"It is valid."
"It is not. Human beings aren't molecules; they're all different." I decided not to argue about jurisdiction; the wormfaces had ruined that approach.
"Agreed, human beings are not molecules. But they are not individuals, either."
"Yes, they are!"
"They are not independent individuals; they are parts of a single organism. Each cell in your body contains your whole pattern. From three samples of the organism you call the human race I can predict the future potentialities and limits of that race."
"We have no limits! There's no telling what our future will be."
"It may be that you have no limits," the voice agreed. "That is to be determined. But, if true, it is not a point in your favor. For we have limits."
"Huh?"
"You have misunderstood the purpose of this examination. You speak of ‘justice.' I know what you think you mean. But no two races have ever agreed on the meaning of that term, no matter how they say it. It is not a concept I deal with here. This is not a court of justice."
"Then what is it?"
"You would call it a ‘Security Council.' Or you might call it a committee of vigilantes. It does not matter what you call it; my sole purpose is to examine your race and see if you threaten our survival. If you do, I will now dispose of you. The only certain way to avert a grave danger is to remove it while it is small. Things that I have learned about you suggest a possibility that you may someday threaten the security of Three Galaxies. I will now determine the facts."
"But you said that you have to have at least three samples. The cave man was no good."
"We have three samples, you two and the Roman. But the facts could be determined from one sample. The use of three is a custom from earlier times, a cautious habit of checking and rechecking. I cannot dispense ‘justice'; I can make sure not to produce error."
I was about to say that he was wrong, even if he was a million years old. But the voice went on, "I continue the examination. Clifford Russell, is this your voice?"
My voice sounded then-and again it was my own dictated account, but this time everything was left in-purple adjectives, personal opinions, comments about other matters, every word and stutter.
I listened to enough of it, held up my hand. "All right, all right, I said it."
The recording stopped. "Do you now confirm it?"
"Eh? Yes."
"Do you wish to add, subtract, or change?"
I thought hard. Aside from a few wisecracks that I had tucked in later it was a straight-forward account. "No. I stand on it."
"And is this also your voice?"
This one fooled me. It was that endless recording I had made for Prof Joe about-well, everything on Earth... history, customs, peoples, the works. Suddenly I knew why Prof Joe had worn the same badge the Mother Thing wore. What did they call that?-"Planting a stool pigeon." Good Old Prof Joe, the no-good, had been a stoolie.
I felt sick.
"Let me hear more of it."
They accommodated me. I didn't really listen; I was trying to remember, not what I was hearing, but what else I might have said-what I had admitted that could be used against the human race. The Crusades? Slavery? The gas chambers at Dachau? How much had I said?
The recording droned on. Why, that thing had taken weeks to record; we could stand here until our feet went flat.
"It's my voice."
"Do you stand on this, too? Or do you wish to correct, revise, or extend?"
I said cautiously, "Can I do the whole thing over?"
"If you so choose."
I started to say that I would, that they should wipe the tape and start over. But would they? Or would they keep both and compare them? I had no compunction about lying-"tell the truth and shame the devil" is no virtue when your family and friends and your whole race are at stake.
But could they tell if I lied?
"The Mother Thing said to tell the truth and not to be afraid."
"But she's not on our side!"
"Oh, yes, she is."
I had to answer. I was so confused that I couldn't think. I had tried to tell the truth to Prof Joe ... oh, maybe I had shaded things, not included every horrid thing that makes a headline. But it was essentially true.
Could I do better under pressure? Would they let me start fresh and accept any propaganda I cooked up? Or would the fact that I changed stories be used to condemn our race?
"I stand on it!"
"Let it be integrated. Patricia Wynant Reisfeld-"
Peewee took only moments to identify and allow to be integrated her recordings; she simply followed my example.
The machine voice said: "The facts have been integrated. By their own testimony, these are a savage and brutal people, given to all manner of atrocities. They eat each other, they starve each other, they kill each other. They have no art and only the most primitive of science, yet such is their violent nature that even with so little knowledge they are now energetically using it to exterminate each other, tribe against tribe. Their driving will is such that they may succeed. But if by some unlucky chance they fail, they will inevitably, in time, reach other stars. It is this possibility which must be calculated: how soon they will reach us, if they live, and what their potentialities will be then."
The voice continued to us: "This is the indictment against you-your own savagery, combined with superior intelligence. What have you to say in your defense?"
I took a breath and tried to steady down. I knew that we had lost-yet I had to try.
I remembered how the Mother Thing had spoken. "My lord peers-"
"Correction. We are not your ‘lords,' nor has it been established that you are our equals. If you wish to address someone, you may call me the ‘Moderator.'"
"Yes, Mr. Moderator-" I tried to remember what Socrates had said to his judges. He knew ahead of time that he was condemned just as we knew-but somehow, though he had been forced to drink hemlock, he had won and they had lost.
No! I couldn't use his Apologia-all he had lost was his own life. This was everybody.
"-you say we have no art. Have you seen the Parthenon?"
"Blown up in one of your wars."
"Better see it before you rotate us-or you'll be missing something. Have you read our poetry? ‘Our revels now are ended: these our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself... itself-yea-all which it ... inherit-shall dissolve-"
I broke down. I heard Peewee sobbing beside me. I don't know why I picked that one-but they say the subconscious mind never does things "accidentally." I guess it had to be that one.
"As it well may," commented the merciless voice.
"I don't think it's any of your business what we do-as long as we leave you alone-" My stammer was back and I was almost sobbing.
"We have made it our business."
"We aren't under your government and-"
"Correction. Three Galaxies is not a government; conditions for government cannot obtain in so vast a space, such varied cultures. We have simply formed police districts for mutual protection."
"But-even so, we haven't troubled your cops. We were in our own backyards-I was in my own backyard!-when these wormface things came along and started troubling us. We haven't hurt you."
I stopped, wondering where to turn. I couldn't guarantee good behavior, not for the whole human race-the machine knew it and I knew it.
"Inquiry." It was talking to itself again. "These creatures appear to be identical with the Old Race, allowing for mutation. What part of the Third Galaxy are they from?"
It answered itself, naming co-ordinates that meant nothing to me. "But they are not of the Old Race; they are ephemerals. That is the danger; they change too fast."