Galactic Dreams

The dry laugh sounded again. “Calling me insulting names won’t alter this situation.”

“Why don’t you leave — I won’t try to stop you,” Benedict said as he slowly pulled his left arm out of his shirt. “I don’t want to see you or know you. Why don’t you go away?”

“I’m afraid that it is not that easy, Ben. You have created this situation; in one sense you have called me here. Like a sorcerer summoning some evil genie. That’s a pleasant simile, isn’t it? May I introduce myself. My name is Mortimer.”

“I don’t want to know your name, you … piece of filth.”

Benedict half-mumbled, his attention concentrated on the silent removal of his shirt. It hung now from his right wrist and he shifted the gun to his left hand for a moment while he draped the shirt over the wound in his calf and he gasped, then spoke quickly to disguise the sound. “You came here because you wanted to, and I’m going to kill you for that.”

“Very good, Benedict, that is much more the type of spirit I expected from you. After all, you are the closest we can come to a dedicated law-breaker these days. The antisocial individualist who stands alone, who will carry on the traditions of the Dillingers and the James Brothers. Though of course they brought death and you brought life, and your weapon is far humbler than their guns …”

The words ended with a dry chuckle.

“You have a warped mind, Mortimer, just what I would suspect of a man who accepts a free license to kill. You’re sick.”

Benedict wanted to keep the other man talking, at least for a few minutes more until he could bandage his leg. The shirt was sticky with blood and he couldn’t knot it in place with his left hand. “You must be sick to come here,” he said. “What other reason could you possibly have?”

He laid the gun down silently, then fumbled with haste to bandage the wound.

“Sickness is relative,” the voice in the darkness said, “as is crime. Man invents societies and the rules of his invented societies determine the crimes. O tempora! O mores! Homosexuals in Periclean Greece were honored men, respected for their love. Homosexuals in industrial England were shunned and prosecuted for a criminal act. Who commits the crime? Society or the man? Which of them is the criminal? You may attempt to argue a higher authority than man, but that would be on an abstract predication and what are we discussing here are realities. The law states that you are a criminal. I am here to enforce the law.”

The thunder of his gun added punctuation to his words, and long splinters of wood flew from the doorframe. Benedict jerked the knot tight and grabbed up his pistol again.

“Then I invoke a higher authority,” he said. “Natural law, the sanctity of life, the inviolability of marriage. Under this authority I wed and love, and my children are the blessing of this union.”

“Your blessings, and the blessings of the rest of mankind, are consuming this world like locusts,” Mortimer said. “But that is an observation. First I must deal with your arguments.

“Primus. The only natural law is written in the sedimentary rocks and the spectra of suns. What you call natural law is man-made law and varies with the varieties of religion. Argument invalid.

“Secundis. Life is prolific and today’s generations must die so that tomorrow’s may live. All religions have the faces of Janus. They frown at killing and at the same time smile at war and capital punishment. Argument invalid.

“Ultimus. The forms of male and female union are as varied as the societies that harbor them. Argument invalid. Your higher authority does not apply to the world of facts and law. Believe in it if you wish, if it gives you satisfaction, but do not invoke it to condone your criminal acts.”

“Criminal!” Benedict shouted, and fired two shots through the doorway, then cringed as an answering storm of bullets crackled by. Dimly, through the bathroom door, he heard the baby crying, awakened by the noise. He dropped out the empty shells and angrily pulled live cartridges from his pocket and jammed them into the cylinder. “You’re the criminal, who is trying to murder me,” he said. “You are the tool of the criminals who invade my house with their unholy laws and tell me I can have no more children. You cannot give me orders about this.”

“What a fool you are,” Mortimer sighed. “You are a social animal and do not hesitate to accept the benefits of your society. You accept medicine, so your children live now as they would have died in the past, and you accept a ration of food to feed them, food you do not even work for. This suits you, so you accept. But you do not accept planning for your family and you attempt to reject it. It is impossible. You must accept all or reject all. You must leave your society or abide by its rules. You eat the food, you must pay the price.”

“I don’t ask for more food. The baby has its mother’s milk; we will share our food ration ….”