It wasn't fair. It was too much to ask.
Presently I pulled out of it and for a time did not think. Mother Earth was still serene and beautiful and changeless in the sky; I wondered what the election-night celebrations there sounded like. Mars and Jupiter and Venus were all in sight, strung like prizes along the zodiac. Ganymede I could not see, of course, nor the lonely colony out on far Pluto.
«Worlds of Hope,» Bonforte had called them.
But he was dead. He was gone. They had taken away from him his birthright at its ripe fullness. He was dead.
And they had put it up to me to re-create him, make him live again.
Was I up to it? Could I possibly measure up to his noble standards? What would he want me to do? If he were in my place — what would Bonforte do? Again and again in the campaign I had asked myself: «What would Bonforte do?»
Someone moved behind me, I turned and saw Penny. I looked at her and said, «Did they send you out? Did you come to plead with me?»
«No.»
She added nothing and did not seem to expect me to answer, nor did we look at each other. The silence went on. At last I said, «Penny? If I try to do it — will you help?»
She turned suddenly toward me. «Yes. Oh yes, Chief! I'll help!»
«Then I'll try,» I said humbly.
* * *
I wrote all of the above twenty-five years ago to try to straighten out my own confusion. I tried to tell the truth and not spare myself because it was not meant to be read by anyone but myself and my therapist, Dr. Capek. It is strange, after a quarter of a century, to reread the foolish and emotional words of that young man. I remember him, yet I have trouble realizing that I was ever he. My wife Penelope claims that she remembers him better than I do — and that she never loved anyone else. So time changes us.
I find I can «remember» Bonforte's early life better than I remember my actual life as that rather pathetic person, Lawrence Smith, or — as he liked to style himself — «The Great Lorenzo.» Does that make me insane? Schizophrenic, perhaps? If so, it is a necessary insanity for the role I have had to play, for in order to let Bonforte live again, that seedy actor had to be suppressed — completely.
Insane or not, I am aware that he once existed and that I was he. He was never a success as an actor, not really — though I think he was sometimes touched with the true madness. He made his final exit still perfectly in character; I have a yellowed newspaper clipping somewhere which states that he was «found dead» in a Jersey City hotel room from an overdose of sleeping pills — apparently taken in a fit of despondency, for his agent issued a statement that he had not had a part in several months. Personally, I feel that they need not have mentioned that about his being out of work; if not libelous, it was at least unkind. The date of the clipping proves, incidentally, that he would not have been in New Batavia, or anywhere else, during the campaign of `15.
I suppose I should burn it.
But there is no one left alive today who knows the truth other than Dak and Penelope — except the men who murdered Bonforte's body.
I have been in and out of office three times now and perhaps this term will be my last. I was knocked out the first time when we finally put the eetees-Venerians and Martians and Outer Jovians into the Grand Assembly. But the non-human peoples are still there and I came back. The people will take a certain amount of reform, then they want a rest. But the reforms stay. People don't really want change, any change at all — and xenophobia is very deep-rooted. But we progress, as we must — if we are to go out to the stars.
Again and again I have asked myself: «What would Bonforte do?» I am not sure that my answers have always been right (although I am sure that I am the best-read student in his works in the System). But I have tried to stay in character in his role. A long time ago someone — Voltaire? — someone said, «If Satan should ever replace God he would find it necessary to assume the attributes of Divinity.»
I have never regretted my lost profession. In a way, I have not lost it; Willem was right. There is other applause besides handclapping and there is always the warm glow of a good performance. I have tried, I suppose, to create the perfect work of art. Perhaps I have not fully succeeded — but I think my father would rate it as a «good performance.»
No, I do not regret it, even though I was happier then — at least I slept better. But there is solemn satisfaction in doing the best you can for eight billion people.
Perhaps their lives have no cosmic significance, but they have feelings. They can hurt.
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