“You!” shouted Captain Chachu. “You, an ex-combat officer! Do you understand what they’re offering you? Not your life, massaraksh! But your honor!”
Ketshef began to laugh again but did not answer. Maxim felt that this man feared nothing. Neither death nor dishonor. He had already endured everything there was to endure and considered himself as good as dead. The brigadier shrugged his shoulders and declared that Gel Ketshef, age fifty, married, a dentist, was sentenced to death in accordance with the law for the protection of public health. Sentence to be carried out within forty-eight hours. Should the condemned agree to give testimony, the sentence could be changed.
After Ketshef had been led out, the brigadier, displeased, said to the civilian: “I don’t understand you. I think he spoke rather willingly. From your point of view—a regular chatterbox. No, I don’t understand.”
The civilian laughed. “Listen, my friend, you stick to your job and I’ll stick to mine.”
The brigadier was offended. “The leader of a group... is inclined to philosophize. I don’t understand you.”
“Have you ever seen a philosophizing corpse?”
“Nonsense.”
“Well, have you?”
“And have you?” asked the brigadier.
“Yes, just now,” said the civilian with authority. “And, take note, this isn’t the first time. I’m alive. He’s dead. So what’s there to discuss?”
The captain rose suddenly, went over to Maxim, and whispered into his face: “Watch your posture, candidate. Attention! Eyes straight ahead!” He studied Maxim for several seconds, then returned to his seat.
“So,” said the adjutant. “We still have Ordi Tader, Memo Gramenu, and two others who refuse to give their names.”
“We’ll start with them,” suggested the civilian.
Number 7313, a lean, sinewy man with painfully swollen lips, entered and sat down. He, too, was in handcuffs, although he had an artificial arm.
“Your name?” asked the brigadier.
“Which one?” asked the one-armed prisoner cheerfully.
Maxim winced—he had been certain the man would remain silent.
“Do you have so many? Give your real name.”
“My real name is Seven-Three-One-Three.”
“So-o. What were you doing in Ketshef’s apartment?”
“I was lying unconscious. For your information, I’m very good at it. If you like, I can give you a demonstration.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” said the civilian. He was very angry. “Save your skill for later. You’ll be needing it.”
The prisoner burst out laughing. He laughed heartily, as if he were still a young man, and Maxim realized with horror that this laughter was genuine. The men sitting around the table stiffened as they listened to him.
“Massaraksh!” The prisoner wiped his tears with his shoulder. “Some threat!” He turned to the civilian. “But you, you re still a young man. You must learn to do your job coolly, officially—for the money. It makes an enormous impression on the victims of your inquisition. What an appalling state of affairs when you find yourself being tortured not by an enemy but by a bureaucrat. Take a look at my left arm. His Imperial Majesty’s specialists sawed it off in three stages; and each order was accompanied by a lengthy official correspondence. Those butchers were just doing a disagreeable, boring, unrewarding job. While they were sawing off my arm, they cursed their wretchedly low pay. And I was terrified. I had to strain my willpower to keep from talking. And now... I can see how you hate me. You—me, and I—you. Fine! But you have been hating me less than twenty years, and I—you, for more than thirty. You, young man, were still toddling under the table and tormenting the cat.”
“Ah,” said the civilian, “an old-timer. I thought we’d already killed all of you off.”
“Don’t count on it,” replied the prisoner. “You still have a lot to learn.”
“I think that’s enough,” said the brigadier, turning to the civilian.
The civilian wrote something rapidly on the magazine and, passed it to the brigadier. The brigadier was surprised and looked at the civilian dubiously. The civilian smiled. Then, shrugging his shoulders, the brigadier addressed the captain: “Captain Chachu. You were a witness. How did the accused conduct himself when arrested?”
“He was sprawled on the floor,” replied the captain glumly.
“In other words, he did not resist. So-o.” The brigadier paused briefly again, rose, and pronounced sentence: “Prisoner Seven-Three-One-Three is sentenced to death. Until the date is set, the prisoner will be sent into exile for reeducation.” Captain Chachu looked scornful and bewildered. The one-armed prisoner laughed softly and shook his head as they led him out.
Number 7314 was brought in. This was the man who had lain screaming and writhing on the floor. Although he was very frightened, he behaved defiantly. As soon as he appeared in the doorway, he shouted that he would not answer questions or beg for leniency. And he did remain silent and refused to answer a single question, even the civilian’s question about mistreatment while under arrest. The interrogation ended when the brigadier looked at the civilian and blinked inquiringly. The civilian nodded and said: “Yes, give him to me.” He seemed very pleased.
The brigadier ran through the remaining papers and said:
“Let’s go, gentlemen. Let’s get something to eat.”
The court adjourned. Maxim and Pandi were permitted to stand at ease. When the captain, too, had left the room, Pandi said indignantly: “Did you see those animals? Worse than I snakes. If they didn’t get headaches, how could you tell they I were degens? It’s frightening to think what would happen.”
Maxim did not reply. He was in no mood for conversation. His picture of this world, which had seemed so clear-cut and logical only yesterday, was now eroded and blurred. Pandi continued talking, not needing any response from Maxim. Removing his white gloves to avoid soiling them, he took a bag of roasted nuts from his pocket and offered some to Maxim. He began to tell him how he detested this assignment. First of all, he was deathly afraid of catching something from the degens. Second, some of them, like this one-armed fellow, behaved so disrespectfully that he could scarcely control himself. Once he had taken it as long as he could and then given one of them a good punch in the jaw. He was almost broken to candidate. Thanks to the captain, all he got was twenty days in the stockade plus forty days without leave.
Maxim chewed the nuts in silence, scarcely listening to Pandi’s chatter. “Hate,” he thought. “These hate the others, and they hate back. But why? ‘The most loathsome government.’ Why is it loathsome? Where did he get the idea? Corrupted his people. How? What does all this mean? And that civilian... was he really hinting at torture? That sort of thing died out centuries ago, In the Middle Ages. But what about fascism? Hitler. Auschwitz. Race theory, genocide. World destruction. Guy—a fascist? And Rada? Unlikely. The captain? I wish I understood the connection between those terrible headaches and their disobeying the authorities. Why is it that only degens are trying to destroy the ABM network? And why not all degens?”
“Corporal Pandi,” he asked, “what about the Khontis—are they all degens?”
Pandi became very thoughtful.
“H’m, how can I explain it? Well, our job is to handle the city degens and the wild ones in the forest. The army people are trained to deal with anything they come up against in Khonti or anywhere else. All you need to know is that the Khontis are our worst enemies. Before the war they obeyed us, but now they are getting their revenge. And that’s it. Got it?”
“More or less,” replied Maxim. Pandi reprimanded him instantly. “That’s no way for a legionnaire to answer. A legionnaire says ‘Yes, sir’ or ‘No, sir.’ ‘More or less’ is for civilians, for the corporal’s sister. You don’t answer like that in the service.”
With a subject so inspiring and dear to his heart and with such an attentive and respectful audience, Pandi would have babbled on indefinitely. But the officers were returning. Pandi broke off in midsentence, whispered “Attention,” and froze into position-after completing the required maneuvers between the table and the prisoner’s seat. Maxim followed suit.