Part-1
Clarey had in at Classification Center so many times that he came now more out of than hope. He didn't look at the card that the test machine into his hand until he was almost to the portway. And then he stopped. "Report to Room 33 for reclassification," it said.
Ten years before, Clarey would have been ecstatic, sure that be only in one direction. The machine had not originally him a job with his talents; why should it them? He'd of people who had been reclassified—always downward. I'm a perfectly Sub-Archivist, he told himself; I'll fight.
But he wouldn't help. All he had was the right to any job he was not in his line; the government would then be to continue his existence. There were many people who did on the government dole: the and the and the defective—and who to their and to be as Unemployables. Clarey didn't fit into those categories.
Dispiritedly, he passed along and up and that and to lead into other and corridors. That was the way all public were designed. It was for the government to make any law-abiding think the way it wanted him to think. But it move him in any direction it chose, and sometimes that its purpose as well as the machines.
So the he passed through were in movement, with a of on a of objectives. For the most part, they were of Low Echelon status, though occasionally an Upper Echelon his way past. Even though most L-Es to the U-E dress and manner, you always tell the difference. You tell the among the different of L-E, too—and there was no the Unemployables in their habits, of ornament. It was, Clarey sometimes when him, the most of costumes.
The machine in Room 33 it was set to receive, then Clarey out and sent him on his way to Rooms 34, 35, and 36, where other the same process. Room 37 proved to be that thing in the of rooms—a destination. There was a Employment Commissioner in it, in and alexandrites—very Upper Echelon, indeed. He a gold mask, a common with who were of being by their admirers, an more common with U-E non-celebrities who the of anonymity.
Then Clarey stopped looking at the Commissioner. There was a girl next to him, on a high-backed chair like his. Clarey had a U-E girl so close before. Only the Greater Archivists had direct with the public, and Clarey wasn't likely to meet a U-E socially, if he'd had a social life. The girl was too for him to think of her as a woman, a female; but he would have liked to have her in his archives, in the case with the editions.
"Good morning, Sub-Archivist Clarey," the man said mellowly. "Good of you to come in. There's an position open and the tell us you're the one man who can it. Please down." He a small, hard stool.
Clarey standing. "I've been a perfectly Sub-Archivist," he declared. "If MacFingal has—if there have been any complaints, I should have been told first."
"There have been no complaints. The is upward."
"You I've it as a Musician!" Clarey cried, to the hard little in atony.
"Well, no, not a Musician. But it's a type of job with possible overtones."
Clarey a man once more. No what it was, if it wasn't as Musician, it didn't matter. The machine keep him from his on tape, but it couldn't keep them from in his head. That it take away from him. Or the headache, either.
"What is the job, then?" he asked dully.
"A very position, Sub-Archivist. In fact, the of this may on it."
"It's a to make me take a job nobody else wants," Clarey sneered. "And it must be a job for you to go to so much trouble."
The girl, he'd almost forgotten, gave a little laugh. Her eyes, he noticed, were hazel. There were L-E girls, he supposed, who also had eyes—but a different hazel.
"Perhaps this will you of the job's significance," the said huffily. He took off his and looked at Clarey with anticipation. He had a sleek, ordinary, middle-aged-to-elderly face.
There was an interval. "Don't you me?" he demanded.
Clarey his head. The girl laughed again.
"A to my ego, but proof that you're the right man for this job. I'm General Spano. And this is my Mistress, Secretary Han Vollard."
The girl her head.
"At least you must know my name?" Spano said querulously.
"I've it," Clarey admitted. "'The Fiend of Fomalhaut,' they call you," he on he catch himself and stop the words.
The girl her hand over her mouth, but the out over and around it, U-E laughter.
Spano laughed, too. "It's a phrase that might be used about any man. One out one's orders to the best of one's ability."
"Besides," Clarey in a non-Archivistic manner, "what have I with your morality?"
"He's perfect for the job, Steff!" she cried. "I didn't think the were that good!"
"We mustn't the machines, Han," Spano said. "They're efficient, very efficient. Someday they'll take over from us."
"There're some they'll be able to do," she said. Her on Clarey's. "Aren't you glad, Archivist?"
"Sub-Archivist," he her frostily. "And I hadn't about it."
"That's not what the say, Sub-Archivist," she told him, her voice candy-sweet. "They deep-probed your mind. You don't do anything, but you've about it a lot, haven't you?"
Clarey the blood up. "My are my own concern. You haven't the right to use them to me."
"But I think you're attractive," she protested. "Honestly I do. In a different way. Just go to a good tailor, put on a little weight, your hair, and—"
"And I wouldn't be different any more," Clarey finished. That wasn't true; he would always be different. Not that he was deformed, just unappealing. He was and his and and skin were too light. In the past, he knew, there had been and dark on Earth. With the of other life-forms to against together, the different had into a unity. Of he his with and cosmetics, but those of good quality cost more than he afford, and was than none. Besides, why should his anything to but himself? He'd had around the bush! "Would you mind telling me what the job is?"
"Intelligence agent," said Spano.
"Isn't it exciting?" she put in. "Aren't you thrilled?"
Clarey from his chair. "I won't here and be ridiculed!"
"Why ridiculed?" Spano asked. "Don't you an man?"
"Being an agent has nothing to do with intelligence!" Clarey said furiously. "The whole thing's silly, out of the tri-dis."
"What do you have against the tri-dis, Sub-Archivist?" Spano's voice was very quiet.
"Don't you like any of them?" the girl said. "I just Sentries of the Sky!" Her was tinged, obscurely, with warning.
"Well, I it, too," Clarey said, to the stool. "It's very entertaining, but I'm sure it isn't meant to be taken seriously."
"Oh, but it is, Sub-Archivist Clarey," Spano said. "Sentries of the Sky to be produced by my bureau. We want the public to know all about our operations—or as much as it's good for them to know—and they it more in form."
"Documentaries always low ratings," the girl said. "And you can't the public—documentaries are dull. Myself, I like a love interest." Her rested on Clarey's.
They must think I'm a fool, Clarey thought; yet why would they to me? "But I am to understand," he said to Spano, "even by the tri-dis, that an agent needs special training, special qualifications."
"In this case, the special the training. And you have the we need for Damorlan."
"According to the machines, all I'm for is cabinet. Is that what you want?"
Spano was impatient. "Look, Clarey, the have that you are not a Musician. Do you want to a Sub-Archivist for the of your days or will you take this other road? Once you're on a U-E level, you can the machines; tape your own music if you like."
Clarey said nothing, but his was slowly away.
"I wanted to be a writer," Spano said. "The said no. So I a soldier, rose to the top. Now—this is in confidence—I most of the of Sentries of the Sky myself. There's always another for the man with and vision, and, above all, faith. Why don't we continue the over lunch?"
It was almost for L-E and U-E to eat together. For Clarey this was an honor—too great an honor—and there was no way out of it. Spano and the girl put on their masks; the touched a of the and it back. There was a car waiting for them outside. It over the wrought, that, together with the tunnels, the great into a whole.
Spano was not broadminded. Although they to the Aurora Borealis, it was through a door, and they were in a private room. Clarey was and at the same time.
The of the food ambrosial; then it and Clarey had to it with a thin, almost liquid. In itself, the had only a mild, taste, but it else delightful—the warm, little room, the perfume that from the air-conditioning ducts, Han Vollard.
"Martian wine," she him. "Rather if you're not used to it, and sometimes if you are...." Her rested on the general.
"But there are no on Mars," Clarey said, startled.
"That's it!" Spano chortled. "When you've it, you see mountains!" And he his again.
While they ate, he told Clarey about Damorlan—its climate, light gravity, and natives. Though the had been for two decades, no one from Earth had been there a government officials, and, of course, the regular staff posted there.
"You it hasn't been yet?" Clarey was relieved, he he should, as an Archivist, have more about the than its name and coordinates. "Why? It like a place for a colony."
"The natives," Spano said.
"There were on a of the we colonized. You of them somehow."
"By co-existence in most cases, Sub-Archivist," Spano said drily. "We've it best for Terrans and to live by in harmony. We of a only when it's necessary for the good. And we would having to of the Damorlanti."
"What's with them?" Clarey asked, pushing away his half-finished crême brulée a la Betelgeuse with a sigh. "Are they belligerent, then?"
"No more than any life-form which has itself up by its bootstraps."
"Rigid?" Clarey suggested. "Unadaptable? Intolerant? Indolent? Personally offensive?"
Spano smiled. He with half-shut eyes, as if this were a game. "None of those."
"Then why of them?" Clarey asked. "They for natives. Don't them out; an has a right to live."
"Clarey," the girl said, "you're drunk."
"I'm in full of my faculties," he her. "My are all about me, moving me to ask how you possibly to use a agent on Damorlan if there are no colonists. What would he himself as—a Earth official?" He laughed with triumph.
Spano smiled. "He himself as one of them. They're humanoid."
"That humanoid?"
"That humanoid. So there you have the problem in a nutshell."
But Clarey still couldn't see that there was a problem. "I we—the race, that is—were to be the very of life species."
"So we are. And that's the we've to such other life-forms as we've taken under our aegis. What we're of is that the other might ... when they see the Damorlanti, think they're the race." Leaning forward, he so on the table the others jumped. "This is our and we don't that anyone, or otherwise, is going to it!"
"You're drunk, too, Steff," the girl said. She had completely; her had as if it were another mask. And it had been, Clarey thought—an mask. An offer had been made, and, if he it, he would not Han herself but a facsimile.
He to out in his brain. "But why should the other see a Damorlant?" he asked, very precisely. "I've another life-form to speak of. I the others weren't allowed off-planet—except the Baluts, and there's no them, is there?" For the Baluts, although charming, were non-human, being purplish, amiable, and octopoid.
"We don't the to go off-planet," Spano proclaimed. "That would be tyrannical. We don't allow them passage in our spaceships. Since they don't have any of their own, they can't leave."
"Then you're the Damorlanti will space travel on their own," Clarey cried. "Superior race—seeking after knowledge—spread their and to the stars." He his arms and off the stool.
"Really, Steff," Han said, for the servo-mechanism to Clarey up, "this is no way to an interview."
"I am a artist," the said thickly. "I in the to the occasion. Clarey understands, for he, too, is an artist." The and his nose with his sleeve. "Listen to me, boy. The Damorlanti are a fine, creative, race. It isn't known, but they the op for wear, two of the new on the come from Damorlan, and the is an of a Damorlant original. Would you want a as as that to be by an epidemic?"
"Do our work on them?" Clarey wanted to know.
"That hasn't been yet. But their work on us." The again. "That's where I got this trouble, last to Damorlan. But you'll be inoculated, of course. Now we know what to watch out for, so you'll be perfectly safe. That is, as as is concerned."
His a stern, aspect. "Naturally, if you're as a spy, we'll have to you. You must know that from the tri-dis."
"But I haven't said I would go!" Clarey howled. "And I can't see why you'd want me, anyway!"
"Modest," the said, a smoke-stick. "An in a operative—or, indeed, anyone. Have a smoke-stick?"
Clarey hesitated. He had one; he had always wanted to.
"Don't, Clarey," the girl advised. "You'll be sick."
She spoke with authority and reason. Clarey his head.
The and a cloud of in the shape of a bunnit. "The Damorlanti look like us, but they look like us, that doesn't they think like us. They may not have the least idea of space travel, be in thought, art, ideals, cultural like that. We don't know about them; we may be making out of molehills."
"Martian molehills," Clarey snickered.
"Precisely," the agreed. "Except that there are no on Mars either."
"But I still can't understand. Why me?"
The and said in a tone, "We want to the true Damorlan. Our have been too superficial; couldn't help being. There we come, out of the with the of a noise, all over the as if we owned it. You know how those their around."
Clarey nodded. Sentries of the Sky had him well on such matters.
"So what we want is a man who can go to Damorlan for five or ten years and a Damorlant in but loyalties. A man who will the very of the culture, but in terms our can and interpret." Spano erect. "You, Clarey, are that man!"
The girl applauded. "Well done, Steff! You got it right up!"
"But I've twenty-eight years on this and I'm not a part of its culture," Clarey protested. "I'm a lonely, man—you must know that if you've deep-probed me—so why should I put up a and be and proud about it?"
Then he gave a short, laugh. "I see. That's the you want me. I have no roots, no ties; I nowhere. Nobody loves me. Who else, you think, but a man like me would ten years on an as an alien?"
"A patriot, Sub-Archivist," the said sternly. "By God, sir, a patriot!"
"There's nothing I'd like than to see Terra and all its go up in smoke. Mind you," Clarey added quickly, for he was not as as all that, "I've nothing against the government. It's a purely personal grievance."
The his arm. "You're detached, m'boy. You can an objectively, without trying to project your own cultural identity upon it, you have no cultural identity."
"How about physical identity?" Clarey asked. "They can't be ex-exactly like us. Against the laws of nature."
"The laws of man are higher than the laws of nature," the said, his arm. A of around his and a halo. "Very of plastic surgery. And we'll you as soon as you return." Then he sat heavily. "How many men in your position an opportunity like this? Permanent U-E status, a hundred thousand a year and, of course, on Damorlan you'd be on an account; our money's no good there. By the time you got back, there'd be about a and a waiting for you, with interest. You all the and tape all the music you wanted. And, if the Musicians' Guild puts up a fuss, you it, too. Don't let kid you about the wheel, son; money was mankind's invention."
"But ten years. That's a long time away from home."
"Home is where the is, and you wanting to see your own go up in a of smoke—why, an wouldn't say a thing like that!" Spano his head. "That's too for me to understand. You'll the years will pass on Damorlan. You'll have work to do; every moment will be a challenge. When it's all over, you'll be only thirty-eight—the very of life. You won't have that much, you'll be to at regular intervals.
"So think it over, m'boy." He rose and Clarey on the shoulder. "And take the of the off; I'll it with Archives. We wouldn't want you from Classification intoxicated." He winked. "Make a very on your co-workers."
Han herself and Clarey to the restaurant portway. "Don't he says. But I think you'd accept the offer."
"I don't have to," Clarey said.
"No," she agreed, "you don't. But you'd better."
Clarey took the home. His little two-room than usual. He a from the auto-spensor; the was to tell on him. And that he couldn't take an in Sentries of the Sky, which, though he'd have it, was his program. He had no friends; nobody would miss him if he left Earth or died or anything. The general's right, he thought; I might as well be an on an planet. At least I'll be paid better. And he whether, in gravity, his might not a lift.
He himself to work the next day. He someone did after all. "Well, Sub-Archivist Clarey," Chief Section Archivist MacFingal snarled, "I would have to see more in your eye, more in your step, after a whole day of nothing but sweet rest."
"But—but General Spano said it would be all right if I didn't report in the afternoon."
"Oh, it is all right, Sub-Archivist, no question of that. How I to complain about a man who has such powerful friends? I if I gave you the Sagittarius to reorganize, you'd go to your friend General Spano, about and treatment."
So Clarey started the Sagittarius files—a which should by have gone to a junior archivist. All he couldn't help about Damorlan—its atmosphere, its climate, its of and archivists. During his he looked up the in the files. There was only a small part of a tape on it. There might be more in the Classified Files. It was, of course, to view without a direct order from the Chief Archivist, but the were locked by the same as the editions. After all, he told himself, I have a need for the information.
So he for Damorlan in the files. He put the tape in the viewer. He saw the natives. Cold him, and then fury. They were all right—pallid, pale-haired creatures. Objective viewpoint, he furiously; be damned! I was I look like one of them!
He was away from the viewer. "Sub-Archivist Clarey, what is the meaning of this?" Chief Section Archivist MacFingal demanded. "You know what taking a out without permission means?"
Clarey knew. The machine. "Ask General Spano," he said in a voice. "He'll tell you it's all right."
General Spano said that it was, indeed, all right. "I'm so to you've to join us. Splendid career for an man. Smoke-stick?"
Clarey refused; he no longer had any in trying one.
"Don't look so grim," Spano said jovially. "You'll like the Damorlanti once you to know them. Very people. Haven't had any major for generations. Currently there are just a at the and you ought to be able to keep away from those easily. And they'll love you."
"But I don't like anyone," Clarey said. "And I don't see why the Damorlanti should like me," he added fairly.
"I'll tell you why! Because it'll be your job to make them like you. You've got to be and if it kills you. Anyone can a if he sets his mind to it. I though you said you the tri-dis!"
"I—I don't always watch the commercials," Clarey admitted.
"Oh, well, we all have our little failings." Spano forward, his voice now to decibels. "Normally, of course, you wouldn't to to friends, and right, too—people should accept you as you are or they wouldn't be of your friends. But this is different. You have to be what they want, you want something from them. You'll have to and and resentment."
"In other words," Clarey said, "a agent is to all about such as self-respect."
"If necessary, yes. But here self-respect doesn't enter into it. These aren't people and they don't matter. You wouldn't be humiliated, would you, if you to a dog and it at you?"
"Steff, he's got to think of them as people until he's definitely them a clean bill of health," Han Vollard protested. "Otherwise, the whole thing won't work."
"Well," the temporized, "think of them as people, then, but as people. Let them and and sneer. Always, at the of your mind, you'll have the knowledge that this is all a sham, that they'll it is they deserve. You might think of it as a game, Clarey—no more personal than when you fail to the into the loop."
"I don't to play gardip, General," Clarey him coldly. Gardip was a U-E pastime. And, in any case, Clarey was not a gamesman.
He was put through indoctrination, in the total agent curriculum: Self-Defense and Electronics, Decoding and Resourcefulness, Xenopsychology and Acting.
"There are eight of acting," the told him. "The is: Never Identify. You'll be able to the you're playing, you aren't that character—the gave birth to him, not your mother. Therefore—"
"But I'm only going to play one role," Clarey in. "All I need to know is how to play that role well and convincingly. My life may on it."
"I teach acting," the said loftily. "I don't a school. If you come to me, you learn—or, at least, are to—all I have to offer. I to tailor my art to any occasional need. Now, the second rule...."
Clarey was he the and social of the through the hypno-tapes. He had to learn more than one language the was into national units, each speaking a different tongue. Inefficient as as operation went, but to him, Han Vollard pointed out, because, though he'd work in Vangtor, he would be to have in Ventimor; hence his accent.
"Work?" Clarey asked. "I I was going to be an agent."
"You'll have a job," she wearily. "You can't just around with no visible of income, unless you're a of the nobility, and it would be to you to the peerage."
"What of a job will I have?" Clarey asked, a little at the idea of possibly having something to do.
"They call it librarian. I'm not sure what it is, but Colonel Blynn—he's our officer on the planet—says that after you ought to be able to it."
Clarey already that jobs on Damorlan weren't officially assigned, but that and employee somehow managed to each other and work out themselves. Sometimes, Han now explained, would for employees. Colonel Blynn had answered such a job in Vangtor on his from an address in Ventimor. "You were unseen, you came cheap. So they won't check your references. Let's not, anyway."
