The Rival Rigelians
( United Planets - 3 )
Mack Reynolds
The Rival Rigelians
by Mack Reynolds
Foreword
Hardly had man solved his basic problems on the planet of his origin than he began to fumble into space. Barely a century had elapsed in the exploration of the Solar System than he began to grope for the stars.
And suddenly, with an all but religious zeal, mankind conceived its fantasy dream of populating the galaxy. Never in the history of the race had fervor reached such a peak and held so long. The question of why was ignored. Millions of Earth-type planets beckoned and with a lemming-like desperation humanity erupted into them.
But the obstacles were frightening in their magnitude. The planets and satellites of Sol had proven comparatively tractable and those that were suited to man-life were quickly brought under his dominion. But there, of course, he had the advantage of proximity. The time involved in running back and forth to the home planet was meaningless and all Earth’s resources could be thrown into each problem’s solving.
But a planet a year removed in transportation or even communication? Ay! this was another thing and more than once a million colonists were lost before the Earthling could adapt to new climates, new flora and fauna, new bacteria—or to factors which the most far-out visionary had never fancied, perhaps the lack of something never before missed.
So, mad with the lust to seed the universe with their kind, men sought new methods. To a hundred thousand worlds they sent smaller colonies, as few as a hundred pioneers apiece, and there marooned them, to adapt, if adapt they could.
For a millennium each colony was left to its own resources, to conquer the environment or to perish in the effort.
A thousand years was sufficient. Invariably it was found, on those planets where human life survived at all, man slipped back during his first two or three centuries into a state of barbarism. Then slowly he began to inch forward again. There were exceptions and the progress on one planet never exactly duplicated that on another, however the average was surprisingly close to both nadir and zenith, in terms of evolution of society.
In a thousand years it was deemed by the Office of Galactic Colonization such pioneers had largely adjusted to the new environment and were ready for civilization, industrialization and eventual assimilation into the rapidly evolving Galactic Commonwealth.
Of course, even from the beginning, new and unforeseen problems manifested themselves…
from Man In Antiquity
Published in Terra City, Sol
Galactic Year 3,502
I
The Co-ordinator looked out over the eighteen seated before him and said, “I suppose I’m an incurable romantic. You see, I hate to see you go.”
Academician Amschel Mayer and Dr. Leonid Plekhanov sat slightly before the other sixteen. They were both in their early middle years and offset one another. Mayer was thin and high pitched, nervous and impatient; his manner was often that of a harried grade school teacher who disliked children. His colleague was heavy, slow and dour and he looked more the sergeant of infantry than a top political scientist.
Now, both showed their puzzlement, as did the balance of the team behind them.
The Co-ordinator added softly, “Without me.”
Plekhanov kept his massive face blank. It wasn’t for him to be impatient with his superior. Nevertheless, the ship was waiting, all stocked and ready for burn off. He stirred his bulk in his chair.
Amschel Mayer said, “It would be a pleasure if you could accompany us, Citizen.” Inwardly, he realized the other man’s position. Here was a dream coming true and Mayer and his fellows were the last thread that held the Co-ordinator’s control over the dream. When they left, half a century would pass before he could again check developments.
The Co-ordinator took a deep breath and became more businesslike. “Very briefly, I wish to go over your assignment. Undoubtedly redundant, but if there are any questions, no matter how trivial, this is the last opportunity to air them.”
What possible questions could there be at this late date? Plekhanov thought. He shifted his bulk again.
Behind him, Technician Jerome Kennedy whispered to the girl next to him from the side of his mouth, “Zen, I thought he was having us in for a last minute blast. A few snorts of guzzle.”
Natalie Wieliczka said, “Shhhh.”
The department head was swiveling slowly back and forth in his desk chair as he talked. “You are the first of many, many such teams. The manner in which you handle your task will effect man’s eternity. Obviously, since upon your experience we will base our future policies on interstellar colonization.” His voice lost volume. “The position in which you find yourself should be humbling.”
“It is,” Amschel Mayer agreed. Plekhanov nodded his head. Someone behind murmured further assent.
The Co-ordinator nodded too. “However, the situation is as near ideal as we could hope. Rigel’s planets are all but unbelievably Earthlike. Almost all our flora and fauna have been adaptable. Certainly our race has been.
“These two are the first of the seeded planets. Almost a thousand years ago we deposited small bodies of colonists upon each of them. Since then, we have periodically checked from a distance, but never intruded.”
His eyes swept the whole group, resting finally on the leaders. “No comment or questions thus far?”
Mayer said, when no one else could find a question, “This is one matter that has always surprised me. The colonies are so small to begin with. How could they possibly populate a whole world in one millennium?”
The Co-ordinator nodded and said, “Man adapts, Amschel. Have you studied the development of the United States in early history? During her first century and a half the need was for population to fill the vast lands wrested from the Amer-Inds. Families of eight, ten and twelve children were the common thing, and much larger ones were not unknown. And the generations crowded one against another. A girl worried about spinsterhood if she reached seventeen unwed. But in the next century? The frontier vanished, the driving need for population was gone. Not only were drastic immigration laws passed, but the family rapidly shrunk until by mid-Twentieth Century the usual consisted of two or three children, and even the childless family became increasingly common.”
Mayer frowned impatiently. “But still, a thousand years. There is always famine, war, disease…”
Plekhanov snorted patronizingly. “Forty to fifty generations, Amschel? Starting with a hundred colonists? Where are your mathematics?”
The Co-ordinator said, “The proof is there. We estimate that each of Rigel’s planets now supports a population of nearly one billion.”
“To be more exact”—Natt Roberts spoke up from the rear of the group—“some nine hundred million on Genoa, seven and a half on Texcoco.” His voice was as trim and neat as his physical appearance. However, it was information everyone present already possessed.
Mayer smiled wryly, “I wonder what the residents of each of these planets call their worlds. Hardly the same names we have arbitrarily bestowed.”
“Probably, each call theirs The World,” the Co-ordinator smiled. “After all, the basic language, in spite of a thousand years, is still undoubtedly Amer-English. However, I assume you are familiar with our method of naming. The most advanced culture on Rigel’s first planet is to be compared to the Italian cities during Europe’s feudalistic years. We have named that planet Genoa. The most advanced of the second planet is comparable to the Aztecs at the time of the Spanish conquest. We considered Tenochtitlan, but it seemed a tongue twister, so Texcoco, the sister city of the Aztecs, is the alternative.”
“Modern
izing Genoa,” Mayer mused, “should be considerably easier than the task of semi-primitive Texcoco.”
Plekhanov shrugged heavy shoulders, in a manner betraying his Slavic background. “Not necessarily,” he rumbled.
The Co-ordinator held up a hand and smiled at them. “Please, no discussion on methods at this point. An hour from now you will be in space with a year of travel before you. During that time, you’ll have opportunity for discussion, debate and hair pulling on every phase of your problem.”
His expression went more serious. “You are acquainted with the unique position you assume. These colonists are in your control to the extent that no small group has ever dominated millions of others before. No Caesar ever exerted the power that will be in your collective hands. For half a century, you will be as gods and goddesses. Your science, your productive know-how, your medicine—if it comes to that—your weapons, are many centuries ahead of theirs. As I said before, your position should be humbling.”
Mayer said suddenly, unhappily, “Why not check upon us, say, once every decade? In all, our ship’s company numbers but eighteen persons. Almost anything could happen. If you were to send a departmental craft each ten years…”
Kennedy whispered to Natalie Wieliczka, “Old Amschel’s trying to hedge our bets.”
She ignored him, making a prim moue. The Co-ordinator was shaking his head. “Your qualifications are as high as anyone available. Once on the scene you will begin accumulating information which we here, in Terra City, do not have. Were we to send another group in ten years to check upon you, all they could do would be interfere in a situation with which they would not be cognizant.”
Amschel Mayer shifted nervously. “But no matter how highly trained, nor how earnest our efforts, we still may fail.” His voice worried. “The department cannot expect guaranteed success. After all, we are the first.”
“Admittedly. Your group is first to approach the hundreds of thousands of planets we have seeded with our race. If you fail, we will use your failure to perfect the eventual system we must devise for future teams. Even your failure would be of infinite use to us.” He lifted and dropped a shoulder in a wry gesture. “I have no desire to undermine your belief in yourselves but—how are we to know? Perhaps there will be a score of failures before we find the ideal method of quickly bringing these primitive colonies into our Galactic Commonwealth.”
He came to his feet and sighed. He still hated to see them go. He said, “If there is no other discussion…” He went from one to the other, shaking hands.
II
Specialist Joseph Chessman stood solidly before a viewing screen. Theoretically, he was on watch. Actually, his eyes were unseeing, there was nothing to see. The star pattern changed so slowly as to be all but permanent.
Not that every other task on board the spaceship Pedagogue was not similar. One man could have taken the craft from the Solar System to Rigel just as easily as the eighteen handcrew was doing. Automation at its ultimate, not even the steward department had tasks adequate to fill the hours.
He had got beyond the point of yawning, his mind was blank during these hours of duty. Inwardly, he was of the opinion that Mayer was an idiot to insist that the crewman standing bridge watch not be allowed to read. The scrawny old duffer never stood a watch himself, in spite of the fact that he was the nearest thing to a captain that the Pedagogue had.
Joe Chessman was a stolid bear of a man, short and massive of build. His face, even in repose carried a frown. He was the type who could step out of a barber chair and three minutes later have rumpled hair—the type who could purchase an expensive suit and in half an hour look as though he had slept in it.
A voice behind him said, low, throaty, “Hi, Spaceman. Need company?”
He turned and scowled at her.
“Those off watch aren’t supposed to be on the bridge.” He took in her outfit. “You look like you’re going to a party.” He paused and added. “Quite a party.”
Isobel Sanchez smiled slowly. “I got tired of the everlasting coveralls. Don’t you think this is an improvement?” She turned, for his inspection.
The inspection was rewarding. Isobel Sanchez had the lushness of her Iberian heritage. Her hair black, her complexion olive, her teeth unbelievably white behind equally unbelivably red, full lips. Considering her educational background, she was a remarkably beautiful woman, though in her face there was something not quite there. A something once called breeding.
Chessman growled sourly. “You better get back into your coveralls, Doctor Sanchez. Showing off that body of yours isn’t going to help that ruling of Mayer and Plekhanov about the relations between members of the crew while we’re in space.”
He turned and stared at some of the control dials.
She came up beside him and pretended to look at them as well. And he became conscious of the breast pressing against his arm.
“What ruling?” she said innocently.
“No sex.”
She drew back a step. “Well, really,” she said. “Just because I’ve put on a dress for a change doesn’t mean I’m trying to crawl in bed with you Citizen Chessman.”
“All right,” he said. “Sorry.” He turned back to the ship’s controls and stared at them. He heard her shoes stalk across the bridge and out the entry. Joe Chessman grunted sourly. Actually, Isobel Sanchez had a good deal of attraction for him, which he only partly laid to the fact that there were but two women in the ship’s complement.
He heard a newcomer enter, and turned, even as a voice said, “Second watch reporting. Request permission to take over the bridge.”
Chessman said, “Hello, Kennedy. You on already? Seems like I just got here.” He muttered in self-contradiction. “Or that I’ve been here a month.”
Technician Jerome Kennedy grinned. “Of course, if you want to stay…”
Chessman grunted scorn at that.
Kennedy said, “Wasn’t that the Hot Pants Kid I just saw leaving?”
“That’s right. All done up like a mopsy out looking for business.”
Jerry Kennedy’s grin was back again, even as he gave the control dials a quick, half-interested glance. “You can’t say that about one of the women I love.”
“One? Who’s the other one?”
“Natalie, of course. Imagine, a year in space. Two good-looking women, sixteen men. You think we’ll ever make it?”
Joe Chessman snorted. “That’s why Mayer and Plekhanov made that ruling. No messing around. We’ll make it.’*
Kennedy sank into one of the acceleration chairs before the control bank. “I think Leonid’s sorry about that, now. Isobel’s been giving him the sloe-eye bit.”
Chessman snorted again. “Mayer’s too old for her and Plekhanov’s second in command.”
“Come, come, Joe,” Kennedy said in mock objection. “You don’t think our consecrated leader would play favorites, just because some ambitious curve gave out a little.”
Joe Chessman yawned and said, “I don’t know about Plekhanov, but in the same position, I sure as Zen would.”
Jerry Kennedy laughed.
Chessman said, “What’re they doing in the lounge?”
Kennedy looked at the screen, not expecting to see anything and seeing just that. “Still on their endless argument.”
Joe Chessman grunted.
Just to be saying something, Kennedy said, “How do you stand in the big debate?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I favor Plekhanov. How we’re going to take a bunch of savages and teach them modern agriculture and industrial methods in fifty years, using democratic institutions, I don’t know. I can just see them putting it to a vote when we suggest fertilizer might be a good idea.” He didn’t feel like continuing the conversation. “See you later, Kennedy,” and then, as an afterthought, formally, “Relinquishing the watch to Second Officer.”
As he left the compartment, Jerry Kennedy called after him: “Hey, what’s the course?”
Chessman growle
d over his shoulder. “The same it was last month, and the same it’ll be next month.” It wasn’t much of a joke, but it was the only one they had between themselves.
In the ship’s combination lounge and mess he drew a cup of coffee. Joe Chessman, among whose specialties were propaganda and primitive socio-economic systems, was third in line in the expedition’s hierarchy. As such, he participated in the endless controversy dealing with overall strategy, but only as a junior member of the firm. Amschel Mayer and Leonid Plekhanov were the center of the fracas and right now were at it hot and heavy.
Joe Chessman listened with only half interest. He settled into a chair on the opposite side of the lounge and sipped at his coffee. They were going over their old battlefields, assaulting ramparts they’d stormed a thousand times over.
Plekhanov was saying doggedly: “Any planned economy is more efficient than any unplanned one. What could be more elementary than that? How could anyone in his right mind deny that?”
And Mayer snapped in high irritation. “I deny it. That term planned economy covers a multitude of sins. My dear Leonid, don’t be an idiot…”
“I beg your pardon, sir!”
“Oh, don’t get into one of your huffs, Plekhanov.’*
They were at that stage again.
Technician Natt Roberts entered, even here in the informality of space, looking as trim as a male fashion model. He had a book in hand and sent the trend of conversation in a new direction.
He said worriedly, “I’ve been studying up on this and what we’re confronted with is two different ethnic periods—barbarism and feudalism. Handling them both at once doubles our problem.”
Cogswell, an energetic junior specialist who’d been sitting to one side said, “That’s not exactly sparkling new information, but I’ve been thinking about it too. And maybe I’ve got an answer. Why not all of us concentrate on Texcoco? When we’ve brought them up to the level of Genoa, which shouldn’t take more than a decade or two, then we can start working on Genoa, too.”
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