by Anthology
"The individual holding the option is then referred to Emigration, which provides copies of a prospectus taken from the General Survey report, and advertises the option holder's asking prices on subdivisions. Again, there is a reasonable fee of a nature similar to ours, devoted to the same purposes.
"The state then ceases to have any voice in the projected colonization whatsoever. It is a totally private enterprise--a simple real estate operation, if you will, with the state acting only as an advertising agency, and, occasionally, as the lessor of suitable transportation from Earth to the new planet. The colonists, of course, are under our protection, maintaining full citizenship unless they request independence, which is freely granted.
"If you would like to see it for purposes of clarification, you're welcome to examine our file on Martin Holliday, a citizen who is fairly typical of these real estate operators, and who has just filed an option on his second planet." Smiling, Marlowe extended the folder.
"Thank you, I should like to," ud Klavan said, and took the file from Marlowe. He leafed through it rapidly, pausing, after asking Marlowe's leave, to make notes on some of the information, and then handed it back.
"Most interesting," ud Klavan observed. "However, if you'll enlighten me--This man, Martin Holliday; wouldn't there seem to be very little incentive for him, considering his age, even if there is the expectation of a high monetary return? Particularly since his first attempt, while not a failure, was not an outstanding financial success?"
Marlowe shrugged helplessly. "I tend to agree with you thoroughly, ud Klavan, but--" he smiled, "you'll agree, I'm sure, that one Earthman's boredom is another's incentive? We are not a rigorously logical race, ud Klavan."
"Quite," the Dovenilid replied.
V.
Marlowe stared at his irrevocable clock. His interphone light flickered, and he touched the switch absently.
"Yes, Mary?"
"Will there be anything else, Mr. Secretary?"
"No, thank you, Mary. Good night."
"Good night, sir."
There was no appeal. The day was over, and he had to go home.
He stared helplessly at his empty office, his mind automatically counting the pairs of departing footsteps that sounded momentarily as clerks and stenographers crossed the walk below his partly-open window. Finally he rolled his chair back and pushed himself to his feet. Disconsolate, he moved irresolutely to the window and watched the people leave.
Washington--aging, crowded Washington, mazed by narrow streets, carrying the burden of the severe, unimaginative past on its grimy architecture--respired heavily under the sinking sun.
The capital ought to be moved, he thought as he'd thought every night at this time. Nearer the heart of the empire. Out of this steamy bog. Out of this warren.
His heavy lips moved into an ironical comment on his own thoughts. No one was ever going to move the empire's traditional seat. There was too much nostalgia concentrated here, along with the humidity. Some day, when the Union was contiguous with the entire galaxy, men would still call Washington, on old, out-of-the-way Earth, their capital. Man was not a rigorously logical race, as a race.
The thought of going home broke out afresh, insidiously avoiding the barriers of bemusement which he had tried to erect, and he turned abruptly away from the window, moving decisively so as to be able to move at all. He yanked open a desk drawer and stuffed his jacket pockets with candy bars, ripping the film from one and chewing on its end while he put papers in his brief case.
Finally, he could not delay any longer. Everyone else was out of the building, and the robots were taking over. Metal treads spun along the corridors, bearing brooms, and the robot switchboards guarded the communications of the Ministry. Soon the char-robots would be bustling into this very office. He sighed and walked slowly out, down the empty halls where no human eye could see him waddling.
* * * * *
He stepped into his car, and as he opened the door the automatic recording said "Home, please," in his own voice. The car waited until he was settled and then accelerated gently, pointing for his apartment.
The recording had been an unavoidable but vicious measure of his own. He'd had to resort to it, for the temptation to drive to a terminal, to an airport, or rocket field, or railroad station--anywhere--had become excruciating.
The car stopped for a pedestrian light, and a sports model bounced jauntily to a stop beside it. The driver cocked an eyebrow at Marlowe and chuckled. "Say, Fatso, which one of you's the Buick?" Then the light changed, the car spurted away, and left Marlowe cringing.
He would not get an official car and protect himself with its license number. He would not be a coward. He would not!
His fingers shaking, he tore the film from another candy bar.
* * * * *
Marlowe huddled in his chair, the notebook clamped on one broad thigh by his heavy hand, his lips mumbling nervously while his pencil-point checked off meter.
"Dwell in aching discontent," he muttered. "No. Not that." He stared down at the floor, his eyes distant.
"Bitter discontent," he whispered. He grunted softly with breath that had to force its way past the constricting weight of his hunched chest. "Bitter dwell." He crossed out the third line, substituted the new one, and began to read the first two verses to himself.
"We are born of Humankind-- This our destiny: To bitter dwell in discontent Wherever we may be.
"To strangle with the burden Of that which heels us on. To stake our fresh beginnings When frailer breeds have done."
He smiled briefly, content. It still wasn't perfect, but it was getting closer. He continued:
"To pile upon the ashes Of races in decease Such citadels of our kind's own As fortify no--"
"What are you doing, David?" his wife asked over his shoulder.
Flinching, he pulled the notebook closer into his lap, bending forward in an instinctive effort to protect it.
The warm, loving, sawing voice went on. "Are you writing another poem, David? Why, I thought you'd given that up!"
"It's ... it's nothing, really, uh ... Leonora. Nothing much. Just a ... a thing I've had running around my head. Wanted to get rid of it."
His wife leaned over and kissed his cheek clumsily. "Why, you old big dear! I'll bet it's for me. Isn't it, David? Isn't it for me?"
He shook his head in almost desperate regret. "I'm ... I'm afraid not, uh--" Snorer. "It's about something else, Leonora."
"Oh." She came around the chair, and he furtively wiped his cheek with a hasty hand. She sat down facing him, smiling with entreaty. "Would you read it to me anyway, David? Please, dear?"
"Well, it's not ... not finished yet--not right."
"You don't have to, David. It's not important. Not really." She sighed deeply.
He picked up the notebook, his breath cold in his constricted throat. "All right," he said, the words coming out huskily, "I'll read it. But it's not finished yet."
"If you don't want to--"
* * * * *
He began to read hurriedly, his eyes locked on the notebook, his voice a suppressed hoarse, spasmodic whisper.
"Such citadels of our kind's own As fortify no peace.
"No wall can offer shelter, No roof can shield from pain. We cannot rest; we are the damned; We must go forth again.
"Unnumbered we must--"
"David, are you sure about those last lines?" She smiled apologetically. "I know I'm old-fashioned, but couldn't you change that? It seems so ... so harsh. And I think you may have unconsciously borrowed it from someone else. I can't help thinking I've heard it before, somewhere? Don't you think so?"
"I don't know, dear. You may be right about that word, but it doesn't really matter, does it? I mean, I'm not going to try to get it published, or anything."
"I know, dear, but still--"
He was looking at her desperately.
"I'm sorry, dear!" she said contritely. "Please go on. Don't pay any attention to my stupid comments."<
br />
"They're not stupid--"
"Please, dear. Go on."
His fingers clamped on the edge of the notebook.
"Unnumbered we must wander, Break, and bleed, and die. Implacable as ocean, Our tide must drown the sky.
"What is our expiation, For what primeval crime, That we must go on marching Until the crash of time?
"What hand has shaped so cruelly? What whim has cast such fate? Where is, in our creation, The botch that makes us great?"
"Oh, that's good, darling! That's very good. I'm proud of you, David."
"I think it stinks," he said evenly, "but, anyway, there are two more verses."
"David!"
Grimly, he spat out the last eight lines.
"Why are we ever gimleted By empire's irony? Is discontent the cancered price Of Earthman's galaxy?"
Leonora, recoiling from his cold fury, was a shaking pair of shoulders and a mass of lank hair supported by her hands on her face while she sobbed.
"Are our souls so much perverted? Can we not relent? Or are the stars the madman's cost For his inborn discontent?
"Good night, Leonora."
VI.
The light flickered on Marlowe's interphone.
"Good morning, Mr. Secretary."
"Good morning, Mary. What's up?"
"Harrison's being deported from Dovenil, sir. There's a civil crime charged against him. Quite a serious one."
Marlowe's eyebrows went up. "How much have we got on it?"
"Not too much, sir. Harrison's report hasn't come in yet. But the story's on the news broadcasts now, sir. We haven't been asked to comment yet, but Emigration has been called by several news outlets, and the Ministry for Education just called here and inquired whether it would be all right to publish a general statement of their exchange students' careful instructions against violating local customs."
Marlowe's glance brooded down on the mass of papers piled in the tray of his IN box. "Give me a tape of a typical broadcast," he said at last. "Hold everything else. Present explanation to all news outlets: None now, statement forthcoming after preliminary investigation later in the day. The Ministry regrets this incident deeply, and will try to settle matters as soon and as amicably as possible, et cetera, et cetera. O.K.?"
"Yes, sir."
He swung his chair around to face the screen let into a side wall, and colors began to flicker and run in the field almost immediately. They steadied and sharpened, and the broadcast tape began to roll.
Dateline: Dovenil, Sector Three, Day 183, 2417 GST. Your Topical News reporter on this small planet at the Union's rim was unable today to locate for comment any of the high officials of this alien civilization directly concerned with the order for the deportation of exchange student-observer Hubert Harrison, charged with theft and violent assault on the person of a Dovenilid citizen. Union citizen Harrison was unavailable for comment at this time, but Topical News will present his views and such other clues when more ensues.
Marlowe grunted. Journalese was getting out of hand again. That last rhyming sentence was sure to stick in the audience's brains. It might be only another advertising gimmick, but if they started doing it with the body of the news itself, it might be well to feed Topical enough false leads to destroy what little reputation for comprehensibility they had left.
He touched his interphone switch.
"Uh ... Mary, what was the hooper on that broadcast?"
"Under one per cent, sir."
Which meant that, so far, the Body Politic hadn't reacted.
"Thank you. Is there anything else coming in?"
"Not at the moment, sir."
"What's--" Cabbage. "What's Dalish ud Klavan doing?"
"His residence is the Solar Hostel, sir. The management reports that he is still in his room, and has not reserved space on any form of long-distance transportation. He has not contacted us, either, and there is a strong probability that he may still be unaware of what's happened."
"How many calls did he make yesterday, either before or after he was here, and to whom?"
"I can get you a list in ten minutes, sir."
"Do that, Mary."
He switched off, sat slapping the edge of his desk with his hand, and switched on again.
"Mary, I want the GenSurvs on the Dovenil area to a depth of ten cubic lights."
"Yes, sir."
"And get me Mr. Mead on the phone, please."
"Yes, sir."
Marlowe's lips pulled back from his teeth as he switched off. He snatched a candy bar out of his drawer, tore the film part way off, then threw it back in the drawer as his desk phone chimed.
"Here, Chris."
"Here, Mr. Marlowe."
"Look, Chris--has Holliday left Earth yet?"
"Yes, sir. Yes, Dave."
"Where is he?"
"Luna, en route to Karlshaven. He was lucky enough to have me arrange for his accidentally getting a ride on a GenSurv ship that happened to be going out that way, if you follow me." Mead grinned.
"Get him back."
The smile blanked out. "I can't do that, Mr. Marlowe! He'd never be able to take it. You should have seen him when I put him on the shuttle. We doped him up with EasyRest, and even then his subconscious could feel the bulkheads around him, even in his sleep. Those shuttles are small, and they don't have ports."
"We can't help that. We need him, and I've got to talk to him first. Personally."
Mead bit his lip. "Yes, sir."
"Dave."
"Yes ... Dave."
VII.
Dalish ud Klavan sat easily in his chair opposite Marlowe. He rested one digit on his notebook and waited.
"Ud Klavan," Marlowe said amiably, "you're undoubtedly aware by now that your opposite number on Dovenil has been charged with a civil crime and deported."
The Dovenilid nodded. "An unfortunate incident. One that I regret personally, and which I am sure my own people would much rather not have had happen."
"Naturally." Marlowe smiled. "I simply wanted to reassure you that this incident does not reflect on your own status in any way. We are investigating our representative, and will take appropriate action, but it seems quite clear that the fault is not with your people. We have already forwarded reparations and a note of apology to your government. As further reparation, I wish to assure you personally that we will coöperate with your personal observations in every possible way. If there is anything at all you wish to know--even what might, under ordinary conditions, be considered restricted information--just call on us."
Ud Klavan's crest stirred a fraction of an inch, and Marlowe chuckled inwardly. Well, even a brilliant spy might be forgiven an outward display of surprise under these circumstances.
The Dovenilid gave him a piercing look, but Marlowe presented a featureless facade of bulk.
The secretary chuckled in his mind once more. He doubted if ud Klavan could accept the hypothesis that Marlowe did not know he was a spy. But the Dovenilid must be a sorely confused being at this point.
"Thank you, Marlowe," he said finally. "I am most grateful, and I am sure my people will construe it as yet another sign of the Union's friendship."
"I hope so, ud Klavan," Marlowe replied. Having exchanged this last friendly lie, they went through the customary Dovenilid formula of leave-taking.
* * * * *
Marlowe slapped his interphone switch as soon as the alien was gone. "Uh ... Mary, what's the latest on Holliday?"
"His shuttle lands at Idlewild in half an hour, sir."
"All right, get Mr. Mead. Have him meet me out front, and get an official car to take us to the field. I'll want somebody from Emigration to go with us. Call Idlewild and have them set up a desk and chairs for four out in the middle of the field. Call the Ministry for Traffic and make sure that field stays clear until we're through with it. My Ministerial prerogative, and no back-talk. I want that car in ten minutes."
"Yes, sir."
Mary's voice was perfectly even,
without the slightest hint that there was anything unusual happening. Marlowe switched off and twisted his mouth.
He picked up the GenSurv on the Dovenil area and began skimming it rapidly.
* * * * *
He kept his eyes carefully front as he walked out of his office, past the battery of clerks in the outer office, and down the hall. He kept them rigidly fixed on the door of his personal elevator which, during the day, was human-operated under the provisions of the Human Employment Act of 2302. He met Mead in front of the building and did not look into the eyes of Bussard, the man from Emigration, as they shook hands. He followed them down the walk in a sweating agony of obliviousness, and climbed into the car with carefully normal lack of haste.
He sat sweating, chewing a candy bar, for several minutes before he spoke. Then, slowly, he felt his battered defenses reassert themselves, and he could actually look at Bussard, before he turned to Mead.
"Now, then," he rapped out a shade too abruptly before he caught himself. "Here's the GenSurv on the Dovenil area, Chris. Anything in it you don't know already?"
"I don't think so, sir."
"O.K., dig me up a habitable planet--even a long-term False-E will do--close to Dovenil, but not actually in their system. If it's at all possible, I want that world in a system without any rich planets. And I don't want any rich systems anywhere near it. If you can't do that, arrange for the outright sale of all mineral and other resource rights to suitable companies. I want that planet to be habitable, but I want it to be impossible for any people on it to get at enough resources to achieve a technological culture. Can do?"
Mead shook his head. "I don't know."
"You've got about fifteen minutes to find out. I'm going to start talking to Holliday, and when I tell him I've got another planet for him, I'll be depending on you to furnish one. Sorry to pile it on like this, but must be."
Mead nodded. "Right, Mr. Marlowe. That's why I draw pay."
"Good boy. Now, uh--" Rabbit. "Bussard. I want you to be ready to lay out a complete advertising and prospectus program. Straight routine work, but about four times normal speed. The toughest part of it will be following the lead that Chris and I set. Don't be surprised at anything, and act like it happens every day."
