Mack Reynolds - The Rival Rigelians

“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.

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.”