CHAPTER II
Well inside the solar system the huge space ship plunged on, released from the warp drive and slowly braking to establish an orbit around the third planet.
Herb came up from the deep stupor of the drugs. He had been under their influence for the last twenty hours while the sleep tapes hammered information into his unconscious brain.
"All right," said Wezen, their private custodian, "time for exercise. Two hours of work-outs, and then you eat."
Herb sat up and felt his head. It ached dully. "Give me a minute. Time to think, Wezen. I'm—"
The other two starmen were also recovering.
"None of that! No time to think! Get up! Get up!"
Herb got reluctantly to his feet. Cold air washed over his nude body, and he trembled. He wanted to return to sleep, not the drugged sleep of the sleep tapes, but the genuine, untroubled sleep. Something frightening and alien was taking place in his mind.
He looked around for a dream form. It was a subconscious response. He realized with relief that it was not necessary to fill one in. Technically, he had not been asleep.
The Oligarch came to witness the first awakening. "How goes it, Wezen?"
"Fine."
"I don't know," Herb said. "My mind, it's ... I can't think...."
One of the others said, "There's all kinds of information, but I can't get at it. I ... can't ... get ... at ... it." He looked around desperately. "Every time I try, something new comes up. It's like a volcano. I can't control it. I think, the name of a river is Mississi—and then I know that leaves are green, and...."
"The sun is 93 million miles away...."
"The day is divided into twenty-four equal periods of sixty minutes...."
"The largest ocean is the Pacific...."
"The Federal Government of the United States of America is composed of three independent branches...."
They were all talking at once.
"It's awful. Not to be able to control...."
"Good, good," said the Oligarch. He was satisfied with the progress. By the time they landed, they would be little more than mechanisms designed to answer questions; they would not be able to think at all: they would respond. Stimuli-response.
"Freedom," said the Oligarch.
"Is," Herb found himself saying, "is the basis of any government that governs justly."
Wezen made a little intake of air that was loud in the shocked silence.
"I said that," Herb said unbelievingly.
"Excellent," said the Oligarch. "The proper reaction."
Wezen relaxed, but he was visibly shaken. He had heard the heresy. What might happen to him later, when this job was done?
"The indoctrination is beginning nicely." The Oligarch nodded. They would be able to soothe suspicion and dispel fear when they arrived on Earth. They would speak of love and assistance when the time came. "But you still have much to learn."
"You have a lot of information about them," Herb said. "Their history ... their.... You got it just in the last few days from their radio and television shows? I don't see how...."
"We extrapolate; there are machines," the Oligarch said. He regarded Herb narrowly. "I believe we better step up the pace." He was not going to give Herb time to rest, to think, to understand, to correlate the mind staggering mass of information he was receiving. "Let's hurry to the recreation room for calisthenics."
In the corridor, Herb glanced around for microphones and saw he was in an unwired stretch. He turned to the starman beside him. Their eyes met. Identical information had been fed simultaneously to both of them. "You heard what I said?"
"Yes."
"What kind of a place is this, this Earth?"
The other strained to think. "It's.... It's.... I don't believe it."
"All men are created equal," Herb said.
"And they hold these truths to be self evident...."
"Nor make any laws abridging...."
"Shhhhh!" the third starman whispered. "Microphones up here." They fell silent.
The Oligarch went to his stateroom and ordered a meal. He had been indoctrinated by the sleep tapes about Earth well over a Brionimanian year previously. The tapes had been brought back by an extensive scouting expedition composed solely of Oligarchs.
He found them a naive race. Weakness, of course, was their short coming. As was often the case. He imagined his hand touching the lever that would trigger the explosive. He saw, in imagination, the planet fly asunder.
He had destroyed before. Five races had died beneath his hands. And now—
Perhaps, he thought, I am growing old. Why is it I do not want to destroy this race myself? Am I becoming weak?
He was angry with himself. Weakness! he thought. I'm acting like a subject, he thought. I'm an Oligarch.
Oligarch, he thought.
Five races, and now the sixth....
Where will it end? he thought.
It will never end.
Slowly the smile came. We are supreme, he thought, the lords and masters, and it will never end.
His scalp prickled with destiny.
Five races. He saw his hand reach out for the sixth.
He shuddered. Weeks ago he had reached his decision.
Bleakly he thought: I can't do it.
Perspiration crept down his spine. If a planet were not blown up, the whole fabric of his society would collapse. Brionimar must never learn.
But Brionimar would learn. Earth was on the verge of space flight. Within a generation they would be listening for radio and television extension-waves in hyperspace that would indicate the existence of another civilization. In two generations they would be in the skies of Brionimar. And then the subjects would see salvation: here (they would reason) is another race capable of preserving the Universe. And there would be no appeasing their blind and mindless wrath until the last Oligarch was dismembered and bloodless.
His hand reached out and curled around an imaginary lever. It must be done, he thought. But not by me. Not by me. Not this hand. He looked down at his hands: white and immaculate and always clean. He washed them frequently.
Someone else must pull the lever.
I must leave a man behind at the bomb site to do it, he thought.
Psychology was a science on Brionimar; and he was a scientist. There was only one man he could be sure of out of all the crew. There were several fanatics, but he distrusted them. There was one idealist who would, of a psychological certainty, pull that lever and blow himself up along with Earth in the belief that his action was necessary to preserve the Universe.
Herb.