"Do you really mean that?"
"I certainly do. I'm sick of standing around watching a machine do the same thing day after day. Most of the professional men I know feel the same way. We want to do something. Anything. Did you know that a hundred years ago human-piloted starships were exploring the planets of other solar systems?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's what we should be doing now. Moving outward, exploring, advancing. That's what we need."
"I agree. But don't you think you're saying rather dangerous things?"
"I know I am. But frankly, I just don't care any longer. Let them ship me to Omega if they want to. I'm doing no good here."
"Then you've heard about Omega?"
"Anyone connected with starships knows about Omega. Round trips between Omega and Earth, that's all our ships do. It's a terrible world. Personally, I put the blame on the clergy."
"The clergy?"
"Absolutely. Those sanctimonious fools with their endless drivel about the Church of the Spirit of Mankind Incarnate. It's enough to make a man wish for a little evil...."
(Citizen Father Boeren, age 51, occupation clergyman. A stately, plum-shaped man wearing a saffron robe and white sandals.)
"That's right, my son, I am the abbot of the local branch of the Church of the Spirit of Mankind Incarnate. Our church is the official and exclusive religious expression of the government of Earth. Our religion speaks for all the peoples of Earth. It is a composite of the best elements of all the former religions, both major and minor, skillfully blended into a single all-embracing faith."
"Citizen Abbot, aren't there bound to be contradictions in doctrine among the various religions which make up your faith?"
"Therewere. But the forgers of our present Church threw out all controversial matter. Wewanted agreement, not dissension. We preserve only certain colorful facets of those early great religions; facets with which people can identify. There have never been any schisms in our religion, because we are all-acceptant. One may believe anything one wishes, as long as it preserves the holy spirit of Mankind Incarnate. For our worship, you see, is the true worship of Man. And the spirit we recognize is the spirit of the divine and holy Good."
"Would you define Good for me, Citizen Abbot?"
"Certainly. Good is that force within us which inspires men to acts of conformity and subservience. The worship of Good is essentially the worship of oneself, and therefore the only true worship. The self which one worships is the ideal social being: the man content in his niche in society, yet ready to creatively advance his status. Good is gentle, since it is a true reflection of the loving and pitying universe. Good is continually changing in its aspects, although it comes to us in the ... You have a strange look on your face, young man."
"I'm sorry, Citizen Abbot. I believe I heard that sermon, or one very much like it."
"It is true wherever one hears it."
"Of course. One more question, sir. Could you tell me about the religious instruction of children?"
"That duty is performed for us by the robot-confessors."
"Yes?"
"The notion came to us from the ancient root-faith of Transcendental Freudianism. The robot-confessor instructs children and adults alike. It hears their problems within the social matrix. It is their constant friend, their social mentor, theirreligious instructor. Being robotic, the confessors are able to give exact and unvarying answers to any question. This aids the great work of Conformity."
"I can see that it does. What do the human priests do?"
"They watch over the robot-confessors."
"Are these robot-confessors present in the closed classrooms?"
"I am not competent to answer that."
"They are, aren't they?"
"I truly do not know. The closed classrooms are closed to abbots as well as other adults."
"By whose order?"
"By order of the Chief of the Secret Police."
"I see.... Thank you, Citizen Abbot Boeren."
(Citizen Enyen Dravivian, age 43, occupation government employee. A narrow-faced, slit-eyed man, old and tired beyond his years.)
"Good afternoon, sir. You say that you are employed by the government?"
"Correct."
"Is that the state or the federal government?"
"Both."
"I see. And have you been in this employ for very long?"
"Approximately eighteen years."
"Yes, sir. Would you mind telling me what, specifically, your job is?"
"Not at all. I am the Chief of the Secret Police."
"You are—I see, sir. That's very interesting. I—"
"Don't reach for your needlebeam, ex-Citizen Barrent. I can assure you, it won't operate in the blanketed area around this house. And if you draw it, you'll be hurt."
"How?"
"I have my own means of protection."
"How did you know my name?"
"I've known about you almost since you set foot upon Earth. We are not entirely without resources you know. But we can discuss all that inside. Won't you come in?"
"I think I'd rather not."
"I'm afraid you have to. Come, Barrent, I won't bite you."
"Am I under arrest?"
"Of course not. We're simply going to have a little talk. That's right, sir, right through there. Just make yourself comfortable."
Dravivian led him into a large room paneled in walnut. The furniture was of a heavy, black wood, intricately carved and varnished. The desk, high and straight, seemed to be an antique. A heavy tapestry covered one entire wall. It depicted, in fading colors, a medieval hunting scene.
"Do you like it?" Dravivian asked. "My family did the furnishing. My wife copied the tapestry from an original in the Metropolitan Museum. My two sons collaborated on the furniture. They wanted something ancient and Spanish in feeling, but with more comfort than antiques usually give. A slight modification of the lines accomplished that. My own contributions are not visible. Music of the baroque period is my specialty."
"Aside from policework," Barrent said.
"Yes, aside from that." Dravivian turned away from Barrent and looked thoughtfully at the tapestry. "We will come to the matter of the police in due course. Tell me first, what do you think of this room?"
"It's very beautiful," Barrent said.
"Yes. And?"
"Well—I'm no judge."
"Youmustjudge," Dravivian said. "In this room you can see Earth's civilization in miniature. Tell me what you think of it."
"It feels lifeless," Barrent said.
Dravivian turned to Barrent and smiled. "Yes, that's a good word for it. Self-involved might perhaps be better. This is a high-status room, Barrent. A great deal of creativity has gone into the artistic improvement of ancient archetypes. My family has re-created a bit of the Spanish past, as others have re-created bits of the Mayan, Early American, or Oceanic past. And yet, the essential hollowness is obvious. Our automatized factories produce the same goods for us year in and year out. Since everyone has these same goods, it is necessary for us to change the factory product, to improve and embroider it, to express ourselves through it, to rank ourselves by it. That's how Earth is, Barrent. Our energy and skills are channeled into essentially decadent pursuits. We re-carve old furniture, worry about rank and status, and in the meantime the frontier of the distant planets remains unexplored and unconquered. We ceased long ago to expand. Stability brought the danger of stagnation, to which we succumbed. We became so highly socialized that individuality had to be diverted to the most harmless of pursuits, turned inward, kept from any meaningful expression. I think you have seen a fair amount of that in your time on Earth?"
"I have. But I never expected to hear the Chief of the Secret Police say it."
"I'm an unusual man," Dravivian said, with a mocking smile. "And the Secret Police is an unusual institution."
"It must be very efficient. How did you find out about me?"
"That was really quite simple. Most of the people of Earth are security-conditioned from childhood. It's part of our heritage, you know. Nearly all the people you met were able to tell that there was something very wrong about you. You were as obviously out of place as a wolf among sheep. People noticed, and reported directly to me."
"All right," Barrent said. "Now what?"
"First I would like you to tell me about Omega."
Barrent told the Police Chief about his life on the prison planet. Dravivian nodded, a faint smile on his lips.
"Yes, it's very much as I expected," he said. "The same sort of thing has happened on Omega as happened in early America and Australia. There are differences, of course; you have been shut off more completely from the mother country. But the same fierce energy and drive is there, and the same ruthlessness."
"What are you going to do?" Barrent asked.
Dravivian shrugged his shoulders. "It really doesn't matter. I suppose I could kill you. But that wouldn't stop your group on Omega from sending out other spies, or from seizing one of the prison ships. As soon as the Omegans begin to move in force, they'll discover the truth anyhow."
"What truth?"
"By now it must be obvious to you," Dravivian said. "Earth hasn't fought a war for nearly eight hundred years. We wouldn't know how. The organization of guardships around Omega is pure façade. The ships are completely automatized, built to meet conditions of several hundreds years ago. A determined attack will capture a ship; and when you have one, the rest will fall. After that, there's nothing to stop the Omegans from coming back to Earth; and there's nothing on Earth to fight them with. This, you must realize, is the reason why all prisoners leaving Earth are divorced from their memories. If theyremembered, Earth's vulnerability would be painfully apparent."
"If you knew all this," Barrent asked, "why didn't your leaders do something about it?"
"That was our original intention. But there was no real drive behind the intention. We preferred not to think about it. We assumed the status quo would remain indefinitely. We didn't want to think about the day when the Omegans returned to Earth."
"What are you and your police going to do about it?" Barrent asked.
"I am façade, too," Dravivian told him. "I have no police. The position of Chief is entirely honorary. There has been no need of a police force on Earth for close to a century."
"You're going to need one when the Omegans come home," Barrent said.
"Yes. There's going to be crime again, and serious trouble. But I think the final amalgamation will be successful. You on Omega have the drive, the ambition to reach the stars. I believe you need a certain stability and creativeness which Earth can provide. Whatever the results, the union is inevitable. We've lived in a dream here for too long. It'sgoing to take violent measures to awaken us."
Dravivian rose to his feet. "And now," he said, "since the fate of Earth and Omega seem to be decided, could I offer you some refreshment?"
With the help of the Chief of Police, Barrent put a message aboard the next ship to leave for Omega. The message told about conditions on Earth and urged immediate action. When that was finished, Barrent was ready for his final job—to find the judge who had sentenced him for a crime he hadn't committed, and the lying informer who had turned him in to the judge. When he found those two, Barrent knew he would regain the missing portions of his memory.
He took the night expressway to Youngerstun. His suspicions, sharply keyed from life on Omega, would not let him rest. There had to be a catch to all this splendid simplicity. Perhaps he would find it in Youngerstun.
By early morning he was there. Superficially, the neat rows of houses looked the same as in any other town. But for Barrent they were different, and achingly familiar. Herememberedthis town, and the monotonous houses had individuality and meaning for him. He had been born and raised in this town.
There was Grothmeir's store, and across the street was the home of Havening, the local interior decorating champion. Here was Billy Havelock's house. Billy had been his best friend. They had planned on being starmen together, and had remained good friends after school—until Barrent had been sentenced to Omega.
Here was Andrew Therkaler's house. And down the block was the school he had attended. He could remember the classes. He could remember how, every day, they had gone through the door that led to the closed class. But he still could not remember what he had learned there.
Right here, near two huge elms, the murder had taken place. Barrent walked to the spot and remembered how it had happened. He had been on his way home. From somewhere down the street he had heard a scream. He had turned, and a man—Illiardi—had run down the street and thrown something at him. Barrent had caught it instinctively and found himself holding an illegal handgun. A few steps further, he had looked into the twisted dead face of Andrew Therkaler.
And what had happened next? Confusion. Panic. A sensation of someone watching as he stood, weapon in hand, over the corpse. There, at the end of the street, was the refuge to which he had gone.
He walked up to it, and recognized it as a robot-confessional booth.
Barrent entered the booth. It was small, and there was a faint odor of incense in the air. The room contained a single chair. Facing it was a complex, brilliantly lighted panel.
"Good morning, Will," the panel said to him.
Barrent had a sudden sense of helplessness when he heard that soft mechanical voice. He remembered it now. The passionless voice knew all, understood all, and forgave nothing. That artfully manufactured voice had spoken to him, had listened, and then had judged. In his dream, he had personified the robot-confessor into the figure of a human judge.
"You remember me?" Barrent asked.
"Of course," said the robot-confessor. "You were one of my parishioners before you went to Omega."
"You sent me there."
"For the crime of murder."
"But I didn't commit the crime!" Barrent said. "I didn't do it, and you must have known it!"
"Of course I knew it," the robot-confessor said. "But my powers and duties are strictly defined. I sentence according to evidence, not intuition. By law, the robot-confessors must weigh only the concrete evidence which is put before them. They must, when in doubt, sentence. In fact, the mere presence of a man before me charged with murder must be taken as a strong presumption of his guilt."
"Was there evidence against me?"
"Yes."
"Who gave it?"
"I cannot reveal his name."
"You must!" Barrent said. "Times are changing on Earth. The prisoners are coming back. Did you know that?"
"I expected it," the robot-confessor said.
"I must have the informer's name," Barrent said. He took the needlebeam out of his pocket and advanced toward the panel.
"A machine cannot be coerced," the robot-confessor told him.
"Give me the name!" Barrent shouted.
"I should not, for your own good. The danger would be too great. Believe me, Will...."
"The name!"
"Very well. You will find the informer at Thirty-five Maple Street. But I earnestly advise you not to go there. You will be killed. You simply do not know—"
Barrent pressed the trigger, and the narrow beam scythed through the panel. Lights flashed and faded as he cut through the intricate wiring. At last all the lights were dead, and a faint gray smoke came from the panel.
Barrent left the booth. He put the needlebeam back in his pocket and walked to Maple Street.
He had been here before. He knew this street, set upon a hill, rising steeply between oak and maple trees. Those lampposts were old friends, that crack in the pavement was an ancient landmark. Here were the houses, heavy with familiarity. They seemed to lean expectantly toward him, like spectators waiting for the final act of an almost forgotten drama.
He stood in front of 35 Maple Street. The silence which surrounded that plain white-shuttered house struck him as ominous. He took the needlebeam out of his pocket, looking for a reassurance he knew he could not find. Then he walked up theneat flagstones and tried the front door. It opened. He stepped inside.
He made out the dim shades of lamps and furniture, the dull gleam of a painting on the wall, a piece of statuary on an ebony pedestal. Needlebeam in hand, he stepped into the next room.
And came face to face with the informer.
Staring at the informer's face, Barrent remembered. In an overpowering flood of memory he saw himself, a little boy, entering the closed classroom. He heard again the soothing hum of machinery, watched the pretty lights blink and flash, heard the insinuating machine voice whisper in his ear. At first, the voice filled him with horror; what it suggested was unthinkable. Then, slowly, he became accustomed to it, and accustomed to all the strange things that happened in the closed classroom.
Helearned. The machines taught on deep, unconscious levels. The machines intertwined their lessons with the basic drives, weaving a pattern of learned behavior with the life instinct. They taught, then blocked off conscious knowledge of the lessons, sealed it—and fused it.
What had he been taught?For the social good, you must be your own policeman and witness. You must assume responsibility for any crime which might conceivably be yours.
The face of the informer stared impassively at him. It was Barrent's own face, reflected back from a mirror on the wall.
He had informed on himself. Standing with the gun in his hand that day, looking down at the murdered man, learned unconscious processeshad taken over. The presumption of guilt had been too great for him to resist, the similarity to guilt had turned into guilt itself. He had walked to the robot-confessor's booth, and there he had given complete and damning evidence against himself, had indicted himself on the basis of probability.
The robot-confessor had passed the obligatory sentence and Barrent had left the booth. Well-trained in the lessons of the classroom, he had taken himself into custody, had gone to the nearest thought-control center in Trenton. Already a partial amnesia had taken place, keyed to and triggered by the lessons of the closed classroom.
The skilled android technicians in the thought-control center had labored hard to complete this amnesia, to obliterate any remnants of memory. As a standard safeguard against any possible recovering of his memory, they had implanted a logical construct of his crime beneath the conscious level. As the regulations required, this construct contained an implication of the far-reaching power of Earth.
When the job was completed, an automatized Barrent had marched out of the center, taken a special expressway to the prison ship depot, boarded the prison ship, entered his cell, and closed the door and left Earth behind him. Then he had slept until the checkpoint had been passed, after which the newly arrived guards awakened the prisoners for disembarkation on Omega....
Now, staring at his own face in the mirror, the last of the conscious lessons of the classroom became conscious:
The lessons of the closed classroom must never be consciously known by the individual. If they become conscious the human organism must perform an immediate act of self-destruction.
Now he saw why his conquest of Earth had been so easy; it was because he had conquered nothing. Earth needed no security forces, for the policeman and the executioner were implanted in every man's mind. Beneath the surface of Earth's mild and pleasant culture was a self-perpetuating robot civilization. An awareness of that civilization was punishable by death.
And here, at this moment, the real struggle for Earth began.
Learned behavior patterns intertwined with basic life drives forced Barrent to raise the needlebeam, to point it toward his head. This was what the robot-confessor had tried to warn him about, and what the mutant girl had skrenned. The younger Barrent, conditioned to absolute and mindless conformity, had to kill himself.
The older Barrent who had spent time on Omega fought that blind urge. A schizophrenic Barrent fought himself. The two parts of him battled for possession of the weapon, for control of the body, for ownership of the mind.
The needlebeam's movement stopped inches from his head. The muzzle wavered. Then slowly, the new Omegan Barrent, Barrent2, forced the weapon away.
His victory was short-lived. For now the lessons of the closed classroom took over, forcing Barrent2into a contrasurvival struggle with the implacable and death-desiring Barrent1.
Conditioning took over and flung the fighting Barrents backward through subjective time, to those stress points in the past where death had been near, where the temporal life fabric had been weakened, where a predisposition toward death had already been established. Conditioning forced Barrent2to re-experience those moments. But this time, the danger was augmented by the full force of the malignant half of his personality—by the murderous informer, Barrent1.
Barrent2stood under glaring lights on the blood-stained sands of the Arena, a sword in his hand. It was the time of the Omegan Games. Coming at him was the Saunus, a heavily armored reptile with the leering face of Barrent1. Barrent2severed the creature's tail, and it changed into three trichomotreds, rat-sized, Barrent-faced, with the dispositions of rabid wolverines. He killed two, and the third grinned and bit his left hand to the bone. He killed it, and watched Barrent1's blood leak into the soggy sand....
Three ragged men sat laughing on a bench, and a girl handed him a small gun. "Luck," she said. "I hope you know how to use this." Barrent nodded his thanks before he noticed that the girl was not Moera; she was the skrenning mutant who had predicted his death. Still, he moved into the street and faced the three Hadjis.
Two of the men were mild-faced strangers. The third, Barrent1, stepped forward and quickly brought his gun into firing position. Barrent2flung himself to the ground and pressed the trigger of his unfamiliar weapon. He felt it vibrate in his hand and saw Hadji Barrent's head and shoulders turn black and begin to crumble. Before he could take aim again, his gun was wrenched violently from his hand. Barrent1's dying shot had creased the end of the muzzle.
Desperately he dived for the weapon, and as he rolled toward it he saw the second man, now wearing the Barrent1face, take careful aim. Barrent2felt pain flash through his arm, already torn by the trichomotred's teeth. He managed to shoot this Barrent1, and through a haze of pain faced the third man, now also Barrent1. His arm was stiffening rapidly, but he forced himself to press the trigger....
You're playing their game, Barrent2told himself. The death-conditioning will wear you down, will kill you.You must see through it, get past it. It isn't really happening, it's in your mind....
But there was no time to think. He was in a large, circular, high-ceilinged room of stone in the cellars of the Department of Justice. It was the Trial by Ordeal. Rolling across the floor toward him was aglistening black machine shaped like a half-sphere, standing almost four feet high. It came at him, and in the pattern of red, green, and amber lights he could see the hated face of Barrent1.
Now his enemy was in its ultimate form: the invariant robot consciousness, as false and stylized as the conditioned dreams of Earth. The Barrent1machine extruded a single slender tentacle with a white light winking at the end of it. As it approached, the tentacle withdrew, and in its place appeared a jointed metal arm ending in a knife-edge. Barrent2dodged, and heard the knife scrape against the stone.
It isn't what you think it is, Barrent2told himself.It isn't a machine, and you are not back on Omega. This is only half of yourself you are fighting, this is nothing but a deadly illusion.
But he couldn't believe it. The Barrent machine was coming at him again, its metal hide glistening with a foul green substance which Barrent2recognized immediately as Contact Poison. He broke into a sprint, trying to stay away from the fatal touch.
It isn't fatal, he told himself.
Neutralizer washed over the metal surface, clearing away the poison. The machine tried to ram him. Barrent tried half-heartedly to push it aside. It crashed into him with stunning force, and he could feel ribs splintering.
It isn't real! You're letting a conditioned reflex talk you to death! You aren't on Omega! You're on Earth, in your own home, staring into a mirror!
But the pain was real, and the clubbed metal arm felt real as it crashed against his shoulder. Barrent staggered away.
He felt horror, not at dying, but at dying too soon, before he could warn the Omegans of this ultimate danger planted deep in their own minds. There was no one else to warn of the catastrophe that would strike each man as he recovered his own specific memories of Earth. To his best knowledge, no one had experienced this and lived. Ifhecould live through it, countermeasures could be taken, counterconditioning could be set up.
He pulled himself to his feet. Coached since childhood in social responsibility, he thought of it now. He couldn't allow himself to die when his knowledge was vital to Omega.
This is not a real machine.
He repeated it to himself as the Barrent machine revved up, picked up speed, and hurtled toward him from the far side of the room. He forced himself to see beyond the machine, to see the patient droning lessons of the classroom which had created this monster in his mind.
This is not a real machine.
He believed it....
And swung his fist into the hated face reflected in the metal.
There was a moment of dazzling pain, and then he lost consciousness. When he came to, he was alone in his own home on Earth. His arm and shoulder ached, and several of his ribs seemed to be broken. On his left hand he bore the stigmata of the trichomotred's bite.
But with his cut and bleeding right hand he had smashed the mirror. He had shattered it and Barrent1utterly and forever.
OMEGARELIGION:THE WORSHIP OF EVILPLEASURES:THE THRILL OF THE HUNT, WITH HUMAN PREYSTATUS:ATTAINED ONE CORPSE AT A TIMELIFE EXPECTANCY:THREE EARTH YEARS"ALL OF YOU ARE CRIMINALS THEREFORE MANKIND HAS REJECTED YOU, AND YOU HAVE BEEN SENT TO A WORLD WHERE YOUR OWN SORT IS KING. HERE YOU CAN MAKE YOUR OWN RULES, AND DIE BY THEM ..."THE STATUS CIVILIZATION
OMEGA
RELIGION:THE WORSHIP OF EVIL
PLEASURES:THE THRILL OF THE HUNT, WITH HUMAN PREY
STATUS:ATTAINED ONE CORPSE AT A TIME
LIFE EXPECTANCY:THREE EARTH YEARS
"ALL OF YOU ARE CRIMINALS THEREFORE MANKIND HAS REJECTED YOU, AND YOU HAVE BEEN SENT TO A WORLD WHERE YOUR OWN SORT IS KING. HERE YOU CAN MAKE YOUR OWN RULES, AND DIE BY THEM ..."
"ALL OF YOU ARE CRIMINALS THEREFORE MANKIND HAS REJECTED YOU, AND YOU HAVE BEEN SENT TO A WORLD WHERE YOUR OWN SORT IS KING. HERE YOU CAN MAKE YOUR OWN RULES, AND DIE BY THEM ..."
Transcriber's Notes:Page 1, "futher" changed to "further." (He awoke, rubbed his eyes, and waited for further memories to come.)Page 9, "ot think" changed to "to think." (All he wanted to do was lie down, to sleep, to have a chance to think about his situation.)Page 14, "theif" changed to "thief." (I'm ashamed to admit that I can't remember what a credit thief is.)Page 36, "wtih" changed to "with." (She appeared to be dissatisfied with her husband; and divorce was forbidden on Omega.)Page 65, "murder" changed to "murderer." (Before his visit to the Dream Shop he had never felt himself a murderer, no matter what the Earth authorities had accused him of.)Page 107, "undected" changed to "undetected." (By noon, Barrent was still undetected.)Page 114, "were were" changed to "were." (If he were able to get by the city gate, he would have to watch for the hunting patrols.)Page 125, "Barren" changed to "Barrent." (Barrent ducked out of a corner in which the creeping vines were trapping him.)Page 151, "coud" changed to "could." (Barrent backed away, wondering if a needlebeam could stop it.)Page 159, Added a missing end-quote. (The full facilities of this park are waiting for all lovers of the great outdoors.")Page 159, "Presumbaly" changed to "Presumably." (Presumably they liked this sort of thing.)
Transcriber's Notes: