by Kris Neville
“I sometimes wish they weren’t so self-sufficient; I sometimes wish there was something really important and worthwhile we could do for them. But they’re stuck with their stone-age culture and they just don’t seem to want to change. I’ll admit, too, that we’d be in a pretty pickle to get in agricultural machinery after all these years. We’d have to import it. We’re just not tooled up for that kind of production and retooling would disrupt the whole economy. Importing it would be the only practical solution. But that would put an awful strain on our balance of payments, coming now on top of our other commitments—no, we’d be in a pretty pickle. So we are worried about this slight decline in the volunteer Elanthians, particularly in Farm Zone C, where we’ve been hit the hardest, so far. We keep our eye on the situation.”
Raleigh nodded sympathetically. “I don’t envy President Houston his job,” he said.
“I don’t really think many people appreciate what the president puts up with. He’s a difficult man to work for, and he’s short-tempered, and he can be really nasty, and a slave driver when he wants to be. But you learn to take it if you want to work for him. He’s got the whole planet, the welfare of the whole planet, on his mind. We all take that into account.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Raleigh. “Now, about the defectors.”
“We really don’t like that term,” said Hayes. “What has happened is this: For some reason, the Coelanth population has got out of hand recently. I frankly don’t understand why this should be. These animals represent a real menace to the Elanthians, and a lot of the go-goo . . . Elanthians are returning to their villages to help fight the Coelanths. Those animals are at the root of our whole farm problem.”
Raleigh arose and extended his hand. “Secretary Hayes,” he said, “I do want, so much, to thank you for your time. This has been an excellent and informative briefing. Perhaps even better than you now realize. I do hope I will see you again, socially, before my little tour here is over. Please give my best regards to your wife. She must be a lovely woman. How long did you say you’d been married? Twenty-three years. That must be some kind of a record—living with someone that long.”
Secretary Hayes, pleased beyond measure in spite of a couple of bad moments, responded in kind. He concluded by saying, “I’ll have my assistant come in and pick up these briefing charts we never got around to; I’ll see he won’t bother you. And I’ll personally ask the president to send over the results of that poll I was telling you about.”
Within half an hour, the Secretary of Agriculture was enthusing to the president:
“He’s really the most wonderful man. I felt as if I really got to know him. He’s levelheaded, no nonsense: nobody’s going to fool him. He’s out for the unvarnished facts. He’s no rumor monger. Oh, did I do a job on him! I don’t think I’ve ever made a better, or a more convincing, presentation. It was a good meeting. You should have been there. While we were talking, the question of your own popularity came up, and I sold him on that point. Now, you remember that poll you were telling us about recently? He said he’d really like to have a copy of that for his files.”
The president sat back in his chair. Possibly he’d misjudged Raleigh. Maybe he was getting too suspicious of people. Hayes wasn’t the smartest man in the world, but he wasn’t a complete fool, either. Obviously he felt Raleigh was really on the president’s side; and he must have had some pretty strong objective evidence of that fact.
About the poll: certainly there would be no harm in sending that over. Hayes was clever to bring it up. Sixty-eight percent was damned good backing any way you want to cut it. Let’s see: it would probably be a good idea to rephrase a few of the interview questions a little bit so they wouldn’t seem to be quite so leading . . .
Actually, thought the president, things seem to be going much better than I hoped. Secretary Hayes wandered on verbally about his triumph.
IV
Raleigh had made no further appointments for the day. The president received reports that the third secretary had left The Harrison after lunch, presumably to look over the city unaccompanied and to strike up conversations with a random selection of citizens. This development was not entirely to the president’s liking. Raleigh, in all likelihood, would overhear a number of derogatory references to the Elanthians—the speech of the citizens being somewhat coarse and vulgar in this regard. It would be bound to create an unfavorable impression, difficult to counteract directly.
Still, it was nothing more than talk. It expressed less overt hostility than a kind of well-meaning, if crude, paternalism. Raleigh should be able to look beyond the words to the substance—if he were, indeed, as Hayes had found him to be.
Raleigh’s schedule for tomorrow was open. He had politely rejected the itinerary proposed. Aside from the briefing by Hayes, he had requested nothing directly from the government in advance of the formal conference with the president scheduled for Friday, three days from now.
In view of the excellent impression the Secretary of Agriculture had created, it seemed difficult to imagine that Raleigh would reject the suggestion of a similar briefing tomorrow. And at that briefing, the president could employ his top man—sole figure in the Cabinet whose competence the president was unalterably convinced of—Secretary of Domestic Affairs, Rosy MacDonald.
MacDonald created an image in depth of efficiency and order. It was impossible to imagine him in a position where he was not the total, cold, and unemotional master. The image was complete, from the ordered, almost computer-like mind, to his physical appearance. Nothing about him, not a hair on the head, not the tying of a shoelace, was out of character with this image.
The physical appearance of MacDonald fascinated President Houston. The president, after his morning shower and shave, dressed in whatever his wife laid out for him, and wore it all day. The battered hat, which was his trademark in politics—and of which he maintained a stock of an even two dozen, especially made for him—completed the process. MacDonald, on the other hand, had a manicurist on his staff and a personal barber who came at least twice a week. Before lunch, there would be a complete change of clothing, with appropriate items pressed with exact care and skill under supervision of his valet. MacDonald shaved again in the late afternoon, showered, and changed clothes. There would be another change later for dinner. This indicated no fixation on clothing, or cleanliness. It was merely a calculated part of the crisp image he always presented. The president had seen him, at a late night conference, appear to be as fresh and dynamic as at an early morning one.
The president bent to his intercom on the desk. “Get me Rosy,” he said. The call was completed in less than thirty seconds; MacDonald’s staff, a finely tuned machine, operated efficiently to locate their boss. “Yes, Mr. President?”
“Rosy, could you come over to the office for a little conference?”
“Right away, Mr. President.”
As he waited, the president wondered what MacDonald had been doing and marveled that he was always available, twenty-four hours each day, never distracted by emergencies, always able to leave the operation of his own department to the staff, a collection of nameless, faceless people. The president fell to idle speculation about MacDonald’s sex life. Was this conducted, too, with crisp efficiency?
Within five minutes he was there, appearing not yet to have sat down or otherwise ruffled by movement his gray summer suit. The tie was squarely in the center of his shirt, anchored there in some unseen manner against any possibility of movement from the vertical. The knot was tied with exquisite professionalism. The president made a mental note to have MacDonald teach him how to tie a tie some day.
“Sit down, Rosy. I’m glad you could come right on over. I’m not going to waste your time, I know how valuable it is. I’d like you to do me a little favor.”
“Certainly, Mr. President.”
The president imagined the mind at work. Steady gray eyes behind rimless glasses turned inward to review the catalog of jobs he was prepared t
o undertake as part of his role as Secretary of Domestic Affairs.
“This morning Secretary Hayes gave Secretary Raleigh of the Federation an extremely successful briefing. This was requested by Raleigh; I could hardly have sent you, although I would have preferred to. In thinking it over, I thought perhaps you might find time to present a similar briefing tomorrow morning.”
“What subject should the briefing be on?”
“We ought,” the president said, “to bring out the true story on Simeryl for him; in case he’s heard, oh, you know, rumors which have distorted the actual situation. You know the kind of vicious rumors I mean.”
The secretary nodded crisply. “I think I see what you want. May I use the phone a moment?”
The president passed it over.
MacDonald got through to one of his faceless staff within fifteen seconds by the clock on the president’s desk. “Sorry to have to interrupt your call,” MacDonald said crisply. “I am at the president’s office. I need some briefing material for a full scale presentation. Can you have the File No. 13-7-b sent out, please? I will expect it as soon as a messenger can get over here.” He cradled the phone.
“Perhaps,” he continued, almost without pause, “if I give you the briefing, Mr. President, you could play the Devil’s Advocate. That way, when we hit a really difficult question, I can pick up enough pointers from you on how to handle it that I’ll be able to field it satisfactorily tomorrow.” MacDonald’s thin lips had not yet smiled. “Could you tell me something, while we wait, about the material Secretary Hayes covered, and the general approach he used, so I can tailor my remarks to what Secretary Raleigh already knows and present a united administration front?”
This was Rosy, thought the president. There probably was not a man alive who was a match for him. He was a machine, a computer. If Raleigh had been impressed by Hayes, he could not help but he overawed by the Secretary of Domestic Affairs. Rosy could walk into a cage of wild beasts and calmly reason them into domestication in the time it would take a normal man to collect his thoughts on an impromptu appeal for a charitable organization. It would be worth money to the president to be able to sit in on the briefing tomorrow.
MacDonald listened without comment as the president repeated what he had been told by Hayes. Occasionally he nodded to indicate understanding of a particularly subtle point. Otherwise, he was relaxed and motionless, listening for meanings below the surface of the words. It was said that MacDonald read Jack Felton in the Times so closely that he knew who had edited the copy on any particular day by the types of spelling errors left in and knew, too, the exact number of drinks Felton had taken before writing it.
As the president watched, Secretary MacDonald smoothly and efficiently set up his own demonstration. The president prepared to enjoy the next sixty minutes. The breather from official business allowed him by Raleigh in canceling out the rigorous schedule was appreciated. He would be rested for the Friday conference, at which it would be completely essential to the continued well being of Elanth that two major decisions be favorably arrived at—the one, additional interstellar credit be advanced to Elanth; and the other, that weapons shipments be approved.
“I’ll jab you from time to time,” the president said heartily. “I’ll give you a rougher time than Raleigh would ever dream of doing.” Here, in the play atmosphere they were creating between them, the president could really let himself go without risk of offending the secretary. Both understood comments would be designed to test the ability of MacDonald to field difficult questions and would not express the president’s true feelings toward his secretary.
MacDonald stepped back from the equipment. “I’ll use both the briefing chart and some colored slides. I have prepared some slides to illustrate various features of my formal presentation. First, however, it would be helpful to introduce some background on the relationship of the Elanthians to our total economy. As you know from Secretary Hayes’s briefing yesterday, there are four Farm Zones on the planet. Two of these—here’s a typical shot of farm activity—are satellites of Lephong; two, satellites of York. The current total farm population of citizens is approximately fifteen thousand, roughly divided equally between the four zones. Total acreage under cultivation varies from twenty thousand acres in Farm Zone A—here’s an aerial view of that zone—to just less than nine thousand acres in Farm Zone B. A typical production from the various zones is indicated on this first chart. As you see, we consume, on the average, more than two hundred eighty head of cattle a day for a per capita average consumption of beef that is just slightly less than one half pound. Here we see the production figures for other meat animals, including the so-called island skew—which I might mention is not a highly regarded item of diet for most citizens except those from the Seven Planet Sector, of which it is native. Turning now to produce—”
The briefing, with statistics, continued for five more minutes—each new figure springing from MacDonald’s tongue in mint-fresh, current condition.
The broad picture sketched in, MacDonald turned to the Elanthian volunteers. “Here we see an Elanthian farm barracks in Zone D. Each barrack accommodates approximately one hundred twenty Elanthians. There are four hundred and three such units at full or partial occupancy at the present time. This is the figure for all four zones. As you can see, farming on Elanth is a substantial enterprise, based in large measure on the nonautomated labor of the Elanthian volunteers.
“Several years ago, at the request of the Elanthians, we conducted biochemical research into the metabolism of the Coelanths with an aim to increasing the fertility of the animals, then—but not now unfortunately—apparently in some danger of extinction. One by-product, in fact the only useful research to come out of this, was a chemical subsequently named Simeryl, which proved ineffective with the Coelanths, but our chemists felt it might have interesting physiological properties as far as the Elanthians were concerned. A number of volunteers were given the material in carefully controlled experiments. As a result of these, it was found that the Simeryl, which, incidentally is highly toxic to the metabolism of citizens, produced a euphoric effect upon seventy-three percent of the Elanthians and a less pronounced, but subjectively pleasurable reaction in another twenty-five percent. No adverse side reactions were observed by any of the experimental workers. Research quantities of the material were then synthesized at considerable cost and effort in view of the raw materials required, and further testing and experimentation were continued. This was done at the request of the Elanthian subjects themselves.
“The interest of the Government then was primarily to explore in greater detail the metabolic responses of the Elanthians to this synthetic alkaloid—in terms of effect upon various physiological factors including rate of respiration, pulse, gross motor activity, visual perception, et cetera. Out of the research grew the conviction, subsequently documented, that higher dosage rates of Simeryl acted not only as an anesthetic but also as a pain killer. This represented the first positive contribution the citizens of Elanth had been able to make to the Elanthians, themselves. Elanthians, as you know, are generally well satisfied with their own culture, such as it is, and are independent of the citizens. This latter is not surprising when you consider that they are completely acclimated to the planet and actually developed necessary accommodations to it well before our arrival. Obviously, with the discovery of Simeryl and in view of our heavy debt of gratitude to the Elanthians, we were under a moral obligation to insure continuity of supply of the material for medicinal purposes.”
“I’ve heard that it is awfully addictive,” said the president.
“I was going to come to that point in a moment,” said MacDonald. “Now that you’ve brought it up, we should face it squarely right now before we go on with the briefing. That the material is psychologically addictive is probably true. Most will concede this, except for a few medical people. Whether or not there is physiological addiction, coupled with dependency and other characteristic symptoms, is a broader
question and has not been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction as yet. The question of addiction, per se, is secondary to the benefits we can demonstrate by the controlled use of the material for specific medical purposes. Nothing we know of can be said to be completely, one hundred per cent safe.”
“I understand,” said the president cheerfully, “that stupid people like you have succeeded in making a whole farm full of addicts.”
“I won’t attempt to say we couldn’t have handled the whole affair rather better than we did. There were some mistakes made in the very beginning. Because of what must be termed side effects of the drug—small doses produce something equivalent to a mildly intoxicated state in the Elanthians—there was a somewhat larger demand for it than we originally anticipated. In response to this demand, the Government of Elanth, recognizing its moral obligation to the Elanthians, obtained, with interstellar credit . . . you should realize the significance of this; we really went into debt, no questions asked . . . to get a quantity of Simeryl sufficient to insure that the Elanthians’ nominal requirements could be met.”
“I understand you ordered enough to keep the whole gook population hopped up for two generations,” said the president.
“That’s an exaggeration for effect,” said MacDonald, undismayed. “The actual amount of material I have right here. Yes, this chart. Three hundred and forty-two thousand pounds. Here we have the estimated Elanthian population together with what we believe to be the average daily usage of the so-called addict. As you can see, we have nowhere near the quantity of Simeryl you have suggested. In buying the consignment originally, we had to take into account the most favorable terms, prices, and conditions. Of the seven suppliers which quoted at all on the material, only three could meet the required delivery schedule. By guaranteeing a production quantity of the drug—I understand its toxic nature posed special handling concerns—we were able to obtain the listed amount from supplier C at only a slightly increased cost over quotations for one fifth that quantity from suppliers A and B.”