This Star Shall Abide (29 page)

Imprisonment, thought Noren in despair. There was no alternative. Weeks, years, in the small room in which he’d found a mere few days so trying, unless perhaps they made some arrangement whereby he could perform useful work. There must be other heretics somewhere; would he be allowed contact with them? Could discussion by non-Scholars of the secret truths be risked even within the City, when the Technicians weren’t privy to those secrets? Solitary confinement was more likely, not as punishment but simply as a necessary precaution.

He would be well treated, he knew. He’d have every physical comfort, and would undoubtedly be permitted to read. All that recorded knowledge of the Six Worlds: he had been promised that more of it would be given to him, and the prospect was exciting. Yet to be shut up forever, alone… .

He had been warned. All the ultimatums that he’d once considered threats had been true warnings. No Scholar had ever lied to him; when they’d told him he was incurring grave and irrevocable consequences, they had meant it. They would have to do what must be done to keep their secret.

Upon entering the Hall of Scholars they paused. Noren looked down at the mud-spattered penitent’s garb in which he was clad, painfully aware of the glances of the people who passed to and fro in the vestibule. Stefred, watching his face, said compassionately, “Put this on. You’ll be less conspicuous, and I want to talk to you for a while before we go upstairs.” He handed Noren the robe he’d been holding, an ordinary blue Scholar’s robe apparently carried to replace the ceremonial vestments that Stefred himself was wearing.

“
Your
robe? It’s—not fitting, sir,” Noren protested.

Stefred smiled. “I never expected to hear a statement like that from you!” he said. “Forget it, Noren. We’re not stuffy about such things.”

Noren put the robe on, reflecting bitterly on the irony of it. Talyra would think such an act the height of blasphemy, yet the Scholars themselves did not consider it so. How he’d misjudged them—still in guessing them to be people like himself, he’d not gone far enough. They had minds like his. He’d never met anyone who shared his views as closely as Stefred! If he’d been born a Scholar, he wouldn’t have been such a misfit; why had fate made him a villager instead?

“Noren,” Stefred was saying, “you’ve taken some big steps, but there are bigger ones ahead. You haven’t yet been told everything.”

Noren looked up, startled. More secrets? His spirits rose despite the cold tingle that spread through him.

“The dreams were edited,” the Scholar announced bluntly, “edited not merely to remove thoughts too complex for you, but because before your recantation we could not give you the whole truth.”

“Edited?” cried Noren furiously. “You—you didn’t trust me after all; you got me to recant on false grounds?”

“No!” Stefred exclaimed, grasping Noren’s arm. “Don’t you see that we must have trusted you a great deal to send you out before the public as we did? What you were shown was true, and you could have betrayed it.”

“How did you know I wouldn’t?” Noren asked slowly.

“You had proved that you value the same things we do. If you’d been penitent, we could never have taken the chance; the heretics who show repentance publicly are those who agree to recant before learning any secrets. And only rarely can we rely on someone’s quick wits enough to depart from the script as I did with you.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Think it through,” the Scholar said.

Noren thought. “If I’d been penitent, it would have meant I valued something higher than truth. And it might have meant I cared more about what people thought of me than what happened to them; in that case I might have given away the facts to justify myself.”

“Yes. But there’s more to it. What if you’d refused to go all the way through with the ceremony? We made it a bit rougher than it needed to be, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” Noren began with renewed anger, and then he stopped, perplexed. Many of the seeming ordeals—the re-enactment of the dream, the questioning, and even the use of the unedited script—had not made it rougher, but had served to give him the status of a free agent instead of a helpless victim. Still, the whole thing would have been less trying if Stefred had explained it in advance. Why hadn’t he? “I couldn’t have refused, because I want the Prophecy to come true,” he reflected. “But a person who didn’t care—”

“Would have missed the significance of what was happening and balked at allowing himself to be humiliated unjustly.”

“If you already trusted me,” Noren protested, “what point was there in putting me to such a test? My recantation was all you needed, and to be sure of getting it, you should have made it as easy for me as possible.”

“You’re holding to false premises again. Do you really think I’ve devoted all this time and effort merely to getting your recantation? Would I have engineered your arrest in the first place just for that?”

“What else could you have wanted from me?” questioned Noren in confusion.

“You of all people shouldn’t have to ask that, you who’ve maintained from the start that your mind is as good as a Scholar’s! Don’t you realize how desperately such minds are needed if we’re to transform this world by the time the Star becomes visible?”

“The research work… me?” Noren felt a rush of astonished joy. He had never dared hope that they would let him assist them; hadn’t the Founders believed that villagers couldn’t be trained as scientists? But that, he recalled, had been because they’d known most villagers wouldn’t care about knowledge. All at once the system’s logic became clear to him. No wonder the Scholars saw to it that the few who did care were arrested! Yet there were a few things that didn’t fit.

“Sir,” he continued, still baffled, “if you thought me worthy to do that work, why did you keep warning me that my future would be so hard to face? And why did you edit the dreams?”

Stefred paused, considering his words carefully. “I can’t answer that until you’ve figured out what we concealed. I’ll give you a clue: we showed you the true origin of the Prophecy, yet the key to its fulfillment was withheld from you. You haven’t sensed that flaw because you’ve always thought of us as a group and not as individual people. But you’re intelligent enough to frame the right questions; ask them now. You have nothing to lose by frankness.”

Noren frowned. The fulfillment of the Prophecy obviously hinged not only on the completion of the work and the appearance of the Mother Star, but on the willingness of the Scholars to give up their power when the Star did appear. The mere fact that it was real and that the original Scholars hadn’t wanted power did not disprove his longstanding doubts as to the present ones’ motives. Why hadn’t the First Scholar had such suspicions? What way had he had of knowing that the generations to come wouldn’t decide that they liked being supreme; why hadn’t he worried about it? He must have! His fears along those lines must have been in the edited portion, for men were men, and the First Scholar had known only too well that those who’d held power in the past had often misused it. Only because his personal loathing for tyranny had been so strong—and because Stefred had seemed so honest—had the omission not been apparent.

“I was right all along,” Noren whispered in horror. “You deceived me; you knew I wouldn’t recant unless I was distracted from your own aims by those of the First Scholar.”

“You don’t believe that, Noren.”

Their eyes met. No, thought Noren, he didn’t; not of Stefred. But what of the rest? How could any of them be sure of each other, much less of those who would follow them? Merely experiencing the dreams wouldn’t have much effect on someone who didn’t share the First Scholar’s ideas to begin with.

Stefred went on looking at him, and the right questions began to rise in Noren’s mind.

“What’s to prevent a Scholar from having selfish aims?” he demanded. “Why couldn’t some of you do just what I used to think you were all doing?”

“There’s a safeguard,” Stefred replied gravely. “We must prove ourselves, you see; we must stand up for our values in a series of situations where it costs something.”

How, Noren wondered, did they ever encounter such situations? It couldn’t happen unless it was deliberately arranged. “Are people simply born Scholars,” he asked, “or must your children pass qualifying tests?”

“Neither one. We are not permitted to rear our own children; they are given to village families who want to adopt babies, and no one ever knows their true parentage.”

“Wards of the City?
All
your children?”

“Yes; otherwise they would grow up believing they had the right to succeed us, and they don’t.”

“But sir, if they don’t, then how does anyone become a Scholar?”

In a sober voice Stefred said, “There is only one way, Noren. Each of us must follow the path you have followed, and become first a heretic.”

Incredulous, Noren could only stand frozen, incapable of speech, as the Scholar added with feeling, “That’s not my robe you are wearing now; it is yours.”

*
 
*
 
*

Later, after his first meal in the refectory of the Hall of Scholars, after he had been greeted as an equal by blue-robed dignitaries as well as by many younger men and women who were less formally dressed but apparently of equivalent rank, after he had received with stunned embarrassment the congratulations of countless people and was alone with Stefred in the elder man’s study, Noren stood at the window and painfully, haltingly, said what he felt must be said. He had been too overwhelmed, too bewildered, to say it initially; he had, in fact, uttered scarcely a word, and Stefred had not pressed him. But once the shock started to lessen he knew there was only one course.

“Look,” he began, “I’m honored… I’m—well, overcome… but—but this isn’t right, Stefred. I can’t accept it.” He held out the robe, which he had not worn since bathing and dressing, but had carried over his arm.

Stefred regarded him thoughtfully. “The status, once earned, cannot be revoked. No one will force you to do anything against your will, but you won’t be able to take part in the research work unless you at least accept training.”

“I guess not. But I still can’t become a Scholar.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Stefred said. “In fact I rather hoped you would; it seems the courageous thing to do at this stage, doesn’t it?”

There was silence. Noren thought miserably of what he was rejecting: the chance to study not merely a small portion of the Six Worlds’ science, but all of it; unlimited access to the computers and the films and perhaps to more dreams; exciting work that would be of real value to the world; exciting people to work with, all of whom looked at things his way, the searching way, and all of whom
cared
. . . .

“At this stage,” Stefred repeated. “Now we’re going into it a little deeper. You haven’t analyzed the issues as well as you think.”

“I know you’re my friend and you want to help me,” Noren said determinedly, “but I can’t let you.”

“Have I ever led you anywhere except to truth?”

Noren sat down. It could do no harm to have one more talk with Stefred. He would be challenged to explore all the ramifications of his decision, but this time he was on firm ground, as he’d been in the matter of impenitence, and Stefred would respect his stand.

“You believe you’re making a noble sacrifice for the sake of your principles,” Stefred went on, “and I admire you for it. Once again, however, you happen to be dead wrong.”

“But—”

“You will hear me out, Noren.”

“Yes, sir. But you don’t understand. I don’t want to outrank anybody! I certainly don’t want anybody kneeling to me. I see why Scholars have to control what’s here in the City, but I still don’t really approve of the system.”

“Of course you don’t. If you approved of it, you wouldn’t be fit for the job.” With a sigh Stefred declared, “Noren, there’s just one kind of person who can safely be entrusted with power, and that’s someone who’s proven his contempt for tyranny by staking his life in opposition to it. From the very beginning this system has been made to work by one unbroken rule: the secrets are passed to those, and only those, who have done so. The First Scholar planned it this way; that was the decision we edited out of the dreams.”

“From the beginning? What about the Founders’ own children?”

“They had no contact with their parents; they were reared by teachers, in one of the domes, and became the first Technicians. The Founders chose successors as we do, from among people with what it takes to recognize and defy the system’s evils.”

Slowly absorbing this, Noren mused, “Some of the original research station workers must have qualified by defying the man they thought a dictator. And all Scholars since—even the women, like the one who operates the Dream Machine—have been brought here for heresy? They’ve been through the whole process and have remained impenitent?”

“Yes. They weren’t called heretics in the early days before the Prophecy; those of the First Scholar’s time entered the City as hostages for the land treatment equipment’s return, which was the means he used to determine their worthiness. He took only volunteers, you see, and naturally those who offered themselves did so with the hope of learning something that would help to defeat him. There have always been rebels, and every one of them has faced an inquisition believing himself destined for death.”

“Even you?” It was a startling idea, yet not so hard to imagine, Noren found. Stefred’s defense would have been worth listening to!

“I myself was a year or so younger than you are,” Stefred told him, “and I was guilty not merely of heresy, but of having taken part in a most irreverent demonstration of my feelings toward Scholars. In my particular village some rather grisly rumors had gotten started; I was fully convinced that I was to be burned alive.” With a grim smile he added, “My partners in the escapade weren’t caught; they were present at my recantation and all of them, even my closest friends, assumed I could have just one reason for making it.”

“Oh, Stefred—”

The Scholar drew his chair closer to Noren’s. “It’s hard to give up one’s visions of glorious martyrdom,” he said quietly. “Even during recantation we’re martyrs—we endure hatred and abuse, and picture ourselves dying not as we originally intended to, but as the First Scholar did. There’s satisfaction in that, for we’re still pitting ourselves against society. To become its respected agents is a far greater switch.”