The voice answered, "I am older than that, but no part of me is that old. I am partly machine, which part can be repaired, replaced, recopied; I am partly alive, these parts die and are replaced. My living parts are more than a dozen dozens of dozens of civilized beings from throughout Three Galaxies, any dozen dozens of which may join with my non-living part to act. Today I am two hundred and nine qualified beings, who have at their instant disposal all knowledge accumulated in my nonliving part and all its ability to analyze and integrate."
I said sharply, "Are your decisions made unanimously?" I thought I saw a loophole I never had much luck mixing up Dad and Mother but there had been times as a kid when I had managed to confuse issues by getting one to answer one way and the other to answer another.
The voice added evenly, "Decisions are always unanimous. It may help you to think of me as one person." It addressed everyone: "Standard sampling has been followed. The contemporary sample is the double one; the intermediate sample for curve check is the clothed single sample and was taken by standard random at a spacing of approximately one half-death of Radium-22" The voice supplemented: "—call it sixteen hundred of your years. The remote curve-check sample, by standard procedure, was taken at two dozen times that distance."
The voice asked itself: "Why is curve-check spacing so short? Why not at least a dozen times that?"
"Because this organism's generations are very short. It mutates rapidly."
The explanation appeared to satisfy for it went on, "The youngest sample will witness first."
I thought he meant Peewee and so did she; she cringed. But the voice barked and the cave man jerked. He did not answer; he simply crouched more deeply into himself.
The voice barked again.
It then said to itself, "I observe something."
"Speak."
"This creature is not ancestor to those others."
The voice of the machine almost seemed to betray emotion, as if my dour grocer had found salt in his sugar bin. "The sample was properly taken."
"Nevertheless," it answered, "it is not a correct sample. You must review all pertinent data."
For a long five seconds was silence. Then the voice spoke: "This poor creature is not ancestor to these others; he is cousin only. He has no future of his own. Let him be returned at once to the space-time whence he came."
The Neanderthal was dragged rapidly away. I watched him out of sight with a feeling of loss. I had been afraid of him at first. Then I had despised him and was ashamed of him. He was a coward, he was filthy, he stank. A dog was more civilized. But in the past five minutes I had decided that I had better love him, see his good points—for, unsavoury as he was, he was human. Maybe he wasn't my remote grandfather, but I was in no mood to disown even my sorriest relation.
The voice argued with itself, deciding whether the trial could proceed. Finally it stated: "Examination will continue. If enough facts are not developed, another remote sample of correct lineage will be summoned. Iunio."
The Roman raised his javelin higher. "Who calls Iunio?"
"Stand forth and bear witness."
Just as I feared, Iunio told the voice where to go and what to do. There was no protecting Peewee from his language; it echoed back in English—not that it mattered now whether Peewee was protected from "unladylike" influences.
The flat voice went on imperturbably: "Is this your voice? Is this your witnessing?" Immediately another voice started up which I recognized as that of the Roman, answering questions, giving accounts of battle, speaking of treatment of prisoners. This we got only in English but the translation held the arrogant timbre of Iunio's voice.
Iunio shouted "Witchcraft!" and made horns at them.
The recording cut off. "The voice matches," the machine said dryly. "The recording will be integrated."
But it continued to peck at Iunio, asking him details about who he was, why he was in Britain, what he had done there, and why it was necessary to serve Caesar. Iunio gave short answers, then blew his top and gave none. He let out a rebel yell that bounced around that mammoth room, drew back and let fly his javelin.
It fell short. But I think he broke the Olympic record.
I found myself cheering.
Iunio drew his sword while the javelin was still rising. He flung it up in a gladiatorial challenge, shouting, "Hail, Caesar!" and dropped into guard.
He reviled them. He told them what he thought of vermin who were not citizens, not even barbarians!
I said to myself, "Oh, oh! There goes the game. Human race, you've had it."
Iunio went on and on, calling on his gods to help him, each way worse than the last, threatening them with Caesar's vengeance in gruesome detail. I hoped that, even though it was translated, Peewee would not understand much of it. But she probably did; she understood entirely too much.
I began to grow proud of him. That wormface, in diatribe, was evil; Iunio was not. Under bad grammar, worse language, and rough manner, that tough old sergeant had courage, human dignity, and a basic gallantry. He might be an old scoundrel—but he was my kind of scoundrel.
He finished by demanding that they come at him, one at a time—or let them form a turtle and he would take them all on at once. "I'll make a funeral pyre of you! I'll temper my blade in your guts! I, who am about to die, will show you a Roman's grave piled high with Caesar's enemies!"
He had to catch his breath. I cheered again and Peewee joined in. He looked over his shoulder and grinned. "Slit their throats as I bring them down, boy! There's work to do!"
The cold voice said: "Let him now be returned to the space-time whence he came."
Iunio looked startled as invisible hands pulled him along. He called on Mars and Jove and laid about him. The sword clattered to the floor—picked itself up and returned itself to his scabbard. Iunio was moving rapidly away; I cupped my hands and yelled, "Good-bye, Iunio!"
"Farewell, boy! They're cowards!" He shook himself. "Nothing but filthy witchcraft!" Then he was gone.
"Clifford Russell—"
"Huh? I'm here." Peewee squeezed my hand.
"Is this your voice?"
I said, "Wait a minute—"
"Yes? Speak."
I took a breath. Peewee pushed closer and whispered "Make it good, Kip. They mean it."
"I'll try, kid," I whispered, then went on, "What is this? I was told you intend to judge the human race."
"That is correct."
"But you can't. You haven't enough to go on. No better than witchcraft, just as Iunio said. You brought in a cave man—then decided he was a mistake. That isn't your only mistake. You had Iunio here. Whatever he was—and I'm not ashamed of him; I'm proud of him—he's got nothing to do with now. He's been dead two thousand years, pretty near—if you've sent him back, I mean—and all that he was is dead with him. Good or bad, he's not what the human race is now."
"I know that. You two are the test sample of your race now.
"Yes—but you can't judge from us. Peewee and I are about as far from average as any specimens can be. We don't claim to be angels, either one of us. If you condemn our race on what we have done, you do a great injustice. Judge us—or judge me, at least—"
"Me, too!"
"—on whatever I've done. But don't hold my people responsible. That's not scientific. That's not valid mathematics.
"It is valid."
"It is not. Human beings aren't molecules; they're all different." I decided not to argue about jurisdiction; the wormfaces had ruined that approach.
"Agreed, human beings are not molecules. But they are not individuals, either."
"Yes, they are!"
"They are not independent individuals; they are parts of a single organism. Each cell in your body contains your whole pattern. From three samples of the organism you call the human race I can predict the future potentialities and limits of that race."
"We have no limits! There's no telling what our future will be."
"It may be that you have
no limits," the voice agreed. "That is to be determined. But, if true, it is not a point in your favour. For we have limits."
"Huh?"
"You have misunderstood the purpose of this examination. You speak of 'justice.' I know what you think you mean. But no two races have ever agreed on the meaning of that term, no matter how they say it. It is not a concept I deal with here. This is not a court of justice."
"Then what is it?"
"You would call it a 'Security Council.' Or you might call it a committee of vigilantes. It does not matter what you call it; my sole purpose is to examine your race and see if you threaten our survival. If you do, I will now dispose of you. The only certain way to avert a grave danger is to remove it while it is small. Things that I have learned about you suggest a possibility that you may someday threaten the security of Three Galaxies. I will now determine the facts."
"But you said that you have to have at least three samples. The cave man was no good."
"We have three samples, you two and the Roman. But the facts could be determined from one sample. The use of three is a custom from earlier times, a cautious habit of checking and rechecking. I cannot dispense 'justice'; I can make sure not to produce error."
I was about to say that he was wrong, even if he was a million years old. But the voice went on, "I continue the examination. Clifford Russell, is this your voice?"
My voice sounded then—and again it was my own dictated account, but this time everything was left in—purple adjectives, personal opinions, comments about other matters, every word and stutter.
I listened to enough of it, held up my hand. "All right, all right, I said it."
The recording stopped. "Do you now confirm it?"
"Eh? Yes."
"Do you wish to add, subtract, or change?"
I thought hard. Aside from a few wisecracks that I had tucked in later it was a straight-forward account. "No. I stand on it."
"And is this also your voice?"
This one fooled me. It was that endless recording I had made for Prof Joe about—well, everything on Earth... history, customs, peoples, the works. Suddenly I knew why Prof Joe had worn the same badge the Mother Thing wore. What did they call that?—"Planting a stool pigeon." Good Old Prof Joe, the no-good, had been a stoolie.
I felt sick.
"Let me hear more of it."
They accommodated me. I didn't really listen; I was trying to remember, not what I was hearing, but what else I might have said—what I had admitted that could be used against the human race. The Crusades? Slavery? The gas chambers at Dachau? How much had I said?
The recording droned on. Why, that thing had taken weeks to record; we could stand here until our feet went flat.
It was my voice.
"Do you stand on this, too? Or do you wish to correct, revise, or extend?"
I said cautiously, "Can I do the whole thing over?"
"If you so choose."
I started to say that I would, that they should wipe the tape and start over. But would they? Or would they keep both and compare them? I had no compunction about lying—"tell the truth and shame the devil" is no virtue when your family and friends and your whole race are at stake.
But could they tell if I lied?
"The Mother Thing said to tell the truth and not to be afraid."
"But she's not on our side!"
"Oh, yes, she is."
I had to answer. I was so confused that I couldn't think. I had tried to tell the truth to Prof Joe . . . oh, maybe I had shaded things, not included every horrid thing that makes a headline. But it was essentially true.
Could I do better under pressure? Would they let me start fresh and accept any propaganda I cooked up? Or would the fact that I changed stories be used to condemn our race?
"I stand on it!"
"Let it be integrated. Patricia Wynant Reisfeld—"
Peewee took only moments to identify and allow to be integrated her recordings; she simply followed my example.
The machine voice said: "The facts have been integrated. By their own testimony, these are a savage and brutal people, given to all manner of atrocities. They eat each other, they starve each other, they kill each other. They have no art and only the most primitive of science, yet such is their violent nature that even with so little knowledge they are now energetically using it to exterminate each other, tribe against tribe. Their driving will is such that they may succeed. But if by some unlucky chance they fail, they will inevitably, in time, reach other stars. It is this possibility which must be calculated: how soon they will reach us, if they live, and what their potentialities will be then."
The voice continued to us: "This is the indictment against you—your own savagery, combined with superior intelligence. What have you to say in your defence?"
I took a breath and tried to steady down. I knew that we had lost—yet I had to try.
I remembered how the Mother Thing had spoken. "My lord peers—"
"Correction. We are not your 'lords,' nor has it been established that you are our equals. If you wish to address someone, you may call me the 'Moderator.' "
"Yes, Mr. Moderator—" I tried to remember what Socrates had said to his judges. He knew ahead of time that he was condemned just as we knew—but somehow, though he had been forced to drink hemlock, he had won and they had lost.
No! I couldn't use his Apologia—all he had lost was his own life. This was everybody.
"—you say we have no art. Have you seen the Parthenon?"
"Blown up in one of your wars."
"Better see it before you rotate us—or you'll be missing something. Have you read our poetry? 'Our revels now are ended: these our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself... itself—yea—all which it... inherit—shall dissolve—"
I broke down. I heard Peewee sobbing beside me. I don't know why I picked that one—but they say the subconscious mind never does things "accidentally." I guess it had to be that one.
"As it well may," commented the merciless voice.
"I don't think it's any of your business what we do—as long as we leave you alone " My stammer was back and I was almost sobbing.
"We have made it our business."
"We aren't under your government and—"
"Correction. Three Galaxies is not a government; conditions for government cannot obtain in so vast a space, such varied cultures. We have simply formed police districts for mutual protection."
"But—even so, we haven't troubled your cops. We were in our own backyards—I was in my own backyard!—when these wormface things came along and started troubling us. We haven't hurt you."
"You may in time. That is what I am considering."
I stopped, wondering where to turn. I couldn't guarantee good behaviour, not for the whole human race—the machine knew it and I knew it.
"Inquiry." It was talking to itself again. "These creatures appear to be identical with the Old Race, allowing for mutation. What part of the Third Galaxy are they from?
It answered itself, naming co-ordinates that meant nothing to me. "But they are not of the Old Race; they are ephemerals. That is the danger; they change too fast."
"Didn't the Old Race lose a ship out that way a few half-deaths of Thorium-230 ago? Could that account for the fact that the youngest sample failed to match?"
It answered firmly, "It is immaterial whether or not they may be descended from the Old Race. An examination is in progress; a decision must be made."
"The decision must be sure."
"It will be." The bodyless voice went on, to us: "Have either of you anything to add in your defence?"
I had been thinking of what had been said about the miserable state of our science. I wanted to point out that we had gone from muscle power to atomic power in only two centuries—but I was afraid that fact would be u
sed against us. "Peewee, can you think of anything?"
She suddenly stepped forward and shrilled to the air, "Doesn't it count that Kip saved the Mother Thing?"
"No," that cold voice answered. "It is irrelevant."
"Well, it ought to count!" She was crying again. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! Bullies! Cowards! Oh, you're worse than wormfaces!"
I pulled her back. She hid her head against my shoulder and shook. Then she whispered, "I'm sorry, Kip. I didn't mean to. I guess I've ruined it."
"It was ruined anyhow, honey."
"Have you anything more to say?" old no-face went on relentlessly.
I looked around at the hall—the cloud-capped towers... the great globe itself—"Just this!" I said savagely. "It's not a defence, you don't want a defence. All right, take away our star—You will if you can and I guess you can. Go ahead! We'll make a star! Then, someday, we'll come back and hunt you down—all of you!"
"That's telling 'em, Kip! That's telling them!"
Nobody bawled me out. I suddenly felt like a kid who has made a horrible mistake at a party and doesn't know how to cover it up.
But I meant it. Oh, I didn't think we could do it. Not yet. But we'd try. "Die trying" is the proudest human thing.
"It is possible that you will," that infuriating voice went on. "Are you through?"
"I'm through." We all were through... every one of us.
"Does anyone speak for them? Humans, will any race speak for you?"
We didn't know any other races. Dogs—Maybe dogs would.
"I speak for them!"
Peewee raised her head with a jerk. "Mother Thing!"
Suddenly she was in front of us. Peewee tried to run to her, bounced off that invisible barrier. I grabbed her. "Easy, hon. She isn't there—it's some sort of television."
"My lord peers... you have the advantage of many minds and much knowledge—" It was odd to see her singing, hear her in English; the translation still held that singing quality.
"—but I know them. It is true that they are violent—especially the smaller one—but they are not more violent than is appropriate to their ages. Can we expect mature restraint in a race whose members all must die in early childhood? And are not we ourselves violent? Have we not this day killed our billions? Can any race survive without a willingness to fight? It is true that these creatures are often more violent than is necessary or wise. But, my peers, they all are so very young. Give them time to learn.
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