by David Karp
“If it was a lie,” Lark said, sensing now a new avenue of exploration based on the nonexistent manual, “then it was told to you to help you rid yourself of heresy.”
“Then it is a lie. You’ve admitted it,” Burden said.
“I’ve told you, Professor Burden,” Lark continued calmly, “I don’t know whether it was a lie or not. If it was a lie and it has upset you, I’m sorry. I have no control over these things. I can only follow the procedures outlined by the manual. In fact, I should not be suggesting to you the possibility of the existence of a lie.”
“Violating an ordinance in the manual?” Burden asked with a faint sneer.
“In a sense, yes,” Lark said gravely.
“I’m afraid this time that tactic won’t work, Mr. Lark,” Burden said, hearing his own voice more loudly and clearly than he had expected. “Mr. Richard tried the same stunt. I’m afraid you two gentlemen have got your tactics mixed. He tried to lure me into the trap you’ve just presented to me.”
“What trap is that?”
“Pretending that you’re willing to violate an ordinance or a rule or a regulation on my behalf. Mr. Richard tried to get on my better side by pretending disgust with Mr. Conger. It was a disgust he did not feel. There’s something chameleon about you and the other people in this Department, Mr. Lark. You’re too quick to be obliging, you’re too ready with glib explanations. I’ve trapped you in a lie before and it seems that I’ve trapped you again.” Burden rose from the couch, feeling fine now, feeling his blood tingling through his body, giving him a sense of alertness he hadn’t felt since he first entered the buildings of the Department. “For instance, I’m beginning to feel that there’s been a calculated succession of lies from the very first. Conger had no reason to suspect me of heresy. I doubt whether Conger ever read my reports. The hearing I also suspect was a farce. I don’t know. There’s a great deal I don’t know. But I’m beginning to feel that your explanations aren’t explanations at all. You say I’m a heretic. Perhaps I am. But I cannot see that I am dangerous to the State, I cannot credit my heresy as being very important. I cannot believe that I am the center of an enormous investigation. Toward what end? What have I said or done to harm the State? You tell me I have heresies, you tell me they’re serious, you tell me I will find out about them, you tell me you will purge me of them. But I don’t believe that. I don’t believe any of it. I’m sick and tired of being held here as if I were an invalid. I’m not an invalid. I want to leave. I want to leave now. I am willing to sign any statement of loyalty or conformity or what-have-you, but I want to leave. Just as soon as possible. I don’t care whether I’m happy or not with my heresies. I don’t care about any greater or more perfect happiness I can reach by being completely in tune with my fellows. I have enough. I’m not an ambitious man; I have gone far enough in my career. If you don’t feel I deserve further advancement, or am competent enough for a higher post at the college, I’m satisfied with your judgment. I’ll go on precisely as I have before any of this happened. Just have them send me my clothes and the necessary papers and I’ll leave before dinnertime.” Burden was breathing a little heavily now, his eyes bright with excitement and decision, his stubbled face flushed pink with determination.
Lark listened calmly. Then he decided to use his bright, red thread of terror. “I’m sorry, Professor Burden. Evidently all this talk of a disease has upset you greatly. I’ll be perfectly frank with you. The medical division has lied to you. You have no syphilis. What you were given early this morning was a drug calculated to reduce your inhibitions. In order for us to determine the extent and nature of your heresies it was necessary to have your complete co-operation. We sought that co-operation, we still seek it. Nothing can be done against your will.”
Burden stiffened. “Then the sedative I got the first evening here was also a drug?” Lark nodded. “Why?”
“Because, Professor, only under narcosis can we ask you certain questions with the assurance that they will be answered truthfully.”
“If I told you I was willing to co-operate, why were drugs necessary at all?”
“They were merely used as a supplement. We don’t have an unlimited amount of time and it is a complex task. As for your leaving here—I’m sorry. You can’t. Not until you rid yourself of your heresies.”
“But you said you can’t do anything against my will?”
“Quite right. That’s why you will have to remain here until you are willing to rid yourself of your heresies. They are major heresies. You cannot pick up the life you once led without having those heresies purged. That’s mandatory. I can do nothing about that. As for our lying to you—well, lies are sometimes necessary. They are not intended to injure you in any way. They are used to help us help you. It’s unfortunate that you discovered them; it’s more unfortunate that you misinterpreted them.”
“What page of the manual does this small speech come from, Mr. Lark?”
“I won’t say that this is an unprecedented situation—heretics have been known to glimpse part of our techniques, to grasp some of the methods being used. This speech, however, is in no way routine. Let me tell you something that is not in the manual, something you should not know, something, however, which you may find out after a long, long time.” Lark paused. Then, deliberately, he stitched in the thread of terror. “You can never leave here until you have satisfied us that you no longer hold any heresies. It may be a week, a month, a year, or the rest of your natural life. It is a curious sentence to be under. You are your own judge; the length of your term is entirely up to you.”
Burden grew pale but it was the pallor of shock rather than of fear. “You’re not serious.”
“I am. Completely serious. The drugs, the questions, our conversations are all designed to help you reduce that period of time. We can proceed no faster than you will permit us to proceed. Your co-operation is vital. If we must wait for you, then we shall. The State is immortal and the State can wait for a man.”
“I thought that punishment had been abolished as a social concept,” Burden said, feeling hollow and weak.
“It has. Please do not regard this as punishment. You are sick. Within the terms of modern psychiatry, you are a sick man, at odds with yourself, with the world about you. We do not punish you by treating you. We have no intention of punishing you when we keep you here. You would not consider doctors very ethical if they allowed their patients’ release merely because the treatment of a disease would take too much time or effort. It isn’t fair to the patient. It isn’t fair to you to abandon you because the task would be difficult.”
“Benevolence—your damned, awful benevolence,” Burden said softly as he sat down.
“Think of it as a disease,” Lark said gently, “which it is, of course. There are diseases in which the sufferer feels no pain. But he is diseased nevertheless. And the disease works its deadly way in his body whether he is discomforted or not. You are suffering from a disease. You say that you have no cause for complaint. That, to us, is a bad sign. It means that you are not aware of your illness. We must make you aware of your illness. We must impress upon you the gravity of it, the absolute need for treatment.”
“It may take me the rest of my life just to believe that,” Burden turned his eyes toward Lark.
“It won’t. I promise you that it won’t. Help us, co-operate with us, desire to be cured, and we will cure you.”
“In God’s name!” Burden said suddenly, desperately, putting his head in his hands, “How can I feel there’s anything wrong with me when I know there isn’t?”
“Yes, that’s the first truly difficult hurdle. But you must clear it. You absolutely must,” Lark said flatly. “You need to examine yourself, study yourself, ask yourself questions. I warn you—there’s no way for you to fool us. We know when a heretic has purged himself.”
“I’ll die here,” Burden said, turning his face up to Lark, “I’ll die or go insane. I can’t even begin to do what you want me to do.”
>
“You don’t want to live here the rest of your life,” Lark said quietly, “and you don’t want to go insane, do you? You want to go home to your wife, your sons, to your work. Well, look into yourself. Ask yourself: where am I different from my fellows? Why have I felt this way? Have I reason to feel this way? Have I a right to feel this way?” Burden shook his head helplessly. Lark went on, softly but relentlessly, “You will continue to ask these questions of yourself until they are answered. And then you will ask yourself: how can I rid myself of these poisons? How can I find the road that leads me back to my fellows, to humanity, to the State? You will keep asking these questions until you feel lost and frightened, your hand out for guidance, for comfort, for friendship. Then perhaps your heresies will die. Then you will leave here, Professor Burden. But not before.”
Lark rose, replaced the chair, and left, closing the door gently behind him. Only the soft click of the lock penetrated Burden’s consciousness. He raised his eyes and looked at the closed door and felt his throat drying. They didn’t realize what they were asking. They were all out of their minds. They were madmen. How could he possibly begin? What did they want of him? In God’s name, how could he ever satisfy them? What had he done wrong? Did they want him to lie? But they said he could not lie. But how would he ever be able to satisfy them? By lying to himself? Could he lie to himself successfully? Men did it all the time. But perhaps, underneath, they knew the truth. The drugs would push aside the lies and find the truth. Burden trembled. They were insane. It was impossible. They did not want him to do anything but lose his mind. They could not expect him to rid himself of everything he had ever thought, or heard, or read, or felt.
Burden rose and moved to the bed, his legs stiff, his hands groping, as a man moves who is desperately ill and must, at all costs, lie down before he dies.
16
Night came and Burden did not sleep. He rested on the bed staring at the ceiling, his mind a blank. The air grew cold and he heard the ward attendant outside the door but he did not rise until he felt the hand on his shoulder, bony, calling.
“Yes, yes,” he said and got out of bed, finding his slippers, putting on the bathrobe the attendant gave him. Again the long, circular hall, gleaming, cold, deserted except for the sweeper. Perhaps it was not a human thing at all under the distant yellow light. Perhaps it was some sort of gray, formless machine. Burden closed his eyes and walked, listening to the whisper and slap of his slippers, aware of the hard presence of the attendant.
The clinic was the same, as in a recurrent nightmare, and Doctor Emmerich advanced toward him. The doctor did not speak. He slapped the top of the leather table and again it sounded like a hand striking bare flesh. Burden stretched out full-length, chilled, frightened, his stomach churning. He waited gratefully. Perhaps they would discover while he was under the influence of the narcotic how hopeless it would be for them to succeed. Perhaps they would let him go then as a bad case. He said a prayer to God as he felt his sleeve being rolled up by the doctor.
“Please, please, dear God, let them know that it is impossible. Let them know that a man can’t do what they ask him to do. Let them know. Let them, please, please.”
The drug seized him as ice in his blood, bleeding away the heat in his body. He felt his heart slowing, the gorge rising, and then he felt what might have been a block of wood being pressed against his windpipe, but it was only Doctor Emmerich’s forefinger pushing against his throat. The nausea began to subside and the blood to flow more evenly, heating his body.
“Do you know how long you must stay here now?”
Yes, yes, forever, forever.
“Only until you rid yourself of your heresies.”
Never. Never. I can never do it.
“It can be done. You must do it.”
Never, never.
“You will do it.”
I cannot.
“You will or you will die here.”
Then let me die soon.
“You will die when you must. But not for a long time.”
I will die sooner.
“You will not. You will live out your life.”
I will beat my head against the wall until I die.
“You will not die. You will become unconscious and go on living.”
I’ll hang myself if you keep it up too long.
“You will have nothing with which to hang yourself.”
I will find a way to die if I must.
“You will not. Take our word for it. You will not.”
I can’t do what you ask.
“You must. Who told you you were brighter than your friends?”
My father, my mother, my brother, my teachers, everyone.
“They were wrong.”
No, they were right. I could see that.
“They used the wrong measure of intelligence.”
They didn’t. They used the correct measure.
“An intelligent man is a happy man, is he not?”
No, he is not. My father was intelligent but he was not happy.
“Your father was not intelligent. The aim of life is happiness. Without happiness a life is without meaning.”
The aim of life is reason. Without reason life is without meaning.
“Would you rather be happy than rational?”
A lunatic can be happy without being rational. You are all lunatics. The moon will change its phase and your madness will pass as your happiness will pass. The dark side of the moon is coming and with it your unhappiness.
“We want you to be happy. Is that so awful?”
You want me to go insane.
“You would not be happy if you were insane.”
Of course not.
“Then why should we want you to go insane? We desire your happiness.”
Leave me alone. I’ll be happy if I’m left alone.
“No man can live alone.”
I can. Leave me alone. I’ll be happy.
“Suppose we do leave you alone and you discover that you are unhappy. What then?”
Please, please, leave me alone.
“Alone means without company of anyone.”
Yes, yes, I understand the word properly.
“Then we will do that. We will leave you alone. But you must remember that you were the one who decided the basis of your happiness.”
Yes, yes, I’ll remember.
“Do you believe that we think only of your happiness?”
No.
“What is it we want?”
To drive me insane.
“Toward what purpose?”
Because I will not conform.
“Will not or can not conform?”
Will not.
“Then you could conform if you so desired?”
I don’t know.
“Can’t you decide?”
I could not conform.
“You will conform.”
I can’t. Stop telling me that I will.
“You will.”
I can’t. I can’t.
“Wait and see.”
ii
Burden’s first awareness was that he was naked and the room was cold. He opened his eyes and saw only the gray light. He thought for an instant that he was lying naked on the floor of the corridor. It was not the corridor, nor his room in the hospital section. It was a bare, enormous room, perhaps two stories tall, and it was so huge that it curved almost out of sight. There were no windows in it, not a stick of furniture, nothing but the soaring monotony of rough concrete. The floor was smooth and cold to his bare feet. Burden rose and walked slowly. There was enough light for him to see the room in its entirety. It was perhaps twenty feet in width and fifty feet in height and it curved with the building. Cautiously Burden followed the wall, looking for a door, a window, a break in the concrete. But there was none. He followed the curving wall for what seemed two hundred feet and came up against another wall, twenty feet wide and stretching fifty feet toward the ceiling. The light appeared to come from
the ceiling. Burden’s first thought was that the room was once an immense storage place. High up along the curving walls there seemed to be ventilators but they were far too high for Burden to reach or to see clearly. The light of the room was unvarying and strange. It didn’t seem like daylight and yet it did not resemble artificial light. It was a uniform, flat gray. Burden crossed to the opposing wall and, brushing his hand lightly against it, walked back the curving length of the room. It brought him back to the opposite wall. The room was so long and so curved that he could not see from one end to the other. How had he been put in the room? Lowered perhaps from somewhere on the ceiling? There seemed to be no breaks in the ceiling and yet he felt that his eyes probably deceived him.
Burden sat down on the floor, his back against the wall. The room was cold, so cold that goose flesh began to rise along his arms and legs, prickling his buttocks. The cold was not intense, but it would not be easy to bear. What sort of room was it? Why had he been put in it? He began to long for his pajamas, thin and dirty as they were, for the slippers, cold and sleazy as they were. Nakedness was an awful feeling. A terrible sense of vulnerability began to seep into him. He drew his knees up and clasped his hands across his shins, looking up at the ceiling. They would not leave him there to starve. They had to give him food. He would see then where the food came from, perhaps find out from the person who brought it how long he would have to stay in the room. Or would it be lowered from the ceiling? If it came down on a rope he could seize hold of it and refuse to let go. They would either have to haul him up or cut the rope. In any case he would have something in the room with him—even if it was only a rope. Burden shuddered at the thought of being left so utterly alone. He had read of dungeons, of prisoners left in the darkness without the sound of a human voice, without the sight of a human face. But this was not a dungeon. It was a large room, it was not at all dark, and its shape was more interesting than a box. It suddenly occurred to Burden that someone could enter the other end of the room that curved out of his sight and he would not see him. He rose and walked to a spot he judged to be the exact center of the arc and sat down again on the floor, able now to see both opposing walls. But he discovered that in that position there were at least two corners of the room he could not see. A sobering thought struck him then. No matter where he sat in the room there would always be some part of it he could not see. Was that how they intended to get his food to him? To watch him from the ceiling, determine his position, and then allow someone to slip in, leave the food in the blind spot, and then slip out again? Burden rose to his feet. It was a devilishly planned room if that was the plan. It meant that he had to keep walking to be certain he missed no one who entered. But how could entry be made? He saw no signs of doors. Perhaps there were ordinary doors behind the concrete, with knobs and locks and wood paneling. Perhaps the walls were not so thick as they seemed. Burden struck the wall with his fist hard enough to hurt himself. The wall seemed solid, at least several inches thick. The question, he realized suddenly, was whether the inner curved wall faced a corridor or the other wall. Burden looked at the two walls and felt foolish. One was inner and the other outer, but he did not know which. The walls were of equal length and it was the trick of perspective that made one seem longer than the other. The question was, did the room follow the inside curve of the building or the outside curve? If he knew that he would know which curved wall opened on a corridor and which formed part of the building’s limit.
