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

“There are such things as doubles, you know. Come, come, now, let’s not waste the whole night. We both have many other things to do.”

“I⁠—look.” Lancaster gulped down his panic and tried to speak calmly. “Suppose I am lying. The machine should tell you that I’m not doing so out of disloyalty. There are things I can’t tell anyone without clearance. Like if you asked me about my work on the Project⁠—I can’t tell you that. Why don’t you check through regular Security channels? There was a man named Berg⁠—at least he called himself that. You’ll find that it’s all perfectly okay with Security.”

“You can tell me anything,” said Harris gently.

“I can’t tell you this. Not anybody short of the President.” Lancaster caught himself. “Of course, that’s assuming that I did really spend the summer for something other than my vacation. But⁠—”

Harris sighed. “I was afraid of this. I’m sorry, Lancaster.” He nodded to his policemen. “Go ahead, boys.”

Lancaster kept sliding into unconsciousness. They jolted him back to life with stimulant injections and vigorous slaps and resumed working on him. Now and then they would let up and Harris’ face would swim out of a haze of pain, smiling, friendly, sympathetic, offering him a smoke or a shot of whiskey. Lancaster sobbed and wanted more than anything else in the world to do as that kindly man asked. But he didn’t dare. He knew what happened to those who revealed state secrets.

Finally he was thrown back into his cell and left to himself. When he recovered from his faint⁠—that was a very slow process⁠—he had no idea of how many hours or days had gone by. There was a water tap in the room and he drank thirstily, vomited the liquid up again, and sat with his head in his hands.

So far, he thought dully, they hadn’t done too much to him. He was short several teeth, and there were some broken fingers and toes, and maybe a floating kidney. The other bruises, lacerations, and burns would heal all right if they got the chance.

Only they wouldn’t.

He wondered vaguely how Security had gotten onto his track. Berg’s precautions had been very thorough. So thorough, apparently, that Harris could find no trace of what had really happened that summer, and was going only on suspicion. But what had made him suspicious in the first place? An anonymous tip-off⁠—from whom? Maybe some enemy, some rival on the Project, had chosen this way of getting rid of his sector chief.

In the end, Lancaster thought wearily, he’d tell. Why not do it now? Then⁠—probably⁠—he’d only be shot for betraying Berg’s confidence. That would be the easy way out.

No. He’d hang on for awhile yet. There was always a faint chance.

His cell door opened and two guards came in. He was past flinching from them, but he had to be supported on his way to the questioning room.

Harris sat there, still smiling. “How do you do, Dr. Lancaster,” he said politely.

“Not so well, thank you.” The grin hurt his face.

“I’m sorry to hear that. But really, it’s your own fault. You know that.”

“I can’t tell you anything,” said Lancaster. “I’m under Security oath. I can’t speak of this to anyone below the President.”

Harris looked annoyed. “Don’t you think the President has better things to do than come running to every enemy of the state that yaps after him?”

“There’s been some mistake, I tell you,” pleaded Lancaster.

“I’ll say there has. And you’re the one that’s made it. Go ahead, boys.” Harris picked up a magazine and started reading.

After awhile, Lancaster focused his mind on Karen Marek and kept it there. That helped him bear up. If they knew, out in the station, what was happening to him, they⁠—well, they wouldn’t forget him, try to pretend they’d never known him, as the little fearful people of Earth did. They’d speak up, and do their damnedest to save their friend.

The blows seemed to come from very far away. They didn’t do things like this out in the station. Lancaster realized the truth at that moment, but it held no surprise. The most natural thing in the world. And now, of course, he’d never talk.

Maybe.

When he woke up, there was a man before him. The face blurred, seemed to grow to monstrous size and then move out to infinite distances. The voice of Harris had a ripple in it, wavering up and down, up and down.

“All right, Lancaster, here’s the President. Since you insist, here he is.”

“Go ahead, American,” said the man. “Tell me. It’s your duty.”

“No,” said Lancaster.

“But I am the President. You wanted to see me.”

“Most likely a double. Prove your identity.”

The man who looked like the President sighed and turned away.

Lancaster woke up again lying on a cot. He must have been brought awake by a stimulant, for a white-coated figure was beside him, holding a hypodermic syringe. Harris was there too, looking exasperated.

“Can you talk?” he asked.

“I⁠—yes.” Lancaster’s voice was a dull croak. He moved his head, feeling the ache of it.

“Look here, fellow,” said Harris. “We’ve been pretty easy with you so far. Nothing has happened to you that can’t be patched up. But we’re getting impatient now. It’s obvious that you’re a traitor and hiding something.”

Well, yes, thought Lancaster, he was a traitor, by one definition. Only it seemed to him that a man had a right to choose his own loyalties. Having experienced what the police state meant, he would have been untrue to himself if he had yielded to it.

“If you don’t answer my questions in the next session,” said Harris, “we’ll have to start getting really rough.”

Lancaster remained silent. It was too much effort to try to speak.

“Don’t think you’re being heroic,” said Harris. “There’s nothing pretty or even very human about a man under interrogation. You’ve been screaming as loud as anybody.”

Lancaster looked away.

He heard the doctor’s voice. “I’d advice giving him a few days’ rest before starting again, sir.”

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” asked Harris.

“Yes, sir. I was