menu_book Chapter 5

CITITAL by ALGIS BOUDRES He was looking for a privacy his strange personality needed, and never quite seemed to achieve it. All his efforts were, somehow, great triumphs of the race, and great failures for him. The aging man was sweating profusely, and he darted side-long glances at the windowless

walls of the outer office. By turns he sat stiffly in a corner chair, or paced uneasily, his head swiveling constantly. His hand was clammy when Meade shook it. Hello, Mr. Meade, he said in a husky, hesitant voice, his eyes never quite still, never long on Meade's face, but darting hither and yawn, his glance rebounding at every turn from the

walls, the floor, the ceiling, the closed outer door. Christopher Meade, Assistant Under Secretary for External Affairs, returned the handshake, smiling. Please come into my office, he said quickly. It's much more spacious.

Thank you, the aging man said gratefully and hurried into the next room. Meade rapidly opened the windows, and some of the man's nervousness left him. He sank down into the visitor's chair in front of Meade's desk, his eyes drinking in the distances beyond the windows. Thank you, he repeated.

Meade sat down behind his desk, leaned back, and waited for the man's breathing to slow. Finally he said, It's good to see you again, Mr. Holiday, what can I do for you? Martin Holiday tore his glance away from the window long enough to raise his eyes to Meade's face and then dropped them to the hands he had folded too deliberately in his lap. His voice husked into unintelligibility and he had to begin again.

I'd like to take an option on a new planet, he finally said. Meade nodded. I don't see why not. He gestured expressively at the star chart papered over one wall of his office. We've certainly got plenty of them, but what happened with your first one?

Mr. Holiday, I certainly won't be offended if you prefer to look out the window, Meade said quickly. Thank you. After a moment, he began again. It didn't work out, he said, his glance flickering back to Meade for an instant before he had

to look out the window again. I don't know where my figuring went wrong. It didn't go wrong. It was just, just things. I thought I could sell enough subdivisions to cover the payments and still keep most

of it for myself, but it didn't work out. He looked quickly at Meade with a flash of groundless guilt in his eyes. First, I had to sell more than I'd intended because I had to lower the original price. Somebody'd optioned another planet in the same system and I hadn't counted on the competition. Then, even after I'd covered the option and posted surety on the payments, there were

all kinds of expenses. I couldn't lease the mineral rights. He looked at Meade again, as though he had to justify himself. I don't know how that deal fell through. The company just, just withdrew, all of a sudden.

Do you think there might have been anything peculiar about that? Meade asked. I mean, could the company have made a deal with the colonists for a lower price after you'd been forced out? Holiday shook his head quickly.

No, no, nothing like that. The colonists and I got along fine. It wasn't as though I hadn't put the best land up for sale or tried to make myself rich. Why, after I had to sell some of the remaining land, I knew it wasn't worth staying anymore. Some of them offered to lend me enough money to keep 50,000 square miles for myself.

He smiled warmly, his eyes blank while he focused on memory. But that wasn't it, of course, he went on. I had my original investment pack, but I couldn't tell them why I couldn't stay. It was people, even if I never saw them. It was the thought of people, with aircraft and rockets and roads.

I understand, Mr. Holiday, Meade said in an effort to spare him embarrassment. Holiday looked at him helplessly. I couldn't tell them that, could I, Mr. Meade? They were good, friendly people who wanted to help me. I couldn't tell them it was people, could I?

He wet his dry lips and locked his eyes on the view outside the window. All I want, Mr. Meade, is half a planet to myself, he said softly. He shook his head. Well, it'll work out this time. This time I won't have to sell so much, and I'll have a place to spend what time I've

got left in peace, without this, this. He gestured helplessly in an effort to convey his tortured consciousness of his own fear. Meade nodded quickly as he saw his features nod convulsively. Of course, Mr. Holiday, we'll get you an option on a new planet as quickly as we can. Thank you, Holiday said again.

Can we handle it today? I've had my credit transferred to a local bank. Certainly, Mr. Holiday, we won't keep you on earth a moment longer than absolutely necessary. He took a standard form out of a desk drawer and passed it to Holiday for his signature. I'll be smarter this time, the aging man said, trying to convince himself as he uncapped

his pen. This time it'll work out. I'm sure it will, Mr. Holiday, Meade said. Marlow was obese. He sat behind his desk like a tuskless sea lion crouched behind a rock, and his cheeks

merged into jowls and obliterated his neck. His desk was built specially so that he could get his thighs under it. His office chair was heavier and wider by far than any standard size, its casters rolling on special composition base that had been laid down over the carpeting, for Marlow's weight would have cut any ordinary rug to shreds.

His jacket stretched like a pleofilm to enclose the bulk of his stooped shoulders, and his eyes surveilled his world behind the embattlemented heaviness of the puffing flesh that filled their sockets. A bulb flickered on his interphone set, and Marlow shot a glance at the switch beneath it.

Secretary, quite contrary, he muttered inaudibly. He flicked the switch. Yes, Mary? His voice rumbled out of the flabby cavern of his chest. Mr. Meade has just filed a report on Martin Holiday, Mr. Secretary.

Would you like to see it? Just give me a summary, Mary. Under his breath he whispered, Summary that mummery, Mary, and a thin smile fell about his lips while he listened. Gave him Carl's Haven 4, eh?

He observed when his secretary'd finished. Okay, thanks, Mary. He switched off and sat thinking. Somewhere in the bowels of the body administrative he knew, notations were being made and cross-filed. The addition of Carl's Haven 4 to the list of planets under colonization would be made,

and holidays asking prices for land would be posted with immigration, together with a prospectus abstracted from the General Galactic Survey. He switched the interphone on again. Ah, Mary? Supply me with a copy of the Genserv on the entire Carl's Haven system.

Tell Mr. Meade I'll expect him in my office sometime this afternoon. You schedule it, and we'll go into it further. Yes, Mr. Secretary. Will 1515 be all right? 1515's fine, Mary, Marl said gently.

Yes, sir, his secretary replied, abashed. I keep forgetting about proper nomenclature. So do I, Mary, so do I, Marl sighed. Anything come up that wasn't scheduled for today? It was a routine question, born of futile hope.

There was always something to spoil the carefully planned daily schedules. Yes, and no, sir. Marl cocked an eyebrow at the interphone. Well, that's a slight change anyway. What is it?

There's a political science observer from Dovonell. That's more too on our map, sir, who requested permission to talk to you. He's here on the usual exchange program, and he's within his privileges in asking, of course. I assume it's an ordinary thing. What's our foreign policy?

How do you apply it? Can you give specific instances and the like? Precisely, Marl thought. For ordinary questions, there were standard answers, and Mary had been his secretary for so long that she could supply them as well as he could.

Dovonell, more too, eh? Obviously, there was something special about the situation, and Mary was leaving the decision to him. He scanned through his memorized star catalogs, trying to find the correlation. Mr. Secretary?

Marl grunted. Still here. Just thinking. Isn't Dovonell that nation we just sent Harrison to? Yes, sir, on the same exchange program.

Marl chuckled. Well, if we've got Harrison down there, it's only fair to let their fellow learn something in exchange, isn't it? What's his name? Dalych Oud Cleven, sir.

Marl muttered to himself. Dalych Oud Cleven? Irish? Corned beef and cabbage? His mind filed it away together with a primary color picture of Jiggs and Maggie.

All right, Mary, I'll talk to him if you can find room in the schedule somewhere. Tell you what, let him in at fifteen thirty. Meade and I can finish a working example for him. Does that check all right with your book? Yes, sir.

There'll be time if we carry over on the Saroi incidents. Saroi's waited six years, four months, and twenty-three days. They'll wait another day. Let's do that, then. Huh, Mary?

Marl switched off and picked up a report which he began to read by the page block system, his eyes almost unblinking between pages. Harrison, eh? He muttered once, stopping to look quizzically at his desktop. He chuckled.

At fifteen fifteen, the light on his interphone blinked twice, and Marlou hastily initialed a directive with his right hand while touching the switch with his left. Yes, Mary? Mr. Meade, sir. Okay.

He switched off, pushed the directive into his outbox, and pulled the ginserv and the folder on Martin Holliday out of the hold tray. Come in, Chris, he said, as Meade knocked on the door. How are you today, Mr. Marlou? Meade asked as he sat down.

Four ounces heavier, Marlou answered dryly. I presume you're not. Cigarette, Chris? Apparently the use of the first name finally caught Meade's notice. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then took a cigarette and lit it.

Thanks, Dave. Well I'm glad that's settled, Marlou chuckled, his eyes almost disappearing in wrinkles of flesh. How's Mary? Meade grinned crookedly.

Miss Folsom is in fine fettle today, thank you. Marlou rumbled a laugh. Meade at once made the mistake of addressing the woman as Mary, under the natural assumption that if Marlou could do it, everyone could. Mary I fear, Marlou observed, lives in more stately times than these.

She'll tolerate informality from me because I'm in direct authority over her, and direct authority, of course, is law. But you, Meade, are a young whippersnapper. But that's totally unrealistic, Meade protested. I don't respect her less by using her first name.

It's just, just friendliness, that's all. Look, Marlou said, it makes sense but it ain't logical, not on her terms. Mary Folsom was raised by a big, tough, tight-lipped authoritarian of a father who believed in bringing kids up by the book. By the time she got tumbled out into the world, all big men were unquestionable authority,

and all young men were callow whippersnappers. Sure, she's happy about it, inside. But it makes her a perfect secretary for me, and she does her job well. We play by her rules on the little things, and by the world's rules on the big ones, capiche?

Sure, Dave, but... Marlou picked up the folder on Holiday and gave Meade one weighty but understanding look before he opened it. Your trouble, Chris, is that your viewpoint is fundamentally sane, he said. Now about Holiday.

Martin, Options, 06-26-8729, 063-108-1004. I didn't get time to read the Genserv on the Carlshaven Planets, so I'll ask you to brief Yes, sir. What's four like? Good, arable land.

A little mountainous in spots, but that's good. Loaded with minerals, industrial stuff, like silver. Some tin, but not enough to depress the monetary standard. Lots of copper. Coal beds, petroleum basins, the works.

Self-supporting practically from the start. A real asset to the Union in 56 years. Marlou nodded. Good. Nice picking, Chris.

Now, got a decoy? Yes, sir. Carlshaven II's a falsie. I've got a dummy option on it in the works, and will be able to undercut Holiday's prices for his land by about 20%.

Falsie, huh? How long do you figure until the colony can't stick on it any longer? A fair-sized one, with lots of financial backing, might even make it permanently. But we won't be able to dig up that many loafers, and naturally, we can't give them that big a subsidy.

Eventually we'll have to ferry them all out, in about eight years, say. But that'll give us enough time to break Holiday. Marlou nodded again. Sounds good. Something else, Meade said.

II's mineral poor. He looked hesitantly at Marlou. What's up, boy? Well, sir, Meade began, then stopped. Something important, really.

Marlou gave him a surprising look, full of sadness and brooding understanding. You're thinking he's an old, frightened man, and why don't we leave him alone? Why, yes, sir. Dave. Yes, Dave.

You're quite right. Why don't we? We can't, sir. I know that. But it doesn't seem fair.

Exactly, Chris. It ain't right, but it's correct. The light on Marlou's interphone blinked once. Marlou looked at it in momentary surprise. Then his features cleared, and he muttered, Cabbage.

He reached out toward the switch. We've got a visitor, Chris. Follow my lead. He reviewed his information on Davano-Lyd titular systems while he touched the switch. Ask Scud Clavin to come in, Mary.

Scud Clavin was almost a twin for the pictured typical Davano-Lyd in Marlou's library. Since the pictures were usually idealized, it followed that Clavin was an above-average specimen of his people. He stood a full eight feet from fetters to crest, and had not yet begun to thicken his toes in compensation for the stoop that marked advancing middle age for his race.

Marlou, looking at him, smiled inwardly. How Davano-Lyd could be so obviously superior and still only a lowly student? Well, considering Harrison's qualifications, it might still not be tit for tat. Meade began to get to his feet, and Marlou hastily planted a foot atop his nearest shoe. The assistant winced and twitched his lips, but at least he stayed down.

Davy Scud Clavin, the Davano-Lyd pronounced in good English. David Marlou, Secretary for External Affairs, Solar Union. Marlou replied. Scud Clavin looked expectantly at Meade. Christopher Meade, Assistant Undersecretary for External Affairs, the assistant said,

orienting himself. If you would do us the honor of permitting us to stand, Marlou asked politely. On the contrary, Marlou, if you would do me the honor of permitting me to sit, I should consider it a privilege. Please do so.

Mr. Meade, if you would bring our visitor a chair. They lost themselves in formalities for a few minutes, Marlou being urbanely correct. Meade following after as best he could through the maze of Davano-Lyd mores. Finally, they were able to get down to the business at hand. Eude Clavin sitting with considerable comfort in the carefully designed chair which could

be snapped into almost any shape. Marlou balking behind his desk. Meade sitting somewhat nervously beside him. Now, as I understand it, Eude Clavin, Marlou began. You'd like to learn something of our policies and methods.

That is correct, Marlou and Meade. The Davano-Lyd extracted a block of opaque material from the flat wallet at his side and steadied it on his knee. I have your permission to take notes? Please do.

Now, as it happens, Mr. Meade and I are currently considering a case which perfectly illustrates our policies. Eude Clavin immediately traced a series of ideographs on the note block and Marlou wondered if he was actually going to take their conversation down verbatim. He shrugged mentally.

He'd have to ask him, at some later date, whether he'd missed anything. Undoubtedly, there'd be a spare recording of the tape he himself was making. To begin, as you know, our government is founded upon principles of extreme personal freedom. There are no arbitrary laws governing expression, worship, the possession of personal weapons, or the rights of personal property.

The state is construed to be a mechanism of public service, operated by the body politic, and the actual regulation and regimentation of society is accomplished by natural socioeconomic laws which, of course, are both universal and unavoidable. We pride ourselves on the high status of the individual in comparison to the barely tolerable existence of the state.

We do, naturally, have ordinances and injunctions governing crimes, but even these are usually superseded by civil action at the personal level. You'll never have to find a way to get that automatically, and in that kind of situality, you have to let it narrow building technique as a," And then, like we know, Marco Di ha工作ă trăi fulcă,

forgetting exact principles for a moment, Eucleaves, you realize that the actuality will sometimes stray from the ideal. Our citizens, for example, do not habitually carry weapons except under extraordinary conditions. some future generation, mores having shifted, will, for example, revive the code dwell-o.

Eud Clavin nodded, quite understood. Thank you, Marlow. Good, now to proceed. Under conditions such as those, the state and its agencies cannot lay down

a fixed policy of any sort and expect it to be in the least permanent. The people will not tolerate such regulation, and with each new shift in social mores, and the institution of any policy

is itself sufficient to produce such a shift within a short time. Successive policies are repudiated by the body politic, and new ones must be instituted. Marlow leaned back and spread his hands.

Therefore, he said with a roofful smile, it can be fairly said that we have no foreign policy, effectively speaking. We pursue the expedient, Eud Clavin, and hope for the best.

The case which Mr. Mead and I are currently considering is typical. The Union, as you know, maintains a general survey corps whose task it is to map the galaxy, surveying such planets as harbor alien races

or seem suitable for human colonization. Such a survey team, for example, first established contact between your people and ours, exchange observation rights are worked out, and representatives of both races

are given the opportunity to acquaint themselves with the society of the other. In the case of unoccupied, hattable planets, however, the state's function ceases with the filing of a complete and definitive survey at the under ministry for immigration.

The state, as a state, sponsors no colonies and makes no establishments except for the few staging bases which are maintained for the use of the survey corps. We have not yet found any need for the institution

of an offensive service analogous to a planetary army, nor do we expect to. War in space is possible only under extraordinary conditions and we foresee no such contingency. All our colonization is carried out by private citizens

who apply to Mr. Mead here for options on suitable unoccupied planets. Mr. Mead's function is to act as a consultant in these cases. He maintains a roster of surveyed human habitable planets

and either simply signs the requested planet or recommends one to fit specified conditions. The cost of the option is sufficient to cover the administrative effort involved, together with sufficient profit to the government

to finance further surveys. The individual holding the option is then referred to immigration, which provides copies of a prospectus taken from the general survey report

and advertises the option holders asking prices on subdivisions. Again, there is a reasonable fee of a nature similar to ours, devoted to the same purposes.

Then the state ceases to have any voice in the projected colonization whatsoever. It is a totally private enterprise, a simple real estate operation, if you will, with the state acting only as an advertising agency

and occasionally as the lesser of suitable transportation from Earth to the new planet. The colonists, of course, are under our protection, maintaining full citizenship unless they request independence, which is freely granted.

If you would like to see it for purposes of clarification, you're welcome to examine our file on Martin Holliday, a citizen who is fairly typical of these real estate operators and who has just filed an option on his second planet.

Smiling, Marlow extended the folder. Thank you, I should like to, Ud Clavin said and took the file from Marlow. He leafed through it rapidly, pausing after asking Marlow's leave

to make notes on some of the information and then handed it back. Most interesting, Ud Clavin observed. However, if you'll enlighten me, this man, Martin Holliday,

wouldn't there seem to be very little incentive for him considering his age, even if there is the exception of a high monetary return, particularly since his first attempt, while not a failure, was not an outstanding financial success.

Marlow shrugged helplessly. I tend to agree with you thoroughly, Ud Clavin, but he smiled. You'll agree, I'm sure, that one Earthman's boredom is another's incentive.

We are not a rigorously logical race, Ud Clavin. Quite, the Devonelid replied. Marlow stared at his irrevocable clock. His inner phone light flickered and he touched the switch absently.

Yes, Mary? Will there be anything else, Mr. Secretary? No, thank you, Mary. Good night. Good night, sir.

There was no appeal. The day was over and he had to go home. He stared helplessly at his empty office, his mind automatically counting the pairs of departing footsteps that sounded momentarily

as clerks and stenographers crossed the walk below his partly open window. Finally, he rolled his chair back and pushed himself to his feet. Disconsolate, he moved irresolutely to the window

and watched the people leave. Washington, aging, crowded Washington, mazed by narrow streets, carrying the burden of the severe, unimaginative past on its grimy architecture, respired heavily under the sinking sun.

The Capitol ought to be moved, he thought, as he thought every night at this time. Nearer the heart of the Empire, out of this steamy bog, out of this warren, his heavy lips moved into an ironical comment on his own thoughts.

No one was ever going to move the Empire's traditional seat. There was too much nostalgia concentrated here, along with the humidity. Someday, when the Union was contiguous with the entire galaxy, men would still call Washington

an old, out-of-the-way Earth, their capital. Man was not a rigorously logical race as a race. The thought of going home broke out afresh, insidiously avoiding the barriers of bemusement which he had tried to erect,

and he turned abruptly away from the window, moving decisively so as to be able to move at all. He yanked open a desk drawer and stuffed his jacket pockets with candy bars, ripping the film from one and chewing it on its end,

while he put the papers in his briefcase. Finally, he could not delay any longer. Everyone else was out of the building, and the robots were taking over. Metal treads spun along the corridors,

bearing brooms, and the robot switchboards guarded the communications of the ministry. Soon, the char robots would be bustling into this very office. He sighed and walked slowly out,

down the empty halls where no human eye could see him waddling. He stepped into his car, and as he opened the door, the automatic recording said, home, please, in his own voice.

The car waited until he was settled and then accelerated gently, pointing for his apartment. The recording had been an unavoidable but vicious measure of his own. He'd had to resort to it for the temptation

to drive to a terminal, to an airport, or a rocket field, or a railroad station, anywhere had become excruciating. The car stopped for a pedestrian light, and a sports model bounced jauntily to a stop beside it.

The driver cocked an eyebrow at Marlow and chuckled, hey, fatso, which one of you is the Buick? Then the light changed, the car spurted away and left Marlow cringing. He would not get an official car

and protect himself with its license number. He would not be a coward, he would not. His fingers shaking, he tore the film from another candy bar. Marlow huddled in his chair, the notebook clamped

on one broad thigh by his heavy hand, his lips mumbling nervously while his pencil point checked off meter. Dwelling aching discontent, he muttered, no, not that. He stared down at the floor, his eyes distant.

Bitter discontent, he whispered. He grunted softly with breath that had to force its way past the constricting weight of his hunched chest. Bitter dwell, he crossed out the third line, substituted the new one, and began to read

the first two verses to himself. We are born of humankind, this is our destiny, to bitter dwell in discontent wherever we may be, to struggle with the burden of that which heels on us, to stake our fresh beginnings when frailer breeds have done.

He smiled briefly, content. It still wasn't perfect, but it was getting closer. He continued, to pile upon the ashes of racist indecis, such citadels of our kind's own, as fortify know. What are you doing, David?

His wife asked over his shoulder. Flinching, he pulled the notebook closer into his lap, bending forward in an instinctive effort to protect it. The warm, loving, sighing voice went on. Are you writing another poem, David?

Why, I thought you'd given that up. It's nothing really, Leonora, nothing much, just a thing I've had running around in my head, wanted to get rid of it. His wife leaned over and kissed his cheek clumsily.

Why, you big old dear, I'll bet it's for me. Isn't it, David? Isn't it for me? He shook his head in almost desperate regret. I'm afraid not, uh, snorter.

It's about something else, Leonora. Oh, she came around the chair, and he furtively wiped his cheek with a hasty hand. She sat down facing him, smiling with entreaty. Would you read it to me anyway, David?

Please, dear. Well, it's not finished yet, not right. You don't have to, David. It's not important, not really, she sighed deeply. He picked up the notebook,

his breath cold and his constricted throat. All right, he said, the words coming out huskily. I'll read it, but it's not finished yet. If you don't want to, he began to read hurriedly, his eyes locked on the notebook,

his voice a suppressed, hoarse, spasmatic whisper. Such civadels of our own kind, as for to find no peace. No wall can offer shelter, no roof can shield from pain. We cannot rest, we are the damned. We must go forth again, unnumbered we must.

David, are you sure about those last lines? She smiled apologetically. I know I'm old fashioned, but couldn't you change that? It seems so harsh, and I think you may have unconsciously borrowed it from someone else.

I can't help thinking I've heard it before somewhere. Don't you think so? I don't know, my dear. You may be right about that word, but it doesn't really matter, does it?

I mean, I'm not going to try to get it published or anything. I know, dear, but still. He was looking at her desperately. I'm sorry, dear, she said contritely. Please go on, don't pay any attention

to my stupid comments. They're not stupid. Please, dear, go on. His fingers clamped the edge of the notebook. Unnumbered we must wander, break, and bleed and die,

implacable as the ocean, our tide must drown the sky. What is our expiation? For what primeval crime that we must go on marching until the crash of time? What hand has shaped so cruelly?

What whim has cast such fate? Where is, in our creation, the botch that makes us great? Oh, that's good, darling, that's very good. I'm proud of you, David. I think it stinks, he said evenly.

But anyway, there are two more verses. David, grimly he spat out the last eight lines. Why are we ever gimleted by empire's irony or discontent the cancer prize of Earthman's galaxy? Leonora, recoiling from his cold fury,

was a shaking pair of shoulders and a mass of blank hair supported by her hands on her face while she sobbed. Are our souls so much perverted we cannot relent? Or are the stars the madman's cost for his inborn discontent?

Good night, Leonora. The light flickered on Marlowe's interphone. Good morning, Mr. Secretary. Good morning, Mary, what's up? Harrison's being deported from Dovenil, sir.

There's a civil crime charged against him, quite a serious one. Marlowe's eyebrows went up. How much have we got on it? Not too much, sir.

Harrison's report hasn't come in yet. But the stories on the news broadcast now, sir. We haven't been asked to comment yet, but immigration has been called by several news outlets and the Ministry for Education just called here

and inquired whether it would be all right to publish a general statement of their exchange students' careful instructions against violating local customs. Marlowe's glance brooded down the mass of papers

piled in the tray of his inbox. Give me a tape of a typical broadcast, he said at last. Hold everything else. Present explanation to all news outlets. None now, statement forthcoming

after preliminary investigation later in the day. The Ministry regrets this incident deeply and will try to settle matters as soon and as amicably as possible, et cetera, et cetera. Okay?

Yes, sir. He swung his chair around to face the screen, led into a sidewall, and colors began to flicker and run in the field almost immediately. He steadied and sharpened

and the broadcast tape began to roll. Date line, Dovonell, Sector 3, Day 183, 2417 GST. Your local news reporter on this small planet at the Union's Rim was unable today to locate or comment any of the high officials

of this alien civilization directly concerned with the order for the deportation of exchange student observer Hubert Harrison, charged with theft and violent assault on the person of a Dovonell citizen.

Union citizen Harrison was unavailable for comment at this time, but topical news will present his views and other such clues when more ensues. Marlowe grunted.

Journalese was getting out of hand again. That last rhyming sentence was sure to stick in the audience's brains. It might be only another advertising gimmick, but if they start doing it with the body

of the news' self, it might well be to feed topical enough false leads to destroy what little reputation for comprehensibility they had left. He touched his interphone switch.

Ah, Mary, what was the hooper on that broadcast? Under 1%, sir. Which meant that so far, the body politic hadn't been reached. Thank you.

Is there anything else coming in? Not at the moment, sir. What's Cabbage? What's Dalish and Claven doing? His residence is the solar hotel, sir.

The management reports that he is still in his room and has not reserved space on any form of long distance transportation. He has not contacted us either, and there's a strong probability

that he may still be unaware of what's happened. How many calls did he make yesterday, either before or after he was here, and to whom? I can get you a list in 10 minutes, sir. Do that, Mary.

He switched off, sat slapping the edge of his desk with his hand, and switched on again. Mary, I want the gin serves on the no-vanille area to a depth of 10 cubic lights. Yes, sir.

And get me Mr. Mead on the phone, please. Yes, sir. Marlow's lips pulled back from his teeth as he switched off. He snatched a candy bar out of his drawer,

tore the film part way off, then threw it back in the drawer as his desk phone chimed. Here, Chris. Here, Mr. Marlow. Look, Chris, has Holliday left Earth yet?

Yes, sir, yes, Dave. Where is he? Luna en route to Carl's Haven. He was lucky enough to have me arrange for his accidentally getting a ride on a gin-serve ship

that happened to be going out that way, if you follow me. Mead grinned. Get him back. The smile blanked out. I can't do that, Mr. Marlow.

He'd never be able to take it. You should have seen him when I put him on the shuttle. We doped him up with easy rest, and even then his subconscious could feel the bulkheads around him, even in his sleep.

Those shuttles are small, and they don't have ports. We can't help that. We need him, and I've got to talk to him first, personally. Mead bit his lip. Yes, sir, Dave.

Yes, Dave. Daily Shute Claven sat easily in his chair opposite Marlow. He rested one digit on his notebook and waited. Oud Claven, Marlow said ammubly, you're undoubtedly aware by now

that your opposite number on Dovonell has been charged with a civil crime and deported. The Devonilid nodded. An unfortunate incident, one that I regret personally, and which I am sure my own people

would much rather not have had happen. Naturally, Barlow smiled. I simply wanted to reassure you that this incident does not reflect on your own status in any way. We are investigating our representative,

and will take appropriate action, but it seems quite clear that the fault is not with your people. We have already forwarded reparations and a note of apology to your government.

As further reparation, I wish to assure you personally that we will cooperate with your personal observations in every possible way. If there is anything at all you wish to know, even that might, under ordinary conditions,

be considered restricted information, just call on us. Udd Claven's crest stirred a fraction of an inch, and Marlow chuckled inwardly. Well, even a brilliant spy might be forgiven an outward display of surprise under these circumstances.

The Dovonellid gave him a piercing look, but Marlow presented a featureless facade of bulk. The secretary chuckled in his mind once more. He doubted if Udd Claven would accept the hypothesis that Marlow did not know that he was a spy,

but the Dovonellid must be a sorely confused being at this point. Thank you, Marlow, he said finally. I am most grateful. I am sure my people will construe it

as yet another sign of the Union's friendship. I hope so, Udd Claven, Marlow replied. Having exchanged his last friendly lie, they went through the customary Dovonellid formula of leaf-taking.

Marlow slapped his interphone switch as soon as the alien was gone. Oh, Mary, what's the latest on holiday? His shuttle lands at Idlewild in half an hour, sir. All right, get Mr. Meade, have him meet me out front,

and get an official car to take us to the field. I want somebody from immigration to go with us. Call Idlewild and have them set up a desk and chairs for four out in the middle of the field. Call the ministry for traffic,

and make sure that field stays clear until we're through with it. My ministerial prerogative, and no back talk. I want that car in 10 minutes. Yes, sir.

Mary's voice was perfectly even without the slightest hint that there was anything unusual happening. Marlow switched off and twisted his mouth. He picked up the ginserv on the Dovonell area

and began skimming it rapidly. He kept his eyes carefully front as he walked out of his office, past the battery of clerks in the outer office and down the hall.

He kept them rigidly fixed on the door of his personal elevator, which during the day was human operated under the provisions of the Human Employment Act of 2302. He met Meade in front of the building

and did not look into the eyes of Bussard, the man from immigration, as they shook hands. He followed them down the walk in a sweaty agony of obliviousness and climbed into the car with carefully normal lack of haste.

He sat sweating, chewing a candy bar for several minutes before he spoke. Then slowly, he felt his battery fences reassert themselves and he could actually look at Bussard before he turned to Meade.

Now then, he wrapped out a shade to abruptly before he caught himself. Here's the ginserv on the Dovonell area, Chris. Anything in it you don't know already? I don't think so, sir.

Okay, dig me up a habitable planet, even a long-term false E will do, close to Dovonell, but not actually in their system. If it is at all possible, I want that world in a system without any rich planets

and I don't want any rich systems anywhere near it. If you can't do that, arrange for the outright sale of all mineral and other resource rights to suitable companies. I want that planet to be habitable,

but I want it to be impossible for any people on it to get at enough resources to achieve a technological culture. Can do? Meade shook his head.

I don't know. You've got about 15 minutes to find out. I'm going to start talking to Holliday and when I tell him I've got another planet for him, I'll be depending on you to furnish one.

Sorry to pile it on like this, but must be. Meade nodded. Right, Mr. Marlowe, that's why I draw a pay. Good boy. Now, Rabbit, Bussard, I want you to be ready

to lay out a complete advertising and prospectus program. Straight routine work, but about four times normal speed. The toughest part of it will be following the lead that Chris and I set. Don't be surprised at anything

and act like it happens every day. Yes, Mr. Marlowe. Right. Bussard looked uncomfortable. Uh, Mr. Marlowe.

Yes? About this man Harrison. I presume all this is the result of what happened to him on Dovonell. Do you think there's any foundation in truth

for what they say he did? Or do you think it's just an excuse to get him off their world? Marlowe looked at him coldly. Don't be an ass, he snorted.

Martin Holliday climbed slowly out of the shuttle's lock and moved fumblingly down the stairs, leaning on the attendant's arm. His face was a molted gray and his hand shook uncontrollably. He stepped down to the tarmac

and his head turned from side to side as his eyes gulped in the field's distances. Marlowe sat behind the desk that had been put up in the middle of its emptiness, his eyes brooding as he looked at Holliday.

Bussard stood beside him, trying nervously to appear noncommittal. While Meade went up to the shaking old man, grasped his hand and brought him over to the desk. Marlowe shifted uncomfortably.

The desk was standard size and he had to sit far away from it. He could not feel at ease in such a position. His thick fingers went into the side pocket of his jacket and peeled the film off a candy bar

and he began to eat it, holding it in his left hand as Meade introduced Holliday. How do you do, Mr. Holliday? Marlowe said, his voice higher than he would have liked it and he shook the man's hand.

I'm quite pleased to meet you, Mr. Secretary, Holliday replied. His eyes were darting past Marlowe's head. This is Mr. Bussard of immigration and you know Mr. Meade, of course.

Now I think we can all sit down. Meade's chair was next to Holliday's and Bussard's was to one side of the desk so that only Marlowe, unavoidably, blocked his complete view of the stretching tarmac.

First of all, Mr. Holliday, I'd like to thank you for coming back. Please believe me when I say we would not have made such a request if we're not urgently necessary.

It's all right, Holliday said in a slow, apologetic voice. I don't mind. Marlowe winced, but he had to go on. Have you seen the news broadcast recently, Mr. Holliday? The man shook his head in embarrassment.

No, sir, I've been asleep most of the time. I understand, Mr. Holliday. I didn't really expect you had under the circumstances. The situation is this. Some time ago, our survey ships,

working out in their usual expanding pattern, encountered an alien civilization on a world that designated more to on our maps and which the natives called Ovenill. It was largely a routine matter,

no different from any other alien contact which we've had. They had a relatively high technology, embracing the beginnings of interplanetary flight, and our contract teams were soon able to work out a diplomatic status

mutually satisfactory to both. Social observers were exchanged in accordance with the usual practice, and everything seemed to be going well. Holliday nodded out of painful politeness,

not seeing the connection with himself. Some of his nervousness was beginning to fade, but it was impossible for him to be really at ease with so many people near him, with all of Earth's billions lurking at the edge of the tarmac.

However, Marlow went on as quickly as he could. Today, our representative was deported on a trumped-up charge. Undoubtedly, this is only the first move in some complicated scheme directed against the Union. What it is, we do not know yet,

but further observation of the actions of their own representative on this planet has convinced us that they are a clever, ruthless people, living in a society which would have put Machiavelli to shame. They are single-minded of purpose,

and welding into a tight group whose major purpose in life is the service of the state in its major purpose, which, by all indications, is that of eventually dominating the universe. You know our libertarian society.

You know that the Union government is almost powerless, and that the Union itself is nothing but a loose federation composed of a large number of independent nations tied together by very little more than the fact that we are all Earthmen.

We are almost helpless in the face of such a nation as the Dovahni Lids. They have already outmaneuvered us once, despite our best efforts. There is no sign that they will not be able

to do so again at will. We must somehow discover what the Dovahni Lids intend to do next. For this reason, I earnestly request that you accept our offer of another planet

than the one you have optioned, closer to the Dovahni Lid system. We are willing, under these extraordinary circumstances, to consider your credit sufficient for the outright purchase of half the planet.

And Mr. Bussard here will do his utmost to get you suitable colonists for the other half as quickly as it can be done. Will you help us, Mr. Holliday? Marlow sank back in his chair.

He became conscious of a messy feeling in his left hand and looked down to discover the half-eaten candy bar had melted. He tried furtively to wipe his hand clean on the underside of the desk,

but he knew Bussard had noticed and he cringed and cursed himself. Holliday's face twisted nervously. I don't know. Please don't misunderstand us, Mr. Holliday, Marlow said.

We do not intend to ask you to spy for us, nor are we acting with the intention of now establishing a base of any sort on the planet. We simply would like to have a union world near the Dovahni Lid system.

Whatever Dovahni L does will not have gathered significant momentum by the end of your life. You will be free to end your days exactly as you have always wished. And the precautions we have outlined

will ensure that there will be no encroachments on your personal property during that time. We are planning for the next generation when Dovahni L will be initiating its program of expansion. It is then that we will need an established outpost

near their borders. Yes, Holliday said hesitantly. I can understand that. I don't know, he repeated. It seems all right.

And as you say, it won't matter during my lifetime and it's more than I'd really hoped for. He looked nervously at Meade. What do you think, Mr. Meade? You've always done your best for me.

Meade shot one quick glance at Marlow. I think Mr. Marlow's doing his best for the union, he said finally, and I know he's fully aware of your personal interests. I think what he's doing is reasonable

under the circumstances, and I think his proposition to you, as he's outlined it, is something which you cannot afford to not consider. The final decision is up to you, of course. Holliday nodded slowly, staring down at his hands.

Yes, yes, I think you're right, Mr. Meade. He looked up at Marlow. I'll be glad to help, and I'm grateful for the consideration you have shown me. Not at all, Mr. Holliday, the union is in your debt.

Marlow wiped his hand on the underside of the desk again, but he only made matters worse, for his fingers picked up some of the chocolate he had removed before. Mr. Meade, will you give Mr. Holliday the details

on the new planet, he said, trying to get his handkerchief out without smearing his suit? He could almost hear Bussard snickering. Holliday signed the new option contract and shook Marlow's hand.

I'd like to thank you again, sir. Looking at it from my point of view, it is something for nothing, at least, while I'm alive. And it's a very nice planet, too, from the way Mr. Meade described it,

even better than Carl's Haven. Nevertheless, Mr. Holliday, Marlow said, you have done the union a great service. We would consider it an honor if you allowed us to enter your planet in our records

under the name of Holliday. He kept his eyes away from Meade. Martin Holliday's eyes were shining. Thank you, Mr. Marlow, he said huskily. Marlow could think of no reply.

Finally, he simply nodded. It's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holliday. We've arranged transportation, and your shuttle will be taking off very shortly. Holliday's face began to bead with fresh perspiration

at the thought of bulkheads enclosing him once more, but he managed to smile and then asked hesitantly, may I wait for the shuttle out here, sir? Certainly, we'll arrange for that. Well, goodbye, Mr. Holliday.

Goodbye, Mr. Marlow. Goodbye, Mr. Bussard. And goodbye, Mr. Meade. I don't suppose you'll be seeing me again. Good luck, Mr. Holliday, Meade said.

Marlow twisted awkwardly in the car's back seat, wiping futilely at the long smear of chocolate on his trouser pocket. Well, he thought, at least he'd given the old man his name on the star maps until Earthmen stopped roving.

At least he'd given him that. Meade was looking at him. I suppose we've got time to let him die in peace, have we? He asked. Marlow shook his head.

I suppose we'll have to start breaking him immediately, won't we? Marlow nodded. I'll get at it right away, sir. Dave, does everybody have to hate me?

Can't anyone understand? Even you, Creed, even you, Meade. Daily chute Clavin, stooped and withered, sat hopelessly opposite Marlow, and he sat behind his desk like a grizzled polar bear,

his thinning mane of white hair unkempt and straggling. Marlow, my people are strangling, the old Dovon Alid said. Marlow looked at him silently. The Holliday Republic has signed treaty after treaty with us, and still their citizens raid our mining planets,

driving away our own people, stealing the resources we must have if we are to live. Marlow sighed, there's nothing I can do. We have gone to the Holliday government repeatedly, Hood Clavin pleaded.

They tell us the raiders are criminals, that they're doing their best to stop them, but they still buy the metal the raiders bring them. They have to, Marlow said. There are no available resources anywhere

within practicable distances. If they do have any civilization at all, they've got to buy from the outlaws. But they are members of the Union, Hood Clavin protested. Why don't you do anything to stop them?

We can't, Marlow said again. They're members of the Union, yes, but they're also a free republic. We have no administrative jurisdiction over them, and if we attempted to establish one,

our citizens would rise in protest all over our territory. Then we're finished, Dovon Al is a dead world. Marlow nodded slowly. I'm very sorry, if there's anything I can do, or that the ministry can do,

we will do it, but we cannot save the Dovon Alid state. Hood Clavin looked at him bitterly. Thank you, he said. Thank you for your generous offer of a gracious funeral. I don't understand you, he burst out suddenly.

I don't understand you people. Diplomatic lies, yes, expediency, yes, but this, this madness, this fanatical, illogical devotion of the state and the cause of the people who will tolerate no state.

This, no, this I cannot understand. Marlow looked at him, his eyes full of tears. Hood Clavin, he said, you are quite right. We are a race of maniacs, and that is why Earthmen rule the galaxy.

For our treaties are not binding, and our promises are worthless. Our government does not represent our people. It represents our people as they once were. The delay in the democratic process is such

that the treaty signed today fulfills the promise of yesterday, but today the body politics has formed a new opinion, is following a new logic, which is completely at variance with that of yesterday.

And Earthman's promise, expressed in words or deeds, is good only at the instant he makes it. A second later, new factors have entered into the old circumstances, and a new chain of logic has formed in his head

to be altered again a few seconds later. He thought suddenly of that poor, claustrophobic devil holiday, harried from planet to planet, never given a moment's rest,

and civilizing, civilizing, spreading the race of humankind wherever he was driven. Civilizing with a fervor no hired dummy could have accomplished, driven by his fear to sell

with all the real estate agent's talent that had been born in him, selling for the sake of money, with which to buy that land he needed for his peace, and always being forced to sell a little too much.

Bud Clavin rose from his chair. You are also right, Marlow. You are a race of maniacs, gibbering across the stars. And know, Marlow,

that the other races of the universe hate you. Marlow, with a tremendous effort, heaved himself out of his chair. Hate us? He lumbered around the desk

and advanced on the frightened Dovenna Lidd, who was retreating backwards before his path. Can't you see it? Don't you understand that, if we are to pursue any course of action over a long time,

if we are ever going to achieve a galaxy in which an Earthman can someday live in peace with himself, we must each day violate all the moral codes and creeds which we held in violet the day before. That we must fight against every ideal,

every principle which our fathers taught us, because they no longer apply to our new logic. You hate us? He thrust his fat hand, its nails bitten down to the quick and beyond,

in front of the cringing alien's eyes. You poor, weak, single-minded, ineffectual thing. We hate ourselves. End of section five.