Glaucon

My Dear Glaucon,

        As you know being an Archivist for a semi-autonomous government can, at certain times, bring unwarranted attention to one self. I happened to receive a reminder of this by means of a Solatian Politician. A Mr. Peron came into my acquaintances three days ago. You of course will recall Peron from the recent scandalous affair as to the repopulation of Sardona. I believe that he voted to remove all the Ramothean population to an internment camp for the remainder of the war. The location of which was to be on Zarathustra. The legislation went through; you remember of course, I do not know why I am wasting your time reminding you.
         In any case, my daily routine brings me to this quaint café on the northern side of Ranke. This particular day, I believe it was a Saturday, was suffering from a strenuous bout of Sarema. The wind was at a bitter still with all of the streets covered with sickening gray snow. The actual café was packed to the brim, as not one adventurous spirit desired to take their cup outside.
         So there I was at a small usually two person table, but having no real contacts on this planet I had grown accustomed to drinking on my own. The door opened and you could feel the warmth drain from the room. Then Peron walked in, he appeared to be a wholesome enough fellow. Short by any standards, he could not have been over one and a half meters. His hair was a lank black, which was slicked down and combed over in an unpleasant fashion. His eyes, now there is something to place a man. When he first walked in I looked up inquisitively, as a personal rule I can’t resist, and he was glaring right back with a ferocity as to brake my habit on the spot.
         Breaking his contact from me for a moment he walked further into the warm den and gave a nod to the waiter, he was obviously a recent enough patron to have his own preferences set about him. Then he proceeded in my direction, I could barely tell myself my eyes were glued to the documents in front of me. Drudging up to my little table he inquired of me if he could borrow the seat opposite me. I consented and he lowered himself into the seat. Now, I have to admit I was more than a little surprised for I had expected the man to take the seat and go somewhere else. Mr. Peron was no acquaintance of mine at the time; the most contact that I had ever had with him, other than the occasional article read in his regards, was a passing glance at the federal library. The waiter then brought him some sort of foreign drink, I suspected that it was similar to the la truce that is made back home. With a sip of this drink, which had the appearance of torrid pitch, he glanced up at me and said:
         “I know you, you’re the archivist from Geryon, here for that case, correct?” I nodded and he felt inclined to continue, “I am one of the Solatian overseers that has been assigned to that case that you are working on. My name is…”
         “Peron, I know. So, tell me Mr. Peron, what do you want?” This response may seem rude to you, but the man had this voice about him. I do not think that it is any accent, if it is I have never heard it before, but it had this fetid quality that almost served as a drill boring into my conscience. I therefore took it upon my self to attempt to make this encounter as brief as possible. Regardless he seemed determined to make this difficult. He replied to my question, “To discuss with you about the case of course. The work that you perform may lead to the... completion of a trial that has gone on far too long.” He had paused before saying completion, obviously there was another word in his mind. What he had probably wanted to say in place of that was that the evidence may lead to the execution of the suspect. I already knew that it would, the evidence that I had discovered was damning in this prisoners particular case.
         I returned to my papers and gave a curt answer, “What exactly do you want to talk about. It would be much more simple if you just came out with it. In such a case I could give you a concise response. As a witness for the Maledictory I can not give much. They were particular about what I can and cannot say.”
         “Oh heavens,” he responded, “I do not want any evidence, I am no lawyer as you well know.”
         “No,” I returned, “just a politician.” I grinned at my own cunning, but I did not take my eyes off of my papers. When I did he was contently grinning back at me with those eyes.
         “Yes, a politician that is overseeing one of the greatest cases perhaps in the G.O.’s history.” He must have not caught my cynical stab. However, I am always prepared to give another. I responded, “It is too soon to tell Mr. Peron, it always is. And I am afraid that I can offer no sneak peak into the verdict of this trial.”
         For some reason our conversation had lulled to a one sided discussion. Upon looking up to see what the matter was I saw him staring listlessly out the window. I followed his absent minded stare and saw a boy, or young man. He seemed to be in one of those transitory states in which you can not really tell their exact age. More than likely the fellow was between the ages of nineteen and twenty one. I took a closer look and saw a hardness about his eyes and mouth. This young man had a hard life something of a middle class worker that earned very little. As the young man waited at the bus stop the Solatian’s stare did not deviate. Though, even if this politician interests did lean in that certain direction, I saw no reason for his glazed stare at the recently abandoned window.
         Suddenly he snapped back to reality and asked me, “Did you see that man at the window?” The subjects exact appearance had already escaped my mind, he was one of those faces that is forgotten instantly unless the person in question was a familiar acquaintance. Regardless of my fleeting memory I did recall the person of a few moments ago.
         “Yes,” I replied, “what of him.”
         “That is just it ‘what of him’. That young man that just passed here is a member of this city and the greater Galactic Order, Ranke itself is near to five million in its inhabitants. He passes by this window almost everyday of the week and takes a bus to the outskirts of the city. I know this for a fact because, everyday I come here, to this café, and everyday he walks to that bus stop past this window and I see his same cold callused face. Perhaps he is on his way to his low paying job, probably provided by the Order. If that boy were to lose his job today, if I were to sign the order to release two thousand similar men from their jobs, would I care? What would I notice except that there is one less person walking by that window while I have my morning drink? I might, just because of this conversation, but the substance of the matter is that that young man would disappear from my memory within a few weeks, if that. His family will go hungry because the new job he is given is half as good as the crummy work he had a few days before.”
         “What is your point?” I said interrupting his tirade. “My point is, my dear Archivist, that that man that was only there a few moments ago, whose mere countenance escapes both your mind and my own, could be brutally slaughtered tomorrow by a Ramothean terror soldier, and the only thing that would be different to me would be that I’d have to file a report at my job as to the extermination of an employee, and a few randomized candidates would be drawn up for his job. My point is that we are all detached from one another, there are no more delusional ideals in this century, no more fraternity in this Galactic Order. There is only you and the ones that you love.
         I must have stared at him for a while. I admit that I was perplexed, both at the nonchalant way that this address was delivered, and why he decided to share it with me. Why had he communicated his depressing outlook on life and this galaxy, this prolonged monologue on the existence of sentient beings? The expression must have been more clearly marked on my face than I thought for he answered my unasked question.
         “This man that we are trying, he is just another man who happened to get on the wrong side of the law. Do not let it enter your mind that he may be innocent, we all know that he is not. Just do your job so that you can return home, wherever that may be, to your loved ones and a life without complications.” With that he arose, and without so much as an adieu he paid his bill and left through the front door onto a busy street with public transportation trains passing by. The throng passed by as he entered his lustrous vehicle and drove off. The people in the trains did not see him as they sped by, nor did he return there gaze.

         I write this to you, my dear Glaucon, to remind you why we do this work. It is not that we seek affluent life styles, recognition, or some abstract form of happiness for ourselves. We all believe that there is something in our work that brings our loved ones closer to our goal. Mr. Peron may be right there may only be our loved ones at home and ourselves within our spheres of consciousness. I therefore encourage you and all of our colleagues to remember that young man passing by the window, and why we do not quit.


Your Humble Servant,

The Archivist

Archivist