"Heinlein, Robert A - Free Men" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

“Hmmm. . . well—you’re right. But we might just as well worry over the Dred Scott Decision. Let’s get on with the problem. How about Brockman? Ideas?”
“What do you propose, boss?”
“I’d rather have it come from the floor.”
“Oh, quit scraping your foot, boss,” urged Ted. “We elected you to lead.”
“Okay. I propose to send somebody to backtrack on the message and locate Brockman—smell him out and see what he’s got. I’ll consult with as many groups as we can reach in this state and across the river, and we’ll try to manage unanimous action. I was thinking of sending Dad and Morrie.”
Cathleen shook her head. “Even with faked registration cards and travel permits they’d be grabbed for the Reconstruction Battalions. I’ll go.”
“In a pig’s eye,” Morgan answered. “You’d be grabbed for something a danged sight worse. It’s got to be a man.”
“I am afraid Cathleen is right,” McCracken commented. “They shipped twelve-year-old boys and old men who could hardly walk for the Detroit project. They don’t care how soon the radiation gets them—it’s a plan to thin us out.”
“Are the cities still that bad?”
“From what I hear, yes. Detroit is still ‘hot’ and she was one of the first to get it.”
“I’m going to go.” The voice was high and thin, and rarely heard in conference.
“Now, Mother—” said Dad Carter.
“You keep out of this, Dad. The men and young women would be grabbed, but they Won’t bother with me. All I need is a paper saying I have a permit to rejoin my grandson, or something.”
McCracken nodded. “I can supply that.”
Morgan paused, then said suddenly, “Mrs. Carter will contact Brockman. It is so ordered. Next order of business,” he went on briskly. “You’ve all seen the news about St. Joe—this is what they posted in Barclay last night.” He hauled out and held up the paper McCracken had given him. It was a printed notice, placing the City of Barclay on probation, subject to the ability of “local authorities” to suppress “bands of roving criminals.”
There was a stir, but no comment. Most of them had lived in Barclay; all had ties there.
“I guess you’re waiting for me,” McCracken began. “We held a meeting as soon as this was posted. We weren’t all there—it’s getting harder to cover up even the smallest gathering—but there was no disagreement. We’re behind you but we want you to go a little easy. We suggest that you cut out pulling raids within, oh, say twenty miles of Barclay, and that you stop all killing unless absolutely necessary to avoid capture. It’s the killings they get excited about—it was killing of the district director that touched off St. Joe.”
Benz sniffed. “So we don’t do anything. We just give up—and stay here in the hills and starve.”
“Let me finish, Benz. We don’t propose to let them scare us out and keep us enslaved forever. But casual raids don’t do them any real harm. They’re mostly for food for the Underground and for minor retaliations. We’ve got to conserve our strength and increase it and organize, until we can hit hard enough to make it stick. We won’t let you starve. I can do more organizing among the farmers and some animals can be hidden out, unregistered. We can get you meat—some, anyhow. And we’ll split our rations with you. They’ve got
us on 1800 calories now, but we can share it. Something can be done through the black market, too. There are ways.”
Benz made a contemptuous sound. Morgan looked at him.
“Speak up, Joe. What’s on your mind?”
“I will. It’s not a plan; it’s a disorderly retreat. A year from now we’ll be twice as hungry and no further along—and they’ll be better dug in and stronger. Where does it get us?”
Morgan shook his head. “You’ve got it wrong. Even if we hadn’t had it forced on us, we would have been moving into this stage anyhow. The Free Companies have got to quit drawing attention to themselves. Once the food problem is solved we’ve got to build up our strength and weapons. We’ve got to have organization and weapons—nationwide organization and guns, knives, and hand grenades. We’ve got to turn this mine into a factory. There are people down in Barclay who can use the stuff we can make here—but we can’t risk letting Barclay be blasted in the meantime. Easy does it.”
“Ed Morgan, you’re kidding yourself and you know it.”
“How?”
“‘How?’ Look, you sold me the idea of staying on the dodge and joining up—”
“You volunteered.”
“Okay, I volunteered. It was all because you were so filled with fire and vinegar about how we would throw the enemy back into the ocean. You talked about France and Poland and how the Filipinos kept on fighting after they were occupied. You sold me a bill of goods. But there was something you didn’t tell me—”
“Go on.”
“There never was an Underground that freed its own country. All of them had to be pulled out of the soup by an invasion from outside. Nobody is going to pull us out.”
There was silence after this remark. The statement
had too much truth in it, but it was truth that no member of the Company could afford to think about. Young Morrie broke it. “Captain?”
“Yes, Morrie.” Being a fighting man, Morrie was therefore a citizen and a voter.
“How can Joe be so sure he knows what he’s talking about? History doesn’t repeat. Anyhow, maybe we will get some help. England, maybe-or even the Russians.
Benz snorted. “Listen to the punk! Look, kid, England was smashed like we were, only worse—and Russia, too. Grow up; quit daydreaming.”
The boy looked at him doggedly. “You don’t know that. We only know what they chose to tell us. And there aren’t enough of them to hold down the whole world, everybody, everywhere. We never managed to lick the Yaquis, or the Moros. And they can’t lick us unless we let them. I’ve read some history too.”
Benz shrugged. “Okay, okay. Now we can all sing ‘My Country ‘Tis of Thee’ and recite the Scout oath. That ought to make Morrie happy—”
“Take it easy, Joe!”
“We have free speech here, don’t we? What I want to know is: How long does this go on? I’m getting tired of competing with coyotes for the privilege of eating jackrabbits. You know I’ve fought with the best of them. I’ve gone on the raids. Well, haven’t I? Haven’t I? You can’t call me yellow.”
“You’ve been on some raids,” Morgan conceded.
“All right. I’d go along indefinitely if I could see some sensible plan. That’s why I ask, ‘How long does this go on?’ When do we move? Next spring? Next year?”
Morgan gestured impatiently. “How do I know? It may be next spring; it may be ten years. The Poles waited three hundred years.”
“That tears it,” Benz said slowly. “I was hoping you could offer some reasonable plan. Wait and arm ourselves—that’s a pretty picture! Homemade hand grenades against atom bombs! Why don’t you quit
kidding yourselves? We’re licked!” He hitched at his belt. “The rest of you can do as you please—I’m through.”
Morgan shrugged. “If a man won’t fight, I can’t make him. You’re assigned noncombatant duties. Turn in your gun. Report to Cathleen.”
“You don’t get me, Ed. I’m through.”
“You don’t get me, Joe. You don’t resign from an Underground.”
“There’s no risk. I’ll leave quietly, and let myself be registered as a straggler. It doesn’t mean anything to the rest of you. I’ll keep my mouth shut—that goes without saying.”
Morgan took a long breath, then answered, “Joe, I’ve learned by bitter experience not to trust statements set off by ‘naturally,’ ‘of course,’ or ‘that goes without saying.’”