Sixth Column Read Online Free PDF Page A

University of
    California, Bachelor of Law, Harvard Law School, professional hobo, private
    and cook's helper, and now a brevet lieutenant, intelligence, United States
    army, spent his first night outside shivering on pine needles where dark had
    overtaken him. Early the next morning he located a ranchhouse.
    They fed him, but they were anxious for him to move along. "You never
    can tell when one of those heathens is going to come snooping around,"
    apologized his host, "and I can't afford to be arrested for harboring refugees. I
    got the wife and kids to think about." But he followed Thomas out to the road,
    still talking, his natural garrulity prevailing over his caution. He seemed to
    take a grim pleasure in bewailing the catastrophe.
    "God knows what I'm raising those kids up to. Some nights it seems like
    the only reasonable thing to do is to put them all out of their sorrow. But
    Jessie-that's my wife-says it's a scandal and a sin to talk that way, that the
    Lord will take care of things all in His own good time. Maybe so-but I know it's
    no favor to a child to raise it up to be bossed around and lorded over by
    those monkeys." He spat. "It's not American."
    "What's this about penalties for harboring refugees?"
    The rancher stared at him. "Where've you been, friend?"
    "Up in the hills. I haven't laid eyes on one of the so-and-so's yet."
    "You will. But then you haven't got a number, have you? You'd better get
    one. No, that won't do you any good; you'd just land in a labor camp if you
    tried to get one."
    "Number?
    "Registration number. Like this." He pulled a glassine-covered card out
    of his pocket and displayed it. It had axed to it a poor but recognizable picture
    of the rancher, his fingerprints, and pertinent data as to his occupation,
    marital status, address, etcetera. There was a long, hyphenated number
    running across the top. The rancher indicated it with a work-stained finger.
    "That first part is my number. It means I have permission from the emperor to
    stay alive and enjoy the air and sunshine," he added bitterly. "The second
    part is my serial classification. It tells where I live and what I do. If I want to
    cross the county line, I have to have that changed. If I want to go to any other
    town than the one I'm assigned to do my marketing in, I've got to get a day's
    special permit. Now I ask you-is that any way for a man to live?"
    "Not for me," agreed Thomas. "Well, I guess I had better be on my way
    before I get you in trouble. Thanks for the breakfast."
    "Don't mention it. It's a pleasure to do a favor for a fellow American these
    days."
    He started off down the road at once, not wishing the kindly rancher to
    see how thoroughly he had been moved by the picture of his degradation.
    The implications of that registration card had shaken his free soul in a fashion
    that the simple, intellectual knowledge of the defeat of the United States had
    been unable to do.
    He moved slowly for the first two or three days, avoiding the towns until
    he had gathered sufficient knowledge of the enforced new customs to be
    able to conduct himself without arousing suspicion. It was urgently desirable
    that he be able to enter at least one big city in order to snoop around, read
    the bulletin boards, and find a chance to talk with persons whose occupations
    permitted them to travel. From a standpoint of personal safety he was quite
    willing to chance it without an identification card but he remembered clearly a
    repeated injunction of Ardmore's "Your paramount duty is to returns Don't go
    making a hero of yourself. Don't take any chance you can avoid and come
    back!"
    Cities would have to wait.
    Thomas skirted around towns at night, avoiding patrols as he used to
    avoid railroad cops. The second night out he found the first of his objectives,
    a hobos' jungle. It was just where he had expected to find it, from his
    recollection of previous trips through the territory. Nevertheless, he almost
    missed it, for the inevitable