The Far Side of Evil

by Sylvia Engdahl

  “He mentioned it,” I whispered, stricken.

  “Elana, you’re not afraid of him, are you? He mistook you for someone else! He wasn’t trying to pick you up; he’s just not that kind of person. And he certainly isn’t a shadow from your past. He’s only been in Cerne since the beginning of the college term.”

  “I’m sorry, Kari,” I said with forced composure. “It’s just that when someone you don’t remember claims to know you—”

  “Poor Elana,” she said softly. “I wish I could help.”

  I felt cheap enough already about the undeserved pity I elicited from her, and this latest development made matters even worse. I had added to her troubles again. She was obviously attracted to Randil, and she would be desolate, I thought, when he failed to call her again after their first date.

  But that was one problem that didn’t arise.

  Incredibly, Randil dated Kari three or four times a week. If I was there when he brought her home, he begged me, silently, to communicate, an overture that I steadfastly resisted; sometimes on weekends I had to entertain him while Kari was getting ready, and I developed the ability to make polite conversation while shutting out his insistent telepathic appeals. But he didn’t come around only to see me. He learned that I could time my arrival for moments before curfew, so that he had to leave before I got there in order to avoid arrest; he kept right on coming. He saw Kari on nights when he could easily have cornered me in the library. He met her on campus frequently, when he knew perfectly well that I was working.

  Meanwhile, the world news went from bad to worse. It got so depressing that I hated to turn on the television, and reading the newspapers—which I was required to analyze thoroughly—was an even less palatable ordeal. I did not take them at face value, of course; still the reports of international crises, while heavily slanted toward arousing ire against the Libertarians, contained elements of all-too-plausible truth. There were also certain radio broadcasts, strictly illegal, that were spoken of in whispers, and to them I gave more credence. Their tone was not hopeful.

  And there were other sinister happenings. Life in Cerne grew less secure. People disappeared more often, and our nights were repeatedly disturbed by the spine-chilling blare of sirens. Kari’s favorite professor, a kindly, white-haired gentleman of distinguished reputation, was replaced one day by a younger man who seemed inordinately interested in reviewing the past progress of the class. Apparently, it displeased him, for the professor was not seen again. Some of the less cautious students signed a petition of protest; they were not seen again, either.

  Through all this, I expected Kari to become more fearful and withdrawn than ever, despite the fact that she had learned to express herself freely to me whenever we were sure that we could not be overheard. That didn’t happen. Instead, she blossomed. It seemed not to bother her that bomb-shelter drills were held at ever more frequent intervals, that a general order was issued banning assembly of more than ten people without a police permit, that women—including ourselves—were suddenly required to register for the military draft. She was happy anyway, happier than I had ever seen her; she had decided that the world was not such a dreadful place after all. Kari, for the first time in her life, was in love.

  People in love always say a good deal to their friends, I suppose, about how the person they care for is unlike any other human being in the entire world. Kari went on at rapturous lengths in that vein, and the ironic thing was that in her case what she believed about Randil happened to be true. He was indeed unlike other men. He was a Federation citizen and a sworn agent of the Anthropological Service, though he had come perilously close to forgetting that, and it broke my heart to see how he was breaking Kari’s.

  It was all very innocent. Randil never meant for Kari to be hurt, and he didn’t set out to sweep her off her feet. He simply didn’t realize how a shy, insecure girl who had never had anyone to love before would react to the attentions of an obviously intelligent man who truly valued her as a person. I’m now aware that he had no idea how deeply affected she was until he himself was too involved to turn away. And by that time it would have been cruel to break off with her; she would have been shattered anyway, as she will be at the inevitable end. It’s good, perhaps, that she has had these extra weeks of happiness.

  But it would have been better if I had stepped in sooner.

  I blame myself. Communicating with Randil earlier would not have done nearly as much harm as his involvement with Kari has done, and I can’t deny that my own selfish pride was a factor in my silence. One contact with Randil meant giving up my solo credit. As soon as I put it to myself in those terms, I knew I must disobey orders and make the contact, for Kari’s sake and for Randil’s. By then, it was too late to do any good.

  We communicated for the first time one evening when he called for Kari; she was in the bedroom dressing, and I was carrying on my usual impersonal, inane dialogue with Randil, ignoring his silent pleas. And then suddenly I took the plunge and responded. You’ve won, I told him. Kari is my best friend; I’m too fond of her to let this go on. I must say you chose an effective weapon against me, but it was a dirty one. It was a breach of the Oath, even: You put your personal interests ahead of a Youngling’s.

  He stared at me, absolutely stunned, and the emotional pain of his reply nearly overloaded my long-unused telepathic faculties. Elana, you don’t think…

  I had thought so, and it was mortifying to realize how I had misjudged him. I’m sorry, I faltered, struggling to regain my balance. I seem to have gotten the wrong impression.

  You weren’t wrong about the beginning, he admitted. I dated her just to learn your address. But only that once! Afterward I kept on because she was lonely and unhappy and I liked her; I simply wanted to give her some fun. I—I didn’t know what we were getting into.

  But you know now, I observed with sadness, seeing that my warning was no longer of any use. I, of all people, should have been more perceptive, considering that it had once happened to me. You don’t believe it can, with a Youngling; you don’t look at Younglings in that way. And then when it does happen, you don’t look at the person involved as a Youngling at all.

  Elana, he confessed miserably, I love her. I want to marry her.

  You know that’s impossible.

  Is it?

  Randil, you’re not serious! Younglings can never be taken from their native worlds. Even if it weren’t forbidden, it would be bad for everybody concerned. Kari would be a misfit in the Federation; she’d suffer terribly. And besides, an agent can’t marry outside the Service.

  I don’t expect to take her away, he informed me.

  You’re certainly not going to marry her and then desert her!

  What do you think I am? No, Elana, I—well, I’m becoming a Torisian.

  I don’t believe that I have ever received a greater shock. Dazed, I protested, But Randil, you’re sworn.

  He met the challenge squarely. I won’t be breaking the Oath, he contended. Policy, maybe, but not the Oath.

  That needs a lot of explaining, Randil, I declared.

  I know. It’s what I’ve been trying to explain all these weeks when you wouldn’t listen. This isn’t just a matter of me and Kari. It started long before that. Randil paused, and then, desperately earnest, he continued, Look, Elana, when we took the Oath, we swore to put the Younglings’ best interests ahead of everything else, right?

  Of course, I agreed, knowing that I would have to hear him out before even attempting to argue.

  We vowed to make any sacrifice, no matter what we might bring on ourselves?

  Yes.

  Then what if there’s a conflict between policy and that basic principle?

  Slowly I replied, You don’t have to ask me that, Randil. I answered it before a Court of Inquiry after the Andrecian mission, and the results of that hearing were common knowledge at the Academy.

  Smiling, he told me: I haven’t forgotten. We all admired your spirit. You were charged with violatin
g a provision of the Oath and the judges gave you a pretty bad time, but in the end you were exonerated on the grounds that you had acted in the best interests of the Andrecians. That’s why I know you’ll help me, once I can make you see what has to be done to save Toris. I know you’ve got the courage for it because you’ve gone against policy before.

  I made no comment, for he didn’t know the whole story. The Court of Inquiry had been unexpectedly tough with me; as a test of my convictions, I had been led to believe that contrary to Father’s original reassurances, I would be censured. But later I had understood that my judges’ severity had been a calculated kindness. The fact was, my decision to break policy on Andrecia had not been quite as noble as Randil supposed, a personal consideration having played a part in it; so despite the comfort I had received from Father, there’d been lingering doubt in me as to the rightness of what I’d done. By forcing me to defend myself under pressure, the inquiry had dispelled that doubt, and my ultimate vindication had given me a peace of mind I might never have obtained from the judgment of a more lenient court.

  With sober intensity Randil went on: We won’t be exonerated this time, Elana. We’ll be defying every tradition in the book, and we’ll go down in Service history as renegades. We’ll have to relinquish our Federation citizenship and cast our lot with the Torisians—for good.

  In the name of the Oath? I asked incredulously.

  In the name of the Oath. Are you with me, Elana?

  I hesitated, wondering how best to deal with such an overwhelming proposal. Randil’s sincerity was beyond question. Whatever his plan was, he believed that he could save Toris by it; and I didn’t want him to think I would be unwilling to pay the price. Yet that was exactly what he would think if, as seemed likely, I wound up having to point out that Service policy has a good deal of wisdom behind it.

  I know you’ll be sacrificing more than I will, he continued. You’re engaged to an agent, while the girl I love is here.

  A moment of frightening uncertainty hit me, and I dropped my eyes. Would I be willing? If by some remote chance there should be a way of saving this planet through unauthorized intervention, would I be capable of giving up so much? Evrek … the Service … every pleasure, every comfort of the world I had been born to … all the wonders of the universe? Would I, for instance, if it meant keeping that dishwashing job until I was old enough to retire from it?

  I might, I decided, if such a sacrifice would accomplish anything; but how could it? There was a flaw in Randil’s reasoning. He spoke in terms of certain condemnation rather than of risk, yet if we took justifiable action we would not be condemned. Unjustified action, on the other hand, would carry its own penalty: not banishment, but the awesome burden of answerability for whatever damage that action caused. Randil apparently had no fear of causing damage; still, he believed that we could not hope for exoneration. Why? Didn’t he trust the Service to deal fairly with us? Or was he simply rationalizing, telling himself that since he would have to stay on Toris anyway, he might as well get married?

  In either case, his basic assertion was sound. Father himself had once told me that the Oath demands more of an agent than blind obedience, that its literal words are anchors, not shackles. And there are times when anchors must be abandoned. I sensed danger, terrible danger, in Randil’s line of thought; but I could not in honesty judge it unless I was prepared to commit myself fully to whatever course would best serve the interests of Toris.

  My heart pounding, I turned back to Randil. I’m with you, I pledged, if you can prove to me that what you have in mind will truly help the Torisians.

  I can’t promise that. We may fail. But if we do, so does their civilization; and when the bombing starts, I’d rather die here with Kari than be rescued.

  You don’t believe there’s any chance of the war being averted without intervention?

  Do you?

  I—I don’t know. If we knew, none of us would be here, would we?

  We might, he answered grimly.

  What do you mean?

  Elana, don’t you realize that if Toris gets through the Critical Stage, not one thing will be learned from this mission? That from the Service’s standpoint all the risk and effort of it will be wasted unless a nuclear war takes place?

  That’s a pretty callous way of putting it, I objected. Besides, something can be learned from every Youngling race.

  Maybe, but not the sort of key factor we were sent here to find. I’ve studied the Critical Stage; I wrote my thesis on it! The only thing lacking for a complete analysis is data from a planet that didn’t make the grade.

  Certainly. The Director told me that.

  Did he also point out that the policymakers would hardly assign all the top agents they could recruit to a crash priority mission that they weren’t hoping would accomplish its purpose?

  I gasped. Randil, if you’re insinuating—

  I’m not insinuating, I’m accusing! We were told that no action of ours could save this world. And we fell for it. But what if this world has been written off? What if it’s classed as expendable, a test case?

  You actually believe that the Service would value data on the Critical Stage higher than the survival of a whole Youngling race? That—that a feasible action would be deliberately withheld?

  The bitterness of his thought intensified its telepathic force; he seemed to be shouting. Take a good look at it! Everything fits: the secrecy about the master plans; our isolation; the ban on contact—they knew that if a bunch of us got together we’d catch on.

  Oh, Randil, it isn’t true! It couldn’t be!

  Look, Elana, he insisted, Varned practically admitted it. Back on the starship he told me in so many words that I was being used! I didn’t understand, then—

  And you still don’t!

  You got the pitch about what’s learned here enabling us to save other worlds, didn’t you? Well, I don’t want to save other worlds in some dim, hypothetical future; I want to save this one! I want to save Kari’s world, and I’m going to try, and if you don’t help, I’ll try alone.

  I’ll help, I assured him. I’ll help, if it’s as you say. But Randil, I’m not convinced yet. We’ve got to think this through.

  I’ve done nothing else!

  We’ve got to be absolutely sure that there’s no chance of our doing more harm than good.

  The bedroom door opened, and Kari stood there, radiant as always at the mere sight of Randil. Our faces must have been a puzzle to her. “Why, you two look glum,” she chided, with a light laugh. “And so quiet! I haven’t heard you say a word for the last ten minutes.”

  “I—I’m tired this evening, Kari,” I murmured. “I’ll probably be asleep when you get home.”

  But privately, I knew that I would be unlikely to do any sleeping for a long, long time.

  *

  That night I went over my entire life, step by step, memory by memory, searching for touchstones by which to judge Randil’s appalling accusation. I thought of my mother, whom I remembered but dimly, and of her Emblem brushing my forehead as she stooped to kiss me good-bye upon her departure for the mission from which she never returned; of my grandparents—retired field agents—and of the view of the Service’s work they had given me, the concept of a sacred trust embedded in the fascinating adventure stories on which I had been raised; of my school years, years when all my dreams had been focused on the proud day when I would be admitted, as a probationer, to the Academy. I thought of Father, upon whom from earliest childhood my deepest confidence and affection had been bestowed: of Father standing before the Andrecian campfire as he invested me and witnessed my Oath, and of his quiet strength in helping me through the painful awakenings that had come with my first attempts to live up to its demands. I thought of Evrek, of the love we shared, the plans we had, the future we had founded our hopes on. I looked back on my training: the challenges and the insights; the grim but always salutary trials of mental discipline; the instructors’ seeming ruthlessness tha
t without exception had proved a mere facade for warm and sympathetic wisdom in which I had found I could place absolute trust. I recalled the Director’s unmistakable sorrow when he had warned me that I was going as a helpless observer to a world that I would be powerless to save. And of course, I thought through the whole complex of Service ritual, reliving my last evening at the Academy: the traditions, the symbols, the solemn, joyous words of consecration and of faith.

  I reviewed these things and many more, in the dark by myself and later, feigning sleep, while Kari tiptoed in and undressed for bed and lay down smiling, warm with the memory of Randil’s kiss and secure in the newfound refuge of his love. I reviewed them until dawn brightened the window, shedding pale light on the face of the clock that told me I must soon get up and pull myself together for another weary day of kitchen work. And in the end I came to three conclusions.

  First of all I knew, as surely as I shall ever know anything, that it could not be the way Randil said.

  If the Service could do what Randil claimed it was doing, everything I had ever had faith in was false and hollow. I couldn’t believe that. One recollection alone was sufficient grounds for disbelief: the thought of what Father had said to me the first time I had observed the suffering of Younglings, and had demanded to know why we were taking no steps to alleviate it. “I believe that the weight of the evidence is on the side of the policy as it stands,” he had declared, “but then if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.” Father was highly enough regarded in the Service to be counted among the policymakers. He would not be there if there were any possibility of a whole human race being allowed to die simply to provide test data.

  Randil hadn’t grown up with the Service as I had; his association with it extended no further back than his admission to the Academy, and he had never before set foot on a Youngling world. He had not been prepared for direct contact with Younglings during his training. Without such preparation, which would have alerted him to the dangers of being thrown off balance, he hadn’t the perspective for a solo job; his cynicism was closer to the outlook of a Critical Stage culture than to that of a Federation anthropologist. He had carried empathy a little too far. The people of this planet were the first Younglings he had ever known, and he had identified with them to the point where his Torisian cover role was overshadowing his own background. Falling in love with Kari had been the last straw; he was well on the way toward losing his objectivity as an observer. Somehow, I had to make him see that.