"That's not a fair example!"

  "Huh? Why not? It's happening in South Africa right now—and I don't care what the South African government says about it, we're talking about rights. Why isn't this a fair example? It's your definition. Sounds to me like there's something wrong with your definition of freedom." Whitlaw eyed the uncomfortable boy. "Hm?"

  The boy shook his head. He gave up.

  "So, let me give you a hint." Whitlaw turned to the rest of us again. "Freedom is not about what you want. That doesn't mean you can't have what you want—you probably can. But I want you to recognize that going for the goodies is just going for the goodies, nothing else. It has very little to do with freedom." He sat down on the edge of the desk again and looked around. "Anyone have another?"

  Silence. Embarrassed silence.

  Then, a voice: "Responsibility."

  "Eh? Who said that?"

  "I did." A Chinese boy in the back of the room.

  "Who's that? Stand up there. Let the rest of the class see what a genius looks like. What's your name, son?"

  "Chen. Louis Chen."

  "All right, Louis. Repeat your definition of freedom for the rest of these louts."

  "Freedom means being responsible for your own actions."

  "Right. You have your A for the day. You can relax—no, you can't; tell me what it means."

  "It means you can build your A-bombs, sir, but if you aren't taking proper precautions, then the government, acting on behalf of the people, has the right to take action to guarantee that you do, or shut you down if you don't."

  "Yes—and no. Now we have something else to define. Rights. Sit down, Louis. Give someone else a turn. Let's see some hands."

  Another boy in the back. " 'Rights: that which is due a party by just claim, legal guarantee, or moral principle.' "

  "Hm," said Whitlaw. "You surprise me—that's correct. Now close the book and tell me what it means. In your own words."

  "Uh . . ." The fellow faltered. "That which is rightfully yours. The right of . . . the right to . . . I mean, it's what you're entitled to . . . He became flustered and trailed off.

  Whitlaw looked at him with a jaundiced expression. "First of all, you can't use a concept to define itself. And secondly, nothing is rightfully anyone's. We've already covered that one, remember? There's no such thing as ownership; there's only control. Ownership is just a temporary illusion, so how can there be any such thing as rights? You might as well insist that the universe owes you a living." Whitlaw grinned abruptly. "As a matter of fact, it does—but it's a lifetime job to collect."

  He resumed his machine-gun attack. "Look, I'm going to make this easy for you. All that stuff that we call rights—that's just a lot of stuff that politicians say because it sounds good, so people will vote for them. They're actually ripping you off because they're confusing the issue, putting a lot of stuff in the way between you and the source of it all. So I want you to forget for a moment all of that stuff that you believe about rights. Because the truth is, it doesn't work. In fact, you can even forget about rights in the plural sense. There's only one right—and it isn't even a right in the traditional meaning of the word at all."

  He was in the center of the room. He turned slowly around, meeting the eyes of all of us as he spoke. "The defining condition of adulthood is responsibility. So what's the one thing you need to experience that responsibility? It's so simple you won't get it—it's the opportunity." He paused a moment to let it sink in, then repeated, "The opportunity to be responsible for yourself. That's it. If you're denied that one, then you're not free, and all of the other so-called rights are redundant. Rights are opportunitiesthat's the definition. And opportunity demands responsibility."

  A hand went up. "What about people who can't take care of themselves?"

  "You're talking about the insane and the immature. That's why we have keepers and parents—to watch out for them, to clean up their messes and paddle their behinds and teach them not to make any more messes—and not turn them loose upon the world until they learn. Part of the responsibility of adulthood is seeing that others also have the opportunity to reach adulthood and be responsible for themselves too. Mentally as well as physically."

  "But that's the government's job—"

  "What? Somebody call the asylum—one of the lunatics is loose. Surely you don't mean that, son."

  The boy looked stubborn. "Yes, I do."

  "Mm, okay," said Whitlaw. "Justify yourself."

  "It's the government's responsibility," he said. "By your definition."

  "Eh? No, I said it's the people's responsibility."

  "The government is the people."

  "It is? Not the last time I looked—according to the book, the government is the representative of the people."

  "That's not fair, sir—you wrote the book."

  "I did?" Whitlaw looked at the text in his hand. "Hm, so I did. All right, point for your side. You caught me begging the question."

  The boy looked smug.

  "—But you're still wrong. No, you're only half wrong. The purpose of a government—the only justifiable reason for its existence—is to act on behalf of the member population in a delegated area of specific responsibility. Now, what's a 'delegated area of specific responsibility'?" Whitlaw didn't wait for someone to guess at it—he bulldozed on. "It works out to be anything that enough people are committed to—whether it's right or wrong. Get this! A government, acting on behalf of the member population—and in their name—will do whatever it is delegated to do, regardless of any defined morality in the matter. If you want proof, read a good history book." He plucked one off his desk. "A good history book is one that tells you what happened. Period. Forget the ones that explain history to you—they're ripping you off of the opportunity to see the whole picture."

  He sat down on the edge of his desk again. "Listen, the government does what you want it to. If you say that you don't make a difference, you're guaranteeing that you won't. The fact of the matter is that anyone who is committed enough to enroll other people into the same commitment will make a difference. I want you to know that it does not take a majority. Some of the games that specific segments of this nation's population have enrolled the rest of us into include an extensive military organization, a space exploration agency, an interstate highway system, a postal service, a pollution control agency, an economic management bureau, a national education standard, a medical insurance service, a national pension plan, a labor management bureau and even a vast and complicated system of taxation so that each of us can pay for his or her fair share of those services—whether we wanted them or not in the first place."

  Whitlaw stabbed at us with one long bony finger, making his points in the air like a shrike impaling its prey on a thornbush. "So the conclusion is inescapable. You are responsible for the actions of your government. It acts in your name. It is your employee. If you don't properly supervise the actions of your employee, you're not owning your responsibility. You'll deserve what you get. Do you know why the government is in the shape it is today? Because you aren't doing your job. After all, who else's responsibility could it be? I mean, can you imagine anyone in his right mind deliberately designing such a system? No—no one in his right mind would! The system is continually falling into the hands of those who are willing to manipulate it for short-term gain—because we let them."

  Someone raised his hand. Whitlaw waved it down. "No, not now." He grinned. "I'm not through 'brainwashing' you. I know that's what some of you think this is—I've seen the editorials in the newspapers too, the ones calling for the end of 'political indoctrination classes.' Let me just say this about that: you'll notice I'm not telling you what you should be doing. Because I don't know what that is. It's your responsibility to determine it for yourselves—you get to create your own form of participation. Because that's the only real choice you ever get in your whole life—whether or not you're going to participate. You might want to notice that not participating is also a decision—it's a decision to be a victim of the consequences. Refuse to handle your own responsibilities and you will get the consequences. Every time! You can count on it.

  "So here's the punch line—pay attention. 'Let George do it' is not just the slogan of a lazy man—it's the credo of the slave. If you want to be taken care of and not have to worry, that's fine; you can join the rest of the cattle. Cattle are comfortable—that's how you recognize them. Just don't complain when they ship you off to the packing plant. They've bought and paid for the privilege. You sold it to them. Now if you want to be free, then get this: freedom is not about being comfortable. It's about seizing and using opportunities—and using them responsibly. Freedom is not comfort. It's commitment. Commitment is the willingness to be uncomfortable. The two aren't incompatible, but there are damn few free men on welfare.

  "The free man, class, doesn't just survive—he challenges!"

  Whitlaw was right, of course. He usually was. If he'd ever been wrong, none of us had ever caught him at it. And after a while, we'd gotten pretty good.

  I knew what he would say. The choice was mine. Even if I could have asked him for advice, he would have only said, "I can't answer that question for you, son. You already know the answer. You're just looking for agreement."

  Right.

  I couldn't depend on the good will of the universe any more. Five big plagues and a score of little ones had seen to that.

  My coffee had gone cold.

  So I went looking for Shorty.

  5

  Shorty

  "The only winner of the War of 1812 was Tchaikovsky."

  —SOLOMON SHORT

  Shorty towered over me like a wall.

  "Here," he said and thrust a flame-thrower into my arms. "Don't flinch," he grinned. "There's nothing to be afraid of. It's not charged."

  "Oh," I said, not at all reassured. I tried to figure out how to hold it.

  "Watch it," he warned. "That'd be a good way to burn off your—here, hold it like this. One hand on the flame control there, the other on the stock—see that handle? That's right. Now, hold still while I fix your straps. We'll work without the tanks until you get the feel of it. You know, you're lucky—"

  "Oh?"

  "That torch is a Remington. Almost new. Designed for the war in Pakistan, but never used. Didn't need to—but it's perfect for us now because it'll take anything that burns and flows. See, the trick is this: you can shoot a stream of pure fuel alone—jellied gasoline is best—or you can shoot a barrage of exploding pellets, soaked in the fuel. Or you can shoot both at once. The pellets are pressure-loaded in this chamber here. Because they're pellets, you have a greater range, and because they explode on impact, you get a larger splash. The effect is terrific—don't point that at the ground, or you'll take off."

  "Uh, Shorty . . ."

  "Something wrong?"

  "Napalm was outlawed almost ten years before the Pakistan conflict. What was the government doing with flame-throwers?"

  He let go of the straps he was adjusting. "You're gonna need shoulder pads." He turned away. I thought he wasn't going to answer the question, but as he came back from the Jeep, carrying the pads, he said, "Same thing they were doing with A-bombs, nerve bombs, bacteriological weapons, hallucinogenic gases, nerve gases and poison vectors. Stockpiling them." He stopped my next question before I could ask it. "I know, they're illegal. That's why we had to have them—because the other side had them too. Letting them know was the guarantee. That's why the treaty worked."

  "But—I thought the purpose of the whole thing was to outlaw inhumane weapons."

  "Nope. Just to keep 'em from bein' used. There's always a difference between what you say and what you really want. If you're sharp enough to know what you really want, then it's easy to figure out what to say to get it. That's what that whole conference was about." He paused sourly. "I oughta know. I was there."

  "Huh?"

  Shorty looked like he wanted to say something, but he stopped himself. "Never mind. Some other time. Let me ask you this: what is it that makes a weapon inhumane?"

  "Uh . . ." I thought about it.

  "Let me make it easier for you. Tell me a humane weapon."

  "Um—I see your point."

  "Right. There's no such thing. It's like Christmas—it's not the gift, it's the thought that counts." He came around behind me and started fitting the pads under the straps. "A weapon, Jimnever forget this, lift your arms—is a tool for stopping the other fellow. That's the purpose—stopping him. The so-called humane weapons merely stop a man without permanently injuring him. The best weapons—you can put your arms down now—are the ones that work by implication, by threat, and never have to be used at all. The enemy stops himself.

  "It's when they don't stop"—he turned me around to adjust the fittings in front—"that the weapons become inhumane, because that's when you have to use them. And so far, the most effective ones are the ones that kill—because they stop the guy permanently." He had to drop to his knees to cinch the waist strap. "Although . . . there's a lot to be said for maiming—"

  "Huh?" I couldn't see his eyes, so I didn't know if he was joking or not.

  "—but that's asking too much of both the weapon and its user." He straightened again and rapped the buckle in the center of my chest. "Okay, that's the quick-release latch. Flip that up and the whole thing falls apart. That's in case you have a sudden need to run like hell. And if you do, you'd better. Five seconds after you drop that, it blows itself to bits. All right, I'm gonna hang the tanks on you now."

  "You were going to say something about the Moscow Treaties before, weren't you?" I prompted.

  "Nope." He headed for the Jeep.

  I flexed my arms. The harness was stiff, but it wasn't uncomfortable. I guess Shorty knew what he was doing.

  He came back with the tanks. They sloshed lightly. "They're only half-full. I don't want you starting any forest fires. Turn around."

  As he hung the tanks on my shoulders, he said, "You want to know about the treaties? They were dishonorable. To make false rules about 'I won't use this if you won't use that' may seem civilized because it lessens the brutality—but it isn't. It just makes the brutality tolerable for a longer time. And that's not civilized at all. If we're in a situation where we have to stop the other fellow, then let's just stop him. It's more efficient. There, how does that feel?"

  I tested my balance. "Uh, fine—"

  He scowled. "No, it isn't. You're off balance. They're too low. Hold still." He lifted the tanks off my back and began readjusting the straps of the harness. "This torch—" he said, "—this torch is a truly beautiful weapon. It has a maximum range of sixty meters. Eighty with a supercharger. It makes you a totally independent fighting unit. You carry your own fuel, you choose your own targets, point and squeeze. Vrr-o-oomm! It'll stop a man instantly—or a worm. It'll stop a tank. It'll burn out a pillbox. There isn't anything that can resist a torch—except very thick armor or a lot of distance. It is not"—he gave a hard yank—"humane. You pull that trigger and that's not a man in front of you anymore; it's a private piece of hell. You can watch him turn black and shrivel as his blood boils out of his skin. You can feel his flesh roasting. Sometimes you can even hear the scream of the air exploding out of his lungs." He gave another sharp pull at the straps. "And that's good, Jim, that's very good. You should be right down there next to what you're doing. If you're going to be a killer, you should do it personally, so you experience what you're doing. That's the civilized way." He poked me. "That torch is not humane, but it is civilized."

  My mouth was very dry. I managed to say, "Civilized—?"

  "It stops them, doesn't it? Hold still, here come the tanks again. A weapon should let you sleep well at night. If it doesn't, there's something wrong with the war."

  He caught me unprepared. I almost staggered. I stiffened against the weight. But he was right. The balance was better this way.

  He must have seen the look on my face. "Jim—war isn't polite. Especially not this one. We don't have the time to be fair. That torch will burn a Chtorran like fluff, and that's all that matters—you don't get a second chance with worms. They come at you at a good sixty-five kilometers an hour—two hundred and twenty-five kilograms of angry worm. And they're all teeth at the business end. If it's purple, burn it. That's a standing order. You don't have to wait for permission."

  "I won't."

  He locked eyes with me and nodded sharply; his expression was hard. "There's one more thing. Don't ever balk because you might hit a man. Don't hesitate because you think you might be able to save him—you can't. Once a Chtorran starts eating, there's no way to stop it. It can't stop. Not even if it wanted to. Burn them both, Jim. And burn them fast. He'd thank you for it if he could." He studied my face. "Can you remember that?"

  "I'll try."

  "It's like that little girl. It's the kindest thing you can do."

  I nodded and shouldered the flame-thrower. I didn't like it; I probably never would. Too bad. "Okay," my mouth was saying. "Show me how to work it."

  6

  Hardware

  "I'm all in favor of keeping dangerous weapons out of the hands of fools. Let's start with typewriters."

  —SOLOMON SHORT

  Reconnaissance confirmed that there were only three worms in the valley, as Duke had guessed, but also that they were very busy with something. When Larry reported that, Duke frowned. He didn't like worms being so active—that made them hungry.

 

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