Gordon pulled out the papers he had prepared only an hour before, using the seal stamp he had found in the ruins of the Oakridge Post Office.

  “I have my credentials here,” he offered. But he was interrupted.

  “We’re not letting you come close enough to give any of these people your fever!” the Mayor shouted. “There’s no government but what we have right here! You’re lucky this isn’t like the plague years, and we’re willing to let you go without a cremation, to cure you of your bug!”

  Rats! If they wouldn’t even look at the “credentials” he had forged, the trip into oldtown this afternoon had been wasted. Gordon was down to his last ace. He smiled for the crowd.

  He reached into his side pocket and pulled out a small bundle. He made a pretense of shuffling through the items he held and squinting at the labels, but he actually knew the names by heart.

  “Is there a Donald Smith here?” he called.

  The muttering crowd grew louder. Finally a voice called out, not without an awed tone.

  “He died a year after the war, in the last battle of the warehouse!”

  Gordon was pleased at the tremor in the speaker’s voice. Surprise was not the only emotion at work here. Still, he needed something a lot better.

  “Oh, well,” he called. “I’ll have to confirm that, of course.” Before the Mayor could speak, he hurried on.

  “Is there either a Mr. or Mrs. Franklin Thompson, in town? Or their son or daughter?”

  Now a tide of hushed whispering carried almost a note of superstition. A woman replied.

  “Dead! The boy lived until last year. Worked on the Jascowisc stead. His folks were in Portland when it blew.”

  Damn! Gordon had only one name left. It was all very well to strike their hearts with his knowledge, but what he really needed was somebody alive!

  “Right!” he called. “We’ll confirm that. Finally, is there a Grace Horton here?”

  “No, there ain’t no Grace Horton here!” the Mayor shouted sarcastically. “I know everyone in my territory. Never been no Grace Horton in the ten years since I arrived! You imposter! Can’t you all see what he did? He found an old telephone book in town and copied down some names! Buddy, I rule that you are disturbing the peace! You’ve got five seconds to be gone before I order my men to fire!”

  Gordon had no choice. At least he could beat a retreat and nothing would be lost but his pride.

  But his body would not turn. His feet would not move. His will to run away had evaporated. Straightening his shoulders, he called the Mayor’s bluff.

  “Assault on a postal courier is one of the few federal crimes that the pro tem Congress has not suspended for the Recovery Period, Mr. Mayor. The United States has always protected its mailmen.”

  He looked coldly into the glare. “Always,” he emphasized. And for a moment he felt a thrill. He was a courier, at least in spirit. He was an anachronism that the dark age had somehow missed when it systematically went about rubbing idealism from the world. Gordon looked straight toward the dark silhouette of the Mayor and silently dared him to shoot.

  For several seconds the silence gathered. Then the Mayor began to count.

  “One!”

  He counted slowly, apparently having made up his mind to go for sadistic effect.

  “Two!”

  The bluff was certainly lost. Gordon knew he should leave now, at once. Still, his body would not turn.

  “Three!”

  This is the way the last idealist dies, he thought. The sixteen years of survival were an accident about to be corrected. Hard-won pragmatism had finally given way to…to a gesture.

  There was movement on the parapet. Someone at the far left was struggling forward.

  “Four!”

  The guards raised their shotguns. Gordon thought he saw a few of them move reluctantly. Not that it would do him any good.

  The Mayor stretched out the last count, perhaps a bit unnerved by Gordon’s stubbornness. Then Gordon saw a shadowy figure raise a hand.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Mayor!” a woman’s tremulous voice cut in. Her timidity made her words almost inaudible.

  “What?” The Mayor’s shadow did not turn from Gordon.

  “I…I’m Grace Horton,” the woman said softly.

  “What?!” He repeated himself.

  “It’s my maiden name. I was married the year after the second famine. That was before you and your men arrived…”

  Gordon sighed. He held up the bundle in his hand and touched his cap with his other.

  “Good evening, then, Mizz Horton. Lovely evening, no? Oh by the way, I have a letter here for you, from a Mr. Jim Horton, of Pine View. He gave me this letter twelve days ago…”

  The people in the crowd all seemed to be talking at once. There were sudden movements and shouts. Gordon had to raise his voice to be heard.

  “…Yes, Ma’am. He seemed to be quite well. I’m afraid that’s all I have on this trip. But I’ll carry your reply to your brother on my way back. One thing, though. Mr. Horton didn’t have enough postage, back in Pine View, so I’m going to have to ask you for ten dollars C.O.D.”

  The crowd roared. The figure of the Mayor turned left and right, shouting, but nothing he said was heard.

  Suddenly the gate swung open and people poured out into the night. They surrounded Gordon. He carefully maintained his composure and walked slowly toward the opening. He smiled and nodded to everyone, especially those who reached out to touch his elbow or the wide curve of his bulging leather bag.

  The youngsters looked at him in superstitious awe. On many of the older faces, tears streamed.

  Gordon was in the middle of a trembling reaction. He felt a little ashamed, but he struggled to maintain the dignified pose, and told himself, “The hell with it. It’s not my fault they want to believe in Santa Claus! I only want what belongs to me! Simpletons.”

  But he smiled all around as the hands touched and love washed over him. It flowed about him like a rushing stream and carried him, in a wave of desperate, unwonted hope, into the town of Oakridge.

  Story Notes for The Postman

  The Postman was written as an answer to all those post-apocalyptic books and films that seem to revel in the idea of civilization’s fall. It’s a story about how much we take for granted—and how desperately we would miss the little, gracious things that connect us today. It is also a story about the last idealist in a fallen America. A man who cannot let go of a dream we all once shared—who sparks restored faith that we can recover, and perhaps even become better than we were. In this era of cynicism, we need reminders of the decency that lies within.

  What we have here, in this volume is the first of several novellas that were later combined into the complete novel. Its appearance in Isaac Asimov’s SF Magazine helped to lock in my reputation, for which I’m grateful. It came in second for the Novella Hugo Award that year…as did its sequel the next year, Cyclops. Together, the two made up about half of the completed novel…which also came in second for a Hugo. I think Gordon is the only sci-fi character to be a bridesmaid three times!

  And yes, yes, there’s the 1997 Kevin Costner movie. Indeed, perhaps to your surprise, all told, Cheryl and I came away more pleased than unhappy with what Costner created. First off, visually and musically I deem it one of the most beautiful films ever made. And despite many flaws, it’s a pretty good flick—if you let yourself get into it. One that deals with important issues and is more faithful to the book than I expected, given what Hollywood often does.

  To be clear, it is this first novella, “The Postman,” that inspired the film. Costner left out later complications, like augmented soldiers and talking computers, exactly as I would have advised him to do! Had he ever consulted the original author.

  Crucial is the matter of heart. Costner’s postman is a callused idealist who has to learn the hard way about responsibility and what it means to be a hero. The movie is filled with scenes that convey how deeply we would miss civilization, if it went away. In fact, it includes some clever or touching moments that I wish I’d thought of, when writing the book!

  That sense of strength, openness, and hope is what I tried to convey in mere words. We are in this together.

  A NEED FOR HEROES

  * * *

  Roland fingered the rifle’s plastic stock as his squad leaped off the truck and lined up behind Corporal Wu. He had a serious case of dry-mouth, and his ears still rang from the alert bell that had yanked them out of exhausted slumber only an hour before.

  Who would’ve imagined being called out on a real raid? This certainly broke the routine of Basic Training—running about pointlessly, standing rigid while sergeants shouted abuse at you, screaming back obedient answers, then running some more until you dropped. Of course the pre-induction tapes had explained the purpose of all that.

  “…Recruits must go through intense stress in order to break civilian response sets and prepare behavioral templates for military imprinting. Their rights are not surrendered, only voluntarily suspended in order to foster discipline, coordination, hygiene, and other salutary skills…”

  Only volunteers who understood, and signed waivers, were allowed to join the peacekeeping forces, so he’d known what to expect. What had surprised Roland was getting accepted in the first place, despite mediocre school grades. Maybe, he thought, the peacekeepers’ aptitude tests weren’t infallible after all. Or perhaps they revealed something about Roland that had never emerged back in Indiana.

  It can’t be intelligence, that’s for sure. And I’m no leader. Never wanted to be.

  In his spare moments (all three of them since arriving here in Taiwan for training) Roland had pondered the question, and finally decided it was none of his damn business, after all. So long as the officers knew what they were doing, that was enough for him.

  This calling out of raw recruits for a night mission, didn’t fill him with confidence though.

  What use would greenies like us be in a combat operation? Won’t we just get in the way?

  His squad double-timed alongside a towering, aromatic, ornamental hedge, toward the sound of helicopters and the painful brilliance of searchlights. Perspiration loosened his grip on the stock, forcing him to hold his weapon tighter. His heartbeat quickened as they neared the scene of action. And yet, Roland felt certain he wasn’t scared to die.

  No, he was afraid of screwing up.

  “Takka says it’s eco-nuts!” the recruit running beside him whispered, panting. Roland didn’t answer. In the last hour he’d completely had it with scuttlebutt.

  Neo-Gaian radicals might have blown up a dam, someone said.

  No, it was an un-licensed gene lab, or maybe an un-registered national bomb—hidden in violation of the Rio Pact…

  Hell, none of the rumored emergencies seemed to justify calling in peach-fuzz recruits. It must be real bad trouble. Or else something he didn’t understand yet.

  Roland watched the jouncing backpack of Corporal Wu. The compact Chinese non-com carried twice the weight any of them did, yet he obviously held himself back for the sluggish recruits. Roland found himself wishing Wu would pass out the ammo now. What if they were ambushed? What if…?

  You don’t know anything yet, box-head. Better pray they don’t pass out ammo. Half those mama’s boys runnin’ behind you don’t know their rifles from their assholes.

  In fairness, Roland figured they probably felt exactly the same way about him.

  The squad hustled round the hedge onto a gravel driveway, puffing uphill toward the glaring lanterns. Officers milled about, poring over clipboards and casting long shadows across a close-cropped lawn that had been ripped and scraped by copters and magnus Zeps. A grand mansion stood farther upslope, dominating the richly landscaped grounds. Silhouettes hastened past brightly lit windows.

  Roland saw no foxholes. So maybe ammo wouldn’t be needed after all.

  Corporal Wu brought the squad to a disorderly halt as the massive, gruff figure of Sergeant Kleinerman appeared out of nowhere.

  “Have the weenies stack weapons over by the flower bed,” Kleinerman told Wu in Standard Military English. “Wipe their noses, then take them around back. UNEPA has work for ’em that’s simple enough for infants to handle.”

  Any recruit who took that kind of talk from the instructors personally was a fool. Roland just took advantage of the pause to catch his breath.

  “No weapons,” Takka groused as they stacked their rifles amid trampled marigolds. “What do we use, our hands?”

  Roland shrugged. The casual postures of the officers told him this was no terrorist site. “Prob’ly,” he guessed. “Them and our backs.”

  “This way, weenies,” Wu said, with no malice and only a little carefully tailored contempt. “Come on. It’s time to save the world again.”

  Through the bright windows Roland glimpsed rich men, rich women, dressed in shimmering fabrics. Nearly all looked like Han-Formosans. For the first time since arriving at Camp Perez de Cuellar, Roland really felt he was in Taiwan, almost China, thousands of miles from Indiana.

  Servants still carried trays of refreshments, their darker Bengali or Tamil complexions contrasting with the pale Taiwanese. Unlike the agitated party guests, the attendants seemed undisturbed to have in their midst all these soldiers and green-clad marshals from UNEPA. In fact, Roland saw one waiter smile when she thought no one was looking, and help herself to a glass of champagne.

  UNEPA…Roland thought on spying the green uniforms. That means eco-crimes.

  Wu hustled the squad past where some real soldiers stood guard in blurry combat camouflage, their eyes hooded by multi-sensor goggles which seemed to dart and flash as their pulse-rifles glittered darkly. The guards dismissed the recruits with barely a flicker of attention, which irked Roland far worse than the insults of Wu and Kleinerman.

  I’ll make them notice me, he vowed. Though he knew better than to expect it soon. You didn’t get to be like those guys overnight.

  Behind the mansion a ramp dropped steeply into the earth. Smoke rose from a blasted steel door that now lay curled and twisted to one side. A woman marshal met them by the opening. Even darker than her chocolate skin was the cast of her features—as if they were carved from basalt. “This way,” she said tersely and led them down the ramp—a trip of more than fifty meters—into a reinforced concrete bunker. When they reached the bottom however, it wasn’t at all what Roland expected—some squat armored slab. Instead, he found himself in a place straight out of the Arabian Nights.

  The recruits gasped. “Shee-it!” Takka commented concisely, showing how well he’d picked up the essentials of Military English. Kanakoa, the Hawaiian, expressed amazement even more eloquently. “Welcome to the Elephant’s Graveyard, Tarzan.”

  Roland only stared. Tiny, multicolored spotlights illuminated the arched chamber, subtly emphasizing the shine of ivory and fur and crystal. From wall to wall, the spoils of five continents were piled high. More illicit wealth than Roland had ever seen. More than he could ever have imagined.

  From racks in all directions hung spotted leopard pelts, shimmering beaver skins, white winter fox stoles. And shoes! Endless stacks of them, made from dead reptiles obviously, though Roland couldn’t begin to conceive which species had given its all for which pair.

  “Hey, Senterius.” Takka nudged him in the ribs and Roland looked down where the Japanese recruit pointed.

  Near his left foot lay a luxurious white carpet…the splayed form of a flayed polar bear whose snarling expression looked really angry. Roland jerked away from those glittering teeth, backing up until something pointy and hard rammed his spine. He whirled, only to goggle in amazement at a stack of elephant tusks, each bearing a golden tip guard.

  “Gaia!” he breathed.

  “You said it,” Kanakoa commented. “Boy, I’ll bet Her Holy Nibs is completely pissed off over this.”

  Roland wished he hadn’t spoken the Earth Mother’s name aloud. Hers wasn’t really a soldierly faith, after all. But Kanakoa and Takka seemed as stunned as he was. “What is all this?” Takka asked, waving at the heaped stacks of animal remains. “Who in the world would want these things?”

  Roland shrugged. “Used to be, rich folks liked to wear gnomish crap like this.”

  Takka sneered. “I knew that. But why now? It is not just illegal. It’s…it’s—”

  “Sick? Is that what you were going to say, private?”

  They turned to see the UNEPA marshal standing close by, looking past them at the piled ivory. She couldn’t be over forty years old, but right now the tendons in her neck were taut as bowstrings and she looked quite ancient.

  “Come with me, I want to show you soldiers something.”

  They followed her past cases filled with pinned, iridescent butterflies…with gorilla-hand ashtrays and stools made from elephants’ feet…with petrified wood and glittering coral that must have been stolen from nature preserves…all the way to the back wall of the artificial cave, where two truly immense tusks formed a standing arch. Tiger skins draped a shrine of sorts—a case crafted in dark hardwood and glass containing dozens of earthenware jars.

  Roland saw veins pulse on the backs of her hands. The recruits fell mute, awed by such hatred as she radiated now. Nothing down here impressed them half as much.

  Roland found the courage to ask. “What’s in the jars, Ma’am?”

  Watching her face, he realized what an effort it took for her to speak right now, and found himself wondering if he’d ever be able to exert such mastery over his own body.

  “Rhinoceros…horn,” she said hoarsely. “Powdered narwhal tusk…whale semen…”

  Roland nodded. He’d heard of such things. Ancient legends held they could prolong life or heighten sexual prowess or drive women into writhing heat. And neither morality nor law nor scientific disproof deterred some men from chasing hope.

  “So much. There must be a hundred kilos in there!” Takka commented. But he stepped back when the UNEPA official whirled to glare at him, her expression one of bleak despair.