“You mean I've made it as a Musician!" Clarey cried, sink- ing to the hard little stool in joyful atony.
“Well, no, not exactly a Musician. But it's a highly artistic type of job with possible musical overtones."
Clarey became a hollow man once more. No matter what it was, if it wasn't as duly accredited Musician, it didn't matter. The machine could keep him from putting his symphonies down on tape, but it couldn't keep them from coursing in his head. That it could never take away from him. Or the resultant headache, either.
“What is the job, then?" he asked dully.
“A very important position, Sub-Archivist. In fact, the future welfare of this planet may depend on it."
“It's a trick to make me take a job nobody else wants," Clarey sneered. “And it must be a pretty rotten job for you to go to so much trouble." The girl, whom he'd almost forgotten, gave a little laugh. Her eyes, he noticed, were hazel. There were L-E girls, he sup- posed, who also had hazel eyes —but a different hazel.
* * * *
“Perhaps this will convince you of the job's significance," the interviewer said huffily. He took off his mask and looked at Clarey with anticipation. He had a sleek, ordinary, middle-aged-to-elderly face. There was an awkward interval.
“Don't you recognize me?'.' he demanded.
Clarey shook his head. The girl laughed again.
“As blow to my ego, but proof that you're the right man for this job.1'm General Spano. And. this is my Mistress, Secretary Han Vollard."
The girl inclined her head.
"At least you must know my name?" Spano said querulously.
“I've heard it," Clarey admitted. “ ‘The Fiend of Fomalhaut,' they call you," he went on before he could catch himself and stop the words.
The girl clapped her hand over her mouth, but the laughter spilled out over and around it, pretty U-E laughter.
Spano finally laughed, too. “It's a phrase that might be used about any military man. One carries out one's orders to the best of one's ability."
“Besides," Clarey observed in a non-Archivistic manner, “what concern have I with your military morality?"
“I-Ie's absolutely perfect for the job, Steff!" she cried. “I didn't think the machines were that good!"
“We mustn't underestimate the machines, Han," Spano said. “They're efficient, very efficient. Someday they'll take over from us."
“There're some things they'll never be able to do," she said. Her hazel eyes lingered on Clarey's. “Aren't you glad, Archivist?"
“Sub-Archivist," he corrected her frostily. “And I hadn't really thought about it."
"That's not what the machines say, Sub-Archivist," she told him, her voice candy-sweet. "They deep-probed your mind. You don't do anything, but you've thought about it a lot, haven't you?"
Clarey felt the blood surge up. “My thoughts are my own concern. You haven't the right to use them to taunt me."
“But I think you're attractive," she protested. “Honestly I do. In a different way. Just go to a good tailor, put on a little weight, dye your hair, and — "
“And I wouldn't be different any more," Clarey finished. That wasn't true; he would always be different. Not that he was deformed, just unappealing. He was below average height and his eyes and hair and skin were too light. In the past, he knew, there had been pale races and dark races on Earth. With the discovery of other intelligent life-forms to discriminate against together, the different races had fused into a swarthy unity. Of course he could hide his etiolation with dye and cosmetics, but those of really good quality cost more than he could afford, and cheap maquillage was worse than none. Besides, why should his appearance mean anything to anybody but himself? He'd had enough beating around the bush! “Would you mind telling me exactly what the job is?"
“Intelligence agent," said Spano."
“Isn't it exciting?" she put in. “Aren't you thrilled?"
* * * *
Clarey bounced angrily from his chair. “I won't sit here and be ridiculed!"
“Why ridiculed?" Spano asked. “Don't you consider yourself an intelligent man?"
“Being an intelligence. agent has nothing to do with intelligence!" Clarey said furiously. “The whole thing's silly, straight out of the tri-dis."
“What do you have against the tri-dis, Sub-Archivist?" Spano's voice was very quiet.
“Don't you like any of them?" the girl said. “I just adore Sentries of the Sky!" Her enthusiasm was tinged, obscurely, with warning.
“Well, I enjoy it, too," Clarey said, sinking back to the stool. “It's very entertaining, but I'm sure it isn't meant to be taken seriously."
“Oh, but it is, Sub-Archivist Clarey," Spano said. “Sentries of the Sky happens to be produced by my bureau. We want the public to know all about our operations — or as much as it's good for them to know — and they find it more palatable in fictionalized form."
“Documentaries always get low ratings," the girl said. “And you can't really blame the public — documentaries are dull. Myself, I like a love interest." Her eyes rested lingeringly on Clarey's.
They must think I'm a fool, Clarey thought; yet why would they bother to fool me? “But I am given to understand," he said to Spano, “even by the tri-dis, that an intelligence agent needs special training, special qualifications."
“In this case, the special qualifications outweigh the training. And you have the qualifications we need for Damorlan."
“According to the machines, all I'm qualified for is human filing cabinet. Is that what you want?"
Spano was growing impatient. “Look, Clarey, the machines have decided that you are not a Musician. Do you want to remain a Sub-Archivist for the rest of your days or will you take this other road? Once you're on a U-E level, you can fight the machines; tape your own music if you like."
Clarey said nothing, but his initial hostility was ebbing slowly away.
“I wanted to be a writer," Spano said. “The machines said no. So I became a soldier, rose to the top. Now — this is in strictest confidence — I write most of the episodes of Sentries of the Sky myself. There's always another route for the man with guts and vision, and, above all, faith. Why don't we continue the discussion over lunch?"
* * * *
IT was almost unthinkable for L-E and U-E to eat together. For Clarey this was an honor — too great an honor — and there was no way out of it. Spano and the girl put on their masks; the general touched a section of the wall and it slid back. There was a car waiting for them outside. It skimmed over the delicately wrought, immensely strong bridges that, together with the tunnels, linked the great glittering metropolis into a vast efficient whole
Spano was not really broad- minded. Although they went to the Aurora Borealis, it was through a side door, and they were served in a private dining room. Clarey was glad and nettled at the same time.
The first few mouthfuls of the food tasted ambrosial; then it cloyed and Clarey had to force it down with a thin, almost astringent pale blue liquid. In itself, the liquor had only a mild, slightly pungent taste, but it made everything else increasingly delightful — the warm, luxurious little room, the perfume that wafted from the air-conditioning ducts, Han Vollard.
“Martian mountain wine," she warned him. “Rather overwhelming if you're not used to it, and sometimes even if you are . . ." Her eyes rested on the general.
“But there are no mountains on Mars," Clarey said, startled.
“That's it!" Spano chortled. “When you've drunk it, you see mountains!" And he filled his glass again.
While they ate, he told Clarey about Damorlan — its beautiful climate, light gravity, intelligent and civilized natives. Though the planet had been known for two decades, no one from Earth had ever been there except a few selected government officials, and, of course, the regular staff posted there.
“You mean it hasn't been colonized yet?" Clarey was relieved, because he felt he should, as an Archivist, have known more about the planet than
its name and coordinates. “Why? It sounds like a splendid place for a colony."
“The natives," Spano said.
“There were natives on a lot of the planets we colonized. You disposed of them somehow."
“By co-existence in most cases, Sub-Archivist," Spano said drily. “We've found it best for Terrans and natives to live side by side in harmony. We dispose of a race only when it's necessary for the greatest good. And we would especially dislike having to dispose of the Damorlanti."
“What's wrong with them?" Clarey asked, pushing away his half-finished creme brulee a la Betelgeuse with a sigh. “Are they excessively belligerent, then?"
“No more belligerent than any intelligent life-form which has pulled 'itself up by its boot- straps."
“Rigid?" Clarey suggested. “Unadaptable? Intolerant? Indolent? Personally offensive?"
* * * *
Spano smiled. He leaned back with half-shut eyes, as if this were a guessing game. “None of those."
“Then why consider disposing of them?" Clarey asked. “They sound pretty decent for natives. Don't wipe them out; even an ilf has a right to live."
“Clarey," the girl said, “you're drunk."
“I'm in full command of my faculties," he assured her. “My wits are all about me, moving me to ask how you could possibly expect to use a secret agent on Damorlan if there are no colonists. What would he disguise himself as — a touring Earth ofiicial?" He laughed with modest triumph.
Spano smiled. “He could disguise himself as one of them. They're humanoid."
“That humanoid?"
“That humanoid. So there you have the problem in a nutshell." But Clarey still couldn't see that there was a problem. “I thought we — the human race, that is -- were supposed to be the very apotheosis of life species."
“So we are. And that's the impression we've conveyed to such other intelligent life-forms as we've taken under our aegis. What we're afraid of is that the other ilfs might become . . . confused when they see the Damorlanti, think they're the ruling race." Leaning forward, he pounded so loudly on the table both the others jumped. “This is our galaxy and we don't intend that anyone, humanoid or other-wise, is going to forget it!"
“You're drunk, too, Steff," the girl said. She had changed completely; her coquetry had dropped as if it were another mask. And it had been, Clarey thought — an advertising mask. An offer had been made, and, if he accepted it, he would get probably not Han herself but a reasonable facsimile.
He tried to sort things out in his whizzing brain. “But why should the other ilfs ever see a Damorlant?" he asked, enunciating very precisely. “I've never seen another life-form to speak of. I thought the others weren't allowed off-planet —- except the Baluts, and there's no mistaking them, is there?" For the Baluts, although charming, were unmistakably non-human, being purplish, amiable, and octopoid.
“We don't forbid the ilfs to go off-planet," Spano proclaimed. “That would be tyrannical. We simply don't allow them passage in our spaceships. Since they don't have any as their own, they can't leave."
“Then you're afraid the Damorlanti will develop space travel on their own," Clarey cried. “Superior race — seeking after knowledge — spread their wings and soar to the stars." he fiapped his arms and fell off the stool.
“Really, Steff," Han said, motioning for the servo-mechanism to pick Clarey up, “this is no way to conduct an interview."
“I am a creative artist," the general said thickly. “I believe in suiting the interview to the occasion. Clarey understands, for he, too, is an artist." The general sneezed and rubbed his nose with his silver sleeve. “Listen to me, boy. The Damorlanti are a fine, creative, productive race. It isn't generally known, but they developed the op fastener for evening wear, two of the new scents on the roster come from Damorlan, and the snettis is an adaptation of a Damorlant original. Would you want a species as artistic as that to be annihilated by an epidemic?"
“Do our germs work on them?" Clarey wanted to know.
“That hasn't been established yet. But their germs certainly work on us." The general sneezed again. “That's where I got this sinus trouble, last voyage to Damorlan. But you'll be inoculated, of course. Now we know what to watch out for, so you'll be perfectly safe. That is, as far as disease is concerned."
* * * *
His face assumed a stern, noble aspect. “Naturally, if you're discovered as a spy, we'll have to repudiate you. You must know that from the tri-dis."
“But I haven't said I would go!" Clarey howled. “And I can't see why you'd want me, anyway!"
“Modest," the general said, lighting a smoke-stick. “An admirable trait in a young intelligence operative — or, indeed, anyone. Have a smoke-stick?"
Clarey hesitated. He had never tried one; he had always wanted to.
“Don't, Clarey," the girl advised. “You'll be sick."
She spoke with authority and reason. Clarey shook his head.
The general inhaled and exhaled a cloud of smoke in the shape of a bunnit. “The Damorlanti look like us, but because they look like us, that doesn't mean they think like us. They may not have the least idea of developing space travel, simply be interested in developing thought, art, ideals, splendid cultural things like that. We don't know enough about them; we may be making mountains out of molehills."
“Martian molehills," Clarey snickered.
“Precisely," the general agreed. “Except that there are no moles on Mars either."
“But I still can't understand. Why me?"
The general leaned forward and said in a confidential tone, “We want to understand the true Damorlan. Our observations have been too superficial; couldn't help being. There we come, blasting out of the skies with the devil of a noise, running all over the planet as if we owned it. You know how those skyboys throw their gravity around."
Clarey nodded. Sentries of the Sky had kept him well informed on such matters.
“So what we want is a man who can go to Damorlan for five or ten years and become a Damorlant in everything but basic loyalties. A man who will absorb the very spirit of the culture, but in terms our machines can understand and interpret." Spano stood erect. “You, Clarey, are that man!"
The girl applauded. “Well done, Steff! You finally got it right side up!"
“But I've lived twenty-eight years on this planet and I'm not a part of its culture," Clarey protested. “I'm a lonely, friendless man — you must know that if you've deep-probed me — so why should I put up a front and be brave and proud about it?"
* * * *
Then he gave a short, bitter laugh. “I see. That's the reason you want me. I have no roots, no ties; I belong nowhere. Nobody loves me. Who else, you think, but a man like me would spend ten years on an alien planet as an alien?"
“A patriot, Sub-Archivist," the general said sternly. “By God, sir, a patriot!"
“There's nothing I'd like better than to see Terra and all its colonies go up in smoke. Mind you," Clarey added quickly, for he was not as drunk as all that, “I've nothing against the government. It's a purely personal grievance."
The general unsteadily patted his arm. “You're detached, m'boy. You can examine an alien planet objectively, without trying to project your own cultural identity upon it, because you have no cultural identity."
“How about physical identity?" Clarey asked. “They can't be ex-exactly like us. Against the laws of nature."
“The laws of man are higher than the laws of nature," the general said, waving his arm. A gout of smoke curled around his head and became a halo. “Very slight matter of plastic surgery. And we'll change you back as soon as you return." Then he sat down heavily. How many young men in your position get an opportunity like this? Permanent U-E status, a hundred thousand credits a year and, of course, on Damorlan you'd be on an expense account; our money's no good there. By the time you got back, there'd be about a million and a half waiting for you, with interest. You could buy all the instruments and tape all the
music you wanted. And, if the Musicians' Guild puts up a fuss, you could buy it, too. Don't let anybody kid you about the wheel, son; money was mankind's first significant invention."
"But ten years. That's a long time away from home."
"Home is where the heart is, and you wanting to see your own planet go up in a puff of smoke — why, even an ilf wouldn't say a thing like that!" Spano shook his head. "That's too detached for me to understand. You'll find the years will pass quickly on Damorlan. You'Il have stimulating work to do; every moment will be a challenge. When it's all over, you'll be only thirty-eight — the very prime of life. You won't have aged even that much, because you'll be entitled to longevity treatments at regular intervals.
So think it over, m'boy." He rose waveringly and clapped Clarey on the shoulder. "And take the rest of the afternoon off; I'll fix it with Archives. We wouldn't want you coming back from Classification intoxicated." He winked. "Make a very bad impression on your co-workers."
Han masked herself and escorted Clarey to the restaurant partway. "Don't believe everything he says. But I think you'd better accept the offer."
"I don't have to," Clarey said.
"No," she agreed, "you don't. But you'd better."
* * * *
Clarey took the cheap underground route home. His antiseptic little two-room apartment seemed even bleaker than usual. He dialed a dyspep pill from the auto-spensor; the lunch was beginning to tell on him. And that evening he couldn't even take an interest in Sentries Of the Sky, which, though he'd never have admitted it, was his favorite program. He had no friends; nobody would miss him if he left Earth or died or anything. The general's right, he thought; I might as well be an alien on an alien planet. At least I'll be paid better. And he wondered whether, in lighter gravity, his spirits might not get a lift.
He dragged himself to work the next day. He found someone did care after all. "Well, Sub Archivist Clarey," Chief Section Archivist MacFingal snarled, "I would have expected to see more sparkle in your eye, more pep in your step, after a whole day of nothing but sweet rest."
"But - but General Spano said it would be all right if I didn't report back in the afternoon.
The 20th Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK ™: Evelyn E. Smith Page 26
