INCIDENT IN MODERAN

Introduction to

A PAIR OF BUNCH:

Only one writer has two stories in this anthology, and surprise! it ain’t me. It is David R. Bunch, a writer whose work I admire vastly. And a writer who has, oddly enough, barely received the acclaim due him. The first time I read a Bunch story was in a handsome fan magazine called Inside, published by Ron Smith. He had come across Bunch (or vice versa) and had been intrigued by the man’s unusual style, his sense of poetry, the almost Dada-like visions he was able to convey in the medium of fantasy and science fiction. Bunch was published regularly in Inside. His work drew mixed reactions. Some very perceptive critics (such as John Ciardi) commented knowledgeably. The schmuck fans scratched their heads and wondered why space was wasted on Bunch when they could be reading more and better analyses of the inertialess drive as utilized in the stories of Ed Earl Repp, or somedamnsuch. Half a dozen years ago the attractive and intelligent ex-editor of Amazing Stories, Cele Goldsmith Lalli, began publishing stories by Bunch. Once again the furor and the mixed reaction. But Bunch had found a home. With considerable courage both Bunch and Cele began releasing stories about Moderan, a world of robots. They were frankly cautionary tales, the finger of warning jammed directly in the eye or up the nose of the reader. I have waited ten years to be able to publish Bunch myself. Therefore, two by Bunch, a tiny bunch of Bunch, maybe a nosegay.

Bunch is a native of Missouri. He has a wide educational background; class valedictorian in high school, he was awarded a scholarship to Central Missouri State College, where he majored in English with a double minor in physics and social science, graduating with a Bachelor of Science degree; he received a Master of Arts at Washington University, where he concentrated on English and American literature. At one point he had done the course work for the Ph.D. with admission to candidacy, but just before the last grind for the final grind he fled from the dissertation writing to the Writer’s Workshop at the State University of Iowa. There he found surcease for a time, and finally left even that hallowed hall of ivy to write his own way, on his own time. He has never returned.

The light has seemingly harmed him little. He has been published in over forty magazines, represented by poetry and short stories of a wide variety. Most of his work has seer, publication in the “little” magazines or the science fiction magazines. Of the former he has been seen in San Francisco Review, Southwest Review, New Mexico Quarterly, Chelsea, Perspective, Genesis West, The Smith, Shenandoah,, New Frontiers, Simbolica, The Fiddlehead, Epos, The Galley Sail Review, Forum and a host of others. He has been published in almost every s-f journal extant, and has outlived a score of others. He has been honored three times by Judith Merril in her Year’s Best SF anthologies. A collection of his short stories has been accepted for hardcover publication this year. His verse has appeared in as many more magazines as those noted above, and a collection of poetry is scheduled for book publication.

Bunch is possibly the most dangerous visionary of all those represented here. He has been that way all through his speculative writing career, not merely stretched-out for this special occasion as are some of the men herein. He writes of the enigma, the conundrum, the query, the fable of futurity. He speaks in riddles. It is to the reader’s advantage to try unraveling them.

INCIDENT IN MODERAN

by David R. Bunch

In Moderan we are not often between wars, but this was a truce time. A couple of Strongholds in the north had malfunctioned—some breakdown in their ammo-transport belts, I think—and we had all voted to hold up the war a day or so to give them a chance to get back in the blasting. Don’t get me wrong—this was no lily-white flower-heart fair-play kind of thing or love-thy-neighbor-Stronghold sort of hypocrisy, like might have been in the Old Days. This was a hard-neck common-sense compromise with reality. The bigger and better the war, the bigger and better the chance to hate voluminously and win honors. It was as simple as that.

But at any rate, it was between wars that I was doing some odd-job things just outside the eleventh, outermost Wall of my Stronghold. To be right truthful, I was mostly just siting out there in my hip-snuggie chair, enjoying the bleary rammer sun through the red-brown vapor shield of July and telling my head weapons man what to do. He was, so it chanced, polishing an honors plaque that proclaimed on Wall 11 how our fort, Stronghold 10, was FIRST IN WAR, FIRST IN HATE, AND FIRST IN THE FEARS OF THE ENEMY.

Things were getting tedious. What I mean is, it was getting dull, this sitting around between wars, directing the polishing of plaques and dozing in the filtered summer sun. Out of sheer boredom, and for the amusement of it all, I suppose, I was just about ready to get up and start beating my weapons man with my new-metal swagger stick loaded with lead. Not that he wasn’t doing an excellent job, you understand, but just to have something to do. I was saved this rather stupid and perhaps pointless, though not altogether unpleasant, expedient by a movement on the ninth hill to my left. Quickly I adjusted my wide-range Moderan vision to pinpoint look, threw my little pocko-scope viewer up to my eyes and caught a shape.

When it got there, it was a shape, all right! I immediately saw it was one of those pieces of movement—man? animal? walking vegetable?—well, what are we going to say for most of these mutant forms that roam the homeless plastic in Moderan? When he stood before me, I felt disturbed. Strangely I felt somehow guilty, and ashamed, that he was so bent and twisted and mushy-looking with flesh. Oh, why can’t they all be hard and shining with metal, and clean, like we Stronghold masters are, with a very minimum of flesh-strip holding them in shape? It makes for such a well-ordered and hate-happy life, the way we masters are in Moderan, so shiny and steellike in our glory, with our flesh-strips few and played down and new-metal alloy the bulk of our bodily splendor. But I suppose there must always be lower forms, insects for us to stride on…. I decided to try speech, since I couldn’t just sit there with him looking at me. “We’re between wars here,” I said conversationally. “Two of the mighty Strongholds of the north broke down, so we decided to hold up.”

He didn’t say anything. He was looking at the honors plaque on Wall 11 and at the weapons man polishing the proud words. “It’s just a kind of fill-in in-between job,” I said. “Besides, it gives me a chance to doze out here in this filtered summer sun while the weapons man does the work. But it gets tedious. Before you came, I was right on the point of getting up to start beating him with my new-metal swagger stick loaded with lead, even if he is all-metal new-metal alloy, and doing an excellent job, and probably wouldn’t have felt the beating anyway. But just to have something to do, you know. As you perhaps realize, a Stronghold master mustn’t do any real work in Moderan. It’s against the code.” I laughed a little, but strangely I felt nervous in my flesh-strips and vague along the rims of my joins. Why did he look at me that way? Even so, why should the stares of such an insignificant piece of life affect me at all?

Could he talk? He could. Blue soft lips parted and a yellow-pink piece of gristly meat jigged up and down in wet slop in his mouth that was raw-flesh red. When this somewhat vulgar performance of meat and air was through, I realize he had said, “We had a little funeral for Son a while ago. We hacked away at the plastic with our poor makeshift grave kits and put him under the crust on time. We hurried. We knew you couldn’t guarantee much truce. I come to thank you for what you did.”

I shook a little at this strange speech and turn, then recovered myself quickly and waved a steel hand airily, “Consider that I’m thanked,” I said. “If you wish a steel flower for a decoration, take one.”

He shuddered in all his loose-flesh parts. “I came to thank you,” he told me in what I supposed passed for blunt speech in his tribe, “not to be ridiculed.” In his stare there was a look of puzzlement and doubt now.

Suddenly I found the whole thing growing quite ludicrous. Here I was, a Moderan man between wars, minding my own business, sitting outside the eleventh Wall of my Stronghold, waiting for the war to resume, and some strange walking lump of sentimentality that I didn’t even know existed hurries across from the ninth hill to my left to thank me for a funeral. “You had a good one?” I suggested. Frantically I tried to remember things from the Old Days. The mourners stretched down for a mile? Music—a lot? Flowers—banked all about?

“Just us,” he said, “I and his mother. And Son. We hurried. We were sure you couldn’t give much time from all the busy times. We thank you for what you did—for the decency.”

Decency? Now, what an odd word? What could he mean by decency? “Decency?” I said.

“The rites. You know! We had time for a little prayer. We asked that Son be allowed to live forever in a happy home.”

“Listen,” I said, a little fed up already with all this, “I don’t more than half remember from the Old Days enough about this to discuss it. But you poor flesh mutants bury your dead and then ask that they be allowed to rise and live again about twenty-five times lighter than a dehumidified air bubble. Isn’t that about it? But isn’t that taking quite a chance? Why don’t you just get wise and do it like we Moderan masters do? Just have that operation while you’re young and vigorous, throw away what flesh you don’t need, ‘replace’ yourself with all-metal new-metal alloy ‘replacements’ and live forever. Feed yourself this pure honey-of-introven extract we’ve come up with and it’s a cinch, you’ll have it made. We know what we’ve got, and we know how to live…. And now, if you’ll excuse me, according to that report arriving at this very moment over the Warner, those Strongholds that aborted the war seem to be fixed up again. We stopped the blasting because of them so we’ll just have to really move now to make up hate-time. I would guess the firing may be a little heavier than you’ve ever seen it.”

Through the last parts of this speech I watched what looked like puzzlement and doubt flicker strangely across his flesh-encumbered countenance. “You stopped the war because—because those two Strongholds aborted in the north? You—you didn’t really do it then so we could bury Son and have the decency?!” A cold thought must have wrapped him round; he seemed to shrink and shrivel and go inches shorter right there on the plastic. I marveled anew at the great hard times these flesh things gave themselves with their emotions and their heart palpitations. I thumped my “replaced” chest in a kind of meditation and thanked the lucky iron stars in our splendid new-satellite heavens for my calm-cool condition. “In a little while,” I said, “we’ll open up this blasting. We’re clearing the lines now for first countdown and a general resumption. You see, we try to start even. After that it’s every Stronghold for itself to just blast away and make the most expeditious use of the ammo.”

He looked at me a long time for some sign of joking. After a while he said in a tone that I supposed with the flesh things passed for great sadness and great resignation, “No, I guess you really didn’t stop it so we could bury Son and have the decency. I guess it truly was the aborted Strongholds in the north. I see now I read something true and fine into it and that true and fine something wasn’t there at all. And so I—I came across to thank you for a decency—for nothing—”

I probably nodded ever such a little, or possibly I didn’t, because I was hearing the Voice now, hearing the Warner say that all was about in readiness for Great Blast to go and for the masters again to take their positions at the switch panels of War Rooms. “That’s it!” I said to no one and nothing in particular. “It’ll be double firing now and around-the-day launching of war heads until we make up our time in hate units.”

Just as, bidding my weapons man not to forget the hip-snuggie, I was about to turn and go, hustle off to my War Room and resume Great Blast, a cold sound struck through my steel. What was that high whimpering along the plastic? Then I saw. It was the little flesh-bum. He had lost control of his emotions, had fallen down and was now blubbering real tears. “It’s okay, don’t be scared,” I shouted at him as I turned to hurry. “Keep low in the draws, avoid even halfway up hills and travel swiftly. You’ll make it. We fire only at peaks, first go.”

But as I passed through the Wall and was bidding the weapons man make all secure, I noticed the little flesh-fellow remained prone, blubbering along the plastic. He was not making any effort to get clear and save himself! And suddenly old Neighboring Stronghold to the east let loose with such a cheating early burst that the little flesh-bum was quite pancaked down—indeed even far further than pancaked, as it got him with a deadly Zump bomb that I’m sure was capable of punching him to the center of the earth even as he was being vaporized to high sky and all winds, and I was ever so glad this had fallen just a little bit short of my complex. But as I glanced at the smoking havoc and a large patch of nothing now, where a moment before had been the good plastic earth-cover, I could not help but rejoice that the war was certainly again GO. For the flesh-bum I didn’t even try for tears, and nothing in my mind could bring my heart rain as I raced on to the War Room to punch my launch knobs down.