by Isaac Asimov
"Can't you complain to-"
"Don't be a fool. They'll tell me my brain was built for Henslers. Go argue. Everything went wrong. I was the only one who had to send out for a piece of equipment. Notice that?"
"They deducted the time for that, though."
"Sure, but I lost time wondering if I could be right in my diagnosis when I noticed there wasn't any clamp depressor in the parts they had supplied. They don't deduct for that. If it had been a Hensler, I would have known I was right. How could I match up then? The top winner was a San Franciscan. So were three of the next four. And the fifth guy was from Los Angeles. They get big-city Educational tapes. The best available. Beeman spectrographs and all. How do I compete with them? I came all the way out here just to get a chance at a Novian-sponsored Olympics in my classification and I might just as well have stayed home. I knew it, I tell you, and that settles it. Novia isn't the only chunk of rock in space. Of all the damned-"
He wasn't speaking to George. He wasn't speaking to anyone. He was just uncorked and frothing. George realized that.
George said, "If you knew in advance that the Beemans were going to be used, couldn't you have studied up on them?"
"They weren't in my tapes, I tell you."
"You could have read-books."
The last word had trailed off under Trevelyan's suddenly sharp look.
Trevelyan said, "Are you trying to make a big laugh out of this? You think this is funny? How do you expect me to read some book and try to memorize enough to match someone else who knows."
"I thought-"
"You try it. You try-" Then, suddenly, "What's your profession, by the way?" He sounded thoroughly hostile.
''Well-''
"Come on, now. If you're going to be a wise gu~ with me, let's see what you've done. You're still on Earth, I notice, so you're not a Computer Programmer and your special assignment can't be much."
George said, "Listen, Trev. I'm late for an appointment." He backed away, trying to smile.
"No, you don't." Trevelyan reached out fiercely, catching hold of George's jacket. "You answer my question. Why are you afraid to tell me? What is it with you? Don't come here rubbing a bad showing in my face, George, unless you can take it, too. Do you hear me?"
He was shaking George in frenzy and they were struggling and swaying across the floor, when the Voice of Doom struck George's ear in the form of a policeman's outraged call.
"All right now. All right. Break it up."
George's heart turned to lead and lurched sickeningly. The policeman would be taking names, asking to see identity cards, and George lacked one. He would be questioned and his lack of profession would show at once; and before Trevelyan, too, who ached with the pain of the drubbing he had taken and would spread the news back home as a salve for his own hurt feelings.
George couldn't stand that. He broke away from Trevelyan and made to run, but the policeman's heavy hand was on his shoulder. "Hold on, there. Let's see your identity card."
Trevelyan was fumbling for his, saying harshly. "I'm Annand Trevelyan, Metallurgist, Nonferrous. I was just competing in the Olympics. You better find out about him, though, officer."
George faced the two, lips dry and throat thickened past speech.
Another voice sounded, quiet, well-mannered. "Officer. One moment."
The policeman stepped back. "Yes, sir?"
"This young man is my guest. What is the trouble?"
George looked about in wild surprise. It was the gray-haired man who had been sitting next to him. Gray-hair nodded benignly at George.
Guest? Was he mad?
The policeman was saying, "These two were creating a disturbance, sir."
"Any criminal charges? Any damages?"
"No, sir.''
"Well, then, I'll be responsible." He presented a small card to the policeman's view and the latter stepped back at once.
Trevelyan began indignantly. "Hold on, now-" but the policeman turned on him.
"All right now. Got any charges?"
''I just-''
"On your way. The rest of you-move on." A sizable crowd had gathered, which now, reluctantly, unknotted itself and raveled away.
George let himself be led to a skimmer but balked at entering. He said, "Thank you, but I'm not your guest." (Could it be a ridiculous case of mistaken identity?)
But Gray-hair smiled and said, "You weren't but you are now. Let me introduce myself, I'm Ladislas Ingenescu, Registered Historian."
''But-''
"Come, you will come to no harm, I assure you. After all, I only wanted to spare you some trouble with a policeman."
"But why?"
"Do you want a reason? Well, then, say that we're honorary towns-mates, you and I. We both shouted for the same man, remember, and we townspeople must stick together, even if the tie is only honorary. Eh?"
And George, completely unsure of this man, Ingenescu, and of himself as well, found himself inside the skimmer. Before he could make up his mind that he ought to get off again, they were off the ground.
He thought confusedly: The man has some status. The policeman deferred to him.
He was almost forgetting that his real purpose here in San Francisco was not to find Trevelyan but to find some person with enough influence to force a reappraisal of his own capacity of Education.
It could be that Ingenescu was such a man. And right in George's lap. Everything could be working out fine-fine. Yet it sounded hollow in his thought. He was uneasy.
During the short skimmer-hop, Ingenescu kept up an even flow of small-talk, pointing out the landmarks of the city, reminiscing about past Olympics he had seen. George, who paid just enough attention to make vague sounds during the pauses, watched the route of flight anxiously.
Would they head for one of the shield-openings and leave the city altogether?
No, they headed downward, and George sighed his relief softly. He felt safer in the city.
The skimmer landed at the roof-entry of a hotel and, as he alighted, Ingenescu said, "I hope you'll eat dinner with me in my room?"
George said, "Yes," and grinned unaffectedly. He was just beginning to realize the gap left within him by missing lunch.
Ingenescu let George eat in silence. Night closed in and the wall lights went on automatically. (George thought: I've been on my own almost twenty-four hours.)
And then over the coffee, Ingenescu finally spoke again. He said, "You've been acting as though you think I intend you harm."
George reddened, put down his cup and tried to deny it, but the older man laughed and shook his head.
"It's so. I've been watching you closely since I first saw you and I think I know a great deal about you now."
George half rose in horror.
Ingenescu said, "But sit down. I only want to help you."
George sat down but his thoughts were in a whirl. If the old man knew who he was, why had he not left him to the policeman? On the other hand, why should he volunteer help?
Ingenescu said, "You want to know why I should want to help you? Oh, don't look alarmed. I can't read minds. It's just that my training enables me to judge the little reactions that give minds away, you see. Do you understand that?"
George shook his head.
Ingenescu said, "Consider my first sight of you. You were waiting in line to watch an Olympics, and your micro-reactions didn't match what you were doing. The expression of your face was wrong, the action of your hands was wrong. It meant that something, in general, was wrong, and the interesting thing was that, whatever it was, it was nothing common, nothing obvious. Perhaps, I thought, it was something of which your own conscious mind was unaware.
"I couldn't help but follow you, sit next to you. I followed you again when you left and eavesdropped on the conversation between your friend and yourself. After that, well, you were far too interesting an object of study-I'm sorry if that sounds cold-blooded----for me to allow you to be taken off by a policeman. -Now tell me, what is it
that troubles you?"
George was in an agony of indecision. If this was a trap, why should it be such an indirect, roundabout one? And he had to turn to someone. He had come to the city to find help and here was help being offered. Perhaps what was wrong was that it was being offered. It came too easy.
Ingenescu said, "Of course, what you tell me as a Social Scientist is a privileged communication. Do you know what that means?"
''No, sir."
"It means, it would be dishonorable for me to repeat what you say to anyone for any purpose. Moreover no one has the legal right to compel me to repeat it."
George said, with sudden suspicion, "I thought you were a Historian."
''So lam.''
"Just now you said you were a Social Scientist."
Ingenescu broke into loud laughter and apologized for it when he could talk. "I'm sorry, young man, I shouldn't laugh, and I wasn't really laughing at you. I was laughing at Earth and its emphasis on physical science, and the practical segments of it at that. I'll bet you can rattle off every subdivision of construction technology or mechanical engineering and yet you're a blank on social science."
"Well, then what is social science?"
"Social science studies groups of human beings and there are many
high-specialized branches to it, just as there are to zoology, for instance. For instance, there are Culturists, who study the mechanics of cultures, their growth, development, and decay. Cultures," he added, forestalling a question, "are all the aspects of a way of life. For instance, it includes the way we make our living, the things we enjoy and believe, what we consider good and bad and soon. Do you understand?"
"I think I do."
"An Economist-not an Economic Statistician, now, but an Economist-specialized in the study of the way a culture supplies the bodily needs of its individual members. A Psychologist specializes in the individual member of a society and how he is affected by the society. A Futurist specializes in planning the future course of a society, and a Historian- That's where I come in, now."
''Yes, sir."
"A Historian specializes in the past development of our own society and of societies with other cultures."
George found himself interested. "Was it different in the past?"
"I should say it was. Until a thousand years ago, there was no Education, not what we call Education, at least."
George said, "I know. People learned in bits and pieces out of books."
"Why, how do you know this?"
"I've heard it said," George said cautiously. Then, "Is there any use in worrying about what's happened long ago? I mean, it's all done with, isn't it?"
"It's never done with, my boy. The past explains the present. For instance, why is our Educational system what it is?"
George stirred restlessly. The man kept bringing the subject back to that. He said snappishly, "Because it's best."
"Ah, but why is it best?" Now you listen to me for one moment and I'll explain. Then you can tell me if there is any use in history. Even before interstellar travel was developed-" He broke off at the look of complete astonishment on George's face. "Well, did you think we always had it?"
"I never gave it any thought, sir."
"I'm sure you didn't. But there was a time, four or five thousand years ago, when mankind was confined to the surface of Earth. Even then, his culture had grown quite technological and his numbers had increased to the point where any failure in technology would have meant mass starvation and disease. To maintain the technological level and advance it in the face of an increasing population, more and more technicians and scientists had to be trained, and yet, as science advanced, it took longer and longer to train them.
"As first interplanetary and then interstellar travel was developed, the problem grew more acute. In fact, actual colonization of extra-Solar planets was impossible for about fifteen hundred years because of a lack of properly trained men.
"The turning point came when the mechanics of the storage of knowledge within the brain was worked out. Once that had been done, it became possible to devise Educational tapes that would modify the mechanics in such a way as to place within the mind a body of knowledge ready-made so to speak. But you know about that.
"Once that was done, trained men could be turned out by the thousands and millions, and we could begin what someone has since called the 'Filling of the Universe.' There are now fifteen hundred inhabited planets in the Galaxy and there is no end in sight.
"Do you see all that is involved? Earth exports Education tapes for low-specialized professions and that keeps the Galactic culture unified. For instance, the Reading tapes insure a single language for all of us. -Don't look so surprised, other languages are possible, and in the past were used. Hundreds of them.
"Earth also exports high-specialized professionals and keeps its own population at an endurable level. Since they are shipped out in a balanced sex ratio, they act as self-reproductive units and help increase the populations on the Outworlds where an increase is needed. Furthermore, tapes and men are paid for in material which we much need and on which our economy depends. Now do you understand why our Education is the best way?"
''Yes, sir.''
"Does it help you to understand, knowing that without it, interstellar colonization was impossible for fifteen hundred yea~s?"
"Yes, sir.''
"Then you see the uses of history." The Historian smiled. "And now I wonder if you see why I'm interested in you?"
George snapped out of time and space back to reality. Ingenescu, apparently, didn't talk aimlessly. All this lecture had been a device to attack him from a new angle.
He said, once again withdrawn, hesitating, "Why?"
"Social Scientists work with societies and societies are made up of people."
'All right.
"But people aren't machines. The professionals in physical science work with machines. There is only a limited amount to know about a machine and the professionals know it all. Furthermore, all machines of a given sort are just about alike so that there is nothing to interest them in any given individual machine. But people, ah- They are so complex and so different one from another that a Social Scientist never knows all there is to know or even a good part of what there is to know. To understand his own specialty, he must always be ready to study people; particularly unusual Specimens."
"Like me," said George tonelessly.
"I shouldn't call you a specimen, I suppose, but you are unusual. You're
worth studying, and if you will allow me that privilege then, in return, I will help you if you are in trouble and if I can."
There were pin wheels whirring in George's mind. -All this talk about people and colonization made possible by Education. It was as though caked thought within him were being broken up and strewn about mercilessly.
He said, "Let me think," and clamped his hands over his ears.
He took them away and said to the Historian, "Will you do something for me, sir?"
"If I can," said the Historian amiably.
"And everything I say in this room is a privileged communication. You said so."
''And I meant it.''
"Then get me an interview with an Outworld official, with-with a Novian."
Ingenescu looked startled. "Well, now-"
"You can do it," said George earnestly. "You're an important official. I saw the policeman's look when you put that card in front of his eyes. If you refuse, I-I won't let you study me."
It sounded a silly threat in George's own ears, one without force. On Ingenescu, however, it seemed to have a strong effect.
He said, "That's an impossible condition. A Novian in Olympics month-"
"All right, then, get me a Novian on the phone and I'll make my own arrangements for an interview."
"Do you think you can?"
"I know I can. Wait and see."
Ingenescu stared at George thoughtfully and then reached for the visiphone.
George waited,
half drunk with his new outlook on the whole problem and the sense of power it brought. It couldn't miss. It couldn't miss. He would be a Novian yet. He would leave Earth in triumph despite Antonelli and the whole crew of fools at the House for the (he almost laughed aloud) Feeble-minded.
George watched eagerly as the visiplate lit up. It would open up a window into a room of Novians, a window into a small patch of Novia transplanted to Earth. In twenty-four hours, he had accomplished that much.
There was a burst of laughter as the plate unmisted and sharpened, but for the moment no single head could be seen but rather the fast passing of the shadows of men and women, this way and that. A voice was heard, clear-worded over a background of babble. "Ingenescu? He wants me?"
Then there he was, staring out of the plate. A Novian. A genuine Novian. (George had not an atom of doubt. There was something completely
Outworldly about him. Nothing that could be completely defined, or even momentarily mistaken.)
He was swarthy in complexion with a dark wave of hair combed rigidly back from his forehead. He wore a thin black mustache and a pointed beard, just as dark, that scarcely reached below, the lower limit of his narrow chin, but the rest of his face was so smooth that it looked as though it had been depilated permanently.
He was smiling. "Ladislas, this goes too far. We fully expect to be spied on, within reason, during our stay on Earth, but mind reading is out of bounds."
"Mind reading, Honorable?"
"Confess! You knew I was going to call this evening. You knew I was only waiting to finish this drink." His hand moved up into view and his eye peered through a small glass of a faintly violet liqueur. "I can't offer you one, I'm afraid."
George, out of range of Ingenescu's transmitter could not be seen by the Novian. He was relieved at that. He wanted time to compose himself and he needed it badly. It was as though he were made up exclusively of restless fingers, drumming, drumming- But he was right. He hadn't miscalculated. Ingenescu was important.
The Novian called him by his first name.
Good! Things worked well. What George had lost on Antonelli, he would make up, with advantage, on Ingenescu. And someday, when he was on his own at last, and could come back to Earth as powerful a Novian as this one who could negligently joke with Ingenescu's first name and be addressed as "Honorable" in turn-when he came back, he would settle with Antonelli. He had a year and a half to pay back and he- He all but lost his balance on the brink of the enticing daydream and
