An hour ago, at dinner, John Armitage proposed a toast, especially for
my benefit. He loves to play the gallant. Big man, silver mane, very
blue eyes, a porcelain smile. The head of WSC, the perfect example of
the politician-scientist.
"To the colony," he announced, raising his glass. "May Epsilon love them
and keep them. May it only be transmittal trouble."
"Amen," Max said.
We drank. Taylor Bishop put down his glass precisely. Bishop is a gray
little man with a diffident voice that belies his reputation as the best
biochemist in the system. "Has Farragut hinted otherwise?" he asked
mildly.
Armitage frowned. "It would be scarcely prudent for Senator Farragut to
alarm the populace with disaster rumors."
Bishop looked at him out of his pale eyes. "Besides, it's an election
year."
The silence was suddenly ugly.
Then Armitage chuckled. "All right," he said. "So the Senator wants to
be a national hero. The fact still remains that Epsilon had better be
habitable or Pan-Asia will scream we're hogging it. They want war
anyway. Within a month--boom."
* * * * *
For a moment, I was afraid he was going to make a speech about Earth's
suffocating billions, the screaming tension of the cold war, and the
sacred necessity of Our Mission. If he had, I'd have gotten the weeping
shrieks. Some responsibilities are too great to think about. But instead
he winked at me. For the first time, I began to realize why Armitage was
the Director of the Scientists' World Council.
"Hypothesis, Greta," he said. "Epsilon is probably a paradise. Why
should the test colony let the rest of the world in on it? They're being
selfish."