by Mike Resnick
“And?”
“It appears,” said Oberlieu slowly, “that the Argaves have been petitioning for an audience with various Directors for the past sixty years to get the tariff repealed. They claim that their economy has been in a state of continuous depression since its instigation, since all the Argave worlds are basically agrarian.” “I assume no audience was ever granted,” remarked Vestolian. “That is correct,” said Oberlieu.
“Continue,” said Vestolian.
“It appears that they have been threatening to revolt for the past few years unless the tariff was repealed. They have now done so.”
“Why was the tariff not repealed, or at least reconsidered?” asked the Director. “Only a Director can repeal a law that he himself has passed,” answered Oberlieu.
“Why was the Argaves’ grievance never brought before a Director?” asked Vestolian.
“According to my records, it was,” said Oberlieu. “Jordin II and Wilor I both refused to meet with the Argaves.”
“They've both been dead for more than half a century!” snapped Vestolian. “Are you trying to tell me that no Director has been aware of this situation for the past fifty years despite the open threat of war?” “Yes, Director,” said Oberlieu. “I think that is precisely what I am trying to tell you.” “I consider this to be nothing less than gross and criminal negligence,” said Vestolian. “We shall immediately eliminate the tariff and do everything within our power to set the Argaves’ economy back on its feet. We must also set up channels of authority to make sure that no such situation can ever arise again.”
“I'm afraid that's out of the question, Director,” said Zenorra, his Chief of Protocol. “Explain yourself,” said Vestolian “I'd prefer to do so in private, Director,” said Zenorra. “I haven't been Director long enough to have any secrets,” said Vestolian. “I see no reason for a private discussion.”
Zenorra shrugged. “If you insist.”
“I do.”
“To begin with, Director,” said Zenorra, “you can call yourself any damned thing you please: Director, Protector, First Citizen, or anything else. What you are is an absolute emperor. Now, this can be very beneficial, but it is also a two-edged sword. “For example, there are some twenty or so advisers gathered in this room with you. We are, in all immodesty, experts in our various fields. Between us, we know everything there is to know about presiding over an empire the size and complicity of the Commonwealth. Nonetheless, even if all of us were in complete agreement on a certain course of action, you could overrule us and make it stick. You are the most powerful human being, in fact the most powerful sentient being of any race, who ever lived, and you'll remain so until you are succeeded by the next Director.” “I don't see what you're getting at,” said Vestolian. “I'm coming to that. As I was saying, you are the most politically powerful being in the galaxy. Now, the first—and perhaps the only—purpose of power is to perpetuate itself. Study your history and you'll find that no leader during the Oligarchy, Democracy, or Republic, or even when the race was still Earthbound, ever willingly relinquished any portion of the power he had accumulated. Political power is not unlike water: it ebbs and flows along the path of least resistance. Under normal circumstances this path leads to one man, the man at the top; but if he makes a conscious effort to reverse the process, even with something so trivial as a tariff applied only to one race of beings fifty thousand light-years distant, he has put a small hole in the dike, so to speak, and begun the reversal of the power flow. “I realize that it's tremendously inefficient for you to be forced to make such minor decisions, and certainly each of us has the right to speak in your name. But if it's done too frequently, then our underlings
will soon be speaking in your name as well, and before long you'll have literally billions of Men giving
edicts in the name of the Director.”
“You'll forgive me if I ask a number of questions,” said Vestolian, looking unconvinced. “Certainly,” said Zenorra.
“First of all, if I am the only man in the Commonwealth with the authority to make a decision, what the hell do I have almost two million planetary governors for? Why are we employing thirty billion bureaucrats on Deluros VIII and the Deluros VI planetoids if they can't even pick their noses without my permission? Half our Navy is so far from the Floating Kingdom that they can't be contacted in less than a month; if they can't use their own initiative, just what in blazes are they doing out there?” “May I answer the first part of that, Director?” asked Oberlieu. Vestolian nodded. “Insofar as governorships and alien affairs are concerned, each governor had autonomy in the internal affairs of his planet, as long as he remains within the broad guidelines issued from Deluros. It is when interplanetary problems arise that the governor's hands are tied, though of course he is free to make recommendations, and indeed it is expected of him.”
“As for the Deluros bureaucracy,” said Zenorra, “they do indeed make decisions every day. But these are relatively minor decisions, decisions that are confined to their particular field or fields of expertise. The Navy is of course empowered to defend itself, and to interject itself as a peace-keeper in interplanetary strife among Commonwealth planets, but it may not initiate any offensive action except on your direct orders.”
“I repeat,” said Vestolian, “that this is the most inefficient system conceivable. We have two million governors, and more than a quarter of a million admirals, to say nothing of generals of planetary forces. I would die of old age before I could pronounce each of their names once, let alone give orders to all of them. How has the Commonwealth managed to function all these centuries?” “You seem to be laboring under the false impression that there is no chain of command,” said Zenorra. “In point of fact, you need issue only one brief military order to one admiral in command of a certain sector of the galaxy, and the order will be channeled down to the man who can perform the job.” “What's to prevent the admiral in charge from issuing such an order on his own?” asked the Director. “Security,” said Oberlieu.
“I'm afraid I don't understand you,” said Vestolian. “This isn't the Oligarchy or the Democracy,” said Oberlieu. “The change may seem slight, but it is not. You see, in all previous governmental structures, the possibility of advancement was unlimited. Every man, from the lowliest laborer to the most brilliant demagogue, could conceivably rise to the top of the heap through his own efforts and initiative. That is no longer so. You are the absolute ruler, and even if all your most trusted aides were to conspire to take your life, none of us would succeed to the Directorship until every last member of your family, which is spread across half a galaxy and under phenomenally heavy guard, was also eliminated. Thus, to one extent or another, every member of the Commonwealth is subject to your whim, and, to be blunt, the potential for advancement or reward does not quite equal the potential for demotion or punishment. The bottom of the heap is a huge and infinite abyss; the top has room for only one man, and the job is not only taken but also spoken for for the next hundred generations. Does this make the situation somewhat clearer, Director?”
“Quite clear,” said Vestolian dryly. “You're telling me that no one in the Commonwealth has the guts to
change the way he combs his hair without first clearing it with me.” “You insist on trying to simplify the situation,” said Zenorra, “and it's far from simple. For example, to examine the other side of the coin, you have the capacity to reward a member of the Commonwealth to a far greater degree than was ever previously possible. You can take a congenital idiot and elevate him to the head of any military force or scientific department, give him a planet of his own to rule, or do just about any other thing you please.”
“But along with your ability to reward or to punish,” interjected Oberlieu, “is your capacity to ignore. In fact, it's more than a capacity, it's a built-in shortcoming to the system. You received your power due to an accident of birth. You were born into the right family at what turned out to be the right time, and nothing
short of the termination of your life, or a galaxy-wide revolution, can abrogate your position. You are the only man in the Commonwealth who is not ultimately responsible to either a higher authority or a planetary electorate. Hence, unlike all your billions of underlings, no decision you make can cause a change in your status, even if it were to plunge us into a real war, rather than this piddling little disturbance with the Argaves. Therefore, Seventh Millennium: Monarchy 205 is it any wonder that the buck is now being passed upward at a higher rate than ever before?” “And,” put in Zenorra, “with a galaxy to rule, it is only natural that, even with a different political setup, you wouldn't have the time to attend to a tenth of the problems that can be decided only by a Director. As things stand now...” His voice trailed off. “Correct me if I'm wrong,” said Vestolian, “but as nearly as I understand it, it is you and the other members of my advisory staff who decide which problems have priority and which are to be ignored.” “To an extent,” agreed Zenorra. “Though, of course, you are free to act—or, rather, to not act—on any problem that eventually reaches your desk. Similarly, you can issue directives on those problems that have not yet been placed before you.”
“That, essentially, is the system as it now stands?” said Vestolian. His advisers nodded.
“Then we're going to make some changes around here,” he said, staring defiantly at them. He was not by nature a man of action, this Director, nor had he even yet begun to realize the scope of his power; but he had gleaned enough to know that his word was absolute law, and that something had to be done to disseminate that law more rapidly and more equitably. He terminated the meeting after once again issuing orders concerning the Argave situation and returned to his quarters to think the situation out. He set up a meeting with Zenorra and Oberlieu three days later. In the interim, he received news of a skirmish in the Belthar region which had been ordered by his mother two decades earlier but which had only now been acted upon; of an entire alien population being destroyed when its sun went nova because the governor had been hesitant about ordering an evacuation without written approval from the Director; of some three hundred planetary heads of state who were mortally offended by his inability to meet privately with each of them during the week after his mother's death; and of a mysterious race of gaseous entities living in the Greater Magellanic Clouds that had not been contacted, befriended, studied, and/or exploited because no one knew the Director's views on the matter. “Gentlemen,” said Vestolian when his two highest aides had arrived, “I must admit that I've been sorely
tempted to abdicate. The only reason I've decided against so doing is that I'm very fond of my daughter,
and can think of no crueler legacy to leave her than the Directorship as it now stands. Therefore, I have prepared a list of directives—directives, mind you, not suggestions—that I would like implemented as quickly as possible. I must, at the risk of being redundant, stress the urgency of these directives; if each and every one of them is not in effect within thirty days, you will both be discharged from your positions. Is that quite clear?”
“Perfectly,” said Zenorra, looking disturbed. Oberlieu merely nodded and frowned. “To begin with, planetary governors will have autonomy to deal with all disturbances not just on their planets but within their star systems.”
“What if there are three governors within a system, and they don't see eye to eye?” asked Zenorra. “Don't interrupt until I'm finished,” said Vestolian. “There will be an overseer, to be given any title you deem fitting and proper, for every ten systems; he will have autonomy to settle any dispute brought to him by the governors. Every ten overseers will also be responsible to one man, who will be in charge of a hundred star systems, and will also be empowered to act on his own initiative. This ratio and chain of command will continue right up to Oberlieu's office. “The Navy will be authorized to take any action it considers necessary, including offensive action, the only stipulation being that it be officially approved within thirty days or be terminated by that time. Set up a chain of command, of from four to seven men, leading up to me, for approval of military action, and see to it that I'm not bothered with any action that could be considered a skirmish rather than a war.” “Director, Imust interrupt at this point,” said Zenorra. “For what reason?” demanded Vestolian.
“To point out that you must qualify your statement. What may wipe out the entire populace of a planet may seem like the ultimate war to them, and may simultaneously appear to be a mere policing action to you.”
“An excellent point,” said Vestolian. “You, Zenorra, will have fifteen different definitions of war and skirmish drawn up and submitted to me tomorrow morning; I will choose the ones we shall use. “To continue: All scientific departments will report only major breakthroughs to me. To encourage such breakthroughs, they will be given whatever money is required, within reason, by the Budget, Finance, and Treasury Departments. Should there be disagreements concerning the amount of appropriations to be allotted, a three-man board of arbitrators, consisting of one economist, one scientist, and Oberlieu, will reach a decision. The decision cannot be appealed to me without just cause, and only Oberlieu will be able to determine whether the cause is just. “Next, I want a chain of command set up among our ambassadorial corps. We shall issue a set of broad directives, and every ambassador, as long as he acts within those directives, will be free to use his judgment and act accordingly.”
“You're making it almost impossible for all but a handful of men to see you,” said Oberlieu. “Correct. I suspect that handful will keep me busy enough.” He paused and stared at his two advisers. “Gentlemen, I have neither the time, nor the training, nor the inclination to preside over the run-of-the-mill
day-to-day business of the Floating Kingdom. I shall certainly not interject myself into the even more
mundane daily affairs of the galaxy at large. My final directive is this: If any problem reaches proportions of great enough import to receive my personal attention, and if it is determined that said problem arose due to an absence of initiative, or the inability to make a decision, on the part of a bureaucrat of the Commonwealth, that bureaucrat will be summarily executed. Given the current state of affairs, I would prefer incorrect actions to inaction.”
“Is that all, Director?'’ asked Zenorra. “For the moment. When we see how these orders work we'll be better able to further modify the present system. I'm surprised,” he added, “that some such system hasn't been proposed by any of my predecessors.”
“It has been,” said Oberlieu.
“By each and every one of them,” said Zenorra. Vestolian glared coldly at them for a moment and then dismissed them. It would take time, he knew, for the orders to reach all concerned parties. He estimated two years, but admitted that it might well be a decade before the Commonwealth showed any noticeable change. Once it happened, though, he might even enjoy being Director. As it turned out, he was wrong on both counts: It didn't take ten years, and he very definitely didn't enjoy it.
Item: The insectoid population of Procyon II, suffering from the pangs of overpopulation, had found some pretext to go to war with the humanoids of Procyon III. The governors, unable to reach an agreement, had put the issue before the overseer, but before he could decide the merits of the case, the Navy had stepped into the picture, breaking up the war by bombarding Procyon II with deadly radiation. Not only were some ninety percent of the insectoids destroyed, but anti-human pogroms broke out spontaneously on seven of the other nine insectoid worlds in the Commonwealth. When Vestolian looked into the matter, he found that the governors had pursued his chain of command, and that the Navy had very definitely avoided any charge of inaction. Item: The Department of Microbiology had requested an appropriation of seventeen billion credits; the Department of the Budget had agreed to four billion. The Arbitration Board had settled on a figure of six billion, and the entire Microbiology Department went on strike pending a meeting with the Director. Since they produced most of the vaccines used by human
s on alien planets, a strike was intolerable, so Vestolian was forced to hear their arguments. He upped the appropriation to nine billion, and since there was no higher authority to appeal to, the microbiologists willingly went back to work. In the meantime, three expeditionary forces on the frontier worlds died due to lack of vaccine. Item: The ambassador to Alioth XIV, a world not yet incorporated into the Commonwealth, had succeeded so well in imparting his notions of a utopian democracy into the minds of the populace at large that a bloody civil war was instigated, resulting in more than 29 million deaths before the totalitarian leadership beat and starved the opposition forces into submission. When brought before an enraged Vestolian, the ambassador protested that he was merely using his initiative as directed. Why had the problem not been reported in earlier, solvable stages? Because the Director had made it clear that he wanted to be consulted only when all other courses of action had failed—and by that time it was, regrettably, too late.
