[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction May 1958.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Across the void came a man who could not ever
have been born--from a world that could never
have been conceived--to demand his birthright
of an Earth that would have to die to pay it!
I
Jan Shortmire smiled. "You didn't know I had a son, did you, Peter?
Well, neither did I--until quite recently."
"I see." However, Peter Hubbard knew that Jan Shortmire had never
married in all of his hundred and fifty-five years. In that day and
age, unmarried people did not have children; science, the law, and
public sophistication had combined to make the historical "accident"
almost impossible. Yet, if some woman of one of the more innocent
planets had deliberately conceived in order to trap Shortmire, surely
he would have learned of his son's existence long before.
"I'm glad it turns out that I have an heir," Shortmire went on.
"Otherwise, the government might get its fists on what little I
have--and it's taken enough from me."
Although the old man's estate was a considerable one, it did seem
meager in terms of the money he must have made. What _had_ become of
the golden tide that had poured in upon the golden youth, Hubbard
wondered. Could anyone have squandered such prodigious sums upon the
usual mundane dissipations? For, by the time the esoteric pleasures of
the other planets had reached Earth--the byproduct of Shortmire's own
achievement--he must have already been too old to enjoy them.
At Hubbard's continued silence, Shortmire said defensively, "If they'd
let me sell my patents to private industry, as Dyall was able to do,
I'd be leaving a _real_ fortune!" His voice grew thick with anger.
"When I think how much money Dyall made from those factory machines of
his...."
But when you added the priceless extra fifty years of life to the money
Shortmire had made, it seemed to Hubbard that Shortmire had been amply
rewarded. Although, of course, he had heard that Nicholas Dyall had
been given the same reward. No point telling Shortmire, if he did not
know already. Hubbard could never understand why Shortmire hated Dyall
so; it could not be merely the money--and as for reputation, he had a
shade the advantage.
"That _toymaker_!" Shortmire spat.
* * * * *
Hubbard tactfully changed the subject. "What's your boy like, Jan?" But
of course Jan Shortmire's son could hardly be a boy; in fact, he was
probably almost as old as Hubbard was.
Such old age as Shortmire's was almost incredible. Sitting there in
the antique splendor of Hubbard's office, he looked like a splendid
antique himself. Who could imagine that passion had ever convulsed that
thin white face, that those frail white fingers had ever curved in
love and in hate? Age beyond the reach of most men had blanched this
once-passionate man to a chill, ivory shadow.
For once, Hubbard felt glad--almost--that he himself was ineligible for
the longevity treatment. The allotted five score and ten was enough for
any except the very selfish--or selfless--man.
But Shortmire was answering his question. "I have no idea what the boy
is like; I've never seen him." Then he added, "I suppose you've been
wondering why I finally decided to make a will?"
"A lawyer never wonders when people _do_ make wills, Jan," Hubbard said
mildly. "He wonders when they _don't_."
"I'm going on a trip to Morethis. Only one of the colonized planets
I've never visited." Shortmire's smile did not reach his amber-hard
eyes. "Civilized planets, I should have said. It isn't official
government policy to colonize planets that have intelligent native
live-forms."
Not even the most besotted idealist could ever have described Jan
Shortmire as altruistic. And for him to be concerned about Morethis, of
all planets--Morethis, where the indigenous life-forms were such as to
justify a ruthless colonization policy ... it was outrageous! True, the
terrestrial government had been more generous toward the Morethans than
toward any of the seven other intelligent life-forms they had found.
But this tolerance was based wholly on fear--fear of these remnants
of an old, old civilization, eking out their existence around a dying
star, yet with terrible glories to remember in their twilight--and
traces of these glories to protect them.
How was it that Shortmire, who had been everywhere, seen everything,
had never been to Morethis? Hubbard looked keenly at his client. "What
_is_ all this, Jan?"
The old man shrugged. "Merely that the Foreign Office has suggested it
would be wise for travelers to make a will before going there. Being a
dutiful citizen of Earth, I comply." He smiled balefully.
"The Foreign Office has suggested that it would be wiser not to go at
all," Hubbard said. "There are people who say Morethis ought to be
fumigated completely."
"Ah, but it has rare and precious metals on which our industries
depend. There are herbs which have multiplied the miracles of modern
medicine, jewels and furs unmatched anywhere. We need the native miners
and farmers and trappers to get these things for us."
"We could get them for ourselves. We do on the other planets."
Shortmire grinned. "On Morethis, somehow, our people can't seem to
find these things themselves. Or, if they do, we can't find our people
afterward. Which is why there is peace and friendship between Morethis
and Earth."
"_Friendship!_ Everyone knows the Morethans hate terrestrials. They
tolerate us only because we're stronger!"
"Stronger physically." Shortmire's smile was fading. "Even technology
is a kind of physical strength."
* * * * *
New apprehension took shape in Hubbard. "You're not going metaphysical
in your old age, are you, Jan? And even if you are," he said quickly,
while he was still innocent of knowledge, hence could not be
consciously offending the other man's beliefs, "what a cult to choose!
Blood, terror and torture!"
Shortmire grinned again. "You've been watching vidicasts, Peter.
They've laid it on so thick, I'll probably find Morethis deadly dull
rather than just ... deadly."
Certainly, all Hubbard knew of Morethis was based on hearsay evidence,
but this was not a court of law. "Jan you're a fool! A third of the
terrestrials who go to Morethis never come back, and mostly they're
young men, strong men."
"Then they're the fools." Shortmire's voice was low and tired. "Because
they're risking a whole lifetime, whereas all I'll be risking is a few
years of a very boring existence."
Hubbard said no more. Even though the law still did not condone it, a
man had the right to dispose of his own life as he saw fit.
Shortmire stood up. Barely stooped by age, he looked, with his great
height and extreme emaciation, almost like a fasting saint--a ludicrous
simile. "My wine palate is gone, Peter," he said, clapping the
younger old man's shoulder, "women and I seem to have lost our mutual
attraction, and I never did have much of a singing voice. At least this
is one experience I'm not too old to savor."
"Death, do you mean?" Hubbard asked bluntly. "Or Morethis?"