Two hours later Starza called a council of war.
* * * * *
The conference room was crammed with quivering executives. Starza
carefully let the tension build to a shrill crescendo before he said:
"One of you gentlemen is a Guild mindless-controlled."
Ragged silence. Starza's smile was very faint.
"You gave us an ultimatum. But destroying this plant is an admission of
failure you're not willing to make--yet. You'll try another tack. You're
just beginning to discover that this environment we've created for the
Terms is superior to the primitive jungle. Tichnat!"
Tichnat stepped forward. His antennae were a proud, brilliant gold.
"Do you want a shutdown?" Starza asked softly.
"Are we fools?" Tichnat clicked. "To lose what we've gained? To return
to our tribe? To be destroyed?"
Starza's calm gaze caressed each face, probing. "You see? Stalemate.
Whoever you are, _you're bluffing_. Tomorrow our conveyor speeds return
to normal. You'll do nothing. You may try to agitate the Terms, but
they're satisfied--"
One of the superintendents cleared his throat. "Look," he said
unsteadily, "sometimes you can't afford to call a bluff."
Starza said pleasantly, "Any resignations will be accepted right now.
You can wait safely in the Term village until next week's freighter
arrives. No repercussions, I promise."
The lie was blatant. Carmody stood by the door, his smile strained. It
was all too obvious what would happen to any resignees.
"None?" Starza's brows rose. "I'm proud of you. That's it, gentlemen."
The next day was a frenetic nightmare. My cost dropped, but it didn't
matter. That was one day when the best company man became a
clock-watcher. Line foremen, department heads, cracked under the strain,
and were summarily removed to Psych. Carmody and staff worked overtime.
[Illustration]
I toiled feverishly over operation schedules, the crazily fluctuating
cost charts. My headache was gone, but I still couldn't remember my
axioms! I felt guilty over not going to Psych, but there just wasn't the
time.
Hell, _I'd_ never needed indoctrination. I was an Amalgamated man
through and through. Finally I grabbed an engineering manual, leafed
angrily through it--and sat there, empty and shaking.
I'd gone insane.
The words were gibberish. Oh, I could read them all right, but they
didn't make _sense_. What a filthy trick. Semantic block, Starza would
call it. I kept staring at the meaningless words, conscious of a tearing
sense of loss. And I wanted to cry.
Six o'clock was zero hour.
Six o'clock came, and the factory held its collective breath while
nothing happened.
At six-thirty Starza made a long speech over the public address. About
the selfless spirit of man, helping the Terms reach the stars, about how
we would never admit defeat, and about how, after tonight, the Term
festival would be discontinued. The Terms had adopted mankind's culture,
they had no further need of their effete native customs.
At seven, Fern and I were walking past Administration towards the
lighted square-mile enclosure of the Term village. Fern had never seen a
festival.
"A throwback," I said, "to their old tribal days. Their harvest, when
they pay tribute to the Queen-Mother and pray for good crops and work
well done. It's their yearly substitute for _Stammverstand_. Back in the
native villages, whenever a Term's in trouble, he goes to the council
hut and the others join him in a silent, group telepathy. But we've just
about weaned them, angel! They'll be individuals soon."
We walked down the deserted row of Term huts, past the council hall, to
the great stone amphitheatre, and sat with the other execs. Fern was
very gay and cheerful, but I kept thinking about my axioms, trying to
bring them back to life. I felt dead, all dead inside.
Starza came up, frowning, and I congratulated him.
"It's too pat, Jake, it worries me. Where's Carmody?"
"Setting up those semantic reaction tests you gave him," Fern said.
"But I never gave him--"
Abruptly the lights snuffed out. At one end of the arena loomed a
twelve-foot statue of a bloated Term, limned in a soft pale glow. The
Queen-Mother.
The hush. Then the radiance.
Slowly the Terms filed into the arena, rank upon rank of living flame.
First the fighters, their antennae shining crimson and splendid against
the tall night. Then the twins glows of blue that denoted the spinners,
the weavers. The golden blaze of the harvesters. The lambent colors
crept through the air like a mood, like a dream, and deepened into a
shimmering cataract of rainbow fire, a paean of light and glory that
whirled and spun in a joyous rhythm as old as the race itself.
Then--chaos.
A blinding flare cascaded from the six-foot antennae of the statue. The
radiance grew, brighter than an atomic flare, more terrible than the
sun. The Terms stood frozen. Beside me, Starza swore.
This wasn't in the script.
That colossal voice.
Ear-snapping clicks, and liquid vowels. Terminese. The forbidden tongue.
The voice blared. I caught most of it.
"_Children, you have sinned. You are defiled with the taint of alien
monsters. You have failed the Queen-Mother. Return, my children, return
to your tribes. Return to the tabernacle of unity, the one-in-all, the
Queen-Mother! For in death there is life, and there is joy in
immolation. Return!_"
Lastly, the climax. That last shattering hunk of propaganda that would
have been so tritely amusing if it hadn't been so terrifying.
"_You have nothing to lose but your chains._"
The giant antennae faded to a liquid silver. The silver of hope, of
forgiveness.
For a moment I was blind. I felt Fern trembling against me. The execs
were chattering like frightened sheep. Then I could see. I saw Starza.
He was moving down the aisle, cursing in a tight, dull monotone.
I followed him down into the arena. The Terms stood shriveled, mute.
Starza was fumbling at the base of the statue, and he said in a thick
horrible voice, "Look." The loudspeaker. The coiled wiring.
The Terms stirred.
Starza leaped to the lap of the statue. He bawled, "Listen! This is
sacrilege! You have been victims of a hoax--"
Not listening, they filed in silent groups out of the arena. Their
antennae were the color of ashes. Starza jumped down. He pounded after
them. He was shouting at Los Tichnat.
"I know," Tichnat droned. He kept walking. "You are right. It does not
matter that you are right. The Queen-Mother called."
"Listen," Starza mouthed. "It was a fraud, a trick. You can't--"
"We must." Tichnat paused. For a long moment the great faceted eyes
stared somberly. "It was a splendid dream, the thing you offered us. But
this is the final reality. And yours is but a dream."
He tramped stolidly on, after the others. The council hall door closed.
Starza clawed at the door. It opened. He was too late. They sat silently
around the great table, the faceted eyes dead, the antennae coruscating
indigo, now green, now rose. Communion. The meshing of minds. Starza
shouted at them. Stillness.
Starza looked blindly at me. He was shaking. "Carmody," he said.
"Carmody knows the Term mind. He can do something. Come on," he said.
* * * * *
We found Carmody in his quarters, methodically packing. His eyebrows
rose as we burst in. "Did you gentlemen ever try knocking?"
Starza just looked at him. Carmody drew a long breath. "You'll find my
resignation on your desk, Dave."
"Ah?" Starza's voice was very soft.
"It's only a question of time," Carmody said. "Call it the rat deserting
the ship if you like, but I'm through."
Starza was smiling, a fat man's smile. "So you really think you can pull
it off," he whispered.
Carmody shrugged, and Starza calmly took out a sonic pistol and shot him
in the belly.
A sonic blast hemorrhages. It rends the capillaries, ploughs the flesh
into a flaccid collection of shattered nerve fibers and ruined arteries.
It's a rotten way to die.
Starza watched Carmody thrash himself to death on the floor. I turned
away.
"For the record, Jake, he made a full confession. We both heard him."
"Just for the record," I said.
"It had to be him," Starza said. "That thoughtcaster blast yesterday
morning made reference to your study on the Term. Only Harvey and
Carmody knew about that. It couldn't have been Harvey. He cut his throat
this morning.
"I've decided," Starza said. "This is a Type L planet, after all. The
natives are chronically unstable. Hostile, in fact. Pursuant to Solar
Regulation 3, we have the right to enforce martial law. It should be six
months before an investigation. Meanwhile--"
"We'll get production," I said.
"We'll get production." He wiped his forehead, relaxed. "I'll send in a
full report tonight. Better turn in, Jake," he said kindly. "I'll need
you in the morning."