Citadel

: Citadel

He was looking for a privacy his strange personality needed.

And--never quite seemed to achieve it. All his efforts were,

somehow--great triumphs of the race, and great failures for him!





I.



The aging man was sweating profusely, and he darted sidelong glances at

the windowless walls of the outer office. By turns, he sat stiffly in a

corner chair or paced uneasily, his he d swiveling constantly.



His hand was clammy when Mead shook it.



"Hello, Mr. Mead," he said in a husky, hesitant voice, his eyes never

quite still, never long on Mead's face, but darting hither and yon, his

glance rebounding at every turn from the walls, the floor, the ceiling,

the closed outer door.



Christopher Mead, Assistant Undersecretary for External Affairs,

returned the handshake, smiling. "Please come into my office," he said

quickly. "It's much more spacious."



"Thank you," the aging man said gratefully and hurried into the next

room. Mead rapidly opened the windows, and some of the man's nervousness

left him. He sank down into the visitor's chair in front of Mead's desk,

his eyes drinking in the distances beyond the windows. "Thank you," he

repeated.



Mead sat down behind the desk, leaned back, and waited for the man's

breathing to slow. Finally he said, "It's good to see you again, Mr.

Holliday. What can I do for you?"



Martin Holliday tore his glance away from the window long enough to

raise his eyes to Mead's face and then drop them to the hands he had

folded too deliberately in his lap.



"I'd--" His voice husked into unintelligibility, and he had to begin

again. "I'd like to take an option on a new planet," he finally said.



Mead nodded. "I don't see why not." He gestured expressively at the star

chart papered over one wall of his office. "We've certainly got plenty

of them. But what happened with your first one?"



"It d-d-duh--"



"Mr. Holliday, I certainly won't be offended if you'd prefer to look out

the window," Mead said quickly.



"Thank you." After a moment, he began again. "It didn't work out," he

said, his glance flickering back to Mead for an instant before he had to

look out the window again.



"I don't know where my figuring went wrong. It didn't go wrong. It was

just ... just things. I thought I could sell enough subdivisions to

cover the payments and still keep most of it for myself, but it didn't

work out."



He looked quickly at Mead with a flash of groundless guilt in his eyes.

"First I had to sell more than I'd intended, because I had to lower the

original price. Somebody'd optioned another planet in the same system,

and I hadn't counted on the competition. Then, even after I'd covered

the option and posted surety on the payments, there were all kinds of

expenses. Then I couldn't lease the mineral rights--" He looked at Mead

again, as though he had to justify himself. "I don't know how that deal

fell through. The company just ... just withdrew, all of a sudden."



"Do you think there might have been anything peculiar about that?" Mead

asked. "I mean--could the company have made a deal with the colonists

for a lower price after you'd been forced out?"



Holliday shook his head quickly. "Oh, no--nothing like that. The

colonists and I got along fine. It wasn't as though I hadn't put the

best land up for sale, or tried to make myself rich. Why, after I'd had

to sell some of the remaining land, and I knew it wasn't worth staying,

any more, some of them offered to lend me enough money to keep fifty

thousand square miles for myself." He smiled warmly, his eyes blank

while he focused on memory.



"But that wasn't it, of course," he went on. "I had my original

investment back. But I couldn't tell them why I couldn't stay. It was

people--even if I never saw them, it was the thought of people, with

aircraft and rockets and roads--"



"I understand, Mr. Holliday," Mead said in an effort to spare him

embarrassment.



Holliday looked at him helplessly. "I couldn't tell them that, could I,

Mr. Mead? They were good, friendly people who wanted to help me. I

couldn't tell them it was people, could I?"



He wet his dry lips and locked his eyes on the view outside the window.

"All I want, Mr. Mead, is half a planet to myself," he said softly.



He shook his head. "Well, it'll work out this time. This time, I won't

have to sell so much, and I'll have a place to spend what time I've got

left in peace, without this ... this--" He gestured helplessly in an

effort to convey his tortured consciousness of his own fear.



Mead nodded quickly as he saw his features knot convulsively. "Of

course, Mr. Holliday. We'll get you an option on a new planet as quickly

as we can."



"Thank you," Holliday said again. "Can we ... can we handle it today?

I've had my credit transferred to a local bank."



"Certainly, Mr. Holliday. We won't keep you on Earth a moment longer

than absolutely necessary." He took a standard form out of a desk drawer

and passed it to Holliday for his signature.



"I'll be smarter this time," the aging man said, trying to convince

himself, as he uncapped his pen. "This time, it'll work out."



"I'm sure it will, Mr. Holliday," Mead said.





II.



Marlowe was obese. He sat behind his desk like a tuskless sea lion

crouched behind a rock, and his cheeks merged into jowls and obliterated

his neck. His desk was built specially, so that he could get his thighs

under it. His office chair was heavier and wider by far than any

standard size, its casters rolling on a special composition base that

had been laid down over the carpeting, for Marlowe's weight would have

cut any ordinary rug to shreds. His jacket stretched like pliofilm to

enclose the bulk of his stooped shoulders, and his eyes surveyed his

world behind the battlemented heaviness of the puffing flesh that filled

their sockets.



A bulb flickered on his interphone set, and Marlowe shot a glance at the

switch beneath it.



"Secretary, quite contrary," he muttered inaudibly. He flicked the

switch. "Yes, Mary?" His voice rumbled out of the flabby cavern of his

chest.



"Mr. Mead has just filed a report on Martin Holliday, Mr. Secretary.

Would you like to see it?"



"Just give me a summary, Mary."



Under his breath he whispered, "Summary that mummery, Mary," and a thin

smile fell about his lips while he listened. "Gave him Karlshaven IV,

eh?" he observed when his secretary'd finished. "O.K. Thanks, Mary."



He switched off and sat thinking. Somewhere in the bowels of the Body

Administrative, he knew, notations were being made and cross-filed. The

addition of Karlshaven IV to the list of planets under colonization

would be made, and Holliday's asking prices for land would be posted

with Emigration, together with a prospectus abstracted from the General

Galactic Survey.



He switched the interphone on again.



"Uh ... Mary? Supply me with a copy of the GenSurv on the entire

Karlshaven system. Tell Mr. Mead I'll expect him in my office sometime

this afternoon--you schedule it--and we'll go into it further."



"Yes, Mr. Secretary. Will fifteen-fifteen be all right?"



"Fifteen-fifteen's fine, uh ... Mary," Marlowe said gently.



"Yes, sir," his secretary replied, abashed. "I keep forgetting about

proper nomenclature."



"So do I, Mary, so do I," Marlowe sighed. "Anything come up that wasn't

scheduled for today?"



It was a routine question, born of futile hope. There was always

something to spoil the carefully planned daily schedules.



"Yes and no, sir."



Marlowe cocked an eyebrow at the interphone.



"Well, that's a slight change, anyway. What is it?"



"There's a political science observer from Dovenil--that's Moore II on

our maps, sir--who's requested permission to talk to you. He's here on

the usual exchange program, and he's within his privileges in asking, of

course. I assume it's the ordinary thing--what's our foreign policy,

how do you apply it, can you give specific instances, and the like."



Precisely, Marlowe thought. For ordinary questions there were standard

answers, and Mary had been his secretary for so long that she could

supply them as well as he could.



Dovenil. Moore II, eh? Obviously, there was something special about the

situation, and Mary was leaving the decision to him. He scanned through

his memorized star catalogues, trying to find the correlation.



"Mr. Secretary?"



Marlowe grunted. "Still here. Just thinking. Isn't Dovenil that nation

we just sent Harrison to?"



"Yes, sir. On the same exchange program."



Marlowe chuckled. "Well, if we've got Harrison down there, it's only

fair to let their fellow learn something in exchange, isn't it? What's

his name?"



"Dalish ud Klavan, sir."



Marlowe muttered to himself: "Dalish ud Klavan, Irish, corn beef and

cabbage." His mind filed it away together with a primary-color picture

of Jiggs and Maggie.



"All right, Mary, I'll talk to him, if you can find room in the schedule

somewhere. Tell you what--let him in at fifteen-thirty. Mead and I can

furnish a working example for him. Does that check all right with your

book?"



"Yes, sir. There'll be time if we carry over on the Ceroii incidents."



"Ceroii's waited six years, four months, and twenty-three days. They'll

wait another day. Let's do that, then, uh ... Mary."



"Yes, sir."



Marlowe switched off and picked up a report which he began to read by

the page-block system, his eyes almost unblinking between pages.

"Harrison, eh?" he muttered once, stopping to look quizzically at his

desktop. He chuckled.





III.



At fifteen-fifteen, the light on his interphone blinked twice, and

Marlowe hastily initialed a directive with his right hand while touching

the switch with his left.



"Yes, Mary?"



"Mr. Mead, sir."



"O.K." He switched off, pushed the directive into his OUT box, and

pulled the GenSurv and the folder on Martin Holliday out of the HOLD

tray. "Come in, Chris," he said as Mead knocked on the door.



"How are you today, Mr. Marlowe?" Mead asked as he sat down.



"Four ounces heavier," Marlowe answered dryly. "I presume you're not.

Cigarette, Chris?"



Apparently, the use of the first name finally caught Mead's notice. He

looked thoughtful for a moment, then took a cigarette and lit it.

"Thanks--Dave."



"Well, I'm glad that's settled," Marlowe chuckled, his eyes almost

disappearing in crinkles of flesh. "How's Mary?"



Mead grinned crookedly. "Miss Folsom is in fine fettle today, thank

you."



Marlowe rumbled a laugh. Mead had once made the mistake of addressing

the woman as "Mary," under the natural assumption that if Marlowe could

do it, everyone could.



"Mary, I fear," Marlowe observed, "lives in more stately times than

these. She'll tolerate informality from me because I'm in direct

authority over her, and direct authority, of course, is Law. But you,

Mead, are a young whipper-snapper."



"But that's totally unrealistic!" Mead protested. "I don't respect her

less by using her first name ... it's just ... just friendliness, that's

all."



"Look," Marlowe said, "it makes sense, but it ain't logical--not on her

terms. Mary Folsom was raised by a big, tough, tight-lipped

authoritarian of a father who believed in bringing kids up by the book.

By the time she got tumbled out into the world, all big men were

unquestionable authority and all young men were callow whipper-snappers.

Sure, she's unhappy about it, inside. But it makes her a perfect

secretary, for me, and she does her job well. We play by her rules on

the little things, and by the world's rules on the big ones. Kapish?"



"Sure, Dave, but--"



Marlowe picked up the folder on Holliday and gave Mead one weighty but

understanding look before he opened it.



"Your trouble, Chris, is that your viewpoint is fundamentally sane," he

said. "Now, about Holliday, Martin, options 062-26-8729, 063-108-1004. I

didn't get time to read the GenSurv on the Karlshaven planets, so I'll

ask you to brief me."



"Yes, sir."



"What's IV like?"



"Good, arable land. A little mountainous in spots, but that's good.

Loaded with minerals--industrial stuff, like silver. Some tin, but not

enough to depress the monetary standard. Lots of copper. Coal beds,

petroleum basins, the works. Self-supporting practically from the start,

a real asset to the Union in fifty-six years."



Marlowe nodded. "Good. Nice picking, Chris. Now--got a decoy?"



"Yes, sir. Karlshaven II's a False-E. I've got a dummy option on it in

the works, and we'll be able to undercut Holliday's prices for his land

by about twenty per cent."



"False-E, huh? How long do you figure until the colony can't stick on it

any longer?"



"A fair-sized one, with lots of financial backing, might even make it

permanently. But we won't be able to dig up that many loafers, and,

naturally, we can't give them that big a subsidy. Eventually, we'll have

to ferry them all out--in about eight years, say. But that'll give us

time enough to break Holliday."



Marlowe nodded again. "Sounds good."



"Something else," Mead said. "II's mineral-poor. It's near to being

solid metal. That's what makes it impossible to really live on, but I

figure we can switch the mineral companies right onto it and off IV."



Marlowe grinned approvingly. "You been saving this one for Holliday?"



"Yes, sir," Mead said, nodding slowly. He looked hesitantly at Marlowe.



"What's up, Boy?"



"Well, sir--" Mead began, then stopped. "Nothing important, really."



Marlowe gave him a surprising look full of sadness and brooding

understanding.



"You're thinking he's an old, frightened man, and why don't we leave him

alone?"



"Why ... yes, sir."



"Dave."



"Yes, Dave."



"You're quite right. Why don't we?"



"We can't, sir. I know that. But it doesn't seem fair--"



"Exactly, Chris. It ain't right, but it's correct."



The light on Marlowe's interphone blinked once. Marlowe looked at it in

momentary surprise. Then his features cleared, and he muttered

"Cabbage." He reached out toward the switch.



"We've got a visitor, Chris. Follow my lead." He reviewed his

information on Dovenilid titular systems while he touched the switch.

"Ask ud Klavan to come in, uh ... Mary."





IV.



Dalish ud Klavan was almost a twin for the pictured typical Dovenilid in

Marlowe's library. Since the pictures were usually idealized, it

followed that Klavan was an above-average specimen of his people. He

stood a full eight feet from fetters to crest, and had not yet begun to

thicken his shoes in compensation for the stoop that marked advancing

middle age for his race.



Marlowe, looking at him, smiled inwardly. No Dovenilid could be so

obviously superior and still only a lowly student. Well, considering

Harrison's qualifications, it might still not be tit for tat.



Mead began to get to his feet, and Marlowe hastily planted a foot atop

his nearest shoe. The assistant winced and twitched his lips, but at

least he stayed down.



"Dalish ud Klavan," the Dovenilid pronounced, in good English.



"David Marlowe, Secretary for External Affairs, Solar Union," Marlowe

replied.



Ud Klavan looked expectantly at Mead.



"Christopher Mead, Assistant Undersecretary for External Affairs," the

assistant said, orientating himself.



"If you would do us the honor of permitting us to stand--" Marlowe asked

politely.






"On the contrary, Marlowe. If you would do me the honor of permitting me

to sit, I should consider it a privilege."



"Please do so. Mr. Mead, if you would bring our visitor a chair--"



They lost themselves in formalities for a few minutes, Marlowe being

urbanely correct, Mead following after as best he could through the maze

of Dovenilid mores. Finally they were able to get down to the business

at hand, ud Klavan sitting with considerable comfort in the carefully

designed chair which could be snapped into almost any shape, Marlowe

bulking behind his desk, Mead sitting somewhat nervously beside him.



"Now, as I understand it, ud Klavan," Marlowe began, "you'd like to

learn something of our policies and methods."



"That is correct, Marlowe and Mead." The Dovenilid extracted a block of

opaque material from the flat wallet at his side and steadied it on his

knee. "I have your permission to take notes?"



"Please do. Now, as it happens, Mr. Mead and I are currently considering

a case which perfectly illustrates our policies."



Ud Klavan immediately traced a series of ideographs on the note block,

and Marlowe wondered if he was actually going to take their conversation

down verbatim. He shrugged mentally. He'd have to ask him, at some later

date, whether he'd missed anything. Undoubtedly, there'd be a spare

recording of the tape he himself was making.



"To begin: As you know, our government is founded upon principles of

extreme personal freedom. There are no arbitrary laws governing

expression, worship, the possession of personal weapons, or the rights

of personal property. The state is construed to be a mechanism of public

service, operated by the Body Politic, and the actual regulation and

regimentation of society is accomplished by natural socio-economic laws

which, of course, are both universal and unavoidable.



"We pride ourselves on the high status of the individual in comparison

to the barely-tolerable existence of the state. We do, naturally, have

ordinances and injunctions governing crimes, but even these are usually

superseded by civil action at the personal level."



Marlowe leaned forward a trifle. "Forgetting exact principles for a

moment, ud Klavan, you realize that the actuality will sometimes stray

from the ideal. Our citizens, for example, do not habitually carry

weapons except under extraordinary conditions. But that is a civil

taboo, rather than a fixed amendation of our constitution. I have no

doubt that some future generation, mores having shifted, will, for

example, revive the code duello."



Ud Klavan nodded. "Quite understood, thank you, Marlowe."



* * * * *



"Good. Now, to proceed:



"Under conditions such as those, the state and its agencies cannot lay

down a fixed policy of any sort, and expect it to be in the least

permanent. The people will not tolerate such regulation, and with each

new shift in social mores--and the institution of any policy is itself

sufficient to produce such a shift within a short time--successive

policies are repudiated by the Body Politic, and new ones must be

instituted."



Marlowe leaned back and spread his hands. "Therefore," he said with a

rueful smile, "it can fairly be said that we have no foreign policy,

effectively speaking. We pursue the expedient, ud Klavan, and hope for

the best. The case which Mr. Mead and I are currently considering is

typical.



"The Union, as you know, maintains a General Survey Corps whose task it

is to map the galaxy, surveying such planets as harbor alien races or

seem suitable for human colonization. Such a survey team, for example,

first established contact between your people and ours. Exchange

observation rights are worked out, and representatives of both races are

given the opportunity to acquaint themselves with the society of the

other.



"In the case of unoccupied, habitable planets, however, the state's

function ceases with the filing of a complete and definitive survey at

the Under-Ministry for Emigration. The state, as a state, sponsors no

colonies and makes no establishments except for the few staging bases

which are maintained for the use of the Survey Corps. We have not yet

found any need for the institution of an offensive service analogous to

a planetary army, nor do we expect to. War in space is possible only

under extraordinary conditions, and we foresee no such contingency.



"All our colonization is carried out by private citizens who apply to

Mr. Mead, here, for options on suitable unoccupied planets. Mr. Mead's

function is to act as a consultant in these cases. He maintains a roster

of surveyed human-habitable planets, and either simply assigns the

requested planet or recommends one to fit specified conditions. The cost

of the option is sufficient to cover the administrative effort involved,

together with sufficient profit to the government to finance further

surveys.



"The individual holding the option is then referred to Emigration, which

provides copies of a prospectus taken from the General Survey report,

and advertises the option holder's asking prices on subdivisions. Again,

there is a reasonable fee of a nature similar to ours, devoted to the

same purposes.



"The state then ceases to have any voice in the projected colonization

whatsoever. It is a totally private enterprise--a simple real estate

operation, if you will, with the state acting only as an advertising

agency, and, occasionally, as the lessor of suitable transportation from

Earth to the new planet. The colonists, of course, are under our

protection, maintaining full citizenship unless they request

independence, which is freely granted.



"If you would like to see it for purposes of clarification, you're

welcome to examine our file on Martin Holliday, a citizen who is fairly

typical of these real estate operators, and who has just filed an option

on his second planet." Smiling, Marlowe extended the folder.



"Thank you, I should like to," ud Klavan said, and took the file from

Marlowe. He leafed through it rapidly, pausing, after asking Marlowe's

leave, to make notes on some of the information, and then handed it

back.



"Most interesting," ud Klavan observed. "However, if you'll enlighten

me--This man, Martin Holliday; wouldn't there seem to be very little

incentive for him, considering his age, even if there is the expectation

of a high monetary return? Particularly since his first attempt, while

not a failure, was not an outstanding financial success?"



Marlowe shrugged helplessly. "I tend to agree with you thoroughly, ud

Klavan, but--" he smiled, "you'll agree, I'm sure, that one Earthman's

boredom is another's incentive? We are not a rigorously logical race, ud

Klavan."



"Quite," the Dovenilid replied.





V.



Marlowe stared at his irrevocable clock. His interphone light flickered,

and he touched the switch absently.



"Yes, Mary?"



"Will there be anything else, Mr. Secretary?"



"No, thank you, Mary. Good night."



"Good night, sir."



There was no appeal. The day was over, and he had to go home.



He stared helplessly at his empty office, his mind automatically

counting the pairs of departing footsteps that sounded momentarily as

clerks and stenographers crossed the walk below his partly-open window.

Finally he rolled his chair back and pushed himself to his feet.

Disconsolate, he moved irresolutely to the window and watched the people

leave.



Washington--aging, crowded Washington, mazed by narrow streets, carrying

the burden of the severe, unimaginative past on its grimy

architecture--respired heavily under the sinking sun.



The capital ought to be moved, he thought as he'd thought every night at

this time. Nearer the heart of the empire. Out of this steamy bog. Out

of this warren.



His heavy lips moved into an ironical comment on his own thoughts. No

one was ever going to move the empire's traditional seat. There was too

much nostalgia concentrated here, along with the humidity. Some day,

when the Union was contiguous with the entire galaxy, men would still

call Washington, on old, out-of-the-way Earth, their capital. Man was

not a rigorously logical race, as a race.



The thought of going home broke out afresh, insidiously avoiding the

barriers of bemusement which he had tried to erect, and he turned

abruptly away from the window, moving decisively so as to be able to

move at all. He yanked open a desk drawer and stuffed his jacket pockets

with candy bars, ripping the film from one and chewing on its end while

he put papers in his brief case.



Finally, he could not delay any longer. Everyone else was out of the

building, and the robots were taking over. Metal treads spun along the

corridors, bearing brooms, and the robot switchboards guarded the

communications of the Ministry. Soon the char-robots would be bustling

into this very office. He sighed and walked slowly out, down the empty

halls where no human eye could see him waddling.



* * * * *



He stepped into his car, and as he opened the door the automatic

recording said "Home, please," in his own voice. The car waited until he

was settled and then accelerated gently, pointing for his apartment.



The recording had been an unavoidable but vicious measure of his own.

He'd had to resort to it, for the temptation to drive to a terminal, to

an airport, or rocket field, or railroad station--anywhere--had become

excruciating.



The car stopped for a pedestrian light, and a sports model bounced

jauntily to a stop beside it. The driver cocked an eyebrow at Marlowe

and chuckled. "Say, Fatso, which one of you's the Buick?" Then the light

changed, the car spurted away, and left Marlowe cringing.



He would not get an official car and protect himself with its license

number. He would not be a coward. He would not!



His fingers shaking, he tore the film from another candy bar.



* * * * *



Marlowe huddled in his chair, the notebook clamped on one broad thigh by

his heavy hand, his lips mumbling nervously while his pencil-point

checked off meter.



"Dwell in aching discontent," he muttered. "No. Not that." He stared

down at the floor, his eyes distant.



"Bitter discontent," he whispered. He grunted softly with breath that

had to force its way past the constricting weight of his hunched chest.

"Bitter dwell." He crossed out the third line, substituted the new one,

and began to read the first two verses to himself.



"We are born of Humankind--

This our destiny:

To bitter dwell in discontent

Wherever we may be.



"To strangle with the burden

Of that which heels us on.

To stake our fresh beginnings

When frailer breeds have done."



He smiled briefly, content. It still wasn't perfect, but it was getting

closer. He continued:



"To pile upon the ashes

Of races in decease

Such citadels of our kind's own

As fortify no--"



"What are you doing, David?" his wife asked over his shoulder.



Flinching, he pulled the notebook closer into his lap, bending forward

in an instinctive effort to protect it.



The warm, loving, sawing voice went on. "Are you writing another poem,

David? Why, I thought you'd given that up!"



"It's ... it's nothing, really, uh ... Leonora. Nothing much. Just a ...

a thing I've had running around my head. Wanted to get rid of it."



His wife leaned over and kissed his cheek clumsily. "Why, you old big

dear! I'll bet it's for me. Isn't it, David? Isn't it for me?"



He shook his head in almost desperate regret. "I'm ... I'm afraid not,

uh--" Snorer. "It's about something else, Leonora."



"Oh." She came around the chair, and he furtively wiped his cheek with

a hasty hand. She sat down facing him, smiling with entreaty. "Would you

read it to me anyway, David? Please, dear?"



"Well, it's not ... not finished yet--not right."



"You don't have to, David. It's not important. Not really." She sighed

deeply.



He picked up the notebook, his breath cold in his constricted throat.

"All right," he said, the words coming out huskily, "I'll read it. But

it's not finished yet."



"If you don't want to--"



* * * * *



He began to read hurriedly, his eyes locked on the notebook, his voice a

suppressed hoarse, spasmodic whisper.



"Such citadels of our kind's own

As fortify no peace.



"No wall can offer shelter,

No roof can shield from pain.

We cannot rest; we are the damned;

We must go forth again.



"Unnumbered we must--"



"David, are you sure about those last lines?" She smiled apologetically.

"I know I'm old-fashioned, but couldn't you change that? It seems so ...

so harsh. And I think you may have unconsciously borrowed it from

someone else. I can't help thinking I've heard it before, somewhere?

Don't you think so?"



"I don't know, dear. You may be right about that word, but it doesn't

really matter, does it? I mean, I'm not going to try to get it

published, or anything."



"I know, dear, but still--"



He was looking at her desperately.



"I'm sorry, dear!" she said contritely. "Please go on. Don't pay any

attention to my stupid comments."



"They're not stupid--"



"Please, dear. Go on."



His fingers clamped on the edge of the notebook.



"Unnumbered we must wander,

Break, and bleed, and die.

Implacable as ocean,

Our tide must drown the sky.



"What is our expiation,

For what primeval crime,

That we must go on marching

Until the crash of time?



"What hand has shaped so cruelly?

What whim has cast such fate?

Where is, in our creation,

The botch that makes us great?"



"Oh, that's good, darling! That's very good. I'm proud of you, David."



"I think it stinks," he said evenly, "but, anyway, there are two more

verses."



"David!"



Grimly, he spat out the last eight lines.



"Why are we ever gimleted

By empire's irony?

Is discontent the cancered price

Of Earthman's galaxy?"



Leonora, recoiling from his cold fury, was a shaking pair of shoulders

and a mass of lank hair supported by her hands on her face while she

sobbed.



"Are our souls so much perverted?

Can we not relent?

Or are the stars the madman's cost

For his inborn discontent?



"Good night, Leonora."





VI.



The light flickered on Marlowe's interphone.



"Good morning, Mr. Secretary."



"Good morning, Mary. What's up?"



"Harrison's being deported from Dovenil, sir. There's a civil crime

charged against him. Quite a serious one."



Marlowe's eyebrows went up. "How much have we got on it?"



"Not too much, sir. Harrison's report hasn't come in yet. But the

story's on the news broadcasts now, sir. We haven't been asked to

comment yet, but Emigration has been called by several news outlets, and

the Ministry for Education just called here and inquired whether it

would be all right to publish a general statement of their exchange

students' careful instructions against violating local customs."



Marlowe's glance brooded down on the mass of papers piled in the tray of

his IN box. "Give me a tape of a typical broadcast," he said at last.

"Hold everything else. Present explanation to all news outlets: None

now, statement forthcoming after preliminary investigation later in the

day. The Ministry regrets this incident deeply, and will try to settle

matters as soon and as amicably as possible, et cetera, et cetera.

O.K.?"



"Yes, sir."



He swung his chair around to face the screen let into a side wall, and

colors began to flicker and run in the field almost immediately. They

steadied and sharpened, and the broadcast tape began to roll.



Dateline: Dovenil, Sector Three, Day 183, 2417 GST. Your Topical

News reporter on this small planet at the Union's rim was unable

today to locate for comment any of the high officials of this alien

civilization directly concerned with the order for the deportation

of exchange student-observer Hubert Harrison, charged with theft and

violent assault on the person of a Dovenilid citizen. Union citizen

Harrison was unavailable for comment at this time, but Topical News

will present his views and such other clues when more ensues.



Marlowe grunted. Journalese was getting out of hand again. That last

rhyming sentence was sure to stick in the audience's brains. It might be

only another advertising gimmick, but if they started doing it with the

body of the news itself, it might be well to feed Topical enough false

leads to destroy what little reputation for comprehensibility they had

left.






He touched his interphone switch.



"Uh ... Mary, what was the hooper on that broadcast?"



"Under one per cent, sir."



Which meant that, so far, the Body Politic hadn't reacted.



"Thank you. Is there anything else coming in?"



"Not at the moment, sir."



"What's--" Cabbage. "What's Dalish ud Klavan doing?"



"His residence is the Solar Hostel, sir. The management reports that he

is still in his room, and has not reserved space on any form of

long-distance transportation. He has not contacted us, either, and there

is a strong probability that he may still be unaware of what's

happened."



"How many calls did he make yesterday, either before or after he was

here, and to whom?"



"I can get you a list in ten minutes, sir."



"Do that, Mary."



He switched off, sat slapping the edge of his desk with his hand, and

switched on again.



"Mary, I want the GenSurvs on the Dovenil area to a depth of ten cubic

lights."



"Yes, sir."



"And get me Mr. Mead on the phone, please."



"Yes, sir."



Marlowe's lips pulled back from his teeth as he switched off. He

snatched a candy bar out of his drawer, tore the film part way off, then

threw it back in the drawer as his desk phone chimed.



"Here, Chris."



"Here, Mr. Marlowe."



"Look, Chris--has Holliday left Earth yet?"



"Yes, sir. Yes, Dave."



"Where is he?"



"Luna, en route to Karlshaven. He was lucky enough to have me arrange

for his accidentally getting a ride on a GenSurv ship that happened to

be going out that way, if you follow me." Mead grinned.



"Get him back."



The smile blanked out. "I can't do that, Mr. Marlowe! He'd never be able

to take it. You should have seen him when I put him on the shuttle. We

doped him up with EasyRest, and even then his subconscious could feel

the bulkheads around him, even in his sleep. Those shuttles are small,

and they don't have ports."



"We can't help that. We need him, and I've got to talk to him first.

Personally."



Mead bit his lip. "Yes, sir."



"Dave."



"Yes ... Dave."





VII.



Dalish ud Klavan sat easily in his chair opposite Marlowe. He rested one

digit on his notebook and waited.



"Ud Klavan," Marlowe said amiably, "you're undoubtedly aware by now that

your opposite number on Dovenil has been charged with a civil crime and

deported."



The Dovenilid nodded. "An unfortunate incident. One that I regret

personally, and which I am sure my own people would much rather not have

had happen."



"Naturally." Marlowe smiled. "I simply wanted to reassure you that this

incident does not reflect on your own status in any way. We are

investigating our representative, and will take appropriate action, but

it seems quite clear that the fault is not with your people. We have

already forwarded reparations and a note of apology to your government.

As further reparation, I wish to assure you personally that we will

cooperate with your personal observations in every possible way. If

there is anything at all you wish to know--even what might, under

ordinary conditions, be considered restricted information--just call on

us."



Ud Klavan's crest stirred a fraction of an inch, and Marlowe chuckled

inwardly. Well, even a brilliant spy might be forgiven an outward

display of surprise under these circumstances.



The Dovenilid gave him a piercing look, but Marlowe presented a

featureless facade of bulk.



The secretary chuckled in his mind once more. He doubted if ud Klavan

could accept the hypothesis that Marlowe did not know he was a spy. But

the Dovenilid must be a sorely confused being at this point.



"Thank you, Marlowe," he said finally. "I am most grateful, and I am

sure my people will construe it as yet another sign of the Union's

friendship."



"I hope so, ud Klavan," Marlowe replied. Having exchanged this last

friendly lie, they went through the customary Dovenilid formula of

leave-taking.



* * * * *



Marlowe slapped his interphone switch as soon as the alien was gone. "Uh

... Mary, what's the latest on Holliday?"



"His shuttle lands at Idlewild in half an hour, sir."



"All right, get Mr. Mead. Have him meet me out front, and get an

official car to take us to the field. I'll want somebody from Emigration

to go with us. Call Idlewild and have them set up a desk and chairs for

four out in the middle of the field. Call the Ministry for Traffic and

make sure that field stays clear until we're through with it. My

Ministerial prerogative, and no back-talk. I want that car in ten

minutes."



"Yes, sir."



Mary's voice was perfectly even, without the slightest hint that there

was anything unusual happening. Marlowe switched off and twisted his

mouth.



He picked up the GenSurv on the Dovenil area and began skimming it

rapidly.



* * * * *



He kept his eyes carefully front as he walked out of his office, past

the battery of clerks in the outer office, and down the hall. He kept

them rigidly fixed on the door of his personal elevator which, during

the day, was human-operated under the provisions of the Human Employment

Act of 2302. He met Mead in front of the building and did not look into

the eyes of Bussard, the man from Emigration, as they shook hands. He

followed them down the walk in a sweating agony of obliviousness, and

climbed into the car with carefully normal lack of haste.



He sat sweating, chewing a candy bar, for several minutes before he

spoke. Then, slowly, he felt his battered defenses reassert themselves,

and he could actually look at Bussard, before he turned to Mead.



"Now, then," he rapped out a shade too abruptly before he caught

himself. "Here's the GenSurv on the Dovenil area, Chris. Anything in it

you don't know already?"



"I don't think so, sir."



"O.K., dig me up a habitable planet--even a long-term False-E will

do--close to Dovenil, but not actually in their system. If it's at all

possible, I want that world in a system without any rich planets. And I

don't want any rich systems anywhere near it. If you can't do that,

arrange for the outright sale of all mineral and other resource rights

to suitable companies. I want that planet to be habitable, but I want it

to be impossible for any people on it to get at enough resources to

achieve a technological culture. Can do?"



Mead shook his head. "I don't know."



"You've got about fifteen minutes to find out. I'm going to start

talking to Holliday, and when I tell him I've got another planet for

him, I'll be depending on you to furnish one. Sorry to pile it on like

this, but must be."



Mead nodded. "Right, Mr. Marlowe. That's why I draw pay."



"Good boy. Now, uh--" Rabbit. "Bussard. I want you to be ready to lay

out a complete advertising and prospectus program. Straight routine

work, but about four times normal speed. The toughest part of it will be

following the lead that Chris and I set. Don't be surprised at

anything, and act like it happens every day."



"Yes, Mr. Marlowe."



"Right."



Bussard looked uncomfortable. "Ah ... Mr. Marlowe?"



"Yes?"



"About this man, Harrison. I presume all this is the result of what

happened to him on Dovenil. Do you think there's any foundation in truth

for what they say he did? Or do you think it's just an excuse to get him

off their world?"



Marlowe looked at him coldly. "Don't be an ass," he snorted.





VIII.



Martin Holliday climbed slowly out of the shuttle's lock and moved

fumblingly down the stairs, leaning on the attendant's arm. His face was

a mottled gray, and his hands shook uncontrollably. He stepped down to

the tarmac and his head turned from side to side as his eyes gulped the

field's distances.



Marlowe sat behind the desk that had been put down in the middle of this

emptiness, his eyes brooding as he looked at Holliday. Bussard stood

beside him, trying nervously to appear noncommittal, while Mead went up

to the shaking old man, grasped his hand, and brought him over to the

desk.



Marlowe shifted uncomfortably. The desk was standard size, and he had to

sit far away from it. He could not feel at ease in such a position.



His thick fingers went into the side pocket of his jacket and peeled the

film off a candy bar, and he began to eat it, holding it in his left

hand, as Mead introduced Holliday.



"How do you do, Mr. Holliday?" Marlowe said, his voice higher than he

would have liked it, while he shook the man's hand.



"I'm ... I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Secretary," Holliday replied. His

eyes were darting past Marlowe's head.



"This is Mr. Bussard, of Emigration, and you know Mr. Mead, of course.

Now, I think we can all sit down."



Mead's chair was next to Holliday's, and Bussard's was to one side of

the desk, so that only Marlowe, unavoidably, blocked his complete view

of the stretching tarmac.



"First of all, Mr. Holliday, I'd like to thank you for coming back.

Please believe me when I say we would not have made such a request if it

were not urgently necessary."



"It's all right," Holliday said in a low, apologetic voice. "I don't

mind."



Marlowe winced, but he had to go on.



"Have you seen a news broadcast recently, Mr. Holliday?"



The man shook his head in embarrassment. "No, sir. I've been ... asleep

most of the time."



"I understand, Mr. Holliday. I didn't really expect you had under the

circumstances. The situation is this:



"Some time ago, our survey ships, working out in their usual expanding

pattern, encountered an alien civilization on a world designated Moore

II on our maps, and which the natives call Dovenil. It was largely a

routine matter, no different from any other alien contact which we've

had. They had a relatively high technology, embracing the beginnings of

interplanetary flight, and our contact teams were soon able to work out

a diplomatic status mutually satisfactory to both.



"Social observers were exchanged, in accordance with the usual practice,

and everything seemed to be going well."



Holliday nodded out of painful politeness, not seeing the connection

with himself. Some of his nervousness was beginning to fade, but it was

impossible for him to be really at ease with so many people near him,

with all of Earth's billions lurking at the edge of the tarmac.



"However," Marlowe went on as quickly as he could, "today, our

representative was deported on a trumped-up charge. Undoubtedly, this is

only the first move in some complicated scheme directed against the

Union. What it is, we do not yet know, but further observation of the

actions of their own representative on this planet has convinced us that

they are a clever, ruthless people, living in a society which would have

put Machiavelli to shame. They are single-minded of purpose, and welded

into a tight group whose major purpose in life is the service of the

state in its major purpose, which, by all indications, is that of

eventually dominating the universe.



"You know our libertarian society. You know that the Union government is

almost powerless, and that the Union itself is nothing but a loose

federation composed of a large number of independent nations tied

together by very little more than the fact that we are all Earthmen.



"We are almost helpless in the face of such a nation as the Dovenilids.

They have already outmaneuvered us once, despite our best efforts. There

is no sign that they will not be able to do so again, at will.



"We must, somehow, discover what the Dovenilids intend to do next. For

this reason, I earnestly request that you accept our offer of another

planet than the one you have optioned, closer to the Dovenilid system.

We are willing, under these extraordinary circumstances, to consider

your credit sufficient for the outright purchase of half the planet, and

Mr. Bussard, here, will do his utmost to get you suitable colonists for

the other half as rapidly as it can be done. Will you help us, Mr.

Holliday?"



* * * * *



Marlowe sank back in his chair. He became conscious of a messy feeling

in his left hand, and looked down to discover the half-eaten candy bar

had melted. He tried furtively to wipe his hand clean on the underside

of the desk, but he knew Bussard had noticed, and he cringed and cursed

himself.



Holliday's face twisted nervously.



"I ... I don't know--"



"Please don't misunderstand us, Mr. Holliday," Marlowe said. "We do not

intend to ask you to spy for us, nor are we acting with the intention of

now establishing a base of any sort on the planet. We simply would like

to have a Union world near the Dovenilid system. Whatever Dovenil does

will not have gathered significant momentum by the end of your life. You

will be free to end your days exactly as you have always wished, and the

precautions we have outlined will ensure that there will be no

encroachments on your personal property during that time. We are

planning for the next generation, when Dovenil will be initiating its

program of expansion. It is then that we will need an established

outpost near their borders."



"Yes," Holliday said hesitantly, "I can understand that. I ... I don't

know," he repeated. "It seems all right. And, as you say, it won't

matter, during my lifetime, and it's more than I had really hoped for."

He looked nervously at Mead. "What do you think, Mr. Mead? You've always

done your best for me."



Mead shot one quick glance at Marlowe. "I think Mr. Marlowe's doing his

best for the Union," he said finally, "and I know he is fully aware of

your personal interests. I think what he's doing is reasonable under the

circumstances, and I think his proposition to you, as he's outlined it,

is something which you cannot afford to not consider. The final decision

is up to you, of course."



Holliday nodded slowly, staring down at his hands. "Yes, yes, I think

you're right, Mr. Mead." He looked up at Marlowe. "I'll be glad to help.

And I'm grateful for the consideration you've shown me."



"Not at all, Mr. Holliday. The Union is in your debt."



Marlowe wiped his hand on the underside of the desk again, but he only

made matters worse, for his fingers picked up some of the chocolate he

had removed before.



"Mr. Mead, will you give Mr. Holliday the details on the new planet?" he

said, trying to get his handkerchief out without smearing his suit. He

could almost hear Bussard snickering.



* * * * *



Holliday signed the new option contract and shook Marlowe's hand. "I'd

like to thank you again, sir. Looking at it from my point of view, it's

something for nothing--at least, while I'm alive. And it's a very nice

planet, too, from the way Mr. Mead described it. Even better than

Karlshaven."



"Nevertheless, Mr. Holliday," Marlowe said, "you have done the Union a

great service. We would consider it an honor if you allowed us to enter

your planet in our records under the name of Holliday."



He kept his eyes away from Mead.



Martin Holliday's eyes were shining. "Thank you, Mr. Marlowe," he said

huskily.



Marlowe could think of no reply. Finally, he simply nodded. "It's been a

pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holliday. We've arranged transportation, and

your shuttle will be taking off very shortly."



Holliday's face began to bead with fresh perspiration at the thought of

bulkheads enclosing him once more, but he managed to smile, and then

ask, hesitantly: "May I ... may I wait for the shuttle out here, sir?"



"Certainly. We'll arrange for that. Well, good-by, Mr. Holliday."



"Good-by, Mr. Marlowe. Good-by, Mr. Bussard. And good-by, Mr. Mead. I

don't suppose you'll be seeing me again."



"Good luck, Mr. Holliday," Mead said.



* * * * *



Marlowe twisted awkwardly on the car's back seat, wiping futilely at the

long smear of chocolate on his trouser pocket.



Well, he thought, at least he'd given the old man his name on the star

maps until Earthmen stopped roving.



At least he'd given him that.



Mead was looking at him. "I don't suppose we've got time to let him die

in peace, have we?" he asked.



Marlowe shook his head.



"I suppose we'll have to start breaking him immediately, won't we?"



Marlowe nodded.



"I'll get at it right away, sir."



Dave! Does everyone have to hate me? Can't anyone understand? Even

you, uh--Creed. Even you, Mead?





IX.



Dalish ud Klavan, stooped and withered, sat hopelessly, opposite

Marlowe, who sat behind his desk like a grizzled polar bear, his

thinning mane of white hair unkempt and straggling.



"Marlowe, my people are strangling," the old Dovenilid said.



Marlowe looked at him silently.



"The Holliday Republic has signed treaty after treaty with us, and still

their citizens raid our mining planets, driving away our own people,

stealing the resources we must have if we are to live."



Marlowe sighed. "There's nothing I can do."



"We have gone to the Holliday government repeatedly," ud Klavan pleaded.

"They tell us the raiders are criminals, that they are doing their best

to stop them. But they still buy the metal the raiders bring them."



"They have to," Marlowe said. "There are no available resources

anywhere within practicable distances. If they're to have any

civilization at all, they've got to buy from the outlaws."



"But they are members of the Union!" ud Klavan protested. "Why won't

you do anything to stop them?"



"We can't," Marlowe said again. "They're members of the Union, yes, but

they're also a free republic. We have no administrative jurisdiction

over them, and if we attempted to establish one our citizens would rise

in protest all over our territory."



"Then we're finished. Dovenil is a dead world."



Marlowe nodded slowly. "I am very sorry. If there is anything I can do,

or that the Ministry can do, we will do it. But we cannot save the

Dovenilid state."



Ud Klavan looked at him bitterly. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you for

your generous offer of a gracious funeral.



"I don't understand you!" he burst out suddenly. "I don't understand you

people! Diplomatic lies, yes. Expediency, yes! But this ... this

madness, this fanatical, illogical devotion of the state in the cause of

a people who will tolerate no state! This ... no, this I cannot

understand."



Marlowe looked at him, his eyes full of years.



"Ud Klavan," he said, "you are quite right. We are a race of maniacs.

And that is why Earthmen rule the galaxy. For our treaties are not

binding, and our promises are worthless. Our government does not

represent our people. It represents our people as they once were. The

delay in the democratic process is such that the treaty signed today

fulfills the promise of yesterday--but today the Body Politic has formed

a new opinion, is following a new logic which is completely at variance

with that of yesterday. An Earthman's promise--expressed in words or

deeds--is good only at the instant he makes it. A second later, new

factors have entered into the total circumstances, and a new chain of

logic has formed in his head--to be altered again, a few seconds later."



He thought, suddenly, of that poor claustrophobic devil, Holliday,

harried from planet to planet, never given a moment's rest--and

civilizing, civilizing, spreading the race of humankind wherever he was

driven. Civilizing with a fervor no hired dummy could have accomplished,

driven by his fear to sell with all the real estate agent's talent that

had been born in him, selling for the sake of money with which to buy

that land he needed for his peace--and always being forced to sell a

little too much.



Ud Klavan rose from his chair. "You are also right, Marlowe. You are a

race of maniacs, gibbering across the stars. And know, Marlowe, that the

other races of the universe hate you."



Marlowe with a tremendous effort heaved himself out of his chair.



"Hate us?" He lumbered around the desk and advanced on the frightened

Dovenilid, who was retreating backwards before his path.



"Can't you see it? Don't you understand that, if we are to pursue any

course of action over a long time--if we are ever going to achieve a

galaxy in which an Earthman can some day live at peace with himself--we

must each day violate all the moral codes and creeds which we held

inviolate the day before? That we must fight against every ideal, every

principle which our fathers taught us, because they no longer apply to

our new logic?



"You hate us!" He thrust his fat hand, its nails bitten down to the

quick and beyond, in front of the cringing alien's eyes.



"You poor, weak, single-minded, ineffectual thing! We hate ourselves!"