"I'm not like you - " For a moment, lulled by Bleys' warm, deep tones, Hal had forgotten the hatred in him. It came back redoubled, and a sort of nausea moved in him at the idea of any likeness between Bleys and himself.
"Of course you are," said Bleys.
Hal looked past him to the two Militiamen standing behind him. With eyes now adjusted to the light, at last, one of them was now recognizable as a commissioned officer. Focusing more closely on the face above the collar tabs, he recognized Barbage.
"That's right, Hal," said Bleys, having glanced over his shoulder. "You know the Captain, don't you? This is Amyth Barbage, who'll be responsible for you as long as you're in this place. Amyth - remember, I've a particular interest in Hal. You and your men are going to have to forget he was ever connected with one of the Commands. You're to do nothing to him - for any reason, or under any circumstances. Do you understand me, Amyth?"
"I understand, Great Teacher," said Barbage. His eyes stared unblinkingly at Hal as he spoke.
"Good," said Bleys. "Now, all surveillance of this cell is to be discontinued until I call you to come let me out of here. Leave us, both of you, and wait down the corridor so Hal and I can talk privately - if you please."
Beside Barbage, the enlisted Militiaman started, taking half a step forward and opening his mouth. But without turning his gaze from Hal, Barbage closed a hand on the other black-sleeved arm. Hal saw the officer's thin fingers sink deeply into the cloth. The man checked and stood still, saying nothing.
"Don't worry," said Bleys. "I'll be perfectly safe. Now, go."
The two of them went. The door of the cell, closing behind them, relocked itself with a soft click.
"You see," said Bleys, turning back to Hal, "they don't really understand this; and it isn't fair to expect them to. From their standpoint, if another human gets in your way, the sensible thing is to remove him - or her. The concept of you and I as relatively unimportant in ourselves, but as gathering points for great forces, and in a situation where it's those forces that matter…that's a thing essentially beyond their comprehension. But certainly you and I ought to understand such things; not only such things but each other."
"No," said Hal. There were a great many more things he wanted to say; but suddenly the effort was too great and he ended by simply repeating himself. "No."
"Yes," said Bleys, looking down. "Yes. I'm afraid I have to insist, on that point. Sooner or later, you're going to have to face the real shape of things in any case and, for your own sake, it'd better be now, rather than later."
Hal lay still, looking once more only at the ceiling over his head, rather than into the face of Bleys. The tall man's voice sounded like some gently sonorous bassoon in his ears.
"All practical actions are matters of necessity in the light of hard reality," said Bleys. "What we - those who're called the Other People - do, is dictated by what we are and the situation in which we find ourselves; and that situation is to be one among literally millions of ordinary humans, with the power to make our lives in that position ones in either a heaven or a hell. Either - but nothing else. Because the choice isn't one any of us can avoid. If we fail to choose heaven, we inevitably find ourselves in hell."
"I don't believe you," said Hal. "There's no reason it has to be that way."
"Oh yes, my child," said Bleys softly. "There is a reason. Apart from our individual talents, our training, and our mutual support, we're still only as human as the millions around us. Friendless and without funds, we can starve, just like anyone else. Our bones can be broken and we can fall sick as easily as ordinary mortals. Killed, we die as obligingly. If taken care of, we may live a few years longer than the average, but not much. We have the same normal, human emotional hungers - for love, for the companionship of someone who can think and talk our own language. But, if we should choose to ignore our differentness and mold ourselves to fit the little patterns of those around us, we can spend our whole lives miserably; and probably - almost certainly - we may never even be lucky enough to meet one other being like ourselves. None of us chose this, to be what each of us is - but what we are, we are; and like everyone else we have an innate human right to make the best of our situation."
"At the expense of those millions of people you talk about," said Hal.
"And what sort of expense is that?" Bleys' voice grew even deeper. "The expense of one Other borne by a million ordinary humans is a light load on each ordinary human. But turn that about. What of the cost to the Other; who, trying only to fit in with the human mass around him, accepts a life of isolation, loneliness, and the endurance daily of prejudice and misunderstanding? While, at the same time, his unique strengths and talents allow those same individuals who draw away from him to reap the benefits of his labors. Is there justice in that? Look down the long pages of past history at the intellectual giants, men and women alike, who've moved civilization forward while struggling to survive in the midst of lesser people who innately feared and distrusted them. Giants, crouching daily to keep their differences from showing and arousing the irrational fears of the small ones around them. From the beginning of time to be human, but different, has been dangerous; and it's been a choice between the many who could carry one lightly on their combined shoulders and the one who must carry the many all alone, with his or her much greater strength, but staggering under the proportionately greater effort; and which of those two choices is fairer?"
Hal's head, under the effects of the fever and the drug together, spun strangely. The mental image of a giant crouching made a grotesque image in his mind.
"Why crouch?" he said.
"Why crouch?" The face of Bleys smiled, far above him. "Ask yourself that. How old are you now?"
"Twenty," said Hal.
"Twenty - and you still ask that question? As you've gotten older, haven't you begun to feel an isolation, a separation from all those around you? Haven't you found yourself forced, more and more often lately, to take charge of matters - to make decisions not merely for yourself, but for those with you who aren't capable of making them for themselves? Quietly, but inevitably, taking charge, doing what only you realize has to be done, for the good of all?"
He paused.
"I think you know what I'm talking about," he said after that moment of silence. "At first, you only try to tell them what should be done; because you can't believe - you don't want to believe - that they can be so helpless. But, little by little, you come to face the fact that while they may do things right under your continual coaching, they'll never understand enough to do what's necessary on their own, each time the need arises; and so, finally, worn out, you simply take over. Without their even realizing it, you set things in the path they should go; and all these little people follow it, thinking it's the natural course of events."
He stopped again. Lying still, watching him, a portion of his own mind remote, Hal did not reply.
"Yes," said Bleys, "you know what I'm talking about. You've already known it, and started to feel the width and depth of this gulf that separates you from the rest of the race. Believe me when I tell you that what you now feel will steadily grow deeper and stronger as time goes on. The experience your more capable mind acquires, at a rate much faster than they can imagine, will continue to widen and widen the gap that separates you from them. In the end, there'll be little more kinship between you and them, than between you and any lesser creature - a dog or a cat - of which you've become fond. And you'll regret that lack of real kinship bitterly but there'll be nothing you can do about it, no way to give them what they'll never be able to hold - any more than you could give an appreciation of great art to monkeys. So, finally, to save yourself the pain that they don't even know you feel, you cut the last emotional tie you have with them, and choose instead the silence, the emptiness and the peace of being what you are - unique and alone, forever."