Poul Anderson - The Long Way Home

He would have to wait, and observe, and think, before deciding on a course of deeds. That required a place in which to lie hidden, and he thought he knew where to go. It was worth trying, at least. He studied the unrolling map, comparing it with those of Langley’s he had seen and put into a well-trained eidetic memory, translating the symbolism by correspondence and estimating the effects of five thousand years” change. Then he turned the boat northeastward and crouched down to wait.

Progress does get made: Langley’s refresher cabinet removed all trace of hangover from him the next morning, and the service robot slid breakfast from a chute onto a table and removed it when he was through. But after that there was a day of nothing to do but sit around and brood. Trying to shake off his depression, Langley dialed for books—a slave superintendent had shown him how to operate the gadgets in the apartment. The machine clicked to itself, hunted through the city library microfiles under the topics selected, and made copy spools which the spacemen put into the scanners.

Blaustein tried to read a novel, then some poetry, then some straight articles, and gave it up; with his scant knowledge of their background, they were almost meaningless. He did report that all writing today seemed highly stylized, the intricate form, full of allusions to the classic literature of two millennia ago, more important than the rather trivial content. “Pope and Dryden,” he muttered in disgust, “but they at least had something to say. What are you finding out, Bob?”

Matsumoto, who was trying to orient himself in modern science and technology, shrugged. “Nothing. It’s all written for specialists, takes for granted that the reader’s got a thorough background. I’d have to go to college all over again to follow it—what the blue hell is a Zagan matrix? No popularization at all; guess nobody but the specialists care what makes things tick. All I get is an impression that nothing really new has been found out for a couple of thousand years.”

“Petrified civilization,” said Langley. “They’ve struck a balance, everybody in his place, everything running smooth enough—there’s been nothing to kick them out of their rut. Maybe the Centaurians ought to take over, I dunno.”

He returned to his own spools, history, trying to catch up on all that had happened. It was surprisingly hard. Nearly everything he found was a scholarly monograph assuming an immense erudition in a narrow field. Nothing for the common man, if that much misunderstood animal still existed. And the closer he got to the present, the fewer references there were—understandable enough, especially in a civilization whose future seemed all to lie behind it.

The most important discovery since the superdrive was, he gathered, the paramathematical theory of man, both as individual and as society, which had made it possible to reorganize on a stable, predictable, logical basis. There had been no guesswork on the part of the Technate’s founders: they didn’t think that such and such arrangements for production and distribution would work, they knew . The science wasn’t perfect, it couldn’t be; such eventualities as the colonial revolts had arisen unforeseen; but the civilization was stable, with high negative feedback, it adjusted smoothly to new conditions.

Too smoothly. The means of sound social organization had not been used to liberate man, but to clamp the yoke more tightly—for a small cadre of scientists had necessarily laid out the plans and seen them through, and they or their descendants (with fine, humane rationalizations they may even have believed themselves) had simply stayed in power. It was, after all, logical that the strong and the intelligent should rule—the ordinary man was simply not capable of deciding issues in a day when whole planets could be wiped clean of life. It was also logical to organize the rules; selective breeding, controlled heredity, psychological training, could produce a slave class which was both efficient and contented, and that too was logical. The ordinary man had not objected to such arrangements, indeed he had accepted them eagerly, because the concentration and centralization of authority which had by and large been increasing ever since the Industrial Revolution had inculcated him with a tradition of subservience. He wouldn’t have known what to do with liberty if you gave it to him.

Langley wondered with a certain glumness whether any other outcome would have been possible in the long run.

Chanthavar called up to suggest a tour of the city, Lora, next day. “I know you’ve found it pretty dull so far,” he apologized, “but I have much to do right now. I’d enjoy showing you around tomorrow, though, and answering any questions you may have. That seems the best way for you to get yourselves oriented.”

When he had hung up, Matsumoto said: “He doesn’t seem a bad guy. But if the setup here’s as aristocratic as I think, why should he take so much trouble personally?”

“We’re something new, and he’s bored,” said Blaustein. “Anything for a novelty.”

“Also,” murmured Langley, “he needs us. I’m pretty sure he can’t get anything very coherent out of us under hypnosis or whatever they use nowadays, or we’d’ve been in the calaboose long ago.”

“You mean the Saris affair?” Blaustein hesitated. “Ed, have you any notion where that overgrown otter is and what he’s up to?”

“Not... yet,” said Langley. They were speaking English, but he was sure there must be a recording microphone somewhere in the room, and translations could be made. “It beats me.”

Inwardly, he wondered why he held back. He wasn’t cut out for this world of plotting and spying and swift deadly action. He never had been; a spaceman was necessarily a gentle, introverted sort, unable to cope with the backbitings and intrigues of office politics. In his own time, he had always been able to pull rank when something went wrong —and afterward lie awake wondering whether his judgment had been fair and what the men really thought of him. Now he was nothing.

It would be so easy to give in, cooperate with Chanthavar, and glide with the current. How did he know it wouldn’t be right? The Technate seemed to represent order, civilization, justice of sorts; he had no business setting himself up against twenty billion people and five thousand years of history. Had Peggy been along, he would have surrendered, her neck was not one to risk for a principle he wasn’t even sure of.

But Peggy was dead, and he had little except principle to live for. It was no fun playing God, even on this petty scale, but he had come from a society which laid on each man the obligation to decide things for himself.

Chanthavar called the following afternoon, still yawning. “What a time to get up!” he complained. “Life isn’t worth the effort before sundown. Well, shall we go?”

As he led them out, half a dozen of his guards closed in around the party. “What’re they for, anyhow?” asked Langley. “Protection against the Commons?”

“I’d like to see a Commoner even think about making trouble,” said Chanthavar. “If he can think, which I sometimes doubt. No, I need these fellows against my own rivals. Brannoch, for instance, would gladly knock me off just to get an incompetent successor. I’ve ferreted out a lot of his agents. And then I have my competitors within the Technate. Having discovered that bribery and cabals won’t unseat me, they may very well try the less subtle but direct approach.”

“What would they stand to gain by... assassinating you?” inquired Blaustein.

“Power, position, maybe some of my estates. Or they may be out and out enemies: I had to kick in a lot of teeth on my own way up, there aren’t many influential offices these days. My father was a very petty Minister on Venus, my mother a Commoner concubine. I only got rank by passing certain tests and... elbowing a couple of half brothers aside.” Chanthavar grinned. “Rather fun. And the competition does keep my class somewhat on its toes, which is why the Technon allows it.”