“I can understand that desire,” Widget said gleefully, “but there’s a snag.”
“What is it?”
Widget picked up a sheet of pale blue paper.
“This contract—it binds you to serve in the Legion for thirty years.”
“You know what you can do with that,” Peace sneered. “I’m not going to sign it.”
“But you’ve already signed it,” Widget said. “Before we put you on the machine.”
“I did not.” Peace shook his head emphatically. “What are you trying to pull here? I can’t remember anything about myself, but there’s one thing I do know, and that is that I would never ever, not in a million years, never ever sign a thing like that, so you can…” His voice faded away as Widget pressed a button on a control panel built into his desk and a moving image glimmered into existence on the wall behind him. It depicted a tall young man with a doll-pink face, wide mouth, blue eyes and blond hair which was fashionably thinned above the forehead. Peace had difficulty in recognizing himself at first, then he realized it was because—in the picture—he was a caricature of despair. His eyes were dull and broody, his mouth was turned down at the corners, and his whole drooping, defeated posture suggested a spirit which had broken under some unguessable load.
As Peace watched, his other self sagged into a chair at a table, picked up a pen and signed a pale blue document which was recognizably the same as the one now in Widget’s hands.
Florence, the technician-nurse, appeared and led an obedient Peace away as would a zoo-keeper attending to a sickly chimp. The images faded from the wall.
“You should see your face!” Widget put a hand over his mouth and nostrils and gave a prolonged snort of amusement. “Boy, I’m really enjoying this. I’m going to feel good all day after this.”
“Let me see that paper,” Peace said, reaching for the document.
“Certainly.” There was a curious light, which might have been a gleam of anticipation, in Widget’s eyes as he handed the sheet across the desk.
“Thank you.” Peace looked at the contract only for as long as it took to satisfy himself that he had actually signed it and that it was printed on ordinary paper instead of indestructible plastic. He held it up by one edge, pinched it between his forefingers and thumbs with an extravagant flourish, and made ready to rip the sheet in half.
“Don’t tear that,” Widget snapped. There was a clear note of command in his voice, but he remained at ease and made an attempt to retrieve the document. The glow in his eyes seemed brighter.
Peace gave a contemptuous sniff and tried to pull the sheet apart. A painful and nauseating sensation, like somebody briskly scrubbing the surface of his brain with a rough towel, filled his cranium—and his fingers refused to move.
Widget pointed at the desk. “Set the paper down there.”
Peace shook his head, but in the same instant his right hand leapt forward and placed the sheet exactly where Widget had indicated. He was staring at his hand, shocked by its treachery, when Widget spoke again.
“Do me an imitation of a rooster.”
Peace shook his head and began crowing at the top of his voice.
“With actions.”
Peace shook his head and began stalking around the office, flapping his elbows.
“That’s enough,” Widget ordered. “I’m tempted to say don’t call us, we’ll call you—but perhaps farmyard impressions aren’t your forte.”
“Captain,” Peace said weakly, “what’s going on here?”
“Had enough, eh?” Widget discovered the cigarette ash on his elbow and spent a minute brushing it off before pointing at the empty chair. “Sit down there and read your contract, with special attention to Clause Three. The whole thing is written in ultrasimplified language that even a moron can understand, but feel free to ask any questions you want.”
Peace sank into the chair and picked up the contract. It had been imperfectly duplicated from a typescript, and said:
SPACE LEGION
THIRTY* YEAR SERVICE CONTRACT
FOR VOLUNTEER RANKERS
1. I, Warren Peace, citizen of Earth, agree to serve as a private soldier in the Space Legion for thirty* years, and to accept all conditions of service.
2. I enter this Covenant willingly, and without coercion, in return for psychological adjustment—namely, electropsycho engram erasure— performed by a suitably qualified Medical Officer of the Space Legion.
3. I also agree, in the interests of efficiency, to standard electropsycho response conditioning.
(signed) Warren Peace
Date: 10th day of November, 2386 A.D.
* The figure of thirty given here may be taken to read as forty**, depending on the Space Legion’s manpower requirements thirty years from the signing of this contract.
** The figure of forty given here may be taken to read as fifty or sixty years or any other number the Supreme Command of the Space Legion may decide upon if current longevity research proves successful.
Peace set the contract down with a pounding sense of dismay. “It’s obscene,” he said simply.
“It’s like something a used car dealer would dream up.”
Widget shrugged. “You signed it.”
“What was I thinking about?”
“That’s between you and your conscience,” Widget said primly. “The point is, you signed it.”
“It would never hold up in a court of law,” Peace challenged, gathering what remained of his strength of mind. “Why, it doesn’t even specify Earth years, and there’s no…”
Widget held up a plump hand. “Forget all that stuff, Warren—you won’t be taking any legal action.”
“Who says so?”
“Clause Three says so.”
Peace leaned forward and checked the relevant wording. “What’s all this about ‘standard electropsycho response conditioning’?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” The look of malicious enjoyment returned to Widget’s round face as he tapped a small lump protruding from his throat, just above his collar. “Do you know what this is?”
“It looks like a cyst. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“It isn’t a cyst, and I’m not worried—because nearly every officer in the Space Legion has one just like it.”
Peace shrank back. “Is there an epidemic?”
“Don’t be so damn stupid, man.” Widget paused to reassemble his smile. “This is a surgically-implanted Mark Three command enforcer. It adds certain harmonics to my voice— harmonics to which every legionary from the rank of NCO downwards is conditioned to respond with absolute, unthinking obedience. Have you got the picture?”
“I don’t believe it,” Peace breathed, aghast. “Even the Legion wouldn’t be allowed to go that far.”
Widget sighed and glanced at his watch. “Do the rooster impression again—and for God’s sake try to get the neck movements right. Last time you were more like a dromedary.”
“I refuse,” Peace said as he left his chair and high-stepped across the office, flapping his elbows and darting his head this way and that in search of worms.
Widget folded his arms and made himself comfortable. “Let me know when you’ve had enough.”
“You don’t leave a fellow much dignity,” Peace crowed in protest. He essayed a short flight which ended disastrously in a clump of Sirian sparkle plants.
“Dignity you want? It’s lucky for you I’m straight.” Widget’s eyes flickered ominously. “This is nothing to what…”
“All right, I give in,” Peace said. “I’m convinced.”