Horsip and Moffis, on returning from their trip to Adrok IV, were a little dazed. Their heads whirled with details of installment loan contracts, franchises, interest compounded at 24 percent, inflation increasing at 8 percent, and riches for everyone, with poverty in lock step close behind. But before leaving, they had made arrangements with the Holy Brotherhood and others to transmit information on the planet; so that, at least, was accomplished. Their organization was now sending the High Council information on the numerous activities of the Earthmen. Horsip, however, was dissatisfied.
"Moffis, do you understand this stuff we're sending out?"
Moffis hesitated. "To tell the truth—no."
"Me either," said Horsip. "We have this report we sent back about our own visit. Consider the oil production information alone. By the time figures are on hand, it's obvious the Earthmen are increasing oil production at a fantastic rate. Despite an inflation on the planet, the price of oil has dropped. That benefits everyone who buys it. Despite big taxes on the oil, the drillers and refiners are getting rich. That's to their benefit. Apparently everyone benefits. But—meanwhile—there's this 'Society for a Livable Environment.' They claim that if something isn't done quick, the air will be unbreathable in twenty-six years and a half. They've got the facts to prove it. Then there's 'Concerned Citizens for Community Conservation.' They say the oil will run out in 24.7 years, unless rationing starts now; they've got figures to prove that. Next there's the 'Oil Industry Research Council,' and they claim that if they're allowed to push their production to the limit, that will give them money for research, and they'll be able to make oil out of rock inside of twenty years. They've got the figures for that. Each one of these organizations is run by an Earthman, and they all disagree. Moreover, each one can prove he's right. But, at best, only one can be right, because they contradict each other."
Moffis looked harassed.
"It's even worse than it seems. I just got a batch of reports wherein our people disguised themselves as 'newsmen,' and questioned some of these Earthmen. The Earthmen were all glad enough to answer questions. . . . Listen to this."
Moffis separated a bulky sheaf of papers from a bulging stack of reports, leafed through the sheaf, and read aloud:
"Mr. Smith was checking over his company's figures as I came in. He was beaming with good nature. He motioned me to sit down while he totaled up a column of figures, and murmured, 'Sixty million two hundred eighty-six thousand four hundred seventy-two. That checks.' He looked up, smiled broadly, and said, 'What can I do for you, young fellow? You aren't here to tell me your government has come out with an income tax, I hope.' He looked worried, and said, 'You aren't, are you?' "
Moffis paused, and scanned the pages rapidly. "Here we are. This is the part I wanted. . . . Mr. Smith stated, 'Our purpose, young fellow, is to press back the frontiers of poverty and the wilderness of despair. We can do this through sheer productiveness. Produce!—That's the answer to the problem! Make, build, produce, build, and produce again! Pile it up! Poverty can't stand up against it! That's the way to do it! With our methods of production, we can turn out ten, a hundred, a thousand items while the hand-laborer is working on one. Ours may not be quite as good as his, at first, but that's the next step. Produce, that's the first step. Improve, that's the second step. The more you make, the cheaper it gets to make it. Just let the forces of the market guide production into the right lines, and keep the producers unhampered, and the problem's solved. Nobody can be poor when he's got everything he needs. And he isn't likely to be despairing, either. As the stuff piles up, the price on it gets cheaper. It's bound to. Then everybody can afford it. This way, everybody gets rich. There's only one thing—keep the government out of it. Once they start sucking the profit out, all the prices go up. And they aren't subject to the laws of the market, either. They'll push production into the wrong lines. Then they've got a special bag of tricks to keep away any depression. A depression, you know, is when all the mistakes add up, and the something-for-nothing crowd gets taught what the truth is. A little depression puts everyone on his toes, after he's got fat and lazy from too much easy living. . . . So, you've got to keep the government out of it. And one other thing—you got to put some kind of limit on the number of college professors there are running around loose. You get a lot of funny things out of college professors. I don't understand it, but that's how it is.' "
Moffis put the report down, and Horsip frowned and massaged his chin.
Moffis said, "You see what I mean. He didn't hold anything back."
"But," said Horsip, "what does it mean?"
Moffis nodded. "That's it."
Horsip said, "Let's see that."
Moffis handed it to him. Horsip sat back, scowling, and leafed through the report.
"It appears to me, Moffis, that Smith has already been through a lot of things we've never dreamed of."
"Yes, but with Smith putting his solution to our problems into action, maybe now we will experience these things."
"H'm. I wonder what a 'depression' is?"
"I don't know, but I don't like the sound of it. It may not bother Smith, but it doesn't sound good to me."
"Whoever made up this report should have had the sense to find out what the words he put in the report meant."
"A lot of these reports don't add up, even with explanations. Here, let's have that one. . . . Now, here in back—here we are. 'Depression: A state of acutely depressed business conditions. In a "depression," there is no money. Except for the urgent necessities, the means of production are idle. Nearly everyone is filled with gloom and despair. The future looks dismal. People kill themselves from lack of hope. Objects worth large sums of money can be had cheaply by anyone with the money to buy them. But nobody has any money.' " Moffis looked up. "That's a depression."
Horsip said fervently, "It doesn't sound good."
"No," said Moffis, "but how does the money disappear? Here, under 'Boom,' it says, 'Exuberant state of the economy. Everyone has money. Prices are high, but no one hesitates to buy, as everyone expects conditions to be even better in the future.' "
Horsip shook his head. "This is as hard to figure out as an 'installment loan contract.' "
"And it's only the beginning. Here, for instance, we have a report titled 'Hairwire Finetuning of Planetary Economic Systems.' I haven't found a complete sentence in it anywhere I can understand. My mind sort of slides over the surface, and can't get a grip."
"This is another interview with an Earthman?"
"Yes, this one is a famous economics professor. He even impresses the Earthmen."
Moffis reached into his stack of reports, and pulled out another sheaf. "Listen to this. 'Economic Systems—Their Sabotage and Overthrow. How to Do It.' Take a look at this."
After the first three sentences, Horsip had an attack of chills, but he read through to the end.
Moffis said, "How do you like that one?"
Horsip reread the summary, then looked up.
"Do you notice, Moffis, that when one of our men interviews an Earthman, he comes away talking like the Earthman? Here, for instance, our man is describing what's the best thing to blow up. That's all right, because this interview was his job, and he's summarizing it. But listen to this: 'By this stage, the capitalists and their lackeys will lie awake nights drenched in sweat and shaking with fear. In their nightmare, they see the Revolution approach.' And so on. What's this?"
"Let's see that," said Moffis. He looked it over, frowning. "I didn't notice that when I was reading it. I suppose after reading that interview, this seemed mild by comparison. It's as if this Earthman had a bad case of something, and our man caught it from him."
"Let's see that first report again—the one on production. . . . Let's see, now." Horsip settled back, and turned to the summary. "Here we are. 'In summary, then, the important thing is, produce. Turn out the goods so fast and in such quantity that poverty and need are overwhelmed, swamped. Then, if too much is produced, the price goes down so anyone can buy the goods, and there is no harm done. Produce! That's the important thing! From high production, everybody profits.' "
Moffis sat up. "You're right! He caught it too!"
Horsip, scowling, weighed the reports in his hands.
"All these Earthmen, each with his special theory, are spread out through the Integral Union. That much we foresaw. But now—you remember, our men are supposed to make more fanatical 'reporters' than the Earth reporters who taught them. Apparently an Earthman can convince our people, and then they are stronger believers than he was. Can that be?"
Moffis was thinking it over. He said, "But, in that case . . ." And that was as far as he got, because at this point he stared across the room and stopped talking.
Horsip said, "Well, whether it's so or not, there's nothing we can do but improve the information network, hang on tight, and hope the High Council has some plan for taking care of this."
He became aware that Moffis was watching someone thread his way through the desks of busy workers and team supervisors, striding fast toward their slightly raised cubicle at the corner of the room. Horsip recognized Nokkel, the Security Chief.
Nokkel, looking as if he were suffering from a bad case of indigestion, opened the door of the cubicle, stepped in, and saluted.
Horsip studied Nokkel's expression, and returned the salute.
"Sir," said Nokkel, "we've turned up a communist cell in the Communications Section. And I—we—don't know what to . . ."
Horsip glanced out at the room full of desks and apparently busy individuals, where an intense silence suddenly reigned.
Horsip smiled, and spoke so his voice would carry. "Good news, Nokkel! That's fine work! Have a seat, and we'll work out the details."
The morbid interest on the watching faces turned to boredom, and the volume of noise in the room started to return to normal.
Horsip growled in a low voice, "Pull up a chair, Nokkel. Now, what's this? Let's have the details, and keep your voice down."
Nokkel leaned forward on the edge of his chair.
"Sir, what happened is that we got a tip from one of the men in the Communications Section that something suspicious was going on. We've used a new . . . ah . . . 'bug' and we've got evidence against the assistant chief of the section, two of the shift supervisors, and three of the men. The six are members of a 'cell,' and the leader is one of the men. He reports to someone else, and we're trying to trace that down, but we haven't got it worked out yet. They use 'drops,' code words, transmitters, something called 'microdots,' and ciphers that have driven my best men half out of their heads—and, well, frankly, sir, it's a mess. Somewhere there's an Earthman giving them instructions, but we don't know how he gets the information to them. We can't leave them where they are, because they will eventually trace down our sources and expose them to their own people. Moreover, they're trying to recruit new members. So we've got to stop them. On the other hand, if we close in now, we won't find out who they're reporting to, and it may be someone high in our own organization. We'd shift them onto less important work, but if we do they'll know we've found out. Every minute they're where they are, they do damage. But we don't dare touch them, because they're our only link to someone who may be doing more damage yet."
Horsip glanced at Moffis, who looked serious, and said nothing.
"So," said Horsip, turning to Nokkel, "you need to know what to do about this 'communist cell,' is that it?"
"Yes, sir."
Horsip again had that melting-ice sensation he'd had back on Earth.
Nokkel said jitterily, "I have the feeling that once I rip the cover off, there's no telling what we'll find. I'd have trusted these men anywhere. But they're all corrupt. My own assistants could be in on this. The whole organization could be . . ."
Horsip watched Nokkel alertly.
Nokkel gave a shuddering sigh. "No matter what you do, you can't beat the Earthmen. Some of those ciphers—I tried to show my men how to do it, but I got in a worse mess than they were in. You can't win. They're too smart. You—"
Horsip spoke confidently.
"You're overstrained, Nokkel. Now, don't worry about beating the Earthmen. It's true, they're clever, but they work against each other. Just bear in mind, there are a lot more of us, and we don't work against each other."
"But that's just it! Now we do. We—"
"Keep your voice down." Horsip looked into Nokkel's eyes. "All this is part of a great plan worked out by the High Council, Nokkel. It looks as if the Earthmen are making progress. But you know the High Council. The Earthmen see deep, but the Council sees deeper. Now, I can't tell you what the plan is. I don't claim to know more than a small part of it. But I can tell you the Earthmen are like a newly caught wild molk running around in a pasture. The molk looks ferocious. He is ferocious. But the herdsmen are watching him, and when the right time comes, they will throw out the tangle-ropes, and the molk will go down. Now, when I say we don't work against each other, naturally I mean our top men. Our top men are just like one man. But what of the leadership of the Earthmen? They are working in all directions. They are wasting their strength strangling each other. They can't win, Nokkel. Their strength is subtracted from each other. Not so with the High Council. Our strength is one, united, all working in the same direction. You and I may have a difficult time, but that doesn't matter. We will win in the end."
Nokkel's expression wavered through various shades of doubt and hope, but, as Horsip confidently approached the conclusion, Nokkel heaved a great sigh of relief.
"That's true," he said. "I've been so close to the details I've missed those points." His brow furrowed. "But now—on—this business with this 'cell'—what do we—"
"Clean them out," said Horsip firmly. "Arrest them, and put them to the question."
"But we'll lose the only link to their superior!"
"True, but every moment we leave them where they are, they do damage. And we can't move them without warning them, which would be worse. So, if we wait for them to give some lead to their superior, we may have a considerable wait, and the damage they do will offset what gain we make by capturing their superior, if we capture him."
"Truth," said Nokkel. He was silent a moment, his expression distracted and his lips working. Then he nodded again, and beamed. "Truth," he said briskly. "I will take them in at once."
He came to his feet, saluted, and went out. Horsip, watching him leave, saw one of his men study Nokkel alertly, then pick up a telephone. Horsip glanced over his staff. No less than three were speaking into phones while watching Nokkel.
Horsip noted their names on a slip of paper.
Moffis watched Nokkel go out.
"I just wonder if we have the man for this job."
"He seemed all right when we were setting up the job."
"I'm talking about now."
"Who would you suggest?"
After a lengthy silence, Moffis nodded. "That's so. At least Nokkel does do the job somehow." Moffis picked up a slim report, and tossed it over to Horsip.
"Someone is doing his job right."
Horsip glanced at the title of the report: "The Planetary Mob, and Its Control," by John Towers. Scowling, Horsip opened up the report, to read of a planet populated by huge numbers of humanoids that could digest practically everything that grew on the planet, and hence created population problems such as he, Horsip, had never conceived. Towers had gotten the Centran expedition on the planet out of a very tight spot, and yet the report was straightforward and free of poses of superiority.
Moffis said, "Just as I give up hope, another report from Towers comes in."
"Well, let's hope Nokkel cleans out that 'cell.' Maybe then things will come back to normal—whatever that may be."
Several hours later, Nokkel came in, to tell Horsip the members of the "cell" had been caught, along with enough evidence to shoot the lot. Better yet, one of them had folded up under questioning, and revealed the name of their highly placed superior, who had also been seized.
"So, sir," said Nokkel, his face glowing, "this foreign influence is wiped out, and everything is now in good order."
"That's good," said Horsip. "Now, Nokkel, there is just one thing that bothers me. This . . . ah . . . informant who uncovered the 'cell' . . . ?"
"Yes, sir. He will be rewarded, sir. We will take him into our organization, and give him staff rank."
"H'm . . . yes, but—how did he uncover this 'cell'?"
"By informing us, sir. He came right to us with the information. That broke the whole thing."
"Yes, but how did he find out about it?"
"He . . . ah . . ." Nokkel looked blank. "Let's see, now. He . . . h'm . . . it seems to me that what happened was that he came to us without anything specific, he just was worried and . . . these people acted suspicious to him, and he . . . well, he thought it was his patriotic duty, even though they were colleagues of his, and . . . well . . . it turned out he was right."
"I see," said Horsip, with no great air of conviction.
"Often these things depend on intuition," said Nokkel, looking wise. "It isn't the kind of thing you can lay your hand on, but there's just something that your . . . ah . . . clinical sense," he tapped his head and smiled expansively—"fastens on and says to you, 'Nokkel, my boy, there's something about this fellow that isn't right.' And then there's nothing to do but keep an eye on him, and often as not it's the dull unspectacular routine that gets him in the end."
Moffis cleared his throat coldly.
Horsip squinted at Nokkel, who was looking yet more expansive, and seemed about to let loose a new flood of wisdom. Gently, Horsip said, "Well, now, Nokkel, what does your intuition tell you about someone who comes to you and gives you a hint to watch someone else, and manages to get away without giving you any information at all as to how he knows what he knows?"
Nokkel, leaning back and twirling a little chain with some kind of watch charm that wound up on his finger, suddenly straightened up and looked awake. A hint of intelligence showed in his eyes.
"If you look at it that way . . ." He frowned, then shoved his chair back. "I'll check on it, sir." He saluted, and went out in a hurry.
Horsip, looking out over his staff, saw three of his men pick up their phones as Nokkel went out.
Moffis said, "Nokkel's clinical sense must have got chloroformed sometime."
"Either that," said Horsip, "or it's getting so many signals it can't handle them all. Don't look too interested, but in the Correlation Section there are two people on the phone, and in the Abstracting Section there's another."
"I see them," murmured Moffis. "That bird in Abstracting was looking at Nokkel's back as he went by."
"It doesn't seem to make much sense," said Horsip, "but the same three did the same thing the last time Nokkel went out."
Moffis scowled. "It must mean something."
"Someone," said Horsip, "must want to know as soon as Nokkel is on his way back to his office."
"But why three of them?"
"I have an idea," said Horsip, "but it's going to have to wait until Nokkel takes care of this informant of his."
It didn't take long for that to happen.
Nokkel, looking haunted, settled into the chair opposite Horsip.
"You were right, sir. I sprang a surprise on him, told him I'd known all along, and he'd better come absolutely clean if he expected to get his sentence lightened. The shock jarred everything right out of him. He was working for MI-5."
Horsip felt queasy. " 'MI-5.' Let's see, that's—"
Nokkel said exasperatedly, "There's this island down there on Earth, it's just a little place, but we've got so much information on it no one actually knows anything about it. . . . Anyway, MI-5 operates out of there."
Moffis frowned. "If you've got so much information, how is it you don't know anything about it?"
"Because, sir, we can't digest it all. For one thing, we don't know what's fact and what's imagination. If we only had a tenth of the information, we'd be better off." He thought a moment. "A hundredth would be better yet. We could handle that."
Horsip said, "At least you've discovered that this fellow who gave you the information about that 'cell' was an agent for MI-5? . . . That's settled, at least?"
Nokkel looked jarred. "Did I say that? No, that one was the agent for the CIA."
Moffis swore.
Horsip said, "I understood you to say you questioned him, and he was an agent for MI-5,"
"Yes, sir . . . ah . . . I see what happened. There are so many of them, it's hard to keep track. He—the CIA agent—was the one that told me about the 'cell.' I got at him through this other fellow on our staff that I was suspicious of. He was working for MI-5."
Horsip squinted, started to ask a question, and thought better of it.
"Anyway," he said, "you got both of them?"
Nokkel said doggedly, "There were three of them by the time we got it all taken care of."
Moffis massaged his temples.
"At any rate," said Horsip, "they're all taken care of now?"
"It's like a weed with a taproot," said Nokkel. "I got the part I could get a grip on. But it looks to me like maybe it broke off further down."
"Just get all you can," said Horsip stubbornly. He had the impression that he was walking forward fast and nevertheless going slowly backward. "Now, while you're in here, Nokkel, is it possible that something could be taking place behind your back—something that would have to end when you leave—so someone would want to be warned when you leave?"
Nokkel said uneasily, "Well . . . there are only three possibilities. But I'm sure each of them is well guarded against." He glanced from Horsip to Moffis. "Why, what . . ."
"Three possibilities?" said Horsip.
"Yes, sir. First, there's my secret file. Second, there's my quarters. And third, there's the Master Control Center Surveillance Cubicle. But the file has a special lock, and I have the only key. My quarters can only be reached by a corridor that's always guarded by very trustworthy guards. And the Surveillance Cubicle has a special lock, extra trustworthy guards, and a secret camera and recorder that start as soon as anyone enters." Nokkel looked briefly smug, and then uneasy.
"Why?"
Horsip said, "Don't turn around, or give any sign, but each time you leave here, three of our men out there get on the phone."
Nokkel looked shocked, then mad.
"If I could borrow your phone for just a minute, sir? . . . The one that connects up with Internal Security?"
Horsip reached out to the bank of phones, and handed it over.
Nokkel sat back.
"Hello, Groffis. Nokkel speaking. I want special details sent to surround and break into my quarters, the secret file room, and the Control Center Surveillance Cubicle. . . . I don't care what it makes us look like if there's no one there. You'll either carry out that order without delay, or I'll have you strung up by the heels, my boy, and what will people think of that, eh? . . . That's better. Now if no one is there, it was just an exercise, but if anyone is there, capture them, and if they resist, shoot them. The main thing is, get them one way or the other."
Nokkel's voice, instead of getting louder, stayed at the same level, but seemed to get more intense.
Horsip and Moffis looked approving, then Nokkel handed back the phone, and Horsip hung it up. Nokkel gave a shuddering sigh.
"But I can't believe that anyone could be in any of those places!"
"Let's hope not," said Horsip. "But, in that case, we have the problem of why these three in here are on the phone when you leave."
"Well," said Nokkel grimly, "I've had plenty of practice lately shaking information out of people, and we can do the same to this bunch. The trouble is, I can get only so far. Even if they're willing to talk, there's a limit. These Earthmen apparently have more spies on that one little planet than we have in all the Integral Union. As nearly as I can figure it out, every dot of land down there has a spy system stealing information from everyone else. The result is, they know just how to do it. They've had so much practice the thought of it weighs me down. I feel outclassed."
"Luckily," said Horsip, "it's easy to tell the difference between one of them and one of us. Otherwise, they'd be all over the place. Now, as soon as we clear this up, there's another problem." Horsip was talking about this when there was a sharp ring, and he turned, to see the little metal flag raised beside the "Internal Security" phone. He took it off its hook, and handed it to Nokkel.
Nokkel listened intently to a voice that squawked excitedly as it ran words together. Finally, whoever was on the other end ran down, and Nokkel said, "All right, lock them all up separately, and get started on the questioning. . . . Yes, I'll be there, but not right away." Scowling, Nokkel handed the phone back to Horsip, who hung it up. "Sometimes," said Nokkel, "I wonder if I should trust him."
Horsip said, "Exactly my own feeling, Nokkel, about almost everybody in this room. I suggest you go back early, to just find out if you can. Now, here are the names of the three who watched when you went out. It might be a good idea to pick up the lot, as soon as possible. Then, since we've got things moving, I think we should search everybody's quarters while we're at it, and get a look at anything that seems suspicious."
"When, sir?"
"As soon as you can get things in order."
Nokkel shoved back his chair.
Horsip said, "Before you go—what did your men find in your three safe places?"
"Spies," said Nokkel. As Nokkel went out, the same three members of Horsip's staff watched alertly, and picked up their phones. Looks of puzzlement, then horror, crossed their faces. Hastily, they hung up. Furtively, they glanced toward Horsip, then busied themselves at their work until Nokkel's men suddenly came in and dragged them all out.
By that same evening, Horsip was examining a collection of code books, miniature transmitters, propaganda leaflets, instructions for spies, false teeth with poison pellets inside, and numerous copies of The Works of Mao Tse-Tung Translated Into the Centran. Nokkel, obviously suffering from a headache, reported that he had so many prisoners he had run out of jail cells, and had put a lot of them in the same cell, whereupon a ferocious squabble had broken out, with prisoners accusing each other of being "imperialists," "commie goons," "revisionists," "lousy bloodsuckers," and other names that had so far proved impossible to translate.
The meaning of what was taking place suddenly dawned on Horsip.
The Integral Union was being turned into a battleground for all the conflicting opinions represented on the planet Earth.
And those conflicting opinions had come close to blowing Earth to bits.
That same day, Horsip put his conclusions into a report to the High Council, and grimly braced himself for the reply.
In the next few days, with a considerably smaller staff, Horsip got the routine moving again, and waited for the High Council to reply to his message.
The High Council took its time about replying. Meanwhile, Horsip's system for gathering information had gotten into high gear, and the reports flooded in. The trend on the planets became glaringly plain, and the more Horsip saw of it, the less he liked it.
He tossed over to Moffis a report titled "The New Planetary Arms Race—Who's Ahead?" Moffis tossed back a report headed "Superneonazi Culture on Maphrik II—the Deification of a Racial Hero-Type."
Moffis groaned and Horsip snarled as he read:
" . . . thus in the launching of the first squadron of this formidable space fleet, the Warrior Hero of Ganfre's Cult of the Supreme is become the central point d'appui of the Total State. Vowing total conquest of the universe in twenty years, Guide Ganfre was cheered by a crowd of half a million as—"
Horsip looked up, to see a messenger salute, and present a sealed envelope and receipt. Horsip signed, the messenger went out, and Horsip read:
"You and your second-in-command are required to report at the earliest practicable moment, to give your personal assessment of the situation. . . . J. Roggil, Vice-Chairman, the High Council."
"At last," said Horsip. "Here, Moffis, read this."
Moffis growled, "One of these reports at a time is enough."
"No, Moffis. The message."
"What message?"
"Here."
"Ah, I thought it was another report. Let's see . . . good! Good! Now maybe we can get some action!"
"Phew!" said Horsip. " 'Ganfre's Cult of the Supreme,' 'Moggil's Totalization of the State,' 'The Free Life on Qantros III,' 'The Dictatorship of the Proletariat on Gengrak IV,' 'Maximedimastercare Programs on Stulbos VI'—if I never see another of these things, that will be soon enough."
"Too soon," said Moffis. "I hope the Council is satisfied we have the Earthmen spread out enough by now."
"Moffis," said Horsip fervently, "when we get through describing this mess, I'll be surprised if the High Council doesn't squash some of these maniacs before the day is out."
The trip to report to the High Council took longer than Horsip or Moffis had expected. The High Council was in the far end of the Centran system, well beyond the line of demarcation of the Sealed Zone. In getting there, the contraction of time known to the Centrans by experience, and predicted in theory by the Earth mathematician Einstein, came strongly into effect. While the trip seemed long enough to them, from the viewpoint of a person back at their headquarters, far more time had passed. But, finally the trip was over.
This time, the whole Council listened as Horsip and Moffis, in turn, gave their reports, and answered questions, and Horsip summed up:
"The Earthmen have split up, as expected, but instead of quietly supplying useful leavening for our own people, they have converted large numbers of them to their viewpoints. Now, this might not be too bad if only successful Earth viewpoints were put in action. Instead, every collection of fanatical believers has settled a planet of their own, and converted the populace to their own ideas. We now have all kinds of fanatics, all over the place. We're overrun with spies, dictators, weird philosophies, and little space fleets turning into big space fleets.
"These Earthmen are brilliant, but they have a capacity for being one-sided such as no Centran ever dreamed of. They can take a philosophy that's insane on the face of it, and make it work—for a while, anyway.
"I think we should straighten this out while there's still time to straighten it out.
"I respectfully submit that we should divide the planets taken over by the Earthmen into two categories—those anyone can see are the work of maniacs, and those that offer hopes of improvement. The first, we should take over by force."
Horsip became aware that the High Council was not being swept off its feet.
Roggil said thoughtfully, "An accurate presentation, General. But applying force right now won't work."
"Sir, we can't stand by while power-hungry madmen get started piling up space fleets. A lunatic is serious business once he's got a gun in his hand. As it is now, we can smash the lot of them."
"Whereupon, the trouble would spread. No, Horsip. It has to come to a head first."
Horsip felt a powerful impulse to disagree, but suppressed it.
Roggil studied Horsip's expression.
"There are some facts, General, known only to us and to the highest religious authorities. I can't say any more that that."
"Yes, sir."
"We are not necessarily unanimous. But many of us believe something very useful may come out of this situation. That, in fact, something useful is bound to come out of it. Accordingly, you are to continue to observe and report to us. When and if the time comes, we won't hesitate to use force in whatever way is necessary. Meanwhile, for your personal safety, we are assigning a unit of highly trained shock troops, and a reinforced squadron of the Fleet, to act under your direct command. You are answerable to no one but us for the way you use this force. We trust you to use it in strict accord with our expressed wishes."
Horsip, beginning to have visions of laying a few dictators by the heels, got control of his imagination, and said stoically, "Yes, sir."
And that was the end of the interview with the High Council, though some of them nodded in a friendly way as Horsip went out.
After the lengthy trip back, Horsip and Moffis found themselves once more at their desks, where things meanwhile had progressed. Although the trip had seemed long enough to Horsip, he hadn't realized how much more time had passed here.
The first report Horsip opened up suggested the change:
Summary: In summary, it appears safe to say that Premier Ganfre, in creating for himself (through his rubber-stamp cabinet) the post of Unified Planets' Guide, has solidified his absolute control over the six planets now subject to him. Guide Ganfre is thus well placed to protect himself from any attack by the comparatively split home planets of the Space Soviet. He can also, if he chooses, attack with the bulk of his forces any one of the planets of the Soviet. Intensive analysis of the situation suggests that either Ganfre or the Soviet can be expected to move soon against the various Free Planets, the Farmers Union planets, and the fantastic Free Life worlds. However, as all these planets are under the control of various Earthmen, no certain prediction can be made, only estimates based on analysis of the relative military power of the various planets, and on intensive study of parallel situations on the Earthmen's home planet. No exact analogy to this present situation can be found, partly because of the control thought to be exercised over the Space Soviet from one nation on the planet Earth. But the apparent probabilities are those given above.
Horsip looked up dizzily, "Six planets." He turned to Moffis, who was studying a thick report he had doubled over, and which was threatening to spring shut at any moment.
Horsip started to speak, changed his mind, and looked sourly at the stack of reports on his desk. He told himself that, after all, he could consider the trip to the High Council as a kind of vacation. But the fact now had to be faced that, to write the overall summary of the situation at regular intervals, he had to keep track of what was happening. He took the top report, and looked at the title: "Agriculture in the Farmers Union."
Horsip opened it up, looked surprised, then began to relax. The report described friendly cooperation between farmers of various kinds from Earth and the Centran farmers. Photographs and sketches showed farm layouts, schemes for returning all the by-products to the soil, new breeds of molk and Earth cattle, ponds, orchards, descriptions of Earth fruits, vegetables, and grains, and Horsip, reading this, fell into a happy frame of mind.
And then he discovered that this planet was not armed.
Horsip sent for a copy of the Articles of Union between Earth and Centra, and discovered that Centran Armed Forces could be used to protect, attack, or otherwise regulate a planet only by approval of the Control Committee. The Control Committee was made up of the three representatives from Centra, and three from Earth. The three from Earth were picked by the various power blocs on the planet. The three from Centra, in the last analysis, were appointed by the High Council. The decision of the Control Commission had to be unanimous to be effective. If any member voted against the others, the decision was nullified.
Checking the records of the Control Commission, Horsip found a long list of resolutions:
Resolved: That the Snard Soviet be warned against aggression. 5–1
Resolved: That Dictator Ganfre be seized and shot. 5–1
Resolved: That the Rogebar Soviet be occupied militarily. 5–1
Resolved: That Dictator Schmung be arrested. 5–1
Resolved: That the Snard Soviet be disarmed. 5–1
Resolved: That free elections be held on Snard. 5–1
Resolved: That Snard be warned against aggression. 5–1
Resolved: That Snard be forced to cease its military action. 5–1
Resolved: That help be dispatched to Lyrica against Snard. 5–1
Horsip looked up in disgust. All these resolutions were waste paper because they weren't unanimous. Checking further, he discovered that every time the vote was 5–1, it was some Earth representative who objected. When Centra objected, the vote was generally 3–3. Horsip nodded approvingly. That was more like it. But the Earthmen, naturally, couldn't even agree with each other. He shook his head, sent the records back to the files, and reached for the next report. This proved to be about a planet renamed "Cheyenne" by the Earthmen:
. . . inhabitants all wear guns strapped around their waists, and excel in drawing the guns rapidly, in "horsemanship" (the horse is a beast imported from Earth—like a slender molk with no horns), and in games played with cards (like our Grab but more complicated), and by means of various contraptions intended to provide unpredictable chance. Exactly who set up this set of customs is not known, the first immigrants having long since been shot by later arrivals. While there is no visible reason for contentment, rough humor and good nature for some reason prevail . . .
Horsip scratched his head, sifted through the report, and read:
. . . somewhat over three thousand volunteers are believed to have gone to Lyrica during the Snard invasion. A resolution to punish Cheyenne was introduced in the Control Commission, but vetoed by the Euramerican representative. Upwards of ten thousand casualties are believed to have been inflicted on the Snard troops, who were baffled by the Cheyenne method of fighting. Survivors of the Cheyenne expedition are believed to have settled into rough broken country on Lyrica, from which they still raid the Snard troops. They are said to be led by an "Apache Indian." What that is, is not known, but it appears effective, as Snard is compelled to maintain a huge garrison . . .
Horsip skimmed farther, then picked up a paper headed "A Study of Conditions on the Planet Bibedebop."
He murmured the name to himself, weighed the report in his hand, told himself he would have to read it to report on it, flipped through it rapidly, and was not encouraged by the dense mass of print that looked up in one solid block of technicalities. Horsip turned to the summary:
Summary: To summarize, in the simplest possible terms, the inhabitants of Bibedebop, believing in the vanity of any expectation of future reward or punishment, and the inapplicability of conventional mores to the human condition, strive to maximize the input of pleasurable sensation, while severely restricting the output of conventionally so-regarded productive effort. "Maximization of satisfaction with minimization of effort" might be regarded as the life-goal of the inhabitants. Indeed—
Horsip looked up angrily. From Moffis' desk came a thump as he set down the massive report. Horsip tossed his own report on the "Outgoing" heap. "Do you have one worth reading?"
"Yes," said Moffis, "but it isn't pleasant."
"If you're through, let's see it."
Moffis handed it over. Horsip pried it open to read "Armament Rates of Earth-Dominated Planets."
Horsip felt a chill as he looked at charts marked "Weapons Production, Overall," "Space Ship Production," "Growth of Technological Production." Toward the edge of each chart, the curves climbed like ships headed for outer space.
Absorbed, Horsip was only vaguely aware of exclamations of astonishment from Moffis. When Horsip, skimming fast to get the highlights, which fit together like a well-made gun, finally came to the end, Moffis was just looking up.
"Well, Moffis," said Horsip, "that does make unpleasant reading."
"This is almost as bad. Would you believe that there is actually a planet where everything man-made is barred? And they've made the rule hold!"
"What do they eat?"
"Nuts and berries. Roots. Snigglers and wrettles. Thousand-bristled thread-spinners. Anything that's natural."
Horsip thought of the discipline that would have to be imposed to enforce such a rule. But the Earthmen had doubtless accomplished it by putting across a theory.
Horsip shook his head.
"This is worse. All these dictators arm themselves at top speed, while most of the other planets don't arm at all—"
"Of course," said Moffis, "the other planets shouldn't have to arm. They have a right to look to the Fleet for protection."
"Yes, but with this Control Commission, what use is the Fleet?"
Moffis said thoughtfully, "If the Fleet would just blow up the Control Commission . . ."
Horsip looked shocked.
"We couldn't have that. That would be a . . ."
He paused, considering it, then shook his head.
"That would be a breakdown of discipline. We couldn't have that—unless higher authority ordered it."
Moffis nodded.
"Just let them order it soon."
Before the eyes of Horsip and Moffis, the changes took place, and if the High Council was disturbed by it, they gave no sign. Day by day, the control of the Earthmen broadened and tightened. More and more planets fell under their sway, and instead of being slowed by the sheer bulk of Centrans who had to be persuaded to new ways, their progress seemed accelerated by the Centran respect for ideas. The Earthmen, apparently used to more stubborn argument, seemed to organize whole planets overnight. Only where the Holy Brotherhood was exceptionally strong, or the Earthmen very weak, were the Earthmen defeated. With these exceptions the peaceful conquest of Centra by Earth swept forward, with the differences amongst the Earthmen extended to the Centrans. Horsip and Moffis, aching for action, varied their monotonous scrutiny of reports by occasional visits to planets.
"Ah, yes, my son," said a beaming priest, cracking his knuckles as he stood overlooking a spaceport where large numbers of dejected Earthmen were trooping out to waiting space-ships, "The Earthmen came, and the Earthmen went, and the planet is still the same, and the Brotherhood remains. Bad luck attended the Earthmen wherever they turned, dear me! The design of the Great One, I think, was plain in the way their factories burned down and their plans blew up, whatever they did. Would you believe it, they had a usurious scheme by which a person might squander money yet unearned on wasteful self-indulgence! They then aimed to sink wells deep in the ground to suck out the lamp oil reserved to future generations, and burn it up in a rush. If once they had got started, there is no telling what deviltry they might have brought to pass! But the Brethren were alert. We clung to them close, and inflicted on them the Judgment of the Great One. The loss the Earthmen suffered on this planet was fantastic! Look at the sorry crew! They may, of course, be back. We are busily spreading tales of their evil designs so the people will be ready. If truth were told, there were one or two little . . . er . . . instances of excessive zeal amongst our own people. . . . But in a good cause."
"Phew," said Moffis, when they were on their way again, "did you notice the look in that priest's eye when he told about the Earthmen's factories burning down? By the way, the back of his robe, along the edge, looked scorched."
"It seemed to me," said Horsip, "that every one of the Brotherhood smelled of smoke—except the saintly High Priest, himself, of course."
"Yes, but what a crafty look his assistant had!"
Horsip nodded. "The Earthmen ran into it that time, all right."
Horsip and Moffis then went over the latest batch of reports, and had any sense of pity for the Earthmen knocked to bits.
"Look at this. The Snard Soviet has got another planet."
"So has Ganfre—and he's armed to the teeth."
Soon Horsip was reading a report of disasters and calamities that were hard to believe until he realized this was about that planet he had heard of before—where everything man-made was banned. Wide-eyed, he read:
. . . as no food had been stored, this frost in the Radigg region was a disaster. Coming on top of the floods, which have occurred periodically throughout the planet's history, they aggravated the food shortage into a famine. Meanwhile, the planetary government issued assurances that all would be well. As the famine worsened, a delegation of leading citizens demanded a return to systematic storage of food, at least. The planetary government assured the delegation that the Bounty of Nature could be relied on, and that all man's troubles had come from eating artificial food, artificially raised by man. The tilling of the soil was unnatural, the government asserted, man having been meant to find his food in the field like other animals. If there was need, Nature would provide. If Nature did not seem to provide, then it was because the population was too high, and the thing to do was to let Nature adjust the population downward. The result of this pronouncement was revolution, and the planet, its population considerably shrunken, has returned to traditional Centran methods. Although it was only one particular kind of Earthman who caused the trouble, the population now does not like Earthmen, and in the past month two innocent tourists have been dipped in hot tar, while another was only barely rescued from being thrown headfirst into a volcano. The planet was a popular stop on the Nature-Lover's Tour before the food ran out, but . . .
There was the whack of paper on a desk top, and Horsip turned to see Moffis shake his head.
"No matter what you say, these Earthmen have increased production. They do it on the 'free-enterprise' planets. They do it on the dictator planets. They make a fantastic increase."
"But," said Horsip, "they aren't looking very far ahead. The waste is terrific."
"That isn't going to help us when we run into this concentration of space-ships."
"But they don't agree with each other."
"Let's hope they never do. They're going to be as big as the Fleet soon."
Horsip nodded moodily, and pulled a fresh report off the stack: "Disaster on Bibedebop."
"Ah," he murmured, "that's where they minimize work and maximize pleasure." He opened up the report, to read of whole sections of the population stupefied by drugs while others stole their possessions. He read of an arrangement whereby volunteers tried out new drugs without charge for a generous drug-manufacturing cartel operating out of Dictator Ganfre's home planet. There were so many volunteers that distillery owners and beer-parlor operators were virtuously trying to end the arrangement. Meanwhile, the cartel was testing a superhallucinant that provided the illusion of fulfilling the user's wants so vividly there seemed no need to really fulfill them. To get a satisfying banquet, it was only necessary to snort up the nose a quarter teaspoonful of green powder. So why bother with food? As the population starved and the cartel's scientists methodically took notes, something else came along:
. . . wave after wave of Mikerils, without warning, each successive wave more powerful than the last, struck the main population centers . . .
Horsip, startled, read a grisly description that brought back the fears of childhood. But then he relaxed. . . . After all, this was the account given by the survivors of a tremendous overuse of hallucinants.
Horsip turned to the next report. This told of " . . . an amalgamation of these worlds that would have seemed unlikely only a short time ago. The various varieties of planetary Soviets, for instance, are now combining with the Snard Soviet against the Free Planets Union, formed to resist the National Racist Planetary Alliance dominated by Dictator Ganfre. Ganfre, meanwhile, is successfully wooing more planets that are alarmed by the conglomeration of soviets. Confronted by these gigantic combinations, the Free Planets Union has formed an alliance with the agrarian planets still uncommitted, but it is unknown how the balance of power will be affected by . . ."
Horsip read on, report after report, and when he finished he shook his head, pulled over a blank sheet of paper, and began to write:
To the High Council:
Sirs:
I send herewith summaries of reports which describe typical situations we are now facing.
I again urge the use of force in the greatest possible strength, to smash the armed combinations now formed within the Integral Union. I urge the use of the Fleet, reinforced to the maximum possible extent regardless of dangers elsewhere, in a surprise attack against either Ganfre or Snard. Immediately following the elimination of this opponent, I urge that the Fleet at once be placed in the most favorable position to attack with its full remaining strength the other combination, whether headed by Snard or Ganfre.
If this attack is made at the earliest possible moment, and if all available force is used against each opponent singly, it may still be possible to destroy these combinations.
Respectfully,
K. Horsip
Member, Supreme Staff
Director of Surveillance
Horsip handed the message to Moffis, who was moodily eyeing a large chart headed:
Order of Battle, the Nationalist Racist
Planetary Alliance, Compared with:
Order of Battle, the United Socialist Planets Soviets
Moffis was grumbling to himself when Horsip handed the message to him. He read in silence, then slammed his fist on the table.
"Good! But there's no time to lose."
Horsip nodded grimly, and sent the message.
The rough idea of Horsip's recommendation found its way into general knowledge among his staff, so there was a tense silence as a messenger brought a sealed message to Horsip.
Horsip dismissed the messenger, ripped the envelope open, and read:
By Command
The High Council
The High Council believes that any interference in the situation at present would defeat its purposes.
What is needed instead is fuller information.
You are hereby requested to review the whole situation, basing your report as far as possible on first-hand information.
J. Roggil
Vice-Chairman
Horsip looked up in disgust. Moffis read the message, sitting tense and alert as he started, and slumping as he read. He handed it back to Horsip.
"Now what?"
"Now we look over more planets."
"What would happen if instead of waiting for the Council, the Supreme Staff ordered the attack?"
Horsip felt the electric jolt go through him. Then he found himself mentally counting votes. Argit would be opposed. Maklin would very possibly agree. Roffis would do what he thought was right, but would he go against the High Council? And what about the High Council itself? Horsip suddenly laughed.
"It would be a disaster, Moffis. The High Council wouldn't stand there with its tail wrapped around its ankles while we flouted its authority."
"But if we let this go on, that will be a disaster."
"I know it. But I know it wouldn't work to go against the High Council. . . . Besides, it would be wrong."
Moffis said unwillingly, "I know that. But something has to be done. This is almost out of control."
"Maybe the Council does know something we don't know."
Moffis showed a flicker of hope.
"In that case—if we keep looking, we should find it."
But no matter how they traveled, the situation was now developing so fast that the impression of its hopelessness had to be revised upward from day to day. They had traveled quietly on earlier visits, but now commerce raiders preyed on the shipping lanes, and terrorists amused themselves by planting bombs on passenger ships, and taking pot shots from the shrubbery around spaceports. This time Horsip brought along the guard allotted him by the High Council, along with the reinforced squadron of the Fleet that the Council had provided. Horsip spent his spare time, while not reading reports and writing summaries, making sure his force was in good order; and the effect created by this show of strength brought home to Horsip how long it had been since the central authority of the Integral Union had made its will felt.
As his reinforced squadron, its guns and launchers bared for action against the raiders, flashed past planets and space depots belonging to various authorities, its presence acted like a hot poker on tender hide. Through the big screens in the flagship's command center, Horsip could see the hasty departure of questionable ships, the scattering of convoys, and the hurried deployment of warships off the planets of dictatorships. Occasionally a challenge flashed in:
From: Supreme High Command
National Racist Planetary Alliance
Supreme Commander
Region of Snarlebat II, Shock Combat Legion of Space
To: Unknown Fleet
Message:
Identify yourself at once, or withdraw from NRPA territory, subject to attack by NRPA combat forces at full condition of readiness. Your reply is demanded immediately.
Signed:
Q. Drekkil
Supreme Commander
Shock Combat Legion of Space
Region of Snarlebat II
"What do we do about that, sir?" inquired the squadron's communications officer, as Horsip looked up from the message.
Horsip, itching to flatten Q. Drekkil, and sling the Shock Combat Legion of Space into the nearest sun, reminded himself of the High Council's instructions, and asked himself whether Drekkil could be induced to attack. Whereupon Horsip, of course, could defend himself.
"H'm," said Horsip. "This is an important matter. It will require some time to think of a suitable reply."
"Yes, sir. But . . . ah . . . beg pardon, sir, it says here an immediate answer is necessary."
"It does, doesn't it? Possibly I'll have it ready after the evening meal."
The communications officer blinked, and pulled out his watch. He looked up at Horsip, and just at that moment the squadron commander stepped in.
"Sir, we've got two squadrons of warships closing in on us. I've just had a point-blank warning to stop at once."
Horsip considered coldly what would happen if he were now attacked and he and the squadron wiped out while he was attempting to get information for the High Council. What would the Council do?
Horsip glanced at the communications officer.
"Send: 'This is General Klide Horsip of the Supreme Staff. These are Fleet ships of the Integral Union. We will neither stop, alter course, nor answer questions. You are required to stand aside and cover your guns in the presence of the Fleet.' "
The communications officer blinked, scribbled on his pad, and rushed out. The squadron commander stared at Horsip a moment.
"If they open fire—"
"We'll see how many we can take with us."
The squadron commander bared his teeth in a grin, saluted, and stepped out.
The big screen showed the onrush of the two squadrons of the Shock Combat Legion. From the angle of view and comparative velocities, it was evident that Horsip's squadron had not altered course or speed in the slightest. The Shock Combat Legion continued to close in. Then the view in the viewscreen turned into chaos as the ships of the oncoming squadrons clawed to get out of the way, broke formation, gun covers sliding over the turrets, the still uncovered guns and launchers deflecting in any direction to avoid aiming at Horsip's ships. The long-range detector apparatus of the scattered ships swung around in all directions, obviously seeking what might be coming along behind Horsip.
Horsip shook his head. The ships of the Shock Combat Legion were now straining to form a guard of honor.
The communications officer came in, looking dazed.
"Sir, we've got a reply."
He held out a slip of flimsy paper. Horsip skimmed the heading, and came to the business part of the message:
High Admiral Querk Drekkil, Supreme Commander of the Shock Combat Legion of Space in the Region of Snarlebat II, extends respectful greeting to General Horsip of the Integral Union. High Admiral Drekkil wishes to assure General Horsip of the kind regard in which the Integral Union is held by the National Racist Planetary Alliance. If High Admiral Drekkil may assist General Horsip in action against any common enemy, General Horsip has only to request assistance, and High Admiral Drekkil will give the request his most careful consideration.
Horsip scowled, glanced at the screen, where the two squadrons had formed a guard of honor and were falling behind as they altered course to align themselves with Horsip's ships. The speed with which they maneuvered showed good discipline and good ships.
All the weapons of Drekkil's squadrons, as the individual ships were picked out under high magnification, were covered. Drekkil had obeyed Horsip's demand, but the message showed that he regarded the Integral Union as a foreign power, not a central government. The precision of handling of Drekkil's ships demonstrated the force supporting his position. Drekkil, however, had no way to know what might be coming along after Horsip. Possibly that was his reason for being so agreeable.
Horsip growled, "Let's have a message blank."
The communications officer handed over his pad.
Horsip wrote:
General Klide Horsip expresses his thanks for the offer of that assistance which is required of every citizen of the Integral Union, to whatever planetary group or association he may belong.
As this is not the advance element of a punitive expedition, but merely General Horsip's personal guard, no such assistance is required.
Horsip considered the message narrowly, then handed it to the communications officer. The communications officer looked nervous and went out.
The squadron commander passed him on the way in.
"I don't like to say it, sir, but they handle their ships very well."
"Better than our own?"
"There isn't much to choose."
"You'd say they have the advantage?"
"Absolutely. We're outnumbered almost two to one."
"We may have a fight with them shortly."
"We won't come out of it alive, sir."
"But it's important that we give the best account of ourselves we can."
"Yes, sir."
The communications officer stepped in, looking bemused, and held out a slip of message paper.
Horsip read:
High Admiral Querk Drekkil of course recognizes the superior position of General Horsip in the hierarchy of the Integral Union, and respectfully offers salute as the Fleet passes.
Horsip's lips drew back from his teeth. A crawling sensation traveled up and down his spine. The squadron commander looked uneasy.
The large-scale magnification on the screen showed the long-range detection apparatus of Drekkil's ships searching in every direction.
Horsip shrugged in disgust, reached out for the message pad, and wrote:
The Fleet returns the salute.
The communications officer hurried out.
Horsip handed Drekkil's latest message to the squadron commander, who said, "In case they change their tune, the gunnery officers have their targets selected."
Horsip nodded, but had given up hope of any such result. Drekkil had sensed Horsip wanted a fight, and Drekkil was having nothing to do with it.
Drekkil's next message wished Horsip a fine journey, and Horsip could only return the good wishes. But while Horsip was disappointed, everyone else in the squadron seemed exhilarated. The substance of the messages leaked out, and was duly distorted, the resulting version being that Drekkil had warned Horsip he was outnumbered, and must stop, and Horsip had replied, "This is the Fleet, and the Fleet stops for no one. Stand aside or be destroyed." Instantly, Horsip's squadron was transformed into a crack unit that drilled continuously, willingly, with no hint of complaint.
And then, ships and men in perfect order, they began to see what the Integral Union had been transformed into, as one by one they visited the planets.
Looming through smoke and fumes, Horsip, at the bridge of the flagship, could see a thing like eighteen roads crisscrossing one atop the other. Vehicles of weird design careened around the numerous curves, while in the background loomed a giant city. Beyond the towers of the city there rose up, slightly to one side, a cone-shaped mound of peculiar reddish tinge mingled with all sorts of other colors in a vertical patchwork.
"Ah, that," said the planetary governor, perspiring freely, "that, now, is a . . . well . . . that's where we put the vehicles when they are . . . ah . . . used up. Yes, sir."
"I see," said Horsip, frowning. He had invited the governor aboard on a courtesy visit, according to hallowed custom of the Centran Fleet. The arrival of the Centran squadron had produced a sensation, as if a rug made out of some defunct wild animal had stood up and roared.
The governor, turning to Horsip, said hesitantly, "But that . . . ah . . . dump you refer to is just a by-product. There, you see, rising over the city, is the great tower where Mr. Schmidt rules over the planet through his gigantic enterprises. And that tower to the left, a little lower—that is the Consolidated Credit Building. Off there in the distance is Monopoly Motors. You see, it is not quite so high, but it is a very impressive building. And over there is the Intercontinental Construction Cartel. . . . They built this multilevel here—one of the biggest on the planet." The governor peered around the control room furtively, and lowered his voice:
"Ah, General Horsip, if I might ask . . . who . . . ah . . . who is your Earthman?"
"My what?" said Horsip, looking blank.
"Your Earthman, sir. Who gives you your orders?"
"The High Council gives me my orders."
"Ah, of course. Are they still in existence, then?"
"Of course they are in existence! Why not?"
"But what purpose do they serve, Earthwise."
Horsip grappled with the word "Earthwise."
"No purpose," said Horsip, flatly.
The governor looked nervous. "Have you no Earthman, sir?"
Horsip said shortly, "I take my orders from the High Council, and I am a member of the Supreme Staff. There is no Earthman on the High Council, and only one on the Supreme Staff."
The governor blinked, then suddenly looked relieved. "Ah, then it's all right. . . . Well, well, that's fine."
Horsip eyed the governor with no great affection.
"And just who do you take your orders from?"
The governor thrust out his chest.
"From Mr. Schmidt. Personally."
"Earthmen run this planet, then?"
"Definitely, sir. How else?"
"What are all these fumes?"
"A . . . well . . . you see those factory chimneys down there, and all those ground-cars too. I suppose, plus . . . well, there's that dump over there, at the edge of the city. All those gas tanks are draining slowly, and . . . well I imagine that's where it comes from. Yes, sir. . . . Most of it, anyway."
"Isn't it hard to breathe down there?"
"Incidence of respiratory diseases was up 2 percent last year."
"What is the advantage of all that smoke?"
"We are making more ground-cars. Mr. Schmidt has announced that this year, for the first time, everyone, on the average, will have a new ground-car before the year is out."
The governor beamed. "A new ground-car a year for everyone on the planet, on the average. Think of it!"
Horsip's mind boggled.
The governor banged his fist into his hand.
"And soon we may have a new ground-car twice a year! I have it from Mr. Schmidt—himself."
"I see," said Horsip. "But what will you do with two of them a year? And what about the old one?"
"Why, we will put them on that pile there that you just asked me about. What else?"
Horsip glanced back at the odd-looking mound.
"That is a heap of used-up ground-cars?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, now, look here . . . You mean to say these things wear out in a year?"
"Certainly. We have to use them very hard to get back and forth over the roads to work and still live in the country and at the sea shore."
"In order to get out of the smoke, eh?"
"Well, that's one reason, yes."
"Certainly they don't wear out all at once. Why not just replace the parts that wear out, and save all that work?"
The governor looked at him fishily.
"That would be very bad for business."
"To make these things so you have to throw them away every year is wasteful. They should be made so you could hand them down from generation to generation. That way a man could save a little money. As for using them to go back and forth from home to work—that is ridiculous! You should use iron roads—"
The governor muttered, "Mr. Schmidt would not approve of this . . . Sir, we do not have iron roads. They do not exist."
"Then," said Horsip, "you are progressing backward. All this murk is created, you say, by these factories and ground-cars. There's the answer to your problem. Make the ground-cars so they last, put in iron roads, and you can shut down the factories except for making replacements and spare parts. Then you will be able to breathe again. See, the answer is right in front of you."
"We could not do that," said the governor angrily. "Everybody's work and income is connected with the making ground-cars. That was Mr. Schmidt's first stroke of genius when he first came to this planet. No, General Horsip. You would create unemployment if you closed down the factories. If people received no pay, they could not only buy no ground-cars, but they could buy no other improvements, and they could buy no food. It would be a disaster. Mr. Schmidt would never allow it."
Horsip angrily began to speak, but then shrugged.
The governor said tolerantly, "Ask your Earthman about it sometime, General Horsip. He will explain it to you."
Horsip's next visit took him to a planet where the air was relatively pure, but hosts of iron-helmeted troops marched by as a beaming trio returned the salutes from a reviewing stand. Guns and armored ground-cars rumbled past in such profusion as to bring back memories of the invasion of Earth. Clouds of air-planes swooped overhead, to be followed by a formidable fleet of space-ships. The dictator himself, an Earthman, kindly explained to Horsip, "You see, Jack, I got the idea out of this book I read when I was a kid. My Battle, or something like that. But I'd have never had the chance to try it out if you hadn't come down on Earth, and given us a chance to spread out, like, and get a little elbow-room. Our people are kind of stubborn. These people here, though, they lap it up. Can't say I'm as big as Ganfre, but I'm doing all right."
When Horsip got back to his flagship, he found Moffis going through the latest batch of reports in silence. Horsip groped for a chair, and sat down. Moffis reached out with the look of a punch-drunk fighter for another report, turned the pages automatically, put the report in another pile. He reached out for another report, turned the pages automatically, set the report in another pile, and reached out for a fresh report. He turned the pages automatically, and—
Horsip said, "Moffis."
Moffis set the report in another pile, reached out for a fresh report, turned the pages automatically, put the report in a separate pile, and—
Horsip said, "Moffis!"
Moffis looked up, and his eyes came to a focus.
"It's too late," he said.
Horsip said, "What's too late?"
"We'll never stop them now."
Horsip leaned forward and said sharply, "Stop who?"
Moffis shoved the reports back.
"We now have planets run by communists, planets run by capitalists, planets run by lunatics, planets converted entirely into factories—that's what it boils down to—for some one specialty or to follow some one fad of the Earthmen. They could never have done it on their own. They're too quarrelsome. We would never have done it ourselves. We don't have that many ideas to try out. Argit thought the two of us would make a good combination and supply each other's lacks. It has worked exactly the other way around. We have given the Earthmen the opportunity to bring into existence every kind of one-sided stroke of genius that occurs to them. Do you realize we now have one whole planet devoted to nothing but horse races? The thing is inconceivable, insane! Worse yet, there's even a planet—a whole planet—devoted to what they call 'higher education.' I tell you, it's ruinous! But it's too late now. We can't stop it. It's gone too far. We might as well—"
Horsip said, angrily, "Stop that! There's no use moaning over it! What's done is done."
He paused, frowning. "Wait a minute, now. What was that again? A whole planet devoted to what?"
"Higher education," said Moffis wryly. "That's what they call it. As a matter of fact, it's a pesthole of subversion. The students are complaining because of the 'monotonous quality of life,' and the 'repressive narrowness of Centran institutions.' Narrowness! Repressive! They're running wild, like a molk with the bloat! And they don't know it! The professors on this planet are all terrorized. They teach what they think the students want to hear. I tell you, the thing to do is to land about six divisions of the Suicide Corps, and . . ." Then he shook his head. "But it's too late. There's no hope now. The damage is done. We might as well—"
Horsip said impatiently, "Wait a minute, Moffis. Back up. You said there was some planet devoted entirely to what? There was something else you mentioned."
Moffis said dully, "Horse racing. The horse is like a molk, only skinnier, and with no horns. The Earthmen used to ride around on them before they had ground-cars. Now they race them for fun, and to bet on which one is going to win."
"How could they possibly use a whole planet for a thing like that?"
"It's a small planet, and the gravity is low. These horses can go fast because of the low gravity. The Earthmen have figured out a way to get oxygen to the horse even though the atmosphere is thin. Any kind of special training, special drugs, special apparatus is all right, as long as the animal is a horse. There are special farms on the planet where they acclimate the horses to the low gravity. There are stud farms there, where they breed horses with bigger lungs. There's a gigantic rolling casino—"
Horsip said blankly, "A what?"
"The track—the race course—is enormous. These horses travel at terrific speed. There are cameras spaced along the track to bring the race, in three dimensions, to people who watch it at 'horse parlors'—central places on other planets where they show the race for a fee. For people who come to watch the race on the spot, the whole central building travels around a track set inside the curve of the race course itself. The building is on wheels with some kind of frictionless bearings. When they aren't watching the race, the patrons gamble in this casino, or . . ." Moffis shook his head. "Maybe what you see is encouraging, but not what I get from these reports."
Horsip wavered, thinking of the possibility of raising Moffis' spirits. Then moodily he shook his head. "It's a mess, Moffis. I know what you think of those reports, and I've thought of trying to find someone else I can trust to work up the summaries while we're visiting these planets, but I can't, and the reality is no improvement, believe me."
Moffis nodded. "From what I've seen of it, that's what I thought."
"It's almost a relief to get on our way again, so I can go back to reading reports. It was a dream to think we could get away from this mess. It's everywhere you go."
Moffis nodded moodily. "I had the idea of getting a little relaxation after I read that report on the 'planetary university.' One of ship's officers had bought an omnivision set on one of the planets we've visited. He wasn't using it, so I borrowed it." Moffis shook his head. "That was worse than either the reality or the reports."
Horsip looked around blankly, and saw a sizable grayish cube with crackle finish and a row of knobs under two small lenses thrust out on shiny stalks.
"Is that the thing, Moffis?"
"That's it."
Horsip said, "I've never used one."
"Try it if you want to. You put the eyepieces up to your eyes, and there are little plugs that come out and fit in your ears. There's another thing like a cup that fits over your nose. Naturally, that model is outdated already."
"What are those knobs for?"
"Don't touch them. I bumped one by accident, and thought the ship had run into a planetoid. Just work this knob off to the side. That makes the sound louder or fainter. And this rim that sticks out this slot and has numbers on it—that selects the signal you receive. You tune that to pick up different signals."
Horsip nodded, pulled over a chair, and sat down. He adjusted the eyepieces, found the earplugs, and swung up the little cup that fit over his nostrils. Nothing happened.
Moffis' voice reached him dimly. "I forgot. You have to push this switch."
Horsip heard a faint click. Then chaos sprang into existence around him.
A screaming mob armed with clubs and torches hurtled straight at him. The smell of hot metal and burning rubber filled his nostrils. An unkempt maniac with blazing eyes gave a piercing yell, and sprang for Horsip with hands outstretched like claws.
Horsip lashed out, his fist exploded in pain, the maniac dwindled and vanished, and there was a violet yank at his ears, as his head was pulled forward.
Horsip looked around blankly.
The omnivision set was leaning over on its little table, held from smashing to the floor by the cords of the earplugs.
Horsip glanced around furtively, and saw that Moffis was again going through reports like an automaton. Horsip massaged his fist, and hauled the set back up onto its table. No damage appeared to have been done. The sound was loud and clear. A wisp of smoke was drifting out of the nosepiece. A whining voice came across, and Horsip peered into the eyepieces.
Instead of a mob, there was a desk, with individuals hurrying in and out to lay message blanks on the desk. Behind the desk an unprepossessing-looking individual talked earnestly:
"Despite Planetary Premier Grakkil's speech, the disturbance still has not quieted, and it is feared that the Mekklinites will accept no accommodation short of unconditional surrender to their demands. Already the Mekklinites have razed the western portion of the city. Injuries have occurred, and this has angered the Mekklinites further. The mayor and other hostages, who were shot earlier by the Mekklinites, have been found buried under a cement wall. Panic rules this planet as the Mekklinites turn, no one knows in what direction, to avenge injuries to their people, to destroy the capital city as they have vowed to do if their demands are not met, and there can be no doubt now but that Premier Grakkil miscalculated badly when he failed to accede at once to their demands. Don't you think so, Sike?"
Horsip was suddenly looking at an individual with large eye-correctors and a look as if he had just been awakened out of a sound sleep.
"Yes, Snok, I believe implicitly in the law of instant acquiescence to the stronger force, and that's what we've got here. The Mekklinites obviously believe in death and destruction, and will stop at nothing to get their way. That's pretty plain by now, don't you think so, Snok?"
"It certainly is, Sike, it certainly is. And this should have been obvious to the premier, don't you think?"
Now the second individual was back again.
"It is to us, after seeing this precise thing happen so many times before. But the political animal doesn't learn except through kicks administered to his hide. That's a quote from Gek Kon, the Mekklinite leader, by the way, Snok."
"I know it is, Sike. But now, the question is, what's going to happen here? The mayor and the rest of the hostages are dead, of course. This in itself isn't surprising, because of course the Mekklinites are believers in violence. But couldn't it cause the premier to take the advice of the more warlike of his advisers and . . . say . . . use sleepy gas on the mob?"
"I hope not, Snok. But the premier might lose his head and attempt to do some such thing. Of course, since the passage of the No-Violence Act as an attempt to appease the Mekklinites, this would involve the immediate fall of the government."
"Yes. The premier is in a situation, Sike, that calls for the utmost political finesse, and I'm just afraid that he doesn't have that magical presence or zeerema or whatever it is that would enable him to pull it off. We'll be back with you again later, Sike. Thank you for a truly impressive analysis of the situation."
Horsip muttered to himself, groped for the signal-change switch, and was at once treated to a smell like dead fish.
Before he could get at the signal-change switch again, an impressive voice intoned in his ear: "This is the smell—or 'bouquet' in the words of the aficionados—of the drug garazal, or 'green drops.' Those of you who have the latest Constituex sets with full panoply of newsworthy scents will feel the actual effects of this drug as the room begins to rotate around you. We are now in an actual 'green-drop heaven' where the aficionados gather to experience what is said to be an elevation of the sense of awareness—far superior to ordinary experience, because the green-drop experience is 'genetically coded on the tissues of the brain.' The superiority of dream experience to real world is said to enable the aficionado to 'block out' the real world and its experiences, which become irrelevant as he withdraws into green-drop heaven and its far more attractive—"
Horsip connected with the controls, switched to another signal, and was rewarded by the sight of an individual with large teeth, bared in a smirk, who was saying " . . . superiority of the immoral tridem to the moral tridem is that the immoral tridem simply immerses the viewer in a world he might otherwise never have known, and he can't—simply can't—get out of it if it's really well done. This gives the tridemist a real lift—a real boot—I simply can't describe it. It's a sense of power"—the recording camera zoomed in to enlarge his face until it filled the field of view—"a really godlike sensation, to use an antique term—"
Horsip's groping hand found the signal-change switch, and now he was looking at three people seated on three sides of a table, facing each other as Horsip viewed the scene as if sitting slightly back from the table on the fourth side. Two of the faces showed expressions of cynical disbelief, and one had a defiant, somewhat maniacal air. The two with the cynical expressions were seated to right and left. The defiant one was saying, "In this year of indecision, I have been visited by a vision of the way things have been and the way things shall be." His eyes seemed to drill into Horsip's head. "Today I have a special message—"
Horsip located the signal-change switch.
Through the earplugs, like some voice of doom, came a monologue in which one word followed fast on the heels of another:
" . . . situation has deteriorated badly in the last several days. Brog Grokig, new member of the Board of Control, suggests that in future it may be necessary to allow criminals to determine their own punishment. 'They will not accept it from anyone else,' Grokig warned . . . Mroggis New College has found a way to cope with the dissatisfaction of its students in today's changing universe and maladjusted environmental situation. Mroggis now offers Certificates of Achievement Specializing in Revolution, in addition to the more traditional subjects. 'We do not prejudge the situation,' said Administrator Gurnik. 'One specialty is as specialized as another. Merely a different viewpoint is involved. Everything is relative.' On Darg III, it is reported that the planetary president has been impeached for suggesting that weapons be supplied to the planetary constabulary . . . Occupation of Dione IV by forces of the Snard Soviet is now reported to be complete . . . Dictator Ganfre has warned against further aggression by Snard, and has also issued an ultimatum to the president of the planet Columbia, warning that Columbia must join with Ganfre or be subject to precautionary occupation to prevent seizure by Snard . . . A force of unknown size, but said to be powerful, and bearing the emblems of the defunct empire known as the Integral Union, is reported in the vicinity of the planet Hinkel. This force is under the control of a general named Orsip, who is believed to have drawn together the last shreds of the dying empire, and is now rumored seeking alliance with Dictator Hinkle . . . Those of you who missed 'Makers of the Problems' today will be interested to know that Sedak Goplin, the religious so-called prophet, had a seizure during the show, but was revived promptly by administration of oxygen . . . On Atrinx III, the agricultural planet, where 90 percent of all grain for this region of space is produced, the new outbreak of green army-weevils has been contained, under the super-powerful spray Arsoxychlorphosthicide. However, it is reported that the action of the spray has shriveled up the grain, and caused the soil to break up into little lumps of clay and water . . . On Moxis II, where the weather-control satellites are now in action, a new series of disastrous floods has been followed by a plague which—"
At what point it happened, Horsip didn't know, but suddenly he felt like shooting himself. Even when things had been at their worst in the invasion of Earth, he hadn't felt like this. Dazed, he shoved back the eyepieces, pushed down the nosepiece, and pulled out the earplugs, through which came the words, " . . . and that's the news. Stay locked to this signal from morning to night. An informed citizen is a . . ."
Horsip staggered to his feet, passed Moffis, still working like an automaton on the reports, shoved open a hatch, and stepped out on a kind of balcony, rigged for the occasion, that looked out over the spaceport where the ship had set down.
Horsip had scarcely pushed the hatch half-shut behind him when a movement in the brush at the edge of the spaceport caught his attention.
His mind a maze of hopelessness, Horsip watched a hideous hairy creature emerge from the brush, crouch, and spring directly for him, claws outstretched.
Horsip watched it loom larger, knew it meant the end, and didn't care. What was the use? Why bother?
His hand happened to brush the holster of his service pistol, and through tortuous channels of his mind, the sensation operated to rouse his stunned faculties. Abruptly, he whipped open his holster-flap and yanked out the gun, to fire point-blank.
There was a high-pitched squeal, then a clutching of claws all around him. Horsip fired again and again, discharging one barrel after another.
There was a hideous chattering sound.
The gun was empty, but Horsip, suddenly furious, raised a booted leg and rammed the creature in the midsection, knocking it off the balcony.
Moffis, gun in hand, was suddenly beside Horsip, and took aim as the thing streaked for the brush. He missed it three times in succession, then hit it as it dove into the bushes.
Horsip said, "That was a Mikeril, Moffis!"
"I saw it! But it can't be!"
"Nevertheless," said Horsip, "it was. Mikerils! That's all we need! All right, let's go back in before another one shows up. We've seen all we need to here, anyway."