by Jerry
“Well, we have to do something. The session will be starting in a few minutes. If he isn’t here, someone else will have to make the presentation.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. How about you, Citizen?”
“Now, wait a minute!” said Evrett. “What’s the matter with you, Citizen? You’re the logical! choice. You rank second in the group.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” admitted Sterm. “What if I should bobble things? I’d never be able to live it down. I wouldn’t even dare go I home. My wife is Lund’s half-sister, you know.”
“I’d forgotten. But somebody has to do it, if he doesn’t get here. I This is the only opportunity we’ll have this decade. If we have to wait another ten years, we may as well forget the matter altogether.”
“We can’t do that!” protested Sterm. “We’ve worked too long and too hard on this plan. It’s the only fair solution anyway. The other worlds will never accept anything else.”
“Some of them may not want to accept this one, when they hear all of the details. You must admit, we haven’t been too easy on some of your fellow members. They . . . Here comes Arko. Maybe he found out something.”
A junior member of the delegation came panting down the aisle, shaking his head when he saw the others’ eyes on him. “Sorry, Citizens,” he said, as soon as he was within the Ehrlan area. “He left the hotel over an hour ago. No one has seen a sign of him since.”
“Well, that tears it,” said Evrett, just as the presiding secretary struck his gavel on the little wooden block, announcing the opening of the session. “Who has the copy of the plans?”
“Here,” said Sterm, digging the papers from his case.
“I’ll make the presentation myself . . .”
“Just a minute, Citizen!” said Arko. “Look! Here he comes now!”
They all turned and looked at the pudgy figure ambling slowly down the aisle, nodding to greetings that came from all sides. The missing man smiled and shook hands with a couple of the onlookers, before entering the area and taking his seat at the head of the delegation.
“Citizen Lund!” cried Sterm, as though speaking to a wayward child. “Where in the name of the Seven Suns have you been?”
“Why, it’s a beautiful day, Citizens,” explained Lund. “I thought I’d take a stroll in the Park. There’s quite a large Ehrlan section, you know. Makes one quite homesick to hear the singing flowers serenading the passerby.
I can’t wait to get back home again.”
“If you hadn’t shown up, none of use would have had the nerve to go home!”
“Why, Citizen Sterm!” Lund seemed amused by some private joke. “Whatever made you think I wouldn’t be here? This is an important day for Ehrla, remember?”
“How could we forget?” said Evrett.
The presiding secretary fiddled with his bank of microphones for a moment, in the manner of presiding secretaries throughout history since the invention of the public address system, then turned hopelessly to the technicians. A man came forward, made a simple adjustment, then retreated. The Secretary cleared his throat, sipped at a glass of water and spoke.
“The fourth session of the Nineteenth Conference of the Central Worlds is open for business. The afternoon session will be devoted to the presentation and discussion of proposals by the membership. The Recording Secretary will call the roll of delegations.”
A short stubby man with five o’clock shadow came forward and leaned into the bank of microphones, and yelled: “Accryllia!”
Across the chamber a man stood up, holding his delegation’s microphone. “The grand and sovereign system of Accryllia, long known throughout the galaxy for the excellence of its citrus fruit, the beauty of its maidens, the virtue of its honorable young men . . . the grand and sovereign state of Accryllia passes.”
“Antares!”
“Antares passes.”
“Bodancer!”
“The system of Bodancer passes.”
“Buddington!”
“Mr. Secretary, the proud system of Buddington yields to Ehrla!”
“Ehrla!”
CITIZEN Lund stood up, unclipped the mike from the railing, smiled around at a few more wellwishers and launched into his speech. “Mr. Secretary! Ehrla wishes to thank the proud and ancient system of Buddington for relinquishing its rightful order in these proceedings, so that Ehrla may present a plan that the citizens of Ehrla feel certain will meet with the full approval of this meeting.
“For hundreds of years, the various peoples represented here today have been rightly concerned with the problems of new star systems being developed, new races being assimilated into the federation of free and lawful worlds. These new worlds need I guidance, a guidance that only long experience can provide.”
Evrett looked at Sterm, uneasily. “What is this?” he whispered. “He isn’t presenting the plan like this, I hope? He’ll alienate half the delegations.”
“I don’t know what he’s doing,” I said Sterm. “I only hope he knows.”
“In the past,” continued Lund, “the various and varied members of this honored organization have I provided the same guidance in wise and infinitely proper manner. It is the hope of Ehrla that they will continue to do so in the future. Therefore the ancient and honorable system of Ehrla proposes, to this effect, that the members of this organization continue as they have in the past.”
Pandemonium was breaking out in scattered sections of the chamber as various delegations realized that they were being snookered by the Ehrlans. Voices rose up here and there, trying to drown out Lund’s words. Monitors moved up and down the aisles, trying to quell the disturbances.
“Therefore,” said Lund, “Ehrla, I to the implementation of its plan, announces to this organization that this day they have annexed the systems of Phelimina, Trepidar and Scolatia.”
He sat down and turned to the rest of his delegation. “Gentlemen,” he said, smiling, as he handed a sealed envelope to Sterm, “my resignation.”
REILLY slumped in his chair with a sigh. The lecture had gone well, but it had ended not a moment too soon to suit him.
“I’m growing old,” he said, unaware he was speaking out loud.
“Pardon, sir?” The regular service Sergeant-Major closed the door and brought over his cup of coffee. “Did you say something, sir?”
“What?” Reilly blinked. “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all, Sergeant. Just an old man muttering to himself.”
“Begging the general’s pardon, sir, I don’t think you’re an old man at all. At least, no older than myself.” He cocked his head. “Although, to be perfectly honest with both of us, sir, there are times when I just can’t seem to keep up with these children they keep sending us nowadays.”
“We’re both ready for retirement, Sergeant. Old work horses, ready to be turned out to pasture. I guess this will be the last class I see through these old doors. I’ve submitted my resignation, you know.” Reilly moodily regarded his coffee.
“Yessir, I knew. The rest of the faculty knows too. And if I might be so bold as to say so, sir, we’ll all be sorry to see you go. It won’t be the same Academy without General Reilly glarin’ a bit at us all.”
“Glaring a bit, is it, Sergeant?” He glared now, then broke down into a smile. “I suppose I do at that. Do the cadets still call me Old Stoneface?”
“Not within my heading, sir.” He grinned. “But you know cadets. You were one yourself. I suppose it’d be as difficult to stop cadets from tagging their teachers with nicknames as it’d be to ride a star bareback.”
Reilly sighed, and swiveled his chair until he could see through the one cluttered window. The parade ground stretched away beneath, the system pennant fluttered briskly in the stiff breeze. Into his view marched a battalion of Cadets. Much the same scene had repeated itself daily during the thirty years he had occupied the office. “The faces change.”
“Sir?”
“The faces change, Sergeant. How many thousands of b
oys have come through these doors? The uniform never changes, though. And I suppose that’s really the most important thing, in its essence—the uniform and the tradition.”
“That it is, sir.”
Reilly chuckled. “You know, Sergeant, I never considered myself a particularly sentimental man. Still, the faster the years fly by, the dearer old memories become. The clearer, too. I can recall things that happened when I was a boy much easier than I can remember what I had for breakfast this morning. And I know that’s a sign of old age.”
He picked up his coffee and made a face when he found it cold. “Sergeant, as two old men sharing the past, how about having a cup of something a bit stronger than this watery brew with me?”
“Sir! I really don’t think . . .”
“Oh, bother regulations, Sergeant! I’m speaking as a man now, not as a general. I’d deem it an honor.”
“Then I’d be proud to, sir.”
HE sat down in the visitor’s chair while Reilly opened the bottom drawer of his desk and drew out a bottle and two very dusty glasses. He blew into them, set them on the edge of the desk and poured generous measures of the amber liquid. The sergeant accepted his with a bow of his head. They raised their glasses.
“To yesterday, Sergeant.”
“To yesterday, sir. And may these days be as memorable to those who will be remembering fifty years from now.”
“And those days fifty years further.” They touched glasses, then tossed off the contents, wincing as the whiskey cut its way down. A soft ball of fire exploded in Reilly’s midsection. He sighed, capped the bottle and stowed it and the glasses away.
A short rat-a-tat-tat sounded on the door; the Cadet Sergeant-Major opened it and stuck his head through. “Sir?”
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“Six gentlemen to see you, sir.”
“What?” He glanced at his memo pad. A notation warned him six prospective cadets were due to come in. It was not standard procedure for him to interview candidates, but all six were the sons of Academy graduates killed in the line of duty. “Give me five minutes, Sergeant, then show them in.”
“Very good, sir.” He withdrew and closed the door.
“Well, Sergeant,” said Reilly, turning to the regular service man. “Perhaps these are the lads who will be doing that reminiscing fifty years from now.”
“Quite possible, sir.” He stood up and came to attention. “Do I have the general’s permission, sir?”
“Dismissed, Sergeant.”
Sighing, Reilly swiveled his chair again and watched the drillers on the parade ground until the short rat-a-tat-tat sounded again. He turned around in time to face the gangling teenagers trooping through the door.
“Messrs. Whyte, Phillips, Garrett, Gordon, Kaslov and Poirot, sir,” announced the Cadet Sergeant-Major before withdrawing again.
“Come in, gentlemen, come in.” Reilly stood up. “Find yourselves a seat. Just pile those magazines on the chair, sir. I think three of you will fit admirably on that couch. You others can draw up those chairs by the water cooler. Yes, that’s it.” He shook hands all around, and then sat down again.
“Now then, your names once more, please?” He fixed them firmly in his mind as each boy introduced himself in turn. “Ah, yes. And I, of course, am General Reilly, Commandant of the Academy.”
“Sir?”
“Yes, Mr. Kaslov?”
“Would that be the General Reilly? Of the Deneb Crisis?”
“I see my fame has proceeded me, gentlemen. Yes, I am that Reilly. Please, don’t let the fact scare you. I assure you, I don’t bite off the head of a boy until he is in uniform. Then, gentlemen, you are fair game from then on.
“Now, then,” he said. “Are there many other questions before I give you my sales pitch? Yes, Mr. Kaslov?”
“Sir,” the boy said, hesitantly, “I believe you knew my grandfather. Sub-Colonel Kaslov? He served with you during the Deneb Crisis.”
“Of course!” said Reilly. “Martin Kaslov; I should have recognized the name immediately. He was my Team leader. And his son was fresh out of the Academy; I remember very well. So you might become third generation Academy material, eh? Good, good. We’re always glad to have someone whose roots are deep in Academy tradition. That’s why I’m particularly happy to have all six of you gentlemen here this afternoon. I understand you attended my lecture?”
ALL six nodded; one raised his hand.
“Yes, Mr. Whyte?”
“Sir, I heard your lecture, but, frankly, I didn’t get very much out of it. I mean, you talked a great deal about the service and so forth, but it just didn’t make much sense to me. It was just like Pop—my dad used to talk when I was a kid. I don’t suppose it made much sense then, but kids don’t understand anyway. But now I’m old enough to enter the Academy myself. I think I should know more about it, what it means, what it stands for. Uh, do I make myself clear?”
“As lucid as a mountain spring on a bright morning, Mr. Whyte. I only regret my own words were not as concise.” He smiled. The other boys laughed while Whyte flushed.
“But you have expressed a very important point,” continued Reilly. “I don’t want a man coming in here who doesn’t know what the Academy stands for. We have a long tradition, but we mean more than just words carved over a marble arch. ‘The Greater Good for the Greater Number.’ There are hundreds of years and hundreds of thousands of lives lived and died behind those seven words. From Earth’s first colony in the Centauri system to the latest native intelligence charted in the Crab Nebula, those seven words have wrapped up an entire philosophy and dictated the means of living by it.
“But what do the words actually mean? I think, Mr. Whyte, that is the crux of your question. Indeed, that is the crux of the structure on which the Academy is founded. Oh, it’s easy to say that the words mean what they say, because they do. That and no more. But how to explain them so that someone who doesn’t know will know? In a sense, I’ve been trying to do that ever since my first girl friend threw me over as an incurable romantic when she learned that I intended to enter the Academy. For many people, I’m afraid there is no explanation. They are incapable of understanding, no matter how hard we try. But I don’t think you gentlemen are in that class. Otherwise you would not be here at all.
“The obvious place to begin is the beginning. ‘The greater good.’ Not the greatest, mind you—the greater. There are those who quibble over words; they are responsible for this particular delineation. It would be idealistic to try for the greatest in all things. Despite his thousands of years of development, man is still a long ways from being an ideal creature. There are certain things that remain beyond his capabilities. In certain isolated incidents, the course we follow does produce the greatest good possible. But they are isolated.
“The same reasoning follows the choice of ‘The Greater Number.’ Only our limitations prevent us from seeing to it that every world in the galaxy is the best of all possible worlds, insofar as the peculiarities of a particular world permit. We do our best, and take pride in the fact that that best is better than anyone else’s.
“But so much for numerical values. You most want to hear what we do. And that can best be summed up in one word: everything, Everything, and yet that, too, has its limitations. Impossibilities are beyond even us. Improbabilities are given a fair chance. We are constantly seeking out courses of action that will benefit not the individual but the race. And in some instances, not even a race, when there are many races involved in a particular manner. The methods we follow, the actions we take in a particular instance, may sometimes seem cruel and unreasoning . . .”
V
THE families were on the move, away from their comfortable homes under the everlasting warmth of the sun. Luke Royceton shifted his weight in the copter and trained the glasses on a column of dust rising three miles to the west and ten thousand feet below.
“It’s okay, Harry,” he said to the pilot. “They’ve swung back north again.”
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br /> “Right, Luke,” the pilot replied. “Scout report just in says there’s a real big outfit about eighty miles settling down around a lake. Shall we hit them?”
“We the closest?”
“Singer’s forty miles the other side of them, but he’s tied up chasing some mavericks.”
“Let’s go then.”
Luke holstered his glasses and slid down into the cargo hold. The rest of the team were taking advantage of the lull in activity to catch up on their relaxation. They had been constantly on the go since the migrations had begun in earnest two months earlier. Luke kibitzed a card game for a few minutes, then announced: “Action coming up in about twenty minutes. Grab something to eat and run a check on your costumes.”
The copter dropped to tree-top level five miles from the lake and came to ground four miles further on. The team piled out, stretched the tensions of the long ride out of their bodies, then started out through head-high dwarf trees that separated their landing spot from the lake. They wound through the trees and over a low, rolling series of hills. The cover stopped suddenly, two hundred yards from the beach.
“Big family is right!” said Luke softly, gripping his axe.
There were nearly fifty huts in various stages of construction along the beach. Twice that number of adult males were working on them, while the women were bringing in armloads of grass for thatching. The children were waist-deep in the lake with fishing spears. A still wriggling pile on the beach testified to their prowess.
Luke glanced over the dozen members of his team, shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “Those are pretty hefty odds.”
“What’s to worry about, Luke?” asked one of the men. “You don’t expect those characters to put up a fight, do you?”
“God only knows. They just might take it in their heads to do that. From looks of things, either this outfit has been traveling far or else several villages have combined forces. If it’s the last, then I’m plenty worried.”
