Piers Anthony - Bio Of A Space Tyrant 3 - Politician

Piers Anthony

Bio of a Space Tyrant, Volume 3:

Politician

CONTENTS

Editorial Preface

1. SUB

2. NYORK

3. YBOR

4. MEGAN

5. DORIAN GRAY

6. THORLEY

7. SENATOR

8. SEDUCTION

9. GANYMEDE

10.CONFESSION

11.PARDON

12.SATURN

13.IMPEACHMENT

14.FORFEIT

15.SPIRIT

16.VISION

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17.REBA

18.COUNTERSTROKE

19.WIVES

Editorial Epilog

Editorial Preface

This is the third of five manuscripts to be published following the death of Hope Hubris, the so-called

Tyrant of Jupiter, detailing his private impressions of his ascent through the political currents of the planet.

The first manuscript covers his traumatic experience as a Hispanic refugee in space at age fifteen; the

second covers the period of his enlistment in the Jupiter Navy. He has in all these narratives neglected or

glossed over many of the technical details, such as hard-nosed quid-pro-quo bargaining or necessary

political compromises or tedious research on issues and rivals. It is evident that his true interest was not in

these things, though he was competent in all of them and always did what he needed to prevail.

Fortunately, much of that material is available in the open record, while the purely personal aspect is not.

It has been too easy for historians to forget that the Tyrant was in fact an intensely personal man, by no

means arbitrary or cold-blooded in his dealings with others. This volume should help correct that

misimpression, however else it may be faulted. It also clarifies the basis of such things as the "Sancho"

situation, the mystery of "Dorian Gray," and the secret of how the Tyrant learned to speak Russian, and it

offers hints of his nature that in retrospect make his tenure as the Tyrant less perplexing. Of course, no

one realized, in the period that this manuscript covers, that he was destined to assume that power. He

was merely a Hispanic politician.

H. M. H.

Chapter 1 — SUB

I woke in squalor. The stench tried to choke me; I found myself trying to breathe only out, never in, but

of course, that was futile.

Where was I? Darkness pressed in about me, absolute, impenetrable, horrifying. Slowly my disgust at

the odor faded as my alarm at the gloom gained. Was I incarcerated in some deep subterranean cell,

doomed never to see light again?

My panic gave way in turn to some common sense. Subterranean cells were rare, for in this age of

space, mankind existed mostly in pressurized bubbles that orbited in interplanetary reaches or floated in

planetary atmosphere or adhered to the surfaces of moons or fragments. Only in the last case was there

any terrain to delve beneath—and that was generally used only for secure anchorage, being too precious

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to waste on mere people. If someone needed confinement it was easier to put him in a cage than to

excavate a hole in a frozen moon. I was not even cold; the temperature was neutral. So, if I was buried it

was in the bowel of some city or ship, and others of my kind were close by.

My mind focused on this problem, as I seemed to have nothing better to do at the moment, and it

distracted me from the discomfort of my situation. If I assumed I was in a city—what city might that be?

Well, where had I last been? Again panic welled up. I could not remember! My past was blank. I had a

general knowledge of solar geography but could not place myself within it. It was as if I did not exist.

Of course I existed, I reassured myself. I was here, wasn't I? Surely I had not formed spontaneously in

the sludge of the Nile! I was an adult human being.

The Nile—that was on Planet Earth, the location of the origin of man. My kind had evolved there,

learned to prevail over the restrictions of nature, and increased its population at the expense of other

creatures and the natural environment until over five billion human beings crowded the single planet. Then

the development of gravity shielding had enabled man to travel cheaply to other parts of the Solar System

and to colonize them. It was simply a matter of building bubbles, which were giant spheres, hermetically

sealed, pressurized to normal Earth-surface atmosphere, spun to generate centrifugal

pseudogravity—simply termed gee—and stocked with necessary equipment and supplies. Then these

bubbles were loaded with people and shielded from the effect of planetary gravity so that they floated

free of the ground and, indeed, free of the atmosphere. If gravity diffusion is sufficient to reduce the

effective weight of an object to one percent of its normal weight, a propulsive force of one percent will

do the job of lifting that otherwise requires a hundred percent. That makes it relatively easy to escape the

gravity well of a planet. Of course, mass, as contrasted to weight, is unchanged; acceleration in space still

requires full force. But the enormous problem of planetary escape had been solved. Man utilized gravity

shielding to spread explosively across the Solar System. He has not spread out into the wider galaxy

because the shielding does not facilitate that; the ancient Einsteinian limits hold.

When the flow of gravitrons is focused instead of diffused, the effective weight of an object in that field

of focus is increased. In this manner man was able to generate full Earth-gee in selected spots on the

surfaces of smaller bodies, such as the moons of Jupiter. The city of Maraud, on Callisto, is an example; I

had spent my childhood there....

Callisto! I had just located myself on a body in the Solar System. My obscure past was beginning to

clarify!

But my memory remained fogged. I had, as it were, spied Callisto peripherally; when my full mental gaze

fixed on it, I could not perceive it. But at least I had gained something. Obviously I had been

memory-washed....

Memory-washed! Why should such a thing have happened to me? I was just a poor Hispanic serf who

had lost his parents in space, and...

Lost my parents? Sudden sorrow swept over me. But again, as I focused it was gone. Memory-wash is

like that; it blots out all recent experience, leaving only the early, and even that suffers depletion. The

victim remembers the language, culture, schooling, and childhood, but not the events immediately

preceding the wash. Only time could restore it all; months and years are required for the final details.

Mem-wash is an electrochemical treatment that stuns rather than obliterates the key processes of

recollection, but in the first few weeks it really makes little difference to the subject. He has been born

again in innocence.

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Such treatment is, of course, illegal. That meant that I was the victim of pirates or foreign agents,

because ordinary people did not have the equipment or expertise for such a procedure. I must have done

something or known something that—no, the wash is not a good interrogative technique, since it

obliterates anything an interrogator might wish to know. So it wasn't any secret that my captor wanted of

me.

What, then? It had to be something important but not anything ordinary. Had I learned something, such

as a military secret, that had to be erased? Surely it would have been easier to kill me. Was I a criminal

being reconditioned? That did not account for the filth I was mired in, for no legitimate rehabilitation

institution would have permitted this. I was being deliberately degraded.

Well, in time I would remember. Meanwhile my best prospect seemed to be to figure out my present

location, as that might offer some insight. I had started to do that before, but my mind had wandered, as

a washed brain is apt to do. Suppose I was in a city? Maybe one of the bubble-cities of the Jupiter

atmosphere, floating a current. If so, I should be able to tell my general location within it by my weight. A

spinning sphere is not a perfect place to reside. Only a narrow band around the inside of the equator of

the bubble can be set at gee; that is, precisely Earth gravity. Of course, this can be broadened by using a

secant, cutting off a segment with a curved plane—um, I see that seems nonsensical. It's a plane running

east-west but curved north-south or vice-versa; an effectively level band circling the inside of the bubble,

really a cylinder. That cylinder can vastly increase the area of gee within the bubble, and all of the

residential section of a city is on it. The heavy machinery is mostly below (i.e., farther from the center),

occupying the region of gee-plus, while the gee-minus region above is left for air and light. So if I were in

a cell in such a city, I would be normal weight only on that surface. In the upper section of a tall structure

(one reaching in toward the bubble-center) I would weigh less, and down in the nether region I would

weigh more. In a small bubble the divergence from gee is sharp; in a large one, slight. But it is detectable,

for the human body is a finely tuned apparatus and quickly feels the effect of changed gee.

I concluded that I was at or very near gee, for my body felt normal in this respect despite my discomfort.

I must have been here for several days, at least, for it was my own excrement that I squatted in. Each

person's stink of refuse is different, and I knew my own. I had had time to feel any divergence from the

Earth norm, and there seemed to be none.

If the excrement was my own, why had it so assaulted my nostrils as I woke? If I had been here for

days, my nose should have been numb long since, as it was numbing now. Therefore I must have been

away and then abruptly returned here—immediately after my memory-wash. Was that useful

information? Perhaps not, but I would file it for reference.

The residential level of a city is not a place for private incarceration. For one thing gee-level is expensive

real estate—about a dollar per square foot per month. That's just for the area, before charges for air,

water, light, and services. Very few individuals would care to waste such area on excrement. Also, the

smell, if it got out, would quickly attract the attention of a sanitation squad. And what if the prisoner

banged on the wall? A secret operation could not remain secret long.

I was, therefore, probably not in an occupied city. However, there were agricultural bubbles with

animals and manure. One of these might—

Light flared blindingly. I cowered away from it, clamping my eyes shut, covering them with soiled hands.

A panel above had abruptly opened, illuminating my cell.

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"Out, Hubris," a man's voice called. "Time for treatment."

Hubris! That was my name! I knew it, of course, yet had not thought of it. But what was this

"treatment"? I distrusted that. Obviously I had already had the mem-wash treatment.

"Move it, Hubris," the voice snapped. I realize it isn't quite correct to personify the voice that way, but

that was all I had to go on. It was masculine and unfamiliar.

No hand touched me. I suspected this was because I was naked and filthy, an untouchable. I pushed

myself slowly to my feet, my eyes adjusting. My cell was small, a cube about four feet on a side. I had

not tried to stand or stretch before; if I had done so I would have banged into the unseen limits.

As I got upright I felt light-headed. This could have been from the release from a cramped position, of

course, but it could also signify a lessened gee. In that case this was no large city or agricultural sphere; it

was a small bubble or a ship. Could I be aboard a naval vessel?

Goaded by the voice, I climbed out of the cell, into a passage. Yes, it was a ship, gee lessened in the

walkway above the cells. I proceeded to a shower stall where I was efficiently hosed down. All water is

recycled, so there is no waste in a liquid shower, though normally sonic cleaning is used instead.

Obviously strenuous cleansing was required for me. In a moment I was free of filth. Then the sonics came

on, prying free whatever contamination might remain.

Next, still naked, I was taken to a clean cell whose walls were padded. I was strapped into a padded

chair. I did not like this at all, but it seemed pointless to resist until I knew more about my situation. If I

broke and ran where could I run to on a ship in space?

The man who had seen to my preparation departed, and a new one entered the chamber. Evidently he

was of greater authority. He fetched a small console that had buttons and dials. He twisted a dial and

punched a button—and suddenly I was in pain. It felt as if my left foot were being crushed under an

immense crate. I cried out and looked at it, for I could not jerk it away. There was nothing. Just the

confining strap and the pain.

The man touched another button, and the agony shifted to my right foot, easing in my left. "That's a

torture console!" I gasped, catching on.

The man did not respond. He touched another button, and the pain was in my right hand. Another, and

the left hand. It felt as if my fingers were being pressed in a vice; in my mind's eye I almost saw the flesh

splitting open and the blood bursting out. Yet I was not being touched.

"You don't need to do that!" I cried. "Just tell me what you want of me!"

The man ignored me. He changed the setting, and it was like being punched in the stomach. I gasped

and fought for breath and tried to retch all at once, but only succeeded in drooling on myself.

"Why?" I rasped as the pain eased, but there was no answer.

The agony moved into my chest, and I thought I was having a heart attack. I strained at my bonds,

unable even to scream. It felt like eternity but must have been only a few seconds.

Finally the torture struck my head. The brain feels no pain, but the blood vessels do. The pain

blossomed in my skull like bursting arteries, and I sank into an agony of darkness.

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I woke in my filthy cell, in more darkness. I did not know how long the interval had been; perhaps only a

few minutes. Almost worse than the memory of the pain was the bafflement. Why had the torture been

inflicted? I had offered no resistance, not even verbal retort, yet I had been tortured. In what way had I

gone wrong? How could I avoid further pain? I did not know.

Why was I here? I did not know that, either. What was my position in life? That, too, was opaque. My

captors seemed to be interested only in degradation and agony.

At least I now had a clearer notion where I was. Definitely a ship and not a civilian one. I had spent time

in the Jupiter Navy, and...

There was another fragment of memory. The Navy! But that awareness, like the others, faded as I

realized it. Now all I had was the memory of my recollection; it was as if someone had told me, "You

were once in the Navy," without providing further detail, so that I had no context.

At any rate, I knew ships, and the little I had seen of this one was enough to narrow the possibilities

considerably. It was a military vessel but not a standard one. It was too small to be a battleship, cruiser,

or carrier; too big for a gunboat. It was silent; no motors hummed. That was peculiar. The only small ship

designed for silence while in operation was—

A sub.

A sub was a very special type of ship. It was a military vessel dedicated to secrecy, to virtual invisibility

in space. In the historic days, most naval vessels floated on the surface of Earth's oceans of water (what a

mind-staggering concept: all that water!), plainly visible, protecting themselves with armor and armament.

Subs—actually, originally, submarines, being submersible in the fluid of the sea—were largely

undetectable and so represented a formidable menace to surface ships. They carried torpedoes that

could hole other vessels that never perceived the threat against them until too late, and later they carried

missiles that even menaced land targets. This was especially true in the nuclear age of the twentieth

century, about seven hundred years ago—how time flies!—and I suspect was one of the factors that

spurred man's colonization of the Solar System. After all, what sensible person would care to reside on a

planet whose cities were subject to obliteration by missiles launched elsewhere on that same planet? It's

bad enough as it is now, when the threat of annihilation is merely interplanetary. Today we have greater

warning.

Ordo we? Today's subs are very similar to the ancient waterbound ones. In fact, any spaceship

resembles the old. submarine, in that it is tightly sealed against a hostile exterior environment. Then that

environment was water under high pressure, always threatening to implode the vessel and crush

everything inside to pulp. Today it is the vacuum of space, threatening, as it were, to suck everything out.

In each case, the occupants cannot depart their ship without employing protective gear, and few care to

go out, anyway. Modern subs are specifically similar to their ancestral vessels in that they still carry

torpedoes and missiles and remain concealed in the depths of the environment.

How is this possible in bright open solar space? Oh, yes, it's always sunshine here; only on the limited

backsides of planets does natural darkness occur. We become so accustomed to our structured cycles

of day and night, patterned exactly after those of old Earth, that we tend to forget that it is not that way

naturally. The murk of the ocean water concealed the ancients, but there is little murk for the moderns.

The subs of either age make themselves physically quiet by damping down the sounds they generate and,

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when pressed, turning off all power and drifting "dead" in water or space. It is difficult to spot a small

dead object in space, for space is immense. There may still be uncharted planetoids orbiting the sun.

Consider how long it took for Earthly telescopes to identify our companion star, Nemesis. But in the

vicinity of an inhabited planet a sub's mere silence is not sufficient, for the space there is constantly

explored by radar. Nevertheless, subs often evade detection. To understand how this is possible, it is

necessary to grasp the general nature of radar and similar systems.

Radar is simply an electronic signal broadcast into space. When it encounters an object, it bounces back

to its source. A receiver notes that returning signal and calculates the distance by the time required for the

signal to return. This is normally a reliable procedure, except when the region is crowded with a confusing

number of objects, such as the particles of a planetary ring system. Even then, a properly programmed

computer can identify all of the natural and "friendly" objects in the vicinity and highlight the suspicious

ones. But the principle remains: The computer depends on the returning signals to spot the objects. If no

signal returns the machine assumes that region of space is clear. This seems reasonable enough.

But suppose you could evade or divert the signal, so that it did not bounce back? Reflect it to the side

instead of back? Or simply absorb it? That is what a sub does. It uses a special gravity shield to form a

black-hole effect that absorbs all incoming energy, including the radar signals. That makes it effectively

invisible to radar. Of course some care is necessary; if a sub passes between a person and the sun, it will

show up as a dark blot. It also blots out the light of any star it occludes. Parties watching for subs are

alert for this and pay close attention to what isn't visible, such as a particular star, as well as what is.

Again, a programmed computer can constantly verify the positions of all light sources and signal alarm

when any fail even momentarily. But a carefully maneuvered sub can avoid occluding any sufficiently

bright stars while it floats near a planet and so remain invisible—up to a point. Close to a planet there are

too many watching satellites, and the silhouette of the sub looms proportionately larger until concealment

is impossible.

So most subs remain deep enough in space to hide but as close to the target planet as feasible, covering

it with their deadly missiles. Jupiter subs surround Saturn, and Saturnine subs surround Jupiter. If war

should break out the planet-to-planet missiles might well be intercepted before scoring, but sub-to-planet

missiles could devastate any city on any planet. That is the true balance of terror. Subs, more than any

other factor, contribute to the general feeling of insecurity on every planet; no one can be sure that his city

would survive a third System war—and there is a general fear that such a war is inevitable. It makes

planetary populations edgy, in much the way that a man threatened with arbitrary execution might be

edgy. There are reasonably frequent flare-ups of protest and even violence scattered around the System,

but no one has found a way to diffuse the threat. Perhaps one of the major appeals of the difficult life in

the Belt is that the widely scattered settlements there would be most likely to survive a System war.

So I was in a sub. What was the significance of that? This was surely not a missile sub; those were too

precious for the mere torturing of mem-washed captives. But escape fromany sub was hopeless to then

th power. I couldn't flash a light out a porthole, for the signal-damping field would extinguish that.

Theoretically I might surprise someone, grab a weapon, and take over the ship, but that sort of heroic is

feasible only in fiction, and not the best fiction at that. In real life ships have safeguards, such as automatic

sleep gas released into the air when unauthorized personnel step onto the bridge, and secret codes for the

life systems support and drive computers. Only the regular personnel could operate this ship; I knew that

without needing verification. It was one of the advantages of my Navy experience: I knew what wasn't

practical. All I could do was try to steal a suit and escape the ship—and outside was only the void.

My presence here also meant that some military outfit was in charge, for civilians did not have subs of

any kind and neither did pirates. Only governments. That meant I was the captive of a nation. Was I a

hostage? Then why the mem-wash, degradation, and torture? That didn't seem to make a lot of sense. It

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would help if I could remember my position in life, but evidently they didn't want me to know it. Maybe I

was some high military officer who knew something about an enemy nation's covert operations; they had

kidnapped me and now were trying to erase that knowledge from my mind. Yet the torture wouldn't help

do that....

The panel opened again, blindingly. I clamped my eyes shut again. Something dropped beside me; then

the panel closed.

I felt about me and found a soiled package. It was a loose net enclosing a hard loaf of bread and a soft

plastic bottle of fluid. This was my meal, and it was already soiled with my own excrement.

I discovered I was ravenous. But how could I eat bread smeared with fecal matter? If I did it would only

process through my system to become more excrement. Yet what choice did I have? If I did not eat I

would starve.

I wiped off the bread as well as I could against my upper arm. In the darkness I couldn't see how well I

was doing, but when I bit into it, I could tell that the job was incomplete; some refuse had been absorbed

by the crust. I controlled my finicky reflex, uncertain how long it would be before I received anything

more to eat. I drank the fluid; it seemed to be straight water.

As I finished the bread, I chewed down on something hard. Startled and pained, though the sensation

was only a whisper of what I had felt during the torture session, I dropped my jaw reflexively without

opening my mouth. The object jumped to my throat and I swallowed it before I could control myself. The

thing tried to catch in my throat, scraping it; I had to gulp the last of my water to get it clear.

How had something like that, whatever it was, gotten into my bread? Were they trying to break my

teeth? That didn't make much sense; they could break my teeth directly if they wanted to. Evidently they

didn't want to; they preferred to torture me in various ways without physically injuring me. So this had to

be poor quality control. Henceforth I would chew more carefully.

I tried to move about, to get more comfortable, but there was no comfortable position in the limited cell.

I drifted off to sleep, steeped in my own manure.

It was hard to judge time in this eternal opacity. In due course I woke, feeling the urge of nature, and

had no choice but to contribute to the refuse already all around me. Well, perhaps I could judge the

passage of time by the level of organic matter. That indicated perhaps one more day, added to the

several that had preceded my present awareness. I slept again.

More time passed, and the darkness remained, broken only by the periodic openings of the bright panel

for food and, again, my removal for cleaning and a torture session. I feared and hated that pain, finding

no rationale for it; apparently my captors simply wanted me to hurt. Hurt I did, though there was no mark

on my body.

I had to do something to preserve my sanity, for the deprivation of comfort, light, and memory was

getting to me, as it surely was supposed to. I explored my cell, discovering only blank walls. No help

there, either physical or mental. I sank slowly into apathy.

Then I became aware of a presence. There was someone in the chamber with me! The panel had not

opened, but somehow an entrance had been made.

"Who...?" I asked.

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A warm hand came to touch my arm. "Don't you remember me, Hope? I am Helse."

Helse! I remembered her but without context. I loved her.

I took her in my arms. I was covered with slop, while she was clean, but she did not protest. She moved

her sleek body to accommodate me and spread her finely fleshed thighs to embrace me, and she was as

naked as I, and the shape of man's desire. She leaned forward to kiss me, and her lips were honey and

her breasts touched me with electrifying sensation. Suddenly I was in her, penetrating more deeply than I

had thought possible, and my essence was pumping into her with an almost intolerable pleasure.

Then she was gone, and I was left spent, my substance dribbling into the muck. Helse had not been real;

she had been a succubus, a phantom of my desire.

Yet I knew I had loved her in reality, once. Where and when and how had that been? What had

become of her? What had become ofme?

Dispirited, I tried again to remember my situation but could not. All I remembered was my distant past. I

had grown up on Callisto, part of a family of five. Two sisters, one older, one younger, but I could not

recall their names. Mem-wash does tend to eradicate specifics, such as names, more than generalities,

such as being part of a family.

I wrestled with that, annoyed that my own family names should be lost. I was sure that if I could once

catch a name, I would retain it. Helse had given me my own, Hope, though I seemed to have little hope

at the moment. My father had been... surely my own surname should—ah, I had it! Major Hubris, who

worked at the coffee plantation. My mother, his wife, Mrs.... Charity Hubris! And...

Suddenly I had it all, as if the memories had been accumulating in the course of the recent hours,

awaiting this effort. We three children—Faith, Hope, and Spirit. We had had to leave Callisto and had

suffered disaster.

Almost, I wished that memory had remained obscure. My father, my mother—brutally dead in space.

My older sister raped. Our friends and associates perished. I alone had survived that terrible journey.

No—some children had been taken as slaves perhaps. And my sisters had not died, that I knew of, but

perhaps they might as well have. They had been taken aboard pirate ships. And my girl friend, my

woman, my beloved Helse...

I screamed, but it did no good. Still I saw Helse's corpse. I had survived but at what price? My love had

perished.

I banged my fist against the wall, trying to stifle the pain of memory; that was as bad in its fashion as the

physical agony of the torture. But there was no escaping this horror. I sank back into the muck, my mind

feeling as soiled as my body. The guilt of Helse's death lay on me.

Yet she had returned to me, here in this hole, to love me one more time. How much better her love had

been than mine!

Finally I slept, dreamed, and woke in an agony of remorse. Whatever had happened after Helse died

hardly mattered. If it had led me to this hole, well, here was my punishment, fitting enough. Helse had

forgiven me, but I had not forgiven myself.

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At some point the panel opened and another meal plopped down. Another six hours gone, perhaps. I

ate, having no resistance, and chewed on another object. This time I fished it out of my mouth and felt it

with my fingers. It was a sharp-edged fragment of metal, a rivet or nail. It must have been a similar object

that I had swallowed before. I hoped it wasn't chewing up my insides, then realized that it didn't matter;

what was a little more punishment to one who deserved it?

Yet the sharpness of it gave me a notion. Was it enough to scratch the metal wall? I could mark off

meals, keeping track of time more precisely....

Time? Why bother. I was here as long as my captors decreed. Better to write myself a message of

consolation.

I propped myself up, slid my fingers along the wall to verify that it was smooth—and discovered that it

wasn't. There were scratches already on it, perhaps made by a prior prisoner. Not large or obvious—of

course, they were invisible in the pitch darkness—but clearly the handiwork of some person. I traced to

the upper left and found the edge of the scratches, licking my fingertips to make them more sensitive,

never mind what they tasted of. Could it be?

Yes! There was a number there. The figure 1. Next to it, the figure 2, and on, proceeding to the right, a

continuing series. There were four lines of numbers, and when I had traced them all, this was the pattern:

1 2 1 14 4 15 14 27 8

15 16 5 29 27 1 12 12 25

5 27 23 8 15 27 5 14 20

5 18 27 8 5 18 5 28 27

I sat back and pondered. Obviously someone had used a pointed bit of metal, like the one I had

recovered from the bread, to scratch this series. Why?

Why else? A message! In code, so the captors would not realize. A message to whomever followed. A

camaraderie of prisoners, the first extending this tiny fragment of comfort to the next.

Code. Would the numbers simply stand for letters of the alphabet? That seemed too easy, but I tried it.

Let 1 be A, 2 be B, 3 be C, and so on through. What was the result?

I worked it out, and was amazed at the confirmation and ease of translation. I had hit it right the first

time. 27 was a space, 28 a period, 29 a comma. The message said: ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE

WHO ENTER HERE.

My enthusiasm collapsed. This was no communication of encouragement—it was counsel for defeat!

Who would do such a thing?

I pondered, still bemused at how readily I had unriddled the sequence. It was almost as if my thoughts

were identical to those of the prior occupant. And the message itself, so simply coded—any guard could

have translated it almost as readily as I had. This could hardly be expected to remain secret.

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Piers Anthony - Bio Of A Space Tyrant 3 - Politician

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