Pitts flicked a switch and the machine went silent. Judith stood frozen, trying to comprehend what she had just seen and heard.

"FitzRoy's not here," said Pitts. "They must be working on him now. Come on -- this way."

Judith followed him into a larger room opposite the way they had entered the room of shelves and canisters. Her skin prickled with goose-bumps as she saw that two lobster-fungus creatures and a Zarrian were already there, grouped about a strange, fantastically intricate device of tubes and wires. The air throbbed to a soft but rapid mechanical pulsing while a slow, rhythmic wheezing echoed whisperingly about the chamber.

As the two humans entered the Zarrian turned to face them -- and, as it did so, Judith saw a metal tripod about four feet high that had been hidden from view by the creature's bulk. Between the legs of this tripod hung a rubbery bag that expanded and contracted with rhythmic sighings, while at its apex --

Suddenly Judith cried out in horror. For the object at the apex of the tripod was the face of FitzRoy.

It seemed to hang there, balanced on its three metal legs like some bloated puffball, somehow dimensionless because one could see through the space its body should have occupied. The air from the rubbery bag wheezed through the gaping mouth and flaring, distended nostrils. The formerly strong, aquiline features drooped down, concealing the supporting base where coiling tubes led from the throbbing machine into the vessels of the severed neck. Most horrible of all, the top of the skull above the level of the heavy eyebrows had been cut smoothly away and the brain lay visible beneath a transparent plastic membrane, gray-white, convoluted, and laced with a network of visibly pulsing blue fibers. Finally, as if in a ghastly jest, the heavy, dark-rimmed spectacles still rested on the thing's nose and hooked behind its fleshy ears.

The Zarrian regarded Pitts with round, emotionless eyes.

"I want to talk to that man," said Pitts, pointing to the head on the tripod.

You must wait until we finish our present experiment. We shall then transfer the brain to a canister and you may speak with it in the usual manner.

"There are many more where he came from," Pitts said. "The Galactics have just given all of us permission to do with the entire Earth as we wish. You now have specimens unlimited for your experiments. All I ask is that you let me have this one -- he has information as to the whereabouts of Taggart."

For a moment the Zarrian faced the two lobster-like creatures in silence while their worm-like cilia writhed strangely and their spindle-shaped heads shimmered with color-changes ranging from pink to orange. Presently it turned and confronted Pitts once more, the blue disc on its brow glowing strongly, and said:

Do with this creature as you wish.

Pitts drew closer to the head on the tripod, and it rolled up its eyes at him. Judith's skin crawled.

"FitzRoy, I want to ask you a question," said Pitts. The head's features contorted and trembled; the cheeks shook like flaccid bags of gelatin.

"Help me!" it croaked in a hideous, rasping voice.

Judith grew sick. Her skin grew cold and damp and, had there been any food in her stomach, she would have vomited. All her hate was gone -- nothing but a deep pity and a horrible revulsion remained in her for the thing on the tripod.

"Listen carefully, FitzRoy," said Pitts. "All your power is gone now, and when the Yuggoth-spawn are done with you there will be only your brain left, sealed alive in a metal canister. They have millions of such brains in their libraries on Yuggoth, just as we used to have books on earth; that is how they accumulate and store the knowledge of all the countless worlds they rule. They will carry your living mind out to Yuggoth, on the rim of the solar system, and put you on a shelf in their archives where you will sit and think and dream for a thousand years. Yes, a thousand years—for the human brain can live a long, long time when it is not confined in an aging body. Do you want this to happen, FitzRoy?"

"No!" gasped the head frantically. "No! . . ."

"Very well," said Pitts, adjusting his spectacles. "I give you the choice between life or death. I want you to answer one question. If you refuse to answer, you will live and go to the archives of Yuggoth -- but if you answer me truthfully, I promise I will kill you."

"I'll tell you anything!" croaked FitzRoy. "Anything!"

"Good. Where is John Taggart?"

The answer came in strained gasps timed to the filling and collapsing of the rubbery bag: "He was sent to . . . the headquarters of . . . the Department of Persuasion . . . in Omaha . . . the capital of North America."

Pitts turned to the Zarrian. "Is he telling the truth?"

Yes, said the Zarrian. He is telling the truth.

Pitts faced the tripod again and said, grimly: "I keep my word, FitzRoy."

He reached out and flicked a switch on the throbbing machine. The rapid pumping sound ceased. The head on the tripod writhed its features and its eyes bulged in pain and horror. The gas bag puffed one last time and collapsed in feeble, spasmodic jerks. Then the formerly handsome lips gaped in frantic gulps like the gills of a stranded fish; the skin of the face and the surface of the brain darkened slowly to a ghastly gray-blue; and finally, with a horrible throaty rattle of escaping air, the head expired and its bulging, bloodshot eyes rolled up and stared at the ceiling in death.

Pitts turned away and strode over to a machine near the far wall. Judith, near to fainting with a sick horror, saw a huge television screen blink into being as the man manipulated dials and levers. Within the vast rectangle, against the starry, sable backdrop of space, hung a blue-green disc marled with swirls of white cloud -- the Earth. Then Pitts spoke, his voice no longer strained with suppressed tension but vibrant with the power of triumph.

"Now," he said, "this planet shall feel the weight of my hand!"

For a long time there was only the blackness. The blackness was good because in it there was silence and the peace of nonentity. But then, the blackness began to turn red and that was disturbing. The red brought with it sights and sounds and a vague fear, but it was hard to tell if these were direct experiences or merely stirred memories. . . .

At first he was looking out the round window of an airplane. The window-glass was red and made the cloud banks far below seem red, too. Then there was a brief descent into grayness. . . .

The scene shifted. He was standing in a small, bare room with white walls and bright fluorescent lights, facing a black-uniformed man who sat behind a desk. The man's face had no expression and, when his mouth opened, words came out -- loud, harsh, belligerent words.

"What is your name?"

"John Taggart."

"How long have you been a member of the Elect?"

"I'm not one of the Elect."

"That's a lie! Why did you destroy your identification card? Where is it?"

"I don't have it. I mean --"

"So -- your own words betray your lies. How did you steal your records from State files? You must have had help. The girl? Were you both working for the Kittim Resistance? Who are your accomplices?"

"I never heard of the Kit --"

"That's a lie! Where did you get the gun? You're a Pan-Islamican spy, aren't you? Answer me!"

"For God's sake, just let me --"

"Blasphemer! You're a Pan-Islamican spy. Admit it. Admit it!"

"No, no, no! I'm not! Just let me talk for a --"

"Silence! What is your real name?"

"John Taggart."

"What was your name when you were one of the Elect?"

"I told you --"

"Who helped you break into State files?"

"I didn't --"

"Who gave you that gun? Answer quickly!"

"Just shut up a minute, and --"

"Answer me!"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

A man in a black uniform moved out of a corner; he held a short, black club in his hand. . . .

The scene shifted again but was somehow the same: the white walls, the bright lights, the man behind the desk. Taggart was not sure it was the same man -- they all looked so much alike.

"You were a Pan-Islamican spy, weren't you?"

"No. No, I tell you --"

"Tell the truth. And keep your right leg off the floor -- your hands behind your head -- that's right. Now, tell us how you sabotaged London's Persuasion ziggurat. Don't think to fool us -- we know commandos invaded it after you were sent to us from there. How did you signal them to attack? Why did you join the Kittim?"

"I didn't -- I didn't!"

The questions were noise. Most of them were senseless but he knew he had to answer them in some fashion or something painful would happen. Always there was a guard with a club.

For what seemed like hours he stood with his hands clasped behind his head, his right leg off the floor; his arms were numb and his left leg ached dreadfully.

"Why did you join the Kittim underground? Who were your contacts? What did they offer you?"

"I don't know, I don't know!"

His arms had no feeling save a dull ache; his hands had none at all. The pain in his leg was unbearable, but he dared not collapse because the guard with the club was watching, waiting. There was no clock in the room but he felt he had been there for hours and hours, perhaps days. He couldn't take it much longer. . . .

"You were a Pan-Islamican spy. Admit it!"

"Yes -- I was. Yes!"

"You worked for the traitorous Kittim, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"You planted a bomb in the Department of Persuasion in London."

"Yes."

"And you also blew up a building in the masser section."

"Yes, yes! That's what you want, isn't it? Yes!"

There were numerous confessions to be made before tape recorders, but they let him rest his arms and ease his aching leg. Then there was a long, standing wait. Finally he was presented with a long, typewritten list of his crimes and, after he signed the paper, the guards took him off and left him alone in a white-walled cell. It was so easy and he wondered why he hadn't confessed earlier. What had been the use of holding out for so long? Confession, not truth, was what they were after.

The redness grew more intense and there was a brightness in the midst of it. Taggart could see an intricate network of blood vessels and realized that the redness was light coming through his closed eyelids. He was lying on his back and there were voices droning near him -- not harsh and grating like the voices of the black-uniformed men, but level and dispassionate.

With an effort he opened his eyes. Above him was the familiar white ceiling with the fluorescent tubes -- but between him and the ceiling hovered the face of a man.

It was an expressionless face, and somehow frightening, although at first Taggart could not tell why. It was the face of a man perhaps forty-five years old with narrow, tight lips and heavy eyebrows streaked with gray; the hairline receded so that the forehead seemed nearly as large as the rest of the face. It might have been the face of a rather old-fashioned college professor except for those frightening eyes -- dark, slit-like eyes, shadowed by the heavy brows, with fine lines radiating from their outer corners. Behind those eyes Taggart sensed a cold, emotionless intelligence.

The lips moved without changing expression and a voice said:

"He is awake now."

A second figure moved in close behind the first -- a man in a white laboratory smock, lean almost to cadaverousness and completely bald. His face was deeply lined, not with age but with something that suggested extreme physical and moral corruption, Taggart stirred and tried to rise -- but found he was strapped down. He felt sluggish and realized that he had been given drugs.

"Do not struggle," said the man with the narrow eyes. His slight accent suggested the northeastern United States. Taggart stared up at him and asked:

>........"Who are you?"

The man drew back and stood at his full height; he was tall and his frame looked powerful. "Does it matter what I am called? Names are leftovers from the old social orders. Eventually they will be done away with and replaced by numbers -- but, for the present, you may think of me as Your Father."

Taggart eyed the man closely. He wore no insignia of authority whatsoever, simply black Nazirite coveralls similar to FitzRoy's. The caption OUR FATHER KNOWS WHAT IS BEST FOR YOU flashed into Taggart's mind, but the man's face did not seem to go along with it.

"I know what you are thinking," continued the man who called himself Father, "but faces do not matter, either. The face you saw on the holograph plates is only meant to be a representation of God. It is based on Brother Falwehl, a mid-twentieth century evangelist whose revival before the nuclear war laid the foundations for the Nationalist Evangelical Party that arose after the war."

At that moment it all fell into place. Taggart now remembered Jackson Falwehl, a self-proclaimed divinely-inspired preacher who had a television broadcast beginning in the mid-sixties. It was an immensely popular show that seemed to be single-handedly producing a wave of religious fervor that only ended when the war began. As a psychologist, Taggart had been fascinated by the whole phenomenon, though as a rationalist he had never given it much credence. Now, however, Taggart realized that Falwehl must have survived the war and used it as a basis for whipping other survivors into a religious frenzy, one that he then used to create a new political party to take over the US government.

The man continued: "His face is merely a symbol of the Great Father for the Sinful Masses and the Elect -- a powerful symbol, I'm sure you'll agree."

Taggart could at that. He vividly remembered seeing Falwehl on television. His glowering, slightly pudgy face, with its maniacal eyes and intense frown, was just as effective a tool as his mesmerizing voice and frenetic mannerisms.

"But, then . . . the Great Father doesn't really exist!"

"Of course he exists. He exists in me. More importantly, he exists in the State. If I should die, the Great Father would continue to exist nevertheless."

"And what do you plan to do with me?"

Father stroked his chin while eyeing Taggart coldly. "That depends on you. You were sent to me because you are a direct threat to the State." He motioned slightly with his right hand and the lean, white-robed man with the lined face moved away to a machine that stood against the nearest wall.

"Who is he?" Taggart asked uneasily.

"A medical psychologist. Never mind him. I want you to answer my questions directly. First: why do you want to destroy the Righteous Government?"

"I don't. On the contrary, you might say I came here to save it."

"Oh? Then you think the State must be destroyed in order to do so?"

"I didn't say that, damn it -- !"

A brief current of pain jolted Taggart's entire being; though it was over in a second he was barely able to keep from screaming out in agony.

"Refrain from superfluous expletives," said Father, "and answer directly."

"It's not a question of governments or states," gasped Taggart. "The survival of the entire human race is at stake."

"Ah! Then you think the State is against humanity."

"No! Can't you think outside the State for one minute? The State is in just as much danger as the rest of humanity. If I don't get back to the Galactics with a favorable report the human race may be destroyed, and the State along with it --"

The pain burned like a white flame along every nerve-fiber in his body. He could not keep from shrieking out.

"The State can never be destroyed," said Father.

"Stop!" cried Taggart. "Turn it off!"

"Can the State be destroyed?"

"No! No! Turn it off!"

The pain vanished abruptly. Taggart lay breathing heavily. The faces of Father and the psychologist remained hard and expressionless.

"Can the State be destroyed?" Father asked again.

Taggart hesitated. "No," he said.

Father shook his head. "You don't believe it."

"How can I?" cried Taggart. "And what difference would it make if I did?"

"It makes all the difference in the world. It is the first thing you must learn. And you will learn it. We shall teach you well, John Taggart."

Taggart scowled, trying to focus his thoughts. He could not understand the man's arguments. Father's psychology seemed more alien than that of the Zarr.

"But the aircraft I came in -- examine it. You'll find it's construction beyond any technology on earth --"

"It has been examined. We know it is a new and ingenious Pan-Islamican fighter-bomber."

"But what about my weapons -- ray blaster and force-belt?"

"You mean these?" Father stepped back and Taggart saw the broad, metallic belt strapped round the man's waist and the heavy gun hanging in its black holster at his hip.

"These, also, are new Pan-Islamican weapons," continued Father, "and they are mainly what we want to learn about from you. We know the Pan-Islamicans sent you here in their new aircraft with their new weapons in an attempt to terrorize the Righteous Government -- but their plot has failed."

Taggart looked the man squarely in the eyes. "Do you really believe what you're saying?"

"Yes," said Father. "I know the truth of what I say -- and so shall you."

Taggart could read no hypocrisy in the man's narrow eyes. Somehow he found that more disturbing than the ever-present threat of pain.

"But how can you believe it?" he cried. "You know it's impossible --"

He stopped as he saw the psychologist's hand begin to move. The pain did not come.

"Because we know it is true," said Father. "We even have your confession." He briefly held up a typewritten paper with Taggart's signature at the bottom. "Do you still deny it?"

Taggart clenched his teeth in frustrated anger. He knew the man must be insane.

"I know what you are thinking," said Father. "You think this confession was forced out of you and that, actually, you are innocent. But you are wrong. When we are finished with you, you will know you are guilty of everything you confessed to. For, confession alone is not enough; you must believe -- even if it takes years to make you believe the truth."

"I don't understand. The way you talk, you must know I'm not guilty. . . ."

Father's face hardened sternly, as if he were dealing with a very perverse and recalcitrant child. "Of course you are guilty. You are whatever the State says you are. That is why you must learn that the State is invincible. You must learn to think like the State -- because whatever the State decides is true, is true. If the State says that civilization did not exist before the Tribulation, you must believe it, for the State is the sole maker of truth and what it says is true. If the State says that two plus two equals five, you must believe it. And if the State says that you are guilty of sabotage, you are guilty. Do you understand?"

"No," said Taggart. He tensed for the pain, but it did not come.

"Good -- you are truthful. You will not be punished as long as you tell the truth as you see it. But we will change your distorted truth. You are a strange case, John -- perhaps the strangest I have ever had to deal with. It may take a long time to make you believe the truth -- perhaps years -- but in the end you will accept it. In the end I will make you perfect."

Taggart felt stifled; involuntarily he strained at the canvas straps that held him down. "But, why?" he demanded. "Just because I believe something doesn't make it true."

"Even if the State says it's true?"

"What difference does that make? Why are my beliefs so important to the State -- ?"

The pain was back, briefly and intensely, but Taggart clenched his teeth and managed to keep from crying out until it subsided.

"Your beliefs make every bit of difference," said Father as if nothing had happened. "If I believe the State is invincible, and you believe it, and everyone else believes it, then it is invincible. Don't you see that?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because the Zarr won't believe it."

The pain clutched him with giant fingers spiked with a million red-hot needles, wrenching him till he felt his spine was about to snap. He screamed uncontrollably -- this was the worst it had ever been. Then it subsided and vanished and he lay gasping, bathed with sweat, scarcely able to believe that he had sustained no physical damage. Through a mist of tears he saw Father's face, hard and calm, looking down at him as if from a great height. An aura of grim power seemed to radiate from the man as from an iron god of judgement.

"You will be very difficult to change, John," said Father. "We have a great deal to learn about you. But first we must purge away your delusions. There is no such thing as the Zarr. It does not exist."

Suddenly Taggart glimpsed the pattern of Father's thought and realized what the "infallibility" of the State really meant. It was an unconscious defense-reaction against fear. As the tears cleared from his eyes he saw a strange tension behind the godlike sternness of Father's face, and knew that his surmise was correct. With some part of his mind, Father must know the Zarr did exist; there was no other explanation for Taggart's superweapons and the aircraft he had crashed in. Yet, because whatever civilization had produced these things had to be powerful beyond the State's ability to combat or withstand, Father was unable to believe in such a civilization. He was actively incapable of believing in anything stronger than the State -- he would not allow himself to.

Now Taggart knew what he must do. He must go along with his tormentors, admit to anything they accused him of and pretend to his utmost ability to believe whatever they tried to force upon his mind. He must do this to stall for time until help arrived -- if it arrived. . . .

He wondered if the State would even take defense measures -- for such measures might be an admission of weakness that the State could not tolerate. Perhaps they would be rationalized as preparations for a massive Pan-Islamican attack. Surely the State, though perhaps the most powerful political organization that had ever existed on earth, was too rigidly unadaptable to act effectively to powerful outside threats. . . .

"Tell me, John, how does one wield power over the masses?"

Caught off guard by the unexpected question, Taggart had difficulty focusing on it. Before he could stop himself, he blurted out, "I don't know."

Yet Father was not perturbed. "By creating suffering," he replied, as if giving a lecture. "Mere obedience is insufficient. Without suffering, how can the State be certain that the Sinful Masses are obeying Its will and not their own? You do not believe yet that the State is invincible. That is because you do not understand that the source of that invincibility is Power, and Power is the ability to inflict misery and shame. Power is the ability to break human egos into pieces and reassemble them into whatever new configurations the State deems appropriate."

Father unexpectedly leaned over the bed, his eyes glittering with fervor though the rest of his face was as expressionless as ever. "Do you comprehend the kind of a world the State is creating? It is a world of dread, betrayal, and tribulation, a world in which the Sinful Masses are trampled to keep them in line with the Will of God, a world that will become more inhumane as it is perfected by the State, rather than less. The State will define advancement in this new world as the evolution towards even greater pain. In the world the State will create, the only emotions will be terror, fury, exultation, and self-degradation; these will be the True Virtues, while all that remains -- everything else -- will be Sin and thus targeted for destruction."

He straightened up, a look of exultation in his eyes. "But above all else, and never forget this, John, will be the ecstasy of power, always growing and always developing more shrewdly. Eternally, at each instant in time, there will be the rush of triumph, the spectacle of crushing a helpless enemy. If you wanted a vision of the future, John, it would be of a human face being endlessly stomped by a heavy boot."

"Why?!" The enormity of his defiance then hit Taggart and he shrank, expecting at any moment to feel the pain coursing through his body.

But Father merely eyed him indulgently. "Because people are inherently evil and corrupt, and need to be controlled. The political and theological philosophers of old asserted that governments were founded on love and justice; more fools them. Even the governments that spewed that fiction knew it to be false. Governments are founded on fear and coercion, force and retribution; their duty is to create injustice and suppress liberty, for only in that way can the massers be controlled."

"But you oppress the Elect as well!"

"Of course. They are ruled by their passions, their lusts, just as the massers are; neither group can help it. The difference is the Elect know the source for their lack of self-control. Thus they understand the need for a strong, ruthless government to rule over the Sinful Massers. This is why the Elect are chosen to rule over the massers. However, this understanding is also why the Elect are oppressed even more so than the massers are; they know better, so those who give into Sin are more reprehensible than any masser can be, even though they cannot help themselves. Only the Nazirites have the strength of will through the Holy Spirit to exercise the self-discipline needed to be autonomous; this is why they are chosen to govern the State and rule over the Elect."

He stopped suddenly, and Taggart realized that he expected him to respond. Taggart, however, was completely unable to speak; it was as if his soul was made of ice.

Eventually, Father continued. "Never forget that this will be true forever. There will always be massers that need to be trampled; there will always be Elect who need to be controlled. Hence, the surveillance, the treachery, the persecution, the detentions, the tortures, the executions, the disappearances -- the tribulations and retributions -- will never stop. The world the State will create will be as horrifying as it will be exhilarating. The stronger the State becomes, the less inclined it will be to show leniency; the more resistance fades, the more tyranny will wax. That is the kind of world the State is designing, John -- one of terrible feats and heroic conquests, of elation built upon horror built upon mastery. An everlasting elaboration on the edifice of power."

He paused for a long moment, observing Taggart's contorting facial expressions, evaluating them, deciphering them in an uncannily perceptive way. "Ah, I notice that you at last recognize the future that you face. I am proud of you, John; you have made a significant breakthrough. However, that is only the beginning. In time you will not just comprehend it, you will accept it; more than that, you will welcome it, even become a part of it."

"It won't work," Taggart declared, in a low, impotent voice.

Father frowned, and Taggart briefly rejoiced that he had caught him off his guard. "I beg your pardon? Just what are you trying to say, John?"

Emboldened, Taggart elaborated. "The kind of world you describe cannot work; it's a fantasy."

Father's frown disappeared and was replaced by his usual concrete mask. "What makes you think so?"

Though the man's reaction disturbed him, Taggart pressed on, before he lost his nerve. "A civilization founded on hatred, suffering, and cruelty is unworkable. It cannot last."

"And why is that?"

"It would lack vigor, spirit. It would rot from its own corruption. It's own sadism would destroy it."

"Ridiculous, John," Father declared quietly, which somehow carried more conviction and persuasive force than a shout. "You are laboring under the delusion that suffering is less constructive than liberty. There is no reason to make such an erroneous assumption. But for the moment let us assume that is true, for the sake of argument. Why should we also assume that would make any difference? You still fail to grasp what is perhaps the most important lesson we teach here: the death of any individual person is insignificant, compared to the State. The State, whose authority comes directly from God, is eternal."

"I don't know whether what you say is true, but I don't care either. In some way you will come to ruin. Something will beat you --"

Intense pain flooded Taggart's body and he screamed uncontrollably. This time, however, it did not cease immediately, but went on and on. Taggart begged for it to stop; he cried out his admission of guilt again, he shrieked that he believed the State was eternal and omnipotent, he pleaded for forgiveness, but the only response was still even greater pain. He imagined that it lasted for hours, for days, for years even, but thankfully just as his mind was about to snap, the pain vanished, and he collapsed into blissful oblivion.

As he slowly came around he heard Father saying, "Do we have enough information to take him to Reeducation?"

The psychologist shook his head. "He must rest and undergo more standard interrogation first."

Taggart felt the back of his scalp prickle. "What's in Reeducation?" he asked nervously.

"In your case, it's hard to say," said Father, "but we shall find out soon. Your future development depends on it."

"What do you mean? . . ."

"I mean that in some cases, such as yours, extreme measures are necessary. Reeducation is where we break down the most stubborn resistance in the human makeup. No one who visits Reeducation is ever the same again. After that, they are always easier to work with. All their defiance, their courage, their very personality, is broken."

"Why?" Taggart persisted, desperate to know yet fearful of knowing. "What is in Reeducation?"

"The most horrible thing in the world."

"And what's that?"

Father paced leisurely away, then back again, his hands clasped behind him. His face was thoughtful.

"That depends. It varies from person to person. Last month I worked on a young woman who was deathly afraid of leeches. Ridiculous, you will say, and I agree. Months of previous treatment had failed to perfect her. Yet, when we finally took her to Reeducation and applied leeches to her skin, she confessed everything. Everything, John -- and all because of an irrational horror of something that wasn't even painful. In Judy's case it was an irrational fear of razorblades. All we had to do was lightly cut her arms and wrists, not even enough to harm her, just so she could feel it, and she screamed louder than she did even under Pain.

"You see, everyone has some such horror, John -- something they can't stand even the thought of. Sometimes they, themselves, don't know what it is, but we find it out anyway. Always. Drugs, torture, hypnosis -- somehow we find out their inmost fear. And then there is Reeducation."

"But, why?" cried Taggart. "Why?"

"Why, John? It's very simple, really. It has to do with Virtue and Sin. Even the Pan-Islamicans understand this. They would say 'halal' -- permitted by God -- and 'haram' -- forbidden by God -- but whatever you call them, the concept is the same. We seek to impose Virtue upon the Sinful Massers and destroy their Sin."

Trying to suppress his mounting horror and revulsion, Taggart asked, "What kind of virtues can you impose with torture?"

"The ones I've already mentioned; the only kind that count: fear, hatred, triumph, and self-abasement."

"How can fear or hatred be virtues?"

Father's expression grew stern again. "Virtue is whatever brings a man closer to God; Sin drives him further away. This much should be obvious even to one such as you. The emotions of love, kindness, forgiveness, charity -- all these serve only to distract men from what is important, serving God. But fear and hatred -- now these focus men's minds on the need to obey the commands of God. These Virtues are embodied in two of our three greatest commandments, which are emblazoned above the doors to this very building: Thou Shalt Fear God with All Thy Heart, All Thy Mind, and All Thy Soul, and Thou Shalt Hate Thy Neighbor As God Hates Sin. The Fear of God is the beginning of Wisdom, because Fear of God instills in a man the knowledge that he is Sinful and thus worthy of only death. This in turn prompts a man to Hate Sin, both in himself and in others, and encourages him to root it out, to expose it so the State may destroy it in the Name of God. This in turn causes a man to fear the State, and to both fear and hate his neighbor, which in turn leads to Self-abasement and the desire to remove Sin from his own life. When that happens, the man and the State feel Triumph, and rightly so. And thus by this method men are brought closer to God."

Swallowing, Taggart asked, "But what do you gain by all this? What is its purpose? How does the State benefit?"

Father drew close and towered over him. For the first time Taggart saw an open expression on the man's face -- an expression of mad, gloating triumph.

"You are a fool," he said, "to imagine that the State does all this to serve an end. This is the end -- the supreme goal of the State. No, John, Reeducation does not exist to serve the State. The State exists for Reeducation!

"Why are you so surprised? You shouldn't be. Have you ever considered what a government really is? A government does not exist to serve the people, although it may voice such ideologies as a means of gaining power. No, John, a government's sole purpose is to make the people serve their rulers. That is all. And in all history, the State is the only government that has realized this purpose to the fullest. That is why we will never be destroyed, that is why the State is invincible. Do you understand?"

Taggart kept silent, fearful of answering and not knowing what to say. Father continued:

"The State is immortal. And do you know why, John? It is because we of the State are not hypocrites. Our purpose is not to serve the people but to trample on them, and to stay in power so that we can always trample on them! This is why we can never be overthrown. Many other governments have existed, but they all collapsed finally because they did not realize their true nature and so failed to remain true to themselves. The Pharaohs, the Caesars, the Popes, the Nazis, the Bolsheviks -- all of them held the reins of power once, but they all lost that power because of some ideal or another that stood in their way. To them, power was a means to an ideal, but to us, power is the ideal. The person who came the closest to understanding this truth was Nietzsche, with his morality of master and slave. Our sole purpose is to gain greater and greater power over men's actions, thoughts, and ideals so that they conform to our will -- and true power means forcing that conformity on another against his will! Power means crushing an enemy's resistance, and his thoughts of resistance -- even If we have to create the enemy ourselves."

A thought flashed into Taggart's mind. "Enemies like the Kittim underground and Pan-Islamica. . . ."

But Father shook his head slowly. "Not exactly, John. Both groups are real threats, though it is we Nazirites who call the resistance the Kittim; 'kittim' means 'the Sons of Darkness' and who else would oppose the Sons of the Light, who are executors of the will of the State and God? No, by the enemy we mean the Sinful Massers, and by creating the enemy we mean choosing to oppress them even if we do not need to. You see, John, this is where even Nietzsche had not gone far enough; he actually believed a master would help the downtrodden simply because he had the power to do so. No, neither he nor you truly understand: power means the Sons of Light and the Department of Persuasion, the surveillance and the SCRAM missiles and the hungry, ill-clothed Sinful Masses. It means inflicting Pain for Pain's own sake, and death when the limit of Pain has been reached. And it means an endless procession of victims filing into Reeducation -- forever!"

Taggart shrank back against the hard bed, appalled by the tense madness in the man's voice. Only now did he realize the full extent of that madness.

Suddenly a door opened and a black-uniformed guard entered. He handed Father a sheet of paper containing a brief, typewritten paragraph. Father looked at it for a moment, scowling. Finally he snapped:

"Where is this taking place?"

"Everywhere," said the guard. "New York, London, Moscow, Peking --"

"And what's causing it?"

"I don't know. Perhaps Pan-Islamica --"

Father cut the man off with a curt wave of his hand and motioned him from the room. For a moment he regarded Taggart in silence, then turned to the lean-faced psychologist.

"Take him back to his cell," he said; and, for the moment, Taggart felt an immense relief.

Two guards in black entered as the psychologist unstrapped Taggart. The guards hauled him roughly out into the hall and escorted him down a flight of steps to a lower corridor. Then they thrust him into a cell and the door clanged shut behind him.

Taggart looked around with dismay. The room was bare except for a narrow sleeping-shelf fastened to the wall and a coverless toilet in one corner; there was not even a blanket on the shelf. On the opposite wall was a television screen blaring sermons being given by Brother Falwehl.

The cement floor was cold beneath his bare feet. The door was a solid sheet of steel and there were no windows. There was not the slightest possibility of escape.

The room was filled with light from some unseen source. It was always light in this place, it seemed, Taggart had no idea whether it was night or day, or how long he had been a prisoner here. The stubble on his neck below his trimmed beard suggested two or three days. He had not been fed but was too tense to feel very hungry; his nerves were near the breaking point and the pain in his stomach was more anxiety than hunger. Frantically, he began to pace rapidly back and forth, wondering if help would ever come --

"John Taggart!" barked a voice from the screen, temporarily drowning out Brother Falwehl's voice. "No pacing in the cells. Sit down!" Instantly, Falwehl's speech resumed.

Startled, Taggart obeyed. Looking more closely at the screen, he saw a small round lens placed in the wall above it. Even here his every move was being watched. He sat down on the cold bench and looked at the floor, feeling more and more of a despair compounded of anger, fear, and helplessness. His hands were sweaty and shaking. He thrust them into the pockets of trousers.

Created: October 28, 2006