C Kornbluth - His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

"After the Conference, my friend," said the noble, in a good humor,

"we'll strive to overstrip your very high degree of civilization."

The car was pulled up to a halt. The driver pointed proudly:

"Hydroelectric dam. Big power output. No smell. Two years old."

Ballister stared at the work. It wasn't as big as Dnieperstroy had been, but in its own way it was a work of genius, plain to see. Every block of concrete seemed to have a peculiar rightness about it; the solitary blockhouse that surmounted the turbine house seemed somehow to be perfectly situated.

"Masterly," said Ballister. Kay nodded soberly. The man smiled a little as he drove on.

Suddenly they were in the city. It wasn't centralized and there were no skyscrapers; one skyscraper, indeed, could have held the entire population of the Pyrenese Peoples' Republic. But there were clearly defined sections. The residential city was a series of houses of ample size, in the Basque tradition of sturdy construction, each with its acres of lawn automatically sprinkled and presumably cut. The factory district was tree-shaded and sprawling; though there were no more than a dozen buildings.

The driver pointed out the business, administrative and scientific area, the tallest buildings in the city. They were symbolically white and severe, tall and thin like ascetic monks.

They were dropped at a hotel-like affair of three stories.

"Completely automatic," said their driver. "No pay—guests of the state.

We have a few of them. This was for German and French tradesmen."

Wondering, they went in. There were clean, spare accommodations; signs in French advised them that they could eat at such-and-such a place at certain hours.

Sir Mallory excused himself, with a regretful, though humorous, confession that he was aging out of all proportion.

"Well?" asked the girl, inspecting their communal sitting-room.

"Uncanny," said Ballister. "Damned if I know whether I should be delighted or annoyed. I'm both. There's something so awfully queer going on that I shudder to think of it. Little over a dozen years ago these Basques were an anarchistic lot, living family lives.

"Lord! In those twelve years they've completely transferred their allegiance from the family to the state, obviously gone in for heavy cooperation—remember that dam—built a model city, and, it seems, done away with crime. It's impossible. It's against all reason."

"You must be terribly afraid of progress," said Kay thoughtfully.

"No," said Ballister. "Not development. Not normal evolution. That's growth. But this lunatic speed is more like a cancer than normal social achievement. I think—I'm sure! there's something behind this slew of nonconformities."

"And," exploded Kay, her temper snapping like a rubber band, "I'm dead certain that this is a milestone in the history of man—and that this Pyrenese Peoples' Republic is destined to be one of the great powers of the world!" She slammed into her room.

"Good night!" yelled Ballister after her.

He slept that night to dream of cancerous proliferations spreading their sickly-white fingers over the map of Europe, then snaking across the ocean and plunging a dagger into the heart of the Western Hemisphere.

Kay couldn't stay mad, no more than could Ballister. They apologized sweetly to each other at breakfast under the paternal eyes of Sir Mallory, then set out for the Mayor's office. People on the streets, big men and solid, tall women stopped to stare at them for a moment before hurrying on to the day's work. The mayor was the Basque type, but bald as an egg. His grin was slow and agreeable; he had a firm handshake.

"You like our small country?" he asked.

"We admire it enormously," hedged Ballister. "I was commenting last night on your excessively rapid growth." He shot a malicious glance at Kay.

"Indeed? We explain that, you know, with the theory that the Basque spirit has been in its infancy for many centuries and is now at last growing up. That you may tell the outside world—but not too much of it. We should not wish to become an attraction for tourists. It is our opinion that there is work to be done, that we Basques are well-suited to do it. You would be amazed at the spirit of collaboration that exists among us."

"I already am," said Ballister. "Your city is the finest example of communal activity I have ever seen." There was something flat and deadly in his tone which even he could not explain.

They had been spending a marvelously restful five days in the Republic, not bothering to think. Alone for a couple of moments Kay abstractedly confessed: "Isn't it remarkable that even the great Sir Mallory Gaffney, Baronet, can be a hell of a bore after some period of unmitigated companionship?"

"His conversation sparkles," said Ballister noncommittally. "It scintillates like the morning sun on dewdrops. He's a generous and a kindly old gentleman. He's wise and good and noble—but I tend to agree with you; I'm sick of the sight of him. Sir Mallory tends to inhibit intellection. I haven't been able to buckle down to a problem in the last few days without his kindly interrupting and helping out with horribly confusing results."

"You've noticed that?" she asked, with wide-open eyes. "Is he just trying to help us relax?"

"Dunno. He has a technique—I'm working with something in social growth, say. He interrupts. I expound. He ponders, then throws in so damned many elements that I don't know what to make of it. He may be right! He's near the genius level, I know. But I believe in tackling one problem at a time. He, obviously, doesn't."

"Or," suggested the girl, "pretends he doesn't."

They dummied up as Sir Mallory reentered. He sensed the tension and then went through a curious process of winking, snickering slightly and balancing on one foot.

Kay and Ballister exchanged glances. Sir Mallory grinned happily.

"Aha!" he said.

Ballister caught on. "Well, dear," he said, "shall we go for a ride?" The glance he gave the girl was saccharine refined with an eye for sweetness. It was so paralyzingly mushy that Kay reeled beneath the wealth of sloppy sentiment. She studied for one wild moment the silly smile on his face—then caught on.

"Anything you say, sweetness," she cooed.

They twined arms then, and after another sloppy pair of looks ambled out. Sir Mallory called after them with huge delight:

"Be good, children!" His chuckle followed them down the rustic lane they chose. Out of sight and earshot they untwined and sat heavily on a bench. "Explain all that," she said. "What was in the air?"

"Lo-o-ove," said Ballister, polishing his horn-rims. "Not the kind that means anything, the kind that mates people for life and after. But the kind of puppy-love that you can hardly call an emotion, it's so animal and unreasoning. I refer to the sort of stuff that every middle-aged man has a soft spot in his head for. Further, he reasoned correctly—on incorrect premises—that we'd be incapable of comparing notes on him and this hellish place if we were otherwise occupied. His error."

"Hellish?" asked Kay. "That's strong."

"Agreed. Do you recall the exact population of this place?"

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Never mind just yet. It's 7,776. Half male and half female. Note that it's a perfect number, divisible by the whole slew of integers, a perfect radical, it evolves into an integral root—"

"Sure!" she exploded. "I see! So they're—they're—" Kay paused, baffled.

"I know how you feel." Ballister smiled sympathetically. "There's something stuck away in the back of one's head that's just a little distance beyond explanation, just a little too deeply buried for unearthing. What is it? Damned if I can tell you, but it's very important."

He laughed sardonically.