“Who’s that?” Ronny said blankly.
“That’s one of your aliens.”
“Alien! That’s a man.”
“Ummm,” the Baron said. “There’s just one thing in which he differs from man as we know him.”
He paused for effect. “These aliens don’t seem to be intelligent.”
PART TWO
VIII
If Bakon Wyler had suddenly metamorphosed into a gigantic butterfly, he could hardly have surprised Ronny Bronston more.
“Not intelligent?” he protested. “A moment ago you said they had an unbelievably advanced technology. Fusion reactors and matter conversion units aren’t exactly the products of unintelligent minds.”
The Baron looked at him strangely. “Can we be so sure? Have you ever considered some of the things insects accomplish? However, neither as individuals nor as units—such as beehives or anthills—do we think of insects as intelligent. But the analogy isn’t too good. A moment, please.”
He got up, walked over to a wall screen and said something into it, then returned.
“You noted, of course, how humanoid our Dawnman was?”
“Humanoid?” Ronny blurted. “That was a man.”
“Perhaps.” There was still a strange element in the Baron’s voice.
The screen on one of the room’s doors said, “Academecian Count Felix Fitz-james, on orders to see the Supreme Commandant.”
“Enter,” the Baron said.
He made off-hand introductions, then said to Ronny Bronston, “The Count has been specializing in this particular aspect of the matter. Undoubtedly, he will be pleased to enlighten you.” He turned to the Count. “The matter of the nature of the Dawnmen.”
“Dawnmen?” Ronny said.
The Academecian, who was an elderly scholar and somewhat nervous in the presence of his ultimate superior, said, “Undoubtedly a misnomer, but one that has come into common usage among we who are working on the project. One hypothesis is that these aliens are the original Homo sapiens, that Earth was seeded from one of their planets.”
Baron Wyler said affably, “Sit down, my dear Count.”
The Count nervously sat, remaining on the edge of his chair.
Ronny said, “That’s ridiculous. Earth is the origin of man.”
The other nodded, apologetically. “Most likely, Your Excellency; however, there are those among us who think otherwise. You are undoubtedly aware of the theory that would evolve upon various planets. The fact that he stands erect, that his eyes are so placed, that he has a voicebox, so many of the other factors that go to make up the entity, man—all have good reason for having evolved, and given similar situations would evolve on similar worlds as on Earth.”
“I’ve heard the theory,” Ronny begrudged. “I haven’t thought too much about it.”
“Most authorities don’t,” the other bobbed his head agreeably. “However, there are certain factors that give credence to Homo sapiens’ evolution elsewhere. For instance, we know that the earliest man-like creatures, Zinjanthropus and Homo habilis were in existence some two million years ago, and, utilizing very primitive tools and weapons. For two million years little progress was made. And then, almost overnight, in terms of history, modern man was on the scene. Some twenty or twenty-five thousand years ago, Cro-Magnon man burst upon us with his advanced tools, his weapons, his religion, his advanced art.”
“Advanced art?” Ronny protested.
“The cave drawings and paintings of the Magdalenian period in the Upper Paleolithic—especially in such places as Altamira in Spain and Lascaux in France—are not primitive art, as so many seem to think. It is a highly developed art, and, without doubt, connected with their religion. Consider a moment, and you will realize that the very concept of religion is indicative of a sophisticated mind.”
Ronny said impatiently, “I don’t seem to get the point.”
“The point,” the older man said reasonably, “is that possibly Cro-Magnon man was not native to Earth, but was either seeded there, or was the result of an ages-ago spaceship crash.”
Ronny looked at him. “But there is no proof?”
“Not as yet. Perhaps one day it will be found on the Dawnworld planets.”
“Dawnworld?” Ronny said. Then, “Never mind.” He looked at Baron Wyler who had been leaning back in his chair, quiet but beaming encouragement. “What’s this got to do with this preposterous idea that the, uh, Dawnmen aren’t intelligent?”
The Baron said, “Count… ?”
The elderly scholar ran a hand back through thinning hair, as though unhappy. “Your Excellency, are you at all acquainted with the caste system of early India?”
“No.” Ronny hesitated. “That is, not much. I understand that it was one of the reasons India never got very far.”
The academician looked at him unhappily. “Well, that is debatable. From your name and your facial characteristics, Your Excellency, I assume you are of European extraction. Europeans seem to have arrived at the opinion that their efforts have predominated in man’s development. In actuality, few, if any, of man’s really great breakthroughs originated in Europe. Indeed, the Europeans came late on the scene and were largely brought into the march of civilization despite themselves. This particularly applies to the Northern Europeans who are even more prone than others to think of themselves as the undisputed leaders.”
The Baron’s chuckle encouraged the old man.
He went on. “When my own Nordic and Tutonic ancestors were wearing animal skins and tearing their food from bones before campfires, the Indians were developing such advanced concepts as the zero, in mathematics. I mention in passing that the Mayans of Yucatan used the zero even before India. While my ancestors lived in skin-tents or inadequate shacks of wood and bark, large cities were being erected at Mohenjo-Daro and Harappa in the Indus River valley. Elsewhere in Asia and Africa, the wheel, the domestication of animals, agriculture, mathematics, astronomy—I could go on—were being developed. And my ancestors, and yours, Your Excellency…”
“And mine,” the Baron laughed encouragingly.
“… were still in their animal skins. Why, the art of writing has developed, in different form, in various places about the world: in China, in America, in Mesopotamia, in Egypt. The alphabet we use today had its origins in Asia Minor. But to my knowledge, the Europeans had to import writing, never striking upon it on their own.”
The old boy was evidently capable of dwelling upon non-essentials indefinitely, Ronny decided. “All right, all right,” he said. “So the Indians made great strides, in spite of the caste system.”
The scholar pursed his lips. “Or perhaps, because of it?”
“Oh, now, don’t be ridiculous.”
Count Fitz-james looked apprehensive, as though he feared he had gone too far.
But the Baron nodded to him. “Go on, my dear Count. Tell us a bit more of the caste system and its origins. And why you think it analogous to the Dawnworld’s culture.”
The other bobbed his head. “Yes, Your Lordship.” He looked back at Ronny. “The origins of the system are lost in the mists of antiquity, but it is usually thought that when the Aryans invaded from the north—destroying the earlier culture, or assimilating it—they realized that unless they took stringent measures, they would soon interbreed and merge with the more numerous conquered indigenous people. So they divided society into four orders: the Brahmins, who performed religious and scholarly pursuits, the Kshatriyas, who were the ruling class and warriors, and the Vaishyas, traders and businessmen. All these were composed of the conquering Aryans. Intermarriage between castes was forbidden—a deep religious matter. Below these three castes were the Sudras , which were composed of the original peoples and took over the laboring jobs. Beneath these were the Outcastes, the untouchables, who were consigned to the most menial tasks.
“Now, consider. This system prevailed for a thousand years, two thousand years, or even more. A man born into the Brahmin caste became
a scholar or religious; a Kshatriyas, a soldier or ruler, and so on. A man born into one of the subdivisions of the Sudras was a cobbler, if his father, grandfather and so on had been. It never occurred to him to seek education, beyond what was involved in learning to make shoes. However, he did learn to make shoes and make them very well indeed. On the other hand, it never occurred to a Brahmin not to be educated. That was in the nature of things. It was inevitable. Indeed, did he fail in his studies and application of them, he had a good chance of being ostracized from society. What family would wish their perfectly normal, well-educated, Brahmin daughter to marry a cloddy? There were exceptions, of course, but on an average and over a period of time, the outstanding scholar in the caste got the pick of the girls. I assume your knowledge of genetics leads you the proper conclusions.”
Ronny was looking at him thoughtfully. “I think I begin to see your ultimate point.”
“Indeed. Actually, man on Earth has seldom come up with the type of socio-economic system that developed in India. Oh, there have been some. The so-called Incas of Peru were one. You were born into your social strata and could seldom, if ever, leave it. The Inca clan supplied the warrior-priests, the administrators; other clans supplied artisans; but most were of the soil and automatically became farmers.” The old man looked up. “It worked, by the way, surprisingly well. The average inhabitant of Peru, at the time of the conquistadores lived on a considerably higher level than did the average inhabitant of Europe.”
“The anthill,” Ronny said, an edge of distaste in his voice.
The Baron shrugged and smiled pleasantly. “Perhaps,” he said. “We are not exactly advocating such a socio-economic system, my dear Bronston; however, it has its admitted advantages.”
“From your ambitious viewpoint.”
“Granted. But the point the good Count is making is that man can evolve along such a path. He need not automatically follow the more individualistic road we most often witnessed in Earth’s early development. On the Dawnworlds, it would seem—if we interpret the information we’ve accumulated correctly—they have taken a path of specialization unknown even in caste system India.”
“But what has this got to do with your claim that they aren’t intelligent?”
“My dear Bronston, extrapolate a bit on the example the good Count gave you of the cobbler. Suppose that instead of being a cobbler for two millennia, he stuck to his specialty for a megayear or so. No need for education, no need for anything—except learning to make shoes.”
“Yes, but such a cloddy doesn’t invent a method of converting matter.”
“Are you sure? Our cobbler doesn’t invent a matter converter, obviously. His field is shoes. But as the centuries go by, and the millennia, a slight improvement in technique here, a slightly different tool put into use there, and you’d wind up with some very nearly perfect shoes. Remember, by this time he instinctively makes shoes. Over the megayears, the inadequate shoemakers, the throwbacks, have been weeded out. It has become a matter of genetics. The child born into the cobbler—let’s call it caste—can make shoes without training. In the same manner that the bee takes no training to collect honey, nor the soldier ant to guard the community.”
“But the matter converter?”
“Obviously devised by some other caste. Some caste which has been at work in manufacture a megayear or so. Undoubtedly, a member of this caste is no more capable of making shoes, other than putting them into a converter and copying them, than the cobbler is capable of producing matter converters, or fusion reactors.”
The Baron pursed his lips. “Actually, of course, I doubt if they have cobblers at this late date. With the matter converter, such skills would disappear.”
He looked suddenly at the elderly scholar, “That will be all, Count Fitz-james.”
The Count scrambled hurriedly to his feet, put his hand over his heart in the salute he had made when he entered the room, and backed hurriedly toward the door through which he had come half an hour earlier.
When he was gone, the Baron looked at his visitor. “It’s all rather mind shaking, isn’t it?”
Ronny didn’t immediately answer. Finally, he shook his head, as though to clear it, and said, “Frankly, I can’t understand your reason for letting me in on all this. Surely, you must realize I’ll simply report to Ross Metaxa.”
“I hope not,” the Baron said seriously, pouring the remainder of the light wine into their glasses.
All right, you’ve got it. Ronny thought. Start bouncing.
The Baron said judiciously, “Largely, what your commissioner reported to the chiefs of state, there at the conference in the Octagon, is valid. Man is face to face with his greatest crisis. Nothing can prevent our coming in contact with the Dawnworlds and their unique culture, sooner or later. Probably sooner than we would wish. However, where Metaxa and I differ is in the manner in which United Planets must be organized most efficiently.”
Ronny said, bitterly, “You, the strongman, figure on enforcing union.”
The Baron smiled and sipped his wine. “My dear Bronston, has it never occurred to you that your admired Ross Metaxa is a strongman himself?”
“He works within the framework of the United Planets Charter.”
The other clucked deprecation. “Does he, indeed? I am afraid, only when it so suits him. His methods differ little from my own, in actuality. He is downright Machiavellian when he can achieve his purpose by no other means. For instance, in selecting his tools… his agents, such as yourself. I am sometimes surprised that young men of obvious integrity and idealism, remain on his, ah, team.”
Ronny could see something was coming. Another curve ball.
Baron Wyler said decisively, his friendly eyes boring earnestly into the Section G operative’s, “Bronston, we of Phrygia know the location of the nearest Dawnworlds. We are on the verge of sending an expedition there. We are of the opinion that it will be quite practical to land and observe sufficient of that culture to be able to duplicate some of their ultra-advanced devices.” He twisted his mouth. “If not duplicate them, perhaps, ah, liberate one or two. It would seem that the matter converter is highly portable, for instance.
“I hardly need point out that the possession of such a device would put our planet into such a position of advantage that the whole of United Planets, even if they could be coerced into acting in full unison, could not stand against us.”
The Baron came to his feet, and his personality seemed to fill the room to straining. “Reunited under the aegis of Phrygia, man, of all the three thousand worlds we have colonized, will march forward together. By the time the inevitable all-out contact between the Dawnworlds and our own is made, we shall be ready for these unintelligent—though highly advanced technically—antmen, beemen, call them what you will.”
Ronny looked up at him, expressionlessly. “And where do I come in on this? Why have you told me about it? Why do you hope I won’t report to Ross Metaxa?”
Baron Wyler smiled at him. “I would think that as sharp a man as yourself, my dear Bronston, would see what I have been leading to. I am as desirous of top operatives as is Ross Metaxa. I want you to join my forces, Ronald Bronston.”
Ronny looked at him.
He came to his own feet. “I see. You want a man planted in Section G who’ll keep you tipped off to the latest maneuvers of Ross Metaxa.”
“Why mince words? Obviously.”
The Section G agent’s mouth worked. He said finally, “I’ll have to think about it. Frankly, what’s been said here in the past hour has set me back on my mental heels.”
“Of course, my dear Bronston. Do not take too long, is all. Events are on the march. We must not be dullards.”
He made his way over to the wall screen he had utilized earlier, and said something into it.
The same door, through which the elderly Count Fitzjames had come, opened again and Rita Daniels entered the room.
Ronny stared.
She said, a mocking qualit
y in her voice, “Good afternoon, Citizen Bronston.” He had noted the comparative drabness of the local women on the streets, here was the direct opposite. Not even in the most swank salons, in the most luxurious embassies in Great Washington, could he have found a more stunningly turned out young woman than this. No Tri-Di star could have equaled this slim blonde; no artificially manufactured sex symbol, the pert prettiness of this elfin girl.
The Baron beamed at the two of them “I understand you have already met my niece, Your Excellency.”
Ronny Bronston closed his eyes in pain.
Rita said sweetly, “This was quite a little gimmick, getting yourself appointed a plenipotentiary from UP. Or do you maintain that you bore that rank before reaching Phrygia?”
Ronny bowed, wryly. “You seem to have a gimmick or so up your own sleeve, Citizeness Daniels,” he said.
The Baron smiled his wide smile. “Whatever our friend’s immediate methods, my dear Rita, he obviously can think on his feet, a desirable trait.” He turned to Ronny. “My niece has been working, ah, incognito, with Interplanetary News, the better to learn the workings of our fellow worlds. However, I believe I shall, in the future, utilize her talents even more profitably. Had I known what Metaxa had up his sleeve, I would never have allowed her to try and penetrate that conference; I had no idea he would go to the extent of seizing and then memorywashing the poor girl.”
He turned back to Rita, “And now, my dear, will you see our guest to his quarters? He has some important decisions to make.”
IX
Rita took him up, by way of the private elevator, to the ground floor and through the pseudo-Minoan Palace to a hovercar ramp. As they progressed, silently, passers-by came to a quick halt. Civilians pressed their hands over their hearts in the same salute Count Fitzjames had given the Baron, soldiers came to stiff attention.
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