Great Stories of Space Travel

by Groff Conklin (Editor)

  From: BuOuProv

  To: AdHQ-Ceph18

  Subject: OuProv Project 2910; Birth rate of non-Humans on Cepheus 18, Investigation of.

  Reference:

  (a) AdHQ-Ceph18 letr. AA-LA/mn, dated 272/977 G.E.

  1. With reference to Enclosure 1 of reference (a), five thousand fluoro-globes have been allocated for shipment to Cepheus 18, by the Department of Trade.

  2. It is instructed that AdHQ-Ceph18 make use of all methods of appeasing non-Humans’ dissatisfaction consistent with the necessities of obedience to Imperial proclamation.

  C. Morily, Chief, BuOuProv, 283/977 G.E.

  V

  The dinner was over, the wine had been brought in, and the cigars were out. The groups of talkers had formed and the captain of the merchant fleet was the center of the largest. His brilliant white uniform quite outsparkled his listeners.

  He was almost complacent in his speech: “The trip was nothing. I’ve had more than three hundred ships under me before this. Still, I’ve never had a cargo quite like this. What do you want with five thousand fluoro-globes on this desert, by the Galaxy?”

  Loodun Antyok laughed gently. He shrugged. “For the non-Humans. It wasn’t a difficult cargo, I hope.”

  “No, not difficult. But bulky. They’re fragile, and I couldn’t carry more than twenty to a ship with all the government regulations concerning packing and precautions against breakage. But it’s the government’s money, I suppose.”

  Zammo smiled grimly. “Is this your first experience with government methods, captain?”

  “Galaxy, no,” exploded the spaceman. “I try to avoid it, of course, but you can’t help getting entangled on occasion. And it’s an abhorrent thing when you are, and that’s the truth. The red tape! The paper work! It’s enough to stunt your growth and curdle your circulation. It’s a. tumor, a cancerous growth on the Galaxy. I’d wipe out the whole mess.”

  Antyok said, “You’re unfair, captain. You don’t understand.”

  “Yes? Well, now, as one of these bureaucrats,” and he smiled amiably at the word, “suppose you explain your side of the situation, administrator.”

  “Well, now,” Antyok seemed confused, “government is a serious and complicated business. We’ve got thousands of planets to worry about in this Empire of ours and billions of people. It’s almost past human ability to supervise the business of governing without the tightest sort of organization. I think there are something like four hundred million men today in the Imperial Administrative Service alone and in order to co-ordinate their efforts and to pool their knowledge, you must have what you call red tape and paper work. Every bit of it, senseless though it may seem, annoying though it may be, has its uses. Every piece of paper is a thread binding the labors of four hundred million humans. Abolish the Administrative Service and you abolish the Empire; and with it, interstellar peace, order, and civilization.”

  “Come—” said the captain.

  “No. I mean it.” Antyok was earnestly breathless. “The rules and system of the Administrative set-up must be sufficiently all-embracing and rigid, so that in case of incompetent officials, and sometimes one is appointed . . . you may laugh, but there are incompetent scientists, and news men, and captains too . . . in case of incompetent officials, I say, little harm will be done. For at the worst, the system can move by itself.” “Yes,” grunted the captain, sourly, “and if a capable administrator should be appointed? He is then caught by the same rigid web and is forced into mediocrity.” “Not at all,” replied Antyok, warmly. “A capable man can work within the limits of the rules and accomplish what he wishes.”

  “How?” asked Bannerd.

  “Well . . . well—” Antyok was suddenly ill at ease. “One method is to get yourself an A-priority project, or double-A, if possible.”

  The captain leaned his head back for laughter, but never quite made it, for the door was flung open and frightened men were pouring in. The shouts made no sense at first. Then:

  “Sir, the ships are gone. These non-Humans have taken them by force.”

  “What? All?”

  “Every one. Ships and creatures—”

  It was two hours later that the four were together again, alone in Antyok’s office now.

  Antyok said coldly, “They’ve made no mistakes. There’s not a ship left behind, not even your training ship, Zammo. And there isn’t a government ship available in this entire half of the Sector. By the time we organize a pursuit, they’ll be out of the Galaxy and halfway to the Magellanic Clouds. Captain, it was your responsibility to maintain an adequate guard.”

  The captain cried, “It was our first day out of space. Who could have known—”

  Zammo interrupted fiercely, “Wait a while, captain. I’m beginning to understand. Antyok,” his voice was hard, “you engineered this.”

  “I?” Antyok’s expression was strangely cool, almost indifferent.

  “You told us this evening that a clever administrator got an A-priority project assigned to accomplish what he wished. You got such a project in order to help the non-Humans escape.”

  “I did? I beg your pardon, but how could that be? It was you yourself in one of your reports that brought up the problem of the failing birth rate. It was Ban-nerd, here, whose sensational articles frightened the Bureau into making a double-A priority project out of it. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “You suggested that I mention the birth rate,” said Zammo violently.

  “Did I?” said Antyok, composedly.

  “And for that matter,” roared Bannerd, suddenly, “you suggested that I mention the birth rate in my articles.”

  The three ringed him now and hemmed him in. Antyok leaned back in his chair and said easily, “I don’t know what you mean by suggestions. If you are accusing me, please stick to evidence—legal evidence. The laws of the Empire go by written, filmed, or transcribed material, or by witnessed statements. All my letters as administrator are on file here, at the Bureau, and at other places. I never asked for an A-priority project. The Bureau assigned it to me, and Zammo and Bannerd are responsible for that. In print, at any rate.”

  Zammo’s voice was an almost inarticulate growl. “You hoodwinked me into teaching the creatures how to handle a spaceship.”

  “It was your suggestion. I have your report proposing they be studied in their reaction to human tools on file. So has the Bureau. The evidence—the legal evidence, is plain. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Nor with the globes?” demanded Bannerd.

  The captain howled suddenly, “You had my ships brought here purposely. Five thousand globes! You knew it would require hundreds of craft.”

  “I never asked for globes,” said Antyok, coldly. “That was the Bureau’s idea, although I think Ban-nerd’s friends of The Philosophy helped that along.”

  Bannerd fairly choked. He spat out, “You were asking that Cepheid leader if he could read minds. You were telling him to express interest in the globes.”

  “Come now. You prepared the transcript of the conversation yourself, and that, too, is on file. You can’t prove it.” He stood up. “You’ll have to excuse me. I must prepare a report for the Bureau.”

  At the door, Antyok turned. “In a way, the problem of the non-Humans is solved, even if only to their own satisfaction. They’ll breed now, and have a world they’ve earned themselves. It’s what they wanted.

  “Another thing. Don’t accuse me of silly things. I’ve been in the Service for twenty-seven years, and I assure you that my paper work is proof enough that I have been thoroughly correct in everything I have done. And, captain, I’ll be glad to continue our discussion of earlier this evening at your convenience and explain how a capable administrator can work through red tape and still get what he wants.”

  It was remarkable that such a round, smooth baby-face could wear a smile quite so sardonic.

  From: BuOuProv

  To: Loodun Antyok, Chief Public Administrator, A-8

 
Subject: Administrative Service, Standing in.

  Reference:

  (a) AdServ Court Decision 22874-Q, dated 1/978 G.E.

  1. In view of the favorable opinion handed down in reference (a) you are hereby absolved of all responsibility for the flight of non-Humans on Cepheus 18. It is requested that you hold yourself in readiness for your next appointment.

  R. Horpritt, Chief, AdServ, 15/978 G.E.

  Poul Anderson - THE HELPING HAND

  With this story, we enter a future in which mankind has spread itself far out into the galaxy of which Earth’s sun— and Earth itself, of course—are such microscopically small bits of dust. In Anderson’s concept, most life forms encountered seem to be essentially humanoid.

  In this story, indeed, they are not only humanoid, but measurably “human” in their psychological reactions. If one wanted to draw some comparisons, one could, I suppose, compare Cundaloa in this tale with the islands of the Pacific, and Skontar with the Scandinavian countries. Sweden, for example, is Swedish through and through. Hawaii? Whatever Hawaii is, and it sounds wonderful for a vacation, it surely no longer belongs to the original Hawaiians ... You will get the point of this analogy as you read on, of course.

  A mellow bell tone was followed by the flat voice of the roboreceptionist: “His Excellency Valka Vahino, Special Envoy from the League of Cundaloa to the Commonwealth of Sol.”

  The Earthlings rose politely as he entered. Despite the heavy gravity and dry chill air of terrestrial conditions, he moved with the flowing grace of his species, and many of the humans were struck anew by what a handsome people his race was.

  People—yes, the folk of Cundaloa were humanoid enough, mentally and physically, to justify the term. Their differences were not important; they added n certain charm, the romance of alienness, to the comforting reassurance that there was no really basic strangeness.

  Ralph Dalton let his eyes sweep over the ambassador. Valka Vahino was typical of his race—humanoid mammal, biped, with a face that was very manlike, differing only in its beauty of finely chiseled features, high cheekbones, great dark eyes. A little smaller, more slender than the Earthlings, with a noiseless, feline ease of movement. Long shining blue hair swept back from his high forehead to his slim shoulders, a sharp and pleasing contrast to the rich golden skin color. He was dressed in the ancient ceremonial garb of Luai on Cundaloa—shining silvery tunic, deep-purple cloak from which little sparks of glittering metal swirled like fugitive stars, gold-worked boots of soft leather. One slender six-fingered hand held the elaborately carved staff of office which was all the credentials his planet had given him.

  He bowed, a single rippling movement which had nothing of servility in it, and said in excellent Terrestrial, which still retained some of the lilting, singing accent of his native tongue: “Peace on your houses! The Great House of Cundaloa sends greetings and many well-wishings to his brothers of Sol. His unworthy member Valka Vahino speaks for him in friendship.”

  Some of the Earthlings shifted stance, a little embarrassed. It did sound awkward in translation, thought Dalton. But the language of Cundaloa was one of the most beautiful sounds in the Galaxy.

  He replied with an attempt at the same grave formality. “Greetings and welcome. The Commonwealth of Sol receives the representative of the League of Cundaloa in all friendship. Ralph Dalton, Premier of the Commonwealth, speaking for the people of the Solar System.”

  He introduced the others then—cabinet ministers, technical advisers, military staff members. It was an important assembly. Most of the power and influence in the Solar System was gathered here.

  He finished: “This is an informal preliminary conference on the economic proposals recently made to your gov ... to the Great House of Cundaloa. It has no legal standing. But it is being televised, and I daresay the Solar Assembly will act on a basis of what is learned at these and similar hearings.”

  “I understand. It is a good idea.” Vahino waited until the rest were seated before taking a chair.

  There was a pause. Eyes kept going to the clock on the wall. Vahino had arrived punctually at the time set, but Skorrogan of Skontar was late, thought Dalton. Tactless, but then the manners of the Skontarans were notoriously bad. Not at all like the gentle deference of Cundaloa, which in no way indicated weakness.

  There was aimless conversation, of the “How do you like it here?” variety. Vahino, it developed, had visited the Solar System quite a few times in the past decade. Not surprising, in view of the increasingly close economic ties between his planet and the Commonwealth. There were a great many Cundaloan students in Earthian universities, and before the war there had been a growing tourist traffic from Sol to Avaiki. It would probably revive soon—especially if the devastation were repaired and—

  “Oh, yes,” smiled Vahino. “It is the ambition of all young anamai, men on Cundaloa, to come to Earth, if only for a visit. It is not mere flattery to say that our admiration for you and your achievements is boundless.”

  “It’s mutual,” said Dalton. “Your culture, your art and music, your literature—all have a large following in the Solar System. Why, many men, and not just scholars, learn Luaian simply to read the Dvanagoa-Epai in the original. Cundaloan singers, from concert artists to night-club entertainers, get more applause than any others.” He grinned. “Your young men here have some difficulty keeping our terrestrial coeds off their necks. And your few young women here are besieged by invitations. I suppose only the fact that there cannot be issue has kept the number of marriages as small as it has been.”

  “But seriously,” persisted Vahino, “we realize at home that your civilization sets the tone for the known Galaxy. It is not just that Solarian civilization is the most advanced technically, though that has, of course, much to do with it. You came to us, with your spaceships and atomic energy and medical science and all else—but, after all, we can learn that and go on with you from there. It is, however, such acts as . . . well, as your present offer of help: to rebuild ruined worlds light-years away, pouring your own skill and treasure into our homes, when we can offer you so little in return—it is that which makes you the leading race in the Galaxy.”

  “We have selfish motives, as you well know,” said Dalton a little uncomfortably. “Many of them. There is, of course, simple humanitarianism. We could not let races very like our own know want when the Solar System and its colonies have more wealth than they know what to do with. But our own bloody history has taught us that such programs as this economic-aid

  Elan redound to the benefit of the initiator. When we ave built up Cundaloa and Skontar, got them producing again, modernized their backward industry, taught them our science—they will be able to trade with us. And our economy is still, after all these centuries, primarily mercantile. Then, too, we will have knitted them too closely together for a repetition of the disastrous war just ended. And they will be allies for us against some of the really alien and menacing cultures in the Galaxy, planets and systems and empires against which we may one day have to stand.” “Pray the High One that that day never comes,” said Vahino soberly. “We have seen enough of war. ” The bell sounded again, and the robot announced in its clear inhuman tones: “His Excellency Skorrogan Valthak’s son, Duke of Kraakahaym, Special Envoy from the Empire of Skontar to the Commonwealth of Sol.”

  They got up again, a little more slowly this time, and Dalton saw the expressions of dislike on several faces, expressions which smoothed into noncommittal blankness as the newcomer entered. There was no denying that the Skontarans were not very popular in the Solar System just now, and partly it was their, own fault. But most of it they couldn’t help.

  The prevailing impression was that Skontar had been at fault in the war with Cundaloa. That was plainly an error. The misfortune was that the suns Skang and Avaiki, forming a system about half a light-year apart, had a third companion which humans usually called Allan, after the captain of the first expedition to the system. And the planets of Allan were uninha
bited.

  When terrestrial technology came to Skontar and Cundaloa, its first result had been to unify both planets —ultimately—both systems into rival states which turned desirous eyes on the green new planets of Allan. Both had had colonies there, clashes had followed, ultimately the hideous five years’ war which had wasted both systems and ended in a peace negotiated with terrestrial help. It had been simply another conflict of rival imperialisms, such as had been common enough in human history before the Great Peace and the formation of the Commonwealth. The terms of the treaty were as fair as possible, and both system were exhausted. They would keep the peace now, especially when both were eagerly looking for Solarian help to rebuild.

  Still—the average human liked the Cundaloans. Il was almost a corollary that he should dislike the Skontarans and blame them for the trouble. But even before the war they had not been greatly admired. Their isolationism, their clinging to outmoded traditions, their harsh accent, their domineering manner, even their appearance told against them.

  Dalton had had trouble persuading the Assembly to let him include Skontar in the invitation to economic-aid conferences. He had finally persuaded them that it was essential—not only would the resources of Skang be a material help in restoration, particularly their minerals, but the friendship of a potentially powerful and hitherto aloof empire could be gained.

  The aid program was still no more than a proposal. The Assembly would have to make a law detailing who should be helped, and how much, and then the law would have to be embodied in treaties with the planets concerned. The initial informal meeting here was only the first step. But—crucial.

  Dalton bowed formally as the Skontaran entered. The envoy responded by stamping the butt of his huge spear against the floor, leaning the archaic weapon against the wall, and extending his holstered blaster handle first. Dalton took it gingerly and laid it on the desk. “Greeting and welcome,” he began, since Skorrogan wasn’t saying anything. “The Commonwealth—”