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                           The Recalcitrant

                          By Evelyn Goldstein

                      He was proud of his shining
                     strength and his home in the
                      bee-loud glade. Why did men
                      seek only his destruction?

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                  Fantastic Universe September 1954.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


    _We're convinced that only a woman could have written this story.
    There is a heartbreaking quality of suspense to it--of tenderness
    diffused through a web of high poetry. The compassion is wholly
    womanly, but the breath of a fierce vitality stirs in it too.
    Evelyn Goldstein has captured the tragedy of the not-quite-human
    with a deftness extraordinary._


This golden day was pollen-scented, warmed by the mid-summer sun.
Out in the garden the breeze was slight. And a great furred honeybee
circled and dipped, touching the vivid azaleas, drinking the heart of
the iris, and swiftly rising to the purple rhododendron cups. Dark
green ivy twined the porch railing of the trim white cottage.

From behind the curtains of fragile glasseen Jim Simson peered out at
his garden with caution and longing. He could almost feel the moist
rich soil in his fingers, could almost smell the blossoms through the
tight closed windows. In all weathers, on brilliant days and blue and
silver nights, he and Amelia had worked the garden. Now the hours of
planting and tending were done.

He raised haunted eyes to the hills beyond. Between the young pines
on the sweet sloped breasts he could see the pale thread of road.
Momentarily, where a curve brought it into view, the sun glinted on the
metal helicar that moved purposefully toward him.

_They'll be here in an hour, he thought. And then they'll take and
destroy what I am. And I'll lose Amelia forever._

That was the thing he could not bear. Worse than torment it seemed,
worse than destruction itself.

In agony he turned. The cool comfort of his house made fantastic the
knowledge within him. There in the corner stood the fine cherrywood
desk he had made. Every bit of the polished dark furniture, every
section had been sanded and grained and carved by his hands. And all
the fabricing--rugs and pillows, delicate covers and hangings--all
Amelia's handiwork.

They two, starting from bare black earth had built this home,
foundations and beams, studs and floorboards, shingles and shutters,
outside and in, their work, their love.

He thrust out his hands, and moved in blind panic to the arch of the
kitchen.

Amelia looked up from the work table. The soft tan of sun was deep on
her cheeks, and her clear green eyes kindled at sight of him.

"I'm up to the last bouquet," she smiled and indicated the straw basket
that was full of neatly tied herbs ready for Jim to take to the market.

His long-drawn breath was a silent prayer: "_Let me never forget the
spice of this room, the morning light on her dark curled hair._"

Then he groaned. With a stride he caught her warm curved body to him.
In her hands the last bouquet was crushed between them, filling his
nostrils with fragrance of thyme and mint and coriander leaves.

At last he held her away, his hands tight on her shoulders, bare and
brown in the brief sundress.

"There are men coming for me," he said. "I've got to run and hide.
They'll search, and wait, but eventually they'll leave. Then I'll come
back. But we'll have to go away from here. We'll have to start again
under other names, somewhere else."

Her anxious eyes searched his face. "Jim, what have you done?"

"Done? Why, I've done nothing," he said.

And that was true. It was not what he had done. It was what he _was_.

"I'll go with you, Darling. We'll hide together."

He shook his head. "It's not you they want. I'll have a better chance
alone."

He lifted the basket of herbs. "When they come tell them I've just gone
to the market."

"But where _will_ you go?"

"Out to the hills. I'll come back when they're gone."

He kissed her quickly, and went out knowing she was standing at the
back door threshold, straining to see him till he could no longer be
seen....

There was a swift brook in the woods beyond his cultivated acres. Into
it he scattered the herbs to be dispersed by the dancing water. The
basket he broke in his strong brown hands and sent the pieces after the
flowers. Then he took off his shoes, cuffed his pants to his knees and
waded across the brook to the other side.

Pine nettles and small twigs gave under his stride. He never felt the
pain of angled stones where he trod. He walked a long time, without
stopping, and his breath did not become labored though his path was
always upward.

When he reached the clear crest of the hill he looked down to the
patchwork valley where he lived. He saw his house, a green-topped
miniature fashioned like a jewel in the pastoral setting.

But the flaw in the jewel was the ominous helicar at the gate of the
house.

He sat in the tall grass, pulling his knees up to his chest. He clasped
his hands about his legs, and prepared himself for the long vigil ahead.

The sky became colored with sunset tints. He saw all the beauty without
lifting his head. Cool breezes of dusk blew upon him. The sky became
darker; the moon increased in brilliance. In the moonlight the metal
car was silvered. During all the hours he had watched not one figure
had emerged from the house. In a waiting game they were persistent and
tireless.

He rose at last, and stretched. He saw his hands before him, taught
and strong, finely formed. On impulse he rubbed his chin, touched his
cheek. How smooth and hard the flesh, how bronzed his powerful body.

Suddenly he raised himself, stretching as high as he could, feeling the
pull of well coordinated muscles. He smiled almost joyfully. His was a
body to prize.

He whirled and started to run noiselessly, and without hurry over the
tabled clearing. Where the terrain sloped he did not brake his speed,
and momentum carried him faster down among the slim white birches, and
fragrant firs.

He ran like a football player, in and out among the trees, leaping
boulders and small streams, or plunging recklessly into crystal cold
waters.

Where else was there another such as he--to run and run, and never
tire? To dodge and twist, and speed over rough stones with no pain
lancing up through him?

Was it his strength they feared?

"They'll never catch me," he vowed.

Then he went back up the sloping hill to his post at the crest.

The helicar was no longer standing in the road, and the lights of his
house had ceased to shine. Only the moon flushed out shadows of the
trees, and his silent dwelling.

_They are gone_, he thought.

The easy victory surprised him, and he wanted to sing for the relief
of it. More quickly now than he had run in his prideful ascent of the
slope he turned his steps homeward.

At the back door Amelia was waiting. In the night wind her skirt
fluttered, and tendrils of blue-black hair whipped back.

"Jim," her lips were black moonlight, and her eyes shone with bright
anguish. "Jim. Why did you come back?"

And then, behind her, he saw the armed men in their leather belted
uniforms. Before he could retreat their searchbeams impaled him.

"_Stand_, Jim Simson!"

All hope of escape was gone.

They came to either side of him, stun weapons levelled, and led him to
the shadows of the house where they had hidden their helicar.

He tried to turn to see Amelia as they forced him to walk between them
to the back seat of the car.

She was lovely, and lonely in the moonlight, a figure lost and
bewildered. How he wished he could go back, and crush her in his arms
again.

Hours later, in the subdued glow of the office of United Medics, he
cried:

"Why can't you let me alone? Why can't you forget about me? I changed
my name. I concealed myself--a farmer among farmers. Why did you hunt
me down?"

To the right of the door stood the two guards who had brought him.
Their faces were impassive, as was the face of the man at the desk, the
man named Dr. Crawsin.

He asked Jim: "Why didn't you answer our letters requesting you to
present yourself for this interview. Why did you make it necessary for
us to use force?"

"Did you really expect me to come here voluntarily--to be destroyed!"

"_Destroy_ is, I think, an ill-chosen word, Roger--er--" he glanced at
the record open on his desk, "Jim Simson, as you renamed yourself. We
use a different term--reconverted."

Jim's mouth twisted: "And," he added bitterly, "after you've
'reconverted' me, what will become of Amelia, my wife?"

Again the doctor glanced at his record, "Ah, yes, your wife. You've
been married--"

"Twenty years."

"Twenty years," the doctor mused. A flicker of interest came into his
eyes, "And in these years did you ever tell her? Or hint?"

"No!" he rose with a shout. The guards leveled their guns. After a
moment Jim sank back to his seat. "Amelia doesn't know." His voice was
dull. "She thinks I'm just like her. It's better that way."

The doctor's voice softened: "Didn't she ever wonder why you never had
children?"

"Wonder? Of course. At first. But I saw to it that she was kept too
busy to care." Pride came into his tone. "We built our home ourselves,
up from the ground. Made everything in it. Tilled our acres of land."

His eyes gleamed, and it was almost with spite that he said: "Can you
do that? Can you go without food? Can you go without sleep? Can you
work without tiring? Can you cut yourself and not feel pain? And heal
yourself?"

Triumph made Jim's throat swell. He wanted to reach across and lift the
other in his arms, just to show what strength he had, how wonderfully
powered he was. "Look at me. How old would you say I was?"

Was there envy in the doctor's eyes? "Twenty-five, I'd say. If I didn't
know you were forty, as the records show."

"And you, Doctor, must be seven or eight years younger. Look at
yourself. Tired lines, gray at the temple--your body a prey to disease,
and to aches. Doesn't it make you jealous that I am what I am, and you
what you are?"

The doctor got up abruptly and motioned to the guards. Jim rose,
protesting frantically as they closed in, and took his arms.

"You _are_ jealous! That's why you want to destroy me. Jealous!
_Jealous!_"

"Jealous, Jim Simson? Hardly." The doctor smiled pityingly just before
the guards led Jim away. "You see, I have two children."

They stripped him in a small closed room, and prepared him for the
irrevocably final step. They put him on a rolling stretcher, strapping
him down at his chest, legs and arms. The bright narrow ceiling sailed
over him.

They wheeled him into a large amphitheatre with blue-white lights.
White garbed figures swam into view, their faces masked. One bent over
him.

"Hello, Roger MacComb."

He stared into keen blue eyes. "Dr. Tiel!" He recognized the man, and a
great relief surged through him. He lowered his voice confidentially:
"Stop them, Doctor. They want to reconvert me."

"Of course," the doctor said. "Didn't I promise it to you--twenty years
ago? Surely, you haven't forgotten my promise?"

"Forgotten?" Bitterly, he recalled that other time. Then, as now, he
had been strapped to the operating table. But then he had been a poor
shattered thing. Forgotten? He had never forgotten those frenzied pleas
of years back: "Promise the change will only be temporary. Promise
you'll find a way."

"Now," the doctor said: "I'm keeping that promise. We _did_ find the
way."

"Dr. Tiel." Jim's chest heaved, "I've changed my mind. I don't want
reconversion. I want to be me--as I am now--as you made me!"

The masked man stared down at him. "They told me about this." His voice
was almost sad. "They told me you were recalcitrant. I couldn't believe
it."

"But it's true." His voice was only a whisper. "There's Amelia. I love
her. What will happen to her?"

"Your wife? Why, she will be reassigned. There are other tasks--in our
factories--our farms. Her memory of you and of your marriage will be
erased. We aren't barbarians, you know."

"Not barbarians?" His laugh was raw. "Not cruel to force reconversion
on me? And what about my memories? Can you erase them?"

"No, but you will adjust. You did before." His tone turned ironic. "You
didn't call me cruel when your arms were gone, and your body shot to
pieces. I was your saviour then, your healer. You couldn't thank me
enough, or praise me. You--and all the men like you that I salvaged out
of the Great War."

His eyes blazed at Jim. "Only half a million of you left. Half a
million men out of a world of billions. I took those with minds and
hearts and gave them new bodies. And almost all of them used those
new bodies to work in my Body Parts Bank, helping me experiment and
recreate the real thing. Except the few--like you--who ran to hide out
on farms, in caves of the mountains, even in sailing boats.

"I even manufactured wives for you--moving, talking, mechanical dolls
with memory tapes for minds--just to keep you from loneliness till the
time when I found the way to give back the bodies you had lost. And now
when I give you the chance for the greatest gift--the chance to bear
children, to repopulate our dying world--you hide! You reject it!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Tiel ended on a thunderous note. He glared at Jim. Then made an
angry imperious gesture.

From behind and above someone lowered an anaesthetic cone. Jim turned
and twisted. He fought the straps. But inexorably they brought the cone
down over his face. It muffled him so that his words came through,
muted and broken:

"But I don't want to be human again. Please.... Please.... I don't want
to be human...."

After a while his voice died. His wonderful android body gave a final
twitch of protest. And then was still.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74162 ***