by J F Bone
“Not so stem, Juror Ballerd,” the prompter box advised softly. “Relax. Act human. You’re supposed to be a juror—not a robot.”
Obediently Ballerd loosened his muscles.
“That’s better,” the box said. “Now, sir, are you ready?”
Ballerd nodded.
The lenses in front of him glowed faintly; he was on the air.
“You have heard the evidence, Juror Ballerd,” Jail Varden’s voice came from the speaker. “Are you ready to give your decision?”
“I am, sir,” Ballerd said.
“Very well, Juror. Let justice be done.”
Ballerd hesitated. The decision must satisfy Varden, yet give an impression of justice. A tough proposition any way one looked at it. He shrugged microscopically. “Guilty,” Ballerd said.
“Your recommendation, Juror?”
“Minimal erasure.”
Varden’s voice was with him again. “Thank you, Juror Ballerd, for your service to the Union.” The speaker clicked with metallic finality.
It was over.
Ballerd sighed and rose from the chair. It was all over. Now came the tense period. He’d made his gambit. Now it was Varden’s move. He walked slowly toward the door, limping a little from the old wound he’d received during the Revolution.
The door was half open when Varden’s voice came from behind him. “One moment, Brother Ballerd,” it said.
The wave of relief was pure pain. “Yes, sir,” Ballerd said, “what do you wish?” With some satisfaction he noted that his voice was completely under control.
“You conducted yourself well, Ballerd,” Varden’s voice came from behind him. “With dignity. Very impressive. Very impressive, indeed. My congratulations. It was a job well-done.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ballerd turned slowly. The room was empty.
“I was bothered, however.” Varden’s voice came from the speaker set in the wall above the desk. “The evidence was overwhelming—yet you did not recommend liquidation. Why?”
Ballerd kept his face expressionless. Varden could be observing him, even though he could not see Varden.
“The evidence was too overwhelming,” he said. “The Union overstated its case. Several times the defense could have introduced doubt, but they failed to do so. The entire proceedings had a bad odor. It looked as though Security had muzzled the witnesses to make the case airtight. Now that’s just fine for a computer—the more convincing the guilt, the more certain the verdict.”
Varden sounded amused. “I told Suzuke he was overdoing it. But the man won’t listen.”
“I was selected as Juror to apply the human factor to the law,” Ballerd went on. “And this I did. The question of Annalee Kane’s guilt was of minor significance. The important thing was that one human being was sitting in judgment on another. As a result any decision I made had to be tempered with humanity. I could not behave as a computer. Yet in the end, the result is the same. Annalee Kane is effectively eliminated.”
“Excellent!” Varden said. “You interest me. Your I.D. and Sector, please.”
“Ernst Ballerd, Serial EB 61437 V, Arkady Sector, Vishnu,” he said. He hoped the triumph in his mind was not echoed in his voice. The delicate maneuvering to get the Juror assignment had been worth every minute of time and every credit of money he had spent.
“Thank you. Call at my office tomorrow at ten. I think you will find it interesting. Considering your efforts you deserve a suitable reward.”
Ballerd was still wondering whether there was cynicism or sincerity in Varden’s voice as he left the Jury Room and walked down the corridor to the rotunda just inside the main entrance. Annalee Kane was still there, sitting in her glassite cage. He had passed her every day for the past week—on public display before the curious crowds who came to see the traitor. It was a barbaric touch, hardly worthy of a civilized state. She was still there, but the spectators were gone, and in their place a ring of recorders stared with glassy lenses.
Two white-coated technicians watched the machines, occasionally lifting their eyes to the slim figure behind the transparent panels.
The implications were obvious. Hers was to be a public Judgment. His eyes widened as he saw a swift flash of fear cross her long, ugly face as force rods tightened around her pinning her immovably in the exact center of the cage. There was a terrible allegory in her straining rigidity, the personification of the helplessness of the individual against the power of the state. He stood fascinated and repelled by the rigid tableau as a silver hemisphere descended from the domed ceiling of the cage to cover her motionless head. He winced as a brief shimmer flickered over the surface of the inverted bowl.
The hemisphere rose and Ballerd’s stomach churned with nausea. For the face of Annalee—the gaunt-cheeked, hard-lipped face of unattractive efficiency was gone, and in its place was a vacant mask of drooling idiocy. A thin strand of saliva ran from one corner of her loose-lipped mouth as her opaque eyes stared fixedly into space. A viewer was no substitute for the real thing, Ballerd thought, as the technicians collected their equipment and the glassite cage sank into the floor carrying the idiot hulk of what had been the most powerful woman in the Union. A circle of flooring rose to take the cage’s place. The technicians trundled their scanners off to waiting trucks. Everything was wiped clean. The rotunda was as bare and spotless as though Annalee had never been there. He felt a twinge of pity for the smashed woman. Not that it made any difference. She was through and he was rising. He shrugged. That’s the way it went. Someone went out—someone else came along to take his place. And life went on. He turned slowly toward the entrance and walked heavily out into the yellow sunlight.
In a dark suit, sitting behind the black expanse of polished desk, Jarl Varden looked exactly like what he was, a ruthless, intelligent dictator who had established the Union as the government of Vishnu and placed himself at its head. In the entire Confederation there were few who could match his absolute authority and none who could match his ambition. The man was a ruler. Power radiated from him in palpable waves.
Ballard eyed him curiously—without envy.
Varden looked up and smiled, a perfunctory twitch of lips with no warmth of eyes above them.
“You’re on time,” he said. “The sign of an efficient mind.”
The platitude grated. “Thank you, Coordinator. It is a habit of mine to be prompt,” Ballerd said without returning the smile. “And now, sir, let us get down to business.”
The abrupt, almost insulting, approach startled Varden. He looked quizzically at the stocky man facing him. Ballerd’s soft exterior was deceptive.
“As you know, Brother Ballerd,” Varden said coldly, “the outcome of yesterday’s trial left an opening on my staff.”
“I was aware of that, sir.”
“Your conduct throughout this case impressed me favorably. I feel that you might be induced to do staff work.”
“I have a good job,” Ballerd said. “It’s not confining and it pays well.”
“But it is not the best,” Varden said. “A Juror has limitations. I can offer you freedom from those limitations.
“I’m interested,” Ballerd said tonelessly.
“Of course you realize that you have a bad record,” Varden said.
Ballerd nodded. “You could call it that. I fought you, true enough. But your crowd was not the government then. You were revolutionaries.”
“And you’d support us now?”
“Of course. Personal feelings have nothing to do with my duty as a citizen. I swore to uphold the legal government, and you are the legal government of Vishnu.” Varden smiled. “Hmm. Different circumstances—different behavior—eh? A neat sophistry providing you are telling the truth.”
“I lie only when necessary, sir.”
“And you don’t think it’s necessary now?”
Ballerd nodded. “Now it would be foolish. You could check too easily.”
“But could I trust you?”
“As
much as you could trust anyone. More than most, I think.” Ballerd’s voice held exactly the right overtones.
“That we shall see,” Varden said.
“That is your privilege, sir. I am at your disposal.”
“You are too good to be true,” Varden said with cynical accent. “The perfect subordinate. It hardly fits with what I know about you.”
“Don’t misconstrue me,” Ballerd said evenly. “I am ambitious. I want to get ahead. I enjoy power. As a matter of fact I felt that the Annalee Kane case was my opportunity. I pulled every trick I knew to get that assignment because I was certain you’d monitor the trial and I wanted to impress you. I felt that it was worthwhile because if I succeeded I’d get preference over other power-seekers. My actions were designed deliberately to attract your attention.”
Varden smiled ruefully. “They did,” he said, “and they leave me with a problem. You are too clever to leave outside the government and maybe too dangerous to take in. Perhaps the simplest solution would be to liquidate you.” Ballerd said nothing, but he could feel his palms grow moist with sweat. Varden was perfectly capable of liquidating him if he decided that there was too much danger in Ballerd’s existence.
“I’d like to know whether you’re sincere or merely being clever,” Varden went on.
“You have the equipment to find out,” Ballerd said equably, “but I can save you trouble. I’m a little of both.”
“Then why didn’t you take over the police division before we took power? It wouldn’t have been too hard. Marriner wasn’t a brilliant man, and your dossier shows you were.”
Ballerd shook his head. “Loyalty,” he said. “Besides, he helped me get on the force.”
“And you had no desire for his position?”
“Certainly, but it wasn’t that important. I had the power. That was enough. I didn’t need the title.”
“You realize, of course, that you caused the Union a great deal of trouble. If we had known your part in it you would have probably ended up with your chief instead of getting that job as a petty Juror.”
Ballerd chuckled. “There you have my reason for not wanting obvious power. A man is too exposed. As it was, Marriner had the responsibility. He made the decision to resist. It wasn’t mine even though I approved of it. Possibly he wasn’t too bright, but he was honest, loyal and courageous. He fought for his beliefs.”
“And you were wounded—and lost your job—and had to work as a menial. Was it worth it?”
Ballerd shook his head. “No,” he admitted, “it wasn’t.
But that’s the trouble with loyalty. You’re stuck with the situation until circumstances change. I couldn’t doublecross Marriner even though I knew the old government would lose. But he’s dead now and the Union is in power. I can make new loyalties.”
“Personal or political?” Varden asked.
“Both,” Ballerd said flatly.
“Marriner and I were friends in the early days,” Varden said musingly. “Like myself, he had the capacity for inspiring loyalty. It was too bad he was so pigheaded about the Union. But enough of this. I asked you here for a purpose and we are wasting time. I’ve checked on you. You wouldn’t be here if the results weren’t favorable. You know that.”
Ballerd nodded.
“I’m offering you a job,” Varden said. “No—not a job,” he corrected himself. “The job—Annalee Kane’s job. Would you like to head Manpower Procurement and Allocation? Would you be willing to take the job of the woman you condemned?”
“Why not.” Ballerd’s face was impassive.
Varden touched a button on his desk, and two Security agents came into the room.
Ballerd recognized them from their attitude—a couple of Suzuke’s specials. Trained to the hilt—emotionless as machines. Without batting an eye, they would kill him where he stood if Varden gave the word. The pair eyed him with a remote professional look.
“Take this man down to Interrogation for a Class One checkup,” Varden said. He looked at Ballerd. “If you survive, you’ve passed the first hurdle. Otherwise . . .” he let the sentence dangle suggestively.
“I understood the conditions before I accepted the offer,” Ballerd said woodenly.
“I know that,” Varden said. “Frankly, Ballerd, I don’t know whether I shall be glad or sorry if I see you in this office tomorrow, but good luck.”
Ballerd grinned at him. “You’ll see me all right, sir,” he prophesied.
The basic trouble with the Union, Ballerd reflected, was that its officials believed their techniques were infallible. In a first class civilization this could be dangerous. In a second class one it could be fatal. And Vishnu wasn’t first class. It never had been. Their technology was good, nearly the equal of worlds like Fanar and Terranova, but vastly inferior to that of Lyrane or Terra. And Union knowledge of biology and psychodynamics was positively primitive. And their police work was crude even when compared with Marriner’s old division. They did not know the rudiments of turning a man inside out mentally. Nor did they have the slightest knowledge of dampers. Ballerd grinned thinly. How could they—the gadget was organic and structurally indistinguishable from normal brain tissue. He shrugged. What Varden didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him—yet. His profile was clean, and agreed with what he had told Varden. He was ambitious and intelligent, but essentially a subordinate personality. And his checkup was generally clean. He was tailored to Varden’s specifications—and designed for the dictator’s destruction. Marriner would be avenged even though he had never known him.
On the following morning, true to his promise, Ballerd looked at Varden across the polished desk.
Varden smiled, a humorless grimace neither friendly nor unfriendly. “Well, Ballerd, you appear to be in remarkably good shape. Clear conscience, eh?”
“Politically at any rate,” Ballerd admitted.
“That’s the only way to be. Now I suppose you’re interested in my decision.”
Ballerd nodded. “I’m anticipating it,” he said bluntly. “When do I start?”
Varden smiled. “Confident, aren’t you?” he asked. “But you’re right. I can use you. A man of your talents is wasted as a Juror. Your headquarters are three floors down. You can take over at once.” Varden stared at him somberly. “A word of advice. Don’t axe too many. Good people are hard to replace.”
“I won’t, sir. I don’t work that way.”
“That’s good.” Varden smiled drily. “My principal worry was that you might be that ancient virtuous cliche—a new broom.”
It didn’t take Ballerd long to realize that Annalee Kane had built a good organization. Surprisingly good, considering what had been said about her at the trial. And, incidentally, the shadow of that trial and his part in it hung over Manpower like a pall, but that could be straightened out. What couldn’t be straightened out was that Annalee had run major policy on a personal basis. If there were any private files, he couldn’t locate them. What he needed was Annalee’s memory, and that he wasn’t going to get. Erasure wiped out the consciousness. He frowned. But what about the subconscious—the buried memories—the hidden drives. He pulled thoughtfully at an earlobe as he considered the possibilities. Then he called Vishnu Research Center. After that he phoned Varden.
The Coordinator’s hurried voice snapped at him. “I’m busy. Call back later.”
“Sorry, sir, this is important.”
“Very well, I’ll give you three minutes.”
“That will be more than enough,” Ballerd said. “I want to requisition Annalee Kane.”
“You What?”
Ballerd repeated and listened as the phone made noises in his ear. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I know what I’m doing . . . No, sir, I want her I want her memories. She ran this office out of her head . . . No—I’m not sure if they’re available. Research Center doesn’t think so. But I’d like to try. If they weren’t cooked out entirely, hypno may bring them out. . . Sure, I know erasure leaves a blank mind—but that could be sur
face memories. No one’s ever really checked and if she’s still useful, I’d like to use her . . . No, sir—I’ve no intention of putting her on the staff. I’m merely interested in what can be wrung out of her. I’d like any help I can get until I get this section straightened out. You can have her back once I’m through . . . No, I suppose not; she isn’t worth too much anyway.” Ballerd echoed the chuckle that erupted from the receiver. “But I’d like your approval before I go on with this . . .” Ballerd continued, “. . . You do? . . . You will? . . . Fine. That will be excellent and thank you, sir.” Ballerd looked at his watch. Two minutes forty-three seconds—and he had what he wanted. He grinned. Sometimes the direct approach was ten times as effective as pussyfooting.
He picked up the phone again and called Security personnel section, starting the machinery that would get him what he wanted. The thought of the discomfort he was about to cause Annalee never entered his head. She had information he needed, and he was going to get it if it was humanly possible. That was all.
Mental erasure was just what the name implied. The brain of the victim was unimpaired, but it was supposedly wiped clean. The first dose eliminated the more recent memories, roughly about twenty years of them. Speech and most of the conditioned reflexes were seldom affected, which made minimal erasure hardly worse than a case of amnesia once the primary shock passed. The only difference was that memory in an erased person had never been restored. Successive treatments, however, reduced the victim to a mindless lump of flesh that maintained only the minimal reflexes necessary for life. The limit was three. Beyond that the victim died. Ballerd hoped that Security, which was responsible for administering judgment, hadn’t gotten enthusiastic and decided that if one dose was adjudged, three would be better. There would be no chance if she had received more than a single dose.
