they know, he thought. But he kept on walking. In him there was no desire either to comply or to resist; he simply walked from the interrogation room, down a well-lit hall, to Room 34.
The door opened as he approached. Now he found himself standing in what appeared to be a personal apartment. He saw, with amazement, a harpsichord. Cushions upon a window seat, a window that overlooked the city. Midday, by the looks of the sun. Books here and there, and, on the wall, a reproduction of a Picasso.
While he stood there, Stenog appeared, leafing through a clipboard of papers. Glancing at Parsons he said, "Even the deformed? The congenitally deformed? You healed them too?"
"Sure," Parsons said. Now, some sense of control had begun to filter back into him. "I--" he began haltingly, but Stenog broke in.
"I have read about your period on the history tapes," Stenog said. "You're a doctor. Well, that term is clear. I understand the function you performed. But I can't grasp the ideology behind it. Why? " His face became animated with emotion. "That girl, Icara. She was dying, and yet you deliberately made skillful alterations to her system for the purpose of keeping her alive."
Parsons answered with an effort. "That's right."
Now he saw that several other persons had accompanied Stenog into the room. They hung back, out of the way, letting Stenog do the talking.
"In your culture this had a positive value?" Stenog said. "Such an act was officially sanctioned?"
A person in the background said, "Your profession was honored? A valued social role, with plaudits?"
Stenog said, "I find it impossible to believe a whole society could have been oriented around such behavior. Surely it was a splinter group that sanctioned you."
Parsons heard them, but their words made no sense. Everything was out of focus. Distorted. As if turned out by some warped mirror. "Healing was respected," he managed to say, "But you people seem to think it's somehow wrong."
A furious rustle leaped through the circle of listeners. "Wrong!" Stenog snapped. "It's madness! Don't you see what would happen if everybody were healed? All the sick and injured? The old?"
"No wonder his society collapsed," a harsh-eyed girl said. "It's amazing it stood so long. Based on such a perverted system of values."
"It demonstrates," Stenog said thoughtfully, "the almost infinite variety of cultural formations. That a whole society could exist oriented around such drives seems to us beyond belief. But from our historical reconstruction we know such a thing actually went on. This man here is not an escaped lunatic. In his own time he was a valued person. His profession had not only sanction--it gave him prestige."
The girl said, "Intellectually, I can accept it. But not emotionally."
A cunning expression appeared on Stenog's face. "Parsons, let me ask you this. I recall a pertinent fact. Your science was also devoted to keeping new life from appearing. You had contraceptives. Chemical and mechanical agents preventing zygote formation within the oviduct."
Parsons started to answer. "We--"
"Rassmort!" the girl snarled, pale with fury.
Parsons blinked. What did that mean? He couldn't convert it into his own semantic system.
"Do you remember the average age of your population?" Stenog asked.
"No," Parsons muttered. "About forty, I believe."
At that, the roomful of persons broke into jeers. "Forty!" Stenog said, with disgust. " Our average age is fifteen."
It meant nothing to Parsons. Except that, as he had already seen, there were few old people. "You consider that something to be proud of?" he said wonderingly.
A roar of indignation burst from the circle around him. "All right," Stenog said, gesturing. "I want you all to leave; you're making it impossible for me to perform my job."
They left reluctantly.
When the last had gone, Stenog walked to the window and stood for a moment.
"We had no idea," he said at last to Parsons, over his shoulder. "When I brought you in here, it
The door opened as he approached. Now he found himself standing in what appeared to be a personal apartment. He saw, with amazement, a harpsichord. Cushions upon a window seat, a window that overlooked the city. Midday, by the looks of the sun. Books here and there, and, on the wall, a reproduction of a Picasso.
While he stood there, Stenog appeared, leafing through a clipboard of papers. Glancing at Parsons he said, "Even the deformed? The congenitally deformed? You healed them too?"
"Sure," Parsons said. Now, some sense of control had begun to filter back into him. "I--" he began haltingly, but Stenog broke in.
"I have read about your period on the history tapes," Stenog said. "You're a doctor. Well, that term is clear. I understand the function you performed. But I can't grasp the ideology behind it. Why? " His face became animated with emotion. "That girl, Icara. She was dying, and yet you deliberately made skillful alterations to her system for the purpose of keeping her alive."
Parsons answered with an effort. "That's right."
Now he saw that several other persons had accompanied Stenog into the room. They hung back, out of the way, letting Stenog do the talking.
"In your culture this had a positive value?" Stenog said. "Such an act was officially sanctioned?"
A person in the background said, "Your profession was honored? A valued social role, with plaudits?"
Stenog said, "I find it impossible to believe a whole society could have been oriented around such behavior. Surely it was a splinter group that sanctioned you."
Parsons heard them, but their words made no sense. Everything was out of focus. Distorted. As if turned out by some warped mirror. "Healing was respected," he managed to say, "But you people seem to think it's somehow wrong."
A furious rustle leaped through the circle of listeners. "Wrong!" Stenog snapped. "It's madness! Don't you see what would happen if everybody were healed? All the sick and injured? The old?"
"No wonder his society collapsed," a harsh-eyed girl said. "It's amazing it stood so long. Based on such a perverted system of values."
"It demonstrates," Stenog said thoughtfully, "the almost infinite variety of cultural formations. That a whole society could exist oriented around such drives seems to us beyond belief. But from our historical reconstruction we know such a thing actually went on. This man here is not an escaped lunatic. In his own time he was a valued person. His profession had not only sanction--it gave him prestige."
The girl said, "Intellectually, I can accept it. But not emotionally."
A cunning expression appeared on Stenog's face. "Parsons, let me ask you this. I recall a pertinent fact. Your science was also devoted to keeping new life from appearing. You had contraceptives. Chemical and mechanical agents preventing zygote formation within the oviduct."
Parsons started to answer. "We--"
"Rassmort!" the girl snarled, pale with fury.
Parsons blinked. What did that mean? He couldn't convert it into his own semantic system.
"Do you remember the average age of your population?" Stenog asked.
"No," Parsons muttered. "About forty, I believe."
At that, the roomful of persons broke into jeers. "Forty!" Stenog said, with disgust. " Our average age is fifteen."
It meant nothing to Parsons. Except that, as he had already seen, there were few old people. "You consider that something to be proud of?" he said wonderingly.
A roar of indignation burst from the circle around him. "All right," Stenog said, gesturing. "I want you all to leave; you're making it impossible for me to perform my job."
They left reluctantly.
When the last had gone, Stenog walked to the window and stood for a moment.
"We had no idea," he said at last to Parsons, over his shoulder. "When I brought you in here, it
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