The Best Science Fiction of 1949

by Everett F. Bleiler

  Goram muttered once: “I seem to hear quite a few languages here.”

  “Oh, yes,” replied Heym. “Each region naturally developed its own tongue and generally sticks to it for sentimental reasons and also because the thoughts of a people are best expressed in the speech they themselves developed. But as soon as contact between the lands became common, an international language was worked out and learned by all concerned. In fact, only about fifty years ago a completely new world language was adopted, one correct according to the newly established principles of semantics. That’s more than the Empire has yet done. We can talk Terrestrial safely enough, it’ll pass for some local dialect, and I can do the talking for both of us with the natives.”

  “Still”—Goram scowled—“I don’t like it. Everybody here has a higher I. Q. than myself—that’s not right for a bunch of barbarians. I feel as if everyone was looking at me.”

  “Most of them observe us, yes, geniuses being naturally observant,” said Heym. “But we aren’t conspicuous in any way. Our men have often been on the planet in person without attracting attention.”

  “Didn’t you say you’d appeared openly?”

  “Yes—a few times, some centuries back, we made the most awe-inspiring possible descents, coming down through the air on gravibeams in luminous clothes and performing seeming miracles. You see, even the primitive tribes had shown no signs of organized religion beyond the usual magic rites which they soon outgrew. We wanted to see if god-worship couldn’t be induced.” Heym smiled wryly. “But after the generation which had actually seen us, there was no sign of our manifestation. I suppose the young, being of independent mind, simply refused to believe their elders’ wild stories. Not that the people are without religious sense. There is a high proportion of unbelievers, but there is also a large philosophical and even devotional literature. But nobody founds a school of thought, rather everybody reaches his own conclusions.”

  “I don’t see how progress is possible then.”

  You wouldn’t, thought Heym contemptuously, but he only smiled and said, “Apparently it is.”

  An aircraft roared low overhead, and a wagon driver fought to control his suddenly panicky animals. Goram said: “The biggest paradox here is the anachronism. Sailships and oilburners docked side by side, animal power in the same street with chemical engines, stone and wood houses with efficient smoke precipitators—how come?”

  “It’s partly a matter of the extremely rapid progress,” declared Heym. “A new invention appears before the economy has become geared to it. There won’t be many machines until mass-production factories are set up to produce them in quantity, and that will have to wait till mechanical knowledge is sufficiently advanced to develop factories almost entirely automatic—for few if any geniuses could stand to work on an assembly line all day. Meanwhile, the people are in no hurry to advance their standard of living. Already they have sufficient food, clothing, and other necessities for all, as well as abundant free time—why strain themselves to go beyond that? This isn’t the first time a brilliantly creative civilization has existed without interest in material progress; I might cite the Hellenistic phase of the ancient Classical culture on Earth as another case.”

  Goram, who had obviously heard nothing and cared less about Hellenic culture, was silent for a while, then at last a blurted protest: “But they’re working on rockets!”

  “Oh, yes—but there’s a difference between exploration and exploitation. The social system here is unique, and doesn’t lend itself to imperialism. The Empire doesn’t have to fear Station Seventeen.”

  “I’ve told you before I’m not worried about their military power,” snarled Goram.

  Heym fell silent, for he felt the sudden sickening fear that the marshal might, without reason or provocation, decide to annihilate the colony—destroy it out of pure spite, pique with the psychologists and their dominion over the soldiers, vent for gathering wrath at the subconscious, frantically denied realization of his own basic inferiority to these barbarians. If he killed them, it would be proof, the militarist’s twisted proof, that he was superior after all.

  With a growing desperation, Heym looked around at the people—the fortunate children of an open sky, quiet, glad, urbane, and strong with the unconquerable strength of intelligence. Here was truly Homo sapiens, man the wise—man who had plucked fire from the mouth of a volcano, far back in the lost ages of the ice, and started on a long journey into darkness. He had come far since then, but he had ended in a blind alley. Only here, on this one insignificant world of the countless millions swarming around the stars, only here was the old quest being renewed, the path of hope being trodden. Elsewhere lay only the sorry road of empire and death. Where the path of Station Seventeen led, Heym could not imagine. Unguessably far it went, out beyond the glittering stars, his mind reeled at thought of the infinities open to mankind if he took the right turning.

  The psychologist said, with desperation raw in his voice, “Goram—Marshal Goram—surely you can see the experiment is harmless. More than that, it’s the most beneficial thing that has yet happened in all human history. Good Spirit, here’s hope for the Empire! A race which can progress as this has done can show us the way.”

  “The Empire,” said Goram tightly, “isn’t interested in progress. It’s only interested in survival.”

  “But—this is the way to survive. Every civilization—yes, every species—that quit advancing has become extinct.”

  “I’m a practical man,” snapped Goram. “I’m not interested in crackpot schemes to save the universe.”

  “What’s so practical about clinging to a system that in all history has consistently failed to work?” When the officer’s face remained cold and shut, Heym said with forced persuasiveness, “After all, in physical science the planet is still centuries behind us. In fact, strangely enough, though their advance in that branch of knowledge has been as extremely rapid as you can see, they have shown a proportionately greater concentration on biological and sociological work. I don’t know why, unless it is that genius is less afraid than mediocrity to study subjects which strike close to home. On Earth, astronomy, the most remote science, was the oldest, and psychiatry and sociology the youngest, but here all the sciences have got off to an even start. The mere absence of war is enough to show how far ahead of us these people are, and I could list any amount of supporting evidence. Their social system has achieved the miracle of combining progressiveness and stability. Just give the Foundation a chance to learn from them—or even, if they do work out an interstellar drive, give them a chance to teach us themselves. They’re the most reasonable race in the universe—they’ll be on the side of civilization, and even while overhauling it they’ll be better able to preserve it than we ourselves.”

  “Let a bunch of barbarians take over the holy throne?” muttered Goram.

  Heym closed his mouth, and a gathering determination tightened his gaunt face. He looked around the pulsing city, and a vast tenderness and pity welled up in him—poor geniuses, poor helpless unwitting supermen—and answering it came a steely implacable resolve.

  There was too much at stake to let his own personal fate matter. Certainly a mindlessly destructive atavist could not be allowed to block history. He would keep trying, he’d do his best to talk Goram over, because the alternative was fantastically risky for the station and against all his own training and principles—including elementary self-preservation.

  But if he failed, if Goram remained obdurate, then he’d have to apply the same primitive methods as the soldier. Goram would have to die.

  Rain clouds came out of the west with sunset, thunder rolling over the sky and a cool wet wind blowing from the sea. Goram and Heym finished a primitive but satisfying meal in a small restaurant and the psychologist said: “We’d better look for a place to stay tonight. Will you be in this city tomorrow?”

  “Don’t know,” answered Goram curtly. He had been silent and withdrawn during the day’s tour of the
metropolis. “I have to think over what I’ve seen today. It may be enough basis for a decision, or I may want to see more of the planet.”

  “I’ll pay the score,” offered Heym. He fought to keep his voice and face blank. “And I’ll ask the waiter to recommend a tavern.”

  He followed the man toward the kitchen. “Please,” he said in the common tongue, “I wish to pay the check.”

  “Very well,” answered the native. He was a tall young fellow with the faintly weary eyes of a scholar—probably a student, thought Heym, doing his stint here and getting his education free. He took the few coins casually.

  “And—is there a place to stay overnight near here?”

  “Right down the street. Stranger, I take it?”

  “Yes. From Caralla on business. Oh—one other thing.” It was a tremendous effort to meet that steady gaze. Heym was aware of his own clumsiness as he blurted the request:

  “… uh … I’ve lost my knife and I need it to prepare some handicraft samples for display tomorrow. The stores are all closed now. I wonder if you have an extra one in the kitchen I could buy.”

  “Why—” The native paused. For an instant, Heym thought he was going to ask questions, and he braced himself as if to meet a physical impact. But on a world where crime was virtually unknown and lying hardly ever went beyond the usual polite social fibs, even so crude a fiction could get by. “Yes, I suppose we have,” said the waiter. “Here, I’ll get one.”

  “No … It come along … save you the trouble … choose one for my purpose if … uh … if you have several you can spare.” Heym stuck close to the waiter’s heels.

  The kitchen was spotlessly clean, though it seemed incredible that cooking should still be done with fire. Heym chose a small sharp knife, wrapped it in a rag, and slipped it into his pocket. The waiter and chef refused his money. “Plenty where this one came from—a pleasure to help out a visitor.”

  “What were you out there for?” asked Goram.

  Heym licked stiff lips. “The waiter was new here himself and went to ask the cook about hotels.”

  The first raindrops were falling as the two came out into the street. Lightning forked vividly overhead. Goram shuddered in the raw damp chill. “Foul place,” he muttered. “No weather control, not even a roof for the city—uncivilized.”

  Heym made no reply, though he tried to unlock his jaws. The blade in his pocket seemed to have the weight of a world. He looked down from his stringy height at the soldier’s squat massiveness. I’ve never killed, he thought dully. I’ve never even fought, physically or mentally. I’m no match for him. It’ll have to be a sneak thrust from behind.

  They entered the hotel. The clerk was reading a journal whose pages seemed purely mathematical symbols. He was probably a scientist of some kind in his main job. There was, luckily for Goram, no register to sign; the clerk merely nodded them casually toward their room.

  “No system here,” muttered Goram. “How can they keep track of anybody without registry?”

  “They don’t,” said Heym. “And they don’t have to.”

  The room was large and airy and well furnished. “I’ve slept in worse places,” said the soldier grudgingly. He flopped into a chair. “But it’s the first place I’ve seen where the hired help reads technical journals.”

  “That’s easy enough to explain. Even though no high-grade mind could be put to the myriad routine and menial tasks essential to running a civilization, everything from garbage collection to government, someone must do the work. The present set-up is a compromise, in which everyone puts in a small proportion of his time at those jobs. He can do manual work, or teach, or run a public-service enterprise like a farm or restaurant—whatever he wishes. And he can work steadily at it for a few years and then have all his needs taken care of for the vest of his life, or else put in a few hours a day, two or three, over a longer period of time. The result is that needs and a social surplus are available for all, as well as education, health services, entertainment, or whatever else is considered desirable. The planet could, in fact, do without money, but it’s more convenient to pay in cash than fill out credit slips.

  “Incidentally, that’s probably one reason there’s no great interest in providing more material goods for all—it would mean that everyone would have to put in more time in the mines and factories and less on his chosen work. Which is apparently a price that genius is unwilling to pay. I don’t think there’ll be any great progress in applied science until the research project established some time back perfects the robots it’s set for a goal.”

  “Uh-huh,” muttered Goram. “And just let them expand into the Galaxy and find we have such robots—left unproduced since the Imperial populace has to be kept busy—and see what they’ll do. They’d be able to wreck the whole set-up, just by inventing and distribution, and they’ll know it.”

  “Can’t you credit them with being smart enough to see the reasons for maintaining the status quo?” asked Heym. “They don’t want the barbarians on their necks any more than we do. They’ll help us maintain the Empire until they have developed a way to change conditions safely.”

  “Maybe.” Goram’s mouth was tight. “Still, they’ll hold the balance of power, which is something no group except the Imperium can be permitted to do. Spirit! How do you even know they’ll be on our side? They may decide their best advantage lies with our rivals. Or they may be irritated with our having used them so cavalierly all these centuries.”

  “They won’t hold grudges,” said Heym. “A genius doesn’t.” “How do you know?” Goram sprang out of his chair and paced the floor. His voice rose almost to a shout. “You’ve said all along that the genius is naturally peaceful and tolerant and unselfish and every other of the milk-and-water virtues.

  Yet, your own history is against you all the way. Every great military leader has been a genius. There’ve been sadistic geniuses, and bigoted geniuses, and criminal geniuses—yes, insane geniuses! Why, every one of the, hundred billion or so important men in the Imperial government is a genius—on our side—and more than half the barbarian chiefs are known to have genius intellect.” He swung a red and twisted face on the psychologist. “How do you know this is a planet of saints? Answer me that!”

  Heym took out a cigarette pack with fingers that shook. He held it out to Goram, who shook his heavy bullet head in angry refusal. The psychologist took time to bring one of the cylinders into his mouth and puff it into lighting. He drew smoke deeply into his lungs, fighting for steadiness.

  It was his last real chance to convince Goram. If this failed, he’d just have to try to murder the soldier. If that attempt miscarried—oh, Spirit, then Station Seventeen and the Empire were doomed. But if he succeeded, well, he might be able to convince the Imperial police that it had been an accident, a runaway animal or something of the sort, or they might send him to the disintegration chamber for murder. In any case, there would be a faint hope that the next inspector would be a reasonable man.

  He said slowly: “To explain the theory of historical progress, I’d have to give you a fairly long lecture.”

  Goram sprawled back into his chair, crude and strong and arrogant. His little black eyes were drills, boring into the psychologist’s soul. “I’m listening,” he snapped.

  “Well”—Heym walked up and down the floor, hands clasped behind his back—“it’s evident from a study of history that all progress is due to gifted individuals. Always, in every field, the talented or otherwise fortunate few have led and the mass has dumbly followed. A republic is the only form of state which even pretends to offer self-government, and as soon as the population becomes any size at all the people are again led by the nose, their rulers struggling for power with money and such means of mass hypnotism as news services and other propaganda machines. And all republics become dictatorships, in fact if not in name, within a few centuries at most. As for art and science and religion and the other creative fields, it is still more obviously the few who lead.


  “The ordinary man is just plain stupid. Perhaps proper mind training could lift him above himself, but it’s never been tried. Meanwhile he remains immensely conservative, only occasional outbreaks of mindless hysteria engineered by some special group stirring him out of his routine. He follows, or rather he accepts what the creative or dominant minority does, but it is haltingly and unwillingly.

  “Yet it is society as a whole which does. History is a mass action process. Gifted individuals start it off, but it is the huge mass of the social group which actually accomplishes the process. A new invention or a new land to colonize or a new philosophy or any other innovation would have no significance unless everybody eventually adopted or exploited or otherwise made use of it. And society as a whole is conservative, or perhaps I should say preservative. Civilization is ninety-nine percent habit, the use of past discoveries or the influence of past events. Against the immense conservatism of mankind in the mass, and in comparison to the tremendous accumulation of past accomplishment, the achievement of the individual genius or the small group is almost insignificant. It is not surprising that progress is slow and irregular and liable to stagnation or violent setbacks. The surprising thing is really that any event of significance can happen at all.”

  Heym paused. Goram stirred impatiently. “What are you leading up to?” he muttered.

  “Simply this.” Heym’s hand fell into his pocket and closed on the smooth hard handle of the knife. Goram slumped in his chair, head lowered, staring sullenly at the floor. If the blade were driven in now, right into that bull neck, a paralyzing blow and then a swift slash across the jugular—

  The intensity of the hatred welling up in him shocked Heym. He should be above the brutal level of his enemy. Yet—to see the blood spurt!

  Steady—steady— That move of desperation might not be necessary.