by Isaac Asimov
But his companion was an historian, and he accepted the gentle thrust with a smile of his own.
Stein’s apartment was, for Earth, quite luxurious. It lacked the empty privacy of the Outer Worlds, of course, since from its window there stretched outward a phenomenon that belonged only to the home planet-a city. A large city, full of people, rubbing shoulders, mingling sweat
Nor was Stein’s apartment fitted with its own power and its own utility supply. It lacked even the most elementary quota of positronic robots. In short, it lacked the dignity of self-sufficiency, and like all things on Earth, it was merely part of a community, a pendant unit of a cluster, a portion of a mob.
But Stein was an Earthman by birth and used to it. And after all, by Earth standards the apartment was still luxurious.
It was just that looking outward through the same windows before which lay the city, one could see the stars and among them the Outer Worlds, where there were no cities but only gardens; where the lawns were streaks of emerald, where all human beings were kings, and where all good Earthmen earnestly and vainly hoped to go some day.
Except for a few who knew better-like Gustav Stein.
The Friday evenings with Edward Field belonged to that class of ritual which comes with age and quiet life. It broke the week pleasantly for two elderly bachelors, and gave them an innocuous reason to linger over the sherry and the stars. It took them away from the crudities of life, and, most of all, it let them talk.
Field, especially, as a lecturer, scholar and man of modest means quoted chapter and verse from his still uncompleted history of Terrestrian Empire.
“I wait for the last act, “ he explained. “Then I can call it the ‘Decline and Fall of Empire’ and publish it.”
“You must expect the last act to come soon, then.”
“In a sense, it has come already. It is just that it is best to wait for all to recognize that fact. You see, there are three times when an Empire or an Economic System or a Social Institution falls, you skeptic-”
Field paused for effect and waited patiently for Stein to say, “ And those times are?”
“First,” Field ticked off a right forefinger, “there is the time when just a little nub shows up that points an inexorable way to finality. It can’t be seen or recognized until the finality arrives, when the original nub becomes visible to hindsight.”
“And you can tell what that little nub is?”
“I think so, since I already have the advantage of a century and a half of hindsight. It came when the Sirian sector colony, Aurora, first obtained permission of the Central Government at Earth to introduce positronic robots into their community life. Obviously, looking back at it, the road was clear for the development of a thoroughly mechanized society based upon robot labor and not human labor. And it is this mechanization that has been and will yet be the deciding factor in the struggle between the Outer Worlds and Earth.”
“It is?” murmured the physiologist. “How infernally clever you historians are. What and where is the second time the Empire fell?”
“The second point in time,” and Field gently bent his right middle finger backward, “arrives when a signpost is raised for the expert so large and plain that it can be seen even without the aid of perspective. And that point has been passed, too, with the first establishment of an immigration quota against Earth by the Outer Worlds. The fact that Earth found itself unable to prevent an action so obviously detrimental to itself was a shout for all to hear, and that was fifty years ago.”
“Better and better. And the third point?”
“The third point?” Down went the ring finger. “That is the least important. That is when the signpost becomes a wall with a huge ‘The End’ scrawled upon it. The only requirement for knowing that the end has come, then, is neither perspective nor training, but merely the ability to listen to the video.”
“I take it that the third point in time has not yet come.”
“Obviously not, or you would not need to ask. Yet it may come soon; for instance, if there is war.”
“Do you think there will be?”
Field avoided commitment. “Times are unsettled, and a good deal of futile emotion is sweeping Earth on the immigration question. And if there should be a war, Earth would be defeated quickly and lastingly, and the wall would be erected.”
“Can you be certain? Are you sure that even a professional historian can always distinguish between victory and defeat?”
Field smiled. He said: “You may know something I do not. For instance, they talk about something called the ‘Pacific Project.’ “
“I never heard of it.” Stein refilled the two glasses, “Let us speak of other things.”
He held up his glass to the broad window So that the far stars flickered rosily in the clear liquid and said: “To a happy ending to Earth’s troubles.”
Field held up his own, “To the Pacific Project.”
Stein sipped gently and said: “But we drink to two different things.”
“Do we?”
It is quite difficult to describe any of the Outer Worlds to a native Earthman, since it is not So much a description of a world that is required as a description of a state of mind. The Outer Worlds-some fifty of them, originally colonies, later dominions, later nations-differ extremely among themselves in a physical sense. But the state of mind is somewhat the same throughout.
It is something that grows out of a world not originally congenial to mankind, yet populated by the cream of the difficult, the different, the daring, the deviant.
If it is to be expressed in a word, that word is “individuality.”
There is the world of Aurora, for instance, three parsecs from Earth. It was the first planet settled outside the Solar System, and represented the dawn of interstellar travel. Hence its name.
It had air and water to start with, perhaps, but on Earthly standards it was rocky and infertile. The plant life that did exist, sustained by a yellow-green pigment completely unrelated to chlorophyll and not as efficient, gave the comparatively fertile regions a decidedly bilious and unpleasant appearance to unaccustomed eyes. No animal life higher than unicellular, and the equivalent of bacteria as well, were present. Nothing dangerous, naturally, since the two biological systems, of Earth and Aurora, were chemically unrelated.
Aurora became, quite gradually, a patchwork. Grains and fruit trees came first; shrubs, flowers, and grass afterward. Herds of livestock followed. And, as if it were necessary to prevent too close a copy of the mother planet, positronic robots also came to build the mansions, carve the landscapes, lay the power units. In short, to do the work, and turn the planet green and human.
There was the luxury of a new world and unlimited mineral resources. There was the splendid excess of atomic power laid out on new foundations with merely thousands, or, at most, millions, not billions, to service. There was the vast flowering of physical science, in worlds where there was room for it.
Take the home of Franklin Maynard, for instance, who, with his wife, three children, and twenty-seven robots, lived on an estate more than forty miles away, in distance, from the nearest neighbor. Yet by community-wave he could, if he wished, share the living room of any of the seventy-five million on Aurora-with each singly; with all simultaneously.
Maynard knew every inch of his valley. He knew just where it ended, sharply, and gave way to the alien crags, along whose undesirable slopes the angular, sharp leaves of the native furze clung sullenly-as if in hatred of the softer matter that had usurped its place in the sun.
Maynard did not have to leave that valley. He was a deputy in the Gathering, and a member of the Foreign Agents Committee, but he could transact all business but the most extremely essential, by community-wave, without ever sacrificing that precious privacy he had to have in a way no Earthman could understand.
Even the present business could be performed by community-wave. The man, for instance, who sat with him in his living room, was Charles Hijkman, and
he, actually, was sitting in his own living room on an island in an artificial lake stocked with fifty varieties of fish, which happened to be twenty-five hundred miles distant, in space.
The connection was an illusion, of course. If Maynard were to reach out a hand, he could feel the invisible wall.
Even the robots were quite accustomed to the paradox, and when Hijkman raised a hand for a cigarette, Maynard’s robot made no move to satisfy the desire, though a half-minute passed before Hijkman’s own robot could do so.
The two men spoke like Outer Worlders, that is, stiffly and in syllables too clipped to be friendly, and yet certainly not hostile. Merely undefinably lacking in the cream-however sour and thin at times-of human sociability which is so forced upon the inhabitants of Earth’s ant heaps.
Maynard said: “I have long wanted a private communion, Hijkman. My duties in the Gathering, this year-”
“Quite. That is understood. You are welcome now, of course. In fact, especially so, since I have heard of the superior nature of your grounds and landscaping. Is it true that your cattle are fed on imported grass?”
“I’m afraid that is a slight exaggeration. Actually, certain of my best milkers feed on Terrestrial imports during calving time, but such a procedure would be prohibitively expensive, I’m afraid, if made general. It yields quite extraordinary milk, however. May I have the privilege of sending you a day’s output?”
“It would be most kind of you.” Hijkman bent his head, gravely. “You must receive some of my salmon in return.”
To a Terrestrial eye, the two men might have appeared much alike. Both were tall, though not unusually so for Aurora, where the average height of the adult male is six feet one and one half inches. Both were blond and hard-muscled, with sharp and pronounced features. Though neither was younger than forty, middle-age as yet sat lightly upon them.
So much for amenities. Without a change in tone, Maynard proceeded to the serious purpose of his call.
He said: “The Committee, you know, is now largely engaged with Moreanu and his Conservatives. We would like to deal with them firmly, we of the Independents, that is. But before we can do so with the requisite calm and certainty, I would like to ask you certain questions.”
“Why me?”
“Because you are Aurora’s most important physicist.” Modesty is an unnatural attitude, and one which is only with difficulty taught to children. In an individualistic society it is useless and Hijkman was, therefore, unencumbered with it. He simply nodded objectively at Maynard’s last words.
“And,” continued Maynard, ‘‘as one of us. You are an Independent.”
“I am a member of the Party. Dues-paying, but not very active.”
“Nevertheless safe. Now, tell me, have you heard of the Pacific Project.”
“The Pacific Project?” There was a polite inquiry in his words.
“It is something which is taking place on Earth. The Pacific is a Terrestrial ocean, but the name itself probably has no significance.”
“I have never heard of it.”
“I am not surprised. Few have, even on Earth. Our communion, by the way, is via tight-beam and nothing must go further.”
“I understand.”
“Whatever Pacific Project is-and our agents are extremely vague -it might conceivably be a menace. Many of those who on Earth pass for scientists seem to be connected with it. Also, some of Earth’s more radical and foolish politicians.”
“Hm-m-m. There was once something called the Manhattan Project.”
“Yes,” urged Maynard, “what about it?”
“Oh, it’s an ancient thing. It merely occurred to me because of the analogy in names. The Manhattan Project was before the time of extra-terrestrial travel. Some petty war in the dark ages occurred, and it was the name given to a group of scientists who developed atomic power.”
“Ah,” Maynard’s hand became a fist, “and what do you think the Pacific Project can do, then?”
Hijkman considered. Then, softly: “Do you think Earth is planning war?”
On Maynard’s face there was a sudden expression of distaste. “Six billion people. Six billion half-apes, rather, jammed into one system to a near-explosion point, facing only some millions of us, total. Don’t you think it is a dangerous situation?”
“Oh, numbers!”
“All right. Are we safe despite the numbers? Tell me. I’m only an administrator, and you’re a physicist. Can Earth win a war in any way?”
Hijkman sat solemnly in his chair and thought carefully and slowly. Then he said: “Let us reason. There are three broad classes of methods whereby an individual or group can gain his ends against opposition. On an increasing level of subtlety, those three classes can be termed the physical, the biological, and the psychological.
“Now, the physical can be easily eliminated. Earth does not have an industrial background. It does not have a technical know-how. It has very limited resources. It lacks even a single outstanding physical scientist. So it is as impossible as anything in the Galaxy can be that they can develop any form of physico-chemical application that is not already known to the Outer Worlds. Provided, of course, that the conditions of the problem imply single-handed opposition on the part of Earth against any or all of the Outer Worlds. I take it that none of the Outer Worlds intends leaguing with Earth against us.”
Maynard indicated violent opposition even to the suggestion, “No, no, no. There is no question of that. Put it out of your mind.”
“Then, ordinary physical surprise weapons are inconceivable. It is useless to discuss it further.”
“Then, what about your second class, the biological?”
Slowly, Hijkman lifted his eyebrows: “Now, that is less certain. Some Terrestrial biologists are quite competent, I am told. Naturally, since I am myself a physicist, I am not entirely qualified to judge this. Yet I believe that in certain restricted fields, they are still expert. In agricultural science, of course, to give an obvious example. And in bacteriology. Um-m-m-”
“Yes, what about bacteriological warfare?”
“A thought! But no, no, quite inconceivable. A teeming, constricted world such as Earth cannot afford to fight an open latticework of fifty sparse worlds with germs. They are infinitely more subject to epidemics, that is, to retaliation in kind. In fact, I would say that given our living conditions here on Aurora and on the other Outer Worlds, no contagious disease could really take hold. No, Maynard. You can check with a bacteriologist, but I think he’ll tell you the same.”
Maynard said: “And the third class?”
“The psychological? Now, that is unpredictable. And yet the Outer Worlds are intelligent and healthy communities and not amenable to ordinary propaganda, or for that matter to any form of unhealthy emotionalism. Now, I wonder-”
“Yes?”
“What if the Pacific Project is just that? I mean, a huge device to keep us off balance. Something top-secret, but meant to leak out in just the right fashion, so that the Outer Worlds yield a little to Earth. simply in order to play safe.”
There was a longish silence.
“Impossible,” burst out Maynard, angrily.
“You react properly. You hesitate. But I don’t seriously press the interpretation. It is merely a thought.”
A longer silence, then Hijkman spoke again: “ Are there any other questions?”
Maynard started out of a reverie, “No…no-”
The wave broke off and a wall appeared where space had been a moment before.
Slowly, with stubborn disbelief, Franklin Maynard shook his head.
Ernest Keilin mounted the stairs with a feeling for all the past centuries. The building was old, cobwebbed with history. It once housed the Parliament of Man, and from it words went out that clanged throughout the stars.
It was a tall building. It soared-stretched-strained. Out and up to the stars, it reached; to the stars that had now turned away.
It no longer even housed the Parliament of E
arth. That had now been switched to a newer, neoclassical building, one that imperfectly aped the architectural stylisms of the ancient pre-Atomic age.
Yet the older building still held its great name. Officially, it was still Stellar House, but it only housed the functionaries of a shriveled bureaucracy now.
Keilin got out at the twelfth floor, and the lift dropped quickly down behind him. The radiant sign said smoothly and quietly: Bureau of Information. He handed a letter to the receptionist. He waited. And eventually, he passed through the door which said, “L. z. Cellioni-Secretary of Information.”
Cellioni was little and dark. His hair was thick and black, his mustache thin and black. His teeth, when he smiled, were startlingly white and even-so he smiled often.
He was smiling now, as he rose and held out his hand. Keilin took it, then an offered seat, then an offered cigar.
Cellioni said: “I am very happy to see you, Mr. Keilin. It is kind of you to fly here from New York on such short notice.”
Keilin curved the corners of his lips down and made a tiny gesture with one hand, deprecating the whole business
“And now,” continued Cellioni, “I presume you would like an explanation of all this.”
“I wouldn’t refuse one,” said Keilin.
“Unfortunately, it is difficult to know exactly how to explain. As Secretary of Information, my position is difficult. I must safeguard the security and well-being of Earth and, at the same time, observe our traditional freedom of the press. Naturally, and fortunately, we have no censorship, but just as naturally, there are times when we could almost wish we did have.”
“Is this,” asked Keilin, “with reference to me? About censorship, I mean?”
Cellioni did not answer directly. Instead, he smiled again, slowly, and with a remarkable absence of joviality.
He said: “You, Mr. Keilin, have one of the most widely heard and influential talecasts on the video. Therefore, you are of peculiar interest to the government.”
“The time is mine,” said Keilin, stubbornly. “I pay for it I pay taxes on the income I derive from it I adhere to all the common-law rulings on taboos. So I don’t quite see of what interest I can be to the government.”
