Rhodes faced the agonies of alien torture
because he knew the secret which held an entire
world in bondage. It was a secret proclaiming--
Forever We Die!
By C. H. Thames
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
August 1956
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The guard spat in Phil Rhodes' food bowl, closed the grate, and trudged
away down the stone-walled corridor.
Darkness returned to the narrow, coffin-shaped cell. Rhodes reached
for the bowl of gruel. It was tepid, not hot. The cell was very cold.
In the square of light admitted briefly when the grate had been
opened, Rhodes had seen the big, unkempt guard's breath, a puff of
smoke on the cold air. He had also seen the guard hack spittle into the
bowl of gruel.
It was no whim on the guard's part. Rhodes grinned wryly, and realized
he was doing so, and encouraged his facial muscles in the act. Nothing
around here was a whim. Absolutely nothing. It was all part of a plan,
and the purpose of the plan was to break Rhodes.
Given: one Earthman.
Problem: to degrade him by subtle psychological torture.
Purpose: a big, fat question mark which, by itself, was almost enough
to drive Rhodes crazy.
He ate the gruel. He held his breath and got it down somehow, got it
down because he had to.
It had been some time since the last question period, and Rhodes
expected to be summoned momentarily. Why me? he thought for the
hundredth time. That was part of it, too. Why Rhodes? He was only a
student at the Earth University at Deneb III, here on Kedak now--that
was Deneb IV--to do field work in extra-terrestrial anthropology. And
the Kedaki had come for him one night, how long ago? Rhodes had no
idea how long it was, and that was part of the plan too. His sleep was
irregular, usually disturbed by one or another of the guards as part
of the overall pattern of psychological torture.
Rhodes began to shiver. It was growing suddenly cold. Naturally, that
was no accident. The cell was very small and so shaped that Rhodes
could neither recline fully nor stand up without jack-knifing his
spine. Obviously, he couldn't engage in much physical activity to keep
warm. The Kedaki knew this: it was part of the maddening plan.
Rhodes shook with cold, felt the skin of his face going numb, heard his
teeth chattering. The abrupt cold now was his entire universe. He made
an effort of will--you're warm, he told himself, you're warm. His lips
took on that peculiar numb puckering sensation which meant, he knew,
that they were blue with cold. He felt a welcome lethargy, then, as
if the terrible cold were a bed of repose, the most comfortable, most
wonderful bed he'd ever had. He wanted to sink back in it, surrender to
it.
If he did, if he surrendered to the blood-freezing cold, he would die.
No, he told himself. That was wrong. They wanted him to think he would
die. But it was out of the question. If they'd wanted to kill him,
there were easier ways. What they wanted was a state of mind. They
wanted terror, a simple animal fear of death.
You're not going to die, Rhodes told himself. They need you--for
something. They're very good at making you think so, but you're not
going to die.
A sudden blast of hot air belched into the freezing cell.
It was Turkish-bath hot, and it dissipated the cold at once. It was
stifling. Rhodes, who was sitting awkwardly because the cell was
constructed for minimum comfort, opened his mouth and gulped in the
hot, wet air. His lungs needed more oxygen; his head was giddy with the
need; his pulses throbbed.
He sank into a troubled sleep, shoulders propped against rough stone.
He slept for half an hour while the unseen vents in the cell poured
heat on him.
There was a grating sound, and footsteps. Something hard prodded
Rhodes' back. He opened his eyes. The heavy boot struck again, thudding
against his kidney. He rolled away from it.
"Crawl out of there," the guard said in Kedaki.
Rhodes, who was a student of the Kedaki civilization, understood the
language perfectly. But even if he had not, the tone of voice was
unmistakable. Rhodes crawled toward the grating on his hands and
knees. The roof of the cell was so low, he could barely crawl. It was
more a slithering motion. Part of the treatment, Rhodes told himself,
able to bear it better because he understood. Part of the process of
degradation. Turn a man into an animal, and he'll do whatever you wish.
"More questions?" Rhodes asked in Kedaki when he stood up outside the
cell, stretching the cramped muscles of his back, shoulders and legs.
"What do you think?" the guard replied, and prodded him forward down
the brightly lit corridor.
* * * * *
The room was very clean. It was spotless, possibly antiseptically
clean. That, too, was part of the plan. For Rhodes' cell was filthy.
Rhodes' clothing was stiff with his own foul sweat. Rhodes' skin itched
with encrusted dirt.
"Sit down," the Kedaki said politely.
Rhodes sighed. This was the polite one. He had two interrogators, one
cruel, brutal, harsh, the other as polite and suave as the rustle of
silk. To keep Rhodes guessing....
He sat down across a metal desk from the interrogator. The man was,
Rhodes judged, in his thirties. He had the faintly purple skin of the
Kedaki--not really purple, but as purple as the skin of an American
Indian is red. He was slightly built, smooth-skinned, almost beardless.
His eyes were very friendly but somehow very deadly.
"You have been here three months," he said conversationally.
"Three months! Yesterday, they told me...."
"Yesterday? Indeed? And how do you know it was yesterday?"
"Well, I thought...."
"You see, you have no way of knowing."
"But three months! You haven't even told me why I'm a prisoner. If I
could just make a call," Rhodes said, his voice rising to an almost
hysterical whine although he attempted to keep it level. "Just one call
to the Earth Consul...."
"Mr. Rhodes," the interrogator said softly. "You are a student, merely
a student. I do not say this deprecatingly, but merely to point out
that you are not a servant of your government and as such shouldn't
undergo torture because you consider it the, ah, patriotic thing to do.
How old are you, Rhodes?"
"I'm twenty-one," Rhodes said.
"A very young man, but stubborn."
"Listen!" Rhodes cried, his voice rising out of control again. "I don't
even know what you want to know! Every day you change your questions!
And every day you change how you react to my answers. I don't know what
you want! I think you're crazy, all of you!"
"Do you really think so?"
"No," Rhodes admitted in a subdued voice.
"I will tell you something, Rhodes. We Kedaki are experts at
psychological torture. You know that, don't you, as a student of our
culture? Yes?--good. Eventually, we get what we want. Since no Kedaki
fears death because he knows he will be reincarnated--"
"You _say_."
"No Kedaki doubts this fact. Other creatures are not reincarnated, but
the Kedaki are. As a consequence, the Kedaki are fearless. The fear
of death does not exist for us and therefore, the fear of pain and
violence is also minimized. The Kedaki, as you know, make wonderful
soldiers. I tell you all this only to prove that we are the galaxy's
most adept practitioners of psychological torture, as a necessity. I
tell you all this only to save you further trouble."
"But I still don't know what you want."
"Nor will you, ever. Even when we are finished with you. I'll tell you,
Rhodes. We want the answer to one question. We are asking you hundreds.
When we break you completely, when you answer every question the way we
want it to be answered, you will answer the one important question. Are
you ready?"
"No," said Rhodes.
"What do you mean, no?"
"Because I can never tell in advance whether you want the truth or
lies. Because either way I give myself a hard time. Look: just ask me
the one question. Maybe I won't mind answering it."
"You'll mind. Besides, when we're all finished here, we don't want you
to know. What kind of work do you do, Rhodes?"
"You know what kind. I already told you, fifty times."
"What kind of work do you do, Rhodes?"
"I'm a student of extra-terrestrial anthropology at Deneb University,
doing field work here on Kedak...."
"Good."
Good, thought Rhodes. They're accepting the truth today, not rejecting
it. He settled back in his chair and answered the unimportant initial
questions almost automatically. His family back on Earth. Mother,
father, younger sister. What he thought of Deneb III and the university
there. Why he wanted to be an extra-terrestrial anthropologist. Exactly
what kind of field work he was doing on Kedak.
"Reincarnation," Rhodes said. "At least, a planet-wide belief in
reincarnation. It's unique in the galaxy, as far as we know, and it
sets the pattern for Kedaki civilization."
"You are making a planet-wide study?"
Rhodes shook his head. He'd been asked these questions many times
before, but it was the subject he loved and he felt himself warming to
it. "Not a planet-wide study," he said. "Just this city. Just Junction
City. But if you can learn how a sweeping social institution controls
one center of population, then...."
"I'm sure," the interrogator said dryly.
"Besides, there are the ruins outside the city."
"Indeed, there are the ruins."
"Because an anthropologist is interested in the history of his subject
as well as its merely ephemeral present. And there are those who
believe that the Balata 'kai ruins hold the origin of your belief in
metempsychosis...."
"Do you, Rhodes?"
"Yes. Yes, I do."
"Have you found anything to fortify this belief?"
"I have."
"What have you found?"
"The Balata 'kai _Book of the Dead_. Oh, it isn't a book, really. It's
some tablets--five thousand years old."
"You have seen these tablets?"
"Yes," said Rhodes.
"Where?"
"The Temple of the Golden Dome, Balata 'kai."
"They are there now?"
"No," said Rhodes. "I took them."
"You took them where?"
"Well, I hid them."
"Where?"
Rhodes grinned. "I'm not going to answer that," he said. He was
thinking. Prolong the interview, Phil old boy. Because it's clean here,
and neither too warm nor too cold, and you can sit comfortably or stand
if you want to.
"Why aren't you going to answer it?"
Rhodes grinned again. "I realize this isn't very important to you...."
"Everything is important to me while I do my job."
"But it's very important to me, I was going to say. Because _The Book
of the Dead_ is an anthropological find, that's why. Because I intend
to have an exclusive on it until I've finished my work here."
"What makes you think _The Book of the Dead_ isn't very important to
us?"
"Don't tell me," Rhodes said incredulously, "that I'm in jail and being
tortured because I won't tell you where I've hid an anthropological
curiosity which may not even be genuine!"
"No, I won't tell you. Now, as to the genuineness of _The Book of the
Dead_...."
* * * * *
Rhodes felt suddenly sleepy. He'd been awakened to come here. He was
always awakened to come here, sometimes after what he thought was a
full night's sleep and sometimes after what seemed only a few moments.
He listened sleepily as the interrogator went on, surprisingly doing
most of the talking. He hardly heard the words, had all he could do
to keep his head from slumping down on the desk. It just wasn't very
important. It was preliminary to what really mattered, to the questions
about Earth history, sociology, engineering, economy, which always
followed.
But why me? Rhodes thought. My subject is extra-terrestrial
anthropology....
"... therefore, Rhodes," the interrogator was saying, "_The Book of
the Dead_ is not only the oldest known written document on Kedak, but
also, clearly, genuine. Do you agree?"
Rhodes stood up and paced back and forth. The interrogator permitted
this, even encouraged it. There was neither room to stand nor to pace
in Rhodes' cell, a fact which made it difficult for Rhodes to do
anything but cooperate completely with his interrogator. Well, why
shouldn't I cooperate? he thought. If I cooperate, they'll let me out
of here. Let me out of here? No, how can they do that? They're holding
an extra-Kedakian illegally, and they know it, and I know it, and they
know I know it. My God, Rhodes thought suddenly, are they going to kill
me when they're finished with me? It seemed the only logical outcome of
all this.
"... population growth of the Earth colony on the planet Mars?"
Rhodes supplied the answer, knowing it was one you could find in any
textbook on the Martian colony back in the solar system. All this, he
thought, for what? Because Kedak is resisting its incorporation into
the Galactic League? Because the Kedaki rulers want to be left alone,
fearing that their doctrine of reincarnation will be discredited by
intercourse with other worlds?
But the one maddening question remained: why Rhodes?
"... titanium deposits on the moons of Jupiter?"
"Sorry," Rhodes said, "I don't know the answer to that one."
At that moment, the room shook.
Trained since his imprisonment to expect the unexpected, Rhodes thought
it was part of the treatment. But the interrogator seemed surprised.
There was a deep rumbling which seemed to rise up from the very
bowels of the planet. The room shook again. Rhodes felt himself flung
violently across it, colliding with the far wall. The interrogator's
head slammed against the metal desk, then the interrogator stood up,
blood on his face.
"Guard!" he cried. "Take this man back to his cell at once!"
The room shook a third time, plaster sifted down from the ceiling, and
a big crack appeared over Rhodes' head. Through it he saw daylight--the
first daylight he'd seen in three months, if he could believe the
interrogator.
"Guard!" screamed the interrogator, his composure gone.
Kedak was, Rhodes knew, an earthquake-prone planet. All young worlds
were, and Kedak was a young world. Was this, then, an earthquake?
The room swayed, tilted. Rhodes staggered uphill back to the desk,
clutching its edge for support. Underfoot, there was a rolling, booming
sound. You could not merely hear it, you could feel it. It rolled on
from a long way off, coming closer every second, like the distant boom
of a thousand cannon fired at split-second intervals.
The door opened, and the guard stood there. The interrogator pointed
at Rhodes, shouting something which was swallowed completely by the
rolling, booming sound. The guard shouted something back, unheard in
the noise, then walked toward Rhodes.
He never reached the Earthman.
The room rocked. The floor came up suddenly, jarringly, and the ceiling
came down.
The guard stood there, a look of horror on his face. Not fear of death,
Rhodes found himself thinking in the final few seconds. The Kedaki,
believing in metempsychosis, did not fear death. But the choking,
blinding fear of any man a split-second before personal catastrophe.
Then, literally, the ceiling fell.
The guard pivoted slowly, as if he had all the time in the world to
return to the door. He took one small step and the ceiling hit him.
It came down not in one sheet but sectionally, Rhodes found himself
thinking with amazing objectivity, because--see?--the guard is being
struck now, but I haven't been touched....
The guard fell, and the ceiling crumpled on top of him. Rhodes saw the
guard's head, very close to the floor, bent at right angles to his
body, which was stretched out and hidden by the shards of plaster and
stone. There was a worm of blood trickling from the guard's nose. His
eyes were opened wide, but the eyeballs had rolled up in the sockets.
The interrogator screamed, and Rhodes heard the sound faintly above the
thunderous booming before the tons of plaster and stone came down on
both of them.
CHAPTER II
He stood up.
I'm dead, he thought. How can I be standing, if I'm dead?
It was dim, but not completely dark. He breathed deeply, and gagged on
plaster dust. He heard a siren distantly, and the brisk, businesslike
sound of flames crackling nearby.
A pile of masonry covered the broken, battered desk. Automatically, he
groped behind it. There was someone there. They had been talking, he
remembered.
He found the man, a Kedaki. Am I a Kedaki? he thought. He did not
know. He remembered nothing about himself.
Shock, he thought reasonably enough. You've been through hell, so just
calm down and it will all come back to you. The man behind the desk was
dead, his skull flattened on top and pulpy. The man nearer to the door
was also dead, his neck broken. He went around the corpse and to the
door, which opened into the room. He opened it, was driven back by a
wall of flame.
He slammed the door, but not before his eyebrows were seared. He went
quickly to the center of the room and smelled something like feathers
burning before he felt the pain. Then, instinctively, he beat his
hands against his head. His hair had caught fire. He shouted with pain
and looked up and saw the smoke and the fluctuating brightness of the
flame and by the time he got it out he knew all his hair was gone.
He felt his scalp gingerly. It smarted, but there didn't seem to be
any blisters. Third degree burn--he was lucky. Only for the moment,
he realized. Because the fire was still out there and while the door
seemed flame resistant, it wouldn't resist forever.
He had to find some other way out of here if he didn't want to perish
in the flames.
He made a swift circuit of the room. There was no other door. There
were no windows. He was engulfed momentarily by panic, but could still
think objectively. See? he told himself. You're afraid. Afraid to die.
So you know at least this much: you're not a Kedaki, whatever else you
are. For the Kedaki wouldn't fear death, that was sure.
Returning to the door, he opened it a crack. The flames were dazzling,
roaring, dancing things. He shut the door and felt its surface. It was
uncomfortably hot to the touch. He waited a few moments, listening to
the sounds of the flame and the still-wailing siren. Then he touched
the door again. Unmistakably, it had grown hotter. He stood at the
door and shouted for help, then laughed. Nobody would hear him. And
certainly, nobody could come through the fire to rescue him.
He made a prowling circuit of the room once more. Nothing.
Then something stirred overhead. He looked up, and the laughter bubbled
in his throat, almost hysterically.
Beams and masonry and sky.
The ceiling had come down. Or, most of it had. There was a way out
and he'd not looked for it, not found it at first, because he hadn't
expected to find it over his head.
He jumped, came down again. What's the matter with me? he thought. It's
way over my head. I'm acting crazy.
He looked at the door. It was glowing a dull red now. There was a dry
burning sound. A flame licked through the door tentatively. Got to
hurry, he thought.
The pile of masonry covering the desk seemed tall enough. He climbed
it, stood there, reached up with his hands. Short, by several feet.
He looked at the door: hungry flames were devouring it. He crouched,
tensing his muscles, then jumped. But the loose-piled masonry offered
no purchase and was dislodged by his feet. The result was that his
groping fingers did not even come close to the beams overhead.
A second time he tried it, and this time the rubble underfoot shifted
and he was flung to the floor. This won't do, he told himself. This
won't do at all. If you don't get out of here, and get out of here
fast, you're going to be roasted.
Now the distant siren's wail had come closer. Something rumbled
outside, and the next moment he was deluged with water. By this time
the flames were eating their way along the wall on either side of
the door. They leaped to the rubble on the floor, found something
combustible there, and burned. He began to choke on the smoke and the
steam as water hissed and boiled on the masonry.
They'd put the fire out, all right, he thought. Eventually, they'd get
it under control. But if I'm not broiled by the flames I'm going to be
boiled in their fire-fighting water, so what difference does it make?
He tried the desk again, but could not jump high enough. He stood
there, panting with the effort to get enough oxygen into his lungs. The
flames danced playfully around him. The fact that there was so much in
the room that could burn surprised him.
Once more he jumped. He hardly had the strength to clear the floor with
his feet. His left ankle was numb and when he came down he knew he
would not be able to jump again.
That was it. He'd burn.
* * * * *
A crafty look suddenly came into his eyes. You're hysterical, he
thought, and was right. But it didn't matter. He got down on hands and
knees, then on his belly. Cooler near the floor, he told himself, still
smiling craftily. You're outfoxing the fire, old boy. You crafty devil.
Close to the floor, he could breathe. But it was hot, and the flames
circled him, expectantly, it seemed, as if they had burned through the
entire prison just for a chance to get at him.
Tentatively, a tongue of flame licked at his arm. He brushed it away
as you would brush an insect away. It came back, playfully. It hardly
seemed to hurt but he screamed anyway.
When the fire was finally brought under control, they found him. His
skin was red and blistered where it was not black and crisp. His prison
uniform had been consumed completely by the flames, as had all his
body hair. Miraculously, he was still alive. It was a slow, irregular
heartbeat and they did not expect it to last long, but dutifully they
took him to the aid station.
He was lucky there.
Among the doctors on duty to treat the thousands of victims of the
Junction City earthquake was an Arcturan named Quotis. Now Quotis,
unlike the Kedaki, had a high regard for human life. For Quotis did
not believe in reincarnation since Quotis was not a Kedaki. The other
doctors looked at the burned thing which had been a man and shook their
heads and one of them said, "It doesn't matter, my friend," patting
Quotis on the back and winking at the others. But Quotis, shrugging,
replied, "The man is still alive and if he is alive it's my job to keep
him alive." The Kedaki physician pointed out that there were bones to
set elsewhere, and states of shock to be treated, and lacerations to
mend, but Quotis would not hear of it.
The case intrigued him. The man should have been dead, but was still
living. Besides, he was a Kedaki, wasn't he? And the Kedakis held death
in very little regard. Therefore, Dr. Quotis told himself happily,
he would be able to practice his new theories of skin rebirth on
the injured Kedaki. But he had to hurry because a loss of half the
epidermis was usually fatal, and this Kedaki had lost all of it to
either first or second degree burns. Why, you couldn't even see the
faintly purple tint of the skin anywhere....
If he died in the treatment? Quotis shrugged. No approved of treatment
could save him. Still, on most civilized planets the answer would have
been no. But on Kedaki? On Kedaki it was different. Smiling and eager,
Quotis gave the order that took the dying man to a hospital near the
aid station. Of native Kedaki hospitals, of course, there were none.
Firm believers in metempsychosis, the Kedaki did not waste time and
effort keeping moribund people alive. The injured, yes: but the injured
could be treated, as the situation demanded, at aid stations like the
one set up after the Junction City earthquake.
The hospital which Dr. Quotis took his patient to was the Arcturan
hospital in Junction City, an institution made necessary by the fact
that many Arcturan nationals lived on Kedak, particularly in Junction
City, which was not only a native but an interplanetary trading center.
While the patient was made ready, Quotis thought: You cannot graft skin
on a man with no skin left. For the only effective graft is that of a
man's own epidermis--or that of his identical twin, should one exist.
Then why couldn't you supply brand new skin tissue? thought the
Arcturan happily, utterly involved in his scientific detachment.
Impermanent, of course. But that didn't matter. It would keep the
patient alive and would stimulate the growth of new skin before it
sloughed off. Say, a month. One Kedakin month. The new skin would be
identical with the artificial skin and not with the patient's former
epidermis, but that didn't matter. Too bad I don't even have a picture
to go by, though, he Arcturan thought. Perhaps there is a mole or
some other blemish which, foolishly, he would want reproduced. Well,
no matter. At least the faint purple pigmentation of the Kedaki is
easy to make, yes, very easy. Now an Arcturan with his vivid orange
skin would be something else again, Quotis admitted, or an Earthman
with the subtle gradations of pale tan. But those could come later. It
would be enough, for now, to save this one life with the revolutionary
development in skin regrowth.
"Patient is ready, doctor," the orange Arcturan nurse said.
"Still alive?"
"For the moment, yes."
"You give him...."
"Only a few minutes, I'm afraid."
"Then we must hurry," said Quotis, and rushed into the operating room.