by Isaac Asimov
“Why?”
“I don’t know. To insure war, perhaps-with this Pacific Project waiting for us.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“I know. I have no proof. Nothing but suspicion. The Committee wouldn’t believe me either. It seemed to me, perhaps, that a last talk with the ambassador might reveal something, but his mere appearance antagonizes me, and I find I spend most of my time trying to remove him from my sight.”
“Well, you are becoming emotional, my friend. It is a disgusting weakness. I hear that you have been appointed a delegate to the Interplanetary Gathering at Hesperus. I congratulate you.”
“Thanks,” said Maynard, absently.
Luiz Moreno, ex-Ambassador to Aurora, had been glad to return to Earth. He was away from the artificial landscapes that seemed to have no life of their own, but to exist only by virtue of the strong will of their possessors. Away from the too-beautiful men and women and from their ubiquitous, brooding robots.
He was back to the hum of life and the shuffle of feet; the brushing of shoulders and the feeling of breath in the face.
Not that he was able to enjoy these sensations entirely. The first days had been spent in lively conferences with the heads of Earth’s government.
In fact, it was not till nearly a week had passed, that an hour came in which he could consider himself truly relaxed.
He was in the rarest of all appurtenances of Terrestrial Luxury-a roof garden. With him was Gustav Stein, the quite obscure physiologist, who was, nevertheless, one of the prime movers of the Plan, known to rumor as the Pacific Project.
“The confirmatory tests,” said Moreno, with an almost dreadful satisfaction, “all check so far, do they not?”
“So far. Only so far. We have miles to go.”
“Yet they will continue to go well. To one who has lived on Aurora for nearly a year, as I have, there can be no doubt but that we’re on the right track.”
“Um-m-m. Nevertheless, I will go only by the laboratory reports.”
“And quite rightly.” His little body was almost stiff with gloating. “Some day, it will be different. Stein, you have not met these men, these Outer Worlders. You may have come across the tourists, perhaps, in their special hotels, or riding through the streets in inclosed cars, equipped with the purest of private, air-conditioned atmospheres for their well-bred nostrils; observing the sights through a movable periscope and shuddering away from the touch of an Earthman.
“But you have not met them on their own world, secure in their own sickly, rotting greatness. Go, Stein, and be despised a while. Go, and find how well you can compete with their own trained lawns as something to be gently trod upon.
“And yet, when I pulled the proper cords, Ion Moreanu fell-Ion Moreanu, the only man among them with the capacity to understand the workings of another’s mind. It is the crisis that we have passed now. We front a smooth path now.”
Satisfaction! Satisfaction!
“As for Keilin,” he said suddenly, more to himself than to Stein, “he can be turned loose now. There’s little he can say, hereafter, that can endanger anything. In fact, I have an idea. The Interplanetary Conference opens on Hesperus within the month. He can be sent to report the meeting. It will be an earnest of our friendliness-and keep him away for the summer. I think it can be arranged.”
It was.
Of all the Outer Worlds, Hesperus was the smallest, the latest settled, the furthest from Earth. Hence the name. In a physical sense, it was not best suited to a great diplomatic gathering, since its facilities were small. For instance, the available community-wave network could not possibly be stretched to cover all the delegates, secretarial staff, and administrators necessary in a convocation of fifty planets. So meetings in person were arranged in buildings impressed for the purpose.
Yet there was a symbolism in the choice of meeting place that escaped practically nobody. Hesperus, of all the Worlds, was furthest removed from Earth. But the spatial distance-one hundred parsecs or more-was the least of it. The important point was that Hesperus had been colonized not by Earthmen, but by men from the Outer World of Faunus.
It was therefore of the second generation, and so it had no “Mother Earth.” Earth to it was but a vague grandmother, lost in the stars.
As is usual in all such gatherings, little work is actually done on the session floors. That space is reserved for the official soundings of whatever is primarily intended for home ears. The actual swapping and horse-trading takes place in the lobbies and at the lunch-tables and many an irresolvable conflict has softened over the soup and vanished over the nuts.
And yet particular difficulties were present in this particular case. Not in all worlds was the community-wave as paramount and all-pervading as it was on Aurora, but it was prominent in all. It was, therefore, with a certain sense of outrage and loss that the tall, dignified men found it necessary to approach one another in the flesh, without the comforting privacy of the invisible wall between, without the warm knowledge of the breakswitch at their fingertips.
They faced one another in uneasy semi-embarrassment and tried not to watch one another eat; tried not to shrink at the unmeant touch. Even robot service was rationed.
Ernest Keilin, the only accredited video-representative from Earth, was aware of some of these matters only in the vague way they are described here. A more precise insight he could not have. Nor could anyone brought up in a society where human beings exist only in the plural, and where a house need only be deserted to be feared.
So it was that certain of the most subtle tensions escaped him at the formal dinner party given by the Hesperian government during the third week of the conference. Other tensions, however, did not pass him by.
The gathering after the dinner naturally fell apart into little groups. Keilin joined the one that contained Franklin Maynard of Aurora. As the delegate of the largest of the Worlds, he was naturally the most newsworthy.
Maynard was speaking casually between sips at the tawny Hesperian cocktail in his hand. If his flesh crawled slightly at the closeness of the others, he masked the feeling masterfully.
“Earth,” he said, “is, in essence, helpless against us if we avoid unpredictable military adventures. Economic unity is actually a necessity, if we intend to avoid such adventures. Let Earth realize to how great an extent her economy depends upon us, on the things that we alone can supply her, and there will be no more talk of living space. And if we are united, Earth would never dare attack. She will exchange her barren longings for atomic motors-or not, as she pleases.”
And he turned to regard Keilin with a certain hauteur as the other found himself stung to comment:
“But your manufactured goods, councilor-I mean those you ship to Earth-they are not given us. They are exchanged for agricultural products.”
Maynard smiled silkily. “Yes, I believe the delegate from Tethys has mentioned that fact at length. There is a delusion prevalent among some of us that only Terrestrial seeds grow properly-”
He was interrupted calmly by another, who said: “Now, I am not from Tethys, but what you mention is not a delusion. I grow rye on Rhea, and I have never yet been able to duplicate Terrestrial bread. It just hasn’t got the same taste.” He addressed the audience in general, “In fact, I imported half a dozen Terrestrians five years back on agricultural laborer visas so they could oversee the robots. Now, they can do wonders with the land, you know. Where they spit, corn grows fifteen feet high. Well, that helped a little. And using Terrestrian seed helped. But even if you grow Terrestrian grain, its seed won’t hold the next year.”
“Has your soil been tested by your government’s agricultural department?” asked Maynard.
The Rhean grew haughty in his turn: “No better soil in the sector. And the rye is top-grade. I even sent a hundredweight down to Earth for nutritional clearance, and it came back with full marks.” He rubbed one side of his chin, thoughtfully: “It’s flavor I’m talking about. Doesn’t seem to ha
ve the right-”
Maynard made an effort to dismiss him: “Flavor is dispensable temporarily. They’ll be coming to us on our terms, these little-men-hordes of Earth, when they feel the pinch. We give up only this mysterious flavor, but they will have to give up atom-powered engines, farm machinery, and ground cars. It wouldn’t be a bad idea, in fact, to attempt to get along without the Terrestrian flavors you are so concerned about. Let us appreciate the flavor of our home-grown products instead-which could stand comparison if we gave it a chance.”
“That so?” the Rhean smiled. “I notice you’re smoking Earthgrown tobacco.”
“A habit I can break if I have to.”
“Probably by giving up smoking. I wouldn’t use Outer World tobacco for anything but killing mosquitoes.”
He laughed a trifle too boisterously, and left the group. Maynard stared after him, a little pinch-nosed.
To Keilin, the little byplay over rye and tobacco brought a certain satisfaction. He regarded such personalities as the tiny reflection of certain Galactopolitical realities. Tethys and Rhea were the largest planets in the Galactic south, as Aurora was the largest in the Galactic north. All three planets were identically racist, identically exclusivist. Their views on Earth were similar and completely compatible. Ordinarily, one would think that there was no room to quarrel.
But Aurora was the oldest of the Outer Worlds, the most advanced, the strongest militarily-and, therefore, aspired to a sort of moral leadership of all the Worlds. That was sufficient in itself to arouse opposition, and Rhea and Tethys served as focal points for those who did not recognize Auroran leadership.
Keilin was somberly grateful for that situation. If Earth could but lean her weight properly, first in one direction, then in the other, an ultimate split, or even fragmentation
He eyed Maynard cautiously, almost furtively, and wondered what effect this would have on the next day’s debate. Already, the Auroran was more silent than was quite polite.
And then some under-secretary or sub-official threaded his way through the clusters of guests in finicking fashion, and beckoned to Maynard.
Keilin’s following eyes watched the Auroran retreat with the newcomer, watched him listen closely, mouth a startled “What!” that was quite visible to the eye, though too far off to be heard, and then reach for a paper that the other handed him.
And as a result, the next day’s session of the conference went entirely differently than Keilin would have predicted.
Keilin discovered the details in the evening video-casts. The Terrestrian government, it seemed, had sent a note to all the governments attending the conference. It warned each one bluntly that any agreement among them in military or economic affairs would be considered an unfriendly act against Earth and that it would be met with appropriate countermeasures. The note denounced Aurora, Tethys, and Rhea all equally. It accused them of being engaged in an imperialist conspiracy against Earth, and so on-and on-and on.
“Fools! gritted Keilin, all but butting his head against the wall out of sheer chagrin. “Fools! Fools! Fools!” And his voice died away still muttering that same, one word.
The next session of the conference was well and early attended by a set of angry delegates who were only too eager to grind into nothingness the disagreements still outstanding. When it ended, all matters concerning trade between Earth and the Outer Worlds had been placed in the hands of a commission with plenary powers.
Not even Aurora could have expected so complete and easy a victory, and Keilin, on his way back to Earth, longed for his voice to reach the video, so that it could be to others, and not to himself only, that he could shout his disgust.
Yet, on Earth, some men smiled.
Once back on Earth, the voice of Keilin slowly swirled under and down-lost in the noisier clamor that shouted for action.
His popularity sank in proportion as trade restrictions grew. Slowly, the Outer Worlds drew the noose tighter. First, they instituted a strict application of a new system of export licensing. Secondly, they banned the export to Earth of all materials capable of being “used in a war effort.” And finally they applied a very broad interpretation indeed of what could be considered usable in such a connection.
Imported luxuries-and imported necessities, too, for that matter-vanished or priced themselves upwards out of the reach of all but the very few.
So the people marched, and the voices shouted and the banners swung about in the sunlight, and the stones flewat the consulates-
Keilin shouted hoarsely and felt as if he were going mad.
Until, suddenly, Luiz Moreno, quite of his own accord, offered to appear on Keilin’s program and submit to unrestricted questioning in his capacity as ex-Ambassador to Aurora and present Secretary without Portfolio.
To Keilin it had had all the possibilities of a rebirth. He knew Moreno-no fool, he. With Moreno on his program, he was assured an audience as great as his greatest. With Moreno answering questions, certain misapprehensions might be removed, certain confusions might be straightened. The mere fact that Moreno wished to use his-his- program as sounding board might well mean that already a more pliant and sensible foreign policy might have been decided upon. Perhaps Maynard was correct, and the pinch was being felt and was working as predicted.
The list of questions had, of course, been submitted to Moreno in advance, but the ex-Ambassador had indicated that he would answer all of them, and any follow-up questions that might seem necessary.
It seemed quite ideal. Too ideal, perhaps, but only a criminal fool could worry over minutiae at this point.
There was an adequate ballyhoo-and when they faced one another across the little table, the red needle that indicated the number of video sets drawing power on that channel hovered well over the two hundred million mark. And there was an average of 2.7 listeners per video set. Now the theme; the official introduction.
Keilin rubbed his cheek slowly, as he waited for the signal.
Then, he began:
Q. Secretary Moreno, the question which interests all Earth at the moment, concerns the possibility of war. Suppose we start with that. Do you think there will be war?
A. If Earth is the only planet to be considered, I say: No, definitely not. In its history, Earth has had too much war, and has learned many times over how little can be gained by it.
Q. You say, “If Earth is the only planet to be considered-” Do you imply that factors outside our control will bring war?
A. I do not say “will”; but I could say “may.” I cannot, of course speak for the Outer Worlds. I cannot pretend to know their motivations and intentions at this critical moment in Galactic history. They may choose war. I hope not. If so be that they do, however, we will defend ourselves. But in any case, we will never attack; we will not strike the first blow.
Q. Am I right in saying, then, that in your opinion there are no basic differences between Earth and the Outer Worlds, which cannot be solved by negotiation?
A. You certainly are. If the Outer Worlds were sincerely desirous of a solution, no disagreement between them and us could long exist.
Q. Does that include the question of immigration?
A. Definitely. Our own role in the matter is clear and beyond reproach. As matters stand, two hundred million human beings now occupy ninety-five percent of the available land in the universe. Six billions-that is, ninety-seven percent of all mankind-are squeezed into the other five percent. Such a situation is obviously unjust and, worse, unstable. Yet Earth, in the face of such injustice, has always been willing to treat this problem as soluble by degrees. It is still so willing. We should agree to reasonable quotas and reasonable restrictions. Yet the Outer Worlds have refused to discuss this matter. Over a space of five decades, they have rebuffed all efforts on the part of Earth to open negotiations.
Q. If such an attitude on the part of the Outer Worlds continues, do you then think there will be war?
A. I cannot believe that this attitude will continue. Our gov
ernment will not cease hoping that the Outer Worlds will eventually reconsider their stand on the matter; that their sense of justice and right is not dead, but only sleeping.
Q. Mr. Secretary, let us pass on to another subject. Do you think that the United Worlds Commission set up by the Outer Worlds recently to control trade with Earth represents a danger to peace?
A. In the sense that its actions indicate a desire on the part of the Outer Worlds to isolate Earth, and to weaken it economically, I can say that it does.
Q. To what actions do you refer, sir?
A. To its actions in restricting interstellar trade with Earth to the point where, in credit values, the total stands now at less than ten percent of what it did three months ago.
Q. But do such restrictions really represent an economic danger to Earth? For instance, is it not true that trade with the Outer Worlds represents an almost insignificant part of total Terrestrian trade? And is it not true that the importations from the Outer Worlds reach only a tiny minority of the population at best?
A. Your questions now are representative of a profound fallacy which is very common among our isolationists. In credit values, it is true that interstellar trade represents only five percent of our total trade, but ninety-five percent of our atomic engines are imported. Eighty percent of our thorium, sixty-five percent of our cesium, sixty percent of our molybdenum and tin are imported. The list can be extended almost indefinitely, and it is quite easy to see that the five percent is an extremely important, a vital, five percent. Furthermore, if a large manufacturer receives a shipment of atomic steel-shapers from Rhea, it does not follow that the benefit redounds only to him. Every man on Earth who uses steel implements or objects manufactured by steel implements benefits.
Q. But is it not true that the current restrictions on Earth’s interstellar trade have cut our grain and cattle exports to almost nothing? And far from harming Earth, isn’t this really a boon to our own hungry people?
A. This is another serious fallacy. That Earth’s good food supply is tragically inadequate is true. The government would be the last to deny it. But our food exports do not represent any serious drain upon this supply. Less than one fifth of one percent of Earth’s food is exported, and in return we obtain, for instance, fertilizers and farm machinery which more than make up for that small loss by increasing agricultural efficiency. Therefore, by buying less food from us, the Outer Worlds are engaged, in effect, in cutting our already inadequate food supply.
