by M. A. Foster
With vast relief, Anibal Glist departed the communal mess and made his way down the winding exterior stairs to the Level, which functioned more or less as the Lisagorian equivalent of a street. Glist stepped off the last of the narrow, whitewashed masonry stairs into the cool darkness of the street, and caught himself reflecting that now he only rarely thought in terms of “equivalents.” He had been on Oerlikon for a long time, and was well on the way to becoming native in his patterns of habit and thought. His retirement would be not far off, and more than once he had considered taking his retirement here. Staying. Not entirely impossible. Novel, perhaps, but not impossible. He had grown to like it, this impossible planet and this even more improbable country which dominated it, Lisagor.
The one custom he found hardest to get used to were the communal meals, served to the tune of popular songs, sung badly out of key and time, but sung together nonetheless. The food, at least, was good. Next, of course, he would return to his cell, essentially an apartment built on an artificial hill, reached by means of the winding stairs. Lisak towns were clusters of these hills, connected by narrow streets made as level as possible without regard to the curves this might produce. How did one get from one part of town to another? Afoot, or on ludicrous variations of bicycles called velocipedes, in which the rider sat on a triangular truss framework between the wheels, low to the ground, and pedalled with the legs held horizontally out in front. Odd, and with little outrigger wheels to help get started, which were retracted once balance was attained, but fast and little work. They were expensive, though, and distinctly a luxury item.
At the velocipede rack, while unentangling his own vehicle, Glist happened to find himself next to a young woman engaged in a similar task. Glist knew her, of course—she was one of his student observers, by name Aril Procand. But as far as the Lisaks about him might know, she was only someone who had been at this particular mess hall, and by chance was near him at the velocipede rack.
Glist spoke casually: “A fine speech tonight by Primitive Mercador, the First Synodic for Trade and Equity; almost as good as if the Prime Synodic, Simonpetrino Monclova himself, had been with us.”
The young woman disengaged her velocipede and nodded politely, adding, “Monclova is more restrained, but of course sees further. Still, it is an honor to have Mercador.” Her motions with the velocipede brought her fractionally closer to Glist, and she said quickly, in a much quieter tone, “Enthone Sheptun tells me he has an item for you which is most urgent. He will follow you, and meet you along your way to your cell, on the Level.”
Glist nodded, and said no more. He did not have direct relations with Aril Procand, a fact which disappointed him as he risked an appreciative glance at the young woman’s slender figure, and curly brown-gold hair. A shame. Glist evaluated her reports, of course, and knew her to be a fine young operative, a keen observer of events on this peculiar planet Oh well, he thought ruefully, someone younger will doubtless be having a covert affair with her—most likely Sheptun, a romantic fool. Glist continued readying his velocipede for riding, as Aril mounted hers with youthful nonchalance and sped away into the night, the soft night of Symbarupol.
The news set something uneasy stirring in Glist; Sheptun was one of his more deeply buried operatives, not a mere observer, like Procand, and also unlike her, not on student-probationary status. Sheptun also reported much, as part of his duties here, and the reports were always quite good. If he continued, there was no doubt he’d have Discretionary Authority before long. Not his successor, of course: that was already arranged, and it would be Cesar Kham, who was now working on something in Marisol, in Clisp. Vredamgor, he corrected himself.
Glist settled into the machine, prepared himself, and set off onto the Level, retracting his outriggers and turning on the lamps, working up through the gears into a comfortable pace. Still, he wondered what Sheptun could have on his mind. Although contact of any sort was discouraged among the members, other than through the channels already established, it was not prohibited, provided certain assumptions were always borne in mind, the most important being that the Lisaks must not, under any circumstances, learn that there was in their midst a sizable body of off-planet visitors engaged in studying and manipulating their odd, retrogressive society.
He had not proceeded far along the Level, when, in the light evening traffic, another velocipede joined up with him and proceeded alongside in formation. Glist recognized Enthone Sheptun immediately, and followed him without comment, when Sheptun pedalled ahead, and turned into a narrower side-level which ended in a teahouse and a reside-hill across from a Dragon Field.* Sheptun stopped, extended the outriggers on his machine, and went into the teahouse, and Glist, slightly behind, did the same, as if he had happened to be going that way.
* Dragon: the sole public physical sport played in Lisagor and Lisak-dominated areas.
Inside the teahouse, a bluish haze in the air from the charcoal heaters and the water pipes which the patrons enjoyed blurred the atmosphere, and Glist had to squint to find Sheptun. Also, the place was crowded; a Dragon game must have recently broken up. By luck, Sheptun had found a table with two empty seats, in a far corner, and the constant hubbub and drone of conversation would bury their conversation. Glist made his way across the floor to the corner.
The Waiter brought tea, the commonplace Mixture #79, without comment, and left them, returning to the kitchen.
Glist looked about, a little nervously, and said, in a low voice which he hoped would not carry far, “Student Procand alerted me, and so I was awaiting contact. This doubtless will refer to something which could not be forwarded through the usual channels?”
Sheptun, an alert young man of some years, blinked rapidly and answered. “Much remains to be said through the normal reports, but I felt you needed to be alerted. I have just uncovered something you need to know, perhaps even advise the Policy Group about.”
“Go on—expound at will, although you may not mention that group again in here. You are reckless.”
“You will understand.” Sheptun spoke without heat, calmly. Then, “For the last few days, I have been engaged in verifying a very strange tale: to the point, there is a weapon of some sort about to be released which will change everything here.”
Glist carefully controlled his body movements, and his expressions. He looked musingly at the teacup and said, tonelessly, “What is the nature of this alleged weapon, and who is intended to use it?”
Sheptun adopted the same tonelessness, and the same blank expression, and said, “The nature of it remains unknown.”
“You could not find out what?”
“The sources I tap do not know themselves. As to who will use it—presumably the Heraclitan Society.”
“The so-called Underground, that favors normalization of the way of life here?”
“The same. Although there is inexactitude there, too.”
“Inexactitude? In what way? Do they intend to use it, or do they support someone who will use it in their stead?”
“This may be hard to believe, but it’s more as if it’s something uncontrollable will be released, and they will be the prime beneficiaries of it. I cannot find its source.”
“Or what it is. A Bomb? A Revolutionary Tract? That’s difficult to imagine, for there is no widespread dissatisfaction for that to trigger.”
“Just so are my conclusions; nevertheless, all my sources were certain, and very apprehensive. I tested them, all unaware on their part, and by Scandberg’s Second Speech Reduction, they believe in it.”
“But you have been unable to determine what it is…”
“As I said, they don’t have any idea. But whatever it is, it is coming to realization fast. That they know. And what they call it is significant, too.”
“What’s that?”
“They call it, ‘The Angel of Death’.”
Glist finished his tea and made ready to leave. “I fail to become alarmed. I do not doubt your conviction, but we need more hard d
ata. More facts. You understand I can’t act on night-fogs like this.”
“Your pardon, Ser Glist, but my intention was not to request action, but to bring a matter to your attention, so that when the facts come, as I am certain they will, you can proceed in the best manner.”
Glist nodded, agreeably. “Just so… I will be on the lookout for this, although I have seen nothing to date…”
“Perhaps you can obtain verification by contacting… you know… that deep-sensor.”
Glist continued to look ahead, but he said, in a low tone, “That is something else that should not be spoken of.”
“Can you?”
“It is not wise. That is perilous, that one. I would not now risk it upon no more than I have.”
Sheptun said, “I feel you will hear from him soon. There is supposed to be something afoot that he will have high probability of having access to.”
Glist stood up and prepared to leave. “Perhaps. I trust when he does, he will have occasion to be more specific.”
Sheptun looked down, feeling a sly reprimand, and said, “You of all people should understand field conditions here, and know how difficult it is to obtain hard data.”
“I understand very well how things are. But nonetheless, however they disguise it, at the core of every functioning society there is a social entity which knows and acts upon the facts. Even here. If a thing has a real existence, we can derive its nature by the traces and echoes it leaves, most especially if in use or preparatory to use. The motion of a thing is its reality, and the motion is what leaves the traces. Probe deeper.”
“That in itself is becoming difficult.”
“Remember the Credo of the Institute: There is no such thing as a problem: there are many opportunities for outstanding solutions. Your learning of these distinctions, these subtleties, will certainly result in advancement; otherwise…” Glist did not have to continue the threat. At best, he could have Sheptun removed from Oerlikon, and there were several other options he could use. He could, if circumstances required it, have Sheptun killed and disposed of, to protect the integrity of the net. Glist had done this before, and did not have pangs of conscience over it, then or now. It was a matter of protecting one’s livelihood, and the way of life of uncounted numbers involved in the Watch of Oerlikon, by the Institute of Man, on Heliarcos.
Then he left the teahouse, and did not spend much more thought on the matter. Except much later, when he was climbing the stairs to his cell, negotiating the eccentric curves and twists and landings, that something floated back, of the conversation he had had with Sheptun. Odd: but Sheptun had said they had called it “The Angel of Death.” Indeed, an odd name for a weapon. Still, he doubted if it would come to much. Because since the Lisaks were so much against change, they were no great threat in the technological sense, and so it was unlikely they could produce much of a secret weapon that would make any difference. These things always kept coming up, these superstitions, in many societies, but there was nothing like reality to dispel the shadows.
— 2 —
Midnight in the Mask Factory
Symbarupol: 23 Klekesh 5 Irgi Seventh Cycle:
In the conventions of the Mayan-like calendar which measured time on Oerlikon, the next day commenced at sundown, at precisely the moment of absolute darkness. And so, though Luto Pternam had waited only a short time for the return of his henchman, the counters in the Horologium had already changed over to the symbols for the next day.
The organization over which Pternam presided had an official title: The Permutorium. Its name, however, was less meaningful than what it actually did, which was dire enough. The Permutorium took in persons adjudged to be of either criminal or changist tendency, the distinction in Lisak custom being slight, and transformed them, by a number of techniques, into units of an army which would always be utterly trustworthy because all its soldiers had been totally conditioned to unquestioning obedience. Naturally, there was a tradeoff: their reactions were relatively slow, and the “units” retained little or no initiative, but neither did they flinch from pain, nor from unpleasant orders.
A considerable part of the energy expended within this department was devoted to a continuing program of research and development, which could in loose terms be considered quasi-medical, involving as it did the specifications of the human body and all its subsystems. Much had been done, which had borne fruit in other areas, but most in the area of what might be called the techniques of psychological control of a population.
Persons who were processed in this facility might reappear, but never in the lineaments of their old forms. Part of the program involved manipulation of the hormone systems, so that physiognomy aligned with function. This change was the reason why the office had a jargon name in the streets, which was never pronounced openly: “The Mask Factory.”
Just so, it had been during the course of these researches that Pternam and Avaria had happened, during review of the reports of routine experiments, to suspect a particular line of work, which no one had followed up. This they did, at first only curious, but later realizing what a weapon the line might lead them to. And so it was that a certain person had come into existence, under the long tutelage of Pternam, and a special cadre of assistants, carefully primed on half-truths and threats, a person who, in the terms usually referenced in Lisagor, literally did not exist. But in other terms, exist he did. And, as Pternam reflected on his creation, it was with a certain baleful purpose.
Pternam, feeling a chill in the night air, had returned to the inside of the residence, and was there now speaking with Orfeo Palastrine, his chief guard over the subject, over an antique communicator set into an alcove in the plain whitewashed walls.
“Palastrine? Yes. Pternam here. How goes it with Rael?”
“Normal. He’s up and about, working at his studies, but not at a real furious pace. Took a short nap after supper, he did. A fat job, may I say so.”
“You wouldn’t want it if you knew some of the things he’ll have to do. This one pays his dues afterwards, instead of the usual case before.” Then he inquired, “Is the sexual orientation still holding? No evidence of overlay?”
“None that we can see… He asked for a woman last night, and so we took a chit down to the local happy-house, and got him one, with whom he was reported to disport himself in the usual manner.”
“Do they report anything?”
“This last one was debriefed without anything being noted. As a fact, if anything is out of the ordinary…”
“Yes?”
“Well, it’s not so odd. They all say they would rather come here for this service than take their chances. They say… well, he’s kind, and considerate, and, ah, how do they say it… ‘shows them a good time.’ Funny to hear that from whores.”
“And no trace of overlay from another personality.”
“Not that we can observe. Straight as a string is old Rael; he just addresses himself to one of those double-breasted mattress-thrashers and goes straight on.”
“Naturally these are still being recorded.”
“Of course. I view them personally.”
“See anything?”
“Nothing outstanding. Standard male responses. No problems. I might say his frequency seems a little low, and he seems to want to keep them over the period allowed.”
“You don’t let him have them?”
“No. Straight by the book, Director. We signal when time’s up, and he gives them up without a fuss.”
“Good. You know what your instructions are in case he appears to have gained control over one of those women?”
“Yes, exactly. We flood the chamber with monoxide gas, and then incinerate what is left with oxy-acetylene. I know the drill: we check the reserve gas cylinders daily.”
“I have some news… there may be some visitors tonight down there. No interference, no interruption. Avaria and I will be in there with them, and him.”
“Begging your pardon, but…”
“I know the danger. The rules are still in force. Rael is supremely dangerous and must not be allowed to leave the chambers before his time. However, if all goes well, after this visit, he may be released in the future; possibly tonight, possibly much later. The use for which he has been trained may be at hand.”
“Do you intend to pattern another one like this?”
“Decision has not yet been made. We lean toward not doing it again.”
“Understandable. It is a fearsome creature, so the manual alleges.”
“Rightly so. This is not something one would do casually… we can use the facilities for other purposes, and your people will of course be rewarded for this difficult service—just what they deserve.”
“Ah, now, Director, that’s fine to hear that. You know, some of the lads have chafed a bit at the secrecy and the isolation. Not the usual sort of duty.”
“You still have security over your force?”
“Exactly. Positive control, all the way. No leaks. I know that.”
“Good. We’re depending on you. I’ll call down later.”
“We’ll be here.”
Pternam replaced the receiver in its receptacle and turned away with no particular destination in mind. He stopped and practiced an exercise he had often used, that of Confronting the Hidden Antagonist: he understood thereby that his anxiety was commonplace and related solely to waiting for his visitors. Would Avaria find them? Would they come with him? More importantly, would they accept what was being offered here,, something of high order indeed? Yes. That was the real issue, the one that would be resolved only as things developed out of the flux.
The doorward, a lobo especially trained for the post, by name Tyrono Ektal now, padded softly up the stairs from the lower level, taking, to a person with normal reactions, an excessively long time to assure himself that Pternam was in the room. Finally he said, in a measured, carefully paced monotone, “Ser Pternam, the respectable Avaria approaches through the outer barrier in company with three persons whose aspect is not known to me.”
