Randil stared at him, horrified. You’re not a criminal! Not even by their standards.
I’m a potential danger to them, though. This cover role has been excellent in some ways, but it’s forced me to reveal too much of myself; I’m too good at winning people’s trust. You saw the way my assistant looked at me. That man would die for me, literally, and so would others; I’ve acquired a following. The dictatorship can’t afford to keep me alive as a rallying point.
You—you’re just going to let them shoot you? What about the Shield?
Face facts, Randil! Varned reproved him. Using the Shield would mean disclosure. Less sharply he continued, These things happen. You know that. If there’s a way out, I’ll find it, but we’ve got to proceed under the assumption that there isn’t. Now, stop railing against what can’t be helped and “record” my report.
Reluctantly, Randil obeyed. The concentration demanded left him no chance to dwell on the remorse he felt over having been glad, at first, about the edict; there was little time to spare, and the mind-to-mind transfer was performed at a speed much greater than that to which he was accustomed. At the end he remained seated, his head resting in his clasped hands, not wanting to meet Varned’s eyes. Enraged though he had been at the older man’s unbending adherence to policy, he had never wished him any harm. He had underrated Varned’s sincerity, perhaps. No one could speak matter-of-factly of firing squads who didn’t honestly believe that his cause was a worthy one.
Randil was torn in two. He could not imagine himself failing to pass on the information for which Varned had gambled his life; yet if he accepted pickup, what would happen to the plan? Didn’t the welfare of Toris come first? It was that to which he was sworn. Personal loyalty to other agents, however brave they might be, was a secondary consideration. And how could he leave Kari for any reason other than to save her?
Randil, take this! Varned commanded, extending his hand. In its palm lay a ring, an intricately carved gold ring with a huge amber stone. He had, Randil remembered, worn it at their former interviews as well as during this one, presumably as part of his fortune-teller’s costume. Hurry! Hide it before someone comes. It’s your link to the starship, your signaling device.
To request pickup? Randil was surprised, for the ring looked too small to contain a communicator; in any case he had assumed the time and place of pickup to be prearranged. The Service wouldn’t risk letting any type of communicator fall into Torisian hands.
Varned explained, There are unmanned landing craft in orbit, enough so that there’s always one within range. Swim out, go into the hills where you won’t be disturbed, and call a ship down under automatic control. You do it psychokinetically, by closing the gap between two tiny wires embedded in the stone. At the wordless level of telepathy, he imparted specific instructions.
Exultantly, Randil closed his fingers over the ring, with difficulty suppressing the emotions swelling inside him. They were so overwhelming that he felt Varned must surely sense them. This unlooked-for granting of his deepest wish left him dizzy with wonder. It was incredible; a ring that to a Youngling would be no more unique than the rest of the jewelry agents had pawned, and yet through two microscopic wires—wires that could be manipulated only through psychokinesis—it had the power to summon a landing craft! An unmanned landing craft! The impossible scheme had become a reality.
There was the tramp of heavy boots in the hallway; the door burst open, revealing men in the sinister black uniforms of the SSP. His back to them, Varned addressed Randil formally. “Only a shadow of the future can be foreseen,” he said aloud, “If I have shown you dark things, remember that darkness is the precursor of all light. It can serve unexpected ends, sometimes.”
A speech characteristic of a fortune-teller’s cryptic prophecies, Randil thought dazedly, but still quite true. Hadn’t Varned, unknowingly, been foretelling the result of his own arrest? Fate was watching out for Toris after all; that it should work at Varned’s expense was simply the way life was. Varned wasn’t afraid. If he didn’t mind sacrificing his life merely to collect data, he would unquestionably be even more willing to do so in order that this world might be saved. The irony of it was that he would never understand. He was so blinded by Service tradition that he wouldn’t believe a Federation ship could help the Torisians any more than Elana did; but then, Elana herself had told Kari that terrible things could be purposeful, purposeful even when the people involved weren’t aware of the real ends served, and Varned’s words proved that he agreed.
Read the report into the recorder you’ll find in the ship, Varned ordered silently. Then send it back into orbit, with the ring inside.
Randil didn’t respond, for he had no intention of returning the landing craft to orbit. He had a much more urgent use for that ship.
Putting it to such use would, he knew, mean giving up Kari, just when he was free to stay with her and to go on with the original plan. If he posed as a Jutan, he would have to disappear before Juta was found to be uninhabited; he would never see her again.
But she would be safe. Her world would be safe. The ship would save Toris once and for all.
The police grasped Varned’s arms, and, unresisting, he went with them. From beyond the door his thought was clear and strong: Good luck, Randil.
Good luck to you, Randil answered fervidly. Yet if it comes to the worst, Varned, I swear I won’t let it happen in vain.
*
Varned’s execution was announced on the evening newscast, which I watched alone in the apartment, Kari being out with Randil at the time. I was thankful that she was not present, for I could control neither my horror nor my grief. And she too would have been stricken, for the report included pictures of the “criminals” who had been shot; she would have recognized Varned as the amazingly perceptive fortune-teller who had once given her hope.
She would not, of course, have realized what it had meant for Varned to face a firing squad. She would not have known that he had possessed the power to save himself, which he had consciously set aside. We of the Federation are protected by the Shield: a semiautomatic psychic defense that is as effective against a bullet as against any other physical injury. An agent is forbidden to use the Shield under circumstances that would result in disclosure.
I had been aware of the likelihood of his arrest, but I had not guessed that they would kill him without so much as a trumped-up charge. My tears didn’t subside quickly. After a while I remembered that the people aboard the starship, who were monitoring all telecasts, would have gathered for the formal rite of tribute and farewell; I whispered its ritual phrases softly to myself, aching to reach out telepathically toward someone who could feel for Varned as I felt. But the distance was too great, even under the stress of sorrow. There was no contact, nor would there be in the foreseeable future, except with Randil.
The impact of that suddenly hit me—it was now beyond question that I would have to deal with the problem of Randil alone.
Eventually, someone would take Varned’s place. I would be given the opportunity to report. But there was no telling how long it would take for another agent to establish cover that would permit free access to various cities as well as a means of communication with the starship. Varned, I knew, must have had such a means; otherwise all the data we had collected would have been lost with him. Such a chance would not have been taken, for it had been known from the beginning that his position was at best precarious.
Meanwhile, Randil’s efforts might upset the delicate balance of the Critical Stage. I was on my own; I could no longer put off a decision about curbing them. And as it turned out, I didn’t get any chance to delay.
I was lying on my bed when Kari and Randil got back; I heard them come in and started to turn up the volume of the radio, for the living room walls were thin and I did not want to eavesdrop. To my surprise, however, Randil’s thought reached me almost immediately, though on previous occasions he had waited until he had bid Kari goodnight and was outside in the hal
lway. Elana?
I’m here.
Elana, I was with Varned tonight when they took him. He recounted what had happened and then, frankly, told me what he planned to do with the landing craft he had been empowered to summon.
Numb with dismay, I protested, Randil, no! You mustn’t!
We’ve argued this all out before. I know you don’t agree.
You don’t understand why! We were interrupted before we’d finished discussing it; but Randil, it would do serious damage—
I don’t expect you to approve, he broke in. Still, I owe you advance notice. You’ll find out anyway when it’s announced, and besides, I—I want you to give some sort of explanation to Kari. I can’t see her again, you know. Not after I convince the authorities that I’m Jutan.
His calm statement floored me. I hadn’t thought he had it in him; I had suspected that his desire for Kari and for action to help Toris went hand in hand. I had been wrong. Whatever Randil’s underlying motives might be, they weren’t selfish ones. That he should give up not only the Service, Federation citizenship, and the freedom of the universe, but also his hope of marriage—well, his belief in the rightness of what he proposed had to be pretty sincere. It was heartbreaking. It made what I had to do all the harder, yet I knew I couldn’t hesitate. There was no more time for argument; I must take firm steps.
Ruthlessly suppressing my compassion for him, I declared, I won’t allow this, Randil.
What do you mean, you won’t allow it? It’s not your decision.
Yes, it is. I assert my authority as Senior. We’ve communicated, which makes us a team; I order you to carry out Varned’s instructions. What’s more, I order you to go back to the starship in that landing craft instead of returning to Cerne.
He was too astonished to be angry. You’re not serious!
I wish I didn’t have to be. Legally, though, I’m Senior Agent whether I want the job or not.
Maybe so, Randil conceded, but that doesn’t mean I’ll take your orders.
Under the Oath you’re obliged to.
I’m obliged to do what I think is right, he insisted. I’m already forsworn in the technical sense. Do you suppose I’ll give any more weight to the pledge of obedience than to the others I’ve violated?
No, I admitted, I don’t. That’s not the point, Randil.
Then what is? Are you playing it safe in case you’re ever called to account? I’ve been mistaken about you, Elana; I wouldn’t have thought you so eager to protect yourself.
I’m not protecting myself. I’m protecting this planet. Do I have to spell it out for you? You say you have to do what you think is right; well, I do, too. I wouldn’t claim authority I didn’t intend to use, and you know perfectly well that a Senior is bound to enforce orders that affect the welfare of Younglings.
Enforce them? You can’t keep me from turning that ship over to the Torisians!
Miserably I answered, I can if I have to. Don’t make me, Randil, please don’t!
Don’t make you what? Nothing you could do would stop me, short of— He broke off, incredulous. Elana, are you threatening me?
Not threatening, warning. That’s why I went through the formality of giving you a direct and legal order.
He didn’t respond at first, but finally he told me: I take back what I said; I wasn’t mistaken about you. You’ve got backbone enough if you mean what I think you mean, and you must really believe that helping the Torisians into space could cause harm. But I don’t. I believe that it’s the lesser of two evils. I guess we both have to follow our own consciences, so good-bye, Elana.
Wait, Randil! I cried. You’ve never let me explain the harm—
I heard him speak softly to Kari, and then there was a long silence during which he shut me out completely. After that the hall door closed, and, moments later, curfew sounded. Kari burst into the bedroom, flustered, her eyes big with fear. “He’ll be arrested!” she moaned. “Oh, Elana, we—we forgot to watch the time. It hasn’t happened before; we’ve been so careful. But tonight he held me without saying a word, and his mind was—well, off somewhere, until all at once he began kissing me as if he never expected to see me again.”
“Kari,” I said steadily, “don’t be afraid for Randil. No matter what happens, he wouldn’t want you to be afraid. He isn’t, himself, you know.”
“Do you see it, too?” she asked. “I guess you would, just from talking to him. He’s different from other people: strong, sure of himself, as if he knew some wonderful secret that makes all the horrible things easier to bear. But you’re like that, yourself! It’s funny, you and Randil are quite a bit alike in lots of ways.”
“Maybe we are,” I agreed. “Maybe we have a good deal in common. And yet his closest bond is with you. He loves you, Kari. Never forget that he loves you, and that through his love you share all the strength and surety that is his. If he should ever be in trouble, you would owe it to him to live up to that.”
It was the only warning I could devise, though I was aware that the three of us were about to face a more harrowing trial than she had yet pictured. She didn’t dream that Randil was involved in anything more serious than curfew-breaking, aside from the secret Libertarian sympathies we all shared. That the future of her whole planet had come to rest in his hands and in mine was something she could never be allowed to know; and though I would have given much to spare her pain, the planet’s safety had to come first.
Randil’s attempts to sway the Torisians toward space travel had been bad enough; unwise, I believed, but not positively damaging. For him to give them a Federation ship was something else entirely. When he had talked of it before, I hadn’t been too worried, for I had assumed he would never get the opportunity to take such a step. I had not gotten around to presenting the main arguments against it; we had discussed nothing beyond the possibility of eventual disclosure. Although that in itself was enough to throw their evolution out of kilter, it was not the most immediate danger.
In his study of Critical Stage cultures, Randil had taken a broad view based on hindsight; he had read histories of Federation races that subsequently spread beyond their mother worlds. He had, apparently, failed to grasp the time span involved in the initial breakout. Merely traveling into space didn’t put an end to their wars, obvious though it is that those wars weren’t apocalyptic ones—and we even know that some devastated worlds had space programs. There is often a long period when it’s touch-and-go as to whether a spacefaring civilization will move beyond occasional excursions into orbit. Had he forgotten entirely that some species die from resource depletion without ever progressing to colonization? Or did he assume that because a ship of ours—unlike the earliest ships that could be built on Toris—would be fast and reliable enough to support a permanent base on Juta, a major colonization effort was sure to follow?
There were no grounds for such an assumption! After all, the key to triggering that effort was exactly what we had come to find. And there was a still deadlier peril.
A ship of advanced design would have tremendous impact on the Torisians whether or not they ever guessed its true origin. It was likely enough that they would turn their attention to space, and by Randil’s reasoning, they should therefore pass out of the Critical Stage wherein, according to the Federation’s experience, lie the only threats to a technological species’ survival. But they would bypass a great deal. The landing craft could reach the orbit of Juta in seventeen days. At that rate it wouldn’t take them very long to explore their solar system or even, if they did so choose, to colonize it, for they could duplicate the ship without fully understanding the scientific principles that had led to such a spacecraft’s invention. And what then? They were not ready for the stars. What could be gleaned from study of the landing craft was as far from the stardrive as their first steam engine had been from that spaceship itself; there was no chance of premature contact with other races. The danger was that they would have no reachable goal left to strive for.
He was giving th
em a fascinating toy. But what would happen when they got tired of playing with it? Like overprivileged children in machine-oriented societies who have been given factory-made model planes instead of materials to build their own, might not the Torisians, who should be learning to build, learn instead to smash and destroy?
Randil maintained that peoples who have colonized space never turn to full-scale war. And that’s true, in the natural sequence of things. They have no need to. The exploration and settlement of their own solar systems with primitive rockets is challenge enough. He had read that developing such a capability is crucial, yet he had missed the biggest implication. The Torisians would not have developed anything; they would simply have crossed space in a borrowed ship. The venture would not even have involved much risk.
The people of Toris wouldn’t be safe from a war of annihilation if they conquered space that way. They would be less safe than at present, deprived of the challenge for which the Cold War was preparing them! They would take their wars into space with them; there would be interplanetary combat, a thing that has not occurred in any solar system that has ever been studied. No matter how much they wanted peace, they would be drawn into war whenever their need for risk was not being fulfilled otherwise; the need for a Cause, a Cause that involves peril and hardship and drama that can stir the imagination of society, an exciting Cause in which every person can share. Even we of the Federation have such a need; were we not beginning to look toward other galaxies—galaxies where we may encounter forms of intelligent life totally different from the humanoid ones we’ve so far found—we too would face extinction, if not from a revival of war, then from decadence.
Normally, the colonization of space is a slow, gradual process. It does far more than provide resources and room for expansion; it absorbs a people’s creative skills, its energy, its courage—all its finest qualities, which if perverted can become its worst ones. How could Randil not see? The Torisians needed to make the effort not in spite of the fact that it would be difficult, but because of that fact. If it was easy, it would lose its power to save them; they would remain in the Critical Stage forever, until they destroyed themselves.
The Far Side of Evil Page 15