“Such as? Tell me.”
“Well, there was primary snooping, both conscious and subconscious evaluation, reportage — four full years of it — shorthand, applied dictology, history, manners, customs, authority evaluation, mechanics, fact assemblage …”
He found the subjects leaping to the front of his mind, tumbling from his lips. He had been second in his class of twelve hundred, and it had all stuck.
Furth cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Let’s take that history. Capsule it for me.”
Furth was a big man, eyes oddly set far back in hollows above deep yellow cheeks, hair white about the temples, a lean and electric man, the type who radiates energy even when asleep. Themus suspected this was his superior’s way of testing him. He recited:
“The Corps is dedicated to gathering data. It will Watch and detect, assimilate and file. Nothing will escape the gaze of the Watcher. As the eagle soars, so the eye of the Watcher will fly to all things.”
“God, no , man, I mean the History! The History .” The elder Watcher precision-tapped his fingers one after another in irritation. “What is the story of the Kyben. Of Kyba itself. Of your job here. What is our relation to these?”
He waved his hand, taking in the bar, the people in the streets, the entire planet and its twin suns blazing yellow in the afternoon sky.
Themus licked his thin lips, “The Kyben rule the Galaxy — is that what you want?” He breathed easier as the older man nodded. He continued, by rote: “The Kyben rule the Galaxy. They are the organizers. All other races realize the superior reasoning and administrative powers of the Kyben, and thus allow the Kyben to rule the Galaxy.”
He stopped, biting his lower lip, “With your permission, Superior, can I do this some other way? Back at Academy-Central memorization was required, even on Penares it seemed apropos, but somehow — here — it sounds foolish to me. No disrespect intended, you understand, I’d just like to ramble it off quickly. I gather all you want are the basics.”
The older man nodded his head for Themus to continue in any fashion he chose.
“We are a power, and all the others are too scared of us to try usurping because we run it all better than any ten of them could, and the only trouble is with the Earthmen and the Mawson Confederation, with whom we are negotiating right now. The only thing we have against us is this planet of black-sheep relatives. They happen to be our people, but we left them some eleven hundred years ago because they were a pain in the neck and the Kyben realized they had a universe to conquer, and we wish we could get rid of them, because they’re all quite mad, and if anyone finds out about them, we’ll lose prestige, and besides they’re a nuisance.”
He found himself out of breath after the long string of phrases, and he stopped for a second. “There isn’t a sane person on this planet, which isn’t strange because all the 4-Fs were left when our ancestors took to space. In the eleven hundred years we’ve been running the Galaxy, these Crackpots have created a culture of imbecility for themselves. The Watcher garrison is maintained, to make sure the lunatics don’t escape and damage our position with the other worlds around us.”
“If you have a black-sheep relative, you either put him away under surveillance so he can’t bother you, or you have him exterminated. Since we aren’t barbarians like the Earthmen, we keep the madmen here, and watch them full time.”
He stopped, realizing he had covered the subject quite well, and because he saw the sour expression on Furth’s face.
“That’s what they taught you at Academy-Central?” asked the senior Watcher.
“That’s about it, except that Watcher units are all over the Galaxy, from Penares to Kyba, from the home planet to our furthest holding, doing a job for which they were trained and which no other order could do. Performing an invaluable service to all Kyben, from Kyben-Central outward to the edges of our exploration.”
“Then don’t you ever forget it, hear?” snapped Furth, leaning quickly across to the younger man. “Don’t you ever let it slip out of your mind. If anything happens while you’re awake and on the scene, and you miss it, no matter how insignificant, you’ll wind up in the Mines.” As if to illustrate his point, he clicked the dictobox to “on” and spoke briefly into it, keeping his eyes on a girl neatly pouring the contents of a row of glasses on the bar’s floor and eating the glasses, all but the stems, which she left lying in an orderly pile.
He concluded, and leaned back toward Themus, pointing a stubby finger. “You’ve got a soft job here, boy. Ten years as a Watcher and you can retire. Back to a nice cozy apartment in a Project at Kyben-Central or any other planet you choose, with anyone you choose, doing anything you choose — within the bounds of the Covenant, of course. You’re lucky you made it into the Corps. Many a mother’s son would give his mother to be where you are.”
He lifted the helix glass to his lips and drained it.
Themus sat, scratched his nose, and watched the purple liquid disappear.
It was his first day on Kyba, his Superior had straightened him out, he knew his place, he knew his job. Everything was clean and top-notch.
Somehow he was miserable.
Themus looked at himself. At himself as he knew he was, not as he thought he was. This was a time for realities, not for wishful thinking.
He was twenty-three, average height, blue hair, blue eyes, light complexion — just a bit lighter than the average gold-color of his people — superior intelligence, and with the rigid, logical mind of his kind. He was an accepted Underclass member of the Watcher Corps with a year of intern work at Penares Base and an immediate promotion to Kyba, which was acknowledged the soft spot before retirement. For a man as new to the Corps as Themus’s five years made him, this was a remarkable thing, and explainable only by his quick and brilliant dictographic background.
He was a free man, a quick man with a dictobox, a good-looking man, and, unfortunately, an unhappy man.
He was confused by it all.
His summation of himself was suddenly shattered by the rest of his squad’s entrance into the common room, voices pitched on a dozen different levels.
They came through the sliding doors, jostling and joking with one another, all tall and straight, all handsome and intelligent.
“You should have seen the one I got yesterday,” said one man, zipping up his chest armor. “He was sitting in the Dog’s Skull — you know, that little place on the corner of Bremen and Gabrett — with a bowl of noodle soup in front of him, tying the things together.” The rest of the speaker’s small group laughed uproariously. “When I asked him what he was doing, he said, ‘I’m a noddle-knitter, stupid.’ He called me stupid! A noodle-knitter!” He elbowed the Underclassman next to him in the ribs and they both roared with laughter.
Across the room, strapping his dictobox to his chest, one of the elder Underclassmen was studiously holding court.
“The worst ones are the psychos, gentlemen. I assure you, from six years’ service here, that they take every prize ever invented. They are destructive, confusing, and elaborate to record. I recall one who was stacking juba -fruits in a huge pyramid in front of the library on Hemmorth Court. I watched him for seven hours, then suddenly he leaped up, bellowing, kicking the whole thing over, threw himself through a shop front, attacked a woman shopping in the store, and finally came to rest exhausted in the gutter. It was a twenty-eight-minute record, and I assure you it stretched my ability to quick-dictate. If he had …”
Themus lost the train of the fellow’s description. The talks were going on all over the common room as the squad prepared to go out. His was one of three hundred such squads, all over the city, shifted every four hours of the thirty-two-hour day, so there was no section of the city left untended. Few, if any, things escaped the notice of the Watcher Corps.