Rite of Passage

20

I’ve always resented the word maturity, primarily, I think, because it is most often used as a club. If you do something that someone doesn’t like, you lack maturity, regardless of the actual merits of your action. Too, it seems to me that what is most often called maturity is nothing more than disengagement from life. If you meet life squarely, you are likely to make mistakes, do things you wish you hadn’t, say things you wish you could retract or phrase more felicitously, and, in short, fumble your way along. Those “mature” people whose lives are even without a single sour note or a single mistake, who never fumble, manage only at the cost of original thought and original action. They do without the successes as well as the failures. This has never appealed to me and that is another reason I could never accept the common image of maturity that was presented to me.

It was only after I came back from Trial that I came to a notion of my own as to what maturity consists of. Maturity is the ability to sort the portions of truth from the accepted lies and self-deceptions that you have grown up with. It is easy now to see the irrelevance of the religious wars of the past, to see that capitalism in itself is not evil, to see that honor is most often a silly thing to kill a man for, to see that national patriotism should have meant nothing in the twenty-first century, to see that a correctly-arranged tie has very little to do with true social worth. It is harder to assess as critically the insanities of your own time, especially if you have accepted them unquestioningly for as long as you can remember, for as long as you have been alive. If you never make the attempt, whatever else you are, you are not mature.

I came to this conclusion after the Ship’s Assembly that was held as a result of our experiences on Tintera. Our experiences were shocking to the Ship, and Tintera seemed like a glimpse of the Pit. The Tinterans were Free Birthers beyond a doubt. (I don’t like that idea even now.) They might be slavers. They had obtained a scoutship by some low method and had intended to use it against us. Finally, they had killed an unprecedented number of our Trial Group. To die on Trial was one thing — to have children assassinated by Mudeaters was another.

Rumors started to spread almost as soon as we had arrived home. The day after we came home, a Ship’s Council Meeting was held, and thereafter an account of what had actually happened was broadcast through the Ship. To most people, it was worse than the rumors.

I sat in on the Council meeting and testified, and I could see that every man on the Council was bothered by what we had to say. The Council concluded that a major decision needed to be made, and made with reasonable promptness, so two days later a Ship’s Assembly was called.

The only adults who were not in the amphitheatre for the Assembly were the few hundred people absolutely required to keep our world running. The seventeen of us who had survived, Mr. Pizarro, and George Fuhonin sat with the Council on the stage at the base of the theatre. I had seen plays performed where I was sitting.

Daddy called the Assembly to order on the hour, and began by apologizing for interrupting the holiday with serious business.

“I know, however,” he said, “that most of you have caught the vid discussions of Tintera and realize the serious nature of the problem. We dropped a Trial Group on this planet one month ago. We’ll have them tell you as they told the Council exactly what they saw and experienced. When they have finished, the floor will be open to questions and debate.”

The audience had previously heard the facts. Now they heard them directly from us. I testified about Free Birth. I told exactly what I had seen. Jack Fernandez-Fragoso testified about the Losels. Jimmy told about the captured scoutship. One by one, we told what we knew, led by Daddy’s questions, and Mr. Pizarro and George added their testimony to ours. When we were done, the questioning started. Mr. Tubman recognized the signal of a little man sitting high in the left banks and put him on screen. The whispering-gallery amplifiers picked up his question.

“Do I understand that they were using these Losel things as slaves? Is that right?”

Mr. Persson answered that fairly. “We don’t know that. They were definitely using them as involuntary labor. The question seems to be whether they are intelligent enough to be called slaves. As you heard from Mr. Fernandez-Fragoso, there are some indications that they are, and some that they aren’t. But I think we should bear the possibility in mind.”

The little man nodded, and Mr. Tubman passed on to another man who had signaled for recognition.

“Am I right? They actually intended to move against our Ship by force?”

Mr. Persson said, “That’s not certain, either. It’s another possibility and it was settled by the disabling of the scoutship.”

The man said, “Barbaric,” half to himself. Then: “I think we ought to offer a vote of thanks to these young people for solving our problem for us.” And he sat down.

The next person to gain recognition seconded the idea, and my face got hot. I looked at Jimmy and saw that he was embarrassed, too. I wished that they would pass on. I didn’t want any vote of thanks like a stone hung around my neck.

Mr. Persson said, “I think that’s a fine idea. I call for a vote on the motion.”

One of the others on the Council raised an objecting hand. He said, “I think that’s getting away from the purpose of this Assembly. If at some other time the idea seems in order, we can take action on it then.”

There was a great deal of commotion. When everything settled down, Daddy made his ruling.

“I think we should continue now.”

Knowing what Daddy had in mind to do in this Assembly, I was just as glad not to be thanked.

The next man to speak said, “I think we’re missing the main point. These people are Free Birthers! That’s the whole question. We all know what that sort of policy leads to. And they’ve proven it again with this scoutship business — who did they murder to get it? — with throwing our youngsters in jail, and all the rest. They’re a menace, and that’s the truth.”

Mr. Persson started to answer that one, too. “It’s their planet, Mr. Findlay. I wouldn’t want to deny them the right to have laws of trespass. And for the…”

My father cut him off. “I disagree. I think Mr. Findlay has raised a valid issue. It should be considered seriously.”

There was a lot of noise on this, but since the Council members were the only ones on an open circuit outside the controller’s direction, Mr. Persson and Daddy were the only ones who could be heard clearly. There were, as I well knew, firmly drawn lines here. Under the politesse and apparent impartiality, Daddy was heading straight for a definite purpose with the aid of Mr. Tubman, and Mr. Persson was trying just as hard to turn the Assembly aside.

When they could be heard, Mr. Persson said, “We’re aware. We are aware of the danger these people present. We are aware. But the question has been settled for the moment. They may be Free Birthers, but still there are no more than a few million of them. They are primitive. They are backward. They have no means by which to do us harm. At worst, they can be contained. Let’s leave the poor devils alone in isolation to work out their own destiny.”

Daddy said just as doggedly, “I don’t agree!”

Somebody started yelling for debate then, and it spread, more and more people yelling — this is the fun of Assemblies — and then, finally, they got everything quieted down.

The man who was recognized by the controller said, “It’s all right for you to sit there and tell us that, Mr. Persson, but can you guarantee that they won’t get another scoutship by whatever way they got their first one? Can you guarantee that?”

“If the other Ships are warned,” Mr. Persson said, “there won’t be any problem. But the real point is being missed here. The real point is not the damage that this backward planet can do to us. The real point is, what is the reason that there is any possibility of damage being done to us? I maintain that it is because they are backward!”

“That isn’t the question we are considering,” my father said. “We’re considering a specific case, not general issues. It isn’t pertinent. That’s my ruling.”

“It is pertinent!” Mr. Persson said. “It couldn’t be more pertinent. This question is larger than you want to admit, Mr. Havero. You’ve been avoiding bringing this question of policy, of basic policy for our Ship, out into the open. I say that now is the time.”

“You’re out of order.”

“I am not out of order! I say we should consider the point of general Ship policy. I call for a vote right now to decide whether or not we should consider it. I call for a vote, Mr. Havero.”

People in the Assembly started yelling again, some calling for a vote and some not. Eventually those calling for a vote got the louder end of it and my father held up a hand.

“All right,” he said, when it was quiet enough for him to be heard. “A motion has been made and seconded for a vote on the question of consideration of our planetary policy and carried by acclamation. Controller, record the vote.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Persson said, and punched his vote button.

I knew that Daddy wanted a vote of no, but I voted yes.

When everybody had voted, the master board showed “Yes” in green, “No” in red. The vote was 20,283 to 6,614. So we considered the question.

Mr. Persson said, “As you all know, our past policy has been to hand only as little technical information out to the planets as possible, and then only in return for material considerations. I say this is a mistake. I’ve said it before in Council meetings and I’ve attempted to bring it up before past Assemblies. In testimony that was made before the Council, Mia Havero stated that part of Tintera’s great hate for us is their feeling that they have been unfairly dealt out of their inheritance to which they have as much a right as we. I can’t say that I really blame them. We had no use for them — they had nothing we felt we could use — and in consequence they live lives of squalor. If there is any blame to assign for the fact that they are Free Birthers, I think it is ours for allowing them to lose contact with the unpleasant facts of history that we know so well. The responsibility was ours and we failed. I don’t believe that we should punish them for our failure.”

There was a round of applause from the Assembly as he finished. Then my father began to speak.

“I’m sure you all know that I disagree in every respect with Mr. Persson. First, the responsibility for what these people are — Free Birthers, possibly slavers, certainly attempted murderers — belongs to them, and not to us. They are products of the same history that we are, and if they have forgotten that history, it is not our business to teach it to them. We cannot judge them by what they might have been or by what they should have been. We have to take them for what they are and what they themselves intend to be. They are menaces to us and to every other portion of the present human race. I firmly believe that our only course is to destroy them. If we do not, then and only then will we have grounds to lay blame on ourselves. We in the Ships are in a vulnerable position; we live in an uneasy balance and the least mistake will be our ruin. Tintera is backward today, but even contained, tomorrow it may not be. That is the main fact to remember. A cancer cannot be contained and a planet that does not regulate birth is a cancer. A cancer must be destroyed or it will grow and grow until it destroys its host and itself. Tintera is a cancer. It must be destroyed.

“As for our planetary policy, I don’t believe that it needs fresh justification. The reasons for it are clear enough and they have not changed. We do live in a precarious balance, but there is reason for our living so. If we were to abandon the Ships and take up life on one or more of the colony planets, inevitably much of the knowledge that we have preserved and expanded would be lost or mutilated. If we were to take up life on one of the colonies, we would be swallowed and lost, a small voice in a population many times our size. In the exigencies of making a living under primitive conditions — and the most advanced of the colonies is still primitive — how much time would be left for art and science and mathematics? These things require time, and time is one thing that is not free on the colonies. Much that is around us could never be transported to a planet and preserved if the Ship were left behind. It could not be reproduced on any planet. It would have to be abandoned.

“We do live in a balance. We use and we re-use, but once we use and re-use we lose something that we cannot replace ourselves. We are dependent on the colonies for our survival. That is a cold fact. We are dependent upon the colonies for our survival. To gain the things we have to have in order to survive, we must give something in return. The only thing we have that we can spare to trade is knowledge — we cannot give it away as Mr. Persson has suggested in the past that we might. We cannot give it away. It is our only barter for the means to continue to exist as we want to exist. The only alternative to our present policy — the only alternative — is to abandon the Ship. I don’t want that — do you?”

As Daddy finished, the Assembly applauded again. I wondered if the same people were applauding who had applauded Mr. Persson. When they quieted, Mr. Persson spoke again.

“I deny it. I deny it. I deny it! It is not the only alternative. I agree that we live in a balance. I agree that we fulfill a necessary function and cannot abandon it. But I still believe that the colonies, our fellow heirs, deserve better of us than they have received. Whatever is decided about Tintera, it is a tragedy as it stands today. It is an indictment of our policy. We have other alternatives to this policy. Without even spending time on it, I can think of two, either of which is preferable to our present course. Our dependence on the colonies is artificial. We pride ourselves on our proven ability to survive. We pride ourselves that we have kept ourselves tough, mentally and physically. But what does our toughness prove? We think it proves much — but actually? Nothing! Nothing because it is all a waste. How could we prove our fitness? We could hunt up a planet and produce for ourselves the raw material we need. Or for another, we could actually attempt to apply some of our avowed scientific superiority and devise a method by which we could avoid any dependence on any planet, colony or uninhabited, for raw material. We could devise a method to make the Ship truly self-sufficient. By either of these courses we would lose nothing in doing what we should have been doing from the beginning — sharing knowledge, teaching and helping to make something of the human race as a whole.

“I accuse us. I accuse us of being lazy. We meet no challenges at all. We drift instead on a lazy, leisurely, floating course that takes us from planet to planet, meeting no challenges, fulfilling none of our potential, being less than we could be. To me, that is a sin. It is an affront to God, but more than that, it is an affront to ourselves. I can think of nothing sadder than to know that you might be more than you are, but be unwilling to make the effort. We could be raising our fellow men from the lives of squalor and desperation that they lead. You don’t wish this? Then I say it would be better to leave them alone completely than to follow our present meddlesome, paternalistic, repressive course. We have the power to explore the stars. If we were willing to take the chance, we could travel to the end of the Galaxy. That is within our power and it would certainly add to the knowledge we claim to be interested in. But our present life is parasitical. Can we leave things as they now stand?”

The debate went on for two hours. After Mr. Persson and Daddy had spoken, it went to the Assembly. At times, it was extremely bitter. At one point, someone said that a sign of the sterility of our life was that we in the Ship had no art.

Mr. Lemuel Carpentier rose to dispute this. That was the only time during the evening that Mr. Mbele spoke. He bowed to Mr. Carpentier and then he said simply, “Sir, you are wrong,” and took his seat again.

In the end, the lines were drawn so plainly that everyone knew where he stood. At the end of two hours, my father rose and called a halt to the debate.

“It all seems clear enough,” he said. “Any further argument will simply be recapitulation, so there seems no point in carrying things further. I propose we call this all to a vote. The basic question seems to be, what shall be done with Tintera? That is the purpose of this Assembly. Those who agree with Mr. Persson on a policy of containment, and I don’t know what else — re-education perhaps? — will also be voting for a change in our basic way of life along one or more of the lines that Mr. Persson has suggested or some similar alternative. Those who vote with me for the destruction of Tintera will also be voting for a continuation of the policies we have been living by for 160 years. Is that a fair statement of the situation, Mr. Persson?”

Mr. Persson nodded. “I will second the motion for a vote myself.”

“Is the motion carried?”

There was an overwhelming response from the Assembly.

“The motion is carried. The vote will be — shall Tintera be destroyed? All those in favor vote ‘Yes.’ All those opposed vote ‘No.’ Controller, record the vote.”

I pressed my button. Again the master board showed “Yes” in green and “No” in red. The vote was 16,408 to 10,489 — and Tintera was to be blown out of existence.

It took just a few more minutes for the meeting to be closed. The amphitheatre began to clear, but I didn’t leave immediately and neither did Jimmy. I saw Mr. Mbele making his way down toward us. He walked up to the table and looked at Daddy and for a long moment he didn’t say anything. Daddy was putting his papers together.

Mr. Mbele said, “So we’ve returned to the days of ‘moral discipline.’ I thought all of that lay behind us.”

Daddy said, “You could have made that point, Joseph. In this case, I happen to think ‘moral discipline’ — if you want to use that tired old phrase…”

“Euphemism.”

“All right, euphemism. I happen to think it was justified by the circumstances.”

“I know you do.”

“You could have spoken. Why didn’t you?”

Mr. Mbele smiled and shook his head. “It wouldn’t have made any difference today,” he said. “Change isn’t going to come about easily. I’m just going to have to wait for another generation.” He nodded at Jimmy. “Ask him how he voted.”

He knew Jimmy and there was no question in his mind.

Daddy said, “I don’t have to. I already know how they both voted. Mia and I have been talking about this for the past three days — arguing — and I know we don’t agree. Was it a mistake to put her in your hands?”

Mr. Mbele was surprised. He looked at me and raised his eyebrows. He said, “I doubt it was me. If it were, you’d have voted against your own motion. I think it’s the times that are changing. I hope it is.”

Then he turned and walked away.

I said to Daddy, “Jimmy is going to help me pack.”

“All right,” Daddy said. “I’ll see you later.”

I was leaving the apartment. That had been decided earlier in the week. It wasn’t merely a matter of Daddy’s and my complete inability to agree. He’d asked if it was.

I said, “No. I just think it would be better if I left. Besides, Mother will be moving back in.”

“How did you know that?”

I smiled. “I just knew she would.”

With Mother coming back, I knew it was time for me to leave. In any case, I was an adult now, and it was time for me to stop holding on to Daddy’s hand.

I wasn’t entirely candid with him, however, as I suspect he knew. We no longer saw things exactly the same way — I didn’t like what Daddy was doing — and it would have made a difference in living in the same apartment. I had changed, but it wasn’t just Mr. Mbele who had changed me. It was a lot of things — experiences and people — including Daddy himself. If he hadn’t moved us to Geo Quad, there is no doubt that I would never have voted the way I did, if I had by some miracle passed Trial.

As Jimmy and I were leaving the amphitheatre, Daddy turned and called to George. “Come along. The Council will want to talk with you before you leave.”

I said to Jimmy, “You were sitting next to George. How did he vote?”

“He voted for.”

“They’re going to send him to do it, you know.”

Jimmy nodded.

The thing that I didn’t understand was how people who are as fine and as kind as Daddy and George could vote to destroy a whole world of people. The reason that I didn’t understand was that it was only in the past few weeks that my world had grown large enough to include Mudeaters and other patent inferiors and that I had learned to feel pain at their passing. I simply did not want to see Tintera destroyed. Daddy was wrong. I had had my moral blindness and now it was gone. I could not understand my former self and I could not understand Daddy and George.

Five years have passed since then and I still don’t fully understand. There is a lesson that I learned at twelve — the world does not end at the edge of a quad. There are people outside. The world does not end on the Fourth Level. There are people elsewhere. It took me two years to learn to apply the lesson — that neither does the world end with the Ship. If you want to accept life, you have to accept the whole bloody universe. The universe is filled with people, and there is not a single solitary spear carrier among them.

I envy people like Jimmy who knew that all along and didn’t have to learn. Jimmy says he had to learn, too, and that I just never noticed, but I don’t believe him.

Daddy and George and the other 16,000 had no right to destroy Tintera. If you like, it is never right to kill millions of people that you don’t know personally. Intellectually I knew long ago that the ability to do something doesn’t necessarily give you the right to do it — that’s the old power philosophy, and I never liked it. We might be able to discipline Tintera, but who appointed us to the job? We were doing it anyway and there was no one to stop us, but we were wrong.

New Year’s Eve is the final night of Year End, and the biggest night of celebration of them all. There are parties in every corner of the Residential Levels, all designed to wind up the clocks for another year. I was supposed to meet Jimmy at a party being given by Helen Pak, but I didn’t show up.

George was out there somewhere in his scoutship, eliminating Tintera, and I didn’t feel particularly like going to a party. Happy 2200, everyone.

I was down on the Third Level. I’d gone past Lev Quad and down to Entry Gate 5. I walked for awhile in the park and then they turned on the precipitation and I ran for shelter, the familiar building in which I’d stowed my gear for a year and a half before I had graduated to a more exalted state in which I could participate in decisions to morally discipline all the bad people in the universe.

It was dark except for the light shining at the entry gate. The temperature was cool and pleasant and the rain dripped from the roof in a steady trickle. It was, as much as any I’ve ever known, a fine night to be alive. That was where Jimmy found me eventually, tunelessly humming to myself. I saw him come out of the entry gate, look around, and then run through the rain, and it struck me how much he had grown.

He sat down next to me. “I finally figured you might be here. Depressed?”

“A little.”

“Tomorrow, let’s stop in and see Mr. Mbele. He wants to see us, you know, and we have to start planning our advanced training.”

“All right,” I said. Then I said, “I wonder if Att was still alive.”

Jimmy said, “Don’t… dwell on it.”

“I’ll tell you something…” I began with vehemence.

“I know. We’ll change things.”

I nodded. “I hope it doesn’t take too long,” I said. “What will we be like if it does?” I found the thought horrifying.

Jimmy got up and said, “Come on. Let’s go home to bed.”

We splashed through the rain, running toward the light over the entry gate.

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