The Rival Rigelians

by Mack Reynolds

  There were heavy automatics in the hands of Natt Roberts and Dick Hawkins. Barry Watson leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrow. “How’d you ever expect to get away with this sort of treason, Taller?”

  Martin Gunther blurted, “Or you, Russ?”

  Wiss, the Texcocan scientist, quiet all this time, held his wrist radio to his mouth and said, “Come in now.”

  Dick Hawkins thumbed back the hammer of his hand gun.

  “Hold it a minute, Dick,” Barry Watson rapped. “I don’t like this.” To Taller he rasped, “What goes on here? Talk up, you’re just about a dead man.”

  And it was then that they heard the scraping on the outer hull.

  The Earthlings looked up at the overhead, dumbfounded.

  Isobel blurted, “But... but we have the only two spacecraft available. What can that be?”

  “I suggest you put up your weapons,” Taller said quietly. “At this late stage, I would hate to see further bloodshed. There has been too much already.”

  In moments, they heard the opening and closing of locks and footsteps along the corridor. The door opened and in came: Leonid Plekhanov, Joe Chessman, Amschel Mayer, Natalie Wieliczka, Mike Dean, Louis Rosetti, an emaciated Jerry Kennedy and Nick Rykov. Their expressions ran from sheepishness to blank haughtiness.

  MacDonald bug-eyed. “Dean, Rosetti, Natalie. The Temple monks burned you at the stake!”

  They grinned at him, shamefaced. “Guess not,” Mike Dean said. “We were kidnapped. They figured we were getting too stute for our own good. We’ve been teaching basic science, in some phoney monastery.”

  Watson’s face was white. “Joe,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Joe Chessman growled. “You sold me out. But Taller and the Texcocans thought I was still of some use.” He looked at Leonid Plekhanov, strangely subdued compared to the man he had been half a century before. “I suppose they did the same to you. Took you off and held you, utilizing your learning.”

  Amschel Mayer snapped bitterly, “And now if you fools will put down your stupid guns, we’ll make the final arrangements for returning this expedition to Terra City. Personally, I’ll be glad to get away!”

  Behind the resurrected Earthlings were a sea of faces representing the foremost figures of both Texcoco and Genoa in every field of endeavor. At least fifty of them in all.

  As though protectively, the Earthlings ganged together at the far side of the mess table they had met over so often.

  Martin Gunther, his expression still dazed, said, “I... I don’t know. This is impossible. You are all alive!”

  Leonid Plekhanov looked about him. “Not quite all,” he said lowly. “Cogswell, Stevens, MacBride. We’ve had a heavy toll.”

  Taller resumed his spokesmanship. “From the first, the most progressive elements on both Texcoco and Genoa realized the value of your expedition and have been in fundamental sympathy with the aims of the Pedagogue, or, at least, its original aims. Primitive life is not idyllic. Until man is free from nature’s tyranny and has solved the basic problems of sufficient food, clothing, shelter, medical care and education for all, he is unable to realize himself. So we cooperated with you to the extent we found possible.”

  His smile was grim. “I am afraid that almost from the beginning, and on both planets, your very actions developed an underground, I believe you call it. Not an overt one, since we needed your assistance to build the new industrialized culture you showed us was possible. We even protected you against yourselves, since it soon became obvious that if left alone you would destroy each other in your mad desire for power.”

  Baron Leonar broke in. “Don’t misunderstand. It wasn’t until the past couple of decades that this underground which had sprung up on both planets, united.”

  Barry Watson blurted, “But Joe... Chessman...” He refused to meet the eyes of the man he had condemned.

  Taller said, “From the first you made no effort to study our customs. If you had, you’d have realized why my father allied himself to you after you had killed Taller First. And why I did not take my revenge on Chessman after he had killed Reif. A Khan’s first training is that no personal emotion must interfere with the needs of the People. When you turned Joe Chessman over to me, as Leonid Plekhanov earlier was turned over to Reif, I realized his education, his abilities, were too great to destroy. We sent him to a mountain university and have used him profitably all these years. In fact, it was Chessman who finally brought us to space travel.”

  “That’s right,” Buchwald blurted. “You’ve got a spacecraft out there. How could you possibly?”

  Taller said mildly, “There are but a handful of you; you could hardly keep track of two whole planets and all that went on upon them.”

  Amschel Mayer said bitingly, “All this can be gone over on our return to Terra City. We’ll have a full year in space to explain to ourselves and each other why we became such complete idiots. I was originally head of this expedition—before my supposed friends railroaded me to prison—does anyone object if I take over again, with Leonid Plekhanov as my deputy?”

  “No,” Joe Chessman growled.

  The others shook their heads.

  Taller said, “There is but one other thing. In spite of how you may feel at this moment, basically you have succeeded in your task. That is, you have brought Texcoco and Genoa to an industrialized culture. We hold various reservations about how you accomplished this. However, when you return to your Co-ordinator of Galactic Colonization, please inform him that we are anxious to receive his ambassadors. The term is ambassadors and we will expect to meet on a basis of equality. Surely in all Earth’s social evolution, man has worked out something better than either of your teams have built here. We should like to be instructed.”

  Dick Hawkins said stiffly, “We can instruct you on Earth’s present socioeconomic system.”

  “I am afraid we no longer trust you, Richard Hawkins. Send others, uncorrupted by power, privilege or great wealth.”

  * * * *

  When they had gone and the sound of their departing spacecraft had faded, Amschel Mayer snapped, “We might as well get underway. And cheer up, confound it, we have lots of time to contrive a reasonable report for the Co-ordinator.”

  Jerry Kennedy managed a thin grin, almost reminiscent of the younger Kennedy of the first years on Genoa. “Say,” he said, “I wonder if well be granted a good long vacation before being sent on another assignment.”

  * * * *

  They met in the library, behind the racks of tapes and she looked up into his face, warily.

  He said, his voice husky, “Hi, Polack.”

  She reached up and traced a finger along a scar that ran from temple to chin.

  He said, “An assassin got through my guards one day.” He reached for her, but she moved back, shaking her head.

  “I... I don’t know...” she said. “You’re not the same.”

  He looked at her bitterly. “Are you?”

  “No. No, I suppose not. We’re both different. We’ll have to start all over. Learn to know each other, all over. Too many things have happened, Barry.”

  He let his hands drop to his sides.

  “All right,” he said. “As Amschel said, we have a full year.” He grinned suddenly, wryly. “We’ll have to start changing my character right away if I’m going to be acceptable again in that short a time.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Dallas McCord (‘Mack’) Reynolds was born in California in 1917. His father was the Socialist Labor Party Presidential Candidate on two occasions, and Reynolds’ life and work were deeply affected by his political upbringing. After early careers in newspapers and computing, Reynolds returned from the Second World War and began to write science fiction. Based in Mexico but travelling widely in his role as Travel Editor for a men’s magazine, he started slowly but surely to sell his work. Mack Reynolds wrote the first Star Trek novel, Mission to Horatius, and was once voted Most popular SF Author by the readers of Galaxy Science Fiction
magazine. He died in 1983.