Bob Shaw - The Ceres Solution

“Isn’t that a one-sided view?” she said. “Can outside contact never harm a developing culture?”

“What I’m saying is that there are circumstances which not only justify intervention, but which cry out for it. How many worlds did Vekrynn tell you the Bureau was observing? A hundred?”

“I think so.” Gretana spoke casually while she tried to remember which of the locks on the apartment’s outer door were actually secured. It would be madness to run for the door and then have to waste valuable seconds fumbling with the locks.

“That figure is slightly historical,” Kelth/Lorrest said. “Four civilisations out of the original hundred no longer exist. We stood by and allowed four planetary cultures to founder.”

Gretana scarcely heard. All her attention was on the task of raising a spoonful of soup to her lips and, in the most natural manner possible, pretending to find something wrong with it.

“This has gone cold,” she said lightly. “It wasn’t one of my best efforts, anyway.” She got to her feet, picked up the two plates and carried them into the kitchen, her mind still grappling with the enormity of her problem. Crime of any sort was rare on Mollan, and murder was so unthinkable, so contrary to the basic tenets of Mollanian thought, that no case had been reported in Karlth during her six decades in the city. That showed that the memories relating to her visitor were the result of an educational imprint received during the induction given by the Bureau. The initial identification of Lorrest tye Thralen had been slowed by the intervening twenty-three years of experience and overlaid memories, but now that it had been achieved supplementary details were all too readily available:

Lorrest tye Thralen, member of a radical political group (usually known as 2H), opposed to Motion’s non-intervention policy in general and the work of the Bureau of Wardens in particular. One of several 2H agents who infiltrated the Bureau for subversive reasons…others were detected, arrested and put in detention, but Lorrest escaped by murdering a guard. He made his way to Earth, the only place where—with his surgically-altered features—he could avoid recapture, and since then has successfully concealed himself among the planet’s population masses. N.B. One Bureau worker who reported seeing him in South America subsequently vanished without trace a short time later and has been presumed dead…

The flurry of decades-old memories concerning Lorrest served to increase Gretana’s alarm. She had no idea why he had sought her out, but merely being near him was eroding her self-control at a frightening rate. It was imperative that she get out of the apartment quickly, before losing the slight advantage she had. A Mollanian who could kill was, by definition, an unpredictable psychotic, and the only reaction of which she was capable was to run away. Her instincts craved the sweet sensations of flight.

She rearranged saucepans on the cooker, making sure the actions were audible, glanced around the kitchen and felt a pang of relief as she saw that her pocketbook and gloves were on a stool near the door which led into the hall. Her credit cards and money were in the pocketbook, which meant that once she was safely out of the apartment she could travel nonstop for a long distance, all the way to the Cotter’s Edge nodal point if necessary. The trick was to get outside, quickly and without any fuss.

“That would happen,” she exclaimed with a show of homely annoyance. “I’m completely out of celery salt. Damn! ”

“It doesn’t matter.” Lorrest spoke without turning his head towards the kitchen door. “I don’t mind.”

She laughed. “It’s obvious that you’re no cook—I don’t go to all the trouble of making greencakes and then serve them without celery salt. Not ever .”

“There’s no need to…”

“No, please …I’m going to leave you on your own for sixty seconds while I run next door and borrow some from the Harpers. Do you mind?” Gretana was studying Lorrest’s back as she spoke. He seemed completely relaxed, at ease with his surroundings, and it occurred to her that he would find her disappearance pretty bizarre if it turned out that she had mistaken his identity. Was that possible? How reliable was a memory imprinted twenty-three years earlier by…?

“I guess I can endure the solitude.” Lorrest stretched contentedly and placed his hands on the back of his neck, intertwining the fingers.

“Sixty seconds,” Gretana said. She strode silently to the other end of the kitchen, picked up her pocketbook and gloves, and did a rapid sidestep which took her into the hall. There was a silhouette, an unexpected presence. She gave a low sob as she saw that Lorrest was standing at the apartment’s outer door, barring her exit, his eyes filled with watchful reproach.

“You startled me,” she said hopelessly, aware that he had not been deceived, and that the speed with which he had reached the door proved she was physically outclassed. “I’ve just remembered that I owe Joanie Harper ten dollars, so I’m bringing my…”

She broke off, transfixed, as the tall man’s shoulders slowly drew up to the level of his ears. He stooped forward, face rapidly darkening, and it came to her that he was embarking on one of his harrowing bouts of laughter. She backed into the kitchen doorway and stood with one hand raised to her throat, unable to guess what might come next.

“I’m sorry,” Lorrest said, controlling his breathing with some difficulty, “but you did it again. I saw the exact moment you realised who I was, and I guessed you’d make an excuse and go into the kitchen and another excuse to leave the apartment. The only bit I got wrong was the celery salt—I was betting on ordinary salt or sugar or coffee.”

“I want to leave,” Gretana said in a fear-dulled voice. “Please let me go.”

“I can’t do that, Gretana.”

“Why?” Her challenge was born of despair. “Why not?”

Lorrest seemed surprised. “I can’t let you run out of here thinking I’m a murderer—you could draw a lot of attention to both of us. Besides, there’s no need for you to abandon a perfectly good apartment. I’ll be leaving soon and you’ll have the place all to yourself again.”

Gretana backed further into the kitchen and resisted the desire to sag on to a stool. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?” Lorrest followed her into the cupboard-lined alley, his shoulders still twitching with nervous amusement. “I mean you no harm—I only came to sound you out.”

“Under a false name.”

“We all use false names,” Lorrest said reasonably. “Making contact was a bit tricky under the circumstances, and that’s why I let you see me a few times in the park beforehand. I was hoping the imprint they gave you had faded out altogether.”

“I’ll bet you were,” Gretana said, marvelling at her ability to think and speak coherently while alone in a small room with a taker of life. It occurred to her that, with her ignorance of abnormal psychology, she ought to avoid antagonising or provoking Lorrest in any way. She tried to smile, to soften her retort.

“I’m not a murderer.” Lorrest’s face was solemn. “I’m a citizen of Mollan, just like you, and I’m no more capable of killing another human being than you are.”

“Then why did…?” Gretana stifled the query.

“I should have thought that was obvious,” Lorrest said. “The Warden knows that observers in the field, people with first-hand experience, are the most vulnerable part of the organisation, most likely to be susceptible to the ideas of the 2H movement—so they take crude but quite effective steps to prevent idealogical contamination. When there’s no conflicting evidence, a lie can be imprinted in the memory just as easily as the truth.”