Dark Benediction

If a party of cyclists moved in, he could not escape on foot. He darted toward the nearest warehouse, seeking a place to hide. Inside, he climbed a stack of boxes to a horizontal girder, kicked the stack to topple it, and stretched out belly-down on the steel eye-beam to command a clear shot at the entrances. He lay for an hour, waiting quietly for searchers. None came. At last he slid down a vertical support and returned to the loading platform. The street was empty and silent. With weapon ready, he continued his journey. He passed the next intersection without mishap.

Halfway up the block, a calm voice drawled a command from behind him: “Drop the gun, dermie. Get your hands behind your head.”

He halted, motionless. No plague victim would hurl the dermie-charge at another. He dropped the pistol and turned slowly. Three men with drawn revolvers were clambering from the back of a stalled truck. They were all bearded, wore blue jeans, blue neckerchiefs, and green woolen shirts. He suddenly recalled that the man on the loading platform had been similarly dressed. A uniform?

“Turn around again!” barked the speaker.

Paul turned, realizing that the men were probably some sort of self-appointed quarantine patrol. Tow ropes suddenly skidded out from behind and came to a stop near his feet on the pavement—a pair of lariat loops.

“One foot in each loop, dermie!” the speaker snapped. When Paul obeyed, the ropes were jerked taut about his ankles, and two of the men trotted out to the sides, stood thirty feet apart, and pulled his legs out into a wide straddle. He quickly saw that any movement would cost him his balance.

“Strip to the skin.”

“I’m no dermie,” Paul protested as he unbuttoned his shirt.

“We’ll see for ourselves, Joe,” grunted the leader as he moved around to the front. “Get the top off first. If your chest’s okay, we’ll let your feet go.”

When Paul had undressed, the leader walked around him slowly, making him spread his fingers and display the soles of his feet. He stood shivering and angry in the chilly winter air while the men satisfied themselves that he wore no gray patches of neuroderm.

“You’re all right, I guess,” the speaker admitted; then as Paul stooped to recover his clothing, the man growled, “Not those! Jim, get him a probie outfit.”

Paul caught a bundle of clean clothing, tossed to him from the back of the truck. There were jeans, a woolen shirt, and a kerchief, but the shirt and kerchief were red. He shot an inquiring glance at the leader, while he climbed into the welcome change.

“All newcomers are on two weeks probation,” the man explained. “If you decide to stay in Houston, you’ll get another exam next time the uniform code changes. Then you can join our outfit, if you don’t show up with the plague. In fact, you’ll have to join if you stay.”

“What is the outfit?” Paul asked suspiciously.

“It just started. Schoolteacher name of Georgelle organized it. We aim to keep dermies out. There’s about six hundred of us now. We guard the downtown area, but soon as there’s enough of us we’ll move out to take in more territory. Set up road blocks and all that. You’re welcome, soon as we’re sure you’re clean… and can take orders.”

“Whose orders?”

“Georgelle’s. We got no room for goof-offs, and no time for argument. Anybody don’t like the setup, he’s welcome to get out. Jim here’ll give you a leaflet on the rules. Better read it before you go anywhere. If you don’t, you might make a wrong move. Make a wrong move, and you catch a bullet.”

The man called Jim interrupted, “Reckon you better call off the other patrols, Digger?” he said respectfully to the leader.

Digger nodded curtly and turned to blow three short blasts and a long with his whistle. An answering short-long-short came from several blocks away. Other posts followed suit. Paul realized that he had been surrounded by, a ring of similar ambushes.

“Jim, take him to the nearest water barrel, and see that he shaves,” Digger ordered, then: “What’s your name, probie? Also your job, if you had one.”

“Paul Harris Oberlin. I was a mechanical engineering student when the plague struck. Part-time garage mechanic while I was in school.”

Digger nodded and jotted down the information on a scratchpad. “Good, I’ll turn your name in to the registrar. Georgelle says to watch for college men. You might get a good assignment, later. Report to the Esperson Building on the seventeenth. That’s inspection day. If you don’t show up, we’ll come looking for you. All loose probies’ll get shot. Now Jim here’s gonna see to it that you shave. Don’t shave again until your two-weeker. That way, we can estimate how long you been in town—by looking at your beard. We got other ways that you don’t need to know about. Georgelle’s got a system worked out for everything, so don’t try any tricks.”

“Tell me, what do you do with dermies?”

Digger grinned at his men. “You’ll find out, probie.”