But the Viceroy was . . . upset.
That was the only word to express it. He had blazed with angry power during the reorganization of the V.G. that brought Chesley his comets, and the blaze was still smoldering. There was worry and hatred in his bearing—hatred at the stupid illogic of this mindless human race that was incapable of resisting him, and yet ran the highest risks of annihilation for the sake of making a few filthy dollars. There was passion surrounding the Viceroy; and Chesley was very nearly afraid.
He saw death pervading the very air in front of him, death and annihilation. And yet it was not directed at Chesley, for what the Viceroy said, when he took time at last from reading memos and pausing to make the effort of will that, somewhere on the face of the earth, blasted another enemy with a violet flare, was:
"You once refused a bribe."
Chesley had to think back—it was that hard to remember. Then he recalled the scene in Captain Carsten's office, and realized that even there the Viceroy had had his hidden microphones or his spies. He said, "That's true."
The Viceroy went on in a harsh and somber voice: "You no longer refuse them."
"That's true too," admitted Chesley.
"Yes," said the Viceroy, and was silent for a moment while he read a memo and squelched another enemy. Then he said: "You need not refuse bribes. But do not fail to be logical. From this moment, you are chief of all my Guard."
And that was the end of the interview.
A human dictator might have appealed for personal loyalty. What the Viceroy wanted, Chesley realized, was clarity of view—the realization that Chesley's own selfish interests were best served by doing whatever he could for his master, the Viceroy.
Chesley left, understanding the Viceroy's difficulty.
The Viceroy had no time.
He had to be all over the world, punishing and searching out offenders. And for all his superior power, he was baffled and enraged when human beings risked his anger for—to him—stupid reasons.
Chesley didn't know much about fear from personal experience, since his mind had never worked that way. But he had learned to recognize its objective symptoms in others: Baffled rage, extending outward; puzzlement; inability to comprehend the nature of a danger.
In other words—what the Viceroy himself was now demonstrating.
Chesley, being no coward, was also no hero. He had never thought of himself as courageous, and yet, the very next week, he did a courageous thing.
A report came to his desk:
Captain-General Gorminster, aide-de-camp to the Viceroy, has accepted a bribe for destroying a memorandum relating to the disloyalty of five members of the San Diego Area Command.
Chesley's job was to initial it, return it for filing, and inform the Viceroy of its contents—directly, since the man accused was the Viceroy's own aide-de-camp. It was Gorminster's death sentence.
Chesley did nothing of the kind. He initialed it, thought it over, and tucked it in a pocket.
And two days later, he found the Viceroy's aide-de-camp dragging himself, shaking, up the long humped ramp that led toward the purplish recesses of the headquarters. Chesley stopped him.
"General Gorminster," he said, "take a look at this, will you?"
Gorminster glanced at it impatiently, then snatched it from Chesley's hands, read it and reread it, stared for a horrified moment at Chesley, and seemed about to faint.
"I haven't turned it in," said Chesley.
Gorminster only stared. He was a pitiable sight, no courage left to him and no strength.
"And I am not going to," Chesley went on. "I think it is an unjust accusation."
"Oh, thank you," gasped Gorminster.
"I only want you to remember," said Chesley, "that I have helped you. I may need help myself sometime."
"I understand," said Gorminster after a moment, and then he smiled. It was a workable arrangement—the supreme commander of the V.G. and the Viceroy's personal aide, working hand-in-glove; they could protect each other indefinitely.
Chesley returned to his work feeling more comfortable than he had for some time.
That was the sole act of disloyalty of which he was guilty. He made up for it by intensifying his investigation of the rest of the Viceregal Guard. Half the members of the V.G. were always busy investigating the other half, and each half was likewise split into quarters that investigated each other. Only rarely did Chesley report directly that any individual or group was disloyal, for he had seen enough to know that the most dangerous thing a man in his uncertainly powerful position could do was to make enemies.
But he saw to it that the right members of the warring factions discovered the right damning evidence on their opponents. And then it was only a matter of piously transmitting the initialed reports; and the Viceroy himself blasted the offenders, and Chesley could wash his hands like any Pilate.
He worked hard.
Under the new regime, feeling for others was a luxury and only selfishness was a virtue. But selfishness precluded any genuine loyalty to a ruler who ruled by fear alone. Thus greed arose to combat fear and to nullify it; and disloyalty was inevitable.
The task of investigating and reporting was endless and exhausting. Chesley began to feel it draining him after the first few days in his mighty new office. And yet, he wondered, what must it be for the Viceroy? He spent more and more time with that inhuman tyrant, and saw that humanity—that is, worry and doubt—were burgeon- ing in him like toadstools after a spring rain. Chesley could trust no one fully. The Viceroy could trust no one at all.
The Viceroy spent all his time doing what Chesley did—but more quickly, more efficiently, without human limitations on his ability to think and act. And without rest.
Chesley began to sense that something might happen—something that the Viceroy feared.
But it would not happen, he knew, of itself.
He thought, and remembered, and was careful. It must be made to happen—and he must arrange it.
He continued with his work.
The number of reports he sent in increased. He discovered disloyalty everywhere
It was only a matter of time until someone somehow reported Chesley himself. And one day when Captain-General Gorminster, in a tottering panic, hurried to Chesley's side with a summons from the Viceroy himself—and dared everything to whisper, "It's the Ottawa Area Chief! He's reported you direct—I couldn't stop it!"—Chesley knew that the time had come.
There was the Viceroy, twelve feet tall, shimmering with a golden fire-flecked glow. He was shouting into a television scanner connected with Sydney, Australia; in his hand was a sheaf of denunciations; he paused, spoke, paused again in the moments while Chesley was waiting, and each pause was an execution.
The Viceroy spoke, his face granite: "You are a spy in my Guard."
Chesley felt his stomach knotted into hard lumps and wondered what he had eaten that disagreed with him so; he found that he was sweating and was astonished, for it was not warm. He said: "I have followed your orders. I have acted loyally."
"Loyally!" Chesley felt the seething of inhuman rage that radiated out from the Viceroy. "You obeyed because you knew obedience would harm me!" cried the Viceroy. "Yours is a race of worms! You know no reason and no logic!"
It was true.
The realization hit Chesley and hit him hard: All of his obedience, all of his following orders, had had the effect of damaging the Viceroy's cause. For the Viceroy's orders had been to root out disloyalty and destroy it; and the nature of the Viceregal Guard was that disloyalty had to be its hallmark, treachery its sign.
What other sort of person would join the V.G.?
And so, the more the officers spied and reported, the weaker the organization became. Blue-uniformed turncoats remained turncoats. The task of rooting out corruption from the Guard was impossible—by definition: for corruption was its source and spawning ground.