Semanticist, teacher, Intelligence officer and gun collector, John J. McGuire draws on many lores in concocting his few but fine science-fiction pieces. As a member of the loose-knit Monmouth County science-fiction colony (George O. Smith, Lester del Rey and Algis Budrys are a few of the others), he spends his days inventing clever monsters for whom he then devises cleverer traps. Here, for example, are his instructions on how-
by John J. McGuire
“Go through the red door. Sit down in the big chair facing the wall,” the vice-admiral commanded. Then, the voice so devoid of inflection that the words emerged as mockery, “And make yourself at home, Loytenant.”
Croyden waited a moment, unable to believe that this was the extent of his orders. When nothing was added, mentally he shrugged, physically he abased himself in the deep salute, proudly he marched through the red door.
Two strides inside the door he was shocked to a halt. This room couldn’t be the one whispered of as the “sweat-box.”
Three of its four gray walls were bright with abstractions of space-flight. Below the paintings were low, open-stack bookcases. The big chair facing the blank wall looked luxuriously comfortable, one of the form-fitters designed to promote relaxation. On the low table beside the chair was the transcriber for ordering almost any drink that the Galaxy had ever professed to enjoy.
And even—he rolled one between his fingers to be sure —even fresh tobaccettes.
For a moment Croyden endured the stresses of conflicting drives. To do or not to do, to yield to temptation or merely to sit and sweat. . . .
Then he remembered the final sentence of the admiral’s orders and made himself at home.
Carefully he laid his papers on the table. With even greater care he considered and punched an order for a long, strong drink. Then, as if it were a religious rite, he puffed gently on one of the tobaccettes. When its tip finally burned with an even glow, he inhaled deeply and settled into the comfort of the chair.
He felt his fatigue and inner tension easing. If this were the “sweat-box,” he was willing to come here more often.
The blank wall in front of him turned his glance right and left. He whistled appreciatively as he studied the irregular rows of books for familiar titles. These were not transmitted facs, but home-printed originals. Bringing them to the satellite when every centimeter of cargo space was . . . well, he could think of no comparison. Cargo space was an absolute in itself.
But the pleasures!
Psychologists had been long in recognizing that the joy in reading had been delicately blended with all the other senses, touch, smell, balance. ... Another drink and he would not be able to keep his eyes and fingers from that luxury.
Croyden swore. Fervently he damned himself to eternal duty in the nethermost depths of lightless space. It was no excuse that he had been tired, confused, tense. Nothing could excuse the fact that he had, literally, not thought.
He stood up and saluted the blank wall.
“Reporting as directed.” As he concluded the terse formality, the one-way vision shield slid back.
He was face to face with five of the men who made this room the “sweat-box.”
The Supreme Co-ordinator was smiling and casual, returning Croyden’s formal abasement with the informal heart salute. Gracefully he gestured toward the chair and graciously he said, “Please sit down, Loytenant. Understandably, you are very tired. Sit down and order us companions to your choice of drinks.”
The simple activities of ordering and serving should have been calming, Croyden knew. Instead, it gave him time to remember. The gripping pain in his stomach had died away during those first few moments he had been alone. Now it was back, a redoubled, squeezing anguish.
The Co-ordinator’s smooth voice cut through the mind-clouding pain.
“In your own words, Loytenant, space-slang and all, introduce yourself and tell your story. Talk with another drink in your hand, light yourself another tobaccette. And above all, regard us merely as brother officers. There is no rank in this room.”
Croyden understood. The seeming request was really an order, but an order designed to put him at ease as no direct—or more subtle—expression of need could have done. Outside the “sweat-box,” he was merely another in the long lines of abasing officers. Here he was a delicate, living record of a disaster and he had to be handled so.
“You know my name, sirs. I’m a loytenant, temporary commission.”
“Permanent now.”
Croyden glanced at the speaker. The statement helped him to recognize the vague-familiar face as the Adjutant General’s.
“Thank you, Excellency.” He made his tone tell his pleasure. “I’m a . . .” He stopped, looked at the Supreme Commander, felt a foolish grin growing across his face. “Natural talk, Sire?”
His Supremacy smiled. “Your gyro-training should answer that. Of course it is best for you to speak naturally.” The smile vanished. “You also know why it is best that you speak willingly. You are one of the six living records of what happened to the cruiser Holoman. To you, what happened and why it happened is simply a series of personal experiences. It means little to you beyond the blockages that those experiences may create. But to us, you are more. You may have, without knowing it, a clue to help answer the problem of the doppelganger menace, the problem you studied as an undergraduate psychologist.
“Therefore, we must have, and we will have, every facet of your knowledge. And, as you know, it is of most value in your natural speech and consciousness.
“Give us yourself, Loytenant Croyden, completely, without reservation . . . and from conscious volition.”
“Suggestions, Sire.”
The deferent speaker was a small man with an intent stare, seated to His Supremacy’s immediate left.
“I listen, Gludo.”
Croyden gulped at his drink, hoped he could keep it down. The small man, Gludo, was Chief of the Combined Intelligence Staffs.
“Properly to evaluate Loytenant Croyden’s story, we need to know how his philosophy of living colors it. Let him begin with his research project. This will give us the palette to the hues and tints of his mind-approach, a touchstone to use through all of his tale.”
His Supremacy’s opaque gaze came back to Croyden. “Let it be so. Begin your story, Loytenant, and tell us everything about yourself.”
Everything, Croyden thought. They seemed to know everything already.
Strangely, the consideration helped to ease his pain and the story came more swiftly.
* * * *
I always wanted to be a psychologist. Specifically, a gyroscope on a combat ship. So when I qualified for the University, I worked hard.
A gyro must be able to analyze the feelings and morale of his ship without the crew being aware of the fact that they are being studied. So, to graduate, you must make a survey without the University proctors discovering what single item of information you are looking for.
The University being almost literally at the hub of our galaxy, it’s an ideal spot for cross section samplings and I chose as mine, what single item is the most vital factor in winning the war.
The answer I got, mathematically, for 90 per cent of all personnel, combat and rear echelon, was this: give us a combat technique for identifying the aliens infiltrating us. Do this and we can quickly win this war.
* * * *
“That wins the war?”
The interruption came from a thick-set man who looked as responsive to a new idea as the service regulations were.
“That wins the war,” Croyden said, flatly.
Something in the atmosphere of the room changed. His Supremacy withdrew all emotion pom his face. The Adjutant General scribbled a note, Gludo crushed his tobaccette and the general beside him ordered another drink. Only the thick-set man did not move, beyond a tightening around his lips.
“Ninety per cent.” Gludo stressed the number thoughtfully.
“Yes, sir, with even distribution from the edge of the Galaxy to its center. And as a corollary, 80 per cent of rear echelon personnel regard themselves as qualified for combat pay. They maintain that the aliens are so widely infiltrated that every area is now a battle area.”
His Supremacy’s smooth voice closed the short pause. “Continue, Loytenant, with more about your work-philosophy”
* * * *
Well, Sire, the gyroscope-psychologist on a fighting ship is an important man. He’s got to bring into balance three sometimes irreconcilable elements.
First, there’s the ship. At launch-dock, it’s an accumulation of machinery, poised but with no means of releasing its purpose.
Then you have people in their quarters. They’re the opposite. They are purposes without the means of releasing what is vital to their well-being, in this case the winning of this war.
Alone, the ship poised in the launch-dock and the people in their quarters, are usually in balance. There are exceptions, of course, with the people.
But when you put the three things together—and I mean three—persons plus other persons plus the machine that lets them strive for their purpose, then you’ve got a new entity. And you need for this new entity, what each one of them had when it was sufficient by itself.
But whatever name you call us—gyros, gyro-psychs, ship-psychologists—the name doesn’t matter. You need us.
* * * *
“It wasn’t always so” The Adjutant General’s voice was fretful. “Commanders once took care of these things themselves. It’s a waste of man-power and we need all we can dredge up.”
“Some still do.” His Supremacy’s tones were soothing. “For example, take Slater.”
“Yes, of course, and I wish we had more like him.” The AG’s face brightened with the dream.
Croyden found that his confidence had grown with this interruption. They were interested, intently so. As a well-trained gyro, even more sensitive to the responses of his audience than an actor, he knew he was holding their attention. The cramp in his stomach eased.
He looked directly at the AG and continued.
* * * *
You know what it was like in the days before our profession, sir. Especially in the days when the ships were surface-bound and rode only the surface of the waters or lightly beneath it. They needed us then, too. But they didn’t know that they needed us, and so—well, sometimes the commander did it, sometimes one of the lesser officers and sometimes it was even a member of the crew. If there was someone filling the need, it was a happy ship. If no one did . . . look how bad things were for a while when we went out into deep space, how many planets were colonized by mutinous crews.
That’s why I said, we’re needed. We’re the governors, the balance wheels, the gyroscopes. We’re not engineers, always trying to build more safety into our machines. We’re psychologists, who believe that too much safety is dangerous for people.
And that’s why there’s only one of us on each ship. That is, there’s only one that the crew knows about, only one in charge. Each of us has to work individually, adjusting the people to a friction-free performance in his own way. Sure, another psych-mech could get the same results if he were alone with the same group. And of course we need a substitute ready on ships as big as a cruiser. After all, even gyros die.
But the crew shouldn’t know who the substitute is! If they do know and even if the substitute doesn’t practice his trade, still they try to adjust two ways and end up adjusted neither way.
Which is one of the things that went wrong on the Holoman.
* * * *
Croyden paused, suddenly aware that he had been spouting words at light-stream speed. “Sire, I crave pardon. I talk too much.”
“Continue, Loytenant. You are giving us what we need.”
“One question, Sire.” Gludo again.
“You may question the Loytenant, General.”
“I am interested in your reaction to your On-Duty orders, Loytenant. Isn’t it true that you resented your first assignment and so went on board the holoman in a very disturbed state of mind?”
Croyden weighed his answer, chose the truth. “General, I felt personally assaulted when I read my orders. I had stood first in my class. My research project had been highly acclaimed at the University. I expected and wanted an assignment in Research. When I was told that I would report to Satellite Base for deep-space duty, I was bitterly resentful.”
“And you boarded the holoman with that attitude?”
“No, General, I did not. Boarding the holoman, I was the happiest gyro-in-training anywhere in our fleet.”
“Why?”
Croyden could answer that both quickly and honestly, hoping they would understand. “General, I have kept and intend to keep as long as possible, a copy of my original assignment orders. . . “
He was surprised when they interrupted him with laughter. Even the face of the thick-set man had creased into the semblance of a grin.
Apparently even these rulers of the Combined Services had also once received assignments that they treasured.
“Gludo, I think you are answered. Continue, Loytenant, speaking as freely as you have so far.”
Croyden bowed his head in the seated abasement. . . .
* * * *
My University Orders were to report immediately to Ocean Take-Off and pick up a group of drafted people. I shepherded them through the routines until I checked them over to Replacement Personnel on Satellite Base. Then I went to Officer Assignment for my own orders.
I couldn’t believe them when I read them. Sure, I was assigned to a cruiser. But—my boss was Foster! .
I knew as soon as I read his name that this was no ordinary space-trip. Foster would be there and he was everything in Psycho-Research.
My cover for the trip was an assignment as events-recorder. That’s good hiding for the sub-gyro, because in that job you naturally know what goes on everywhere else in the ship. I got myself ready for my job by going to my quarters and running a fifteen-minute sleeptape on my duties. I followed up the tape, went to Supply and checked the requisition and delivery vouchers for the Holoman against the scale model of her cruiser type. From there I went to Personnel. I identified myself to the Officer-in-Charge with my green seal key. He gave me the graphs of the drafted personnel and commissioned persons on board. I hypnoed the facts concerning their placement and potential into ready subconscious.
I was ready for duty—and my third shock.
When I had briefed myself, I naturally reported back to Personnel. They followed through, vized the Holoman that I was coming, got me transport clearance across the field for alien check and fitting into ship psychology on the Holoman itself.
Well, I got one, but I didn’t get the other.
Foster shouldn’t have been waiting at ship-entrance for me.
* * * *
His Supremacy’s voice was mild but cold. “You had better explain yourself, Loytenant. Do you mean that you did not get an alien check test?”
“No, Sire, I did not mean that. He checked me with a Roehman’s. He made me account for every minute since I had left the University while I was under the scop and accelator drug.”
Gludo stirred and His Supremacy glanced at his little Intelligence Officer. “You have another question?”
“Yes, Sire, I do. Loytenant, did Foster tell you why he made the back-check only as far as the University?”
“Foster explained his tests to me after he had finished, Sir. He said the time check was a necessity, that it took at least fifteen minutes to substitute an alien for one of us and if there had been any time-gap in my story, he would have killed me.”
“And the University?”
“He called that the only uncontaminated spot in the Galaxy, said that no alien could get past their checks. And if they had, it was time for us to quit.”
His Supremacy and Gludo exchanged glances.
“Has he answered your question?”
“Completely, Sire.”
“Continue, Loytenant.”
* * * *
As I said, he was waiting for me at ship-entrance, which was wrong, completely wrong! He should have met me the way he would meet any other new member of the crew. In the green-sealed room, seated behind his desk. But there he was, at the entrance, nervous, off-balance.
Even before I could salute, he had grabbed me by the arm and pulled me along with him. All the way to the psych-zimmer, he kept babbling, didn’t give me a chance to say anything, just kept repeating, “Where have you been? I need you!”
But he didn’t tell me why he wanted me until he had green-sealed the room and run through my tests.
That made it a bad start and it got worse. Foster made it obvious who his replacement was, You know how the crew looks for him anyhow. Eventually things reached the point where I had to take over his work, the biggest part of it, and the crew tried to adjust to both of us. Naturally they ended up thoroughly confused.
This sounds silly, but sometimes I think even the ship was affected. I had been in deep-space before, on student training trips while at the University, but even in those old crates I had never ridden a deck that felt so unsteady.
You’ve got to add this to it, and I think it’s important. Foster didn’t trust anyone except me and I don’t think he trusted me completely either. Well, no, maybe that’s not quite right. I guess I was the only one he did trust. At least, every day he gave me a general idea of what he thought he was doing and he’d tell me that the next ship’s day would see the end of it.
It started to get too much for me. I was doing my job— and there’s only one events-recorder on a cruiser, so I was on constant call—and I was trying to do his. Sire, I wasn’t a gyro in training on that trip, I was the gyro himself!
It happened at five rotations out, at 1850 hours. I received an emergency: report to Control at once! I ran. The Captain—wrong again, the whole ship was wrong!— pulled me into his private stand. Without saying anything, he flipped the through-seal switch to the psych-zimmer.
Foster’s end of the line was open too.
First, I couldn’t see, or rather recognize, anything. Then I began to understand and what I saw: a hand in front of the screen. Foster’s hand. Over it I could see the back of his head. The way his head lay on the desk told me that he had probably tried to call and hadn’t made it.
I could tell by the colors on the wall that the room was still green-sealed.
From my secret place I took my own green-seal key. The Captain wasn’t in the least surprised—Foster had sure made it clear who I was—and he gave me my To-Duty Command.
I’ll tell the truth and admit that I didn’t know exactly what to do. There was always the chance that Foster wasn’t dead. But whether he was dead or alive, I had to go into that room. And because the room was under the green seal, I was willing to bet that whoever or whatever had killed him was still in there.
But I was just as scared to be outside of the room. I was certain that everyone knew I was Foster’s replacement, which meant that outside the psych-zimmer and its protective equipment I was a marked man.
So I asked for five officers to go with me. Junior officers. Aliens take direct, not subordinate command positions.
And aliens can’t be everywhere, so I took the officers from each section of ship operation. I was protecting myself by using probability.
We went to the gyro-office.
I walked behind them as we went to the office. As I walked, I slipped nasal filters into place, just on the chance that we might hit gas. When we got to the zimmer, I unsealed the door, kept them back while I reached in and checked the switch on the room-conditioner, then motioned them in first.
I watched them. They lived, so I followed them and re-sealed the room.
Under the green light—you know how it skips off the walls—they were startled for a moment. But I caught their attention and hypnoed them to make sure that they would remember what they observed.
I focused myself, too. You have, or you will, check the other officers. These are my observations.
The room had been sealed, but Foster was alone when we got in. However, his key was gone. I know now that I should have sent one of the officers into the room before I turned on its individual refresher, because now we can’t be sure of gas. But we can be sure that he wasn’t hit through the ship’s unit. I did have one of the officers handle each and every item in the room. He’s still alive, so that eliminates any touch poison. Foster’s body showed no marks, either on his skin or by stereo-screen.
That was all I could do on ship. The rest had to remain for Base inspection.
When I had completed what I could do, I re-opened the screen to report to the Captain. And just then the ship seemed to sort of bounce. Hard. Twice.
* * * *
“One moment, Loytenant.” His Supremacy glanced at his staff. “I believe my officers have some questions.”
The thickset man spoke first. “Did Foster tell you why he was on the holoman?”
“It was the first thing I asked him, sir, after the Roehman. From the time I read his name on my orders, it was something I couldn’t figure out, what our best research man was doing out on just a cruiser.”
“Well, what was he doing?” The AG’s voice was querulous. “In view of his reputation, I naturally gave him the assignment when he asked for it. But I didn’t ask why, and when you’ve made as many transfers at the request of Psycho-Research as I have, you just naturally stop asking.”
“The holoman’s mission was to destroy an alien sneak base ten rotations away from Home Planet.” The thickset general paused, continued. “The fact that the base existed showed its importance. Foster analyzed the mission of the holoman with me—”
“And figured that the importance of the base would automatically mean the presence of at least one alien on board ship,” Gludo cut in. “Does that mean what I think it means, Loytenant?”
“Yes, sir. Foster had devised a practical, simple identification test for aliens, one that could be used by any commander anywhere. A true field test, we call it, to distinguish it from the cumbersome, laboratory technique.”
“And he was applying it to the crew?” queried the AG, whose prime concern in life was to find reliable personnel.
“Yes, sir, he was working his way through the roster.”
“And found what he was looking for,” Gludo commented.
“Yes, sir, and in that sense he killed himself.”
His Supremacy’s voice was puzzled. “I think I understand, Loytenant, but—”
“Foster’s psycho-graph, Sire, shows the pattern. He never told anyone anything they didn’t absolutely need to know until the work was completed. And usually, he overestimated himself and underestimated everyone else.
“In this case, he made a bad mistake. He happened to meet an alien with a clever, ruthless mind, a sense of values and more courage than I like to think about.
“Clever, with a sense of values. He saw he had two missions and he completed the important one first.
“Ruthless. Aliens usually kill selectively, and this one, knowing his time was short after getting Foster, killed an entire shipload to complete his original mission.
“Courageous. To accomplish his mission, he had to kill himself too.”
Silence again and the sweat-box was cold.
“Complete your story, Loytenant.”
* * * *
There isn’t much more, Sire, and what there is doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to those five junior officers. Single-handed in their own departments, they still managed to bring the Holoman back to an orbit about Satellite Base. Thanks to them, the cruiser can be salvaged intact.
But our mission was not completed. The aliens still have their sneak base. And we’ll never know what Foster knew.
* * * *
Croyden stopped and waited. The Supreme Co-ordinator glanced at his staff, then said, “Thank you, Loytenant, a most excellent report. Now, if you will excuse us—
The vision-shield slid between them.
Croyden stared at it, wishing that he could know what was being decided behind that blankness.
* * * *
The Supreme Co-ordinator relaxed his official personality enough to allow himself to study his staff openly.
His AG was writing carefully-numbered notes.
Gludo, after staring through the vision-shield, turned to say, “Described himself well, didn’t he?”
Fanzn, the thickset Chief of Galactic Operations, nodded agreement while scribing for another drink.
“I find it incredible.” Admiral Persal was committed to caution by the very nature of his work, regulating the flow of supplies through an armed Galaxy.
“You can be sure to within two per cent of probability,” the AG stated.
Persal continued to stare through the screen. “He’s the first live one I’ve ever seen and I haven’t seen too many dead ones, either. Where and when did you find time to run that series of tests that make you so sure?”
“When they orbited about Satellite Base,” Fanzn said. “Five are too few to berth a cruiser safely, too few and they were too tired. The relief ship ordered them to put the Holoman on drone-control and themselves into the rough-landing hammocks, under drugs.
“They know the dangers of drone-landings better than we can remember and—you should hear the recordings of their conversation with Base—they were all totally exhausted. Especially Croyden. Despite what he told us, he could and did double in brass with the rest of them.
“So they were even more than drug-asleep when our Base Gyro boarded the landed craft.”
“Who ordered the inspection?” Gludo asked.
“Who would have to order it?” AG asked. “You know our psych-mech is like the rest of his breed: he lives only to satisfy his curiosity. Naturally he wanted to examine them to see what traces their experiences had left and they were in the ideal condition for it. With equal naturalness, he chose the other gyro for the first examination. Laying his background, he started with the University. Neuronic gaps showed. He gave them all an extra drugging to make sure they would stay asleep and ran the full series on Croyden.”
“The University!” Persal, in tones of shocked disbelief.
“Yes.” The AG suddenly seemed a much older man. “And remember what Foster said about the University.”
“Gentlemen.” The one word was sufficient, His Supremacy had their attention.
“I summoned you from your urgent duties because this was an opportunity not to be missed. By considering what to do with the specific case of the alien in the other half of this room, we can better come to grips with the general problem of the doppelganger menace.”
“And may I suggest another problem, Sire?”
His Supremacy nodded.
“The sneak base, Sire. Should we not consider its removal as having a top priority?”
“Fanzn,” the Co-ordinator commanded.
“My apologies, General Gludo,” Operations Chief Fanzn said. “I had forgotten that you were not here when the plans were made, although perhaps it would not have made any difference. I consulted only with His Supremacy when Foster asked me for a cruiser and a mission that would be good bait in a trap.
“As you see, the trap worked, though perhaps it worked only because our gyros are so inquisitive. And as for the base, it was removed, captured intact, before the Holoman had returned to Satellite.”
For a reason of his own, His Supremacy said, “The full story, Fanzn.”
“The aliens were on Xinian. They had built themselves a fairly large underground base. An old freighter, clearly in trouble, limped and staggered to an emergency landing there. Apparently by pure chance, it settled down directly over the aliens.”
Fanzn’s face glowed. “It wasn’t a freighter, of course, but a drone ship carrying a planet-wrecker. The idea came from one of the age-old romances common to our culture and theirs, of a vessel that looks harmless, but is actually as deadly as a heavy destroyer.
“Offered the choice of death or surrender, they surrendered. But why shouldn’t they? The percentage of escapes, thanks to the doppelgangers, is so high that it makes any other choice ridiculous.”
“Howtmann Slater, of course,” Gludo said.
Fanzn confirmed the guess. “The man is a combat genius. I wish I had more commanders like him.”
Now was the time, His Supremacy decided.
“Gentlemen, while we are feeling a little more cheerful, let us return to our problems. The minor one, first. I listen to your suggestions concerning the alien, Croyden.”
“Confirm his promotion, award him and the others a minor medal—perhaps a Lesser Sun—in the next General Bulletin, but without details of course. We should not advertise the Holoman affair. Send them to a rest camp as a group, make sure that in all their future assignments they remain together as a group. Gludo will keep them under surveillance.”
The AG then looked up from his numbered notes, added, “But I would rather kill him.”
“Does he know that we know he is an alien?” Gludo asked.
“Psych-Research says, probably no,” the AG answered. “They were very careful and all six survivors were kept drugged for the same length of time.”
“Then I must concur,” Gludo said, “both with the AG’s personal wish and his official recommendation.”
Fanzn was nodding slowly. “I agree, like Gludo, both personally and officially. This chance to study how they work, the chance that he may lead us to others, is too good to be missed.”
“I need a little more data,” Persal said, remaining super-cautious. “First, from Intelligence, how dangerous is Croyden?”
Gludo began his estimate with a low whistle. “Let’s not make Foster’s mistake and underrate our opponent. As I said, he described himself perfectly. Clever, ruthless, courageous, with a keen sense of values. For example, consider this: he rightly decided not to attempt the coup of killing us.”
Persal’s frown deepened. “And on the Holoman—”
“I haven’t examined the cruiser personally,” Gludo said, with a touch of impatience, “but it looks like the usual attack through the refreshers.”
“Yes, but how—”
“A matter of timing.” Gludo would never understand that some people would never add one and one to get ten. “And done just as he told us. You put nasal filters into place as you walk down the hall. You open the door, you’re the only one who can. You reach inside to switch on the conditioner, taking no chance on some gas being left in the office.
“And that was a bad mistake, by the way, telling us that point: how did he know it was off?
“But the rest of it, just as easy. You send the others in first and behind their backs drop another gas bomb. You’re safe in a room with its own air-supply, because their nerve-gas is usually inert in thirty seconds—”
“You’ve got with you the five junior officers who can run a cruiser,” Fanzn interrupted.
“And when you return, we promote you in the hope of using you as bait,” the AG added, bitterly.
“I must weigh two things. I think that he is too dangerous to live, you think he is too valuable to kill.” Fanzn chewed his lip. “However, if there is any chance that your surveillance will cut down the sabotage in my supply depots, then I must also concur with the AG.”
“Gentlemen, I would have over-ruled any other decision,” His Supremacy said, “though not for the reasons you have given.
“I want every alien among us to live undisturbed. It is the only way we can guarantee our own survival.”
Plainly, by their faces, by their postures, they did not understand him. And from a long way back, from his student officer days, His Supremacy recalled an instructor saying, “The primary function of an officer is to be a teacher, by precept and example.”
He sighed. This would be a difficult teaching job, because his students knew the facts he would present.
But they didn’t know what the facts meant.
“Let me ease this blow by stating that you have been a good staff and I hope that you will continue at your present state of efficiency. I have been especially pleased by the way each staff section has kept the others informed.
“But equally each of you has considered the facts which crossed your work-space only in the light of your day-today duties. I wonder if you have considered, for example, the real meaning of what research has told us.
“You may speak, Gludo.”
The youngest and probably most intelligent member of the staff tried to keep resentment from his voice. “They told us little of value, Sire. Merely that the aliens and ourselves probably had a common source, one of us colonizing the other. Something separated us. When the time-scales are adjusted, they show a similar gap. To their sciences, the minor variations are easily overcome and almost perfect doppelgangers are the result.”
“Almost perfect.” Persal sounded hopeful.
His Supremacy allowed irony to edge his voice. “You have missed the vital point: the replacement is generally more efficient.”
“Slater is certainly an improvement over his pre-war self,” Fanzn said, thoughtfully.
“Would you suggest improved efficiency as the field test of an alien’s presence? If so, I must be wary of my entire staff. All of you are better at your work than when this war began. As I am.”
His Supremacy dropped his ironic tone, continued with the meaning of the facts.
“First, even if we knew their technique—” The AG opened his mouth and His Excellency raised a finger. “I know, we are close to perfecting the same processing. I repeat, even if we knew the technique, we could not use it.”
“Why not?” from Persal, to whom the statement sounded like treason.
“For the same reason that we won at the beginning of this conflict and are losing now. Ours is a monolithic system, stressing obedience upward and authority downward.
“At the beginning, we held the advantage of unity of action. But we found no central authority to destroy. The enemy had a hundred heads, not one. They are trained in flexibility of thought, in acting on their own initiative. How many men do we have with similar capabilities? Speak from your own experience or ask our AG how many such he has in his files.”
No one asked; the AG’s face was answer enough.
“Though you have done your best, we cannot, because of this infiltration, prepare an offensive or hold a defense. Which in itself should be more than enough. Unfortunately, there is still more. As this conflict deepened in seriousness for us, we turned from basic research to applied research. The momentary results were very good and we were far ahead of them at one time.
“The aliens did not make that mistake. You will recall our fight against that decision of the Great Council. And our advantage has slowly disappeared. As of now, we are happy to capture his equipment because he is in a minor but marked degree technologically more efficient. We know from our casualty lists that second best is first dead.”
There was silence, a silence that no one else could break. Once again His Supremacy realized how utterly alone he was.
“I am requesting an immediate conclave of the Great Council. I shall present to them what I have told you, together with my own conclusion: our only course is immediate surrender.”
Gludo asked the obvious question. “What do our psychological predictors say?”
“Their analysis states that this race who also call themselves human beings will give us an easy peace.”
He stood and his staff rose with him. He re-considered the advisability, then decided again to give specific assignments.
“Direct your thinking toward the problems of peace. Disguise it for the present as ‘Projects After Victory.’
“Gludo, Intelligence will analyze the markets throughout the Galaxy, what is or will be needed when and where.
“Persal, add the information to your files on sources of supplies. We will then know where the products can be obtained. Also, have your engineers begin a study of the quickest way to convert the Galactic Fleet to freighters.
“On that information, Fanzn, re-group our forces to use our men in the fastest and most economical operation as trading fleets. An important consideration will be to return the men to their own parts of the Galaxy.
“Begin adding to your staff,” His Excellency said to his AG. “You will need more personnel when Fanzn begins requesting these re-assignments. And add this proposition to your breakdown: which men can be most quickly converted to a peace-time economy?”
He almost dismissed them before he remembered. “Oh, yes, on all these projects, drop your doppelganger safeguards.”
Even Gludo reacted to the idea as if it were a bomb.
“Gentlemen, reason it out. Don’t you understand why I want the aliens among us to live with us undisturbed? Let them work on these projects and we will convince them, before we make our offer, that we mean what we say.”
He raised his glass. “A toast, to our War Colleges, who did not foresee a struggle in which the enemy could not be recognized.”
As he raised his glass, over the rim he studied their faces, wishing that he could be certain how many of them, like himself, were human. But that was impossible to learn. The problems of identity inherent in using doppelgangers had almost forbidden the practice until the Department had decided that each agent must operate virtually alone.
Could it be all of them, he wondered. They had become such an efficient staff.
If it was, he would try to get them together after the war. They could write a most interesting combined paper on the particular skills needed to lose a war while pretending to win it.