“Or Atla-Hi,” I added meaningfully. “Are you expecting us to admit we’re murderers when we get to Atla-Hi, Pop?”
The old geezer smiled and thinned his eyes. “Now that wouldn’t accomplish much, would it? Most places they’d just string you up, maybe after tickling your pain nerves a bit, or if it was Manteno they might put you in a cage and feed you slops and pray over you, and would that help you or anybody else? If a man or woman quits killing there’s a lot of things he’s got to straighten out—first his own mind and feelings, next he’s got to do what he can to make up for the murders he’s done—help the next of kin if any and so on—then he’s got to carry the news to other killers who haven’t heard it yet. He’s got no time to waste being hanged. Believe me, he’s got work lined up for him, work that’s got to be done mostly in the Deathlands, and it’s the sort of work the city squares can’t help him with one bit, because they just don’t understand us murderers and what makes us tick. We have to do it ourselves.”
“Hey, Pop,” I cut in, getting a little interested in the argument (there wasn’t anything else to get interested in until we got to Atla-Hi or Pop let down his guard), “I dig you on the city squares (I call ’em cultural queers) and what sort of screwed-up fatheads they are, but just the same for a man to quit killing he’s got to quit lone-wolfing it. He’s got to belong to a community, he’s got to have a culture of some sort, no matter how disgusting or nutsy.”
“Well,” Pop said, “don’t us Deathlanders have a culture? With customs and folkways and all the rest? A very tight little culture, in fact. Nutsy as all get out, of course, but that’s one of the beauties of it.”
“Oh sure,” I granted him, “but it’s a culture based on murder and devoted wholly to murder. Murder is our way of life. That gets your argument nowhere, Pop.”
“Correction,” he said. “Or rather, reinterpretation.” And now for a little while his voice got less old-man harsh and yet bigger somehow, as if it were more than just Pop talking. “Every culture,” he said, “is a way of growth as well as a way of life, because the first law of life is growth. Our Deathland culture is devoted to growing through murder away from murder. That’s my thought. It’s about the toughest way of growth anybody was ever asked to face up to, but it’s a way of growth just the same. A lot bigger and fancier cultures never could figure out the answer to the problem of war and killing—we know that, all right, we inhabit their grandest failure. Maybe us Deathlanders, working with murder every day, unable to pretend that it isn’t part of every one of us, unable to put it out of our minds like the city squares do—maybe us Deathlanders are the ones to do that little job.”
“But hell, Pop,” I objected, getting excited in spite of myself, “even if we got a culture here in the Deathlands, a culture that can grow, it ain’t a culture that can deal with repentant murderers. In a real culture a murderer feels guilty and confesses and then he gets hanged or imprisoned a long time and that squares things for him and everybody. You need religion and courts and hangmen and screws and all the rest of it. I don’t think it’s enough for a man just to say he’s sorry and go around glad-handing other killers—that isn’t going to be enough to wipe out his sense of guilt.”
Pop squared his eyes at mine. “Are you so fancy that you have to have a sense of guilt, Ray?” he demanded. “Can’t you just see when something’s lousy? A sense of guilt’s a luxury. Of course it’s not enough to say you’re sorry—you’re going to have to spend a good part of the rest of your life making up for what you’ve done … and what you will do, too! But about hanging and prisons—was it ever proved those were the right thing for murderers? As for religion now—some of us who’ve quit killing are religious and a lot of us (me included) aren’t; and some of the ones that are religious figure (maybe because there’s no way for them to get hanged) that they’re damned eternally—but that doesn’t stop them doing good work. I ask you now, is any little thing like being damned eternally a satisfactory excuse for behaving like a complete rat?”
That did it, somehow. That last statement of Pop’s appealed so much to me and was completely crazy at the same time, that I couldn’t help warming up to him. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t really fall for his line of chatter at all, but I found it fun to go along with it—so long as the plane was in this shuttle situation and we had nothing better to do.
Alice seemed to feel the same way. I guess any bugger that could kid religion the way Pop could got a little silver star in her books. Bronze, anyway.
Right away the atmosphere got easier. To start with we asked Pop to tell us about this “us” he kept mentioning and he said it was some dozens (or hundreds—nobody had accurate figures) of killers who’d quit and went nomading around the Deathlands trying to recruit others and help those who wanted to be helped. They had semipermanent meeting places where they tried to get together at prearranged dates, but mostly they kept on the go, by twos and threes or—more rarely—alone. They were
