Robert Silverberg - The Pleasure of Their Company

“You seem much happier these days,” Lydia said.

“All that nasty guilt washed away,” said Lynx.

“It was just a matter of looking at the logic of the situation,” Juan observed.

Mark said, “And cutting out all the masochism, the self-flagellation.”

“Wait a second,” said Voigtland. “Let’s not hit below the belt, young man.”

“But it was masochism, Dad. Weren’t you wallowing in your guilt? Admit it.”

“I suppose I—”

“And looking to us to pull you out,” Lynx said. “Which we did.”

“Yes. You did.”

“And it’s all clear to you now, eh?’ Juan asked. “Maybe you thought you were afraid, thought you were running out, but you were actually performing a service to the republic. Eh?”

Voigtland grinned. “Doing the right thing for the wrong reason.”

“Exactly. Exactly.”

“The important thing is the contribution you still can make to Bradley’s World,” his father’s voice said. “You’re still young. There’s time to rebuild what we used to have there.”

“Yes. Certainly.”

“Instead of dying a futile but heroic death,” said Juan.

“On the other hand,” Lynx said, “what did Eliot write? ‘The last temptation is the greatest treason: To do the right deed for the wrong reason.’”

Voigtland frowned. “Are you trying to say—”

“And it is true,” Mark cut in, “that you were planning your escape far in advance. I mean, making the cubes and all, picking out the famous men you wanted to take—”

“As though you had decided that at the first sign of trouble you were going to skip out,” said Lynx.

“They’ve got a point,” his father said. “Rational self-protection is one thing, but an excessive concern for your mode of safety in case of emergency is another.”

“I don’t say you should have stayed and died,” Lydia said. “I never would say that. But all the same—”

“Hold on!” Voigtland said. The cubes were turning against him suddenly. “What kind of talk is this?”

Juan said, “And strictly as a pragmatic point, if the people were to find out how far in advance you engineered your way out, and how comfortable you are as you head for exile—”

“You’re supposed to help me,” Voigtland shouted. “Why are you starting this? What are you trying to do?”

“You know we all love you,” said Lydia.

“We hate to see you not thinking clearly, Father,” Lynx said.

“Weren’t you planning to run out all along?” said Mark.

“Wait! Stop! Wait!”

“Strictly as a matter of—”

Voigtland rushed into the control room and pulled the Juan-cube from the slot.

“We’re trying to explain to you, dear—”

He pulled the Lydia-cube, the Mark-cube, the Lynx-cube, the father-cube.

The ship was silent.

He crouched, gasping, sweat-soaked, face rigid, eyes clenched tight shut, waiting for the shouting in his skull to die away.

An hour later, when he was calm again, he began setting up his ultrawave call, tapping out the frequency that the underground would probably be using, if any underground existed. The tachyon beam sprang across the void, an all but instantaneous carrier wave, and he heard cracklings, and then a guarded voice saying, “Four Nine Eight Three, we read your signal, do you read me? This is Four Nine Eight Three, come in, come in, who are you?”

“Voigtland,” he said. “President Voigtland, calling Juan. Can you get Juan on the line?”

“Give me your numbers, and—”

“What numbers? This is Voigtland. I’m I don’t know how many billion miles out in space, and I want to talk to Juan. Get me Juan. Get me Juan.”

“You wait,” the voice said.

Voigtland waited, while the ultrawave spewed energy wantonly into the void. He heard clickings, scrapings, clatterings. “You still there?” the voice said, after a while. “We’re patching him in. But be quick. He’s busy.”

“Well? Who is it?” Juan’s voice, beyond doubt.

“Tom here. Tom Voigtland, Juan!”

“It’s really you?” Coldly. From a billion parsecs away, from some other universe. “Enjoying your trip, Tom?”

“I had to call. To find out—to find out—how it was going, how everybody is. How Mark—Lydia—you—”

“Mark’s dead. Killed the second week, trying to blow up McAllister in a parade.”

“Oh. Oh.”

“Lydia and Lynx are in prison somewhere. Most of the others are dead. Maybe ten of us left, and they’ll get us soon, too. Of course, there’s you.”

“Yes.”

“You bastard,” Juan said quietly. “You rotten bastard. All of us getting rounded up and shot, and you get into your ship and fly away!”

“They would have killed me too, Juan. They were coming after me. I only just made it.”

“You should have stayed,” Juan said.

“No. No. That isn’t what you just said to me! You told me I did the right thing, that I’d serve as a symbol of resistance, inspiring everybody from my place of exile, a living symbol of the overthrown government—”

“I said this?”

“You, yes,” Voigtland told him. “Your cube, anyway.”

“Go to hell,” said Juan. “You lunatic bastard.”

“Your cube—we discussed it, you explained—”

“Are you crazy, Tom? Listen, those cubes are programmed to tell you whatever you want to hear. Don’t you know that? You want to feel like a hero for running away, they tell you you’re a hero. It’s that simple. How can you sit there and quote what my cube said to you, and make me believe that I said it?”

“But I—you—”

“Have a nice flight, Tom. Give my love to everybody, wherever you’re going.”

“I couldn’t just stay there to be killed. What good would it have been? Help me, Juan! What shall I do now? Help me!”

“I don’t give a damn what you do,” Juan said. “Ask your cubes for help. So long, Tom.”

“Juan—”

“So long, you bastard.”

Contact broke.

Voigtland sat quietly for a while, pressing his knuckles together. Listen, those cubes are programmed to tell you whatever you want to hear. Don’t you know that? You want to feel like a hero for running away, they tell you you’re a hero. And if you want to feel like a villain? They tell you that too. They meet all needs. They aren’t people. They’re cubes.

He put Goethe in the slot. “Tell me about martyrdom,” he said.

Goethe said, “It has its tempting side. One may be covered with sins, scaly and rough-skinned with them, and in a single fiery moment of self-immolation one wins redemption and absolution, and one’s name is forever cherished.”

He put Juan in the slot. “Tell me about the symbolic impact of getting killed in the line of duty.”

“It can transform a mediocre public official into a magnificent historical figure,” Juan said.

He put Mark in the slot. “Which is a better father to have: a live coward or a dead hero?”

“Go down fighting, Dad.”

He put Hemingway in the slot. “What would you do if someone called you a rotten bastard?”

“I’d stop to think if he was right or wrong. If he was wrong, I’d give him to the sharks. If he was right, well, maybe the sharks would get fed anyway.”

He put Lydia in the slot. Lynx. His father. Alexander. Attila. Shakespeare. Plato. Ovid.

lit In their various ways they were all quite eloquent. They spoke of bravery, self-sacrifice, nobility, redemption.

He picked up the Mark-cube. “You’re dead,” he said. “Just like your grandfather. There isn’t any Mark anymore. What comes out of this cube isn’t Mark. It’s me, speaking with Mark’s voice, talking through Mark’s mind. You’re just a dummy.”