The Far Side of Evil

by Sylvia Engdahl

  “That’s true,” I agreed, “they do bad things because of their immaturity—but they do them, all the same. You’ve got to remember, Randil, that Younglings haven’t the benefit of your hindsight. They’re motivated by immediate goals.”

  “So once I can get them to make space their goal—”

  I sighed. “If they knew it would save them from extinction, they’d give it top priority,” I admitted wearily, “but they don’t know, and they aren’t going to believe you when you tell them. If they were capable of looking that far ahead, they wouldn’t have needed a Cold War in the first place. The theory of the Critical Stage would be groundless.”

  “I know one thing they’d believe,” Randil muttered. “A practical demonstration.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I asked, with inward foreboding.

  “Elana,” he said slowly, “I wish there were a way for me to do more than tell them. I’m beginning to think you’re right about one thing: The sort of influence I can exert won’t do the trick. We’re running out of time. I—well, I wish I could speed things up by providing them with a usable spaceship.”

  It was such an insane idea that at first I thought he was joking. When I saw that he wasn’t, I was too shaken to attack the major fallacies in it; I got off onto the lesser but more apparent ones.

  “You can’t teach them to build a spaceship,” I said. “You’re an anthropologist, not an engineer.”

  “I don’t mean build one. I mean give them one of ours. Not a starship, of course; just a landing craft that would give them a head start on colonizing their own solar system.”

  Horrified, I exclaimed, “You’re speaking of disclosure!”

  “It wouldn’t be disclosure, Elana.”

  “What else could you call it, if you were to hand over an unmistakably alien ship?”

  “I’d tell them I was Jutan.”

  “That you were what?”

  “Jutan. You know, the planet Juta, fifth from their sun.”

  “There isn’t any intelligent life on Juta.”

  “They don’t know that. They’ve been writing wild tales about life on Juta for years.”

  “But Randil, two humanoid races in one solar system? It’s too incredible.”

  “They don’t know that, either.”

  He had a point. Juta has a thick atmosphere that Torisian telescopes cannot penetrate. And the biologists of this world have no notion of the principles governing life in the universe; it would be all one to them if Jutans were humanoid, reptilian, or bright green dwarfs with two tails.

  It is not disclosure unless Younglings learn that there’s an interstellar civilization with which they can’t hope to compete.

  But they would learn. They would get to Juta within a few weeks and find no life there, so before long they’d be drawing the obvious conclusions. Initially, to be sure, they might think the unknown people from the stars their equals; yet in time their scientists couldn’t fail to recognize a Federation landing craft as the product of a technology vastly superior to that of Toris. They would know simply from the fact that its principles of operation would remain totally incomprehensible to them.

  I don’t know why I wasted time arguing these points with Randil, since there was no way for either of us to get hold of a landing craft anyway; we were dependent—fortunately, I felt—on pickup initiated by Varned or by someone else in contact with the starship. So I shouldn’t have let practical considerations sidetrack me. That there were serious flaws in Randil’s conception of the Critical Stage I could see from his mere suggestion of such a scheme, and I should have spent our precious remaining minutes pointing them out.

  Unfortunately, though, I was not only sidetracked but deeply disturbed; by the time the bells in the campus clock tower chimed the hour, telling us that Kari’s late lab session was over and that Randil had only a few moments before she would be looking for him, I was seething with indignation as well. Hadn’t I enough difficulties on Toris without having to cope with the misconceived notions of a fellow agent?

  “It’s impossible,” he acknowledged regretfully as he got up to go. “But I think a ship could save them, and I’m afraid they have too little time left to develop their own. If I could get my hands on one, nothing could stop me from turning it over.”

  “And just who do you think you are?” I demanded bitterly. “The Holy Prophet? Is that the role in which you’ve cast yourself? You’d fit it nicely; it’s said in their sacred writings, you know, that the Prophet is to appear out of the sky and give them advanced powers.”

  Randil recoiled from me, stricken. “Elana, don’t!” he said vehemently. “I’ve been to Devotions with Kari, and I’ve heard the Prophecy; it’s taken seriously. It’s their religion, not mere legend—what you’re saying is blasphemy.”

  “I agree,” I said. “That was my point. You want to arrange the destiny of a whole world, personally sway its people in the direction you think they should go—well, that’s more than blasphemy, Randil. It comes awfully close to setting yourself up as God.”

  He was furious, of course—he refused to communicate after that evening—and I can’t say I blame him. It was an unforgivable thing for me to say; the element of truth in it made it all the more cruel. I don’t usually lash out at people that way. But I was incensed, too, and what’s more, I was desperate. I knew underneath that Randil’s line of thought would ultimately lead to tragedy of some sort and that when it did, the fault would be partly mine. Yet I couldn’t admit it. I couldn’t bring myself to act. When Varned came again, I thought, I would shift the whole burden into his capable hands. I knew that if he failed to convince Randil, he would have him immediately recalled, but I also knew I could trust the Service’s handling of the affair. Randil would be judged by his motives. He would be taught a few lessons, no doubt, but he would not be punished.

  I expected Varned soon. The carnival might not return until summer, but he would contact us before that, for our next reports couldn’t be allowed to wait much longer. I was right; a large advertisement appeared in the newspaper one day, bearing Varned’s picture. His fame had grown as a fortune-teller and also as a magician; he was to give several performances in a local theater, and its box office was setting up appointments for private consultations as well. Jubilant with relief, I got tickets in advance for myself and for Kari. Varned had helped her before, and this time, I hoped, he would somehow manage to prepare her for the grief she must face at Randil’s departure.

  Then, on the evening when the show was to open, the government announced that all members of minority races were “enemies of the State” and would henceforth be sent to concentration camps.

  I had seen it coming. Public reaction against the dictatorship was growing, and the campaign to deflect this resentment onto the Libertarians hadn’t been too successful. The citizens of Cerne were basically Libertarian in outlook; having had a free press until the Occupation, they were aware of certain truths that no amount of propaganda could distort. They did not automatically hate everybody on the other side of the world. It was inevitable that the Neo-Statist officials would look for a more immediate outlet for the city’s smoldering discontent.

  There had been race riots, seemingly spontaneous but in fact skillfully engineered. The people were in a mood to riot, and it was merely a matter of applied psychology to get them fighting against each other instead of against the police state that was the true object of their wrath. Then, after everyone was sick of the fighting, it was a still simpler matter to fix the blame. Though few approved of concentration camps, I’m very much afraid that there were those who believed that as long as the SSP was busy rounding up minority groups it would spend less time ferreting out the secret “guilt” of political dissenters.

  Varned must have seen it coming also, but he could scarcely have known what he was walking into when he timed his visit to Cerne. I realized that he must have arrived in the city shortly before the proclamation was issued and that he might already ha
ve been arrested. If he hadn’t been, his only chance of escape would be to use the route by which Randil had entered: the river. He could not keep his appointments or show himself in public, so there was little chance of our making contact, either at this time or ever again. If anyone was to call a halt to Randil’s activism, it would have to be me. Yet I had done all I could by way of persuasion; Randil would no longer even listen.

  There was still an avenue open to me. Because Randil and I had been communicating, we were technically a team. In every team one member is designated as the Senior Agent, whom the others, while in the field, are bound by the Oath to obey. Since no appointment had been made in this case, I had both the right and the duty to assume that position. I had been sworn longer than Randil. The seniority was unquestionably mine; the fact that in the normal course of events I would need at least ten years’ experience to qualify for a place as Senior did not matter.

  But it was a step I shrank from, a last resort that I would turn to only in a true emergency. For the Senior bears the responsibility. If he or she fails to order that which the Oath clearly demands, he is no less forsworn than if he actively breaks it; and if a team member brings harm to Younglings, the Senior is equally answerable. I knew that once I accepted such responsibility—once I gave Randil a direct order to abandon his attempts at intervention—I would be obliged, by fair means or foul, to enforce it.

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  Chapter 5

  It is the little things that get you down, even more than the major ones you are geared to withstand—a fact that my interrogator is well aware of. When I returned to my cell this evening and found that the guards had covered the window, I almost lost control for a while. I suppose their spy camera showed how often I stood on the bunk to look out. And they have other subtle cruelties. I was horribly sick again last night, and it was not, I’m afraid, by accident. I have no doubt that my food is sometimes drugged, yet I know better than to let myself fall victim to their scheme for weakening me through my own choice. If they wanted to starve me, they could do it much more easily by direct means; their aim is to destroy my confidence by making me afraid to eat anything at all. No, thanks! It may be foolproof as far as their laboratory animals are concerned, but it won’t work on a person who can see through it.

  Holding out is a matter of how you look at things, really. There’s a lot more to it than psychic powers; some of the techniques that help me most could be used just as well by Younglings, if only they knew how. But they don’t, and it’s awfully sad. When I was first brought here, I was left for some hours in an anteroom where there were other prisoners waiting to be questioned. They were, I suppose, underground resistance workers, although there may have been innocent citizens among them and perhaps a few actual Libertarian agents. And they were for the most part woefully ill-prepared for what they were about to encounter.

  Oh, they were brave. They were willing to endure pain and knew, in a vague sort of way, that they would probably have to. But they were unbelievably ignorant of the types of pressure likely to be applied. I suspect that many of them had avoided such knowledge—which I’m sure must be available, even in Libertarian countries—and if they had refused to face the mere information, they certainly hadn’t much chance when confronted by the actuality. Half the battle was lost right there. The other half was lost through the fact that these people had no notion that there is any means of defense.

  “No one can resist brainwashing,” one of them said to me. (He undoubtedly thought that I, being young and seemingly innocent, was in need of that sort of comfort.) “It’s no disgrace to break, because when it happens you won’t have anything to say about it. The mind can be controlled by scientific conditioning just as surely as a computer can be programmed.” My interrogator himself couldn’t have put it better! And so the poor man was defeated from the beginning, because underneath he already believed the basic idea they would try to push him into accepting: that he was a mere cog in a machine called “society” and that his mind was subject to control by outside influences. He was as sure as they that there is no power in the individual mind. If a person isn’t aware of his own inner freedom, how can he stick by a commitment to political freedom? The two go together, after all.

  The man I speak of was called for interrogation shortly after our conversation, and I broke the rules; I tried to contact him telepathically, for I could not bear the grim hopelessness of his defiance, a defiance more like that of a cornered animal than of a free human being. He did not know how to respond to me. I suppose he’ll crack eventually, not from lack of courage or stamina, but simply from the weight of his misconceptions.

  I don’t mean to imply, of course, that anyone can hold out against anything. It’s not nearly so simple, because there is always the question of what you’re holding out for. If the pressure is extreme, you can’t buck it unless you’ve got an awfully valid reason. I have such a reason. I’m not holding out for the sake of pride, or even of the Oath, but simply because the Neo-Statists are ready to use the Bomb, and right now I’m all that’s stopping them.

  *

  Randil felt only despair when he learned of Varned’s impending arrival, for he had counted on not being contacted by anyone from the starship before he had won Elana over to his side. He did not, of course, intend to tell Varned of his activities. Originally he had assumed that she wouldn’t tell either, and that since his articles had been published under a pseudonym he would therefore be safe. By now he knew better. Elana was adamant; there no longer seemed to be any possibility of converting her, and she appeared quite sincere in her belief that his intervention was not serving the best interests of Toris. Despondently, he admitted to himself that without her cooperation there was little chance for his plan to succeed. Once other agents were alerted, he would have to flee the city, and it would then be almost impossible to sway public opinion without attracting the attention of the secret police, not to mention the Service, which would be much harder to elude.

  Since it was essential for him to see Varned before Elana did, he made the first appointment available for a “fortune-telling” consultation, as well as a date with Kari for later the same evening. He knew it might be the last date he would have with her. As he realized that, he also realized that the choice he had feared had been made without conscious deliberation. The alternative to flight hadn’t even entered his mind. If he were to speak freely to Varned and agree to attempt no further action, would he be allowed to stay in Cerne? Maybe, but he could not do that. His love for Kari was inextricably entwined with his determination to save her world from war. He might fail; he probably would fail; but it would be self-defeating to gain a little more time with her by abandoning his sole hope of preventing her death in a nuclear holocaust.

  When he presented himself at the theater, Varned greeted him warmly, and Randil, fortified by the self-discipline in which his Service training had schooled him, began an impassive telepathic report that gave no hint of his true feelings. He was halfway through it when a costumed magician’s assistant, shaken with fright, interrupted them. “Master,” the man quavered, “forgive the intrusion, but there’s been news—”

  It was chilling news, an edict proclaiming the imminent arrest of all whose racial coloring resembled Varned’s. Not only were the innocent to be interned for an indefinite period, but “known criminals,” it seemed, were to be shot without trial.

  Varned took it calmly. “I will finish this interview,” he said. “Leave us.”

  “But Master—”

  “Leave us! Cancel the rest of my appointments and tonight’s performance.” Gently and with a reassuring smile, he added, “Don’t worry about me, my friend. I don’t fear the police.”

  The assistant retreated, giving Varned a look of worshipful awe, and Randil perceived that not only was he devoted to his “master” but that very probably he credited him with truly supernatural powers. Perhaps he thought the magician could vanish, as indeed he could once he rea
ched the river. It wouldn’t be easy to swim past the guards unaided by a breathing unit, but Randil had no doubt that it could be managed; he had considered trying it himself. Inwardly, he confessed that he had felt joy when he’d heard that Varned must go instead. It meant reprieve! Varned would not see Elana, nor would he be able to return to Cerne in the future.

  You got into the city from the east by water, Varned communicated swiftly. Will you be able to get out on the west side, the downstream side, without breathing apparatus?

  Randil, aghast, was afraid he had given his thoughts away until he took in the urgency behind Varned’s question. Me? he responded. Yes, I think so, but why? You’re the one who’s got to escape. And you’ve got to hurry; they know you’re performing here tonight, and they’ll come for you.

  They’ve already come for me, Randil. All the exits to this building are blocked. Grimly he responded to Randil’s unexpressed shock. I’m more clairvoyant than most people; I’ve just scanned. Besides, in my case it was to be expected. My race is simply a convenient excuse. I wouldn’t be surprised to know they’d purposely withheld the announcement until they had me trapped.

  What are you going to do, then? Randil asked in dismay. His personal relief didn’t extend to a desire to have Varned fall into real danger; it hadn’t occurred to him that that might happen.

  The only thing that can be done, Varned informed him. Randil, you’ve inherited a rough job. I’ve got a report that’s too valuable to be lost, a collection of the latest data from half a dozen agents. Your being here means we can get it to the starship.

  But surely you won’t be in any concentration camp for long; the Service will find some way to rescue you.

  Levelly, Varned declared, I’ll never reach a concentration camp. They’ll have me before a firing squad before the night’s out. “Known criminals will be shot,” remember?