"If my house burns down," said Carey, "I do not greatly care whether it
was by a stroke of lightning, deliberate arson, or a child playing with
matches. The end result is the same."
The third spool began.
A different voice spoke now. Carey wondered if the owner of the first
had chosen death himself, or simply lacked the heart to go on with the
record. The distilling plant was wearing out and metals for repair were
poor and difficult to find. The solar batteries could not be replaced.
The stream of water dwindled. Crops died. There was famine and panic,
and then the pumps stopped altogether and the cities were stranded like
the hulks of ships in dry harbors.
* * * * *
The Rama voice said, "These are the consequences of the one kind act
we have ever done. Now these thousands that we called into life must
die as their forebears did. The cruel laws of survival that we caused
them to forget are all to be learned again. They had suffered once, and
mastered it, and were content. Now there is nothing we can do to help.
We can only stand and watch."
"Shut it off," said Woodthorpe.
"No," said Carey, "see it out."
They saw it out.
"Now," said Carey, "I will remind you that Kharif was the homeland
from which most of the Drylands were settled." He was speaking to the
Committee more than to Woodthorpe. "These so-called primitives have
been through all this before, and they have long memories. Their tribal
legends are explicit about what happened to them the last time they put
their trust in the transitory works of men. Now can you understand why
they're so determined to fight?"
Woodthorpe looked at the disturbed and frowning faces of the Committee.
"But," he said, "it wouldn't be like that now. Our resources...."
"Are millions of miles away on other planets. How long can you
guarantee to keep _your_ pumps working? And the Ramas at least had left
the natural water sources for the survivors to go back to. You want to
destroy those so they would have nothing." Carey glanced at the men
from the City-States. "The City-States would pay the price for that.
They have the best of what there is, and with a large population about
to die of famine and thirst...." He shrugged, and then went on,
"There are other ways to help. Food and medicines. Education, to enable
the young people to look for greener pastures in other places, if they
wish to. In the meantime, there is an army on the move. You have the
power to stop it. You've heard all there is to be said. Now the chiefs
are waiting to hear what you will say."
The Chairman of the Committee conferred with the members. The
conference was quite brief.
"Tell the chiefs," the Chairman said, "that it is not our intent to
create wars. Tell them to go in peace. Tell them the Rehabilitation
Project for Mars is cancelled."
* * * * *
The great tide rolled slowly back into the Drylands and dispersed.
Carey went through a perfunctory hearing on his activities, took his
reprimand and dismissal with a light heart, shook hands with Howard
Wales, and went back to Jekkara, to drink with Derech and walk beside
the Low-Canal that would be there now for whatever ages were left to it
in the slow course of a planet's dying.
And this was good. But at the end of the canal was Barrakesh, and the
southward-moving caravans, and the long road to Sinharat. Carey thought
of the vaults beyond the fallen block of marble, and he knew that
someday he would walk that road again.