This Star Shall Abide

by Sylvia Engdahl

  But normal progress couldn’t occur where there could be no technological innovation. On the mother world, tribes of people who never learned to get metal from the ground never improved their ways of doing things; once they’d gone as far as they could with stone, they stopped changing. And because this world’s ground had no metal at all that was suitable for making tools, the villagers’ situation was very similar. They could not develop better ways to use their limited resources, since their ancestors had already known the most efficient methods there were for everything from the fashioning of household implements to the building of bridges. Only within the City did the conditions for new discoveries exist.

  And the discovery that must be made was extremely difficult even for the Scholars—they must learn how to create metallic elements through nuclear fusion. Noren hadn’t really grasped what nuclear fusion was, but he could see that although it involved combining several substances to get a different one, it was not just a matter of stirring those substances together. The Six Worlds’ scientists had known how to achieve nuclear fusion to get Power. Nuclear fusion to get metal had been beyond anyone’s hopes. Here, however, it was the only hope there was.

  No one knew when that hope would be realized. Conceivably it could be soon, and in that case new Cities would be built immediately; the Prophecy did not say that there would be no changes before the Star appeared! In the meantime, the Scholars must retain their stewardship if hope was to continue.

  You would have died in spite of us, Stefred had told him, if you had not been brave enough to live. The words had been puzzling, but all at once Noren understood them. A person who’d seen the world through the First Scholar’s eyes had to be brave, for no one who wasn’t could face the hard truth about the world. But there was more to it. Only a brave person could face the awareness that his own honest attempt to fight injustice, if successful, would have accomplished the opposite of what had been aiming for.

  Noren faced it. He admitted to himself that overthrowing the Scholars would not have helped the villagers, but would instead have prevented Machines and knowledge from ever becoming available to them. To capitulate and recant would not be a defeat, he realized with surprise. His goals had not changed; his beliefs had not changed. What he’d wanted all along was for the world to be as the Prophecy said it would become. He would merely be conceding that it could not be that way before the time was ripe.

  That evening he told the man who brought him food that he wanted to see Stefred. The Chief Inquisitor had been quite correct, he reflected ruefully, in predicting that in the end his innate honesty would leave him no choice.

  * * *

  It was dusk; the City towers were shafts of silver thrust skyward between the orange moons. Noren sat by the window in Stefred’s study and watched the stars come out. “Will people ever travel between the stars again?” he asked wistfully. “Will there be more worlds to settle someday?”

  “Someday,” Stefred said, “if we don’t fail on this one. It’s the only permanent answer to our lack of resources here. The starships’ design is stored in our computers, and in fact there are still stripped hulls in orbit; but there is much else we must accomplish first. It can’t happen in our lifetime.”

  “Neither can the things I wanted people to fight for.”

  “No. There are some things fighting can’t achieve.”

  “Is it always wrong to fight, then?”

  “Not always. That can be necessary, too. If you study the history of the Six Worlds, you’ll find that there are no clear-cut answers.”

  “There’s a time to fight, I guess . . . and a time to surrender. I—I’ve come to surrender, sir.” Noren sighed, glad that he had finally gotten the words out.

  For quite a while Stefred was silent. Then, in a troubled voice, he asked, “Have you ever witnessed a public recantation, Noren?”

  “Yes.” Noren’s heart chilled at the recollection.

  “For some people it’s worse than for others,” the Scholar said, “and I can spare you nothing.”

  “I—I don’t suppose you can.”

  “I must be sure you understand,” Stefred persisted. “If you recant, I shall preside at the ceremony. You may think that because we know each other, trust each other, it will be less difficult for you; but it won’t. It will be more so. You have never knelt to me, and I’ve never asked it; in fact I’d have thought less of you if you had. Can you do it before a crowd of villagers who’ll think I’ve broken your spirit?”

  “It’s a form, a symbol, as the words of the Prophecy are symbols,” Noren said. “It doesn’t mean I’m your inferior. It means only that what you represent is worth honoring.”

  “Yes, you know that now. But the people in the crowd will not.”

  Noren swallowed. “It’s necessary.”

  “Why, Noren?” demanded Stefred suddenly. “You know I won’t force this on you. You must also know that you won’t be punished for not doing it. Why take on such an ordeal? You came here seeking the truth, and you found it; what more do you hope to achieve?”

  “I wanted truth not just for myself, but for everyone. I can’t accept it without giving.”

  “Giving what? You won’t be allowed to reveal anything of what you’ve learned; you’ll stick to a prepared script.”

  “There won’t be any lies in the script, will there?”

  “No. The words you say will be literally true. But they’ll be phrased in the language of the Prophecy, and the people have already heard those words.”

  “They’ve also heard me deny them. They’ve heard me ask them to deny them, and every heretic who does so strikes at the thing the First Scholar died for. I was wrong, Stefred! Would you have me conceal my error to save my pride?”

  “No,” answered Stefred. “I wouldn’t have you do that. But though you were wrong, you were not without justification; and when a heretic recants no justification can be claimed.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Truth is truth, and it’s more important than what people think of me. Don’t you see? I stuck to my heresy because I cared about truth; now I’ve got to recant for the same reason.”

  “I see very clearly,” Stefred admitted, “but I had to satisfy myself that you do. This is no mere formality. It will be harder than you realize, Noren, and there will be lasting consequences.”

  “You warned me about consequences before,” said Noren, smiling. “You thought I’d beg to be let off. You underestimated me after all.”

  “Don’t be too sure. Your problems aren’t over yet.” The Scholar pulled a sheaf of papers from his desk and looked through them, handing one to Noren. “This is the statement you’ll make. Read it.”

  Noren did so with growing dismay. He had not remembered the specific wording of the ceremony; the tone of it was something of a shock. Phrases like “I am most grievously sorry for all my heresies,” and “I confess my guilt freely; I am deeply repentant, and acknowledge myself deserving of whatever punishment may fall to me,” stuck in his throat. He went through it again, slowly and thoughtfully, before raising his eyes.

  “Is it more than you bargained for?” Stefred inquired.

  “Yes,” said Noren candidly. “I thought I wouldn’t be expected to say anything I didn’t mean. Well, I was mistaken about the Prophecy and the High Law, and I’m willing to admit it; but I’m not sorry for having been a heretic. At the time I couldn’t have been anything else.”

  “You agreed that there can be no self-justification.”

  “There’ll be no self-abasement, either! To say my opinions were wrong is one thing, but to declare that I was morally wrong in holding them would be something else entirely.”

  “We will not ask you to lie,” Stefred said slowly. “If there are things in the statement that are untrue, strike them.” He held out his stylus.

  Noren took it and did a thorough editing job; then, without comment, he handed the paper back. The Scholar perused it carefully. “You’ve removed all references to penitence,�
�� he observed.

  “I’m not penitent, sir.”

  “You will wear penitent’s garb, and your hair will be cropped short.”

  “I’ll submit to whatever indignities are required of me, but I will not proclaim guilt I don’t feel, Stefred.”

  Stefred eyed him. “What happens to an impenitent heretic, both during the ceremony and afterwards, is not quite the same as what is done with someone who repents,” he said evenly.

  “I can’t help that.”

  “Aren’t you being inconsistent? You tell me you must recant because heresy strikes at the cause for which the First Scholar was martyred; surely you’re aware that a display of repentance would be far more convincing than the mere admission of error—”

  “I’ve been perfectly consistent right from the beginning,” Noren declared obstinately. “I said at my trial that keeping things from the villagers was wrong, and it is. I’m recanting only because I’ve learned that there’s something worse. There will always be heretics, and there should be; I won’t tell people that heresy’s a sin. To affirm the Prophecy and the High Law is as far as I’ll go.”

  “So be it, Noren,” said Stefred. He rose, Noren following, and for a few minutes they stood side by side looking out at the darkening sky. “I know you’re wondering what’s going to become of you when this is over,” the Scholar continued, “but I can tell you only that though the difficulties will be greater than you imagine, I think you’ll prove equal to them. I must say no more until after the ceremony three days from now.” As an afterthought he added, “You will not understand the whole ceremony at first; remember that I’m on your side, and that I’ll have reasons for what I do.”

  “Three days?” faltered Noren. “I—I’d rather get it over with tomorrow.”

  “No doubt you would, but a little time for reflection will be good for you. You’ve shifted your whole outlook at a very rapid pace; this is a major step, and you mustn’t rush into it.”

  Noren shuddered. Stefred was right, he knew; yet he was inwardly afraid that if he didn’t rush into it, he would never have the courage to carry it through.

  * * *

  The next days were the longest Noren had ever spent. He was left entirely alone; the Technicians who brought his meals did not speak to him. At least he was now trusted to see Technicians, he realized. It was no longer feared that he’d tell them any secrets. What, he wondered, would happen if he ever encountered the one who’d befriended him? It would be hard to remain silent, but he knew that he would do so, although the man would be bound to draw the wrong conclusions.

  Noren dared not speculate about the future in store for him, the mysterious fate about which he’d as yet been given no information. It would not be easy to face; Stefred had often warned him of that, and so far everything Stefred had said had proved to be true. He could not be forgiven and released. It had been clearly stated that the secret could not go outside the City walls. The Scholars themselves never went out, and if they didn’t, they certainly wouldn’t let him do it. To be sure, he’d been told that he would be allowed to go on learning; that was some consolation. It was also consoling to know that Stefred thought him equal to whatever was going to happen.

  What was going to happen during the ceremony was inescapably grim, and he had apparently made it grimmer by refusing to declare himself penitent. He could understand that. Though the Scholars themselves tolerated heresy, they could not do so publicly, and it was Stefred’s duty to persuade heretics to repent. An example must be made of those who would not. Yet Noren still wasn’t sorry; only if he had yielded before learning the truth would he have felt guilty. The fact that the system was the lesser of two evils might excuse the Scholars for establishing it, but that couldn’t excuse a person who didn’t know the facts for accepting such a system!

  On the third morning two Technicians came to him. “The Scholar Stefred sends you a message,” one of them said formally. “First, you are offered a final opportunity to withdraw.”

  “No,” said Noren steadily, inwardly angry. Did they want him to recant or didn’t they?

  “Very well,” the Technician replied. “In that case, you are reminded that you must obey us implicitly, remembering that you have chosen to submit of your own accord.”

  Noren nodded, his indignation growing. There had been no need for such a reminder.

  “Finally,” concluded the Technician, “you are informed that there will be a departure from the script. After you read your statement, the Scholar will question you; he asks that you be told that he is relying on you to reply with absolute honesty.”

  Stefred ought to know by now, Noren thought, that he would scarcely do anything else! But why the change in plans? It had been emphasized that the ceremony would be formal and that no departures from the script would be permitted. Still, he’d sensed from Stefred’s manner that he must expect further surprises; there was no guessing their nature.

  The Technicians ordered him to change into the clothes they provided, the gray, unadorned penitent’s garb that to the spectators would be a badge of shame. He did so grimly, then sat in stoic silence while they cropped his hair. But when they proceeded to bind his wrists behind him, using not ropes but strong inflexible bands, Noren protested vehemently.

  “It’s unnecessary,” he raged. “You know I’m not planning to run away from you.”

  “We know, but all the same it must be done. It’s a matter of form.”

  It was a matter of appearances, Noren realized miserably. The impression would be given that he was a criminal who had been browbeaten into submission; his voluntary choice of this course, his pride in honesty that overrode the sort of pride that could admit no error, would not be permitted to show. Abruptly he grasped the full import of Stefred’s remark that he could be spared nothing. To the crowd, there would be no difference between his recantation and that of the man whom he himself had held in such contempt! And perhaps there was no difference. Perhaps that man, too, had experienced the dreams before capitulating; Stefred had never said that his case was unusual.

  They walked through passageways Noren had not seen before, descended in the cubicle that he’d learned was called a lift, and crossed a small vestibule, finally emerging into the courtyard that surrounded the closely-placed towers. Looking back, he recognized the entrance of the Hall of Scholars from the last dream; he had been inside it all the time, he thought in wonder. He had been in the same tower in which the First Scholar had lived and died. In there were the computers, the awesome repository of the Six Worlds’ knowledge, which he longed fervently to glimpse; would he ever be allowed to enter it again?

  When they reached the dome through which one must pass to leave the City, Noren’s guards did not accompany him into the broad, high-ceilinged corridor that stretched ahead; different Technicians took over, enclosing him within the formal rank of an escort of six. The eyes of the passers-by were all upon him. Noren straightened his shoulders and raised his head, trying not to notice. This was nothing, he knew, to what he must face outside the Gates, where he would be viewed with derision and scorn.

  The Gates appeared before him all too quickly, and to his surprise he recognized their inner surface; the First Scholar had gone through those doors to his death. The memory was so vivid that he found himself shivering. A Technician pushed a button set into the corridor’s wall and the huge panels began to slide back. At the same time another spoke, raising his voice to be heard above the rumble. “One more reminder: in public, the Scholar Stefred is to be addressed as ‘Reverend Sir.’”

  Noren pressed his lips tightly together, holding back the ire that rose in him. His own words echoed in his mind: It is a form, a symbol, as the words of the Prophecy are symbols. . . .

  He stepped forward into brilliant sunlight reflected from white pavement. Immediately a shout arose from the crowd, a hostile, contemptuous shout. And Noren froze, stricken by a terror he had never anticipated. It was like the dream! He was to stand in the very spot
where the First Scholar had been struck down; he was being led directly and purposely to it. The sun, the noise, the enmity of the people: they were all the same—but this time there was no possibility of waking up.

  The Technicians, after proceeding all the way to the platform’s edge, moved back slightly, exposing Noren to full view. There was no barrier anymore. Before him was the wide expanse of steps, the steps up which the First Scholar’s assailants had come, where he himself had been immobilized at the time of his recapture. Men and women were swarming to the top. Blasphemer, they had called him then, and their mood had been one of shock; now they used more vulgar epithets. Their mood was not shocked, but ugly, as on the night in the village. The crowd was far larger, however, and the hecklers were bolder, knowing him to be helpless because of his manacled wrists and the vigilance of the Technicians. Noren struggled to master his panic, realizing that, ironically, the Technicians were there not to guard but to protect him. Whatever else happened, they would not allow him to be murdered.

  As he looked around, he saw to his dismay that there were no Scholars anywhere. The people would not act like this in the presence of Scholars; why had Stefred sent him out alone before he himself was ready to appear? And why, when he was doing what they had wanted him to do all along, should he be deliberately terrorized by being forced to re-enact the dream? The likenesses were too precise to be accidental.

  When the first clod of mud struck him, Noren was so stunned that he nearly lost command of himself; but he quickly regained his poise and stood erect, taking it impassively. That was the only way to take it, he saw. He must not flinch from anything to which he was subjected. The sun dazzled him and the heat of it shimmered from the glaring pavement, so that the steps, the crowd, and the markets beyond the plaza all blurred into a hazy mist. He focused his eyes on nothing and tried not to think. He’d been aware that he would be despised, reviled; but having watched only the latter part of the other recantation, he had not foreseen that he would be the target of such abuse as this. The significance of the prisoner’s filthy garments had escaped him despite the traders’ then-cryptic remarks. Yet looking back, he could see that exposure to the crowd prior to the Scholars’ entrance must be a traditional part of the ordeal.