When the means became an end in itself; when the tool became the
_raison-d'etre_, rather than the structure it had been fashioned only
to help build, then the point of civilization had been hopelessly lost,
and thinking men had but one alternative: leave, and start over.
And so, banded together, they had left.
It had not been so difficult. For to the Ancestors, a tool was always
that and nothing more. They could not build spaceships, but they could
buy them, and so they had.
They could not navigate Space nor pilot their craft, so they hired the
technicians and engineers who could.
And when the Ancestors had arrived at a planet of their choice (the
scientists had been duly proud of their superior accomplishment in
being able to find just such a planet--and of course were paid more
than the engineers and technicians) the Ancestors gave them all
sizable bonuses and sent them packing back to Earth where there were so
many fine Things to spend their money on.
The Ancestors had, of course, been called dreamers, ivory-towerists,
alarmists, fools. They had been called madmen who lived in the
unenlightened past, believers in some foolishness called artistic
integrity; schizoids who were afraid to face Reality. Posh, polish,
and good riddance muttered the sane ones over their charts and
oscilloscopes as the last of the Ancestors' ships blasted free of
Earth. Muttered, of course, because there was, somehow, a vague
awareness that the Culture-Vultures hadn't left in fear of the bright,
quick Machines, but in--well, _they_ said, in _disgust_!
Good riddance to childish rubbish.
But now, apparently, the men of Earth had gotten themselves into
something so peculiarly impossible that they were desperate enough to
face the cutting wit of the fat-bottomed Artists on Ste. Catherine,
who wouldn't be able to say "I told you so" in a straightforward,
matter-of-fact way and let it go at that. Oh, no. But it would be
better to have their damned articulate tongues tear you apart than an
S-field.
* * * * *
The moment of reflection was spent, and Angelo asked the question.
"And how can we help you?" was all he said.
The leader took a deep breath.
"One moment," Angelo said as he was about to speak. "Just a word of
warning if you please. If you want anything of us at all, simply state
your case in plain language. Don't try to 'sell' us anything--we can
beat you roundly at that! And if we agree to your request, you will
accept _exactly_ what we give you; beggars, no matter how expert in
_some_ things, are still not in the position of choosers! A matter,
after all, of--shall we say, artistic integrity?"
The leader's eyes flashed: _Damn you and your infernal artistic
integrity!_ but it was his mouth which, fortunately for him under the
circumstances, did the talking.
"Very well. As I said, both Sides are in perfect technological and
therefore military balance--"
"Balance _is_ so important," interrupted Angelo. Behind him, Ojar, the
Orator was having a difficult time repressing a yelp of pure mirth.
It was unfair, of course, to bait these stumble-witted fellows like
this, but it _was_ amusing--especially when Angelo did it, who, though
a Painter, was well up on his word-play. "... Perhaps you have already
noticed," Angelo was going on, quite oblivious to the perspiration on
the leader's high forehead, and exactly as Ojar had expected, "how well
we of Ste. Catherine observe the Fundamental Laws of Order. The Rhythm
of our very way of life, for example--but excuse me! You were outlining
your request...."
The leader had reddened helplessly, and his subordinates had both
stolen quick glances at him. It was as though images of the man
himself, reflected from mirrors at either side, had suddenly taken on
a volition of movement of their own. But quite quickly they became
well-behaved images again.
"Both sides have equally effective weapons and defenses," the leader
went on, "and so it has become a disastrous war of attrition. To win,
we must have something they do not have, obviously."
"To bring your Side into Dominance, of course," said Angelo sagely. "To
prevent your Subordination, as it were...." Ojar had a sudden, violent
fit of coughing.
"Yes," the leader said. There was a momentary blankness in his eyes,
and Angelo decided that enough was enough. Unfairness was unfairness,
after all. They must hear the man out.
"We have looked back over history," the leader said. "It was an
unprecedented step, to be sure, but we _were_ desperate! At any rate,
we discovered that one time, it was possible to make an enemy believe
he was wrong, and that you, _his_ enemy, were _right_, through a rather
obscure verbal art called, I believe it was, propaganda?"
"Yes," said Angelo. "The province in Art of writers and orators. As a
painter or sculptor will create illusion with paints or stone, just so
did the writer create illusion with letters."
"So we came to understand," the leader said, trying a little note of
sarcasm of his own. "Our present difficulty is this: we of course have
no such peop--er, Artists--at our disposal. We of course tried our own
hand at it but nobody ever seemed quite able to agree on just what it
was we were trying to talk about, so--well--We have come to you. Will
you do this for us? A few words, for the sake of humanity?"
Clever, thought Maler, at that. An intended appeal to the philosophical
side of the artistic mind. Maybe the poor wretch really meant it, even
if he wasn't aware that "humanity" meant _both_ Sides.
"To answer you," Angelo was replying, "I'll of course have to summon
our Master of Letters. It may not be easy to win his assent, I warn
you. He can trace his own ancestry all the way back to newspaper
reporters, advertising copywriters and trade-journal writers--and so
has naturally inherited their bitterness toward all such prostitutions
of the Art of Writing, and artistic integrity in general. And you will
admit that hacking out propaganda to order is of course just that, to
say nothing of the moral aspects involved! However--"
Magnanimously, Angelo lifted his right arm and beckoned, and a Student
was at once at his side.
"Fetch Master Forsyth at once. And tell him I said to leave his new
Quarto behind; this is urgent."
The young woman left, and they waited.
"A cigarette?" Angelo proffered the leader.