Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by Everett B. Cole

  Quel-tze squirmed in his chair as the account went on. A minor government official was proving to be unexpectedly and annoyingly honest. Despite veiled warnings from visiting priests and from some of his own associates, he refused steadfastly to condone and allow certain lucrative practices. Finally, the Temple acted. The daughter of the annoying officer was chosen for the annual sacrifice.

  As the ceremony went on, the analytic voice detailed motives, reasons, probably consequences. Other, similar situations were recalled. Quel-tze shuddered, and as the climax of the ceremony occurred, he strained at his bonds for a moment, then collapsed in the chair.

  Two men hurried to his side. One applied a small instrument to his throat, listened for a moment, then nodded.

  “Close, sergeant,” he remarked, “but he’s still with us.”

  He made an injection in the high priest’s arm and stood back.

  Again, consciousness slowly returned to Quel-tze. This time, the room was silent. For a moment, madness crept into his eyes, then, he sat back quietly and waited for the screen to light up again. Nothing happened.

  “You may continue with my education, gentlemen,” remarked Quel-tze calmly. “I am ready again.”

  The black uniformed psychologist came into his field of vision. He looked closely at the captive, then smiled at him. Bending over him, he loosened the confining straps.

  “I think you are, Quel-tze,” he answered. “Would you like to meet your fellow-students?”

  Quel-tze nodded wordlessly, then stood, flexing his muscles. He looked about the room for a moment, then followed the two guardsmen into the

  next compartment, where several people waited. One man came forward as the priest entered.

  “Quel-tze,” he said, holding out his hand. “A few days ago I hated you, but now, I think I can work with you.” Quel-tze raised his own hand. For a moment, the two men stood, hands on each other’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, Tal-Quor,” said the priest.

  “I was at fault, too,” the other admitted. “Had it been someone else’s daughter, I would have remained undisturbed.”

  A trill of silvery laughter sounded through the room. “It was all an illusion,” announced a girlish voice. “This year, the Harvest Maiden was a large swamp lizard.”

  Someone called “Attention.” Sector Chief Dal-Kun walked to the front of the room, looked at the twenty officers, then nodded.

  “At ease, gentlemen,” he ordered. “We seldom have a full staff meeting here, but Commander A-Riman has a report which should be of interest to all of us. I would like to have comments when it is completed. Commander A-Riman.”

  The CAC Commander faced the group. “As many of you gentlemen know,” he began, “CAC has been engaged in an experiment for the past five cycles. The Criminal Apprehension personnel, as well as many of the Combat personnel, have become extremely interested in this experiment, and most of them have worked much more than normal time on it. With the co-operation of the sector comptroller”—A-Riman nodded to an elderly officer—“we have written off a good deal of our time to training. We think this time has not been wasted. I believe you gentlemen will agree after reviewing this report.” A-Riman bowed slightly and took a seat.

  The lights dimmed and the viewscreen lit up. A solar system appeared as seen from an approaching ship. One planet crept to the center of the screen and grew larger. The voice of an observer came from the speaker.

  “This is the seventh planet of Sun Frank Three, number six two nine, Tenth Sector. . . Life has been in existence here for at least a thousand periods. The age of the present dominant civilization is estimated at seven periods.”

  The screen closed in, to show details of cities. Conversations between members of the populace were repeated. The thoughts and actions of officials were shown. The growth of cruelty in government, in private life, in the temple, was shown, as was the appearance of immorality and of human sacrifice. Finally, detailed scenes of the Harvest Maiden sacrifice appeared. The voice broke in again.

  “As can be seen, this civilization has a high probability of failure. It will stagnate and eventually be eliminated, either by another civilization not yet formed, or by Federation Council orders, if it progresses far enough to warrant that attention.” There was a pause. The screen showed an overall view of a large city, its buildings gleaming in the sun. “This is the civilization picked for initial experiment,” added the voice.

  The abduction of Quel-tze and his companions was shown. Scenes of their training appeared in brief Hashes, then their return to their own world was shown. The reforms instituted by these people began to appear, one scene showing Quel-tze as he faced six councilors of the Kelmiran Empire. One of them was speaking.

  “This tampering with the time-honored ceremonies of our religion will not be tolerated,” he announced.

  “I thought I was the high priest,” objected Quel-tze mildly.

  The councilor looked at him scornfully. “You should know, priest, that your temple has always been the creature of the state. We give the orders—you merely furnish the cloak of sanctity.”

  “This borders upon sacrilege,” remarked the priest.

  “This is merely practical government,” snorted the councilor. “Now, for the last time, will you accept our nomination for the Harvest Maiden?”

  Quel-tze smiled gently. “As I said before,” he insisted, “the Harvest Ceremony is being changed to conform with the ceremony of many years ago, before the age of cruelty and immorality. The altar has been removed.”

  The councilor’s mouth tightened. “Then, you force us to act,” he growled with a gesture of finality. For a moment, he stood looking at the high priest, then he turned. “Guards,” he called, “arrest this man for treason.” A group of armed priests stepped into the room. The councilors looked at them in puzzlement.

  “These,” explained Quel-tze calmly, “are my guards. Yours are in the temple dungeons, where you will soon join them.” He looked at the leader of the priestly warriors. “Take them below, Qual-mar. They will await a Temple Trial for sacrilege.”

  The six councilors blanched. “The emperor—” one of them quavered.

  Again, Quel-tze smiled. “The emperor,” he told them, “is receiving a priestly delegation. I might add that it is a much more effective delegation than yours. No threats will be made, no violence will be offered, but tomorrow, the emperor will find it expedient to appoint new councilors.” Further scenes showed the operations of the new Imperial Council. The final scene showed the Harvest Maiden, standing proudly atop the temple at Dolezin. She had reason to be proud, for she had been chosen from all the young girls of the city as the most beautiful, the most talented, of all. By her side, stood a prize draft animal, which would be later used in the Imperial stables. In her hands, she held the best of the year’s crop. Below her, the priests chanted. It was the same hymn to the Sun, but now it was slightly muted, and the clear, high voice of the Harvest Maiden could be plainly heard, leading the melody. The voice broke in again.

  “Probable success is now indicated for this culture. Considerable supervision must be given for at least a period, but it is believed that the civilization will now progress to become a valued member of the Federation.”

  The lights brightened. Commander A-Riman stood again. “Gentlemen,” he said, “this-is the report on the first five cycles of this experiment. You have seen most of the steps taken. Of course, we forced this process somewhat to prove our point in a short space of time. I believe further activity of this type should take place at a more leisurely pace, but we think we have shown a desirable result. Are there any comments?”

  Geronor Keldon, the sector comptroller, stood. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I will admit that I authorized the utilization of Commander A-Riman’s personnel on this experiment with some misgivings. Now that I’ve seen the results, I have no further objections to continuation.”

  Several other officers added their remarks. Most of them were laudatory. A few expressed regr
et that they had not been involved in the operation. Finally, Dal-Kun got to his feet.

  “Well,” he remarked, looking about the room, “it seems that the report has met with general favor. I would like formal reports of your reactions, and any suggestions as to improvement. I feel that this report, with recommendations should be presented to the Federation Council for consideration.” Again, he looked about the room. “This meeting is adjourned.”

  A-Riman switched off the report as the buzzer sounded. The screen lit up and his secretary’s face appeared.

  “Who is it?” queried the commander.

  “Captain Poltar, sir.”

  “Put him on.”

  The captain’s face was slightly amused as he appeared on the screen. “The new personnel just came in, sir,” he announced. “Do you want to see them now?”

  A-Riman dropped the report recordings into their cases. “Send them in,” he instructed. “How do they look to you?”

  “Pretty good, sir.” Again, the expression of secret amusement crossed the captain’s face. It annoyed A-Riman slightly.

  “What’s so funny, captain,” he demanded.

  “Nothing important, sir. I’ll send in the first one now.”

  “Bring him in personally,” growled his superior. “Then, we’ll both be able to enjoy the joke.” He switched off and waited. There must be something very strange about this new batch of personnel to make Poltar laugh. A-Riman couldn’t remember too many times that officer had even smiled.

  He pressed the admittance button at the signal, and the captain walked in. “Here’s the first one, sir,” he said, stepping aside.

  A guardsman entered. He held his head directly to the front, paying no attention to the furnishings of the office. Pacing off the prescribed two paces with mathematical precision, he halted and came to a rigid salute. A-Riman’s practiced eyes took in the man’s entire appearance at a glance. He was freshly uniformed. No spot of light reflected from the absolute, dead blackness of his clothing, excepting where the iridescent glow of the torches at his collar picked up the light and broke it into a blazing spectrum.

  “Junior Search Technician Manir Kal reporting for duty, sir,” the man reported. He dropped his hand sharply, standing at perfect attention.

  “At ease, guardsman,” said A-Riman. “Haven’t I seen you before?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man replied. “I’ve been here before.”

  “I remember,” commented the group commander dryly. He fixed Captain Poltar with a mildly scornful look. “It’s happened before,” he remarked. “What’s funny?”

  “There’s more to it, sir,” grinned Poltar. He moved to the door and beckoned. Another guardsman entered and stood at salute.

  “Junior Psychologist Bare Kor Delthos reporting for duty, sir.”

  “Well, well,” commented A-Riman. “Any more?”

  “Three more, sir,” said Poltar. “A physicist, a trend analyst, and a pilot.”

  A-Riman’s face broke into a grin, then he sat back and laughed. “All right,” he admitted. “You’ve scored. Bring ’em in and send for Sergeant Kembar.”

  Three more men filed in, reported, and stepped to the side. A-Riman looked at them severely. “Now,” he inquired, “just who dreamed up this idea?”

  Manir Kal raised a hand. “I’m afraid I did, sir,” he admitted. “Of course, Senior Rehabilitation Technician Kwybold had something to do with it, too.”

  A-Riman nodded. “I thought I recognized his delicate touch,” he commented. “How was rehabilitation?”

  Manir Kal grimaced. “I spent a good share of it in the hospital, sir.” He rubbed his chest reflectively. “I can name at least twenty guardsmen who can beat me at swordplay. They all tried it.” He paused for a moment. “I learned plenty, though,” he added. “I’ve an idea I could give Sergeant Kembar a hard time now.”

  “Want the opportunity?” A-Riman smiled at him.

  Manir Kal shook his head. “Thank you, sir, no,” he said decidedly. “Next time I unsheath a sword, it’ll be in line of duty. It’s part of my business now, and I’m not giving out any free samples of my swordsmanship.”

  Sergeant Kembar came into the office. A-Riman caught him on the first pace. “At ease, sergeant.” He waved a hand. “Here are five more men for you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m a little short-handed right now.” Kembar looked toward the five guardsmen. “I’ll get their—” He looked again, then stared directly at Manir Kal. “I’ve met you before,” he slated positively. Then, he looked at the others.

  “This one picks fights,” stated Manir Kal expressionlessly.

  “It runs after females,” announced Bare.

  “I’m the talented one,” boasted Malon.

  Kembar placed his hands on his hips, and shook his head helplessly. “All right,” he chuckled, “so I know Rehabilitation, too. How do you think a lot of us got into this business?”

  A-Riman coughed. “I’ve got news for you, sergeant,” he said.

  Master Search Technician Kembar snapped to attention. “Yes, sir.”

  “I know Mr. Kwybold, too,” A-Riman told him. “A few thousand cycles ago, I led a revolution against the Federation Council.”

  Kilar Mar-Li arose slowly from his chair. As the senior delegate from Celstor, he realized that his word carried weight. He also realized that this report and proposal was from a compatriot and protégé of his. He thought, however, that the report still warranted comment.

  “Fellow members,” he began, “we have just seen an interim report, and heard a proposal.” He noticed smiles on the faces of several members and decided against too dignified an approach. He smiled, too. “Terrible introduction, I’ll admit,” he added, “but the fact remains that for the past four Galactic Standard Hours, we’ve been watching a report from Sector Ten. A new experiment has been tried, and I think it’s worth following up. I would like to move that the council issue special authorization to Commander A-Riman to continue his operations.”

  A delegate from the comparatively new Paldorian Empire arose. “I would like to propose an amendment,” he said, “to the effect that a motion be entered for the consideration of the delegate from the seventh planet, Sun Frank Three, number six two nine, Tenth Sector, for the establishment of a new corps in the Stellar Guard, this corps to be devoted to the education and, where necessary, the rehabilitation, of new cultures over the entire galaxy.”

  The chairman laughed. “I might remind the delegate,” he commented, “that it may be a couple of thousand Standard Cycles before that still unborn gentleman takes his seat.”

  Mar-Li arose again. “I accept the amendment,” he remarked. “The Federation has waited for more than a thousand periods for this experiment to begin. We can wait for two or three more periods to see its results. I predict that many of us here will be present to welcome the new delegate to his seat.”

  Marzold Quonzar, first delegate to the Federation Council from the newly admitted Gundarian Association, blinked his eyes as the lights came on.

  “So that’s the true story.” he mused.

  For a few minutes he sat thinking, then he called his secretary.

  “Write a motion for consideration of the Federation Council. Title it ‘A proposal for the formation of a new corps in the Stellar Guard.’ You can word most of it, of course.” He paused. “Let me see,” he reflected. “That Commander was nicknamed ‘The Fighting Philosopher’. He nodded his head. “We will recommend as a name for this new organization, ‘The Philosophical Corps’.”

  THE END

  Consciousness came slowly. For a time he lay, eyes closed, merely enjoying the sense of being.

  “Who?”

  “What?”

  “Where?” These were irrelevant questions which did not intrude themselves into his level of thought. He had no care as to when or why. He merely was, and it was pleasant.

  This carefree suspension of being lasted for a time, then acceptance of the physical world was forced upo
n him. He felt the weight of blankets. Street sounds penetrated the room, struck his ears, and forced his analytical powers into action.

  He opened his eyes, idly gazed at the ceiling, to study the interplay of light and shadow on the pale, brown surface. There was a faint, expectant impression. Somehow, he felt there was something in the background, which was of breathless interest, but as he was reaching to seize and define the thought, his mind came into normality like a machine suddenly thrust into gear.

  The sense of expectancy gave way to drab reality. Crei Deloran realized that he was just an ordinary individual, living in an ordinary apartment. There was nothing enthralling about the city, his job, or his future. There couldn’t be, or he would attract unwanted notice. And then? He shook his head.

  He kicked the covers away, got out of bed, and went around into the dressing room. Nothing unusual here.

  He’d done this for many mornings.

  There was no problem involved in picking out something to wear. One suit was at the cleaner’s. He could choose the other, which hung in its usual place. Of course, there were the casual garments, which he preferred, but Mr. Diore insisted—Crei brushed the thought of Mr. Diore from his mind.

  He took the suit from its hanger, held the garments up to the window, and examined them critically. The coat wasn’t bad, but the trousers weren’t so good. They hadn’t become quite transparent, but it wouldn’t be too long. He shrugged. Have to get another suit, but it would have to be much like this. One had to conform to custom.

  He selected the rest of his clothing, slipped on his shoes, and wandered into the kitchenette to plug in the heater. For an instant, he glanced about the room, then he crossed into the bathroom.