Part 23 (1/2)
The cold voice said: ”Let him now be returned to the s.p.a.ce-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. lunio was moving rapidly away; I cupped my hands and yelled, ”Good-bye, lunio!”
”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 lunio said. You brought in a cave man-then decided he was a mistake. That isn't your only mistake. You had lunio 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 favor. 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's 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!”