An Enemy of Peace

Center City belonged to Lloyd Riddell, and Lloyd Riddell belonged to the city. He had held it together almost single-handed while the white blaze of atomics laid waste the horizon; he had turned panic into determination, defeat into dogged refusal to lie down. He had fought for the city. He had killed for it.

And now the city was threatened again.

"When does Northburg intend to attack us?"

"I—I don't know," Len Colter said. "It all depends on what's going on in David Barr's mind. I lit out for Center City as soon as I heard him making the speech, there in that rubbleheap. The minute I heard him yelling, 'We must wipe out Center City,' I knew I had to come back here and let you know."

Riddell scowled. "I suppose you did the best thing. But you should have waited. You should have found out when they plan to attack."

"I'm sorry, sir, I—"

"Forget it," Riddell said sharply. "Get going. Get back to Northburg, scout around, find out whatever you can about this invasion. And send Ken Naylor in when you leave."

"Yes, sir."

The youthful spy turned and left. Riddell stared at the boy's back as he passed through the door, then studied the gold letters on the glass door that said "Mayor of Center City" in reverse.

He had come to Center City twenty years ago, a frightened, lonely ten-year-old orphan with no place to stay. That had been before the Madness. Center City had taken him in, given him a home, foster parents, all the things denied him so long. Riddell had grown to manhood in the pleasant Ohio town. And when the bombs came, blasting America and changing it from the mightiest country on Earth to a coast-to-coast chain of small towns separated by dreary ruins, Riddell had repaid the town that had once found room for him. Alone, through the smoke-filled night, he had marched through the blasted town, collecting survivors, comforting the people. That night, he had kept Center City alive.

For what? Riddell asked himself bitterly. Did I save this town and rebuild it brick by brick only to have some power-crazed fanatics in the next town destroy it again?

He clenched his powerful fists. "I won't let it happen," he said. "Not while I'm alive. I'll stop Barr some way."

The office door opened, and Ken Naylor entered. Naylor was a big man, almost as tall—though not as broad—as Riddell himself. Riddell had met him for the first time the night of the bombing, and three years later they were still operating as a team.

"I've heard this thing about Northburg," Naylor said without preamble. "What's gotten into them? Are they crazy, trying to conquer America city by city?"

Riddell shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe they think they're going to start a new Roman Empire here in America."

"Do you think we can stop them? We're not too heavy on guns."

"We're not going to go to war, Ken. We're not going to fire a shot."

"What do you mean?"

"I've seen enough war, and I've killed enough men. We'll handle this the sane way. The way I'm trying to teach our youngsters to live."

Naylor stared blankly at him. "But—"

The phone rang. Riddell picked it up—listened—then said, "We'll have a man right over, Charlie." He hung up.

"Who was that?"

"Charlie Drew. On the farm about a mile out of town on the road to Northburg. I sent a couple of boys into Northburg last night, just to feel around and see how things looked. One of the boys was Len Colter, the one you just saw. The other was Ben Kingston. Couple of minutes ago, Kingston's body got dumped on Charlie Drew's farm. There was a note pinned to it. 'We don't like spies.'"

Naylor's face tightened. "And you say we won't fight?"

"There'll be no war. Get out to Drew's farm and pick up the body. Here—here's a permit to use my car." He scribbled a note that would allow Naylor to consume some precious gasoline. "When that's taken care of, move into my office and act as Mayor until I get back—if I get back."

"Where are you going?" Naylor asked.

"I've got to catch Len Colter before he reaches Northburg."

"But I thought...."

"I'll do the thinking," Riddell said. "You do what you're told."

Ten minutes later, Riddell overtook Len Colter, halfway to Northburg. "Go home," Riddell said. "I'm taking you off the job. It's too risky."

Disappointment showed in the boy's eyes. "But I got back safe the first time, sir!"

"I'm giving you an order!" Riddell snapped. "Ben Kingston was just found dead. I don't want you to go the same way."

"But—"

Riddell gestured with an upraised arm. "Don't stand here arguing with me, Len. Go on home!"

The boy turned away, moved slowly back toward town. Riddell watched him for a moment, then walked rapidly toward Northburg and the challenge there.

The road was still in good shape, despite pitted craters here and there, despite an occasional slagheap where a stray blast of atomfire had seared the hillside and sent molten rock spilling down on the highway. Grass was pushing up in the slagheaps, the blasted trees were being replaced by timid saplings, the farms along the way were starting to look like farms again. America was returning to life.

Two hours of war, Riddell thought for the thousandth time. Just two hours of guided ICBMs overhead and a world is destroyed. But we're coming back, now.

A feeling of hatred welled up in him. Hatred for David Barr, the madman who had inflamed the neighboring town of Northburg with dreams of conquest. Who now threatened to bring war back into a world already ruined by war.

Yet Riddell realized dismally that hatred was not the solution. The world was too battered for more hatred. He had vowed there would be no more fighting—but how else could you cope with a man who would enslave you?

There had to be another way to meet the forces of evil without descending to evil yourself.

As he walked through the quiet countryside, Riddell was plagued by the idea that had touched off the nightmare of 1973: Get them before they can get you.

It wasn't the answer he wanted.

Northburg was a rambling, sprawling town that had once been populated by fifty thousand people. Even after the bombings and the subsequent lootings, twelve thousand had survived.

Reports had filtered in to Riddell about the Northburg people, and he hadn't liked what he heard. This fellow Barr, for example—a wiry farmer who had pushed his way to the top, had taken charge of Northburg the way Riddell had Center City and the way strong men all over the country had probably taken over whatever town they were in. It was the only way to survive.

Only Barr wasn't like the others. Whereas Riddell wanted peace, prayers and prosperity for all the population of Center City, Barr was hungry for his own power and supremacy. After a lifetime of farming, suddenly he had control of a miniature kingdom, and he wanted more.

From the outskirts of the town, Northburg looked much like Center City or any other small town.

But a striking difference became evident as Riddell drew closer.

There was a wall around Northburg.

It rose some ten feet high, made out of row on row of gray bricks, and it seemed to encircle the entire city, turning it into an almost medieval-looking fortress.

"You going somewhere, friend?" a deep voice asked him suddenly.

Riddell turned and saw a man in a blue uniform approaching him, hand on holster. "I'm—I'm just out for a walk, sir," Riddell said, as timidly as he could.

"Outside the walls? Where's your permit?"

"Just a minute, sir," Riddell said obsequiously. He fumbled beneath his cloak, drew forth his wallet. "Here you are."

The guard peered close as Riddell flipped through his wallet, ostensibly looking for the permit. "Hurry it up," the guard said. "You ought to know better than to go outside the walls."

"Dreadfully sorry, sir. Oh, there it is."

He sent a slip of paper fluttering to the ground. Involuntarily, the guard turned to see what it was. "Hey, that's no perm—"

Sorry, Riddell thought. He ripped upward with a crashing right, followed with a left pounded into the guard's stomach. The man staggered backward. Riddell grabbed him by the collar, hit him twice across the face, and he folded.

Riddell let the unconscious man sag to the ground. Then he looked around.

No one had seen the encounter. The quiet farm-houses remained quiet, the cows in the field ignored the incident, and the cloudless skies did not seem to care.

Hastily, Riddell dragged the guard off the road into a thick clump of underbrush and stripped the man's uniform off. It was a tight fit, but he managed to squeeze into it. He tore his own cloak into strips, tied it around the guard's arms and legs, and adjusted his clothing.

Then he drew out the guard's wallet and examined it. He was now Corporal Edmund Calder of the Army of Northburg.

The new corporal Calder straightened up, cast a backward glance at the unconscious man in the shrubbery, and started walking towards the walls of the city of Northburg.

There was a gate in the wall about a hundred yards further along the curve. Riddell walked quickly, carrying himself erect in proper military fashion, and reached the gate.

He passed through, head down. The man on duty didn't seem to notice that anything was wrong. But as Riddell started to enter the city, the guard said, "Just a minute, Corporal."

Riddell whirled, then got control of himself. "Yes?"

"I forget to ask you something," the soldier said. He was a private. He was staring full into Riddell's face, and if he knew that the corporal was an impostor he wasn't revealing anything. "The Major wants to know if any prowlers were around while you were on duty."

"No," Riddell said uneasily. "No, there wasn't any trouble at all. What's up?"

"Trouble from Center City," the guard said. "Seems a couple of kids got through our lines last night and slipped into the city. We caught one, but the other's still around somewhere. Funny you hadn't heard about it."

"I've—I've been on leave," Riddell improvised. "Just came back on duty a couple of hours ago, and I guess they didn't fill me in." Without waiting for any further discussion, he turned and moved onward.

Northburg looked peaceful enough, he thought. They had rebuilt pretty well, though the telephone lines still seemed to be down, at least in this part of town, and hardly any of the rubble-heaps had been cleared.

The townsfolk were going about their business. It might well have been Center City—except for the men in blue uniforms patrolling the streets, and the beaten, harried look on the faces of the people. There was hope on people's faces there in Center City. In Northburg, Riddell saw fear.

He had to get information. He didn't know how he was going to handle this, where to begin, what he was going to do—but he knew he would have to eradicate this cancer spot from Ohio for the sake of re-awakening America, and he knew he would succeed.

He started down a large thoroughfare that looked as if it might once have been the main shopping center of Northburg. No cars moved down it now—not with gasoline rationed out for top-level priority only—and there was the occasional clippety-clop of a pony-cart drawing produce to market somewhere on the other side of town.

After about fifty feet, he came to a bar, and smiled. Bars were the best places to get information. He went in.

"Morning, Corporal," the barkeep said as he entered. It was small, cozy, with some tables in the back and a well-polished bar along the wall. "What'll you have?"

"Beer," Riddell said. He accepted the drink and looked around the bar. There was a little group of men in uniforms sitting at one of the far tables, and quickly he turned his back so they would not see him. To his left, a couple of middle-aged farmers nursed their drinks and seemed to be glaring bitterly at him.

He studied them. They don't like the soldiers, he thought. It was indicative of the sort of feelings in the town.

He listened carefully, trying to pick up some threads of their conversation.

"... this crazy war," one of them was saying. "What does Barr want to go conquer the world for?"

"Quiet," said the other. "This place is full of his soldiers. You want to spend the rest of harvest season in jail?"

The first farmer had evidently had a couple too many. He raised his voice. "I don't care if they do hear or not," he said thickly. "This is America, isn't it? Isn't it?"

"It used to be. Shut up, Clyde. We'll get in trouble."

Riddell felt his pulse quicken. Here's my opening, he thought.

Downing his beer, he dropped a coin on the bar and turned to confront the two farmers. His hand slipped to his holster.

"Hey there, you two!"

"You mean us?" the meeker of the two farmers said. "We didn't do anything!"

"It isn't what you did," Riddell said loudly. He flicked an eye at the bartender and saw the man staring white-faced at him, livid with hatred. "It's what you said." He gestured with his holstered gun. "Suppose you two come along for questioning, maybe."

One of the soldiers from the back table detached himself and came to the front of the bar. "Any trouble, Corporal?"

Riddell looked at his uniform, saw that the other was a sergeant, and shook his head. "I can handle it, Sergeant. Thanks anyway. Come on, you two."

He marched the farmers out into the street, which was still blessedly empty, and indicated that they should go to the end of the block and turn in at the side street. They did so and waited there, faces white, teeth chattering in terror.

"Okay," Riddell said. "Would you care to repeat to me what you said about the government of Northburg?"

"We didn't say anything."

"Yes we did," said the outspoken one. "They're going to put us away anyway, so we might as well speak up." He stared defiantly at Riddell. "We don't like you, and we don't like Barr. And we don't want war. It's—it's madness. Why can't we rebuild the country the way it used to be? Why—"

"That'll be enough," Riddell said. "You're speaking treason, you know. Such words can condemn you."

The two men began to quiver. Riddell looked with pity on the one who hadn't spoken, the one who had desperately tried to silence his friend before it was too late. A scowl came to his face. Barr was ruling with an iron hand here, but there was a chink in his armor. The people didn't want this war.

Riddell grinned. "Tell me something. Where can I find David Barr?"

"What? But you're a—"

"Don't mind the uniform," Riddell said. "Better keep your voices low. You're not arrested. I want you to tell me where Barr is."

"This is a trick, Clyde. He's trying to trap us."

"We already are trapped," the other farmer pointed out. "Who are you?" he asked.

"The name is Riddell. Of Center City. I want you to tell me where I can find David Barr, and then I want you to go home and stay there."

"Riddell? I've heard of you. You're the—"

"Look, friends, I can't waste time—talk! Where's Barr?"

"His headquarters is at the corner of State and Main—three blocks down. You can't get to see him, though."

"Don't worry about that," Riddell said. "Just go home and keep quiet. Maybe by nightfall things will be different in Northburg. Let's hope so."

Cautiously, he made his way down Main, heading for the big brick building that was undoubtedly Barr's headquarters.

He felt encouraged with the realization that Barr's influence was based on a grip of fear. It was infinitely more easy to destroy a tyrant than to try to change the mind of an entire town.

These people wanted peace—but Barr drove them on to conquest, putting guns in their hands and uniforms on their backs. Riddell planned to stop it.

Suddenly, a trumpet sounded. Riddell looked up, startled, and stood still.

"Attention!" a blaring voice cried, from what seemed to be a thousand loudspeakers. "Attention! All off-duty members of the Army of Northburg are to assemble outside GHQ at once for combat briefing. Plan 102 is to be accelerated."

Riddell rubbed his jaw. That meant they probably had found the stripped guard outside the walls, and knew that another Center City spy was loose somewhere in Northburg. It meant they would probably launch the attack on Center City ahead of schedule. Riddell started to move at a fast half-trot. He didn't have much time now.

Soldiers in blue were appearing from all over as he reached the Headquarters—which had once been, Riddell observed, Northburg City Hall. He's got half the town militarized already, he thought, seeing the swarm of blue-clad soldiers.

He trotted up and filtered into the milling group outside GHQ. "What's up?" he asked the man nearest him.

"Barr's calling a briefing session," the soldier said. "Didn't you hear the announcement?"

"I was—busy," Riddell said, grinning sheepishly. "Must have missed it. We having a change of schedule?"

"It probably means we'll march on Center City tonight," the other said. "Don't know why they're shifting plans."

"Spies," said a third man. "Center City's catching wise. We're going to have to beat them to the punch. I hear they've had Northburg honey-combed with spies all week."

"Yeah?" Riddell asked. "Hell, I thought our defense was tight as a drum."

"Tight as a sieve, you mean." The other lowered his voice. "You know, I've been hoping this day would never come," he said unexpectedly.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Don't repeat this—but I still can't quite swallow everything Barr says about Center City planning to jump us for months, that we have to strike first. It doesn't sound right, somehow."

"Brother, you can't trust those Center City people," said Riddell. "If Barr said it, Barr means it. You shouldn't be talking like this, you know."

"I know. But I've wanted to get it off my chest for a long time, and you look like you've got an honest face."

Riddell grinned. "That's the most dangerous kind, pal." He turned away and stared around at the growing army. So that's the story Barr's been dishing out? That explains his hold over these people. He's got them all scared stiff of us!

Suddenly, Riddell knew that Barr could be stopped—that this whole juggernaut could be kept from going any further. Barr's machine was built on a quicksand foundation.

The trumpet sounded again. Everyone looked up automatically. On a little balcony on the third floor of the building, a man stepped out. He was thin and wiry, with a browned, weather-beaten face, and even at this distance Riddell could see the fierce blaze of power-lust in his eyes.

The man on the balcony was David Barr.

Riddell broke away from the crowd of men he was in and pushed his way through them toward the door of the former City Hall. A row of sergeants stood at the entrance.

"Where you goin'?" one of them asked.

"Got a message for Barr. Just came back from a spy-mission to Center City, and I've got information he's got to have!"

The sergeants looked at each other uneasily, as if not sure whether to admit Riddell or not. He paused just a moment, then shoved past them and into the building.

"Hey! Come back here!"

Riddell ignored the shout and disappeared into the dark lobby of the building.

A staircase beckoned. He sprang up the first flight, met an armed guard posted on the landing. The guard started to say something, but Riddell charged furiously on through him, knocking him reeling.

"Stop that man!" someone shouted.

He looked down and saw several of the men who had stood at the entrance dashing after him. Riddell grabbed the first-floor guard, lifted him in the air, and hurled him down the staircase into the midst of his pursuers. Then he turned and continued ascending.

There was no further trouble till he reached the third floor. There, he stood looking around for a second, heard the sound of Barr's hoarse, rasping voice coming from the left, and raced down the hall.

He came to a halt in front of an office-door guarded by another soldier.

"What do you want, Corporal? Why aren't you downstairs?"

Without replying, Riddell drove a fist into the man's stomach. He gagged and doubled up. Riddell pushed him aside, opened the door, stepped in, and turned the lock.

A voice was threatening from the balcony. "Our enemies in Center City threaten our very lives!" Riddell looked up. The window was open, and standing there delivering his harangue was Barr. Riddell watched him. He was a remarkably small man to be wielding so much authority.

The sound of footsteps echoed in the hall outside, and Riddell heard a shoulder crash against the unyielding oak door. There wasn't much time.

He took a step forward—and stopped.

He stood there, staring at his hands. He was frozen.

He had killed for Center City before, had calmly fired shots into a swarm of fear-crazed looters who were sacking the bombed city, had executed criminals with his own hands in the name of the city. And he had vowed never to kill again. He swore the rebuilding would be accomplished peacefully.

Yet up ahead was David Barr. A bullet in the unsuspecting demagogue's head and it would all be over. But Riddell couldn't do it that way.

He hovered there in indecision for a fraction of an instant before the answer came. Mere bloodshed was not enough—but violence was sometimes necessary in the cause of peace. It was a paradox whose truth was inescapable.

He stepped forward. His decision was made.

Barr broke off his speech and whirled. "Who are you? Guards! Guards!"

"They're not coming," Riddell said. "Your door's so solid they can't break in. We're here alone."

Barr's thin hands moved swiftly toward his hip, but Riddell moved also. Barr's gun came up just as Riddell's fist crashed into his arm. A shot whined across the room and buried itself in the luxurious panelling, and Riddell reached out and knocked the gun from Barr's fingers.

Again Barr screamed for his men. And from below came a loud roar, a shout of defiance. Riddell smiled. The soldiers sensed that someone had broken into Barr's stronghold.

"Let him have it!" yelled somebody. "Kill Barr!"

"We don't want to fight another war!" shouted another. Riddell glanced down and saw the soldiers, divided.

Barr crouched in the far corner. "Leave me alone, don't touch me."

Slowly, Riddell advanced across the room toward him, while the noise from below grew deafening. As he approached Barr, the small man suddenly whipped a knife from his jacket and circled around Riddell.

"I'll kill you," Barr said.

He broke off and launched a savage leap at Riddell. The knife flashed harmlessly through the air as Riddell sidestepped and grasped the other's arm. The two men locked together for a moment, and Riddell could see the hate in Barr's eyes.

The thud of flesh and bone felt good against his fists.

Suddenly he knew Barr had to die. Riddell had killed in the name of peace before.

He forced Barr back, twisting the wiry tyrant's arm until the knife dropped. Barr squirmed and clawed viciously, but Riddell held him.

They approached the balcony. "Don't!" Barr yelled.

Riddell felt utterly calm as he lifted the wriggling Barr and hurled him over the side of the balcony. A mighty roar went up.

He knew he had committed no crime, it was an execution, rather. Barr was dead, and with his death another enemy of peace had perished.

THE END