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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/32416-8.txt b/32416-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7fde1d1 --- /dev/null +++ b/32416-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,966 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Way of a Rebel, by Walter M. Miller + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Way of a Rebel + +Author: Walter M. Miller + +Illustrator: Rudolph Palais + +Release Date: May 18, 2010 [EBook #32416] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAY OF A REBEL *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + Way of a Rebel + + By Walter Miller, Jr. + + Illustrated by Rudolph Palais + +[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science +Fiction April 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that +the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] + + +[Sidenote: _No one knows the heart of a rebel until his own search for +the reason of right or wrong is made. Lieutenant Laskell found the +answer to his own personal rebellion deep beneath a turbulent Atlantic, +and somehow, when the time came, his decision wasn't too difficult...._] + + +Lieutenant Laskell surfaced his one-man submarine fifty miles off the +Florida coast where he had been patrolling in search of enemy subs. +Darkness had fallen. He tuned his short wave set to the Miami station +just in time to hear the eight o'clock news. The grim announcement that +he had expected was quick to come: + +"In accordance with the provisions of the Twenty-Sixth Amendment, +Congress today approved the Manlin Bill, declaring a state of total +emergency for the nation. President Williston signed it immediately and +tendered his resignation to the Congress and the people. The executive, +legislative, and judiciary are now in the hands of the Department of +Defense. Secretary Garson has issued two decrees, one reminding all +citizens that they are no longer free to shirk their duties to the +nation, the other calling upon the leaders of the Eurasian Soviet to +cease air attacks on the American continent or suffer the consequences. + +"In Secretary Garson's ultimatum to the enemy, he stated: 'Heretofore we +have refrained from employing certain weapons of warfare in the vain +hope that you would recognize the futility of further aggression and +desist from it. You have not done so. You have persisted in your +blood-thirsty folly, despite this nation's efforts to reach an agreement +for armistice. Therefore I am forced to command you, in the Name of +Almighty God, to surrender immediately or be destroyed. I shall allow +you one day in which to give evidence of submission. If such evidence is +not forthcoming, I shall implement this directive by a total +attack....'" + +Mitch Laskell switched off the short wave set and muttered an oath. He +squeezed his way up through the narrow conning tower and sat on the +small deck, leaning back against the rocket-launcher and dangling his +feet in the calm ocean. The night was windless and warm, with the summer +stars eyeing the earth benignly. But despite the warmth, he felt clammy; +his hands were shaking a little as he lit a cigarette. + +The newscast--it came as no surprise. The world had known for weeks that +the Manlin Bill would be passed, and that Garson would be given absolute +powers to lead the nation through the war. And his ultimatum to the +enemy was no surprise. Garson had long favored an all-out radiological +attack, employing every nuclear weapon the country could muster. +Heretofore both sides had limited themselves to non-rigged atomic +explosives, and had refrained from using bacterial weapons. Garson +wanted to take off the boxing-gloves in favor of steel gauntlets. And +now it would happen--the all-out attack, the masterpiece of homicidal +engineering, the final word in destruction. + + * * * * * + +Mitch, reclining in loneliness against the rocket-launcher, blew a +thoughtful cloud of cigarette smoke toward the bright yellow eye of +Arcturus, almost directly overhead, and wondered why the Constellation +Boötes suddenly looked like a big club ready to fall on the earth, when +it had always reminded him of a fly-swatter about to slap the Corona +Borealis. He searched himself for horror, but found only a gloomy +uneasiness. It was funny, he thought; five years ago men would have been +outraged at the notion of an American absolutism, with one man ruling by +decree. But now that it had happened, it was not to hard to accept. He +wondered at it. + +And he soon decided that almost any fact could be accepted calmly after +it had already happened. Men would be just as calm after their cities +had been reduced to rubble. The human capacity for calmness was almost +unlimited, _ex post facto_, because the routine of daily living had to +go on, despite the big business of governments whose leaders invoked the +Deity in the cause of slaughter. + +A voice, echoing up out of the conning tower, made him jump. The command +set was barking his call letters. + +"Unit Sugar William Niner Zero, Mother wants you. I say again: Mother +wants you. Acknowledge please. Over." + +The message meant: _return to base immediately_. And it implied an +urgency in the use of the code-word Mother. He frowned and started up, +then fell back with a low grunt. + +All of his resentment against the world's political jackasses suddenly +boiled up inside him as a _personal_ resentment. There was something +about the metallic rasp of the radio's voice that sparked him to sudden +rebelliousness. + +"Unit Sugar William Niner Zero, Mother wants you, Mother wants you. +Acknowledge immediately. Over." + +He had a good idea what it was all about. All subs were probably being +called in for rearmament with cobalt-rigged atomic warheads for their +guided missiles. The submarine force would probably be used to implement +Garson's ultimatum. They would deliver radiological death to Eurasian +coastal cities, and cause the Soviets to retaliate. + +_Why must I participate in the wrecking of mechanical civilization?_ he +thought grimly. + +But a counter-thought came to trouble him: _I have a duty to obey; The +country gave me birth and brought me up, and now it's got a war to +fight._ + +He arose and let himself down through the conning tower. He reached for +the microphone, but the receiver croaked again. + +"Sugar William Niner Zero, you are ordered to answer immediately. +Mother's fixing shortening bread. Mother wants you. Over." + +Shortening bread--big plans, something special, a radiological +death-dish for the world. He hated the voice quietly. His hand touched +the microphone but did not lift it. + +He stood poised there in the light of a single glow-lamp, feeling his +small sub rocking gently in the calm sea, listening to the quiet purr of +the atomics beneath him. He had come to love the little sub, despite the +loneliness of long weeks at sea. His only companion was the sub's small +computer which was used for navigation and for calculations pertaining +to the firing of the rocket-missiles. It also handled the probability +mathematics of random search, and automatically radioed periodic +position reports to the home-base computer. + +He glanced suddenly at his watch, it was nearly time for a report. +Abruptly he reached out and jerked open the knife-switch in the +computer's antenna circuit. Immediately the machine began clicking and +clattering and chomping. A bit of paper tape suddenly licked out of its +answer-slot. He tore it off and read the neatly printed words: +MALFUNCTION, OPEN CIRCUIT, COMMUNICATIONS OUTPUT; INSERT DATA. + +Mitch "inserted data" by punching a button labelled NO REPAIR and +another labelled RADIO OUT. One bank of tubes immediately lost its +filament-glow, and the computer shot out another bit of tape inscribed +DATA ROGERED. He patted it affectionately and grinned. The computer was +just a machine, but he found it easy to personalize the thing.... + +The command-set was crackling again. "Sugar William Niner Zero, this is +Commsubron Killer. Two messages. Mother wants you. Daddy has a razor +strap. Get on the ball out there, boy! Acknowledge. Over." + +Mitch whitened and picked up the microphone. He keyed the transmitter's +carrier and spoke in a quiet hiss. "Commsubron Killer from Sugar William +Niner Zero. Message for Daddy. Sonnyboy just resigned from the Navy. Go +to hell, all of you! Over and out!" + +He shut off the receiver just as it started to stutter a shocked reply. +He dropped the mike and let it dangle. He stood touching his fingertips +to his temples and breathing in shallow gasps. Had he gone completely +insane? + +He sat down on the floor of the tiny compartment and tried to think. But +he could only feel a bitter resentment welling up out of nowhere. Why? +He had always gotten along in the Navy. He was the undersea equivalent +of a fighter pilot, and he had always liked his job. They had even said +that "he had the killer instinct"--or whatever it was that made him grin +maliciously when he spotted an enemy sub and streaked in for the kill. + + * * * * * + +Now suddenly he didn't want to go back. He wanted to quit the whole damn +war and run away. Because of Garson maybe? But no, hadn't he anticipated +that before it happened? Why should he kick now, when he hadn't kicked +before? And who was _he_ to decide whether Garson was right or wrong? + +_Go back_, he thought. _There's the microphone. Pick it up and tell +Commsubron that you went stir-crazy for a little while. Tell him wilco +on his message. They won't do anything to you except send you to a nut +doctor. Maybe you need one. Go on back like a sane man._ + +But he drew his hand back from the microphone. He wiped his face +nervously. Mitch had never spent much time worrying about ethics and +creeds and political philosophies. He'd had a job to do, and he did it, +and he sometimes sneered at people who could wax starry-eyed about +patriotism and such. It didn't make sense. The old school spirit was +okay for football games, and even for small-time wars, but he had never +felt much of it. He hadn't needed it in order to be a good fighter. He +fought because it was considered the "thing to do," because he liked the +people he had to live with, and because those people wouldn't have a +good opinion of him if he didn't fight. People never needed much of a +philosophic motive to make them do the socially approved things. + +He moistened his lips nervously and stared at the microphone. He was +scared. Scared to run away. He had never been afraid of a _fight_, +frightened maybe, but not afraid. Why now? _It takes a lot of courage to +be a coward_, he thought, but the word _coward_ made him wince. He +groped blindly for a reasonable explanation of his desire to desert. He +wanted to talk to somebody about it, because he was the kind of man who +could think best in an argument. But there was no one to talk to except +the radio. + +The computer's keyboard was almost at his elbow. He stared at it for a +moment, then slowly typed: + +DATA: WIND OUT OF THE NORTH, WAVE FACTOR 0.50 ROUGHNESS SCALE. + +INSTRUCTIONS: SUGGEST ACTION. + +The machine chewed on the entry noisily for a few seconds, then +answered: INSUFFICIENT DATA. + +He nodded thoughtfully. That was his predicament too: insufficient data +about his own motives. How could a man trust himself to judge wisely, +when his judgement went completely against that of his society? He typed +again. + +DATA FOR HYPOTHETICAL PROBLEM: YOU HAVE JUST SOLVED A NAVIGATIONAL +PROBLEM WHOSE SOLUTION REQUIRES COURSE DUE WEST. THREE OTHER COMPUTERS +SOLVE SAME PROBLEM AND GET COURSE DUE SOUTH. MALFUNCTION NOT EVIDENT IN +ANY OF FOUR COMPUTERS. + +INSTRUCTIONS: FURNISH A COURSE. + +The computer clattered for awhile, then typed: SUGGESTION: MALFUNCTION +INDICATORS ARE POSSIBLY MALFUNCTIONING. IS DATA AVAILABLE? + +He stared at it, then laughed grimly. His _own_ malfunction-indicator +wasn't telling him much either. With masochistic fatalism he touched the +keyboard again. + +DATA NOT AVAILABLE. FURNISH A COURSE. + +The computer replied almost immediately this time: COURSE: DUE WEST. + +Mitch stared at it and bit his lip. The machine would follow its own +solution, even if the other three contradicted it. Naturally--it would +_have_ to follow its own solution, if there was no indication of +malfunction. But could a human being make such a decision? Could a man +decide, "I am right, and everyone else is wrong?" + +_No evidence of malfunction_, he thought. _I am not a coward. Neither am +I insane._ + +His heart cried: "I am disgusted with this purposeless war. I shall quit +fighting it." + +He sighed deeply, then arose. There was nothing else to do. The atomic +engines could go six months without refueling. There were enough +undersea rations to last nearly that long. + +He switched on the radio again, goosed the engines to full speed, and +after a moment's thought, swung around on a northeasterly heading. His +first impulse had been to head south, aiming for Yucatan, or the +Guianas--but that impulse would also be the first to strike his pursuers +who were sure to come. + +A new voice was growling on the radio, and he recognized it as Captain +Barkley, his usually jovial, slightly cynical commanding officer. +"Listen, Mitch--if you can hear me, better answer. What's wrong with you +anyhow? I can't hold off much longer. If you don't reply, I'll have to +hunt you down. You're ordered to proceed immediately to the nearest +base. Over." + +Mitch wanted to answer, wanted to argue and fume and curse, hoping that +he could explain his behaviour to his own satisfaction. But they might +not be certain of his exact location, and if he used the radio, +half-a-dozen direction-finders would swing around to aim along his +signal, and Barkley would plot the half-a-dozen lines on the map in his +office before speaking crisply into his telephone: _all right, boys--get +him! 29° 10' North, 79° 50' West. Use a P-charge if you can't spot him +by radar or sonar._ + +Mitch left the controls in the hands of the computer and went up to +stand in the conning tower with the churning spray washing his face. +Surfaced, the sub could make sixty knots, and he meant to stay surfaced +until there were hints of pursuit. + + * * * * * + +A three-quarter moon was rising in gloomy orange majesty out of the +quiet sea. It made a river of syrupy light across the water to the east, +and it heightened his sense of unreality, his feeling of detachment from +danger. + +Is it always like this, he wondered? Can a man toss aside his society so +easily, become a traitor with so little logical reason? A day ago, he +would not have dreamed it possible. A day ago, he would have proclaimed +with the cynical Barkley, "A sailor's got no politics. What the hell's +it to me if Garson is Big Boss? I'm just a little tooth in a big gear. +Uncle pays my keep. I ask no questions." + +And now he was running like hell and stealing several million bucks +worth of Uncle's Navy, all because Garson's pomposity and a radio +operator's voice got under his skin. How could a man be so crazy? + +But no, that _couldn't_ be it, he thought. Jeezil! He must have some +better reason. Sort of a last straw, maybe. But he had been conscious of +no great resentment against the war or the Navy or the government. +Historically speaking, wars had never done a great deal of harm--no more +harm than industrial or traffic accidents. + +Why was this war any different? It promised to be more destructive than +the others, but that was drawing a rather narrow line. Who was he to +draw his bayonet across the road and say, "Stop here. This is the +limit." + +Mitch turned his back toward the whipping spray and stared aft along the +phosphorescent, moon-swept wake of his mechanical shark. The radio was +still barking at him with Barkley's clipped tones. + +"Last warning, Laskell! Get on that microphone or suffer the +consequences! We know where you are. I'll give you fifteen minutes, then +we'll come get you. Over and out." + +Thanks for the warning, Mitch thought. In a few minutes, he would have +to submerge. His eyes swept the moon-washed heavens for signs of +aircraft, and he watched the dark horizon for hints of pursuit. + +He meant to keep the northeasterly course for perhaps ten hours, then +turn off and cruise southeast, passing below Bermuda and on out into the +central Atlantic. Then south--perhaps to Africa or Brazil. A fugitive +for the rest of his days. + +"Sugar William Niner Zero," barked the radio. "This is Commsubfleet +Jaybird. Over." + +Mitch moistened his lips nervously. The voice was no longer Barkley's. +Commsubfleet Jaybird was Admiral Harrinore. He chuckled bitterly then, +realizing that he was still automatically startled by rank. He remained +in the conning tower, listening. + +"Sugar William Niner Zero, this is Commsubfleet Jaybird. If you will +obey orders immediately, I guarantee that you will be allowed to accept +summary discipline. No court martial if you comply. You are to return to +base at once. Otherwise, we shall be forced to blast you out of the +ocean as a deserter to the enemy. Over." + +So that was it, he thought. They were worried about the sub falling into +Soviet paws. Some of its equipment was still classified "secret", +although the Reds probably already had it. + +No, he wasn't deserting to the enemy. Neither side was right in the +struggle, although he preferred the West's brand of wrongness to the +bloodier wrongness of the Reds. But a man in choosing the lesser of two +evils must first decide whether the choice really _has to be made_, and +if there is not a third and more desirable way. Before picking a weapon +for self-destruction, it might help to reason whether or not suicide is +really necessary. + +He smiled sardonically into the gray gloom, knowing that his thinking +was running backwards, that he had acted before reasoning why, that he +was rationalizing in an attempt to soothe himself and absolve himself. +But a lot of human thinking occurred beneath the level of consciousness, +down in the darker regions of the mind where it was not allowed to +become conscious lest it bring shame to the thinker. And perhaps he had +reasoned it all out in that mental half-world where thoughts are inner +ghosts, haunting the possessed man with vague stirrings of uneasiness, +leading him into inexplicable behaviour. + +I am free now, he told himself. I have given them my declaration of +independence, and I am an animal struggling to survive. Living in +society, a man must submit to its will, but now I am divorced from it, +and I shall live apart from it if I live at all, and I shall owe it +nothing. The "governed" no longer gives his consent. How many times have +men said, "If you don't like the system here, why don't you get out?" +Well, he was getting out, and as a freeborn human animal, born as a +savage into the world, he had that right, if he had any rights at all. + +He grunted moodily and lowered himself down into the belly of the sub. +They would be starting the search soon. He sealed the hatches and opened +the water intakes after slowing to a crawl. The sub shivered and +settled. The indicator crept to ten feet, twenty, thirty. At fifty feet, +he jabbed a button on the computer, and the engines growled a harder +thrust. He kept the northeasterly heading at maximum underwater speed. + + * * * * * + +An hour crept by. He listened for code on the sonar equipment, but heard +only the weird and nameless sea-sounds. He allowed himself a reading +light in the cramped compartment, folded the map-table up from the wall, +and studied the coastline of Africa. + +He began to feel a frightening loneliness, although scarcely two hours +had passed since his rebellious decision, and he was accustomed to long +weeks alone at sea. He scoffed at himself. He would get along okay; the +sub would take him any place he wanted to go, if he could escape +pursuit. Surely there must be some part of the world where men were not +concerned with the senseless struggle of the titans. But all such places +were primitive, savage, almost unendurable to a man born and tuned to +the violin-string pitch of technological culture. + +Mitch realized dismally that he loved technological civilization, its +giant tools, its roar of mighty engines, its proud structures of +concrete and steel. He could sacrifice his love for particular people, +for particular places and governments--but it was going to be harder to +relinquish mechanical civilization for some stone-age culture lingering +in an out-of-the-way place. Changing tribes was easy, for all tribes +belonged to Man, but renouncing machinery for jungle tools would be more +difficult. A man could change his politics, his friends, his religion, +his country, but Man's tools were a part of his body. Having used a +high-powered rifle, the man subsumed the weapon, made it a part of +himself. Trading it for a stone axe would be like cutting off his arm. +Man was a user of tools, a shaper of environments. + +_That was it_, he thought. The reason for his sudden rebellion, the +narrow dividing line between tolerable and insufferable wars. A war that +killed human beings might be tolerable, if it left most of +civilizations' industry intact, or at least restorable, for although men +might die, Man lived on, still possessing his precious tools, still +capable of producing greater ones. But a war that wrecked industry, left +it a tangled jumble of radioactive concrete and steel--that kind of war +was insufferable, as this one threatened to be. + +The idea shocked him. Kill a few men, and you scratch the hide of +Historical Man. But wreck the industry, drive men out of the cities, +leave the factories hissing with beta and gamma radiation, and you +amputate the hands of Historical Man the Builder. The machinery of +civilization was a living body, with organismic Man as its brain. And +the brain had not yet learned to use the body for a constructive +purpose. It lacked coordination, and the ability to reason its actions +analytically. + +Was _he_ basing action on analytic reason? + +Another hour had passed. And then he heard it. The sound of faint sonar +communication. Quickly he nosed upward to twenty feet, throttled back to +half speed, and raised the periscope. With his face pressed against the +eyepiece, he scanned the moonlit ocean in a slow circle. No lights, no +silhouettes against the reflections on the waves. + +He started the pumps and prepared to surface. Then the conning tower was +snorting through the water like a rolling porpoise. He shut off the +engines, leaving the sub in utter silence except for the soft wash of +the sea. He adjusted the sonar pickups, turned the amplifier to maximum, +and listened intently. Nothing. Had he imagined it? + +He jabbed a button, and a motor purred, rolling out the retractable +radar antenna. Carefully he scanned the sky and sea, watching the +green-mottled screen for blips. Nothing--no ships or aircraft visible. +But he was certain: for a moment he had heard the twitter of undersea +communicators. + + * * * * * + +He sat waiting and listening. Perhaps they had heard his engines, +although his own equipment had caught none of their drive-noise. + +The computer was able to supervise several tasks at once, and he set it +to continue sweeping the horizon with the radar, to listen for sonar +code and engine purr while he attended to other matters. He readied two +torpedoes and raised a rocket into position for launching. He opened the +hatch and climbed to stand in the conning tower again, peering grimly +around the horizon. + +Minutes later, a buzzer sounded beneath him. The computer had something +now. He glanced at the parabolic radar antenna, rearing its head a dozen +feet above him. It had stopped its aimless scanning and was quivering +steadily on the southeast horizon. _Southeast?_ + +He lowered himself quickly into the ship and stared at the luminous +screen. Blips--three blips--barely visible. While he watched, a fourth +appeared. + +He clamped on his headsets. There it _was_! The faint engine-noise of +ships. His trained senses told him they were subs. Subs out of the +southeast? He had expected interception from the west--first aircraft, +then light surface vessels. + +There was but one possible answer: the enemy. + +He dived for the radio and waited impatiently for the tubes to warm +again. He found himself shouting into the mic. + +"Commsubron Killer, this is Sugar William Niner Zero. Urgent message. +Over." + +He was a long way from the station. He repeated the call three times. At +last a faintly audible voice came from the set. + +"... this is Commsubron Killer. You are ordered to return +immediately...." + +The voice faded again. + +"Listen!" Mitch bellowed. "Four, no--_five_ enemy submarine--position +31°50´ North, 73°10´ West, proceeding northwest--roughly, toward +Washington. Probably carrying an answer to Garson's ultimatum. Get help +out here. Over." + +He heard only a brief mutter this time. "... ordered not to proceed +toward Washington. Return immediately to--" + +"Not me! You fool! Listen! Five--enemy--submarines--" He repeated the +message as slowly as he could, repeated it four times. + +"... reading you S-1," came the fading answer. "Are you in distress? I +say again. Are you in distress? Over." + +Angrily Mitch keyed the carrier wave, screwed the button tightly down, +and kicked on the four-hundred cycle modulator. Maybe they could get a +directional fix on his signal and home on it. + +The blips were gone from the radar scope. The subs had spotted him and +submerged. In a moment he would be catching a torpedo, unless he moved. +He started the engines quickly, and the surfaced sub lurched ahead. He +nosed her toward the enemy craft and opened the throttle. She knifed +through the water like a low-running PT boat, throwing a V-shaped fan of +spray. When he reached the halfway point between his own former position +and the place where the enemy submerged, he began jabbing a release at +three second intervals, laying a trail of deadly eggs. He could hear the +crash of the exploding depth-charges behind him. He swung around to make +another pass. + +Then he saw it--the wet metal hulk rearing up like a massive whale dead +ahead. They had discovered the insignificance of their lone and +pint-sized attacker. They were coming up to take him with deck guns. + +Mitch reversed the engines and swung quickly away. The range was too +close for a torpedo. The blast would catch them both. He began +submerging quickly. A sickening blast shivered his tiny craft, and then +another. He dropped to sixty feet, then knifed ahead. + +God! Why was he doing this? There was no sense in it, if he meant to run +away. But then the thought came: they're returning Old Man Garson's +big-winded threat. They're bringing a snootful of radiological hell, and +that's the damned bayonet-line across the road. + + * * * * * + +Depth charges were crashing around him as he wove a zig-zag course. The +computer was buzzing frantically. Then he saw why. The rocket launcher +hadn't retracted; there was still a rocket in it--with a snootful of +Uranium 235. The thing was dragging at the water, slowing him down, +causing the sub to shudder and lurch. + +Apparently all the subs had surfaced, for the charges were falling on +all sides. With the launcher dragging at him, they would get him sooner +or later. He tried to nose upward, but the controls refused. + +He knew what would happen if he tried to fire the rocket. Hell, he +didn't have to fire it. All he had to do was fuse it. It had a +water-pressure fuse, and he was beneath exploding depth. + +_Don't think about it! Do it!_ + +No, you've got to think. That's what's wrong. Too much do, not enough +think. They're going to wreck mechanical civilization if they keep it +up. They're going to wreck Man's tools, cut off his hands, and make him +an ape again! + +But what's it to you? What can _you_ do? + +Dammit! You can destroy five _wrong_ tools that were built to wreck the +_right_ tools. + +Mitch, who wanted to quit an all-out war, reached for the fusing switch. +_This_ part was _his_ war; destroy the destroyers, but not the +producers. Even if it didn't make good military sense-- + +A close explosion sent him lurching aside. He grabbed at the wall and +pushed himself back. The switch--the damn double-toggle _red switch_! He +screamed a curse and struck at it with both fists. + +There came a beautiful, blinding light. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Way of a Rebel, by Walter M. 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Miller + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Way of a Rebel + +Author: Walter M. Miller + +Illustrator: Rudolph Palais + +Release Date: May 18, 2010 [EBook #32416] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAY OF A REBEL *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<div class="figleft"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + + + +<div class="figright"> +<img src="images/back.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + + +<h1>Way of a Rebel</h1> + +<h2>By Walter Miller, Jr.</h2> + +<h3>Illustrated by Rudolph Palais</h3> + +<p>[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science +Fiction April 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that +the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/illus1.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="sidenote"><i>No one knows the heart of a rebel until his own search for +the reason of right or wrong is made. Lieutenant Laskell found the +answer to his own personal rebellion deep beneath a turbulent Atlantic, +and somehow, when the time came, his decision wasn't too difficult....</i></div> + + +<p>Lieutenant Laskell surfaced his one-man submarine fifty miles off the +Florida coast where he had been patrolling in search of enemy subs. +Darkness had fallen. He tuned his short wave set to the Miami station +just in time to hear the eight o'clock news. The grim announcement that +he had expected was quick to come:</p> + +<p>"In accordance with the provisions of the Twenty-Sixth Amendment, +Congress today approved the Manlin Bill, declaring a state of total +emergency for the nation. President Williston signed it immediately and +tendered his resignation to the Congress and the people. The executive, +legislative, and judiciary are now in the hands of the Department of +Defense. Secretary Garson has issued two decrees, one reminding all +citizens that they are no longer free to shirk their duties to the +nation, the other calling upon the leaders of the Eurasian Soviet to +cease air attacks on the American continent or suffer the consequences.</p> + +<p>"In Secretary Garson's ultimatum to the enemy, he stated: 'Heretofore we +have refrained from employing certain weapons of warfare in the vain +hope that you would recognize the futility of further aggression and +desist from it. You have not done so. You have persisted in your +blood-thirsty folly, despite this nation's efforts to reach an agreement +for armistice. Therefore I am forced to command you, in the Name of +Almighty God, to surrender immediately or be destroyed. I shall allow +you one day in which to give evidence of submission. If such evidence is +not forthcoming, I shall implement this directive by a total +attack....'"</p> + +<p>Mitch Laskell switched off the short wave set and muttered an oath. He +squeezed his way up through the narrow conning tower and sat on the +small deck, leaning back against the rocket-launcher and dangling his +feet in the calm ocean. The night was windless and warm, with the summer +stars eyeing the earth benignly. But despite the warmth, he felt clammy; +his hands were shaking a little as he lit a cigarette.</p> + +<p>The newscast—it came as no surprise. The world had known for weeks that +the Manlin Bill would be passed, and that Garson would be given absolute +powers to lead the nation through the war. And his ultimatum to the +enemy was no surprise. Garson had long favored an all-out radiological +attack, employing every nuclear weapon the country could muster. +Heretofore both sides had limited themselves to non-rigged atomic +explosives, and had refrained from using bacterial weapons. Garson +wanted to take off the boxing-gloves in favor of steel gauntlets. And +now it would happen—the all-out attack, the masterpiece of homicidal +engineering, the final word in destruction.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Mitch, reclining in loneliness against the rocket-launcher, blew a +thoughtful cloud of cigarette smoke toward the bright yellow eye of +Arcturus, almost directly overhead, and wondered why the Constellation +Boötes suddenly looked like a big club ready to fall on the earth, when +it had always reminded him of a fly-swatter about to slap the Corona +Borealis. He searched himself for horror, but found only a gloomy +uneasiness. It was funny, he thought; five years ago men would have been +outraged at the notion of an American absolutism, with one man ruling by +decree. But now that it had happened, it was not to hard to accept. He +wondered at it.</p> + +<p>And he soon decided that almost any fact could be accepted calmly after +it had already happened. Men would be just as calm after their cities +had been reduced to rubble. The human capacity for calmness was almost +unlimited, <i>ex post facto</i>, because the routine of daily living had to +go on, despite the big business of governments whose leaders invoked the +Deity in the cause of slaughter.</p> + +<p>A voice, echoing up out of the conning tower, made him jump. The command +set was barking his call letters.</p> + +<p>"Unit Sugar William Niner Zero, Mother wants you. I say again: Mother +wants you. Acknowledge please. Over."</p> + +<p>The message meant: <i>return to base immediately</i>. And it implied an +urgency in the use of the code-word Mother. He frowned and started up, +then fell back with a low grunt.</p> + +<p>All of his resentment against the world's political jackasses suddenly +boiled up inside him as a <i>personal</i> resentment. There was something +about the metallic rasp of the radio's voice that sparked him to sudden +rebelliousness.</p> + +<p>"Unit Sugar William Niner Zero, Mother wants you, Mother wants you. +Acknowledge immediately. Over."</p> + +<p>He had a good idea what it was all about. All subs were probably being +called in for rearmament with cobalt-rigged atomic warheads for their +guided missiles. The submarine force would probably be used to implement +Garson's ultimatum. They would deliver radiological death to Eurasian +coastal cities, and cause the Soviets to retaliate.</p> + +<p><i>Why must I participate in the wrecking of mechanical civilization?</i> he +thought grimly.</p> + +<p>But a counter-thought came to trouble him: <i>I have a duty to obey; The +country gave me birth and brought me up, and now it's got a war to +fight.</i></p> + +<p>He arose and let himself down through the conning tower. He reached for +the microphone, but the receiver croaked again.</p> + +<p>"Sugar William Niner Zero, you are ordered to answer immediately. +Mother's fixing shortening bread. Mother wants you. Over."</p> + +<p>Shortening bread—big plans, something special, a radiological +death-dish for the world. He hated the voice quietly. His hand touched +the microphone but did not lift it.</p> + +<p>He stood poised there in the light of a single glow-lamp, feeling his +small sub rocking gently in the calm sea, listening to the quiet purr of +the atomics beneath him. He had come to love the little sub, despite the +loneliness of long weeks at sea. His only companion was the sub's small +computer which was used for navigation and for calculations pertaining +to the firing of the rocket-missiles. It also handled the probability +mathematics of random search, and automatically radioed periodic +position reports to the home-base computer.</p> + +<p>He glanced suddenly at his watch, it was nearly time for a report. +Abruptly he reached out and jerked open the knife-switch in the +computer's antenna circuit. Immediately the machine began clicking and +clattering and chomping. A bit of paper tape suddenly licked out of its +answer-slot. He tore it off and read the neatly printed words: +MALFUNCTION, OPEN CIRCUIT, COMMUNICATIONS OUTPUT; INSERT DATA.</p> + +<p>Mitch "inserted data" by punching a button labelled NO REPAIR and +another labelled RADIO OUT. One bank of tubes immediately lost its +filament-glow, and the computer shot out another bit of tape inscribed +DATA ROGERED. He patted it affectionately and grinned. The computer was +just a machine, but he found it easy to personalize the thing....</p> + +<p>The command-set was crackling again. "Sugar William Niner Zero, this is +Commsubron Killer. Two messages. Mother wants you. Daddy has a razor +strap. Get on the ball out there, boy! Acknowledge. Over."</p> + +<p>Mitch whitened and picked up the microphone. He keyed the transmitter's +carrier and spoke in a quiet hiss. "Commsubron Killer from Sugar William +Niner Zero. Message for Daddy. Sonnyboy just resigned from the Navy. Go +to hell, all of you! Over and out!"</p> + +<p>He shut off the receiver just as it started to stutter a shocked reply. +He dropped the mike and let it dangle. He stood touching his fingertips +to his temples and breathing in shallow gasps. Had he gone completely +insane?</p> + +<p>He sat down on the floor of the tiny compartment and tried to think. But +he could only feel a bitter resentment welling up out of nowhere. Why? +He had always gotten along in the Navy. He was the undersea equivalent +of a fighter pilot, and he had always liked his job. They had even said +that "he had the killer instinct"—or whatever it was that made him grin +maliciously when he spotted an enemy sub and streaked in for the kill.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Now suddenly he didn't want to go back. He wanted to quit the whole damn +war and run away. Because of Garson maybe? But no, hadn't he anticipated +that before it happened? Why should he kick now, when he hadn't kicked +before? And who was <i>he</i> to decide whether Garson was right or wrong?</p> + +<p><i>Go back</i>, he thought. <i>There's the microphone. Pick it up and tell +Commsubron that you went stir-crazy for a little while. Tell him wilco +on his message. They won't do anything to you except send you to a nut +doctor. Maybe you need one. Go on back like a sane man.</i></p> + +<p>But he drew his hand back from the microphone. He wiped his face +nervously. Mitch had never spent much time worrying about ethics and +creeds and political philosophies. He'd had a job to do, and he did it, +and he sometimes sneered at people who could wax starry-eyed about +patriotism and such. It didn't make sense. The old school spirit was +okay for football games, and even for small-time wars, but he had never +felt much of it. He hadn't needed it in order to be a good fighter. He +fought because it was considered the "thing to do," because he liked the +people he had to live with, and because those people wouldn't have a +good opinion of him if he didn't fight. People never needed much of a +philosophic motive to make them do the socially approved things.</p> + +<p>He moistened his lips nervously and stared at the microphone. He was +scared. Scared to run away. He had never been afraid of a <i>fight</i>, +frightened maybe, but not afraid. Why now? <i>It takes a lot of courage to +be a coward</i>, he thought, but the word <i>coward</i> made him wince. He +groped blindly for a reasonable explanation of his desire to desert. He +wanted to talk to somebody about it, because he was the kind of man who +could think best in an argument. But there was no one to talk to except +the radio.</p> + +<p>The computer's keyboard was almost at his elbow. He stared at it for a +moment, then slowly typed:</p> + +<p>DATA: WIND OUT OF THE NORTH, WAVE FACTOR 0.50 ROUGHNESS SCALE.</p> + +<p>INSTRUCTIONS: SUGGEST ACTION.</p> + +<p>The machine chewed on the entry noisily for a few seconds, then +answered: INSUFFICIENT DATA.</p> + +<p>He nodded thoughtfully. That was his predicament too: insufficient data +about his own motives. How could a man trust himself to judge wisely, +when his judgement went completely against that of his society? He typed +again.</p> + +<p>DATA FOR HYPOTHETICAL PROBLEM: YOU HAVE JUST SOLVED A NAVIGATIONAL +PROBLEM WHOSE SOLUTION REQUIRES COURSE DUE WEST. THREE OTHER COMPUTERS +SOLVE SAME PROBLEM AND GET COURSE DUE SOUTH. MALFUNCTION NOT EVIDENT IN +ANY OF FOUR COMPUTERS.</p> + +<p>INSTRUCTIONS: FURNISH A COURSE.</p> + +<p>The computer clattered for awhile, then typed: SUGGESTION: MALFUNCTION +INDICATORS ARE POSSIBLY MALFUNCTIONING. IS DATA AVAILABLE?</p> + +<p>He stared at it, then laughed grimly. His <i>own</i> malfunction-indicator +wasn't telling him much either. With masochistic fatalism he touched the +keyboard again.</p> + +<p>DATA NOT AVAILABLE. FURNISH A COURSE.</p> + +<p>The computer replied almost immediately this time: COURSE: DUE WEST.</p> + +<p>Mitch stared at it and bit his lip. The machine would follow its own +solution, even if the other three contradicted it. Naturally—it would +<i>have</i> to follow its own solution, if there was no indication of +malfunction. But could a human being make such a decision? Could a man +decide, "I am right, and everyone else is wrong?"</p> + +<p><i>No evidence of malfunction</i>, he thought. <i>I am not a coward. Neither am +I insane.</i></p> + +<p>His heart cried: "I am disgusted with this purposeless war. I shall quit +fighting it."</p> + +<p>He sighed deeply, then arose. There was nothing else to do. The atomic +engines could go six months without refueling. There were enough +undersea rations to last nearly that long.</p> + +<p>He switched on the radio again, goosed the engines to full speed, and +after a moment's thought, swung around on a northeasterly heading. His +first impulse had been to head south, aiming for Yucatan, or the +Guianas—but that impulse would also be the first to strike his pursuers +who were sure to come.</p> + +<p>A new voice was growling on the radio, and he recognized it as Captain +Barkley, his usually jovial, slightly cynical commanding officer. +"Listen, Mitch—if you can hear me, better answer. What's wrong with you +anyhow? I can't hold off much longer. If you don't reply, I'll have to +hunt you down. You're ordered to proceed immediately to the nearest +base. Over."</p> + +<p>Mitch wanted to answer, wanted to argue and fume and curse, hoping that +he could explain his behaviour to his own satisfaction. But they might +not be certain of his exact location, and if he used the radio, +half-a-dozen direction-finders would swing around to aim along his +signal, and Barkley would plot the half-a-dozen lines on the map in his +office before speaking crisply into his telephone: <i>all right, boys—get +him! 29° 10' North, 79° 50' West. Use a P-charge if you can't spot him +by radar or sonar.</i></p> + +<p>Mitch left the controls in the hands of the computer and went up to +stand in the conning tower with the churning spray washing his face. +Surfaced, the sub could make sixty knots, and he meant to stay surfaced +until there were hints of pursuit.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>A three-quarter moon was rising in gloomy orange majesty out of the +quiet sea. It made a river of syrupy light across the water to the east, +and it heightened his sense of unreality, his feeling of detachment from +danger.</p> + +<p>Is it always like this, he wondered? Can a man toss aside his society so +easily, become a traitor with so little logical reason? A day ago, he +would not have dreamed it possible. A day ago, he would have proclaimed +with the cynical Barkley, "A sailor's got no politics. What the hell's +it to me if Garson is Big Boss? I'm just a little tooth in a big gear. +Uncle pays my keep. I ask no questions."</p> + +<p>And now he was running like hell and stealing several million bucks +worth of Uncle's Navy, all because Garson's pomposity and a radio +operator's voice got under his skin. How could a man be so crazy?</p> + +<p>But no, that <i>couldn't</i> be it, he thought. Jeezil! He must have some +better reason. Sort of a last straw, maybe. But he had been conscious of +no great resentment against the war or the Navy or the government. +Historically speaking, wars had never done a great deal of harm—no more +harm than industrial or traffic accidents.</p> + +<p>Why was this war any different? It promised to be more destructive than +the others, but that was drawing a rather narrow line. Who was he to +draw his bayonet across the road and say, "Stop here. This is the +limit."</p> + +<p>Mitch turned his back toward the whipping spray and stared aft along the +phosphorescent, moon-swept wake of his mechanical shark. The radio was +still barking at him with Barkley's clipped tones.</p> + +<p>"Last warning, Laskell! Get on that microphone or suffer the +consequences! We know where you are. I'll give you fifteen minutes, then +we'll come get you. Over and out."</p> + +<p>Thanks for the warning, Mitch thought. In a few minutes, he would have +to submerge. His eyes swept the moon-washed heavens for signs of +aircraft, and he watched the dark horizon for hints of pursuit.</p> + +<p>He meant to keep the northeasterly course for perhaps ten hours, then +turn off and cruise southeast, passing below Bermuda and on out into the +central Atlantic. Then south—perhaps to Africa or Brazil. A fugitive +for the rest of his days.</p> + +<p>"Sugar William Niner Zero," barked the radio. "This is Commsubfleet +Jaybird. Over."</p> + +<p>Mitch moistened his lips nervously. The voice was no longer Barkley's. +Commsubfleet Jaybird was Admiral Harrinore. He chuckled bitterly then, +realizing that he was still automatically startled by rank. He remained +in the conning tower, listening.</p> + +<p>"Sugar William Niner Zero, this is Commsubfleet Jaybird. If you will +obey orders immediately, I guarantee that you will be allowed to accept +summary discipline. No court martial if you comply. You are to return to +base at once. Otherwise, we shall be forced to blast you out of the +ocean as a deserter to the enemy. Over."</p> + +<p>So that was it, he thought. They were worried about the sub falling into +Soviet paws. Some of its equipment was still classified "secret", +although the Reds probably already had it.</p> + +<p>No, he wasn't deserting to the enemy. Neither side was right in the +struggle, although he preferred the West's brand of wrongness to the +bloodier wrongness of the Reds. But a man in choosing the lesser of two +evils must first decide whether the choice really <i>has to be made</i>, and +if there is not a third and more desirable way. Before picking a weapon +for self-destruction, it might help to reason whether or not suicide is +really necessary.</p> + +<p>He smiled sardonically into the gray gloom, knowing that his thinking +was running backwards, that he had acted before reasoning why, that he +was rationalizing in an attempt to soothe himself and absolve himself. +But a lot of human thinking occurred beneath the level of consciousness, +down in the darker regions of the mind where it was not allowed to +become conscious lest it bring shame to the thinker. And perhaps he had +reasoned it all out in that mental half-world where thoughts are inner +ghosts, haunting the possessed man with vague stirrings of uneasiness, +leading him into inexplicable behaviour.</p> + +<p>I am free now, he told himself. I have given them my declaration of +independence, and I am an animal struggling to survive. Living in +society, a man must submit to its will, but now I am divorced from it, +and I shall live apart from it if I live at all, and I shall owe it +nothing. The "governed" no longer gives his consent. How many times have +men said, "If you don't like the system here, why don't you get out?" +Well, he was getting out, and as a freeborn human animal, born as a +savage into the world, he had that right, if he had any rights at all.</p> + +<p>He grunted moodily and lowered himself down into the belly of the sub. +They would be starting the search soon. He sealed the hatches and opened +the water intakes after slowing to a crawl. The sub shivered and +settled. The indicator crept to ten feet, twenty, thirty. At fifty feet, +he jabbed a button on the computer, and the engines growled a harder +thrust. He kept the northeasterly heading at maximum underwater speed.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>An hour crept by. He listened for code on the sonar equipment, but heard +only the weird and nameless sea-sounds. He allowed himself a reading +light in the cramped compartment, folded the map-table up from the wall, +and studied the coastline of Africa.</p> + +<p>He began to feel a frightening loneliness, although scarcely two hours +had passed since his rebellious decision, and he was accustomed to long +weeks alone at sea. He scoffed at himself. He would get along okay; the +sub would take him any place he wanted to go, if he could escape +pursuit. Surely there must be some part of the world where men were not +concerned with the senseless struggle of the titans. But all such places +were primitive, savage, almost unendurable to a man born and tuned to +the violin-string pitch of technological culture.</p> + +<p>Mitch realized dismally that he loved technological civilization, its +giant tools, its roar of mighty engines, its proud structures of +concrete and steel. He could sacrifice his love for particular people, +for particular places and governments—but it was going to be harder to +relinquish mechanical civilization for some stone-age culture lingering +in an out-of-the-way place. Changing tribes was easy, for all tribes +belonged to Man, but renouncing machinery for jungle tools would be more +difficult. A man could change his politics, his friends, his religion, +his country, but Man's tools were a part of his body. Having used a +high-powered rifle, the man subsumed the weapon, made it a part of +himself. Trading it for a stone axe would be like cutting off his arm. +Man was a user of tools, a shaper of environments.</p> + +<p><i>That was it</i>, he thought. The reason for his sudden rebellion, the +narrow dividing line between tolerable and insufferable wars. A war that +killed human beings might be tolerable, if it left most of +civilizations' industry intact, or at least restorable, for although men +might die, Man lived on, still possessing his precious tools, still +capable of producing greater ones. But a war that wrecked industry, left +it a tangled jumble of radioactive concrete and steel—that kind of war +was insufferable, as this one threatened to be.</p> + +<p>The idea shocked him. Kill a few men, and you scratch the hide of +Historical Man. But wreck the industry, drive men out of the cities, +leave the factories hissing with beta and gamma radiation, and you +amputate the hands of Historical Man the Builder. The machinery of +civilization was a living body, with organismic Man as its brain. And +the brain had not yet learned to use the body for a constructive +purpose. It lacked coordination, and the ability to reason its actions +analytically.</p> + +<p>Was <i>he</i> basing action on analytic reason?</p> + +<p>Another hour had passed. And then he heard it. The sound of faint sonar +communication. Quickly he nosed upward to twenty feet, throttled back to +half speed, and raised the periscope. With his face pressed against the +eyepiece, he scanned the moonlit ocean in a slow circle. No lights, no +silhouettes against the reflections on the waves.</p> + +<p>He started the pumps and prepared to surface. Then the conning tower was +snorting through the water like a rolling porpoise. He shut off the +engines, leaving the sub in utter silence except for the soft wash of +the sea. He adjusted the sonar pickups, turned the amplifier to maximum, +and listened intently. Nothing. Had he imagined it?</p> + +<p>He jabbed a button, and a motor purred, rolling out the retractable +radar antenna. Carefully he scanned the sky and sea, watching the +green-mottled screen for blips. Nothing—no ships or aircraft visible. +But he was certain: for a moment he had heard the twitter of undersea +communicators.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>He sat waiting and listening. Perhaps they had heard his engines, +although his own equipment had caught none of their drive-noise.</p> + +<p>The computer was able to supervise several tasks at once, and he set it +to continue sweeping the horizon with the radar, to listen for sonar +code and engine purr while he attended to other matters. He readied two +torpedoes and raised a rocket into position for launching. He opened the +hatch and climbed to stand in the conning tower again, peering grimly +around the horizon.</p> + +<p>Minutes later, a buzzer sounded beneath him. The computer had something +now. He glanced at the parabolic radar antenna, rearing its head a dozen +feet above him. It had stopped its aimless scanning and was quivering +steadily on the southeast horizon. <i>Southeast?</i></p> + +<p>He lowered himself quickly into the ship and stared at the luminous +screen. Blips—three blips—barely visible. While he watched, a fourth +appeared.</p> + +<p>He clamped on his headsets. There it <i>was</i>! The faint engine-noise of +ships. His trained senses told him they were subs. Subs out of the +southeast? He had expected interception from the west—first aircraft, +then light surface vessels.</p> + +<p>There was but one possible answer: the enemy.</p> + +<p>He dived for the radio and waited impatiently for the tubes to warm +again. He found himself shouting into the mic.</p> + +<p>"Commsubron Killer, this is Sugar William Niner Zero. Urgent message. +Over."</p> + +<p>He was a long way from the station. He repeated the call three times. At +last a faintly audible voice came from the set.</p> + +<p>"... this is Commsubron Killer. You are ordered to return +immediately...."</p> + +<p>The voice faded again.</p> + +<p>"Listen!" Mitch bellowed. "Four, no—<i>five</i> enemy submarine—position +31°50´ North, 73°10´ West, proceeding northwest—roughly, toward +Washington. Probably carrying an answer to Garson's ultimatum. Get help +out here. Over."</p> + +<p>He heard only a brief mutter this time. "... ordered not to proceed +toward Washington. Return immediately to—"</p> + +<p>"Not me! You fool! Listen! Five—enemy—submarines—" He repeated the +message as slowly as he could, repeated it four times.</p> + +<p>"... reading you S-1," came the fading answer. "Are you in distress? I +say again. Are you in distress? Over."</p> + +<p>Angrily Mitch keyed the carrier wave, screwed the button tightly down, +and kicked on the four-hundred cycle modulator. Maybe they could get a +directional fix on his signal and home on it.</p> + +<p>The blips were gone from the radar scope. The subs had spotted him and +submerged. In a moment he would be catching a torpedo, unless he moved. +He started the engines quickly, and the surfaced sub lurched ahead. He +nosed her toward the enemy craft and opened the throttle. She knifed +through the water like a low-running PT boat, throwing a V-shaped fan of +spray. When he reached the halfway point between his own former position +and the place where the enemy submerged, he began jabbing a release at +three second intervals, laying a trail of deadly eggs. He could hear the +crash of the exploding depth-charges behind him. He swung around to make +another pass.</p> + +<p>Then he saw it—the wet metal hulk rearing up like a massive whale dead +ahead. They had discovered the insignificance of their lone and +pint-sized attacker. They were coming up to take him with deck guns.</p> + +<p>Mitch reversed the engines and swung quickly away. The range was too +close for a torpedo. The blast would catch them both. He began +submerging quickly. A sickening blast shivered his tiny craft, and then +another. He dropped to sixty feet, then knifed ahead.</p> + +<p>God! Why was he doing this? There was no sense in it, if he meant to run +away. But then the thought came: they're returning Old Man Garson's +big-winded threat. They're bringing a snootful of radiological hell, and +that's the damned bayonet-line across the road.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Depth charges were crashing around him as he wove a zig-zag course. The +computer was buzzing frantically. Then he saw why. The rocket launcher +hadn't retracted; there was still a rocket in it—with a snootful of +Uranium 235. The thing was dragging at the water, slowing him down, +causing the sub to shudder and lurch.</p> + +<p>Apparently all the subs had surfaced, for the charges were falling on +all sides. With the launcher dragging at him, they would get him sooner +or later. He tried to nose upward, but the controls refused.</p> + +<p>He knew what would happen if he tried to fire the rocket. Hell, he +didn't have to fire it. All he had to do was fuse it. It had a +water-pressure fuse, and he was beneath exploding depth.</p> + +<p><i>Don't think about it! Do it!</i></p> + +<p>No, you've got to think. That's what's wrong. Too much do, not enough +think. They're going to wreck mechanical civilization if they keep it +up. They're going to wreck Man's tools, cut off his hands, and make him +an ape again!</p> + +<p>But what's it to you? What can <i>you</i> do?</p> + +<p>Dammit! You can destroy five <i>wrong</i> tools that were built to wreck the +<i>right</i> tools.</p> + +<p>Mitch, who wanted to quit an all-out war, reached for the fusing switch. +<i>This</i> part was <i>his</i> war; destroy the destroyers, but not the +producers. Even if it didn't make good military sense—</p> + +<p>A close explosion sent him lurching aside. He grabbed at the wall and +pushed himself back. The switch—the damn double-toggle <i>red switch</i>! He +screamed a curse and struck at it with both fists.</p> + +<p>There came a beautiful, blinding light.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Way of a Rebel, by Walter M. 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Miller + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Way of a Rebel + +Author: Walter M. Miller + +Illustrator: Rudolph Palais + +Release Date: May 18, 2010 [EBook #32416] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAY OF A REBEL *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + Way of a Rebel + + By Walter Miller, Jr. + + Illustrated by Rudolph Palais + +[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science +Fiction April 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that +the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] + + +[Sidenote: _No one knows the heart of a rebel until his own search for +the reason of right or wrong is made. Lieutenant Laskell found the +answer to his own personal rebellion deep beneath a turbulent Atlantic, +and somehow, when the time came, his decision wasn't too difficult...._] + + +Lieutenant Laskell surfaced his one-man submarine fifty miles off the +Florida coast where he had been patrolling in search of enemy subs. +Darkness had fallen. He tuned his short wave set to the Miami station +just in time to hear the eight o'clock news. The grim announcement that +he had expected was quick to come: + +"In accordance with the provisions of the Twenty-Sixth Amendment, +Congress today approved the Manlin Bill, declaring a state of total +emergency for the nation. President Williston signed it immediately and +tendered his resignation to the Congress and the people. The executive, +legislative, and judiciary are now in the hands of the Department of +Defense. Secretary Garson has issued two decrees, one reminding all +citizens that they are no longer free to shirk their duties to the +nation, the other calling upon the leaders of the Eurasian Soviet to +cease air attacks on the American continent or suffer the consequences. + +"In Secretary Garson's ultimatum to the enemy, he stated: 'Heretofore we +have refrained from employing certain weapons of warfare in the vain +hope that you would recognize the futility of further aggression and +desist from it. You have not done so. You have persisted in your +blood-thirsty folly, despite this nation's efforts to reach an agreement +for armistice. Therefore I am forced to command you, in the Name of +Almighty God, to surrender immediately or be destroyed. I shall allow +you one day in which to give evidence of submission. If such evidence is +not forthcoming, I shall implement this directive by a total +attack....'" + +Mitch Laskell switched off the short wave set and muttered an oath. He +squeezed his way up through the narrow conning tower and sat on the +small deck, leaning back against the rocket-launcher and dangling his +feet in the calm ocean. The night was windless and warm, with the summer +stars eyeing the earth benignly. But despite the warmth, he felt clammy; +his hands were shaking a little as he lit a cigarette. + +The newscast--it came as no surprise. The world had known for weeks that +the Manlin Bill would be passed, and that Garson would be given absolute +powers to lead the nation through the war. And his ultimatum to the +enemy was no surprise. Garson had long favored an all-out radiological +attack, employing every nuclear weapon the country could muster. +Heretofore both sides had limited themselves to non-rigged atomic +explosives, and had refrained from using bacterial weapons. Garson +wanted to take off the boxing-gloves in favor of steel gauntlets. And +now it would happen--the all-out attack, the masterpiece of homicidal +engineering, the final word in destruction. + + * * * * * + +Mitch, reclining in loneliness against the rocket-launcher, blew a +thoughtful cloud of cigarette smoke toward the bright yellow eye of +Arcturus, almost directly overhead, and wondered why the Constellation +Booetes suddenly looked like a big club ready to fall on the earth, when +it had always reminded him of a fly-swatter about to slap the Corona +Borealis. He searched himself for horror, but found only a gloomy +uneasiness. It was funny, he thought; five years ago men would have been +outraged at the notion of an American absolutism, with one man ruling by +decree. But now that it had happened, it was not to hard to accept. He +wondered at it. + +And he soon decided that almost any fact could be accepted calmly after +it had already happened. Men would be just as calm after their cities +had been reduced to rubble. The human capacity for calmness was almost +unlimited, _ex post facto_, because the routine of daily living had to +go on, despite the big business of governments whose leaders invoked the +Deity in the cause of slaughter. + +A voice, echoing up out of the conning tower, made him jump. The command +set was barking his call letters. + +"Unit Sugar William Niner Zero, Mother wants you. I say again: Mother +wants you. Acknowledge please. Over." + +The message meant: _return to base immediately_. And it implied an +urgency in the use of the code-word Mother. He frowned and started up, +then fell back with a low grunt. + +All of his resentment against the world's political jackasses suddenly +boiled up inside him as a _personal_ resentment. There was something +about the metallic rasp of the radio's voice that sparked him to sudden +rebelliousness. + +"Unit Sugar William Niner Zero, Mother wants you, Mother wants you. +Acknowledge immediately. Over." + +He had a good idea what it was all about. All subs were probably being +called in for rearmament with cobalt-rigged atomic warheads for their +guided missiles. The submarine force would probably be used to implement +Garson's ultimatum. They would deliver radiological death to Eurasian +coastal cities, and cause the Soviets to retaliate. + +_Why must I participate in the wrecking of mechanical civilization?_ he +thought grimly. + +But a counter-thought came to trouble him: _I have a duty to obey; The +country gave me birth and brought me up, and now it's got a war to +fight._ + +He arose and let himself down through the conning tower. He reached for +the microphone, but the receiver croaked again. + +"Sugar William Niner Zero, you are ordered to answer immediately. +Mother's fixing shortening bread. Mother wants you. Over." + +Shortening bread--big plans, something special, a radiological +death-dish for the world. He hated the voice quietly. His hand touched +the microphone but did not lift it. + +He stood poised there in the light of a single glow-lamp, feeling his +small sub rocking gently in the calm sea, listening to the quiet purr of +the atomics beneath him. He had come to love the little sub, despite the +loneliness of long weeks at sea. His only companion was the sub's small +computer which was used for navigation and for calculations pertaining +to the firing of the rocket-missiles. It also handled the probability +mathematics of random search, and automatically radioed periodic +position reports to the home-base computer. + +He glanced suddenly at his watch, it was nearly time for a report. +Abruptly he reached out and jerked open the knife-switch in the +computer's antenna circuit. Immediately the machine began clicking and +clattering and chomping. A bit of paper tape suddenly licked out of its +answer-slot. He tore it off and read the neatly printed words: +MALFUNCTION, OPEN CIRCUIT, COMMUNICATIONS OUTPUT; INSERT DATA. + +Mitch "inserted data" by punching a button labelled NO REPAIR and +another labelled RADIO OUT. One bank of tubes immediately lost its +filament-glow, and the computer shot out another bit of tape inscribed +DATA ROGERED. He patted it affectionately and grinned. The computer was +just a machine, but he found it easy to personalize the thing.... + +The command-set was crackling again. "Sugar William Niner Zero, this is +Commsubron Killer. Two messages. Mother wants you. Daddy has a razor +strap. Get on the ball out there, boy! Acknowledge. Over." + +Mitch whitened and picked up the microphone. He keyed the transmitter's +carrier and spoke in a quiet hiss. "Commsubron Killer from Sugar William +Niner Zero. Message for Daddy. Sonnyboy just resigned from the Navy. Go +to hell, all of you! Over and out!" + +He shut off the receiver just as it started to stutter a shocked reply. +He dropped the mike and let it dangle. He stood touching his fingertips +to his temples and breathing in shallow gasps. Had he gone completely +insane? + +He sat down on the floor of the tiny compartment and tried to think. But +he could only feel a bitter resentment welling up out of nowhere. Why? +He had always gotten along in the Navy. He was the undersea equivalent +of a fighter pilot, and he had always liked his job. They had even said +that "he had the killer instinct"--or whatever it was that made him grin +maliciously when he spotted an enemy sub and streaked in for the kill. + + * * * * * + +Now suddenly he didn't want to go back. He wanted to quit the whole damn +war and run away. Because of Garson maybe? But no, hadn't he anticipated +that before it happened? Why should he kick now, when he hadn't kicked +before? And who was _he_ to decide whether Garson was right or wrong? + +_Go back_, he thought. _There's the microphone. Pick it up and tell +Commsubron that you went stir-crazy for a little while. Tell him wilco +on his message. They won't do anything to you except send you to a nut +doctor. Maybe you need one. Go on back like a sane man._ + +But he drew his hand back from the microphone. He wiped his face +nervously. Mitch had never spent much time worrying about ethics and +creeds and political philosophies. He'd had a job to do, and he did it, +and he sometimes sneered at people who could wax starry-eyed about +patriotism and such. It didn't make sense. The old school spirit was +okay for football games, and even for small-time wars, but he had never +felt much of it. He hadn't needed it in order to be a good fighter. He +fought because it was considered the "thing to do," because he liked the +people he had to live with, and because those people wouldn't have a +good opinion of him if he didn't fight. People never needed much of a +philosophic motive to make them do the socially approved things. + +He moistened his lips nervously and stared at the microphone. He was +scared. Scared to run away. He had never been afraid of a _fight_, +frightened maybe, but not afraid. Why now? _It takes a lot of courage to +be a coward_, he thought, but the word _coward_ made him wince. He +groped blindly for a reasonable explanation of his desire to desert. He +wanted to talk to somebody about it, because he was the kind of man who +could think best in an argument. But there was no one to talk to except +the radio. + +The computer's keyboard was almost at his elbow. He stared at it for a +moment, then slowly typed: + +DATA: WIND OUT OF THE NORTH, WAVE FACTOR 0.50 ROUGHNESS SCALE. + +INSTRUCTIONS: SUGGEST ACTION. + +The machine chewed on the entry noisily for a few seconds, then +answered: INSUFFICIENT DATA. + +He nodded thoughtfully. That was his predicament too: insufficient data +about his own motives. How could a man trust himself to judge wisely, +when his judgement went completely against that of his society? He typed +again. + +DATA FOR HYPOTHETICAL PROBLEM: YOU HAVE JUST SOLVED A NAVIGATIONAL +PROBLEM WHOSE SOLUTION REQUIRES COURSE DUE WEST. THREE OTHER COMPUTERS +SOLVE SAME PROBLEM AND GET COURSE DUE SOUTH. MALFUNCTION NOT EVIDENT IN +ANY OF FOUR COMPUTERS. + +INSTRUCTIONS: FURNISH A COURSE. + +The computer clattered for awhile, then typed: SUGGESTION: MALFUNCTION +INDICATORS ARE POSSIBLY MALFUNCTIONING. IS DATA AVAILABLE? + +He stared at it, then laughed grimly. His _own_ malfunction-indicator +wasn't telling him much either. With masochistic fatalism he touched the +keyboard again. + +DATA NOT AVAILABLE. FURNISH A COURSE. + +The computer replied almost immediately this time: COURSE: DUE WEST. + +Mitch stared at it and bit his lip. The machine would follow its own +solution, even if the other three contradicted it. Naturally--it would +_have_ to follow its own solution, if there was no indication of +malfunction. But could a human being make such a decision? Could a man +decide, "I am right, and everyone else is wrong?" + +_No evidence of malfunction_, he thought. _I am not a coward. Neither am +I insane._ + +His heart cried: "I am disgusted with this purposeless war. I shall quit +fighting it." + +He sighed deeply, then arose. There was nothing else to do. The atomic +engines could go six months without refueling. There were enough +undersea rations to last nearly that long. + +He switched on the radio again, goosed the engines to full speed, and +after a moment's thought, swung around on a northeasterly heading. His +first impulse had been to head south, aiming for Yucatan, or the +Guianas--but that impulse would also be the first to strike his pursuers +who were sure to come. + +A new voice was growling on the radio, and he recognized it as Captain +Barkley, his usually jovial, slightly cynical commanding officer. +"Listen, Mitch--if you can hear me, better answer. What's wrong with you +anyhow? I can't hold off much longer. If you don't reply, I'll have to +hunt you down. You're ordered to proceed immediately to the nearest +base. Over." + +Mitch wanted to answer, wanted to argue and fume and curse, hoping that +he could explain his behaviour to his own satisfaction. But they might +not be certain of his exact location, and if he used the radio, +half-a-dozen direction-finders would swing around to aim along his +signal, and Barkley would plot the half-a-dozen lines on the map in his +office before speaking crisply into his telephone: _all right, boys--get +him! 29 deg. 10' North, 79 deg. 50' West. Use a P-charge if you can't spot him +by radar or sonar._ + +Mitch left the controls in the hands of the computer and went up to +stand in the conning tower with the churning spray washing his face. +Surfaced, the sub could make sixty knots, and he meant to stay surfaced +until there were hints of pursuit. + + * * * * * + +A three-quarter moon was rising in gloomy orange majesty out of the +quiet sea. It made a river of syrupy light across the water to the east, +and it heightened his sense of unreality, his feeling of detachment from +danger. + +Is it always like this, he wondered? Can a man toss aside his society so +easily, become a traitor with so little logical reason? A day ago, he +would not have dreamed it possible. A day ago, he would have proclaimed +with the cynical Barkley, "A sailor's got no politics. What the hell's +it to me if Garson is Big Boss? I'm just a little tooth in a big gear. +Uncle pays my keep. I ask no questions." + +And now he was running like hell and stealing several million bucks +worth of Uncle's Navy, all because Garson's pomposity and a radio +operator's voice got under his skin. How could a man be so crazy? + +But no, that _couldn't_ be it, he thought. Jeezil! He must have some +better reason. Sort of a last straw, maybe. But he had been conscious of +no great resentment against the war or the Navy or the government. +Historically speaking, wars had never done a great deal of harm--no more +harm than industrial or traffic accidents. + +Why was this war any different? It promised to be more destructive than +the others, but that was drawing a rather narrow line. Who was he to +draw his bayonet across the road and say, "Stop here. This is the +limit." + +Mitch turned his back toward the whipping spray and stared aft along the +phosphorescent, moon-swept wake of his mechanical shark. The radio was +still barking at him with Barkley's clipped tones. + +"Last warning, Laskell! Get on that microphone or suffer the +consequences! We know where you are. I'll give you fifteen minutes, then +we'll come get you. Over and out." + +Thanks for the warning, Mitch thought. In a few minutes, he would have +to submerge. His eyes swept the moon-washed heavens for signs of +aircraft, and he watched the dark horizon for hints of pursuit. + +He meant to keep the northeasterly course for perhaps ten hours, then +turn off and cruise southeast, passing below Bermuda and on out into the +central Atlantic. Then south--perhaps to Africa or Brazil. A fugitive +for the rest of his days. + +"Sugar William Niner Zero," barked the radio. "This is Commsubfleet +Jaybird. Over." + +Mitch moistened his lips nervously. The voice was no longer Barkley's. +Commsubfleet Jaybird was Admiral Harrinore. He chuckled bitterly then, +realizing that he was still automatically startled by rank. He remained +in the conning tower, listening. + +"Sugar William Niner Zero, this is Commsubfleet Jaybird. If you will +obey orders immediately, I guarantee that you will be allowed to accept +summary discipline. No court martial if you comply. You are to return to +base at once. Otherwise, we shall be forced to blast you out of the +ocean as a deserter to the enemy. Over." + +So that was it, he thought. They were worried about the sub falling into +Soviet paws. Some of its equipment was still classified "secret", +although the Reds probably already had it. + +No, he wasn't deserting to the enemy. Neither side was right in the +struggle, although he preferred the West's brand of wrongness to the +bloodier wrongness of the Reds. But a man in choosing the lesser of two +evils must first decide whether the choice really _has to be made_, and +if there is not a third and more desirable way. Before picking a weapon +for self-destruction, it might help to reason whether or not suicide is +really necessary. + +He smiled sardonically into the gray gloom, knowing that his thinking +was running backwards, that he had acted before reasoning why, that he +was rationalizing in an attempt to soothe himself and absolve himself. +But a lot of human thinking occurred beneath the level of consciousness, +down in the darker regions of the mind where it was not allowed to +become conscious lest it bring shame to the thinker. And perhaps he had +reasoned it all out in that mental half-world where thoughts are inner +ghosts, haunting the possessed man with vague stirrings of uneasiness, +leading him into inexplicable behaviour. + +I am free now, he told himself. I have given them my declaration of +independence, and I am an animal struggling to survive. Living in +society, a man must submit to its will, but now I am divorced from it, +and I shall live apart from it if I live at all, and I shall owe it +nothing. The "governed" no longer gives his consent. How many times have +men said, "If you don't like the system here, why don't you get out?" +Well, he was getting out, and as a freeborn human animal, born as a +savage into the world, he had that right, if he had any rights at all. + +He grunted moodily and lowered himself down into the belly of the sub. +They would be starting the search soon. He sealed the hatches and opened +the water intakes after slowing to a crawl. The sub shivered and +settled. The indicator crept to ten feet, twenty, thirty. At fifty feet, +he jabbed a button on the computer, and the engines growled a harder +thrust. He kept the northeasterly heading at maximum underwater speed. + + * * * * * + +An hour crept by. He listened for code on the sonar equipment, but heard +only the weird and nameless sea-sounds. He allowed himself a reading +light in the cramped compartment, folded the map-table up from the wall, +and studied the coastline of Africa. + +He began to feel a frightening loneliness, although scarcely two hours +had passed since his rebellious decision, and he was accustomed to long +weeks alone at sea. He scoffed at himself. He would get along okay; the +sub would take him any place he wanted to go, if he could escape +pursuit. Surely there must be some part of the world where men were not +concerned with the senseless struggle of the titans. But all such places +were primitive, savage, almost unendurable to a man born and tuned to +the violin-string pitch of technological culture. + +Mitch realized dismally that he loved technological civilization, its +giant tools, its roar of mighty engines, its proud structures of +concrete and steel. He could sacrifice his love for particular people, +for particular places and governments--but it was going to be harder to +relinquish mechanical civilization for some stone-age culture lingering +in an out-of-the-way place. Changing tribes was easy, for all tribes +belonged to Man, but renouncing machinery for jungle tools would be more +difficult. A man could change his politics, his friends, his religion, +his country, but Man's tools were a part of his body. Having used a +high-powered rifle, the man subsumed the weapon, made it a part of +himself. Trading it for a stone axe would be like cutting off his arm. +Man was a user of tools, a shaper of environments. + +_That was it_, he thought. The reason for his sudden rebellion, the +narrow dividing line between tolerable and insufferable wars. A war that +killed human beings might be tolerable, if it left most of +civilizations' industry intact, or at least restorable, for although men +might die, Man lived on, still possessing his precious tools, still +capable of producing greater ones. But a war that wrecked industry, left +it a tangled jumble of radioactive concrete and steel--that kind of war +was insufferable, as this one threatened to be. + +The idea shocked him. Kill a few men, and you scratch the hide of +Historical Man. But wreck the industry, drive men out of the cities, +leave the factories hissing with beta and gamma radiation, and you +amputate the hands of Historical Man the Builder. The machinery of +civilization was a living body, with organismic Man as its brain. And +the brain had not yet learned to use the body for a constructive +purpose. It lacked coordination, and the ability to reason its actions +analytically. + +Was _he_ basing action on analytic reason? + +Another hour had passed. And then he heard it. The sound of faint sonar +communication. Quickly he nosed upward to twenty feet, throttled back to +half speed, and raised the periscope. With his face pressed against the +eyepiece, he scanned the moonlit ocean in a slow circle. No lights, no +silhouettes against the reflections on the waves. + +He started the pumps and prepared to surface. Then the conning tower was +snorting through the water like a rolling porpoise. He shut off the +engines, leaving the sub in utter silence except for the soft wash of +the sea. He adjusted the sonar pickups, turned the amplifier to maximum, +and listened intently. Nothing. Had he imagined it? + +He jabbed a button, and a motor purred, rolling out the retractable +radar antenna. Carefully he scanned the sky and sea, watching the +green-mottled screen for blips. Nothing--no ships or aircraft visible. +But he was certain: for a moment he had heard the twitter of undersea +communicators. + + * * * * * + +He sat waiting and listening. Perhaps they had heard his engines, +although his own equipment had caught none of their drive-noise. + +The computer was able to supervise several tasks at once, and he set it +to continue sweeping the horizon with the radar, to listen for sonar +code and engine purr while he attended to other matters. He readied two +torpedoes and raised a rocket into position for launching. He opened the +hatch and climbed to stand in the conning tower again, peering grimly +around the horizon. + +Minutes later, a buzzer sounded beneath him. The computer had something +now. He glanced at the parabolic radar antenna, rearing its head a dozen +feet above him. It had stopped its aimless scanning and was quivering +steadily on the southeast horizon. _Southeast?_ + +He lowered himself quickly into the ship and stared at the luminous +screen. Blips--three blips--barely visible. While he watched, a fourth +appeared. + +He clamped on his headsets. There it _was_! The faint engine-noise of +ships. His trained senses told him they were subs. Subs out of the +southeast? He had expected interception from the west--first aircraft, +then light surface vessels. + +There was but one possible answer: the enemy. + +He dived for the radio and waited impatiently for the tubes to warm +again. He found himself shouting into the mic. + +"Commsubron Killer, this is Sugar William Niner Zero. Urgent message. +Over." + +He was a long way from the station. He repeated the call three times. At +last a faintly audible voice came from the set. + +"... this is Commsubron Killer. You are ordered to return +immediately...." + +The voice faded again. + +"Listen!" Mitch bellowed. "Four, no--_five_ enemy submarine--position +31 deg.50' North, 73 deg.10' West, proceeding northwest--roughly, toward +Washington. Probably carrying an answer to Garson's ultimatum. Get help +out here. Over." + +He heard only a brief mutter this time. "... ordered not to proceed +toward Washington. Return immediately to--" + +"Not me! You fool! Listen! Five--enemy--submarines--" He repeated the +message as slowly as he could, repeated it four times. + +"... reading you S-1," came the fading answer. "Are you in distress? I +say again. Are you in distress? Over." + +Angrily Mitch keyed the carrier wave, screwed the button tightly down, +and kicked on the four-hundred cycle modulator. Maybe they could get a +directional fix on his signal and home on it. + +The blips were gone from the radar scope. The subs had spotted him and +submerged. In a moment he would be catching a torpedo, unless he moved. +He started the engines quickly, and the surfaced sub lurched ahead. He +nosed her toward the enemy craft and opened the throttle. She knifed +through the water like a low-running PT boat, throwing a V-shaped fan of +spray. When he reached the halfway point between his own former position +and the place where the enemy submerged, he began jabbing a release at +three second intervals, laying a trail of deadly eggs. He could hear the +crash of the exploding depth-charges behind him. He swung around to make +another pass. + +Then he saw it--the wet metal hulk rearing up like a massive whale dead +ahead. They had discovered the insignificance of their lone and +pint-sized attacker. They were coming up to take him with deck guns. + +Mitch reversed the engines and swung quickly away. The range was too +close for a torpedo. The blast would catch them both. He began +submerging quickly. A sickening blast shivered his tiny craft, and then +another. He dropped to sixty feet, then knifed ahead. + +God! Why was he doing this? There was no sense in it, if he meant to run +away. But then the thought came: they're returning Old Man Garson's +big-winded threat. They're bringing a snootful of radiological hell, and +that's the damned bayonet-line across the road. + + * * * * * + +Depth charges were crashing around him as he wove a zig-zag course. The +computer was buzzing frantically. Then he saw why. The rocket launcher +hadn't retracted; there was still a rocket in it--with a snootful of +Uranium 235. The thing was dragging at the water, slowing him down, +causing the sub to shudder and lurch. + +Apparently all the subs had surfaced, for the charges were falling on +all sides. With the launcher dragging at him, they would get him sooner +or later. He tried to nose upward, but the controls refused. + +He knew what would happen if he tried to fire the rocket. Hell, he +didn't have to fire it. All he had to do was fuse it. It had a +water-pressure fuse, and he was beneath exploding depth. + +_Don't think about it! Do it!_ + +No, you've got to think. That's what's wrong. Too much do, not enough +think. They're going to wreck mechanical civilization if they keep it +up. They're going to wreck Man's tools, cut off his hands, and make him +an ape again! + +But what's it to you? What can _you_ do? + +Dammit! You can destroy five _wrong_ tools that were built to wreck the +_right_ tools. + +Mitch, who wanted to quit an all-out war, reached for the fusing switch. +_This_ part was _his_ war; destroy the destroyers, but not the +producers. Even if it didn't make good military sense-- + +A close explosion sent him lurching aside. He grabbed at the wall and +pushed himself back. The switch--the damn double-toggle _red switch_! He +screamed a curse and struck at it with both fists. + +There came a beautiful, blinding light. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Way of a Rebel, by Walter M. 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