NINE TOMORROWS Tales of the Near Future

by Isaac Asimov

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 I am.”

  “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 so on. Do you understand?”

  “I think I do.”

  “An Economist—not an Economic Statistician, now, but an Economist—specializes 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,” said George 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 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 years?”

  “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 ar
e 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 this 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 you 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 snapped back in sudden anxious realization that he was losing the thread of what was going on.

  The Novian was saying, “—doesn’t hold water. Novia has a civilization as complicated and advanced as Earth’s. We’re not Zeston, after all. It’s ridiculous that we have to come here for individual technicians.”

  Ingenescu said soothingly, “Only for new models. There is never any certainty that new models will be needed. To buy the Educational tapes would cost you the same price as a thousand technicians and how do you know you would need that many?”

  The Novian tossed off what remained of his drink and laughed. (It displeased George, somehow, that a Novian should be this frivolous. He wondered uneasily if perhaps the Novian ought not to have skipped that drink and even the one or two before that.)

  The Novian said, “That’s typical pious fraud, Ladislas. You know we can make use of all the late models we can get. I collected five Metallurgists this afternoon—”

  “I know,” said Ingenescu. “I was there.”

  “Watching me! Spying!” cried the Novian. “I’ll tell you what it is. The new-model Metallurgists I got differed from the previous model only in knowing the use of Beeman Spectrographs. The tapes couldn’t be modified that much, not that much” (he held up two fingers close together) “from last year’s model. You introduce the new models only to make us buy and spend and come here hat in hand.”

  “We don’t make you buy.”

  “No, but you sell late-model technicians to Landonum and so we have to keep pace. It’s a merry-go-round you have us on, you pious Earthmen, but watch out, there may be an exit somewhere.” There was a sharp edge to his laugh, and it ended sooner than it should have.

  Ingenescu said, “In all honesty, I hope there is. Meanwhile, as to the purpose of my call—”

  “That’s right, you called. Oh, well, I’ve said my say and I suppose next year there’ll be a new model of Metallurgist anyway for us to spend goods on, probably with a new gimmick for niobium assays and nothing else altered and the next year—But go on, what is it you want?”

  “I have a young man here to whom I wish you to speak.”

  “Oh?” The Novian looked not completely pleased with that. “Concerning what?”

  “I can’t say. He hasn’t told me. For that matter he hasn’t even told me his name and profession.”

  The Novian frowned. “Then why take up my time?”

  “He seems quite confident that you will be interested in what he has to say.”

  “I dare say.”

  “And,” said Ingenescu, “as a favor to me.”

  The Novian shrugged. “Put him on and tell him to make it short.”

  Ingenescu stepped aside and whispered to George, “Address him as ‘Honorable.’”

  George swallowed with difficulty. This was it.

  George felt himself going moist with perspiration. The thought had come so recently, yet it was in him now so certainly. The beginnings of it had come when he had spoken to Trevelyan, then everything had fermented and billowed into shape while Ingenescu had prattled, and then the Novian’s own remarks had seemed to nail it all into place.

  George said, “Honorable, I’ve come to show you the exit from the merry-go-round.” Deliberately, he adopted the Novian’s own metaphor.

  The Novian stared at him gravely. “What merry-go-round?”

  “You yourself mentioned it, Honorable. The merry-go-round that Novia is on when you come to Earth to—to get technicians.” (He couldn’t keep his teeth from chattering; from excitement, not fear.)

  The Novian said, “You’re trying to say that you know a way by which we can avoid patronizing Earth’s mental super-market. Is that it?”

  “Yes, sir. You can control your own Educational system.”

  “Umm. Without tapes?”

  “Y—yes, Honorable.”

  The Novian, without taking his eyes from George, called out, “Ingenescu, get into view.”

  T
he Historian moved to where he could be seen over George’s shoulder.

  The Novian said, “What is this? I don’t seem to penetrate.”

  “I assure you solemnly,” said Ingenescu, “that whatever this is it is being done on the young man’s own initiative, Honorable. I have not inspired this. I have nothing to do with it.”

  “Well, then, what is the young man to you? Why do you call me on his behalf?”

  Ingenescu said, “He is an object of study, Honorable. He has value to me and I humor him.”

  “What kind of value?”

  “It’s difficult to explain; a matter of my profession.”

  The Novian laughed shortly. “Well, to each his profession.” He nodded to an invisible person or persons outside plate range. “There’s a young man here, a protégé of Ingenescu or some such thing, who will explain to us how to Educate without tapes.” He snapped his fingers, and another glass of pale liqueur appeared in his hand. “Well, young man?”

  The faces on the plate were multiple now. Men and women, both, crammed in for a view of George, their faces molded into various shades of amusement and curiosity.

  George tried to look disdainful. They were all, in their own ways, Novians as well as the Earthman, “studying” him as though he were a bug on a pin. Ingenescu was sitting in a corner, now, watching him owl-eyed.

  Fools, he thought tensely, one and all. But they would have to understand. He would make them understand.

  He said, “I was at the Metallurgist Olympics this afternoon.”

  “You, too?” said the Novian blandly. “It seems all Earth was there.”

  “No, Honorable, but I was. I had a friend who competed and who made out very badly because you were using the Beeman machines. His education had included only the Henslers, apparently an older model. You said the modification involved was slight.” George held up two fingers close together in conscious mimicry of the other’s previous gesture. “And my friend had known some time in advance that knowledge of the Beeman machines would be required.”

  “And what does that signify?”

  “It was my friend’s lifelong ambition to qualify for Novia. He already knew the Henslers. He had to know the Beemans to qualify and he knew that. To learn about the Beemans would have taken just a few more facts, a bit more data, a small amount of practice perhaps. With a life’s ambition riding the scale, he might have managed this—”