"Report to Psychiatry III for amnesiac treatment for removal of superfluous knowledge. Recommendation: Reclassify for Level III."
"Damn them!" The desperate rebellion of a man condemned to worse than death rose from his heart as the magnetic rod freed him and the helmet was removed from his head.
He began to circle the cubicle like a trapped animal. "Level III!" He wailed inwardly. The Level of the Automatons conditioned to slave-labor, dwelling in semi-darkness and squalor, on a diet restricted to barest essentials of energy units, until finally the Blessed Sleep claimed him—whatever that was, he shuddered. He'd had six failures in his section—Plastic No. 15, and six meant the ultimate sentence. There was no trial, no jury, no opportunity even of explaining or seeking in a rational manner the reason for those ghastly explosions. Inexorably, the Law was final. But who was The Law? From the high Level of a First Order Scientist engaged in scientific work that had resulted in the miraculous array of plastics that had made their civilization a thing of undreamed-of power and wealth, he was cast without recourse to the Level of Darkness—memory-less, reflex-conditioned, practically mindless except for slavish toil and animal needs.
Little had he dreamed, even when a Scientist of the First Order, that there existed such stupendous extremes as the fantastic splendor of the City of the Sphere, and the hellish misery of Level III. The Neuro-graph was speaking again in the sonorous, purple period that made his hackles rise.
"Analyst Guerlan," it intoned and paused impressively. "You have failed in your Allotment. Six accidents have destroyed enormous wealth and caused inexcusable damage. You had not less than five previous repetitions of the same type of accident to study and find a solution to the problem ... a problem given you because of your blasphemous attitude toward the Inner Circle. The sixth explosion was your epitaph. Retribution is The Law.
"You will be immediately conditioned for Level III. Amnesiac Treatment will be administered to save needless suffering—we are merciful—a robot-proctor will guide you henceforth through the various stages. A Protector has spoken." The icy voice was silent.
Guerlan wondered which Protector had passed sentence. The hum of the machine told of coordinators falling into place as his mental and psychic state was recorded, the amount of energy of his metabolism checked and the time potential of his servitude unerringly estimated. A livid glow enveloped the strange instrument, and then, silently, a part of the seemingly blank wall behind him slid aside for a robot-proctor's entrance.
Guerlan knew that the inexorable sentence had been transmitted by remote control through incredibly delicate processes to the machine before him. But who'd decided on the sentence, or why the reason for its harsh cruelty, he had no way of knowing. He doubted if the elephantine Protector in Chief had bothered to pass it. But Guerlan had no time to dwell on this question, for the bery-plastic robot-proctor, its non-abradable crystallite eyes gleaming, had grasped him firmly by the elbow to lead him away.
It was then that Guerlan acted without preconceived plan. His magnificent chest arched as he sucked in air; then with a sinuous movement of vertiginous speed, he twisted free and swooping downwards at the same time he grasped the robot by its legs and then heaved with a muscle-wrenching effort, flinging the plastic man with shattering impact into the Neuro-graph. A dry, staccato rattle followed the rending crash. Part of the robot-proctor protruded from what had been the machine's crystallite dome and fragments of delicate mechanism and scintillating shards of priceless Jadite showered on the plastic floor.
Instantly the cubicle was illuminated by a vivid, crimson fluorescence, while the opening in the wall began rapidly to close. But Vyrl Guerlan was already speeding toward the closing aperture. Instantly he was through, seconds later only a blank wall showed where an opening had been. A series of alarms in coordinated prismatic flashes flared in every direction, activating the Safety Machines. Long, crane-like alumi-plastic arms extended from ramps and conveyor-heads to trap him; all efficiency cubicles became hermetically sealed cells, and over all, a shrill maddening whine rose in fiendish wail, insistent, nerve-shattering.