The Rithian Terror

V

Spangler entered his office, as he usually did, half an hour before the official opening time. He had sat up for a long time after leaving Joanna's tower the night before, and had slept badly afterwards. This morning he had a headache which the pick-me-ups would not entirely suppress; but his mind felt cold and clear. He knew precisely what he wanted to do.

Last night's blunder was not irreparable. It was all but disastrous; it was criminally foolish; it had set him back at least six months; but it had not beaten him.

His first move would be to send her a present: something she would prize too much to reject—old paintings, or books or recordings. Very likely there would be something of the sort among the property seized by the Department in treason cases; if not, he would get it from a private collector. He had already composed the note to go with the gift: it was humble without servility, regretful without hope. It implied that he would not see her again; and he would not—not for at least a month.

The last three weeks of that time Spangler had allotted to grand strategy—planting rumors, sure to reach Joanna: that he was overworking; that he never smiled; that he was ill but had refused treatment. That sort of thing, details to be worked out later.

The first week was dedicated to an altogether different purpose. His ruinous outburst last night had at least had one good effect; it had taught Spangler that he could not fight both battles at once. Commencing today, his total energies would be aimed at one objective: to crush Pembun.

It could be done; it would be done. He had underestimated the man, but that was over. From now on, things would be different.

"Ten hours," said his thumbwatch.

On his desk was a spool of summarized reports addressed to him from Keith-Ingram. The activities of the Rithians had now been partially traced: eight of them, traveling together, had reached Earth as passengers aboard a second-rate tramp freighter, docking at Stambul, on the evening of December 10th. From Stambul they were known to have taken the stratosphere express to Paris, but no further trace of their movements had so far turned up until seven of them appeared in Albuquerque on the 18th, with one exception: the eighth Rithian had shipped out aboard a liner leaving for the Capri system on the 12th, only two days after the group had arrived. It had disembarked at Lumi, where its trail ended.

Doubtless, Spangler thought, it had changed its disguise there and continued by a devious route. By now it was back in the Rithian system.

Its return before the others' was puzzling. Obviously the group had not finished its collective task, or the others would have got out too; either it had had a separate assignment, which it had completed before the others, or some single item of information had been turned up which the Rithians thought sufficiently important to send a messenger back with immediately.

He glanced quickly through the conference schedule which Miss Timoney had made up the previous afternoon, then laid it aside and spent the rest of his half-hour in dictating notes to Pembun, Keith-Ingram and Dr. Baustian.

The note to Pembun repeated yesterday's question, word for word.

Keith-Ingram's reported the condition of Colonel Cassina and gave Pembun's analysis of the situation, without comment.

Baustian's requested him to submit, as soon as possible, a reliable procedure for identifying Rithians masquerading as human beings.

Pembun's reply popped into his in-box almost immediately; the man must have prepared it last night and held it ready for Spangler's formal request.

Spangler put the spool viciously into the screen slot and skimmed through it. It was in reasonably good Standard; so good, in fact, that Spangler conceived an instant suspicion that Pembun could speak Standard acceptably when he chose.

The document read, in part:

In my judgment, the most serious weakness of Empire executive personnel is an excessive reliance on prescribed methods and regulations, and inadequate emphasis on original thinking and personal initiative. I am aware that this is in accord with overall policy, which would be difficult if not impossible to alter completely within the framework of the Empire, but it is my feeling that attention should be given to this problem at high policy levels, and efforts made to alter existing conditions if possible.

It is not within my competence to suggest a model of procedure, especially since the problem appears to be partly philosophical in nature. The tendency of Empire executive personnel to interpret regulations and directives in a rigid and literal manner, is in my opinion clearly related to the increasing tendency toward standardization in Home World art, manners, customs and language. In the final category, 1 would cite the obsolescence of all Earth languages except Standard, and in Standard, the gradual elimination of homonyms and, synonyms, as well as the increasing tendency to restrict words to a single meaning, as especially significant.…

Spangler removed the spool and tossed it into his "awaiting action" box. A moment later it was time for his first conference.

He had left word with Gordon to give him any message from Baustian as soon as it arrived. Forty-five minutes after the conference began, a spool popped into the in-box in front of him.

Colonel Leclerc, Cassina's replacement, had been giving a long and enthusiastic account of certain difficulties encountered by the Fleet in maintaining the supra-Earth cordon, and the means by which they were being overcome. Leclerc was the oldest man at the table, and fairly typical of the holdovers from the last generation but one, when, owing to the shortage of governmental and military personnel caused by the almost-disastrous Cartagellan war, standards had been regrettably lax. He was the sort of man one automatically thought of as "not quite class." His manner was a little too exuberant, his gestures too wide, his talk imprecise and larded with anachronisms. Spangler waited patiently until he paused to shrug, then cut in smoothly: "Thank you, Colonel. Now, before we continue, will you all pardon me a moment, please?"

He slipped the spool into place and lighted the reading screen. The note read:

Baustian, G. B., BuAlPhyl

Spangler, T., DeptSecur

MS MU

12/29/2521

BAP CD18053990

Ref DS CD50347251

1. Recommended procedure for identifying members of the Rithian race masquerading as humans is as follows:

2. Make 1.7 cm. vertical incision, using instrument coated with paste of attached composition (Schedule A), in mid-thigh or shoulder region of subject. Reagent, in combination with Rithian body fluids, will produce brilliant purple precipitate. No reaction will take place in contact with human flesh.

3. For convenience of use, it is recommended that incision be made by agency of field-powered blade in standard grip casing, as in attached sketches. (Schedule B)

4. If desired, blade coating may also contain soporific believed to be effective in Rithian body chemistry. (Schedule C)

5. End.

Att BAP CD18053990A

BAP CD18053990B

BAP CD18053990C

Spangler smiled and cleared the screen.

"The information is satisfactory, Commissioner?" Colonel Leclerc demanded brightly.

"Quite satisfactory, Colonel." Quickly, so as to give Leclerc no opportunity to launch himself into his subject again, Spangler turned to Pemberton, the mayor's aide. "Mr. Pemberton?"

The young man began querulously, "We don't want to seem impatient, Commissioner, but you know that our office is under considerable strain. Now, you, you've given us to understand that the Rithian has already been captured and killed, and what we want to know is, how much longer…"

Spangler heard him out as patiently, to all outward appearance, as if he had not heard the same complaint daily since the embargo began. He put Pemberton off smoothly but noncomittally, and adjourned the conference.

Back in his office, Spangler finished reading Baustian's note and dictated an endorsement of paragraphs one to three. Paragraph four was a good notion, but anything with a rider like that on it would take twice as long to go through channels.

Spangler rewound the spool and set the machine to make three copies, one of which he addressed to Keith-Ingram, one to Baustian, and the third to the man in charge of the fabricators assigned to Security, with an AAA priority. Then he took out Pembun's message and read it through carefully.

With regard to the assumed success of the Rithian pseudo-hypnosis against Empire agents, (Pembun had added) I would again suggest that the basic fault may be deeply rooted in the social complex of Earth, and in the rigid organization of Empire administration. On most of the Outworlds of the writer's experience, good hypnotic subjects are in a minority, but my impression is that this is not the case on Earth, at least among Empire personnel. It may be said that a man who has successfully absorbed all the unspoken assumptions and conditioned attitudes required of him by responsible position in the Empire is already half hypnotized; or to put it differently, that non-suggestive minds tend to he weeded out by the systems of selection and promotion in use. For example, the addressee, Commissioner T. Spangler, is in the writer's opinion suggestible in the extreme. …

Spangler grinned angrily and rewound the spool.

How typical of the man that report was!—a solid gelatinous mass of naïveté surrounding one tiny thorn of shrewdness. In Pembun's place, Spangler would simply have disclaimed ability to answer the question. Since Pembun was not employed by any department concerned, the reply would have been plausible and correct; nothing more could ever have come of it.

That must have occurred to Pembun; and yet he had gone stolidly ahead to answer the question fully, and, Spangler was ready to believe, honestly. It was a damaging document; some phrases in it, particularly "within the framework of the Empire," were clearly treasonable. But he had written it; and then he had slipped in that comment about Spangler.

That comment was just damaging enough to Spangler to offset the mildly damaging admissions Pembun had made about himself. Therefore Pembun had actually taken no risk at all. But why had he troubled to dictate a carefully-phrased quarter-spool to be buried in the files, when a disclaimer, in two lines, would have served? Just for "something to do?"

Spangler thought not. There was a curious coherence in Pembun's oddities: they all hung together somehow. Wincing, he forced himself to go back over the recollection of last night. There again, from the normal point of view, Pembun had given himself unnecessary difficulty. Confronted with that inconvenient question of Spangler's, "What's wrong with the Empire?" and the even more embarrassing, "Do you despise us?", any ordinary person would simply have lied.

At any rate, Pembun, by his own statement, had got no pleasure from telling the truth. What was that remark? "… a bad taste…" Never mind. What emerged from all this, Spangler thought, was the picture of a man who was compulsively, almost pathologically honest. Yes, that expressed it. His frankness was not even ethico-religious in character: it was symbolic, a gesture.

Spangler felt himself flushing, and his lips tightened. The question remained: What did the man want? He had no answer yet; but he had a feeling that he was getting closer.

At eleven hours a report came from the head of the infirmary's psychiatric section. The information Security wanted from Colonel Cassina was still unavailable and in PsytSec's opinion could not be forced from him without a high probability of destroying the subject's personality. Did Spangler have the necessary priority to list Colonel Cassina as expendable?

At eleven-ten, a call came through from Keith-Ingram.

"On this Cassina affair, Thorne, what progress are you making?"

Spangler told him.

Keith-Ingram rubbed his square chin thoughtfully. That's unfortunate," he said. "If you want my view, the Empire can spare Colonel Cassina, all right, but I'll have to go to the High Assembly for permission, and the Navy will fight it, naturally. I rather wish there were another way. Have you consulted Pembun about this?"

"The report had just come in when you called."

"Well, let's get this cleaned up now, if we can. Get him on a three-way, will you?"

Face stony, Spangler made the necessary connections. The image of Keith-Ingram dwindled and moved over to occupy one half of the screen. In the other half, Pembun appeared.

Keith-Ingram said, "Now, Mr. Pembun, you've helped us out of the stew right along through this affair. Have you any suggestions that might be useful in this phase of it?"

Pembun's expression was blandly attentive. He said, "My, that would be a 'ard decision to make. Let me think a minute."

Out of screen range, Spangler's fingers moved spasmodically over the edge of his desk.

Finally Pembun looked up. "I got one notion," he said. "It's kind of a long chance, but if it works it will get you the information you want without 'urting the Colonel. I was thinking that w'en the Rithi planted that information, they mus' 'ave given their subject some kind of a trigger stimulus to unlock the message. Now, if the trigger is verbal, we 'aven' got a chance of 'itting it by accident. But it jus' now struck me that the trigger might be a situation instead of a phrase or a sentence. I mean, it might be a combination of diff'rent kinds of stimuli—a certain smell, say, plus a certain color of the light, plus a certain temperature range, and so on."

"That doesn't sound a great deal more hopeful, Mr. Pembun," Spangler put in.

"Wait," said Keith-Ingram, "I think I see what he's getting at. You mean, don't you, Mr. Pembun, that the Rithians might have used as a stimulus complex the normal conditions on their home world?"

"That's it," Pembun told him with a smile. "We can't be sure they did, of course, but it seems to me there's a fair chance. Any'ow, it isn' as far-fetched as it sounds, becawse those conditions would be available to the Rithi on any planet w'ere any number of them live. You wawk into a Rithch's 'ouse, an' you think you're on Sirach. They're use' to living in those vine cities of theirs, you see. They 'ate to be penned up. So w'en they 'ave to live in 'ouses, they put up vines in front of illusion screens, an' use artificial light an' scents, an' fool themselves that way."

"I see," said Keith-Ingram. "That sounds very good, Mr. Pembun; the only question that occurs to me is, can we duplicate those conditions accurately?"

"I should think so," Pembun answered. "It shouldn' be too 'ard."

"Well, I think we'll give it a trial, at any rate. What do you say, Thorne? Do you agree?"

Spagler could tell by the almost imperceptible arch of Keith-Ingram's right eyebrow, and the frozen expression of his mouth, that he knew Spangler didn't, and was enjoying the knowledge.

"Yes, by all means," said Spangler politely.

"That's settled then. I'll leave you and Thorne to work out the details. Clearing." His smile faded out, leaving half the screen blank.

Spangler said coldly, This is your project, Mr. Pembun, and I'll leave you entirely in charge of it. Requisition any space, materials and labor you need, and have the heads of sections call me for confirmation. I'll want reports twice daily. Are there any questions?"

"No questions, Commissioner."

"Clearing."

Spangler broke the connection, then dialed Keith-Ingram's number again. He got the "busy" response, as he expected, but left the circuit keyed in. Twenty minutes later Keith-Ingram's face appeared on the screen. "Yes, Spangler? What is it now? I'm rather busy."

Spangler said impassively, "There are two matters I wanted to discuss with you, Chief, and I thought it best not to bring them up while Pembun was on the circuit."

"Are they urgent?"

"Quite urgent."

"All right, then, what are they?"

"First," said Spangler, "I've sent you a note on a new testing method of Baustian's, for detecting any future Rithian masqueraders. I'd like to ask you for permission to use it here in the Hill, in advance of final approval, on a provisional test basis."

"Why?"

"Just a precaution, sir. We've found one Rithian here; I want to be perfectly sure there aren't any more."

Keith-Ingram nodded. "No harm in being sure. All right, Thorne, go ahead if you like. Now what else was there?"

"Just one thing more. I'm wondering if it wouldn't be a sound idea to open the question of Cassina's expendability anyhow, regardless of this scheme of Pembun's. If it turns out to be a frost, there'll be less delay before we can go ahead with the orthodox procedure." His stress on the word "orthodox" was delicate, but he knew Keith-Ingram had caught it.

The older man gazed silently at him for a moment. "As a matter of fact," he said, "it happens that I'd already thought of that. However, I may as well say that I have every confidence in Pembun. If all our personnel were as efficient as he is, Thorne, things would go a great deal more smoothly in this department."

Spangler said nothing.

"That's all then? Right. Clearing."

Recalling that conversation before he went to bed that night, Spangler thought, Well see how much confidence you have in Pembun this time tomorrow.

Everything was ready by ten hours.

There was no puzzle, Spangler thought with satisfaction, without a solution. No matter how hopelessly involved and contradictory a situation might appear on the surface, or even some distance beneath it, if you kept on relentlessly, you would eventually arrive at the core, the quiet place where the elements of the problem lay exposed in their basic simplicity.

And this was the revelation that had been vouchsafed to Spangler:

The real struggle was between savagery and civilization, between magic and science, between the double meaning and the single meaning.

Pembun was on the side of ambiguity and lawlessness. Therefore he was an enemy.

What had blinded Spangler, blinded them all, was the self-evident fact that Pembun was human. Loyalty to a nation or an idea is conditioned; but loyalty to the race is bred in the bone. As the old saying has it, "Blood is thicker than ichor."

Pembun's humanity was self-evident; but was it a fact?

"Wei" had been a human being, too—until the moment when he was unmasked as a monster.

Pembun belonged to a world so slovenly that Rithians were allowed to come and go as they pleased. Was it not more than possible, was it not almost a tactical certainty, that given opportunity and the made-to-order usefulness of Pembun's connection with the Empire, they had at the least made him their agent?

Or, at most, replaced him with one of themselves? The idea was fantastic, certainly. The picture of Pembun playing the role of Rithian-killer, deliberately betraying his confederate in order to safeguard his own position, was straight out of one of those wild twentieth-century romances— the kind in which the detective turned out to be the murderer, the head of the Secret Police was also the leader of the Underground, and, as often as not, the subordinate hero was a beautiful girl disguised as a boy by the clever stratagem of cutting her hair.

But that was precisely the kind of world that Pembun came from, whether he was human or Rithian; that was the unchanging essence of the ancient Unreason, beaten now on Earth but not yet stamped out of the cosmos. That was the enemy.

"Ten oh-one," said his watch. In a few moments, now, one part of the question would be answered.

He glanced at the four men in workmen's coveralls who stood by an opened section of the wall. One of them held what appeared to be a cable cutter; the others had objects that looked like testing instruments and spare-part kits. The "cutter," underneath its camouflage shell, was an immobilizing field projector; the rest were energy weapons.

The men stood quietly, not talking, until a signal light flashed on Spangler's desk. He nodded, and they crouched nearer to the disemboweled wall, beginning a low-voiced conversation. A moment later, Pembun appeared in the doorway. Spangler glanced up from his reading screen, frowning. "Oh, yes—Pembun," he said. "Sit down a moment, will you?" He gestured to one of the chairs along the far wall. Pembun sat, hands crossed limply in his lap, idly watching the workmen.

Spangler thumbed open the front of his desk and touched a stud; a meter needle swung far over and held steady. The room was now split into two parts by a planar screen just in front of the desk. Spangler closed the microphone circuit which would carry his voice around the barrier.

The intercom glowed; Spangler put his hand over it. "Yes?"

The man said, as he had been instructed, "Commissioner, is Mr. Pembun in your office?"

"Yes, he is. Why?"

"It's that routine test, sir. You told us to give it to everybody who'd been in the Hill less than six months, and Mr. Pembun is on our list. If you're not too busy now—"

"Of course—he would be on the list," Spangler said. "That hadn't occurred to me. All right, come in." He turned to Pembun. "You don't mind?"

"What is it?" Pembun asked.

"We have a new anti-Rithian test," Spangler explained easily. "We're just making absolutely certain there aren't any more Weis in the Hill. In your case, of course, it's only a formality."

Pembun's expression was hard to read, but Spangler thought he saw a trace of uneasiness there. He watched narrowly, as a white-smocked young man carrying a medical kit came in through the door to Pembun's right.

The workmen separated suddenly, and two of them started toward the door. When they had taken a few steps, one of them turned to call back to the remaining two. "You certain two RBX's will do it?"

"What's the matter, don't you think so?"

"It's up to you, but…" The men went on talking, while the medic approached Pembun and opened his kit. "Mr. Pembun?"

"Yes."

"Will you stand up and turn back your right sleeve, please?"

Pembun did as he was told. His upper arm was shapeless with overlaid fat and muscle, like a wrestler's. The medic placed one end of a chromed cylinder against the fleshy part of the shoulder, and pressed the release. Pembun started violently and clapped his hand to the injury. When he took it away, there was a tiny spot of blood on his palm.

The medic extruded the cylinder's narrow blade and showed it to Spangler. "Negative, Commissioner."

"Naturally," Spangler said dryly. The medic tore off a swab from his kit and wiped Pembun's wound, then put a tiny patch of bandage on it, closed his kit and went away.

Negative, Spangler thought regretfully. Too bad; it would have been gratifying to find out that Pembun had tentacles under that blubber. But it had been a pleasure to watch him jump, anyhow. He opened his desk and cut the field circuit.

The two workmen near the door finished their discussion and left. Spangler said to the remaining pair, "Will you wait outside for a few minutes, please?"

When they had gone, Pembun came forward and took the seat facing the desk. "That's a rough test," he said. " 'Ow does it work?"

Spangler explained. "Sorry if it was unpleasant," he added, "but I believe it's more effective than the old one."

"Well, I'm glad I passed, any'ow," said Pembun, poker-faced.

"To be sure," said Spangler. "Now—your report, Mr. Pembun?"

"Well, I've 'ad a little trouble. I asked Colonel Leclerc to see if 'e couldn' send somebody to Santos in the Shahpur system, to get some Rithian city-vines from the botanical gardens there. 'E gave me to understand that you rifused the request."

"Yes, I'm sorry about that," Spangler said sympathetically. "Until this question is settled, we can't very well relax the embargo, especially not for an Outworld jump."

Pembun accepted that without comment. "Another thing that 'appened, I wanted copies of any Rithi films the War Department might 'ave, in 'opes that one of them would include a sequence of a Rithch I could use to build up the illusion there was a Rithch in the room. That was rifused too; I don' know w'ether it went through your office or not."

"No, this is the first I've heard of it," Spangler lied blandly, "but I'm not surprised. War is extremely touchy about its M. S. files—I'm afraid you'd better give up hope of any help there. Can't you make do without those two items?"

Pembun nodded. "I figured I might 'ave to, so I went a'ead and did the best I could. I don' promise it will work, becawse some of it is awful makeshift, but it's ready."

Spangler felt a muscle jump in his cheek. "It's ready now?" he demanded.

"W'enever you like, Commissioner." Pembun got up and turned toward the door.

Spangler made an instant decision. He had not planned to take the second step against Pembun until he had manufactured a plausible opportunity, but he couldn't let Pembun's examination of Cassina procede. He said sharply, "Just a moment!" and added, "if you don't mind."

As Pembun paused, he put out his hand to the intercom. "Ask those workmen to step in here again, will you?"

The door opened, and all four of the pseudo-workmen trooped in. Pembun looked at them with an expression of mild surprise. " 'Aven' you got those RBX's yet?" he asked.

No one answered him. Spangler said, "I'll trouble you to come down to the interrogation rooms with me, Mr. Pembun." At his gesture, the four men moved into position around Pembun, one on either side, two behind.

"Interrogation!" said Pembun. "W'y, Commissioner?"

"Not torture, I assure you," Spangler replied, coming around the desk. "Just interrogation. There are a few questions I want to ask you."

"Commissioner Spangler," said Pembun, "am I to understand that I'm suspected of a crime?"

"Mr. Pembun," Spangler answered, "please don't be childish. Security is empowered to question anyone, anywhere, at any time, and for any reason."