I felt no apprehension although I did not understand what it was he had asked for. I was still busy checking my bonds. If I could tempt him into placing his gun within my reach—assuming that I could get one arm free—then I might be able to—
He reached past my shoulders with a rod. I felt a shocking, unbearable pain. The room blacked out as if a switch had been thrown and for an undying instant I was jolted and twisted by hurt. I was split apart by it; for the moment I was masterless.
The pain left, leaving only its searing memory behind. Before I could speak, or even think coherently for myself, the splitting away had ended and I was again safe in the arms of my master. But for the first and only time in my service to him I was not myself free of worry; some of his own wild fear and pain was passed on to me, the servant.
I looked down and saw a line of red welling out of my left wrist; in my struggles I had cut myself on the clamp. It did not matter; I would tear off hands and feet and escape from there on bloody stumps, if escape for my master were possible that way.
“Well,” asked the Old Man, “how did you like the taste of that?”
The panic that possessed me washed away; I was again filled with an unworried sense of well being, albeit wary and watchful. My wrists and ankles, which had begun to pain me, stopped hurting. “Why did you do that?” I asked. “Certainly, you can hurt me—but why?”
“Answer my questions.”
“Ask them.”
“What are you?”
The answer did not come at once. The Old Man reached for the rod; I heard myself saying, “We are the people.”
“The people? What people?”
“The only people. We have studied you and we know your ways. We—” I stopped suddenly.
“Keep talking,” the Old Man said grimly, and gestured with the rod.
“We come,” I went on, “to bring you—”
“To bring us what?”
I wanted to talk; the rod was terrifyingly close. But there was some difficulty with words. “To bring you peace,” I blurted out.
The Old Man snorted.
” ‘Peace’,” I went on, “and contentment—and the joy of—of surrender.” I hesitated again; “surrender” was not the right word. I struggled with it the way one struggles with a poorly grasped foreign language. “The joy,” I repeated, “—the joy of . . . nirvana.” That was it; the word fitted. I felt like a dog being patted for fetching a stick; I wriggled with pleasure.
“Let me get this,” the Old Man said thoughtfully. “You are promising the human race that, if we will just surrender to your kind, you will take care of us and make us happy. Right?”
“Exactly!”
The Old Man studied me for a long moment, looking, not at my face, but past my shoulders. He spat upon the floor. “You know,” he said slowly, “me and my kind, we have often been offered that bargain, though maybe not on such a grand scale. It never worked out worth a damn.”
I leaned forward as much as the rig would allow. “Try it yourself,” I suggested. “It can be done quickly—and then you will know.”
He stared at me, this time in my face. “Maybe I should,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe I owe it to—somebody, to try it. And maybe I will, someday. But right now,” he went on briskly, “you have more questions to answer. Answer them quick and proper and stay healthy. Be slow about it and I’ll step up the current.” He brandished the rod.
I shrank back, feeling dismay and defeat. For a moment I had thought he was going to accept the offer and I had been planning the possibilities of escape that could develop. “Now,” he went on, “where do you come from?”
No answer . . . I felt no urge to answer.
The rod came closer. “Far away!” I burst out.
“That’s not news. Tell me where? Where’s your home base, your own planet?”
I had no answer. The Old Man waited a moment, then said, “I see I’ll have to touch up your memory.” I watched dully, thinking nothing at all. He was interrupted by one of the bystanders. “Eh?” said the Old Man.