“I—I don’t know what you mean,” Vardia stammered.
Mudriel’s expression and tone were of mixed pity and disgust. “They bred you with an extremely high intelligence, but while you grew up, they administered extremely deep programming to make certain you never used it. Over all this was lightly placed the persona known as Vardia Diplo Twelve Sixty-one, a number whose implications are distasteful to me. This made you curious, inquisitive, but only on the surface. You could never act on any information gained, nor did you have any desire to. The persona was mainly to help others feel comfortable. When you reached your destination, an embassy employee would put you under hypnosis, read off the message—and, in the process, wipe your memory. Then the same persona would be reimposed with a reply message, if any. Had you reached Coriolanus, this would have been the case. You now have vivid memories of your Captain Brazil and the other passengers, and of Dalgonia. All of these would have been gone. Any whom you knew who had previously encountered you would be strangers to you. They would just assume, as you would, that it was another Vardia Diplo they knew. Think back—what do you remember of your life before boarding Brazil’s ship?”
Vardia thought back with the clarity and detachment she now possessed. She remembered saying good-bye to the Political Office staff, walking out, riding to the spaceport, boarding the shuttle.
Nothing before.
“I never realized—” she began, but Mudriel cut her off.
“I know,” the psychologist said. “Part of the deep program. It would never even occur to you. And you didn’t even know the message you carried, the one that they would go to these lengths to keep private. By programmed exercises you kept yourself in perfect physical condition, and if challenged or cornered you would fight suicidally to free yourself. If trapped, you would have triggered a series of impulses that would have brought about your suicide.” Mudriel saw the mixed apprehension and disbelief in Vardia’s eyes.
“Don’t worry,” the psychologist assured her. “We have removed the deep programming. You will remain you. Would you like to hear the message you carried?”
Vardia nodded dully, her mind in a fog.
The psychologist took out a tiny translucent cube and popped it into a well in a small recorder on a table nearby.
Vardia suddenly heard her voice—her old voice, incredibly, although she no longer possessed the vocal chords to speak that way, saying in a tinny way: “The Commisariat introduces you to Datham Hain, who, with a companion, came on the same ship as the courier. Citizen Hain is on a mission of vital importance to the Commisariat and requires dinner appointments with several Members of the Presidium of Coriolanus, as many as can be accommodated. You are to follow whatever might be his instructions to the letter, without question or hesitation. Keep the courier until at least one such meeting has been arranged, then reprogram it to report on that meeting, said reprogramming to be in Hain’s presence and with his approval. All glory to the People’s Revolution, all glory to its prophets.”
The psychologist studied Vardia closely as the recording closed. The ex-courier was obviously stunned and shaken, but that shock treatment had to be administered. All over the Entry’s body, the Czillian read the mental struggle that had to be taking place within.
It was a terrible thing to destroy someone’s complacent world-picture.
Finally, the psychologist asked gently, “Would you like to go root and meditate? Take as long as you want.”
Vardia shook her head negatively. “No,” she said at last, in a half-whisper, “no, I’m all right.”
“I know,” the psychologist soothed. “It is a terrible thing to find the lie in life. That is one reason we are dedicated here to the uncovering of truth. There are societies and people just as bad on this world, maybe even worse. Hain himself is here somewhere, and probably has already fallen in with a bad bunch. Such societies are the enemies of all civilization, and it is with them that we war. Will you join us in the fight?”
Vardia stood silent a few moments more. Then, suddenly, something seemed to snap within her, and with a fierceness and intensity that surprised even her she said, “Yes!”
The psychologist gave the Czillian equivalent of a smile and turned back to the file it had before it.
Picking up a stamp, it brought it down on an empty block on the front of the file. In Czillian it read: Ready for Assignment.
The last processing was over, and Vardia Diplo 1261 was extinguished.
Vardia the Czillian left the office.
THE AKKAFIAN EMPIRE
(Enter Datham Hain, Asleep)
Datham Hain had entered the gate with a false sense of bravado, but he was scared to death. He had nightmares of awful proportions, bringing forth every fear in his long life. These surfaced as the Markovian brain picked, analyzed, and classified each subject according to some long-lost, preset reasoning.
He awoke suddenly, with a start, and looked around. It was the strangest look in his experience.
He realized immediately that he was now colorblind, although instead of merely the blacks, whites, and shades of gray, there was a mild sepia-tone effect that made certain things look fuzzy and others stand out. His depth perception was remarkable, he realized. At a glance he could tell exactly how far everything in view was from everything else, and his vision seemed to be enlarged to a 180-degree field. That was amazing, as amazing as the view itself.
He seemed to be on a ledge overlooking an incredible landscape far below. The land was bleak and sandy, broken only by hundreds of cones that looked almost like perfectly formed volcanoes. He strained to get a better look, and found, suddenly, the scene magnifying itself, each time by a factor of two. As it did, a hardly noticed hairline-split midway in his vision also magnified, so that it became a huge bar separating the scene into right and left views. It was as if he were peering through two windows while standing in front of the post that separated them.
There were things down there, and they were moving. Hain stared in fascination at them, a corner of his mind wondering why he was fascinated instead of horrified or repelled. They were great insects, ranging in size from one to almost four meters long, the median height being almost a meter. They had two large, apparently multifaceted eyes fixed, like a fly’s, forward in the head. Below the eyes were huge mandibles flanking a mouth resembling a parrot’s beak. With surprise he saw one creature stop while a long, snaky black tongue emerged to clean the face.
The body was oblong and seemed to have hair on it—the resolution of Hain’s vision was so fine that he could almost count the hairs. And yet—yes, flush against the body in the hair were wings, several pairs of them. The rear of the body exposed a barren, bony tip that undoubtedly was a stinger.
Hain tried to imagine the fate of anyone stung with something that size.
The head seemed to be on a hinge or circular joint, as some of the creatures moved it slightly in one or another direction.
For the first time he saw the feelers, giant things that seemed to have a life of their own, moving every way but forward—including straight up. They ended in hair-covered nodules.
The eight legs were thick and were also covered with hair, longer and down-angled. They were multijointed, and he saw a pair of the creatures using their forward legs like hands to move a rock away from a pathway it was blocking. He could see that the tips were not hair but spikelike and were covered with a secretion that looked sticky.
The insects moved with amazing speed sometimes, and, every once in a while, one would take to the air briefly. Apparently they couldn’t fly very far with all that weight, but could manage a short hop when they felt like it. As Hain watched, he saw that some of them were operating machines! One looked like a snowplow, and it was clearing dust and debris from the roadways as it was pushed forward; others seemed to have no obvious purpose.