But you don’t trap the old fox so easily, Junior.
You’ve still got a few things to learn. Transcome said& at once, in a flat, bored voice, “My vote is a matter& of record, sir.”
Dale tried to press it: “But—”
“I have answered you, sir.” The old man’s voice& still, but louder, firmer. And then a sudden burst of babble from all over the chamber—quelled before& Leverett could bring the gavel down. “I must go on& to say—” Transcome turned to the raised dais, asking& his Chairman: “I believe that I have the right to continue speaking?”
“The floor is yours, sir,” Leverett told him. An attempt, and a good one, to make the—the referee, that was it, look as if he’d joined a side. Something had to be done about that. Not instantly.
“Thank you,” the old man said, looking as tired, as& careful, as ever. “I must go on to say, then, that the carelessness implied in this—ah—incident cannot be& I allowed to repeat itself. I shall not be lengthy. In this& matter, I am sure that many will wish to speak.” A& mutter round the chamber: cued? Who could tell?& “Therefore, I move at once for a vote on the question: That this body declare its lack of confidence in the Space Arm and in its administrators.”
A very carefully prepared explosion; Leverett admired the economy, if nothing else. The mutter returned and grew, in seconds, to a roar, no member’s voice singly audible until somehow Fredericks managed to shout a second over it, screaming as if he’d& been caught in a gale. And the stir continued, grew,& whirled, despite the gavel, despite any decorum or& practice: a very fine explosion indeed. Leverett, banging desperately from his raised desk, shouted into the& whirlpool. “The motion has been made and seconded.& Is there a—” Of course Junior was on his feet; and,& as they saw him, the others slowly quieted. Watching for targets? “Mr. Dale?”
“I should like to be assured of full debate in this matter, sir.” His most earnest and innocent voice.& Transcome spat a reply, as savagely as age permitted,& from his own desk:
“You shall have it, sir.”
Demeuth half rose, then sat again. (Reisinger was still at work on his bundle of papers, Leverett noticed: a difficult man to deflect.) The Chairman took& a breath and stared round the chamber. “The issue& before us must be the issue of debate: Is there a& speaker against the motion?” Too crude? Well, there& was one good thing about formalities, as he had& known for years: they saved the immediate trouble of& thinking. He could, as then he did, devote his entire& attention to the chamber—to five hundred and six individual human beings, less perhaps (at that moment) ten absentees; and even those, Leverett knew,& would be in during the course of the evening.
Dale was trying to catch his eye, as twenty others were, but he waited, knowing what had to happen;& and, very slowly, in the midst of that near-silent tumult, one rather small figure, still in white, arose, and& stood, waiting, with a savage patience. Leverett gave& him at once the briefest of nods, nearly indistinguishable: a private signal, or what passed for one.
“Mr. Chairman.”
Leverett turned directly toward him. “Mr. Norin.”
The thin old man began to speak at once, as he nodded, without emphasis; but that single voice commanded what perhaps twenty others could command& in all the Dichtung. Into the absolute silence Norin& set words like stone blocks.
“I ask to speak against this motion. I have a personal interest in the matter, as Members know. Despite that interest, I cannot believe that we should,& at this time, record ourselves as disapproving the& status of any governmental arm.”
Fredericks heaved himself up, sputtering like an insulted whale: “Do you mean you approve of the& kind of thing they’ve done? My God—”
The old man stopped him; he would with those stone words have stopped an armed mob. “I have the& floor, sir.” Leverett, unnoticed, gave him a slow nod.& “Thank you.” And another pause, while old Norm& surveyed the chamber with what seemed remote distaste. The silence continued, stretched, tensed. After& some time the thin voice went steadily on: “I will say& that my approval or disapproval, my personal feelings, cannot be an issue here. The only issue is the& structure of this government. I intend to speak to that& question, Members, if I am allowed to do so.”
He waited for a second: the silence never broke.
“Thank you,” he said again, as if the words were accusatory. And: “I shall attempt to be brief—to follow the example of Member Transcome. Members& will perhaps understand, however, if my attempt is& not entirely a success.”
And again a pause. There was not a move in the chamber.
“I believe in this government and in its actions. I intend to defend both. I agree that the cost of government is heavy in this matter, since the cost of any& government is heavy, at any time, whether noticed or& not. Yet in disregard of that, we must not forget that& we are representatives; and I believe our representation to be vitally important. We must continue, therefore—”
Caught, silent, missing no word, Leverett found that he had yet time to wonder what else was going& on. What else, in how many other suddenly chattering places?
15
. . . It is impossible for a free nation to exist without parties.
. . . The people are . . . generally disposed to abolish the Senate as a useless body.
—John Quincy Adams, in
letters to John Adams and Abigail Adams during June, 1797.
16.
His children had learned it from the first days in which they were at all able to reason: Expect as little as you can, of humanity in general. Norin had, sometimes, the calming, remote illusion that he had learned it himself, as well; but the process of conviction, quite regardless of fact or evidence, apparently claimed more time than a human being might expect to have. One had to be born to the thing; since even now, in his yellowed age, he found himself less than wholly accustomed to the stupidities of which that same humanity was capable—the Dichtung being made up, as everyone knew and virtually no one outside the Capitol believed, of human beings.
The central point—the necessary defense of the structure of government, which allowed the existence of government; and nothing less, nothing smaller— should, he told himself with a distant fiery anger, have been clear enough to penetrate the mind of a year-old infant. Time enough later to wonder what had gone wrong, how it had happened, where responsibility was to lie; all that would be dealt with, inevitably, when the immediate situation had become less
demanding. First came the entire simplicity of a united front: the Valor, clearly, could not be allowed to sway the Capitol.
Clearly: but no one knew it.
Even Leverett, though his expression had shown throughout—as had his tart irruptions—how very much he wanted to shut off the useless trickle of debate; even Leverett probably had no better notice than the wish to make Norin free of an embarrassment— added, perhaps, to his usual desire that the Dichtung’s day, whatever was to compose it, run a bit more smoothly than any chattering body of men would ever, in any dream of a world, allow.
Even Demeuth. For now that his own speech was over, and others had raised points—yelping like dogs round a dying animal, fools, fools, sufferable only by the law old Norin knew and pinned his life on—Demeuth was going on.
“The vote is a matter of record,” that half-smooth voice was saying. “I think we can safely and surely ignore the past, and get on—now—with the job that needs to be done.” Sound enough, to be sure, and quite possibly effective; but even that showed no motive higher than the wish for simplicity. Demeuth could not—would not, perhaps—see the situation in terms wider than those of comfort and predilection.
Expect little of humanity. Yes, and expect little, as well, of each other; and suffer no surprise (therefore) at Isidor Norin’s defense of the government against Aaron Norin. The basic statement, the words he sometimes found and then forgot, was—something like—no single person was, or could be, important (except, as Alphard would put it and as he was sure th
ey both believed, in themselves, as possible human souls possibly capable of a possible future life in a possible future world) in the face of actual danger to the mass of humanity—which was, had been, would be, the structure of government. The structure might be changed—had been, and would be again, without doubt, if it lasted. It could not be destroyed out of hand on any single issue; without some such structure human beings did not live. Therefore: expect little: do much. A simple idea, it seemed; but it did take a good deal of learning.
Demeuth (he realized) had stopped, and for a second, after the cascade of speeches, there was a comparative silence in the chamber. Reisinger muttered something, bent over his papers; other members were chatting (Dale and Fredericks, he saw, had met at Junior’s desk and were cooking up something unlikely); for a brief time the dogs had relieved themselves.
One fought words with words, ideas with ideas. The chamber was not ready for a vote. Norin had spoken; he would speak again. Before anyone else thought to rise, he was on his feet, and the upflung arms of Dale, Transcome, and Forman Alpha were invisible to a calm and gracious Leverett who saw only an elderly erect request.
“Mr. Norin.”
“Mr. Chairman.” The ritual completed, others turned to look at him—most of the chamber, it seemed—as if he were a curiosity; it occurred to him that he had still not found an opportunity to change from the white official drop.
Well. What matter? Perhaps he had not yet made himself clear—made, rather, the necessities of the situation clear. Patience was required: expect little: do much. He would try again.
Mr. Chairman: fellow Members:
I do not wish irresponsibly to waste your valuable time.
Within the last hour, I have spoken. I did not then think that I would be forced to speak again, but it seems clear to me that what I have said has been dissipated in the wind of argument. I do not ask, as you will appreciate, for agreement, but for understanding; perhaps, as our debate continues, argument will become discussion, passion less overpowering; and understanding, then, may begin. To that end, I must once more make my position clear.
Gentlemen, we represent the people of the Comity: three worlds, gentlemen, and four moons. We have been chosen to represent them; the officers and crew of a single ship have not. The issue is not put melodramatically: it is, exactly, both as basic and as simple as that statement.
Transcome got up in a hurry and shot out his question without preliminaries; procedure was going by the board, of course, and Transcome seemed to value shock-effects. The man might have been better employed, Norin thought, with the Cannam 3V show, but he was quick, though speed seemed at times his only virtue.
“Were not the officers and crew of the Valor chosen by the Emperor, as we have been?”
No sense, of course, in making parliamentary objections: meet a thrust with a thrust, it was the only rule.
I thank Mr. Transcome for his question: it allows me to see where clarification of the current position is needed.
Those officers, those crewmen were of course chosen—and chosen, I may add, subject neither to referendum nor to recall from any nonmilitary group whatever—but they were chosen for a specific duty. That duty was not, and is not, the duty which confronts us now.
Did they think it was easy to turn your back on a son? Norin could feel the beginnings of the payment his duty would be bound to receive: tension, a shaking, almost unnoticeable, in arms and legs, the clenching pain round his skull that would shortly present him with a temporary blindness. And the fools wanted argument, wanted personal profit, expected their own advancement. It would be said, he knew, of him, that he had erased a son to maintain his position. There were fools to believe that, of course; there were fools to believe anything.
The people of the Comity, gentlemen, may ask that we be removed from office—may request, even, that we be removed from the Emperor’s private Council itself. I ask you to consider that fact.
The negative power described is at the supporting center of our system, sharing the weight of our society with the positive power of election—which also resides in the people, who, as a whole, confirm, and may reject, the Emperor himself. It is this power which we obey, and it is this power, gentlemen, and no other, which forces us to reject any suggestion that we treat with these sudden rebels—these powerless rebels—
Dale spoke without rising at all, that thin voice, cutting through the space between one word and the next, in the silence of the chamber. “Mr. Chairman.”
“Mr. Dale.” Leverett looked patient, as if indeed he had suspended all judgment; the expression of a good Chairman, also a talent not to be despised.
“I ask the indulgence of the Chair, and of Councillor Norin, for a question.”
If Mr. Dale wishes to inquire whether the Valor has not the power to destroy a city, I will satisfy him at once: the facts are as he imagines them to be.
The trembling was getting worse. Dale, dimly seen, nodded very briefly, keeping his seat and his silence. Perhaps, Norin told himself, he would be able to leave the chamber shortly. It was an old trick, that: he had learned years ago to take the pain and the weakness five minutes at a time, one minute at a time, promising himself relief; why, anything could be borne for five minutes. He had no idea how long he would be able to keep power over his own body with that trick; but as soon as the idea occurred to him he shut it out. “How long” didn’t, couldn’t, exist.
Five minutes, that was the key; just five minutes more. Perhaps less than that.
But the power of destruction is not at issue, gentlemen. That much is perfectly clear.
Any of us might collect enough of some explosive compound to blow this building, or the city in which it is seated, to atoms. More important, perhaps: the government as a whole has power to destroy, at any moment, the Valor itself. I cannot refer to power in such terms as these, gentlemen: the equations reduce to an identity. It is a different power which—
“Might I ask the Councillor if the government plans to use its destructive power?”
Transcome, standing, looking for shock-value again. Norin thought briefly of the talk he had had with Penn. It seemed to have occurred several years before; he wondered how much of it he believed, and how much he had ever believed.
Transcome’s figure wavered, went fuzzy, went black and blank. Pain increased. Norin thought he still had enough control to remain standing, but he could no longer tell. Only a few minutes, now. Only five minutes.
Only, perhaps, less than that. There had been a question....
In time—he could not have told how long—he remembered what it had been.
I cannot presently speak for the government. It will, as members know, act when action is required. The government is obedient to the will of the people, as it must be; but it is not supine, gentlemen; it is not passive. I tell Mr. Transcome that, in necessity, it will act.
Which kept faith with Penn, Norin imagined; he could not clearly recall a talk that had happened so long ago. If Penn had meant what he said; if he had not merely been dangling hope to ensure Norin’s support. . .
And if not: not. Expect little: do much. Fully learned or not, that much remained.
“Might I ask the—”
I have answered your question, sir.
He heard a stir, very distantly. Stay on your feet, and think. It was still possible; only a few minutes more. Only one.
“I cannot think the answer responsive.”
Whose voice? Not Transcome’s. A dry papery voice, higher than normal. He could still hear the ...
Reisinger?
In the whirling pain, Norin told himself that if he had to speak against the entire Dichtung—was there no one but Leverett, no one but Demeuth, possibly Forman Alpha, to join him?—then it would be done.
It would be done.
But Reisinger, the student of trends and statistics, busy with his papers . . .
Show no surprise. Continue.
I have answered the question. It would be impro
per to say more.
A buzz, some unclear words: Transcome beginning to speak. Give him no time. Continue. Stay on your feet, and think. “But—”
Members will understand the impropriety.
Continue. A few minutes more. One minute more.
I cannot speak further to that question, gentlemen. 1 believe I have the floor.
Leverett? Norin waited; the sounds round him subsided. Leverett seemed to take a long time to reply; that was probably an illusion. Norin felt blood pounding in his temples. Odd to locate that one sensation so exactly. Very little else . . .
“You have the floor, Councillor.”
At last. Good.
Not very long, now. Not long at all. A minute, perhaps.
Thank you. It is important to remember—
Time passed. The pain went on, and went on. Strangely, there was no real interruption: a small stir within the chamber, that was all. Important to remember ... He could think only in rhythm with the sensation at his temples. Time.
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