Authors: Poul Anderson
Eva had always loved this sight.
The path reached the Emperor River and followed its bank. It sheened hard frozen. On its opposite side, buried fields and pastures rose toward hills and wilderness. Against that remote murk glimmered a few lights, from one of the villages which were springing up across the plateau.
To Coffin, sound seemed muffled in this thin air; and in these his latter years he had grown hard of hearing. He wasn’t aware of the skaters until he rounded a bend in the river, screened by a clump of plume oak, and saw them. Here a road was carried by a bridge. Around its piers and across the ice frolicked a score of boys and girls. They whizzed, they swooped, they laid arms about each other’s waists and took wing. Their shouting and laughter crackled in the chill.
Coffin went onto the span to watch. Abruptly he noticed another already present. The lad was tall, but not only was he wearing a black outfit, the African share of his ancestry made his face almost invisible at a distance. The skates which he had removed caught the moonlight at his feet.
“Why, … hullo,” Coffin said, peering.
“Oh.” The youth turned. “Mr. Coffin. How do you do, sir?”
The man recognized him, Alex Burns, son of a neighbor of de Smet: a bright, well-mannered chap. “Taking a rest?”
“Not exactly, sir.” Alex gripped the railing and stared away. “I got to thinking.”
“On a night like this? Seems as if you’re missing a lot of fun. Sure wish I could get in on it.”
“Really? Sir, you’re welcome to borrow my skates.”
“Thanks, but at my age, a fall under Rustum gravity can be a serious matter. And I’ve got business ahead of me.”
“Yes, sir. Everybody knows that.”
Then Alex swung around again to confront him and said in a desperate voice, “Mr. Coffin, could I talk with you?”
“Certainly. Though I don’t know what a rusticating gaffer like me has to say that’d be of use.”
Yet I remember my sons at your age—how short a while ago!
“This news … about the fleet coming from Sol —it’s true?” Somehow the adolescent squeak in midquestion was not ridiculous.
“As far as we can tell. Twenty light-years between makes for slow communications. The Earth government may have changed its mind meanwhile. They were phasing out space travel when your ancestors left. Too costly, given a bloated population pressing on resources worn thin. Not quite in their world view, either. The culture was turning more and more from science and technology to mysticism and ceremony.”
“Th-that’s what my teachers say. Which is how come I’m scared this is a, a false alarm.”
“Well, I don’t think it’ll turn out to be. Giving the Constitutionalists passage to Rustum was a gimmick to get rid of them. But those who elected to go weren’t all the Constitutionalists by any means, nor was that the only kind of dissenter. Once we started sending messages back, our example seems to’ve had considerable psychological effect, roused a widespread desire to emulate. My suspicion is, the government has no choice except to resume a space effort—for several decades, at least, till the social climate changes again. They claim they’re searching for other habitable planets… . No, I think this emigrant fleet is indeed under weigh.”
“Why don’t our people want it?”
The anguish startled Coffin. “Well, uh, well, some folks worry about the effects on society. That’s not unanimous, Alex. I assure you, the average lowlander has nothing against receiving a few thousand newcomers.”
“But the, the average High American—”
“Nobody’s taken a poll. I’m not sure, myself, how a vote on the question would go.”
Alex flung an arm skyward, pointing. The constellations of Rustum were scarcely different from those of Earth; in this universe, twenty light-years are the single stumbling step of an infant.
But just above Bootes flickered a wanness which was Sol.
“Th-they can come to us,” the boy stammered. “Why can’t we go to them?”
“We haven’t the industry to build spacecraft. Won’t for generations, maybe centuries.”
“And meanwhile we have to stay here! Our whole lives!” Did tears catch the level moonbeams?
Now Coffin understood. “How does your pressure tolerance test out?” he asked softly.
“I can live … down to about … t-t-two kilometers below.”
“That’s not bad. Plenty of territory in that range. You can have an adventurous life if you want.”
“Oh, yes, sir. I s’pose.”
“As I recall, you aim to become a scientist. Well, there’s no lack of field research left to do. And if you want to go further down, clear to sea level, why, the new-model air helmets are excellent.”
“It’s not the same.” Alex gulped, knotted fists at sides, and after a while said rapidly: “Please don’t think I’m whining, sir. Nor am I, uh, uh, looking down on anybody. But most lowlanders I’ve met— you’re different, of course—most of them, I don’t … well, we don’t fight or anything, but we don’t seem to have a lot to talk about.”
Coffin nodded. “The frontier doesn’t exactly breed intellectuals, does it? Do bear in mind, though, son: those scouts, lumberjacks, farmers, fishermen—they aren’t stupid. They simply have different concerns from this tamed High America.
In fact, the well-established lowland communities, like my Lake Moondance, they no longer maintain frontier personality either.”
No, instead it’s a wealth-conscious squirearchy, a yeomanry settling down into folkways—not effete, not ossified… still, we’ve become rather ingrown and self-satisfied, haven’t we? It hasn’t been so on my plantation; Eva never allowed it to become so. She got the kids, and me, to lift our eyes from our daily concerns. Elsewhere, however—No, I hardly think Alex would find many of his own sort around Lake Moondance.
“The compromise for you,” he suggested, “might be to do your field work in company with roughneck local guides—who can be top-notch company, remember, who
are
if you take them on the proper terms—and afterward you come back here and write up your findings, where people are cultured.”
“Culture!” Alex fleered. “They think ‘culture’ means playing the same symphonies and reading the same books their grandfathers did!”
“That’s not entirely fair. We have artists, authors, composers, not to mention scientists, doing original work.”
“How original? The science is … using tried and true methods, never basic research … and the arts copy the old models, over and over—”
He speaks considerable truth,
Coffin thought.
Alex’s finger stabbed back at the stars. “If they really were original, sir,” he cried, “they wouldn’t want to wall us off from those. Would they?”
Coffin consoled him as well as might be.
It was doubtful if man would ever altogether outlive the heritage of the planet which bore him. He could train himself to some degree of change from the ancient rhythm of her turning, but not enough to become a fully diurnal creature on Rustum. In the middle latitude at which Anchor lay, a midwinter night lasted for forty-two hours. Of necessity, during two fourteen-hour segments of that darkness, indoor and outdoor illumination made the town a cluster of small suns.
Beneath this sky-hiding roof of light, delegates to the second session of the Constitutional Convention mounted the staircase into Wolfe Hall. They numbered about fifty men and women. Though all were dressed to show due respect for the occasion, the costumes were nearly as varied as the ages. (Daniel Coffin was the oldest, the youngest a male who probably didn’t shave oftener than once a day.) Here a professor walked lean and dignified, in tunic and trousers as gray as his head but the academic cloak gorgeous on his shoulders. There an engineer had reverted to archaic styles and put upon herself a long skirt of formality. Yonder a sea captain, weathered and squint-eyed, rolled forward in billed cap and brass buttons, next to the blue uniform of an air pilot. A rancher from lowland North Persis, otherwise a sensible man, flaunted leather garments and a necklace of catling teeth. The physician with whom he talked had underlined her standing in the cut of her jacket… . Coffin felt drab among them. And yet, he thought, weren’t they reaching a bit, weren’t they being just a touch too studiedly picturesque?
Citizens crowded the pavement, watching, in an eerie hush. Anchor had grown used to seeing the congress assemble. But this time was different. This time its first order of business was light-years remote and terrifyingly immediate. Soon they would hasten home, to follow the proceedings on television. Afterward they would argue in their houses, fields, shops, laboratories, camps, schools, taverns, and who knew what passions might flare?
Coffin paused in the lobby to leave his coverall. Most others had omitted that garment, as being too unsolemn when they scrambled in or out of it, and walked in frozen dignity from their lodgings. Low-voiced talk buzzed around him. An ache throbbed in his left wrist; probably he needed an arthritis booster. He shoved the awareness aside and concentrated on his plan of action. He must get his licks in early, because he hadn’t the stamina any longer for ten or twelve unbroken hours of debate. Well, he and Dorcas Hirayama had discussed this privately beforehand.
The building had been enlarged over the years, but the meeting place was the original whole of it, piously preserved birch wainscoting and rough rafters. Echoes boomed. Folding chairs spread across the floor. At the far end rose the platform, decorated in red-white-and-blue bunting, Freedom Flag on the wall behind—the platform where for three generations, speakers had spoken, actors performed, orchestras played, callers sounded the measures of square dances.
For an instant the assembly was gone from around Daniel Coffin. They were calling a new one, and he and Mary Lochaber ran hand in hand, laughterful like skaters, to join in, and afterward he would walk her home under stars and moons.
No. That was then. Mary married Bill Sandberg, and I married Eva Spain, and this was best for us both, and at last we were united in Alice and David. I’m sorry, Eva.
It was as if he heard her chuckle and felt her rumple his hair.
Well—The delegates were taking their seats, much scrapping and muttering back and forth. Hirayama was mounting the podium. The cameramen were making final adjustments. Coffin shivered.
Poor heating in here. Or else simply that old blood runs cold.
His head lifted.
They may find it can still run pretty hot when it wants to.
The gavel slammed. How far back did that signal go, anyway? To the first cave patriarch whose stone hammer smote a log? There was strength in the thought, a sense of not being utterly adrift and alone in time. No wonder the colonists tried so hard to keep Earth ways alive, or actually to revive some which had been as obsolete on Earth as the liberty their ancestors came here to save. And when this failed on a world that was not Earth, no wonder they were so quick to develop rituals and taboos of their own.
“In the name of the people of Rustum, for whom we are gathered, I call this meeting to order,” said the clear female voice. It continued through parliamentary formalities to which nobody really listened, not even those who took part.
Until:
“As you doubtless know, we’ve had a surprise dropped in our laps.” Coffin felt his mouth twitch upward. Now Dorcas could start behaving like herself! She leaned forward, hands on the lectern, small in her gown but large in her presence, “Maybe it’s best that it did occur at this precise time. In writing the basic law of our planet, we’ll remember that a universe encloses it.
“At any rate, many persons, including many members of this assembly, feel we should take the matter up before going on to our regular agenda. I agree. By virtue of the powers vested in me, et cetera, I’ve appointed a couple of committees to study the implications of the immigrant fleet and make recommendations. This will be kept brief, ladies and gentlemen. No general discussion. The idea is to set forth different views as clearly as possible, then adjourn to consider them, then reconvene to exchange thoughts in detail.
“Will Dr. O’Malley’s committee please report first?”
Only their chairman joined her. He’d probably domineered over everyone else, for he had inherited genes from his grandfather.
However; Jack O’Malley made his domineering fun
, Coffin remembered from boyhood.
Also,… well, I’m not saying Morris O’Malley is inferior; but a lab administrator is not the same as an explorer who could drink his whole band under the table and wake in six hours, hound-dog eager to go discover some new miracle.
The speaker rustled papers. “My lady and colleagues, perhaps it would be best if I commence by summarizing the situation as my group understands it,” he said, and did at a length which caused Hirayama to drum nails on the arm of her chair.
“Well.” Finally O’Malley’s tone grew vigorous. “The question before us is twofold. Should we allow the travelers to join us? If not, can we prevent it?
“The second part is simple. We can. Presumably the fleet is already en route. Theron Svoboda, chief of interstellar communications, thinks we have a fair chance of intercepting it with a maser beam, getting a message through to the officers on watch. These can change course for a different star or, more likely, return to the Solar System.
“If this fails and the ships arrive, we—rather, the next generation of us—will nevertheless be in full control. A minority of your committee advocates constructing nuclear missiles to ensure it. The majority considers that would be a waste of effort. Fuel requirements being what they are, those are surely unarmed vessels. They will depend on us to help them refine reaction mass for the trip home. In no case can a few bewildered newcomers impose their will on a planet.”
He paused for a sip of water. “Very well. The issue is, therefore,
should
we give entry to these self-invited strangers?
“They bring us no benefit. We’d have to nurse them through adjustment to Rustum; for certainly we could never let them suffer and die as horribly as did many among our forefathers, whom nobody helped. Later we’d have to take time we can ill afford to teach them the habits, technicalities, and tricks which generations on Rustum have painfully learned for themselves. And at the end, in reward, what would we get? Workers not especially desirable, being grossly limited in what they can do. Perhaps not workers at all, but mere parasites. I shall return to this point shortly.