Prisoners of Tomorrow (80 page)

“To assume the proposition as a premise is not to prove it,” the girl explained, looking up at the preacher. “Your argument, I’m afraid, is completely circular.”

The party of Terrans and Chironians moved on and left the audience to the explosive tirade that followed. “Those were hardly more than children,” Eve Verritty murmured.

“You seem surprised,” Rastus said to Bernard.

“Those kids,” Bernard replied, gesturing behind them. “There are some pretty sharp minds among them. Is everyone here like that?”

“Of course not,” Rastus said. “But everyone values what they have. I said the mind was an infinite resource, but only if you don’t squander it. Don’t you think that makes an interesting paradox?”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Still no overture came from the Chironian leaders. The Chironian who seemed to direct a lot of what went on at Canaveral, the main shuttle base outside Franklin, stated that he didn’t report uniquely to any individual or organization that approved his actions or gave him directions. So who told him how the place was to be run? It depended. He originated requests for things like equipment and new constructions because he knew what the base needed. How did he know? Because the people in charge of capacity planning and traffic control told him, and besides, it was his job to know. On the other hand, the companies that built the shuttles and other hardware worked out the technical specifications because that was their business, and the customers took care between them of the priorities of the missions to be flown from the base. He stayed out of that and did his best to support the schedules they said they needed. So ultimately, who was in charge? Who told whom to do what, and who did it? It depended. Nothing made any sense.

Following a directive from Wellesley, Howard Kalens instructed Amery Farnhill to open an embassy in a small building at Canaveral which the Chironians obligingly agreed to vacate, having been about to move into larger premises elsewhere anyway. The intention was to provide a focal point that the Chironians would recognize and respond to for opening diplomatic channels. Unfortunately, the natives paid no attention to it, and after two days of sitting at his desk with nothing to do, Amery Farnhill pleaded with Kalens for approval to send out snatch squads from his contingent of SD guards to bring in likely candidates to talk to him. Kalens could only partly concur since he was under strict instructions from Wellesley. “If you can persuade them, then do it,” he replied over the communications link from the
Mayflower II
“A calculated degree of intimidation is acceptable, but on no account are they to use force. I don’t like it either, Amery, but I’m afraid we’ll have to live with the plan for the time being.”

“Hey, you. Stop.” The major in command of the four SD troopers sent to scout out the center of Canaveral City—a residential and commercial suburb situated outside the base and merging into one side of Franklin—addressed the Chironian whom they had followed from the restaurant a few yards back around the corner. He was well-dressed, in his midthirties, and carrying an attaché case. The Chironian ignored them and kept walking. Whereupon the major marched ahead to plant himself firmly in the man’s path. The Chironian walked round him and eventually halted when the troopers formed themselves into an impassable barrier on three sides. “You’re coming to talk to the ambassador,” the major informed him.

“No, I’m not. I’m going to talk about air-conditioning for the new passenger lounge in the base.”

“Say ‘sir’ when you talk to me.”

“If you wish. Sir when you talk to me.” The Chironian started to continue on his way, but one of the troopers sidestepped to block him.

“What’s your name, boy?” The major thrust his face close and narrowed his eyes menacingly.

“None of your goddamn business.”

“Do you want us to have to drag you there?”

“Do you want to get out of here alive?”

The major’s jaw quivered; his face colored. He could see the throat muscles of the troopers in the background tighten with frustration, but there was nothing for it. He had his orders. “On your way,” he growled. “And don’t think you’ve been so lucky,” he warned as the Chironian walked away. “We’ve got your face taped. There’ll be a next time.”

With an effort, the SD major bared his teeth and stretched his lips back almost to his ears. “Excuse me, sir, but do you have a few minutes you could spare?”

“What for?” The Chironian in the purple sweater and green shorts asked.

“Our ambassador would like to talk to you. It’s not far—just inside the base.”

“What about?”

“Just a friendly chat . . . about your government, how it’s organized, who’s in it . . . a few things like that. It won’t take long at all.”

The Chironian rubbed his chin dubiously. “I’m not at all sure that I could be much help. Government of what in particular?”

“The planet. . . Chiron. Who runs it?”

“Runs the planet? Gee . . . I don’t know anything about that.”

“Who tells you what to do?”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“On what I’m doing.” The Chironian looked apologetic. “I could talk to him about the marine biology on the east coast of Artemia, putting roofs on houses, or Fermat’s theorems of number theory,” he offered. “Do you think he might be interested in anything like that?”

The major sighed wearily. “It doesn’t matter. Forget it. Do you know anyone else around here we should try asking?”

“Not really. I guess you guys have got a tough job on your hands. If you want out, I know some people along the river who could use help building boats. Have any of you ever done anything like that?”

The major stared at him as if refusing to believe his ears. “Get outa here,” he choked in a weak voice. He shook his head incredulously, “Just . . . get the hell outa here, willya. . .”

“It’s impossible!” Amery Farnhill protested to a full meeting of the Directorate in the
Mayflower II
’s Government Center. “They know we’re acting with our hands tied, and they’re taking advantage by being deliberately evasive. The only way we’ll get anywhere is if you allow us to get tougher.”

Wellesley shook his head firmly. “Not if you’re talking about roughing up people in the streets. It would undo everything we’ve achieved.”

“What have we achieved?” Borftein asked contemptuously.

“We have to do something,” Marcia Quarrey insisted. “Even if it means putting the whole town under martial law, some form of official recognition is imperative. This has gone on far too long as it is.”

Howard Kalens simmered as he listened. Quarrey had changed her tune when the commercial lobby, whose interests she represented, panicked at the prospect of having to compete in the insane Chironian economic system. The signals coming down the line had told her that she’d better get something done about it and soon, if she wanted to see herself reinstated after the elections, which in turn meant that Kalens had better be seen to back her case if he expected her support in his bid for the Directorship.

“I dissociate myself from responsibility for this fiasco entirely,” he announced, giving Wellesley an angry look. “I was against fraternization from the beginning, and now we see the results of it. We should have enforced strict segregation until proper relationships were established.”

“It wouldn’t have worked,” Wellesley countered. “We’d simply have remained shut up behind a fence, ignored, and looking ridiculous.”

“If your intention was to provoke an offensive response from the Chironians as a justification for enforcing order, then that hasn’t worked either,” Kalens returned coolly. “Now we must live with the damage and consider our alternatives.”

“What are you suggesting?” Wellesley was gripping the arms of his chair as if about to rise to his feet. “Withdraw that accusation at once!”

“Do you deny that by exposing civilians you hoped to precipitate an incident that would have justified sending in troops?”

Wellesley turned pale, and the veins stood out on his temples. “I deny that! I also deny that you urged segregation. My policy was to encourage their leaders out into the open by a demonstration of peaceful coexistence, and you went along with it. Withdraw your statement.”

Kalens looked at him calmly for a few seconds, then nodded. “Very well. I withdraw the statement and apologize.”

“Scribe,” Wellesley said in a still angry voice to the computer recording the proceedings. “Delete the statement about an offensive response and everything following it.”

“Deleted,” the machine confirmed. “Last line of entry reads: ‘. . . shut up behind a fence, ignored, and looking ridiculous.’”

The suggestion had served its purpose. Sterm was watching Kalens curiously, and Marcia Quarrey was looking across the table with new respect. Farnhill shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

“So where do we go from here?” Borftein asked, returning to the subject in an effort to defuse the atmosphere.

Sterm studied his fingers for a moment and then looked up. “Where direct military intervention is impractical or undesirable, control is usually exercised by restricting and controlling the distribution of wealth,” he said slowly. “Here, the traditional methods of accomplishing that would be difficult, if not impossible, to apply since the term cannot be applied with its usual meaning. This society must have its pressure points, nevertheless. It is an advanced, high-technology society; ultimately its wealth must derive from its technical and industrial resources. That is where we should look for its vulnerable spots.”

A short silence fell while the meeting digested the observation. Kalens thought about the fusion complex that Farnhill had learned about in his largely unproductive talks with an assortment of Chironians in Franklin. Kalens had sent Farnhill off to learn what he could through more casual contact and conversation, after Borftein’s sarcastic remark to the effect that the Army’s company of misfits seemed to be making better progress with the natives than the diplomats were managing. “Yes . . . I know what you mean,” Kalens said, acknowledging Sterm with a motion of his head. “As a matter of fact, we have already begun inquiries along those lines.” He turned toward Farnhill. “Amery, tell us again about that place along the coast.”

“Port Norday?”

“Yes—some kind of industrial complex, wasn’t it?”

“It’s a centralized, fusion-based facility that provides generating capacity for practically this whole area, and a great deal of materials via a variety of interdependent processes,” Farnhill informed the meeting. “Primary metals and chemicals are among its major products, as well as electricity.”

“Who operates it?” Marcia Quarrey asked.

Farnhill looked uneasy and seemed a trifle awkward. “Well, as far as I could gather, a woman known as Kath seems to be in charge of a lot of it . . . as much as anybody’s in charge of anything in this place. I haven’t actually met her though.”

“That could be a good place to start,” Kalens suggested to Wellesley.

Wellesley seemed thoughtful. “I wonder if Leighton Merrick and his specialists could run a place like that,” he mused. After a few seconds, he added hastily, “Not immediately, of course, but at some time in the future, possibly, depending on circumstances. As insurance, it would certainly pay us to know something more about it.”

“I don’t know,” Farnhill said. “You’d have to ask Merrick about that.”

“He ought to be given a chance to go and look at it,” Borftein agreed with a nod. “What would be the best way to arrange something like that?”

Kalens shrugged without looking up from the table. “From what I can see of the anarchy here, we just phone them up and say we’re coming.”

“Perhaps we could propose a goodwill exchange visit,” Sterm suggested. “In return, we might offer to show some of their technical people selected parts of the
Mayflower II.
A legitimate cover would be desirable.”

“It’s a thought,” Wellesley agreed distantly. He cast his eyes round the table. “Does anybody have a better idea?” Nobody did. “So let’s get Merrick here and talk to him,” Wellesley said. He sat back and placed his hands on the edge of the table. “This would be a good time to break for lunch. Scribe, adjourn the session here. We will reconvene in ninety minutes. Contact Leighton Merrick in Engineering, and have him join us then. Also ask him to bring with him two of his more capable officers. Advise me at once if there are any difficulties. That’s all.”

“Acknowledged,” the computer replied.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Mrs. Crayford, the plump, extravagantly dressed wife of Vice-Admiral Crayford, Slessor’s second-in-command of the
Mayflower II
’s
crew, closed the box containing her new set of Chironian silver cutlery and added it to the pile of boxes on the table by her chair. Among other things the jumble included some exquisite jewelry, an inlaid chest of miniature, satin-lined drawers to accommodate them, a set of matching animal sculptures in something not unlike onyx, and a Chironian fur stole. “Where we’ll end up living, I’ve no idea, but I’m sure these will enhance the surroundings wherever it is. Don’t you think the silver is delightful? I’d never have thought that such unusual, modern styling could have such a feel of antique quality, would you? I must return to that place the next time I go down to Franklin. Some of the tableware there went with it perfectly.”

“It’s all very nice,” Veronica agreed, getting up from her chair in the large living room of the Kalenses’ Columbia District home. “I’m sure you’ll find somewhere wonderful.” Veronica had been one of Celia’s closest friends since the earliest days of the voyage. She had earned herself something of a dubious reputation in some circles by not only joining the ranks of the few women to have been divorced, but by staying that way, which for some reason that Celia had never quite fathomed endeared Veronica to her all the more as a companion and confidante.

“They’re priceless,” Celia commented dryly from her chair. They had been, literally, but the irony was lost on Mrs. Crayford. Veronica caught Celia’s eye with a warning look.

“They must be, mustn’t they,” Mrs. Crayford agreed blissfully. She shook her head. “In some ways it seems almost criminal to take them, but. . .” she sighed, “I’m sure they’d just be wasted otherwise. After all, those people are obviously savages and quite incapable of appreciating the true value of anything.” Celia’s throat tightened, but she managed to remain quiet. Mrs. Crayford fussed with her pile of boxes. “Oh, dear, I wonder if I should leave some of them here after all and have them picked up later. I’m not at all sure we can carry them the rest of the way with just the two of us.”