"We were walking together one day," she continued presently. "It was a dangerous thing to do, I know, because the Sons of Light are always watching, but somehow we didn't care, and we were walking together when a scrammer hit a building and I got knocked flat and half buried in the rubble. Franklyn thought I'd been badly hurt or killed, but I was only stunned and when I came round he -- he was holding me close with his face against mine -- oh!"

Her voice broke and she sat sobbing for a moment with her face buried in her hands. Taggart clenched and unclenched his fingers nervously, feeling awkward and helpless in the presence of a tragedy he could not understand. He leaned over and placed a hand gently on Judy's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said, feeling -- not for the first time -- the irony of the fact that all his studies in psychology had never given him the needed instinct to deal with individual human suffering. "We'll talk about something else."

Judy shook her head.

"I'm alright," she said presently, trying to keep her voice from quavering. "I haven't been able to cry for months."

"One question more, then, and I'll leave you alone. You mentioned that it would have been bad if the Sons of Light had seen you and Franklyn together. Why?"

"I told you," said Judy. "We were friends. And we were lovers, too."

"Is that a crime?"

"For the Elect -- yes." Judy bit her lip. "It's a Sin; sexsin."

"You mean adultery?"

"Partly. Franklyn had a wife."

"Did he try to divorce her to marry you?"

Judy seemed startled. "Oh, no -- they would never have let him do that, and they would never have allowed us to marry even if they did."

"Why not?"

"Because we were in love."

Exasperated, Taggart asked, "What difference does that make?"

She gave him a quizzical look. "All the difference in the world. The Department of Reproduction has forbidden it. Any activity not approved by the Division of Eugenics is a sexsin."

Taggart wanted to swear. Nothing the girl said made much sense. There was something grotesquely horrible in what she was saying, yet he lacked the knowledge to make a pattern out of it. Was love a crime? If so, what took its place? He recalled the slums, the missiles, the squalid massers, the brutal Sons of Light, the hints of strange torture. . . . How did all this add up?

He needed more information. The girl sat silent, apathetic-seeming -- the emotional wound he had opened had closed once more. As never before Taggart wished he had the instinct for personal psychology. Yet he wondered, too, (as he had often wondered before) whether his habitual detached and theoretical stance toward humanity had been one of the factors that had caused the Zarr to pick him as one of their few human representatives. The Zarrians -- were they not the very epitome of detached alienation, with their grim unemotionality that made them all seem alike, their tremendous physical and technological power, and most of all their unquestioned goal of conquering the entire universe?

"Where is Franklyn now?" Taggart ventured.

"He's dead," said Judy without a trace of emotion in her voice, though her eyes hardened slightly. "They hung him."

"I'm sorry," said Taggart, wishing he had not spoken.

"I'm not. He's better off. They tortured him for months, till there was nothing left of him -- like they did to me, only now something's come back. . . ."

Her voice was practically toneless, and Taggart wondered if she had passed all feeling. Then he noticed the blood trickling from the palms of her clenched hands.

"Sometimes they keep you for months under constant Pain -- except when you're drugged and asleep." The girl's eyes, now wide and moist, were staring full into Taggart's with a tortured appeal. "Then, sometimes, they let you go free -- but you know it's only for awhile, and that some day they'll come to bring you back. That's part of the torture. Once they start on you, they never stop. It may go on for years before they decide to kill you. But they always squeeze out the last drop of suffering first, so you're not even human anymore. No one ever goes free -- no matter how slight the crime. The crime is just the excuse for the arrest. This time I thought I could hide among the massers -- I knew better, of course, but I had to do something. . . ."

"Judy . . ." Taggart felt a constriction in his throat; it was difficult for him to speak. "Judy -- whatever they've done to you, it can be healed. It can be undone. Remember that, no matter what happens in the next few hours or days. I am setting you free -- remember that!"

The girl stared at him, her expression blank and uncomprehending. Taggart reached into his pocket and brought forth a sphere of shining metal the size of a small marble. He turned it slightly between his thumb and forefinger, and it suddenly glowed with a soft luminescence.

"This is a micro-transmitter," he said, handing the object to the girl. "I've just activated it—it will send out powerful radio impulses for three or four days. Carry it, hide it, keep it with you always. If you think the Sons of Light might capture you, swallow it so they won't take it away. Do this, and I promise that within the next two or three days you'll be free from all this -- forever."

Judy shook her head, "No one is ever free from the State," she said.

Taggart scowled. "You must not believe that -- that's what they want you to believe. It's been forced into your mind by torture, hypnosis -- God knows what else. But you must not go on believing it. Keep the metal sphere with you, and you will soon be freed."

"What can it do?" asked Judy, doubtfully.

"It's a safety device -- a beacon, you might call it. Its composition is unique -- nowhere on Earth is there another piece of similar metal. I carry these in case my pocket radio should ever cease to function, so that my -- my contacts -- will have a way of homing in on my position. In forty-eight hours they will come searching for me if I haven't returned to them by that time."

There was a sad hopelessness in Judy's eyes as she asked: "And what can your friends -- your contacts -- do?"

Taggart's lips drew back in an involuntary snarl. "They can destroy the State," he said.

Judy shook her head. "Nothing can destroy the State."

Taggart felt a mounting irritation, almost a rage. Nothing seemed capable of convincing the girl that her oppressors were not omnipotent. Then, suddenly, a new tactic suggested itself.

"Judy -- what year is it?" he asked.

"It's . . . it's Eighty-five Post Tribulation, I think -- at least that's what the State says, but they never let us know anything for certain -- I know all history's been twisted and joggled. . . ."

Suddenly the girl's eyes grew round with fear. "You're one of them!" she cried. "You're one of the Sons of Light!"

"No!" Taggart gripped the girl by her shoulders and stared directly into her eyes. His reaction was spontaneous, uncalculated. Somehow he knew that Judy's trust in him, such as it was, hung suspended lay a mere thread. "I'm not one of them, I know less of them than you do. I'm asking you about them. I'm asking you what year this is. What does that mean to you?"

For a moment Judy continued to stare at the man, wide-eyed. Then the fear in her face gradually softened to amazement.

"You are different," she said finally, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.

"Yes," said Taggart. "I am different."

"But who are you? You speak English -- but not like a citizen of Pan-Occidentia. You're not a masser or a Son of Light or one of the Elect -- and you don't come from Pan-Islamica, or you wouldn't speak English the way you do -- I know you grew up speaking English. And those weapons you wear -- they're different, too. You killed the Sons of Light with them. You knew they were hurting me and you killed them! You know they're hurting me—oh, God—you know! You know they're killing me!"

Judy was crying openly now, like a little girl, her body shaking as she sobbed. Taggart reached out to her and held her close, his eyes smarting with unaccustomed tears. All he wanted now was for this girl to be happy, to counter the terrible forces that had induced her deep anguish -- but felt that all his knowledge of psychology and all his power as emissary for the Zarr left him still somehow inadequate. . . .

But soon the girl's sobbings quieted, and she looked at the little metal sphere in her hand. Suddenly she raised it to her lips, popped it into her mouth, and swallowed it.

"You're given me hope," she said, her voice still quavering slightly. "I haven't felt hope for years -- centuries! Tell me that hope isn't a false one!"

"It's not, Judy -- you're going to be free. And if the State's a fraction as bad as I think it is, I know the Galactics won't hesitate to approve its destruction. But I have to make sure -- I've only been here half a day and I haven't seen another spot on the globe. I haven't talked to a single person but you. I need more data than that to go on. Do you understand?"

"No," said Judy. "I don't understand. Please don't try to explain any more -- just let me keep this hope. It feels so strange to have hope! If you left me now, I think I'd die."

She rose and looked down at Taggart. "I used to come to this place with Franklyn," she said.

Taggart stood up and took her hands in his as she faced him squarely. The girl's eyes were wide and moist; her mouth had lost it tautness and seemed soft and warm. Her figure seemed no longer to be cringing from an expected blow, she was no longer rigid and tense.

"It's been so long since I've had hope," she murmured --

"Right, citizens," said a voice of steel; "keep your hands where they are -- I can kill you both with one shot if I have to!"

Fear lanced through Taggart like an electric shock. His fingers tightened on Judy's hands which, like his, were suddenly tense and quivering. He heard Judy gasp the name:

"Constantine!"

Black-uniformed men clutching sub-machine guns were tramping out of the woods into the clearing. Taggart, standing motionless, his hands holding Judy's, realized with despairing hopelessness that he had been caught completely off guard. He dared not reach for his blaster, nor the inset in his belt that would activate the force-field, nor even hope to swallow one of the micro-transmitters that would enable the Zarr to home in on his position. . . .

The man called Constantine confronted Taggart; he was a big bull of a man, muscular and hard, and wore a black uniform; his hair was close-cropped and his small eyes were cold, yet his lips curled slightly in a tight, thin smile.

"You have been very stupid, citizen," he said to Taggart. "You must have known there were eavesdrops in the armored truck. We were able to listen to Judith directing you every inch of the way!"

Then something crashed horribly against the base of Taggart's skull and the universe exploded into a million brilliant fragments of pain.

He felt something sharp stab into his upper arm. He opened his eyes -- the world seemed blurred. He was lying in a brightly-lit room on what seemed to be a psychiatrist's couch; near him stood a white-clad man holding a hypodermic needle in one hand and a cotton swab in the other. He detected the scent of medicinal alcohol.

He sighed -- and felt a pleasant, restful sensation creeping over him. He vaguely became aware that he no longer wore his own clothes, but a simple white jumpsuit and a pair of rubber-soled slip-on shoes. He surveyed his surroundings languidly -- the white walls, the fluorescent lights, the desk before the wide window -- and the two black-uniformed men who stood, hard-eyed and impassive, in front of the door. Behind the desk sat a heavily-built, fair-haired man in black; the plaque near the telephone read: M. CONSTANTINE.

The man rose and waved away the attendant in white. He slid a chair over with the back facing Taggart's couch, then sat down straddling it, his arms folded across the back of the chair. His small, blue eyes fixed Taggart piercingly.

"What is your name, citizen -- your real name?"

"Taggart -- John Taggart."

"No. That name isn't in the State listings. Try again."

"It's my name," said Taggart. "I'm not a member of your 'state'."

"Perhaps you want to pass yourself off as a masser? It won't work, citizen. You're only making things difficult for yourself."

"What do you want to know?"

Constantine reached over to his desk and picked up a black, leather object.

"Look, citizen -- your wallet. In it I find your alleged identification -- a 'library' card, a 'draft' card, a 'social security' card, and other senseless things. Tell me -- where did you get all these obsolete trivia?"

"They just accumulated," said Taggart, wearily.

Constantine scowled, then motioned to the men in black. The men strode across the room and hauled Taggart roughly to his feet. Then, while one of the men held his arms, the other savagely jammed the blunt end of a club into his stomach. Taggart cried out and fell to his knees, gasping for breath, fighting against the pain. The black-uniformed men picked him up, dumped him back on the couch, and resumed their positions by the door.

"Hereafter you will speak civilly and to the point," said Constantine. "Answer my questions briefly and concisely. First of all: what did you do with your State identification card?"

"I never had one," gasped Taggart, clutching his stomach.

"What part of Pan-Occidentia do you come from?"

"I've never heard of Pan-Occidentia."

"You are deliberately inviting punishment, citizen -- everyone who speaks English comes from Pan-Occidentia."

"I don't. I come from America."

"North or south?"

"What? . . ."

"North or South America?"

"The United States."

Constantine glared at him. "You're being deliberately stupid -- but we'll ignore that for the present. The really important thing is this."

He reached back, opened a desk drawer and drew forth what Taggart recognized as a Zarrian force-belt and blaster.

"Now, citizen -- where did you get these?"

"You'd never believe me if I told you."

"That depends on whether you tell the truth."

"All right, then," said Taggart. "I got them from the Zarr."

"The Zarr? And what is that?"

"The Zarr are a race of beings from beyond the galaxy. They rule an empire of a hundred billion suns."

"You're mad!" snapped Constantine. He turned to the guards and said: "Take him to the Department of Persuasion; FitzRoy will know what to do."

The uniformed men hauled Taggart to his feet; he saw Constantine hand one of them his Zarrian belt, blaster, pocket radio, and micro-transmitters. He ground his teeth at the thought that succor was so near and yet so far. . . .

The two burly guards ushered him roughly down a long hall, out into the street, and finally into a black car, forcing him to sit between them as the vehicle drove off.

Once again Taggart noted how few cars there were on the streets, Soon the grimy, Victorian buildings gave way to garishly new and modern ones, and Taggart realized he must be in the center of London. Suddenly he heard a loud explosion and saw a cloud of smoke billow up in the distance.

"Another missile!" he exclaimed. "Who's firing them? Who are you at war with -- ?"

A heavy fist slammed into Taggart's right cheek; he saw sparks of fire and tasted blood. Evidently questions were not welcomed.

At length he saw their destination -- a colossal, pyramid-shaped building that rose to a tremendous height that seemed nearly a thousand feet, completely dwarfing all surrounding buildings. He realized it must have been one of the four buildings he had glimpsed out the observation dome just before he crashed. Unlike an Egyptian pyramid, however, this one was constructed like a wedding cake, from a series of squat cylinders stacked one on top of the other, each smaller in diameter than the one below it. This gave it a stair-stepped look that seemed familiar. Approaching it required passing through several wire gates and answering the questions of many black-uniformed guards. Taggart could not see a single window anywhere on its terraced flanks. Though it surpassed in massiveness even the pyramids of the pharaohs, it did not remind him of a tomb; rather, it seemed somehow like a monstrous fortress. Perhaps it had been built to withstand the missiles. . . .

A door gaped in the building as two steel panels swung wide to allow the auto to pass. Just before they drove into the building, Taggart glimpsed three lines of Roman lettering, inscribed large and imposingly, above the door. They read:

The car moved to the end of a long corridor and stopped. The guards dragged Taggart out and forced him through a maze of long halls and down several concrete stairways. Taggart noticed a disconcerting stench about the place -- a smell compounded of dampness, alcohol, chemicals, sweat, and general filth. The halls were lit with bright fluorescent tubes. Taggart glimpsed other black-uniformed guards besides his own and occasionally men in white laboratory smocks -- all with grim, stony faces and cold, hard eyes. He saw no other prisoners -- but occasionally thought he heard screams muffled by walls and distance. It suddenly struck him that, despite the smell, this place seemed like some kind of fortified temple. And then he remembered what it reminded him of: a ziggurat from ancient Babylon, except those were square and this building was round.

Taggart's captors took him at last into a small room in which there was nothing but a hard, narrow bed and some strange electrical equipment standing against the far wall. The guards opened his shirt collar and rolled up his sleeves, then forced him down onto the bed, fastened him there with heavy canvas straps, and finally removed his shoes. They strode away then, leaving him to stare in fearful silence at the blank, white ceiling.

He had no way of telling how long he lay there. There was no movement and no sound. Hours seemed to pass -- yet no one came. His body itched, and the straps were painful across his limbs. He was utterly alone -- yet sometimes he had the feeling that he was being watched.

By turning his head he could see something like a television screen set into the far wall. It displayed an image identical to that projected by the plastic sheets he saw earlier, except this was not a holograph. Above the screen was a disc-shaped piece of dark glass about the size of a penny. His suspicion of being watched became a certainty. Yet, why didn't they come? What did they mean to do with him? He felt an urge to scream, to fight the straps, but knew it was useless. . . .

At last, with a mixture of relief and apprehension, he heard footsteps in the corridor outside and the turning of a latch. A white-coated man, tall and sallow, walked into the room followed by a striking, lean individual perhaps thirty-five or forty years of age. The latter wore a black uniform and dark-rimmed spectacles. His long face was princely handsome, his features aquiline, his jet black hair shoulder-length and wavy. He wore a companionable smile that suggested compassion and understanding, but his dark eyes were hard, conveying an impression of calm intelligence and cold brutality.

The white-coated man bent over Taggart and placed little white disks with wires attached to them on his temples, the base of his throat, and his wrists. He also attached something cold and metallic to the back of his neck, then turned away and walked out of the room.

"I am FitzRoy," said the man in black when he and Taggart were alone. His voice was melodic, gentle, and friendly, but also precisely controlled. "You may call me by that name."

Taggart said nothing, somehow sensing that nothing he could say would do any good. He felt a strange fear, as if he were a little child alone in a dark room. . . .

"Good -- you fear me," said the man called FitzRoy. "Before we begin, is there anything you should tell me about your physical condition? Do you have any heart problems, high blood pressure, epilepsy, anything of that sort?"

Taggart blinked in surprise, muttered a no.

"Good. Now I will ask the questions, and you will answer them."

"Go to hell!" Even as Taggart uttered the words he realized they merely confirmed FitzRoy's statement. He was deathly afraid. FitzRoy's carefully manicured eyebrows lifted slightly -- more in aloof reprimand, it seemed, than in malice.

"You will do yourself no good by responding to my statements or questions in any but an objective and concise manner. Your name is John Taggart, is it not?"

"Yes."

"First of all, John," said FitzRoy, holding up the Zarrian belt and blaster, "I want to know about these."

"I tried to tell your damned Constantine. He wouldn't listen . . ."

FitzRoy's expression hardened slightly. He reached out and twisted a small dial on a nearby electrical machine. Taggart felt a tingling sensation at the base of his skull; then violent pain shot through his entire body. It was as though someone were holding lighted matches to all his nerve endings. He gasped and clenched his teeth reflexively, fighting to hold back the scream that wanted to burst forth. Then FitzRoy turned back the dial and the pain subsided abruptly. Taggart would never have believed that such pain was possible had he not just experienced it. He suspected FitzRoy was using electroshock on him, but it did not feel like it, and his body had not reacted like it. Though he had tensed, there was not the spasmodic contraction that accompanied electrical shock, nor any burning sensation where the electrode was attached to his skin.

"You must always answer my questions directly," said FitzRoy, his voice even but emphatic. "No excuses, no hesitations, no expressions of hostility. It will give you less opportunity to formulate lies."

He adjusted his spectacles on his nose with a mannerism that seemed to Taggart very similar to Pitts's -- except that Pitts's movements were more abrupt and tension-charged. . . .

"Above all, you must not lie," FitzRoy continued. "I can always tell when you are lying -- and you have had a small sample of what can happen should you displease me. I can stimulate the pain center of your brain. It is safer than using electroshock, and causes no short-term physical damage. Because of that, I may apply Pain as often and as long as I wish to. You would do well to keep that in mind."

Taggart said nothing, yet knew that even in silence he could betray himself. He was obviously attached to some kind of a lie detector, among other things, allowing FitzRoy to read his emotions.

FitzRoy leaned over and stared down at him, his eyes grim and intent. "You got these objects from the Zarr," he stated. "And the Zarr come from another galaxy. That's what you told Constantine, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Tell me, John -- who is the Zarr?"

"It's not a person. It's a race of beings who came from the Great Nebula of Andromeda. They've conquered or otherwise occupied every habitable planet in their galaxy, and now they're beginning to expand their conquests to other ones like our own. They want to occupy the earth as one of their outposts."

FitzRoy looked up briefly at a machine readout out of Taggart's sight; he then looked back down at Taggart, a very slight scowl on his handsome face. "You actually believe you're telling the truth," he stated.

The man in black straightened up, adjusted his spectacles again, then paced slowly back and forth for a moment as if in puzzled thought.

"One thing bolsters your story," he said finally: "your weapons. I've seen what they do. With that blaster and force-screen, one man might defeat a small army single-handed. And even your pocket radio is an electronic marvel -- our best technicians could never hope to duplicate it.

"And, where did you come from? Everything about you except your weapons seems to be mid-twentieth century in origin: your clothes, your references to outdated political units such as 'England' and 'United States,' your wallet and the obsolete papers it contains. You don't fit. It's impossible that you could have existed for any length of time in this society without being caught by the Sons of Light. Even if your story is false, the truth must be just as strange. You must have come from outside."

The room vibrated slightly. FitzRoy seemed to take no notice, and Taggart realized that one of the occasional missiles must have exploded nearly.

"May I ask a question without getting stung?"

"By all means," said FitzRoy. "I need to learn just how far your alienation -- or whatever it is -- extends. Ask whatever you like."

"What is Pan-Occidentia? And with whom is it at war?"

"Pan-Occidentia," replied FitzRoy like an adult humoring a child, "or more correctly the Pan-Occident Christian Empire, is the world's greatest political unit. It is benevolently directed by the Nationalist Evangelical Party and includes all the Western Hemisphere, Europe to the Urals, South Africa, Australia, and this island which used to be called England. We are at war with the Pan-Islamic Empire, called Pan-Islamica, which is under the oppressive control of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard, led by the Imam Abu Akbar. They rule the Middle East, the Balkans, northern and central Africa, the northwest quadrant of the Indian subcontinent, and Indonesia."

"Are there no other countries?"

"There is our ally, the Nichiren-Chan Empire of China. They rule over the whole of eastern Asia, including Siberia, Japan, Indochina, and the rest of India."

"Is that all?"

"A few island nations in the Pacific, not worthy of our attention -- yet. For now there are only three huge oligarchies ruling the entire world -- and in a few years, after we conquer Pan-Islamica, there will be only two. Then we will turn our attention to the Nichirens, and once they have been destroyed only Pan-Occidentia will remain, ruled by the Nationalist Evangelical Party, supreme and omnipotent."

"How long has Pan-Occidentia existed?"

"Almost ninety years, but our roots go back to shortly after the end of the nuclear war in the early seventies, when the Nationalist Evangelical Party was formed by Brother Falwehl. They took power in the old United States during the late seventies; by the late nineties they had extended their dominion over all the old Christian nations. The Pan-Occident Christian Empire was formally created in 2000. Our mission is now to evangelize the rest of the world, and we are close to achieving part of our goal; Pan-Islamica is ready to fall any day now."

"Then why do they continue their missile attacks?"

"The last desperate act of a dying man often is defiance, but that doesn't matter. They are still using out-dated SCRAMs -- 'Self-navigating Continental RAnge Missiles' -- whereas we have developed several new weapons that are faster, stealthier, more accurate, and have deadlier payloads. We launch dozens of them every day, targeting their major cities. It is only a matter of time before they surrender."

"Why not simply negotiate with them, come to an understanding, make peace?"

"How could we?" FitzRoy replied matter-of-factly, as if he were discussing a sporting event. "The rulers of Pan-Islamica divide the world into the 'Realm of Islam' and the 'realm of war'; they have declared there can be no peace until they have forced their apostasy onto the rest of the world. Besides, they are infidels, and it is the duty of the Righteous to crush the ungodly."

Taggart shuddered. He thought of all he had seen in the one short day since his return to Earth -- the brutal Sons of Light, the scrammers, the massers, the things that had happened to Judy and him and, above all, the sad, horrible feeling he had sensed in talking with her. The thought of world-wide dominion by such a system was agonizing, and Taggart could not stop himself from saying:

"You won't be supreme over the Zarr!"

There was a grimness behind FitzRoy's faint, condescending smile. "The State will always be supreme; it has the Blessing of Almighty God."

"The State!" Taggart tried to cover his fear with contempt, affecting a sneer. "I've seen races whose power would petrify your mind -- who could flick your State out of existence if they so chose, and at any moment. You -- me -- the human race -- what are we? Just a few insects crawling around on a ball of dirt! I tell you, there are powers outside that could char this entire planet to a black cinder -- powers that are just waiting for the word to destroy the entire human race --"

The pain was sudden and horrible -- FitzRoy had twisted the dial all the way over. Taggart screamed frantically, totally unable this time to suppress it; for several seconds he felt that his body was being ripped apart. Then, abruptly, the pain stopped.

"Such thoughts must be purged from your mind," said FitzRoy. His face was hard, even tense. "What are your precious Zarr compared to God Himself? Devils, servants of Satan? We will cast them away as if they were merely bad fish we choose not to eat; they will be consigned to the fires of Gehenna to be tormented for all eternity. The State will never be destroyed; that is impossible, as long as we are Blessed, and the Nazirites will ensure that we remain Blessed. You will learn that in time. I wish I could have the job of instructing you myself -- your case is most interesting. But its importance requires that I relinquish you to -- to others."

"What are you going to do?" gasped Taggart.

"For now, nothing. I have gotten from you essentially the same story you told Constantine, but this time while monitored, so that your subjective state during the telling is on record, That is all I was required to do. Others will deal with you soon."

"Others? . . ."

The man in the white laboratory-coat had re-entered the room. He now approached Taggart, a hypodermic needle gleaming in his right hand.

"An outspoken threat to the State, such as you have just made, is a very serious thing," said FitzRoy. "I suspect you will be sent to the very top."

"You mean -- to the one called Father? . . ."

"Yes," said FitzRoy grimly, "to the Great Father Himself. Not many have such an opportunity; few members of even the Nazirites know that such a person actually exists except as a figurehead -- though the general Elect and the massers are taught to accept his existence unquestioningly. Yes, John, I almost envy you. Almost. I have little doubt that you will be sent to see Father."

Judy regarded the white walls of her cell apathetically. She knew there were spycams in the walls gazing back at her. Nothing had changed since the last time they had brought her here -- nothing would ever change. Always it was the same -- the same white walls, the same bright fluorescent lights, the same television screen endlessly playing excerpts from the sermons of Brother Falwehl, the same Fear.

It was hard to remember a time when there had been no Fear; she had no idea how many weeks or months they had been intermittently torturing her. The Fear had always been there, of course, long before her arrest. To love was a crime against the State -- sexsin they called it -- and she had somehow always known that her impulsive feelings would eventually bring her to this place. The State could always detect Sin of any sort.

She had no way of knowing how long she had been in her cell. It seemed like a day at least. They had brought her no food yet, but that was no indication. Sometimes they starved prisoners for a week or more if it struck their fancy. But Judy knew they would not let her die -- no one was ever allowed to die as long as there remained in them even the minutest capacity for Pain and Fear.

She sat for hours in the same position on the edge of her cot, breathing very quietly, hardly daring to move for fear of attracting the attention of the Watchers. She knew that if she performed the slightest unnecessary action, especially anything that might occupy her mind, the Voice would bark at her and order her to stop. Fidgeting, pacing, or any other tension-relieving actions were forbidden; any who disobeyed the Watchers' commands were subject to a beating by the guards.

The same things kept turning over and over in Judy's mind; thoughts of Franklyn, of her secret meetings with him and of how Constantine and his Sons of Light had finally caught them together. . . . Now there was a tiny, perverse satisfaction inside her because she could remember. They thought they had tortured all that from her memory, but the scrammer that had crashed so near to her had brought it all back. But, immediately, even this small satisfaction was overwhelmed by Fear. They would find out. They always found out what you were thinking. And in the end it would only mean more Pain, more Fear. They would drive the memories out again, and the time it took would be added to the period of suffering she would have to endure until, when her capacity for suffering was gone, they would hang her. . . .

The tramp of cleated boots sounded from the corridor. Judy's stomach tightened in painful knots. The rhythmic tread suddenly evoked the last lines of a poem she had known as a child -- lines that repeated themselves over and over in her mind as the heavy footsteps drew closer and closer:

"Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
"Here comes a chopper to chop off your head. . . ."

The steel door clashed open. Black-uniformed guards entered the cell, dragged Judy roughly to her feet, and forced her to march ahead of them out the door and down the long hall. She knew where they were taking her; she had been there many times.

FitzRoy was there, as always, and so were the electrical machines, the grim-faced doctor in white, the tall mirrors cunningly placed to reflect the bright fluorescent lights into one's eyes, and the hard, narrow bed with its dangling straps of woven canvas. The guards tore off Judy's coverall, forced her down on the bed, belted her fast, then turned and tramped heavily out of the room. The grim doctor advanced, deftly fastened cold electrodes to her body, then left as the guards had done.

"I'm disappointed in you, Judy," said FitzRoy, "I didn't think to see you back so soon. You must have known you couldn't hide among the massers."

"It wasn't to hide -- just to walk." The girl's voice was very weak. "I just wanted to walk. I couldn't help it -- it just came over me all at once on my way home from work -- to walk and walk and walk . . ."

"Yes, I know." FitzRoy's princely face was calm, hard but understanding in a patriarchal sort of way, even a little tired. "An escape tendency -- a common occurrence. A little mental discipline would have overcome it. Still, perhaps it's just as well it happened. Now that we know the tendency is still there to some degree, we can set about eradicating it."

He adjusted his spectacles meditatively and began to pace the floor. Judy thought she detected a trace of uneasiness behind his stern, thoughtful expression. That was unusual.

"However," FitzRoy continued finally, "that is not our main concern -- our biggest difficulty may be the possible consequences of your deviation. You must tell me everything that happened today, Judy -- everything."

"There was a scrammer," the girl began. "I was stunned when it exploded."

"Yes, that is true. Good. And then?"

"A man helped me out of the rubble."

"Was he a masser?"

"No."

"One of the Elect?"

"No. He was a . . . a stranger."

"What was his name?"

"I . . . I don't remember."

"And then what happened?"

"The Sons of Light came. They tried to take me away. . . ."

"Go on," said FitzRoy.

"But the stranger . . ." Tension was mounting in Judy's voice.

"Yes? What did he do?"

"The stranger killed them!"

FitzRoy turned a dial. Fiery tendrils of Pain shot along Judy's every nerve; she screamed, but tried not to move a muscle, for her spine felt like it was being stretched and twisted on a rack, ready to snap at the slightest movement.

"That's not right, Judy," said FitzRoy.

The Pain mercifully subsided, though it continued to vibrate throughout the girl's body in low-keyed, electronic menace.

"You're not telling me the truth," FitzRoy went on. "Now, I want to know what really happened."

"He killed them," sobbed Judy. "He did -- I can't help it. He had some kind of gun --"

The Pain began to re-ascend. Judy screamed as it rose and burned at her nerve-fibers, wrenching her spine.

"He didn't -- he didn't kill them!" shrieked the girl. "He didn't!"

"Did he have a gun?"

"No! He didn't! No! Oh God! Stop!"

The Pain subsided and vanished. FitzRoy regarded the girl contemplatively, his expression still calm and cold. Judy's chest heaved with convulsive sobs. Her watery eyes, staring wide at the ceiling, were strangely blank.

"What did you do when the Sons of Light came, Judy?" FitzRoy asked quietly.

The girl closed her eyes and her brows knit slightly.

"We ran -- the stranger and I," she said finally. "We ran and hid in an alley."

"That was foolish. You knew you couldn't escape. What happened then?"

"The Police came for us again."

"And? . . ."

"And, . . ." Judy's eyes were clenched tightly shut and her breath came in short, shallow gasps. "We ran away again."

"How did you run? How did you escape from them?"

"We . . . we stole a truck. Yes -- a parked truck. There was no one in it."

"Good. And then where did you go?"

"We drove to a wood. We hid."

FitzRoy sighed and settled his spectacles more firmly on his nose. "Now I must ask you this, Judy: what did the man tell you? What did he say to you, there in the wood?"

Created: October 28, 2006