Kornbluth, Mary (Ed) Read online

  “Because I’m tired of being an Indian. It has no present and no future. I can’t be a white, they won’t have me - the best I could hope for would be that they laugh: ‘How, Big Chief’ - ’Hi, Blanket-bottom.’ Yeah, I could pass for a Mexican as far as my looks go, only the Mexes won’t have me, either. But the Colored will. And there’s millions and millions of them - whatever price they pay for it, they never have to feel lonely. And they’ve got a fine, bitter contempt for the whites that I can use a lot of. ‘Pecks,’ they call them. I don’t know where they got the name from, but damn, it sure fits them. They’ve been pecking away at us for a hundred years.”

  They talked on some more, and all the while the dust never settled in the road. The whole tribe, what there was of it, went by toward the Agency - in old trucks, in buckboards, on horses, on foot. And after some time, they loaded up the pickup and followed.

  * * * *

  The Indians sat all over the grass in front of the Agency, and for once no one bothered to chase them off. They just sat, silent waiting. A group of men from Crosby and Spanish Flats were talking to the Superintendent; there were maps in their bands. The cousins went up to them, and the white men looked out of the corners of their eyes, confidence still tempered - but only a bit - by wariness.

  “Mr. Jenkins,” Newt said to one, “most of this is your doing and you know how I feel about it--”

  “You’d better not make any trouble, Quarterhorse,” said another townsman.

  Jenkins said, “Let the boy have his say.”

  “-but I know you’ll give me a straight answer. What’s going to be done here?”

  Jenkins was a leathery little man, burnt almost as dark as an Indian. He looked at him, not unkindly, through the spectacles which magnified his blue eyes. “Why, you know, son, there’s nothing personal in all this. The land belongs to them that can hold it and use it. It was made to be used. You people’ve had your chance, Lord knows - well. No speeches. You see, here on the map, where this here dotted line is? The county is putting through a new road to connect with a new highway the state’s going to construct. There’ll be a lot of traffic through here and this Agency ought to make a fine motel.”

  “And right along here-” his blunt finger traced, “there’s going to be the main irrigation canal. There’ll be branches all through the Reservation. I reckon we can raise some mighty fine alfalfa. Fatten some mighty fine cattle . . . I always thought, son, you’d be good with stock if you bad some good stock to work with. Not these worthless scrubs. If you want a job--”

  One of the men cleared his sinus cavities with an ugly sound and spat. “Are you out of your mind, Jenk? Here we been workin for years ta git these Indyins outa here, and you trayin ta make urn stay . . .”

  The Superintendent was a tall, fat, soft man with a loose smile. He said now, ingratiatingly, “Mr. Jenkins realizes, as I’m sure you do, too, Mr. Waldo, that the policy of the United States Government is, and always has been - except for the unfortunate period when John Collier was in charge of the Bureau of Indian Affairs; man may have meant well, but Lord! hopeless sentimentalist - well, our policy has always been: prepare the Indian to join the general community. Get him off the Reservation. Turn the tribal lands over to the individual. And it’s been done with other tribes and now, finally, it’s being done with this one.” He beamed.

  Newt gritted his teeth. Then he said, “And the result was always the same - as soon as the tribal lands were given to the individual red man they damn quick passed into the hands of the individual white man. That’s what’s happened with other tribes, and now, finally, it’s being done with this one . . . Don’t you know, Mr. Scott, that we just can’t adapt ourselves to the system of individual landownership? That we just aren’t strong enough by ourselves to hold onto real estate? That--”

  “Root, hog, er die,” said Mr. Waldo.

  “Are men hogs?” Newt cried.

  Waldo said, at large, “Told ya he w’s a troublemaker.” Then, bringing his long, rough, red face next to Newt’s, he said, “Listen, Indyin, you and all y’r stinkin relatives are through. If Jenkins is damn fool enough ta hire ya, that’s his lookout. But if be don’t, you better stay far, far away, Y’cause nobody likes ya, nobody wants ya, and now that the Guvermint in Worsbermon is finely come ta their sentces, nobody is goin ta protect ya - you and y’r mangy cows and y’r smutty-nosed sheep and y’r blankets--”

  Newt’s face showed his feelings, but before be could voice them, Billy Cottonwood broke in. “Mr. Scott,” he said, “we sent a telegram to Washington, asking to halt the breakup of the Reservation.”

  Scott smiled his sucaryl smile. “Well, that’s your privilege as a citizen.”

  Cottonwood spoke on. He mentioned the provisions of the bill passed by Congress, authorizing the Commissioner of Indian Affairs to liquidate, at his discretion, all reservations including less than one hundred residents, and to divide the land among them.

  “Mr. Scott, when the Treaty of juniper Butte was made between the United States and the Tickisalls,” Cottonwood said, “there were thousands of us. That treaty was to be kept ‘as long as the sun shall rise or the grasses grow.’ The government pledged itself to send us doctors - it didn’t and we died like flies. It pledged to send us seed and cattle; it sent us no seed, and we had to eat the few hundred bead of Stockyard castoffs they did send us, to keep from starving. The government was to keep our land safe for us forever, in a sacred trust - and in every generation they’ve taken away more and more. Mr. Scott - Mr. Jenkins, Mr. Waldo, and all you other gentlemen - you knew, didn’t you, when you were kind enough to loan us money - or rather, to give us credit at the stores - when this drought started - you knew that this bill was up before Congress, didn’t you?”

  No one answered him. “You knew that it would pass, and that turning our lands over to us wouldn’t mean a darned thing, didn’t you? That we already owed so much money we couldn’t pay that our creditors would take all our land? Mr. Scott, how can the government let this happen to us? It made a treaty with us to keep our lands safe for us ‘as long as the sun rises or the grasses grow.’ Has the sun stopped rising? Has the grass stopped growing? We believed in you - we kept our part of the treaty. Mr. Scott, won’t you wire Washington - won’t you other gentlemen do the same? To stop this thing that’s being done to us? It’s almost a hundred years now since we made treaty, and we’ve always hoped. Now we’ve only got till midnight to hope. Unless--?”

  But the Superintendent said, No, be couldn’t do that. And Jenkins shook his head, and said, Corry - it was really all for the best. Waldo shrugged, produced a packet of legal papers. “I’ve been deppatized ta serve all these,” be said. “Soons the land’s all passed over ta individi’l ownership - which is 12 p.m. tanight. But if you give me y’r word (whatever that’s worth) not ta make no trouble, why, guess it c’n wait till morning. You go back ta y’r shacks and I’ll be round, come morning. We’ll sleep over with Scott f’r tanight.”

  Sam Quarterhorse said, “We won’t make any trouble, no. Not much use in that. But we’ll wait right here. It’s still possible we’ll bear from Washington before midnight.”

  The Superintendent’s house was quite comfortable. Logs (cut by Indian labor from the last of the Reservation’s trees) blazed in the big fireplace (built by Indian labor). A wealth of rugs (woven by Indians in the Reservation school) decorated wall and floor. The card game bad been on for some time when they heard the first woman start to wail. Waldo looked up nervously. Jenkins glanced at the clock. “Twelve midnight,” he said. “Well, that’s it. All over but the details. Took almost a hundred years, but it’ll be worth it.”

  Another woman took up the keening. It swelled to a chorus of heartbreak, then died away. Waldo picked up his cards, then put them down again. An old man’s voice bad begun a chant. Someone took it up - then another. Drums joined in, and rattles. Scott said, “It was old Fox-Head who started that just now. They’re singing the death song. They’ll go on till
morning.”

  Waldo swore. Then he laughed. “Let’m,” he said. “It’s their last morning.”

  * * * *

  Jenkins woke up first. Waldo stirred to wakefulness as he beard the other dressing. “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Don’t know,” Jenkins said. “But it feels to me like gettin-up time . . . You bear them go just awhile back? No? Don’t know how you could miss it. Singing got real loud - seemed like a whole lot of new voices joined in. Then they all got up and moved off. Wonder where they went . . . I’m going to have a look around outside.” He switched on his flashlight and left the house. In another minute Waldo joined him, knocking on Scott’s door as he passed.

  The ashes of the fire still smoldered, making a dull red glow. It was very cold. Jenkins said, “Look here, Waldo look.” Waldo followed the flashlight’s beam, said he didn’t see anything. “It’s the grass . . . it was green last night. It’s all dead and brown now. Look at it. . .”

  Waldo shivered. “Makes no difference. We’ll get it green again. The land’s ours now.”

  Scott joined them, his overcoat hugging his ears. “Why is it so cold?” he asked. “What’s happened to the clock? Who was tinkering with the clock? It’s past eight by clock it ought to be light by now. Where did all the Tickisalls go to? What’s happening? There’s something in the air - I don’t like the feel of it. I’m sorry I ever agreed to work with you, no matter what you paid me--”

  Waldo said, roughly, nervously, “Shut up. Some damned Indyin sneaked in and must of fiddled with the clock. Hell with um. Govermint’s on our side now. Soon’s it’s daylight we’ll clear um all out of here f’r good.”

  Shivering in the bitter cold, uneasy for reasons they only dimly perceived, the three white men huddled together by the dying fire and waited for the sun to rise.

  And waited. And waited. And waited.

  <>

  * * * *

  the man who ate the world

  frederik pohl

  1

  He had a name, but at home he was called ‘Sonny,’ and he was almost always at home. He hated it Other boys his age went to school. Sonny would have done anything to go to school, but his family was, to put it mildly, not well off. It wasn’t Sonny’s fault that his father was spectacularly unsuccessful. But it meant - no school for Sonny, no boys of his own age for Sonny to play with. All childhoods are tragic (as all adults forget), but Sonny’s was misery all the way through.

  The worst time was at night, when the baby sister was asleep and the parents were grimly eating and reading and dancing and drinking, until they were ready to drop. And of all bad nights, the night before his twelfth birthday was perhaps Sonny’s worst. He was old enough to know what a birthday party was like. It would be cake and candy, shows and games; it would be presents, presents, presents. It would be a terrible, endless day.

  He switched off the colour-D television and the recorded tapes of sea chanties and, with an appearance of absent-mindedness, walked towards the door of his playroom.

  Davey Crockett got up from beside the model rocket field and said, “Hold on thar, Sonny. Mought take a stroll with you.’ Davey’s face was serene and strong as a Tennessee crag; it swung its long huntin’ rifle under one arm and put its other arm around Sonny’s shoulders. ‘Where you reckon we ought to head?’

  Sonny shook Davey Crockett’s arm off. ‘Get lost,’ he said petulantly. “Who wants you around?’

  Long John Silver came out of the closet, hobbling on its wooden leg, crouched over its knobby cane. ‘Ah, young master,’ it said reproachfully, ‘you shouldn’t ought to talk to old Davey like that! He’s a good friend to you, Davey is. Many’s the weary day Davey and me has been a-keepin’ of your company. I asks you this, young master: Is it fair and square that you should be a-tellin’ him to get lost? Is it fair, young master? Is it square?’

  Sonny looked at the floor stubbornly and didn’t answer. My gosh, what was the use of answering dummies like them? He stood rebelliously silent and still until he just felt like saying something. And then he said: ‘You go in the closet, both of you. I don’t want to play with you. I’m going to play with my trains.’

  Long John said unctuously, ‘Now there’s a good idea, that is! You just be a-havin’ of a good time with your trains, and old Davey and me’ll -’

  ‘Go ahead!’ shouted Sonny. He stood stamping his foot until they were out of sight.

  His fire truck was in the middle of the floor; he kicked at it, but it rolled quickly out of reach and slid into its little garage under the tanks of tropical fish. He scuffed over to the model railroad layout and glared at it. As he approached, the Twentieth Century Limited came roaring out of a tunnel, sparks flying from its stack. It crossed a bridge, whistled at a grade crossing, steamed into the Union Station. The roof of the station glowed and suddenly became transparent, and through it Sonny saw the bustling crowds of redcaps and travellers -

  ‘I don’t want that,’ he said. ‘Casey, crack up old Number Ninety-Nine again.’

  Obediently the layout quivered and revolved a half-turn. Old Casey Jones, one and an eighth inches tall, leaned out of the cab of the S.P. locomotive and waved good-bye to Sonny. The locomotive whistled shrilly twice and started to pick up speed -

  It was a good crackup. Little old Casey’s body, thrown completely free, developed real blisters from the steam and bled real blood. But Sonny turned his back on it. He had liked that crack-up for a long time - longer than he liked almost any other toy he owned. But he was tired of it.

  He looked around the room.

  Tarzan of the Apes, leaning against a foot-thick tree trunk, one hand on a vine, lifted its head and looked at him. But Tarzan, Sonny calculated craftily, was clear across the room. The others were in the closet -

  Sonny ran out and slammed the door. He saw Tarzan start to come after him, but even before Sonny was out of the room Tarzan slumped and stood stock-still.

  It wasn’t fair, Sonny thought angrily. It wasn’t fair! They wouldn’t even chase him, so that at least he could have some kind of chance to get away by himself. They’d just talk to each other on their little radios, and in a minute one of the tutors, or one of the maids, or whatever else happened to be handy, would vector in on him. And that would be that

  But for the moment he was free.

  He slowed down and walked down the Great Hall towards his baby sister’s room. The fountains began to splash as he entered the hall; the mosaics on the wall began to tinkle music and sparkle with moving colours.

  ‘Now, chile, whut you up to!’

  He turned around, but he knew it was Mammy coming towards him. It was slapping towards him on big, flat feet, its pink-palmed hands lifted to its shoulders. The face under the red bandanna was frowning, the gold tooth sparkling as it scolded : ‘Chile, you is got us’n’s so worried we’s fit to die! How you ‘speck us to take good keer of you ef’n you run off lak that? Now you jes come on back to your nice room with Mammy an’ we’ll see if there ain’t some real nice programme on the teevee.’

  Sonny stopped and waited for it, but he wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of looking at it. Slap-slap the big feet waddled cumbersomely towards him; but he didn’t have any illusions. Waddle, big feet, three hundred pounds and all, Mammy could catch him in twenty yards with a ten-yard start. Any of them could.

  He said in his best icily indignant voice, ‘I was just going in to look at my baby sister.’

  Pause. ‘You was?’ The plump black face looked suspicious.

  ‘Yes, I was. Doris is my very own sister, and I love her very much.’

  Pause - long pause. ‘Dat’s nice,’ said Mammy, but its voice was still doubtful. ‘I ‘speck I better come ‘long with you. You wouldn’t want to wake your HI baby sister up. Ef I come I’ll he’p you keep real quiet.’

  Sonny shook free of it - they were always putting their hands on you.! ‘I don’t want you to come with me, Mammy!’

  ‘Aw now, honey! Mammy ain�
��t gwine bother nothin’, you knows that.’

  Sonny turned his back on it and marched grimly towards his sister’s room. If only they would leave him alone! But they never did. It was always that way, always one darn old robot - yes, robot, he thought, savagely tasting the naughty word. Always one darn robot after another. Why couldn’t Daddy be like other daddies, so they could live in a decent house and get rid of these darn robots - so he could go to a real school and be in a class with other boys, instead of being taught at home by Miss Brooks and Mr. Chips and all those other robots’?

  They spoiled everything. And they would spoil what he wanted to do now. But he was going to do it all the same, because there was something in Doris’s room that he wanted very much.

  It was probably the only tangible thing he wanted in the world.

  * * * *

  As they passed the imitation tumbled rocks of the Bear Cave, Mama Bear poked its head out and growled: ‘Hello, Sonny. Don’t you think you ought to be in bed? It’s nice and warm in our bear bed, Sonny.’