Night had fallen in the park beyond the huge Foreign Office building
and the air was damp and cool. Duke shivered in the shadows that
covered his bench. He should head back to his room, but he had no
desire to listen again to the meaningless chatter that came through the
thin walls. Time didn't matter to him now, anyhow.
He swore and reached for a cigarette, brushing the crumpled newspaper
from his lap. He'd been a fool to think Flannery would bother with him,
just as he'd been a fool to turn down Queeth's offer. He'd wasted his
day off from the messenger job.
Footsteps sounded down the walk that led past his bench, and he drew
deeper into the shadows. The steps slowed and a man moved to the other
end of the bench. Duke drew heavily on his cigarette, tossed it away,
and started to get up.
"Drink?" There was a hand holding a flask in front of him. He
hesitated, then took it, and let a long slug run down his throat. In
the faint light he could make out the face of Director Flannery. The
man nodded. "Sorry I was out when you came, O'Neill. One of the guards
saw you out here, so I came over."
"You should have been in," Duke said, handing the flask back. "I've
changed my mind since reading about some of your deals in the _Journal_.
Well, thanks for the drink."
One of Flannery's prosthetic hands rested on Duke's shoulder, and the
pressure was surprisingly heavy. "When a man takes a drink with me,
captain, he waits until I finish mine." He tipped up the flask and
drank slowly before putting it away. "I suppose you mean the
Cathay-Kloomiria mess?"
"What else?" Mess was a mild word. The Sugfarth ship had seemed to make
victory for Cathay certain the first few days, but the war had entered
a new phase now. Cathay couldn't maintain the big ship, and it was
practically useless. It had simply served to reduce Kloomiria to a
position where both sides were equal. The war showed signs of settling
down to another prolonged, exhausting affair.
"Yeah, I read the editorial." Flannery sighed. "We did let a couple of
fools make Cathay think we'd bail her out. At the time, it seemed wise.
The son of old Var was due to assume rule in a little while and he was
strongly pro-human. We wanted to hold things off until he took over and
scrapped the war plans. When he was killed--well, we pulled out before
Var was any stronger."
"And sent Queeth's crowd in to do your blood-letting for you?" Duke
sneered.
"That was their own idea," Flannery denied. He lighted a cigarette and
sat staring at the end of it, blowing out a slow stream of smoke. "All
right, we made a mess of Cathay. We'll know better next time. Care to
walk back with me?"
"Why? So one of your trained psychopropagandists can indoctrinate me?
Or to get drunk and cry over your confession?"
"To keep me from sinking to your level and pushing your nose down your
throat!" Flannery told him, but there was no real anger in his voice.
He stood up, shrugging. "Nobody's forcing you, O'Neill. Say the word
and I'll drive you home. But if you want that explanation, my working
office seems like a good place to talk."
For a moment, Duke wavered. But he'd reached the end of his own
research, and he'd come here to find the answers. Leaving now would
only make him more of a fool. "O.K.," he decided. "I'll stay for the
big unveiling."
Flannery grimaced. "There's no great secret, though we don't broadcast
the facts for people and races not ready for them. We figure those who
finish growing up here will soak up most of it automatically. Did you
get around to the film file on interstellar wars at the library?"
Duke nodded, wondering how much they knew about his activities. He'd
spent a lot of time going over the film for clues. It was so old that
the color had faded in places. The rest would have been easier to take
without color. Most wasn't good photography, but all was vivid. It was
the record of all the wars since Earth's invention of the
high-drive--nearly two hundred of them. Gimsul, Hathor, Ptek, Sugfarth,
Clovis, and even Meloa--the part he hadn't seen, beyond Kordule where
the real damage lay; Ronda had been wrong, and cannibalism had been
discovered, along with much that was worse. Two hundred wars in which
victor and vanquished alike had been ruined--in which the supreme
effort needed to win had left most of the victors worse than the
defeated systems.
"War!" The word was bitter on Flannery's lips. "Someone starts building
war power--power to insure peace, as they always say. Then other
systems must have power to protect themselves. Strength begets
force--and fear and hatred. Sooner or later, the strain is too great,
and you have a war so horrible that its very horror makes surrender
impossible. You saw it on Meloa. I've seen it fifty times!"
* * * * *
They reached the Foreign Office building and began crossing its lobby.
Flannery glanced up at the big seal on the wall with its motto in
twisted Latin--_Per Astra ad Aspera_--and his eyes turned back to
Duke's, but he made no comment. He led the way to a private elevator
that dropped them a dozen levels below the street, to a small room,
littered with things from every conceivable planet. One wall was
covered with what seemed to be the control panel of a spaceship,
apparently now used for a desk. The director dropped into a chair and
motioned Duke to another.
He looked tired, and his voice seemed older as he bent to pull a small
projector and screen from a drawer and set them up. "The latest chapter
of the film," he said bitterly, throwing the switch.
It was a picture of the breakup of the Outer Federation, and in some
ways worse than the other wars. Chumkt rebelled against Kel's
leadership and joined the aliens, while a civil war sprang up on her
surface. Two alien planets went over to Kel. The original war was
forgotten in a struggle for new combinations, and a thousand smaller
wars replaced it. The Federation was dead and the two dozen races were
dying.
"When everything else fails, the fools try federation," Flannery said
as the film ended. "We tried it on Earth. Another race discovered the
interstellar drive before we did and used it to build an empire. We've
found the dead and sterile remains of their civilization. It's always
the same. When one group unites its power, those nearby must ally for
protection. Then there's a scramble for more power, while jealousies
and fears breed new hatreds, internally and externally. And finally,
there's ruin--because at the technological level of interstellar
travel, victory in war is absolutely, totally impossible!"
He sat back, and Duke waited for him to resume, until it was obvious he
had finished. At last, the younger man gave up waiting. "All right," he
said. "Earth won't fight! Am I supposed to turn handsprings? I figured
that much out myself. And I learned a long time ago about the blessed
meek who were to inherit the Earth--but I can't remember anything being
said about the stars!"
"You think peace won't work?" Flannery asked mildly.
"I know it won't!" Duke fumbled for a cigarette, trying to organize his
thoughts. "You've been lucky so far. You've counted on the fact that
war powers have to attack other powers nearby before they can safely
strike against Earth, and you've buffered yourself with a jury-rigged
economic trading system. But what happens when some really bright
overlord decides to by-pass his local enemies? He'll drop fifty planet
bombs out of your peaceful skies and collect your vassal worlds before
they can rearm. You won't know about that, though. You'll be wiped
out!"
"I wouldn't call our friends vassals, or say the system was jury-rigged,"
Flannery objected. "Ever hear of paradynamics? The papers call it
the ability to manipulate relationships, when we let them write a
speculative article. It's what lets us rebuild worlds in less than half
a century--and form the first completely peaceful politico-economic
culture we've ever known. Besides, I never said we had no weapons for
our defense."
Duke considered it, trying to keep a firm footing on the shifting
quicksand of the other's arguments. He knew a little of paradynamics,
of course, but only as something supposed to remake the world and all
science in some abstract future. It had been originated as a complex
mathematical analysis of nuclear relationships, and had been seized on
for some reason by the sociologists. It had no bearing he could see on
the main argument.
"It won't wash, Flannery. Without a fleet, it won't matter if you have
the plans of every weapon ever invented. The first time a smart power
takes the chance, you'll run out of time."
"We didn't!" Flannery swung to the control board that served as his
desk, and his fingers seemed to play idly with the dials. From
somewhere below them, there was a heavy vibration, as if great engines
had sprung into life. He pressed another switch.
* * * * *
[Illustration: FLANNERY]
Abruptly, the room was gone. There was a night sky above them, almost
starless, and with a great, glaring moon shining down, to show a rough,
mossy terrain that seemed covered endlessly with row after row of
rusting, crumbling spaceships. Atomic cannon spilled from their
hatches, and broken ramps led down to the ground. Down one clearer lane
among the countless ships that surrounded him, Duke saw what might be a
distant fire with a few bent figures around it, giving the impression
of age.
Beside him, Flannery sat in his chair, holding a small control. There
was nothing else of the office visible.
The director shook his head. "It's no illusion, O'Neill. You're
here--fifty odd thousand light-years from Earth, where we transferred
the attacking fleet. You never heard of that, of course. The
dictator-ruler naturally didn't make a report when his fleet simply
vanished without trace. Here!"
The liquor burned in Duke's throat, but it steadied him. He bent down,
to feel the mossy turf under his hand.
"It's real," Flannery repeated. "Paradynamics handles all
relationships, captain. And the position of a body is simply a
statement of its geometrical relationships. What happens if we change
those relationships--with power enough, that is? There is no motion, in
any classic sense. But newspapers appear two high-drive days away
minutes after they're printed. We arrive here. And fleets sent against
Earth just aren't there any more!"
He pressed a button, and abruptly the walls of his office were around
them again--the office that was suddenly the control room of a building
that was more of a battleship than any Duke had ever seen.
He found himself clutching the chair, and forced himself to relax,
soaking up the shock as he had soaked up so many others. His mind faced
the facts, accepted them, and then sickly extended them.
"All right, you've got weapons," he admitted, and disgust was heavy in
his voice. "You can defend yourself. But can the galaxy defend itself
when somebody decides it's a fine offensive weapon? Or are all Earthmen
supposed to be automatically pure, so this will never be turned to
offensive use? Prove that to me and maybe I'll change my mind about
this planet and take that job of yours!"
Flannery leaned back, nodding soberly. "I intend to," he answered.
"Duke, we tried making peaceful citizens of our youngsters here a
century ago, but it wouldn't work. Kids have to have their little gang
wars and their fisticuffs to grow up naturally. We can't force them.
Their interests aren't those of adults. In fact, they think adults are
pretty dull. No adventure. They can't see that juggling a
twenty-million gamble on tooling up for a new competitive product is
exciting; they can't understand working in a dull laboratory to dig
something new out of nature's files can be exciting and dangerous.
Above all, they can't see that the greatest adventure is the job of
bringing kids up to be other adults. They regret the passing of dueling
and affairs of honor. But an adult civilization knows better--because
the passing of such things is the first step toward a race becoming
adult, because it is adopting a new type of thinking, where such things
have no value. You didn't hit me when I called you names, because it
made no sense from an adult point of view. Earth doesn't go to war for
the same reason. Thank God, we grew up just before we got into space,
where adult thinking is necessary to survival!"
There had been the kids and their seemingly pointless argument on the
street. There had been the curiously distant respect the Meloans had
shown him, as if they guessed that only his exterior was similar. There
were a lot of things Duke could use to justify believing the director.
It made a fine picture--as it was intended to.
* * * * *
"It must be wonderful to sit here safely, while agents do your
dangerous work, feeling superior to anyone who shows any courage," he
said bitterly. "I suppose every clerk and desk-jockey out there feeds
himself the same type of rationalization. But words don't prove
anything. How do you prove the difference between maturity and timidity
or smugness?"
"You asked for it," Flannery said simply.
The button went down on the control again. The air was suddenly thin
and bitingly cold as they looked down on a world torn with war, where a
hundred ships shaped like half-disks and unlike anything Duke had seen
were mixed up in some maneuver. The button was pushed again, and this
time there was a world below that had a port busy with similar ships,
not fighting now. A third press brought them onto the surface of a
heavy world that seemed to be composed of solid buildings and
factories, where the ships were being outfitted with incomprehensible
goods. A thing like a pipe-stem man looked up from a series of
operations, made a waving motion to them, and abruptly disappeared.
"Did you really think we could be the only adult race in the universe?"
Flannery asked. "You're looking at the Allr, the closest cultural
gestalt to us, and somewhere near our level. Now--"
Something squamous perched on a rock on what seemed to be a barren
world. Before it floated bright points of light that were obviously
replicas of planets, with tiny lines of light between them, and a
shuttling of glints along the lines. The thing seemed to look at them,
briefly. A tentacle whipped up and touched Flannery, who sat with his
hands off the control box. Without its use, they were abruptly back in
their office.
Flannery shivered, and there was strain on his face, while Duke felt
his mind freeze slowly, as if with physical cold. The director cleared
his throat. "Or maybe we should look at more routine things, though you
might consider that we have to get ready for the day when our advancing
culture touches on other cultures. Because we can't put it off
forever."
This time, they were in a building, like a crude shed, and there were
men there, standing in front of a creature that seemed like a human in
armor--but chitinous armor that was part of him. The alien suddenly
turned, though Duke could now see that they were in a section behind
one-way glass. Nevertheless, it seemed to sense them. Abruptly,
something began pulling at his mind, as if his thoughts were being
drained. Flannery hit the button again. "Telepathic race, and very
immature," he said, and there was worry in his voice. "Thank God, the
only one we've found, and out of our immediate line of advance."
There were other scenes. A human being who walked endlessly three feet
off the floor, fighting against some barrier that wasn't there, with
his face frozen in fear, while creatures that seemed to be metallic
moved about. "He found something while working on one of our
paradynamic problems," Flannery said. "He transported himself there and
has been exactly like that ever since--three years, now. So far, our
desk-jockeys here haven't been able to discover exactly what line he
was working on, but they're trying!"
They were back in the office, and the director laid the control box on
the big panel and cut off the power. He swung back to face Duke, his
face tired.
"You'll find a ship waiting to take you to Throm, and a man on board
who'll use the trip to brief you, if you decide to take the job, Duke.
As I said, it's up to you. If you still prefer your wars, come and see
me next week, and maybe I can get the recruiting law set aside in your
case, since you're really a citizen of Meloa. Otherwise, the ship takes
off for Throm in exactly three hours."
He led the way back to the elevator, and rode up to the lobby. Duke
moved out woodenly, but Flannery was obviously going no farther. The
old man handed over what was left of the flask, shook Duke's hand
quickly, and closed the elevator door.
Duke downed the liquor slowly, without thinking. Finally, a flicker of
thought seemed to stir in his frozen mind. He shook himself and headed
down the lobby toward the Earth outside. A faint vibration seemed to
quiver in the air from below, and he quickened his steps.
Outside, he shook himself again, signaled a cab, and climbed in.
"The first liquor store you come to," he told the driver. "And then
take me to the government space port, no matter what I say!"
X
It was quiet in the underground office of the director, except for the
faint sound of Flannery's arms sliding across each other in an
unconscious massaging motion. He caught himself at it, and leaned back,
his tired facial muscles twitching into a faint smile.
Strange things happened to a man when he grew old. His hair turned
gray, he thought more of the past, and prosthetic limbs began to feel
tired, as if the nerves were remembering also. And the work that had
once seemed vitally important in every detail winnowed itself down to a
few things, with the rest only bothersome routine.
He pulled a thermos of coffee from under the desk and turned back to
the confusion of red-coded memoranda on his desk. Then the sound of the
elevator coming down caught his attention, and he waited until the door
opened.
"Hello, Harding," he said without turning around. Only one man beside
himself had the key to the private entrance. "Coffee?"
Harding took a seat beside him, and accepted the plastic cup. "Thanks.
I tried to call you, but your phone was shut off. Heard the good word?"
Flannery shook his head. With the matter of the strange ship that had
been reported and the problem of what to do with the telepaths both
coming to a head, he'd had no time for casual calls. There was no
question now that the telepaths had plucked the knowledge of how to
build an interstellar drive from the observers' minds, in spite of all
precautions. And once they broke out into the rest of the galaxy--
"Var died of a heart attack in the middle of a battle," Harding
announced. "And Cathay and Kloomiria sent each other surrender notices
the minute word was official! The damnedest thing I ever heard of.
Edmonds came with me, and he's upstairs now, planning a big victory
celebration as soon as we can let the word out. It should finish his
reorientation."
"I'll probably get word on it by the time someone has it all organized
into a nice, official memo," Flannery said. "Back him up on that
celebration. It's worth a celebration to find out both worlds are that
close to maturity. Coming over for bridge tonight?"
Harding shook his head. "I'll be up to my elbows in bills for the
relief of Cathay and Kloomiria. It's a mess, even if it could be worse.
Maybe tomorrow."
He dropped the cup onto the desk and turned to the elevator, while
Flannery hunted through the memoranda. As he expected, he found a
recent one announcing Var's death. He rubbed his arms together as he
read it, but there was no new information in it.
Then, reluctantly, he picked up his phone and started to call. Scanning
for information, just as another bundle of memos came through a small
door in the panel. At the sight of the top photo, he put the phone back
on its cradle. His face tautened and his arms lay limp as he read
through it.
The picture was that of one of the half-disk Allr ships. The rumors of
the strange ship were true enough. One of the Allr races had crossed
the gulf between the two expanding cultures, and had touched several
worlds briefly, to land in the biggest city on Ptek, the trading center
for a whole sector. It had been there two days already, before being
reported to Earth!
To make matters worse, it had come because its home world had been
visited by a foreign ship--from the description, apparently from
Sugfarth; there was no longer any chance of cutting off the news, since
it would be circulating busily through both cultures. And with it must
be going a thousand wild schemes by trading adventurers for
exploration!
He'd expected it to happen some day, maybe in fifty years, after he was
out of the office. By then enough of the worlds should have reached
maturity to offer some hope of peaceful interpenetration. But now--
Victory, he thought bitterly. A small victory, and then this. Or maybe
two small victories, if O'Neill worked out as well on Throm as he
seemed to be doing, and if he realized he'd never be satisfied until he
could return to Earth to face the problems he now knew existed.
Flannery had almost hoped that it would be O'Neill who would handle the
problem of cultural interpenetration. The man had ability.
But all that was in the past now, along with all the other victories.
And in the present, as always, there were larger and larger problems,
while full maturity lay forever a little farther on.
Then he smiled slowly at himself. There were problems behind him,
too--ones whose solutions made these problems possible. And there would
always be victory enough.
What was victory, after all, but the chance to face bigger and bigger
problems without fear?
Flannery picked up the phone, and his arms were no longer tired.