The address proved to be that of a middle-sized, unremarkable building in a lower-class residential area, two or three apartments over a quiet-looking small tavern. A single front entrance, divided inside, where stairs led up to the apartments and two steps led down to the level of the tavern.
A couple of male patrons looked around from the bar with mild interest as Ahlgren and the girl entered. They and the bartender seemed nothing but solid citizen types.
While Ahlgren hesitated, uncertain of what to say or whether to speak at all, the bartender said suddenly: “Oh, that bunch. They’re upstairs.” The man’s face assumed an unhappy look.
Ahlgren took no time to worry about whether he and Barbara were such obvious rebels already, or how the bartender fitted in. The PolPol might be right on their heels. He only nodded and led Barbara up the stairs.
There were two doors at the top; he chose at random and knocked. No answer. He tried the other. After at least a minute of feverishly quiet rapping on both doors, one opened enough to reveal a thin man with a suspicious stare.
“Let us in,” Ahlgren whispered desperately. “It is vital to the Underground.” The PolPol might close in at any moment; he had to take the chance and speak plainly. His hand was under his jacket on the butt of his stun pistol and his foot was in the door.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said the thin man tonelessly.
“Look at me! I am the director of this city. I have deserted the Party.”
THE man’s eyes widened and there were excited whisperings in the room behind him. “Let them in,. Otto,” said a voice.
Ahlgren pushed his way into the room, dragging Barbara with him. A fat man sat at a table with a bottle and glasses before him, and a little pile of dingy books and folders on the floor at his feet. A pair of unwholesome-looking women sat on a sagging couch along one wall. A door with a homemade look in another wall seemed to lead into the other apartment. Evidently the Underground used the whole second floor.
Ahlgren wasted no time with preliminaries. “Listen to me. The PolPol may be on their way here now. Get out while you can and take us with you. Have you got some place to run to?”
The fat man regarded Ahlgren owlishly and belched. “Not so fast. How do we know—”
There was a glare of searchlights against the dirty windows, through the drawn shades, a booming amplified voice: “Ahlgren, come out peacefully. We know you’re there. Ahlgren, come out.”
He gripped Barbara and looked into her eyes. “Try to remember me after the Pain.”
“Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy, you don’t know, you don’t understand!”
The four Underground people had burst into passionate argument, but were doing nothing purposeful. Ahlgren dragged Barbara downstairs. The PolPol would have the building surrounded, but they would expect him to try to fight them off on the stairs, perhaps to escape over the roofs as rebels often did.
The lights were out in the tavern. The two patrons were standing behind the bar, the attitude of their vague shapes suggesting that they were waiting as interested spectators. The windows were too glared with searchlights, and the barkeep stood in the middle of the room glaring at Ahlgren.
“Ahlgren! Come out peacefully and no one will be hurt! Your case will be fairly heard!”
“Why don’t you just do like the man says?” the barkeep suggested angrily.
What was wrong with these people? Didn’t they realize-but he had no time. “Shut up. Where does that back door lead?”
“Nowhere. I keep it locked.” The barkeep swore. “Hope they don’t smash the place, but they sure as hell will if you don’t go out. Sure, they say, we pay compensation, but look how long it takes. Sure, the glass they put in won’t cut no-body, but I gotta sweep it up and put up plywood panels. Why don’t you just go out?”
“Take it easy, Sam,” said one of the patrons behind the bar, with a chuckle. Barbara was babbling too, something she was sorry for, or sorry about.
A window smashed in and a PolPol officer stood outlined in the frame, flashlight sweeping the room. The director shot first. The invisible soundless beam doubled up the man; the falling flashlight spun its beam crazily through the room. Ahlgren picked up a stool to batter at the rear door. It was the only way left.
“That don’t go nowhere, I told ya! Stop! Why did I ever sign up?” The barkeep moaned, grabbing at Ahlgren to keep him from smashing at the door with the stool.
Ahlgren let him have the stun beam at close range.
It didn’t bother the man in the least.
“Not on me, friend, not on me. Tickle all you want,” the barkeep said in obscure triumph, pulling the stool away from Ahlgren, whose grip on it had loosened in surprise.
The director felt the paralyzing tickle of a beam stab his own side; he had time to see Lazar grinning in at a window before sinking to the floor and into unconsciousness.
HE WAS slumped in a chair propped up by a stiff pillow when awareness returned. There was a sense of strangeness in his mind that he could not fully account for by what he remembered happening. Drugs? They were seldom used on anyone.
It was a Treatment Room; they were not going to waste any time. Lazar’s face looked down at him, grinning, as Be had seen it at the tavern window. Two or three of the green-smocked doctors who always administered Conditioning stood beside the monstrous table, watching him and waiting. And Barbara. She stood free in the background, not stunned or restrained in any way.
Lazar caught the direction of his gaze. “Oh yes, the young lady’s been most helpful to us. It was in large part her idea—”
“Pease.” The doctor’s voice had an edge to it. “I must insist, sir, that you not interfere with treatment.”
“Very well.” Lazar’s grin was wider than ever. He touched Ahlgren’s shoulder as one might pat a dog about to be gassed. “I was comfortably set to watch this show when you made me get up and work for it. But it’ll be worth the trouble. Good luck in your new life.” He went out jauntily.
Ahlgren let his eyelids close; he could not look at Barbara. She was whispering with a doctor. He prayed to the God of his childhood to let the Pain come quickly and bring complete forgetfulness.
A doctor was in front of Ahlgren. “Open your eyes. Look at me. Trust me. Never mind who’s watching or that you think you’ve been betrayed. We didn’t plan that, but it can’t be helped now. I want you to do something and it won’t hurt. Will you try?” The doctor’s eyes burned down. His voice compelled.
Ahlgren was held. “Try what?” he asked.
“What do you think?” the doctor asked patiently. “Can’t you remember?”
Remember? What was there to remember? Ahlgren’s eye roved the room, fell upon the little bookshelf above the desk in one corner, and slid away again. But he supposed there was no escape from—what?
“You can get up if you like now, Jim. Move around.”
He tried his legs, and they pushed him erect. His arms functioned; movement took an effort but was not painful. How long had he been out from the stunning?
He found himself approaching the little bookshelf, while the doctors and Barbara watched silently. She was crying quietly; too late now. But he couldn’t hate her.
OBEYING AN impulse, he reached behind the little row of books and pulled out what he saw with a shock was Volume P. “Who hid this here?” he demanded. “I’ve been looking for it.”
“Don’t you remember, Jim?” asked a doctor gently. “You pushed it back there the last time. Now shall we try reading some things again?”
The sense of strangeness had deepened until there was no standard left by which to judge the strangeness. That doctor had a cursed familiar way of talking to the director of a city, even to an arrested director, but the director opened the book. He would show them; there was no subject he couldn’t read about.
He found the place he thought they wanted, and began to read aloud, “Pain, the Ultimate,” but all that followed was “see Conditioning.”
“No, Jim.
Turn further back. Let’s try again where we were last time. Do you remember?”
Ahlgren turned pages, suddenly fearful that something unfaceable was coming. Paine, Thomas. Lucky man, bound up safe in a book.
“Party, the?” he asked, looking around at the doctors. He thought he remembered reading this article once; much of it had been only a jumble of nonsense. High-priced encyclopedia, too.
“No, not just now. Turn back to where we were last time, remember?”
Ahlgren knew it had to be done. For some reason. His hands began to tremble as he turned the pages. Pe. Pi. He was getting closer to something he didn’t want to find.
Po. He dropped the book, but made himself pick it up again. Barbara gave him a violent nod of encouragement. She was still almost crying over something. Women. But this time she was here to help him and he was going to succeed.
He turned a few more pages and there it was. Something he had tried to face before—how many times?—and had always forgotten about after failure. His eyes scanned the clearly printed symbols, but something in his brain fought against interpreting them.
“I can’t read it. It’s all blurry.” He had said that before.
Barbara whispered: “Try, Jim. Try hard.”
Ahlgren stared at the page in an immense effort, failed, and relaxed for a moment. The title of the article suddenly leaped into focus for him:
POSSEMANIA
HE HELD up the book and began to read aloud in a quavery voice: “ ‘—From the Latin, posse power, plus mania. Of all mental diseases doubtless the most destructive, in terms of the total suffering inflicted upon humanity throughout history; and one of the most resistant to even modern therapy.’ ”
Why had they wanted him to read this? And why had it been difficult? An awful idea loomed on the horizon . . .
“ ‘Unique among diseases in that its effects are put to practical use by society, it in fact forms the basis of modern government (see Party, the).’ ”
Ahlgren faltered and looked around him uncertainly. He felt sweat beginning to bead his forehead. The article went on to great length, but he flipped pages rapidly back to find Party, the.
He skimmed rapidly through a few paragraphs, then read aloud in an impersonal, shrill, hurried tone: “ ‘Those with this pathological lust for power over others generally find means to satisfy it in any society; ours is the first to maintain effective control over its members who are so afflicted. Now, the victims of the disease are necessarily detected during the compulsory annual psychological examination. If immediate therapy fails to effect a cure, as it usually fails, mental Conditioning is applied to initiate or strengthen the delusions, welcomed by the patient, that the Party has the rest of the citizenry at its mercy and—’ ”
“Take your time, Jim.”
“ ‘—and that—that Conditioning is a painful, crippling punishment used by the Party itself to erase thoughts of political opposition.’ ”
The world was turning under Ahlgren. He forced himself to read on, slowly and sanely. Could this be truth?
“ ‘Following what is now to him the only practical course, the victim is guided to apply for Party membership as those found to be compulsive rebels and/or punishment-seekers are shuttled to the complementary organization (see Underground, the). He is of course invariably accepted, and is assigned, depending on his skills, to the Administration or the Political Police (see PolPol).’ ”
Again pages fluttered under Ahlgren’s fingers. PolPol.
“ ‘—stun pistols locked at low neural frequencies that produce only a tickling sensation, to which all Party and Underground members are Conditioned to respond by going into psychic paralysis, unless in a situation where it would be physically dangerous to do so.’ ”
Ahlgren skipped from article to article, his mind grabbing recklessly at the words that had been forbidden him.
“ ‘—Most people generally ignore the activities of both Party and Underground, except as occasional sources of unexpected amusement.’ ”
“ ‘—Underground members captured by the Party are quickly turned over to the government doctors for Conditioning. They are treated and sent out again to a different area, believing themselves rebel couriers or escapees. At each capture they are tested to see if their disease has abated to within the reach of therapy.’ ”
“ ‘—The PolPol raid the same houses over and over, being Conditioned to remember no such addresses and keep no records of them. Property owners are compensated for damage incurred. Personal injury in these activities is extremely rare, and accidental when it does occur, due to the Conditioning of both Party and Underground people against it.’ ”
“ ‘Party members composing the Administration perform most of our essential government functions, being constrained by their Conditioning against any abuse of power, corruption, or dishonesty . . .’ ”
AHLGREN felt cold sweat all over him. His headache was gone but his throat felt raw. How long had he been reading aloud?
“That’s fine, Jim, that’s fine!” a doctor said. “Can you go on a little further?”
It took a giant’s effort. Yet it was something that must be done.
“ ‘By the interaction of Conditioning with the disease, the victim is prevented from apprehending the true state of affairs. He is, for example, unable to read this very article with any true comprehension. If read aloud to him, it will not make sense to his mind; he will interpret it to suit the needs of the moment, then quickly forget it. Indeed, this article and similar writings are frequently used as tests to determine a patient’s progress . . .’ ”
Ahlgren’s hand holding the book dropped to his side. He stood swaying on his feet, utterly weary. He wanted only sleep, oblivion, forgetfulness.
A doctor carefully took the book from him, found the place, and read:
“When continued therapy has brought a Party member near the point of cure, as is finally possible in about half of all cases, a realization of the true state of affairs becomes possible for the patient.’ That’s you now, Jim. You’re over the hump. Understand me? You’re getting well!”
Director Ahlgren was weeping quietly, as if from weakness and exhaustion. He sat down on the edge of the treatment table and the doctors gathered around him and began to fit the attachments of the table to him. He helped them; he was familiar with the process.
“I think this’ll be the last, Jim. We’re going to de-Condition you this time. Then one more subconscious therapy—” The doctor’s voice came through speakers . . .
. . . into the next room, where Perkins, Lazar, and Dr. Schmidt watched and listened.
Lazar stared through the one-way glass, gripped by vast elation. The director’s chair was his! The girl in the Treatment Room had thrown her arms about Ahlgren; perhaps she regretted that she had been used against him. She should be grateful. It was not often that a mere citizen had such a chance to help the Party.
Dr. Schmidt was saying something to Lazar. “What?”
“I said, would you tell me what you thought of the material the former director read aloud just now?”
Lazar frowned. Why, it had been something—unpleasant. He turned to Perkins, giving up the problem with relief to his superior.
“What he read was a lot of subversive nonsense,” Perkins rumbled, after a thoughtful pause. “It amounted to a confession of guilt.”
“I see,” said Dr. Schmidt. He looked a little sad. “Thank you, gentlemen. Shall we go?”
Perkins was staring with bright and hungry eyes at the motionless form of former Director Ahlgren on the table. “Too bad we have to inflict such pain,” he said.
He was coming out of pleasant sleep, and the first thing he did was reach out and find her hand. He looked up at her face. He remembered now—she’d said she’d wait . . . five years before.
“Was it your idea?” he asked. “To help last night yourself?”
“No, the doctors suggested it, darling. They thought you were approaching a crisis . . .
but it’s all right now.”
“Then stop crying,” he told her. “Every time I look at you, you’re crying. Think I want to watch you cry all the time?” But she was half laughing too, so it really was all right.
He lay in peace. The weight of mountains had been lifted from his soul.
HIS mother was bending over him anxiously. He saw there was morning light coming into a hospital room.
“Son, are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Mother. No pain.” Barbara, looking happy, was still here, or here again.
His father came in, a little older and grayer than he remembered, shaking his head in the familiar way at his mother’s ignorant worry about the supposed pain of Conditioning.
“It was on the Party news just now,” his father said, grinning. “You were denounced for traitorous activity yesterday and purged last night. The usual appeal—for the citizenry to treat you kindly and not blame your new personality for your acts of treason. I think we can manage that somehow.”
Jim Ahlgren looked around at the three of them. He said softly: “I’ve been gone a long time.”
PLANETEER
One stranger was a god—the other a devil. Strange that they should be on the same side!
DURING the weeks that the starship Yuan Chwang had hovered in close observation of the new planet Aqua, ship’s time had been jockeyed around to agree with the suntime at the place chosen for first landing.
Boris Brazil saw no evidence of sane thinking behind this procedure; it meant the planeteer’s briefing for the big event was set for 0200, and he had to get up in what was effectively the middle of the night—a thing to which he had grown accustomed, but never expected to learn to enjoy. Leaving his tiny cabin in a state of disorder that might have infuriated an inspecting officer—had there been an inspecting officer aboard interested in the neatness of cabins—he set forth in search of chow.
Short Fiction Complete Page 3
