by David Karp
“Yes,” Doctor Wright said calmly, retreating behind the thick glasses, the heavy mustache.
“You don’t seem convinced, Doctor,” Lark said, conscious of the fact that the others at the table resented Wright’s presence and his remarks. “I may not punish a man but I cannot help it if he punishes himself. He would not be punishing himself if he had no sense of guilt. The sense of guilt derives from his heresy. Deep down he suspects the Department of cruelty. That’s an error. That’s a heresy. If he were not a heretic, the concept of official cruelty would never suggest itself to him and he would be anesthetized to all suggestions of terror. In short, he would not believe that we would harm a hair of his head. Which we would not.”
The others waited a moment to see if Wright would answer, but the political analyst nodded his head vaguely and retreated still further.
“Now,” Lark said, addressing the others at the table again, “I have a question to ask of you. I want your opinions—but briefly, if you please. Would there be any value in evoking Burden’s sexual fantasies in a drugged session? Doctor Emmerich?”
“Yes, I believe there would be,” Emmerich said. “We know how much motivation of human behavior is based on sexual desire and, after all, we are primarily devoted to the investigation of Burden’s motives. It would be useful.”
Lark nodded and turned toward the fat investigator with his pipe. “Conger?”
“I see no value in it. It appears to me to be a waste of time. Burden is an intellectual, and while all human motivation is somehow enmeshed with sexual drives of one sort or another, Burden’s problem seems to me to stem from ego, from a strong sense of individualism—from intellectual processes rather than from any other process. I know that there’s a sexual link somewhere in there, but I don’t think it’s worth exploring.”
“Richard?” Lark snapped.
“I agree with Frank Conger basically. Burden is a conventionally sensual man. He’s happily married, has two sons, has no record of adultery, and as far as we know had had no intercourse with anyone before marriage. We went further back in the records and have failed to find any indication that adolescent sexuality was overly important. At least, no record of any family concern on the matter.”
“Doctor Wright?” Lark asked, deliberately seeking to draw the political analyst back into the discussion.
“I’m not a psychoanalyst,” Wright said calmly, “but it might be pertinent to discover which of his two parents was more important to him. You know the theory of the strong state as representing the father, as dictators representing father-images and so on. If he was in rebellion against his father he might be in rebellion against a strong state—rebellious, in general, against supervision. That’s only a guess, of course.”
“And a very shrewd one, as usual,” Lark said admiringly. Lark felt the tiny stir of annoyance from the others at the table. It pleased him, in a mysterious way, to annoy his subordinates with his attention to Wright. Someday he would have to go into an analysis of their hostility and his desire to provoke it. “Well, then, gentlemen, I think we’ve concluded our conference. I have an idea for the story we’re going to give Professor Burden, Doctor Emmerich—concerning the injection. I want to go over it in my mind for a short while.”
“All right, sir,” Emmerich said, his assistant following his lead and rising with him. Conger and Richard followed suit. But Wright remained seated, a fact that made Lark smile inwardly. Wright knew that he was not being dismissed.
The others left, with only Conger casting a backward glance at the political analyst. The fat man’s face had no expression as his eyes traveled between Lark and Wright but Lark had the feeling that a mental note was made that Wright lingered, apparently with Lark’s approval.
Lark said nothing for some time after the door had closed and Doctor Wright waited patiently. The inquisitor slumped in his chair, drew up a knee, rested it against the table, and stared at the cover of the folder that contained reports and analyses of Professor Burden’s heresies.
“Do you approve of my methods, Doctor Wright?” Lark finally asked, not looking at the political analyst.
“I think you may succeed,” Wright said. “I approve of the choice of methods as leading to a probably successful conclusion—yes.”
“But morally you disapprove of my methods?”
“There is no morality in your method. You are a peculiarly amoral man. You lie when it pleases you, cheat when it suits you, terrorize when it is convenient. You manipulate this man as if he were a cardboard figure. You are not interested in this man’s heresy—you’re involved in a game of slowly driving the poor devil out of his mind.”
“It’s no game, Doctor,” Lark said grimly, “it’s quite serious. Tell me this—what is your analysis of the probable course of our State during the next seventy-five years?”
“You don’t want my opinion on that subject, sir. Don’t you know that I am never consulted on that subject? Haven’t you heard of the bias index? Didn’t you know I rate at the top of the index on such questions?”
“I’ll discount your bias, Doctor. Give me your opinion.”
“There is no such thing as a benevolent state without tolerance. Yet this State purports to be exactly that—a state which knows all, tolerates no deviation from established doctrine, and operates for the good of all. That’s nonsense. A state which tolerates no deviation from established doctrine is a state which suppresses deviants. The longer the State continues in power the greater the area of its control. You know historically that there is no such thing as a state which stays in power without increasing its power to rule bit by bit. This encroaching blanket of power continues until crises arise—war, famine, religious dissension, technological improvement, scandal in government. And then the rebellion sets in. An inflexible government very often falls—as many of the monarchies of Europe and Asia fell. Only a government which is willing to yield, to relinquish portions of its power manages to survive—most notably, the royal house of England, which underwent a progressive deterioration in power and so remained, while its sister houses of royalty met challenge and crisis inflexibly and fell. This State is broadening and deepening its control every hour, every day, every year that it continues. And it is an inflexible state which yields nothing.”
“But such a state is only in danger when a crisis occurs,” Lark said, knowing full well what Wright would reply. “I think you said war, famine, religious dissension, technological improvement, and scandal in government. The State has rather neatly undercut these crises, has it not? After all, the age of the military adventuring state is over and our State would be the last to resume it even if the World Federation tolerated such a state—which it would not. As for famine—modern agriculture makes famine a ghost out of the past, scary, but not effective. And as for religious dissension—the Church of State is growing at an enormous rate. In twenty years it will have swallowed up the major religious groups. And technological improvement—well, we don’t encourage that, do we? And as for scandal in the government and in the conduct of state affairs—like Caesar’s wife, we are all above reproach. We see to that ourselves.”
“Yes, I’ll admit that the State’s plan has been very shrewd. Yet there’s been a new factor of crisis—a rather modern factor. It was growing rapidly until it was struck down by this State—our benevolent State. I’m speaking of the intellectual—the person you call a heretic—the individual. The concept of individualism has been growing for a long time, sir—it now has earned the right to be called a crisis matter. I think in seventy-five years you’ll find that it’s grown enormously. And the harder the State squeezes its citizens into the mold, the more heretics will appear. They’ll grow rapidly and they will include the thoughtful, the gifted, the honest, the brave, the moral. In short, the best elements of the society will be arrayed against the State. That’s what’s going to happen in seventy-five years, sir, and this State, inflexible as it is, will break.”
“Yes, Doctor Wright,” L
ark said, pleased with Wright almost as if Wright were his protégé, a protégé who had performed brilliantly, “that’s exactly what I told the Commissioner. That’s why he’s allowed me two weeks in which to rid Burden of heresy. You see, if we can take the intellectuals, the people you so poetically call the thoughtful, the gifted, the honest, the moral, the brave,”—he paused, smiled, “did I get the sequence right?—and enchant them into conforming, we’ll have whipped the last crisis. That’s why Burden must be reclaimed. If Burden can be purged of his heresies, then we can purge anyone of his heresies.” Lark paused, not quite certain that Wright’s face hadn’t paled slightly, trying to find out what emotions coursed behind those weak eyes, trying to see whether or not the lip under the heavy mustache didn’t tremble faintly. “There aren’t many in the government who see these things so clearly. To Conger, to Richard, to Doctor Emmerich and the others Burden represents a puzzle, a test of our resources. If we fail, then it only means to them that we must improve our methods, re-evaluate our techniques, and perhaps add to our equipment. None of them realizes how deadly failure with Burden can be to all of us—to the State, to everything. You realize it, and I do, and perhaps, vaguely, so do a few others in the Department including the Commissioner. But no government ever wants to believe that its existence depends upon some minor point, some insignificant citizen. It rather offends official vanity, which is every bit as real as personal vanity. A state is immortal—a concept that is very necessary to its proper functioning. If a stooped, balding professor of English at a small college can topple it by remaining obstinately individual—well, that’s unthinkable, isn’t it? Unthinkable and untenable. But it’s true. This State’s destiny is locked up inside a man named Professor Burden who likes to think that he is an individual.”
Lark’s eyes glittered, his lips parted more than usual. He brought his knee down from the table. “The key to this man has always been his pride, his vanity, his unwarranted belief that he is a creature apart, that he possesses some single, indefinable identity that is his and his alone. And it is the retention of this one idea that stands between the State and a thousand years of rule—a thousand years which will mean a golden age for man. To me such a thing is monstrous!” Lark’s hand, slender, hard, pale struck the table like the slash of a whip.
Wright remained motionless, his weak eyes hypnotically fastened on Lark’s face.
“Do you know what I’m going to do, Doctor Wright?” Lark asked, his chest heaving slightly, his eyes large and pale in their concentration. “I’m going to pulverize this man’s identity. I’m going to reduce him to a cipher, from one—” Lark shot up a bony forefinger, “to nothing.” Lark’s finger curled back on itself to make a bony, angular symbol of zero. “That’s the whole problem. Break that outer shell of individuality and you can rake up the heresies with a common gardening tool. Would you be interested in watching the process, Doctor Wright?”
“You can’t do it,” Doctor Wright said and Lark, with keen satisfaction, noted the huskiness of the doctor’s voice, the overstressed negative suggesting Wright’s deepest fears.
“You’re invited to watch us, Doctor,” Lark said.
14
For Burden it seemed to be the repetition of a bad dream. The dark room, himself asleep, the chill air, and the hand—bony, sharp, insistent—calling him.
“What?” Burden said, sitting up in the darkness, the faint reflection of light from a starched white blouse.
“The doctor wants to see you, Professor Burden,” the attendant said.
“In God’s name—at this hour?”
“Yes,” the attendant said and reached over and picked up his robe which was resting across the foot of the bed. Burden slipped out from the warm covers and felt the chill on his feet. What did they want now? Was there some sort of madness loose in the medical department that they awoke him at such an hour?
“Do you have to go to the bathroom?” the attendant asked as Burden put his slippers on and got into the bathrobe.
“No.”
“Good,” the attendant said, and Burden felt the strong fingers at his elbow guiding him. The door opened on the same corridor, endless, looking even longer than the first time he had stepped into it. And yes, he saw the small, distant figure, working silently, patiently on the floor. Burden knew, before he looked, that it would be the same attendant—the one with the broken, fighter’s face. It was.
“It seems to me that we’ve done this before,” Burden said. The attendant said nothing. Burden seethed with annoyance. Surely they did not have to wake him at this hour. He decided he would tell Lark—would, in fact, insist that his sleep not be broken up by such nonsense. After all, he would need a clear mind if he was going to help Lark.
Again the same large room with its screened cubicles, leather-topped examining tables, the gleaming copper and porcelain tubs. This time the doctor was waiting for him at the examination table. It was the same gentle, elderly doctor who had come in with Lark, the same one he had seen that first morning.
“Doctor—what is this?”
“Get up on here, Professor Burden,” the doctor said kindly, but not smiling.
“Would you mind telling me what this is all about?”
“Do you recall yesterday that you were asked for specimens of your urine and blood?”
“Yes.”
“Unfortunately, the lab has just informed us that your blood shows that you are suffering from syphilis.”
“What?” Burden was stunned, incredulous, uncertain whether he had heard correctly or the doctor was completely insane.
“Would you mind taking off your bathrobe and rolling up your pajama sleeve? Right arm, please.”
“Now, wait a minute. This is impossible. Y-you can’t be right.” Burden found himself stammering slightly.
“Professor Burden, there’s no mistake. The test is quite simple and quite conclusive. Your blood shows the presence of spirochaeta pallida.”
“It’s impossible.” Burden’s voice was hoarse now, his eyes large with shock.
“Professor Burden, I’m not going to argue the morals of the matter. The disease exists and is very probably beyond the secondary stage. At least your skin seems clear. Have you had any rashes or lesions on your body the past few years?”
“No.” Burden thought quickly, frantically, before realizing that he was accepting the doctor’s verdict. “And I have no such disease. I’ve been married for sixteen years to the same woman.”
“Then it’s possible you’ve contracted it from your wife,” Doctor Emmerich said calmly. “Your sleeve, please.”
Burden’s hand shot out and caught the doctor’s coat in rage. “You’re lying,” he said, feeling himself trembling, his muscles growing weak, his head bursting.
“Professor Burden, I know it’s a shock to learn that you’re suffering from a venereal disease. But please have the courtesy to respect my professional status and my judgment. I wouldn’t lie to you, nor would I seek to embarrass you. Syphilis is acquired in just two ways—by heredity and by direct physical or, more particularly, sexual contact. Now, we know yours is not a case of hereditary syphilis and so it must have been acquired by sexual contact. You assure me that you have not had adulterous sexual relations and I believe you. Hence the only other conclusion is that your wife must have had adulterous relations.”
“In God’s name,” Burden said softly, feeling sick as he let go of the doctor’s coat, “it can’t be true.”
“The important thing at the moment is cure, Professor Burden. Fortunately we have specifics to deal with all stages of syphilis. They’re very successful and very quick. But the sooner we start the treatment the sooner we’ll arrest internal damage. Now, if you’ll take off your bathrobe and roll up your sleeve, please—”
Burden obeyed the doctor’s orders numbly, staring sightlessly into the darkness of the room. He hardly felt the needle, his mind a chaos of images and thoughts, of the sounds of Emma’s words, the voices of his sons,
the particular shape of furniture in the house, the light soap scent of Emma’s hands, the faint delicate animal smell of her mouth, the melting look of pleasure in her eyes when they were in bed together. Ten thousand things that he had forgotten sprang into his mind—the surprising sensuality in Emma that he had discovered on their honeymoon, his delight and pleasure in it, the sharp, rising fierceness of her desires. He had been a withdrawn young man and had supposed Emma as innocent as himself, and on their honeymoon he didn’t equate the eagerness of her body with anything but love for him. He knew Emma had been popular and it had both surprised and pleased him to know that she preferred him to other young men. Emma had seemed so completely out of the world in which he lived. College, for her, had been a social engagement filled with the attentions of young men, the giggling mysteries of sorority sisterhood, the games, the rallies, the dances, the holidays. Why had she chosen him? He was cynical enough to know that it is always the woman who chooses the man for a love object, so he knew that she had chosen him. But why? Was it because he was steady, prosaic, and showed promise? Had she chosen him for the gratitude he would show her? He had been grateful for many years. But more recently—he didn’t know just when—he had ceased being grateful, had perhaps taken Emma for granted. Was that when she had looked for a lover? In God’s name—his Emma? The two boys, the house, the routine of their life . . . oh, no. And yet, there was the remark she had made. What was it? About his going out every night—what did she say? That she used to pretend that he met some woman? Was it, then, a guarded, guilt-struck admission that she met someone else? That she had lain naked in someone else’s arms and had accepted the taint of his blood?
“Yes, she did.”
What? Who spoke? Again, someone speaks and—who is it?
“She was naked in his arms and she squirmed and cried out and bit him.”
No, please don’t say things like that.
“But of course it happened just that way. His apartment—or perhaps even in your own house.”
