomore in college. All the talk had been about the new “intelligent” machines just then being unveiled in a few locations.