Pebble in the Sky (14 page)

The lieutenant yanked her aside. “I said, What did you say, Earthie?”

Arvardan returned his stare coolly. “I said, Look here, now. And I was going to say further that I don’t like the way you treat women and that I’d advise you to improve your manners.”

He was far too irritated to correct the lieutenant’s impression of his planetary origin.

Lieutenant Claudy smiled without humor. “And where have
you
been brought up, Earthie? Don’t you believe in saying ‘sir’ when you address a man? You don’t know your place, do you? Well, it’s been a while since I’ve had the pleasure of teaching the way of life to a nice big Earthie-buck. Here, how’s this—”

And quickly, like the flick of a snake, his open palm was out and across Arvardan’s face, back and forth, once, twice. Arvardan stepped back in surprise and then felt the roaring in his ears. His hand shot out to catch the extended arm that pecked at him. He saw the other’s face twist in surprise—

The muscles in his shoulders writhed easily.

The lieutenant was on the pavement with a crashing thud that sent the glass globe rolling into shattered fragments. He lay still, and Arvardan’s half-smile was ferocious. He dusted his hands lightly. “Any other bastard here think he can play patty-cake on my face?”

But the sergeant had raised his neuronic whip. The contact closed and there was the dim violet flash that reached out and licked at the tall archaeologist.

Every muscle in Arvardan’s body stiffened in unbearable pain, and he sank slowly to his knees. Then, with total paralysis upon him, he blacked out.

When Arvardan swam out of the
haze he was conscious first of all of a wash of welcome coolness on his forehead. He tried to open his eyes and found his lids reacting as if swinging on rusty hinges. He let them remain closed and, with infinitely slow jerks (each fragmentary muscular movement shooting pins through him), lifted his arm to his face.

A soft, damp towel, held by a little hand . . .

He forced an eye open and battled with the mist.

“Pola,” he said.

There was a little cry of sudden joy. “Yes. How do you feel?”

“As if I were dead,” he croaked, “without the advantage of losing pain. . . . What happened?”

“We were carted off to the military base. The colonel’s been in here. They’ve searched you—and I don’t know what they’re going to do, but—Oh, Mr. Arvardan, you shouldn’t ever have struck the lieutenant. I think you broke his arm.”

A faint smile wrenched at Arvardan’s face. “Good! I wish I’d broken his back.”

“But resisting an Imperial officer—it’s a capital offense.” Her voice was a horrified whisper.

“Indeed? We’ll see about that.”

“Ssh. They’re coming back.”

Arvardan closed his eyes and relaxed. Pola’s cry was faint and far-off in his ears, and when he felt the hypodermic’s thrust he could not gather his muscles into motion.

And then there was the wash of wonderful soothing non-pain along his veins and nerves. His arms unknotted and his back released itself slowly from its rigid arch, settling down. He fluttered his eyelids rapidly and, with a thrust of his elbow, sat up.

The colonel was regarding him thoughtfully; Pola, apprehensively, yet, somehow, joyfully.

The colonel said, “Well, Dr. Arvardan, we seem to have had an unpleasant contretemps in the city this evening.”

Dr.
Arvardan. Pola realized the little she knew about him, not even his occupation. . . . She had never felt quite like this.

Arvardan laughed shortly. “Unpleasant, you say. I consider that a rather inadequate adjective.”

“You have broken the arm of an officer of the Empire about the performance of his duty.”

“That officer struck me first. His duty in no way included
the necessity for grossly insulting me, both verbally and physically. In doing so he forfeited any claim he might have to treatment as an officer and gentleman. As a free citizen of the Empire, I had every right to resent such cavalier, not to say illegal, treatment.”

The colonel harumphed and seemed at a loss for words. Pola stared at both of them with wide, unbelieving eyes.

Finally the colonel said softly, “Well, I need not say that I consider the whole incident to have been unfortunate. Apparently the pain and indignity involved have been equally spread on both sides. It may be best to forget this matter.”

“Forget? I think not. I have been a guest at the Procurator’s palace, and he may be interested in hearing exactly in what manner his garrison maintains order on Earth.”

“Now, Dr. Arvardan, if I assure you that you will receive a public apology—”

“To hell with that. What do you intend doing with Miss Shekt?”

“What would you suggest?”

“That you free her instantly, return her papers, and tender your apologies—right now.”

The colonel reddened, then said with an effort, “Of course.” He turned to Pola. “If the young lady will accept my deepest regrets . . .”

They had left the dark garrison
walls behind them. It had been a short and silent ten-minute air-taxi ride to the city proper, and now they stood at the deserted blackness of the Institute. It was past midnight.

Pola said, “I don’t think I quite understand. You must be very important. It seems silly of me not to know your name. I didn’t ever imagine that Outsiders could treat an Earthman so.”

Arvardan felt oddly reluctant and yet compelled to end the fiction. “I’m not an Earthman, Pola. I’m an archaeologist from the Sirian Sector.”

She turned on him quickly, her face white in the moonlight. For the space of a slow count to ten she said nothing. “Then you outfaced the soldiers because you were safe, after all, and knew it. And I thought—I should have known.”

There was an outraged bitterness about her. “I humbly beg your pardon, sir, if at any time today, in my ignorance, I affected any disrespectful familiarity with you—”

“Pola,” he cried angrily, “what’s the matter? What if I’m not an Earthman? How does that make me different from what I seemed to you to be five minutes ago?”

“You might have told me, sir.”

“I’m not asking you to call me ‘sir.’ Don’t be like the rest of them, will you?”

“Like the rest of whom, sir? The rest of the disgusting animals that live on Earth? . . . I owe you a hundred credits.”

“Forget it,” said Arvardan disgustedly.

“I cannot follow that order. If you’ll give me your address, I will send you a money order for the amount tomorrow.”

Arvardan was suddenly brutal. “You owe me much more than a hundred credits.”

Pola bit her lip and said in lowered tones, “It is the only part of my great debt, sir, that I can repay. Your address?”

“State House,” he flung at her across his shoulder. He was lost in the night.

And Pola found herself weeping!

Shekt met Pola at the door
of his office.

“He’s back,” he said. “A little thin man brought him.”

“Good!” She was having difficulty speaking.

“He asked for two hundred credits. I gave it to him.”

“He was to ask for one hundred, but never mind.”

She brushed past her father. He said wistfully, “I was terribly worried. The commotions in the neighborhood—I dared not ask; I might have endangered you.”

“It’s all right. Nothing’s happened. . . . Let me sleep here tonight, Father.”

But not all her weariness could make her sleep, for something
had
happened. She had met a man, and he was an Outsider.

But she had his address. She had his address.

They presented a complete contrast, these
two Earthmen—one with the greatest semblance of power on Earth, and one with the greatest reality.

Thus the High Minister was the most important Earthman on Earth, the recognized ruler of the planet by direct and definite decree of the Emperor of all the Galaxy—subject, of course, to the orders of the Emperor’s Procurator. His Secretary seemed no one at all, really—merely a member of the Society of Ancients, appointed, theoretically, by the High Minister to take care of certain unspecified details, and dismissable, theoretically, at will.

The High Minister was known to all the Earth and was looked up to as the supreme arbiter on matters of Custom. It was he who announced the exemptions to the Sixty and it was
he who judged the breakers of ritual, the defiers of rationing and of production schedules, the invaders of restricted territory and so on. The Secretary, on the other hand, was known to nobody, not even by name, except to the Society of Ancients and, of course, to the High Minister himself.

The High Minister had a command of language and made frequent speeches to the people, speeches of high emotional content and copious flow of sentiment. He had fair hair, worn long, and a delicate and patrician countenance. The Secretary, snub-nosed and wry-faced, preferred a short word to a long one, a grunt to a word, and silence to a grunt—at least in public.

It was the High Minister, of course, who had the semblance of power; the Secretary who had the reality. And in the privacy of the High Minister’s office that circumstance was quite plain.

For the High Minister was pettishly puzzled and the Secretary coolly indifferent.

“What I don’t see,” said the High Minister, “is the connection of all these reports you bring me. Reports, reports!” He lifted an arm above his head and struck viciously at an imaginary heap of paper. “I don’t have the time for them.”

“Exactly,” said the Secretary coldly. “It is why you hire me. I read them, digest them, transmit them.”

“Well, good Balkis, about your business, then. And quickly, since these are minor matters.”

“Minor? Your Excellency may lose a great deal someday if your judgment is not sharpened. . . . Let us see what these reports mean, and I shall then ask you if you still consider them minor. First we have the original report, now seven days old, from Shekt’s underling, and it is that which first put me on the trail.”

“What trail?”

Balkis’s smile was faintly bitter. “May I recall to Your Excellency certain important projects which have been nurtured here on Earth for several years.”

“Ssh!” the High Minister, in sudden loss of dignity, could not forbear looking about hastily.

“Your Excellency, it is not nervousness but confidence that will win for us. . . . You know further that the success of this project has depended upon the judicious use of Shekt’s little toy, the Synapsifier. Until now, at least as far as we know, it has been utilized under our direction only, and for definite purposes. And now, without warning, Shekt has Synapsified an unknown man, in complete violation of our orders.”

“This,” said the High Minister, “is a simple matter. Discipline Shekt, take the treated man into custody, and end the matter.”

“No, no. You are far too straightforward, Your Excellency. You miss the point. It is not
what
Shekt has done, but
why
he has done so. Note that there exists a coincidence about the matter, one of a considerable series of subsequent coincidences. The Procurator of Earth had visited Shekt that same day, and Shekt himself reported to us, in loyal and trustworthy fashion, all that had passed between them. Ennius had wanted the Synapsifier for Imperial use. He made promise, it seems, of great help and gracious assistance from the Emperor.”

“Hmm,” said the High Minister.

“You are intrigued? A compromise such as that seems attractive as compared to the dangers attending our present course? . . . Do you remember the promises of food to us during the famine five years ago? Do you? Shipments were refused because we lacked Imperial credits, and Earth-manufactured products would not be accepted, as being radioactively contaminated. Was there a free gift of food as promised? Was there even a loan? A hundred thousand died of starvation. Don’t put your trust in Outsider promises.

“But that does not matter. What does is that Shekt made a great display of loyalty. Surely we could never doubt him again. With compounded certainty, we could not suspect him of treason that very day. Yet so it came to pass.”

“You mean in this unauthorized experiment, Balkis?”

“I do, Your Excellency. Who was the man treated? We have photographs of him and, with the help of Shekt’s technician, retinal patterns. A check with the Planetary Registry shows no record of him. The conclusion must therefore be reached that he is no Earthman, but an Outsider. Furthermore, Shekt must have been aware of it, since a registration card cannot be forged or transferred, if checked with retinal patterns. So, in simple fashion, the unalterable facts lead us to the conclusion that Shekt has Synapsified, knowingly, an Outsider. And why? . . .

“The answer to that may be disturbingly simple. Shekt is not an ideal instrument for our purposes. In his youth he was an Assimilationist; he even once stood for election to the Washenn Council on a platform of conciliation with the Empire. He was defeated, by the way.”

The High Minister interrupted. “I didn’t know that.”

“That he was defeated?”

“No, that he ran. Why wasn’t I informed of this? Shekt is a very dangerous man in the position he now holds.”