H.D.'s blood ran slowly cold. He repressed the thought, denied it, rejected it, but in his heart he knew. His intuition had made the connection. Garry noted his heavy breathing, and felt a stir of pity. He continued, gazing out.
"It's simple enough, in practise. Every fifty years each person must submit to a Survey—and all Sleepers when they're revived. By association techniques they're made, under the Probe, to admit everything they've done that was wrong, either by their own conscience or by the written law.
"Then—well, you see—one outgrowth of the Probe is that suffering has been classified, qualitatively and quantitatively. Oh, it's arbitrary on the edges, but not very, and where there's doubt there's charity, of course.
"After the Survey, if he's passed a certain allowable maximum in wrongdoing, a person must go to—the penal colony and experience himself all the suffering he has caused, qualitatively and quantitatively as closely as possible."
The question was only a whisper. "How long will I have to spend at this—this place—where did you say?"
"The penal colony? It's on the fourth planet. I guess we used to call it Mars." He hesitated. "In your case, I'm afraid—well, they say you hurt a lot of people."
"It's ridiculous!" H.D. cried desperately. "It's barbaric! My word, even in our time reasonable people knew that revenge isn't civilized, even against criminals. Can't they rehabilitate people?"
Garry grimaced, and spoke flatly, slowly.
"'There is no known deterrent from harmfully selfish action except fear of punishment. Nor can there be a healthy mind as long as there exists a debt to conscience.' That's a translation from a schoolbook."
H.D. sprawled in his chair like a poled ox. He recognized that he was beaten. His eyes stared vacantly, he mumbled over and over, "They can't, they can't." He did not notice the flyer's swooping deceleration.