Andre Norton - The Science Fiction anthology

“A patriot, Sub-Archivist,” the general said sternly. “By God, sir, a patriot!”

“There’s nothing I’d like better than to see Terra and all its colonies go up in smoke. Mind you,” Clarey added quickly, for he was not as drunk as all that, “I’ve nothing against the government. It’s a purely personal grievance.”

The general unsteadily patted his arm. “You’re detached, m’boy. You can examine an alien planet objectively, without trying to project your own cultural identity upon it, because 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 general said, waving his arm. A gout of smoke curled around his head and became a halo. “Very slight matter of plastic surgery. And we’ll change you back as soon as you return.” Then he sat down heavily. “How many young men in your position get an opportunity like this? Permanent U-E status, a hundred thousand credits a year and, of course, on Damorlan you’d be on an expense account; our money’s no good there. By the time you got back, there’d be about a million and a half waiting for you, with interest. You could buy all the instruments and tape all the music you wanted. And, if the Musicians’ Guild puts up a fuss, you could buy it, too. Don’t let anybody kid you about the wheel, son; money was mankind’s first significant invention.”

“But ten years. That’s a long time away from home.”

“Home is where the heart is, and you wanting to see your own planet go up in a puff of smoke—why, even an ilf wouldn’t say a thing like that!” Spano shook his head. “That’s too detached for me to understand. You’ll find the years will pass quickly on Damorlan. You’ll have stimulating work to do; every moment will be a challenge. When it’s all over, you’ll be only thirty-eight—the very prime of life. You won’t have aged even that much, because you’ll be entitled to longevity treatments at regular intervals.

“So think it over, m’boy.” He rose waveringly and clapped Clarey on the shoulder. “And take the rest of the afternoon off; I’ll fix it with Archives. We wouldn’t want you coming back from Classification intoxicated.” He winked. “Make a very bad impression on your co-workers.”

Han masked herself and escorted Clarey to the restaurant portway. “Don’t believe everything he says. But I think you’d better accept the offer.”

“I don’t have to,” Clarey said.

“No,” she agreed, “you don’t. But you’d better.”

Clarey took the cheap underground route home. His antiseptic little two-room apartment seemed even bleaker than usual. He dialed a dyspep pill from the auto-spensor; the lunch was beginning to tell on him. And that evening he couldn’t even take an interest in Sentries of the Sky , which, though he’d never have admitted it, was his favorite 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 alien on an alien planet. At least I’ll be paid better. And he wondered whether, in lighter gravity, his spirits might not get a lift.

He dragged himself to work the next day. He found someone did care after all. “Well, Sub-Archivist Clarey,” Chief Section Archivist MacFingal snarled, “I would have expected to see more sparkle in your eye, more pep 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 back in the afternoon.”

“Oh, it is all right, Sub-Archivist, no question of that. How could I dare to complain about a man who has such powerful friends? I suppose if I gave you the Sagittarius files to reorganize, you’d go running to your friend General Spano, sniveling about cruel and unfair treatment.”

So Clarey started reorganizing the Sagittarius files—a sickeningly dull task which should by rights have gone to a junior archivist. All morning he couldn’t help thinking about Damorlan—its invigorating atmosphere, its pleasant climate, its presumed absence of archives and archivists. During his lunchstop he looked up the planet 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, forbidden to view secretapes without a direct order from the Chief Archivist, but the tapes were locked by the same code as the rare editions. After all, he told himself, I have a legitimate need for the information.

So he punched for Damorlan in the secret files. He put the tape in the viewer. He saw the natives. Cold shock filled him, and then hot fury. They were humanoid all right—pallid, pale-haired creatures. Objective viewpoint, he thought furiously; detachment be damned! I was picked because I look like one of them !

He was wrenched away from the viewer. “Sub-Archivist Clarey, what is the meaning of this?” Chief Section Archivist MacFingal demanded. “You know what taking a secretape out without permission means?”

Clarey knew. The reorientation machine. “Ask General Spano,” he said in a constricted voice. “He’ll tell you it’s all right.”

General Spano said that it was, indeed, all right. “I’m so glad to hear you’ve decided to join us. Splendid career for an enterprising young man. Smoke-stick?”

Clarey refused; he no longer had any interest in trying one.

“Don’t look so grim,” Spano said jovially. “You’ll like the Damorlanti once you get to know them. Very affectionate people. Haven’t had any major wars for several generations. Currently there are just a few skirmishes at the poles and you ought to be able to keep away from those easily. And they’ll simply 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 friendly and outgoing if it kills you. Anyone can develop a winning personality if he sets his mind to it. I though you said you watched the tri-dis!”

“I—I don’t always watch the commercials,” Clarey admitted.

“Oh, well, we all have our little failings.” Spano leaned forward, his voice now pitched to persuasive decibels. “Normally, of course, you wouldn’t stoop to hypocrisy to gain friends, and quite right, too—people should accept you as you are or they wouldn’t be worthy of becoming your friends. But this is different. You have to be what they want, because you want something from them. You’ll have to suffer rebuffs and humiliations and never show resentment.”

“In other words,” Clarey said, “a secret agent is supposed to forget all about such concepts as self-respect.”

“If necessary, yes. But here self-respect doesn’t enter into it. These aren’t people and they don’t really matter. You wouldn’t be humiliated, would you, if you tried to pat a dog and it snarled at you?”

“Steff, he’s got to think of them as people until he’s definitely given them a clean bill of health,” Han Vollard protested. “Otherwise, the whole thing won’t work.”

“Well,” the general temporized, “think of them as people, then, but as inferior people. Let them snoop and pry and sneer. Always, at the back of your mind, you’ll have the knowledge that this is all a sham, that someday they’ll get whatever it is they deserve. You might even think of it as a game, Clarey—no more personal than when you fail to get the gardip ball into the loop.”

“I don’t happen to play gardip, General,” Clarey reminded him coldly. Gardip was strictly a U-E pastime. And, in any case, Clarey was not a gamesman.