Martin Greenberg - Visions of Liberty

“And what was that?” Dantler demanded.

“You’ve already answered your question: He disappeared. His fellow workers so frightened him that he gave up his plan to return to Pummery and leave the planet. He was afraid he wouldn’t live long enough to get there. Instead, he went to hide out beyond the mountains, thus condemning himself to perpetual hell. Don’t you believe for a moment that he is gleefully basking in the wilderness and chuckling about how he got away with murder. He is eating plants that make him sick and half starving because he hasn’t the knack for catching birds or animals. He simply isn’t the type for solitary prospecting. He wouldn’t recognize paydirt if he fell in it. He desperately needs fellow workers he can shift his own share of work onto. Running back to Pummery and using the return ticket he has on file to get off the world is his kind of gambit, but he was too terrified to try it.

“The sanctity of life is a basic law among humans everywhere. An Unnullified world doesn’t need the apparatus of government and courts to punish murderers. Word of a murder circulates among workers almost instantly. The murderer’s deed dogs his tracks forever after. It followed Lefory everywhere, and his fellow workers reacted accordingly. If he shows up again, Llayless’s community of workers will resume where it left off. His punishment is already a legend that will deter people from murder far into the future. Do you know how many murders there have been on Llayless in its history?”

Dantler shook his head.

“Two,” Pummery said. “One happened twenty-eight years ago. That murderer’s punishment is still remembered and still a deterrent—as Lefory’s punishment will be for decades to come. How many murderers do you know of on normal worlds who have been released through lack of evidence or through legal manipulations? So many you couldn’t answer, I’m sure. On an Unnullified world, where the people are the law, punishment is certain—and it is perpetual. It will dog Lefory again if he ever emerges from the wilderness. He can’t escape it—can’t escape the planet—because no one will let him.”

“It sounds suspiciously like mob rule, which the Inter-World Federation outlaws. That simply won’t do.”

“Ah, but mob rule—thoughtless mob punishment without proper evidence—is an entirely different thing. It wouldn’t have popular support. Further, it would bring every management on Llayless down on it. We simply couldn’t permit that. Punishment of the mob would be official, immediate, and severe.”

He got to his feet. “I’m pleased to be able to introduce you to the way the law works on a world without government—a lawless world. I’m sorry you can’t stay longer. We are very strong on law but unfortunately weak in amenities, and I apologize for that.”

He nodded politely. Dantler, feeling himself dismissed, left. He had reached the street before he remembered that he had failed to serve on Pummery the notice of his intention to recommend an immediate change in Llayless’s status.

He took the paper from his pocket, hesitated, and then tore it into very small pieces. The pieces dropped almost at his feet, and he kicked at them as he walked away.

“The funny thing about this place,” said Hauptmann, pointing at the White House as he and Chin walked west on the Mall, “is that the food is actually good.”

“What’s funny about that?” asked Chin.

“Well, it’s a tourist attraction, right? A historic site. People come from all over the world to see where the American government was headquartered, back when there were governments. The guys who own it

now could serve absolute crap, charge exorbitant prices, and the place would still be packed. But the food really is great. Besides, tomorrow the crowds will arrive; we might as well eat here while we can.”

Chin nodded. “All right,” he said. “Let’s give it a try.”

The room Hauptmann and Chin were seated in had been the State Dining Room. Its oak-paneled walls sported framed portraits of all sixty-one men and seven women who had served as presidents before the office had been abolished.

“What do you suppose they’ll be like?” asked Chin, after they’d placed their orders.

“Who?” said Hauptmann.

“The spacers. The astronauts.”

Hauptmann frowned, considering this. “That’s a good question. They left on their voyage—what?” He glanced down at his weblink, strapped to his forearm. The device had been following the conversation, of course, and had immediately submitted Hauptmann’s query to the web. “Two hundred and ten years ago,” Hauptmann said, reading the figure off the ten-by-five-centimeter display. He looked up. “Well, what was the world like back then? Bureaucracy. Government. Freedoms curtailed.” He shook his head. “Our world is going to be like a breath of fresh air for them.”

Chin smiled. “After more than a century aboard a starship, fresh air is exactly what they’re going to want.”

Neither Hauptmann nor his weblink pointed out the obvious: that although a century had passed on Earth since the Olduvai started its return voyage from Franklin’s World, only a couple of years had passed aboard the ship and, for almost all of that, the crew had been in cryosleep.

The waiter brought their food, a Clinton (pork ribs and mashed potatoes with gravy) for Hauptmann, and a Nosworthy (tofu and eggplant) for Chin. They continued chatting as they ate.

When the bill came, it sat between them for a few moments. Finally, Chin said, “Can you get it? I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

Hauptmann’s weblink automatically sent out a query when Chin made his request, seeking documents containing Chin’s name and phrases such as “overdue personal debt.” Hauptmann glanced down at the weblink’s screen; it was displaying seven hits. “Actually, old boy,” said Hauptmann, “your track record isn’t so hot in that area. Why don’t you pick up the check for both of us, and I’ll pay you back tomorrow? I’m good for it.”

Chin glanced at his own weblink. “So you are,” he said, reaching for the bill.

“And don’t be stingy with the tip,” said Hauptmann, consulting his own display again. “Dave Preston from Peoria posted that you only left five percent when he went out to dinner with you last year.”

Chin smiled good-naturedly and reached for his debit card. “You can’t get away with anything these days, can you?”

The owners of the White House had been brilliant, absolutely brilliant.

The message, received by people all over Earth, had been simple: “This is Captain Joseph Plato of the UN SAOlduvai to Mission Control. Hello, Earth! Long time no see. Our entire crew has been revived from suspended animation, and we will arrive home in twelve days. It’s our intention to bring our landing module down at the point from which it was originally launched, the Kennedy Space Center. Please advise if this is acceptable.”

And while the rest of the world reacted with surprise—who even remembered that an old space-survey vessel was due to return this year?—the owners of the White House sent a reply. “ Hello,Olduvai ! Glad to hear you’re safe and sound. The Kennedy Space Center was shut down over a hundred and fifty years ago. But, tell you what, why don’t you land on the White House lawn?”

Of course, that signal was beamed up into space; at the time, no one on Earth knew what had been said. But everyone heard the reply Plato sent back. “We’d be delighted to land at the White House! Expect us to touch down at noon Eastern time on August 14.”

When people figured out exactly what had happened, it was generally agreed that the owners of the White House had pulled off one of the greatest publicity coups in post-governmental history.