The starmen had vanished into the night that is deepest just before
dawn, when the sky is black and most mysterious. They had ordered the
guards away, their lifts had whirled, they rose, and far above the
Earth there were ruby tongues of jets and the volcanic roar of power.
The airport lay desolate.
... In his ship, Herb could not sleep. He kept reviewing the time he
had spent alone with Norma. It was difficult to remember clearly. What
few things he could remember would, he was afraid, be lost forever in
the jungle of confusion that was his mind unless he went over them
again and again and planted them firmly and deeply into his being.
What an alien and lovely name, Norma. Something about her was so quiet
and reassuring. He wanted to bury his head against her breasts and
whisper, "I wish I could save your planet, but I can't." He had wanted
to confess to her, but he could not. If she had discovered.... But now,
in the darkness, on the narrow cot, he thought about her and buried his
head against her soft breasts, and he smelled the cool darkness of the
perfume, and he spoke to her and told her the truth, and she understood
his hurt and knew the necessity and forgave him....
* * * * *
The trouble began one week after the take off. The Oligarch read well
the signals of its arrival, but he did nothing. A scene would be bad
for the crew's morale. He thought it would be a tonic to his own. It
would prove the validity of his conclusion: that the indoctrinated
starman called Leslie would crack up on the seventh day.
It happened, as he imagined it would, shortly after Leslie had filled
out his dream form.
It was in the messhall.
Without warning Leslie kicked over his chair. His face twisted. His
hands whitened at the knuckles. There was an insane expression in his
eyes. He looked slowly around the table.
With his first movement there came silence; it was instantaneous; it
was as though the clock had stopped in a parlor of corpses. No one
moved.
He screamed a great, searing curse. The word was English.
The crew waited. No one breathed.
Leslie began to break things with mounting fury. He shattered his plate
by slamming it savagely to the table. He threw his cup against the far
wall.
They waited. Many of them cried inward encouragement to insanity.
"Lies!" he screamed in English. "Lies! _There is no Universe!_"
He fell to his hands and knees and growled and snapped like an animal.
The Oligarch felt his detachment shatter. Hurriedly he left his table
and went to Leslie and killed him.
Breathing with difficulty, he arose and addressed the crew. "This
is what happens to a man who lies on his dream form." They rustled
uneasily. "Go back to your meal."
One by one they resumed eating. Slowly conversation grew and expanded
from whispers to abnormal loudness and then back to whispers again.
The ubiquitous microphones peered up eagerly from the tables, and the
hungry record tapes consumed the sounds.
The food lodged in Herb's throat. There seemed no moisture anywhere in
his body. He fought down an irrational impulse to get to his own feet
and scream forever.
Once again at his private table, the Oligarch was amazed to find that
the complete justification of his own logic left him feeling empty and
unsatisfied and disappointed. The matter was behind him. In the future
could he expect equal success? Insatiable doubt grew.
He stood up. The compulsion to wash his hands was irresistible. He left
the mess hall hurriedly.
As he watched the cool cleanness of the water flow over his hands, he
felt at peace.
He was a god, playing with men, knowing them as they would never know
themselves, seeing into their inmost souls, moving them to his will.
He was tempted to greater accomplishment. Could he--could he--? Unsure
of himself, he was doomed to seek endless reassurance.
Herb. Now Herb. There was a dangerous man. At least, he would become
one, in another three days. It would be like playing with fire to play
with Herb. It would be exciting, too.
He dried his hands. His heart was beating faster.
Herb would soon begin to doubt. William was already doubting. He
should have done something about them both before now. About Leslie
before now....
I will see that Herb ... that Herb ... what?
His mouth was dry. Excitement swelled and made his breath catch. His
throat ached.
He would help William to doubt. None of them must return to Brionimar.
It was intensely rewarding to play God, if you could get your hands
clean.
The Oligarch rang the buzzer. He would leave the mike tapes and the
dream forms until this afternoon.
He would interview William now.
He was washing his hands when William entered.
* * * * *
After the interview, William came in and sat on Herb's cot.
In recent days, their common knowledge had drawn them together; before,
they had scarcely spoken. Whenever they talked now, they used English,
partly as a recognition of their kindred uniqueness, partly as a futile
subconscious attempt to outwit the spy tapes.
"It's a ridiculous planet," Herb said.
"Yes, a ridiculous planet," William agreed.
"Freedom," Herb said. "That is nonsense."
"Equality," William said. "Equality. They are down right silly."
"You wouldn't think a place like that could exist, a silly place like
that, where a man can actually say whatever silly idea pops into his
mind."
"Yes," William said. "They should be destroyed--even if it wasn't
necessary, they should be destroyed."
Herb was silent for a moment. The microphones listened. Then: "Imagine
how awful it would be to live down there, with no one to do your
thinking for you."
"The natural leaders aren't even recognized. You can't tell an Oligarch
from a Subject."
"I'd never like to live in a place like that," Herb said. _I dreamed of
it_, he wanted to say, _and I dreamed that Brionimar had been changed
into Earth, and there was no Oligarchy, and a man was free._ "It's like
a nightmare," he said.
They fell silent.
William wanted to say: _If only we could take that dream back with us,
if only our people could see._
"Yes," Herb said suddenly. "God, yes, yes."
"Eh?"
"... nothing."
"_He_ called me in today," William said.
"Oh?"
"We talked."
"What did you talk about?"
"Not much ... I don't see what he was trying to get at." William stood
up. He looked at the microphone. He felt courage grow in him. "I've
been ... _thinking_...."
Herb nodded. He dared not speak.
"You know what I mean?"
Herb nodded.
"We'll talk later."
* * * * *
After the fourth daily meal, William came once more. He took Herb's arm
and gestured with his head that Herb should follow. Herb arose; his
heart stood wildly beating in the cage of his chest; his blood ran with
conspiracy and excitement.
They walked down the corridor until they were in a section free of
microphones. It was, although they did not know it, intentionally
unwired. It provided the crew a harmless escape valve for their
emotions. It was not (as any Oligarch could have told you) necessary
to watch a Subject all the time. Most of the spy tapes, as a matter of
fact, were never even inspected.
William was sweating. Herb could not account for the intensity of
emotional strain he seemed to be under. Herb imagined they would talk
briefly--and plan vaguely--about ways to carry some of the idea and
the feel of freedom back to Brionimar. They would bear a message of
hope, they would tell that Earth had not been destroyed in vain, that
a civilization could function in freedom without chaos. And perhaps,
someday, not in their time, but someday....
"It's not perfect," Herb said. "We dream of perfection, do you
understand, but even Earth is not perfect. I think we ought to remember
that. I can feel it, I can tell it. I.... We want to take that back
with us, too."
William was scarcely listening. His muscles were tense and crawling
with danger. He had to speak, to confide, to know that he was not
alone. To have Herb help him. Herb, too, must know.
"Listen," he hissed. "You know what I meant when I said I've been
thinking?"
"Yes," Herb said. "So have I."
William licked his lips. His heart seemed to stop. He took a deep
breath.
"_How can we stop him from blowing it up?_"
The Universe wheeled. Herb could not believe what he had heard. A
Destructionist!
"_He_ dropped some hints, he didn't mean to, but he did," William
said. "I finally realized. You must have known longer than I have. It's
all a lie. He as good as told me so."
Herb took half a step backward. His skin crawled with horror.
William, oblivious to everything but his own words, said, "We've got to
stop and plan carefully. I will kill him myself, and then you get to
the control room.... We'll have to hold the crew off. They might not
believe us. Not at first. That will be the big trouble...."
Herb continued to back away. All the training of a lifetime surged into
his mind. There is scarcely a way to express the detestation a starman,
properly conditioned, felt toward a Destructionist. His reason was
destroyed. He wanted to leap at William and tear at his face with his
naked hands.
I've got to warn _him_! Herb thought.
He turned and ran. The Oligarch! I've got to warn him! Breath sobbed in
his throat.
William watched the fleeing figure. He reached out a hand to stay
him. He could not believe his own miscalculation. He stood, limp and
defeated. There was no will left in him. Bleak betrayal was a heavy
winged vampire.
There was no place to go.
He sat down.
It was all very logical for the first time in his life. Some where
in time the Oligarchy had invented the menace as a device to gain
(or to retain) power. They had saturated the people with ignorance,
ridiculed thought, and eliminated freedom until the menace could not be
challenged. They had established a closed and consistent system that
could justify anything. And now that he had gotten outside, stepped
beyond it, by denying its ultimate premise, the immensity of the fraud
was mind staggering. There was no combating it as long as one lived
inside. There have, he thought, been other Earths. Nothing outside the
system must be permitted to intrude.
He put his head in his arms and began to cry.
That was how they found him when they came to kill him.
* * * * *
Herb did not watch the kill. He went straight to his cot and lay down
and waited for the news to come. He heard the rustle of voices in the
corridor as the hunt was being organized.
He was still trembling with disgust: a Destructionist! The very word
sent a shudder through his body. To think that William, of them all,
that William, would have been one seemed impossible. Still, you could
never tell. A neighbor, a friend.... You could never tell who might be.
How could they think? What sort of creatures could they be? Herb's
imagination shrank from the task. It was one thing to hate the
Oligarchy, but it was quite another to favor the end of the Universe.
The rustle of voices diminished. They were after him. They would get
him.
Herb thought: Perhaps with this one action I have saved the Universe.
When this becomes known on Brionimar, when it is learned how I, single
handed, exposed the menace, then they will....
_But suppose William was right?_
Never before had such a thought even fought for recognition, and now,
without warning, it erupted in naked completeness. It was an electric
shock.
No! he shrieked, _no!_
He was sitting erect. He was clammy with icy perspiration. His whole
body was suddenly silent and listening, every muscle and nerve strained
in the direction of the hunt.
He lay back.
No, he thought.
* * * * *
The next day the Oligarch called him in.
"I want to thank you again, Herb." He watched his words sink into
naked flesh. "If you had not told me, I would never have suspected. But
for you, he--he might have succeeded."
Herb refused to look into the Oligarch's face. I did right, he thought.
I did what I had to do, what anyone would have done.
"I know it has been a shock," the Oligarch said. "You were very fond of
William."
Herb's lips twisted silently.
"I want to tell you a story," the Oligarch said. "Listen, listen
carefully. It is about a man called Bud and what he did."
Herb was not listening; and then suddenly he was listening. The
Oligarch told the story, and when he was done, leaned forward, waiting.
It was as if Herb had just heard the most important story in the world.
"His brother's head," the Oligarch whispered, "he traded his brother's
head for power...."
There was something about the idea that reached deep into the ancient
folk shadows of Herb's mind and stood as a symbol. But he did not
understand about symbols: only their compulsive effects. All his rage
and frustration and guilt crystalized around Bud. If he could only see
Bud fall and gasp and die, he would have vindicated morality and done
all that he could do in the name and cause of justice.
"You may go," the Oligarch said. "Think about what I've told you."