by Isaac Asimov
“Then it was a madman’s story and there is no rebellion world.”
“Unless there is a condition under which the odds against landing within a stellar system are less incredible, and there is such a condition. In fact, there is one set of circumstances, and only one, under which he must have reached a system. It would have been inevitable.”
“Well?”
“You remember the Autarch’s reasoning. The engines of Gillbret’s ship were not interfered with, so the power of the hyperatomic thrusts, or, in other words, the lengths of the Jumps, were not changed. Only their direction was changed in such a way that one of the five stars in an incredibly vast area of the Nebula was reached. It was an interpretation which, on the very face of it, was improbable.”
“But the alternative?”
“Why, that neither power nor direction was altered. There is no real reason to suppose the direction of drive to have been interfered with. That was only assumption. What if the ship had simply followed its original course? It had been aimed at a stellar system, therefore it ended in a stellar system. The matter of odds doesn’t enter.”
“But the stellar system it was aimed at–”
“–was that of Rhodia. So he went to Rhodia. Is that so obvious that it’s difficult to grasp?”
Artemisia said, “But then the rebellion world must be at home! That’s impossible.”
“Why impossible? It is somewhere in the Rhodian System. There are two ways of hiding an object. You can put it where no one can find it, as, for instance, within the Horsehead Nebula. Or else you can put it where no one would ever think of looking, right in front of their eyes in plain view.
“Consider what happened to Gillbret after landing on the rebellion world. He was returned to Rhodia alive. His theory was that this was in order to prevent a Tyrannian search for the ship which might come dangerously close to the world itself. But then why was he kept alive? If the ship had been returned with Gillbret dead, the same purpose would have been accomplished and there would have been no chance of Gillbret’s talking, as, eventually, he did.
“Again, that can only be explained by supposing the rebellion world to be within the Rhodian System. Gillbret was a Hinriad, and where else would there be such respect for the life of a Hinriad but in Rhodia?”
Artemisia’s hands clenched spasmodically. “But if what you say is true, Biron, then Father is in terrible danger.”
“And has been for twenty years,” agreed Biron, “but perhaps not in the manner you think. Gillbret once told me how difficult it was to pretend to be a dilettante and a good-for-nothing, to pretend so hard that one had to live the part even with friends and even when alone. Of course, with him, poor fellow, it was largely self-dramatization. He didn’t really live the part. His real self came out easily enough with you, Arta. It showed to the Autarch. He even found it necessary to show it to me on fairly short acquaintance.
“But it is possible, I suppose, to really live such a life completely, if your reasons are sufficiently important. A man might live a lie even to his daughter, be willing to see her terribly married rather than risk a lifework that depended on complete Tyrannian trust, be willing to seem half a madman–”
Artemisia found her voice. She said huskily, “You can’t mean what you’re saying!”
“There is no other meaning possible, Arta. He has been Director over twenty years. In that time Rhodia has been continually strengthened by territory granted it by the Tyranni, because they felt it would be safe with him. For twenty years he has organized rebellion without interference from them, because he was so obviously harmless.”
“You’re guessing, Biron,” said Rizzett, “and this kind of a guess is as dangerous as the ones we’ve made before.”
Biron said, “This is no guess. I told Jonti in that last discussion of ours that he, not the Director, must have been the traitor who murdered my father, because my father would never have been foolish enough to trust the Director with any incriminating information. But the point is–and I knew it at the time–that this was just what my father did. Gillbret learned of Jonti’s conspiratorial role through what he overheard in the discussions between my father and the Director. There is no other way in which he could have learned it.
“But a stick points both ways. We thought my father was working for Jonti and trying to enlist the support of the Director. Why is it not equally probable, or even more probable, that he was working for the Director and that his role within Jonti’s organization was as an agent of the rebellion world attempting to prevent a premature explosion on Lingane that would ruin two decades of careful planning?
“Why do you suppose it seemed so important to me to save Aratap’s ship when Gillbret shorted the motors? It wasn’t for myself. I didn’t, at the time, think Aratap would free me, no matter what. It wasn’t even so much for you, Arta. It was to save the Director. He was the important man among us. Poor Gillbret didn’t Understand that.”
Rizzett shook his head. “I’m sorry. I just can’t make myself believe all that.”
It was a new voice that spoke. “You may as well. It is true.” The Director was standing just outside the door, tall and somber-eyed. It was his voice and yet not quite his voice. It was crisp and sure of itself.
Artemisia ran to him. “Father! Biron says–”
“I heard what Biron said.” He was stroking her hair with long, gentle motions of the hand. “And it is true. I would even have let your marriage take place.”
She stepped back from him, almost in embarrassment. “You sound so different. You sound almost as if–”
“As if I weren’t your father.” He said it sadly. “It will not be for long, Arta. When we are back on Rhodia, I will be as you knew me, and you must accept me so.”
Rizzett stared at him, his usually ruddy complexion as gray as his hair. Biron was holding his breath.
Hinrik said, “Come here, Biron.”
He placed a hand on Biron’s shoulder. “There was a time, young man, when I was ready to sacrifice your life. The time may come again in the future. Until a certain day I can protect neither of you. I can be nothing but what I have always seemed. Do you understand that?”
Each nodded.
“Unfortunately,” said Hinrik, “damage has been done. Twenty years ago I was not as hardened to my role as I am today. I should have ordered Gillbret killed, but I could not. Because I did not, it is now known that there is a rebellion world and that I am its leader.”
“Only we know that,” said Biron.
Hinrik smiled bitterly. “You think that because you are young. Do you think Aratap is less intelligent than yourself? The reasoning by which you determined the location and leadership of the rebellion world is based on facts known to him, and he can reason as well as you. It is merely that he is older, more cautious; that he has grave responsibilities. He must be certain.
“Do you think he released you out of sentiment? I believe that you have been freed now for the same reason you were freed once before–simply that you might lead him farther along the path that leads to me.”
Biron was pale. “Then I must leave Rhodia?”
“No. That would be fatal. There would seem no reason for you to leave, save the true one. Stay with me and they will remain uncertain. My plans are nearly completed. One more year, perhaps, or less.”
“But Director, there are factors you may not be aware of. There is the matter of the document–”
“For which your father was searching?”
“Yes.”
“Your father, my boy, did not know all there was to know. It is not safe to have anyone in possession of all the facts. The old Rancher discovered the existence of the document independently in the references to it in my library. I’ll give him credit. He recognized its significance. But if he had consulted me, I would have told him it was no longer on Earth.”
“That’s exactly it, sir. I am certain the Tyranni have it.”
“But of course not. 1 have it.
I’ve had it for twenty years. It was what started the rebellion world, for it was only when I had it that I knew we could hold our winnings once we had won.”
“It is a weapon, then?”
“It is the strongest weapon in the universe. It will destroy the Tyranni and us alike, but will save the Nebular Kingdoms. Without it, we could perhaps defeat the Tyranni, but we would only have exchanged one feudal despotism for another, and as the Tyranni are plotted against, we would be plotted against. We and they must both be delivered into the ashcan of outmoded political systems. The time for maturity has come as it once came on the planet Earth, and there will be a new kind of government, a kind that has never yet been tried in the Galaxy. There will be no Khans, no Autarchs, Directors, or Ranchers.”
“In the name of Space,” roared Rizzett suddenly, “what will there be?”
“People.”
“People? How can they govern? There must be some one person to make decisions.”
“There is a way. The blueprint I have, dealt with a small section of one planet, but it can be adapted to all the Galaxy.”
The Director smiled. “Come, children, I may as well marry you. It can do little more harm now.”
Biron’s hand tightly enclosed Artemisia’s and she was smiling at him. They felt the queer inward twinge as the Remorseless made its single precalculated Jump.
Biron said, “Before you start, sir, will you tell me something about the blueprint you mention, so that my curiosity will be satisfied and I can keep my mind on Arta?”
Artemisia laughed and said, “You had better do it, Father. I couldn’t bear an abstracted groom.”
Hinrik smiled. “I know the document by heart. Listen.”
And with Rhodia’s sun bright on the visiplate, Hinrik began with those words that were older–far older–than any of the planets in the Galaxy save one:
“‘We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect Union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America....’”
The Currents of Space
11129 A.D.
Prolog: A Year Before
THE MAN FROM Earth came to a decision. It had been slow in coming and developing, but it was here.
It had been weeks since he had felt the comforting deck of his ship and the cool, dark blanket of space about it. Originally, he had intended a quick report to the local office of the Interstellar Spatio-analytic Bureau and a quicker retreat to space. Instead, he had been held here.
It was almost like a prison.
He drained his tea and looked at the man across the table. He said, “I’m not staying any longer.”
The other man came to a decision. It had been slow in coming and developing, but it was here. He would need time, much more time. The response to the first letters had been nil. They might have fallen into a star for all they had accomplished.
That had been no more than he had expected, or, rather, no less. But it was only the first move.
It was certain that, while future moves developed, he could not allow the man from Earth to squirm out of reach. He fingered the smooth black rod in his pocket.
He said, “You don’t appreciate the delicacy of the problem.”
The Earthman said, “What’s delicate about the destruction of a planet? I want you to broadcast the details to all of Sark; to everyone on the planet.”
“We can’t do that. You know it would mean panic.”
“You said at first you would do it.”
“I’ve thought it over and it just isn’t practical.”
The Earthman turned to a second grievance. “The representative of the I. S. B. hasn’t arrived.”
“I know it. They are busy organizing proper procedures for this crisis. Another day or two.”
“Another day or two! It’s always another day or two! Are they so busy they can’t spare me a moment? They haven’t even seen my calculations.”
“I have offered to bring your calculations to them. You don’t want me to.”
“And I still don’t. They can come to me or I can go to them.” He added violently, “I don’t think you believe me. You don’t believe Florina will be destroyed.”
“I believe you.”
“You don’t. I know you don’t. I see you don’t. You’re humoring me. You can’t understand my data. You’re not a Spatio-analyst. I don’t even think you’re who you say you are. Who are you?”
“You’re getting excited.”
“Yes, I am. Is that surprising? Or are you just thinking, Poor devil, Space has him. You think I’m crazy.”
“Nonsense.”
“Sure you do. That’s why I want to see the I. S. B. They’ll know if I’m crazy or not. They’ll know.”
The other man remembered his decision. He said, “Now you’re not feeling well. I’m going to help you.”
“No, you’re not,” shouted the Earthman hysterically, “because I’m going to walk out. If you want to stop me, kill me, except that you won’t dare. The blood of a whole world of people will be on your hands if you do.”
The other man began shouting, too, to make himself heard. “I won’t kill you. Listen to me, I won’t kill you. There’s no need to kill you.”
The Earthman said, “You’ll tie me up. You’ll keep me here. Is that what you’re thinking? And what will you do when the I. S. B. starts looking for me? I’m supposed to send in regular reports, you know.”
“The Bureau knows you’re safely with me.”
“Do they? I wonder if they know I’ve reached the planet at all? I wonder if they received my original message?” The Earthman was giddy. His limbs felt stiff.
The other man stood up. It was obvious to him that his decision had come none too soon. He walked slowly about the long table, toward the Earthman.
He said soothingly, “It will be for your own good.” He took the black rod from his pocket.
The Earthman croaked, “That’s a psychic probe.” His words were slurred, and when he tried to rise, his arms and legs barely quivered.
He said, between teeth that were clenching in rigor, “Drugged!”
“Drugged!” agreed the other man. “Now look, I won’t hurt you. It’s difficult for you to understand the true delicacy of the matter while you’re so excited and anxious about it. I’ll just remove the anxiety. Only the anxiety.”
The Earthman could no longer talk. He could only sit there. He could only think numbly, Great Space, I’ve been drugged. He wanted to shout and scream and run, but he couldn’t.
The other had reached the Earthman now. He stood there, looking down at him. The Earthman looked up. His eyeballs could still move.
The psychic probe was a self-contained unit. Its wires needed only to be fixed to the appropriate places on the skull. The Earthman watched in panic until his eye muscles froze. He did not feel the fine sting as the sharp, thin leads probed through skin and flesh to make contact with the sutures of his skull bones.
He yelled and yelled in the silence of his mind. He cried, No, you don’t understand. It’s a planet full of people. Don’t you see that you can’t take chances with hundreds of millions of living people?
The other man’s words were dim and receding, heard from the other end of a long, windy tunnel. “It won’t hurt you. In another hour you’ll feel well, really well. You’ll be laughing at all this with me.”
The Earthman felt the thin vibration against his skull and then that faded too.
Darkness thickened and collapsed about him. Some of it never lifted again. It took a year for even parts of it to lift.
One: The Foundling
RIK PUT DOWN his feeder and jumped to his feet. He was trembling so hard he had to lean against the bare milk-white wall.
He shouted, “I remember!”
They looked at him and the gritty m
umble of men at lunch died somewhat. Eyes met his out of faces indifferently clean and indifferently shaven, glistening and white in the imperfect wall illumination. The eyes reflected no great interest, merely the reflex attention enforced by any sudden and unexpected cry.
Rik cried again, “I remember my job. I had a job!”
Someone called, “Shoddop!” and someone else yelled, “Siddown!”
The faces turned away, the mumble rose again. Rik stared blankly along the table. He heard the remark, “Crazy Rik,” and a shrug of shoulders. He saw a finger spiral at a man’s temple. It all meant nothing to him. None of it reached his mind.
Slowly he sat down. Again he clutched his feeder, a spoonlike affair, with sharp edges and little tines projecting from the front curve of the bowl, which could therefore with equal clumsiness cut, scoop and impale. It was enough for a millworker. He turned it over and stared without seeing at his number on the back of the handle. He didn’t have to see it. He knew it by heart. All the others had registration numbers, just as he had, but the others had names also. He didn’t. They called him Rik because it meant something like “moron” in the slang of the kyrt mills. And often enough they called him “Crazy Rik.”
But perhaps he would be remembering more and more now. This was the first time since he had come to the mill that he had remembered anything at all from before the beginning. If he thought hard! If he thought with all his mind!
All at once he wasn’t hungry; he wasn’t the least hungry. With a sudden gesture, he thrust his feeder into the jellied briquet of meat and vegetables before him, pushed the food away, and buried his eyes in the heels of his palms. His fingers thrust and clutched at his hair and painstakingly he tried to follow his mind into the pitch from which it had extracted a single item — one muddy, undecipherable item.
Then he burst into tears, just as a clanging bell announced the end of his lunch shift.