“My grandchild?’ Anderson echoed, aghast. “My
“It wasn’t me,” Buddy blurted. “I swear it wasn’t me.”
Greta had disappeared into the darkness, and three men were scrambling to their feet, eager to follow her. Anderson shot four bullets into the back of one of the men. Then, utterly spent, senseless, he collapsed over the feebly burning lamp. It was extinguished.
The man he had killed was Clay Kestner. The fourth bullet, passing through Clay’s chest, had entered the brain of a woman who had leapt up in panic at Anderson’s first shot.
There were now twenty-four of them, not counting Greta and the two men who had gone off with her.
ELEVEN
A Natural Death
Anderson’s hair was coming out in handfuls. Maybe it would have at his age in any case, but he blamed it on his diet. The meager supplies rescued from the fire had been rationed out in dribs and drabs, and the little corn that remained now was for Maryann and for seed when they returned to the surface.
He scratched at his flaky scalp and cursed the Plant, but it was a half-hearted curse—as though he were peeved with an employer, instead of at war with an enemy. His hatred had become tainted with gratitude; his strength was quitting him.
More and more he pondered the question of who was to succeed him. It was a weighty question: Anderson was perhaps the last leader in the world—a king almost, undoubtedly a patriarch.
Though generally he believed in primogeniture, he wondered if a difference of only three months might not be construed charitably in favor of the younger son. He refused to think of Neil as a bastard, and he had therefore been obliged to treat the boys as twins—impartially.
There was something to be said for each of them—and not enough for either. Neil was a steady worker, not given to complaimngs, and strong; he had the instincts of a leader of men, if not all the abilities. However, he was stupid: Anderson could not help but see it. He was also… well, disturbed. Just how he was disturbed or why, Anderson did not know, though he suspected that Greta was in some way responsible. Considering this problem, he tended to be vague, to eye it obliquely or as through smoked glass, as we are told to observe an eclipse. He did not want to learn the truth if he could help it.
Buddy, on the other hand, though he possessed many of the qualities lacking in his half-brother, was not to be relied upon. He had proven it when, in the face of his father’s sternest disapproval, he had gone to live in Minneapolis; he had proven it conclusively on Thanksgiving Day. When Anderson had found his son in, as he supposed, the very commission of the act, it had become quite clear that Buddy would not succeed to his own high place. Anderson, in passing from early manhood to middle age, had developed an unreasoning horror of adultery. That he had once been adulterate himself and that one of his children was the fruit of such an union did not occur to him now. He would, in fact, have denied it outright—and, he would have believed his denial.
For a long time it had seemed that no one could possibly take his place. Therefore, he would have to carry on alone. Each time his sons had shown new weaknesses, Anderson had felt a corresponding growth in strength and purpose. Secretly, he had thrived on their failings.
Then Jeremiah Orville had entered the scene. In August, Anderson had been moved by reasons which were obscure and (it now seemed) God-given to spare the man. Today he trembled at his sight—as Saul must have trembled when he first realized that young David would supplant him and his son Jonathan. Anderson tried desperately both to deny this and to accommodate himself to his apparent heir. (He constantly feared that he would, like that earlier king, war against the Lord’s annointed and damn himself in the act. Belief in predestination has decidedly some disadvantages.) As by degrees, he bent his will to this unpleasant task (for, though he admired Orville, he did not like him); his strength and purpose quitted him by equal degrees. Orville, without even knowing it, was killing him.
It was night. That is to say, they had once again journeyed to exhaustion. As Anderson was the arbiter of what constituted exhaustion, it was evident to everyone that the old man was being worn down: as after the vernal equinox, each day was shorter than the day that had gone before.
The old man scratched at his flaky scalp, and cursed something, he couldn’t remember exactly what, and fell asleep without thinking to take a count of heads. Orville, Buddy and Neil each took the count for him. Orville and Buddy both arrived at twenty-four. Neil, somehow, had come up with twenty-six.
“But that’s not possible,” Buddy pointed out.
Neil was adamant: he had counted twenty-six. “Whadaya think—I can’t
Since Greta’s departure, a month or so had gone by. No one was keeping track of the time any longer. Some maintained it was February; others held for March. From the expeditions to the surface they knew only that it was still winter. They needed to know no more than that.
Not everyone went along. Indeed, besides Anderson, his two sons and Orville, there were only three other men. A permanent base of operations was again being maintained for those, like Maryann and Alice, who could not spend the day crawling through the roots. The number of those who deemed themselves incapable had grown daily until there were just as many lotus-eaters as before. Anderson pretended to ignore the situation, fearing to provoke a worse one.
Anderson led the men up by the usual route, which was marked by ropes that Maryann had braided. It was no longer possible for them to find their way about by the Ariadne’s thread of broken capillaries, for in their explorations they had broken so many that they had created a labyrinth of their own.
It was near the surface, at about the sixty-degree level, that they came across the rats. At first it was like the humming of a beehive, though higher pitched. The men’s first thought was that the incendiaries had at last come down into the roots after them. When they had ventured into the tuber from which the noise was coming, the humming rose to a raspy whine, as though a coloratura’s aria were being broadcast at peak volume over a bad public-address system. The solid-seeming darkness beyond the lamp’s reach wavered and dissolved to a lighter shade as thousands of rats tumbled over each other to get into the fruit. The walls of the passage were honeycombed with the rats’ tunnelings.
“Rats!” Neil exclaimed. “Didn’t I say it was rats that gnawed their way through that root up above? Didn’t I, huh? Well, here they are. There must be a million of them.”
“If there aren’t now, there will be before very long,” Orville agreed. “I wonder if they’re all in this one tuber?”
“What possible difference can it make?” Anderson asked impatiently. “They’ve left us well enough alone, and I for one feel no need to keep them company. They seem content to eat this damn candied apple, and I’m content to let them eat it. They can eat the whole of it, of all of them, for all I care.” Sensing that he had gone too far, he said, in a more subdued tone: “There’s nothing we can do against an army of rats, in any case. I have only one cartridge left in the revolver. I don’t know what I’m saving it for, but I know it isn’t for a rat.”
“I was thinking of the future, Mr. Anderson. With all this food available and no natural enemies to keep them down, these rats will multiply out of all bounds. They may not threaten our food supply now, but what about six months from now? a year from now?”
“Before the summer has begun, Jeremiah, we won’t be living down here. The rats are welcome to it then.”
“We’ll still be depending on it for food though. It’s the only food left—unless you want to breed the, rats. Personally, I’ve never liked the taste. And there’s next winter to think about. With the little seed that’s left for planting— even if it’s still good—we can’t possibly get through the winter. I don’t like to live like this any more than the next man, but it’s a way to survive. The only way, for the time being.”
“Ah, that’s a lot of hooey!” Neil said, in support of his father.
Anderson looked weary, and the lantern, which he had been holding up to examine the perforations of the wall of the passage, sank to his side. “You’re right, Jeremiah. As usual.” His lips curled in an angry smile, and he swung his bare foot (shoes were too precious to be wasted down here) at one of the ratholes from which two
