Revolution was insane. I know that, I told him that. It would have failed disastrously and our lives, then, would have become wholly untenable once Plotar and those “others” of whom he spoke were permitted to carry out their abysmal tasks. I do not think that there were many “others”; it might have been a construction of his damaged ritual-master’s brain, reconstructing the semblance of rite in the enclosure.
Nevertheless, and I do not understand this, I feel that I had no right to tell them: that I should have sent Plotar instead from my room without promise of assistance to let him find his own fate. He would have been discovered and entrapped and no one would have been to blame for listening to his mad recitations and not conveying them.
Things could have been immeasurably worse for all of us if I had done this but on the other hand I have been forced for the first time in many months to reexamine my own personality and loyalties and it is apparent that I did not, in those circumstances, act entirely honorably.
It is true.
These aliens have penned us, exploited us, deprived us of dignity and knowledge, made us captives and animals, and I should not have gone to them. If the circumstances had been reversed, would they have gone to me? Would they have destroyed a comrade for my sake?
I find myself remembering odd things about Plotar: the look in his eyes when he told me of the plan, and the shy, trembling dignity with which he invited me to take a walk with him in the enclosure. I remember that on the ship he was one of the few in the far hierarchy who sought never to offend and who treated lowers equably and at all times with courtesy. He was the broker of females for us and made sure that the most attractive ones were distributed fairly. I remember his vast medical background which more than once saved me from unpleasant side effects of the voyage. How he held me before the ceremonies and told me the sense of the rôles I must play. All of these things I think about and my contentment has been shattered, the small, even sphere of my life ruptured.
The females avoid me.
They will no longer come to me. This is the only indication that my behavior has been recognized. How did the word get out? Accosted in the corridors they regard me with equivocation; a sullen knowledge masses in their eyes (perhaps I am suggesting too much here) and they depart in haste. My tentative proposals are met with astonishment, my fumbling, premonitory clasps with flight. This is the worst of all because the liaisons with the females have been one of the few comforts available to me in the enclosure. Although I seemed to take so little pleasure in them (I reread these notes constantly, I go over things, I try to maintain a sense of the past since the earlier one was so cruelly stolen) I did not realize until they were lost how dependent I was upon them, the sheer emptiness of my need.
My therapist promised me his confidence. “Do not worry,” he said at the start of our next regular session. “Everything is perfectly routine; we will go back to the subject areas explored. What you have done is known only to a few of us on the higher staff levels and to Plotar himself who is now confined by himself and will never again be released. No word of your sacrifice will reach your fellows, even though I think they would honor you for your courage. Do not be afraid. You can trust us to protect you in all instances. No reference will ever be made to this again and my notes are closed.” Yet, somehow, the females know. Perhaps some of Plotar’s associates have been seized and, before departing, have been able to suggest the identity of the betrayer. I do not know this. I have missed no one on this level; if Plotar had any associates they were scattered far from the females with whom I deal. Yet these females will no longer accept me. Something terrible has happened.
And so, in mind, in necessity, I have prepared a thousand justifications which I only wish I could give them. Explanations to the females as to why I took the course I did and for what reason, the basic motives. But I have not been able to bring any of these explanations to their attention. They will not stay long enough. They will not listen; they will not listen, they shrink and then they are gone. Do I hear laughter or cries in the distance? Pity Quir; he is a simple creature with limited desires, it was not megalomania which set him upon this course but only concern and generosity. I do not think that I believe any of this.
I feel that I have done Plotar a terrible injustice. I will say it now (for no one will ever read these notes; they are private and cryptic, in my own hand). I wish that there were some way out of the enclosure, because no less than any of my shipmates I despise the conditions of our lives and dream of freedom. Yes, if there were some likely way out of the enclosure, I would seize that way and lead the revolution. But I am trapped by the complexities of the sane: I remain sensible. I see ranges of meaning where Plotar saw nothing. There is no way out. I know, somehow, that Plotar is dead. He died at just this instant, as I wrote the linethereisnowayout . There is a strange connection between master of the rituals and his brethren. That beat within me that was his heart has stopped.
We are all at the mercy of the therapists. I wish now that I could tell him that. “Listen, Plotar,” I would point out, “these therapists who control our lives are themselves in the hands of others. They do not have any authority; if they did they would have released us a long time ago. They care, they are concerned, they have the interests of ourselves at heart, and such caring men would not entrap us here. Is that not right, Plotar? My therapist says that he wants me released; would I be here if he could do this? They, no less than we, appear to have a hierarchial system; the therapists occupy at a lesser rank and if this is so what are our options? What prerogatives do we have? What, Plotar, can we do?” But he is no longer here and I did not say that. Plotar is dead. He died several minutes ago as I wrote the linethereisnowayout . There is no way out.
If we could manage our escape: if we had alternatives, I would exercise these because I sincerely want my brothers and shipmates freed. I want my own freedom. But I see no way. I am a sensible man. I would not have been assigned to this project, I am sure, if I were not only brilliantly equipped in my field but also possessed of patience and vision. We were sent for all contingencies. I believe in patience and vision. If I had not betrayed Plotar’s plan our lives here would have been ever more terrible. I did not want this. I am a reasoning man: circumspect, patient, I investigate the long run. There is no reason for this suffering even though I can no longer bear it. Females dart from me in the corridor as if in gel.
Very well then. Very well. I will plan my own revolt. I will organize and then execute. Only in that fashion can I show my shipmates that I had their interests at heart and that there are no sins, none at all, none whatsoever, for which I must atone. This will prove the justice of my case.