Short Fiction by Mack Reynolds (ready to read books .TXT) 📕

The Coordinator said, “The proof is there. We estimate that each of Rigel’s planets now supports a population of nearly one billion.”

“To be more exact,” Plekhanov rumbled, “some nine hundred million on Genoa, seven and a half on Texcoco.”

Mayer smiled wryly. “I wonder what the residents of each of these planets call their worlds. Hardly the same names we have arbitrarily bestowed.”

“Probably each call theirs The World,” the Coordinator smiled. “After all, the basic language, in spite of a thousand years, is still Amer-English. However, I assume you are familiar with our method of naming. The most advanced culture on Rigel’s first planet is to be compared to the Italian cities during Europe’s feudalistic era. We have named that planet Genoa. The most advanced nation of the second planet is comparable to the Aztecs at the time of the conquest. We considered Tenochtitlán but it seemed a tongue twister, so Texcoco is the alternative.”

“Modernizing Genoa,” Mayer mused, “should be considerably easier than the task on semiprimitive Texcoco.”

Plekhanov shrugged, “Not necessarily.”

The Coordinator held up a hand and smiled at them. “Please, no debates on methods at present. An hour from now you will be in space with a year of travel before you. During that time you’ll have opportunity for discussion, debate and hair pulling on every phase of your problem.”

His expression became more serious. “You are acquainted with the unique position you assume. These colonists are in your control to an extent no small group has ever dominated millions of others before. No Caesar ever exerted the power that will be in your educated hands. For a half century you will be as gods. Your science, your productive know-how, your medicine⁠—if it comes to that, your weapons⁠—are many centuries in advance of theirs. As I said before, your position should be humbling.”

Mayer squirmed in his chair. “Why not check upon us, say, once every decade? In all, our ship’s company numbers but sixteen persons. Almost anything could happen. If you were to send a department craft each ten years⁠ ⁠…”

The Coordinator was shaking his head. “Your qualifications are as high as anyone available. Once on the scene you will begin accumulating information which we, here in Terra City, do not have. Were we to send another group in ten years to check upon you, all they could do would be interfere in a situation all the factors with which they would not be cognizant.”

Amschel Mayer shifted nervously. “But no matter how highly trained, nor how earnest our efforts, we still may fail.” His voice worried. “The department cannot expect guaranteed success. After all, we are the first.”

“Admittedly. Your group is first to approach the hundreds of thousands of planets we have seeded. If you fail, we will use your failure to perfect the eventual system we must devise for future teams. Even your failure would be of infinite use to us.” He lifted and dropped a shoulder. “I have no desire to undermine your belief in yourselves but⁠—how are we to know?⁠—perhaps there will be a score of failures before we find the ideal method of quickly bringing these primitive colonies into our Galactic Commonwealth.”

The Coordinator came to his feet and sighed. He still hated to see them go. “If there is no other discussion⁠ ⁠…”

Specialist Joseph Chessman stood stolidly before a viewing screen. Theoretically he was on watch. Actually his eyes were unseeing, there was nothing to see. The star pattern changed so slowly as to be all but permanent.

Not that every other task on board was not similar. One man could have taken the Pedagogue from the Solar System to Rigel, just as easily as its sixteen-hand crew was doing. Automation at its ultimate, not even the steward department had tasks adequately to fill the hours.

He had got beyond the point of yawning, his mind was a blank during these hours of duty. He was a stolid, bear of a man, short and massive of build.

A voice behind him said, “Second watch reporting. Request permission to take over the bridge.”

Chessman turned and it took a brief moment for the blankness in his eyes to fade into life. “Hello Kennedy, you on already? Seems like I just got here.” He muttered in self-contradiction, “Or that I’ve been here a month.”

Technician Jerome Kennedy grinned. “Of course, if you want to stay⁠ ⁠…”

Chessman said glumly, “What difference does it make where you are? What are they doing in the lounge?”

Kennedy looked at the screen, not expecting to see anything and accomplishing just that. “Still on their marathon argument.”

Joe Chessman grunted.

Just to be saying something, Kennedy said, “How do you stand in the big debate?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I favor Plekhanov. How we’re going to take a bunch of savages and teach them modern agriculture and industrial methods in fifty years under democratic institutions, I don’t know. I can see them putting it to a vote when we suggest fertilizer might be a good idea.” He didn’t feel like continuing the conversation. “See you later, Kennedy,” and then, as an afterthought, formally, “Relinquishing the watch to Third Officer.”

As he left the compartment, Jerry Kennedy called after him, “Hey, what’s the course!”

Chessman growled over his shoulder, “The same it was last month, and the same it’ll be next month.” It wasn’t much of a joke but it was the only one they had between themselves.

In the ship’s combination lounge and mess he drew a cup of coffee. Joe Chessman, among whose specialties were propaganda and primitive politics, was third in line in the expedition’s hierarchy. As such he participated in the endless controversy dealing with overall strategy but only as a junior member of the firm. Amschel Mayer and Leonid Plekhanov were the center of the fracas and right now were at it hot and heavy.

Joe Chessman listened with only half interest. He settled into a chair on the opposite side of the lounge and sipped at his coffee. They were going over their old battlefields, assaulting ramparts they’d stormed