“I suppose you claim the bland has outwitted you as well, Emissary?” one of the judges challenged.
“So far, Elector. Not forever.”
“Oh what a crock,” the technician groaned.
With a false jocularity, the judge said, “It seems we have a secret weapon against the mighty Capellans. We simply let our blands lead them around by the nose.”
Magister Galele must have been disarmed by the show of levity, and misjudged the hostility it masked. He said, “I’m not trying to make excuses, but you do have a tendency to underestimate your blands.”
Every trace of humor vanished. The judges stared at him. Unwarily, he went on, “I haven’t been able to do any large-sample testing, but I suspect that what you have is a case of overlapping bell curves. The majority of the bland population may be less intellectually able than the majority of humans, but that doesn’t mean an individual bland with talent can’t be more intelligent than most of us.”
The hiss of my indrawn breath would have been plainly audible, but the technician was exclaiming, “What?”
In a dangerous tone, one of the judges said, “I suppose you have proof of your claim.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Magister Galele said.
I knew what was coming then. I wanted to scream at him, “No! Don’t say it!” But I could only press my hands over my mouth and squeeze my eyes tight shut, as I heard, “Just recently I had Tedla apply for higher education at the Universal Institute, Capella. UIC has accepted it to the college of humanities. It’s quite an honor for your planet.”
I heard nothing but a kind of roaring in my ears. I could not believe he had announced it there on screen, in front of all the world, as if specifically to humiliate every human hearing him. By the time I grew aware again, pandemonium had broken loose, both on screen and in the room. The technician was on his feet, uttering obscenities. I opened my eyes just in time to see the camera rest on Ptanka-Ni’s ashen face, then pan the audience, which was in a state of revolt. The president of the commission rang his bell and shouted out, “This hearing will adjourn!” Court guards came forward to flank Magister Galele—whether to protect him or threaten him, I couldn’t tell. Then the picture cut off.
“What’s the matter?” Kirsten was saying, bewildered. “Why is everyone in such a snit?”
“Didn’t you hear how that bastard insulted us?” the Gammadian said.
“What’s so insulting about getting a kid admitted to UIC?”
“The first person from Taramond to go to another planet? The one to represent us to all the other worlds—a bland? It should have been some eminent, learned person—or one of our bright young people. The best students on the planet would have competed for the chance to attend an off-world university. We could have sent someone to make us proud. And he wants to send a bland!”
“It’s no big deal to go to UIC,” Kirsten muttered.
“Not to you, maybe. To us, it’s big.”
“My god, look at the calls coming in now,” Kirsten said.
“You’ll be lucky if calls are all that come.”
The two of them were forced to turn to their work for a while. I sat there, no longer listening, just watching the faces on screen silently denouncing the Capellan conspiracy.
An hour later, more or less, a disturbance and shouting in the hall distracted the two technicians. As they went to the door to see what was up, I took my chance and scrambled for the graydoor. Outside it, the bland-run was deserted—not even the normal routine of cleaning carts and laundry deliveries. Listening, I could hear nothing but the hum of ventilation. Walking as silently as I could, I crept down the stairs and to the Magister’s room.
When I peered through the peephole, I saw there were three humans in the sitting room. Magister Galele was in a chair, hunched over, while Emissary Ptanka-Ni and one of the Gammadian judges from the hearing stood over him. The judge was dressed in matriculator colors. She looked very angry. Glancing down the empty bland-run, I pressed my ear to the crack of the graydoor. I could barely make out what they were saying.
“I didn’t fabricate the test!” Magister Galele said defensively. “Tedla answered every question by itself. All I did was translate, and not much of that.” He sounded as if he actually believed it.
“If you didn’t fabricate the test, then you fabricated the bland,” the matriculator said. “What is it, some human posing? Or did you give it hormones to genderize it?”
“Neither,” Galele protested. “All I gave it was encouragement.”
The matriculator gave an exclamation of disgust.
“Can’t you people imagine that you might conceivably be wrong about the blands?” Galele said.
“We’re not wrong,” the matriculator said.
“How do you know? Have you studied them? Have you tested them? Have you—”
“We’re not wrong because we make sure of it!” the matriculator snapped. “Do you think we would allow a child with talent or ability to become a neuter? What a waste of genetic resources that would be!”
There was a short silence. In a very different voice, Magister Galele said, “Neuters are selected?”
“No, humans are selected. The neuters are the natural state. Of course they constitute the least intelligent third. We would be idiots to make it otherwise.”
In a strange tone, Magister Galele said, “So this planet is a giant eugenics experiment.”
It was a Capellan word he used; even I didn’t know what it meant, then. There is no parallel word in our language. Or rather, there is, but it has no pejorative connotations—only positive ones. The matriculator said, “If you mean we plan our population, of course. Do you see any humans here with epilepsy, or diabetes, or palsy? Do you even see bad teeth or baldness? Do you see a population that overburdens the planet? No. We have eliminated the scourges of humanity, and prevented the scourge of nature.”
Faintly, Magister Galele said, “And what a handy labor force you’ve gained in the process.”
“That was never the object,” the matriculator snapped. “You don’t know our history. There was a time when our population threatened the very existence of life. We had to find a solution. Genetic alteration was the most humane thing we could have done. We have killed no one. There have been no famines or epidemics. As for the neuters, we have provided for their every need. We have integrated them into our communities, given them useful work...”
“...Until you couldn’t do without them,” Galele said. “Your population is falling now, isn’t it? Every year you need more blands, and that means fewer humans. Your numbers are almost too small to sustain the way you live now. Isn’t it time for the experiment to end?”
“You don’t know what you are talking about,” the matriculator said. “We can’t end it.”
There was a sound I couldn’t interpret. I looked through the peephole. They were all staring toward the window. Emissary Ptanka-Ni left my line of sight. I heard a loud exclamation, and the other two hurried over to the window. For a moment I could see nothing; then the matriculator and the emissary crossed toward the door.
When I was sure they were gone, I cracked open the graydoor, listened, then slipped through. Magister Galele was peering through the drawn curtains. He looked up, saw me, and came rushing over. He hugged me hard, then said in a whisper, “Thank god you’re safe. I just wish you weren’t here. I hoped you would be miles away by now.”
“I said I’d come back.”
“I should never have asked you to. I’ve gotten us in such trouble, Tedla.”
He looked a year older than he had yesterday. He studied my face with a distracted look. “You wouldn’t believe what I just learned.”
“I know,” I said, “I was listening.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know. No one knows. They teach us it’s all natural.”
“Of course,” he said, “they would have to.” He touched my cheek lightly. “I wonder what your sin
was, that you didn’t merit humanity.”
Something hit the window hard. Both of us jumped. I started toward the window, to see what was going on. He said, “Careful. Don’t let them know you’re here.”
I pushed the curtains apart a crack and looked out. The plaza outside was filled with people, moving with unfocused energy, like the turbulent surface of a pot about to boil. The cafe tables had been overturned and scattered; one of the sculptures was now the base for a large sign telling the aliens to go away. Just outside the door, a gang of young men scarcely older than me were pelting the building with eggs. Another one hit the window, making me start back.
“We barely managed to get back here from the hearing,” Magister Galele said. “Those hoodlums attacked us; Ptanka-Ni got roughed up some. The guards were hustling me through so fast I didn’t see much.”
I saw he finally understood. He had seen the forces that propel us, and he was terrified.
“You thought we were civilized, didn’t you?” I said.
He knew his error now.
There was a roar from the plaza outside—not so much a cheer as a vocalization of rage. I quickly looked. Across the plaza, a band of young men was forcing a bland in a gray uniform into the square. They had sticks, and the bland was running to escape their blows. It headed for the other side, but like a membrane forming, a solid wall of humans coalesced to block its way. It tried to climb up onto the awning over one of the shops, but some roughnecks pulled it down. It fell, twisting one leg underneath. The circle of humans closed in, and drove it, limping, toward the emissarium door.
“They’ll have to let it in,” I said.
“They’ve got the doors downstairs barricaded,” Magister Galele said grimly. “They’re not going to open them for anything.”
The humans had formed a circle around the bland, and were taunting it. It saw there was no hope and crouched down, trying to shield itself from the inevitable blows. It had blond hair, like me.
“They have to help it!” I said. I knew it was me down there; I was the one they wanted to trap and beat. This poor bland was only my stand-in.
Two young men came out of the crowd and jerked the bland to its feet. There was a table lying nearby; they set it up and forced the bland to lie on it face up, tying its hands and feet to the table legs. Some of the men with sticks came forward to beat the victim, but the others waved them back. Laughing shrilly, a young man brought out a can and began splashing liquid over the bland’s body, When the humans smelled it, they surged away into a wider circle, but still shouted, egging the young men on.
The humans vacated the circle, leaving only the bland lying there, bound helplessly to the table. A perfect silence fell. There was only the bland’s voice, sobbing and begging. Then a lit cafe candle arced into the center of the circle, bounced on the bland’s stomach, and fell on the floor.
The flames exploded. The fireball was so bright I could barely see the bland’s form inside it. At the same time, the crowd let out an animal shriek of vengeance.
“Don’t look, Tedla.” Magister Galele tried to pull me back from the window. I fought him. I had to see. The flames rose almost to the level of our window, billowing sooty smoke. The faces of the watching humans were contorted like twisted putty, a sweaty yellow in the flames. I strained to hear a scream, but there was nothing.
I didn’t see it, but Magister Galele later told me he saw a woman raise a weapon and aim it at the window. The wall of glass exploded in my face. Sheets of it fell like cleavers all around me. The curtains blew into the room on a wind of black smoke.
The roar of the flames was loud now, and I heard what I had been dreading—a scream of unendurable agony. It rose up the scale, penetrating my skin, surrounding me, pursuing me, sharp as glass. It was coming out of my own mouth. I felt myself jerked back from the gaping window that was now a precipice. My feet crunched on glass. Blinded by smoke, choking on the gasoline smell, I felt myself shoved through a door and into silence.
Magister Galele held me in his arms. I was shaking so hard I could barely grasp at him for support. My breath was coming in fast little gasps. “Shh, be quiet, you’re safe now,” he said in my ear. I knew it was a lie. I wasn’t safe. I had seen my own death, and it was more terrible than anything I could have imagined.
We were in the bland-run outside his room. It was as empty as before, and now I knew why. The blands would all be hiding. This was no day to stray into a human’s way. I looked up at Magister Galele, confused by the incongruity of his presence here, and said stupidly, “How did you get here?”
“Through the door,” he said.
Of course. He was not Gammadian. No Gammadian human but a supervisor would have passed through a graydoor in any but the direst emergency.
My presence of mind was returning. I said, “We’ve got to get away. Has your shuttle come down from the ship?”
“I don’t know. I suppose so. That was the plan. But it’s up on the surface, on the airpad. We can’t get to it; the building’s under siege.”
There was only one choice, and it wasn’t a good one. “We’ve got to go through grayspace,” I said.
“Do you know the way?”
“No.”
In the next room, the fire alarms went off. Someone would quickly come to investigate, and then the hunt for us would be on. I took the Magister’s hand and raced down the bland-run toward the stair.
We met no one till we got to the lowest level. I made Magister Galele wait in the shadows under the stair while I located everyone. There was no one in the laundry, the first place I checked, and after a moment of hesitation I snatched an extra uniform. The next place I checked was the kitchen. They were all there, as near as I could tell—ostensibly working, but really gathered around the table, talking. We would have to pass through to get to the shipping door. There was no help for it; I was going to have to trust them.
I made a hissing sound. Deen looked over. Its eyes widened when it saw me. With a glance over its shoulder at the others, it hurried toward me, drying its hands on a towel. “You should be hiding,” it whispered.
“We’ve got to get away,” I said. “My human’s with me. They’re hunting us both now. Can we get out through the shipping door?”
Deen shook its head. “They locked it, to keep you in. We’ve all been trapped here since yesterday.”
“Where’s the key?”
“Supervisor’s office.”
“Is he in there?”
“Of course.”
I thought of, and discarded, several ideas. We needed something simple. “Will Misery help?” I asked. Deen looked back into the kitchen. They were all watching us edgily. Deen gestured Misery over. It came, looking frightened. I blessed my luck they didn’t yet know what was happening outside; none of them would have taken the risk if they had known.
“Misery, I need a decoy,” I said to it. “There’s no risk to you, as long as you stick to your story. All you have to do is get the supervisor out of his office long enough so I can steal his key.”
Misery nodded obediently, as if to a human. I realized my tone of voice was the confident, imperative one humans used to give orders. I had no time to stop and think about it. “Okay, this is what you do. You come rushing to the supervisor’s office and say you saw me and Magister Galele in one of the bland-runs upstairs. When he asks you where, you lead him up to the graydoor into the Magister’s room. We really were there, so you would have seen us if you’d been there. Keep him up there as long as you can, but don’t take any risks. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Misery said automatically, then blushed.
I turned to Deen. “Warn the others we’ll be coming through the kitchen. All they have to do is not see us.” Gesturing Misery to follow me, I headed back to the place I had left Magister Galele waiting. When he saw me, he stood up, ready to go. I said, “Magister...” and couldn’t go any farther. The request I had to make of him was so embarrassing, so insulting, I couldn’t bring myself to say i
t. Instead, not daring to look him in the eye, I held out the uniform.
“What?” he said.
“It might...you might...”
“Oh. Of course,” he said, taking the gray coveralls. No Gammadian would have done it, no matter what the risk. The prospect of being caught dressed as a bland would have been more humiliating than any conceivable punishment. For once, I was grateful for his insanity. In grayspace, he would have been as conspicuous as a brass band, dressed in human clothes.
“I’ll be right back,” I told him, then dashed up the stairs with Misery close behind me. When we got to the supervisor’s graydoor, I said to Misery, “Ready?” It gave me a frightened nod. “You’ll do fine,” I said, giving its hand a squeeze.
The corridor took a turn a few paces down, giving me a corner to hide around. I listened as Misery first took some deep breaths to gather its courage, then began banging on the supervisor’s door. It was several moments before he opened it with an angry, “What’s the matter?”
“Supervisor, I saw it. I saw Tedla,” Misery said anxiously.
Instead of demanding where, the supervisor said, “Come in here.” Misery went into his office, and the door closed.
I waited, wondering what was going on. Was the supervisor going to go search for me through human space? Did he suspect something, and was now interrogating Misery? I shifted from foot to foot, waiting. At last I looked around the corner, then crept toward the door to listen. I had gotten no more than two steps down the hall when the door opened again. I bolted back.
“This way, sir,” Misery said, a little too eagerly.
“Yes, I know,” the supervisor answered.
I listened as their steps receded, then peeked around the corner. The hall was clear. I dashed down to the graydoor and slipped through it.
His desk terminal was buzzing, and the message light blinking. I was reaching for the desk drawer when I spied a rack of key-cards on the wall. One was labeled Receiving, so I snatched it. Then, only moments after I had slipped in, I was out.
When I came down the stairs, Magister Galele was waiting, dressed in gray coveralls. He looked nothing like a bland up close, but at least he wouldn’t attract attention from a distance. I gestured him to follow me, and we burst into the kitchen.
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