For the first time in my life I was reading things which had not been approved by the Prophet’s censors, and the impact on my mind was devastating. Sometimes I would glance over my shoulder to see who was watching me, frightened in spite of myself. I began to sense faintly that secrecy is the keystone of all tyranny. Not force, but secrecy… censorship. When any government, or any church for that matter, undertakes to say to its subjects, “This you may not read, this you must not see, this you are forbidden to know,” the end result is tyranny and oppression, no matter how holy the motives. Mighty little force is needed to control a man whose mind has been hoodwinked; contrariwise, no amount of force can control a free man, a man whose mind is free. No, not the rack, not fission bombs, not anything— you can’t conquer a free man; the most you can do is kill him.
My thoughts did not then fall into syllogisms; my head was filled with an inchoate spate of new ideas, each more exciting than the last. I discovered that travel between the planets, almost a myth in my world, had not stopped because the First Prophet had forbidden it as a sin against the omnipotence of God; it had ceased because it had gone into the red financially and the Prophet’s government would not subsidize it. There was even an implied statement that the “infidels” (I still used that word in my mind) still sent out an occasional research ship and that there were human beings even now on Mars and Venus.
I grew so excited at that notion that I almost forgot the plight we were all in. If I had not been chosen for the Angels of the Lord, I would probably have gone into rocketry. I was good at anything of that sort, the things that called for quick reflexes combined with knowledge of the mathematical and mechanical arts. Maybe someday the United States would have space ships again. Perhaps I…
But the thought was crowded out by a dozen new ones. Foreign newspapers—why, I had not even been sure the infidels could read and write. The London Times made unbelievable and exciting reading. I gradually got it through my head that the Britishers apparently did not now eat human flesh, if indeed they ever had. They seemed remarkably like us, except that they were shockingly prone to do as they pleased—there were even letters in the Times criticizing the government. And there was another letter signed by a bishop of their infidel church, criticizing the people for not attending services. I don’t know which one puzzled me the more; both of them seemed to indicate a situation of open anarchy.
Master Peter informed me that the psych board had turned me down for assassination duty. I found myself both relieved and indignant. What was wrong with me that they would not trust me with the job? It seemed like a slur on my character—by then.
“Take it easy,” Van Eyck advised dryly. “They made a dummy run based on your personality profile and it figured almost an even chance that you would be caught your first time out. We don’t like to expend men that fast.”
“But—”
“Peace, lad. I’m sending you out to General Headquarters for assignment.”
“General Headquarters? Where is that?”
“You’ll know when you get there. Report to the staff metamorphist.”
Dr. Mueller was the staff face-changer; I asked him what he had in mind for me. “How do I know until I find out what you are?” He had me measured and photographed, recorded my voice, analyzed my walk, and had a punched card made up of my physical characteristics. “Now we’ll find your twin brother.” I watched the card sorter go through several thousand cards and I was beginning to think I was a unique individual, resembling no one else sufficiently to permit me to be disguised successfully, when two cards popped out almost together. Before the machine whirred to a stop there were five cards in the basket.
“A nice assortment,” Dr. Mueller mused as he looked them over, “one synthetic, two live ones, a deader, and one female. We can’t use the woman for this job, but we’ll keep it in mind; it might come in very handy someday to know that there is a female citizen you could impersonate successfully.”
“What’s a synthetic?” I enquired.
“Eh? Oh, it’s a composite personality, very carefully built from faked records and faked backgrounds. A risky business—it involves tampering with the national archives. I don’t like to use a synthetic, for there really isn’t any way to fill in completely the background of a man who doesn’t exist. I’d much rather patch into the real background of a real person.”
“Then why use synthetics at all?”
“Sometimes we have to. When we have to move a refugee in a hurry, for example, and there is no real person we can match him with. So we try to keep a fairly broad assortment of synthetics built up. Now let me see,” he added, shuffling the cards, “we have two to choose from—”
“Just a second, Doctor,” I interrupted, “why do you keep dead men in the file?”
“Oh, they aren’t legally dead. When one of the brethren dies and it is possible to conceal the fact, we maintain his public personality for possible future use. Now then,” he continued, “can you sing?”
“Not very well.”
“This one is out, then. He’s a concert baritone. I can make a lot of changes in you, but I can’t make a trained singer of you. It’s Hobson’s choice. How would you like to be Adam Reeves, commercial traveler in textiles?” He held up a card.
“Do you think I could get away with it?”
“Certainly—when I get through with you.”
A fortnight later my own mother wouldn’t have known me. Nor, I believe, could Reeves’ mother have told me from her son. The second week Reeves himself was available to work with me. I grew to like him very much while I was studying him. He was a mild, quiet man with a retiring disposition, which always made me think of him as small although he was, of course, my height, weight, and bony structure. We resembled each other only superficially in the face.
At first, that is. A simple operation made my ears stand out a little more than nature intended; at the same time they trimmed my ear lobes. Reeves’ nose was slightly aquiline; a little wax under the skin at the bridge caused mine to match. It was necessary to cap several of my teeth to make mine match his dental repair work; that was the only part I really minded. My complexion had to be bleached a shade or two; Reeves’ work did not take him out into the sun much.
But the most difficult part of the physical match was artificial fingerprints. An opaque, flesh-colored flexible plastic was painted on my finger pads, then my fingers were sealed into molds made from Reeves’ fingertips. It was touchy work; one finger was done over seven times before Dr. Mueller would pass it.
That was only the beginning; now I had to learn to act like Reeves—his walk, his gestures, the way he laughed, his table manners. I doubt if I could ever make a living as an actor—my coach certainly agreed and said so.
“Confound it, Lyle, won’t you ever get it? Your life will depend on it. You’ve got to learn!”
“But I thought I was acting just like Reeves,” I objected feebly.
“Acting! That’s just the trouble—you were acting like Reeves. And it was as phony as a false leg. You’ve got to be Reeves. Try it. Worry about your sales record, think about your last trip, think about commissions and discounts and quotas. Go on. Try it.”
Every spare minute I studied the current details of Reeves’ business affairs, for I would actually have to sell textiles in his place. I had to learn a whole trade and I discovered that there was more to it than carrying around samples and letting a retailer make his choice—and I didn’t know a denier from a continuous fibre. Before I finished I acquired a new respect for business men. I had always thought that buying and selling was simple; I was wrong again. I had to use the old phonographic tutor stunt and wear earphones to bed. I never sleep well that way and would wake up each morning with a splitting head and with my ears, still tender from the operations, sore as two boils.
But it worked, all of it. In two short weeks I was Adam Reeves, commercial traveler, right down to my thoughts.
7
“Lyle,” Mast
er Peter van Eyck said to me, “Reeves is due to catch the Comet for Cincinnati this afternoon. Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Repeat your orders.”
“Sir, I am to carry out my—I mean his—selling schedule from here to the coast. I check in at the San Francisco office of United Textiles, then proceed on his vacation. In Phoenix, Arizona, I am to attend church services at the South Side Tabernacle. I am to hang around afterwards and thank the priest for the inspiration of his sermon; in the course of which I am to reveal myself to him by means of the accustomed usages of our order. He will enable me to reach General Headquarters.”
“All correct. In addition to transferring you for duty, I am going to make use of you as a messenger. Report to the psychodynamics laboratory at once. The chief technician will instruct you.”
“Very well, sir.”
The lodge Master got up and came around his desk to me. “Good-by, John. Watch yourself, and may the Great Architect help you.”
“Thank you, sir. Uh, is this message I am to carry important?”
“Quite important.”
He let it go at that and I was a bit irked; it seemed silly to be mysterious about it when I would find out just what it was in a few minutes. But I was mistaken. At the laboratory I was told to sit down, relax, and prepare myself for hypnosis.
I came out of it with the pleasant glow that usually follows hypnosis. “That’s all,” I was told. “Carry out your orders.”
“But how about the message I was to carry?”
“You have it.”
“Hypnotically? But if I’m arrested, I’ll be at the mercy of any psycho-investigator who examines me!”
“No, you won’t. It’s keyed to a pair of signal words; you can’t possibly remember until they are spoken to you. The chance that an examiner would hit on both words and in the right order is negligible. You can’t give the message away, awake or asleep.”
I had rather expected to be “loaded” for suicide, if I was to carry an important message—though I hadn’t seen how they could do it at the last minute, other than supplying me with a pill, I mean, a method almost useless if the policeman knows his business. But if I couldn’t give away the message I carried, then I preferred to take my chances; I didn’t ask for poison. I’m not the suiciding type anyhow—when Satan comes for me, he’ll have to drag me…
The rocket port serving New Jerusalem is easier to get to than is the case at most of the older cities. There was a tube station right across from the department store that hid our headquarters. I simply walked out of the Store, took the bridge across the street, found the tube stall marked “Rocket Port,” waited for an empty cartridge, and strapped myself and my luggage in. The attendant sealed me and almost at once I was at the port.
I bought my ticket and took my place at the end of the queue outside the port police station. I’ll admit I was nervous; while I didn’t anticipate having any trouble getting my travel pass validated, the police officers who must handle it were no doubt on the lookout for John Lyle, renegade army officer. But they were always looking for someone and I hoped the list of wanted faces was too long to make the search for me anything other than routine.
The line moved slowly and that looked like a bad sign—especially so when I noticed that several people had been thumbed out of line and sent to wait behind the station railing. I got downright jittery. But the wait itself gave me time to get myself in hand. I shoved my papers at the sergeant, glanced at my chrono, up at the station clock, and back at my wrist.
The sergeant had been going through my papers in a leisurely, thorough manner. He looked up. “Don’t worry about catching your ship,” he said not unkindly. “They can’t leave until we clear their passenger list.” He pushed a pad across the counter. “Your fingerprints, please.”
I gave them without comment. He compared them with the prints on my travel pass and then with the prints Reeves had left there on his arrival a week earlier. “That’s all, Mr. Reeves. A pleasant trip.”
I thanked him and left.
The Comet was not too crowded. I picked a seat by a window, well forward, and had just settled down and was unfolding a late-afternoon copy of the Holy City, when I felt a touch on my arm.
It was a policeman.
“Will you step outside, please?”
I was herded outside with four other male passengers. The sergeant was quite decent about it. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you four to return to the station for further identification. I’ll order your baggage removed and have the passenger list changed. Your tickets will be honored on the next flight.”
I let out a yelp. “But I’ve got to be in Cincinnati tonight!”
“I’m sorry.” He turned to me. “You’re Reeves, aren’t you? Hmm… you are the right size and build. Still… let me see your pass again. Didn’t you arrive in town just last week?”
“That’s right.”
He went through my papers again. “Uh, yes, I remember now; you came in Tuesday morning on the Pilgrim. Well, you can’t be in two places at once, so I guess that clears you.” He handed my papers back to me. “Go aboard again. Sorry we bothered you. The rest of you come along.”
I returned to my seat and picked up my newspaper. A few minutes later the first heavy surge of the rockets threw us to the west. I continued reading the paper to cover up my agitation and relief, but soon got interested. I had been reading a Toronto paper only that morning, underground; the contrast was startling. I was back in a world for which the outside world hardly existed; the “foreign affairs” news, if you could call it that, consisted of glowing reports of our foreign missions and some accounts of atrocities among the infidels. I began to wonder where all that money went that was contributed each year for missionary work; the rest of the world, if you could believe their newspapers, didn’t seem much aware that our missions existed.
Then I began going through the paper, picking out items that I knew to be false. By the time I was through we were down out of the ionosphere and gliding into Cincy. We had overtaken the sun and had sunset all over again.
There must be a peddler’s pack in my family tree. I not only covered Reeves’ territory in Cincinnati, but bettered his quota. I found that I got as much pleasure out of persuading some hard-boiled retailer that he should increase his line of yard goods as I ever had from military work. I stopped worrying about my disguise and thought only about textiles. Selling isn’t just a way to eat; it’s a game, it’s fun.
I left for Kansas City on schedule and had no trouble with the police in getting a visa for my travel pass. I decided that New Jerusalem had been the only ticklish check point; from here west nobody would expect to pick up John Lyle, formerly officer and gentleman; he would be one of thousands of wanted men, lost in the files.
The rocket to K.C. was well filled; I had to sit beside another passenger, a well-built chap in his middle thirties. We looked each other over as I sat down, then each busied himself with his own affairs. I called for a lap table and started straightening out the order blanks and other papers I had accumulated during busy, useful days in Cincinnati. He lounged back and watched the news broadcast in the TV tank at the forward end of the car.
I felt a nudge about ten minutes later and looked around. My seatmate flicked a thumb toward the television tank; in it there was displayed a large public square filled with a mob. It was surging toward the steps of a massive temple, over which floated the Prophet’s gold-and-crimson banner and the pennant of a bishopric. As I watched, the first wave of the crowd broke against the temple steps.
A squad of temple guards trotted out a side door near the giant front doors and set up their tripods on the terrace at the head of the wide stairs. The scene cut to another viewpoint; we were looking down right into the faces of the mob hurrying toward us—apparently from a telephoto pick-up somewhere on the temple roof.
What followed made me ashamed of the uniform I had once worn. Instead of killing them quickly,
the guards aimed low and burned off their legs. One instant the first wave was running toward me up the steps—then they fell, the cauterized stumps of their legs jerking convulsively. I had been watching a youngish couple right in the center of the pick-up; they had been running hand in hand. As the beam swept across them they went down together.
She stayed down. He managed to lift himself on what had been his knees, took two awkward dying steps toward her and fell across her. He pulled her head to his, then the scene cut away from them to the wide view of the square.
I snatched the earphones hanging on the back of the seat in front of me and listened: “—apolis, Minnesota. The situation is well in hand and no additional troops will be needed. Bishop Jennings has declared martial law while the agents of Satan are rounded up and order restored. A period of prayer and fasting will commence at once.
“The Minnesota ghettos have been closed and all local pariahs will be relocated in the reservations in Wyoming and Montana in order to prevent future outbreaks. Let this be a warning to the ungodly everywhere who might presume to dispute the divine rule of the Prophet Incarnate.
“This on-the-spot cast by the No-Sparrow-Shall-Fall News Service is coming to you under the sponsorship of the Associated Merchants of the Kingdom, dealers in the finest of household aids toward grace. Be the first in your parish to possess a statuette of the Prophet that miraculously glows in the dark! Send one dollar, care of this station—”
I switched off the phones and hung them up. Why blame the pariahs? That mob wasn’t made up of pariahs.