Norman Spinrad - The Iron Dream

This seemed to mollify the crowd somewhat, at least to the point where Bogel was allowed to continue.

“This bickering among us is an object lesson in the depths to which Heldon has sunk under the present limp-wristed regime,” he pointed out. “I’d stake my life on the fact that there isn’t a true man here who wouldn’t reach out to wring a Dom’s neck if such a creature were to make itself apparent. Yet you shrink at supporting a party dedicated to ruthlessly rooting these vermin out. There isn’t a true man here who would not slay his own offspring should that child betray the human race by mating with a mutant or a hybrid. Yet, tempted by sloth, you go along when the Council, under Universalist pressure, relaxes the genetic purity laws in order to allow foreign mutants to enter Heldon to do work that the lackeys of the Doms .have convinced you is beneath your station. Surely in a town such as Ulmgam, in such close proximity to the Borgravian pestilence, good Helder such as yourselves would be up in arms and ready to flock to the standard of the Human Renaissance Party in droves, once I proclaimed our dedication to the preservation of the racial purity of Heldon and the ouster of the fools on the Council who to curry favor with slackers and rabble would betray the iron rigor of our genetic purity laws!”

“Well spoken!” Peric felt constrained to utter aloud. His voice, however, was lost in the general cheering, for suddenly Bogel had touched his audience in their simple yet noble sense of racial pride. Others in the tavern now gave over their private conversation and turned their attention to the slim, dark-haired speaker.

“Or so I in my naive musings imagined when I decided to journey from Walder to these border regions in search of support for our cause,” Bogel continued after the ovation had subsided. “But instead of a righteously enraged citizenry, what did I find? Slothful slaggards too bemused by the prospect of having lesser beings take their tasks upon themselves to protest this outrage! Naive bumpkins who believe that all Doms have been driven out of Heldon because a government of fools and racial eunuchs tells them so!”

It was too much for Feric to bear. This Bogel obviously spoke out as a true patriot. His speech had cogency, his cause was just and more than worthy of support, he had momentarily captured the hearts of his audience, and yet now he had thrown away his moment by indulging in tortured self-pity instead of building to a roaring demand for concrete and ruthless action. Instead of cheers, he was drawing renewed hostility. The man was a good speaker as such, but a clear failure as a political agitator. Perhaps, though, the situation could be saved. ...

Feric leaped to his feet and shouted in a bold, clear voice:

“There are those of us here who are neither slaggards nor naive bumpkins!” This voicing of the crowd’s own hostility insantly drew all attention to him; Bogel himself did not attempt to interfere, since Feric’s words had revealed to his sharp mind the foul situation he had put himself in. All waited anxiously to hear Feric’s next words—would he attack the speaker or speak in his defense?

“There are those of us here to whom your words are a ringing challenge!” Feric continued, noting that Bogel’s eyes had brightened, his thin lips creased in a smile.

“There are those of us here who will not tolerate the impudence of mutants or the contamination of human soil by one instant of their unclean presence. There are those of us here who are ready to rip Doms apart with our bare hands when we see them. True men! Pure men! Men fanatically dedicated not merely to the preservation of the racial purity of the present High Republic of Heldon but to the extension of the absolute rule of true men to every humanly habitable spot on the surface of this sorry earth!

In the heart of even the most slothful slaggard lives this hero willing to take up arms to preserve the pure human genotype! Our very genes cry out——exclude the mutant!

Drive him before you! Slay the Dom wherever you find him!”

The audience broke into hearty prolonged cheers. As the cheering went on, Feric observed that every pair of eyes in the tavern was upon him; lines of psychic energy seemed to connect the center of his being with the heart of every man in the room. It was as if the wills of the audience fed their full power into his own will, which in turn returned their fervor to them magnified tenfold, in an ever-building spiral of psychic power that flooded and enlarged his being, a massive racial force that was his to direct where he willed. A sudden inspiration struck him: he would give this energy a concrete outlet, a target.

“And a Dom may be found not far from this very place,” Feric continued when the cheering had lapsed.

“Yes, there is a Dominator in your midst, and in the most monstrous place conceivable! This creature is within the reach of your fists at this very moment!”

A silence descended upon the room into which Bogel spoke: “It’s men like you that the Party needs, Trueman!

Tell us, where is this hidden Dominator? I warrant there isn’t a man here now not ready to rip him to pieces!”

Feric was quite pleased that Bogel had caught the spirit of the moment. His cause had merit, it was the cause of true humanity; his efforts deserved reward.

“Incredibly enough, a Dominator has secreted himself in the heart of the customs fortress on the Ulm bridge entrusted with protecting your genetic purity,” Feric said.

“He holds the entire garrison in a dominance pattern!”

A horrified gasp issued from the men in the tavern.

Instantly, Feric went on. “Think of the horror of it! This stinking monstrosity has secured certification and serves as a scribe to the genetic analyst empowered to grant certification to prospective citizens. From this citadel, he saps the will of the garrison and the analyst so that a veritable river of contaminated genes may gush into this area like the contents of a sewer to poison the posterity of your sons and daughters! Further, there is no one in the garrison not enmeshed in this pattern, no one able to dislodge the foul beast or smash his net!”

A din of angry muttering filled the tavern now. They were clearly ready to carry out the racial will as he directed. Their deepest instinct had been fully aroused—the iron determination to protect the human species. A fire had been ignited which could only be quenched in Dominator blood.

“What are we waiting for?” Feric bellowed. “We have our hands, and some of us are armed with truncheons! Let us march to the bridge and free our racial comrades! Death to the Dominator!”

So saying, Feric made his way quickly to Bogel’s side and fairly dragged the smaller man to his feet. Feric threw his great arm around Bogel’s shoulders and cried:

“Death to the Dominator—on to the bridge!”

The crowd answered with a feral roar of approval, and Feric, with Bogel at his heels, marched resolutely out of the tavern without looking back, confident that the aroused mob was more than willing to follow where he led.

Down Bridge Way the mob swept like avenging angels, thirty or forty outraged Helder, with Feric and Bogel at their bead. Every citizen on the street stopped in his tracks with amazement at the stirring sight; a few of the bolder souls fell into line.

Soon they had reached the bridge; Feric led the mob out upon it, walking straight down the center of the roadbed so that the entire width of the bridge was blocked by sturdy men, marching shoulder to shoulder in righteous wrath. “You’re an amazing orator, whoever you are,” Bogel told Feric, huffing and blowing in his efforts to keep up with Feric’s heroic strides. “The Human Renaissance Party has need of a man like you. I myself am, alas, no rabble-rouser.”