Turning Back the Sun(35)
Rayner said bitterly, “I thought murder was what we were fighting against.”
But Ivar had turned cold. Rayner had the impression that his uniform had leaked upwards, into his face, and was slowly suffocating it. “We”re fighting for the peace of this town, perhaps even for its survival.”
“That”s hyperbole.”
“Is it?” Ivar smiled just as he had done at school, when his secret knowledge turned everyone else stupid. “We”ve received reports of armed savage bands numbering as many as fifty.”
“Then why don”t you cope with them,” Rayner demanded, “instead of …”—he waved one hand at the sack—”this?”
“Because when we hunt them they scatter. That makes Intelligence vital.”
“What can they tell you? These people all come from different regions.” Rayner tried to remember what the old native had told him. “A few may be marauders, but the ones who drift into town probably come from other groups.”
Ivar said, “In that case they know each other”s movements remarkably well. Several have admitted to a plot to infiltrate and sack the town.”
“Was that suggested to them under interrogation?”
“I don”t know. Interrogation isn”t my job. But the lieutenant”s not a fool.”
Rayner turned his back on the shape in the sack, as if it might be listening. “People will admit to anything under torture. Just to stop the pain.”
“Nobody said anything about torture. Do you think I”d order it?”
Then Rayner realized that Ivar was angry—or as close as he could reach anger. His eyes had awoken in a controlled glitter. Perhaps this was no more than the simulated fury of army officers at insubordination, Rayner thought, yet even that suggested some discomfort in him, so that Rayner found himself thinking: he”s vulnerable after all. Nobody on earth could be quite certain of himself.
It occurred to Rayner that the lieutenant had covered the corpse again on purpose: it would be harder to lie in its presence. He said, “This man was beaten systematically.
The heart attack attributed by your surgeon is pure fantasy.”
They were no longer facing either the corpse or one another, but staring at the cell wall three feet away. It had been thinly whitewashed over indecipherable graffiti. After a silence Ivar said, “I don”t think you care about this town. You”ve never felt any loyalty to us.”
His words threatened Rayner with all the certainty, the enclosed authority, of his own class and kind. That was their power.
“I care all right,” Rayner snapped. “At least enough to hate this place losing its head.” And he thought at once, a little surprised, that yes, he did care about the town, about his friends and certain patients, about Zo?, even about the place”s blind future.
Ivar said, “But you betray it.” He edged the death notice into his inner pocket, slowly, as if giving Rayner a last chance to recant. “You haven”t changed, have you? You always did find some reason for being separate.” The words debarred Rayner absolutely, just as they had at school. He imagined his name appended to the Intelligence list of unreliable elements. “It”s easier for you to dissociate yourself,” Ivar went on, “because you feel you don”t belong here. You keep this pipe dream of returning to the capital. But people like me have to cope with the realities. It”s rough going, but we do the best we can. We can”t afford your morality. It doesn”t work here.”
Rayner turned on him. “You accuse me of idealism because I don”t abet a murder! I don”t have any morality I can lay my hands on, just hand-to-mouth decency. And sometimes not even that. I”ve never stuck even to medical etiquette. I”ve practiced euthanasia like most doctors with a grain of pity in them.” He saw his own hands trembling; he stuffed them into his pockets. “But I won”t sign that form.”
Ivar looked at him as if at a baffling child, then turned his back, but found himself facing the corpse in its linen envelope. Again he seemed to be seeking self-exculpation as he said, “These people aren”t like us. They don”t think like us. They don”t share our sense of right and wrong. They—”
Rayner shouted, “But they feel like us if you fracture their skulls!” He just wanted Ivar to stop talking, wanted the plastic mouth to stop going up and down, planting its rational syllables in his mind. It was Ivar”s calm which was so dangerous, he thought, so insidious.
And it was true in its way, of course, the natives were different. When they came into contact with whites they fell instant prey to alcohol or disease. Yet out there in the wilderness they slipped back into collusion with something else, and appeared to live and die as if they did not profoundly matter. They did not battle with life as the whites did. So they stayed backward, and were peculiarly still. They seemed to retain some secret which later peoples had lost. He remembered the paintings on the rock face, their disembodied peace; but whether they imagined a future or portrayed a past, was impossible to say.
The echo of Rayner”s shouting died in the tiny cell. It left behind a solid wall between him and Ivar, probably forever. Before, the difference between them had been inarticulate, or the subject of banter. But now it had reared up with inescapable meaning.
Ivar opened the door, gently dismissing him, and said, “None of this alters your obligation to the army if you”re called on.”