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Trying to see if she's there.
But she ain't.
She ain't.
They look like the men, most of 'em wearing trousers and shirts of different cuts, some of 'em wearing long skirts, but most looking clean and comfortable and well fed. Their hair has more variety, pulled back or up or over or short or long and not nearly as many of 'em are blonde as they are in the Noise of the menfolk where I come from.
And I see that more of their arms are crossed, more of their faces looking doubtful.
More anger there than on the faces of the men.
"Did anyone fight you?" I ask Mayor Ledger while I keep on looking. "Did anyone not wa
"This is a democracy, Todd," he sighs. "Do you know what that is?"
"No idea," I say, still looking, still not finding.
"It means the minority is listened to," he says, "but the majority rules."
I look at him. "All these people wanted to surrender?"
"The President made a proposal," he says, touching his split lip, "to the elected Council, promising that the city would be unharmed if we agreed to this."
"And you believed him?"
His eyes flash at me. "You are either forgetting or do not know that we already fought a great war, a war to end all wars, at just about the time you would have been born. If any repeat of that can be avoided--"
"Then yer willing to hand yerselves over to a murderer."
He sighs again. "The majority of the Council, led by myself, decided this was the best way to save the most lives." He rests his head against the brick. "Not everything is black and white, Todd. In fact, almost nothing is."
"But what if-"
Ker-thunk. The lock on the door slides back and Mr. Collins enters, pistol pointed.
He looks straight at Mayor Ledger. "Get up," he says.
I look back and forth twixt 'em both. "What's going on?" I say.
Mayor Ledger stands from his corner. "It seems the piper must be paid, Todd," he says, his voice trying to sound light but I hear his buzz rev up with fear. "This was a beautiful town," he says to me. "And I was a better man. Remember that, please."
"What are you talking about?" I say.
Mr. Collins takes him by the arm and shoves him out the door.
"Hey!" I shout, coming after them. "Where are you taking him?"
Mr. Collins raises a fist to punch me - And I flinch away, (shut up)
He laughs and locks the door behind him. Ker - thunk.
And I'm left alone in the tower.
And as Mayor Ledger's buzz disappears down the stairs, that's when I hear it.
March march march, way in the distance. I go to an opening. They're here.
The conquering army, marching into Haven.
They flow down the zigzag road like a black river, dusty and dirty and coming like a dam's burst. They march four or five across and the first of them disappear into the far trees at the base of the hill as the last finally crest the top. The crowd watches them, the men turning back from the platform, the women looking out from the side streets.
The march march march grows louder, echoing down the city streets. Like a clock ticking its way down. The crowd waits. I wait with them. And then, thru the trees, at the turning of the road-Here they are. The army.
Mr. Hammar at their front.
Mr. Hammar who lived in the petrol stayshun back home, Mr. Hammar who thought vile, violent things no boy should ever hear, Mr. Hammar who shot the people of Farbranch in the back as they fled. Mr. Hammar leads the army.
I can hear him now, calling out marching words to keep everyone in time together. The foot, he's yelling to the rhythm of the march.
The foot.
The foot upon the neck.
They march into the square and turn down its side, cutting twixt the men and the women like an unstoppable force. Mr. Hammar's close enough so I can see the smile, a smile I know full well, a smile that clubs, a smile that beats, a smile that dominates.
And as he gets closer, I grow more sure.
It's a smile without Noise.
Someone, one of those men on horseback maybe, has gone out to meet the army on the road. Someone carrying the cure with him. The army ain't making a sound except with its feet and with its chant.
The foot, the foot, the foot upon the neck.
They march round the side of the square to the platform. Mr. Hammar stops at a corner, letting the men start to make up formayshuns behind the platform, lining up with their backs to me, facing the crowd now turned to watch them.
I start to reckernize the soldiers as they line up. Mr. Wallace. Mr. Smith the younger. Mr. Phelps the storekeeper. Men from Prentisstown and many, many more men besides.
The army that grew as it came.
I see Ivan, the man from the barn at Farbranch, the man who secretly told me there were men in sympathy. He standsa t the head of one of the formayshuns and everything that proves him right is standing behind him, arms at attenshun, rifles at the ready.
The last soldier marches into place with a final chant.
The foot upon the NECK!
And then there ain't nothing but silence, blowing over New Prentisstown like a wind.
Till I hear the doors of the cathedral open down below me.
And Mayor Prentiss steps out to address his new city.
"Right now," he says into the microphone, having saluted Mr. Hammar and climbed his way up the platform steps, "you are afraid."
The men of the town look back up at him, saying nothing, making no sound of Noise nor buzzing.
The women stay in the side streets, also silent.
The army stands at attenshun, ready for anything.
I realize I'm holding my breath.
"Right now," he continues, "you think you are conquered. You think there is no hope. You think I come up here to read out your doom."
His back is to me but from speakers hidden in the four corners, his voice booms clear over the square, over the city, probably over the whole valley and beyond. Cuz who else is there to hear him talk? Who else is there on all of New World that ain't either gathered here or under the ground?
Mayor Prentiss is talking to the whole planet.
"And you're right," he says and I tell you I'm certain I hear the smile. "You are conquered. You are defeated. And I read to you your doom."
He lets this sink in for a moment. My Noise rumbles and I see a few of the men look up to the top of the tower. I try to keep it quiet but who are these people? Who are these clean and comfortable and not - at - all - hungry people who just handed theirselves over?
"But it is not I who conquered you," the Mayor says. "It is not I who has beaten you or defeated you or enslaved you."
He pauses, looking out over the crowd. He's dressed all in white, white hat, white boots, and with the white cloths covering the platform and the afternoon sun shining on down, he's practically blinding.
"You are enslaved by your idleness," says the Mayor. "You are defeated by your complacency. You are doomed"--and here his voice rises suddenly, hitting doomed so hard half the crowd jumps-"by your good intentions!"
He's working himself up now, heavy breaths into the microphone.
"You have allowed yourselves to become so weak, so feeble in the face of the challenges of this world that in a single generation you have become a people who would surrender to RUMOR!"
He starts to pace the stage, microphone in hand. Every frightened face in the crowd, every face in the army, turns to watch him move back and forth, back and forth.
I'm watching, too.