Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [297]
Maureen patted her father's arm. "That's what I figured out, somewhere in the last week. But—if we can't afford much, then we have to build so that we can! What we don't dare do is get used to evil. We have to hate it, even if we can't do anything else."
"Which doesn't settle what we do with the prisoners," George Christopher said. "I vote for killing them. I'll do it myself."
And he hadn't brought any back from his pursuit, Maureen knew. And he'd never understand. Yet in his way he was a good man. He'd shared everything he had. He worked longer than anyone else, and harder, and not just for himself.
"No," Maureen said. "All right. We can't let them go. And we can't keep them as citizens. If all we can afford is slavery, then keep them as slaves. And put them to work so we can afford something more. Only we don't call them slaves, either, because that makes it too easy to think like a slavemaster. We can put them to work, but we call them prisoners of war and we treat them as prisoners of war."
Hardy looked confused. He'd never seen Maureen so assertive. He looked from her to the Senator, but all he got from the Senator was the look of a man tired unto death.
"All right," Al said. "Eileen, we'll have to organize a POW camp."
The Final Decision
The peasant is eternal man, independent of all Cultures. The piety of the real peasant is older than Christianity, his gods are older than those of any of the higher religions.
Oswald Spengler, The Decline of the West
The van had not been new when the comet fell. In these past few months it had aged many years. It had bulled its paths across roadless land and through fresh sea bottom. It stank of fish. Maintenance had been impossible, and continual rain had caused years of corrosion. Half blinded with one headlamp working, it seemed to know that its era was dead. It groaned, it limped; and with every jolt of its dying shock absorbers, Tim Hamner felt a needle of pain stab his hip.
Shifting gears was worse. His right leg wouldn't reach the clutch pedal. He used his left, and it was like an ice pick being wiggled in the bone. Still he drove fast across the potholed road, balancing the jouncing against the need for speed.
Cal Christopher was on guard at the barricade. His weapon was an Army submachine gun. He carried a bottle of Old Fedcal in the other hand, and he beamed, he swaggered, he wanted to talk. "Hamner! Good to see you." He thrust the bottle through the truck window. "Have a drink—hey! What happened to your face?"
"Sand," said Tim. "Look, I've got three wounded in the truck bed. Can somebody drive for me?"
"Gee, there are only two of us here. Rest are celebrating. You guys won, huh? We heard you'd had a fight and beat them off—"
"The wounded," Tim said. "Is there somebody at the hospital?"
"You better believe it. We had wounded here, too. But we won! They weren't expecting it, Tim, it was beautiful! Forrester's brew really clobbered them. They won't stop running until—"
"They did stop. And I can't take time to talk, Cal."
"Yeah, right. Well, everybody's celebrating at City Hall, and the hospital's right next door, so you'll get plenty of help. They may not be sober, but—"
"The barricade, Cal. I can't help you with it. I got hit myself."
"Oh. Too bad." Cal moved the log aside, and Tim drove on. The road was dark, and none of the houses were lit. He saw no one along the way, but the going was easier here; the potholes had all been filled in. He rounded a bend and saw the town.
City Hall glowed softly through the dark. Candlelight and lanterns in every window: not an