The Rival Rigelians

I

The Co-ordinator looked out over the eighteen seated before him and said, “I suppose I’m an incurable romantic. You see, I hate to see you go.”

Academician Amschel Mayer and Dr. Leonid Plekhanov sat slightly before the other sixteen. They were both in their early middle years and offset one another. Mayer was thin and high pitched, nervous and impatient; his manner was often that of a harried grade school teacher who disliked children. His colleague was heavy, slow and dour and he looked more the sergeant of infantry than a top political scientist.

Now, both showed their puzzlement, as did the balance of the team behind them.

The Co-ordinator added softly, “Without me.”

Plekhanov kept his massive face blank. It wasn’t for him to be impatient with his superior. Nevertheless, the ship was waiting, all stocked and ready for burn off. He stirred his bulk in his chair.

Amschel Mayer said, “It would be a pleasure if you could accompany us, Citizen.” Inwardly, he realized the other man’s position. Here was a dream coming true and Mayer and his fellows were the last thread that held the Co-ordinator’s control over the dream. When they left, half a century would pass before he could again check developments.

The Co-ordinator took a deep breath and became more businesslike. “Very briefly, I wish to go over your assignment. Undoubtedly redundant, but if there are any questions, no matter how trivial, this is the last opportunity to air them.”

What possible questions could there be at this late date? Plekhanov thought. He shifted his bulk again.

Behind him, Technician Jerome Kennedy whispered to the girl next to him from the side of his mouth, “Zen, I thought he was having us in for a last minute blast. A few snorts of guzzle.”

Natalie Wieliczka said, “Shhhh.”

The department head was swiveling slowly back and forth in his desk chair as he talked. “You are the first of many, many such teams. The manner in which you handle your task will effect man’s eternity. Obviously, since upon your experience we will base our future policies on interstellar colonization.” His voice lost volume. “The position in which you find yourself should be humbling.”

“It is,” Amschel Mayer agreed. Plekhanov nodded his head. Someone behind murmured further assent.

The Co-ordinator nodded too. “However, the situation is as near ideal as we could hope. Rigel’s planets are all but unbelievably Earthlike. Almost all our flora and fauna have been adaptable. Certainly our race has been.

“These two are the first of the seeded planets. Almost a thousand years ago we deposited small bodies of colonists upon each of them. Since then, we have periodically checked from a distance, but never intruded.”

His eyes swept the whole group, resting finally on the leaders. “No comment or questions thus far?”

Mayer said, when no one else could find a question, “This is one matter that has always surprised me. The colonies are so small to begin with. How could they possibly populate a whole world in one millennium?”

The Co-ordinator nodded and said, “Man adapts, Amschel. Have you studied the development of the United States in early history? During her first century and a half the need was for population to fill the vast lands wrested from the Amer-Inds. Families of eight, ten and twelve children were the common thing, and much larger ones were not unknown. And the generations crowded one against another. A girl worried about spinsterhood if she reached seventeen unwed. But in the next century? The frontier vanished, the driving need for population was gone. Not only were drastic immigration laws passed, but the family rapidly shrunk until by mid-Twentieth Century the usual consisted of two or three children, and even the childless family became increasingly common.”

Mayer frowned impatiently. “But still, a thousand years. There is always famine, war, disease…”

Plekhanov snorted patronizingly. “Forty to fifty generations, Amschel? Starting with a hundred colonists? Where are your mathematics?”

The Co-ordinator said, “The proof is there. We estimate that each of Rigel’s planets now supports a population of nearly one billion.”

“To be more exact”—Natt Roberts spoke up from the rear of the group—“some nine hundred million on Genoa, seven and a half on Texcoco.” His voice was as trim and neat as his physical appearance. However, it was information everyone present already possessed.

Mayer smiled wryly, “I wonder what the residents of each of these planets call their worlds. Hardly the same names we have arbitrarily bestowed.”

“Probably, each call theirs The World,” the Co-ordinator smiled. “After all, the basic language, in spite of a thousand years, is still undoubtedly Amer-English. However, I assume you are familiar with our method of naming. The most advanced culture on Rigel’s first planet is to be compared to the Italian cities during Europe’s feudalistic years. We have named that planet Genoa. The most advanced of the second planet is comparable to the Aztecs at the time of the Spanish conquest. We considered Tenochtitlan, but it seemed a tongue twister, so Texcoco, the sister city of the Aztecs, is the alternative.”

“Modernizing Genoa,” Mayer mused, “should be considerably easier than the task of semi-primitive Texcoco.”

Plekhanov shrugged heavy shoulders, in a manner betraying his Slavic background. “Not necessarily,” he rumbled.

The Co-ordinator held up a hand and smiled at them. “Please, no discussion on methods at this point. An hour from now you will be in space with a year of travel before you. During that time, you’ll have opportunity for discussion, debate and hair pulling on every phase of your problem.”

His expression went more serious. “You are acquainted with the unique position you assume. These colonists are in your control to the extent that no small group has ever dominated millions of others before. No Caesar ever exerted the power that will be in your collective hands. For half a century, you will be as gods and goddesses. Your science, your productive know-how, your medicine—if it comes to that—your weapons, are many centuries ahead of theirs. As I said before, your position should be humbling.”

Mayer said suddenly, unhappily, “Why not check upon us, say, once every decade? In all, our ship’s company numbers but eighteen persons. Almost anything could happen. If you were to send a departmental craft each ten years…”

Kennedy whispered to Natalie Wieliczka, “Old Amschel’s trying to hedge our bets.”

She ignored him, making a prim moue. The Co-ordinator was shaking his head. “Your qualifications are as high as anyone available. Once on the scene you will begin accumulating information which we here, in Terra City, do not have. Were we to send another group in ten years to check upon you, all they could do would be interfere in a situation with which they would not be cognizant.”

Amschel Mayer shifted nervously. “But no matter how highly trained, nor how earnest our efforts, we still may fail.” His voice worried. “The department cannot expect guaranteed success. After all, we are the first.”

“Admittedly. Your group is first to approach the hundreds of thousands of planets we have seeded with our race. If you fail, we will use your failure to perfect the eventual system we must devise for future teams. Even your failure would be of infinite use to us.” He lifted and dropped a shoulder in a wry gesture. “I have no desire to undermine your belief in yourselves but—how are we to know? Perhaps there will be a score of failures before we find the ideal method of quickly bringing these primitive colonies into our Galactic Commonwealth.”

He came to his feet and sighed. He still hated to see them go. He said, “If there is no other discussion…” He went from one to the other, shaking hands.