CHAPTER VII
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.”