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Eastward Ho!

William Tenn

The New Jersey Turnpike had been hard on the horses. South of New Brunswick the potholes had

been so deep, the scattered boulders so plentiful, that the two men had been forced to move at a slow

trot, to avoid crippling their three precious animals. And, of course, this far south, farms were

nonexistent; they had been able to eat nothing but the dried provisions in the saddlebags, and last night

they had slept in a roadside service station, suspending their hammocks between the tilted, rusty gas

pumps.

But it was still the best, the most direct route, Jerry Franklin knew. The Turnpike was a government

road: its rubble was cleared semiannually. They had made excel-lent time and come through without even

developing a limp in the pack horse. As they swung out on the last lap, past the riven tree stump with the

words TRENTON EXIT carved on its side, Jerry relaxed a bit. His father, his father's colleagues,

would be proud of him. And he was proud of himself.

But the next moment, he was alert again. He roweled his horse, moved up along-side his

companion, a young man of his own age.

"Protocol," he reminded. "I'm the leader here. You know better than to ride ahead of me this close

to Trenton."

He hated to pull rank. But facts were facts, and if a subordinate got above himself he was asking to

be set down. After all, he was the son—and the oldest son, at that—of the Senator from Idaho; Sam

Rutherford's father was a mere Undersecretary of State and Sam's mother's family was pure post-office

clerk all the way back.

Sam nodded apologetically and reined his horse back the proper couple of feet. "Thought I saw

something odd," he explained. "Looked like an advance party on the side of the road—and I could have

sworn they were wearing buffalo robes."

"Seminole don't wear buffalo robes, Sammy. Don't you remember your sopho-more political

science?"

"I never had any political science, Mr. Franklin: I was an engineering major. Dig-ging around in ruins

has always been my dish. But from the little I know, I didn't think buffalo robes went with the Seminole.

That's why I was—"

"Concentrate on the pack horse," Jerry advised. "Negotiations are my job."

As he said this, he was unable to refrain from touching the pouch upon his breast with rippling

fingertips. Inside it was his commission, carefully typed on one of the last precious sheets of official

government stationery (and it was not one whit less official because the reverse side had been used years

ago as a scribbled interoffice memo) and signed by the President himself. In ink!

The existence of such documents was important to a man in later life. He would have to hand it over,

in all probability, during the conferences, but the commission to which it attested would be on file in the

capital up north.

And when his father died, and he took over one of the two hallowed Idaho seats, it would give him

enough stature to make an attempt at membership on the Appro-priations Committee. Or, for that

matter, why not go the whole hog—the Rules Committee itself? No Senator Franklin had ever been a

member of the Rules Committee...

The two envoys knew they were on the outskirts of Trenton when they passed the first gangs of

Jerseyites working to clear the road. Frightened faces glanced at them briefly, and quickly bent again to

work. The gangs were working without any visible supervision. Evidently the Seminole felt that simple

instructions were sufficient.

But as they rode into the blocks of neat ruins that were the city proper and still came across nobody

more important than white men, another explanation began to occur to Jerry Franklin. This all had the

look of a town still at war, but where were the combatants? Almost certainly on the other side of

Trenton, defending the Delaware River—that was the direction from which the new rulers of Trenton

might fear at-tack—not from the north where there was only the United States of America.

But if that were so, who in the world could they be defending against? Across the Delaware to the

south there was nothing but more Seminole. Was it possible—was it possible that the Seminole had at

last fallen to fighting among themselves?

Or was it possible that Sam Rutherford had been right? Fantastic. Buffalo robes in Trenton! There

should be no buffalo robes closer than a hundred miles westward, in Harrisburg.

But when they turned onto State Street, Jerry bit his lip in chagrin. Sam had seen correctly, which

made him one up.

Scattered over the wide lawn of the gutted state capitol were dozens of wigwams. And the tall, dark

men who sat impassively, or strode proudly among the wigwams, all wore buffalo robes. There was no

need even to associate the paint on their faces with a remembered lecture in political science: these were

Sioux.

So the information that had come drifting up to the government about the iden-tity of the invader was

totally inaccurate—as usual. Well, you couldn't expect com-munication miracles over this long a distance.

But that inaccuracy made things difficult. It might invalidate his commission, for one thing: his commission

was addressed directly to Osceola VII, Ruler of All the Seminoles. And if Sam Ruther-ford thought this

gave him a right to preen himself—

He looked back dangerously. No, Sam would give no trouble. Sam knew better than to dare an

I-told-you-so. At his leader's look, the son of the Undersecretary of State dropped his eyes

groundwards in immediate humility.

Satisfied, Jerry searched his memory for relevant data on recent political relation-ships with the

Sioux. He couldn't recall much—just the provisions of the last two or three treaties. It would have to do.

He drew up before an important-looking warrior and carefully dismounted. You might get away with

talking to a Seminole while mounted, but not the Sioux. The Sioux were very tender on matters of

protocol with white men.

"We come in peace," he said to the warrior standing as impassively straight as the spear he held, as

stiff and hard as the rifle on his back. "We come with a message of importance and many gifts to your

chief. We come from New York, the home of our chief." He thought a moment, then added: "You know,

the Great White Father?"

Immediately, he was sorry for the addition. The warrior chuckled briefly; his eyes lit up with a

lightning-stroke of mirth. Then his face was expressionless again, and serenely dignified as befitted a man

who had counted coup many times.

"Yes," he said. "I have heard of him. Who has not heard of the wealth and power and far dominions

of the Great White Father? Come. I will take you to our chief. Walk behind me, white man."

Jerry motioned Sam Rutherford to wait.

At the entrance to a large, expensively decorated tent, the Indian stood aside and casually indicated

that Jerry should enter.

It was dim inside, but the illumination was rich enough to take Jerry's breath away. Oil lamps! Three

of them! These people lived well.

A century ago, before the whole world had gone smash in the last big war, his people had owned

plenty of oil lamps themselves. Better than oil lamps, perhaps, if one could believe the stories the

engineers told around the evening fires. Such stories were pleas-ant to hear, but they were glories of the

distant past. Like the stories of overflowing granaries and chock-full supermarkets, they made you proud

of the history of your people, but they did nothing for you now. They made your mouth water, but they

didn't feed you.

The Indians whose tribal organization had been the first to adjust to the new con-ditions, in the

all-important present, the Indians had the granaries, the Indians had the oil lamps. And the Indians...

There were two nervous white men serving food to the group squatting on the floor. There was an

old man, the chief, with a carved, chunky body. Three warriors, one of them surprisingly young for

council. And a middle-aged Negro, wearing the same bound-on rags as Franklin, except that they

looked a little newer, a little cleaner.

Jerry bowed low before the chief, spreading his arms apart, palms down.

"I come from New York, from our chief," he mumbled. In spite of himself, he was more than a little

frightened. He wished he knew their names so that he could relate them to specific events. Although he

knew what their names would be like—approxi-mately. The Sioux, the Seminole, all the Indian tribes

renascent in power and num-bers, all bore names garlanded with anachronism. That queer mixture of

several lev-els of the past, overlaid always with the cocky, expanding present. Like the rifle and the

spears, one for the reality of fighting, the other for the symbol that was more im-portant than reality. Like

the use of wigwams on campaign, when, according to the rumors that drifted smokily across country,

their slave artisans could now build the meanest Indian noble a damp-free, draftproof dwelling such as

the President of the United States, lying on his special straw pallet, did not dream about. Like

paint-splattered faces peering through newly reinvented, crude microscopes. What had micro-scopes

been like? Jerry tried to remember the Engineering Survey Course he'd taken in his freshman year—and

drew a blank. All the same, the Indians were so queer, and so awesome. Sometimes you thought that

destiny had meant them to be conquerors, with a conqueror's careless inconsistency. Sometimes...

He noticed that they were waiting for him to continue. "From our chief," he re-peated hurriedly. "I

come with a message of importance and many gifts."

"Eat with us," the old man said. "Then you will give us your gifts and your message."

Gratefully, Jerry squatted on the ground a short distance from them. He was hun-gry, and among the

fruit in the bowls he had seen something that must be an orange. He had heard so many arguments about

what oranges tasted like!

After a while, the old man said, "I am Chief Three Hydrogen Bombs. This"—point-ing to the young

man—"is my son, Makes Much Radiation. And this"—pointing to the middle-aged Negro—"is a sort of

compatriot of yours."

At Jerry's questioning look, and the chief's raised finger of permission, the Negro explained.

"Sylvester Thomas, Ambassador to the Sioux from the Confederate States of America."

"The Confederacy? She's still alive? We heard ten years ago—"

"The Confederacy is very much alive, sir. The Western Confederacy, that is, with its capital at

Jackson, Mississippi. The Eastern Confederacy, the one centered at Rich-mond, Virginia, did go down

under the Seminole. We have been more fortunate. The Arapaho, the Cheyenne, and"—with a nod to

the chief—"especially the Sioux, if I may say so, sir, have been very kind to us. They allow us to live in

peace, so long as we till the soil quietly and pay our tithes."

"Then would you know, Mr. Thomas—" Jerry began eagerly. "That is...the Lone Star

Republic—Texas—Is it possible that Texas, too...?"

Mr. Thomas looked at the door of the wigwam unhappily. "Alas, my good sir, the Republic of the

Lone Star Flag fell before the Kiowa and the Comanche long years ago when I was still a small boy. I

don't remember the exact date, but I do know it was before even the last of California was annexed by

the Apache and the Navajo, and well before the nation of the Mormons under the august leadership

of—"

Makes Much Radiation shifted his shoulders back and forth and flexed his arm muscles. "All this

talk," he growled. "Paleface talk. Makes me tired."

"Mr. Thomas is not a paleface," his father told him sharply. "Show respect! He's our guest and an

accredited ambassador—you're not to use a word like paleface in his presence!"

One of the other, older warriors near the youth spoke up. "In ancient days, in the days of the heroes,

a boy of Makes Much Radiation's age would not dare raise his voice in council before his father.

Certainly not to say the things he just has. I cite as reference, for those interested, Robert Lowie's

definitive volume, The Crow Indians, and Lessor's fine piece of anthropological insight, Three Types of

Siouan Kinship. Now, whereas we have not yet been able to reconstruct a Siouan kinship pattern on the

classic model described by Lesser, we have developed a working arrangement that—"

"The trouble with you, Bright Book Jacket," the warrior on his left broke in, "is that you're too much

of a classicist. You're always trying to live in the Golden Age instead of the present, and a Golden Age

that really has little to do with the Sioux. Oh, I'll admit that we're as much Dakotan as the Crow, from the

linguist's point of view at any rate, and that, superficially, what applies to the Crow should apply to us.

But what happens when we quote Lowie in so many words and try to bring his precepts into daily life?"

"Enough," the chief announced. "Enough, Hangs A Tale. And you, too, Bright Book

Jacket—enough, enough! These are private tribal matters. Though they do serve to remind us that the

paleface was once great before he became sick and corrupt and frightened. These men whose holy

books teach us the lost art of being real Sioux, men like Lesser, men like Robert H. Lowie, were not

these men palefaces? And in memory of them should we not show tolerance?"

"A-ah!" said Makes Much Radiation impatiently. "As far as I'm concerned, the only good paleface is

a dead paleface. And that's that." He thought a bit. "Except their women. Paleface women are fun when

you're a long way from home and feel like raising a little hell."

Chief Three Hydrogen Bombs glared his son into silence. Then he turned to Jerry Franklin. "Your

message and your gifts. First your message."

"No, Chief," Bright Book Jacket told him respectfully but definitely. "First the gifts. Then the

message. That's the way it was done."

"I'll have to get them. Be right back." Jerry walked out of the tent backwards and ran to where Sam

Rutherford had tethered the horses. "The presents," he said urgently. "The presents for the chief."

The two of them tore at the pack straps. With his arms loaded, Jerry returned through the warriors

who had assembled to watch their activity with quiet arrogance. He entered the tent, set the gifts on the

ground and bowed low again.

"Bright beads for the chief," he said, handing over two star sapphires and a large white diamond, the

best that the engineers had evacuated from the ruins of New York in the past ten years.

"Cloth for the chief," he said, handing over a bolt of linen and a bolt of wool, spun and loomed in

New Hampshire especially for this occasion and painfully, expen-sively carted to New York.

"Pretty toys for the chief," he said, handing over a large, only slightly rusty alarm clock and a

precious typewriter, both of them put in operating order by batteries of engineers and artisans working in

tandem (the engineers interpreting the brittle old documents to the artisans) for two and a half months.

"Weapons for the chief," he said, handing over a beautifully decorated cavalry sa-ber, the prized

hereditary possession of the Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force, who had protested its

requisitioning most bitterly ("Damn it all, Mr. President, do you expect me to fight these Indians with my

bare hands?" "No, I don't, Johnny, but I'm sure you can pick up one just as good from one of your eager

junior officers").

Three Hydrogen Bombs examined the gifts, particularly the typewriter, with some interest. Then he

solemnly distributed them among the members of his council, keeping only the typewriter and one of the

sapphires for himself. The sword he gave to his son.

Makes Much Radiation tapped the steel with his fingernail. "Not so much," he stated.

"Not-so-much. Mr. Thomas came up with better stuff than this from the Confederate States of America

for my sister's puberty ceremony." He tossed the saber negligently to the ground. "But what can you

expect from a bunch of lazy, good-for-nothing whiteskin stinkards?"

When he heard the last word, Jerry Franklin went rigid. That meant he'd have to fight Makes Much

Radiation—and the prospect scared him right down to the wet hairs on his legs. The alternative was

losing face completely among the Sioux.

"Stinkard" was a term from the Natchez system and was applied these days indis-criminately to all

white men bound to field or factory under their aristocratic Indian overlords. A "stinkard" was something

lower than a serf, whose one value was that his toil gave his masters the leisure to engage in the activities

of full manhood: hunting, fighting, thinking.

If you let someone call you a stinkard and didn't kill him, why, then you were a stinkard—and that

was all there was to it.

"I am an accredited representative of the United States of America," Jerry said slowly and distinctly,

"and the oldest son of the Senator from Idaho. When my father dies, I will sit in the Senate in his place. I

am a free-born man, high in the councils of my nation, and anyone who calls me a stinkard is a rotten,

no-good, foul-mouthed liar!"

There—it was done. He waited as Makes Much Radiation rose to his feet. He noted with dismay

the well-fed, well-muscled sleekness of the young warrior. He wouldn't have a chance against him. Not in

hand-to-hand combat—which was the way it would be.

Makes Much Radiation picked up the sword and pointed it at Jerry Franklin. "I could chop you in

half right now like a fat onion," he observed. "Or I could go into a ring with you, knife to knife, and cut

your belly open. I've fought and killed Seminole, I've fought Apache, I've even fought and killed

Comanche. But I've never dirt-ied my hands with paleface blood, and I don't intend to start now. I leave

such simple butchery to the overseers of our estates. Father, I'll be outside until the lodge is clean again."

Then he threw the sword ringingly at Jerry's feet and walked out.

Just before he left, he stopped, and remarked over his shoulder: "The oldest son of the Senator from

Idaho! Idaho has been part of the estates of my mother's family for the past forty-five years! When will

these romantic children stop playing games and start living in the world as it is now?"

"My son," the old chief murmured. "Younger generation. A bit wild. Highly intol-erant. But he means

well. Really does. Means well."

He signaled to the white serfs, who brought over a large chest covered with great splashes of color.

While the chief rummaged in the chest, Jerry Franklin relaxed inch by inch. It was almost too good

to be true: he wouldn't have to fight Makes Much Radiation, and he hadn't lost face. All things

considered, the whole business had turned out very well indeed.

And as for the last comment—well, why expect an Indian to understand about things like tradition

and the glory that could reside forever in a symbol? When his father stood, up under the cracked roof of

Madison Square Garden and roared across to the Vice-President of the United States: "The people of

the sovereign state of Idaho will never and can never in all conscience consent to a tax on potatoes. From

time immemorial, potatoes have been associated with Idaho, potatoes have been the pride of Idaho. The

people of Boise say no to a tax on potatoes, the people of Pocatello say no to a tax on potatoes, the

very rolling farmlands of the Gem of the Mountain say no, never, a thousand times no, to a tax on

potatoes!"—when his father spoke like that, he was speaking for the people of Boise and Pocatello. Not

the crushed Boise or desolate Pocatello of today, true, but the magnificent cities as they had been of

yore...and the rich farms on either side of the Snake River...and Sun Valley, Moscow, Idaho Falls,

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