by Brian Daley
Despite that, it had been her best hope against cancellation of her project; she'd had to do something fast. And so Fitzhugh had been granted his visa; after studying his itinerary, she'd arranged for the mob and the incident.
Then, like a miracle, literally out of the heavens, Weir's executors had contacted Earthservice. The will not only promised the possibility of a major inheritance but provided for Floyt's roundtrip passage. The expense of such a mission would be negligible. The Machu Picchu operation had gone ahead as scheduled, and the functionary had been duly conscripted.
Supervisor Bear still fumed at the fanaticism—and just plain bad luck—that had led to the villager's death. The matter of commutation no longer lay with the bureaucrats with whom she'd made secret deals. It rested with Citizen Ash. Like almost everyone on Earth, she dreaded any involvement whatsoever with the man.
Suddenly much more had been riding on the outcome than her ambitions. Bear had been at risk of being charged with crimes that would bring her under Ash's jurisdiction.
Compared to that, even Project Shepherd was of secondary importance.
But she had reasserted her icy self-control, moving quickly and decisively. She convinced or coerced those who were already involved into helping her in a desperate cover-up, framing Alacrity Fitzhugh for the killing. It had entailed the slaying of the real killer, in order to keep him from recanting his perjured testimony, and insuring by various means that no other witness would speak up.
Ash had commuted the breakabout's sentence. That was both a help to Project Shepherd and an unnerving hint that the executioner thought there was more to the killing than did the court that had found Fitzhugh guilty. Bear had gone forward with her plan nonetheless; she couldn't afford not to. However, she'd tabled, indefinitely, pending plans to entrap other escorts.
She rose from Hobart Floyt's couch, the stiff pleats of her cloak of office rustling. Floyt and Balensa automatically stood. "And now, Citizen Floyt, we must be off." To Balensa, Bear added, "The household liaison team will arrive at the beginning of next shift."
Floyt's wife and the supervisor embraced and kissed like family. Floyt resignedly took up his bag and fell in behind Bear as she swept through the doorway.
* * * *
Ash entered the room with a drawn, tense Floyt at his side. Supervisor Bear followed a circumspect pace behind and to the left.
The decor had been chosen to aid Floyt's peace of mind, not Alacrity's; it looked not at all like an advanced conditioning facility, but, in deference to fashion, resembled a chamber from the planet's vaunted past, a Victorian drawing room. The functionary became visibly less nervous when he entered.
Alacrity felt differently. Prism-trimmed lampshades, tasseled pillows, and red-plush loveseats don't have any business here, he thought huffily. No doubt the antimacassars were wired.
He and Floyt eyed one another. The breakabout saw a subdued little groundling—well, short, anyway. But he did look solid. No wonder these poor marks are happier hiding in distorted reveries and vanished glory. No wonder they can only find courage in mobs.
Floyt saw a cocky, glowering young alien, not realizing that the breakabout was irritated in part by having to wear a patient's disposable suit. The adhesive seams had a way of coming open at unpredictable times, or stubbornly remained closed when it was least convenient. Alacrity was sick of sudden drafts striking his posterior in the middle of a conversation, or hopping around the lavatory engaged in desperate conflict with the crotch seam. Little wonder Floyt thought him surly-looking.
Floyt, educated by Earthservice psychprop, saw what he'd expected: a not-quite-human with no respect for Terra or her past. Arrogant, no doubt, in his sole talent, which was to hop here and there around the void, contemptuous of Earth, uncaring that the virtues and nobility of the race had been fostered here, on this planet. Interesting in a freakish way, perhaps, with those eyes and the silver-gray mane, but a mongrel still and all.
Supervisor Bear offered terse introductions of the three conditioning techs, wishing to attract as little attention to herself as possible. Chief Behavioral Engineer Skinner was a heavily muscled, white-bearded man who'd adopted his name from that of one of his childhood idols. With him were his assistants, Clinicians Subutai (a tall, freckled, brown-haired woman, attractive in a rangy sort of way) and Seism (a thin, balding man with a pronounced squint and quite the darkest skin Alacrity had yet seen on Terra).
Bear gave them all a basilisk smile. "I trust you'll all get along satisfactorily." She left before Alacrity could make out much more about her than the fact that he hated her.
Subutai and Seism retired behind what looked to be a Chinese screen, replete with dragons and landscape motifs, to a hidden monitoring station. Alacrity saw no guards or security system, but had no doubt that both were nearby. He was sitting on the very edge of a heavily upholstered wingback chair. Skinner invited Floyt to sit in another near it, then said, "Please, do sit back in your seats, citizens, and I shall—"
"I'm not one of your damned citizens!" Alacrity glared at Floyt. Behind the screen, Subutai and Seism smiled and nodded to one another over their instruments.
Skinner smiled blandly. "You're right. I beg your pardon, Alacrity. Now, both of you, please try to relax."
Floyt complied as best he could; Skinner's appearance, dress, and manner were all calculated to reassure an Earther, and that helped. Alacrity edged back unwillingly, spine in contact with the crimson velvet, but sitting bolt upright. Pickups in the chairs fed more data to the clinicians.
Skinner began a rambling explanation of why they were all there. The breakabout interrupted, almost in monotone. "Hold it. I promised I'd go through with this, but I never agreed to pretend to like it. Or to be genteel." He turned to Floyt; Subutai and Seism read some interesting data from both chairs. "And I won't pretend to like you, either."
Floyt was studying Alacrity as though he were something for which there ought to have been a vaccine. "If you should begin to approve of me, let me know, Fitzhugh. I'll change at once," he replied calmly.
Viewing the readouts, the hidden clinicians smiled, well pleased. Their chief made calming gestures; his two subjects settled down. Alacrity saw that he must surrender to the inevitable; Floyt obeyed Earthservice, as he had all his life.
Citizen Ash spoke up; the others were surprised to realize how inconspicuous he could be when he wished. "I must leave you now. Hobart, Alacrity: good luck to you both. I pray that you return soon." He turned to go; Alacrity called out to him, and he paused.
"What happened to the girl?" the breakabout wanted to know. "The one you were going to talk to when you left me? The one with no third way out?"
"I will see her again, a last time." Ash's face was a mask. The clinicians noticed strange peturbations in their readings. Then the executioner was gone.
Skinner began to rebuild the mood he desired, furious with the disruption but not even daring to consider criticizing Citizen Ash. He rubbed his hands together heartily. "Now then, gentlemen, shall we begin?" Alacrity decided that, if the opportunity should ever present itself, he would knock Chief Behavioral Engineer Skinner's dong to the deck.
"You've both been briefed on the therapy you're to undergo here," Skinner began. He ignored the breakabout's bitter snort of derision. "Basically, it's a standard procedure. Citizen Floyt, you're aware of how common its use is in, ah, somewhat different circumstances here on Terra. Alacrity, you have no doubt encountered standard conditioning techniques, eh?"
Alacrity scowled. "I roger 'techniques', all right." He also knew of places where it was possible to have behavioral programming erased or counteracted. He grinned wolfishly.
"Good!" Skinner replied, too genially. "Now, the one major problem we have is that of time. The provisions of Weir's will require that all Inheritors be present for the reading; this means that you must depart for Epiphany in slightly over two days.
"So instead of a full course of treatment, you'll only have time for a rat
her abbreviated conditioning, concentrating on your task. That is, going to Epiphany, claiming the inheritance, and returning with it to Earth. Obviously, this involves certain priorities."
Alacrity made a sour face, glancing aside at a reproduction of a Remington painting. One of the priorities would not be his own welfare.
Floyt was expressionless; Skinner looked forward to analyzing the readings being recorded by Subutai and Seism, to find out just what it was the man was feeling.
"Priorities. You, Alacrity, will see to it that Hobart performs his mission and returns safely, Hobart, it's necessary to place all emphasis on your mission. Understand, please, both of you: this will not make you feel like some sort of automaton. It will seem reasonable and desirable that you do what is required."
"How about him?" Alacrity broke in with a head motion at Floyt. "How do I keep him from doing some vapor-brained damn fool Earther thing or other and getting us into trouble. Who's gonna be in charge?"
Floyt went rigid with anger; he gave the breakabout a direct and unswerving stare. Embarrassed, Skinner hastened to add, "Er, you'll both be enjoined against provocative conduct. But this is hardly the time to go into that, eh?"
Alacrity's eyes dropped first, away from Floyt's unwavering glare. Maybe there was a little something to the guy after all. Too, he was disturbed by what Skinner had said. He had a premonition that, in a typical Earthservice reflex, the two unwilling companions were to be turned into some sort of committee.
"And now to work!" Skinner trumpeted, clapping his hands. Floyt looked back to Alacrity wanting to clarify matters then and there, but the breakabout was fast asleep in his chair, Subutai and Seism having cut in its soporific field.
* * * *
Floyt spent the better part of two days in conditioning-pseudosomnolence while Earthservice told him what he was to do. His loyalty to Terra and long-fostered resentment of things alien were bent toward a commitment to mission completion.
Motivation was hardly a problem for the behavioral engineers; it was more a matter of fine-tuning Floyt's xenophobia so that he could endure offworld travel and contacts. His conscious acceptance of the idea was fragile enough; his underlying fear and aversion were nearly off the scale.
While he was under, they brought in medical teams for his immunization and adaptive treatments, from Earthservice's point of view, the most expensive part of the mission. It might prove needless, in which case it would be eliminated from future Project Shepherd missions, but Supervisor Bear could not afford to have anything go wrong. Alacrity, of course, had received equivalent or superior treatment long ago.
Floyt did spend some waking time. A little groggy, he was given general orientations on interstellar travel and conditions in human space, those in the realm of the late Weir in particular.
He was also lectured on the reasons for Earthservice's actions. But his opposition to travel couldn't be eradicated, only submerged. It wasn't difficult at all to insure that he be prudent.
Getting the Earther to accept companionship with Alacrity was something else again. It was probable that Floyt would on occasion have to bow to Alacrity's judgment, or at least weigh it impartially. That required the tearing down of some of his distaste for aliens, which the clinicians did very carefully, considering the short time they had. They made sure that among aliens Alacrity was considered a unique exception. They wanted the remainder of Floyt's prejudice to stay intact.
* * * *
Alacrity, younger and more resilient, didn't wake up again for over forty-eight hours. He had to be imbued with the desire to accompany, protect, and cooperate with Floyt. They had little enough to work with, especially after his experiences at Machu Picchu.
But they did have Floyt. The team deemed it best to create and stress a personal loyalty. In the process, they encountered a tremendous defensive blockage surrounding and sealing off the breakabout's past, origins, and upbringing. The two clinicians thought it natural, a protective mechanism of some sort. But Skinner felt that it was too strong, and must have been painstakingly constructed. He was intrigued and mightily tempted to probe it, but there was no time.
To cultivate the synthetic bonding, the team used recordings from Floyt's sessions on Alacrity. Their evaluation of the psychodynamics involved prompted them to emphasize Floyt's vulnerability, though the man actually displayed a surprising streak of self-reliance. They played it against the breakabout's rather easily provoked sympathy for an underdog or victim. The by-product, they knew, would be a certain contempt for Floyt's perceived weakness. The clinicians were willing to accept that.
They knew that they'd made progress early on the second day. Heavily medicated, Alacrity sat in a recliner viewing a tape of Hobart Floyt while a hypnofield worked on him. The recording, made in the course of the functionary's sessions, had been edited and orchestrated masterfully to portray Floyt as a likable but frightened man caught up in a dilemma beyond his understanding or abilities.
Suddenly the clinicians heard Alacrity mumbling. The team leaned closer, straining to hear.
"Poor sonuvabitch … poor little sonuva … "
Chief Behavioral Engineer Skinner broke into a beaming grin.
* * * *
The time limit forced the team to discontinue its regimen, though there hadn't been nearly enough conditioning for a deep, completely reliable treatment. The team's disclaimers were ignored; Floyt must be present for the Willreading.
Alacrity was groggily led back to the bogus drawing room by an aide. Floyt was already waiting, along with Skinner and his crew. The oriental screen had been removed; a surprisingly modern and compact control console glittered in the corner.
The conditioning team seemed so relaxed and jocular that it depressed Floyt and made him somewhat bitter, even though he knew he had to carry out his mission for the good of Terra. But the behavioral engineers would get to stay behind, among the true children of Terra, while he, Floyt, must venture out among the mongrelized, mutated, and crossbred offworlders.
Then his conditioning cut in, though it felt to him quite simply as though another thought had occurred to him. He was filled with a warm glow at the thought of all the good that he might be able to do with his inheritance.
Swaying for a moment as the aide released his arm, Alacrity stopped. Skinner and company raised the breakabout's hackles; they'd left his nervous system jangling and played out.
Then he spied Floyt. A wave of compassion swept through him. Poor little sonuvabitch!
A last attendee showed up, Supervisor Bear, looking triumphant. She gave the seated Floyt a pat on the shoulder, gazing down on him benignly. "You've done well, Hobart. From this point forward, physical hardships will be few."
On a jaunt to Epiphany and back, with somebody out to get him—or us? Alacrity marveled at her knack for lying. But he felt a sudden resolve to see to it that the Earther did make it. After all, none of this was really Floyt's fault either. The conditioning made him feel that way so strongly, he knew, but a good deal of his real self was in there someplace too.
Floyt made some halting reply. Though he'd gone through far lighter treatment than the breakabout, he was still a bit disoriented.
Bear turned to Alacrity. The subzero cordiality only made him loathe her more. "You have a rare opportunity to atone for your crime by doing something worthwhile. I trust you'll show gratitude and make good use of it."
"If I had my way, Bear, there'd be a filter in every urethral duct to eliminate your type."
A shade paler, Bear launched into a general pep talk. The others listened deferentially, but Alacrity, anger smoldering, looked around the room restlessly. Then he noticed that, eyes still on Bear, the little clinician, Seism, was edging toward the console. He covered the movements of his hand with his body as he reached for the controls.
As punchy as he was from the things that had taken place since Machu Picchu, Alacrity had nonetheless picked up a fair idea of how the console worked, his normal reaction in encountering new
machinery. Seism seemed about to give a lethal twist to the control governing energy influx for Floyt's chair.
Alacrity ejected from his chair, hurling himself across the room at Seism. The clinician whirled the dial; Floyt yipped in pain and surprise, stiffening. Seism faced Alacrity, aiming a slender, glittering tube his way.
The breakabout never even slowed down; Floyt was injured but, for the moment, still alive. Alacrity tried to dodge, meaning to try a flying tackle, hollering for the others to help.
Seism was faster than he looked. The beam caught Alacrity full in the face, stretching him headlong on the rich, imitation-Persian carpet.
* * * *
He only lost his sense of time for a moment; it felt like no more than seconds later that he came to, battered and sore, staring up at the replica chandelier.
Paralyzer, stungun, whatever they call them on Earth, he realized; he couldn't have survived anything else at point-blank. At that, the gun must've been set at low power. He still felt as though somebody had dialed up a couple of extra gravities. He strained, raised his head.
First he saw Floyt's face, wearing a strange mixture of perplexity and amazement. Bear was next to him, still wearing her bland expression over a certain gloating. The team stood in a loose circle, peering down.
Skinner was taking his pulse manually. "Jus'n ole-fashioned doctor, huh?" The patient yanked his wrist free.
Seism gazed down sympathetically; Subutai was murmuring psychometric observations into a recorder. Alacrity congratulated himself sourly on having fallen for another Earthservice setup.
"Did I pass, you mucus wads?"
"Magnificently," Skinner acclaimed. He helped Alacrity up, knowing the breakabout would be too weak to take more than an ineffective imitation of a punch or kick at him. "Sorry we had to do it, young man, but that was your final test."