LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      He was put through intensive indoctrination, given accelerated courses in the total secret agent curriculum: Self-Defense and Electronics, Decoding and Resourcefulness, Xenopsychology and Acting.

      “There are eight cardinal rules of acting,” the robocoach told him. “The first is: Never Identify. You’ll never be able to become the character you’re playing, because you aren’t that character—the playwright gave birth to him, not your mother. Therefore—”

      “But I’m only going to play one role,” Clarey broke in. “All I need to know is how to play that role well and convincingly. My life may depend on it.”

      “I teach acting,” the robocoach said loftily. “I don’t run a charm school. If you come to me, you learn—or, at least, are exposed to—all I have to offer. I refuse to tailor my art to any occasional need. Now, the second cardinal rule....”

      Clarey was glad he could absorb the languages and social structure of the planet through the impersonal hypno-tapes. He had to learn more than one language because the planet was divided into several national units, each speaking a different tongue. Inefficient as far as planetary operation went, but advantageous to him, Han Vollard pointed out, because, though he’d work in Vangtor, he would be supposed to have originated in Ventimor; hence his accent.

      “Work?” Clarey asked. “I thought I was going to be an undercover agent.”

      “You’ll have a cover job,” she explained wearily. “You can’t just wander around with no visible source of income, unless you’re a member of the nobility, and it would be risky to elevate you to the peerage.”

      “What kind of a job will I have?” Clarey asked, brightening a little at the idea of possibly having something interesting to do.

      “They call it librarian. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but Colonel Blynn—he’s our chief officer on the planet—says that after indoctrination you ought to be able to handle it.”

      Clarey already knew that jobs on Damorlan weren’t officially assigned, but that employer and employee somehow managed to find each other and work out arrangements themselves. Sometimes, Han now explained, employers would advertise for employees. Colonel Blynn had answered such a job in Vangtor on his behalf from an accommodation address in Ventimor. “You were hired sight unseen, because you came cheap. So they probably won’t check your references. Let’s hope not, anyway.”

      The trip to Damorlan was one long aching agony. Since luxury liners naturally didn’t touch on Damorlan, he was sent out on a service freighter, built for maximum stowage rather than comfort. Most of the time he was spacesick. The only thing that comforted him was that it would be ten years before he’d have to go back.

      They landed on the Earthmen’s spaceport—the only spaceport, of course—at Barshwat, and he was hustled off to Earth Headquarters in an animal-drawn cart that made him realize there were other ailments besides spacesickness.

      “Afraid you’re going to have to hole up in my suite while you’re with us,” Colonel Blynn apologized when Clarey was safely inside. “The rest of the establishment is crawling with native servants—daytimes, anyway; they sleep out—but they have orders never to come near my quarters.”

      He looked interestedly at Clarey. “Amazing how the plastosurgeons got you to look exactly like a native. Those boys really know their stuff. Maybe I will have my nose fixed next time I go Earthside.”

      Clarey glared venomously at the tall, handsome, dark young officer.

      “Don’t worry,” Blynn soothed him. “I’m sure when you go back they’ll be able to make you look exactly the way you were before.”

      He gave Clarey a general briefing and explained to him that the additional allowance he’d be receiving—since he couldn’t be expected to live on a Damorlant salary—would come from an alleged rich aunt in Barshwat.

      “Where’ll you get the native currency?” Clarey asked.

      “We do some restricted trading with the natives, bring materials that’re in short supply; salt, breakfast cereals, pigments, thread—stuff like that. Nothing strategic, nothing they could possibly use against us ... unless they decide to strangle us with our own string.” He guffawed ear-splittingly.

      One rainy evening a couple of Earth officers hustled Clarey into a hax-cart. A little later, equipped with a native kit, an itinerary, and a ticket purchased in Ventimor, he was left a short distance from a large track-car station.

      He was so numb with fright he had to force himself to move in the right direction leg by leg. He gained a little confidence when he was able to find the terminus without needing to ask directions; he even managed to find the right chain of cars and a place to sit in one of them. He didn’t realize that this was something of an achievement until he discovered that certain later arrivals had to stand. He wondered why more tickets were issued than there were seats available, then realized the answer was simple—primitives couldn’t count very accurately.

      Creakily and

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