Avram Davidson - The Avram Davidson Treasury - a tribute collection

“But it belongs to the WIS,” Don had protested.

And Elwell: “No, Don, no — it belongs to me. I formed it. I proved it.”

“They’ll never allow—”

With a desperate, slow intensity, shaking his head, Elwell had explained. Reluctantly, Don agreed. It seemed to him that he was agreeing to no more than the first risk. But then, with Elwell dead, and the WIS turning against them both — first with coldness, then with clamor, then with a silent tenacity more disturbing than either — Don Benedict came to see that it was not only the beginning which was his, but that it was all his. Forevermore.

At the bottom of the stairs, he saw the man out of the corner of his eye, eye intent upon feet, feet pacing out the pattern. He stopped for a moment, intending only to turn. And stayed stopped. The man (it was Anders) took hold of his arm as if to urge him on.

“I’m coming with you, Benedict.” Eyes burning, voice iron-hard.

“I’m going alone.”

“You’ve betrayed the trust, used what belongs to all of us, used it for yourself alone. The WIS—”

As always, so now, the Wooden Indian Society undoing themselves: Anders, trembling with fury, unawarely released his grip. Don placed the cushion of his palm under Anders’ chin, thrust forward and upward with all his strength. And at once, swift — but not forgetting himself, not breaking into a run — he finished what he had to do. Anders staggered back, arms flailing, feet failing at purchase; then Don, turning his head at the last, saw him fall, the electric lights glaring on the white-tiled walls.

His foot jarred, as always, missing the familiar flooring by an inch. He adjusted his gait to the flagstone pave of the alley. It stretched before him and behind him for twenty feet in either direction. There was no one in sight.

About halfway along, there was a deep recess, a bricked-up door, and here Don hid until he was quite sure that Anders was not coming through. There was never any certainty that the WIS had not pieced it together, spying — somehow — pieced it together, bit by bit. There was always that tension, even here — though less, much less. After all, if they did get through, it would no longer be him that they were primarily after. It would be Demuth’s. And Demuth’s could look out for themselves.

Waiting, ears alert, he recalled the last meeting of the WIS he had dared attend. Mac Donald, eyes blazing deep in their sockets, had broken into Derwentwater’s measured phrases, thrust a shaking finger into Don’s face.

“Do you call yourself a Preservationist? Yes or no? Stand up and be counted!”

Staunchly, he had faced him, had answered. “I consider myself a philosophical Preservationist. I do not believe in violent—”

Face convulsed, fists clenched in the air, “ Traitor! Traitor! ” Mac Donald had screamed.

Not yielding, Don started to speak, got no further than Elwell’s name, when Mac Donald — and Anders, Gumpert, De Giovanetti, almost all of them, in fact — had drowned him out with their outcry, their threats. How much had Demuth’s paid him? How much had he sold out for?

Demuth’s! Don mouthed the name scornfully. As if he would touch their tainted money. He had learned, the hard way, that Elwell was right all along, that the WIS were fanatics who would shrink from nothing. Well, he wasn’t doing any shrinking, either.

Don Benedict came out of the niche — Anders wasn’t going to get through this time, that was clear — and walked on down the alley. In less than a minute, he came out into a courtyard where heaps of chips and sawdust lay on one side and heaps of hay on the other. A man in dung-smeared boots came out of the building to the left with a bucket of milk in his hand. He paused, squinted, tugged his tobacco-stained beard and put down the bucket.

“Hey, Dusty! Glad to see you,” he greeted the newcomer. “You just get into town?”

“Ee-yup,” said Don/Dusty. “How you, Swan?”

Swan said he was fine, and inquired about things up in Sairacuse.

“Capital,” said Dusty. “Hay’s bringing a fine price—”

Swan groaned, spat into the sawdust. “Good for dem, maybe. Not for me. I tink you been at de bottle, hey, Dusty? You look yumpy, like always, ven you yust come in.”

“Bottle? I get little enough out of any bottle I buy. My damned brother-in-law” (it was true — he had forgotten about Walter; it would be nice if he never had to remember) “drinks my liquor, smokes my cigars, wears my shirts, and spends my money.”

Swan groaned sympathetically, picked up the bucket. “Vy don’t you kick him de hell out?”

Nice advice, would be a pleasure to take it. Of course, Mary wouldn’t be able to stand it. Poor rabbity Mary.

“All I need is to get back to work. That’ll fix me up.” Don/Dusty waved, continued on his way across the yard and went into the doorway of the tall brick building to the right. Inside, it was cool and dark and smelled of wood and paint.

Dusty took a deep breath and began to smile.

He started up the stairs, ignoring the painted hand with outstretched finger and word Office on the first floor. By the time he reached the second floor, his smile was very broad. Softly, he began to sing “Aura Lee” and went in through the open door.

The big loft was dark; little light came in through the small and dirty windows, but at regular intervals a gas-jet flared. Dusty paused to greet his friends. Silently they stared down at him, peering from underneath the hands shading their eyes, stretching out their arms in wordless welcome, plumage blazing in a frenzy of colors.

“Hello, there, Tecumseh! How, Princess Redwing! Osceola, Pocahontas—”

A red-faced little man in a long striped apron trotted out into view, two tufts of snowy hair decorating his cheeks, a hat of folded newsprint on his head.

“Dusty, Dusty, I’m darned glad to see you!” he exclaimed.

“Hello, Charley Voles. How’s everything at C. P. Hennaberry’s?”

Charley shook his head. “Good and bad,” he said. “Good and bad. Oscar snagged his hand on a nail moving some plunder at home and it festered up something terrible. We was feared it was going to mortify at first, but I guess he’s on the mend at last. Can’t work, though, no-o-o-o, can’t work. And Hennery was too numerous with the drink, fell off the wagon again and I think he must still be in the Bridewell, unless’n maybe his sentence is up today. Meanwhile, the work is piling high. Thunderation, yes — fly-figures, rosebuds, pompeys, two Turks under orders—”

“ Two? ” Dusty paused with his arms half out of his coat sleeves, whistled.

Charley nodded proudly. “Gent in Chicago opening up a big emporium, two Turks and two Sir Walters. Only thing is—” his ruddy little face clouded—“gent is clamoring for delivery, says if he don’t get ‘em soon he’ll order from Detroit. And you know what that means, Dusty: Let trade get away and it never comes back. Why, the poor Major is pulling his whiskers out worrying. ’Course, with you back in town—”

Dusty, tying his apron, pursed his lips. “Well, now, Charley — now you know, I never did fancy my work much on the special figures. I want to help Major Hennaberry all I can, but—” He shook his head doubtfully and started to lay out his tools.

Charley Voles tut-tutted. “Oscar and Hennery was working on the Turks when they was took sick or drunk. I had the top three of a Sir Walter done, but I had to leave off to handle a couple of prior orders on sachems. Now if you’ll take on the sachems, I can finish the specials. How’s that strike you?”

Dusty said it struck him fine. He strode over to the hydraulic elevator shaft and gave two piercing whistles.