The Devil's Advocate Read online

  The Chief Magistrate became paler and more haggard, and yet more resolute. His voice rose stronger in the room, ringing with authority.

  “Good men and men of public conscience will revolt if their principles are threatened, and today this small minority is still a threat to our present tyrants. A small threat, and one constantly intimidated, constantly watched, for out of them can rise, and is rising, a passionate determination to overthrow authoritarianism. They are men of learning, of understanding, and they have not forgotten what this country once was, and what it might yet become again. The State is not unmindful that these men could form the nucleus of restored liberty. That is why this handful is sought out unremittingly, and persecuted and destroyed and declared ‘traitorous.’ No, there is no hope for us in the masses. The middle-class has virtually disappeared. Who, then, could overthrow the tyrants? The bureaucrats, the farmers and the MASTS. We must use them. We must begin to oppress them, defame them, persecute and regiment them, in the name of the State. We must be zealots, fervent and fanatical. When they howl, we must howl louder and call them traitors!

  “We will, in short, use the same methods as the tyrants, in the name of the tyrants, to create a terrible revolution, out of which will be born a new liberty and a new dignity.”

  Now the Magistrate fixed his eyes upon Christian. “You wish to ask a question?”

  “Yes. Will Washington support us in this? Or will we be murdered to shut us up?”

  “A number of us will be slyly shot, certainly,” said Arthur Carlson. “But we’ll be so fervent in our devotion to The Democracy, and our voices will be so loud and fanatical, and we’ll draw so much attention, that we’ll not only embarrass The Democracy but will, quite possibly, make it afraid of us. We’ll be advised to be quiet, but we’ll only scream the louder, in the name of the Government, and be very much enraged.” He smiled.

  “You know what is already happening. The teachers of America, as a class, are very docile, and always eager to serve the most powerful master. You know how their so-called ‘liberalism’ helped to enslave the people several decades ago. When America became completely regimented, the teachers followed every instruction. For a while they were a privileged class, also, with every honor paid them, and every consideration.

  “But three years ago I picked a number of Minute Men to oppress the teachers and professors of America, who had so willingly lent themselves to her betrayal. Their salaries were cut, for the sake of ‘national economy.’ Their comfortable houses were confiscated for the Military and the bureaucrats. They began to be badgered, inspected, bullied. What they would not do for man in general, they began to do for themselves. They became restive, and then when the press began to denounce them as potential traitors, they were terrified. They rediscovered ‘liberty.’ Most of them were dishonest and frightened self-seekers, but out of the mass of them slowly emerged men suddenly sobered and honest. They realized what they had done, and they were angered against themselves and against the Government. So we have, now, many teachers and professors subtly and artfully teaching our children and our youth of the lost brave past of America. Some, who become too bold, are imprisoned or executed. But the others are cleverer, and they will live and continue to breed restlessness.

  “When the time comes they will join the bureaucrats, the farmers and the MASTS in fomenting a violent revolution.”

  The Magistrate pointed to Durant. “The farmers of a certain section of the country are your victims, Andrew. A very rich and fatted section. And you, Christian: the MASTS are yours.” He laughed a little. “I will support you. There will be many nameless men who will support you. I am the most powerful Magistrate in America, and my father is the President’s only trusted friend. The day of liberation is not too far away.”

  He stepped back on the platform. “But we must hurry. We have no time to waste. You two men may pick only one of these, your older friends and relatives, for a moment’s private talk. You must ask them no questions, however. They will comfort and sustain you, and will assure you of their affection. But that is all. Which do you choose?”

  The profiles of the other men did not move in the direction of the two young men. They only waited. Durant looked at his father, and then at his priest. It was a distressing choice. He said, in a low voice: “Father Martin.”

  The priest immediately rose. Durant glanced imploringly at his father, who did not turn to him, but he saw the older man’s shriveled lips curve in a gentle smile.

  The Magistrate said: “Your choice, Christian? Ah, your brother. Durant and Christian: say good-bye to each other. You will probably never meet again, and your new names will be unknown to each other, even after the Liberation.”

  The two young men shook hands, tried to speak, and could not. The Guard opened the door for Durant, who went out with the priest. They crossed a hall and entered a small white bedroom. There was only a narrow bed in the room, a washbasin and a chair. Durant sat on the bed, careful of his broken arm, after the priest had seated himself. “Father,” said the young man. But the priest turned the television set on and answered gently: “Listen.” Suddenly, there was projected on the screen the face of the President of The Democracy, a little meager man with a small, crafty face, a man who had been Chief Executive for over fifteen years, and who would serve for life. Durant, with loathing, looked into these wizened eyes, saw the cunning and sanctimonious mouth with its cruel smile, the distrustful sly glances, the pinched nose with its sharp and quivering point. The President of The Democracy was the appalling archetype of that dehumanized creature, the “Common Man,” created in the twentieth century and extolled by “idealists.” Imaged by this century, dreamed into being by drab and soulless men, he could have lived in none of the lusty and robust eras of the past. He had been created by enfeebled imaginings, so that he had no color and no vitality but only meanness and greed, a two-dimensioned little monster in gray and white, a puppet with the spirit of a rat.

  He was screeching now: “We must have unity! In this hour of our dread emergency all freedom-loving peoples must stand together as one, with no subversive or traitorous voice raised in protest! The Enemy is about to attack us and to destroy our liberty! All the traditions of a proud and righteous America are at stake tonight, and we must all put forth our strongest and most vigorous effort to defeat him. I call upon my people to sacrifice and to resist the forces of disaster, to bend themselves to every effort in order that our glorious nation shall not perish from the earth! I, your leader, call upon you again, knowing that in this dangerous age no man should think of his own safety, his own comfort, his own life, but only of The Democracy and her very existence! America has not refused to heed the call to duty in every menacing hour of our past. She will not refuse it now!”

  The priest turned off the television set, and President Slocum’s face disappeared.

  “Who? Who is the Enemy now?” cried Durant, aghast.

  “Always the same Enemy,” replied the priest sadly. “Man, himself.”

  But Durant muttered: “Again and again and again! World without end.”

  “Oh, no,” said the priest. “The world is not yet completely insane. But we must not waste any time.”

  Argentina, Chile, Peru—all of South America tonight? Europe was a complete ruin, and Asia was a wilderness. It could only be South America. Durant groaned desperately. He knelt down with painful difficulty on the bare floor, remembering how many years had passed since his last confession. He said humbly: “Bless me, Father, for I save sinned.”

  Later, the priest gave him comfort and fortitude. “In your dedication, Andy, there must be no doubt and no fear. However, I need not tell you this. A world of men depends upon you, a whole world of slavery and fear and despair. The Cross is yours, and death is yours, too. What you do tomorrow, and in every tomorrow left to you, will help or hinder humanity. You know that the Church has been proscribed, and every other religion. You not only are to fight for man but for God, also.”

 
; Durant said: “I never before believed in a personal and universal Evil. I never before believed in Satan. I do now.”

  “This Evil always existed,” answered the priest sadly. “It will always exist. Its greatest triumph was when it persuaded men that it had no reality. Men must understand again that Evil is a definite and infinite force in all the universe, and that, forever and forever, they must struggle against it, and fight it, with prayer and resolution and faith.”

  A little later the Magistrate entered, and the priest, giving a final blessing to Durant, left the room. The Magistrate said: “Let me help you remove your clothes. You will be awakened in six hours, ready for your duties.”

  When Andrew, exhausted, lay on his bed, the Magistrate gave him a sheaf of papers. “From this time on, Durant, you are Major Andrew Curtiss of the Army of The Democracy of America. You will be taken to a section of the country which you once knew as the State of Pennsylvania. Your orders are here, and your credentials, and your uniform will be ready for you in the morning.”

  Andrew said: “Shall I ever see you again?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Does it matter? You are Major Andrew Curtiss, a man without a wife or a family, without parents, without any loyalty except to us. Trust no one, not even the men who will be closest to you. You won’t know if they are friends or enemies, not even at the end, nor do they know about you. You will be in a compartment, where you will work alone. Ask no man any question, nor try to discover what he is. This is not only to protect you and to save your life as long as possible, but to protect all of us. Good night, now, and God bless you.”

  It was hardly dawn when Durant was awakened by a Guard. He was astounded by his feeling of refreshment, and by the fact that for the first time in years he had slept the deep sleep of one who is not apprehensive, desperate or afraid. Then he understood that it was because he had felt safe! All his life had been shadowed, clouded and blackened by the universal fear. He would continued to be in awful danger. Yet he felt safe and confident and at peace, and these were so unfamiliar to him that he became exultant. There was no fear in him any longer.

  His breakfast was brought to him in his room by a Guard. He glanced at the impassive face of the man, and, as ordered, asked no questions. He was departmentalized; he would work in a lonely cell, perhaps hearing the movements of fellow-bees in the cells all about him but he would never see them. He accepted this. He even kept his face from expressing any emotion when his uniform as a major in the Army of The Democracy of America was brought to him, the right sleeve carefully slit to allow for his broken arm. The doctor visited him once, with impersonal friendliness, examined the splint, gave him another glass of that strange, pungent fluid, and a box of tablets. But this was his only visitor.

  The Guard assisted him in dressing, in complete silence. He placed his papers in a leather case brought to him by the Guard. The Guard had also shaved him. Neither of them spoke. When they went through the hall of the house there was no one about, no voice, no movement, only the stolid Guards who looked at him indifferently, and saluted. Where was Christian? But he no longer knew Christian, his new name, or where he was going, or if they would ever meet again. He, Durant, was Major Andrew Curtiss, and he was to forget what he had been, and remember only his duty.

  A handsome black car was awaiting him. He regarded the two occupants of it with brief scrutiny. They got out of the car as he came down the crumbling brown steps of the house, and briskly saluted. One wore the uniform of a first lieutenant and the other, a sergeant. “Lieutenant George Grandon, sir, and Sergeant Howard Keiser, at your service,” said the lieutenant. He was a tall young man with lively brown eyes and yellow hair and an intelligent, quick face. The sergeant was short and stout, with brutal but expressive features, and as dark in coloring as Durant, himself, and of the same Latin features. Durant speculated, for a moment, on whether or not these were actually the names of these men, if they were Minute Men like himself or genuine soldiers of the State. Probably he would never know. He returned their salute by touching his cap with his left hand, awkwardly, and was assisted into the rear seat with immense politeness and respect. The car rolled off in the early morning mist which poured over the city from the sea. The sergeant drove carefully, avoiding the larger craters. The first sun struck the decayed towers of the mighty buildings, the sifting mortar, the blank windows. There was a deep silence in the city, though the streets, even at this hour, swarmed with mobs going to or coming from their endless jobs in the “war effort.” Only the mutter and shuffle of their feet could be heard, for there was no conversation, and little movement of traffic except that “authorized” and “essential,” such as a few shabby buses and the glittering cars of supervisors and bureaucrats. These, like Durant’s car, wove in and out the holes in the pavement.

  The sky overhead was the tenderest blue, serene and gentle, over this desolated city. Pigeons blew against it, and, in the heavy silence, could be heard to cry and squeal. Now the morning light filtered on the pale and ghastly faces of the multitudes, and Durant thought of the dead. For a moment he was compassionate, and then again he was bitter. How easily they had surrendered to the tyrants! With what original fervor had they accepted the American brand of Communism! How indifferently, or with zeal, they had watched their last safeguard, the Constitution of the United States, go down under the muddy heels of their oppressors; Andrew knew they had been warned, by reasonable or by shouting voices, decades ago, and they had either shrugged their shoulders, laughed, denied, jeered, cursed or turned aside. Step by step, they had watched their freedom taken away, openly and cynically, and they had not cared, preferring to look with delight at their larger pay envelopes and enthusiastically assenting to wars which would increase, they believed, their “security” and their money. In the end they had lost everything, their freedom as men, their rights as men, their dignity as men, and had become nothing else but slaves of an omnipotent State, working endlessly, half-starved, half-clothed, half-sheltered in ruined buildings, endlessly spied upon, supervised, commanded by the Military and treated like dogs.

  The Chief Magistrate had been right. There was no hope in the masses of the people. They would listen to no last brave voice. They would not revolt, until others led the revolt. The workers of America had betrayed America, as they had betrayed Germany and Britain. Always, the workers are the prey of tyrants, out of ignorance or greed or envy.

  Durant thought of the State schools, where history was perverted and where new slaves were trained to docility, obedience and devotion to their masters. The children of mere workers were allowed to learn to read and write, and to memorize a few basic lies. Beyond this, there was no opportunity for learning for them. The children of the devouring bureaucrats, the farmers, the MASTS, and the higher military officers, were educated in higher schools, and the more brilliant were chosen to replace those who died or disappeared or became too old to carry on the oppression.

  The car passed St. Patrick’s Cathedral. But the Cross no longer soared against the blue sky of the morning. The State, ordaining its own crafty “ministers,” had confiscated all the old churches, and, four times a month, on a Thursday, permitted a sterile religion to be taught. But it was the religion of the State, and God was mentioned only as a “force,” probably blind and unaware, and quite indifferent to the misery and anguish of the people. The “ministers” were third-rate scientists and psychiatrists, who indoctrinated the crippled spirits of the congregations in weird and merciless theories, all destitute of spiritual values, and all designed to destroy hope and any last remnants of a “medieval superstition.”

  A few labor leaders, so many years ago, had exhorted, warned and cried out—they had been killed and silenced and imprisoned. They had been “subversive,” and their liquidation had proceeded in lethal quiet.

  “Would you like a newspaper, sir?” asked the lieutenant. Durant started. He saw that the lieutenant was watching him with furtive curiosity. Durant cursed himself; he must control his Lati
n expressiveness of feature. It had led him into trouble before. He answered, yawning: “Yes.” The lieutenant smiled faintly, and spoke to the sergeant. The car stopped at a corner, teetering on the edge of a crater, and the sergeant went into a shabby shop for a paper. Durant, making his face still as possible, continued to watch the shuffling throngs. He saw them notice the conspicuous State car in which he sat, and he saw their meek and humble glances. Damn you, he thought, as he had thought last night. The lieutenant hummed some ribald song under his breath. Durant did not glance at him; he knew the officer was looking at his splinted arm. “An accident, sir?” asked Grandon, with respectful interest. Durant said: “Yes.” He forced a smile. “Too much to drink, at a dinner.” The lieutenant laughed. It was a gay and youthful laugh, and jarred on Durant’s nerves. It was such a terrible contrast with the moving faces outside. In spite of himself, Durant wondered if the lieutenant’s laughter was knowing and understanding, or just simply careless mirth.

  The sergeant came back with the paper. There it was, in thick black headlines: “The Democracy Attacked by South American Alliance. Congress Meets for Declaration of War!”

  Durant read impassively, the paper on his knees. “Attacked!” Always the battle-cry of a nation gone mad, a world gone mad. The “Alliance” appeared to be Chile, Argentina, Brazil and Uruguay. Warships of these four nations, it was alleged, had fired on the coast of Florida, and had closed the Panama Canal. The Democracy of America was being “immediately mobilized.” The people must “sacrifice.” There would be new controls, new shortages, new war plants, new “essential” materials, new priorities. All the hateful terminology of despotism! All the new despair, hopelessness, cruelty, military oppression, bureaucratic regimentation! Durant glanced again at the multitudes. They must know of this fresh calamity. Yet not one face showed any alarm or disgust or dread or indignation or hatred. They accepted, as they had always accepted. Damn them, thought Durant, with renewed bitterness.