But the Secretary of Commerce accepted it philosophically. Naturally the official routine and exasperating delays would be proportionately magnified in comparison with the meager and primitive Solcensirian government. Yet, you’d imagine that with an administration as evolved as the Galactic Community’s in Megalopolis, some way would have been found to reduce the red tape.
“I’d suggest you get an early start in the morning,” the clerk proposed, “and try the Department of Contact, Survey and Recordation. That’s the normal avenue of entry.”
* * * *
The meal of delicacies from remote regions of the Galaxy was still a heavy feeling in his stomach as Munsford settled lethargically in a contour chair in the Transient Quarters’ recreation room.
Edgerton and Toveen strode across the lobby from the dining hall and dropped sluggishly into chairs on either side of him.
“You fellows certainly are stubborn about this registration business,” the old space trader offered phlegmatically. “If it’d been me, I’d have gone home long ago.”
The Secretary of Commerce glanced over at Toveen. “You don’t seem to be sold on Galactic culture. Why?”
The other shrugged. “Every man to his own taste, I always say. For me, it’s too complicated. When you boys pay me off for putting you in contact with Megalopolis, I’ll have what I’ve been looking for.”
“Are you sure,” Edgerton asked, “that you’ll be content with a subsidized estate on New Terra?”
“What more could I want?”
Even on the five Solcensirian worlds, Munsford realized, there was always the occasional misfit—the malcontent to whom civilized existence represented an endless succession of complications and impositions. Even on Terra there were those who withdrew to themselves and lived simple lives in the hinterlands. And New Terra would merely be Toveen’s hinterland.
Various walls of the recreation room had seemed to melt away and now they were like windows looking out on vast and magnificent scenes of other worlds. The dioramas were both weird and beautiful as they pictured settings of unimaginable variety.
Only then did Munsford begin to appreciate the scope of the Galactic Community and the miracles of executive processes that must be required to maintain order and calm.
He leaned toward Edgerton. “I’d certainly like to sit in on one of Megalopolis’ lawmaking sessions, wouldn’t you?” he asked, reverting to the Solcensirian tongue.
The Secretary of Interplanetary Affairs slumped in his chair and frowned. “I wonder if we could begin to understand their parliamentary procedure. It must be totally different from our concept of government.”
Munsford nodded soberly. “It would probably make the principles of our Constitution look like a savage tribe’s rules for headhunting.”
Edgerton shook his head wistfully. “Imagine the total elimination of pork-barrel politics. No wrangling over legislative rules. No sneak measures. No rider bills. No patronage maneuvers, spite legislation or partisan antics.”
The Secretary of Interplanetary Affairs sighed and rose. “We’d better turn in. With a little luck we might wind up our mission tomorrow.”
Munsford seized his arm. “Know something, Bradley? I’ve just about decided we’re not getting anywhere because our attitude is wrong. We’re suppliant, self-conscious, overwhelmed by the wonders all around us.”
He rose and meticulously straightened his cutaway, aligned the seams on his gloves. “We must remember our dignity and our rights. Whether they like it or not, Solcensirian culture is already part of the Galaxy. “They’ve got to accept us.”
Edgerton drew erect and waved his cane with determination. “By space! You’re right, Andrew! We’re duly authorized representatives of ten billion people. We—”
A tall, lean man with pale orange skin confronted them. “I beg your pardon. You wouldn’t know who I am, would you?”
Munsford eyed him severely. Back home, this was one of the stock approaches for a handout.
“No, we wouldn’t,” Edgerton said, also aloof. “Why should we, my good man?”
There was distress in the robed figure’s face. “I’ve got to find someone to identify me. I’ve mislaid my credentials; they won’t admit me before the Grand Council. And that’s the only chance I’ve got to keep them from talking our bill to death.
“Unless, perhaps,” he went on garrulously, “we can strike up a deal with the Popaldanian Cluster by supporting their measure for construction of six thousand new spaceports.”
“You’ve got to keep them from talking which bill to death?” Munsford asked, still wary of another swindle.
“The bill to prevent them from forcing twenty-foot spatial segregation on the Clarkians.”
Munsford squinted. “Who are the Clarkians and why would the Council want to segregate them?”
“A hundred and three trillion citizens of the Clark Cluster. We’re telepathically receptive over a twenty-foot distance. And I don’t think it’s fair. Why should I, the Prime Minister of a whole cluster, have to stand at least twenty feet away from you just because I can see, for instance, that you spent two weekends on an orbital yacht with a young lady a month before you were elected to your first public office?”
The Secretary of Commerce coughed explosively and his face flushed almost as crimson as Toveen’s. He glanced at Edgerton, then backed away from the Clarkian.
* * * *
Director D’Loon of the Department of Contact, Survey and Recordation was quite agitated. Twice Munsford’s height, he presented an awesome and imposing appearance as he paced in his office.
“Impossible!” he declared. “Utterly impossible!”
Munsford squirmed.
“One world we might have missed,” D’Loon continued vindictively. “But a veritable budding empire of five worlds—”
He left the thought hanging on a note of profound concern and dropped into his chair.
“I think I can clarify it,” Toveen offered. “Sol, Centauri and Sirius are in Sector Fourteen-Yellow.”
The Director’s face twitched with sudden comprehension. “The Backwash Area! But it was established thousands of years ago that every stellar body in Fourteen-Yellow is Larmanian Triple-Z in type—incapable of developing intelligent life of even the lowest order.”
“Quite obviously your survey was incomplete,” Edgerton said impatiently. “Now, will you consider our application?”
Sour-faced, the Director absently fingered miscellaneous articles on his desk. “Naturally we’ll have to. But just what the procedure will be, I don’t know. I should imagine there’ll have to be some sort of an interdepartmental hearing.”
More red tape. Munsford fought down a growing feeling of despair.
D’Loon’s hands made an explosive sound as they flopped down on his thighs. “We shall see. At any rate, I don’t want to lose track of you two. I’d hate to know there’s a burgeoning culture somewhere in the Backwash Area and have to spend three or four thousand years looking for it.”
“This hearing,” the Secretary of Commerce asked. “When will it be held?”
“As soon as possible.”
Munsford briefly contemplated months going by.
D’Loon smiled. “In the meantime you can be planning your official offering.”
Munsford stared at the Director. “Offering?”
“A customary courtesy extended to the Community by all neophyte cultures. You might look on it as an admission fee. It needn’t be much—say, twenty-five years’ output of your top ten commodities.”
Munsford glanced painfully at Edgerton and Toveen. The space trader’s smug expression was a reminder of his warning that things in the Greater Community were often complicated and frustrating.
“Who would ever have thought that Fourteen-Yellow would eventually produce?” D’Loon said abstractedly, rising. “Let me show you something.”
He led the way across the room to a huge metal door. Scintillating light flared out from the frame as
he turned the knob.
Hesitatingly, the two diplomats and Toveen followed him through into a simply furnished room and out onto a veranda cloaked in the moist, dark stillness of night.
It was quite evident that they were no longer on Centralia. Overhead, an unimaginably dense splash of unfamiliar stars shone brilliantly—like a miniature galaxy.
“Apparently this is your first experience with the telemitter,” the giant D’Loon observed. Then he indicated the magnificent sweep of stars. “The Backwash Area, as seen from Taddolp VI, on the fringe of Sector Fourteen-Yellow. Seventy-four million suns and not a one of them worth a damn except yours.”
Munsford looked back enthralled at the veil of pulsating light that filled the inner doorway. From Centralia to God-only-knew how far away in the space of a single step! And, back in the Solcensirian sphere, travel from Terra to New Terra was still a matter of almost two years!
He was sure now it wouldn’t be difficult to convince the Solcensirian government that even fifty years’ production of their top ten commodities wouldn’t be too steep a price to pay for just one article of Galactic technology —the secret of the telemitter.
* * * *
Munsford and Edgerton were caught up in the fascination that was Megalopolis. So absorbed did they become in exploring the architectural wonders, the incredible scientific achievements, the dynamic and unimaginably developed culture, that they were like children in some impossibly fabulous fairyland.
And soon the Secretary of Commerce found himself wholly occupied in arranging the order of priority in which the features of the ultimate fairyland would become realities of the Solcensirian worlds. First, of course, they would have to have the telemitter. Next, the secret of longevity. Then a completely new repertory of medical techniques. And perhaps telekinetic ability could be acquired.
The list of marvels grew rapidly and reached imposing proportions so quickly that Munsford soon realized it would take a special commission of Solcensirian scientists years to absorb the magnificent technology of the Galactic Community.
The two diplomats were still expanding their list three days later when the courier from the Grand Council arrived at Transient Quarters with the summons.
He delivered it on a shining metal platter as a retinue of rigidly uniformed musicians trumpeted a fanfare and Council attendants unrolled a lush carpet on which they strode to the vehicular corridor. There a luxurious air car awaited.
They were whisked off, skimming the tallest spires of Megalopolis, while an escort of determined, smaller craft orbited around the larger ship with sirens screeching.
Munsford leaned back against the plush upholstery contentedly. Protocol had caught up with them. At last they were being accorded the formal courtesies due them as diplomatic representatives of ten billion potential citizens.
The flight to the hearing chamber was short since, ironically, the building to which they should have gone in the first place was less than a mile from the spaceport.
Another carpet was unfurled from the craft to the entrance and the trumpeters blasted their ears with a jubilant flourish as Munsford and Edgerton, heads high, strode amidst a cordon of dignitaries. Banners fluttered from cornices of the building; a band played a triumphal march, and thousands flanking the entrance cheered lustily.
Toveen arrived belatedly in an aircab and exhibited a congratulatory grin, indicating he would wait outside.
* * * *
The hearing chamber was cavernous, with an immense domed ceiling. Munsford and Edgerton were ushered to a dais and all around them government officials sat at great curving tables.
A most dignified elderly man in a flowing robe and with a noble mane of thick, white hair rose and a respectful hush fell over the assembly.
“Greetings,” he intoned gravely. “Through its President, the Grand Council extends a cordial welcome to you as representatives of your people. And we are pleased to announce official acceptance of Solcensir as the newest member of the Great and Cooperative Community.”
Munsford stood with head bowed and eyes closed. The Solcensirian worlds had made it. They were in.
What did it matter that they would have to pay the Bureau of Trade Compacts a fifty-six per cent assessment on cargo offered? Or that the five worlds would have to provide the Department of Contact, Survey and Recordation with an admission fee of twenty-five years’ production of their top ten commodities? Solcensir was in and that was all that mattered.
A haggard individual who looked almost human rose at the table designated “Department of Labor and Productive Statistics.”
“What is your population?” he asked.
“Ten billion,” Edgerton answered proudly.
“And the working force?”
Munsford raised a finger thoughtfully to his temple. “Why, about half of that, I should imagine.”
“Twenty per cent of which figures out to one billion. We shall expect you to make the selections and have them registered.”
Munsford frowned. “Registered for what?”
“Employment in Greater Community sub-bureaus and departments. Usually we require thirty-five per cent. But that’s after a century’s membership. The Community must be adequately represented on the constituent worlds, you know.”
Edgerton leaned forward suspiciously. “Who bears the cost? Who pays the wages?”
“The member worlds of course. You wouldn’t expect the Community to foot the bill for services you receive, would you?”
Munsford’s shoulders sagged. Fifty-six per cent of cargo offered he could explain. And he could even justify twenty-five years’ production of ten commodities. But this ...
“How soon can we send in an assessors’ team?” It was a diminutive, elflike man at the Property Department table who had posed the question.
Munsford swabbed his brow with a crisp handkerchief. “Assessment team? You don’t mean . . . ?”
“My dear sir, you are obligated to support the administration of the Galaxy to the extent of five per cent tax annually on all real and personal property.”
Munsford drew protestingly erect. “Now wait a minute. I—”
Someone rose at the Bureau of Better Breeds table. “Will next month be too early to send in a team of geneticists?”
The Secretary of Commerce’s mouth seemed to be hinged permanently open now and his handkerchief was quite moist.
“We expect total cooperation,” the official went on, “in elevating the Solcensirian population to Galactic standards.”
He approached the dais, alternately scrutinizing the two diplomats. His gaze eventually steadied on Munsford. “Offhand I’d say that if there are many of your general type, considerable culling will be in order.”
“Now see here! I—”
Edgerton gripped his arm. “Quiet, Andrew.”
The President confronted them. “Apparently you gentlemen haven’t been amply informed of the obligations which neophyte cultures are expected to assume once the Greater Community contacts them.”
“No, we haven’t,” Edgerton quickly confessed, pressing his handkerchief to his forehead. “But we are anxious to find out. And we will most certainly be eager to satisfy all requirements.”
Munsford stared protestingly at him. “But, Bradley! You don’t—”
“For God’s sake, Andrew,” the other whispered. “Shhh!”
Someone popped up at the Surface Configurations table. “We’ll expect you to supply accurate cartographic documents on the land masses of all planets in your system in order that we may coordinate a defense network.”
“And there’s the matter of the Galactic draft,” added a spokesman at the Manpower Mobilization table. “Your requirements in this department are ten per cent of all eligible males, five per cent of the females and two and a half per cent of the neuters, if any.”
“What’s all this about a defense network and draft?” Munsford blurted, dropping his handkerchief. “Is there a war going on?”
The
President laughed. “Of course there isn’t. And we intend to see that it stays that way. But only total preparedness will discourage the Andromedans. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Of course we do,” the Secretary of Interplanetary Affairs said enthusiastically, winking at Munsford. “And we shall be honored to contribute our share.”
The Secretary of Commerce, finally catching on to Edgerton’s strategy, reiterated, “We certainly shall.”
The Defense Department spokesman was on his feet again. “Splendid. Then you’ll understand why we have to be ceded one-fourth of all land masses for fortification purposes.”
Star Science Fiction 5 - [Anthology] Page 13