THE GREAT ILLUSION By MANLY BANNISTER _illustrated by_ KELLY FREAS There was something phony about the whole set-up on that planet. Their culture was counterfeit. But why did they go to so much trouble to put on their act? [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Super-Science Fiction February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Cliff Rowley's lean jowls beaded with sweat in the stagnant warmth of the tent. He tapped a bony finger on the camp table and glared at the communicator. "Clear out in a week! _Why?_" Commander Waldo Spliid's tired voice trickled from the communicator grid. Rowley would have appreciated video hook-up now. He wondered how Spliid's features portrayed his thoughts. "Here's final classification on Hume, Cliff. Category two X sub one." "Closed world!" Rowley groaned. "We've only been here three months!" "Eleven men in the field, Cliff. You're the odd ball. Everybody else is satisfied. Hume is only a step above savagery in culture. Top rating is satisfied. I don't like the conflicting picture of it, myself, but...." "Nor I," Rowley stabbed. The look in his hazel eyes hardened. "You wouldn't," Spliid said calmly, "even without seeing the reports. You're a percie, Cliff--our only psi-sensitive on Hume. But you've got to do a lot more than you've done yet to impress top rating. They're keener on the things you can't do than the things you can." "A few more months, Commander...." "A week, Cliff. Seven days. Get in and dig for all you're worth." "Me and my little psychic shovel," Rowley commented bitterly. A hum came out of the comm. Somewhere, far above the atmosphere of Hume, the Survey ship, with Spliid on board, cruised among the stars. "Clean up any questions you can," Spliid went on. "Bring your notes up to date. The pilot boat will pick you up ... let's see ... this is Wednesday ... Wednesday for us, anyway. Next Wednesday, then. Have everything ready to load. And keep on reporting." Rowley started to retort, thought better of it. He switched off the comm. Well, that did it. They'd had it, as far as Hume was concerned. And the puzzle still stared him in the face--_him_, Rowley, the boy who was going to do great things, like with teleconscious apprehension, with psychometry, with.... Psi-sensitives were new in the Galactic Ethnological Survey Corps--Galethsurv in the cryptic, telegraphic coding of service vernacular. Spliid had not been sarcastic when he had called Rowley a "percie", the abbreviated, half-humorous, half-scornful, scuttle-butt designation for the percipients.