And for the first time I saw the real fear she had tried to express from the first. She was afraid of dying—of her race dying; everybody had those fears. But what was just as important to her was her home, her family, her friends. The shopping center, the games, the theaters, the whole concept of courtesy. My people weren't going to kill her body, that was true, but we were destroying all the things that give meaning to life. I hadn't found a solution—I'd just invented murder without bloodshed. Somehow I had to make it right.
I tried to reach my arm around her. "I love you, Mary." The words came out garbled, incomprehensible. "I love you, Mary," more clearly this time.
I don't think she even heard. She pushed away hysterically. "Horlig was the one who was right. Not you. It is better to fight and die than—" She didn't finish. She hit frantically and inexpertly at my face and chest. She'd never had any training, but those were hard, determined blows and they were doing damage. I knew I couldn't stop her, short of injuring her. I stood up under that rain of blows and made for the steps. She followed, fighting, crying.
I stumbled off the steps. She stayed on the porch, crying in a low gurgle. I limped past the street lamp and into the darkness.
Republics and empires are natural enemies. The late Herman Kahn once said that the natural state of mankind is to be governed by an empire, and the natural course of empire is to grow until it either fills the earth, or is contained by another empire.
That doesn't always work. In the eternal clash between republic and empire, the republics don't always win. But often they do—particularly if the republic is young and vigorous.
Indeed, young and vigorous republics seldom miss an opportunity to tweak the nose of empire. As an example, after the revolution of 1848 was violently suppressed in Austria-Hungary by Russian intervention, a United States Navy warship rescued Kossuth, one of the leaders of the revolution, and transported him in triumph to New York. When the Austro-Hungarian government protested, Daniel Webster, then Secretary of State, made an eloquent speech of defiance. "We are," he said, "a nation that spans a continent, and compared to the United States, the domains of the Habsburgs are but a patch upon the Earth." Of course there was no possible way that the Austro-Hungarian Empire could send an army of whitecoats to these shores. The Austrian navy was neither large nor strong nor particularly adapted to blue-water cruises, but it was still much larger than the U.S. Navy. On the other hand, Webster knew he could rely on the British and the Monroe Doctrine to correct our unfortunate lack of battleships.
In later years the American republic grew more vigorous, until by 1917 the United States held the balance of power in the world, and by 1945 was able to field more military power than any empire of history. Both those cases are instructive: before either of the World Wars began, the United States was not really taken seriously as a Great Power. We had the industrial capacity, to be sure. But we had little force in being, and our political authorities were unwilling or unable to do much about that. It was only after we had been drawn into the wars that we mobilized.
It is characteristic of democracies that they seldom have sustained policies, and almost never are willing to make sacrifices
now
to avoid greater sacrifices—even wars—later. How can they? The elected officials are never sure that spending money
now
will prevent the greater harm later, but they are very sure that those expenses won't be popular, and will probably get them defeated in the next election. Better to wait until everyone can see the threat.
Republics, mixed governments, can do better and often have. It was after all the intent of the Constitution that the states take care of most details of government, leaving the federal authority to concern itself with defense and diplomacy. And since the Congress wouldn't have a lot more to think about, nor much else to spend federal revenue on, the national government might do a creditable job of providing for the common defense. There were also those oceans between us and any possible enemy.
Unfortunately, in this era, Congress seems to have a great deal more to think about than defense, and the oceans seem to have shrunk considerably.
Empires can mobilize their resources in time of war or peace. Empires can design plans that will require decades to accomplish. Empires are nearly always better armed than republics, at least when hostilities begin. It would seem that empires have the advantage.
So they do. But empires always forget what free people can accomplish.
Ted Sturgeon has said that the theme of this story is simple enough: your freedom is worthless unless you use it to free someone else, and the best way to do that is "to infect locked-up minds with the idea of freedom."
And the Sun went nova and humanity fragmented and fled; and such is the self-knowledge of humankind that it knew it must guard its past as it guarded its being, or it would cease to be human; and such was its pride in itself that it made of its traditions a ritual and a standard.
The great dream was that wherever humanity settled, fragment by fragment by fragment, however it lived, it would continue rather than begin again, so that all through the universe and the years, humans would be humans, speaking as humans, thinking as humans, aspiring and progressing as humans; and whenever human met human, no matter how different, how distant, he would come in peace, meet his own kind, speak his own tongue.
Humans, however, being humans—
Bril emerged near the pink star, disliking its light, and found the fourth planet. It hung waiting for him like an exotic fruit (And was it ripe, and could he ripen it? And what if it were poison?) He left his machine in orbit and descended in a bubble. A young savage watched him come and waited by a waterfall.
"Earth was my mother," said Bril from the bubble. It was the formal greeting of all humankind, spoken in the Old Tongue.
"And my father," said the savage, in an atrocious accent.
Watchfully, Bril emerged from the bubble, but stood very close by it. He completed his part of the ritual. "I respect the disparity of our wants, as individuals, and greet you."
"I respect the identity of our needs, as humans, and greet you. I am Wonyne," said the youth, "son of Tanyne, of the Senate, and Nina. This place is Xanadu, the district, on Xanadu, the fourth planet."
"I am Bril of Kit Carson, second planet of the Sumner System, and a member of the Sole Authority," said the newcomer, adding, "and I come in peace."
He waited then, to see if the savage would discard any weapons he might have, according to historic protocol. Wonyne did not; he apparently had none. He wore only a cobwebby tunic and a broad belt made of flat, black, brilliantly polished stones and could hardly have concealed so much as a dart. Bril waited yet another moment, watching the untroubled face of the savage, to see if Wonyne suspected anything of the arsenal hidden in the sleek black uniform, the gleaming jack-boots, the metal gauntlets.
Wonyne said only, "Then, in peace, welcome." He smiled. "Come with me to Tanyne's house and mine, and be refreshed."
"You say Tanyne, your father, is a Senator? Is he active now? Could he help me to reach your center of government?"
The youth paused, his lips moving slightly, as if he were translating the dead language into another tongue. Then, "Yes. Oh, yes."
Bril flicked his left gauntlet with his right fingertips and the bubble sprang away and up, where at length it would join the ship until it was needed. Wonyne was not amazed—probably, thought Bril, because it was beyond his understanding.
Bril followed the youth up a winding path past a wonderland of flowering plants, most of them purple, some white, a few scarlet, and all jeweled by the waterfall. The higher reaches of the path were flanked by thick soft grass, red as they approached, pale pink as they passed.
Bril's narrow black eyes flicked everywhere, saw and recorded everything: the easy-breathing boy's spring up the slope ahead, and the constant shifts of color in his gossamer garment as the wind touched it; the high trees, some of which might conceal a man or a weapon; the rock outcroppings and what oxides they told of; the birds he could see and the birdsongs he heard which might be something else.
He was a man who missed only the obvious, and there is so little that is obvious.
Yet he was not prepared for the house; he and the boy were halfway across the parklike land which surrounded it before he recognized it as such.
It seemed to have no margins. It was here high and there only a place between flower beds; yonder a room became a terrace, and elsewhere a lawn was a carpet because there was a roof over it. The house was divided into areas rather than rooms, by open grilles and by arrangements of color. Nowhere was there a wall. There was nothing to hide behind and nothing that could be locked. All the land, all the sky, looked into and through the house, and the house was one great window on the world. Seeing it, Bril felt a slight shift in his opinion of the natives. His feeling was still one of contempt, but now he added suspicion. A cardinal dictum on humans as he knew them was:
Every man has something to hide.
Seeing a mode of living like this did not make him change his dictum: he simply increased his watchfulness, asking:
How do they hide it?
"Tan! Tan!" the boy was shouting. "I've brought a friend!"
A man and a woman strolled toward them from a garden. The man was huge, but otherwise so like the youth Wonyne that there could be no question of their relationship. Both had long, narrow, clear gray eyes set very wide apart, and red—almost orange—hair. The noses were strong and delicate at the same time, their mouths thin-lipped but wide and good-natured.
But the woman—
It was a long time before Bril could let himself look, let himself believe that there was such a woman. After his first glance, he made of her only a presence and fed himself small nibbles of belief in his eyes, in the fact that there could be hair like that, face, voice, body. She was dressed, like her husband and the boy, in the smoky kaleidoscope which resolved itself, when the wind permitted, into a black-belted tunic.
"He is Bril of Kit Carson in the Sumner System," babbled the boy, "and he's a member of the Sole Authority and it's the second planet and he knew the greeting and got it right. So did I," he added, laughing. "This is Tanyne, of the Senate, and my mother Nina."
"You are welcome, Bril of Kit Carson," she said to him; and unbelieving in this way that had come upon him, he took away his gaze and inclined his head.
"You must come in," said Tanyne cordially, and led the way through an arbor which was not the separate arch it appeared to be, but an entrance.
The room was wide, wider at one end than the other, though it was hard to determine by how much. The floor was uneven, graded upward toward one corner, where it was a mossy bank. Scattered here and there were what the eye said were white and striated gray boulders; the hand would say they were flesh. Except for a few shelf- and tablelike niches on these and in the bank, they were the only furniture.
Water ran frothing and gurgling through the room, apparently as an open brook; but Bril saw Nina's bare foot tread on the invisible covering that followed it down to the pool at the other end. The pool was the one he had seen from outside, indeterminately in and out of the house. A large tree grew by the pool and leaned its heavy branches toward the bank, and evidently its wide-flung limbs were webbed and tented between by the same invisible substance which covered the brook, for they formed the only cover overhead yet, to the ear,
felt
like a ceiling.
The whole effect was, to Bril, intensely depressing, and he surprised himself with a flash of homesickness for the tall steel cities of his home planet.
Nina smiled and left them. Bril followed his host's example and sank down on the ground, or floor, where it became a bank, or wall. Inwardly, Bril rebelled at the lack of decisiveness, of discipline, of clear-cut limitation inherent in such haphazard design as this. But he was well trained and quite prepared, at first, to keep his feelings to himself among barbarians.
"Nina will join us in a moment," said Tanyne.
Bril, who had been watching the woman's swift movements across the courtyard through the transparent wall opposite, controlled a start. "I am unused to your ways and wondered what she was doing." he said.
"She is preparing a meal for you," explained Tanyne.
"Herself?"
Tanyne and his son gazed wonderingly. "Does that seem unusual to you?"
"I understood the lady was wife to a Senator," said Bril. It seemed adequate as an explanation, but only to him. He looked from the boy's face to the man's. "Perhaps I understand something different when I use the term 'Senator.' "
"Perhaps you do. Would you tell us what a Senator is on the planet Kit Carson?"
"He is a member of the Senate, subservient to the Sole Authority, and in turn leader of a free Nation."
"And his wife?"
"His wife shares his privileges. She might serve a member of the Sole Authority, but hardly anyone else—certainly not an unidentified stranger."
"Interesting," said Tanyne, while the boy murmured the astonishment he had not expressed at Bril's bubble, or Bril himself. "Tell me, have you not identified yourself, then?"
"He did, by the waterfall," the youth insisted.
"I gave you no proof," said Bril stiffly. He watched father and son exchange a glance. "Credentials, written authority." He touched the flat pouch hung on his power belt.
Wonyne asked ingenuously, "Do the credentials say you are
not
Bril of Kit Carson in the Sumner System?"
Bril frowned at him and Tanyne said gently, "Wonyne, take care." To Bril, he said, "Surely there are many differences between us, as there always are between different worlds. But I am certain of this one similarity: the young at times run straight where wisdom has built a winding path."