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signs of this mental damage in

parts of your testimony. Your inability to categorise Mutes as

sub-human in clear, unequivocal terms, and your ambivalent attitude

towards them generally is, in our view, evidence of the traumatic

experience you have undergone. We can only hope that this damage is

not permanent. Only time will tell. But your present condition gives

rise for concern. It is quite obvious, from many of your replies, that

you now view certain of these individuals and your relationship with

them in quasi-humanistic terms -'

'Sir-ma'am -' Fran slammed both fists down on the table. 'Don't

interrupt! That view is directly contrary to the accepted teaching of

the Federation - the truth of which has been long established. Mutes

are not human beings. They are a degenerate species of anthropoid

whose condition is irreversible and their continued existence is an

affront to civilised humanity! This Board cannot allow your present

opinions to contaminate the minds of others, and were it not for the

singular circumstances in which those opinions were formed, we would be

forced to regard their expression as a Code One offence and recommend

the appropriate penalty.

'However, having considered your exemplary record, this Board does not

believe - despite the offensive nature of many of your remarks - that

your attitude is inspired by wilful disaffection or criminal intent.

It is, we believe, evidence of a deep-seated mental malaise. You are

sick, Steven. And it is our duty to help you recover. In the

circumstances, we cannot support your request to be reassigned to an

overground combat unit. This Board's recommendation is that you be

regraded and transferred to Service Engineering and Maintenance for at

least three years, with the right to an Annual Review Board

thereafter."

Steve sat there, unable to breathe, his body paralysed with shock, his

brain a frozen block of ice. For a wingman to lose coveted

combat-status was humiliating enough but - Sweet Christopher - three

years in the A-Levels! That was worse than a death sentence! It

couldn't be happening!

It had to be some kind of grotesque joke!

The dark-haired President rose, her eyes fixed on Steve, her face a

blank, expressionless mask. 'As from tomorrow, you will be transferred

to the A-Levels and assigned to general duties. You will remain there,

on temporary detachment, until this Board's recommendations are

confirmed or modified by the higher review body. Steps have been taken

to issue you with a new ID-card, and the appropriate uniform. All

other personal items will be furnished by your new unit. From this

point on, it is up to you to demonstrate that this Board's confidence

in your capacity to achieve complete rehabilitation was not

misplaced.

Do you understand?"

The question was a formal one. No protest was allowed. No

clarification could be sought.

Steve somehow managed to get his tongue round the standard reply.

'Yes, sir-ma'am. I thank the Board for its sympathetic consideration

of my case. Long live the Federation!'

'Long live the First Family,' said Fran.

'For ever and ever, Amen,' chorussed Steve and the Assessors.

Fran gave Steve a curt nod then turned on her heel and walked out. The

Assessors followed. This time, some of them favoured him with a

backward glance, meeting his eyes with the same blank gaze that Fran

had employed. Only Assessor 3 displayed the belligerent contempt which

had characterised his outbursts during Steve's examination; the others

looked right through him.

Steve felt a hand on his arm. Turning, he found it was his Provo

escort. 'This way, soldier..." Not for much longer would they call

him that. From tomorrow, once he donned the chrome yellow and brown

overalls of a Seamster, he'd be a Zed-head, a greaseball, a scumbag.

The lowest form of life in the Federation...