Dawnman Planet up-2

by Mack Reynolds

  Irene Kasansky, without looking up, read into her desk mike. “Article One: The United Planets organization shall take no steps to interfere with the internal political, socio-economic, or religious institutions of its member planets . Article Two: No member planet of United Planets shall interfere with the internal political, socio-economic or religious institutions of any other member planet.”

  Ronny Bronston knew, even as she read, that not only Irene, but everyone present in the hall knew the articles by heart. Metaxa was simply using this bit of business to emphasize his fling.

  When she was done, Metaxa nodded ponderously. “Over the centuries, most planets, though not all, have joined up. Whatever their stated reasons, usually very highflown ones, the actuality is that each wishes the protection of the Charter. Each planet desperately holds on to its own sovereignty.”

  There was a buzz again, and again he ignored it.

  “Always remember, that within our almost three-thousand member planets are represented just about every political and every socio-economic system ever dreamed up by philosophers and economists since Plato, and every religion since the White Goddess, the Triple Goddess, prevailed throughout the Mediterranean. A planet whose economy is based on chattle slavery doesn’t want to have its institutions subverted by adherents of feudalism. And a planet with feudalistic institutions doesn’t want some entrepreneur from another planet, flying the flag of free enterprise, to come along with creeping capitalism. An atheistic planet, such as Ingersol, doesn’t want a bevy of fanatical missionaries from Byzantium, working away at its youth, which hasn’t been exposed to religion for centuries.”

  His All Holiness of the Holy Theocracy of the Planet Bysantium called out in a fine rage. “I protest your levity, Commissioner.”

  Ross Metaxa ignored him.

  “All this is not new to you. But, somewhat over a century ago, matters changed, overnight and drastically. Our Spaces Forces brought in our little alien, there in the next room. Suddenly we had to face it. Man is not alone in the galaxy. Thus far, we had thought to be. Nowhere, in our explorations, though, admittedly, they have been but a pinprick on the chart of the Milky Way, did we find signs of intelligent life. Lower life forms, yes, occasionally. But never intelligent life of, say, even the order of the chimpanzee of Earth. But now we had to face the fact that there is intelligent, aggressive, scientifically and militarily advanced life in our galaxy; and, obviously, sooner or later, man, in his expansion into the stars, will come up against it. It was but a matter of time.”

  Someone called out. “Perhaps this life form is benevolent!”

  Ross nodded his shaggy head. “Perhaps it is,” he answered simply.

  His words brought a deep silence. These were not stupid men and women. Largely, they were the cream of the planets they represented. The inference was obvious.

  Ross Metaxa dropped another bomb. “So it was,” he went on, “that the nature of United Planets changed. Unbeknownst to the individual member planets, a new purpose for its being evolved.

  There was heavy electricity in the air.

  “No longer was it practical for man to allow such groups as the naturalists—who colonized the planet, Mother—to settle into their desired Stone Age society, rejecting all of man’s scientific advance down through the ages. No longer could we condone the presence among our number of the Planet Kropotkin, based on the anarchist ethic that no man is capable nor has the right to judge another. No longer were planets such as Monet to be borne.”

  “Monet?” someone shouted in query.

  Ross Metaxa said, “Originally colonized by a group of artists, musicians, painters, and sculptors, who had visions of starting a new race devoted entirely to the arts. They were so impractical that they crashed their ship, lost communication with the rest of the race, and, when rediscovered, had slipped into a military theocracy something like the Aztecs of Mexico. Their religion was based on that of ancient Phoenecia, including child sacrifice to the god, Moloch. Monet, too, claimed the benefits of Articles One and Two, wishing no interference with their institutions.”

  The representative from Goshen, the bully-boy, who had had the run in with the Section G guards earlier, lumbered to his feet. His voice was dangerous. “And what was this new policy adopted by United Planets, unbeknown, as you say, to the member planets themselves?”

  The Commissioner made a gesture with a heavy paw. “Is it not obvious, Your Excellency? It became the task of United Planets, though but a fraction of us have been privy to the fact, to advance the human race, scientifically, industrially, culturally, socio-economically, as fast as it was possible to do so.”

  “Even though Articles One and Two, the very basis of the Charter were violated?”

  The shaggy head lowered, and Ross Metaxa glowered out at them, in their shocked silence. “No matter what was being violated,” he growled.

  A roar went through the hall and he waited it out. At long last he was able to say, “Nothing could be allowed to stand in the way of the most rapid advance of which we were capable. Sooner or later, we knew, we would come in contact with the potential enemy. A potential friend, too, of course, but that must remain to be seen. Man must be as strong as possible, when the confrontation takes place.”

  Sidi Hassen of the Planet Medina was standing. All eyes went to him. Medina was one of the strongest planets in the union, though its government was one of the most repressive.

  He said, “Commissioner Metaxa, it is obvious that all this is but a build-up. You have admitted that Mother Earth, home of United Planets, has been secretly subverting the institutions of the member planets. Now tell us why it has been necessary to reveal the fact to us, at this late date.” There was a dangerous element in his voice.

  Sid Jakes chuckled under his breath and whispered to Ronny Bronston, standing beside him. “Our friend has probably just realized where some of his Underground troubles originated. If the boys have been briefing me correctly, that Hereditary Democratic-Dictatorship of his isn’t going to last the week out.”

  The head of Section G nodded agreement. “Very well,” he said. “As I mentioned earlier, the charred body you were all invited to see no longer indicates a threat to us.” He paused, wanting the drama.

  “Why not!” came from a hundred voices.

  “Because, a few weeks ago, a small exploration task force, driving out beyond the point thus far ventured to, by even the most adventurous of our race, came upon the three star systems which were the origin of our little dead space traveler.”

  “You mean,” the burly representative from Goshen roared, “that we now know where the sneaky little rats come from and they only dominate three star systems?”

  Metaxa nodded. “From all we can find, they had evidently spread over a complex of some twelve planets. Planets similar in nature to those that will support our own life form. Our little aliens were also oxygen breathers.” He grunted and flicked his head in his dour, characteristic mannerism. “I see most of you have noted my use of the past tense.”

  He dropped his last bomb. “Our exploring fleet found that each of their twelve planets were now supporting a methane-hydrogen-ammonia atmosphere. They found also that evidently the switch in atmospheres, from one predominately nitrogen-oxygen, had come so suddenly that the inhabitants had no time to attempt protection. They died. Perhaps some survived for a time, including those that might have been in space, when the atmosphere was switched. If so, it would seem they were destroyed by other means. Perhaps our specimen in the other room was one of these. At any rate, ladies and gentlemen of the human race, this whole life form has been completely destroyed by some other intelligent alien life form beyond it.” He looked about the large hall with its some two thousand rulers of the member planets. “That, by the way, should be at least a partial answer to the question of whether or not this life form, still further beyond, can be considered benevolent.”

  There were a hundred questions being roared at him. He ignored them, largely
, trying to answer a few that seemed more pertinent.

  Someone called, “Where was this discovery of the three star systems made?”

  Metaxa said, “Surprisingly near our member planet of Phrygia, which, of course, is the furtherest from Mother Earth in the direction of the galaxy’s center.”

  Irene Kasansky turned to Sid Jakes and said, “Terry wants to talk to you.” She handed him a Section G hand communicator.

  Sid spoke into it, his eyes darting around the crowded conference room even as he spoke.

  He snapped, “All right, I’ll be right over.” He handed the communicator back to Irene, and said to Ronny Branston, “Come on, Ronny. They’re going to be yelling back and forth in here for hours.”

  Out in the corridor, Ronny said, “What’s up?”

  The Supervisor summoned a three wheeler. “Terry’s cracked that news-hen Daniels, or whatever her name is. Metaxa doesn’t need us for awhile. Let’s see what she has to say. Imagine that mopsy’s gall, trying to crack Section G security.”

  They climbed onto the three wheeler, and Sid Jakes dialed Interrogation.

  Ronny said mildly, “If you ask me, the woman’s pretty stute to have got as far as she did. We ought to recruit her.”

  “Sure, sure,” Sid Jakes laughed. “She’d stay with us for a year or so, until she knew every secret in the Commissariat, then go running back to Interplanetary News again. Once a newshound, always… Oops, here we are.”

  Interrogation had come a long way since the days of the Gestapo of the Third Reich, or even the cellar room with the bright light and the rubber hoses of the Land of Liberty.

  Rita Daniels was sitting at her ease in a comfortable chair. Terry Harper was across from her. There was a low table with refreshments between them. Inconspicuously in the background was a Section G stenographer, in case human witness were necessary.

  Terry got up when his supervisor entered. He was an old-timer in the bureau, due soon for retirement, which he didn’t look forward to. Section G operatives were strong on the dream.

  He said, “Sid, as far as the girl knows, only her editor is aware she’s here.”

  While Ronny Bronston sank into a chair, Sid Jakes perched on the stenographer’s desk. He said pleasantly to the news-woman, “And how did he find out something was cooking at the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs?”

  The other’s face worked under the pressure of trying to fight off the influence of the drug. “I don’t know,” she said.

  Sid looked at Terry. “You sent a man over to the editor yet?”

  “Not yet, Sid. Since, so far as she knows, only the editor is involved, I though you might want to play it as stute as possible. If we don’t have to throw weight around, well and good.”

  Sid patted him on the arm, happily. “Good man, Terry.” He spun on Ronny. “Get over to Interplanetary News…” He looked at Rita Daniels, “What’s this editor’s name?”

  “Rosen. He’s on the Octagon desk.”

  Sid’s eyes darted back to Ronny. “Bring him over, but in such a way that no ripples are started in his office.”

  “Oh, great,” Ronny said. “No ripples. Just sugar talk him into coming into our lair, eh?”

  Sid Jakes grinned at him happily. “Ronny, old boy, if you can’t do it ripplelessly, nobody can. You’re the most inconspicuous man in the bureau.”

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  III

  The nadirscraper, which housed Interplanetary News, delved a good two hundred levels beneath the surface of Greater Washington. As was the prevailing trend, the face presented to the world of the open air was Antiquity Revival: in this case, Egyptian. Although Ronny Bronston had never been in the establishment before, he had passed it on many occasions, never failing to wince at the architect’s conception of the Temple of Luxor.

  Now he made his way up an immense approach, flanked by a score of marble sphinxes, through an entrada of soaring columns, seemingly open to the sky, but undoubtedly roofed with ultra-transparent plasti.

  There was no point in being less than direct. He marched up to the reception desk, pressed an activating button before one of the live screens, and said, “Bronston of the Department of Justice, Bureau of Investigation, to see Citizen Rosen of the Octagon Desk. Soonest.”

  The voice said, “Your identification, please.”

  Ronny Bronston brought forth a flat wallet and performed an operation, which came down—unbeknownst to him—in all identicalness, from a long past period of law enforcement.

  He flashed his buzzer.

  It was a simple enough silver badge, which glowed somewhat strangely when his hand came in touch with it. It read, merely, Ronald Bronston, Section G, Bureau of Investigation, United Planets.

  “Than kue, Citizen Bronston. Please state your reason for desiring an appointment with Citizen Rosen.”

  Ronny said testily, “Bureau of Investigation matter, of a security nature.”

  “Than kue…” the voice faded away.

  Almost immediately, a three wheeler approached, and its voicebox said, “Citizen Bronston. Please be seated.”

  He mounted the scooter, and noted how quickly the pseudo-Egyptian decor melted away, as soon as they had entered a ramp leading into the depths.

  The three wheeler took him, first, to a bank of elevators, plunged him an unknown number of levels, emerged, and then darted into corridor traffic.

  Interplanetary News, Ronny considered. An octopus, which had spread over almost all the United Planets, and over many man-occupied worlds not affiliated with the confederation. Few, indeed, were the planets that could refrain from the fabulous news dispensing service. Even those worlds, such as Goshen, which were so tightly dominated by the feudalistic clique which suppressed it (keeping the populous ninety-five percent illiterate and taking all measures to keep even the barest knowledge of what transpired on other planets from its people), subscribed. In that case, only the nobility had access to the information purveyed.

  It reminded Ronny, as he thought, that some measures were going to have to be taken by Section G to overthrow that Goshen aristocracy. If the planet was ever going to get anywhere, the people were going to have to be given a shove out of the mire of class-divided society.

  He wondered, vaguely: how many languages, besides Earth Basic, did Interplanetary News have to deal with? A thousand? Probably, if dialects were considered . It seemed that a considerable number of the colonists, who wandered off into space—seeking their Ultima Thule—made effort to devise a new tongue, or, at least, to revive a dead one. There must be a score of versions of Esperanto alone, out there in the stars, not to speak of such jerry-rigged artificial tongues as: Ido, Volapük, Lingua Internaciona, Lingvo Kosmopolita, Esperantido, Nov-Esperanto, Latinesce, Nov-Latin, Europan, and what not.

  The more closely a world identified with United Planets, of course, the more widespread the use of Earth Basic. But the worlds which attempted to keep aloof, usually for religious or socio-economic reasons, could get so far removed, that United Planets—as well as Interplanetary News—had to deal heavily through interpreters.

  There even came to mind that far-out world settled by deaf-mutes. What was its name? Keller, or something .

  The three wheeler came to a halt before a door.

  “Citizen Rosen,” its voicebox said.

  Ronny dismounted and the vehicle darted off into the corridor traffic.

  He stood before the door’s screen, and said, “Bronston, to see Citizen Rosen.”

  The door opened; he stepped through, and into the arms of two well-muscled goons. They held him by his arms, pausing a moment, as though waiting for his reaction.

  Ronny mentally shrugged. It was their ball. Let them bounce it.

  Both, still holding his arms, with one hand, each ran their other hands over him in the classic frisk. He didn’t resist.

  One leered as he touched under the Section G agent’s left arm. “Ah, packing a shooter.”

 
The other said, “Take it, Jed.”

  Ronny said mildly, “If you take that gun, without my deactivating it first, you’re a dead man, friend.”

  The other’s hand, which had been darting under his jacket, came to a quick pause.

  Jed scowled, “Don’t give me that jetsam. What d’ya mean?”

  Ronny said reasonably, “It’s a Model H, built especially for the Bureau of Investigation. It’s tuned to me. Unless I, personally, deactivate it, anyone who takes it from me is crisp within seconds.”

  The two of them froze.

  Ronny said mildly, “If it’s as important as all that, suppose I deactivate it for you? And you can return it, when I leave. I’m not here to hurt anybody.”

  “The boss said…”

  “The boss is obviously a flat,” Ronny said, still with an air of bored reasonableness. “Since when does the Bureau of Investigation send pistoleros around to deal with half-baked newsmen?”

  One looked at the other. “The boss said…” he let the sentence dribble away.

  The other said, his voice gruff, “Okay, give us the gun.” Their hands dropped away.

  Ronny took the gun from its quickdraw holster, touched a hidden stud and presented it, butt first. “Now, can I see this romantic cloddy, Rosen?”

  Jed, at least, flushed; but, one leading, one bringing up the rear, they passed through another door and into a quarter acre of office.

  Rosen sat behind a desk much too large for him. He bent a sly eye on the Section G agent.

  “So… The Department of Dirty Tricks, Section Cloak and Dagger.”

  Jed put the gun on the desk. “He had this on him,” he said; the implication being that they had wrested it away from Ronny in desperate fray.

  Ronny said, “Look, you characters seem to have been taking in a lot of Tri-Di crime tapes, or some such. Why don’t we cut out all this maize and get around to the reason for my coming over here. We could have simply summoned you, you know.”