By BASCOM JONES, JR.
_Everyone is allowed to
commit an error. The trouble
was that I couldn't._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I deliberately dug my heels into the concrete floor of the corridor of
the Pentagon. The steel plates on the heels of my black uniform boots
heralded my approach with sharp anvil sounds as I marched confidently
toward the unmarked door five hundred feet ahead.
What was that expression used by Earth people of the 20th century? I
shifted back through my training, shuffled through the facts about
Earth's past history with which I had been indoctrinated, searching for
the word. _Assassin!_ That was it. But the term fell short. It lacked
in magnitude. There was a difference in the murder of one person and
the assassination of the occupants of an entire planet!
One foot in front of the other, I paced off the distance toward the end
of the hallway, carefully duplicating the strut which was a trademark
of the Earth Council's Security Police. I'd practiced the peculiar,
jolting method of walking a thousand times, but I began to feel the
effects of Earth's heavier gravity before I had covered half the
distance. It had been impossible to simulate the difference in gravity
in my training.
The two guards standing outside the door alertly watched my approach.
When I was still four paces away, one of them ordered me to stop.
They ignored as though they were not there the gold stars prominently
displayed on the shoulders of my tunic.