What had blinded Spangler, blinded them all, was the self-evident fact that Pembun was human. Loyalty to a nation or an idea is conditioned; but loyalty to the race is bred in the bone. As the old saying has it, "Blood is thicker than ichor."
Pembun's humanity was self-evident; but was it a fact?
"Wei" had been a human being, too—until the moment when he was unmasked as a monster.
Pembun belonged to a world so slovenly that Rithians were allowed to come and go as they pleased. Was it not more than possible, was it not almost a tactical certainty, that given opportunity and the made-to-order usefulness of Pembun's connection with the Empire, they had at the least made him their agent?
Or, at most, replaced him with one of themselves? The idea was fantastic, certainly. The picture of Pembun playing the role of Rithian-killer, deliberately betraying his confederate in order to safeguard his own position, was straight out of one of those wild twentieth-century romances— the kind in which the detective turned out to be the murderer, the head of the Secret Police was also the leader of the Underground, and, as often as not, the subordinate hero was a beautiful girl disguised as a boy by the clever stratagem of cutting her hair.
But that was precisely the kind of world that Pembun came from, whether he was human or Rithian; that was the unchanging essence of the ancient Unreason, beaten now on Earth but not yet stamped out of the cosmos. That was the enemy.
"Ten oh-one," said his watch. In a few moments, now, one part of the question would be answered.
He glanced at the four men in workmen's coveralls who stood by an opened section of the wall. One of them held what appeared to be a cable cutter; the others had objects that looked like testing instruments and spare-part kits. The "cutter," underneath its camouflage shell, was an immobilizing field projector; the rest were energy weapons.
The men stood quietly, not talking, until a signal light flashed on Spangler's desk. He nodded, and they crouched nearer to the disemboweled wall, beginning a low-voiced conversation. A moment later, Pembun appeared in the doorway. Spangler glanced up from his reading screen, frowning. "Oh, yes—Pembun," he said. "Sit down a moment, will you?" He gestured to one of the chairs along the far wall. Pembun sat, hands crossed limply in his lap, idly watching the workmen.
Spangler thumbed open the front of his desk and touched a stud; a meter needle swung far over and held steady. The room was now split into two parts by a planar screen just in front of the desk. Spangler closed the microphone circuit which would carry his voice around the barrier.
The intercom glowed; Spangler put his hand over it. "Yes?"
The man said, as he had been instructed, "Commissioner, is Mr. Pembun in your office?"
"Yes, he is. Why?"
"It's that routine test, sir. You told us to give it to everybody who'd been in the Hill less than six months, and Mr. Pembun is on our list. If you're not too busy now—"
"Of course—he would be on the list," Spangler said. "That hadn't occurred to me. All right, come in." He turned to Pembun. "You don't mind?"
"What is it?" Pembun asked.
"We have a new anti-Rithian test," Spangler explained easily. "We're just making absolutely certain there aren't any more Weis in the Hill. In your case, of course, it's only a formality."
Pembun's expression was hard to read, but Spangler thought he saw a trace of uneasiness there. He watched narrowly, as a white-smocked young man carrying a medical kit came in through the door to Pembun's right.
The workmen separated suddenly, and two of them started toward the door. When they had taken a few steps, one of them turned to call back to the remaining two. "You certain two RBX's will do it?"
"What's the matter, don't you think so?"
"It's up to you, but…" The men went on talking, while the medic approached Pembun and opened his kit. "Mr. Pembun?"
"Yes."
"Will you stand up and turn back your right sleeve, please?"
Pembun did as he was told. His upper arm was shapeless with overlaid fat and muscle, like a wrestler's. The medic placed one end of a chromed cylinder against the fleshy part of the shoulder, and pressed the release. Pembun started violently and clapped his hand to the injury. When he took it away, there was a tiny spot of blood on his palm.
The medic extruded the cylinder's narrow blade and showed it to Spangler. "Negative, Commissioner."
"Naturally," Spangler said dryly. The medic tore off a swab from his kit and wiped Pembun's wound, then put a tiny patch of bandage on it, closed his kit and went away.
Negative, Spangler thought regretfully. Too bad; it would have been gratifying to find out that Pembun had tentacles under that blubber. But it had been a pleasure to watch him jump, anyhow. He opened his desk and cut the field circuit.
The two workmen near the door finished their discussion and left. Spangler said to the remaining pair, "Will you wait outside for a few minutes, please?"
When they had gone, Pembun came forward and took the seat facing the desk. "That's a rough test," he said. " 'Ow does it work?"
Spangler explained. "Sorry if it was unpleasant," he added, "but I believe it's more effective than the old one."
"Well, I'm glad I passed, any'ow," said Pembun, poker-faced.
"To be sure," said Spangler. "Now—your report, Mr. Pembun?"
"Well, I've 'ad a little trouble. I asked Colonel Leclerc to see if 'e couldn' send somebody to Santos in the Shahpur system, to get some Rithian city-vines from the botanical gardens there. 'E gave me to understand that you rifused the request."
"Yes, I'm sorry about that," Spangler said sympathetically. "Until this question is settled, we can't very well relax the embargo, especially not for an Outworld jump."
Pembun accepted that without comment. "Another thing that 'appened, I wanted copies of any Rithi films the War Department might 'ave, in 'opes that one of them would include a sequence of a Rithch I could use to build up the illusion there was a Rithch in the room. That was rifused too; I don' know w'ether it went through your office or not."
"No, this is the first I've heard of it," Spangler lied blandly, "but I'm not surprised. War is extremely touchy about its M. S. files—I'm afraid you'd better give up hope of any help there. Can't you make do without those two items?"
Pembun nodded. "I figured I might 'ave to, so I went a'ead and did the best I could. I don' promise it will work, becawse some of it is awful makeshift, but it's ready."
Spangler felt a muscle jump in his cheek. "It's ready now?" he demanded.
"W'enever you like, Commissioner." Pembun got up and turned toward the door.
Spangler made an instant decision. He had not planned to take the second step against Pembun until he had manufactured a plausible opportunity, but he couldn't let Pembun's examination of Cassina procede. He said sharply, "Just a moment!" and added, "if you don't mind."
As Pembun paused, he put out his hand to the intercom. "Ask those workmen to step in here again, will you?"
The door opened, and all four of the pseudo-workmen trooped in. Pembun looked at them with an expression of mild surprise. " 'Aven' you got those RBX's yet?" he asked.
No one answered him. Spangler said, "I'll trouble you to come down to the interrogation rooms with me, Mr. Pembun." At his gesture, the four men moved into position around Pembun, one on either side, two behind.
"Interrogation!" said Pembun. "W'y, Commissioner?"
"Not torture, I assure you," Spangler replied, coming around the desk. "Just interrogation. There are a few questions I want to ask you."
"Commissioner Spangler," said Pembun, "am I to understand that I'm suspected of a crime?"
"Mr. Pembun," Spangler answered, "please don't be childish. Security is empowered to question anyone, anywhere, at any time, and for any reason."