by Various
Very sharp, Korvin told himself grimly. "It is," he said.
"Then the government which reigns over several planets is supreme," the Ruler said.
"It is," Korvin said.
"Who is it that governs?" the Ruler said.
They key question had, at last, been asked. Korvin felt grateful that the logical Tr'en had determined to begin from the beginning, instead of going off after details of armament first; it saved a lot of time.
"The answer to that question," Korvin said, "cannot be given to you."
"Any question of fact has an answer," the Ruler snapped. "A paradox is not involved here; a government exists, and some being is the governor. Perhaps several beings share this task; perhaps machines do the work. But where there is a government, there is a governor. Is this agreed?"
"Certainly," Korvin said. "It is completely obvious and true."
"The planet from which you come is part of a system of planets which are governed, you have said," the Ruler went on.
"True," Korvin said.
"Then there is a governor for this system," the Ruler said.
"True," Korvin said again.
The ruler sighed gently. "Explain this governor to us," he said.
Korvin shrugged. "The explanation cannot be given to you."
The Ruler turned to a group of his experts and a short muttered conversation took place. At its end the Ruler turned his gaze back to Korvin. "Is the deficiency in you?" he said. "Are you in some way unable to describe this government?"
"It can be described," Korvin said.
"Then you will suffer unpleasant consequences if you describe it to us?" the Ruler went on.
"I will not," Korvin said.
It was the signal for another conference. With some satisfaction, Korvin noticed that the Tr'en were becoming slightly puzzled; they were no longer moving and speaking with calm assurance.
The plan was taking hold.
The Ruler had finished his conference. "You are attempting again to confuse us," he said.
Korvin shook his head earnestly. "I am attempting," he said, "not to confuse you."
"Then I ask for an answer," the Ruler said.
"I request that I be allowed to ask a question," Korvin said.
The Ruler hesitated, then nodded. "Ask it," he said. "We shall answer it if we see fit to do so."
Korvin tried to look grateful. "Well, then," he said, "what is your government?"
The Ruler beckoned to a heavy-set green being, who stepped forward from a knot of Tr'en, inclined his head in Korvin's direction, and began. "Our government is the only logical form of government," he said in a high, sweet tenor. "The Ruler orders all, and his subjects obey. In this way uniformity is gained, and this uniformity aids in the speed of possible action and in the weight of action. All Tr'en act instantly in the same manner. The Ruler is adopted by the previous Ruler; in this way we are assured of a common wisdom and a steady judgment."
"You have heard our government defined," the Ruler said. "Now, you will define yours for us."
Korvin shook his head. "If you insist," he said, "I'll try it. But you won't understand it."
The Ruler frowned. "We shall understand," he said. "Begin. Who governs you?"
"None," Korvin said.
"But you are governed?"
Korvin nodded. "Yes."
"Then there is a governor," the Ruler insisted.
"True," Korvin said. "But everyone is the governor."
"Then there is no government," the Ruler said. "There is no single decision."
"No," Korvin said equably, "there are many decisions binding on all."
"Who makes them binding?" the Ruler asked. "Who forces you to accept these decisions? Some of them must be unfavorable to some beings?"
"Many of them are unfavorable," Korvin said. "But we are not forced to accept them."
"Do you act against your own interests?"
Korvin shrugged. "Not knowingly," he said. The Ruler flashed a look at the technicians handling the lie-detector. Korvin turned to see their expression. They needed no words; the lie-detector was telling them, perfectly obviously, that he was speaking the truth. But the truth wasn't making any sense. "I told you you wouldn't understand it," he said.
"It is a defect in your explanation," the Ruler almost snarled.
"My explanation is as exact as it can be," he said.
The Ruler breathed gustily. "Let us try something else," he said. "Everyone is the governor. Do you share a single mind? A racial mind has been theorized, though we have met with no examples--"
"Neither have we," Korvin said. "We are all individuals, like yourselves."
"But with no single ruler to form policy, to make decisions--"
"We have no need of one," Korvin said calmly.
"Ah," the Ruler said suddenly, as if he saw daylight ahead. "And why not?"
"We call our form of government democracy," Korvin said. "It means the rule of the people. There is no need for another ruler."
One of the experts piped up suddenly. "The beings themselves rule each other?" he said. "This is clearly impossible; for, no one being can have the force to compel acceptance of his commands. Without his force, there can be no effective rule."
"That is our form of government," Korvin said.
"You are lying," the expert said.
One of the technicians chimed in: "The machine tells us--"
"Then the machine is faulty," the expert said. "It will be corrected."
Korvin wondered, as the technicians argued, how long they'd take studying the machine, before they realized it didn't have any defects to correct. He hoped it wasn't going to be too long; he could foresee another stretch of boredom coming. And, besides, he was getting homesick.
It took three days--but boredom never really had a chance to set in. Korvin found himself the object of more attention than he had hoped for; one by one, the experts came to his cell, each with a different method of resolving the obvious contradictions in his statements.
Some of them went away fuming. Others simply went away, puzzled.
On the third day Korvin escaped.
It wasn't very difficult; he hadn't thought it would be. Even the most logical of thinking beings has a subconscious as well as a conscious mind, and one of the ways of dealing with an insoluble problem is to make the problem disappear. There were only two ways of doing that, and killing the problem's main focus was a little more complicated. That couldn't be done by the subconscious mind; the conscious had to intervene somewhere. And it couldn't.
Because that would mean recognizing, fully and consciously, that the problem was insoluble. And the Tr'en weren't capable of that sort of thinking.
Korvin thanked his lucky stars that their genius had been restricted to the physical and mathematical. Any insight at all into the mental sciences would have given them the key to his existence, and his entire plan, within seconds.
But, then, it was lack of that insight that had called for this particular plan. That, and the political structure of the Tr'en.
The same lack of insight let the Tr'en subconscious work on his escape without any annoying distractions in the way of deep reflection. Someone left a door unlocked and a weapon nearby--all quite intent, Korvin was sure. Getting to the ship was a little more complicated, but presented no new problems; he was airborne, and then space-borne, inside of a few hours after leaving the cell.
He set his course, relaxed, and cleared his mind. He had no psionic talents, but the men at Earth Central did; he couldn't receive messages, but he could send them. He sent one now.
Mission accomplished; the Tr'en aren't about to come marauding out into space too soon. They've been given food for thought--nice indigestible food that's going to stick in their craws until they finally manage to digest it. But they can't digest it and stay what they are; you've got to be democratic, to some extent, to understand the idea. What keeps us obeying laws we ourselves make? What keeps us obeying laws that make things inc
onvenient for us? Sheer self-interest, of course--but try to make a Tr'en see it!
With one government and one language, they just weren't equipped for translation. They were too efficient physically to try for the mental sciences at all. No mental sciences, no insight into my mind or their own--and that means no translation.
But--damn it--I wish I were home already.
I'm bored absolutely stiff!
* * *
Contents
MEX
By Laurence Mark Janifer
What they called me, that was what started it. I'm as good an American as the next fellow, and maybe a little bit better than men like that, big men drinking in a bar who can't find anything better to do than to spit on a man and call him Mex. As if a Mexican is something to hide or to be ashamed of. We have our own heroes and our own strength and we don't have to bend down to men like that, or any other men. But when they called me that I saw red and called them names back.
"Mex kid," one of the men said, a big red-haired bully with his sleeves rolled back and muscles like ropes on the big hairy arms. "Snot-nosed little Mex brat."
I called him a name. He only laughed back at me and turned his back, waving a hand for the bartender. Maybe in a big city in the North it would be different and probably it would not: this toleration we hear about is no more good than an open fight, and there must be understanding instead. But here near the border, just on the American side of the border, a Mexican is called fair game, and a seventeen-year-old like me is less than nothing to them, to the white ones who go to the big bars.
I thought carefully about what to do, and finally when I had made my mind up I went for him and tried to hit him. But other men held me back, and I was kicking and shouting with my legs off the ground. When I stopped they put me down, so I started for the big red-haired man again and they had to stop me again. The red-haired man was laughing all this time. I wanted to run, back to my own family in their little house, and yet running would have been wrong; I was too angry to run, so I stayed.
"My sister," I said. "My sister is a witch and I will get her to put a curse on you." I was very angry, you must understand this.
And of course they had no idea that my sister is a real witch, and her curses are real, and only last year Manuel Valdez had died from the effects of her curse. Of all people, sometimes I wish I were my sister most of all, to curse people and see them shrivel and sicken and choke and die.
"Go ahead, half-pint," one of the other men yelled. "Get your sister to put a curse on me. I bet she knows who I am; I been with every Mex girl this side of the border."
This made me see red; my sister is pure and must be pure, since she is a witch. And she is not like some of the others even aside from that. I have heard her talk about them and I know.
I called him a name and ran up to him and hit him; my fist against his solid side felt good, but some other men pulled me off again. Yet it was impossible to leave. This was wrong for me, and I had to make it right. "I shall get my father to fight you, since he is a giant ten feet tall."
The men laughed at me, not knowing, of course, that my father is a giant ten feet tall in truth, and my mother a sweet siren like those in the books, the old books, with spells in her eyes and a strange power. They did not know I was not a daydreaming child but a man who told truth.
And they laughed; I grew angry again and told them many things, calling them names in Spanish, which they did not understand. That only made them laugh the more.
Finally I left; it was necessary for me to leave, since I was not wanted. But it was necessary, too, for me to make things right. Nights later they were dead for what they had said and done.
For I tell the truth always, and I had told them about my sister and my father and my mother. But one thing I had not told them.
I am sorry they could never know I was the winged thing that frightened and killed them, one by one....
* * *
Contents
SIGHT GAG
By Laurence Mark Janifer
Intelligence is a great help in the evolution-by-survival--but intelligence without muscle is even less useful than muscle without brains. But it's so easy to forget that muscle--plain physical force--is important, too!
Downstairs, the hotel register told Fredericks that Mr. John P. Jones was occupying Room 1014. But Fredericks didn't believe the register. He knew better than that. Wherever his man was, he wasn't in Room 1014. And whoever he was, his real name certainly wasn't John P. Jones. "P for Paul," Fredericks muttered to himself. "Oh, the helpful superman, the man who knows better, the man who does better."
Fredericks had first known of him as FBI Operative 71-054P, under the name of William K. Brady. "And what does the K stand for?" Fredericks muttered, remembering. "Killer?" Brady wouldn't be the man's real name, either. FBI Operatives had as many names as they had jobs, that much was elementary. Particularly operatives like Jones-Brady-X. "Special talents," Fredericks muttered. "Psi powers," he said, making it sound like a curse. "Superman."
Upstairs, in Room 1212, the superman sat in a comfortable chair and tried to relax. He wasn't a trained telepath but he could read surface thoughts if there were enough force behind them, and he could read the red thoughts of the man downstairs. They worried him more than he wanted to admit, and for a second he considered sending out a call for help. But that idea died before it had been truly born.
Donegan had told him he could handle the situation. Without weapons, forbidden to run, faced by a man who wanted only his death, he could handle the situation.
Sure he could, he thought bitterly.
Of course, if he asked for reinforcements he would undoubtedly get them. The FBI didn't want one of its Psi Operatives killed; there weren't enough to go round as it was. But calling for help, when Donegan had specifically told him he wouldn't need it, would mean being sent back a grade automatically. A man of his rank and experience, Donegan had implied, could handle the job solo. If he couldn't--why, then, he didn't deserve the rank. It was all very simple.
Unfortunately, he was still fresh out of good ideas.
The notion of killing Fredericks--using his telekinetic powers to collapse the hotel room on the man, or some such, even if he wasn't allowed to bear arms--had occurred to him in a desperate second, and Donegan had turned it down very flatly. "Look," the Psi Section chief had told him, "you got the guy's brother and sent him up for trial. The jury found him guilty of murder, first degree, no recommendation for mercy. The judge turned him over to the chair, and he fries next week."
"So let Fredericks take it out on the judge and jury," he'd said. "Why do I have to be the sitting duck?"
"Because ... well, from Fredericks' point of view, without you his brother might never have been caught. It's logic--of a sort."
"Logic, hell," he said. "The guy was guilty. I had to send him up. That's my job."
"And so is this," Donegan said. "That's our side of it. Fredericks has friends--his brother's friends. Petty criminals, would-be criminals, unbalanced types. You know that. You've read the record."
"Read it?" he said. "I dug up half of it."
Donegan nodded. "Sure," he said. "And we're going to have six more cases like Fredericks' brother--murder, robbery, God knows what else--unless we can choke them off somehow."
"Crime prevention," he said. "And I'm in the middle."
"That's the way the job is," Donegan said. "We're not superman. We've got limits, just like everybody else. Our talents have limits."
He nodded. "So?"
"So," Donegan said, "we've got to convince Fredericks' friends--the unbalanced fringe--that we are supermen, that we have no limits, that no matter what they try against us they're bound to fail."
"Nice trick," he said sourly.
"Very nice," Donegan said. "And what's more, it works. Nobody except an out-and-out psychotic commits a crime when he hasn't got a hope of success. And these people aren't psychotics; most criminals aren't. Show them they can't get
away with a thing--show them we're infallible, all-knowing, all-powerful supermen--and they'll be scared off trying anything."
"But killing Fredericks would do that just as well--" he began.
Donegan shook his head. "Now, hold on," he said. "You're getting all worked up about this. It's your first time with this stakeout business, that's all. But you can't kill him. You can't kill except when really necessary. You know that."
"All right. But if he's going to kill me--"
"That doesn't make it necessary, not this time," Donegan said. "This vengeance syndrome doesn't last forever, you know. Block it, and you're through with it. And think how much more effective it is, letting Fredericks go back alive to tell the tale."
"Think how much more effective it would be," he said, "if Fredericks managed to get me."
"He won't," Donegan said.
"But without weapons--"
"No Psi Operative carries weapons," Donegan said. "We don't need them. We're supermen ... remember?"
He twisted his face with a smile. "Easy for you to talk about it," he said. "But I'm going to have to go out and face it--"
"We've all faced it," Donegan said. "When I was an Operative I went through it, too. It's part of the job."
"But--"
"And I'm not going to tell you how to do the job," Donegan went on firmly. "Either you know that by now, or you don't belong here."
He got up to leave, slowly. "It's a fine way to find out," he said mournfully.
Donegan rose, too. "Good luck," he said. And meant it, too.
That was the chief for you, he thought. Send you out into God knows what with no weapons, no instructions, lots of help planted for the man who wanted to kill you--and then wish you good luck at the end of it.
