Imperial Stars 2-Republic and Empire (42 page)

But Kit Carson! Carson with all skills and all talents shared among all its people, and overall and commanding, creating that vacuum of need and instant fulfillment, the Sole Authority and the State. It must be so (even though, far down, something in him wondered why the State kept so much understanding away from its people), for with this new depth came a solemn new dedication to his home and all it stood for.

Trembling, he unbuckled the belt and turned back its left buckle. Yes, there it was, the formula for the precipitate. And now he understood the pressing process and he had the flame to strike into new belts and make them live—by the millions, Tanyne had said, the billions.

Tanyne had said . . . why had he never said that the garments of Xanadu were the source of all their wonders and perplexities?

But had Bril ever asked?

Hadn't Tanyne begged him to take a garment so he could be one with Xanadu? The poor earnest idiot, to think he could be swayed away from Carson this way! Well, then, Tanyne and his people would have an offer, too, and it would all be even; soon they could, if they would join the shining armies of a new Kit Carson.

From his hanging black suit, a chime sounded. Bril laughed and gathered up his old harness and all the fire and shock and paralysis asleep in its mighty, compact weapons. He slapped open the door and sprang to the bubble which waited outside, and flung his old uniform in to lie crumpled on the floor, a broken chrysalis. Shining and exultant, he leaped in after it and the bubble sprang away skyward.

Within a week after Bril's return to Kit Carson in the Sumner System, the garment had been duplicated, and duplicated again, and tested.

Within a month, nearly two hundred thousand had been distributed, and eighty factories were producing round the clock.

Within a year, the whole planet, all the millions, were shining and unified as never before, moving together under their Leader's will like the cells of a hand.

And then, in shocking unison, they all flickered and dimmed, every one, so it was time for the lactic acid dip which Bril had learned of. It was done in panic, without test or hesitation; a small taste of this luminous subjection had created a mighty appetite. All was well for a week—

And then, as the designers in Xanadu had planned, all the other segments of the black belts joined the first meager two in full operation.

A billion and a half human souls, who had been given the techniques of music and the graphic arts, and the theory of technology, now had the others: philosophy and logic and love; sympathy, empathy, forbearance, unity in the idea of their species rather than in their obedience; membership in harmony with all life everywhere.

A people with such feelings and their derived skills cannot be slaves. As the light burst upon them, there was only one concentration possible to each of them—to be free, and the accomplished feeling of being free. As each found it, he was an expert in freedom, and expert succeeded expert, transcended expert, until (in a moment) a billion and a half human souls had no greater skill than the talent of freedom.

So Kit Carson, as a culture, ceased to exist, and something new started there and spread through the stars nearby.

And because Bril knew what a Senator was and wanted to be one, he became one.

In each other's arms, Tanyne and Nina were singing softly, when the goblet in the mossy niche chimed.

"Here comes another one," said Wonyne, crouched at their feet. "I wonder what will make
him
beg, borrow or steal a belt."

"Doesn't matter," said Tanyne, stretching luxuriously, "as long as he gets it. Which one is he, Wo—that noisy mechanism on the other side of the small moon?"

"No," said Wonyne. "That one's still sitting there squalling and thinking we don't know it's there. No, this is the force-field that's been hovering over Fleetwing District for the last two years."

Tanyne laughed. "That'll make conquest number eighteen for us."

"Nineteen," corrected Nina dreamily. "I remember because eighteen was the one that just left and seventeen was that funny little Bril from the Sumner System. Tan, for a time that little man loved me." But that was a small thing and did not matter.

 
Politics is often called a game. This implies that conflict is conducted according to unbreakable rules. Let us follow the metaphor. The best games are those of amateur athletics where winner and loser congratulate each other at the close and chatter gaily on their way to the changing-room. Some of us (as is my case) strongly disapprove of money games. While this is not the attitude of the majority, there are few people who would not regard it as deplorable that a man should hazard his family's keep at a card table.
Now imagine a player so foolish and sinful as to wager the liberty of his children, to be slaves if he loses. Should we be astonished to find this madman cheating to win, and upturning the table if he seems to be losing? Such disregard of rule must naturally follow from inordinate stakes. We must therefore conclude that to keep the game of Politics within the rules, the stakes must be kept moderate.
But here is the difficulty: in case of a game, a man is free to play or not; and if he does, he can limit his stake. Not so in Politics. In a card room, a few people are enjoying a game incapable of ruining them or of bringing misery to a third party. There enters a newcomer who raises the stakes. The old players cannot refuse the higher stakes, and if they leave the table, the intruder wins by default. This is Politics. The "old" parties of the Weimar Republic certainly never agreed to stake civil liberties and the lives of the German Jews on a game of dice with Hitler, but that was in fact what they lost. As this instance illustrates, it is not even necessary for the intruder to name the stakes: "You must play with me," he says, "and if you lose, you will find out in my own good time what you have lost."

—Bertrand de Jouvenal,
The Pure Theory of Politics

Political change is not always progress. The Roman Republic endured until the evil day when a bunch of Roman Senators fell upon Tiberius Gracchus and slaughtered the tribune on the very steps of the Capitol. There followed, inevitably, Marius and Sulla, fury and passion and relentless slaughter, until Octavius brought peace. Yet, as dearly bought as the Imperial peace was, the rule of law was shattered. Octavius was followed by Tiberius, then Caligula.

Sometimes the game of Politics leaves no choice but to stake everything on the outcome.

By Speedletter—Government Use Only
Penalty for Private Use up to $1000

Date: 19 Sept 2013

From: Director, Special Equipment Development Center, American Sector Luna

To: Secretary of Internal Security, New Washington, 20013

Subject: Resignation.

Dear Mr. Secretary: Hail the First Citizen.

I have received your directive of the 15th, ordering the rapid application of SEDO's recently developed TLCHI-PSI scan and interaction sensor to the production of a subconscious aura-triggered anti-subversive-personnel device.

Under my direction, SEDC developed this sensor to enable self-guided infantry robots to discriminate quickly between enemy and noncombatants, thus enhancing their effectiveness and reducing attrition of civilians. Given the trend of Party policies in the last few years, I suspect that the primary purpose of employing the circuit as you direct would be the suppression of internal American dissent.

After due consideration, I have concluded that I cannot in good conscience participate in the development of such a device. I therefore tender my resignation herewith, effective immediately.

I realize that this attitude may have the gravest personal consequences . . . .

Dr. Michael S. Terhune
Director, SEDC

The overhead boomed hollowly, at regular intervals, as Dr. M.S. Terhune showed the drab-overalled man to a chair opposite his desk.

"A rather noisy office for the director," Derein said quietly, glancing upward, but leaving his large pale hands flat on the arms of the chair.

Michael Terhune paused, half-bent, and looked at his visitor sideways. Terhune was a tall man, too tall for the low overheads of the Center. Too thin, really, for the Moon, where a stockier body shape had more than once saved a man or woman caught out in Shadow. He might have looked like Lincoln, if he had had a beard and a wen.

"It's the exerciser," he said.

"Exerciser?"

"It's important to stay in shape here. Retards calcium loss. The gym is the next level up."

"I see." Derein settled himself and reached for a briefcase. "Please be seated, Doctor Terhune."

Terhune paused for a moment, looking out the port. At the far edge of sight stars gleamed diamond-hard, then were occulted suddenly by the jagged edge of crater. He knew that edge. He had almost died on it once. Night came suddenly on the Moon. And lasted.

Silently, he dropped into his chair and swiveled toward Derein, concentrating on the situation at hand.

The Party Member had come in on the Station-Luna shuttle early that diurn. He sat now shuffling through his briefcase, a sallow, worn-looking man of medium height who looked as if a few hours a week on an exerciser would do him good. He wore, Terhune noted absently, the Party Cross, the Vow of Silence, and decorations (old ones) from the Jamaican War, two Internal Actions, Manhattan and Chicago, and the first two Mexican Interventions. The blue-drab coveralls were the plainest cotton, not new, but clean. There was a small tear near the knee, which looked as if the Party Member had mended it himself.

Terhune knew then that he faced a dangerous opponent.

"Very good," said Derein suddenly. "Your record, I mean. MIT. What was that?"

"Massachusetts Institute of Technology."

"That was a secular university, as I recall?"

"Most colleges were then."

"Of course. We'll skip the rest of this, it looks dull . . . Director of the Special Equipment Development facility for three years now. Commendations for work on dust solidification, battle laser postoptical collimation, and a theoretical paper on the inhibition of certain types of heavy metal chain reactions. Very good. You've come a long way since your . . . hospitalization."

"Thank you, Party Member."

"Of course I won't pretend to know what all those mean."

Terhune looked deep into clear, direct, fanatical eyes. It could be true. The Party selected for belief, not knowledge. But it could also be a trap.

Michael Terhune had been told all his life he was brilliant. He had also, all his life, suspected those around him. He had learned that most of his fears were imaginary, paranoid, and he had learned to distrust his own distrust.

But in this case suspicion, he thought, was justified. He was walking, not a tightrope, but the edge of a knifesharp ridge, with a drop on either side far more than enough, even under lunar gravity, to kill. He thought for a moment of the Happy dispenser above his head. There was one in every room of the Center, in every room in America. One needed only to reach one's hand up and touch the trigger for a jolt of the psychentropic drug, removing anxiety and doubt—

"I'll be happy to explain them," Terhune said, not moving in his chair.

The Party Member waved his hand in dismissal. The overhead thumped twice, then began to drum rapidly. Both men glanced up, the shorter with a scowl, the taller with the trace of a smile.

That must be Kathryn, he was thinking.

"Not necessary now." Derein said speaking above the sound of the exerciser. "It's enough to know that you're a valuable scientist, valuable to the Party, to America, and of course to your family."

Terhune nodded slightly, more to himself than to Derein. By his desk clock he saw that it had taken the Party Member less than three minutes to mention his family, back on Earth.

"Do you understand what I mean?"

"I understand perfectly, Party Member."

"Then explain this trash to me!" shouted Derein, thrusting a piece of paper at him. Meant to be threatening, the motion miscarried. In the slight gravity the letter left his hand rapidly, lost its forward momentum in an earth-normal deceleration—but under a fraction that in the vertical plane, it hovered for a long time before gliding at last to the surface of the desk. Terhune picked it up, glanced at it, then looked at Derein. His face darkened.

"This was addressed to the Secretary. Personally! Not to a—not to you, Brother Derein."

"We don't bother the Leader's deputies with trash. And a refusal of a direct order, an order related to internal security work, in days like these—no, the Party settles matters like that on a lower level. On our level, Doctor. Yours and mine."

"You refuse to forward my correspondence?"

"Oh, on the contrary, Doctor." The Party man leaned back, not smiling. "I'm quite willing to forward an insulting letter from a narrow-minded technician to a man concerned with the highest matters of state, responsible only to the First Citizen! I'm quite willing to let you commit professional suicide, go to the front line in the Yucatan as a private, and see your family split up into Party Age-Group camps! I'm willing enough, you see! But first I would like to make sure, quite certain, that you know what you're doing."

"I believe I do."

"You're making a stupid and futile gesture."

"I think otherwise. Stupid, perhaps. Not futile."

"You have a high opinion of yourself. You think your resignation will stop work on the project?"

"Yes."

"Because your discoveries are so subtle. Because no one else can understand them."

Terhune didn't answer. He swiveled and faced the shadowed corner of Mare Serentatis.

"You're wrong about that, Doctor. You are important, yes; your talents are useful to us, and because of them we have overlooked certain personal shortcomings, certain unwise remarks of yours in the past. But—"