Norman Spinrad - The Iron Dream

Bogel ordered a bottle of white wine and plates of sausages and red cabbage. Feric did not protest the nature of the fare to be set before him; there were times when one had earned the right to eat meat, and this was certainly one of them.

“Well now, Feric Jaggar,” Bogel said when the waiter had departed, “just who are you, and what is your intent in life, and where are you going now?”

Feric told him of his pedigree and of the story of his life to date, which hardly made a tale of complex nature or inordinate length. The food had barely arrived when he informed Bogel that his immediate destination was Walder. But his intent in life, he realized, had become a subject of nearly cosmic vastness since the events of the afternoon, as if he had awoken from a slumber in which he had lain all his life. For the first time, he had experienced the full grandeur of his own being, the extent of the power inherent in his mighty will. His mission in life had always been clear: to serve in whatever way he might serve best the cause of Heldon, genetic purity, and true humanity. His quandary had been to discover how he might further this sacred cause to the maximum. Now his thoughts were as to how he might achieve the final triumph of Heldon and true humanity through his own personal destiny. It was a problem of daunting vastness and complexity, yet within him Feric felt the inner certainty that fate had chosen him alone to perform this ultimate feat of heroism.

This he tried to explain to Bogel while the dapper little man nodded and smiled knowingly as if Feric’s words were simply confirming some already-formed inner conviction on his own part.

“I, too, feel this aura of destiny about you,” Bogel said.

“I feel it all the more keenly because it is clearly a quality which I myself lack. We serve the same noble cause with the same patriotic fervor, and I flatter myself that I am your intellectual peer. Moreover, I have built a small group of followers who look to me as their leader. Yet, once hearing you speak and seeing your words stir strangers to action, I find it ludicrous that the Human Renaissance Party should have as its Secretary-General anyone but you. I can plan and theorize and organize well enough, but I do not have the mantle of destiny that you so obviously possess, my good Feric. I have the ability to rule, but you have the power to inspire.”

Feric pondered Bogel’s words, perhaps with more depth than the fellow had intended. Bogel was clever enough, but his major weakness was that he thought himself cleverer still. The inner meaning of his words was clear: he intended Feric to lead while he ruled behind the scenes.

But he had misread one of the great lessons of history. A man might rule without being a true leader, but no true leader need fear domination by such a lesser being. Knowing this, Feric knew that Bogel would always be his vassal and never the reverse; thus the fellow could never be other than useful to him, and even in the midst of this transparent scheming, he was put at ease.

“You are offering me the leadership of your party, Seph Bogel?” Feric said with a certain calculated incredulity. “I whom you met in a tavern only this afternoon? This makes me somewhat skeptical of the troop you are calling . upon me to lead!”

Bogel laughed, and sipped at his wine. “To tell you the truth, your skepticism is justified,” he admitted. “The Human Renaissance Party boasts no more than three hundred names on its roles.”

“You ask me to lead a joke! Unless, of course, your membership represents the elite of the nation.”

“Frankly,” Bogel said, “the Party members are for the most part simple workers, farmers, and craftsmen, with a few military and police officers thrown in.”

“This is outrageous!” Feric declared, truely puzzled at the tack of Bogel’s admissions. The man asked him to lead this party, and then as much as admitted that the whole thing was a pallid farce.

But Bogel suddenly became intensely earnest. “Consider the true situation. Today Heldon is in the hands of men to whom the Great War is a dim memory, who would sell out our genetic purity to appease the desires of the slothful lumpenproletariat for a life of indolent ease, to whom the borders of Heldon are lines on a political map, not the front trenches of a genetic holy war. Most of the populace slumbers under these misconceptions; the fanatic idealism that built our great citadel of genetic purity through centuries of iron determination and heroic struggle is fading into squalid individualism. Moreover, the so-called best elements of society are willfully blind to the danger.

Only a handful of men, many of them simple folk responding out of deepest racial instinct, see the situation for what it is. Does this not make your blood boil?”

Bogel’s face gleamed with passion, and the synthetic torchlight on his features turned his visage into a mask of righteous anger that struck sparks in the core of Feric’s soul.

“Indeed it does!” Feric exclaimed. “But what does that have to do with the fate of your little party?”

“Consider someone like myself,” Bogel said with unconcealed bitterness, “who sees the deadly danger menacing Heldon, and who therefore determines to devote his life to carrying out his racial duty. And who can accomplish nothing more than the building of a tiny party with no more than three hundred members! Would that not make your blood boil?”

Feric was deeply moved; although he had judged Bogel’s personal ambitions correctly, he had underestimated the strength of the man’s idealism. Personal ambition and fanatic idealism were the mightiest of allies when yoked together in the service of a cause that was just. Bogel would be a magnificent servant indeed.

“I see your point,” Feric said simply.

“Together we can mold the course of history!” Bogel exclaimed passionately. “We both understand the danger, we both argee that Heldon Jnust be ruled by men of iron conviction and utter ruthlessness who know what must he done to annihilate the Doms and subdue the quasi-men and who will not shrink from doing it. I have built the nucleous of a national organization, which I now lay at your feet. Will you accept? Will you lead Heldon to final victory, Feric Jaggar?”

Feric could not help but smile a bit at Bogel’s grandiosity. The man spoke as if he were offering the Imperial Sceptre, the long-lost Great Truncheon of Held, rather than the leadership of a squalid little party. Moreover, he could not help feeling that Bogel was putting it on a bit for his benefit. Still, on the highest level, Bogel was perfectly sincere, and his call was one that no true man could refuse. Besides, out of small beginnings, great things could flow. He had entered Heldon alone and friendless; he would arrive in Walder as the leader of a small group of followers. Surely destiny had placed this opportunity in his path as an indication of his mission; just as surely, it behooved him to accept fate’s challenge.

“Very well,” he replied. “I accept. We will take the roadsteamer to Walder together in the morning.”

Bogel beamed; he seemed as buoyant as a small child with a new toy. “Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “I’ll radiotype party headquarters before we retire to prepare for your arrival. This is the beginning of a new age for Heldon and the world. I feel it in my soul.”

It was a wonderful crisp blue morning in Ulmgam as Feric and Bogel boarded the roadsteamer to Walder; Feric felt refreshed and filled with vigor. Moreover, in contrast to the shorter ride from Gormond to Pormi, the two-day steam to Walder promised to be a most pleasurable experience. The Borgravian roadstreamer had been a dingy old danker which gave the impression inside of an instrument of torture as it jounced along the barely extant roads on wheels that scarcely seemed round. He had been shoehorned into this unsavory conveyance with a veritable barnyard of the rankest mutants and hybrids and, moreover, the whole stank like an open sewer. The Emerald Zephyr, on the other hand, was a gleaming new machine with the latest in pneumatic tires made practical by the legendary perfection of Helder roadways.