vagabonds lately we must all go armed. Here in the transmission area we must be particularly alert.”
His tone was warm but the gun never wavered. When he made his connection he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece, too rapidly for Dirrul to work out an accurate translation. It seemed, however, that the conversation was centered around the transmitters rather than the report Dirrul had to make. The Vininese finished the dialogue and smiled engagingly at Dirrul.
“I am to take you to the capital, my friend,” he said. “They are preparing a reception for you. You are a hero of Vinin, to have braved so much for the cause.”
The Vininese came forward suddenly and pulled aside the torn cloth at the throat of Dirrul’s tunic.
“But you—you must have a disk!” The Vininese was suddenly frightened. “There is no tourist stamp on your arm. I don’t understand.”
“Paul Sorgel loaned me his when I left Agron.” Dirrul felt in his tunic pocket. “He said I was to give it to the Chief when I made my report but if you must see it now—”
“No, no—by all means, keep it.” The tall man’s voice was pleasant again. “I was simply afraid that someone might have come who—but it is nothing. I am weary from all this vigilance against the vagabonds. It is hard to think realistically.”
“I was surprised to see so much lawlessness on Vinin.”
“Then you’re very naive, my friend. There’s an element like that among all people, although I must admit ours here have suddenly become excessively active. Their attacks are so systematic and so well-organized! Hardly a night passes without trouble at a work camp or a transmitter station.
“Your transmitters are different from ours. Have you developed an improvement in technique?”
“They are, curious, aren’t they? You must ask the Chief to tell you all about them.” The Vininese chuckled with delight. “I wouldn’t want to spoil his surprise by letting you in on the secret first.”
VII
The Vininese drove Dirrul to the city in a heavily armed surface car. Two of the infantrymen sat behind them, their rocket guns ready on their knees. It was testimony to the efficiency and organization of Vinin that such a finished reception could be prepared on such short notice. Dirrul’s first intimation of the scope of the ceremony came when they stopped at a school to be cheered by the pupils.
Rank upon rank of boys and girls lined up smartly behind the high wire fence. They ranged in ages from tots, barely able to stand, to young people in late adolescence. Except for the round metal disks, which all of them wore, they were completely naked.
“Clothing breeds such false modesty and so many foolish frustrations,” Dirrul’s host explained. “On Vinin every child is reared in completely objective equality. As soon as we take them from their parents—about the time when they’re first learning to walk—we give them identification disks. Before that, when they’re in the instinct period, the disks aren’t necessary.
“After their basic education we classify them. The leader-class is issued permanent disks and the others give theirs up. The adjustment is something very severe but on the whole the casualties are light.” Suddenly the Vininese seized Dirrul’s hand and looked into his eyes. “I trust you follow me, my friend?”
“Yes,” Dirrul answered. Reason led him to a conclusion as he looked at the massed children, a conclusion he could not bring himself to face. He felt a new kind of fear, as cold as the depths of space and as devoid of emotion. Instead of trusting to his own logic Dirrul struggled to find a flaw in it—for a man cannot easily watch his dream turn to dust in his hands.
They drove on into the city. Rows of men and women in working clothes lined the streets, cheering wildly in unison. Crossed Vininese flags were draped between the buildings and brave-colored streamers danced in the wind.
“A reception is good for them,” the Vininese said. “We need heroes occasionally. It’s fortunate you came when you did. The vagabonds have had a disturbing effect on morale and it’s impossible to suppress the news entirely.”
The vehicle stopped before the towering government building. Dirrul was led up a flight of stone steps to a wide porch overlooking the mass of cheering upturned faces in the public square. He stood motionless while speeches were made and gay ribbon was draped around his neck. The air shook with bright explosions—a huge flag was unfurled over the porch—band music began to blare and a tidal wave of precision-trained Vininese infantry wheeled into the square.
An official touched Dirrul’s arm. “You must take the salute of our work-leaders now.”
Dirrul was pushed back against the stone railing as an orderly mob filed past, blank-faced and chattering with meaningless pleasure. Many of them pressed forward to touch his hand before the guards tactfully hurried them on. When the organized confusion was at its height a tiny square of paper was slipped into his hand.
Dirrul had no idea which of the mob had given it to him and he dared not glance at it. But he managed to hide the paper in the band of his tunic.
Hour by hour the throng filed past, endless and meaningless. It was an agony for Dirrul. For the first time he looked into the face of his dream and saw the reality of Vinin—order, discipline, efficiency—and utter blankness. Unhappily he recalled one of Dr. Kramer’s lectures.
“... Defiance of convention, confusion, frustration, stubbornness—yes and a touch of the neurotic too—these goad the individual into solving problems. And problem solving is progress. An orderly society that asks no questions of itself, a society that has no doubts, is a dying society . . . .”
Dirrul understood the professor at last. He looked squarely at the fact of what he was, a traitor to his own people, on the verge of betraying them. He had been wonderfully deluded by his own self-deception.
But the job wasn’t quite finished. The Vininese would not have gone to take Glenna from the hospital if they had understood his teleray. Let them splurge on their reception! He was unimpressed. When the time came for questions to be answered he would conveniently forget why he had been sent to Vinin. Nothing they could do would drag it out of him.
The crowd thinned and Dirrul was taken inside the building, where his Vininese host awaited him. Sighing deeply the Vininese stood up. “These public displays do take so much of our time,” he said, “but it’s over now.” This last seemed to amuse him and he repeated it softly before adding, “The Chief’s ready to see you.”
Remembering the note and the flimsy possibility that it might suggest a way out, Dirrul answered quickly, “But, sir, I really ought to clean up first.”
“You Agronians have such weird notions of propriety!”
“I would feel more presentable to your Chief if—if I could have a bath. Perhaps I might even borrow a change of clothing.”
The Vininese fingered his chin thoughtfully. “It might be more amusing. Yes, the Chief can wait a few minutes longer for you to satisfy your vanity.”
He summoned a blank-faced liveried servant and asked for a clean worker’s suit for Dirrul. Then he took Dirrul to the wall tube and they shot noiselessly to an upper floor. As he left Dirrul at the door of a luxurious suite, the Vininese said, “When you
