"In twenty-seven seconds," an impassive voice vaguely reminiscent,
predicted from the inter-connecting catwalk above, "the vat will burst,
flooding the safety moat with acid."
The marvelous tonal quality was startling, for in its depths there was
no emotional content--almost as if it were a sexless voice prophesying
the most natural thing in the world.
With a swift movement that sent the muscles rippling along a
Leander-like torso, Vyrl Guerlan abandoned the precision tool with
which he had tackled a gigantic refractory coupling. Gleaming with
perspiration, his square-cut mouth compressed into a line of fury,
he gazed up at the speaker and wondered where he'd heard that voice
before. Above him rose the titanic vat of processing acid, that treated
the materials and converted them into gelatinous masses in the first
process.
"I was a First Order Scientist, I'm now an Analyst," Guerlan said
brusquely. "Nothing in my tests indicates such an accident." But the
whining crescendo of the vat's machinery was threnody in major and
minor warning of sudden, devastating trouble, as its originally smooth
purr changed to a cacophony of sound.
"Twelve seconds!" Came the placid voice in reply. "Care to test _my_
prediction?"
For an answer Guerlan scrambled up the hetero-plastic ladder to the
upper catwalk with the agility of dread, his mane of blue-black hair
tangled and dishevelled, his face white and strained.
Guerlan towered beside the fragile figure of the scientist, whose
wasp-like waist and marvelously slender hands gave him an elfin
quality in comparison with Vyrl's streamlined strength. For an instant
Guerlan felt an overpowering desire to seize the delicate body in his
own great hands and break it in two. But the luminous violet eyes
on the abnormally lovely face, appraising him now as if he were a
particularly obnoxious specimen, held him in check with their utterly
calm detachment. It was then he remembered where he'd last heard those
impersonal tones, that sexless voice that seemed devoid of all emotion.
"Why ... you're the scientist of the golden mask when I was at
the ..." but a cool hand was suddenly pressed against his lips. A vague
fragrance as of Venusian jasmines was in Guerlan's nostrils and before
he could say any more, a livid crack appeared down the length of the
vat, growing swiftly until the vat where Guerlan had been working on
the defective coupling, split into two halves with a prodigious hiss,
like an apple cloven in two.
A cataract of spuming acid flooded into the safety moat, while
hundreds of analysts and technicians came scrambling up the opaque
hetero-plastic ladders that surpassed columbium steel in tensile
strength and cycle-endurance for unlike metal, there was no fatigue
factor. A babel of voices rose above the broken hum of the machinery
and the swirling hiss of the released acid. Intolerable fumes taxing
the conditioners in the safety towers, burned the membranes of their
nostrils and mouths as they gasped for air.
And, above the hum of the machinery, the growing turmoil of
panic-stricken technicians and tumult of excited voices, rose the
crystalline tones of the slender scientist once more:
"_Vat 66 explodes in twelve minutes!_"
A desperate look--the look of a trapped animal glazed Guerlan's green
eyes. If this was true, it was the end for him.
"The organic acid vat!... But, it's impossible!" He gasped.
Yet, inwardly, even as he denied the possibility, he knew with
soul-wrenching dread, and the certitude of a _perceptive_ that it was
true.
But he didn't have time to think, to plan a solution of the problem,
for already the outpouring technicians were sweeping him onward in
a desperate exodus toward the multiple conveyors that reached every
section and floor of the titanic structure that was known as Plastic
No. 15. Once as he was being pushed forward by the press of horrified
analysts, synthetizers, selectors, graders and all the technical
complement of the Second Order who actually transformed all foods,
materials, minerals and in fact everything produced in Neptune, he
glimpsed the calm features of the scientist he had first seen at the
Feast of the Jewels in the City of the Sphere, and it seemed to him
there was a hint of pity in the violet eyes.
Guerlan's face was white as _Jadite_ as he roared orders in an effort
to stem the maddened flood of men. He exhorted them to don their masks
of crysto-plast and try to hold back the expected explosion, but no
one paid any attention; it was doubtful if they even understood him
in their growing horror of the dread, corrosive acid that converted
organic matter into a secret formula that none but the Scientists of
the Inner Circle were permitted to know anything about. They never saw
the final product under the penalty of death.
* * * * *
At last they debouched into the conveyors, and Guerlan, among a
group of others, was taken to the Dispersors--platforms where the
ultra-sensitive dispersal machines sensitized to the vibrations of
their individual plastic wrist-band of rank, unerringly sent them to
their proper levels.
Guerlan's generous mouth was compressed into a pale scimitar. His odd,
slanting green eyes with long dark lashes, were almost black with
rebellious fury. Suddenly he was shunted into a special conveyor and a
platform where the conveyors to the inner corridors revolved.
"They already know!" He exclaimed bitterly. And he was not wrong.
For presently a plastic arm the color and texture of aluminum, but
incredibly stronger gathered him in and gently pushed him into an
alcove that immediately became hermetically sealed the very moment he
had entered. Guerlan saw that he was in an Efficiency Cubicle where
technicians were periodically tested. Before him stood a towering
Neuro-graph entirely fashioned of several types of plastics including
crystallite, as transparent as its namesake. It was an invention so
complicated that it resembled nothing so much as a multiplication
of tesseracts. Presently it became activated by Guerlan's mental
frequency, and one of its slender rods moved forward silently.
A magnetic current went through the analyst and held him rigid, while
another rod clamped a plastic helmet over the young man's head. For
several seconds the almost inaudible sighing of the complex machinery
was the only thing that disturbed the silence. Then, in precise,
clipped tones an uncannily human voice began in sonorous tones to
summarize his mental and physical coordinates:
"Efficiency totally neutralized by intense mental stress. Subject
suffering from psycho-atavistic retrogression. Paranoiac tendencies
with delusions of persecution. Immediate fear of death ... intense."
* * * * *
There was a pause in which Guerlan had time to remember how many times
he had attended councils with other Scientists of the First Order, when
the readings of the Master Neuro-graph on the First Level from which
he'd been ejected, had been tabulated from the readings of the various
neuro-graphs in the Plastic Centers and transmitted to the Council of
the Inner Circle in the City of the Sphere. Guerlan, his eyes flaming,
his face mutinous, awaited for the recommendation. It was not long in
coming.
"Report to Psychiatry III for amnesiac treatment for removal of
_superfluous_ knowledge. Recommendation: _Reclassify for Level III_."
"Damn them!" The desperate rebellion of a man condemned to worse than
death rose from his heart as the magnetic rod freed him and the helmet
was removed from his head.
He began to circle the cubicle like a trapped animal. "Level III!"
He wailed inwardly. The Level of the Automatons conditioned to
slave-labor, dwelling in semi-darkness and squalor, on a diet
restricted to barest essentials of energy units, until finally the
Blessed Sleep claimed him--whatever that was, he shuddered. He'd
had six failures in his section--Plastic No. 15, and six meant the
ultimate sentence. There was no trial, no jury, no opportunity even of
explaining or seeking in a rational manner the reason for those ghastly
explosions. Inexorably, the Law was final. But who was _The Law_?
From the high Level of a First Order Scientist engaged in scientific
work that had resulted in the miraculous array of plastics that had
made their civilization a thing of undreamed-of power and wealth,
he was cast without recourse to the Level of Darkness--memory-less,
reflex-conditioned, practically mindless except for slavish toil and
animal needs.
Little had he dreamed, even when a Scientist of the First Order, that
there existed such stupendous extremes as the fantastic splendor of
the City of the Sphere, and the hellish misery of Level III. The
Neuro-graph was speaking again in the sonorous, purple period that made
his hackles rise.
"Analyst Guerlan," it intoned and paused impressively. "You have failed
in your _Allotment_. Six accidents have destroyed enormous wealth
and caused inexcusable damage. You had not less than five previous
repetitions of the same type of accident to study and find a solution
to the problem ... a problem given you because of your blasphemous
attitude toward the Inner Circle. The sixth explosion was your epitaph.
Retribution _is_ The Law.
"You will be immediately conditioned for Level III. Amnesiac Treatment
will be administered to save needless suffering--we are merciful--a
robot-proctor will guide you henceforth through the various stages. A
Protector has spoken." The icy voice was silent.
Guerlan wondered which Protector had passed sentence. The hum of the
machine told of coordinators falling into place as his mental and
psychic state was recorded, the amount of energy of his metabolism
checked and the time potential of his servitude unerringly estimated. A
livid glow enveloped the strange instrument, and then, silently, a part
of the seemingly blank wall behind him slid aside for a robot-proctor's
entrance.
Guerlan knew that the inexorable sentence had been transmitted by
remote control through incredibly delicate processes to the machine
before him. But who'd decided on the sentence, or why the reason
for its harsh cruelty, he had no way of knowing. He doubted if the
elephantine Protector in Chief had bothered to pass it. But Guerlan had
no time to dwell on this question, for the bery-plastic robot-proctor,
its non-abradable crystallite eyes gleaming, had grasped him firmly by
the elbow to lead him away.
It was then that Guerlan acted without preconceived plan. His
magnificent chest arched as he sucked in air; then with a sinuous
movement of vertiginous speed, he twisted free and swooping downwards
at the same time he grasped the robot by its legs and then heaved with
a muscle-wrenching effort, flinging the plastic man with shattering
impact into the Neuro-graph. A dry, staccato rattle followed the
rending crash. Part of the robot-proctor protruded from what had been
the machine's crystallite dome and fragments of delicate mechanism and
scintillating shards of priceless _Jadite_ showered on the plastic
floor.
Instantly the cubicle was illuminated by a vivid, crimson fluorescence,
while the opening in the wall began rapidly to close. But Vyrl Guerlan
was already speeding toward the closing aperture. Instantly he was
through, seconds later only a blank wall showed where an opening had
been. A series of alarms in coordinated prismatic flashes flared in
every direction, activating the Safety Machines. Long, crane-like
alumi-plastic arms extended from ramps and conveyor-heads to trap
him; all efficiency cubicles became hermetically sealed cells, and
over all, a shrill maddening whine rose in fiendish wail, insistent,
nerve-shattering.
Guerlan knew death was at his heels. He dodged the gasping arms and
magnetic traps, straining his extra-sensory perception to its fullest
power without slowing down the killing pace he maintained. Still he
wondered how long he could last against the diabolical ingenuity of
the Inner Circle. If he only had some human to go up against, with
atomo-pistols, or the more devastating supernal fire of the electronic
flash, forbidden to all but the Inner Circle Scientist--or even the
primitive swords and rapiers used to hunt Irreconcilables in Neptune's
vast forests. But machines! Soulless, cold plastic machines! His
capable hands clenched and unclenched as he flung himself toward the
ascending conveyor before him, his breath labored, his chest heaving.
"No, idiot ... not that one!" There was an intense urgency in the
crystalline voice that speared into his consciousness. Even before he
turned to locate the speaker, he recognized the voice. Twice before in
a moment of crisis he'd heard it.
"You!" Guerlan breathed explosively. He tensed himself to leap upon the
fragile figure at the least movement. But once more the preternaturally
calm gaze from the violet eyes held him in thrall.
"That conveyor was purposely set in motion to trap you ... it leads to
Psychiatry III where you would have been neutralized, Guerlan. Take the
blue, lapiz-lazuli conveyor behind you to the right. Hurry! We've only
seconds before the chamber is gassed!"
Suiting action to his words, the slender scientist dashed to the
gleaming plastic conveyor that imitated in all its sapphirine
perfection the blue glory of lapiz-lazuli. In an instant Guerlan was
beside the scientist in a leap. He grasped the fragile shoulder with
fingers that dug into rounded flesh.
"If this is a trap, you die with me," he said briefly.
"Your fingers," the scientist remarked impassively, "are like columbium
steel. Suppose you await developments before indulging in atavistic
impulses--besides, a real man offers no violence to a woman!"
"A woman ... you?" Guerlan's dazed expression was ludicrous. "I thought
you were one of those repugnantly beautiful 'Intermediates' the Inner
Circle uses for intricate mental synthesis."
"Am I repugnantly beautiful?" the scientist asked in cold detachment,
luminous violet eyes gazing inscrutably into the reddening features of
the young analyst.
* * * * *
Guerlan gazed at the exquisite face before him, and said laconically,
"On the contrary." He was too confused for words just now.
"My name is Perlac," the girl scientist said without preamble. "Listen
carefully. This conveyor happens to be the only one that leads to the
aero-dome. All the rest have no exit, for although you do not know
it, every rest period you are directed to exit-conveyors by magnetic
coordinators that act on impulses sent by Selectors. These selectors
are attuned to the mental wave-length of the individual. No scientist,
analyst or technician may leave a plastic center without being tested
and their fitness for even limited temporary freedom established ...
_not even to rest_! That is why the direction of the conveyors is
changed for every allotment period and no one is permitted to know
which is the exit conveyor! Had you remained in City of the Sphere and
joined the Inner Circle, you would have learned all this."
Guerlan stared at Perlac in incredulity. "But ... where are the
Selectors? I've never seen them!"
"Is that strange? They're in the walls, imbedded in the flooring
beneath your feet ... oh, in a thousand places! But we've no time for
involved explanations just now. We're nearing the Aero-dome. Prepare
for the worst; but if we can get to my plane, we'll be beyond capture."
"In a slow, propulsion type craft?" Guerlan asked unbelievingly. "We'll
be captured in minutes, if not blasted out of the Second Level by
Robot-Proctors!"
* * * * *
Perlac turned and gazed into the young analyst's eyes; a gentle, slow
smile illumined her features like a tardy dawn.
Suddenly they were at the vast platform that exited into the Aero-dome,
but where the great section of wall should have slid aside, it remained
blank and hermetically closed. It was a definite dead end.
Far below them a greenish opalescence began to rise in tenuous,
billowing clouds, and the faint odor of new-mown hay came almost
imperceptibly to their nostrils. From the bowels of the gigantic
plant, robot-proctors began to debouch onto the blue conveyor in
serried ranks, impervious to death. Guerlan gazed curiously at the
girl scientist. "Looks like your plan has failed, Perlac. What I can't
understand is why you've thrown your lot in with me. I'm condemned ...
first it was to Level II, then for six failures to the living death of
Level III, and now that I have rebelled, I have no end but death. You
must have known there were _six failures_!"
"Yes, I knew ... that's why I'm here." The unearthly voice was barely
a whisper. "Ever since the night you were at the Feast of the Jewels
and you were appalled at the debauchery of the Inner Circle, you
have been chosen. And my plan has not failed!" There was a world of
conviction in the exquisite voice, yet she said it softly, very softly
indeed.
Slowly Perlac raised her hand, and Guerlan saw it held a tiny, slender
instrument the butt of which was a round ball concealed in the palm of
her hand. It was the dreadful electronic-flash, and she calmly aimed
it at the blank wall, playing it up and down its length. The seemingly
impenetrable wall of toughest bery-plastic parted from top to bottom
under the supernal fire of the electronic-flash, as the electronic
balance of the plastic's atomic structure was disrupted and literally
dispersed into space. There was no flash, no explosion, nothing but
a silent widening of the breach, until it was wide enough to permit
Guerlan's herculean shoulders to squeeze through.
Nothing seemed to have issued from the instrument in Perlac's hand, no
beam of force, no light--literally nothing, yet, the strongest material
known to their civilization, surpassing even the heaviest columbium
steel armor, had been riven in seconds.
[Illustration: _Guerlan followed Perlac through the gaping hole._]
Once out in the immense Aero-dome, the platform was filled with
ships of every description under robot-proctor guard, from tiny
electro-copters with retractible vanes, to a large, powerful cruiser
reserved for Inspectors of the First Order. The moment Perlac and
Guerlan came into view, the robot-proctors aimed their electro-pistols
and atomo-pistols, but Perlac already had covered them with her
electronic-flash and their plastic bodies disintegrated in seconds.
"The Cruiser!" Guerlan was exultant. "That's what we need, it has the
speed and endurance, and perhaps we can get by the robot-guard at the
outer gates of the shell, and reach the forests!"
"No," Perlac shook her gold-red mane, "we'll take my ship, no time
to argue now ... you'll see!" She was already running toward a
blunt-looking four-seater of the electro-type usually reserved for
scientists of the First Order who were not inspectors.
Guerlan hesitated, exasperation written in his face. To disdain a
powerful cruiser for this slow-going, vulnerable craft was beyond
his comprehension. But Perlac without slackening her stride made a
peremptory motion with her slender hand and shouted: "Follow me! I've
been right thus far; trust me, you fool!"
Behind them, through the breach in the wall a phalanx of robot-proctors
was emerging, and wisps of green gas were beginning to reach the
Aero-dome.
In giant strides Guerlan covered the distance to Perlac's plane and
entered its cabin. The die was cast, after all he owed her his life in
a way. But for her he would be in Psychiatry III right now.
* * * * *
He had scarcely strapped himself, when the ordinary-looking craft shot
forward in a dazzling burst of acceleration that pressed Guerlan back
against the mullioned seat with almost paralyzing force. But even then
his trained faculties noted the sheath of columbium with which the
plane was completely lined, and his ears detected the unmistakable hum
of powerful atomic engines. One glance at the complex instrument panel
told him that here was a craft that was far more than it seemed to be.
But he'd scarcely time to begin to think order out of chaos, when a
growing nausea born of the steadily increasing acceleration cleaved his
tongue to his palate, and his lower jaw slowly twisted to one side.
Perlac, an immobile figurine of alabaster, eyes closed, seemed crushed
against her seat. On and on the plane sped slanting upwards as if
determined to crash the transparent barrier that separated them from
the next level. And then as suddenly as it began, their terrific speed
slackened and the plane levelled off. The intense agony Guerlan had
momentarily felt dwindled and disappeared. He saw the girl manipulate
what was evidently a robot control, setting it for a new direction and
rate of speed, then lock it in place.
"Look downwards, Guerlan, there to our right," Perlac whispered.
An umbrella of atomo-planes in all the sleek glory of deadly
interceptors, spread below them in battle formation; behind them the
immense plastic pylons that supported the next tier, and the crenelated
superstructure of Level II, combined with distance to dwarf them
into toy-like dimensions. The semi-transparent roof of Level II was
dangerously near, Guerlan saw, and the forest of pylons dead ahead that
marked the center of their level was another fatal hazard. But Perlac
manipulated the intricate controls with casual ease, leaving the rate
of speed and general direction to the robot-control, she merely made
minute adjustments.
"We outdistanced them!" Guerlan was awed. That anything in the
possession of even an Inner Circle scientist could outdistance the
Pursuit Fleet of the Protector in Chief was unimaginable.
"This spacer's something His Benevolence would give the Diadem Jewel
for--or rather for the secret of its construction!" The girl laughed
softly. "It's atomic, of course, but a variation based on a principle
that goes beyond Terran equations."
Guerlan gazed wonderingly at the exquisite features of the fragile
girl-scientist, marveling at the incredible courage of this puzzling
being who unaccountably had chosen to throw in her lot with his own.
"Perlac," Guerlan spoke thoughtfully. "I'm afraid today has been
something of a mystery. From what I've seen you do to that Aero-dome
wall, the inexplicable accidents of the acid vats were undoubtedly your
doing. Yet, you've saved my life and in so doing forfeited your own.
Why? What interest can you possibly have in a doomed life such as mine?"
The girl smiled slowly, ineffably, in a mixture of melancholy sweetness
and inexpressable sadness. She turned her golden head slightly and when
she spoke her voice had sombre overtones rich with emotion.
"Do you know what is piped into the so-called organic vats, Guerlan?
No, you wouldn't know. Plants, you thought, beasts and cattle and dead
flesh.... Dead, yes. The murdered bodies of human beings, such as _you_
would have been!"
All Guerlan's rigid training rose in protest at the charge against
the Protector in Chief. It could not be! There could be no murder in
Plastica, duels yes, honorable combat between men ... but murder!
He acknowledged that the Laws of Plastic, Inc., were ruthless and
harsh, and the Inner Circle had become lax in their supervision,
until Plastics, Inc., had become an octopus. But to imply that His
Benevolence would countenance cold-blooded murder ... every fiber of
his being revolted from such a charge.
And then he remembered the Feast of the Jewels, and the travesty of
justice in his case, and he was silenced.
"His Benevolence and the Inner Circle _are_ Plastics, Inc." Perlac
continued imperturbably as if reading his thoughts. "Don't argue now,
strap yourself in and prepare for an orbital fall, we'll wheel in
direct ratio with the rotation of the planet then dive in a concentric
spiral that will become tighter and tighter until we reach our
objective. It is the only way we can elude the robot-proctor patrol....
Look, they are climbing already. The plane's robot control is set
and timed--it will take us there. No human being can possibly retain
consciousness to guide the plane in such a maneuver," she explained,
pale as alabaster.
* * * * *
Before Vyrl Guerlan had time to do else but tighten the broad straps
and lean back against the mullioned seat, the girl had touched a series
of knobs. Suddenly the craft began to wheel with meteoric speed, then
dived with a violence that sent the landscape spinning into a fantastic
pattern that quickly blurred. Guerlan felt as if the very marrow in
his bones had liquefied, an intolerable pain lanced at the back of
his brain like an atomic needle, and his face was contorted into a
spasmodic grimace he was unable to control. He tried to close his eyes
but couldn't, tried to shout and suddenly plummeted into an abyss.
They were diving downward into the outskirts of the immense city, down
a secret inter-communicating passage that connected the various levels,
past the third, fourth and finally into a yawning chasm where all
was darkness. The hurtling craft sped on unerringly as if drawn by a
magnetic beam.
When Guerlan finally awoke, he found himself in intense darkness. Only
his labored breath disturbed the silence. Motionless, his body a living
pain, he tried to adjust his thoughts and piece together the jig-saw
puzzle of the last few hours. Groping into his tunic he brought out an
atomo-torch. By its discreet illumination, he saw that the girl was
quivering like a being in torture. Gently he massaged her temples and
the base of her neck then her soft, white throat; with infinite care he
opened her mouth and inserted a pellet of _alphaline_ to stimulate her
heart, then stroked the gleaming red-gold hair back from her forehead
until the girl showed signs of coming to.
"Have you any stimulants aboard?" he asked her, when Perlac opened
her eyes. "I feel drained, but that's nothing to what you must feel,
Perlac!"
She gave him a pallid smile. "There," she pointed weakly, "to the left
of the instrument panel."
Guerlan pressed the combination lock and found in the compartment a
full kit of surgical instruments and bandages in a superb _Jadite_
case. A priceless flask of _Sapphirac_ filled with sterile water, and,
to his intense surprise, a Platino-plastic bottle, encrusted with
tourmalines more brilliant than emeralds and filled with the utterly
proscribed _Sulfalixir_!
"That ... that's it," Perlac gasped and reached for the bottle in
Guerlan's hand.
"But, it's deadly!" Guerlan was aghast. "How can you risk addiction to
that dreadful drug?"
"You're a victim of conditioning." Even as weak as she felt, Perlac
managed a low laugh, "_Sulfalixir_ is a miracle drug--not what you've
been taught to believe." She drank sparingly and offered him the
bottle, but Guerlan drew back in categorical refusal. "As you wish. Now
we must leave the plane."
"But where in ten thousand Hellacoriums are we?" Guerlan's voice was
mutinous. "I've been a pawn in a game ever since I went to the sphere
and blasphemed, since you burst the acid vat and exploded Organic 66!
By Neptune's Moon I'll be dissolved if I stir another step without
knowing what this is all about!" His green eyes were wide and gleaming,
his handsome face set in rigid lines.
"All right, atavism! You're on Level Five, and you're going to a
meeting. I want you to appraise what the Amnesiac treatment does to
human beings, and how the condemned live on this level. The third
level is sheer luxury compared to this. You Scientists of the First
Level have no conception of what happens on the third, fourth and
fifth levels, where life ceases to be even existence and becomes...."
But words failed her, and she fell back against her mullioned seat
breathing heavily. After a pause she asked: "Will you come now?"
"No," Guerlan grinned. "I'll lead the way. It was an experience seeing
you in a fury; blessed if I thought anything could disturb you!" He
stood up and pressed the plane's dome release and the stale, fetid air
of the nether regions of the city swept in. Only the conditioners broke
the silence with their constantly iterated and reiterated subconscious
homily of simple, child-like thought-patterns for the amnesiacs. It
was an eternal reiteration of the "Conditioning Controls" which no
amnesiac could ever escape, except at intervals when the amnesiac
counter-reaction set in as their metabolism building up a resistance
to the administered drug rendered them impervious and they regained a
measure of their former memories as consciousness returned. That was
the period of danger, when they were at the verge of any madness, in
their utter hopelessness. Deliberately they invited death. But here in
these vast catacombs, their end was but a detail, and the organic vats
eventually received them.
"Listen!" It was Perlac's voice indistinct with indignation, "listen to
the 'conditioners,' Guerlan!"
"Sleep ... sleep now. Deep, dreamless sleep ... for the conservation
of your energy is your noblest effort ... so you may conserve your
strength for work ... work ... you must, you absolutely must
_Achieve_ ... so that you may fulfill your maximum allotment ...
maximum ... and be rewarded.... Sleep ... sleep...."
Endlessly the fiendish mosaic of lies and psychological half-truths
went on and on, imbedding itself in the violated minds that slept in
the stupor of the utterly exhausted.
Guerlan shivered. A malefic aura of death and torture seemed woven into
the matrix of darkness that surrounded them. The very odor of death
was in their nostrils as they left the atomo-plane by the light of his
torch and faced the narrow, tortuous thoroughfare that wended its way
from the wide circle where the plane had come to rest.
Perlac pressed close to him and her slender hand gripped his arm.
There were no robot-proctors in sight, none were needed here where
no amnesiac ever left alive. No victims were in sight, for the day
workers rested and the nocturnal shift toiled in their prisoning
workrooms. Behind them, in front of them, from every side, the
Conditioners continued their endless chant: "Loyalty ... obedience ...
unquestioningly you must achieve ... for our glorious State."