Ladu raised one eyebrow. “As a matter of fact, I have. But my talents are in a political and sociological direction.”
“Why are we here?” Ellen asked, her gray eyes narrowed.
“You are here because you constitute a new type of problem. Oh, we’ve had trouble over in the Bureau before. I get the reports. I seldom read them. Poor fat old Evan worries so much about his tremendous responsibilities.”
“New in what way?” Lucas asked, impatiently.
“Other devices have been manufactured in there, you know. Escape devices. Or merely little tools to express a vast resentment toward the established order. But nothing of any originality. Such as this.” He waved the device, replaced it on the table and came back to stand in front of them. He was frowning.
“Originality is supposed to be the ultimate sin in your neat little world, isn’t it?” Lucas asked.
Emery Ladu waved a hand toward the curved glass through which could be seen all of the New City. “To all the people out there it is the ultimate sin. But not to me.”
“You have the power. Why don’t you propagandize them? Why don’t you root out all this fantastic fear of progress?”
“There, my boy, is where a first-class mind can give you an answer. Because the administration of a static society is far easier than the administration of one where progress in one part of the world or another will give specific areas a temporary advantage. Temporary advantages lead to conflict, first on the economic and then on the military level. It is too difficult to cope with those potential focal points of disorder—and disaster.”
“Then, as I said before, you think only of your comfort and your position, and not of mankind.”
Ladu smiled sadly at Ellen. “You see how emotional the second-class mind can get?”
Before she could answer he walked away a few feet. When he turned he had a large gold coin in his hand. He showed it to them, enclosed it in his palm, waved his hand around a few times, then opened it. The coin was gone.
Lucas snorted. “A first-class childish trick.”
“Be still!” Ladu said. The good humor was gone from his voice. Suddenly he was a very impressive person, ruthlessness surprisingly visible in his face and attitude. The clown’s face was no longer funny.
“With a child you must use the explanations a child can follow,” he said. “Neither of you knows what happened to that coin. Why? Be-cause you were following the motion of my hand. It drew your eye because it was in motion.”
He held up the same hand, fist clenched. “This hand, you fool, represents the Bureau of Improvement. It is in motion. It is visible. It attracts the mind of the people. Forbidden talent under careful control. ‘Aha,’ they say. ‘Old Ladu will keep them under his thumb. Ladu feels as we do. Together we will protect ourselves.’ But Ladu knows, and they don’t, that the poor ineffectual Bureau of Improvement is staffed with second-class minds inside people with a high stability quotient.”
He began to pace back and forth. “You, Lucas, try to tell me—me—that time is short, that the earth grows barren, that nature weeds us out through the diminishing vigor of reproduction.”
He stopped in front of Lucas, leaned over and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Lucas, how much time would we have if we spent most of it trying to destroy the superstitious fear that was imbedded in the race by a hundred mushroom clouds of smoke? How much time would be left?”
Under the naked force of the man’s mind, Lucas shook his head stupidly. “What are you getting at?” he asked.
Ladu laughed. “I throw them a bone. I give them a gesture to watch. Here, my people, is the Bureau of Improvement. Yes, we are very progressive. We will let them do a little work for us—but carefully controlled, you understand.”
Ellen, her voice shaking, said, “Your hand was the Bureau. The coin was the first-class minds.”
“Of course!” he said. “Of course! Poor Peter never stopped to think what happened to them. He was too shocked to find out that he was not an apex, a pinnacle.”
The emotion faded out of his voice. He said soberly, “You have made a contribution, Lucas. You have earned yourself a promotion. I have been in contact with the personnel chief at the base.”
Lucas shook his head, as though by doing so he could clear it. “Base?”
Ladu’s smile was grim. “The place where we send the first-class minds where we have been sending them, my predecessor and I, for the past sixty years. A thousand million tons of steel and concrete laboratories in the Chin Hills of North Burma, a self-contained city of thousands where miles of jungle are seared by the blasts of the ships that have taken off in search of a new system which will support mankind.” He laughed shortly. “The tribes of the jungles call it the place where the stars shoot upward.”
“But—”
“Lucas, you try my patience. In fifty or a hundred years, the men who come after me will set up the machinery of colonization. The strongest and the healthiest of all the races will be sent first. In a new green world we can start again, without the mistakes of the past. The men now in charge inform me that some application of your device can be made to avoid deep space collisions with meteors, asteroids and so on.”
Lucas was unable to speak. He felt no shame at the tears that streaked his face.
Ladu said, “My people will come here and release you. After nightfall you will be picked up and taken to the airfield. The girl can go with you.” Once again he laughed. “Only because, knowing the emotional weaknesses of the second-class mind, I am certain you would be of no value to the project without her.”
Emery Ladu went back through the yellow draperies. They fell into place behind him, swayed slightly and were still.
Peter Lucas and Ellen Morrit sat side by side and listened for the sounds of those who would come to release them, to free them forever.
COMMON DENOMINATOR
Advanced races generally are eager to share their knowledge with primitive ones. In this case … with Earthmen!
* * * *
When Scout Group Forty flickered back across half the Galaxy with a complete culture study of a Class Seven civilization on three planets of Argus Ten, the Bureau of Stellar Defense had, of course, a priority claim on all data. Class Sevens were rare and of high potential danger, so all personnel of Group Forty were placed in tight quarantine during the thirty days required for a detailed analysis of the thousands of film spools.
News of the contact leaked out and professional alarmists predicted dire things on the news screens of the three home planets of Sol. A retired admiral of the Space Navy published an article in which he stated bitterly that the fleet had been weakened by twenty years of softness in high places.
On the thirty-first day, B.S.D. reported to System President Mize that the inhabitants of the three planets of Argus 10 constituted no threat, that there was no military necessity for alarm, that approval of a commerce treaty was recommended, that all data was being turned over to the Bureau of Stellar Trade and Economy for analysis, that personnel of Scout Group Forty was being given sixty days’ leave before reassignment.
B.S.T.E. released film to all commercial networks at once, and visions of slavering oily monsters disappeared from the imagination of mankind. The Argonauts, as they came to be called, were pleasantly similar to mankind. It was additional proof that only in the rarest instance was the life-apex on any planet in the home Galaxy an abrupt divergence from the “human” form. The homogeneousness of planet elements throughout the Galaxy made homogeneousness of life-apex almost a truism. The bipedal, oxygen-breathing vertebrate with opposing thumb seems best suited for survival.
It was evident that, with training, the average Argonaut could pass almost unnoticed in the Solar system. The flesh tones were brightly pink, like that of a sunburned human. Cranial hair was uniformly taffy-yellow. They were heavier and more fleshy than humans. Their women
had a pronounced Rubens look, a warm, moist, rosy, comfortable look.
* * * *
Everyone remarked on the placidity and contentment of facial expressions, by human standards. The inevitable comparison was made. The Argonauts looked like a race of inn and beer-garden proprietors in the Bavarian Alps. With leather pants to slap, stein lids to click, feathers in Tyrolean hats and peasant skirts on their women, they would represent a culture and a way of life that had been missing from Earth for far too many generations.
Eight months after matters had been turned over to B.S.T.E., the First Trade Group returned to Earth with a bewildering variety of artifacts and devices, plus a round dozen Argonauts. The Argonauts had learned to speak Solian with an amusing guttural accent. They beamed on everything and everybody. They were great pets until the novelty wore off. Profitable trade was inaugurated, because the Argonaut devices all seemed designed to make life more pleasant. The scent-thesizer became very popular once it was adjusted to meet human tastes. Worn as a lapel button, it could create the odor of pine, broiled steak, spring flowers, Scotch whisky, musk—even skunk for the practical jokers who exist in all ages and eras.
Any home equipped with an Argonaut static-clean never became dusty. It used no power and had to be emptied only once a year.
Technicians altered the Argonaut mechanical game animal so that it looked like an Earth rabbit. The weapons which shot a harmless beam were altered to look like rifles. After one experience with the new game, hunters were almost breathless with excitement. The incredible agility of the mechanical animal, its ability to take cover, the fact that, once the beam felled it, you could use it over and over again—all this made for the promulgation of new non-lethal hunting.
* * * *
Lambert, chief of the Bureau of Racial Maturity, waited patiently for his chance at the Argonaut data. The cramped offices in the temporary wing of the old System Security Building, the meager appropriation, the obsolete office equipment, the inadequate staff all testified not only to the Bureau’s lack of priority, but also to a lack of knowledge of its existence on the part of many System officials. Lambert, crag-faced, sandy, slow-moving, was a historian, anthropologist and sociologist. He was realist enough to understand that if the Bureau of Racial Maturity happened to be more important in System Government, it would probably be headed by a man with fewer academic and more political qualifications.
And Lambert knew, beyond any doubt at all, that the B.R.M. was more important to the race and the future of the race than any other branch of System Government.
Set up by President Tolles, an adult and enlightened administrator, the Bureau was now slowly being strangled by a constantly decreasing appropriation.
Lambert knew that mankind had come too far, too fast. Mankind had dropped out of a tree with all the primordial instincts to rend and tear and claw. Twenty thousand years later, and with only a few thousand years of dubiously recorded history, he had reached the stars. It was too quick.
Lambert knew that mankind must become mature in order to survive. The domination of instinct had to be watered down, and rapidly. Selective breeding might do it, but it was an answer impossible to enforce. He hoped that one day the records of an alien civilization would give him the answer. After a year of bureaucratic wriggling, feints and counter-feints, he had acquired the right of access to Scout Group Data.
As his patience dwindled he wrote increasingly firm letters to Central Files and Routing. In the end, when he finally located the data improperly stored in the closed files of the B.S.T.E., he took no more chances. He went in person with an assistant named Cooper and a commandeered electric hand-truck, and bullied a B.S.T.E. storage clerk into accepting a receipt for the Argonaut data. The clerk’s cooperation was lessened by never having heard of the Bureau of Racial Maturity.
* * * *
The file contained the dictionary and grammar compiled by the Scout Group, plus all the films taken on the three planets of Argus 10, plus micro-films of twelve thousand books written in the language of the Argonauts. Their written language was ideographic, and thus presented more than usual difficulties. Lambert knew that translations had been made, but somewhere along the line they had disappeared.
Lambert set his whole staff to work on the language. He hired additional linguists out of his own thin enough pocket. He gave up all outside activities in order to hasten the progress of his own knowledge. His wife, respecting Lambert’s high order of devotion to his work, kept their two half-grown children from interfering during those long evenings when he studied and translated at home.
Two evenings a week Lambert called on Vonk Poogla, the Argonaut assigned to Trade Coordination, and improved his conversational Argonian to the point where he could obtain additional historical information from the pink wide “man.”
Of the twelve thousand books, the number of special interest to Lambert were only one hundred and ten. On those he based his master chart. An animated film of the chart was prepared at Lambert’s own expense, and, when it was done, he requested an appointment with Simpkin, Secretary for Stellar Affairs, going through all the normal channels to obtain the interview. He asked an hour of Simpkin’s time. It took two weeks.
Simpkin was a big florid man with iron-gray hair, skeptical eyes and that indefinable look of political opportunism.
He came around his big desk to shake Lambert’s hand. “Ah … Lambert! Glad to see you, fella. I ought to get around to my Bureau Chiefs more often, but you know how hectic things are up here.”
“I know, Mr. Secretary. I have something here of the utmost importance and—”
“Bureau of Racial Maturity, isn’t it? I never did know exactly what you people do. Sort of progress records or something?”
“Of the utmost importance,” Lambert repeated doggedly.
Simpkin smiled. “I hear that all day, but go ahead.”
“I want to show you a chart. A historical chart of the Argonaut civilization.” Lambert put the projector in position and plugged it in. He focused it on the wall screen.
“It was decided,” Simpkin said firmly, “that the Argonauts are not a menace to us in any—”
“I know that, sir. Please look at the chart first and then, when you’ve seen it, I think you’ll know what I mean.”
“Go ahead,” Simpkin agreed resignedly.
“I can be accused of adding apples and lemons in this presentation, sir. Note the blank chart. The base line is in years, adjusted to our calendar so as to give a comparison. Their recorded history covers twelve thousand of our years. That’s better than four times ours. Now note the red line. That shows the percentage of their total population involved in wars. It peaked eight thousand years ago. Note how suddenly it drops after that. In five hundred years it sinks to the base line and does not appear again.
“Here comes the second line. Crimes of violence. It also peaks eight thousand years ago. It drops less quickly than the war line, and never does actually cut the base line. Some crime still exists there. But a very, very tiny percentage compared to ours on a population basis, or to their own past. The third line, the yellow line climbing abruptly, is the index of insanity. Again a peak during the same approximate period in their history. Again a drop almost to the base line.”
* * * *
Simpkin pursed his heavy lips. “Odd, isn’t it?”
“Now this fourth line needs some explaining. I winnowed out death rates by age groups. Their life span is 1.3 times ours, so it had to be adjusted. I found a strange thing. I took the age group conforming to our 18 to 24 year group. That green line. Note that by the time we start getting decent figures, nine thousand years ago, it remains almost constant, and at a level conforming to our own experience. Now note what happens when the green line reaches a point eight thousand years ago. See how it begins to climb? Now steeper, almost vertical. It remains at a high level for almost a thousand years, way beyon
d the end of their history of war, and then descends slowly toward the base line, leveling out about two thousand years ago.”
Lambert clicked off the projector.
“Is that all?” Simpkin asked.
“Isn’t it enough? I’m concerned with the future of our own race. Somehow the Argonauts have found an answer to war, insanity, violence. We need that answer if we are to survive.”
“Come now, Lambert,” Simpkin said wearily.
“Don’t you see it? Their history parallels ours. They had our same problems. They saw disaster ahead and did something about it. What did they do? I have to know that.”
“How do you expect to?
“I want travel orders to go there.”
“I’m afraid that’s quite impossible. There are no funds for that sort of jaunt, Lambert. And I think you are worrying over nothing.”
“Shall I show you some of our own trends? Shall I show you murder turning from the most horrid crime into a relative commonplace? Shall I show you the slow inevitable increase in asylum space?”
“I know all that, man. But look at the Argonauts! Do you want that sort of stagnation? Do you want a race of fat, pink, sleepy—”
“Maybe they had a choice. A species of stagnation, or the end of their race. Faced with that choice, which would you pick, Mr. Secretary?”
“There are no funds.”
“All I want is authority. I’ll pay my own way.”
And he did.
* * * *
Rean was the home planet of the Argonauts, the third from their sun. When the trade ship flickered into three-dimensional existence, ten thousand miles above Rean, Lambert stretched the space-ache out of his long bones and muscles and smiled at Vonk Poogla.
“You could have saved me the trip, you know,”’ Lambert said.
A grin creased the round pink Visage. “Nuddink ventured, nuddink gained. Bezides, only my cousin can speak aboud this thing you vunder aboud. My cousin is werry important person. He is one picks me to go to your planet.”
Death Quotient and Other Stories Page 12
