“Call me ‘sir’ and I’ll get the twins to tickle you. I mean I went, in present time, to star PK3722 and the Planet of the Little People. That designation is obsolete, and the new catalogings don’t hook it in with that planet because Libby and I decided to toss in a joker; we felt that it was a place for humans to stay away from.
“But the Little People are the source of the concepts that Andy Libby worked out as field theory that anyone can use, and all space pilots, computer and human, do use. But I had never gone back there because—well, Mary and I had been close. So close that it was a blow to me when she ‘went over.’ More disturbing than a death, some ways.
“But the years do mellow a memory and I did want to consult. So the twins and I set out in the ‘Dora’ to try to find that planet, from a set of coordinates and a ballistic Andy had assigned a long time back. The ballistic was slightly off, but a star doesn’t move far in only two thousand years; we found it.
“No trouble then; I had warned Lor and Laz most solemnly of the subtle danger of the place. They listened, and that made them as immune to the place as I am—not tempted to swap their individual personalities for a pseudo-immortality. In fact, they had a wonderful time; the place is charming, and safe in all other ways. Hadn’t changed much, one huge park.
“I orbited first—it’s their planet, and they have powers we don’t ken. Same as last time; a Doppelgänger of a Little Person showed up in the ‘Dora’ and invited us down to visit . . only this time it called me by name—in my head; they don’t use oral speech—and admitted to being Mary Sperling. That shook me but it was good news. She—‘it,’ I mean—it seemed mildly pleased to see me but not especially interested; it was not like meeting a beloved old friend but more like meeting a stranger who nevertheless remembered what that old friend remembered.”
“I understand it,” the computer said. “Something like Minerva and me, huh?”
“Yes, dear . . except that you had a more positive personality your very first day than this creature who used the name of my old friend . . and you’ve been getting positiver and positiver for the past three years.”
“Ol’ Buddy Boy, I’ll bet you tell that to all the girls.”
“Could be. Please keep quiet, dear. Nothing more to tell, Justin, save that we grounded and stayed a few days, and Dora and I consulted with the Little People about space-time field theory while the twins listened and enjoyed playing tourist. But, Justin, when the Families left there, returning to Earth in the ‘New Frontiers,’ you will recall that we left some ten thousand behind.”
“Eleven thousand, one hundred, and eighty-three,” I answered, “according to log of the ‘New Frontiers.’ ”
“Is that what we logged? Should have been more, maybe, as the logged figure was reconstructed by seeing who couldn’t be mustered, so almost certainly there were unregistered children among those who elected to stay behind; we were there quite a piece. But the exact number doesn’t matter. Justin, call it an even ten thousand. Given a favorable environment; how many would you expect to find there after two thousand years?”
I used the arbitrary expansion. “Approximately ten to the twenty-second—which is ridiculous. I would expect either a stabilized optimax—call it ten to the tenth—or a Malthusian catastrophe, in not over seven to eight centuries.”
“Justin, there were none. Nor any sign that men had ever been there.”
“What happened to them?”
“What happened to Neanderthal Man? What happens to any champion when he’s defeated? Justin, what’s the point in striving when you’re so outclassed that it’s no contest? The Little People have the perfect Utopia—no strife, no competition, no population problem, no poverty, perfect harmony with their beautiful planet. Paradise, Justin! The Little People are all the things that philosophers and religious leaders throughout history have been urging the human race to become.
“Maybe they are perfect, Justin. Maybe they are what the human race can become . . in another million years. Or ten million.
“But when I say that their Utopia frightens me, that I think it is deadly to human beings, and that they themselves look like a dead end to me, I am not running them down. Oh, no! They know far more about mathematics and science than I do—or I wouldn’t have gone there to consult them. I can’t imagine fighting them because it wouldn’t be a fight; they would already have won against anything we could attempt. If we became obnoxious to them, I can’t guess what would happen—and don’t want to find out. But I don’t see any danger as long as we leave them alone as we don’t have anything they want. So it appears to me—but what’s the opinion of one old Neanderthal? I understand them as little as that kitten over there understands astrogation.
“I don’t know what happened to the Howards who stayed behind. Some may have gone over and been assimilated, as Mary Sperling did. I didn’t ask, I didn’t want to know. Some may have lapsed into lotus-eaters’ apathy and died. I doubt if many reproduced—although it is possible that there were subhumans around being kept as pets. If so, I most especially did not want to know it. I got what I wanted: a corroborating opinion on a mathematical oddity in field physics—then gathered up my girls and left.
“We did one thing before we left that neighborhood: We made a ball-of-twine photographic survey of their planet, then had Athene examine it when we got back. Teena?”
“Sure, Buddy Boy. Justin, if there is a human artifact on the surface of that planet, it is less than a half meter in diameter.”
“So I assume that they are all dead,” Lazarus said grimly, “and I shan’t go back. No, the trip to PK3722 was not a trialrun time trip, but just a common star hop. The test run will be about as simple and quite safe, as it will not involve putting down on a planet. Want to come along? Or shall we take Galahad?”
“Pappy,” Galahad said earnestly, “I am young, beautiful, healthy, and happy, and plan to stay that way; you are not volunteering me for any such harebrained junket. I’m not making any more star hops of any sort; I’m the home-loving type. I’ve made one landing with Hot Pilot Lorelei at the overrides. That’s enough; I’m convinced.”
“Now, boy, be reasonable,” Lazarus said gently. “When we do this, my girls will be old enough to want active male attention—which I am not going to supply; I would lose all control over them. Think of it as your duty.”
“When you start talking about ‘duty,’ I break out with hives. The trouble is, Pappy, you’re a sissy, afraid of two little girls.”
“Could be. Because they won’t be little girls much longer. Justin?”
I thought furiously. To be invited by the Senior to take a star trip with him is not an honor to turn down. That it included an attempt to travel in time did not bother me; the idea seemed unreal. But it couldn’t be dangerous or he wouldn’t be taking his sister-daughters along—and, besides, I felt that Lazarus was unkillable; a passenger with him should be safe. Gigolo for his girls?—Lazarus was farcing Galahad, I was sure . . as I was certain that Lazi and Lori would settle such matters to suit themselves. “Lazarus, I will go anywhere you ask me to go.”
“Hold it!” objected Galahad. “Pappy, Tamara isn’t going to like this.”
“No trouble, Son. Tamara is welcome, and I think she would enjoy it. She’s not chicken like some people we won’t mention.”
“What?” Galahad sat up straight. “Take away Tamara . . and Justin . . and our twins . . and you yourself? Half the family? And leave the rest of us here to mourn?” Galahad took a deep breath, sighed it out. “All right, I give up. I volunteer. But leave Justin and Tamara at home. And the twins, we can’t risk them. You pilot, I’ll cook. As long as we last, that is.”
“Galahad shows unexpected streaks of nobility,” Lazarus said to no one in particular. “It’ll get him killed yet. Forget it, Son; I don’t need a cook, Dora is a better cook than either of us. The twins will insist on going, and I need to supervise them through a couple of time jumps; later they will have to do it alone.”
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br /> Lazarus turned to me. “Justin, while you are welcome, it will be a dull trip. You would know you’d traveled in time only because I’d tell you so. I have in mind going to a planet easy to find because Libby and I surveyed it and he determined its ballistic accurately. I’m not planning to land; it’s a moderately dangerous place. But it happens to be a planet I can use as a clock.
“This may sound silly. But it is hard to be sure of the date in space, other than by your inboard clocks—in particular the radioactive-decay clocks of your computer. Telling time by examining celestial bodies is difficult and involves subtle measurements and long calculation; it is more practical to ground on a civilized planet and bang on somebody’s door and ask.
“There are exceptions—any stellar system with known ephemerides of its planets, such as here, or Secundus’ star, or the Solar System, and others—if Dora has such data in her gizzards, she can look at such a system and read the time by its planets as if they were hands on a clock—Libby did that with the Solar System from the ‘New Frontiers.’
“But on this trial trip I’ll be calibrating a time-travel clock —another matter and new. I left something in orbit around that planet on a known date. Later I could not find it, despite having equipped it so that I certainly should have found it. Uh . . it was Andy Libby’s coffin.
“Very well, I’ll go look again, trying to split two known dates. If I find it, I will have begun calibration of a time-travel clock—as well as proving that the time-trip theory is correct. Follow me?”
“I think so,” I admitted, “to the extent of seeing that it is an experimental proof. But field theory is so far from my own specialty that I can’t say more.”
“No need to. I don’t understand it too well myself. The first computer designed to manage Libby-Sheffield drive was a reflection of Andy’s unique mind; all since are refinements. If a pilot tells you he understands it and uses a computer simply because it’s faster, don’t ride with him; he’s a phony. Eh, Teena?”
“I understand astrogation,” said the computer, “because Minerva replicated Dora’s astrogation circuitry and programming in me. But I do not think that it is possible to discuss it in English, or even Galacta, or any language using word elements. I can print out the basic equations and thereby show a static picture—a slice—of a dynamic process. Shall I do so?”
“Don’t bother,” said Lazarus.
“Heavens, no!” I echoed. “Thank you, Athene, but I have no ambition to be a star pilot.”
“Galahad,” said Lazarus, “How about rousing your lazy carcass and finding a little snack for lunch? Say about four thousand calories each. Justin, I asked if you plan to go back to Secundus because I don’t want you to.”
“That suits me!”
“Pallas Athene, make this a private record, keyed to me and to Chief Archivist Foote.”
“Program running, Mr. Chairman.” Galahad lifted his eyebrows, left abruptly.
“Chief Archivist, is the situation in New Rome becoming critical?”
I answered carefully, “Mr. Chairman, in my opinion it is, although I’m no more than a dilettante in social dynamics. But . . I did not come here to deliver a silly message from Madam Chairman Pro Tem. I came here hoping to talk with you about it.”
Lazarus looked at me long and thoughtfully—and I caught a glimpse of part of what makes him unique. He has the quality of giving full attention to whatever he does, be it a matter of life and death, or something as trivial as dancing to amuse a guest. I recognized it because Tamara has the same quality; she displays it by giving total attention to the person she is with.
She does not have exceptional beauty, nor, I suppose, is she more skillful in technique than any of several other professionals—or even some amateurs. No matter. It is this quality of total concentration that sets her apart from other fine women of her merciful calling.
I think the Senior extends it to everything. Now he had suddenly “picked up the gavel,” and his computer knew it at once, and Galahad spotted it almost as quickly—and I stopped worrying.
“I never assumed,” he said, “that the Families’ Chief of Records would play messenger with a useless message. So tell me your reason.”
Elaborate it? No, explanations could follow. “Mr. Chairman, the Archives should be replicated off Secundus. I came here to see if it could be done on Tertius.”
“Go on.”
“I’ve never seen civil disorder. I’m not sure of the symptoms nor how long it takes them to grow into open violence. But the people of Secundus aren’t used to arbitrary laws and rules that change overnight. I think there will be trouble. I would feel that I had carried out the duties of my office if I insured that destruction of the Archives could not mean that our records are lost. The vaults are underground—but not invulnerable. I have figured out eleven ways that some or all of the Archives could be destroyed.”
“If there are eleven ways, then there is a twelfth, and a thirteenth, and so on. Have you discussed this with anyone?”
“No!” I added more quietly, “I didn’t want to put ideas into anyone’s head.”
“Sound. Sometimes the best one can do about a weak point is not to call attention to it.”
“It seemed so to me, sir.” I added, “But when I started worrying I started trying to do something to protect the records. I instituted a policy of making dead-storage duplicates of all processed data at the point they enter the Archives. I had in mind copying the entire Archives, then shipping them somewhere. But I had no funding, or enough money of my own, to pay for the memory cubes. They should be Welton Fine-Grains, or they would be too bulky to ship.”
“When did you start copying new accessions?”
“Shortly after the Trustees’ Meeting. I had expected Susan Barstow to be elected. When Arabelle Foote-Hedrick got it—well, it disturbed me. Because of an incident years back when we were both on campus. I thought about resigning. But I had started work on your memoirs.”
“Justin, I think you kidded yourself about your reason for staying. You suspected that Arabelle might make an ad-interim appointment other than your deputy.”
“That’s possible, sir.”
“But irrelevant. You used Weltons for this copying?”
“Oh, yes. I could squeeze funds for that much.”
“Where are they? Still in the ‘Homing Pigeon’?”
I suppose I looked startled. The Senior said, “Come, come! They were important to you—do you expect me to think that you left them light-years away?”
“Mr. Chairman, the cubes are in my baggage . . still in Colony Leader Weatheral’s office.”
“Pallas Athene?”
“Back of the visitors’ couch, Mr. Chairman. The Colony Leader told me to remind him to fetch home Mr. Foote’s luggage.”
“Perhaps we can do better. Chief Archivist, if you will permit Pallas Athene to have the code to your bags, she has extensionals in Ira’s office to copy those cubes at once. Then you can quit worrying; Pallas Athene already has the Archives in her, up to the day I let Arabelle have the gavel back.”
I know my face showed it. The Senior chuckled and said, “Why and how? ‘Why’ because you aren’t the only one who feels that the Families’ records should be safeguarded. ‘How?’ We stole them, Son, we stole them. I had control of the executive computer and used it to copy the whole works—genealogies, history, minutes of the Families’ Meetings, everything—with an override program to keep your boss computer from knowing what I was doing.
“Right under your nose, Chief Archivist—but I kept it from you for your protection; I did not want Arabelle to get wind of it and quiz you. It would have given her ideas, and she had too many already. The only problem was to scrounge enough Welton cubes. But you are sitting on them right now, about twenty meters under your arse—and when Pallas Athene reads the ones in your luggage, the duplicate Archives will be complete to the date you left Secundus. Feel better?”
I sighed. “Much better, Mr. Chairma
n. I can stay with a clear conscience. I now feel free to resign.”
“Don’t.”
“Sir?”
“Stay here, yes. But don’t resign. Your deputy is carrying on and you trust her. Arabelle can’t legally put in her own boy by ad-interim appointment unless you do resign, since your appointment comes from the Trustees. Not that legality would bother her—but again let’s not put ideas into her head. How many Trustees on Secundus?”
“ ‘On’ Secundus, sir? Or resident on Secundus?”
“Don’t quibble, Son.”
“Mr. Chairman, I am not quibbling. There are two hundred eighty-two Senior Trustees. Of that number one hundred ninety-five are resident on Secundus, the other eighty-seven representing Howards on other planets. I put it as I did because it requires a two-thirds majority to pass a policy motion —two-thirds of a quorum at a decennial meeting, or two-thirds of the total number, or one hundred eighty-eight, at an emergency meeting unless every trustee everywhere has been notified—which can take years. I mention this because, were you to call an emergency meeting, it might be impossible to muster one hundred eighty-eight votes necessary to recall Madam Chairman Pro Tem.”
The Senior blinked at me. “Mr. Archivist, what in Ned gave you the notion that I would call a Trustees’ meeting? Or would attempt to recall our dear Sister Arabelle?”
“Your question seemed to be leading toward that, sir— and I remember an occasion on which you took back the gavel.”
“Entirely different. My motives then were selfish. The old biddy was about to spoil my plans by grabbing Ira. The circumstances were quite different—meaning I could get away with it—which I can’t today. Son, despite what the records show, Arabelle didn’t give up that gavel willingly; I grabbed it from her. Then the short time it took us to finish up and leave, I kept her prisoner.”
“Really, Mr. Chairman? She doesn’t seem to harbor resentment. She speaks of you in the highest terms.”
The Senior grinned his lazy, cynical grin. “That’s because we’re both pragmatists. I was careful to save her face and made sure she knew it, and now she has nothing to gain by running me down—and something to lose, because I’ve acquired a semisacred status. Her status depends in part on mine and she knows it. Just the same—Well, if I ever find myself on the same planet with her—unlikely, I’m no fool—I shall be very careful going through doors and such.
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