Exiled from Earth

22

Lou sat tensely in front of the Tri-V cameras. Next to him sat Dr. Kaufman, in an identical sling chair that creaked under his weight.

They were in the special compartment that had been turned into a Tri-V studio. Everyone in the satellite was watching them as they explained their positions on Lou’s starship proposal.

As Dr. Kaufman spoke in his vigorous, emphatic manner, driving points home with the accusatory thrusts of a stubby forefinger, Lou’s mind was far away.

He kept seeing Bonnie’s stricken face when she admitted that she would never go with him to the stars. Kept seeing the green countryside, the lemon orchards and vineyards, the safe blue sky and friendly sea that he would never visit again.

“I can’t leave Earth forever, Lou. I just can’t!”

Can I? he wondered. Can any of us? Turn our backs on the whole world, on a billion years of evolution? Is that what I want them to do? Is it what I want to do?

Dr. Kaufman was saying, “It is desperately important that we all realize exactly what is involved here. No one has ever built a manned starship. No one has even attempted to. You all know that we get supplies from Earth, every week. Even though we have closed-cycle air and water systems, we still need replenishments of air and water at least once a month.

“As long as we remain in orbit around the Earth we can get those supplies and replenishments whenever we need them. But if we leave Earth, if we try this foolhardy scheme for going to the stars, we must have air and water and food systems that are absolutely foolproof. Now, I realize that manned missions to Jupiter and Saturn have used closed-cycle systems, and they’ve worked quite well for periods of up to six years.

“But this star-roving we’re talking about will take decades! Perhaps a century or even more! Why, none of us are even sure that a truly Earth-like planet exists out among the stars.”

Kaufman shook his head, making a lock of his gray mane tumble over his forehead. “No, this star-roving idea is too risky, even on purely technical grounds. We just don’t know how to build a starship. And even if the best engineers on Earth were assigned by the government to help us, we wouldn’t be able to keep the ship in working order, once we left Earth. We wouldn’t be able to repair it and maintain it. How many engineers are there among us? A handful. We’re research scientists, not grease monkeys!”

Lou was listening with only half his mind. The other half was remorselessly reminding him: Life is ruled by the laws of thermodynamics, just as all physical processes are. You can’t get anything without paying the price. Not anything. If you want the stars, you must leave Bonnie behind. If you want Bonnie, the price is perpetual imprisonment.

What’s the difference? he asked himself. Would it be so different, pushing this beryllium nuthouse toward the stars? We’re all going to spend our lives inside this shell, wherever it’s going.

He answered himself, Don’t try to cop out. Heading for the stars gives everybody an aim, a purpose. Staying here is riding an orbital merry-go-round for the rest of your life, without hope, without anything but that big blue world hanging in front of your eyes, reminding you every minute of what’s been taken away.

“And remember,” Kaufman was saying, “that as long as we stay in orbit here, there’s always the chance that the government will have a change of heart, that we’ll be freed. Once we break away, once we start out for the stars, there can be no turning back. It’s an irrevocable step. None of us will live to see us reach our destination. Our children will age and die aboard this vehicle. Perhaps our grandchildren may find a world they can live on. Perhaps. That’s a very thin hope on which to hang the lives of every man, woman, and child among us.”

Kaufman stopped talking and leaned back, making the chair creak again. He turned expectantly toward Lou.

Suddenly Lou’s mouth felt dry and sticky, his palms moist with perspiration. The cameras were on him now, it was his turn to speak. Should he try to convince them, or should he toss the whole idea away?

He looked past Kaufman’s handsome features to the big electronic board that had been jury-rigged along the far wall of the studio. There was a light for every person aboard the satellite aged fifteen or older. When Lou finished speaking, they would all vote. A green light would show for each yes vote; a red one for each vote against the starship idea.

“You can’t miss,” Kori had told him before the Tri-V broadcast had started. “Most of the no votes will come from the older people, the over-thirties. But we outnumber them. I just checked the population figures.”

Greg had added, “We fought like kamikazes to get them to drop the age limit down to fifteen. After all, those kids are going to spend more of their lives in this pickle jar than any of us will.”

“All you need to do,” Kori had said, gripping Lou’s arm earnestly, “is to make a strong speech. Put it on the line for everybody. The kids will vote for going to the stars. I know they will!”

Now Lou sat there looking into the cold eyes of the cameras, but seeing Bonnie’s face, hearing her voice, watching her tears.

He heard himself clear his throat. He shifted uneasily in the chair. Then he said:

“Dr. Kaufman has pointed out some of the technical risks in trying to reach the stars. He’s perfectly right. It is dangerous. Nobody’s done it before. I don’t know—nobody knows—if we can make the engines and air pumps and water recyclers work for a century or more without fail.”

Lou hesitated a moment. “Dr. Kaufman also told you that if we stay here in orbit around Earth, there’s always the chance that we might win a reprieve. We might regain our freedom and be allowed to return to Earth and take up normal lives again. That’s also true. It could happen.”

Again he stopped, but only for the span of a heartbeat. Only long enough to call silently, agonizingly, Bonnie… Bonnie…

Then, “When I first came aboard this satellite, Dr. Kaufman asked me to go on Tri-V and tell you something about what had happened to me. I’m going to do that now.”

And he told them. He told them about the Federal marshal and his ride to New York. Told them about the man’s unhappiness at missing his family picnic. Told them of his night in New York, the gangs, the knives, the running, the terror. Told them how the Institute looked, emptied of everyone but Big George. Of his arrest, his arrival in Messina, his audience with Minister Bernard. Told them of the island, of Marcus, of what they planned to do, how they wanted to use genetic engineering and the offshoots of their biochemistry as weapons alongside an arsenal of nuclear bombs. Told them of what they did to Big George, and what they wanted to do to all mankind.

And finally he told them of the gently implacable General Chairman, of how he admitted that their exile was a horrible injustice, but could see no other course of action. And the people, the great masses of people, the twenty billions of people for whom they were being sacrificed, the people who knew of their exile but didn’t care.

“This is the world we’ve been exiled from. A world where a few people can destroy the lives of the best scientists on the planet, along with the lives of their families. A world where savages rule the cities and civilized monsters battle to control the government.”

He turned toward Kaufman. “This is the world you want to go back to! So let’s assume that we’re allowed to go back; let’s assume that the government changes its mind and frees us. What will they do with our work? Can we trust them to use our knowledge? Can we trust them in any way? What’s to stop them from exiling us again? Or quietly having us killed? Nobody cares about us. All they want is the power that our knowledge can give them. The kindest thing they were able to do was to exile us!”

Looking directly into the cameras, Lou said, “We have no one to turn to but ourselves. The choice is ours. We can orbit this planet, slowly dying, and hope that someday the government will allow us to return. But do we really want to return? I don’t. I’ve seen that world down there, and despite all its beauty I don’t want to return to it. In this universe, with all its stars and space, there’s got to be some place where we can make a better world for ourselves and our children. I say we should go to the stars.”

Lou collapsed back in the chair, feeling weak and trembling inside. Then the lights caught his eye. The vote shocked him: the green lights overwhelmed the few red ones.

Somewhere behind the cameras, people were laughing and clapping their hands. Somebody whistled shrilly. A door opened and Lou saw Kori and Greg heading toward him, grinning.

Lou knew that Bonnie was in her compartment. Packed and ready to leave. She was probably past tears now. Crying wouldn’t help anymore. The pain won’t be eased by tears, or words, or regrets.

“You’re making a terrible mistake,” Kaufman said, shaking his head. “Everything we need and desire is here, and you’re going to force us to turn our backs on it all. You’re making us leave our homes and head out into emptiness. There’s nothing out there for us, Christopher. Nothing!”

Nothing, Lou thought. Except the universe.