Bob Shaw - Who Goes Here

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WHO GOES HERE?

except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without permission in writing from the

publisher.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is

purely coincidental.

An ACE Book by arrangement with Victor Gollancz, Ltd.

First Ace printing: August 1978

Printed in U.S.A.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

"YOU FEEL BETTER now, don't you?" The pretty technician-nurse smiled at Peace as she

leaned across and removed the terminals from his forehead. She had coppery hair and her

fingernails were manicured to the perfection of rose petals. "Tell me how you feel."

"I'm fine," Peace said unthinkingly, then realized it was true. He was aware of tensions fleeing

from his body, being driven out by the warm sense of ease which was spreading downwards

from his brain. Relaxing into the skilfully contoured chair, he looked around the gleaming

surgery with benign approval. "I feel great."

"I'm so glad." The girl placed the medallion-like terminals and associated leads on top of a

squat machine and pushed it away on noiseless casters.'' You know, I get a lot of personal

satisfaction through helping people like you."

"I'm sure you do."

"It's a kind of___" She smiled again, shyly. "I

guess the word is fulfilment."

"I'll bet it is." Peace gazed happily at her for a moment, then a stray thought obtruded. "By the

way," he said, "what exactly have you done for

me?"

"Well, damn you!" she snapped, her face growing pale with anger. "Thirty seconds you

waited before you started asking your bloody stupid questions. Thirty seconds! How much

personal satisfaction and fulfilment is a girl expected to cram into thirty seconds?"

"I... Wait a mo...." Peace was so shocked by her abrupt change of attitude that he found diffi-

culty in speaking. "I only asked. ..."

"That's right—you only asked. You couldn't simply accept my gift of happiness and be

grateful, could you? You had to start checking up on things."

"I don't understand," Peace pleaded. "What's

going on here?"

"Come on, buster—out!" The girl marched to the door of the surgery, flung it open and spoke

to somebody in the next room. "Private Peace is ready for you now, sir."

"There must be some mistake," Peace said, getting to his feet. "I'm not a private. I'm not in

the____"

"You want to bet?" the girl said nastily as she pushed him into the adjoining room and

slammed the door. His bewildered eyes took in the details of a square office whose walls were

decorated with militaria and a large banner of midnight blue on which were embroidered, in

silver, the words: SPACE LEGION—203 Regiment. There was a single desk, behind which

was seated a pudgy man wearing the uniform of a Space Legion captain. The blue carpet

featured the Space Legion crest, and the various items of office equipment around the room,

including the tubs which held ornamental plants, were similarly stencilled or engraved.

Nodding a silent greeting, the captain waved Peace into a chair which had "Space Legion"

woven into the fabric of the back and cushion.

"What is this place?" Peace demanded.

"Would you believe," the officer's gaze flicked around the room, "the headquarters of the

YWCA?"

The sarcasm missed Peace by several light years. "That woman in the next room called me a

private," he said anxiously.

"Pay no attention to Florence—she gets a bit edgy. The frustrations of the job, you know."

Peace sighed with relief. "For a moment I thought I'd done something stupid."

"No, you haven't done anything stupid. Not in the slightest." The pudgy man began to

scrutinize his fingers with great care, as though taking inventory. "I'm Captain Widget—the

local induction officer for the Space Legion."

"When I said I thought I had done something stupid," Peace said, alarm bells clamoring in his

mind, "I meant something like joining the Space Legion."

Widget lowered his face into his hands, and his shoulders quivered slightly. He remained that

way for perhaps a minute, during which Peace stared at the top of his head with growing

concern, then he straightened up, apparently making a great effort to bring himself under

control.

"Warren," he said, "may I call you Warren?"

"That's my name," Peace said noncommitally.

"Thank you. Warren, doesn't the idea of being in the Legion appeal to you?"

Peace gave a hoot of derision. "Are you kidding? I've heard all about that—getting shipped all

over the galaxy, getting shot at, getting burned up, getting frozen up, getting ate up by

monsters, getting. ..." Peace stopped speaking as his suspicions crystallized into certainty that

something awful had happened. "Why should I do anything as crazy as joining the Legion?"

"You've no idea?"

"Of course not."

"There you are, then!" Widget said triumphantly. "There you are!"

"Captain, what are you talking about?"

"Let me put it this way, Warren.'" Widget leaned across his desk and, unaware that he had

placed one of his elbows in a well-used ashtray, fixed Peace with an intense stare. "Back in

the old days—three or four hundred years ago—why did men join the French Foreign

Legion?"

"I don't want to play games with you, Captain."

"Why did they join, Warren?"

"To forget," Peace said peevishly. "Everybody knows that, but I. ..."

"And today, Warren, why do men join the Space Legion?"

"To forget—but I haven't got anything I want to forget."

"Not any more you haven't." Widget leaned back in his chair, satisfied he had made his point.

"You've forgotten it."

Peace's jaw sagged. "This is stupid. What have I forgotten?"

"If I told you that it would spoil everything," Widget said reasonably. "Besides, I don't even

know what was on your mind when you came in here thirty minutes ago. The Legion respects

a man's privacy. We don't ask embarrassing questions—we just hook you up to the machine,

and . . . bleep! . . . it's all gone."

"Bleep?"

"Yes. Bleep! The crushing burden of guilt and shame is lifted from your soul."

"I. . . . " Peace delved into his memory and found he had no recollection of having walked

into the recruiting office. A smothering sense of panic developed within him as he discovered

he had no memories at all of a previous life. It was as if he had been created, conjured up out

of thin air, a few minutes earlier in the surgery next door.

"What have you done to me?" he mumbled, tentatively pressing his head with his fingertips as

though it was a puffball which could cave in at the slightest touch. "I can't remember

anything! No past life! No childhood! No nothing!"

Widget raised his eyebrows. "That's unusual. The machine usually blanks out the previous

day

or two in their entirety—because of neuro surge—then it becomes selective to take out

specific memories. If you can't remember anything at all you must have been a hard case,

Warren. Everything you ever did must have been rotten."

"This is terrible." Peace was unable to keep a quaver out of his voice. "I can't even remember

what's-her-name—my mother."

"That makes me feel a lot better," Widget said. He sat upright and the curvatures of his well-

padded face firmed out and became shiny as he smiled. "It really churns me up when I have to

reorientate nice young men—clean-cut boys who perhaps made only one mistake in their

whole lives—but you're different. You must have been evil, Warren.

"It's a good thing for you that you didn't have to spend years of hard soldiering trying to wipe

out the memories of your guilty past, because you'd probably have never made it. It's a good

thing for you we've reached the stage where memories can be electronically erased, and that

the Legion is prepared to accept you and. ..."

"Shut up!" Peace bellowed, overwhelmed with fear and the urge to find a quiet place where he

could concentrate on forcing his brain to do all the things normally expected of it. He rose to

his feet. "I've got to get out of here."

"I can understand that desire," Widget said gleefully, "but there's a snag." "What is it?"

Widget picked up a sheet of pale blue paper.

"This contract—it binds you to serve in the Legion for thirty years."

"You know what you can do with that," Peace sneered. "I'm not going to sign it."

"But you've already signed it," Widget said. "Before we put you on the machine."

"I did not." Peace shook his head emphatically. "What are you trying to pull here? I can't re-

member anything about myself, but there's one thing I do know, and that is that I would never

ever, not in a million years, never ever sign a thing like that, so you can...." His voice faded

away as Widget pressed a button on a control panel built into his desk and a moving image

glimmered into existence on the wall behind him. It depicted a tall young man with a doll-

pink face, wide mouth, blue eyes and blond hair which was fashionably thinned above the

forehead. Peace had difficulty in recognizing himself at first, then he realized it was

because—in the picture—he was a caricature of despair. His eyes were dull and broody, his

mouth was turned down at the corners, and his whole drooping, defeated posture suggested a

spirit which had broken under some unguessable load.

As Peace watched, his other self sagged into a chair at a table, picked up a pen and signed a

pale blue document which was recognizably the same as the one now in Widget's hands.

Florence, the technician-nurse, appeared and led an obedient Peace away as would a zoo-

keeper attending to a sickly chimp. The images faded from the wall.

"You should see your face!" Widget put a hand over his mouth and nostrils and gave a

prolonged snort of amusement. "Boy, I'm really enjoying this. I'm going to feel good all day

after this."

"Let me see that paper," Peace said, reaching for the document.

"Certainly." There was a curious light, which might have been a gleam of anticipation, in

Widget's eyes as he handed the sheet across the desk.

"Thank you." Peace looked at the contract only for as long as it took to satisfy himself that he

had actually signed it and that it was printed on ordinary paper instead of indestructible

plastic. He held it up by one edge, pinched it between his forefingers and thumbs with an

extravagant flourish, and made ready to rip the sheet in half.

"Don't tear that," Widget snapped. There was a clear note of command in his voice, but he re-

mained at ease and made an attempt to retrieve the document. The glow in his eyes seemed

brighter.

Peace gave a contemptuous sniff and tried to pull the sheet apart. A painful and nauseating

sensation, like somebody briskly scrubbing the surface of his brain with a rough towel, filled

his cranium—and his fingers refused to move.

Widget pointed at the desk. "Set the paper down there."

Peace shook his head, but in the same instant his right hand leapt forward and placed the sheet

exactly where Widget had indicated. He was staring at his hand, shocked by its treachery,

when Widget spoke again.

"Do me an imitation of a rooster."

Peace shook his head and began crowing at the top of his voice.

"With actions."

Peace shook his head and began stalking around the office, flapping his elbows.

"That's enough," Widget ordered. "I'm tempted to say don't call us, we'll call you—but

perhaps farmyard impressions aren't your forte."

"Captain," Peace said weakly, "what's going on here?"

"Had enough, eh?" Widget discovered the cigarette ash on his elbow and spent a minute

brushing it off before pointing at the empty chair. "Sit down there and read your contract, with

special attention to Clause Three. The whole thing is written in ultrasimplified language that

even a moron can understand, but feel free to ask any questions you want."

Peace sank into the chair and picked up the contract. It had been imperfectly duplicated from

a typescript, and said:

SPACE LEGION

THIRTY* YEAR SERVICE CONTRACT

FOR VOLUNTEER RANKERS

1. I, Warren Peace, citizen of Earth, agree to serve as a private soldier in the Space

Legion for thirty* years, and to accept all conditions of service.

2. I enter this Covenant willingly, and without coercion, in return for psychological

adjustment—namely, electropsycho engram erasure— performed by a suitably qualified

Medical Officer of the Space Legion.

3. I also agree, in the interests of efficiency, to standard electropsycho response

conditioning.

(signed) Warren Peace

Date: 10th day of November, 2386 A.D.

* The figure of thirty given here may be taken to read as forty**, depending on the

Space Legion's manpower requirements thirty years from the signing of this contract.

** The figure of forty given here may be taken to read as fifty or sixty years or any other

number the Supreme Command of the Space Legion may decide upon if current longevity

research proves successful.

Peace set the contract down with a pounding sense of dismay. "It's obscene," he said simply.

"It's like something a used car dealer would dream up."

Widget shrugged. "You signed it."

"What was I thinking about?"

"That's between you and your conscience," Widget said primly. "The point is, you signed it."

"It would never hold up in a court of law," Peace challenged, gathering what remained of his

strength of mind. "Why, it doesn't even specify Earth years, and there's no. . . . '

Widget held up a plump hand. "Forget all that stuff, Warren—you won't be taking any legal

action."

"Who says so?" "Clause Three says so."

Peace leaned forward and checked the relevant wording. "What's all this about 'standard

electro-psycho response conditioning'?"

"I thought you'd never ask." The look of malicious enjoyment returned to Widget's round face

as he tapped a small lump protruding from his throat, just above his collar. "Do you know

what this is?"

"It looks like a cyst. I wouldn't worry about it."

"It isn't a cyst, and I'm not worried—because nearly every officer in the Space Legion has one

just like it."

Peace shrank back. "Is there an epidemic?"

"Don't be so damn stupid, man." Widget paused to reassemble his smile. "This is a surgically-

implanted Mark Three command enforcer. It adds certain harmonics to my voice— harmonics

to which every legionary from the rank of NCO downwards is conditioned to respond with

absolute, unthinking obedience. Have you got the picture?"

"I don't believe it," Peace breathed, aghast. "Even the Legion wouldn't be allowed to go that

far."

Widget sighed and glanced at his watch. "Do the rooster impression again—and for God's

sake try to get the neck movements right. Last time you were more like a dromedary."

"I refuse," Peace said as he left his chair and high-stepped across the office, flapping his

elbows and darting his head this way and that in search of worms.

Widget folded his arms and made himself comfortable. "Let me know when you've had

enough."

"You don't leave a fellow much dignity," Peace crowed in protest. He essayed a short flight

which ended disastrously in a clump of Sirian sparkle

plants.

"Dignity you want? It's lucky for you I'm straight." Widget's eyes flickered ominously. "This

is nothing to what. ..."

"All right, I give in," Peace said. "I'm convinced."

"In that case you can sit down again while I explain the basic terms of service." Widget stared

at the ceiling until Peace had resumed his seat. "Cigarette?"

Peace nodded gratefully. "I'd love one."

"I'm talking about your cigarettes, Warren. Get

them out."

Peace took a pack of Selfigs from his jacket pocket and offered them across the desk.

"I'll get rid of these for you," Widget said, snatching the whole pack. "Rankers aren't per-

mitted to smoke during basic training." He took out a cigarette for himself, puffed it into life,

and dropped the others into a drawer.

"Thanks." Peace stared wistfully at the ascending smoke and wondered how long he had been

a tobacco addict. The strength of his craving suggested it had been some time, but his memory

held no details. It was disconcerting to find a complete blank where the stored experience of a

lifetime ought to be, but—assuming Captain Widget had been right in what he said earlier—

he could be better off not knowing what sort of person he really was. His best plan might be

to write off the past and accept whatever his new life in the Legion might bring. After all,

there was bound to be a great deal of adventure and travel.

"... conditions of service are absolutely standard," Widget was saying. "The pay is ten monits

a day, and. ..."

"An hour," Peace corrected. "You meant ten monits an hour."

"I meant exactly what I said. Don't argue with an officer."

"Pardon me," Peace said heavily. "It must be my lack of memory playing tricks—I thought

slavery had been abolished ages ago."

"You really are a hard case, aren't you?" Widget gazed at him with growing dislike. "You

know, if it wasn't for the fact that it's totally impossible, I'd give you back your memory and

leave you to the mercy of the police. You don't deserve the Legion."

"All I said was. ..."

"Private Peace!" Widget's mouth twitched with anger. "I see I'm going to be forced to sap

you."

Peace stared at him in alarm. "Are you allowed to strike a private soldier?"

"SAP stands for Self Administered Punishment," Widget explained with a vindictive glint in

his eyes. "And I think we'll begin with the good old Bilateral Mamillary Compression and

Torsion, otherwise known as the tweak."

"Wait a minute," Peace said apprehensively. "Perhaps I was a little out of line just now.

Perhaps. ..."

"Grasp your nipples between forefingers and thumbs," Widget ordered.

"Look, can't we behave like sensible adults?"

As he spoke, Peace opened his jacket and gripped his nipples through the thin material of his

shirt.

"On the command of 'tweak' squeeze as hard as you can, at the same time contra-rotating

nipples through an angle of approximately two radians," Widget said, his face stern. "If you're

not familiar with circular measurement, ninety degrees will do."

"Captain, I'm sure you don't really want to degrade both of us in this. . . "

"Tweak!"

Peace gave a yowl of agony as his hands, obeying his electropsycho conditioning, carried out

the order with what seemed to him an unnecessary vigour. "You've done it," he reproached as

soon as he could trust his vocal chords. "You've degraded both of us."

"I can live with it," Widget said comfortably. "Now, I think we were discussing money—how

much have you got?"

Peace put his hand in his pocket and produced a slim wad of notes. "Looks like about two

hundred monits."

"Lend it to me, Warren." Widget held out his hand. "I'll pay you back next time I see you."

Unable to refuse, Peace surrendered the thin sheaf. "Please don't think I'm implying anything

Captain, but is there any chance of your ever seeing me again?"

"Very little, but you never know your luck. It's a small galaxy, after all."

Peace considered making a wry comment, but was dissuaded by the painful tingling he could

still feel on each side of his chest. He listened in silence to the rest of a brief induction lecture,

and then— shorn of cigarettes, money, dignity, and all knowledge of his previous life—he

obediently marched out of Captain Widget's office to begin his thirty, forty or fifty years as a

ranker in the Space Legion.

PEACE FOUND HIMSELF standing with six other youngish men in a corner of a large hall. All

were wearing plastic name badges, and they were gathered in a tight apprehensive group

within a small enclosure somebody had set up using portable stanchions linked by rope. Peace

examined his surroundings with some curiosity.

The hall was divided into two equal parts by a long counter surmounted by a mesh screen

reaching up to the bare, sloping rafters. Lighting strips near the apex glowed a dismal green

amidst the tendrils of November fog which had crept in from outside. The more distant tubes

were so dimmed by vapour that they resembled rods of luminous ice. Beyond the screen were

rows of storage shelves, and at intervals along the counter sat uniformed clerks. They were as

motionless as if they had been petrified by the currents of chill air which swirled on the

concrete floor.

"What the hell was the hold-up in there?" The speaker was one of the men closest to Peace, a

moody-looking individual whose face would have been blue with beard shadow had it not

been for the putty-coloured mottling induced in it by the intense cold. His name badge

identified him as Pvt.

Copgrove Fair.

"Sergeant Cleet told us you'd only be a couple of minutes in there, but you've kept us waiting

half an hour," Fair continued. "What was going on?"

Peace blinked at him. "They took away my memory."

"We all had things to forget. That's no reason

to____"

"But you don't understand. I've no memory

left—it's all gone."

"All of it?" Fair took a step back and a look of wary respect came into his brown eyes. "You

must have been a real monster.''

"Might have been," Peace said gloomily. "The trouble is I'll never be able to know."

"You should have done what I did." A plump, round-shouldered youth—labelled Pvt. Vernon

A. Ryan—in a green twinkle-suit nudged Peace in the ribs. "I wrote my problem down, and

I've got it hidden away."

"What's the point of that?"

"Covers me each way," Ryan gloated. "I can't be hauled up for whatever it was I did, and

while the heat's dying down I get a lot of free travel, and. ..."

"Wait a minute," Peace said. "Is that right? I didn't know you can't be tried for something if

your memory of it has been erased."

"Where've you been all your life? Oh, I forgot . . . .you don't know."

"Do you mean . . . you weren't being tortured by your conscience?"

"I doubt it, but then I'm not like you—there seems to be only one strike against me." Ryan's

button-nosed face radiated a smug happiness. "I'm only going to stay in this outfit for a month

or two—see how it goes—then, when I think the time is right, I'll just peep at my bit of paper

and I'll be out. Free and clear. Laughing."

Ryan's ebullience began to irritate Peace. "Have you looked at your contract?"

"Of course I've looked at it! That's the whole point, my friend. It binds me to serve the Legion

in exchange for memory erasure, but if my memory happens to come back the deal's off."

Ryan elbowed the swarthy man who had first spoken to Peace. "Just ask old Coppy, here—

he's the one who thought the idea up."

"Keep your voice down," Farr said, scowling. "You want the whole world to know?"

"It doesn't matter if you have to give your memory a quiet boost," Ryan whispered, winking

with one eye and then the other, "the contract will still be nullified. I tell you, this is going to

be more like a paid holiday for me." He gazed all about him with evident satisfaction, further

increasing Peace's annoyance. Several of the men near him nodded in furtive agreement.

"Why are we penned up like sheep?" Peace demanded. He moved one of the lightweight

stanchions aside and walked out of the enclosure.

"You shouldn't have done that, soldier," another man said. "Sergeant Cleet told us to stay

put."

Peace stamped his feet to ward off the encroaching numbness. "I'm not worried about any

sergeant."

"You would be if you'd seen him," Ryan put in. "He's just about the biggest, ugliest, scariest

brute I've ever seen. He's got arms like my legs, his mouth's so big that even when it's shut it's

half open, and when he. ... " Ryan's voice died away and some of the colour fled from his

cheeks as his eyes focused on a point above Peace's head.

Peace turned and found himself confronted by a vision of dread which, despite the

incompleteness of Ryan's description, he immediately identified as Sergeant Cleet. The

sergeant was a good two metres tall. He was a pyramid of muscle and bone which began with

a skull pointed like a howitzer shell and steadily widened downwards through massive,

sloping shoulders, a barrellike torso and legs which were easily as thick as Peace's waist. The

power of these limbs was so great that, regardless of the enormous weight they supported, the

whole assemblage moved with a silent, springy gait, appearing to bounce a short distance

clear of the floor with every step.

"Wadja say, Peace?" Cleet's voice was a subterranean rumble emerging from the cavern of his

mouth, which was every bit as large as Ryan had indicated. It appeared to stretch from ear to

ear, and for one horrified moment Peace got the impression that it extended around the back

of the sergeant's head, a circular band of lips and teeth on the artillery shell of his cranium.

"I ... I didn't say anything, Sergeant," Peace mumbled.

"I'm real glad about that." Cleet came closer, darkening Peace's field of view with his blue

uniform. "And whyja move my stanchion?"

The fear which arose within Peace joined forces with the shock and despair he was already

feeling to produce the sudden realization that he could not go on like this for thirty, forty or

fifty years, that he would prefer to die at once and get it over with. And, mercifully, the means

for a swift and spectacular suicide had placed themselves before him.

"I didn't move it," he said. "I kicked it, because it was in my way. Anything gets in my way, I

kick it." He demonstrated his brand-new approach to life's problems by lashing out at the

stanchion with his foot and toppling it over. His shoes were thinner than he had realised and

the contact with the corner of the square post sent waves of pain racing up his leg, but he

stood his ground without flinching and waited for annihilation. Cleet's mouth sagged open

with amazement, a process which occurred in stages, like the gradual collapse of a suspension

bridge. He took a deep breath, a huge machine fuelling up for some monstrous feat of

destruction, then sank to his knees and cradled the fallen stanchion in his arms.

"Wadja do that for?" he whimpered. "You've scuffed the paint. What's Lieutenant Toogood

gonna say?"

"I don't care," Peace said, taken aback.

"It's all right for you—but I'm responsible for these stanchions." Cleet raised his eyes in re-

proach. "I know your type, Peace. You're nothin' but a bully."

"Listen. ..." Peace shuffled his feet, partly in embarrassment, partly to ease the throbbing in

his injured toe.

"Don't kick me!" Cleet cringed back to what he considered a safe distance before speaking

again. "I'm gonna report you to Lieutenant Toogood, Peace. The Lieutenant will fix you, all

right. You'll see. You're gonna be tweakin' yourself from now till Christmas. You'll see. By

the time the Lieutenant's finished with you your tits are gonna be upside down. You'll see."

He spun around and hurried off down the hall. His conical form was trembling with agitation

and he was visibly springing clear of the floor with every step. The group of recruits watched

his departure in silence, then— as if responding to a signal—crowded around Peace,

overturning the rest of Cleet's stanchions as they did so.

"I never saw anything like that," one man said, grabbing Peace's hand and shaking it. "I

thought that big gorilla would eat you, but you had him sized up right from the start. How did

you do it?" "It's a knack," Peace said weakly. His self-destructive impulse had faded and he

was beginning to fear that the moment of recklessness had made the outlook for his future

even bleaker than before. "I wonder what this Lieutenant Toogood's like? If somebody like

Cleet is afraid of him. ..."

Ryan eyed the door through which Cleet had vanished. "I don't like the way things are going,

men. I think I'll only stay in the Legion long enough to do the basic training and get a free trip

to some other world." Those near him, still recovering from the mental stress of having

looked at Cleet, gave murmurs which indicated they had similar plans.

The realization that he was the only man present who had not had the foresight to prepare an

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摘要：

WHOGOESHERE?Copyright©1977byBobShawAllrightsreserved.Nopartofthisbookmaybereproducedinanyformorbyanymeans,exceptfortheinclusionofbriefquotationsinareview,withoutpermissioninwritingfromthepublisher.Allcharactersinthisbookarefictitious.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,ispurelycoincidental.An...

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Bob Shaw - Who Goes Here

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