Imperial Stars 2-Republic and Empire

by Jerry Pournelle

  I flew back to my office, set all the protection devices on auto, and blacked out. I didn't wake until fifteen hours later, when Ghuri Kym—the Ump—called and asked me to come with him to Adelaide.

  Just twenty-four hours after my encounter with Horlig, we were standing in Robert Dahlmann's den. I made the introductions. "Umpire Kym can read Australian but he hasn't had any practice with speaking, so he's asked me to interpret. Scholar Dahlmann, you were right about Herul Horlig—but for the wrong reasons." I explained Horlig's true motives. I could see Dahlmann was surprised. "And Che#'s punitive expedition to the West Coast has been called off, so you don't have to worry about Rockingham." I paused, then plunged into the more important topic. "I think I've come up with a way to save your species from extinction. Ghuri Kym agrees."

  Kym laid the document on Dahlmann's desk and spoke the ritual words. "What's this?" asked Dahlmann, pointing at the Mikin printing.

  "The English is on the other side. As the representative of the Australian government, you have just been served with an antitrust ruling. Among other things, it directs your people to split into no fewer than one hundred thousand autonomous organizations. Ngagn Che# is delivering similar documents to the Sudamérican and Zulunder governments. You have one year to effect the change. You may be interested to know that %wrlyg has also been served and must split into at least four competitive groups."

  %wrlyg had been served with the antitrust ruling that morning. My employers were very unhappy with my plan. Kym told me that the Second Son had threatened to have me shot if I ever showed up on Company property again. I was going to have to lay low for a while, but I knew that %wrlyg needed all the men they could get. Ultimately, I would be forgiven. I wasn't worried: the risk-taking was worth while if it saved the Terrans from exploitation.

  I had expected an enthusiastic endorsement from Dahlmann, but he took the plan glumly. Kym and I spent the next hour explaining the details of the ruling to him. I felt distinctly deflated when we left. From the Terran's reaction you'd think I had ordered the execution of his race.

  Mary was sitting on the porch swing. As we left the house, I asked Kym to return to the Base without me. If her father hadn't been appreciative, I thought that at least Mary would be. She was, after all, the one who had given me the problem. In a way I had done it all for her.

  I sat down on the swing beside her.

  "Your arm! What happened?" She passed her hand gently over the plastic web dressing. I told her about Horlig. It was just like the end of a melodrama. There was admiration in her eyes, and her arms were around me—boy gets girl, et cetera.

  "And," I continued, "I found a way to save all of you from the fate of the Cherokee."

  "That's wonderful, Ron. I knew you would." She kissed me.

  "The fatal flaw in the Cherokee's plan was that they segregated themselves from the white community, while they occupied lands that the whites wanted. If they had been citizens of the United States of America, it would not have been legal to confiscate their lands and kill them. Of course we Mikins don't even have a word for 'citizen,' but Umpire law extends to all humans. I got the Umpire to declare that Terrans are a human species. I know it sounds obvious, but it just never occurred to us before.

  "Genocide is now specifically barred, because it would be monopolistic. An antitrust ruling has already been served on Australia and the other Earth governments."

  Mary's enthusiasm seemed to evaporate somewhat. "Then our governments will be abolished?"

  "Why, yes, Mary."

  "And in a few decades, we will be the same as you with all your . . . perversions and violence and death?"

  "Don't say it that way, Mary. You'll have Mikin cultures, with some Terran enclaves. Nothing could have stopped this. But at least you won't be killed. I've saved—"

  For an instant I thought I'd been shot in the face. My mind did three lazy loops, before I realized that Mary had just delivered a roundhouse slap. "You green-faced thing," she hissed. "You've saved us nothing. Look at this street. Look! It's quiet. No one's killing anyone. Most people are tolerably happy. This suburb is not old, but its way of life is—almost five hundred years old. We've tried very hard in that time to make it better, and we've succeeded in many ways. Now, just as we're on the verge of discovering how all people can live in peace, you monsters breeze in. You'll rip up our cities. 'They are too big' you say. You'll destroy our police forces. 'Monopolistic enterprise' you call them. And in a few years we'll have a planet-wide Clowntown. We'll have to treat each other as animals in order to survive on these oh-so-generous terms you offer us!" She paused, out of breath, but not out of anger.

  And for the first time I saw the real fear she had tried to express from the first. She was afraid of dying—of her race dying; everybody had those fears. But what was just as important to her was her home, her family, her friends. The shopping center, the games, the theaters, the whole concept of courtesy. My people weren't going to kill her body, that was true, but we were destroying all the things that give meaning to life. I hadn't found a solution—I'd just invented murder without bloodshed. Somehow I had to make it right.

  I tried to reach my arm around her. "I love you, Mary." The words came out garbled, incomprehensible. "I love you, Mary," more clearly this time.

  I don't think she even heard. She pushed away hysterically. "Horlig was the one who was right. Not you. It is better to fight and die than—" She didn't finish. She hit frantically and inexpertly at my face and chest. She'd never had any training, but those were hard, determined blows and they were doing damage. I knew I couldn't stop her, short of injuring her. I stood up under that rain of blows and made for the steps. She followed, fighting, crying.

  I stumbled off the steps. She stayed on the porch, crying in a low gurgle. I limped past the street lamp and into the darkness.

  Editor's Introduction To:

  The Skills Of Xanadu

  Theodore Sturgeon

  Republics and empires are natural enemies. The late Herman Kahn once said that the natural state of mankind is to be governed by an empire, and the natural course of empire is to grow until it either fills the earth, or is contained by another empire.

  That doesn't always work. In the eternal clash between republic and empire, the republics don't always win. But often they do—particularly if the republic is young and vigorous.

  Indeed, young and vigorous republics seldom miss an opportunity to tweak the nose of empire. As an example, after the revolution of 1848 was violently suppressed in Austria-Hungary by Russian intervention, a United States Navy warship rescued Kossuth, one of the leaders of the revolution, and transported him in triumph to New York. When the Austro-Hungarian government protested, Daniel Webster, then Secretary of State, made an eloquent speech of defiance. "We are," he said, "a nation that spans a continent, and compared to the United States, the domains of the Habsburgs are but a patch upon the Earth." Of course there was no possible way that the Austro-Hungarian Empire could send an army of whitecoats to these shores. The Austrian navy was neither large nor strong nor particularly adapted to blue-water cruises, but it was still much larger than the U.S. Navy. On the other hand, Webster knew he could rely on the British and the Monroe Doctrine to correct our unfortunate lack of battleships.

  In later years the American republic grew more vigorous, until by 1917 the United States held the balance of power in the world, and by 1945 was able to field more military power than any empire of history. Both those cases are instructive: before either of the World Wars began, the United States was not really taken seriously as a Great Power. We had the industrial capacity, to be sure. But we had little force in being, and our political authorities were unwilling or unable to do much about that. It was only after we had been drawn into the wars that we mobilized.

  It is characteristic of democracies that they seldom have sustained policies, and almost never are willing to make sacrifices now to avoid greater sacrifices—even wars—later. How can they? The electe
d officials are never sure that spending money now will prevent the greater harm later, but they are very sure that those expenses won't be popular, and will probably get them defeated in the next election. Better to wait until everyone can see the threat.

  Republics, mixed governments, can do better and often have. It was after all the intent of the Constitution that the states take care of most details of government, leaving the federal authority to concern itself with defense and diplomacy. And since the Congress wouldn't have a lot more to think about, nor much else to spend federal revenue on, the national government might do a creditable job of providing for the common defense. There were also those oceans between us and any possible enemy.

  Unfortunately, in this era, Congress seems to have a great deal more to think about than defense, and the oceans seem to have shrunk considerably.

  Empires can mobilize their resources in time of war or peace. Empires can design plans that will require decades to accomplish. Empires are nearly always better armed than republics, at least when hostilities begin. It would seem that empires have the advantage.

  So they do. But empires always forget what free people can accomplish.

  Ted Sturgeon has said that the theme of this story is simple enough: your freedom is worthless unless you use it to free someone else, and the best way to do that is "to infect locked-up minds with the idea of freedom."

  The Skills Of Xanadu

  Theodore Sturgeon

  And the Sun went nova and humanity fragmented and fled; and such is the self-knowledge of humankind that it knew it must guard its past as it guarded its being, or it would cease to be human; and such was its pride in itself that it made of its traditions a ritual and a standard.

  The great dream was that wherever humanity settled, fragment by fragment by fragment, however it lived, it would continue rather than begin again, so that all through the universe and the years, humans would be humans, speaking as humans, thinking as humans, aspiring and progressing as humans; and whenever human met human, no matter how different, how distant, he would come in peace, meet his own kind, speak his own tongue.

  Humans, however, being humans—

  Bril emerged near the pink star, disliking its light, and found the fourth planet. It hung waiting for him like an exotic fruit (And was it ripe, and could he ripen it? And what if it were poison?) He left his machine in orbit and descended in a bubble. A young savage watched him come and waited by a waterfall.

  "Earth was my mother," said Bril from the bubble. It was the formal greeting of all humankind, spoken in the Old Tongue.

  "And my father," said the savage, in an atrocious accent.

  Watchfully, Bril emerged from the bubble, but stood very close by it. He completed his part of the ritual. "I respect the disparity of our wants, as individuals, and greet you."

  "I respect the identity of our needs, as humans, and greet you. I am Wonyne," said the youth, "son of Tanyne, of the Senate, and Nina. This place is Xanadu, the district, on Xanadu, the fourth planet."

  "I am Bril of Kit Carson, second planet of the Sumner System, and a member of the Sole Authority," said the newcomer, adding, "and I come in peace."

  He waited then, to see if the savage would discard any weapons he might have, according to historic protocol. Wonyne did not; he apparently had none. He wore only a cobwebby tunic and a broad belt made of flat, black, brilliantly polished stones and could hardly have concealed so much as a dart. Bril waited yet another moment, watching the untroubled face of the savage, to see if Wonyne suspected anything of the arsenal hidden in the sleek black uniform, the gleaming jack-boots, the metal gauntlets.

  Wonyne said only, "Then, in peace, welcome." He smiled. "Come with me to Tanyne's house and mine, and be refreshed."

  "You say Tanyne, your father, is a Senator? Is he active now? Could he help me to reach your center of government?"

  The youth paused, his lips moving slightly, as if he were translating the dead language into another tongue. Then, "Yes. Oh, yes."

  Bril flicked his left gauntlet with his right fingertips and the bubble sprang away and up, where at length it would join the ship until it was needed. Wonyne was not amazed—probably, thought Bril, because it was beyond his understanding.

  Bril followed the youth up a winding path past a wonderland of flowering plants, most of them purple, some white, a few scarlet, and all jeweled by the waterfall. The higher reaches of the path were flanked by thick soft grass, red as they approached, pale pink as they passed.

  Bril's narrow black eyes flicked everywhere, saw and recorded everything: the easy-breathing boy's spring up the slope ahead, and the constant shifts of color in his gossamer garment as the wind touched it; the high trees, some of which might conceal a man or a weapon; the rock outcroppings and what oxides they told of; the birds he could see and the birdsongs he heard which might be something else.

  He was a man who missed only the obvious, and there is so little that is obvious.

  Yet he was not prepared for the house; he and the boy were halfway across the parklike land which surrounded it before he recognized it as such.

  It seemed to have no margins. It was here high and there only a place between flower beds; yonder a room became a terrace, and elsewhere a lawn was a carpet because there was a roof over it. The house was divided into areas rather than rooms, by open grilles and by arrangements of color. Nowhere was there a wall. There was nothing to hide behind and nothing that could be locked. All the land, all the sky, looked into and through the house, and the house was one great window on the world. Seeing it, Bril felt a slight shift in his opinion of the natives. His feeling was still one of contempt, but now he added suspicion. A cardinal dictum on humans as he knew them was: Every man has something to hide. Seeing a mode of living like this did not make him change his dictum: he simply increased his watchfulness, asking: How do they hide it?

  "Tan! Tan!" the boy was shouting. "I've brought a friend!"

  A man and a woman strolled toward them from a garden. The man was huge, but otherwise so like the youth Wonyne that there could be no question of their relationship. Both had long, narrow, clear gray eyes set very wide apart, and red—almost orange—hair. The noses were strong and delicate at the same time, their mouths thin-lipped but wide and good-natured.

  But the woman—

  It was a long time before Bril could let himself look, let himself believe that there was such a woman. After his first glance, he made of her only a presence and fed himself small nibbles of belief in his eyes, in the fact that there could be hair like that, face, voice, body. She was dressed, like her husband and the boy, in the smoky kaleidoscope which resolved itself, when the wind permitted, into a black-belted tunic.

  "He is Bril of Kit Carson in the Sumner System," babbled the boy, "and he's a member of the Sole Authority and it's the second planet and he knew the greeting and got it right. So did I," he added, laughing. "This is Tanyne, of the Senate, and my mother Nina."

  "You are welcome, Bril of Kit Carson," she said to him; and unbelieving in this way that had come upon him, he took away his gaze and inclined his head.

  "You must come in," said Tanyne cordially, and led the way through an arbor which was not the separate arch it appeared to be, but an entrance.

  The room was wide, wider at one end than the other, though it was hard to determine by how much. The floor was uneven, graded upward toward one corner, where it was a mossy bank. Scattered here and there were what the eye said were white and striated gray boulders; the hand would say they were flesh. Except for a few shelf- and tablelike niches on these and in the bank, they were the only furniture.

  Water ran frothing and gurgling through the room, apparently as an open brook; but Bril saw Nina's bare foot tread on the invisible covering that followed it down to the pool at the other end. The pool was the one he had seen from outside, indeterminately in and out of the house. A large tree grew by the pool and leaned its heavy branches toward the bank, and evidently its wide-flun
g limbs were webbed and tented between by the same invisible substance which covered the brook, for they formed the only cover overhead yet, to the ear, felt like a ceiling.

  The whole effect was, to Bril, intensely depressing, and he surprised himself with a flash of homesickness for the tall steel cities of his home planet.

  Nina smiled and left them. Bril followed his host's example and sank down on the ground, or floor, where it became a bank, or wall. Inwardly, Bril rebelled at the lack of decisiveness, of discipline, of clear-cut limitation inherent in such haphazard design as this. But he was well trained and quite prepared, at first, to keep his feelings to himself among barbarians.

  "Nina will join us in a moment," said Tanyne.