The Rival Rigelians

II

Specialist Joseph Chessman stood solidly before a viewing screen. Theoretically, he was on watch. Actually, his eyes were unseeing, there was nothing to see. The star pattern changed so slowly as to be all but permanent.

Not that every other task on board the spaceship Pedagogue was not similar. One man could have taken the craft from the Solar System to Rigel just as easily as the eighteen handcrew was doing. Automation at its ultimate, not even the steward department had tasks adequate to fill the hours.

He had got beyond the point of yawning, his mind was blank during these hours of duty. Inwardly, he was of the opinion that Mayer was an idiot to insist that the crewman standing bridge watch not be allowed to read. The scrawny old duffer never stood a watch himself, in spite of the fact that he was the nearest thing to a captain that the Pedagogue had.

Joe Chessman was a stolid bear of a man, short and massive of build. His face, even in repose carried a frown. He was the type who could step out of a barber chair and three minutes later have rumpled hair—the type who could purchase an expensive suit and in half an hour look as though he had slept in it.

A voice behind him said, low, throaty, “Hi, Spaceman. Need company?”

He turned and scowled at her.

“Those off watch aren’t supposed to be on the bridge.” He took in her outfit. “You look like you’re going to a party.” He paused and added. “Quite a party.”

Isobel Sanchez smiled slowly. “I got tired of the everlasting coveralls. Don’t you think this is an improvement?” She turned, for his inspection.

The inspection was rewarding. Isobel Sanchez had the lushness of her Iberian heritage. Her hair black, her complexion olive, her teeth unbelievably white behind equally unbelivably red, full lips. Considering her educational background, she was a remarkably beautiful woman, though in her face there was something not quite there. A something once called breeding.

Chessman growled sourly. “You better get back into your coveralls, Doctor Sanchez. Showing off that body of yours isn’t going to help that ruling of Mayer and Plekhanov about the relations between members of the crew while we’re in space.”

He turned and stared at some of the control dials.

She came up beside him and pretended to look at them as well. And he became conscious of the breast pressing against his arm.

“What ruling?” she said innocently.

“No sex.”

She drew back a step. “Well, really,” she said. “Just because I’ve put on a dress for a change doesn’t mean I’m trying to crawl in bed with you Citizen Chessman.”

“All right,” he said. “Sorry.” He turned back to the ship’s controls and stared at them. He heard her shoes stalk across the bridge and out the entry. Joe Chessman grunted sourly. Actually, Isobel Sanchez had a good deal of attraction for him, which he only partly laid to the fact that there were but two women in the ship’s complement.

He heard a newcomer enter, and turned, even as a voice said, “Second watch reporting. Request permission to take over the bridge.”

Chessman said, “Hello, Kennedy. You on already? Seems like I just got here.” He muttered in self-contradiction. “Or that I’ve been here a month.”

Technician Jerome Kennedy grinned. “Of course, if you want to stay…”

Chessman grunted scorn at that.

Kennedy said, “Wasn’t that the Hot Pants Kid I just saw leaving?”

“That’s right. All done up like a mopsy out looking for business.”

Jerry Kennedy’s grin was back again, even as he gave the control dials a quick, half-interested glance. “You can’t say that about one of the women I love.”

“One? Who’s the other one?”

“Natalie, of course. Imagine, a year in space. Two good-looking women, sixteen men. You think we’ll ever make it?”

Joe Chessman snorted. “That’s why Mayer and Plekhanov made that ruling. No messing around. We’ll make it.’*

Kennedy sank into one of the acceleration chairs before the control bank. “I think Leonid’s sorry about that, now. Isobel’s been giving him the sloe-eye bit.”

Chessman snorted again. “Mayer’s too old for her and Plekhanov’s second in command.”

“Come, come, Joe,” Kennedy said in mock objection. “You don’t think our consecrated leader would play favorites, just because some ambitious curve gave out a little.”

Joe Chessman yawned and said, “I don’t know about Plekhanov, but in the same position, I sure as Zen would.”

Jerry Kennedy laughed.

Chessman said, “What’re they doing in the lounge?”

Kennedy looked at the screen, not expecting to see anything and seeing just that. “Still on their endless argument.”

Joe Chessman grunted.

Just to be saying something, Kennedy said, “How do you stand in the big debate?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I favor Plekhanov. How we’re going to take a bunch of savages and teach them modern agriculture and industrial methods in fifty years, using democratic institutions, I don’t know. I can just see them putting it to a vote when we suggest fertilizer might be a good idea.” He didn’t feel like continuing the conversation. “See you later, Kennedy,” and then, as an afterthought, formally, “Relinquishing the watch to Second Officer.”

As he left the compartment, Jerry Kennedy called after him: “Hey, what’s the course?”

Chessman growled over his shoulder. “The same it was last month, and the same it’ll be next month.” It wasn’t much of a joke, but it was the only one they had between themselves.

In the ship’s combination lounge and mess he drew a cup of coffee. Joe Chessman, among whose specialties were propaganda and primitive socio-economic systems, was third in line in the expedition’s hierarchy. As such, he participated in the endless controversy dealing with overall strategy, but only as a junior member of the firm. Amschel Mayer and Leonid Plekhanov were the center of the fracas and right now were at it hot and heavy.

Joe Chessman listened with only half interest. He settled into a chair on the opposite side of the lounge and sipped at his coffee. They were going over their old battlefields, assaulting ramparts they’d stormed a thousand times over.

Plekhanov was saying doggedly: “Any planned economy is more efficient than any unplanned one. What could be more elementary than that? How could anyone in his right mind deny that?”

And Mayer snapped in high irritation. “I deny it. That term planned economy covers a multitude of sins. My dear Leonid, don’t be an idiot…”

“I beg your pardon, sir!”

“Oh, don’t get into one of your huffs, Plekhanov.’*

They were at that stage again.

Technician Natt Roberts entered, even here in the informality of space, looking as trim as a male fashion model. He had a book in hand and sent the trend of conversation in a new direction.

He said worriedly, “I’ve been studying up on this and what we’re confronted with is two different ethnic periods—barbarism and feudalism. Handling them both at once doubles our problem.”

Cogswell, an energetic junior specialist who’d been sitting to one side said, “That’s not exactly sparkling new information, but I’ve been thinking about it too. And maybe I’ve got an answer. Why not all of us concentrate on Texcoco? When we’ve brought them up to the level of Genoa, which shouldn’t take more than a decade or two, then we can start working on Genoa, too.”

Mayer snapped, in a domineering voice. “And by that time we’ll have hardly more than half our fifty years left to raise the two of them to an industrial technology. Don’t be an idiot, Cogswell.”

Cogswell flushed his resentment.

Plekhanov said slowly, “Besides, I’m not sure that, given the correct method, we cannot raise Texcoco to an industrialized society in approximately the same time it will take to bring Genoa there.”

Mayer bleated a sarcastic laugh at that opinion.

Natt Roberts tossed his book to the table and sank into a chair. “If only one of them had maintained itself at a reasonable level of development, we’d have had help in working with the other. As it is, there are only eighteen of us.” He shook his head. “Why did the knowledge held by the original colonists melt away? How can an intelligent people lose such basics as the smelting of iron, gunpowder, the use of coal as a fuel?”

Plekhanov was heavy with condescension. “Roberts, you seem to have entered upon this expedition with a lack of background. Consider: You put down a hundred colonists, products of the most advanced culture; among these you have one or two who can possibly repair an IBM computer, but is there one who can smelt iron or even locate the ore? We have others who could design an automated textile factory, but do any know how to weave a blanket on a hand loom?

“The first generation gets along well with the weapons and equipment brought with them from Earth. They maintain the old ways. The second generation follows along, but already ammunition for the weapons runs short, the machinery from Earth needs parts. There is no local economy that can provide such things. The third generation begins to think of Earth as a legend and the methods necessary to survive on the new planet conflict with those the first settlers imported. By the fourth generation, Earth is no longer a legend, but a fable…”

“But the books, the tapes, the films!” Roberts injected. “Go with the guns, the vehicles and the other things brought from Earth. On a new planet there is no leisure class among the colonists. Each works hard if the group is to survive. There is no time to write new books, nor to copy the old, and the second and especially the third generation are impatient of the time needed to learn to read, time that should be spent in the fields or at the chase. The youth of an industrial culture can spend twenty years and more achieving a basic education before assuming adult responsibilities, but no pioneer society can afford to allow its offspring to so waste its time.”

Natt Roberts was being stubborn. “But still, a few would carry the torch of knowledge.”

Plekhanov added ponderously. “For a while. But then comes the reaction against these nonconformists, these crackpots who, by spending time at books, fail to carry their share of the load. One day they wake up to find themselves expelled from the group—if not knocked over the head.”

Joe Chessman had been following Plekhanov’s argument. He said dourly, “But finally the group conquers its environment to the point where a minimum of leisure is available again. Not for everybody, of course. The majority still have to spend their time from dawn till night plowing the fields, or watching the herds.”

Amschel Mayer bounced back into the discussion. “And then, enter the priest, enter the war lord. Enter the smart operator who talks or fights himself into a position where he’s free from drudgery. In short, enter the class-divided society, the rulers and the ruled.”

Joe Chessman said reasonably, “If you don’t have the man with leisure, society stagnates. Somebody has to have time off for thinking, if the whole group is to advance.”

“Admittedly!” Mayer said. “I’d be the last to contend that an upper class is necessarily parasitic.”

Plekhanov grumbled. “We’re getting away from the subject. In spite of Mayer’s poorly founded opinions, it is quite obvious that only a collectivized economy is going to enable these Rigel planets to achieve an industrial culture in as short a period as half a century.”

Amschel Mayer reacted as might have been predicted. “Look here, Plekhanov, we have our own history to go by. Earth history. Man made his greatest strides under a freely competitive system.”

“Well now…” Chessman began.

“Prove that!” Plekhanov insisted. **Your so-called free economy countries such as England, France and the United States began their industrial revolution in the early part of the nineteenth century. It took them a hundred years to accomplish what the Soviets did in fifty, in the next century.”

“Just a moment, now,” Mayer said. That is very fine, but the Soviets were able to profit by the pioneering the free countries did. The scientific developments, the industrial techniques, were handed to her on a platter.”

Specialist Martin Gunther, thus far quiet, as was his basic nature, put in his opinion. “Actually, it seems to me the fastest industrialization comes under a paternal guidance from a more advanced culture. Take Japan. In 1854 she was opened to trade by Commodore Perry. In 1871 she abolished feudalism and, encouraged by her own government and utilizing the most advanced techniques of a sympathetic West, she began to industrialize.”

Gunther smiled his slow smile wryly. “Soon, to the dismay of the very countries that originally sponsored bringing her into the modern world, she was able to wage a successful war against China, and by 1904 she took on and trounced Russia. In a period of thirty-five years she had advanced from feudalism to a world power.”

Joe Chessman took his turn. He said obdurately, “Your paternalistic guidance, given an uncontrolled competitive system, doesn’t always work out. Take India after she gained independence from England. She tried to industrialize and had the support of the free nations. But what happened?”

Plekhanov leaned forward to take the ball. “Yes! There’s your classic example. Compare India and China. China had a planned industrial development. None of this free competition nonsense. In ten years time they had startled the world with their advances. In twenty years…”

“Yes,” Gunther said softly, “but at what price?”

Plekhanov turned on him. “At any price! In one generation they left behind the China of famine, flood, illiteracy, war lords and all the misery that had been China’s throughout history.”

Gunther said mildly, “Whether or not, in their admitted advances, they left behind all the misery that had been China’s is debatable, sir.”

Plekhanov began to bellow an angry retort but Amschel Mayer popped suddenly to his feet and lifted a hand to quiet the others.

“Our solution has just come to me!”

Plekhanov glowered at him.

Mayer said excitedly, “Remember what the Co-ordinator told us? This expedition of ours is the first of its type. Even though we fail, the very mistakes we make will be invaluable. Our task is to learn how to bring backward peoples into an industrialized culture in roughly half a century.”

He had their attention, but the majority of the occupants of the messroom scowled at him. Thus far he had said nothing new.

Mayer went on enthusiastically. “Up until now, in our debates, we’ve had two basic suggestions on procedure. I have advocated a system of free competition; my learned colleague has been of the opinion that a strong state and a planned, not to say totalitarian economy, would be the quicker.” He paused dramatically. “Very well, I am in favor of trying them both!”

They regarded him blankly.

He said with impatience, “There are two planets, at different ethnic periods it is true, but not so far apart as all that. Fine, nine of us will take Genoa and nine Texcoco.”

Plekhanov rumbled, “Fine indeed. But which group will have the use of the Pedagogue with its library, its laboratories, its shops, its weapons.”

For a moment Mayer was stopped, but Joe Chessman growled, “That’s no problem. Leave her in orbit around Rigel. We’ve got two small boats with which to ferry back and forth. Each group could have the use of her facilities any time they wished.”

“I suppose we could have periodic conferences,” Plekhanov said. “Say once every decade to compare notes and make further plans, if necessary.”

Natt Roberts was worried. “We have no instructions from the Co-ordinator suggesting that we divide our forces in any such manner.”

Mayer cut him short. “My dear Roberts, we were given carte blanche. It is up to us to decide procedure. Actually, this system realizes twice the information such expeditions as ours might ordinarily offer.”

“Texcoco for me,” Plekhanov grumbled, accepting the plan. “The more backward of the two, but under my guidance in half a century it will be the more advanced, mark me.”

“Look here,” Martin Gunther said. “Do we have two of each of the basic specialists, so that we can divide the party in such a way that neither planet will miss out in any one field?”

Amschel Mayer was beaming at the reception of his scheme. “The point is well taken, my dear Martin, however you’ll recall that our training was deliberately made such that each man spreads over several fields. This in case, during our half century without contact with Earth, one or more of us meets with accident. Besides, the Pedagogue’s library is such that any literate can soon become effective in any field to the extent needed on the Rigel planets.”

Barry Watson met Natalie Wieliczka in a narrow corridor of the Pedagogue. He darted a look up and down the hallway, then held out his arms.

“Ho, Polack,” he said huskily. “Come here.”

She was apprehensive, but she came into his embrace and offered her mouth for his kiss.

She said, “Somebody might see us.” After he had kissed her again, she said, “Barry, this is terrible. All this hiding, this pretending.”

He grinned down into her open face. “Kind of fun, though,” he said. “How lucky can a cloddy get?”

She said, “It’s not fair. Everybody else is conforming to the command…”

“You sure?” he demanded, running his right hand up through her honey brown hair, cut short as befitted shipboard life. She was not an overly pretty girl, by most standards, but she had a gentle, serious sweetness that affected most men, though unbeknownst to herself.

She frowned slightly, even as she suffered his caresses. “How do you mean?”

“I suspect,” he said wryly, “that these few kisses and hugs we allow ourselves at odd moments aren’t nearly as serious as what your pal Isobel is dispensing to just about everybody in the team. Well, everybody but Mayer and myself.”

She looked at him from the side of her eyes and said, “Are you sure you can honestly eliminate yourself?”

He squeezed her. “Absolutely.”

She sighed, still in his arms. “However, I’ll be glad when we reach Genoa, and this restriction will be off.”

“Genoa?” He pushed her back to arm length and scowled down into her face.

“Why, yes, when we land and take up our work. Certainly, Amschel Mayer can have no objection then to our openly becoming married. I…I wonder what ceremony they have. You know, when I was a student, sometimes thinking of marriage, I…”

“Genoa! But we’re going to Texcoco.”

Her eyes widened and there was quick apprehension in them.

“But Barry. I’m going to Genoa, with Mayer’s team. I…why, I automatically thought you were as well. Everybody had a free choice. Surely, you couldn’t have chosen Plekhanov’s theories. Why…

He took his hands from her completely, and tugged at his right ear in irritated distress.

“I was kind of pressured. I’m an authority on early military history. Leonid Plekhanov was of the opinion that I’d be more useful on Texcoco.”

“Barry!” her voice was distressed now. “You could change. You could tell them you’d rather work on Genoa.”

“Giving what excuse at this late date? The real one? The fact that you and I have broken ship’s regulations and fallen in love?”

She looked at him in misery.

“Besides,” he said angrily, “who’d change positions with me? Genoa is the preferred planet. It’s more advanced. The life’ll be easier. It’d be easier for you to change. Isobel’s scheduled for Texcoco, but I have a sneaking suspicion that in spite of her supposed attraction to Plekhanov, she’d jump at the chance to switch to the Genoa team.”

Her eyes dropped and she shook her head, and then shook it again, more strongly. “I couldn’t, Barry, I couldn’t work with that man. I’m afraid of him. All my intuition tells me that horrible things are going to happen on Texcoco, when Plekhanov and Joe Chessman land there with all the weapon resources of the Pedagogue behind them.”

He said, bitterly, “Why not add me to the list? I’m the military expert. True enough, through books. I’ve never seen combat in my life. But who has, in this age? I’ve got the book knowledge but not the…practical experience.”

She turned away from him, saying lowly, “You’ll learn, Barry. You’ll learn. And…I guess I’m just as glad I won’t be seeing you doing the learning. I’m a doctor, Barry. I didn’t go into my trade in anticipation of practicing on bodies broken in warfare.”

He was exasperated, but she turned and moved slowly away in the direction she had been going when they met, her head down.