Collected Fiction

by Kris Neville

  “Now, you come back and see me anytime,” he said. “I want you to think this thing through from my position. Look at it through the eyes of the man who has the final responsibility, not through the eyes of some critic who can afford to be irresponsible. Write it all down and send me a copy of your analysis. I promise I’ll read it. I’ll go further. If you can come up with a practical solution to this thing, by God, that’s what we’ll do, I promise you. I don’t care how wild the idea is, if it’s workable, we’ll do it. I need more people like you, thinking about the problem. We’ll come up with something. Fundamentally, I’m not worried. Every day I wait for that perfect idea. Maybe you’re the one to have it, Larry. Think it over. Write it down. Send it to me.”

  Hanson was at the door, then into the hall, then alone with the president’s appointment secretary.

  “How did it go?”

  “I wanted to talk about my Labor problems, and he wants to talk about all that Simeryl he bought,” said Hanson.

  At 11:00, the president had the papers sent in. He liked to spend the hour before lunch with the press. The headline on the York Times read: GIANT COELANTH ATTACKS NATIVE VILLAGE.

  He turned, as he had become accustomed to doing recently, to Jack Felton’s report. Better get the bad news out of the way first.

  Damn! Felton was still in Farm Zone C. I wish they’d get him out of there.

  The president skipped the first half of the report. Experience taught him the meat of the report would be in the last few paragraphs. There were usually enough typographical errors in the first paragraphs to dissuade all but the hardiest reader, and it was exasperating to wade through them. The president asked himself if that were intentional on the part of the paper. It was something to be grateful for, in any event.

  The last two paragraphs read:

  Farm Personnel Director Loise has refused to disclose the number of Elanthians who have defected to the countryside. Officially, the excuse is that the figures, of themselves, are misleading. In the course of any month, the labor force is also supplemented by Elanthians coming from the countryside to the Farm Zone, but because of considerable seasonal variation, statistics for any given period are misleading. Loise also told the Times in confidence that release of the figures at this time would tend to stimulate defections on the remaining two nonconsuming farms, thus doing irreparable damage to President Houston’s policy.

  To this reporter, Loise begs the central question—which is the freedom of the press and the freedom of the public to have the full facts of the situation; These being essential to informed decisions. The question, properly put, is: Do the Citizens have the right to a full disclosure of the facts, no matter how unpleasant? I will address myself in greater detail to this question in my next report from Elanthian Barracks #17 in Farm Zone C.

  The president turned to the editorial page. Why, he asked himself, couldn’t they have cut those last two paragraphs? They always waste a lot of space on Felton.

  On the editorial page, he found the expected support for his policy. Here was an interesting article by one of his favorite columnists. It presented documented evidence that Simeryl was only mildly addictive and that reports from Farm Zone A, the consuming farm, to the contrary were wildly exaggerated. The president made a note to phone Joseph as soon as possible and congratulate him for a fine column.

  When they reached level flight, Raleigh roused himself to the selfadmission that he was getting too old for such trips. The natural life expectancy of a man being between ninety and one hundred and ten, depending on genetic factors, he was two thirds through, give or take a few years. His energy was less, his powers of recuperation had slowed. But the mind—that was the important thing. It had a vitality of its own.

  The steward came by with the Evening Standard, reproduced on the shuttle’s facsimile machine, the print still glossy and fresh on the reusable polyolefin. Raleigh paid for a copy.

  There were four other passengers, one of whom he had made the trip with from Coueril, the headquarters planet of the Federation. The three others had boarded the orbital station from The Starfield, making the ten-planet run. One was from Motherearth; the other two, potential colonists apparently, were from the long-settled Hyperion and spoke with a peculiar accent.

  Raleigh had conversed with the Motherearth woman. She was an article writer. She was working on a piece on the sex life of teen-age Elanthians. Sending someone all the way to Elanth to do an article on alien sex practices was characteristic of Motherearth. Motherearth, still the most populous of planets, was obsessed with sex as with all other aspects of population control. The spawning of colonies, the settling of planets, the generation of the galactic civilization were all, perhaps, no more than Motherearth’s bland and futile response to the pressure of population.

  The others did not interest Raleigh. The man from Coueril hoped to establish a new religion. Thought waves emanating from Elanth indicated the time was propitious. Less metaphysically, he had read reports about the increasing difficulties being experienced by Citizens on Elanth and attributed this to their failure to love the Machine Behind the Universe. The two Hyperions, man and wife, came with few possessions and probably less money to start life on a genuine frontier planet, where civilization had been established less than one hundred years ago, with no realization that the planet was in difficulty.

  Raleigh turned to the Evening Standard and the black headline:

  WOUNDED COELANTH

  MAIMS CITIZEN

  The details of this encounter holding no interest for him, Raleigh moved to the inner pages, passed the announcement of his own forthcoming arrival, to the story:

  PRESIDENT AT UW TEA

  HITS EXAGGERATION

  OF LABOR PROBLEM

  Reassures Union Wives No

  Draft Contemplated by Administration

  This story he read in detail. After a brief glance at the editorials, he refolded the paper and sat with it until the steward passed, then returned it for erasure and storage.

  II

  President Houston arrived at the spacefield seven minutes before the passenger shuttle was scheduled to land. Tea with the Union wives was an hour and a half in the past, and he was still exhilarated by his triumph over the ladies. Prepared remarks out of the way, he overstayed his allotted time to assume the role of husband, struggling with the daily domestic problems at the side of his loyal wife; a touch of humor, broad, expressive gestures with hands going often to mold the face, pensive looks—an excellent performance. “What about prices, Mr. President?” a militant lady demanded. The impropriety of the question on a social occasion brought shocked silence. He had not been unprepared, having told himself in advance that one of them, lacking respect for the Office, would be sure to ask that question. He was grateful not to be disappointed, and he gave them an extra five minutes; it was the cue he was waiting for.

  There was another role to play: that of the father concerned by the irresponsible behavior of his children; he played it. “If you wives wouldn’t spend so much money right now, if you would practice a little selective buying, if you would just refuse to pay these high food prices, well, the middlemen would just have to shave their profits a little, and you wouldn’t have to ask the Government to stick its nose into things like this. My wife and I go through these things like the partners we are, and she tells me we’re going to have to make do with maybe some cheaper produce and stop buying these things that are too expensive. That’s the way it should be; we’re doing what we can, in our small way, to bring the prices into line, and if you will help us, I think the lady, Mrs . . . yes, Hardling, thank you . . . Mrs. Hardling’s question, I think, will be answered. Don’t you, Mrs. Hardling?” And the confused and flattered lady consented enthusiastically.

  When the passenger shuttle came screaming in from the west, the president turned to the Mayor of York, at his side, to whom succession would pass in the event of Presidential inability. “This is your day,” said the president. “I’ll stay
in the background.” An ex-mayor, himself, the president appreciated Mayor Hurly’s position: one of abject dependency on presidential favors, a water boy, a stalking horse, a puppet. The resentment that seethed in the mayor’s breast, hidden from all, manifesting itself as pointless rages against family and associates, the president knew well. “I’ll get him out,” the president said. “Then you take over in front of the cameras.”

  “Right, Chief!” said the mayor crisply, clutching his remarks, which had been prepared by the president’s staff.

  When the ramp came down, the president bounded up it. Within seconds he was inside the ship, where the steward was soothing the other passengers, forced to wait disembarkation until the dignitary was disposed of. “Secretary Raleigh!” cried the president, grasping a hand and pumping it vigorously between both of his. “How pleased I am they sent you.”

  A moment later, the two of them were framed in the doorway at the top of the ramp, Raleigh seemingly reduced to helplessness by the president’s arm over his shoulder, blinking into the bright lights. The TV cameras saw the president speak but did not catch the words: “Your luggage is already at the hotel; the G-9 rocket came down six hours ago.

  “We’ve got a few people to meet here,” said the president as they descended the ramp. “I’d like you to meet my Secretary of Agriculture. Secretary Hayes, Secretary Raleigh.”

  Raleigh nodded to Secretary Hayes. “Mayor Hurly, Secretary Raleigh.” The mayor touched Raleigh briefly with a sore hand, smiling. “There are some welcoming ceremonies, and we’ll be right through them so you can get forty-five minutes rest for the banquet at six.”

  Raleigh calculated, amid the swirl and confusion around him, that perhaps sixty-five percent of the quarter million citizens of Elanth would be watching: 162, 500 people—a not inconsiderable number, but as audiences on long settled planets went, small enough. A comparable audience on Motherearth would be nearly four billion. It was the best the planet could offer, and Raleigh enjoyed himself in the glare of publicity which would not be worth even ten seconds of time on Coueril.

  After the mayor’s speech, as they walked to the land car, Raleigh asked, “Why the Security Guards?” Half the side arms on the planet appeared to be present.

  “We’ve got some nuts running loose,” the president said. “We’ve got some serious problems, but our main problem is a lot of ill-informed, well-meaning people stirring up trouble, and that sort of thing brings out the nuts. It’s just a precaution.” The president handed Raleigh into the car and entered after him. “O.K.,” he said to the chauffeur.

  The car exited from the field and turned onto a broad highway. Few other cars were abroad, rush hour having passed. “This is the Minygo Highway,” said the president, “designed for an optimum York population of 750,000. We’re still quite a way short of that.”

  “Built by the Elanthians for you,” said Raleigh.

  “Our engineers,” said the president. “It’s been down almost seventy-five years and damned little repair work needed. The whole city is planned like that. I should have had Hurly ride with us, but I thought we needed a few minutes alone to get acquainted. I’ll point some things out to you. Up here—”

  “The Fireman’s Tower,” said Raleigh. “It’s about a generation old, isn’t it? Last of the Elanthian constructions? Really a lovely work, too. I think they put a lot of themselves into that one.”

  The president was silent for a moment. Somebody had done homework for Raleigh. Be circumspect!

  “Yes, in the beginning, they were very helpful. The Elanthians are a surprising people when you get to know them; perhaps the only genuinely unselfish race in the Universe. I was born and raised here, and I feel toward the Elanthians like most of the citizens, like the vast majority of them. In my capacity as chief executive, there isn’t anything—I want to stress anything—I wouldn’t personally do for the Elanthians. This is one of the things I wanted to speak to you about, and maybe it’s just as well to have it come up right now. As you may know, as you would certainly know if you read our newspapers, we have a very serious problem with the Coelanths. Hardly a week goes by but there’s a reported attack of some kind by them—usually on the Elanthian villages in the boondocks. I want to go into this problem with you in detail.”

  “You have a biologist or two, I imagine, in either York University or Solley in Lephong, who should brief me on the Coelanths, then. I’m afraid I’ve just got a smattering of facts. I hadn’t understood they represented any particular menace. As little as twenty-five years ago, I understand, there was some concern lest they die out.”

  “You’re likely to hear some things I wouldn’t believe, if I were you,” said the president. “You know how things get started. As a matter of fact, the outbreaks are comparatively recent. We’ve always known the Coelanths were potentially savage beasts; they’re naturally carnivorous, with long, dreadful-looking teeth. As to what turned them against the Elanthians—we’ve lost citizens, too, for that matter—this is something I don’t think we quite understand. You’ll hear a lot of preposterous stories. One man claims it has something to do with the sunspot activity a few years back, I think the best explanation is a change in the local ecology, perhaps indirectly the result of our settlement, which has altered their feeding habits. Perhaps they’re picking up some new substance in their diet that affects whatever is the equivalent of their adrenal gland. This is just one theory. Believe me, there are a lot of wilder ones.”

  “Do arrange a briefing for me, then,” said Raleigh. “I’d also like to talk with some of the Elanthians. Can that be arranged?”

  “I don’t believe there are any in York,” said the president. “Of course, this won’t cause us any real problem. They’re still helping us on the farms. I hadn’t scheduled a trip outside York. But if you wish.

  However, let’s look over the schedule for the next couple of days, see if we can fit it in. I’ve made an extra copy for you.” The president removed the papers from his inner pocket. They had a crisp parchment feel. Top quality, imported paper, expensive.

  Raleigh was oblivious of the paper, itself. The printing on it held him, and he began slowly to read.

  “If we had to,” the president said, “we could eliminate the trip through our land car factory tomorrow, but then by the time we got back from the farm, it would be too late for the luncheon, and the invitations are sent out on it. There would be a lot of disappointed people. But we’ll work something out.” He was intensely occupied with the details, frowning, seeking alternatives, weighing choices as though they were the most weighty matters of State.

  Raleigh folded the paper. “I’ll keep this,” he said. “But I’m afraid you must have thought me a much younger man. You better check the people that brief you; I’m sixty-four.”

  III

  The president called in the Secretary of Agriculture the following morning.

  “I’m going to have trouble with that Raleigh,” he announced, “and I wish you wouldn’t smoke. That’s why I had the ash trays taken out.

  I’ve had two cigarette burns in the rugs in the last month. Seven hundred and fifty dollars it’s cost me.”

  Secretary Hayes looked around uncertain of how to dispose of the cigarette. He moistened a finger, dabbed at the glowing coal on the end, felt uncomfortable. Houston was going to take it out on him today. He cringed inwardly and hated himself for not speaking out.

  “You saw him with the wife last night, at the banquet?” the president demanded. “Well, he was too smart for my wife, and that’s going some. All he wanted to talk about was the farms. And he canceled the schedule out, for the next two days, like that! He’s over at The Harrison, up in his suite, reading the papers this morning. I understand he’s having back issues sent in. Damn that Felton! Can’t we get the Times to do something about him? Next he’ll be on the Coelanths, writing on them, out in the gook villages, reporting God knows what kind of irresponsible rumors. You can find somebody to say anything. And he’ll repo
rt it, too, if he thinks it will hurt me. What is that man trying to do to me? He knows I’m doing the best I can in this job. Listen. I’ve had him in here—sitting right there where you are. I don’t know what else I can do. And he still won’t cooperate—”

  Secretary Hayes dabbed again at the tip of the cigarette, tasting ashes from his forefinger. He had vis-

  ions of limp paper splitting to spill the tobacco across his lap. He embraced the offending cigarette in a damp, concealing palm, where it seemed to melt to grainy coarseness.

  “Felton’s a troublemaker,” the secretary said. “No one pays any attention to him. They recognize the source. Maybe we should give Raleigh a rundown on his background—”

  “That’s a stupid idea,” the president said. “Don’t even mention him to Raleigh. Hayes, your problem is, what do you plan to tell him about the farms?”

  “Am I supposed to brief him?” The cigarette was crumbling.

  “Are you supposed to brief him? Now, what purpose do you think I called you in for this morning? To make small talk? Somebody’s got to get through to him. He wants to talk about Coelanths with a biologist. Who can I send him? I don’t trust Cavenaugh. Who else is there? Johnson? Who’ll buy him as our best expert on the Coelanths? You better brief him; I’ve got to send somebody in there to look good.”

  “I’ll get the staff right on it.”

  “You and that staff. Don’t you ever do any of your own work, Hayes? What would happen to me if I depended on this idiot staff of mine? I can’t even get them to turn the lights out at night; and they don’t care two whoops in hell about phone bills—you should see how much they cost me in just phone bills, phoning everywhere on private business. How can I trust them with anything big? The only man around here I can count on is Rosy. If it weren’t for him, the whole place would come to pieces. I should let him do that briefing, if I want it done right. How would that make you look? Damned bad, wouldn’t it? What would you tell Mrs. Hayes? So don’t talk to me about the staff. I want you to dig into this thing yourself—and I want a run-through with charts and everything at 2:30.”