Short Fiction, Poul Anderson [simple e reader .TXT] 📗

a war all by itself, but it may very well be precisely the extra element which will tip the military balance against the government. And I’ve already discussed what that means.”

“Yes, I remember. That’s your department, not mine. Just let me forget about it.”

“You’d better,” said Berg.

In the month after his return, Lancaster lived much as usual. He was scolded a few times for an increasing absentmindedness and a lack of enthusiasm on the Project, but that wasn’t too serious. He became more of an introvert than ever. Having some difficulty with getting to sleep, he resorted to soporifics and then, in a savage reaction, to stimulants. But outwardly there was little to show the turmoil within him.

He didn’t know what to think. He had always been a loyal citizen⁠—not a fanatic, but loyal⁠—and it wasn’t easy for him to question his own basic assumptions. But he had experienced something utterly alien to what he considered normal, and he had found the strangeness more congenial⁠—more human in every way⁠—than the norm. He had breathed a different atmosphere, and it couldn’t but seem to him that the air of Earth was tainted. He reread Kipling’s Chant-Pagan with a new understanding, and began to search into neglected philosophies. He studied the news in detail, and his critical eye soon grew jaundiced⁠—did this editorial or that feature story have any semantic content at all, or was it only a tom-tom beat of loaded connotations? The very statements of fact were subject to doubt⁠—they should be checked against other accounts, or better yet against direct observation; but other accounts were forbidden and there was no chance to see for himself.

He took to reading seditious pamphlets with some care, and listened to a number of underground broadcasts, and tried clumsily to sound out those of his acquaintances whom he suspected of rebellious thoughts. It all had to be done very cautiously, with occasional nightmare moments when he thought he was being spied on; and was it right that a man should be afraid to hear a dissenting opinion?

He wondered what his son was doing. It occurred to him that modern education existed largely to stultify independent thought.

At the same time, he was unable to discard the beliefs of his whole life. Sedition was sedition and treason was treason⁠—you couldn’t evade that fact. There were no more wars⁠—plenty of minor clashes, but no real wars. There was a stable economy, and nobody lacked for the essentials. The universal state might be a poor solution to the problems of a time of troubles, but it was nevertheless a solution. Change would be unthinkably dangerous.

Dangerous to whom? To the entrenched powers and their jackals. But the oppressed peoples of Earth had nothing to lose, really, except their lives, and many of them seemed quite willing to sacrifice those. Did the rights of man stop at a full belly, or was there more?

He tried to take refuge in cynicism. After all, he was well off. He was a successful jackal. But that wouldn’t work either. He required a more basic philosophy.

One thing that held him back was the thought that if he became a rebel, he would be pitted against his friends⁠—not only those of Earth, but that strange joyous crew out in space. He couldn’t see fighting against them.

Then there was the very practical consideration that he hadn’t the faintest idea of how to contact the underground even if he wanted to. And he’d make a hell of a poor conspirator.

He was still in an unhappy and undecided whirlpool when the monitors came for him.

They knocked on the door at midnight, as was their custom, and he felt such an utter panic that he could barely make it across the apartment to let them in. The four burly men wavered before his eyes, and there was a roaring and a darkness in his head. They arrested him without ceremony on suspicion of treason, which meant that habeas corpus and even the right of trial didn’t apply. Two of them escorted him to a car, the other two stayed to search his dwelling.

At headquarters, he was put in a cell and left to stew for some hours. Then a pair of men in the uniform of the federal police led him to a questioning chamber. He was given a chair and a smiling, soft-voiced man⁠—almost fatherly, with his plump cheeks and white hair⁠—offered him a cigarette and began talking to him.

“Just relax, Dr. Lancaster. This is pretty routine. If you’ve nothing to hide then you’ve nothing to fear. Just tell the truth.”

“Of course.” It was a dry whisper.

“Oh, you’re thirsty. So sorry. Alec, get Dr. Lancaster a glass of water, will you, please? And by the way, my name is Harris. Let’s call this a friendly conference, eh?”

Lancaster drank avidly. Harris’ manner was disarming, and the physicist felt more at ease. This was⁠—well, it was just a mistake. Or maybe a simple spot check. Nothing to fear. He wouldn’t be sent to camp⁠—not he. Such things happened to other people, not to Allen Lancaster.

“You’ve been immunized against neoscop?” asked Harris.

“Yes. It’s routine for my rank and over, you know. In case we should ever be kidnapped⁠—but why am I telling you this?” Lancaster tried to smile. His face felt stiff.

“Hm. Yes. Too bad.”

“Of course, I’ve no objection at all to your using a lie detector on me.”

“Fine, fine.” Harris beamed and gestured to one of the expressionless policemen. A table was wheeled forth, bearing the instrument. “I’m glad you’re so cooperative, Dr. Lancaster. You’ve no idea how much trouble it saves me⁠—and you.”

They ran a few harmless calibrating questions. Then Harris said, still smiling, “And now tell me, Dr. Lancaster. Where were you really this summer?”

Lancaster felt his heart leap into his throat, and knew in a sudden terror that the dials were registering his reaction. “Why⁠—I took my vacation,” he stammered. “I was in the Southwest⁠—”

“Mmmm⁠—the machine doesn’t quite agree with you.” Harris remained impishly cheerful.

“But it’s true! You can check