Damon Knight - Orbit 15

She laughed. “I love you, Willie,” she said.

“I know, I know,” he said impatiently. “But can’t you wait? You know I don’t like you hanging on me all the time.”

“Sure,” she said. “Sure, Willie.”

On Sevenday evenings, reinforcement or punishment was given to everyone, according to the judgment of Jennings. Punishment was a terrifying thing; it, all by itself, was enough to motivate Mac, Sam, and Willie. They played as hard as they could during physical training, even Sam, whose appreciation of sports could be excited no other way than by the hope of avoiding punishment. The three friends studied diligently during the lectures, even Willie, whose academic interests were virtually nonexistent. And they made a great show of enthusiasm for the Sevenday ritual, even Mac, whose intellectual pride prevented his involvement on any level beyond avoiding punishment.

Reinforcement was not, in itself, a pleasurable thing. Reinforcement was only the lack of punishment.

Every Sevenday evening, half of the people were punished. Precisely half. And the rest waited fearfully in their cells, praying that they would be passed over for another week. The punishment was delivered in different forms: in the food, in the water, in the air, on tactile surfaces so that it might be absorbed through the skin. Jennings had more ways of administering the punishment than his charges had of avoiding it. It was no use to refuse a meal, abstain from drinking, or shun one’s cell. The white-uniformed trusties would observe whether a person listed for punishment was serving his sentence. If not, the punishment would be rescheduled for the next day, increased, and the person penalized for time missed on Oneday. That would mean automatic punishment the next Sevenday.

Punishment was terror. Punishment was being trapped within one’s own mind, helplessly frightened beyond endurance, until one became a shrieking animal. The memory of past punishments was often enough to induce a spontaneous recurrence. This, too, was cause for punishment. As the time for distribution of punishments approached each week, Mac, Sam, and Willie grew increasingly nervous. Even this Sevenday, when they had no reason to expect punishment, they sat each in his own cell, anxious and cold. Perhaps there hadn’t been enough people listed for punishment to make up the needed fifty percent. Perhaps Jennings had picked people at random to fill the quota.

The warning bell rang. In every dorm, on every floor, the agonized screams of the unlucky people filled the corridors. Those who had earned reinforcement were relieved; every one of them felt the same intense gratitude. Every one of them wore the same rather silly smile. They stood up, shuddered once in nervous reaction, and went out to meet their friends.

On this particular Sevenday, Sam and Mac joined Willie at the latter’s dorm, to watch an old movie and then play some pinball. Jennings had announced at the Fiveday lecture that the movie would be Philip Gatelin and Roberta Quenlini in Slaves of Blood. It was one of Willie’s favorites. Mac always enjoyed Gatelin’s old adventure pictures, and Sam had never seen the movie before. They took seats as close to the front of the dorm’s rec room as possible. They sat in silence through the entire movie. Mac wanted to point out special sequences to the other two, but he restrained himself. Willie laughed and applauded during the love scenes and the battle scenes. Sam was entertained but said little.

“Well, then, Prince Collante,” said Gatelin, in the role of Gerhardt Friedlos, based on the character made famous by Ernst Weinraub’s trilogy, “we seem to be alone.”

The evil prince smiled. He removed his huge plumed hat and his black, gem-studded gauntlets. He dropped these articles to the richly patterned carpet of his apartment. “Yes,” he said languidly, “we are quite alone. I have planned this moment well. You may expect no aid from your, ah, comrades.”

Friedlos laughed. He leaned easily against a gigantic mirror. “You may discover that in my difficult journey here, I have taken the liberty of disposing of your guards. You, also, may expect little succor from that quarter.”

“I am not dismayed. Observe,” murmured Prince Collante. He undid the sword belt that girdled his hips. “I ask that you do the same, in the interests of delicacy. I have assembled a wide variety of blades, there, upon that divan. You may take your choice, and then I shall make my own. There is no reason to hurry.”

“As you wish, Collante,” said Friedlos, likewise unbuckling his scabbard and casually allowing it to fall to the floor. He turned and went to the divan. Sam cried out.

“Watch,” said Willie. “Just be quiet and watch.”

While Friedlos was carefully examining the swords, Collante unsheathed his rapier, which he had not let fall from his hands, and attacked Friedlos’ unprotected back. With one quick slash, Collante opened a long, bloody wound in Friedlos’ right arm.

The audience booed. Mac and Willie laughed at their reaction. Friedlos was equally without anger as he turned to face his antagonist. “I see that you have leaped to a somewhat unfortunate conclusion,” he said. “If you had not always been so eager to flee our appointed confrontations, to leave the actual swordplay to your underlings, you might have learned that I fence with my left arm. That lesson will cost you dearly.” Friedlos snatched a rapier and came quickly to his fighting posture, his torn right arm hanging lifelessly at his side, the sleeve of his satin shirt soaked red with his blood. The audience cheered him through the scene, as Friedlos and Collante fought back and forth across the prince’s magnificent room.

“He did it all himself, too,” said Willie. “I always wanted to be Philip Gatelin when I was a kid.”

“Me, too,” said Mac. “Until I found out about him.”

“I didn’t never believe any of that stuff,” said Willie.

“Quiet,” whispered Sam. “Watch the movie.”

Friedlos’ sword caught the prince’s, and his blade slipped down the other’s until their basket hilts clanged together. Smiling grimly, Friedlos made a quick circular motion with his wrist, and Collante’s sword flew across the room. “Now, you fools!” cried the evil prince. Five secret doors opened, and five men dressed in the uniforms of the Suprina’s guard rushed to Collante’s aid. Friedlos made no move other than to engage the nearest guardsman.

“Oh, hell,” said Sam. “The prince is a creep.”

“You’re getting the hang of it,” said Mac. He immediately regretted saying anything.

“What?” asked Sam.

“Nothing,” said Mac.

“Quiet,” said Willie. “Watch the movie.”

When Sam awoke the next morning, her cell was brightly lit by sunlight shining through the clear plastic wall opposite the door. The day was beautiful, though evidently windy, judging by the sheets of paper blowing in unrhythmic gusts across the yard, so far below her room.

There ought not to have been any light in the cell when she got up. The sun should not have yet risen. Everything should still be black. Sam was frightened.

Even if the alarm bell had rung and she had slept through it, Grigarskas would have made sure that Sam got up in time for the Oneday lecture. Sam couldn’t understand what had happened, but she knew what she had to do. She had to get dressed as quickly as possible and run to the lecture hall. And she had to be prepared to be punished the following Sevenday. Sam got herself ready with tears in her eyes.

She opened the door to her cell. It was dim beyond, much darker than her cell. It was also not the corridor that ought to have been there; Sam stepped out curiously into a marvelously decorated room, filled with grotesque, expensive objects and a perplexing jumble of colors and textures. For a moment, she did not know where she was. A man she had not seen spoke to her. “You are never late, are you, Friedlos?” said the man.