The reporter cocked an eyebrow. «Mr. Bonforte, seems to me I heard you make that speech last February.»

«You will hear it next February. Also January, March, and all the other months. Truth cannot be too often repeated.» I glanced back at the gatemaster and added, «I'm sorry but I'll have to go now — or I'll miss the tick.» I turned and went through the gate, with Penny after me.

We climbed into the little lead-armored field car and the door sighed shut. The car was automatized, so I did not have to play up for a driver; I threw myself down and relaxed. «Whew!»

«I thought you did beautifully,» Penny said seriously.

«I had a bad moment when he spotted the speech I was cribbing.»

«You got away with it. It was an inspiration. You — you sounded just like him.»

«Was there anybody there I should have called by name?»

«Not really. One or two maybe, but they wouldn't expect it when you were so rushed.»

«I was caught in a squeeze. That fiddlin' gatemaster and his passports. Penny, I should think that you would carry them rather than Dak.»

«Dak doesn't carry them. We all carry our own.» She reached into her bag, pulled out a little book. «I had mine — but I did not dare admit it.»

«Eh?»

«He had his on him when they got him. We haven't dared ask for a replacement — not at this time.»

I was suddenly very weary.

Having no instructions from Dak or Rog, I stayed in character during the shuttle trip up and on entering the Tom Paine. It wasn't difficult; I simply went straight to the owner's cabin and spent long, miserable hours in free fall, biting my nails and wondering what was happening down on the surface. With the aid of anti-nausea pills I finally managed to float off into fitful sleep — which was a mistake, for I had a series of no-pants nightmares, with reporters pointing at me and cops touching me on the shoulder and Martians aiming their wands at me. They all knew I was phony and were simply arguing over who had the privilege of taking me apart and putting me down the oubliette.

I was awakened by the hooting of the acceleration alarm. Dak's vibrant baritone was booming, «First and last red warning! One third gee! One minute!» I hastily pulled myself over to my bunk and held on. I felt lots better when it hit; one third gravity is not much, about the same as Mars' surface I think, but it is enough to steady the stomach and make the floor a real floor.

About five minutes later Dak knocked and let himself in as I was going to the door. «Howdy, Chief.»

«Hello, Dak. I'm certainly glad to see you back.»

«Not as glad as I am to be back,» he said wearily. He eyed my bunk. «Mind if I spread out there?»

«Help yourself.»

He did so and sighed. «Cripes, am I pooped! I could sleep for a week ... I think I will.»

«Let's both of us. Uh ... You got him aboard?»

«Yes. What a gymkhana!»

«I suppose so. Still, it must be easier to do a job like that in a small, informal port like this than it was to pull the stunts you rigged at Jefferson.»

«Huh? No, it's much harder here.»

«Eh?»

«Obviously. Here everybody knows everybody — and people will talk.» Dak smiled wryly. «We brought him aboard as a case of frozen canal shrimp. Had to pay export duty, too.»

«Dak, how is he?»

«Well...» Dak frowned. «Doc Capek says that he will make a complete recovery — that it is just a matter of time.» He added explosively, «If I could lay my hands on those rats! It would make you break down and bawl to see what they did to him — and yet we have to let them get away with it cold — for his sake.»

Dak was fairly close to bawling himself. I said gently, «I gathered from Penny that they had roughed him up quite a lot. How badly is he hurt?»

«Huh? You must have misunderstood Penny. Aside from being filthy — dirty and needing a shave — he was not hurt physically at all.»

I looked stupid. «I thought they beat him up. Something about like working him over with a baseball bat.»

«I would rather they had! Who cares about a few broken bones? No, no, it was what they did to his brain.»

«Oh...» I felt ill. «Brainwash?»

«Yes. Yes and no. They couldn't have been trying to make him talk because he didn't have any secrets that were of any possible political importance. He always operated out in the open and everybody knows it. They must have been using it simply to keep him under control, keep him from trying to escape.»

He went on, «Doc says that he thinks they must have been using the minimum daily dose, just enough to keep him docile, until just before they turned him loose. Then they shot him with a load that would turn an elephant into a gibbering idiot. The front lobes of his brain must be soaked like a bath sponge.»

I felt so ill that I was glad I had not eaten. I had once read up on the subject; I hate it so much that it fascinates me. To my mind there is something immoral and degrading in an absolute cosmic sense in tampering with a man's personality. Murder is a clean crime in comparison, a mere peccadillo. «Brainwash» is a term that comes down to us from the Communist movement of the Late Dark Ages; it was first applied to breaking a man's will and altering his personality by physical indignities and subtle torture. But that might take months; later they found a «better» way, one which would turn a man into a babbling slave in seconds — simply inject any one of several cocaine derivatives into his frontal brain lobes.

The filthy practice had first been developed for a legitimate purpose, to quiet disturbed patients and make them accessible to psychotherapy. As such, it was a humane advance, for it was used instead of lobotomy — «lobotomy» is a term almost as obsolete as «chastity girdle» but it means stirring a man's brain with a knife in such a fashion as to destroy his personality without killing him. Yes, they really used to do that — just as they used to beat them to «drive the devils out.»

The Communists developed the new brainwash-by-drugs to an efficient technique, then when there were no more Communists, the Bands of Brothers polished it up still further until they could dose a man so lightly that he was simply receptive to leadership — or load him until he was a mindless mass of protoplasm — all in the sweet name of brotherhood. After all, you can't have «brotherhood» if a man is stubborn enough to want to keep his own secrets, can you? And what better way is there to be sure that he is not holding out on you than to poke a needle past his eyeball and slip a shot of babble juice into his brain? «You can't make an omelet without breaking eggs.» The sophistries of villains — bah!

Of course, it has been illegal for a long, long time now, except for therapy, with the express consent of a court. But criminals use it and cops are sometimes not lily white, for it does make a prisoner talk and it does not leave any marks at all. The victim can even be told to forget that it has been done.

I knew most of this at the time Dak told me what had been done to Bonforte and the rest I cribbed out of the ship's Encyclopedia Batavia. See the article on «Psychic Integration» and the one on «Torture.»

I shook my head and tried to put the nightmares out of my mind. «But he's going to recover?»

«Doc says that the drug does not alter the brain structure; it just paralyzes it. He says that eventually the blood stream picks up and carries away all of the dope; it reaches the kidneys and passes out of the body. But it takes time.» Dak looked up at me. «Chief?»

«Eh? About time to knock off that “Chief” stuff, isn't it? He's back.»

«That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Would it be too much trouble to you to keep up the impersonation just a little while longer?»

«But why? There's nobody here but just us chickens.»