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The Extraterritorial by John Morressy

The Documents: I

"The Association for Peace and Progress is a voluntary fellowship of the free and freedom-loving. We have banded together to serve our country and our fellow citizens, regardless of their beliefs, their age, race or sex, or their membership in the Association.

"We serve not for gain, but for the common good…"

—Preamble to the Charter

PROLOGUE

The Association was born of the chaos and fear that marked the closing years of the twentieth century. Wars and waste and human folly had so reduced the world's fuel resources that industrial civilization came almost to a halt. International trade and travel ceased. Famine, and consequent social unrest, gripped three continents and menaced the rest. It seemed that the third millenium would begin in a new Dark Age.

Desperate nations reacted in a variety of ways. Europe at last united into a single confederation independent of East and West. In Russia, an irresistible resurgence of religious faith toppled the party structure and replaced it with a benevolent but rigid theocracy. Africa became a battleground. China and the East were an enigma, sealed behind a wall of distance and silence.

North America suffered much in this period. A series of natural catastrophes literally tore the United States asunder. Famine and disease followed, and section turned against section. Political calamities left the government helpless to act. In desperation, power was given to a new organization, the Association for Peace and Progress, which promised to assist the existing government in restoring order.

In a very short time the situation had improved greatly in the east, where the Association was in control. The rest of the country had been abandoned to the Outlanders who prowled the ravaged midlands, but a linked system of warning devices known as the Barrier was erected from Lake Erie to the Gulf of Mexico. Behind it lay safety and security.

The Association was quiet, unobtrusive and very efficient. It grew steadily to meet its increasing responsibilities. In one area after another, it supplanted the government—always in the interests of order and efficiency and public safety. But no one questioned; no one complained. If the Association had any flaws, it was still far better than any alternative. And so the Association quietly grew ever stronger, until…

… most of us still have a lingering belief that every choice, even every political choice, is between good and evil, and that if a thing is necessary it is also right. We should, I think, get rid of this belief, which belongs to the nursery. In politics one can never do more than decide which of two evils is the lesser, and there are some situations from which one can only escape by acting like a devil or a lunatic.

—George Orwell

CHAPTER 1

Selkirk's plane touched down in the early dark of a winter evening. The first thing he noticed was the snow.

Over the windswept outer reaches of the airport, massed whiteness moved in dim and shifting swirls and sudden eddies. All the way to the arrivals building, Selkirk stared out the window of the silent bus at the white particles darting past. Until this moment, he had not realized how much he missed the sight of falling snow. It was one of the things there had been no time to think about.

Uniforms were everywhere; that was the second thing Selkirk noticed. The pilot, the flight attendants, the ground crew and now the driver of the bus wore the uniform of the Association. The baggage clerks, guards and customs inspectors were similarly outfitted. In the arrivals building a substantial number of people were dressed in Association green, distinguished from one another only by the color of the piping on their tunics and the slim diagonal stripes of rank on their left forearms.

The uniformed host came as no surprise to Selkirk; he had been advised of the Association's widespread presence. Even so, he was impressed. The growth of the Association was phenomenal. And yet none of the people he encountered displayed the attitudes he expected to find in representatives of a large and powerful organization. On the contrary, they were polite and friendly.

True, Martin Selkirk was not a common traveler, nor was he an ordinary-looking man. The red "E" on his passport was sufficient to exempt him from the procedure awaiting the other passengers. His own stature and appearance were enough to win him a certain deference wherever he went.

Selkirk was a big man, nearly two meters tall and accordingly broad in the shoulders, but still as lean as a boxer in good fighting trim. Like most extraterritorials, he dressed in battered old-style clothing and wore his hair somewhat long, in the manner of the early eighties. A deep tan made his coarse black hair appear even darker. His face was thin, the skin seamed and toughened by long exposure to extremes of weather, the features sharply outlined in planes and angles. On a closer inspection, one noticed a thin white scar—barely visible from a few meters away—that ran from the left temple almost to the jawbone and a second scar that started above his left eye and disappeared under the thick hair that swept his forehead. Neither scar appeared to be of recent origin.

New acquaintances found it difficult to guess Selkirk's age. Some thought him to be no older than his late twenties; others were certain he must be in his forties. He let people think what they chose; in fact, he had just turned 34.

The customs official took a single look at Selkirk's passport and waved him through with a polite greeting. A guard opened the door for him and extended a respectful welcome as he passed from the arrivals area to the main terminal, where he was to meet his brother.

Jack was waiting there for him. "Martin! Stay right there!" he called as he hurried to Selkirk's side. Selkirk put down his bag and they embraced. "Martin, you look great! You're still growing, little brother!" the older man said, holding Selkirk at arm's length and looking up at him fondly.

Jack was not quite as tall as Martin. His coloring was paler, his presence less emphatic. Still, the resemblance between the two men was obvious.

"I feel good," Selkirk replied. "It's great to see you, Jack. I was away too long this time."

"Noreen has the guest room all ready for you."

"The guest room? Things have gotten better since I saw you two last."

"Our guests don't have to sleep on couches any more, Martin. We want you to stay for a while. What are the chances?"

"Can't say. I report to Central Registry on the tenth. Let's talk about it on the way," Selkirk said, picking up his bag.

"Of course," his brother replied. "I'm parked nearby. I should have realized you'd be in a hurry to get yourself settled."

"It's not so much that as all these people. Crowds bother me."

"This isn't such a bad crowd, considering. Your plane is the only one arriving this quarter, you know. The Association keeps things running smoothly, though."

Selkirk glanced around and nodded. "They should. There are enough of them."

"You're just not used to them, Martin."

"No, I'm not. We didn't have any with us. Extraterritorials work on their own. That's one of the things I like about the service. Always have."

They left the arrivals building and headed outside again, Jack leading the way. The snow was falling more heavily now. They walked toward a cluster of tiny cars, most of them snow-covered by this time, and Jack stopped before a car with only a light dusting on its hood and roof.

"Here we are," he announced. "It hasn't even had time to collect snow."

Jack slipped inside and unlocked the passenger door. Selkirk tossed his bag into the back and climbed in quickly, slamming the door behind him. He began to shiver, though he tried not to show it.

"The heater will be delivering full blast in a few seconds," Jack said, turning a knob and calling forth a faint hum from below the dashboard. "I'll have to remember, you're accustomed to heat."

"And open spaces," Selkirk added, arranging his bulk in the cramped seat. "This car is the size of a coffee cup."

"Efficient, though. And quiet, too. Electrics are fine, once you get used to them. Everyone likes them, Martin."

"I'll try. You'll have to allow me time to get back to normal," Selkirk said. They both laughed.

A man in a green uniform checked them out of the parking lot. Another guided them onto the approach to the highway. Through the snow, obscure in the distance, other green figures moved to and fro purposefully.

"The tenth… that's First Quarter 41… I've just about forgotten the old calendar. Well, you've got a couple of free days ahead of you," Jack mused as they pulled onto the highway. "Do you have any plans? Noreen has asked a few people over for tomorrow night. I hope you don't object."

"Not at all. I just want to relax, that's all. I've been on reassignment leave for the past three weeks. Right now, I need some rest."

"Any idea where you'll be sent?"

"We never know in advance."

"Maybe you'll get some extra time here while they try to make up their minds where to send you. That would be nice."

"Not much chance of that," Selkirk said, "We're short-handed. I had to fight like hell to get my full leave time approved. I still don't know why they finally changed their minds. We're even making use of Association services now, to process reassignments. I never thought I'd see that."

"That's right. You didn't go to Central Registry last time."

"No. They started this while I was away. I'm not so keen on it myself."

"Why not, Martin? Everybody uses the Association. It's the most efficient way."

"So they tell me. I just don't like it."

They drove in silence for some minutes. With the windows shut against the cold and snow, the glass began to fog. Selkirk cleared a portion of the side window with the sleeve of his coat and peered out into the swirling whiteness. He found it soothing. It reminded him of something, but the memory was vague.

Jack said, "The forecast was for snow ending by evening. It should be over by the time we reach home."

"I would have liked seeing the city lights when we came over."

"Not much to see. The city isn't lit up the way it once was, you know."

"Didn't think of that. I'm enjoying the snow, anyway. I haven't seen snow for a long time."

Jack said nothing for a time, then abruptly he blurted, "It was snowing the day you left, too. They closed the airport just after you took off. I spent nearly 12 hours getting back to the city."

"I hope you won't have trouble today."

"Not any more." Jack glanced over at Selkirk quickly. "The Association keeps the roads in top condition. We don't even have the traffic jams we used to have."

"It's still an imposition though. I appreciate your coming out to pick me up, Jack."

"My pleasure. It's good to have you back, even if you don't stay long and you bring snow along with you."

"Snowing when I left and snowing when I come back. It's almost as though nothing has changed."

"You'll notice some changes." Jack reached over to switch on the radio. "You don't mind, do you? I want to hear the traffic and weather information."

Selkirk shook his head and turned his attention outside. The road was still almost bare. The white buildings beyond the embankment were taller than the ones they had passed earlier and built more closely together.

After a few minutes, Jack slowed and came to a complete stop. Selkirk looked ahead at the chains of red lights glowing through the falling snow.

"Looks as though you still manage to have a traffic jam now and then," he said dryly.

"Probably an accident. I've seen people skid on this stretch. You have to expect accidents in weather like this."

Selkirk laughed. "Do you mean the Association still permits accidents? I'm surprised to hear that."

Jack shrugged. "Even the Association can't do anything about accidents, although they try hard enough. It's funny this wasn't mentioned on the radio, though. The road reports are usually reliable." He turned up the volume and they listened to a cheerful feminine voice: "Traffic Division reports all major roads and highways clear of snow. Traffic on all roads is moving normally with no delays reported at bridges or tunnels. All public transport is running on time. To the west of the city, roads—"

Jack turned the sound low and smiled apologetically at his brother. "I don't know what's wrong. They should have word of this by now."

"As long as we're stopped, I'll take a look outside," Selkirk said, reaching for the door handle.

"No!" Jack cried sharply, reaching over to bar his way. "Don't leave the car!"

Selkirk settled back in his seat, looking curiously at his brother. "Don't panic. If you don't want me to, I won't."

"I didn't mean to startle you. It's against the law to leave the car, and they're very severe about infractions. It's a safety precaution."

"What if you have engine trouble?"

"You stay in the car no matter what happens. Traffic Division handles everything."

"Hooray for Traffic Division. Let's hope the car doesn't go on fire."

The chain of red lights flickered erratically. Soon they were moving forward at a slow crawl that increased until they were maintaining a steady 40 kilometers an hour. Off to the side of the road Selkirk saw what he judged to be the cause of the delay, but he had only a quick and indistinct glimpse of an automobile surrounded by men in green while one uniformed man waved the traffic on. Jack kept his eyes intently on the road ahead.

"Did you get a chance to see that, Jack?" Selkirk asked. "There must have been a dozen men around that car."

"I didn't notice."

"I wonder what it was all about. I didn't get a very good look, but I think I saw a couple inside. Why would they require a dozen men?"

Jack's manner was impatient. "I don't know, Martin. Forget it. You're back home now. Relax, will you?"

They spoke no more until they reached the city. Jack concentrated on his driving, and Selkirk found enough of interest in the skyline, greatly altered during his four-year absence. Tall, white buildings, all new and all spotlessly clean, gave the city the appearance of having been built overnight. Very little was familiar to his eyes.

When they left the highway and began the crosstown drive to Jack's apartment, the traffic all but disappeared. Driving along the open street, Selkirk was amazed anew at the number of uniforms. When they stopped for a light, he remarked on their proliferation to his brother.

"It's a bad night," Jack explained. "Most of the service staff are out. Besides, we're near Central Registry. You're bound to see a lot of Association people in this area."

"Isn't Central Registry downtown?"

Jack shook his head. "Not any more. They outgrew the old building. They moved up here… oh, maybe three years ago." The light changed and he started off. "I suppose to you it looks as though they're overrunning the city, but believe me, Martin, the Association could double their work force tomorrow and still be understaffed."

Selkirk made no response. Jack turned off the broad, empty avenue and descended a ramp to an underground garage. Wide doors rolled back at the touch of a dashboard button and closed again behind them. He drove to a space near a bank of elevators, pulled in and snapped off the engine. Looking very pleased with himself he turned to Martin.

"Remember how it was when we were kids, Martin? Well, we just made it across town in something like three minutes, in spite of bad weather. You can see that there's no trouble finding a parking place. The old traffic problems are solved. The pollution problem is licked. Association Traffic Control has solved everything," Jack said.

Selkirk nodded, reached for his bag and eased himself out of the car. He stretched, flexed his back and shoulders and fell in beside his brother. As they walked to the elevator, Jack went on, "It's safer, too. If Nofeen has to be out late, I don't worry about her. She doesn't have to park on the street, maybe six or eight blocks from here and then hope she makes it home without being attacked. It's a new world for us, Martin; for us and everyone in the city."

"The Association waved a magic wand, and there was Utopia," Selkirk suggested.

"Hardly that simple. We've sacrificed a lot of comforts and conveniences, but it was a fair exchange. And we still have the problem of an occasional Outie sneaking through to make trouble."

Selkirk frowned, momentarily puzzled. "Outie?" he asked uncertainly.

"Outie. Outlander, Martin. One of the mob from beyond the Barrier."

"Oh, yes, of course, the Outlanders. I haven't heard anyone speak of them for so long… They give you some trouble even here, do they?"

"A bit. What we need is a stronger Barrier. I wish it were ten times stronger, and a lot farther west."

Selkirk raised an eyebrow. "That much trouble?"

Jack was about to reply, but with the arrival of the elevator he fell silent. The elevator doors slid open and a dignified, silver-haired couple emerged. They nodded to Jack, who greeted them warmly and introduced his brother to them.

They were the Chamberlains. Norman Chamberlain held a high position in Jack's department, as well as in the Association. He was not in uniform, but in the lapel of his dark suit was a small green rosette.

"Pleased to meet you, Mister Selkirk. Your brother's often mentioned you," Chamberlain said, extending his hand.

''I think Jack is very proud of his younger brother," his wife added, smiling at them.

"He has a right to be. The extraterritorials are doing a fine job

"They certainly are," Mrs. Chamberlain seconded. "We're very much looking forward to seeing you again."

As the elevator doors closed, Jack said, "I'm glad Norm Chamberlain liked you. He's a pretty important man, you know."

"I'll be polite to him, it that's what you mean

Jack laughed softly and shook his head. "You haven't changed a bit. Do you know that? Not one bit."

CHAPTER 2

Dinner was excellent, and Selkirk rose from his place feeling mellowed and at peace with all. He walked into the living room, where he was alone for a time. In response to Jack's shouted admonition to make himself at home, he mixed a drink and settled into a comfortable chair. It was good to be here.

The others on the plane had spoken of "going home" and "getting back," but Selkirk, unlike his brother, used the word "home" rarely. It was not a word he often applied to himself or his situation. Staying here was a pleasant change.

Jack had always been generous, but since his brother's marriage, Selkirk had felt his presence to be an intrusion. Only Jack's insistent message, with its description of the spacious new apartment, had persuaded him to spend the few days between assignments with them.

Jack had not exaggerated in his description. If anything, he had understated. The size of the apartment was impressive in itself, doubly so in comparison with the place where Jack and Noreen had been living when he last visited. From two tiny rooms with a kitchenette they had moved into six. The living room alone would have contained their previous apartment. Selkirk sat musing in a high-ceilinged chamber some seven by ten meters in extent. One end wall was entirely taken up by a graystone fireplace. In its depths, the regulated flames of an artificial fire danced through cold figures in endless repetition, while outside the long bank of windows that opened to an eastern view of the river, tattered oddments of the snowstorm skimmed past in random gusts of white.

Whiteness was everywhere, inside the room and out. The two unbroken wall? were painted white and were unadorned. The furniture was upholstered in white, and the pale-gray rug on the floor was a shade lighter than the stone of the fireplace. Selkirk thought not of a habitation, but of some sterile and impersonal chamber. He longed for a spot of color—a painting, a vase of flowers—but his searching eye found no relief from the pale tones.

He rose and went to the window. The view, even through the swirls of blowing snow, was breathtaking, but he found it uncomfortable by the window and moved back toward the center of the room. Instinctively he came to stand by the fireplace, where he could look down the length of the living room and into the warm, paneled dining room beyond. The abrupt change in his brother's fortunes in the space of four years impressed him. Jack was not talkative about his professional affairs, but he appeared to have met with considerable success in his field.

Jack entered, smiled and said, "Noreen will be right along."

"I'm taking care of myself. This is a beautiful place you have, Jack."

"It is nice, isn't it? Noreen's done most of the decorating herself. How do you like the sofas?"

"Very comfortable. Whatever happened to your paintings? You and Noreen had quite a collection the last time I visited. They'd go nicely against these walls."

"Oh, we got rid of them a long time ago."

Selkirk looked at his brother curiously. "I always thought they were your prize possessions."

"You know how it is, Martin. Your taste changes. They were a bit extreme for this place, anyway. Typical seventies' stuff… undisciplined, gaudy. All that's out now."

"You both used to like them a lot."

"Well, paintings are out of fashion now, anyway. We've been thinking of getting a few books."

"What do you want books for? Don't you have a microdeck?"

Jack smiled and nodded toward a cabinet. "Of course. About 3000 volumes. We were thinking of the investment value. Books are rare and getting rarer. Everything's been on microfiche since the eighties. And a few books would add a touch of color to the room. This place could use a touch of color, I agree."

"That's about all it needs," Selkirk suggested. He sipped his drink, paused and asked, "Aren't you going to join me?"

Jack raised a hand and shook his head. "Hardly anyone drinks these days, Martin. But you go ahead. We have it here just for you."

Selkirk laughed and crossed the room to pour himself another. The liquor was weak, with a sweetish aftertaste he disliked. But it was better than nothing. He turned to Jack and said, "You laid in a stock for the savage extraterritorial, did you? Keep the barbarian happy, and maybe he'll behave himself, eh?"

"Of course not," Jack murmured uneasily. "We thought… well, we know it's rough out there. Not like our lives."

"No, not at all like yours. This may sound like a funny thing to say, but I'm really impressed by how nicely you've done for yourself. You're living very well."

"Everyone is, Martin. The Association has improved housing all over the city."

Selkirk's expression grew somber at the mention of the Association. He turned and stared into the fireplace. During the silence, Noreen entered the room and looked from one brother to the other.

"Why are you both standing? And why so silent? Don't tell me you're arguing again!" she sighed.

Jack laughed guiltily and put an arm around her slim waist, drawing her to him. "We weren't arguing. Martin just doesn't like to hear me praise the Association." Selkirk turned, but before he could protest, Jack went on, "You forget how well I know you, Martin. You've been a loner ever since you were a kid, and the thought of anything being as big and as complex as the Association and still working smoothly bothers you."

Noreen settled comfortably on one of the sofas and gestured for the two men to join her. She sat half-facing Selkirk, in such a way that the light fell over her shoulder and outlined the soft curves of her cheek and neck. Noreen was younger than Jack and very pretty. She knew how to make the most of herself. In her presence, Selkirk always felt like an audience.

"I think Jack hit it right on the head. I can't help being suspicious of anything too big and efficient, I guess," Selkirk said bluntly. He only half-believed these words. His feeling about the Association had deeper roots, that he knew, but at this moment he was not inclined to probe within himself for them. A cheerful reply was all that was required of him now.

"But just look at this apartment," Noreen said quickly, as if he had given her a cue. "It must be four times the size of our last place, and it doesn't cost any more. Did Jack mention that?"

"No. It seems impossible."

"And Association Housing Improvement has done it all."

"Not only that, but we can go out at night in safety," Jack added. "I don't have to remind you what it was like when we were kids. Not just here, either—all the cities were jungles. Now we can go out for a walk at three in the morning, if we care to, and go anywhere in the sector without fear."

"Sector?" Selkirk asked.

"The cities have been divided into sectors as part of the redevelopment plan."

Noreen said, "We'll have to take a nice long walk around the sector before you leave, Martin. Jack told me you always liked to walk, and now you can do as much as you want."

"It's a good way to see the improvements that have been made. The Association has torn down kilometers of old buildings and put up some really magnificent new ones. There's a plaza—"

"Don't tell him everything, Jack," his wife broke in. "Save a few surprises. It's really wonderful, Martin. Before the Association, we were practically living in a state of perpetual siege. That's all over now."

Selkirk sipped his drink and said thoughtfully, "I suppose it is. I can remember how the cities were. The improvement is obvious. But that's beside the point. I remember how and why the Association started. They've come a long way in a very short time, and I'm not altogether comfortable about that."

"Don't be suspicious, Martin," Noreen said patiently. "You haven't been here to see all they've done, or you couldn't suspect their motives."

"Noreen, they run everything. Everything," Selkirk repeated, "and no one seems to give a damn."

"Why should we? They've done nothing but good for us. If the Association wanted power, they could just seize it. But they've shown that they don't want to do that."

Selkirk laughed, but without a trace of humor. "They don't have to seize power, Noreen. They already have it all."

"And it was given to them by the people," she quickly countered, as if scoring a decisive point. "The Association does what the people want done, and does it better than any of our old structures could. If it's strong, the people have made it strong because they saw the need for strength." Her voice grew intense, and she looked at Selkirk with a plea for belief in her eyes. He knew she was entirely sincere now. "Martin, we just don't know how it was before the Association. My parents lived— tried to live—here in the city. They went through every day in fear. They never knew what was going to happen next, when they'd be without food, or lights or heat. The garbage piled up in the streets. They'd go for weeks, sometimes, without police or fire protection. The water would be cut off, and mobs would be roaming the streets…" She closed her eyes and shook her head as if to clear it of memories.

The sight affected Selkirk. His first evening in four years with the only people close to him was lapsing into pointless bickering. Argument was unpleasant here and totally useless; no opinions would change; it was all very foolish.

He reached over to Noreen, took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. Turning to his brother, he said, "You're right, both of you. You've been here and I haven't. I just need a few days to get accustomed to the way things are now. Why don't we all have a drink and talk about something more cheerful?"

"About the party tomorrow evening," Noreen smiled, her good spirits restored. "Would you like me to ask anyone, Martin?"

"There's no one here I know."

"I have a really lovely girl in my office who'd probably enjoy meeting you," Noreen suggested.

"I'm afraid you might find some of our friends a bit strait-laced, Martin. Young people today aren't at all like they used to be. They're a serious bunch," Jack added.

"Fair warning. Now, what about this lovely girl?"

"She really is quite attractive, Martin. Tall, red-haired… wonderful to talk to. Her name is Evelyn Curry. You remember Evelyn, Jack."

"Yes, I do. She's quite nice." Jack hesitated, then added, "A regular fan of the Association, though. Martin might have an argument on his hands."

Selkirk shook his head emphatically. "If you think I'd argue with a girl like that, you're crazy. Go ahead and invite her, Noreen."

"She may even win you over," Noreen suggested.

They passed the next half hour in small talk and reminiscence. The tension in the room dissipated, and soon they were all laughing at Selkirk's account of a bungling local assistant he had been burdened with on his most recent assignment. The account was a fiction from beginning to end. Selkirk, like all extraterritorials, retained no clear memory of his assignments. Nevertheless, he told it smoothly, with careful attention to small details, and Jack and Noreen found it amusing.

Just before midnight, after Jack had stifled a series of yawns, Noreen announced that it was time for them to retire. "Stay up if you want, Martin. And don't get up with us in the morning. Sleep as late as you please," she said.

"Microdeck is in that cabinet, if you feel like reading," Jack said, pointing to the wall. "If you want to use the television, go ahead. The bedrooms are soundproofed." He ended on a great broad yawn.

"Thanks, both of you. Sorry if I kept you up."

"Don't be silly. Good night," Noreen said.

He should have been physically exhausted from his long trip, but Selkirk felt no desire to sleep. He expected bad dreams and hoped to avoid them by holding off bed until he was sure of deep sleep. Sometimes that worked.

He started to fix himself another drink and noticed that he had emptied more than half the bottle. Yet he felt no effect at all. He put the bottle down and went to the micro-deck cabinet.

With two full drawers of microfiche, Jack had a fine library. His reader was a full 80 by 60 centimeters, and he had two small portable lap readers. Selkirk looked through the listings for a few minutes, but found nothing to his taste. He closed the cabinet and turned to the television set.

The screen brightened to reveal a small group seated around a semicircular panel. Two of the panelists wore uniforms. The older of the two, a gaunt, scholarly looking man with thick spectacles, white hair, and a deep, slow voice, was in the middle of a statement.

"… not a reasonable criticism, and does not deserve the attention it's been receiving. These terrorists are not an opposition political group, as they claim to be, but a gang of criminals. How can there be a political opposition? The Association is not a government at all, as everyone who has taken the trouble to read the charter well knows. What I can't understand about critics of the Association is their—"

Selkirk cut him off and switched to a movie. After a few minutes he knew it was trash; for that very reason, he thought it might be relaxing. When the hero, an impossible caricature of a mindless superman, revealed himself as an Association agent, Selkirk switched him off.

On the next channel was a lifeless documentary about Association educational projects among sector three children. He clicked through a sequence of commercial messages, pausing to watch a pretty girl in a tailored uniform who leaned to him, pouting and confided, "I'm an Association girl. I love to associate with men who shave close and clean, so I—"

He snapped off the television and went to bed.

The Documents: II

"The centralization of all Association operations, personnel and support facilities and the isolation of all ideologically ambiguous and potentially dissident elements are the two most immediate concerns of the Association.

"Accordingly, all cities under Association control are to be reorganized into three sectors, to be designated sector one, sector two, and sector three.

"Sector one shall contain all federal, regional and municipal operations; all mass communications facilities; Association regional headquarters; area Central Registry; all Association clerical operations, records banks, security, maintenance, and transportation facilities; and residential quarters for Association members of all ranks.

"Sector two shall contain all heavy industry, all essential industries and all public transportation facilities other than intra-city transit.

"Sector three shall contain all non-essential industries, and all non-Association residential and commercial operations.

"In the interests of security, clear lines of demarcation are to be established and maintained between sector two and sector three. Wherever possible, existing physical divisions between areas of the city are to be utilized as sector boundaries. These may be natural divisions, such as rivers or ravines (see Plan Blue, attached), or manmade, such as highways or railway lines (see Plan Red, attached). In cities where no natural or manmade divisions now exist, suitable boundary areas will be created by confiscation of land under the provisions of the Consolidation of Small Industries Act, the Highway Construction Act, the Housing Improvement Act or any of the Urban Safety Acts.

"This operation is critical to the future of the Association and is to be given absolute priority. All attached plans, specifications and timetables are to be followed without deviation."

—Proclamation of Operation Beltline,
ACRA (Association Civic Reorganization Administration)

CHAPTER 3

Selkirk awoke early in the afternoon and set about making breakfast. The snow was still falling, but bright skies to the east and north promised an early break in the storm.

He sat long over a second and third cup of coffee, trying to recall details of the dream that had disturbed his rest and awakened him abruptly, with a pounding heart, several times during the night. He could remember nothing beyond a vague scene of chaos and destruction in which he played an active, though undefined role, at once destroying and saving, killing and rescuing.

The dream had first come to him some weeks ago and had returned many times since. And always the same dream: fierce, rolling walls of flame under a pitch-black starless sky; bodies in the dirt around him; cries and commands in a language he knew but could not now identify; a great commotion, figures running, falling, writhing. Time, place and purpose were unknown to him, but the moment itself was vividly real.

As he sat by the window, deep in thought, the telephone rang. It was Noreen. "I thought you'd be up by now," she said. "Did you sleep well? Have a good breakfast?"

"Everything's fine. I'm not used to such comfort."

"Are you ready to meet everyone?"

"I'm working up to it. I've already promised Jack that I'll behave myself. They'll never suspect I'm an extraterritorial."

"Oh, don't be silly. You get along with people easier than anyone I know, Martin, really. Now, about dinner—"

"Why don't we meet, and I'll take you both to dinner? You'll have enough to do without making dinner."

"That's awfully nice, Martin, but we'll be in a terrible rush. They're arriving at eight. Maybe tomorrow evening."

"All right. Can I help in any way?"

"No, not at all. Everything is taken care of. I just wanted to warn you that we'll be eating early and probably in a hurry. Do you mind?"

He laughed. "Noreen, I'm used to living in a tent. Just eating at a table is a luxury."

"Good. We'll see you about six, then," Noreen finished brightly.

Selkirk put the telephone down and returned to the window. The snow had stopped. He could see equipment busily clearing the streets and sidewalks.

He opened the cabinet, set the microdeck for the update channel and read off the weather forecast and present conditions in the city. The temperature was 6° (Celcius), the wind was mild, and most streets had been cleared. He decided to borrow one of Jack's sweaters and take a walk.

The streets had indeed been cleared and with an efficiency and speed that Selkirk was forced to admire despite himself; there were, after all, some things the Association could do well. On most of the major avenues there was no trace of snow. He walked aimlessly toward the downtown area, turning onto the main thoroughfare, Association Avenue. In the distance was a broad open plaza—he recalled Jack's mention of it the night before—and as he drew nearer he noted, to his surprise, a green patch in the center. In midwinter, minutes after a heavy two-day snowstorm, he saw before him a low grassy hill topped by a stand of white birch in full foliage.

He made directly for the plaza. As he stood staring in amazement at the greenery swaying in the gentle wind, devoid of all traces of snow, fresh and alive as a springtime glade, an elderly, uniformed man approached him.

"It's a good sight on a day like this, isn't it, sir?" the man asked pleasantly.

"Once you get over the shock, it's very pleasant. How is it done?"

The man smiled. "Visitors are always surprised to see our plaza. It's quite an attraction. Go ahead and touch the trunk, sir. It's all right. I'm the attendant."

Selkirk walked across the springy grass and laid a hand on the birchbark. The elderly man, beside him, said, "You'd never think it was artificial, would you?"

Selkirk drew back his hand. "No."

"You know, sir, before the Association built this plaza, there were kids in this city who had never seen a tree. Teenagers, some of them were, too. The last trees went in the Black Christmas. I guess you were only a boy then."

"I remember it."

The attendant nodded. "I was hospitalized, myself. My youngest girl, too. Nearly lost her. For 500 kilometers along the coast, no one saw the sun for 11 days." He was silent for a moment, then said briskly, "Well, that's all in the past. The Association sees to it that the air is kept clean for the people."

"They also make trees. Just like God."

The attendant smiled uneasily. "Well, I suppose in a manner of speaking, that's true. But the Association doesn't claim to be God, sir."

"Why don't they plant real trees?"

"Trees wouldn't grow in this soil," the attendant replied confidently. "Besides, even if they grew, it would be years before people could enjoy them. And we'd always be worrying about lightning or high winds or some kind of blight, or vandalism by a gang from sector three. But these trees are practically indestructible."

"Even better than God. Very impressive."

The attendant looked very uncomfortable. "No, sir, the Association isn't… we want to help people. That's all."

"No offense intended. Thanks for your time."

Selkirk walked on, away from the plaza and its eternal false springtime, away from the massed white towers of sector one, toward the central portion of the city. After some time, he became aware that the streets around him were empty. They had been cleared of snow as thoroughly as the main boulevards, but were unused. He had not passed a single person on the street for 15 minutes or more. It was midafternoon on a working day; all the buildings around him, the factories and warehouses, were occupied and fully lighted, and yet not a person was to be seen.

He came to a transverse street where the vehicular traffic was heavy. To his left, on the next corner, was an elevated glass booth occupied by several men. Selkirk walked toward it. As he drew near, a man emerged. He wore the green uniform, but the piping on his tunic was black. He smiled in a friendly manner and placed himself directly in Selkirk's path.

"Good afternoon, sir. May I assist you?"

"Where is everyone? I haven't seen a person on the streets for the last 20 minutes."

The uniformed man jerked a thumb toward the dark buildings behind him and said, "That's sector three just across the viaduct. It's not good to walk around here. Are you going in?"

"Yes," Selkirk said.

"We can't provide an escort for a few more hours, sir. You enter alone at your own risk."

"I'll risk it."

"We particularly advise people to be out of sector three before dark. It's a dangerous place."

Selkirk grinned at him maliciously. "Hasn't the Association wiped out crime?"

"The anti-Association element is under control in all sectors, sir, but there has always been a heavy concentration of them in sector three. We advise people to take reasonable precautions."

"I'll take care of myself," replied Selkirk, stepping forward. The guard moved aside to let him pass.

The long viaduct vibrated under Selkirk's feet as he crossed. Six lanes of traffic passed below him with scarcely a sound but the rush of their motion. Four lanes passed beside him, and still he saw no people. Only when he had penetrated several blocks into sector three, well out of sight of the men in the glass booth, did he notice others on the dirty, snow-covered street.

Small groups of men clustered in doorways and on corners. Women walked in pairs. All were silent and watchful. They looked at Selkirk suspiciously as he approached them and averted their eyes as he drew near. A dog sniffed at him and trotted off, and Selkirk realized that this was the first animal he had seen since his return.

His surroundings were not reassuring. Ugliness and squalor closed around him like a curtain. He felt a growing uneasiness in the people he saw and within himself as well.

Sector one had been clean and spacious; sector three was drab and filthy. The sidewalks were coated with dirty slush; most of the corner drains were clogged and overflowing. All the buildings were old, sagging. Some of them were gutted by fire, others deserted and vandalized. All were black with a century's deposit of grime. The streets were littered with rubbish. Fully a third of the windows he passed were cracked, broken or boarded up. In a dirty lot between two burned-out buildings he saw the hulk of an old internal combustion automobile, a model outlawed when he was a youth. A scrawny cat peered at him coldly from beside the blood-colored wreck. Decay and neglect hung in the very smell of the air.

The more he saw, the more curious Selkirk became. The jarring incongruity of these sectors existing so near one another, separated by a few streets and a roadway, belied all the bright promises of the Association. He thought at once of taking Jack and Noreen here and demanding an explanation from them. But his brother would undoubtedly find a way of turning even these wretched surroundings into an excuse for praising the Association, and his sister-in-law would tell him he did not understand.

In the middle of one long empty block he stopped for a moment, debating whether to continue his dispiriting progress or return to sector one. It was shortly after 16:00. The sky was growing dark. The slush penetrating his shoes made his feet cold. There seemed to be no point in going on, yet he was reluctant to turn back.

Suddenly an image flickered before his eyes… flame and smoke and running figures, broken bodies all around him, his own hands covered with blood, horrified faces appearing and fading. He put his hands over his eyes and leaned against the building beside him. It was the dream again, but it came now in daylight, while he was awake.

A tall, slim black man, middle-aged, dressed in a heavy coat, stepped out of a nearby doorway and approached him. "Are you all right, mister?" he asked.

"Yes, thanks. Just dizzy for a second."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"I'm all right. It's nothing."

"Want me to get anyone for you? I can find anybody in this sector."

Selkirk, fully himself again, shook his head. "Thanks anyway, but there's no need."

"If you're looking for anybody, I can find them for you. It's the easiest way, mister. People in sector three don't write their names on the door."

"I'm not looking for anybody. I'm just walking."

"Sure, mister. Just walking. If you're after cigarets or real whiskey, you're in the wrong place. Nobody in here deals. It's too risky."

"I'm not after anything. I told you, I'm just out for a walk."

The black man edged away and studied Selkirk with obvious disbelief. "We don't get many tourists here. There's nicer places to walk," he said.

"I know. What happened to this part of the city, anyway? I used to know it. It wasn't like this."

The black man smiled, without amusement, and gestured at the surroundings. He spoke in the voice of a mocking preacher. "You see around you the results of ACRA Project One, mister. The Association tells us it's a glorious success. Millions of people are leading better lives, thanks to the farsighted planning and humanitarian concern of the Commission on Housing and Population Redistribution. That's true enough. Trouble is, all those happy people are in sector one. In order to put them in those nice new buildings, they had to sweep out all the trash and troublemakers who didn't buy the Association dream. They put them all in sector three and promised them paradise. It's a little slow in coming, that's all."

"Did they force you to live here?"

"Hell, mister, the Association never forces anybody to do anything. Don't you know that? They just fix it so there isn't anyplace else to go, that's all. We're not prisoners, we're here by choice. If we want out, all we have to do is join the Association and get on their waiting list for sector one relocation. It's a long wait, but that's the price we pay for not jumping on the bandwagon right away."

Selkirk nodded. "That sounds like the Association's way of doing things. I'm learning fast."

"Where have you been, mister?"

"Out of the country. I haven't been back for a few years. I guess I lost touch. I'm just beginning to realize what's been going on."

The black man looked at him with new interest. "You really are just taking a walk, aren't you?"

"That's what I said."

"All right, then, mister, you take a tip from me and walk out of here, fast. You better find out what's going on before you go walking into places. Sector three is trouble."

"I'm not worried about 'anti-Association elements,'" Selkirk shrugged.

"I'm not talking about that. We got no crime in here. I'm talking about the men in the green hats. The muscle men. They like to drop in here once in a while, a couple of squads of them, and put the pressure on us to be good boys and do as we're told. It can get nasty, sometimes. We know what to do when they come around, but you might get yourself hurt. They kill people, sometimes." He flashed his humorless smile. "It's always an accident. Unless it's our fault."

"Thanks for the warning."

"My pleasure, mister. I thought maybe you were looking for some bootleg, or trying to find someone. It's not easy to find people in this sector unless they want to be found. But if you're just strolling through, you'd be smart to keep right on strolling. You look like you can take care of yourself, but when the odds are 20 to one and you're puking like a sick cat from their gas cover, you don't have much of a chance no matter how big you are. Good luck, mister."

Without waiting for a reply, the black man turned and reentered the doorway from which he had emerged. Selkirk started back down the long block, toward the viaduct that would return him to sector two.

CHAPTER 4

By the time the party was an hour old, Selkirk had met all the guests. They soon formed into groups, each concerned with its own Association gossip, and Selkirk gladly left them to themselves. He preferred the company of Evelyn Curry.

She arrived with the Stewards, a pallid couple from Jack's office. She was as pretty as Jack and Noreen had promised, dressed in a trim, green dress that set off her auburn hair and fair skin to perfection. Selkirk was drawn to her at once, but in a very short time, her manner had put him on edge.

Evelyn laughed with him, but her laughter was too transparently social, as if she were humoring him. Actually, she was utterly without humor. Selkirk found it difficult to speak a word without drawing from her either a defense of the Association or a detailed and worshipful explanation of one of its policies, delivered in the manner of a lecture. He grew impatient. When for the third time she told him of the safety and security the Association had brought to the city, he had had enough.

"You talk about the Association the way a woman talks about her lover."

She tensed. "That's a crude thing to say."

"Crude or not, it's true. Someone like you doesn't need the Association."

"But I do. We all do," she responded ardently.

"That's what I keep hearing, but nobody ever explains why. Go ahead, Evelyn, explain. Convince me. I'll listen."

She was silent for a moment. Then she gave him an appraising look and began. "I was born in this city, Martin, and I've lived here all my life. I've heard a lot of stories of what it was like before the Association. Children couldn't play safely in the streets. There were places a grown man was afraid to walk. My father told me stories of being attacked by hoodlums out on a crowded street and no one would help him. No one wanted to get involved with others' problems, Martin, because they had so many of their own. That's why we call those times 'The Age of Self.' "

Selkirk nodded sympathetically and sipped his drink. He did not remember the horrors others spoke of so feelingly; but he was an extraterritorial. He did not speak of his memories. Evelyn went on.

"No one cared about anyone else, Martin. We all tried to take care of ourselves, and we failed. We turned society into a jungle. But now we have the Association. We all belong to something together and help one another. We care. Life is better, and I'm grateful, and if I sound as though I love the Association, it's because I do. I'm not ashamed of that."

"Life isn't better for everyone," Selkirk interjected. "I was in sector three this afternoon. Life there looks pretty bad."

Her eyes widened. "Did you really go into sector three? Martin, it's terribly dangerous in there."

"I've probably seen worse places," Selkirk said, laughing to reassure her. "It certainly wasn't dangerous. The most menacing character I met was a fellow who thought I was looking for cigarets and real whiskey." He grinned, raised his glass to the light and studied it critically. "I'm beginning to think I should have bought some. This stuff is awfully weak. Doesn't the Association approve of whiskey, Evelyn?"

"As a matter of fact, we don't. We do all we can to discourage drinking. And everyone is a lot healthier now."

Selkirk looked around at the pallid, dark-clad crowd in the apartment. Few of the men reached his eye level. All wore worried expressions. He raised the glass, drained it and said, "They certainly do look like a robust crowd."

"You can joke if you like, Martin. Sector three is a dangerous place. It's full of the worst anti-Association elements."

"I didn't meet any. What's ACRA Project One, Evelyn?"

"That's the master plan for redeveloping the cities. It's been a great success."

"Not in sector three."

"I wouldn't waste my sympathy on the people there. They're free to leave any time. The Association is willing to help them as soon as they decide to help themselves."

"Sure. What about the raids?"

She looked at him with weary impatience, as if he were a child asking foolish questions. "Well, of course, Martin. The criminal element flocks there. Sometimes the police have to go after them to make an arrest."

"So they go in force. They use gas."

"They have to, for their own safety. Martin, there are people in sector three who hate the Association… violent people, Outland sympathizers. They slip past the Barrier to attack Association members, kidnap, terrorize…"

"Come on, Evelyn. That's fantasy."

"It's true. A man in my building was taken early this quarter. His body was never found."

"How do you know Outie terrorists did it, then?"

"The Association has clear proof. Everyone knows it, Martin. You just don't want to—" She broke off suddenly and flashed a welcoming smile to someone behind Selkirk. He turned and saw the Chamberlains.

"May we join you?" Chamberlain asked. "We've been trying to speak to you all evening. Martha's always wanted to talk to an extraterritorial."

"Now, dear, you'll make Mister Selkirk feel awkward," Martha Chamberlain murmured, smiling disarmingly. "I just want Mister Selkirk to know how much we admire the work the Extraterritorial Service has done."

"It must be difficult being away from home for years at a time. Jack said you've been out of the country most of the past 12 years," Evelyn said.

"Longer than that. I joined up pretty young."

"You must have some wonderful stories. You've been to places few of us will ever see. I understand the need for the travel ban, but I sometimes regret it," Chamberlain sighed.

Evelyn sprang to the defense. "The ban protects the people and the Association. There's no fuel to spare for pleasure trips, and besides, it's dangerous beyond the Barrier. Here, we're safe."

"Quite true, Miss Curry, quite true," Chamberlain replied coolly. "I merely dream of those exotic places I read of as a boy."

"I don't know of any exotic places. I'm a great disappointment as a storyteller," Selkirk said.

"Is it true? Those rumors we hear about your memories… are they really true?" Martha Chamberlain asked timidly.

Selkirk looked at her coldly. "I don't remember."

There was a sudden embarrassed silence. Chamberlain looked at his watch and cleared his throat. His wife reached out to touch Selkirk's arm in apology, but drew back quickly. Selkirk did not speak. Finally, Chamberlain said, "It's 22:15. I think we'd better start saying our goodbyes. It's been nice speaking to you. Good evening, Miss Curry, Mister Selkirk."

Selkirk smiled faintly but said nothing. When the couple had left, Evelyn said, "She shouldn't have asked you that."

"About my memory? Why not?"

"It was tactless."

"Don't worry about my feelings. Let me get you something."

"No, thanks. Tomorrows' a working day."

"Tonight's a party."

"No, really, Martin. I ought to be going."

"If you like. I'll take you home."

"There's no need. I'll be riding with the Stewards. They expect me to go with them."

"Tell them you've changed your mind."

"I couldn't do that."

Selkirk suddenly felt like a schoolboy, trying vainly to coax a date out of an unwilling new acquaintance. He was unaccustomed to women like Evelyn and unwilling to take part in what struck him as an adolescent charade. He was beyond such maneuvering.

Whatever Jack and Noreen might think, Evelyn was not the girl for him. None of the people here, for that matter, were the kind he cared to know any better. They were dull people, and the city was a dull place. It would be good to return to his work.

The party ended early, and Selkirk was not tired. When Noreen and Jack went to bed, he watched a television interview with a defector from the Outlands. The man spoke eloquently of the horrors of life beyond the Barrier and was almost lyrical in his praise of the Association. His fulsome monologue disturbed Selkirk. It was too carefully enacted to be believable. And there was something else about it, an elusive, disturbing quality, that made him snap the set off in a fit of anger. He knew the man was lying, but because he could not tell how he knew, he felt frustration.

It was not yet midnight. To tire himself out, Selkirk took a long walk through the cold, quiet streets. But that night he slept poorly. The dream came to him again.

The Documents: III

"Before the Association, people marked the passing of the year in a peculiar way. They divided the year into 12 unequal periods, which they called months. These months were named after gods and heroes of primitive times, or in words from a dead language. The names were often confusing to people. For example, the month called 'October,' which means 'the eighth month,' was actually the tenth month of the old calendar. 'December,' which means 'the tenth month,' was actually the twelfth month!

"The old calendar was confusing in other ways, as well. Some months had as many as 31 days. One month had 28 days in some years, and 29 in others. The months began and ended on different days of the week. A month that began on a Monday in one year might begin on a Wednesday the following year. Most people agreed that a new calendar was needed, but somehow, no one was able to suggest a calendar that would solve all the problems to everyone's satisfaction.

"But this was before the Association came into being. In the third year of its existence, the Association offered the people a new calendar. The year was divided into four equal quarters. Each quarter had exactly 13 weeks. It always began on a Sunday and ended on a Saturday. Between the last day of the second quarter and the first day of the third quarter was a holiday, known only as Association Day. This holiday did not appear on the working calendar. Every fourth year, another such holiday, called Progress Day, came after the last day of the fourth quarter.

"Everyone liked the new calendar. It solved all the old problems in a simple, orderly manner."

—from The Association at Work,
a fifth-level reading program

CHAPTER 5

Early in the morning of his third day in the city, Selkirk reported to Central Registry. Throughout his solitary breakfast in the empty apartment and all during the silent ride across town, he found himself looking forward to his next assignment with an eagerness he would have considered ludicrous when he arrived here.

The truth of the matter was that his stay so far had been a disappointment. He was bored. He had come to visit his brother for relaxation, not excitement, but he had expected a more enjoyable time. There were few places to go, few things to do. For all the vaunted safety of the streets, no one seemed to go abroad at night except on brief social calls.

The city was a lonely place. The women he had once known were gone. Some were married; some were working at new jobs in distant cities; some had simply dropped from sight. Old friends and comrades were off on distant assignments. The new people, Jack and Noreen's friends, were dull and timid, able to speak of nothing but the Association. Even the apartment, for all its size and brightness, seemed confining. A new assignment, whatever it might be, would be a welcome change.

Before the windowless white monolith that now housed Central Registry he paused for a moment, unabashedly staring upward, impressed by the sheer bulk of the building. The old Central Registry had been a converted loft in a nondescript downtown section and not far from City Hall. There was little resemblance between it and the building that now filled an entire city block and towered over 30-story neighbors.

He joined the crowd passing through the busy, revolving doors and, after a quick glance around, decided to ask for information rather than attempt to puzzle out the directory that covered both sides of a 30-meter wall in the main corridor. He joined a slow-moving queue before one of the score of booths in the lobby. Ten minutes later he was greeted by a smiling, young woman. Her crisp white blouse bore pale-blue piping at collar and cuffs, identifying her as a member of the Association administrative staff.

"Good morning, sir. May I be of service?" she asked brightly.

"I was told to report today for my next assignment. Can you direct me to the right office?"

"Certainly, sir. May I have your name?"

"Martin Selkirk."

She thanked him and pressed keys beneath a viewplate. She studied the screen, frowned slightly and turned to him. "Mister Selkirk? Is that S-e-l-k-i-r-k?" she asked.

"That's right."

"May I have your Association number?"

"I don't belong."

"Oh?" She seemed surprised, but quickly recovered and said, "Well, you'd probably be in a different file, then."

Behind him, Selkirk heard a disapproving murmur about those who "don't even join and expect all the service." He ignored it. The woman, meanwhile, was studying the latest information on the viewscreen. She looked up, perplexed.

"Are you sure you were to report today, Mister Selkirk?"

"Positive. I have my Termination of Assignment card right here."

"May I see it, please?" she asked.

Selkirk withdrew a card from his wallet and handed it to the woman. "The date is on it," he pointed out.

She inserted the card into the viewer, studied the view-plate and returned the card to him. Pressing other keys, she resumed her study of the viewplate. Her expression grew steadily more perplexed.

"What's wrong now?" Selkirk asked.

"Your name is not on any of today's briefing schedules, sir."

"What briefing schedules? Look—today is February 10, isn't it? And my TA says I'm to report here on February 10, doesn't it?"

"Forty-one, first quarter. That's correct, sir. That would be February 10 by the old calendar."

"All right, then. I'm here. Where do I report?"

"That's the problem, Mister Selkirk. There's no reassignment briefing scheduled for you today."

"I didn't come here for a briefing. My specialty doesn't require it. I came to learn where my next assignment is and when I'm due there. That's all I want from anyone here."

"Briefing is a part of initial reassignment procedure, sir."

"Since when?" Selkirk asked curtly. Once again he heard the impatient murmuring in the line behind him, and this time he turned and swept the crowd with a belligerent glance. The murmuring stopped.

"It's been the policy for nearly two years now, Mister Selkirk," the woman said.

He realized it should not have been a surprise. Some changes were bound to have occurred in his long absence. It was pointless for him to take out his irritation on an information clerk who probably knew very little about the change beyond the fact that it had been put into effect. He simply said, "Well, what do we do now?"

"You can try room 116, sir. It's straight down the main hall, at the very end. They'll be able to help you."

Selkirk thanked her and started down the long, bright corridor flanked on either side by the closely printed directory of names and office numbers. The main hall of the Central Registry was a passageway of considerable width, at least ten meters by Selkirk's estimate, and quite crowded. Great numbers of people were moving in both directions and both sides were lined with groups of six or eight studying the directory. Yet despite the crowds and the congestion, the flow of human traffic was smooth. Selkirk was impressed by the high degree of efficiency. Everyone seemed to be going somewhere with a clear and definite purpose in mind. Fully half the people he saw now were wearing the uniform of the Association. Most of them were young women in white blouses and trim, green skirts. The older women and all the men wore full green uniforms. The piping on all the outfits was blue. Many of those in civilian clothing carried small discs in their hands.

Room 116 was massive. It occupied fully one-third of the entire ground floor of the building. It was as crowded as the corridor and very noisy. Over the low ground murmur of many voices rose the staccato click and clatter of machinery and the periodic drone of a monotonous voice calling out numbers over a public address system.

Selkirk gave his name at the main desk. He was given a numbered disc and told to wait until his number was called. He waited with growing impatience for nearly 40 minutes before at last hearing his number announced. The attendant at the desk scanned a screen above the entrance, on which numbers were constantly appearing and winking out. She announced, "You are to go to booth 12B, sir. That's the twelfth door in corridor B, the second corridor from the end."

Selkirk crossed the noisy room and turned down a narrow corridor. At once the sound was muffled. When he entered booth 12B and shut the door behind him, the silence was complete.

The booth was a small, brightly lit chamber. Its sole furnishing was a chair of the type used by students, with a view-and-response apparatus attached to the right arm.

There was no other furniture in the room. The chair faced a wall, the upper portion of which held a screen. The lower part of the wall held a speaker and two slots, one above the other. As soon as Selkirk had seated himself, a voice came from the speaker instructing him to insert his numbered disc in the lower slot. When he did so, the light faded, the screen brightened and came into focus and he found himself facing an extremely pretty, dark-haired woman who sat behind a desk.

"Good morning, Mister Selkirk. May I assist you?" she asked in a low, pleasant voice.

"You can help me find out what my next assignment is and when I'm to report."

"I'm sure we can determine that, Mister Selkirk. Do you have your form TA-263 with you today?"

"I do. I've already shown it to the girl in the information booth."

"Will you insert your form TA-263 in the response slot of your chair, please?" the woman on the screen asked briskly.

Selkirk did as requested. As she studied the image on her viewplate, Selkirk in turn studied her. She was not beautiful, but she was attractive, with a liveliness he had not encountered in other women of this city, and her hair was cut less severely than that of most women. Even the bland uniform of the Association looked good on her. She was, in fact, the first woman he had seen since his return whom he really wanted to see again.

"Your TA-263 is in order, Mister Selkirk," she announced.

"I know that. Now will you tell me my next assignment?"

"You will be told of your next assignment after your reassignment briefing, sir."

"I've never required a briefing before."

"They are now standard procedure, sir."

"All right. When will it be?"

"There is no reassignment briefing scheduled for you today, Mister Selkirk."

"I know that, too. That's why I'm here," he said impatiently. "What will you do now?"

"I apologize for the inconvenience. I am awaiting information as to the time of your briefing."

The cool, impersonal tone of her voice and manner was not to his liking. Selkirk was about to give a brusque reply, but he checked himself. It would do no more good to lash out at this woman than it did to snap at the clerk in the information booth. Besides, he liked her. For all he knew, she might be seated at a desk halfway across the city, but he had a feeling of closeness, as if she were actually no farther away than her image. She looked out at him with an expression professionally noncommittal, sitting primly until information flashed on the viewscreen before her. She studied it and looked up at Selkirk. "Please report back to this room at 13:00 hours, Mister Selkirk."

"Is this where I get the briefing?"

"You will be given all the necessary information at that time," she went on. "I will issue you an admission disc. Please have it with you when you return. Thank you for your cooperation, Mister Selkirk."

Before he thought to ask her name, the screen went black. The lights overhead grew bright. A disc clattered into the top slot. The door of the booth clicked and swung open. Selkirk's time was up.

He ate a light lunch in the Central Registry cafeteria, sitting alone at a table that no one sought to share with him. The food was tasteless but filling. He returned to booth 12B, and at exactly 13:00 hours a familiar voice instructed him to insert his admission disc into the lower slot. He did so, and as before, the light faded and the woman appeared on the screen.

"Good afternoon, Mister Selkirk. How are you this afternoon?" she greeted him.

"I'm curious. I want to know about my next assignment."

"We hope for clarification very shortly, sir. Now it will be necessary for you to fill out form R-2201, and that requires—"

"Wait just a minute," he cut in. "My 2201 was sent to you five weeks ago. Why should I fill out another one?"

"We have no record of your most recent form R-2201, sir. Will you please fill out—"

"Check it out, miss. Right now. That form is a dozen pages long, and it's a lot of work to fill it out completely. I'm not going to spend the rest of the day in here sweating over a 2201 until I'm satisfied that it's necessary."

"Very well, Mister Selkirk," she said, with no apparent loss of good spirits. She turned to the speaker on her desk, punched a code and spoke into the machine. The sound had been cut off, her voice replaced by bland music. The silent inquiries lasted several minutes. When she turned to him, the music faded and her voice came through. "We have no record of receipt of your form R-2201 in the past six weeks, sir. We regret the inconvenience, but we must request that you fill out a form R-2201 at this time."

"Very nice of you," Selkirk said scornfully. "Fortunately, I have nothing better to do with my time than fill out forms for the Association to lose. Suppose I just walk out of here? What do you do then?"

He rose, ready to walk out as he threatened. When he glanced up at the screen, a sudden change in her expression held him. For a moment, there was a look that all but reached out and touched him. Confused, he paused where he stood.

"Please don't leave, Mister Selkirk. Please stay."

"What for?"

"Unless we have a completed form R-2201, your last assignment is not officially completed and your reassignment will be delayed. We regret this imposition on your time…" As she spoke on, explaining the needs and requirements of Central Registry, Selkirk resumed his seat at the desk. He was disappointed to find that her manner was once again impersonal and businesslike. But he realized that the words he had spoken sarcastically were no more than the truth. He actually had nothing better to do with his time; he wanted reassignment; and perhaps he could get to know this woman better if he stayed. He half listened as she completed her explanation.

"All right. Let's get on with it."

"Thank you, Mister Selkirk. You'll have a stylus in a moment. We appreciate your cooperation."

"I'd appreciate yours. Will you tell me your name?"

She gave a look of mild surprise, half smiled, then said in her most professional manner, "We are not permitted to reveal that information. I'm sorry, sir."

"I'm sorry, too. Why don't you make an exception?"

The screen faded and went dark. The subdued lights in the little chamber grew somewhat brighter. On the view-plate of Selkirk's chair the familiar image of a form R-2201 came into sharp focus. A packet containing writing implements thumped into the well of the upper slot. Selkirk extracted it and set to work.

At 14:35 hours, Selkirk had completed the form and dropped the stylus into the lower slot. Once again the lights dimmed and the screen brightened. The woman reappeared.

"Thank you, Mister Selkirk. Your form R-2201 is now being checked."

"What happens now?"

"If the form is complete, it will be forwarded to our assignments division. They will evaluate your records and schedule a reassignment briefing at the earliest—"

"They will not," Selkirk broke in. "I'll speak to your assignments division right now."

"I'm afraid that's not—"

"So far, the Association has managed to lose one of my forms and waste a whole day of my leave time. Given half an opportunity, you people could lose my entire file and have me going from office to office for the rest of my life, filling out more forms for you to lose. I won't do that. There's time for me to see someone in assignments and find out what I need to know today."

"Mister Selkirk, the assignments division operates on a schedule."

"So do I, and I've had to change it because of Association incompetence. Now let them do the same."

She made no reply for nearly a minute, then turned once again to her speaker. "I'll try to arrange an appointment," she said.

Once again, all sound from the screen ceased and the music rose. Selkirk watched as she spoke. Her expression revealed nothing. She spoke to a second party, then a third, before turning to him. As the music ceased, she said, "Please report to room 3616, Mister Selkirk. You have an appointment at 15:45 hours with the Assistant Coordinator of Assignments."

"Thank you, miss." He rose, then turned again to address the screen. "One thing more—I still don't know your name."

"Good afternoon, sir," she said and vanished as the screen went dark.

The offices on the upper floors were considerably larger and better furnished than the booths on the first floor. Selkirk was reminded of a successful, but not particularly important, executive. The impression was reinforced by the manner and appearance of the man facing him across the gleaming white desk in Room 3616.

His name was Ridley. He had the soft look of the indoors. Selkirk let him talk, and he went on predictably, presenting himself as one whose time was consumed in affairs of great magnitude and dazzling complexity, one for whom the merely human problems of a single citizen were a necessary but regrettable intrusion into the exercise of greater duties. Selkirk endured this for a time, but finally grew irritated and broke in.

"You've gone on for nearly 15 minutes and told me nothing. I came here to learn about my next assignment, and so far I haven't. Are you going to tell me what I want to know, or is your job just to keep talking at people until they give up and go away?"

"That's not entirely fair of you, Mister Selkirk," Ridley said, appearing mildly disappointed. "I'm being as helpful as I can, but you're asking for information I don't have."

"Who does?"

"We're checking that right now. Until we have a satisfactory R-2201, we can't process your reassignment, and we've received your R-2201 only minutes ago."

"As I've already pointed out, it was sent here five weeks ago and lost. What I don't understand—and maybe you have this information, Ridley—is why my assignment requires Association briefing."

"We've handled extraterritorial reassignments for several years now, Mister Selkirk."

"Sure you have," Selkirk agreed, "and all that was involved was making our travel arrangements, handing us a sealed envelope and checking our names off a list. No briefings. We used Association facilities because we thought they were efficient, not because we wanted advice."

"Things change. In order to do our work properly, we find it necessary—"

"How can you say that with a straight face?" Selkirk cut in. "The Association is always patting itself on the back for its efficiency and service. In my case the efficiency is zero and the service is rotten. You're not even doing the job you were formed to do, and now you want to interfere in things you don't understand at all."

"You're very antagonistic toward the Association," Ridley announced in an injured tone of voice.

"I don't give a damn about the Association. What I don't like is a lot of incompetents wasting my time and then trying to milk me for compliments on their efficiency."

"I'm sorry we've made that impression on you. I truly am." Ridley sighed, sounding for the first time as if he genuinely meant what he said. His viewplate flashed, and he excused himself. After a quick glance at the message, he said, "It's the report on your R-2201."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know… let me look it over more closely," Ridley said as he studied the image before him.

"I know I filled that thing out perfectly. I don't intend to do it again."

"That's not the problem. Your papers are in perfect order."

"I knew that when I came here. All right, if everything's in such good order, how about my next assignment?"

"Your papers are in order, Mister Selkirk. You've done everything that's required, but someone in your organization has neglected to inform us of the reason for your recall, and until—"

"What the hell are you talking about, Ridley?" Selkirk said angrily. "You don't have to know any more than you do now. You have my TA-263 and 2201. That's all you need and all you'll get, and if you bother my superiors they'll tell you the same."

"There should be no great delay, Mister Selkirk. I can promise that the material you need will be delivered to you personally tomorrow. There will be no need for you to return to Central Registry. I can see that this has been frustrating for you, and the least we can do is spare you any further inconvenience. Give me your address, and I'll see to it personally."

Selkirk accepted the peace offering. He doubted that he could do much better than this.

He reached the main entrance at 16:30 hours and walked out into a fresh, light snowfall. He was meeting Noreen and Jack for dinner, and he felt hungry already. Turning up his collar, he walked to the restaurant through the softly falling snow.

CHAPTER 6

The restaurant was the best in the city. If Selkirk doubted that, he had only to look around him. The green uniform of a high-ranking Association official could be seen at nearly every table, and of those who wore civilian dress, more than half wore the green rosette.

He refused to let the presence of so many Association people bother him. After all, he told himself, Jack and Noreen belonged. They had joined for business purposes— Jack had assured him of that a dozen times since his return—and it made sense. A young lawyer in a city of more than a million Association members would find few clients if he and his wife did not themselves belong. And there was no denying the social aspect of the organization. It had much to offer to some people. Noreen and Jack were living well, and they seemed happy. Selkirk knew he had no claim on them. It would be absurd to ask them to give up a good life and friends simply because he disliked big organizations.

For that matter, his own outfit was pretty sizable. Of course, the Extraterritorial Service was not the Association, and it was ridiculous to compare them, but it was, nevertheless, a big organization. Only in the field were things done by small, close-knit teams. That was what Selkirk liked best about ES. He recalled, vaguely, good times with good friends.

"What are you thinking about?" Noreen asked.

"Oh… just my work, People I knew," Martin answered vaguely.

They were silent for a time; then Jack said, "You've been with the ES for more than 12 years, Martin, and I still don't know what you really do out there."

"I work. I just work."

"But what exactly do you do?" Jack pressed him, and Noreen added, "I'm as curious as Jack is, Martin. I've never asked you, but I've been dying to since the first time I met you. Why is the Extraterritorial Service so mysterious?"

"I'm not trying to be mysterious. There's nothing left for me to tell. I have no memories."

Jack's expression changed. He seemed suddenly on his guard. "I've heard about that business with your memories, but I never believed it. I wouldn't even ask you about it. I thought you'd laugh at me."

"Then it's true that they erase your memories?" Noreen asked.

"I don't know what you heard, but it must have been colorful. Maybe that's why Evelyn couldn't wait to get away. She probably thinks I'm a maniac with half a brain."

"What should she think, Martin?" Noreen asked gently.

Selkirk looked around, but no one seemed to be paying attention to their conversation. "Listen," he said, leaning forward. "When I complete an assignment, details of the work are permanently removed from my memory. That's all. There's no danger of damage. It's a very selective process. I retain a general memory of having been in a certain place for a certain length of time, but I don't remember the specifics of what I did there or why I did it."

Jack's tone was accusing. "You never speak of it."

"No, I don't. It's not something I care to chat about."

"What kind of work do you do, that you have to have yourself turned into a robot to carry it out?"

"That's stupid talk, Jack. Extraterritorial aren't robots. I know exactly what I'm doing every step of the way. The only thing I don't have is the memory. A lot of people might even consider that an advantage."

"How can you be so critical of the Association and people who belong to it? You've joined an outfit that owns your memory. That's worse than anything the Association has ever done, or even been accused of."

"Nobody owns me or my memory, Jack. Let's get that straight. The Extraterritorial Service rents my skills at a damned good price and on conditions we find mutually acceptable. One of the conditions is the removal of certain data from my memory when a mission is completed. It works to the benefit of everyone involved."

"Does it?"

"Yes, it does. If you know too much and fall into the wrong hands, it can be uncomfortable. But there's no point in anyone's kidnapping me, or putting me under a probe, or torturing me. I can't tell them anything. There's nothing there to tell."

Jack shook his head reproachfully. "What has all this done to your mind, Martin?"

"Have I been behaving like a raving lunatic?"

"Of course not. I don't mean that. But eventually, the process could go wrong—sweep your mind clean and leave nothing but a heap of flesh and bone. A vegetable."

"I wouldn't risk that no matter how well the ES paid me. What they do is hard to explain, exactly. In a way, it's like having my normal forgetting process speeded up, only the forgetfulness is total in some areas."

"I didn't think such a thing was possible," Noreen gasped.

"The ES is satisfied that it is. So am I."

The waiter arrived to take their orders for dessert. When he had left, Jack studied his brother thoughtfully, without speaking, and then said, "So you're walking around with gaps in your memory… like a book with pages torn out."

"Not exactly. There aren't any blanks; there are blurred spots." Selkirk jabbed a forefinger at his brother and demanded, "What were you doing 20 years ago today? Quick, tell us." -

Jack frowned and rubbed his forehead. "I was in college. In my sophomore year. I'd probably have been studying. I always did my studying around dinner time."

"What subject?"

"I'll think of it. It was… it must have been either math or history. They were my toughest subjects that year."

"What was the assignment?" Selkirk persisted.

"For God's sake, Martin, it was 20 years ago! I'm amazed I could remember the history and math." Jack looked at them and laughed self-consciously.

"Do you think your memory is like a book with pages torn out?" Selkirk asked, faintly smiling.

"That was sneaky," Jack laughed.

"Now you know I'm not a vegetable. My memory of past assignments is like your memory of those lectures 20 years ago. The only difference is that your experiences can be reconstructed and mine can't."

"Don't you ever wonder what they've erased, Martin?"

"I have some idea what it is, and it's nothing very exciting. They remove specifications, directions, locations… things like that. For instance, I know I've spent the last three years in Africa, in heavy jungle. I can remember clearing trees and excavating. I don't remember exactly where we were, though, or what—" He stopped abruptly at a vivid intrusion into his mind. He was in thick jungle, at night. He was armed. A sudden red gold glare blossomed ahead and flames roiled toward him. Screams came from nearby.

"What's the matter?" Noreen asked.

"Nothing. I just… I've never thought of it before, that's all. It's confusing."

"It looked worse than that."

Selkirk laughed. "Nothing to worry about. I haven't forgotten anything I want to remember. All they erase is the stuff that might interest a potential enemy."

Dessert arrived. They finished the meal in silence, then chatted aimlessly over coffee. Noreen and Jack seemed cautious for a time; then they began to reminisce. Their talk recalled Evelyn Curry to Selkirk's mind; Evelyn, so lovely and yet so very tense and fearful of life in the years before the Association. Selkirk could not bring himself to believe that it had been as bad as the tales he was now hearing. He wondered, for a moment, if everyone had forgotten the past as completely as he. Despite these feelings, he kept his silence.

Noreen excused herself, leaving the brothers alone. Jack leaned back in his chair and looked hard at Martin. Suspicion was still evident in his eyes. "It sounds to me as though you're trying very hard—and very subtly, too, I'll grant you that—to convince me that you're nothing more than a hired hand for a construction company."

"That's all I am, Jack."

"I'd like to tell you a few things I've found out about the ES. For one thing, I now know it's a lot more than a construction company."

"Sure it is," Selkirk agreed readily. "But I have nothing to do with their other operations. What do you think I do for ES, anyway? I've often wondered about that. I know Noreen is positive I'm a smuggler." Selkirk flashed a quick broad grin, a challenge to his brother. Jack accepted.

"You look a lot more like a smuggler than a construction worker. I'd have guessed mercenary soldier or club fighter, myself."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"I'm not disappointed," Jack replied. "You don't want to talk about it, so I won't push it. I know it's no use. But if you think I believe that you go off for years at a time to secret locations and then have your memory scrubbed, and all you're doing is digging ditches and chopping down trees, then you must—" Jack hunched forward in a quick accusing movement. "The last time you came back from an assignment you looked as though someone had tried to hack you to pieces. You didn't get that clearing jungle."

"I was in a copter crash."

"All right, have it your way," Jack said, sighing. "You're just a harmless ditchdigger."

"Not quite that, but I'm not a gunman or a mercenary, either. Just a specialist that the Extraterritorial Service finds useful, that's all."

"Sure. I guess I may as well drop it. You're not going to tell me anything. Not now. But maybe later you will."

Again, like a room illuminated by a sudden flash of light, the chaotic images flooded Selkirk's mind. Tortured shapes running out of the spreading flame. The snapping sound of rifle fire on all sides. Then Noreen's hand was on his shoulder.

"Martin, are you all right?"

Selkirk looked up quickly and rose with smooth, unhurried grace. "I'm fine. Jack just got me thinking about all those lost memories of mine. Let's be on our way, shall we? We've all got a busy day ahead of us."

The evening was clear and crisp, a fine occasion for walking. They went a short way together; then Jack left them to return to his office, where he had urgent work to complete. It would not take long, he assured Noreen, but it could not wait. He promised to be at the apartment by 20:00 hours.

CHAPTER 7

Twenty-one hundred hours came and passed with no sign of Jack, and no message. At 21:30, Noreen called his office. No one answered.

"Martin, I'm worried. Jack never does this," she said as she put down the telephone.

"Doesn't he ever work late?"

"He's not in his office. It's empty."

"He could be in a conference room. Any number of places."

"But he always calls. Always, Martin. He knows I worry."

"If it will make you feel any better, I'll take you down to his building. No sense just sitting here."

"I wouldn't want to be out if he should call."

"Then I'll go. I hate to sit around and do nothing when you're so worried."

"Would you, Martin? I suppose I'm foolish, but this just isn't like Jack."

As Selkirk was about to leave, he turned back from the door. "Maybe you ought to call the hospitals," he suggested.

Noreen looked up fearfully. "Oh, no, Martin. They'd have notified me by now if… no, he couldn't…"

"Accidents still happen, Noreen. Give me the numbers. I'll call."

She nodded hesitantly and he followed her to the telephone. Within ten minutes he had reached the four hospitals in the area. Jack was in none of them.

"At least you know he hasn't had an accident," Martin assured her. "I'll go to his building and see what they can tell me. Call your friends while I'm gone. He may have dropped in on someone and forgotten the time."

"Not Jack. Something's wrong, I know."

"Call them anyway. Don't just pace the floor and worry."

"I will, Martin. Hurry, please."

It was almost 23:00 when Selkirk returned to the apartment. He hoped and half expected to see his brother waiting there, but it was Noreen who answered. She was close to tears.

"No luck," he said. "How about you?"

"Martin, I've spoken to a dozen people, and they won't say anything. They're hiding something, I know, but they won't talk to me!"

"Take it easy. You're getting upset, Noreen."

"I can tell! I know they're holding something back."

"Who did you call?"

"Everyone I know who works with him. I couldn't reach them all. Martin, I'm not imagining things," she said, her voice steady. "I'm sure they were expecting me to call. They all got off the line as soon as they could."

"That's a hell of a way for friends to behave. Didn't they have any ideas?"

"They couldn't wait to hang up. That's why I'm suspicious."

"Understandable. Wait a minute, now… you may be right. Does Jack ever handle secret material?"

Noreen thought for a moment. "He never spoke of it, but I know he has a high clearance. It's likely."

"Then he could be on an emergency mission. That would explain why everyone is so close-mouthed."

"It makes sense, Martin. Oh, I hope you're right!"

"Some of the things he said last night, when everyone had left… he mentioned his handling of sensitive matters, and he seemed to think something big was developing. Did you notice?"

"Yes. Yes, I did," Noreen answered eagerly. "He's been jumpy for the past week or so. I know it has something to do with his work, but he wouldn't say… oh, Martin, that must be it!"

"As you say, it makes sense. How about a cup of coffee while we think it over? You stay right where you are—I'll fix it."

Noreen relaxed and spoke more freely as they drank the coffee. She seemed now to be almost ashamed of her earlier fears, but when Selkirk inquired, she spoke of her reasons.

"I shouldn't worry the way I do, but I can't help it. If anything happened to Jack…" She fell silent and stared down at the table top.

"What could happen? Sector one must be the safest place in the world."

"It is, Martin, but even so… a gang of hoodlums from sector three, or a band of Outie terrorists…"

"Outie terrorists in sector one? Outies can't get within ten kilometers of the Barrier," Selkirk said.

"Sometimes they make it this far. Not often, but it does happen. But I'm not going to think about that any more. You're bound to be right. A confidential mission is the only thing that makes sense." She rose to refill their cups. Seated once again, she said, "I do wish he could have postponed it until after you'd left, though. You two haven't had much time to talk."

Selkirk looked away as he spoke. "Maybe we have, Noreen. Jack and I don't have all that much in common any more."

"Jack understands. He was so happy to hear from you. He used his whole quarter's driving privileges to pick you up at the airport. Did he mention that?"

"No, he didn't." Selkirk smiled and shook his head. "He was always like that. He was good to me when I was a kid. Hell, he was my hero. I wonder if he knows that."

"Now you're his hero. He's always talking about the Extraterritorial Service. Especially lately. I think he's almost an expert on the subject."

"Too bad I can't be more helpful. But if I remember anything, Jack will be the first to know," Selkirk said, and they both laughed. He was glad to see Noreen back in good spirits.

They had just risen to reenter the living room when there was a knock at the door. Selkirk answered. A man in the uniform of the security branch was standing outside. He looked curiously at Selkirk.

"Is this the residence of John and Noreen Selkirk?"

Noreen was at the door by now. "Yes," she replied faintly.

"May I come in?"

"Yes, come in, come in, please," Noreen said. The security man caught Selkirk's cold glance and looked from one to the other. "This is Jack's brother. He's visiting for a few days," Noreen explained.

"I see. I'm afraid I have some bad news for you both."

"Is my husband all right?" Noreen asked instantly.

"He's missing, Mrs. Selkirk."

"How… ?"

"He was seen leaving the building where he works at 19:43 hours this evening. The guard who let him out says that two men were waiting for him. He appeared to go with them willingly, but when we investigated, we found evidence of a struggle."

"But who? Jack had no enemies!"

"We all have enemies, Mrs. Selkirk. We believe your husband has been seized by terrorists."

"Why would Outies take Jack?" Selkirk burst in. "He's a lawyer. He's no threat to them."

The security man shook his head solemnly. Before replying, he took Noreen's arm gently and guided her to the sofa, where he seated himself at her side. Glancing at Selkirk, who remained standing, he said, "We believe that Mister Selkirk had uncovered some information about anti-Association activity. Someone must have learned of it and sent word to the terrorists."

Selkirk frowned. "He did seem a bit edgy, but he mentioned nothing to us. Are you sure about this?"

The security man looked up impatiently. "We're sure of nothing except Mister Selkirk's disappearance. There's a high probability that he was taken off against his will. The rest is assumption."

"When will you know? He may be dead by this time!" cried Noreen.

"Don't assume the worst, Mrs. Selkirk. They may have made a mistake and seized the wrong man. They may intend to hold him for ransom, or exchange him for prisoners we're holding. We can only wait and hope."

The next morning, Selkirk went directly to the office of the Assistant Coordinator of Assignments. The halls of the thirty-sixth floor were empty, but the sound of muted voices and the muffled clatter of machinery reached him from behind the closed doors. He proceeded to room 3616, knocked and entered. A thin, bespectacled young man was seated at the desk where Ridley had sat the day before.

"I'd like to speak to Mister Ridley," Selkirk said.

"Ridley?"

"Mister Ridley. The Assistant Coordinator of Assignments."

The young man made a vague, perplexed gesture. "I think you've made a mistake, sir. The assistant coordinator's name is Carstairs. I'm his secretary."

"When he saw me yesterday, his name was Ridley."

"He couldn't have seen you yesterday. Mister Carstairs is on an inspection tour. This office was closed yesterday and the day before."

Selkirk looked over the small office, noting familiar particulars. He had no doubts; this was the room in which he had spoken to Ridley. He moved closer to the desk, placed his big hands on the edge and leaned forward. "Now, listen," he said softly. "Yesterday afternoon I came to this office and talked for half an hour with Mister Ridley, the Assistant Coordinator of Assignments. He agreed to deliver all the necessary information about my next assignment to me, personally, because of the delay I ran into here. Now something has come up, and I want to postpone reassignment."

The secretary threw up his hands in confusion. "Sir, that's all impossible! No one is authorized to deliver reassignment information outside this building."

"I'm telling you what Ridley told me."

"There is no Mister Ridley in this division, sir!"

"I was sent here from room 116. The woman who handled my request made a special appointment," Selkirk continued evenly.

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere," the secretary said. "What was her name?"

"She wouldn't tell me."

"But she must have told you her name!" the secretary said with renewed exasperation. "Procedure requires that all records advisers introduce themselves to the client by name and number before proceeding to give assistance. Did she give you her number?"

"No name, no number."

"I don't understand this at all, Mister…" The secretary halted and looked up uncertainly.

"Selkirk. Martin Selkirk."

"Well, I simply do not understand what happened in your case, Mister Selkirk. It's completely against all Association policy to deliver reassignment information personally to anyone, and it's a violation of procedure for a records adviser to omit identifying herself."

"I don't know your rules; all I know is what happened. The woman didn't identify herself in any way. She told me to report here at 15:45 hours. I came here and spoke to Ridley. Wait a minute," Selkirk said as a thought occurred to him. "You can call room 116 and find out who was working booth 12B yesterday."

"Exactly what I had intended," the secretary said, reaching for his telephone. He punched a code and conversed cryptically with someone on the other end. Hearing only half the exchange, Selkirk could not follow it.

After a pause, the secretary seemed to be talking with a new party. This time the questions followed one another in quick succession, and Selkirk easily followed their course. Then all conversation stopped, abruptly. The secretary became taciturn, speaking in monosyllables or brief phrases. He looked up during a pause and studied Selkirk closely. When he had finished talking, he punched a short code and then put down the receiver without speaking.

"Are you absolutely sure of your facts, Mister Selkirk?" he asked.

"Yes, I am. Why?"

"The screen in booth 12B malfunctioned four days ago and was removed from service. No one has been assigned to booth 12B for the past four days. No one, Mister Selkirk."

"Your records are wrong. That doesn't surprise me."

"The records also show no evidence of your reporting to room 116, or even being in this building yesterday."

Selkirk felt himself tensing, the anger rising within him; but he kept his voice calm and his manner reasonable. "There's plenty of evidence. My TA-263 was duplicated. I filled out a 2201."

"We'll check all that, Mister Selkirk, all in due time. I think you ought to tell us a few things first. Why were you here?"

Selkirk weighed the possibility of walking out of this muddled place, but he saw no advantage in it. He was as anxious as the secretary to unravel the mystery of Ridley and booth 12B. He told the whole story of his difficulties to the young man, withholding the reason for wanting a postponement, speaking only of an urgent personal problem. Before he had finished, he noticed a faint mocking smile on the secretary's face.

"Did I say something funny?" he asked.

The secretary shook his head. "I should have known as soon as you walked in. You've got 'extraterritorial' written all over you. I don't know how I missed it."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"About you, all of you from ES," the secretary replied, reaching out to depress a button on his desk. "I don't know why they let you run around loose. I'm sure you remember being here yesterday. You probably remember all sorts of things that never happened."

Selkirk felt rage rising, but he curbed his tongue and his feelings. He rose slowly, turned and stared in amazement at the two guards who had positioned themselves on either side of him. "What are these for?" he demanded.

"They'll make sure you don't cause any trouble on the way to medical."

"Just come along quietly. We won't use the needier unless we have to," assured the guard on Selkirk's left.

He was the bigger of the two, Selkirk's height, and a few kilos heavier. He had his hand on the butt of his needier. One dose at this range, and Selkirk would be unconscious for hours.

Reaction was instantaneous. Selkirk did not think, but moved at once, jabbing his fingers into the guard's throat, then clutching his collar and belt and swinging him around to slam into the other man. He snatched the needier from the gagging guard's belt, sent a burst into both of them and then into the secretary, who had reached for the telephone but never managed to lift it. The young man fell foward over the desk, smashing his glasses as he hit.

Without making a sound, Selkirk moved to the door quickly. Other guards might be waiting outside. But the hall was empty.

He reentered the room, closing the door behind him. After moving the unconscious men behind the desk so they would not be immediately visible to anyone who might chance to enter, he took the second guard's weapon.

Suddenly, for just an instant, he felt that he was two men at once, living two simultaneous scenes, each as real as the other. He was in this room, under cold, artificial light; and he was in a jungle, at night, moving through the darkness, away from the flame and outcry. He felt the dank air and smelled the reek of fire and he looked at the mild green walls and listened to their smothered silence; the stink of burning flesh mixed with the close smell of overheated rooms; then he was only here, now, in room 3616, with the three unconscious men.

He blinked hard and shook his head. The dream again, but so real. Maybe the secretary was right. Maybe Jack was right. They ruin our minds. Perhaps he should go to medical, see a doctor on his own. Talk to someone who knows.

But he knew he was here yesterday. He had talked to Ridley and to that woman in booth 12B. I know those things happened. Why the jungle, and fire? What's happening to me? What have they done with my memories?

He steadied himself against the desk, his mind working furiously but only entangling him more deeply in confusion. The sound of a peremptory rap at the door alerted him. There was a pause, then a second rap. He slipped behind the desk and sat, clutching a needier in his lap. "Come in," he called.

A guard entered and came to attention before him. "I've been sent to check your request for two security men, sir."

"Yes, what about it?" Selkirk looked down at the desk and saw the glint of tiny fragments of glass and a faint smear of blood. He laid a hand over them and drummed his fingers impatiently. "Well, what about it?"

"Staffers Gildea and Muller were dispatched at 09:45, sir, and we have received no verification of their arrival."

"That's because they haven't arrived here yet. I'll notify you when they do. That's all."

"I've been assigned to wait here for them, sir," the guard snapped.

There was no way out of the impasse but one. The longer he waited, the more suspicious the guard was bound to become. If he looked around the office, he would find the others. Selkirk brought up his hand, aimed and, before the guard was aware of what was happening, fired. Selkirk caught him squarely and he dropped without even a sigh. Selkirk was at his side at once, stripping him of his needier. He left the office, jamming the door behind him, and headed down the hall.

A needier was cocked and ready in each pocket for any emergency, but none arose. He made his way out of the building without difficulty. In the crowds that swarmed through the great hall and lobby, he walked unnoticed past a score of guards and out the doors.

Here, for the first time, he thought of his next step. To return to the apartment would be unwise. That was his only known address, and it might already be under surveillance in connection with Jack's disappearance. To return there now, as an armed fugitive, would only complicate the situation.

As he walked rapidly from the looming white building, his course became clear. He had no friends in the city, but that did not trouble him; he had plenty of money, and the needlers in his pockets would provide his protection. Everything he owned was at the apartment; but he did not own much and had no regrets over abandoning his few possessions.

He headed for sector three.

CHAPTER 8

The inquiry into the case of John David Selkirk, ALS28-0704-6195, began at 08:20 hours on the morning of First Quarter 44; old calendar, February thirteenth. The accused admitted to a personal inquiry into matters beyond his authorized clearance and was declared guilty of a breach of security. On the advice of his advocate, Norman Chamberlain, he had forfeited his rights to trial and appeal and placed himself at the mercy of the Special Court. He was assigned to a self-corrective program of unspecified duration at an Association Rehabilitation Center. The hearing ended at 08:46.

"I hope I've done the right thing," Jack said to Chamberlain when they were left alone. "I hope I haven't made a terrible mistake."

"You know you haven't, Jack," the older man assured him.

"But should I have admitted guilt so bluntly? I never meant to endanger Association security; they must know that. It was foolish curiosity on my part, not malice. I wanted to know more about the Extraterritorial Service because my brother belongs to it. A trial would have given me a chance to explain."

"The Association judges results, Jack, not intentions. The court believes that a self-corrective program is necessary. Accept their judgment. It will give you a chance to reexamine yourself and correct your goals."

"But they didn't mention any time! I could be away… I could be there the rest of my life!"

Chamberlain placed a hand on Jack's bowed shoulder to lend him reassurance. "It all depends on the progress you make. You might be home before the year is over."

"Why couldn't they say so?"

"Trust them, Jack. Your own misjudgments have gotten you into this trouble. You have to learn to trust your superiors without question from now on, or there's no hope for you."

"Yes. Yes, you're right," Jack agreed, pacing restlessly across the small room. "I do understand, Mister Chamberlain. I trust the court. I just wish… I only want to see Noreen and Martin."

"They know everything, Jack. They'll receive weekly reports on your progress."

"But if I could only see them…"

"Isn't it better this way? We want this episode to be forgotten, so when you come back you can start afresh, without everyone remembering these days."

Jack nodded eagerly. "Of course. You're absolutely right. How is Martin taking this, Mister Chamberlain? Can you tell me that? Is he angry?"

Chamberlain smiled a broad smile and shook his head slowly. "Martin told me you were not to worry," he said. "I spoke with him this morning, and he promised me he'd have a job waiting for you in the Extraterritorial Service, if you don't want to go back to your old position."

"More likely the Association won't want me."

"You know that isn't so."

"I should have demanded a trial," Jack said desperately. "They would never have found me guilty."

Chamberlain's voice and manner were firm. "And if they had, and you'd been sent to prison? It's entirely possible, you know. You'd have been caged with criminals,, murderers, all sorts of sector three trash! And when you came out—if you survived—you wouldn't have a chance. This way, your record remains clear, and Noreen retains ill Association benefits during your period of study. Don't look upon this as punishment, Jack. It can be a beginning. There's no shame connected with rehabilitation."

Jack nodded wearily. "I know all that. I've been telling myself those things since they brought me here. I'm just upset. If only they'd set a time, so I'd know…" He buried his face in his hands, then lifted his head and sighed.

"It won't be long," Chamberlain repeated gently.

"It will seem like forever. No mail, no visitors…"

"That's the best way. With no distractions, you'll concentrate on the program. It's all for the best."

The door opened and a guard entered. Jack started to rise. The guard raised his hand in a gesture of reassurance and smiled at the two men. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, but our transportation is waiting."

They rose. Chamberlain put his arm around Jack's shoulder. Through his heavy coat he could feel the man's body trembling.

"It won't be long now, Jack," he said earnestly. "Think of yourself. Don't worry about Noreen. The Association will take care of her."

Outside the room another guard awaited. Flanked by the two uniformed men, John David Selkirk walked down the long corridor and disappeared through a barred gateway. As the gate slid back, he turned for a last look at the world he was leaving.

No one was there. The guard took his right arm and led him forward, and the gate rang shut behind them.

They reached their destination that night, traveling the final kilometers to the rehabilitation center in a closed van. Jack and the five men who had come with him were taken to a small brick building where a stocky, red-faced man stood with arms folded before a desk, awaiting them. Attired in a trim field uniform he watched, expressionless, as the guards lined up the newcomers before him. Slowly, without a word, he walked down the line of men, inspecting each one, then walked behind them, still silent, and finally returned to the desk, where he seated himself.

"I am Colonel Sipanka of Association Security. I welcome you to Camp Alexander," he announced. "This is the finest of the Association's rehabilitation centers, and I tell you this: you are very lucky to have been sent here. Our staff and our facilities are the best. Those of you who cooperate with the program will benefit greatly from your stay at Camp Alexander. Those who choose not to cooperate—" here he paused and looked searchingly at each man in turn before going on "—will learn that the Association has other ways of treating those who can not live within its rules."

At rigid attention, Jack listened to Sipanka's hard, even voice. He was hungry and deeply fatigued. A sick, weak feeling came over him too quickly to resist. He felt cold sweat trickle down his spine and bead on his forehead; his stomach was wrung with pain; suddenly he grew faint, staggered forward and fell. In an instant, guards had seized him by either arm and hauled him to his feet.

"Bring him here," Sipanka ordered, and the guards dragged the prisoner before the desk. At Sipanka's command they released their grip and left him standing unsteadily before the commander.

"Which one is this?" Sipanka asked.

"John David Selkirk, sir," a guard replied.

"Oh, this is the one who threw himself on the mercy of the Special Court, is it?" Sipanka leaned forward and rose. His fingertips just touched the surface of the desk. "Do you expect any mercy here?" he asked.

Jack hesitated, uncertain how to respond. He shook his head, then staggered back from Sipanka's sudden, backhanded blow.

"Answer when I speak to you. Are you going to make trouble here?"

"No. No trouble," the prisoner said weakly.

Sipanka struck him again. "You address me as 'Sir.' All the camp personnel are 'Sir' to you. Do you understand?" He looked at the five men in line behind John Selkirk, challenging them with cold narrowed eyes.

"Yes, sir," they chanted.

"And you?"

"Yes, sir. I understand, sir."

"That's good." Sipanka stepped back, folded his arms and laughed. The guards joined in. "See how much you learn here and how fast? You're not here half an hour, and look how well you're behaving. Have you learned anything?"

"Yes sir," the men responded loudly.

"Good. Remember it." Sipanka gestured to the guards. "Get them out of here," he finished contemptuously.

Roughly, with much shouting and many threats, and a kick at anyone who came within range of their heavy boots, the guards drove the six out of Sipanka's office and lined them up outside. They quick marched the group for more than a kilometer to a small barracks with its windows heavily barred. The guards herded the six men inside.

The building was in the shape of a narrow rectangle. In the middle, facing the door, was a counter; behind it were shelves containing blankets and linen. On either side of this central area a hallway flanked by cubicles extended to the end of the corridor.

After a surly clerk flung a single blanket to each man, the guards led them along the corridor, placing them so that no two men were in adjoining cubicles in any direction. Jack slumped on the edge of the cot, the major furnishing of his cubicle, and jumped as a voice blared from a speaker over his head.

"Present time is 23:05 hours. You will be up at 05:15 hours and out of here, with the building cleaned and inspected, by 05:30 hours. If you can't do it, you go without breakfast. Lights out in two minutes. Do not attempt to communicate with anyone during the night, and do not attempt to leave your assigned space for any reason." The speaker clicked and went dead.

Jack rose wearily and looked at his spartan quarters. Besides the cot, the room contained a stool and a small metal table that held a microdeck reader. The bare white walls glared under the overhead light. Jack felt his head beginning to throb. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders and collapsed on the cot, falling asleep at once.

As promised, the newcomers were aroused before dawn the next morning and rushed through breakfast. Seated in the mess hall, Jack had his first chance to speak to his companions, but he was reticent. He waited for someone else to speak first. As he took his first sip of hot coffee, he winced visibly and his hand flew to his lip. The man beside him grunted in sympathy.

"How's the mouth? Sore, I bet," he murmured.

"A little."

"They gave you a pretty bad time last night."

"They always pick out one man and make an example of him when a new batch arrives," a young man across the table said. "Don't worry, mister. It doesn't mean anything."

"I hope not. Last night it sounded as though they couldn't wait to get their hands on me," Jack replied, rubbing his tender, swollen mouth.

"What'd you do, anyway?" another man asked.

"Breach of security. I forfeited trial and was sent here."

"Could be a lot worse, mister. You're better off than the insubordinates. They get that treatment all the time."

"I've had enough to do me," Jack said fervently.

"Just don't get tapped as a troublemaker. No matter how hard they push you, don't push back," the young man warned.

The man seated beside him nodded solemnly. "That's he truth. This isn't such a bad place if you play along, but if they think you're a troublemaker, it can be hell. They'll treat you like an Outie."

A command from the guard ended their talk. They filed out and formed outside the mess hall in the first faint light of morning, shivering in the thin, chill air. The guards kept them standing for ten minutes, then marched them off to the main section of the camp.

The rest of the morning was spent in processing. They turned in their clothing and personal belongings and were run through a shower room, then given close shaves and haircuts. A full medical examination followed, after which they were issued gray coveralls, jackets and heavy work shoes. The six men who had arrived together were processed as a group, and in the intervals, Jack learned something about his fellow inmates.

The oldest of the six was a frail, white-haired man named Albertson. He spoke to no one. Albertson was in his mid-fifties, but looked ten years older. Several times during the processing he was seized by a coughing fit that convulsed his shrunken frame, but he waved off anyone who offered help. After the clothing issue, Albertson was separated from the others to undergo a more detailed physical examination. He went quietly, resignedly, without a word or a gesture of farewell.

''Friendly old guy, wasn't he?" one of the men observed.

A squat, paunchy man named Colovos shook his head sadly as he watched Albertson depart, dwarfed between two towering guards. "They can't do a damned thing for old Albertson except keep him warm. He hasn't got three months left in him. Why the hell couldn't they let him die outside?"

"Because they caught him, buddy, that's why," the youngest member of the group informed him cheerfully. "Do you know how much that sick old man stole from the Association? Nearly two million."

Someone gave a low, appreciative whistle.

"Hell of a lot of good it did him," Colovos said.

The young man, whose name was Ost, looked around and grinned at the others. "Anybody who feels sorry for old Albertson has to be crazy. He was a millionaire for a few years, and he'll probably die a millionaire."

"In a prison," added a dark, somber-looking man.

Ost laughed. "This isn't a prison, it's a rehab center. Just don't ask me to explain the difference."

"I'll tell you the difference," the fifth man said angrily. "Maybe it doesn't mean anything to a dumb kid, but I have a wife and two children waiting for me, and I know they're not going to starve while they wait. If we were in prison, we could just forget about our families. They'd be on their own. But the Association takes care of the families of rehab patients. That's a pretty big difference, as far as I'm concerned."

The dark man spat in the dirt. "Do you believe everything they tell you?" he asked coolly.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

The guard's return ended their talk. They were marched off to be registered on the camp's records. Finally, at lunch, Jack was able to speak to the dark man.

"What did you mean before? Don't you think our wives are being cared for?" he asked.

"I never said they weren't," the dark man replied cautiously.

"No, but you made it sound… well, as if the Association isn't going to live up to its obligations. Why wouldn't they?"

The man shrugged. "Why should they? What can you do if the Association decides to stop supporting your family? You'll never even know until you get out. If you get out."

"Don't talk like that. They only keep you here for a year or two. Sometimes less."

"And sometimes a lot more. Look, mister, you think what you want and I'll think what I want, all right? If it makes you feel good to trust the Association, trust them."

"But you don't."

"I don't trust anybody." The dark man shrugged, turning away.

On the way out of the mess hall, the fifth man of the group sidled up to Jack and introduced himself as Arnold Mewry. "I saw you talking to Doukas. I'd keep away from him if I were you. He's trouble," warned Mewry.

"I was curious about a remark he made."

"About our families being cut off? That's a lie. The Association honors its commitments."

"I think so, too. I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

Mewry nodded eagerly. "That's the way to think, friend. Use your head. Don't listen to these idiots."

"The others don't seem so bad."

"They're criminals, every one of them. They belong in prison, not here. You and I are different. We made one foolish mistake, and we're ready to atone for it, but we're not going to blame the Association for what we know is our own fault. We're lucky to be here. When we get out, we can hold up our heads. Our families will be waiting for us, and well have our old jobs back."

"That's what I'm counting on," Jack agreed.

"Don't ever let yourself doubt it. Doukas doesn't know anything. He just wants to sound smart. Ost is nothing but a petty thief. Colovos isn't a bad sort, but he's not very bright. If you're smart, you won't pay attention to any of them."

"You certainly sized them up fast. What are you here for, Mewry?" Jack asked.

The little man answered readily. "I altered some records. I was trying to protect a friend, and when the security men found out about it, my friend denied everything and put the blame on me."

"That's hard to take," Jack said sympathetically.

"I can take it. I can take anything. I'll do whatever they want and be out of here in six months. You'll do the same, if you're as smart as I think you are."

After lunch, the group was taken to their permanent quarters. They were instructed to put the time until the next assembly to good use.

The new rooms were larger than the ones in which they had passed the previous night, but the furnishings were similar: a cot, a chair and a table with a microdeck reader. Jack looked over the available material. It was a program of six microfiche, all dealing with some facet of Association history or policy. He screened through a unit composed entirely of questions and answers. For all its brevity, it seemed a tedious read, and he replaced it. The others were all much longer, and their titles were forbidding: A Documentary History of the Association; A Short History of the Association; The Other Side: An Analysis of Early Anti-Association Propaganda; and The Rationale of Rehabilitation.

Twenty minutes remained until they were to form outside for the march to afternoon orientation. He screened A Short History of the Association and began to read.

The Documents: IV

The new president came under immediate attack from all directions. The military resented his unwillingness to move at once against the Free Brotherhood and their supporters. The Joint Chiefs of Staff openly accused him of seeking to discredit the military and leave the nation helpless. Fanatics denounced him as a plotter against the late president and vice-president. The drought grew worse each day, and there was no relief in sight. Food riots broke out in the cities, and the wheat belt was on the brink of open rebellion.

Through it all, Grainger had to try to organize a government and put together a program that would somehow bring the country through the worst internal crisis in its history. Surrounded by enemies and accusers, he turned to his only source of hope.

On the evening of July 10, three representatives of the Association arrived at the White House. Their private meeting with the new president lasted for nearly seven hours. The next day, President Grainger announced that the Association had offered its total and unconditional assistance in his efforts to restore order and domestic harmony to the nation and that he was accepting the offer.

—A Short History of the Association,
Association Resources, AY08

CHAPTER 9

At 13:00 hours, Jack Selkirk's group marched to a large one-story auditorium, where they were joined by about two dozen other men, most of them in coveralls, a few still wearing civilian clothing. Soon after they were seated, a tall, slender man, bespectacled, with a scanty stock of graying hair, took his place on the platform in the front of the hall and placed a stack of small packets on the lectern before him. Two other men took up positions on the aisles. The tall man summoned them forward and handed packets to each of them; then they returned to their places on the aisles. The man at the lectern cleared his throat and began to speak.

"My name is Reis. I am Director of Orientation for the counseling staff of Camp Alexander. On behalf of the counselors and staff, I welcome you.

"Rehabilitation is a complex and demanding process, and I'm sure that all of you have found your first hours at Camp Alexander confusing. Perhaps they have been somewhat frightening. This is only to be expected. My purpose this afternoon is to give you a clear understanding of what you can expect during your stay here, and what we, in turn, expect and require of you.

"My assistants will give each of you a packet containing a set of six microcards," he continued, gesturing to the two men who were proceeding up the aisles and passing out the packets. When each man had received one, Reis went on. "Open the packets. Items one and two are a list of camp regulations and a map of the major buildings and roads in Camp Alexander. You will commit both of these items to memory by tomorrow morning. You are also to familiarize yourselves with the contents of the remaining cards. The third card contains the schedule you will follow for the next two weeks. At that time your orientation will be complete and you will be assigned to an individual rehabilitation program."

Reis went on to explain the remaining cards, which dealt with camp organization, rehabilitation procedure and the goals of the program; and as the end of the hour drew near, he stepped around the lectern and stood before it, hands behind his back. He paused for a moment, then said, "Your first orientation session is now officially completed, but I would like to add a bit of personal advice to the information I have given you. I urge you all to give us your full cooperation. The success of our rehabilitation efforts depends on your willingness to cooperate with the staff and the guards. Obey commands. Do your assigned work willingly, without question. Be honest and truthful in all dealings with your counselor, and hold nothing back from him. A man who shows obedience, diligence and trust is already well on his way to rehabilitation. On the other hand, a man whose behavior shows a negative attitude, one who refuses to cooperate in his own rehabilitation and sets his own misconceptions above the goals of the Association… such a man is a cancer among us. Like a cancer, he must be removed. I assure you, such men will be removed and sent to places more suited to their needs."

He glanced at his watch. "It is now time for you to proceed to the counseling center. I wish you good luck in your efforts. Remember this: the man who cooperates need fear nothing."

The counselor's office was the first cluttered room Jack had seen since his arrest. It was a sight from an unremembered past. A room like this had not existed, he marveled, since the early eighties.

He saw no microdeck reader and no microcard cabinet, although he knew the room must contain one. Instead, against three of the walls stood massive bookshelves packed tight with thick volumes. All remaining wall space was filled with charts and posted bulletins. Opened books and journals lay stacked one atop another in precarious piles. Papers were everywhere.

Jack welcomed the change from the bald surroundings of the rest of Camp Alexander. He felt relaxed amid such informality, and his curiosity was greatly aroused. He would have liked to roam about the room and inspect it more closely, but he had been ordered to await his counselor and thought it prudent to remain seated. If a counselor were to enter and find an inmate leafing through rare and precious books, his reaction might be highly unfavorable. Jack did not dare risk it.

After 15 minutes, a man entered. He was about 30, chunky and robust in appearance, red-cheeked, with thinning fair hair. Walking directly to Jack's chair, the man smiled and extended his hand.

"You're John David Selkirk, I take it. I'm Dan Holzer, your counselor. Call me Dan, won't you?" he said brightly.

"All right, Dan," Jack said, taking the proffered hand in a firm grip.

"Good. No need to be formal here. Just gets in the way of our work." Holzer dropped his folder on his desk and seated himself. "Successful counseling requires mutual trust. "I don't know about you, John, but I've always found it difficult to establish a trusting relationship with someone who feels obliged to call me 'Sir.' "

"I never really thought about that."

"Then think about it." Holzer folded his arms and leaned forward on the desk. "Go ahead, John, think it over. Would you feel more relaxed if you called me 'Sir' and I called you 'Mister Selkirk'? We can work that way, if you prefer."

After a moment, Jack said, "I'd rather keep it on a first-name basis."

"Then that's the way we'll do it. I like it that way myself. Tell me, John, how do you feel? You've had a rough time. I heard about Sipanka manhandling you the night you arrived. I'm sorry about that. He's been officially reprimanded, by the way. I can promise you that such a thing will not happen again, as long as you don't go looking for trouble."

Selkirk shrugged. "I suppose he was only trying to do his job. It wasn't anything personal."

"Of course he was trying to do his job. That's all we're here for, to do our job, you and I, Sipanka, all of us. Sometimes the colonel forgets that he's in a rehabilitation center, though, and starts acting as if he were back at a work camp. One incident like that might set a man's rehabilitation back months."

"I don't think it hurt me. It may have helped. Maybe I needed something like that."

Holzer tilted his chair back, studied Jack closely and asked, "Why?"

"Well, I did something pretty serious, and everyone… it seemed almost as though everyone was trying to let me off as easily as possible. No criminal charges were brought against me, and my hearing was held at once. I had a close and trusted friend as advocate. Everything was made easy. Sipanka reminded me that I was in trouble, and maybe that was good."

Holzer grinned happily. "You're one clear-headed man, John. I have to deal with some mighty troubled people in this office. They come in here shouting and carrying on about injustice and persecution, insisting that there's a plot against them, doing everything they can to make successful rehabilitation impossible. But you know you've made a serious mistake, and you're willing to face it."

"There isn't much else I can do, is there?"

"You can lie to yourself and to me. A lot of them do that."

"I won't. I want to complete my program as fast as I can and get back to work with the Association."

"I think your prospects are excellent," Holzer said. "I've screened over your records and your test results, and they're promising. This little conversation tends to support them. You're a good candidate for rehabilitation."

"That's great news. When do we begin?"

"We began when you walked into the camp. The program goes on 24 hours a day, John, not just in this office. Always remember that. You're going to be working on it tonight. I want you to tape me a complete report of the events that brought you here. I want to know everything; how it all began, why you persisted, how you felt, how your peers and superiors looked and reacted, what they said—everything. That's our starting point. I'll see you tomorrow at this time. Do a good job, John."

"I will. Thanks for the encouragement."

Jack rose and left the office feeling better than he had at any time since his arrest. Now he was on his way back to the life he had left. If he worked hard and showed his willingness to do whatever was required, he might be out of here sooner than he had dared to hope. The Association was not letting him down.

Reis was at the head of the table. Holzer and five others sat three on each side, records heaped before them. Holzer had just delivered his progress report on subject six, group A-487, John David Selkirk. His was the final report. Reis thanked him and looked around at the others. "Are there any questions?"

One man raised a hand. "I didn't catch his age." Holzer responded, "Subject six is 39. There are facts in this subject's background that make him suitable for our purposes. He's an interesting case. May I?" He turned to Reis, who nodded assent. Scanning the portable reader before him, Holzer continued. "First of all, his attitude toward the program: subject has cooperated eagerly since arrival here. The entire affair of his internment has affected him deeply, and he's still not over the initial shock. His advocate's report indicates normal initial doubt, but he is now firmly convinced of his guilt. He has a deep sense of shame and a desire to make atonement. He's willing to do whatever we require to earn reinstatement. Subject five, for example, is much less concerned about being here. He had an unpleasant situation outside and is in no hurry to return to it."

"I grant you that," said the man who had questioned him. "Five shows minimal motivation."

"The second point to consider about six is his attitude toward the Association. It's fascinating to see how much it's changed in just a few weeks."

"How long has he belonged?" Reis asked.

"He joined at the end of his first year of legal studies. He obviously joined in much the same way a young professional man used to join a political club or a service organization in the old days. We have tapes on which he admitted as much to his friends and his brother."

"Everything to gain and nothing to lose, eh?" someone said.

"Precisely. The Association offered contacts, a chance to be on the inside of things, and yet it appeared to make no demands on members. Subject six had an excellent record and good recommendations. He was accepted at once, and upon completion of his studies he joined the Association legal staff's Domestic Division. His work was good, and despite an obvious lack of interest in Association activities, promotions came fast. He was doing very well at the time of his arrest. By then, he was coming to feel that he was receiving no more than his due, and when he first heard rumors of a change in his section he was quite upset to learn that they might not be to his benefit. Chamberlain verifies this reaction."

"I've seen a number of cases similar to his. They usually respond poorly to rehabilitation," interjected an older member of the group.

Holzer raised a hand. "I haven't finished. Since his arrival, subject's attitude toward the Association has changed completely. He now believes that he's been given a long free ride and has repaid the Association's generosity with treachery and ingratitude. More than anything else, he wants to regain his standing in the Association and have a chance to prove his loyalty. Since we are his only means of redemption he's willing—eager—to place himself in our hands."

"Do you believe he's sincere, Doctor Holzer?" Reis asked.

"I do. All his test results support it."

"Very good. Now, if there are no questions, I would like to add something to Doctor Holzer's report."

"I have a question, Doctor Reis. So far I have heard nothing that makes this man any different from the great majority of the men we deal with. It seems to me—"

Reis silenced him with a gesture. "If you'll permit me, I believe I can satisfy you regarding the subject's importance to us. What you have heard so far makes this man suitable for certain purposes, although as you have pointed out, hardly unique. I have further information that may surprise you." He drew a packet edged in red from the stack before him, opened it and removed a microcard. Inserting it in a projector, he beamed an image on the screening wall. "This is Martin Selkirk, subject's brother. For the past 13 years he has been in the employ of the Extraterritorial Service. At present he is a wanted fugitive."

"What has that to do with us?" someone asked.

"A great deal. Indeed, it may involve the future of the master plan, even of the Association itself. As an extraterritorial, Martin Selkirk is required to submit to memory deletion at the end of each assignment. The Extraterritorial Service uses the Bruckner Process, which completely obliterates all details of a specified time period from the subject's memory and, unknown to the subject, implants in their place a self-consistent complex of artificial memories. The subject of a Bruckner deletion is unaware of the implanted memories. He is told only that certain items are being removed and cooperates because he believes it is in his own interest to do so. In Martin Selkirk's case, for example, he was told that his work involved knowledge of strategic importance, and to retain the knowledge he possessed would put him in danger from unfriendly powers. In each instance, he cooperated fully. I stress the matter of voluntary cooperation, because there is another aspect of the Bruckner Process of which the subjects are not informed. As you know, the outstanding characteristic of an extraterritorial is aggressiveness. The nature of their work requires nothing less. Unfortunately, this makes them dangerous company for other human beings, even members of their own families. Since they cannot be destroyed or kept in lifelong isolation, these aggressive tendencies must be damped to enable them to move safely among normal men and women. This can be done, but only if the patient surrenders completely to the Bruckner Process. Any reservations, and the mind may be destroyed."

"Are we certain?" Doctor Mouris asked. "Is the subject's survival of the deletion positive proof that it has succeeded?"

"Until now, we were certain. Martin Selkirk has raised some doubts. He is a fugitive, as I showed you. The day after his brother's arrest, Martin Selkirk appeared at Central Registry. He overpowered two security guards. I interviewed them, and I assure you they are formidable men. He deactivated them with their own needlers. He also deactivated a third guard and a staff secretary. He stripped the guards of their weapons and ammunition, jammed the door of the office where this took place and made his escape, probably to sector three. There has been no sign of him since." Reis paused and looked at the faces of his colleagues. "Well? What does that behavior indicate?"

"What are you suggesting?" Mouris asked.

Reis raised a hand and counted off points on his fingers as he spoke. "Consider, gentlemen. Martin Selkirk overcame two armed men. He used a highly specialized Association weapon skillfully, felling four men. with four bursts. With no tools, he jammed the door behind him so expertly that it took two mechanics two hours to open it. And he made an escape from a building with the best internal security in the Association. I submit to you that this is the behavior of an extraterritorial in full possession of his faculties."

After a moment of silence, the six men began to speak at once. Reis waited a time, then addressed them in a firm voice. "It serves no purpose to become excited, gentlemen. These are the facts. I have spoken personally with everyone involved. Moreover, information received from subject six suggests that breakdown of the Bruckner Process began even earlier."

"How much earlier?"

"Three days at least. Possibly much longer."

"How reliable is the subject's information?"

"I can answer that," Holzer volunteered. "As part of his rehabilitation, six has been taping reports for me on various aspects of his life and career and on the people close to him. One of the reports was on his brother. Let me play a portion for you. Remember, six knows nothing of what his brother did after his arrest." Holzer drew a tape disc from the folder before him and locked it in the player.

After a few attempts, he found the desired passage and looked up. "At the time of subject's internment, Selkirk was staying at subject's apartment. You will now hear the subject's own description of what happened one evening during dinner." He pressed a switch and John Selkirk's voice addressed the group.

"The talk got around to the memory deletion process, and I asked Martin if he ever worried about the possible effects on his mind. I had heard things, and I was worried about him. He laughed at my apprehension, but twice within the next few minutes he seemed to black out for a matter of seconds. His expression changed and he looked frightened. He made no attempt to explain these blackouts, but I believe he had glimpsed something that was supposed to have been removed from his memory. From the way he reacted, I think it was something painful."

Holzer snapped off the recorder, removed the disc and replaced it with another drawn from his folder. "That's what the subject has to say about his brother's behavior. Now I want you to hear the statement by Albert Spaulding, secretary to Coordinator Carstairs of the Assignments Division at Central Registry. Doctor Reis brought this facet of the case to my attention and secured the tape for me. Spaulding is one of the four men attacked by Martin Selkirk."

Again he tracked a passage, and locating it, played aloud, "The man claimed to have spoken with non-existent personnel of the division and insisted that he had been given advisement in booth 12B of room 116. Upon checking, I learned that booth 12E had been out of service for the preceding four days and that no 'Martin Selkirk' had ever passed through room 116. When I confronted him with the facts, he insisted that everything had taken place as he described, and when I did not accept his story he became angry and acted and spoke in a threatening manner. At this point the guards arrived. I believe that if they had not come, he would have attacked me with his bare hands."

"Well, there it is," Holzer said, shutting off the machine. "Quite a mess. Martin Selkirk has undergone the Bruckner Process five times before, and it's gone without a hitch. But the sixth time, his mind slips and starts generating false memories, his aggressions and his acquired skills return in a rush, and then he disappears. For all we know, his real memories may be returning as well."

"Or he may be dead, or raving mad," Reis added.

"Of course, there are those possibilities. I doubt very much that he could have remained so effectively hidden if he was completely mad, but anything is possible. We won't know until security brings him in or finds his body. They haven't had much success so far."

"Forgive me for being obtuse, but I still do not see what all this has to do with us here," Mouris reminded. "I understand your interest in the man Selkirk, the younger one, the fugitive. I find him quite interesting myself and look forward to the opportunity to study him more closely. But he is not here. The man we are immediately concerned with is subject six, a legitimate candidate for rehabilitation, and I do not see the bearing of all this interesting information upon him. Or us."

"As you point out, Doctor Mouris, we can do nothing with Martin Selkirk because he is unavailable to us," Reis said. "But I believe we might learn something by submitting his brother to the Bruckner Process and observing the results."

"Can we? Martin Selkirk underwent the process five times with a perfectly normal reaction."

"Perhaps a normal reaction was seen because that is all that was anticipated. But we know what we are looking for, and we can keep the subject under close observation around the clock. I think this is what we must do. As someone observed earlier, we have everything to gain and nothing to lose." Reis looked at the men before him, smiling faintly.

"There are certain risks involved," one drawled.

"The Association is in danger," Reis replied emphatically. "If the Bruckner Process proves unreliable, the Extraterritorial Service may be unable to function properly. External pressures would then divert our attention, drain our resources. Progress could be set back decades, perhaps completely halted. We will return to the chaos and disorder of the Age of Self, and there will be nothing to save us."

"But is subject six the key?" Mouris asked.

"Our preliminary investigations suggest a genetic factor as one possible cause of Martin Selkirk's reaction to the Bruckner Process. If this is indeed the case, then we have at our disposal the one man whose genetic pattern most closely resembles his, and it would be the height of irresponsibility to delay making use of him. It will involve hardship and risk for subject six, and while we all find this regrettable, we cannot place the welfare of the individual above the survival of the Association. Subject six is being called upon to serve the Association in a way we may never be able to reveal to him."

"We're also running tests on three extraterritorial whose experience closely parallels Martin Selkirk's," Holzer added. "But I'm convinced that the answer lies in the genetic pattern, and well get our results from subject six. I'll have a copy of my report sent to all of you this afternoon."

"Have you decided on your method?" Mouris asked.

"We'll put six through a series of severe traumas and then submit him to the Bruckner Process. He'll do it voluntarily. Once he comes through, he'll be kept under round-the-clock chemotherapy and hypnotherapy while we try to break down the Bruckner effect and reach his true memory. We'll repeat the treatment until we get results."

"And if he does not survive?"

"Then we will have to find his brother, Doctor Mouris," Reis responded. "In the meantime, it will be best for our purposes if the subject is officially declared dead. See to that, Holzer. I'm placing this business in your hands."

There were no further questions. The meeting ended.

CHAPTER 10

Only a month had passed since her husband's disappearance, but Noreen Selkirk had aged visibly in that short time. She was as pretty as ever, but there was a tension in her movements and an air of apprehension in her manner that had not been present before. Under her eyes were dark crescents of fatigue and anxiety. She slept poorly at night and was tired and nervous through the day.

Her nerves became steadily worse. She no longer went out after dark. Whenever it was necessary to leave the safety of her apartment, she sought the security of crowded ways and brightly lit streets. Terrorists would not dare to strike in a public place. But at night, alone in the big apartment, she feared. Heavy locks and alarms afforded no comfort. She had taken to barricading her door with heavy pieces of furniture. If her husband's enemies tried to attack her here, she would be warned; she would have time to call for help. And if she called, help would come. The Association was here to protect her, and she would be safe if they heard her call.

But why would they come after me, she asked herself again and again. The attack on her husband had been a random act, his fate a matter of pure chance. They had no enemies. She was safe, and it was madness to think otherwise.

Still, she slept poorly and woke often at threatening sounds half-heard: a footfall, a muffled voice, a shout in the street. She sat upright in the dark, straining to hear, then fell back exhausted, too terrified to sleep.

It was as if the old days were returning. Others went their way uncaring, doing their duty, living their daily lives in unsuspecting complacency, while the signs of chaos were manifest all around. Just as it had been before.

Noreen knew of those times. Her parents had painted a vivid picture with their hints and whispered recollections. If the marauders could not take money, they destroyed or killed. Her father had asked desperately, "Where will it end? Who will put an end to the turmoil?" He did not live to learn the answer.

And then the Association came, bringing order. But the destroyers were always there, always lurking in the darkness at the fringe of light. In sector three. Beyond the Barrier. Perhaps even among us, in the Association itself.

At first she had not believed the reports of anti-Association gangs. Here and there, she knew, one was bound to find a twisted mind that warred on its fellows; but the thought of an organized conspiracy against the single cohesive element in all their lives was a concept too staggering to accept. Accidents happened; she could not persuade herself that they were acts of sabotage. People disappeared; she dreamed up a score of foolish explanations and refused to face the truth.

Now she could deny it no longer. Her husband had been seized and carried off outside the very doors of an Association building. Her brother-in-law had disappeared the very next day, and while there was no trace of Martin, the implication was undeniable. Whoever had taken Jack had taken Martin as well. Perhaps it was Martin they had wanted all along; perhaps Martin had found out some secret and been killed as a danger to them; perhaps it was sheer coincidence, the work of random assassins. The true answer might never be known.

All she knew was that her husband was dead. There could be no more doubt about that. The corpse had been too badly mangled for a positive identification, but fingerprints do not lie. And she could not have mistaken the ring. She had given it to him herself, on their tenth anniversary.

Something about the ring troubled her. It nagged at the back of her mind, urging her attention, but she would not respond to the foolish demand. She could feel her mind straining under the pressures of fear and uncertainty, and she refused to give in to her suspicions. It was Jack's ring; no doubt of that. He had been wearing it when he disappeared. She was certain of it.

Almost certain.

Jack had mentioned the ring the day before he was abducted. What had he said, she asked herself. Then she turned her mind away. It was unimportant. Nothing could make a difference now. He was dead, murdered, and she could not have identified his remains. She ought to be grateful for being spared a final look at what his abductors had done.

And what of poor Martin? He had come for a visit, a brief rest before going off to another lonely, faraway stint of hard work, and now he was dead. She did not doubt that. If the Outlander terrorists had killed one brother, they would kill the other just as remorselessly. They had no feelings. They were destroyers, trying to tear down all that the Association had built so carefully, hoping to return society to the chaos their own twisted minds desired. Martin never understood that. For all his size, for all the hardness of his outer appearance, he was an innocent.

She had been as innocent as he, she realized, and with less excuse. Martin had been far away, out of touch, unaware of the changes, but she had never left the city in all the years since the coming of the Association. She should have known, should have read the signs. Her failure to do so was inexcusable.

Perhaps, after all, she had not been so innocent. When the men came to inform her of Jack's death, she had not been surprised. With the ring clutched in her hand, she had hardly heard the account and hardly cared. The truth was known and words were superfluous. Others had disappeared, never to be seen again. Now and then one heard of a sortie of sector three outlaws, an act of disruption by Outie infiltrators. No one liked to speak of such things, and so they went unmentioned. But everyone knew.

She felt spasms of violent, murderous hatred for all who had had a hand in Jack's murder. Sector three should be obliterated, along with all its residents, she told those who would listen. The Outlanders should be destroyed, their lands laid waste. Survival demanded it. Their kind would never change, never learn to care for others, to work for the common good, to share and sacrifice. The world would be better, decent people safer, if the savages were destroyed at once.

Something about the ring troubled her still, persisting in her deepest memories. As the days passed, she regained some measure of control over herself. She began to sleep better and think more clearly. Decisions had to be made, and it was senseless to delay. Now that Jack was dead, his Association benefits would cease. Hers were on a lower level of priority, which meant that she was no longer eligible for this apartment. All to the good. She would get a smaller place, closer to her work, safer. She would learn to manage on her own. Life would never be the same, and she would never get over the loss of her husband, but she felt that she could cope with decisions once again.

And then, one evening, she recalled what Jack had said about his ring; she felt that she no longer knew the truth about anything. The very morning of his disappearance, he had spent nearly half an hour searching for that ring. He had not found it. He had not worn it to work that day. She remembered it all clearly; there was no room for doubt.

But it must have been at his office. It must have been.

The alternative was too awful to think on. If someone at his office, some member of the Association, had taken it, days or weeks before he had noticed the loss, then all was changed. Not the Outlanders or the sector three criminals, but the Association itself had killed her husband.

She told herself over and over again that it could never be. Such a suspicion was insane. If it were true and the Association killed its loyal members and lied to the survivors, then anything was possible, and nothing, ever again, could be certain.

The Documents: V

The Association's acceptance and rapid growth are directly attributable to its effectiveness. Throughout the massive power failure popularly known as the Nine Days' Darkness, Association cities remained peaceful and orderly. During the troubled decade of the eighties, areas with the highest Association membership consistently had markedly lower crime rates. The Association seemed to offer a means to stability and security in deeply troubled times.

It is hardly surprising that when the United States was reeling under an unparalleled succession of disasters, citizens turned to the Association as their savior. If a major political crisis, an extended drought and a series of earthquakes had not occurred within a single three-year span, the Association might have remained no more than a useful service organization.

But a nation of terrified, desperate people saw society collapsing while their elected officials were beset by problems beyond human control. They forced power on the Association and the Association accepted it. At that moment, the wish to serve gave way before the will to rule.

J. G. Temple, In Sheep's Clothing
Confiscated manuscript, AY04

THIS IS A RESTRICTED ACCESS RESOURCE, PROHIBITED TO ALL BUT ACCREDITED ASSOCIATION ARCHIVISTS WITH RATING OF AC4-4 OR ABOVE AND SPECIAL AUTHORIZATION.

CHAPTER 11

Seated by the window of the shabby little room that had been his refuge for nearly a month, Martin Selkirk pondered the unfolding mystery of his own past. Since his flight into sector three, he had thought of little else. Even his brother's plight could not long distract him from his search into the vague and troubled confusion of his own memory.

Disjointed fragments burst upon him without warning in dreams and fitful waking flashes, but he still could not distinguish true memories from hallucinations. Efforts to remember were fruitless; after a few tormented days he learned that the fleeting vivid images came unbidden, and he could only keep himself receptive to them. But so far, nothing made sense. He knew that he had been a mining engineer; but he had had quick pictures of himself as a marine biologist, surveyor and interpreter; he had clear memories of himself working expertly in fields of which he had no present knowledge. And again and again he saw himself killing and destroying, moving purposefully in the midst of slaughter.

The Extraterritorial Service operated in secrecy, and its secrecy gave rise to lurid rumors. Selkirk was aware of the common belief that the Bruckner Process could be used to implant false or distorted memories as well as delete true ones, but he had always scoffed at this idea. He was no longer so certain.

What troubled him most was the way he had behaved at Central Registry. Instinctively, without thought or a moment's hesitation, he had overpowered two strong men, used their weapons expertly and made a clean escape from a building swarming with guards. It was hardly typical behavior for a mining engineer. Acting almost automatically, he had destroyed the raincoat he was wearing and bought himself a cheap secondhand workman's jacket and hat. He had come to the rundown quarter of the city and rented a room that gave him a commanding view of the street approaches and a means of escape over the rooftops. The name he gave had come to him without effort, as though he had given it many times before. He was Mike Sinacori, a factory worker laid off the previous month in another town and now waiting for a job to open at the bottling plant nearby in sector two. He wondered if indeed he was Mike Sinacori, and Martin Selkirk was a false identity implanted for some unknown purpose, reinforced by a web of manufactured memories and a man who pretended to be his brother. Even more disturbing was the possibility that behind these two identities might lie a third, even a fourth, perhaps a dozen more; that whoever he was, he was not a man at all but some sort of half-human half-phoenix rising from the cool timeless oblivion of the Bruckner Process at intervals to take up an artificial life and carry out a mission he could not be permitted to remember. Certainty, doubt and a growing fear for his own sanity tangled in a single, gnawing ache within him.

A sudden wave of destructive fury swept over him, and he had to struggle to keep himself from storming out of the room and brutally attacking the first person he encountered. Seizures of unprovoked rage had begun to come upon him a few days before, without warning. This one passed, and he sank back in the chair, soaked in perspiration, weak from the ordeal of restraint.

A cry from the street came through the open window. He looked out and saw people running. At the far corner, a black van blocked the street. From his other window Selkirk saw a second van closing off the street at the opposite end. Men in green uniforms jumped from the vans and formed a line across the roadway.

Selkirk was certain this was no random sweep. He snatched up his coat and slipped a needier into each side pocket. He started to tuck the third weapon into his belt and froze at a quick double knock on the door.

"Selkirk, let me in, please!" cried a woman.

He moved silently to the side wall. He had rigged the door so that he could open it from this concealed position, expertly using a technique he had never been aware he knew.

"Hurry, Selkirk, there's no time! I'm a friend!" the voice said urgently. It sounded vaguely familiar to him.

He aimed the needier at the door. With his other hand, he released the lock. A woman pushed through the door, and Selkirk swung it closed and locked behind her.

"Put your hands on top of your head and don't move. What do you want?" he said.

"Don't you remember me? Room 12B, remember? You wanted to know my name then. It's Lyna Robinson, Mister Selkirk."

He recalled at once the face on the screen. She looked better in person, even when she appeared fearful and genuinely concerned. But Selkirk was not to be fooled.

"If you came here to set me up for the gang outside, you made a big mistake. I'm not giving myself up," he said.

"Of course you're not. You have to get out of here, right now. There's a security sweep of the entire area. Someone must have told them you're here."

"What makes you so friendly?"

"Harry White sent me. We've been looking for you since you left Central Registry, and we just found out where you've been hiding. Look, Selkirk, Harry will explain everything, but we have to move fast."

The name was familiar. Selkirk knew he had heard it before; he visualized a short, strong man, completely bald, slow of speech, a man who at some time in the far past had been his friend. He could not tell whether this was a true memory or a false one, but he decided to take the chance and trust this woman. He had nothing to lose; better to fight it out on the run than to be trapped in this room. At least now he had a hostage.

"All right, let's go," he said.

They entered the hall, and Lyna started down the corridor. Selkirk grabbed her arm. "Hold it. The stairs to the roof are this way," he said, gesturing with the needier.

"There are men on the roof in support. They were in position before the vans pulled in. We'll have to go through the buildings."

"How?"

"There's a passage. It's nearly a century old. Criminals used it. Come on, hurry."

They ran to an unlocked room at the end of the hall. Lyna went to the closet and swung back one wall. "This is how I came here," she explained. "Move fast, but don't make noise. They may be in the buildings already."

Selkirk followed her into the darkness and the wall swung closed behind them. She clicked on a small pocket light and handed a second light to Selkirk. "Follow me and keep close. We have to go about half a kilometer between the buildings. No talking. If I flash my light twice, stop and don't move until I flash it again."

They moved on steadily, their footsteps cautious. At a muffled crash off to one side, the light ahead of Selkirk flashed twice. He switched off his own light and waited in the darkness, listening. His needier was at the ready. Loud voices came indistinctly through the walls. A woman screamed repeatedly and then abruptly stopped. More crashing sounds followed, then silence. The light ahead flashed twice, and they resumed their flight.

The passage ended in the basement of an abandoned building. The floor was deep in muck and debris. Heavy supporting columns at ten-meter intervals alerted Selkirk to the dangers of an ambush. He swept the dimly lit area quickly and caught a suspicious shape in the shadows.

"Wait," he whispered to his guide. "There's somebody over to the right, behind the column nearest to the wall."

"He's one of us. If anyone follows, he'll stop them. Come on, Selkirk."

They went through a labyrinth of rubble and ruin, passing from building to building, ever deeper into sector three. At last the woman stopped by a heavy grate set into the floor. "There's a service tunnel below. Harry's waiting at the other end."

"How do we lift the grate?"

Lyna did not reply. She stooped and manipulated three of the thick, rust-coated bars. They came from their sockets, and she slid them back, leaving an opening wide enough for them to pass. "I'll go first and light the bottom for you. It's a three-meter drop. Before you let go, slide the bars back into place."

She disappeared through the opening. Selkirk heard her land with a hollow ring on the metal floor of the tunnel and followed as soon as her light went on.

They walked along the tunnel for about ten minutes, before Lyna looked back and announced, "We're almost there. Harry and the others are in the building above us."

"Pretty elaborate. How long did it take to complete all this?"

"We didn't complete anything. Sector three has kilometers of tunnels no one knows about. The Association forced us in here, and we found the tunnels waiting."

She shone the light on the wall, where it struck a small plate. Swinging back the plate, she pressed a signal inside. A section of the tunnel overhead slid back and a beam of bright light played down. Selkirk ducked quickly into the shadows and leveled the needier at Lyna.

"It's Lyna. I'm here with Selkirk," she called up.

A voice answered, but the words were indistinct. Lyna said to Selkirk, "I'll go first. Trust us, please. In a few minutes you'll know you're among friends."

A ladder came down for them. With the needier in one hand, Selkirk followed Lyna up the ladder. They emerged in a sizable square room that resembled a blockhouse. Across the room, at a table, sat three men. One was a total stranger; the second, in the middle, was a stocky, bald man who matched Selkirk's memories of Harry White; the third man was the vanished Mister Ridley. It was Ridley who greeted them.

"Thank you, Miss Robinson. It's good to see you again, Mister Selkirk. For a time, you had us worried. We were sure you'd been taken."

"I don't plan to be taken by anybody, here or outside. Who are you, anyway, and what's your interest in me?"

"I'll explain everything, Mister Selkirk. We have a great deal to tell you. But would you please lower your weapon?"

Selkirk looked over the group, motioned Lyna to join them, then tucked the needier in his belt and stood with his back to the wall. "Go ahead, talk," he said. "And keep your hands where I can see them. The first thing I want to hear is why you kidnapped my brother and what you've done with him."

Ridley looked perplexed. "Your brother? We know nothing of him, except that he's a loyal member of the Association. He's had nothing to do with us, ever."

"He was kidnapped the night before I had my troubles at Central Registry. You're the first anti-Association gang I've met—unless this is all a fake—so I want word of my brother. Let's hear it," Selkirk said.

"We're not terrorists, Mister Selkirk. The only terrorists at large on this side of the Barrier wear the uniforms of the Association. I fear your brother has been arrested for a security violation. I know the process."

"I think you're lying."

"Marty, what's the matter? Don't you remember me?" White asked.

"I do. I think I do. We were someplace… a desert. You helped me."

"Helped you?" White laughed and turned to the others. "I saved this guy's life, and he says I helped him. Can't you remember it, Marty?"

"I can't tell what I remember from what I imagine, Harry. I just don't know any more. I think I'm losing my mind."

"You're more likely finding it, Marty. We have people here who can help you. Believe Ridley, please. We don't know about your brother," White repeated soberly. "The copter. Do you remember the copter crash?"

Selkirk hesitated before answering. "Yes. We were on a survey mission. You and I… and others. The copter crashed and I was hurt. You… you carried me back. The others were all killed."

"You're right about some things," Harry said.

"Tell me!"

"We were on a pacification strike. The copter was hit and we crashed. All the others were killed." When he saw Selkirk's blank expression, he added, "We wiped out three missile sites and were on our way back to base when the copter was shot down. You and I weren't hurt. You caught it later when we ran into a patrol."

Selkirk stood stunned for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't remember." He looked at White, agonized. "Harry, if you're my friend, tell me who I am! What am I? What have I done all these years?"

"You're Colonel Selkirk of the Extraterritorial Service. You've seen action in the Middle East—what's left of it— in Africa, the Outlands… hell, just name a trouble spot and you've been there."

"I'm an engineer, Harry!" Selkirk cried. "I know that! I've helped to build housing in Africa, irrigation projects in South America… I never saw action, I helped people!"

"Sorry, Marty. That's all been planted. I thought you were beginning to understand. For the last 13 years, you've been upholding the Association's external security program. Whenever someone starts to make trouble beyond the Barrier, or sounds as though they may be about to start, we go in and stop them."

"You, too?"

"I was your weapons man, Marty."

"But you remember. Why can't I?"

Ridley replied. "That's what we hope to find out, Mister Selkirk. We've been watching you closely since your reassignment leave began. You said things to certain people that suggested a failure in the Bruckner Process after your most recent assignment."

"When the dreams started," Selkirk muttered.

"Miss Robinson managed to sidetrack your processing at Central Registry and then erase the records of your visit, but you upset our plans by returning unexpectedly."

"Then I was there. I spoke to you that day."

"Oh, yes. We managed to activate booth 12B and arrange to have you sent there. Your insistance on a meeting with the Assignments Division caused us some consternation, but we were able to gain access to Carstairs's office. It was a considerable risk for Miss Robinson and myself, but we wanted you. We planned to make contact through the man who was to deliver your orders, but things went awry."

"Why me?" Selkirk demanded. "I've undergone deletion six times. The first five times it appears to have worked perfectly, but now my memory is broken into a lot of pieces that don't fit together."

"We don't know what caused the disruption in your case," Ridley admitted. "We'd like to, and so would the Association, I'm sure. But we do know how to give you back your true memories."

"Did they do it for you, Harry? Is that how you remember all these things?"

White shook his head. "Someone else did it. I was captured on my last mission, Marty. They couldn't get anything out of me, so they put me under a deep mind probe."

"That turns you into a vegetable."

White laughed humorlessly. "Only if you're a normal human being, buddy. If you're an extraterritorial, it gives you back everything that's been taken away. Everything, to the very beginning. Hell, Marty, that's how the ES puts us back in shape for duty each time, only they use a low-intensity probe. It cancels out the Bruckner effect and makes us… it makes us extraterritorials again. They don't use a deep probe, because that would uncover all the lies they've planted over the years. When I came around, the probers didn't know what to make of me. Before they could decide, a strike force came and got me out. Everybody who knew what had happened was killed, and I decided to keep my mouth shut. I deserted as soon as I could and went into hiding. An old friend put me in touch with Counterforce, and I've been with them nearly six months now."

"What's Counterforce?" Selkirk asked.

"We are, Mister Selkirk," Ridley replied. "All of us who have seen the reality behind the Association's promises."

"What do you do?"

"We want to fight them, as best we can. So far we've done little more than talk and plan and draw up programs for the day when the Association has been destroyed. We haven't done much to hasten that day. It's our hope that you and Mister White and others with your skill and training and experience will join us and teach us how to fight them." Ridley stood, and Selkirk's hand went instinctively to his needler. Ridley raised his hands in a gesture of peace and said, "Perhaps if I explain my role in this you'll understand. I was once a devoted adherent of the Association, Mister Selkirk. But as time went on, and I saw what was being done, I began to question. I asked too many questions. My superiors recommended me for rehabilitation. I still questioned, and so I was sent to a work camp to die. But five of us escaped, and Counterforce was born." He walked around the table and stood facing Selkirk. "You have many of the answers I sought. You know things and have seen things that the Association does not permit even its own members to know. And you have skills we need. I'm a theorist, not a military man. I can tell men why the Association must be fought, but I can't show them how to fight. You can. We need you, Mister Selkirk. We can't offer you much, but we need you badly."

"You can offer me my memory. That's a good start," Selkirk said. He held out his hand to Ridley. "I'm in."

That night, in a compact but well-equipped laboratory deep under the squalor of sector three, the probe was undertaken. It took four hours. Selkirk awoke feeling weak, his head splitting with pain, but with his memory fully restored. He knew who he was and what he was, and the knowledge was bitter: Martin Raymond Selkirk, Colonel in the Pacification Operations Division of the Extraterritorial Service, Commander of Strike Force Nine, a 12-man unit known as "the Headhunters." He was an enforcer of the Association's international policy, and his methods of enforcement were ferocious.

The Headhunters had wiped out the provisional capital of Tetembe and smashed the Central African Federation; quashed a revolution in Argentina; devastated the survivors of the Mideast War. They had participated in a dozen actions against the Outlanders, the people beyond the Barrier. Selkirk's former memories of useful service among the underdeveloped peoples remained now as fond illusions, hopes dredged from his subconscious to supplant the brutal truths suppressed by the Bruckner Process.

He was placed under sedation and ordered to remain quiet for a full day. The next night, Harry brought him a dinner tray. Selkirk ate ravenously. When he had finished, Harry asked how he felt.

"The headache's gone. The memories hurt."

"Got it all back?"

Selkirk nodded. "Everything. It's not pretty, Harry."

"I know. They had me thinking I was a medic. Look, if you'd rather not talk—"

"What's over is over. I can't undo what I've done, but I can make the Association pay. And I will. We're the ones who made it possible for the Association to grow as strong as it is. We kept the international pressure off so they could concentrate all their efforts on domestic control. I suppose they would have gotten rid of us once they were strong enough."

"They'd have had to. We know things they don't want anyone to find out. We could cause a lot of trouble if we started talking."

"Let Ridley do the talking. I want to start hitting the Association right here, where they think they're safe. Can Counterforce handle it?"

Harry thought over the question and nodded slowly. "These guys look pretty good. Some of the big shots want to sit around and make plans for the next 20 years, but the men are itching to use their muscles. They hate, the Association, and they have nothing to lose."

"Good." Selkirk yawned and pushed away the empty tray. "I'm still a little groggy, Harry. I'm going to sleep off the sedative. Tomorrow morning we'll look around."

CHAPTER 12

Selkirk spent the following days familiarizing himself with Counterforce. His arrival had been anticipated, and he was accepted without question. He spoke with every member he met and found that Harry's estimate of them had been no exaggeration. Most were young; all were bitter and aching for action. As Harry had said, they had nothing to lose.

Their stories were almost identical. For one reason or another, they had elected not to join the Association when first approached. They soon found themselves being passed over for promotions; advancement was given to Association members, regardless of ability. Those who protested were fired at once; those who remained silent were dismissed at the first opportunity and replaced by Association members. When they sought assistance, they found that their records were misplaced or necessary information was missing. Work was hard to find, and what work was available was temporary and poorly paid. Association members held the good jobs. One by one they drifted into sector three, where a penniless family could live cheaply, and anyone willing to take chances could earn enough to keep alive.

For years they contented themselves with dreams of revenge and distant visions of deliverance while they endured daily degradation at the hands of the Association. There were those who could not endure the hardships; they returned to the Association and were accepted as penitents. But the rest stayed on, defiant. They were abused, humiliated, sometimes severely beaten in the random sweeps of the sector made by security patrols. Some of them spoke of friends who had been maimed, even killed, by the men in the green helmets. They were ready to fight back.

The more he saw, the more Selkirk's professional respect for Counterforce grew. These outcasts and fugitives had built up, trained and equipped a force of several hundred, and maintained tight security over a long period of time. It was an incredible accomplishment, but Selkirk knew that such things had been done before. He wasted no time in marveling. Here was a machine more powerful than its creators suspected; now was the time to set it in motion, and Selkirk knew he was the man to do it.

On his sixth day with Counterforce, Selkirk attended a conference of the leadership. He hoped he might hear a call to action; instead, he listened to a dreary agenda of reports and a disappointing amount of petty bickering.

He remained silent until all had had their say and then requested the floor. Recognized, he stood and looked at the little assembly one by one before addressing them.

"Some of you won't like what I'm going to say. That's all the more reason to say it. I've learned all I could about Counterforce in the last five days, and I'm a hell of a lot more impressed with it than you seem to be. You've got a strong force here, and it's well trained. I'm told you've managed to keep your existence a secret from the Association. I doubt that," he began, but paused at an anxious gesture from Ridley. "Go ahead, Ridley, say what's on your mind," he responded.

The older man, somewhat apologetically, said, "Mister Selkirk, you don't realize the attitude the Association has come to have toward sector three. No one here has ever resisted, and they believe no one can. Besides, we have always maintained the strictest secrecy."

"Don't congratulate yourselves," Selkirk said coldly. "If there's no Association spy in this room, it's a matter of sheer luck. You can't count on being lucky much longer.

You have the advantage of secrecy now—maybe—and unless you use it, the Association is going to wipe you out. They're bigger and stronger than Counterforce, better equipped and probably smarter. All your forces have is guts and a lot of hatred. Hit the Association now, hurt them and keep on hurting them, and maybe you have a chance. If you're not willing to act now, then disband. All this theorizing about what must be done is a waste of time. While you talk and bicker, the Association gets bigger and stronger."

"But so do we, Martin. We're growing every day," Lyna pointed out.

"For every new member Counterforce gets, the Association gets 100. We're big enough right now to hurt the Association badly if we seize the initiative and fight on our own ground, on our own terms. That's the most effective way of recruiting new men for Counterforce. You sit here talking about the glorious day when we rise up and fight, but you can't see that the time has come."

One man objected, "We're not big enough. We're not ready."

"Ten men who know what to do can overcome a patrol. A hundred could cripple the city in one day."

"Do you have a plan, Mister Selkirk?" Ridley asked.

"I do. But before I say any more, I want to lay down a few conditions. I go no further unless I'm in complete charge of operations. I won't take orders from anyone who knows less about my business than I do. It's risky and it's foolish."

There was obvious disagreement among the others. Ridley brought them to order and, turning to Selkirk, said, "You are a newcomer, Mister Selkirk. We can't very well place you over our experienced and trusted men."

"Your experienced and trusted men will live a lot longer and accomplish a lot more if I'm running things," Selkirk replied. When they showed no reaction, he went on, "You need me, badly. I'll fight the Association with you or without you, but if you put me in charge of operations we'll both stand a better chance of surviving."

"There's the question of loyalty, Mister Selkirk," Ridley said. "I have no doubts myself, but—"

"You don't need my loyalty; you need my experience. Stop talking like the Association. Give me your answer."

There was surprisingly little argument. Selkirk carried the day with no more than token opposition and proceeded at once to outline his plan of attack.

"The Association has been pushing the people of sector three around for years," he began. "They've never met opposition, and they don't expect to. They've become careless, overconfident; they're ripe for us. I want to provoke a massive sweep. There are nine viaducts leading into the sector. Once the vans are in here, we'll blow the viaducts and cut off their escape. Then we'll clobber them and let them crawl out of here in pieces."

"They'll send in reinforcements," someone said.

"Of course they will. But the viaducts will be down and we'll have all the tunnels covered. They'll have to come by copter. There are only six possible landing sites. We'll be ready."

"And if they bombard us?" the same man objected.

"We'll let them. They can't nuke us and they can't use germs—we're too close to the other sectors. Conventional shells will only clog up the streets with rubble. Better for us."

"A rather ambitious operation, Mister Selkirk," Ridley observed.

"I've done this kind of work before, and now I remember it," Selkirk said, smiling faintly. "The Association came to power because they promised order. And they delivered on the promise. The price was high, but they delivered. Now we have to show that the omnipotent, infallible Association is just another corrupt overgrown bureaucracy ripe for blowing apart. If no one knows about us now, that's our advantage. Once we've shaken up the Association, we'll announce ourselves and let people know they have an alternative. When they've lost their awe of the Association, we can take it apart piece by piece. The momentum will be on our side."

In the discussion that followed, Selkirk sensed the growing approval for his proposal. Objections were raised, but they gave way before the rising spirit of the group. Ridley's support overcame the last resistance. When the vote was taken, it was unanimous.

Selkirk, in command, then gave his first order. "From now on, everybody in this room is to stay with at least two others at all times. All times, do you hear? If there's a spy among us, he—or she—isn't going to send out any information. Anybody who violates this order will be shot. I'll do it myself. Are there any objections?"

No one disputed the order. Selkirk turned to the wall map. It was time to begin.

One day after the meeting in sector three, the first armed robbery in more than a decade took place in sector one, a block from Security Central, in broad daylight, on a crowded street. Six men disabled an armored van, overpowered the guards and made off with a three million dollar Association payroll. The entire operation took less than two minutes, and the robbers had vanished by the time a patrol arrived. They left only one clue behind, but it was a highly significant clue. In their flight, the robbers dropped a needier identified as one of the weapons stolen by the fugitive Martin Selkirk.

Despite the imposition of the usual information controls, news of the crime spread quickly by word of mouth. With each retelling, the stolen amount grew; the number of criminals increased; the magnitude of the crime intensified. Clearly, this robbery was not only a criminal act; it was an open defiance of the Association and a threat to public order. The apprehension of Selkirk and his accomplices was given an imperative priority. A sizable reward was promised to the patrol that brought them in.

It was known to the security forces that Martin Selkirk had been seen in sector three shortly before the robbery and had narrowly escaped from a sweep at that time. Sector three was the logical place to begin the search. At 03:40 hours the following morning, First Quarter 87, March 28 of the old calendar, nine black vans set out for sector three to begin the biggest security sweep in the sector's uneasy history.

They rolled noiselessly through the well-lit streets of sector one, across sector two, over the viaducts and down the narrow, dirty streets of the renewed area of sector three. The men inside the vans yawned frequently and spoke seldom. Some dozed; others dreamed of the reward money; still others planned their own retaliation on the robbers for rousing them at this hour.

At 04:15 hours the last of the vans pulled into its assigned position to cordon off the major intersection of the occupied portion of the sector. The doors were swung wide, and 24 men climbed down from each vehicle to form up in the silent, empty streets. Still yawning, stretching stiffened necks and shoulders, they muttered sullen comments on the hour and the sweet reek of decay that permeated the moist morning air. More than one man remarked the deadly quiet that hung in the chill mist all around them. It was odd to find sector three quiet at any hour, day or night. The misfits and criminals who made this stinking warren their home were an unruly lot, as everyone knew. They had little regard for the customary hours of working and sleeping observed in the other sectors.

The men of van four completed their arms check. The gas launchers took their place at either end of the line and the patrol commander stepped forward to issue his final instructions. Before he could speak, a shower of canisters came down on the startled men and burst into pungent billows of white as they struck the ground. "Masks! Masks!" the commander shouted. In panic, the men fumbled for their masks, but the nauseating cloud enveloped them too swiftly and one by one they crumpled to their knees, retching and gasping, and collapsed to writhe in cramped agony in their own bitter vomit. Masked figures appeared through the white mist, moving quickly and expertly to loot and disable the trucks and strip the helpless men of their weapons. A printed sheet was thrust into each man's tunic, and the masked figures were gone.

Some patrols managed to put up a struggle. The men of van eight were able to get their masks on and take up riot formation, but this maneuver only postponed their undoing. Out of the billowing white smoke a mob emerged and hurled themselves on the intruders.

Selkirk took the lead. The guard before him raised his truncheon, and Selkirk hit him full tilt, seizing the upraised arm and pivoting under it, twisting down and around. A muffled scream came through the guard's mask. Selkirk let him drop. A youngster beside him was struggling with a husky guard, and in one quick move Selkirk was on the man, gripping him in a full nelson and lifting him off the ground. The young man slammed his fist into the guard's stomach and then tore off his gas mask. Selkirk felt a shudder go through the big body as the first gas entered the lungs. He released the man, who fell to his knees, retching convulsively.

All around him, the patrol was being bested. In a melee like this, half-obscured by the thick gas, they could not use needlers for fear of shooting one another. Outnumbered and taken by surprise, they soon realized they had no chance to win. With the first shock over, they tried to regroup and force a retreat, but their attackers gave them no opportunity. They wanted a total, crushing victory.

Selkirk took on two more, stunning one with a blow to the solar plexus, felling the second with a forearm to the throat. Others pulled off the men's masks as they fell.

The action was soon over. A group of six guards stood by their van, hands raised, inside a ring of ragged men who now carried the green truncheons. The rest of the patrol lay helpless on the ground, retching. Some of the attackers had been injured and were being helped off by their comrades. Around them was silence. The fighting in sector three was over.

Selkirk stepped forward to address the standing prisoners. The mask muffled his voice, but his words came through clearly enough for all to hear. "We've had enough. We're going to let you leave and take your friends with you—we don't want them—but we're telling you now, you're the last patrol that will ever walk out of here," he announced.

The men around him nodded assent. Several of them flourished their captured weapons. Selkirk went on, "If another patrol comes in here, it won't go out. That's a promise."

"We're sent in here for your protection!" one of the prisoners shouted. He was received with jeers and threatening gestures of the captured truncheons, but he continued, "We're trying to purge the sector of dangerous elements so that you can live here in peace and safety!"

"The only dangerous element in here is your crowd. Keep out, and we'll have all the peace and safety we need," Selkirk replied.

The prisoner moved forward until he was stopped by a truncheon jabbed firmly into his chest. "But the Association only wants to help you!" he cried.

"We'd rather help ourselves."

"Like we're doing now!" one of the men shouted, and the rest joined in cheers and laughter.

Selkirk raised his hands for silence. "Let's not waste time. You've had your warning, and you've had a sample of what we can do. Now, get those masks off and start running."

The prisoners drew back at the command, but they had no choice. Two masks were torn off, and the unprotected men began to run. No one interfered. They ran no more than 20 paces before both were doubled over, crumpled to their knees, gasping for breath as the nauseating gas filled their lungs.

The sight of these two and their companions, as well as the fallen members of the patrol, all convulsed with waves of nausea, covered with dirt, trying desperately to crawl away from the tormenting white mist that enshrouded them, was much to the victors' liking. In the past, the positions had always been reversed. Now, at last, they had stood up to the Association, and they had won.

The first bedraggled guard limped back into Security Central at 10:10 hours. Others followed throughout the day. The shocked reaction of their superiors turned to outrage when one of the returnees gave them the paper lat had been thrust into his belt.

Effective at once, sector three is closed to all Association personnel.
Any attempt to enter the sector will be met with appropriate force.

Within the hour, this message had been transmitted to all security posts in the city. Accompanying it was an order from the Coordinator of Domestic Security.

SPECIAL ORDER #1: Q1/87

CATEGORY: IMPERATIVE

1. All posts are placed on immediate security alert.

2. Riot control units from all posts are to assemble at Security Central at 14:00 hours.

3. Helicopters three and four are to assemble at Security Central at 14:15 hours.

4. Retaliatory landing in sector three will commence at 15:15 hours.

By 15:00 hours, two huge helicopters were perched on the roof of Security Central, and men in full riot gear were boarding. It was the first helicopter strike in memory.

They lifted off at precisely 15:15 hours, and in eight minutes were hovering over the rooftops of sector three. Below them, in the empty streets, overturned vans burned and smoked. The rubble heaps and congested streets of the sector left only five usable landing sites, and the helicopters touched down in close proximity.

The first to land was immediately crippled by explosions that destroyed its landing gear and toppled it on its side, snapping the rotors like sticks. The second helicopter rose sharply from the explosion, momentarily righted itself, then veered crazily into a building.

The retaliatory landing was over.

As darkness fell, the last troops moved into place on the perimeter of sector two, positioning themselves across the sunken skimway that divided the sectors. The skimway was useless now, strewn with the wreckage of the viaducts, and beyond it was darkness and silence. The men had been ordered to give all assistance to riot control forces attempting to escape and to permit no one else to enter or leave sector three. They were to arrest immediately anyone who attempted to do so.

The guards walked their posts as directed, but inwardly they questioned the sense of the order. With all the viaducts destroyed, access to the sector was effectively cut off, and their presence here unnecessary. On their relief, they exchanged rumors and asked the common question, everywhere unanswered: what is happening in sector three?

Their superiors in the operations room of Security Central were pondering the same question. The Coordinator of Domestic Security had arrived with his full staff that afternoon, followed shortly by the Director of Internal Affairs and representatives of all branches of the Association. As they awaited the arrival of the Chief of Security, the coordinator reviewed the day's events for the assembled group.

"Whatever is happening," he concluded, "it's not the work of a little band of thieves. That robbery was bait. We're dealing with a well-organized and powerful conspiracy whose existence was never even suspected. There may have been a mass infiltration of Outies. We've had a total breakdown of security. Someone has driven us out of sector three, and we still have no idea who they are or what they want!"

"Sir, isn't it possible that this is a new coalition of known anti-Association groups?" an aide suggested.

"We'll know better when we've rounded them up and questioned them. Personally, I doubt it. The last potentially dangerous group was smashed four years ago. The members are all dead or in work camps. The current organizations are nothing more than cellar clubs for crackpots and malcontents. They couldn't bring off anything like this. We allow them to exist because they're useful. We have agents in every one of them."

"Have they reported anything?" one of the officials asked.

"Not the remotest hint. If any of the known groups had been planning this, we would have been aware of it."

"But it's impossible for a force like this to spring up from nowhere! There has to be—"

"Don't tell me it's impossible, damn it," the coordinator broke in angrily. "I know it's impossible, but it happened. It's my belief that Selkirk is involved in this. I've already requested that the chief of the Extraterritorial Services be—" He stopped as the lights flickered and went out. Seconds later, as the building's emergency power source cut in, the lights came back on. "All we need now is a power failure. That's about the only thing that hasn't happened today," he muttered, shaking his head in disgust. He checked his watch and turned to his aide. "Gilson, see if you can find out what's holding up the chief. He should have been here long ago."

The aide rose, and as he left the room a telephone rang. One of the junior officials answered it and signalled the coordinator. "It's for you, sir. Colonel Abbott."

"What the hell does Abbott want?" the Coordinator muttered. He took the phone and snapped "Rincker here. What's the matter, Abbott?" He listened for a moment and his face grew taut and red. He placed the receiver down and spoke to the others in a strained voice. "Two power plants have just been crippled. And Abbott's men found the chief's van a few minutes ago. Someone used a needier on the driver and guards. There's no sign of the chief or his assistant."

When dawn broke on First Quarter 88, four power stations were in ruins and nearly half the buildings in sector one were without light and heat. A third of the telephones in the city were inoperative. Transportation was hopelessly disrupted, and fire raged out of control at the main airport. The Chief and Assistant Chief of Security were missing, as were a score of high-ranking Association officials.

Eleven saboteurs had been killed during the night, but not one had been taken alive. The bodies of the 11, their clothing and the scanty contents of their pockets had been subjected to the minutest analysis, but revealed nothing of significance. No link could be found among them other than the fact that they had acted to destroy Association holdings and been killed resisting arrest. They might have come from anywhere, even from Outside, beyond the Barrier. The Association had been humiliated by an invisible and unknown enemy.

It was impossible to conceal the effects of the night's destruction, but the Association Information Office prepared releases for the media that made no mention of sabotage, nor of the previous day's activities in sector three. According to AIO, a breakdown of cooling apparatus had disrupted the functioning of the power stations; a fire at the airport had necessitated the facility's temporary shutdown; emergency road repairs were causing a slight delay in traffic; telephone service would soon be back to normal, after some difficulties resulting from unusual overloads on the lines. An unhappy and inconvenient series of unrelated coincidences had occurred; nothing more. The public was assured that the Association was doing all in its power to rectify conditions, and everything would soon be back to normal.

That same afternoon, the public had the opportunity to consider an alternative explanation for the night's alarms and the day's confusion. A leaflet appeared mysteriously in the streets of sector one.

TO ALL PRISONERS OF THE ASSOCIATION:

Today the news media informed you of a series of accidents that have caused the disruption of Association facilities. All that you read and heard were lies. What occurred last night was not a series of accidents: it was sabotage.

The Association promised you peace and order in exchange for your freedom. It can give you neither. We destroyed the power stations and the telephone cables; we burned the airport; we blockaded the skimways; and they could not stop us. We will not be stopped until we have broken the power of the Association.

The media controlled by the Association did not tell you that yesterday in sector three we destroyed nine security vans and two helicopters; nor did they mention the fact that we now hold as prisoners of war the Chief of Security and 20 high-ranking Association officials.

Join with us in the struggle. We do not ask that you risk your lives. We will take the risks. We ask only that each citizen, in his and her own way, however insignificant it may seem, work to disrupt the operation of the Association and thwart its purposes. Security forces acted swiftly to apprehend those responsible for the distribution of the leaflet. Several youths were taken into custody, and all gave the same story: a man in an Association staff uniform had paid them to circulate the leaflet, explaining that it was part of a plan to trap suspected saboteurs. The youths were unable to give a satisfactory description of the man.

The announcement had been printed on yellowed sheets of paper by means of an archaic printing press. Many people seized the leaflets eagerly as curiosities; the younger ones had never seen a printed sheet of paper outside a museum. But it was commonly believed that some old presses, dating back a century or more, were to be found in sector three, if one knew where to look. And a comparison revealed that this leaflet was printed on the machine that had printed the first warning, a day earlier.

Four thousand copies of the leaflet were eventually confiscated and destroyed. It was impossible to estimate how many copies remained in circulation.

Later that night, the emergency line at Security Central came alive with news of outbursts in Buffalo, Washington and Boston. Security patrols were attacked and overpowered. Power stations were bombed. The outlaws struck and disappeared, leaving no clue to their identity. The order went out to take prisoners for questioning at Security Central. Seventy-four outlaws were killed, but not one was taken alive.

As First Quarter 89 dawned, all Association security forces went on a 24-hour alert. Reserves were activated and assigned to routine duties to free the regulars for riot control. In all cities, sector three was surrounded by security forces supported by artillery. For the first time in the history of the Association, security sweeps were conducted in sector one. They made no significant arrests.

Tension grew as the days passed with no further action by the unknown enemy. After a full week of quiet, the alert was ended and the reserves deactivated. At the end of the second week no incident had occurred, and the guard on sector three was reduced to a handful of men at each of the ruined viaducts. Except for the fact that the hostages were still being held, things seemed to have returned to normal. Statistics showed a considerable rise in absenteeism and an increase in work error, but these were attributed to the confusion and distress resulting from the disruption of public facilities. The threat to the Association appeared over for the time being.

Still the enemy had not been identified. But a word was spoken by growing numbers: Counterforce.

CHAPTER 13

Prisoner 37 came awake with a start a few moments before the morning work signal. He lay motionless on his narrow bunk, staring up at the faint patch of light on the ceiling. Another day was about to begin, but he was no longer certain what day it was. He was no longer sure of anything. His mind was sometimes blank, sometimes terribly crowded with confused thoughts. He remained very still, breathing evenly, trying not to think. His breath clouded in the cold dry air.

The whistle shrieked its summons and the lights flared on. The prisoner's eyes clamped shut against the painful blow of brightness and he swung himself erect, feet over the side, groping for the work shoes that stood waiting. He had slept in his clothing for warmth.

Morning assembly lasted longer than usual. One of the men in prisoner 37's work crew collapsed while the guards were still checking the group ahead of them. He lay on the damp ground for several minutes, gasping, and then he was still. None of the other prisoners dared assist him. The checking team held the crew in place until a wagon came to remove the body, then hurried them to the mess hall at double time. Most of the food was gone. Prisoner 37's group had bread and weak black coffee. Some of them cursed the dead man for holding them up and costing them the dab of hot porridge the other crews had received.

They were at their work site by sunup. A chill hung in the air, and the low ground was frosty, but the first sliver of sun promised a fair day. The men took their tools and set to work.

Crew 30 was in charge of the long ditch the men had come to call "The Panama Canal." It was to extend from the camp to the lake that lay beyond the thicket of birch and evergreen about three kilometers past the outer fence. They had been working on the ditch long before prisoner 37 joined them. Judging from the pace at which they worked, their physical condition, their diet and the death rate at this work camp, not one of them would live to see the ditch completed. It was generally agreed among the men that the ditch was of no importance to the camp, to the Association or to anyone. Its sole purpose was to keep the prisoners occupied when they were not being tapped by the guards.

"Tap" was prisoners' cant, an all-purpose word for the inflictions of those who ruled their days. It could refer to anything from a brutal beating to a polite personal inquiry, from an enviable soft detail to a grueling, murderous stretch of punishment duty. One might be tapped for good or ill, but one would be tapped and usually be the worse for it.

Today it was the turn of prisoner 37 to work the upper shift, out of the muck of the ditch. He and another man, prisoner 31, were to break ground along the row of pegs, preparing the way for those who came after to deepen the ditch to a full two meters. Prisoner 31 was good to work with. He had been a priest before he came here, and he understood. Upper shift was always best, but especially so with a good partner.

Trimmers had the hardest and dirtiest job of all. They worked in the bottom of the ditch, clearing and smoothing the surfaces. Prisoner 37 had completed his turn at it yesterday and was glad to have it behind him. It would be good to work the upper shift on a day like this. He took his shovel and started for the pegged ground, but a guard halted him.

"Just a minute, you. Where are you heading?" the guard demanded.

"Going to my spot, sir. I'm on upper shift today.*'

"No, you're not. One of your lot died this morning, and prisoner 33 is wanted at testing. We have to move you around. You're going below for the day."

The prisoner looked up numbly, appealing. "I was down in the ditch until yesterday, sir," he appealed.

"What do you mean, 'until yesterday'? You can't remember things, 37. We all know that. How do you know it isn't your turn down below?"

"I did my turn," the prisoner repeated weakly.

"Well, now you'll do someone else's. You're lucky—it hasn't rained for two days. Get to it, prisoner."

"Yes, sir."

Prisoner 37 removed his shoes and socks. He tucked the dirty socks into his belt and hung the shoes around his neck, using an arrangement of bits of string to keep them in place while he stooped and rose. He lowered himself into the ditch, gasping at the first cold clutch of the bottom muck. Soon his feet would lose all feeling, but now, at first, they hurt. He shuddered violently and set furiously to work to keep warm.

Today he was the only trimmer and had no one to talk to. That did not bother him. The only other prisoner worth talking to was 31, and he was working above. It was just as good to be alone. He liked to think, and it was hard to think when others were talking.

There was much he did not understand, much that confused him and caused his mind to go blank, as if a blind had been drawn across a bright window. He had done something very wrong, hurt everyone who trusted him; that much he remembered. That was why he had been sent here, where the work was hard. But he could not remember his crime.

He did not think he was a thief. Perhaps he had killed someone. There was a woman named Noreen. She was young and pretty, and they had once been close. Perhaps he had killed her and was being punished. He could not remember killing her, he could only remember tender feelings toward her, and sometimes he woke in the dark and reached out for her in love, forgetting where he was. He forgot so much. He could think of no reason why he might have done her harm, but all his past deeds were a blank.

A big man named Martin came into his memory from time to time. He was related to Martin, and to Noreen, too, he thought. But he could not be certain. Perhaps Martin was Noreen's husband, or her brother; he might even be the prisoner's own brother. Nothing was clear.

Other faces and scenes came to him clearly for an instant and then vanished. A man named Chambers—not Chambers, no, but a name that sounded like Chambers— who had helped him. Or had he betrayed him? The prisoner was not certain. Other men like himself in a long room, high in a building at the center of a city. A room all in white, with a high window. Sometimes he could see himself and the woman Noreen in that white room, and sometimes he pictured Martin there with them. Martin talked while they listened. Martin was someone's brother. The prisoner was certain of that.

People wanted to know what Martin had said, and what questions the prisoner had asked him, but he could not remember. They were all interested in that.

Once there had been another man, but no one spoke of him any more. He was not to be mentioned ever, and the men in the long building were severe with the prisoner when he slipped and spoke of the man named John as if he were still alive. Perhaps that was his crime—he had killed this man named John. But sometimes he found himself thinking that he and John were one.

He had had a name once. It might have been John. He had not been born a prisoner here; no one was a prisoner all his life; he had once been free. Sometimes he saw himself coming out of a fine new building on a dark night and being taken away by strangers; and everything in his life was different from that time on. He was not certain whether this had happened to him, or to the man named John; whether he had been the one taken or one of the captors; or, indeed, if it was all imagination, or some story overheard long ago.

Prisoner 37 worked on, trying to remember, and his head began to hurt. It always hurt for a time after they put him to sleep in the long building with the overhead lights, but if they were pleased with his words they gave him something to stop the pain.

Now there was nothing to stop it. He worked on alone, straining to keep clear the channel that ran down the center of the ditch. As the others dug, dirt and pebbles fell to the bottom and were carried along the ditch, clogging it and making the water rise. He had to keep it clear. His feet no longer hurt—he could not feel them at all—but his head was throbbing. The pain ran up his neck on both sides and lodged in his temples, where it boomed like a great drum with every pulsebeat. He moaned in pain, but worked on. Then the pain became so severe he could do no more.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, 37? No breaks here, prisoner. You're here to work. Get to it," a voice bawled from overhead.

The prisoner twisted his neck slowly. The pain was great, but perhaps the guard would help him if he asked. "Please, sir. It's my head," he began.

The guard laughed. "Damned right it's your head. You're too crazy to do anything but shovel muck."

"Give me something to take away the pain. Please, give me medicine," the prisoner pleaded.

"The only medicine you get around here is work. Maybe if you learned to cooperate with the investigators your head wouldn't hurt so much."

"Please!" he begged once more.

"Get to work. You have a half hour to go until you come up to eat. If you don't work, you're not coming out of that ditch until sundown. Maybe I'll keep you there all night."

Prisoner 37 bent to his work. The pain was so severe that his mind became even more confused. Scenes flashed before his eyes and changed with each beat of the great drum lodged inside his head. A crime, a great betrayal of trust. The woman Noreen, alone and weeping. A cluttered room, with books on shelves. A long ride at night in a closed van. The man Martin clasping his hand in friendship and affection. The white room, filled with friendly people. A bed in a strange place, bright lights in his eyes, cold discs pressed to his neck and temples. A man in a uniform, striking him across the face. The ditch, cold and pain and numbing weariness. The brightly lighted building, other men, the man named John.

He was the man named John.

Noreen was his wife. Martin was… close to them in some way. Her brother… A cousin…

His brother.

And they had abandoned him, shamed by his betrayal of all they believed in. He had hurt them, hurt everyone who had ever trusted him or been close to him. Some terrible crime that he could not recall had turned everyone against him, a crime so awful that his mind had blocked it out.

He had to find them, beg their forgiveness, plead for their help and understanding. They would forgive, if only he could see them, touch their hands, speak to them. He had to find them now. He dropped the shovel and began to claw his way up the steep side, in his eagerness gouging great chunks of dirt away and slipping down almost as fast as he pulled himself up. He worked furiously and was almost to the top when the guard reappeared above him. "What the hell is this, prisoner? Your break hasn't started."

"Have to find Noreen… Martin… tell them," the prisoner gasped, ignoring the guard's warning.

"Get down there where you belong. We'll tap you for a little extra duty," the guard threatened, bending and thrusting prisoner 37 down with a heavy hand on the top of his shaven head. The prisoner tumbled into the muck and cold water, but scrambled up at once and began to climb the opposite face of the ditch. The guard had turned to signal for assistance. When he looked again, the prisoner, bloody-handed, was dragging himself over the edge of the ditch and staggering off at an unsteady run.

"Stop, prisoner!" the guard shouted.

By sheer chance, there were no guards on this side of the ditch. An open stretch of less than a kilometer would bring the fugitive to a patch of trees; from there he could work his way to the forest, then across the lake to freedom. He ran on, panting, the breath burning into his lungs, his bare feet raw and sore on the stony ground. The trees bobbed and wavered before him. He stumbled and fell, bruising his chest painfully against the heavy shoes. But he pulled himself up and ran again.

Once before, he had seen a prisoner run. He made it almost to the edge of the woods, and then they shot him. At this range, the guards never missed.

He felt as if his lungs were scraped raw. He stopped for a moment, gasping and moaning in exhaustion, and heard the cries from behind, faint but clear.

"Stop where you are, prisoner! Stand or we fire!"

He knew they would fire. He knew they would not miss. He looked back once, then turned his eyes to the trees and ran.

The Association regretted the untimely passing of prisoner 37, once known as subject 6, and earlier called John Selkirk. His death represented a serious setback to their investigation into the Bruckner Process.

The Documents: VI

Destruction of some two-thirds of the world's oil reserves in a single day forced immediate changes in all nations. Although the United States had scrupulously maintained its neutrality, the war had profound economic and social effects on this country.

All non-essential travel was strictly prohibited, and the ban was enforced with vigor. The spirit of isolationism that had been growing since the seventies took a new turn. As free travel between parts of the country diminished, and in some cases ended completely, sectional rivalry and suspicion grew. Information about other regions, all of it secondhand, fed this increasing distrust. East and west coasts competed fiercely for the food supply of the midlands, while the farmers of the midwest looked upon their coastal neighbors as exploiters and parasites.

By the middle of the eighties, the very concept of a single, unified nation was being questioned in all parts of the country. When drought and earthquake struck in rapid succession, they only hastened a process that was already under way. The Barrier was not an aberration; it was a natural outgrowth of events.

Temple, In Sheep's Clothing

CHAPTER 14

After some weeks of uneasy quiet, small teams of Counterforce fighters struck at targets scattered far apart in Association cities. This time the raids went on with no respite. Transportation and communication became uncertain. The power supply was no longer dependable. Food stocks were depleted. Older citizens were heard to compare the situation to the chaos that had preceded the coming of the Association.

Now the Association retaliated in force. Demolition teams leveled sector three in all cities, relocating residents to carefully guarded buildings in sector two. All those relocated were closely questioned, and many were detained for deep interrogation. But the raids went on, and no new information was forthcoming. For all its efforts, the Association still knew no more about Counterforce than Counterforce was prepared to reveal about itself.

Violence increased and spread to sector one. It was no longer advisable to walk abroad at night. The security forces moved swiftly against any suspected enemy, and sometimes they became overzealous. Citizens died in increasing numbers, and still the raids continued.

When the power of the Association had been unquestioned, the organization was unobtrusive; now, Association personnel were seen everywhere. The true size and extent of the Association were far greater than its docile subjects had ever suspected, and its actions came as a shock to many. Once openly defied, the Association reacted like a giant reused from slumber. The smiles and the affability vanished, giving way to hard faces and firm action. The Association at bay was quite different from the Association in undisputed control.

Despite superior weaponry and greater numbers. Association forces found themselves almost helpless. They could not deal with an invisible army that moved like shadows and struck in 100 places at once. Frustration led to brutality; that seemed only to turn the sympathy of the people toward the rebels. In time, both sides settled down to the reality of a silent, deadly war of attrition.

For the majority of citizens life was a bit less predictable, but the daily routine was not greatly different. The chief difference lay in the wealth of rumor that flooded the cities. Each morning the microdeck reader—if it was not temporarily out of service—ran the same bland litany of announcements and cheerful news. The television channels carried the customary numbing diet of solemn self-congratulation by Association spokesmen and mindless diversion by acceptable entertainers; a close observer might have noticed increased reference to the need for loyalty and solidarity, increased fear and condemnation of saboteurs and Outlander terrorists; but this was not blatantly done, and many remained unaware of the new emphasis. But no one could long remain unaware of the rumors that arose wherever peopled met.

Something was definitely happening; no one knew what. And so they guessed, and each bewildered citizen passed his own fears on to all his neighbors. Some spoke of an impending invasion by Pan-Asian forces striking from South American strongholds; others warned of infiltration by the Outlanders to the north and west; still others, certain that no power capable of threatening them existed any longer beyond the Barrier, hinted darkly at a power struggle within the Association itself, or the sudden madness of a key leader, or the inevitable destructive forces of time. All spoke weightily; all were guessing. Even the highest officials of the Association were not certain what was taking place.

After the retaliatory raids, Counterforce had returned to their strongholds deep below the rubble of sector three. A labyrinth of tunnels, some of them two centuries old, connected them with the other sectors. Without the help of charts or maps, fully three-quarters of the tunnels were mysteries, coming from no one knew where and ending in unknown blackness.

Martin Selkirk had ordered the systematic exploration and charting of the tunnels and had undertaken much of the necessary work himself. He had much to do in these times, and he drove himself and his men unmercifully. Even so, their progress was slow.

What troubled Selkirk more than the burden of work and the pressure of time was his growing awareness of a slackening of spirit. The high morale of the early days was beginning to ebb as the struggle dragged on from one indecisive day to the next. A weariness had come upon the Association and Counterforce alike. In this confused struggle, with both sides locked in a tiny arena, the end seemed dubious and far distant, and some began to doubt the value of their sacrifices.

He spoke of this to Lyna one evening. She, too, had noticed the sagging spirits of their forces, but she could prescribe no remedy.

"Maybe they just don't think that overthrowing the Association is worth so many lives and so much suffering," she said. "Even if we win, what then? There won't be much left of the other sectors if the fighting goes on."

"If all we're fighting for is a cozy place in sector one, then to hell with the whole movement," Selkirk replied angrily.

"What else is there? We don't dare go beyond the Barrier."

"Why not?"

She looked at him in amazement. "Martin, even the Association doesn't dare! There's nothing out there but chaos and anarchy, roving bands of marauders… savagery!"

"Have you ever been out there? Has Ridley? Have any of the others?"

"No, of course not."

He laughed. "Then all you know is what the Association tells you. And you believe it."

"What the Association tells us about the Outlands makes sense."

"But it isn't true. I've been out there, Lyna. I know."

"I thought you worked overseas, with Harry. He mentioned Africa and the Middle East."

Selkirk nodded and looked away, absently, into the distance. His hard face was set and his look was thoughtful. "I went on a lot of missions in North America. The first time, all I did was scout around and gather information. The last one was a disruption mission." He turned and met her curious gaze and went on to explain. "The Outlanders were showing signs of unification. If they ever did manage to band together, they'd pose a serious threat to the Association, so I was sent out with two squads of men to make sure they didn't unite. They didn't."

"Then you know what it's really like beyond the Barrier!"

"I know a little. Nobody knows very much. A lot of information was lost in the eighties and nineties, and whatever wasn't lost, the Association has buried deep and covered over with lies."

"All lies? The stories of bands of brutal savages… lies?" Lyna asked.

"Lies. There are no more savages on that side of the Barrier than on this. The ones on the outside don't wear green uniforms; that's the only difference. There are ruins, abandoned towns and cities, thousands of kilometers of empty roads. A lot of room to hide, Lyna, and no way for the Association to find you. That's why there's a travel ban. Not because of enemy forces and the lack of fuel—it's to keep people from finding out about the alternatives. The Barrier isn't there to keep people out any more, it's made to keep them in. We and the Outlanders used to be citizens of one country, remember?"

"Yes, I've heard that. But the Outies turned against the government. The Association always told us that's why we have the Barrier."

Selkirk shook his head. "I've heard other stories… all bits and pieces, and there are far too many things that don't make sense, too many questions without answers. But when I try to pull it all together and check it against things I've seen, my own theory is as likely to be true as anything the Association says. It makes sense."

"Try it on me," Lyna invited.

"All right, here's what seems to have happened. Sometime back in the late eighties or early nineties, there was a drought in the center of this continent. It had happened once before, back in the thirties, and no one believed it would ever happen again, but it did, and this time it was worse than anyone imagined it could be. There was drought elsewhere in the world, too—I know that's true—and people were starving by the millions. There were uprisings, revolutions, panic all throughout the Eastern hemisphere. In Africa, nearly half the population died of starvation in a five-year period."

Lyna nodded uncertainly. "My father sometimes said that hunger helped the Association to grow. I never understood what he meant."

"He was right. Widespread drought would cause famine and economic upheaval, and it would be natural for people to band together for protection. From what Ridley has said, that's how the Association began—a protective organization in the cities of the East coast. But then, when the drought was at its worst, there was a political crisis that threatened to tear the country apart. I'm not sure of the details—I've heard a dozen different stories—but something happened to the president and vice-president. They died within a few hours of each other."

"Assassination?"

Selkirk shrugged. "Some people say assassination; some say an accident; some sickness. All they agree on is that both men died, the country was on the verge of collapse and the Association was asked to assist the government. They agreed to help. And right after they came to power, another calamity hit the country. A series of earthquakes tore the west coast to pieces. I don't think anyone really knows how many people died. It must have been in the millions, though. Entire cities were wiped out in minutes."

"I've heard of things like that from old people," Lyna mused, "but no one ever mentioned them at school, and I've never seen a thing about them in print. I thought it was just a story."

"When I was on my first mission outside, I talked to a lot of old people, and their stories generally agreed," Selkirk said. "It happened, and it was bad. Some of the things they told me… I've been in bad spots, and I've seen terrible things done to people, but nothing like what must have happened after the quakes. People were hardly human any more.

"All those desperate refugees started moving east by the hundreds of thousands—by the millions. Half crazy from fear, most of them. Homeless, starving, some of them injured. And no one wanted them. No one would help them. It didn't matter that we were all citizens of one country, all under one government—there was no food. The government couldn't help the refugees and it couldn't hold them back. There was open warfare in the central part of the continent, where the drought was worst, and soon there was just one great belt of fire and burned-out land. And the refugees were still coming.

"Everyone in the east was terrified. The country was without any effective leadership, and the Association filled the vacuum. Power was waiting to be seized, and the Association seized it. The entire eastern quarter of the continent was turned into a stronghold against the invaders—against our own countrymen. Barricades went up, and all contact with the outside was cut off. There hadn't been much for nearly a decade, anyway, but now there was none. The travel ban was tightened. In time, those early barricades were consolidated. The outlying areas were turned into a no man's land. The Barrier was built, farther east, and no one crossed it without the Association's permission. And that wasn't easy to get, unless you were an extraterritorial.

"But no one complained. As long as you stayed behind the Barrier, you were safe. Outside, you might be torn to pieces and eaten by Outlanders: that's what the Association told people, and people believed it. The ones who didn't believe were pushed into sector three to rot. The rest settled down in sector one, comfortable and safe as long as they behaved."

Lyna did not respond at once. After a time, she said, "How could millions of people be deceived for more than a generation?"

"The Association runs the schools—you went to an Association school, and so did I. The Association controls all communications. All the old documents, all the books and papers and films that tell how it really was, are under the care of the Association. They're in national archives, safely locked away. And the Association has the key. They make all the microdecks, all the readers, and print all the cards to fit them. If you try to insert any other card into a reader or a reading deck, it won't work." He stood before her, enumerating points on his fingers. "The Association controls everything we learn, everything we read, everything we hear, everything we see. They tell us where we can go and where we can't and arrest those who disobey. And you wonder that a whole nation can be deceived!"

"But no one can change the past," she objected.

He laughed bitterly and said, "They can erase memories. I know all about that. And what about the reformed calendar? It's hard to relate Association Year 21 to a date like 1991, or 1945. That was the first break with the past. Now they've started revising backward. They don't use, say, 1914 any more—now it's AY-77, or something like that. The old calendar is being discarded, and history is going along with it. The Association isn't bothering to change the past; they're just wiping it out. And people are glad to cooperate; they don't want to remember the bad times. When the Association wants a history, they'll make up a satisfactory one of their own. That's always been the privilege of the victors, I suppose."

Lyna clutched his hand tightly. A look of anger crossed her eyes.

Martin continued. "You know the Association has killed people, beaten them, manipulated lives and minds—do you find it so hard to imagine them lying?"

"It's the scope of the lie that staggers me, Martin. To lie about everything that happened for a whole generation! If only people knew—if we could get this information to all the people who still believe in the Association, they'd join us at once!"

"Don't be so sure. They've believed in the Association for too long. A dose of truth won't cure them."

"If we could only obtain some of those old documents… present people with evidence… then they'd have to believe us," she said.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Belief is a funny thing, Lyna. Most people will accept a comfortable lie over a painful truth any time."

Alone, later, Selkirk thought about that conversation. He had liked Lyna from the very beginning, and she had been equally drawn to him; but now he found himself doubting her. She seemed to think like Ridley and the rest. They all wanted to take over the Association, correct its faults and use its power constructively. Selkirk considered this a dangerous attitude for a group in their position. The Association should not be considered something to reform, but something to destroy.

After his long oblivion, he now remembered all too clearly the things he had done and helped to do as an agent of the Association. His life had been dedicated to destruction, and all so that the Association could grow and prosper in safety. Perhaps once, long ago, in those dark days when crime and disorder seemed the worst dangers, the Association had served a useful purpose. But no more.

It was a bleak conclusion, but Selkirk found it inescapable: no organization ever survived by dedicating itself to the service of others. An organization—any organization created by man—exists for its own sake and for nothing else. Nations, tribes, parties, governments, all are alike in that respect. They do not begin that way, he conceded. No, the beginnings are the times for dreamers and idealists. The motives are pure, and the words are honest. But once they taste power, men come to like it; and if the retention of power means the betrayal of the founding ideal, then ideals become expendable.

He sighed and shook his head as if to clear it. He was not a thinker; he was a man of action. Better far to leave the philosophizing to people like Ridley, who doted on it. When all the thinking and theorizing were done, it would take the force of arms to overthrow the Association.

And what would take its place? Selkirk tried not to think about that. But he found himself thinking of it more and more. Lyna did not seem interested in the world beyond the Barrier, except as it might hasten their conquest of the Association. It was another tool to be used. Selkirk thought about that and disliked it. The Outlanders were more than just a tool. They were hope.

The others had to be convinced of that.

Selkirk's ideas spread slowly among the people of Counterforce. The others were doubtful at first. Despite their hatred of the Association, their only source of information was the outlets controlled by the Association, and they had been conditioned by propaganda to believe that all beyond the Barrier were savages.

Only Selkirk had seen the outside and talked with Outlanders. It had been years ago, but even then a new society was growing in the ruins of a devastated countryside filling the abandoned towns and cities with tough, determined, new life. In those days, Selkirk had gone among them as an enemy, picking off their emerging leaders, turning group against group to assure the continued stability of the Association. Now he wanted to revisit them in friendship and establish permanent contact between Counterforce and the Outlanders. They were natural allies against the common enemy.

The others were hard to convince. His story slowly gained acceptance, but the results were not what he had hoped. Ridley and a few of the other leaders saw contact with the Outlanders as an unnecessary complication at this time; it could better be postponed until after the peace. They were of Lyna's opinion: if proof of the true course of recent history could be found and revealed to Association followers, the bond of loyalty would be broken. Defections would weaken the Association to the point where Counterforce could overcome with one determined drive.

Selkirk disagreed, but remained silent. As long as the question remained theoretical, he did not care much what they believed about his ideas. He worked with his squads, explored the tunnel network, planned raids and took part in them whenever he could, and watched and waited.

One night he was awakened by an agitated sentry, a young man named Hatcher who had been among them for only a few weeks. Hatcher had seen no action as yet. On this night, he was pale and very nervous.

"What the hell's wrong, Hatcher? Speak up," Selkirk demanded irritably as he pulled on his boots. "It better be important."

"It's a woman, sir. She was shot entering sector three."

"Who? What's her name?"

"The doctor didn't say, sir, he just sent me after you. She's badly hurt. They're taping everything she says, but it doesn't make sense."

"All right, Hatcher. Let's get to her."

They hurried along the tunnel connecting the sleeping area with the hospital. Selkirk pushed through the hospital doors and a startled guard leveled his weapon.

"I'm Selkirk. Where's the woman they just brought in?"

Hatcher joined him, reassured the guard and conducted Selkirk down a passage to a small room. A figure lay on a high bed. She showed no sign of life. Selkirk dismissed Hatcher, stepped to the bedside, looked down on the pale face and took her small, cold hand in his.

The surgeon entered, and Selkirk said in a low voice, "It's my brother's wife."

The surgeon came to his side. "I'm sorry, Selkirk. We tried, but she had three of their bullets in her. Massive internal injuries. It's amazing she lasted as long as she did."

"Yeah. She was tougher than I ever thought."

"She was a determined woman. She could barely speak, but she left a tape for you. It took all the strength—"

"Give it to me," Selkirk cut in.

"Of course."

At a gesture from the surgeon, an orderly removed a cassette from a machine on the opposite side of the bed. Selkirk received it without a word, turned and proceeded to the deserted council room. There he listened to Noreen's dying words.

At first, her speech was slurred and unintelligible. In time it grew clearer, but still confused and fragmented by the effects of her injuries, shock and medication. He listened to the end, then rewound the cassette and listened again, stopping at intervals to replay. He played one long passage a third and then a fourth time, and then he played the whole thing once again.

Hunched over the machine, he sat for a long time in the dark, piecing together the fragments as best he could. The Association had told Noreen that Jack was dead, a victim of terrorists; shown her a body, apparently, wearing a ring supposed to be Jack's, and backed their story with fingerprints. But they had failed to convince her. She was smarter than any of us thought, Selkirk admitted to himself. Smarter and a lot braver. When she heard of the trouble in sector three, she figured out that I was in on it. It took guts to try getting in here. She must have been as frightened of us as she was of the Association. But she loved Jack, and she did what she felt she had to do.

Jack might be dead by now, whatever his imagined crime. Or he might still be alive—kept alive as a source of information about his brother. For his sake, something had to be done fast. Selkirk had interrogated, or assisted in interrogating, all high-level Association prisoners, and had learned much about their prisons. Ridley, who had escaped from one of the terminal camps, had told him of the treatment and conditions there. Jack would not last long in such a place.

Selkirk thought intensely, trying to piece together hints of his brother's whereabouts. If the Association suspected a connection between them, Jack would be in a top security installation, not an ordinary prison in the city. His exact location—probably his identity—would be a secret from all but a few.

One of the prisoners had let slip word of a special camp; he recalled that at once. Ridley had once mentioned an isolated camp for Class 1A prisoners, somewhere near the camp where he was held. If such places existed, they would need supplies and replacements; there would be radio signals, a traffic pattern, perhaps helicopter flights that could be traced. Those places could be found, if one searched hard enough. And if they found his brother, they would find other people valuable to their cause. It was a worthwhile mission on all counts.

Selkirk rose, pocketed the cassette and headed for the intelligence banks. There would be no more sleep tonight.

Hours later, he had the outline of a plan. It was dangerous, the results were uncertain, but it could work. It would give Ridley and his theorists what they wanted and do what Selkirk knew must be done. It might be the means to turn everything around. A dozen men might turn the tide.

He inserted a clean cassette and began to dictate a plan of action.

CHAPTER 15

The Association penal code contained no provision for a death penalty; the existence of such installations as North Camp Three rendered such a formality unnecessary.

In the official records of the Association, North Camp Three was a terminal penal institution where unsalvageable offenders served out life sentences at hard labor. Extreme climate combined with inadequate medical care, substandard diet and systematic brutality gave North Camp Three an annual mortality rate of 29 percent.

Unknown to all but a few score members of the Association, a second camp existed beyond North Camp Three. In an isolated building in a separate, self-contained compound was a special cell block where Class 1A prisoners, the ideological incorrigibles and active resisters, were kept in solitary confinement. Some of them had been there since the camp's creation. All had long since been declared officially dead and forgotten.

The regimen of these prisoners was quite different from that of their fellow inmates at the main camp. No work was required of them. They were adequately fed, and their cells were comfortably furnished, roomy and well heated. They were safe from the brutality of the guards, because there was no direct contact between guards and prisoners, except for medical emergencies. They served their sentences in total isolation.

One rare privilege was granted to Class 1A prisoners: they had unlimited access to reading material. They were permitted to read rare documents, even those on the Association's restricted publication list, and they were encouraged to tape freely on any topic they chose. At intervals, their dictation was collected and sent, accompanied by a record of their reading selections, to the Psychological Studies Division for analysis. The prisoners knew nothing of this. They knew only that from time to time their latest batch of work was taken from them, and their last batch returned. It was the chief variety in their lives, and they did not question it.

The prisoners cherished these privileges as a defense against insanity through their long years of solitude. One prisoner, a former archbishop who had organized massive peaceful demonstrations opposing the construction of the Barrier, had taught himself to read and write Chinese, Russian and Swahili and was translating English classics into these tongues. A former congressman was compiling a minutely detailed history of the early 1980s; a general who had outlawed Association membership among the men of his command was at work on a study of irregular warfare since 1945. The other Class 1A prisoners devoted their silent hours to a wide variety of projects of equal scope. They gave no thought to escape. These prisoners were old men, too frail to survive the rigors of the North Camp climate. They accepted their fate and lived their lives chiefly, now, in imagination and memory.

The helicopter arrived at dawn with an unexpected cargo: two prisoners under heavy guard. They were taken directly to the commandant's quarters.

The commandant was unhappy with their arrival. Everything was in perfect order, but he was dissatisfied with the manner in which the prisoners had been delivered. "The copter wasn't due for another six weeks. I was given no notice to expect these two," he complained to the officer in charge of the prisoners. "I'll need verification from Security Central before I take them."

"There's to be no mention of these prisoners in any communication, sir. The orders are explicit."

"Well, so are mine, and I want verification. I have a special channel to central."

"Sir, the insurgents have all our channels under scan. If you require verification, request it on tape and I'll have it here by nightfall."

The commandant frowned. "I don't like this. I don't like tampering with the rules."

"Special precautions, sir. These two are the most important prisoners we've ever taken. They have to be kept in our most secure prison. They led the insurrection in sector three. If the insurgent forces had any idea of their whereabouts, they might try to free them."

"Would they, now?" The commandant looked up at the handcuffed pair before him and laughed contemptuously. "I'd like to see that. I'd really like to see that. We don't get much action around here, just keeping watch over a lot of old men. My troops would appreciate having a few rebels stick their noses in here." He picked up his receiver and began to speak, but was interrupted by a new arrival. A guard from the helicopter slipped into the room and said, "All clear." The commandant began to speak once more and found the line dead. He looked up into the muzzle of a pistol.

"Forget your request, commandant," ordered the taller of the prisoners as he removed his handcuffs. "Just come with us. Bring your keys."

"We don't have keys here."

"Then bring whatever you use to open the cells. Get moving."

"I can't open those cells," the commandant insisted, raising his hands. "There's a master locking mechanism at Security Central. They're the only ones who can open them."

"Then you'd better think of something, commandant."

"If I try to open the doors without clearance from central, the gas in the cells is activated. The prisoners will die in seconds."

Selkirk held out his hand, and one of the others gave him a pistol. He cocked it and said, "Improvise. We want those men out, fast."

"There's no way. There's nothing I can do."

"First I'll shoot you through both kneecaps. You'll probably be willing to open them then, but if you're not, I'll think of something else." Selkirk leveled the pistol at the commandant's right knee. "Unless you improvise."

The commandant improvised. Ten minutes later, he and his men lay bound in the cells. The former prisoners, in the company of their liberators, were airborne, moving fast and low over the treetops to their rendezvous point.

"I'm glad to be out of there. I thought we were going to have trouble with that commandant," Harry said.

"With so few guards and being so isolated, he'd have to have some kind of override, for emergencies. Just a matter of persuading him to use it." Selkirk turned to the pale, white-haired old man seated next to him. "How does it feel to be free, Senator?"

"I don't… I just don't have the words to say it, son. I thought I'd never leave that cell alive," the old man mused.

"A lot of people believe you've been dead for years. They're in for a surprise. I think the story given out about you was that your plane crashed and burned. It was just after the Association came to power."

"Yes… and I suppose it was my secretary who identified my remains?"

"We really don't know the details, Senator."

"Wheelock… he was one of them from the beginning," the senator said softly. "I never suspected him until that night."

"What happened?"

The old man paused, then spoke hesitantly, as if groping for long-buried memories. "We left Boston… special meeting of a handful of us… trying to think of some way to impede the Association takeover. I was seized, drugged. I woke up back there."

"Do you know what's happened since?"

"No. They let me read anything but that. What has happened?"

"Too much for me to fill in. We can't even guess at it all. But the Association runs everything now. We know that much," Selkirk said.

A slim, grizzled, ramrod-straight old man beside the senator spoke for the first time. "What about the Marine Corps? They didn't take over the corps, did they?"

"There is no more Marine Corps. No army, no navy, no armed forces, no police. Just Association Security and the Extraterritorial Service."

"I told them that would happen," the old warrior muttered. "I wouldn't let them get a foothold in my command. They got me the same way they got the senator, here. Urgent order to report to Washington. They knocked me out on the plane, and I woke up in that cell."

"Has the Association been overthrown?" the senator asked.

"Not yet. We've just begun hitting back."

"Then why did you take such a chance to rescue us? Who are you people?"

"We're Counterforce," Selkirk informed him. "We're going to destroy the Association, and we want your help."

"We're not much good to you, son. A pack of old ghosts, that's all," the senator said mildly.

"We need ghosts like you. You can haunt the Association for us. You have knowledge of the early days, you know what it was like, how the Association came into power—"

"Hell, everyone knows that," the general said.

Selkirk shook his head. "No, they don't. People have forgotten. They found it safer to forget. The Association has been in power a long time. They've been peddling their own version of history, and it doesn't have much to do with the truth. That's why we need you."

"What can we do?"

"Just tell the truth, the way you remember it. We're a fighting force. The people who have suffered at the hands of the Association support us, but that's not enough. If we're ever going to win, we have to take away its support. A lot of people are satisfied with the Association because they believe it's given them the order and security it promised. They don't want to hear about the cost. They're too busy enjoying the results. But you can scare them. When they learn what happened to you, they'll begin to wonder when it's going to happen to them. Once they distrust the Association, it's finished. It will collapse of its—"

A blaze of light cut Selkirk short. A sudden roar and a wave of turbulence broke over them. The helicopter rocked and bucked, then settled to level flight once again. Voices spoke softly, confusedly.

"The camp…"

"The guards..."

"They're dead, and the camp is destroyed," Selkirk announced. "We don't need places like that."

"But did all those men have to die?"

Hatcher had asked that question. Selkirk looked at him coldly and turned away. "Yes," he said.

They were silent after that, and Selkirk soon left them and relieved the gunner. He wanted solitude, a chance to think and not have to speak to anyone.

Jack was dead, shot while attempting to escape from North Camp Three only a few weeks earlier. The guard had not been lying; Selkirk was sure of that. His brother was dead.

And why? What had his crime been? What danger did a man like Jack Selkirk pose to the Association and its policies? Selkirk shook his head wearily and looked out, heartsick, at the morning sky. He thought of Jack, the apolitical man who had joined the Association for business purposes, kept out of the internal power struggles, did his job and made no trouble for his superiors. Jack, the loyal follower. Selkirk remembered that luxurious white apartment and envisioned a tomb.

Maybe it would have been politic to spare the guards, show them that their enemy could be forgiving. He did not want to forgive them or anyone else. He wanted to destroy, utterly and completely. Jack was dead; Noreen was dead—all because of the Association. Selkirk's own mind had been manipulated and used for the benefit of the Association. Now had come the time to pay old debts. There would be no compromises between Martin Selkirk and the Association. None, ever.

Except for necessary orders, Selkirk spoke to no one until the group was safely back at their stronghold. He saw the freed prisoners to the hospital, delivered his report, submitted to debriefing and then, before he had time to eat, he was summoned to a special meeting of the council.

At first, he was merely annoyed by what he heard. But as one councillor after another assailed his action, he grew angry and at last disgusted. He had done something they all wanted done, something only he could have brought off. In the council room, here before them, stood a mound of materials that belied the Association's message of self-glorification. A dozen figures from the pre-Association past were here now, ready to speak out, and Selkirk, who had accomplished it all, was being condemned for blowing up the special camp; for killing enemies.

He listened in silent contempt to the voice of Hillis, the would-be tactician whose ignorance would have destroyed their forces in a day if there had been no Selkirk to turn his foolish plans into workable strategy. Hillis spoke about the importance of winning over enemy troops, the value of clemency in undermining the loyalty of opposing forces. Hillis had not been at North Camp Three. He had stayed here, as he always did. He knew nothing. But he spoke on, branding Selkirk's actions as destructive to the cause and criminally irresponsible.

Barnet took up the refrain. But Barnet was a foolish man, easily led. To Barnet's uncomplicated mind, the latest, loudest shout was truth. One could not grow angry with Barnet any more than one could hate a yapping dog. He was an annoyance, no more.

But Ridley joined in the condemnation. Not as eagerly as Hillis nor as loudly as Barnet, true, but he agreed with them and sided against Selkirk. And Lyna, as always, followed his lead. That was a double disappointment.

When old Sachar began to speak, Selkirk's anger reached a point where he could no longer contain it. To be denounced by this aged calculator who had never lost a brother, never been used like a simple tool, was beyond enduring.

Selkirk rose and broke into Sachar's tirade. His voice drowned out the old man's, and his tone held something that made no man present dare to silence him. "Shut up, Sachar," Selkirk commanded. "All of you, be still. You talk like old women, and your talk makes me sick. This is a war, and we're the insurgents. All wars are dirty, but this is the dirtiest kind of all. A lot of people will die. A lot more may wish they had, before it's done. In a war like this there's no sportsmanship, no fair play, no chivalry. No mercy, ever. Only winning and losing. And if you mean to live, you fight to win, and you do whatever has to be done. I knew that when I came here. You still have to learn it." He turned and walked out of the council room, leaving them stunned and silent behind him.

He went directly to the mess hall. Few were there, and he took his tray to an empty table in a far corner and began to eat his meal alone. When he was almost finished, Hatcher approached him warily. Selkirk gestured to an empty seat opposite his own, and the young man took it. Hatcher seemed anxious to talk, but found it difficult to start. Selkirk had an idea of what was on the young trooper's mind and wanted to discuss it himself. He mentioned what had just taken place in the council room and observed Hatcher's reaction.

"I had my doubts about what you did, sir, but I wouldn't have condemned you for it," he said, after some thought.

"What doubts did you have?"

Again Hatcher paused to consider his answer and at last said, "Those guards were helpless. It wasn't like shooting someone who can shoot back. They were completely helpless."

Selkirk nodded. "True enough. But so were their prisoners, and the ones in North Camp Three. We couldn't attack the camp, but the explosion might have given them a chance to escape. They might even have risen against their guards."

"I hadn't thought of that, sir."

"You're like most people, Hatcher. Willing to fight, but sick at the thought of killing. You're a lot closer to normal than I am, if that makes you feel any better."

Hatcher nodded rather absently, his mind preoccupied. "How many people are we going to kill?" he asked suddenly.

Selkirk sipped his tea, put the cup down and said, "As many as we have to."

"But why must we kill anyone, sir?"

"Because if we don't kill them, they may kill us. It's that simple, Hatcher."

The young man shook his head. He leaned forward, intent on his words. "It isn't. It can't be. We're fighting something evil, we're trying to regain people's freedom. How can we pretend to be decent people, fit leaders, if we kill as indiscriminately as the Association's gunmen?"

"I don't pretend to be anything but what I am, Hatcher. You talk as though we're special; as if we ought to enjoy some kind of charmed life because we fight on the side of Counterforce and not for the Association. Keep thinking like that and you'll die young, and a lot of us will die with you."

"But we're right. That's what makes us strong," Hatcher argued with passion in his voice.

Selkirk leaned back in his chair, his cold eyes fixed on Hatcher's, and his face broke slowly into a grin. He began to laugh, a deep slow laugh, barely audible beyond the table where they sat. "Hatcher, I'd forgotten how very funny an idealist can be. I haven't seen too many of you in recent years. The Association may be in trouble, but they're still ten times stronger than we are, and if you ever overlook that fact, you're finished. We won't win because we're decent people, or because our cause is just. We'll win because we do what must be done."

"That sounds like what the Association would say."

"It probably is," Selkirk replied coolly.

"Then what's the point? Why risk suffering and death to fight the Association if we might turn out to be no better?"

"Everyone has his own answer to that, Hatcher. You're fighting because you're decent and self-sacrificing and you love your fellow man. Others are fighting the Association for revenge, or… maybe because they want to fight something big and the Association is the biggest target around."

"What about you?"

Selkirk frowned and weighed the question for a moment before replying, "Revenge, mostly. And habit, I guess. I've been trained to shoot people and blow things up."

Hatcher appeared shocked. "That's an awful answer," he said faintly.

"If you don't want to hear the answers, don't ask questions," Selkirk snapped. "Listen, Hatcher, I've learned what I was, what I really am. I can live with it now. The worst part was finding out that all my memories of helping and building and saving lives were false. I'll never forgive the Association for that. They could have blocked out the truth and left a blank, but they filled my memory with lies. They'll pay for that and for a lot of other things, too."

"Selkirk, that's the wrong—"

"Don't give me a sermon, kid. Let them erase your memory like a blackboard and write in their own lying stories. Let them kill your brother and his wife. Then come back and talk to me. I'll listen to you then."

Nothing more was said. Hatcher left, his shoulders slumping and his head low, a picture of dejection. A few minutes later, as Selkirk rose to leave, Lyna entered the mess hall. She seemed unhappy to see him there. He went directly to her, to ask what had taken place among the council after his departure. She was evasive. He persisted but could learn nothing. As he turned to walk away, she mentioned Hatcher.

"He looks up to you, Martin. What did you say, to him?"

"I told him a few things he needs to know."

"Don't crush him," she said gently. "Hatcher is young. He's totally devoted to Counterforce. He'd give his life."

"Good for him. I don't want him giving mine."

"Martin—"

"Hatcher doesn't need a cause for martyrdom, just an opportunity," Selkirk went on angrily. "He wants something to die for, gloriously. He doesn't care what it is, as long as someone's watching. I've seen kids like him, Lyna. They're all the same."

"Don't be so bitter. He's a dedicated man."

"Dedicated men get a lot of people killed."

"You were dedicated once, Martin."

"We change. You've changed more than I have."

She looked surprised. "I? I haven't changed."

"I'm not talking about Counterforce, I'm talking about you and me. When you came to get me out of that sweep and bring me here, there was something between us. I knew it; so did you. We didn't even have to talk about it." He reached out to her, but she drew away. "When I got my memory back, it was bad, Lyna. If you hadn't been with me those first few nights, I couldn't have made it."

"You've made it now. You don't need me."

"I do, though. I need you, and I want you. And you don't want to have anything more to do with me. You avoid me, side against me, pull away when I try to touch you."

"It's not like that, Martin," she said uneasily.

"How is it, then?"

"This isn't the time… we can't think of ourselves; we have to think of Counterforce. Of the future, Martin. It's the future that counts. You're turning this into a personal vendetta, and you're endangering everything." She had grown agitated as she spoke.

"That's crazy, Lyna. I did exactly what the council wanted. I went out and got the men and materials that can prove what the Association has really been doing all these years. I blew up a hellhole of a prison camp. Is that a personal vendetta, or is it what Counterforce exists for? Does it matter? It helps destroy the Association, and that's good."

"No, Martin, it isn't good. It's not all destruction, it's… oh, please, I can't talk about it, not now."

"When?"

"Soon. Please, Martin, trust us. Try to understand."

She hurried away. He stood for a moment, alone in the empty mess hall, perplexed at her behavior. She had not acted this way toward him before. She had loved him once, and now she feared him and shrank from him.

He walked through the dimly lit corridors, wondering and uncertain. Perhaps the others were right and he was wrong.

But then he thought of Jack, dead. And Noreen, dead. He weighed the balance of his own past deeds as an extraterritorial, laying waste to any outside force that posed a threat to the peace and security of the Association. He felt a lust for revenge so powerful that it burned through his veins. The Association must be destroyed utterly.

His way might be the wrong way, but he could see no other.

CHAPTER 16

The truth began to spread. Men long believed dead appeared on home viewers and spoke of the Association's prison camps. They revealed the true mission of the Extraterritorial Service and told of the raids beyond the Barrier, where no subject of the Association could travel. The ghostly figures spoke of forgotten times, names and events all but obliterated by the diligent concealment of the Association.

Their appearances, brief and unexpected, burst into the middle of the Association's own carefully planned programs. The intruders remained on the screen only briefly, but they were seen, and their messages were heard.

Counterforce had learned how to intercept communications in other ways as well. Three times within a single week, the morning microdeck readout contained revelations about sector three containment and the travel ban. Once, a call to rebellion boomed over the speakers in Central Registry itself, at the height of a busy day.

The Association fought back, but it had been hurt. For the first time since its rise to power, it faced open defiance. When brutal repression did not work, Association leaders foundered, indecisive and helpless before a threat they could not confront. Prisoners could tell them nothing of value, not even under a probe. Counterforce remained invisible, except when its agents struck to disrupt, undermine and humiliate.

Defections soon began, and their number increased steadily. As trouble continued in the cities, guards were withdrawn from duty along the Barrier and stationed on the periphery of sector one areas and in strategic buildings.

Flight across the minefields and snares of the outer zone was still dangerous, but now the danger was slightly reduced, and some dared it. A few succeeded. Word filtered back, and others tried. A few more escaped.

Guards were pulled from their sector one assignments and returned to the Barrier. Defections were fewer, but chaos now erupted anew in the cities. At last the Association opted for internal security, even at the risk of increased defections. Barrier guards were cut to a skeleton force. The flow to the Outlands increased each day.

Within a year of the first clash, signs of decline were apparent in all Association cities. Food was now rationed. Power use was strictly regulated. The skimways operated erratically, as did nearly all services. Familiar faces were suddenly missing, and the whispered questions—"Shot?"

"Arrested?" were most often answered by "Over the Barrier!"

There was joy in Counterforce over these developments and a great lift in spirit. The Association's growing difficulty at first called forth a surge of new energy from its opponents. Propaganda efforts were stepped up and became even bolder in scope. Raids were more frequent and struck at the Association's most secure strongholds. It seemed to the men and women of Counterforce that the triumph of their cause was near.

The prospect of victory brought a new concern: men began to speak of the future and dared to plan beyond the day at hand. In a world without the Association, all things would be possible. The workers and raiders spoke eagerly of the time when they would walk openly in the cities they had helped to liberate; they talked of the families they would raise, the peaceful pleasures that awaited all.

The leaders, too, discussed the future; but they, discussed it among themselves, in secrecy. They did not concern themselves with human needs and satisfactions. They debated the hard realities of policy.

The facade of the Association had been cracked and its inner weakness stood revealed. It seemed suddenly less forbidding, less monstrous than the old monolithic enemy. And a question was voiced by some—was the Association truly evil in itself, or was it instead a noble idea made evil by human frailties left too long unchecked? If it were evil, it should of course be destroyed, utterly rooted out forever.

But what, then, would replace it? Counterforce was a resistance organization, an underground army working to tear down, not to bring peace and order to weary people. It could not lead the liberated millions. Should it attempt to do so, the result might be anarchy, as in the old days. It was fear of anarchy that had made possible the rise of the Association. A new wave of anarchy might give birth to an even worse horror.

The old democratic forms were mentioned, hopefully at first, but then with increasing mistrust. In times like these, when all was uncertain and society weary after years of struggle, a democratic government might lack the necessary strength and authority for action. Again, the result might soon be no real government at all.

For a time, there seemed to be no solution, and the future loomed bleaker and more fearsome than the present struggle. Now, at least, the situation was clear. One knew who one's enemies were and could face them and fight them. The future was a cloud of dangerous uncertainties.

Then, gradually, reluctantly at first but with growing readiness, a few of the leaders of Counterforce came quietly to a decision. Once they had agreed on it, the clarity and simplicity of the idea overwhelmed them and swept away all remaining doubts.

They had believed all along that the enemy was the Association itself. Herein lay their error. The Association itself was neither good nor bad—it was the men and women within the structure who had turned it into a tool of oppression. Restaffed and rededicated, the Association could become a means of assuring survival for the necessary few in a world still threatened by war and famine. To destroy it because of past injuries and old grievances would be an act of folly.

Thus the leaders of Counterforce decided.

They did not announce their decision at once. Instead, they took great pains to keep it in the strictest confidence. It might be too easily misunderstood by the angry masses who fought under the banner of Counterforce. Far better, the leaders decided, to keep their followers safely unaware of their plans. All would be revealed at the proper time. And, too, secrecy made the necessary work much easier.

Martin Selkirk knew nothing of these deliberations, though he, too, had new concerns. The Association was collapsing too quickly, and this worried him. It seemed unreasonable for an organization that had been so powerful to crumble at the first organized resistance. Was the Association truly all bluff, or was this a strategem? And if so, whose strategem? In all the time of fighting, after all the interrogations and the careful sifting of intelligence, the true leadership of the Association had never even been named. Who was, in fact, running the Association? Selkirk could only ponder the question, and he had little time to do even that.

He was busier these days than he had ever been before. He intensified the training program, led his own picked team on special missions, supervised the charting of the tunnels, interrogated prisoners and pieced together their information. He seemed to thrive on his exhausting labors, and as he worked, a conviction grew in his mind. He saw that the time was at hand to establish contact with the Outlanders, and he began to plan for it. Surely, by now the Outlanders knew what was happening behind the Barrier. They would join in the fight; Selkirk was certain of that.

The Outlanders had no love for the Association, but until now there had been little point in opposing it by force of arms. They simply stayed away, lost in the open lands on their side of the Barrier. They were too widely distributed to make a nuclear strike worthwhile, and as long as they did not attack, they were tolerated. In time, the Association would move against them, but at present there was no need.

But now the Outlanders' old enemy was weak. If they could be roused to attack in full strength all up and down the Barrier, they could help topple the Association forever. It was worth trying, Selkirk thought.

He worked out a contact plan and submitted it to the council. He heard nothing. He resubmitted the plan, supplying further data and still heard no response.

For some weeks past, as operations demanded more and more of his time, Selkirk had been avoiding the council's meetings. He did not need their authorization, and he did not want their opinions. After their reaction to the North Camp raid, he wanted no more dealings with the members of the council; not even Lyna. But he felt that a matter of such consequence as first contact with the Outlanders should be undertaken only with the full support of Counterforce leadership. And so he drew up a new and more comprehensive plan and took it himself to the council room at their customary meeting time.

He was stopped at the last corridor by a pair of armed guards. He took no offense; security had often been too lax for his liking, and it pleased him to see someone else taking the danger of a raid seriously. As he reached for his identification, one guard said, "The meeting is closed, sir. No one else to be admitted."

"I'm Selkirk. I run military operations here."

"I know that, sir. I have orders."

"What orders?"

"It's a sealed meeting, sir. No unauthorized personnel to be admitted under any circumstances."

"That's clear enough." Selkirk had a sudden suspicion. Casually, he asked, "Been having a lot of these lately, haven't they?"

"Yes, sir. This is the fourth in—" the guard began, and his companion snapped "Shut up, Denton." Turning to Selkirk, the other guard said, "We cannot discuss any aspect of these meetings, sir. Sorry."

"No reason to be sorry, mister. You're doing your duty," Selkirk replied affably and turned back down the corridor.

Something was going on, and he was being excluded. This was more than a matter of simple injured pride and personal antipathies. He had sought the council's approval of a major new offensive tactic, and they were ignoring him and the plan. Refusal would have been disappointing, but straightforward; this was devious, and it disturbed him. He had to find out what was going on.

It proved to be impossible. A few people had noticed the heavy security surrounding the council's most recent meetings, but none knew the cause. One rumor suggested that things might be well after all: a tunnel charting team reported indications of visitors being brought in from outside. Selkirk questioned the team, but they could offer little clarification. Two, possibly three, people had been admitted through a tunnel discovered only recently. They had been brought to the central area, and there was no further trace of them.

They were not prisoners: that was certain. It was possible, then, that the council had proceeded on its own to establish contact with the Outlanders. It was foolish of them not to make use of Selkirk's knowledge, but they had their political motives for that, he judged: perhaps they hoped to claim credit for his idea if it succeeded and keep it silent if it failed; he did not care much about their maneuverings, or credit, so long as the plan worked.

But he wanted assurance. That tunnel opened inside the Barrier; the visitors could be friends, or they could be spies. Someone in Counterforce might be making a private peace with the Association, entirely apart from the official operations.

None of his trusted men could learn anything. Selkirk grew steadily more concerned as two days passed without word from the council or news from his own men; he resolved to confront Lyna the next day and ask her directly what she knew. To his surprise, he found her waiting for him alone that night.

"Martin, I have to speak to you where no one can hear us," she said. Her voice was nervous, her expression tense. He took her arm and led her toward the tunnels, into an area only he had fully explored. They walked on in the glow of his hand light. He thought of another time he and Lyna had fled together, in darkness, picking out their way by pocket torches. She remembered it, too.

"It's like that day in sector three. Remember, Martin?"

"Yes. A lot's changed since then." She hesitated before replying, "Too much, I'm afraid. Maybe everything's changed. I'm so confused, I can't decide if I'm doing right… Am I a traitor, or are they?"

When they had rounded a corner and come to an open space, Selkirk set up a larger light. "Let's hear it, Lyna. It sounds bad," he said.

"Martin, they've been meeting with Association representatives. They want—"

"Who?" he broke in.

"Ridley, Hillis, Sachar… the whole council. I just found out about it. They're trying to work out a peaceful settlement."

"Stupid, treacherous, little men," Selkirk said bitterly. "They'll hand us all over to be butchered."

"No, Martin, it's not like that. We'll be protected. There's to be an amnesty on both sides and hostages to secure the agreement. The leadership of Counterforce will share equally in running the Association."

He laughed a dry, humorless laugh. "Don't beat them, join them. That's been Ridley's idea all along. What about the men?"

"Partial demobilization. Some will be accepted into the security forces. You and Harry…"

"Go on."

"I'm not sure, Martin. You two are sore points with the Association. Especially you."

"I'm glad to hear that. I'm glad it's not all love and brotherhood. If they were willing to forgive me, I'd be ashamed of myself for having done a rotten job. They want my head on a platter as part of the agreement, is that it?"

"I don't know, Martin. Whatever the Association asks, surely you don't think Ridley would betray you!"

"Why not?"

"No, Martin, not Ridley. Think of the risks he's run, all the sacrifices he's made for Counterforce!"

"I've thought of them. I don't want to be one more of Ridley's sacrifices."

She looked up at him, pleading for assurance. "Is peace betrayal? Ridley and the others only want to stop the killing and start building a better society."

"So did the Association. Look what that turned out to be. I'm not a builder, Lyna, I'm a gunman. That's all I'm good for. I joined up with this bunch to help smash the Association. As long as that was our goal, I was Ridley's hero. But now that Ridley and his fellow idealists can smell a profitable deal, I'm an embarrassment. If they can trade me in for a few concessions—"

"Martin, no!"

"—they'll do it gladly. If the Association gets rid of me, Counterforce won't have to." He took her chin in his hand, gently, and raised her head. He looked deep into her troubled eyes. "You know I'm right, too. That's the reason you're here."

"I wanted you to know. I thought you deserved that. But I couldn't believe they'd actually turn you over."

"Do you believe it now?"

She looked at him long before answering; then, tears gathered in her eyes and she said in a voice no more than a whisper, "Yes. Yes, I do."

He gripped her shoulders and said, "All right. We can't stay here much longer. Even if Ridley decides not to use me in this deal, he may get a better offer before long. And if he finds out that you told me, he'll get rid of you, too. I want you to pack food and clothing and meet me here in two hours. Can you make it?"

"Where can we go?"

"I'll tell you when we get there. Trust me, Lyna."

"I do."

"And thanks. Thanks for letting me know what's going on."

He led her through a branch tunnel that opened near their quarters. They emerged unseen and separated at once. The corridors were almost deserted at this hour, with only a few guards moving about. Selkirk reached his room unseen. There he stopped.

The scratch on the lock was tiny, but unmistakable. Someone had tampered with it. He paused, trying to calculate the probabilities. It could be set to blow him to pieces as soon as he turned the key; but that was unlikely. Far more probable that someone had entered while he was gone, to search for something, or perhaps to prepare a trap. They might be in there still.

All his instincts and experience told him to get away before it was too late; but he had to have what was in that room if he was to convince the Outlanders of their opportunity. It was a dangerous business, but there was no way of avoiding it.

He drew his pistol and cocked it, then stepped to one side of the door. Flat against the wall, he awkwardly inserted the key and turned it. Nothing happened. The door swung open halfway and stopped. He dove into the room and rolled into the shadows. The door stood open, and a dim light from the corridor threw a pale rectangle on the floor. Selkirk lay still, listening. Someone was in the room.

He lay without moving as seconds, then minutes went by. The other—others, more likely—made no more sound than he, but still Selkirk waited. In time, they would give themselves away. He had only to be patient.

The door shut suddenly, and at the same time Selkirk heard a quick stir of movement in the far shadows. So there were two of them. And one was clearly new to this kind of work. The whole thing stank of clumsiness and timidity, and Selkirk's anger gave way to a grim amusement. My own men rifling my quarters and doing it this clumsily, he thought. I'll teach them a lesson—them and the council that sent them.

And then another thought came to him, and all amusement vanished. He should have thought of this at once: they might not be here for information. If that was all, they could have knocked him out with a needier as he opened the door. Even that was not necessary; he could have been summoned away, to give them ample time to rifle his quarters.

He had no doubt: they were here to kill him.

They must be under heavy pressure, to try it this way, he thought. There were a dozen opportunities every day in the tunnels, and it could easily be done on his next mission. Why the hurry? Someone wanted him removed quickly, that was clear. He wondered idly whether his visitors were Association infiltrators or his own comrades, turned against him by the council; but he did not dwell on the question. The affiliations of his would-be assassins mattered very little at this point.

Another minute passed without a sound or motion in the dark room. Nerves will be getting raw, Selkirk judged; time now to test them. He worked a cartridge from his belt, raised his hand slowly and cautiously, and lofted the tiny missile toward the far corner of the room.

It was a lucky hit. There came a faint startled cry and at once both intruders opened fire, revealing their positions. Selkirk fired twice, and then all firing ceased. Still concealed, he hit the light switch next to his bed.

Harry White was on his knees, doubled forward, clutching his belly. Hatcher lay sprawled against the wall, legs extended, his face set in an expression of astonishment. His pistol lay beside him. Selkirk moved quickly to Hatcher's side and snatched up his pistol, all the while keeping a careful eye on Harry, who was still alive. He knelt beside him. "Why, Harry?"

"Had to," his friend said weakly. "They told me…"

"What did they tell you, Harry? Why did you come here to kill me?"

Harry looked at him hatefully, He reached out and gripped Selkirk's jacket. "Treaty… You were trying to make a deal… Betray us all…" Harry coughed and shuddered. He released his grip on Selkirk, coughed once more, convulsing his body, and then pitched forward. Selkirk felt for a pulse. There was none.

He had no time to mourn. Things were moving too fast now, and Selkirk knew he had not a second to spare. It was not over yet; this was only a first attempt. Whoever had duped poor old Harry into this would soon be coming to finish off survivors. Selkirk planned a surprise for him. He crammed extra rations, ammunition and clothing into a duffle bag and carefully inserted a bundle of documents and tapes safely among the other goods. These were what had to be taken out. Certain things had to be told, and he meant to tell them where they would make the most difference. He loaded two submachine guns, slung one and set the other by his side while he packed his tunnel lights and explosives.

A soft knock sounded on the door. He snatched up the gun and leveled it at the entrance.

The knock came again. He heard low voices in the corridor. He stepped into the shelter of an open closet door and groaned loudly.

For a second there was no response, then the door burst open and two men sprang inside, pistols at the ready. "Selkirk's not here—he got away!" one said. Selkirk dropped them both with a quick burst.

The corridor was empty. That advantage would not last much longer, now that there had been shooting for all to hear. He hurried for the tunnels, knowing that pursuers would soon be after him. His quick search of the two he had just shot had confirmed his suspicion: they were Association men. Neither side would want him to escape with that knowledge. But once into the tunnels, he would be safe. He knew those dark ways better than anyone else in Counterforce.

But reaching the tunnels would not be easy. At one corridor junction, he came upon two armed guards. "There he is!" one cried, and both opened fire on him. He dove for shelter at the first sign of alarm and sent a high burst from the submachine gun to keep them down. As he retreated down a side corridor, he heard the cry of "Traitor!" at his back, far away.

So that was it. Ridley and the others had brought a few Association cutthroats in and turned them loose on their opposition, then blamed it all on him. Simple, but effective with gullible men accustomed to loyalty. Doubly effective when the accused can be shot on sight without protesting his innocence, Selkirk thought.

He was able to avoid the scattered small groups of confused guards who comprised his immediate danger, but his roundabout progress was slow, and every minute in-creased the odds against him. There was no chance of bluffing his way past these guards; they all knew him by sight and were demonstrably eager to open fire. Ridley must have told a convincing story.

Selkirk could not bring himself to shoot his way out; he could not return their fire; not yet. He hoped to find another way.

They would expect him to head for the tunnels. He was certain of that; so they would concentrate their strength in the tunnel area. Very well, then. He knew of branches and offshoots and connecting passages unsuspected by the others. Some were dangerous, but they would serve his purpose. He would approach his rendezvous from another direction, coming in through an uncharted tunnel.

He backtracked through the deserted mess hall and training area, around the supply depot now lightly guarded and down the main corridor to the outside. A watch would be on duty near the outlet, but he would be leaving it before that.

Using his tunnel light and goggles, he hurried along. The infrared equipment had been taken in a raid, and there was no other in the Counterforce armory. It lessened the odds against him considerably.

Unknown to the others, a narrow tunnel ran parallel to this one, an old storm drain unused for nearly 60 years, but still passable. The entry at this end was blocked, but he could easily clear it and conceal it behind him. He had brought enough explosives to manage that.

A light flashed far ahead. With no alcoves or branches nearby, Selkirk dropped flat and brought his gun around. This was all wrong: No raids had gone out this way tonight, and none were due back. No guard shift was coming off duty at this hour; nor would a guard team be so numerous or so furtive.

The distance was too great and the light too faint to make out more than bobbing, dimmed lights and figures in cautious motion. They were moving slowly, but would be at the tunnel entrance before he could reach it and unblock it.

He dashed forward, running as fast as he could to cover the maximum ground before he was seen. He made it almost to the tunnel entrance before he heard a cry, and the lights ahead went out.

He took out a heavy grenade, armed it and, with a flat, powerful sidearm throw, sent it down the dark corridor in the direction of the figures. It exploded, and the roof of the corridor sagged, but did not give. Selkirk had to throw the second grenade into a wall of bullets. He got it off and collapsed the roof, but as he rose, a slug caught him in the side, just below the ribs, and then the debris walled off his attackers. The wound in his side bled freely, but it was not serious; he could still move fairly quickly.

He had recognized the deep staccato fire of Association weapons when his attackers fired. But whether this was an all-out attack or an infiltration, worked out with the help of insiders to reach an easy and profitable settlement at the price of Martin Selkirk, he might never learn; he could only surmise. Whatever it was, he had certainly put a crimp in it. So much the better, he thought.

He used a small charge to blow away the wall that separated him from the storm drain. When the dust had settled, he set a timed charge to seal the entry and picked his way into the tunnel.

The storm drain was a flattened oval about three meters from top to bottom and half again as wide. It was quite dry. Water had not flowed through here for more than half a century. The air was absolutely still, and all was silent within. Not even the rats knew of this tunnel.

Despite his injury, Selkirk was able to move quickly on the smooth, unobstructed floor. Getting out fast had the first priority. Once outside, he could see to his wound.

He passed the first feeder tunnel just as the sealing charge went off and filled the storm drain with a booming wave of sound. He passed three more tunnels, checking them off against the network in his memory, turned left and left again as the passage forked and came at last to the outlet.

He emerged in a ravine parallel to the outer-sectors skimway. It was not long before dawn, and he had to hurry. A kilometer from the ravine he climbed out, up the bank, and headed toward the ruins of an industrial center. Another entry to the Counterforce complex lay beneath one of the maintenance buildings.

Once inside the building, Selkirk stopped to rest. The injury in his side had stopped bleeding. He inspected it and realized his luck. The bullet had done little more than break the skin and leave his muscles slightly numb. Fifteen centimeters to the side, and he would be lying on the floor of that tunnel with his guts torn apart. He had been lucky, indeed. He badly wanted a long rest and a meal, but Lyna would be waiting by this time.

If they had not killed her.

He had kept the thought from his mind since the attempt on his own life, but now it was forced upon him. If Ridley had decided on a purge, Lyna was a logical candidate. It would not even be necessary for Ridley to know of Lyna's warning to him. She had fallen from his favor earlier—she had hesitated at the crucial moment. For a man like Ridley, that was proof of her disloyalty. He and his councillors required unanimity in their decisions; in that, as in so many other ways, it was hard to distinguish them from the Association.

On the other hand, if Lyna was waiting for him, she might not be waiting alone. The assassins in his room might have been sent by Ridley and the council. Selkirk wanted to believe that. But they could have been waiting there for him, expecting him to be hurried and less cautious after Lyna's warning… a warning sure to make him decide to flee and be judged a traitor. It all fit too well. And one betrayal might be backed by others; it was almost certain to be. The next one would be better planned.

Selkirk was not disabled, but he was in no condition to face a squad of Association gunmen on one side and an enraged Counterforce on the other. The sensible course of action was to get away now and leave Lyna to shift for herself. There were no debts between them. They had been lovers once and might be once again, away from here; but the past was dead and the future was uncertain. Now there was only the reality of danger all around them.

Selkirk sighed and pulled himself, stiffly to his feet. Betrayal was becoming a commonplace in his life. He had been deceived and used by the Association; Jack and Noreen had been manipulated; Harry White duped into turning on an old friend. Lyna had turned against the council… or against him. And now he was thinking of leaving her to wait for him, alone wondering. No. He could not do that.

He cached the duffle bag in a corner of the building, under a pile of debris, taking only the explosives. He checked out his submachine gun and pistol, reloaded both and, slipping on his goggles, entered the tunnel.

He had taken the long way around and entered at the far end. To his certain knowledge, no one in Counterforce knew of this tunnel, and it was unlikely that any agent of the Association had chanced upon it. Selkirk had kept this discovery to himself—and Lyna. It was a precaution; he had learned long ago to keep an escape route open for emergencies, and in this maze of betrayals and intrigues he was thankful for his instinctive secrecy.

He checked the entrance and the first stretch of tunnel carefully, until he was assured that no one had passed this way. Then he moved cautiously forward, creeping under sagging sections of roof and hauling himself over mounds of debris where shoring had given way. The air here was dank and water trickled from the walls to lay in pools underfoot. He kept to the walkway as much as he could, but where it was blocked or had crumbled, he was forced to slog through the muck and stagnant water. This was not a safe route by any means; it might go at any time, and when it went it would probably collapse along its entire length. The knowledge made his movements even more deliberate.

In the end, it saved him. He came to the sharp corner that opened on the last straight stretch leading to the rendezvous point and stopped to examine his path carefully. Beams had fallen from walls and roof, and a huge slab of stone lay at an angle, blocking all but a narrow strip of passage. As he studied the rubble, working out a safe way past, Selkirk caught a sudden blur of motion beyond.

He froze, waiting. All was still, save for the tunnel noises he had grown accustomed to. Now, in the taut silence, each trickle and droplet, every scurrying rat's foot, seemed amplified to a roar. Still he waited, straining to hear, to see, to discover.

He brought his gun around and eased forward, toward the narrow aperture, moving with painful slowness and caution. Still he waited. Something had moved. It was not a rat, or a bit of falling dirt.

Then, all at once, as if a lens had been brought into focus, the figures ahead became clear. Against each wall, nearly hidden by a projecting beam, stood an armed man. A third hunched behind a mound of dirt just past the others. All were intent on the tunnel forward.

Selkirk rested the muzzle of his submachine gun on one of the fallen beams and tried to pull his confused thoughts into order. Infiltrators? They had not come from outside. He had seen no trace of others along his way, and none could have come through without leaving marks of their passage. They had come from within; perhaps they were part of the team that had come to his room to dispose of him. And they were between him and Lyna.

A light flashed far ahead, went out and then flashed again. One of the figures moved. Selkirk heard an exchange of voices, too low for words to be distinguished. It was maddening to wait here, just out of hearing, but he could not go forward; if he retreated, he would never know. He waited and listened, and in time he saw another figure approaching the three. This time, when they spoke, he could make out their words.

"He's an hour late."

"More than that. They must have got him in there. He couldn't get out."

"He knows ways we don't. But he said he was coming for her, and if he's alive, he will."

"Maybe not. Selkirk's no fool. He wants to stay alive."

"All the same, I don't think he'd run out on her."

"He ran out on us, didn't he? The two of them did."

"Bring her here. I want to talk to her."

Selkirk held his breath. If her referred to Lyna, then she was alive. But she might still have betrayed him. Anything was possible, in this maze of plots and counterplots. He watched two of the figures recede down the tunnel while the others waited, silent. One returned with a second figure walking before him with hands on head, as a prisoner walks. One guard flashed his light in the prisoner's face. It was Lyna.

"Where's Selkirk?" one of the men said.

"I don't know."

"He was going to meet you at the end of the tunnel. No use lying about that; it's obvious. You saw him, and then you headed here."

"I didn't come to meet anyone."

"Oh, no, you came on vacation. You were just taking a stroll," the guard said with heavy sarcasm. He continued, accusingly, "You were carrying a full pack. You were planning to desert. You and Selkirk sold us out, and you were running away because Ridley learned of your treachery."

Lyna's voice was dull with lost hope. "We never betrayed Counterforce."

"Listen, Robinson, you can make it a little easier on yourself if you tell us where Selkirk is. He's the one we really want. He's gone on a shooting spree, killed his old friend, blown up the main tunnel—he's crazy, and he has to be stopped."

"I don't know where he is. There's nothing between us, not any more. He wouldn't trust me with his plans."

"You're lying, Robinson. I don't believe a word."

"I don't much care."

Selkirk heard the sound of a fist striking flesh, and Lyna's cry of pain. There was the sound of another blow, and Lyna sprawled full-length on the tunnel floor. The guard who had struck her handed his weapon to one of the others and stood over her.

"You'll care," he said. "You'll care a hell of a lot before we're finished with you. Now try again. Where's Selkirk?"

Selkirk did not think any more about the danger to himself. His first shot struck the head of the nearest guard, and his second dropped the one who had struck Lyna. The third guard ran. Selkirk sighted on him, but the man stumbled and fell. As he scrambled to his feet, Selkirk raised the rifle. No need to kill any more.

"Lyna! Lyna, are you all right?" he called.

"Martin!"

"I'm right here, behind this debris. Grab the lantern."

She climbed to her feet, took the fallen lantern and turned it in the direction of his voice. It showed fallen timbers and the chunk of stone that had dropped from the roof.

"Can you make it through?" he asked.

"I think so."

"Be careful, but move as fast as you can. Those shots didn't do this tunnel any good. It might go any time."

As if to verify his words, the roof of the tunnel creaked and groaned ominously and then was silent except for the echoes of fallen fragments far down the tunnel. Lyna squirmed through the narrow cleft, and Selkirk pulled her to him gratefully. She winced as he touched her cheek.

"Did he hurt you badly?" Selkirk asked.

"Not so badly. I knew he was going to hit me, and I was ready."

"I'm glad I took the back way. They would have gotten us both."

"I was careless, Martin. It was my fault. I didn't think they'd suspect, but a guard saw me heading for the tunnel with a pack, and when he stopped me, I got confused. They guessed that you and I were planning something. They kept talking about our betraying Counterforce," she said, perplexed. "I couldn't figure it out."

"It looks to me as though someone has tried to sell us all out to the Association and place the blame on a few he wanted out of the way."

"Ridley?" she asked.

"I wouldn't be surprised." He took her hand. "We can try to figure it out later. Right now, we have to get out of here before the whole tunnel collapses or Counterforce sends us company. Or both. You take the lantern and go on ahead. I'll catch up to you."

He paused four times during the trek to place a charge of explosives. When they reached the far end, he blew them all. This tunnel was closed forever and no one, nothing, would ever pass. Association and Counterforce were sealed one bit tighter in their bloody little arena. They could fight it out together to the end.

CHAPTER 17

Lyna was bruised, but not hurt. Selkirk was exhausted, and his wounded side was beginning to pain him. They took cover, and Lyna foraged for supplies for their journey to replace what she had left behind. They ate and Lyna changed the makeshift dressing on Selkirk's wound. They rested throughout that day and the next.

Lyna was curious about the guard's remarks, and Selkirk told her the whole story of the attempted ambush and his escape, omitting only the fact that he had suspected her of a part in the plot against him. That was all behind them now.

"Poor old Harry," she said. "They used him terribly."

"They used us all. But I feel badly about Harry. If I could have spoken to him… explained…"

"It all happened too quickly, Martin."

He sighed. "I know. It always happens too quickly. Those two back in the tunnel—they were as badly deceived as we were. I hated the one who hit you, Lyna, but I've done worse. I shouldn't have killed them, but what else could I do?"

"Even Hatcher—"

His voice was cold in an instant. "No, not Hatcher. I don't regret Hatcher one bit. He'd gun down his mother and father for the cause and be thankful that his leader trusted him to do the job. I don't like true believers, whatever side they're on."

"What about yourself when you were with the Extraterritorial Service?"

He shook his head slowly. "I was never a true believer. Maybe I condemn myself by admitting it, but I stayed with the ES for the money and the action. I could always soothe my conscience by telling myself I was preserving the peace and security of the world, but that didn't really matter. I'm what I said I was, Lyna. Just a gunman, nothing more."

"What about Counterforce, Martin? You believed in Counterforce. You weren't paid for what you did."

He laughed. "I believed in getting even."

"You certainly did get even. Well, what do we do now?"

"We go over the Barrier."

Lyna hesitated, then nodded. "I thought we might. It's going to be dangerous, isn't it?"

"If you can think of a safer place, I'll gladly go there. We can't stay inside, or we'll be caught sooner or later. Don't forget, Lyna—Counterforce thinks we're the enemy, and the Association knows we are."

"I know we have to go over. It's only that I've heard so much about the Barrier and the Outsiders. I guess I'm frightened," she said.

"Don't be. Remember, the Barrier was originally erected to keep the Outlanders out but later the Association used it to keep their subjects in, and that always required heavy guard. We can make it." Selkirk paused. "We have to make it, Lyna. Whatever stories you've heard, the Outlanders are not monsters. They've suffered a lot, and some of them have risked everything to live free. They didn't buy the phony security of the Association or the phony freedom of Counterforce. They tried to make it on their own. Whoever wins on this side of the Barrier, the Outlanders will always be their enemy. They need help, and we can offer them just the help they need."

"Will they accept us, Martin?"

"I think so. First let's concentrate on getting there."

By dark of the second day they were ready to begin the journey west. It was a roundabout way, and only at night could they travel in safety. Selkirk had taken good maps, but even with their help, the way was difficult to follow. They had to skirt two Association cities by a wide margin, losing a night's progress each time. After the cities came the deserted towns and abandoned villages where outlaws gathered, men and women who belonged to no group and preyed on all. Their dwelling places were best avoided. Beyond them were the outposts and then the Barrier.

On the ninth night, not far from the last outpost, they encountered a pack of wild dogs. They could not use guns, for the sound of shooting would have a patrol on them within an hour. They could only flee, and their flight was nightmarish.

The moon was full and the night air was still. The baying of their hunters sounded far away, then closer. The pack fell to silence as it closed in. The fugitives forced their way through brush, raced across open fields, scrambled up a sharp incline of loose dirt and gravel that fell away beneath their frenzied grip and at last found sanctuary in a thick wood on the far side of the hill. There, in a cleft of rock secure on three sides, they came to bay, ready to fight for their lives with knives and makeshift clubs.

They waited, but the attack never came. After a long silence, they heard the cry of the pack rise far off, and then grow faint with distance before it died. Some hapless beast or Wanderer had crossed their track and saved Martin and Lyna.

In the exertion of their flight, Selkirk's wound had reopened and bled badly. They rested for an extra day and were on their way once more on the eve of the eleventh night. At dawn they reached the Barrier.

"Is that it, Martin?" Lyna said in amazement. "It looks like… like an ordinary field."

"Disappointed?"

She laughed in disbelief. "Yes! I expected watchtowers, barbed wire, ditches… the Barrier always sounded so much more formidable than this looks."

"You'll find all those things somewhere else along the line. This strip isn't as innocent as it appears. It's a minefield, and the mines are as thick as fleas."

She looked at him apprehensively. "I hope you know the way through."

"Sorry, Lyna, I don't. I crossed this field once, on a mission, but we had a guide. He didn't hand out maps. We'll have to probe our way across. It's not as dangerous as it sounds, as long as we go slowly, And we have all the time we need."

"What if a patrol sees us?"

"This stretch isn't patrolled, it's monitored automatically. The devices are on the far side of the minefield, facing Outlands. If there should ever be a mass incursion, the monitors will give the warning and the minefield will slow up the invaders until Association forces arrive. That's what the Barrier was meant to do originally."

"Then if we make it, they won't know until we're safely across."

"Right. All they'll see is our backs."

The crossing had to be made in full light. Lyna was willing to start at once, but Selkirk insisted on a full day's rest. They had an ordeal ahead. The distance to be covered was small—the minefield extended less than 200 meters at its widest point—but it could only be crossed at a slow crawl, moving a hand's breadth at a time, constantly alert.

They had reached the halfway point by sundown, and there they rested, sleeping fitfully under the open sky. The moon was on the wane, but they felt exposed nonetheless. They awoke frequently, freezing into frightened immobility at the first moment of awareness before daring to breathe. After a night that seemed eternal, the sun rose to illuminate the final stretch between themselves and Outlands. Selkirk made slow, deliberate progress, ever alert for trip wires and hidden triggering devices. When, near dusk, they reached the far side of the minefield, his hands were trembling and he was drenched in perspiration. He threw himself full-length on the cool hillside grass and breathed deeply and rhythmically until he had regained control of his nerves.

Once beyond the Barrier, they traveled by daylight. For two days they saw no one; then, as they were climbing a low hill toward a wood, they heard two shots in front of them and a bullet hummed past on either side of them. They dove for cover at once. No more shots came.

"That's Outlander shooting, Lyna. It's a warning."

"What do we do? Turn back?"

"If we do, they'll let us go. But we have to meet them sooner or later. Anyway, I may know some of these people. I met a lot of people from this area on my scouting missions."

"But won't they know—"

"When I came here as a raider, I didn't leave a card. But I'm going to tell them what I was and what I did, Lyna. I want to help them—maybe make up a little for what I've done—and I can't start out by lying to them."

"Do you think I want you to?"

"I just want you to know. It affects you, too."

"All right, now I know," she said brusquely. "Will you please tell me how we're going to get out of this?"

"When I get up, do exactly as I do. Stay about five paces to the side, and do everything just as I do," Selkirk said.

He rose to his feet. Standing in full view of whoever had shot at them, he hoisted the duffle bag to his right shoulder and placed his right hand flat on top of his head. With his left hand he gripped his weapon by the tip of the barrel and held it at arm's length. Slowly, he began to walk forward, trailing the weapon.

"Are you with me, Lyna?" he called without turning his head.

"Yes," came her voice from over his left shoulder. "This is an awkward way to move, Martin."

"That's the idea. Nobody will ask you to lay your weapon down while you're this close to the Barrier. The sign of peaceful intention is to carry it in an awkward position."

"If we tried to raise our weapons—"

"We'd be shot down. But we're safe as long as we don't make a hostile move."

At the edge of the trees a small, wiry man and a woman stepped forth, their rifles trained on the intruders. Each wore a green headband.

"Who are you and where're you from?" the woman asked.

They gave their names and told of the crossing. Their two captors whispered to one another, and the man then asked, "Did you cross the minefield, then?"

"We did."

"No one has come that way before. Do you know the path?"

Selkirk shook his head. "We probed for the mines with our knives. It took two days to get across."

"That is a dangerous way to cross the Barrier."

"I don't know a safe way, or I'd have taken it. I see by your colors that you're of Billy Greentree's village. Is he still village leader?" Selkirk asked.

"He does eat well and enjoy shelter," the woman replied cautiously. "How come you to know Billy Greentree?"

"I've been out here before, and on one trip I got to know Billy. Now I bring word that will help him and all the villages. Will you take us to him?"

Once more the man and woman spoke to one another in hurried whispers, and then the woman turned and disappeared into the trees. The man motioned for Lyna and Selkirk to sit, tossed them a canteen of water and some bread, and explained that they had a time to wait.

The woman returned in the early afternoon, accompanied by another woman and two men, all armed. They took the prisoners' ammunition, but allowed them to retain their empty weapons. When the guards had eaten and briefly rested, the three newcomers took Lyna and Selkirk into the wood and along a trail. No one spoke along the way.

They emerged from the trees and walked for a time along a cracked, dust-covered highway some ten meters wide. A similar highway ran parallel to it, about 30 meters distant. No vehicle had passed along these roads for a generation, to judge from their condition. They left the road after following it for several kilometers and reached the village in the evening. Judging from the land around, this had once been a farming community. The brick and frame buildings in the center might have been built at any time between the middle of the nineteenth century and the end of the twentieth. But the motley jumble of shacks, tents, shanties and lean-tos that sprawled from the center of the village were typical Outlander dwellings. As was the custom, each bore a sign of fealty. Over the entry to each shelter was a bit of green—a painted board, a strip of cloth, or in one instance, the cracked lens of an ancient traffic light.

The newcomers were brought to the central building. It had once been a post office; now it was the seat of government. Four men and two women sat behind a scarred old table facing them, and one big, bearded man with a green scarf knotted around his thick neck and a bright green vest over his otherwise bare chest rose to greet them.

"If you come as fugitives from the madness beyond the Barrier, you're welcome to stay as our guests. For three days you will eat well and enjoy shelter and our protection. After that, you'll have to find work among us or move on," he said.

"Do you recognize me, Billy?" Selkirk said. "It was some years ago, and you had just become leader of this village."

Billy Greentree studied him, frowned in concentration, then said, "I do remember. You were traveling alone, heading to the north."

"I was. This time I've come to see you, Billy. I have information that might save all your lives some day soon." Selkirk hoisted his duffle bag to the table. As he reached to open it, he felt a rifle in his back. Stepping away, he said, "Look it over. Maps and charts of all the defenses behind the Barrier. A tunnel network that can take you practically into Association headquarters."

"Why would we want to go there?" one of the women asked.

"They're in trouble now. You can finish them off. If you don't, they'll soon be strong enough to come out here and finish you."

Billy looked at him suspiciously. "How do you know?"

Selkirk took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "Because I used to be one of them, an extraterritorial. The last time you saw me, I was here as a spy."

"And what are you now?"

"I found out what the Association was really doing to me and to other people. It's rotten, and I want to destroy it."

The woman at the table spoke again. "If you want to fight the Association, why didn't you stay behind the Barrier? There's a group called Counterforce, and they're doing the Association great damage."

"I've learned that Counterforce is as rotten as the Association. It's a long story, but I'll gladly tell it from the beginning," Selkirk replied.

Billy raised his hands for silence. "We'll hear you. But first we'll hear her story," he said, pointing to Lyna. "You wait outside until we summon you."

An hour later, Selkirk was called in to give his account. He spoke long, telling everything he knew. He did not spare the details of his own deeds as an extraterritorial. He was not asking forgiveness, but belief. Two of those at the table called for his execution on the spot, but Billy silenced them and bade him continue.

The night wore on and newcomers arrived. Some wore the green of this village and some wore other colors or badges of allegiance. Selkirk was told to begin again, for the benefit of the new arrivals, and he did so twice in the course of the night.

At last came the moment when he had no more to tell and they had no more questions to ask. He was taken aside, to a small room with a pair of guards at the door. Now there was nothing to do but wait. He asked about Lyna and was given no answer. He stretched out on the floor and slept.

It was not yet dawn when he was awakened and brought back to the room where the others were still assembled. His maps and charts were spread across the table. Lyna was brought in by another door. They stood side by side before the assemblage, and Billy Greentree spoke to them. He made no great ceremony; he was too tired; he only smiled broadly and extended his hands to them.

"We are grateful for what you bring us. There is work for you both here, and there will be much of it in the days ahead. Best you get some sleep now. Others will be coming, and they will want to hear you," Billy said.

He gestured to the guards, and Lyna and Selkirk were given back their weapons and ammunition. Selkirk shouldered his duffle bag, much lighter now, and they left the building.

As they made their way to a shelter, Lyna said, "You were right, Martin. They're ready. They want us to help."

He yawned prodigiously and said, "It seems as though everybody does. First the Association, then Counterforce, now the Outies. I guess there's always work in this world for an extraterritorial."

"But now we're on the right side at last," she said.

He put his arm around her shoulder and said, "We can hope so, Lyna. We can always hope so."