Mack Reynolds: Amazon Planet

“All right,” Ronny said. “So you’ve gone beyond democracy.”

“Yes. Actually, rule by the people is only valid under certain circumstances. For instance, would you be willing to abide by the vote of the Roman mob such as it had become in the early centuries of the Empire?”

“So what are the conditions under which it becomes valid?” Some other parts of Ronny Bronston’s puzzle were beginning to fall into place. He continued to needle the actor, getting a crumb of information here, another there.

“Only when the electorate is composed of peers. To use a simple illustration, suppose five men are shipwrecked upon an island. If they average out in intelligence, experience and ability, then the only sensible method of deciding who should fish, who should collect coconuts, who should haul water and who should build huts, is the vote. But suppose only two of these men fit that description and one of the others is a moron, another a homicidal maniac and the other in a conditon of shock due to the experiences of the shipwreck. The vote then becomes silly.”

“All right,” Ronny said passively. “Under what conditions are men peers so that they’re competent to vote for their governmental officials?”

Podner’s tone had long since taken on a superior, professorial tone. “My dear Guy, man has come up with but three schemes of representation down through the centuries. The first based on the family, kinship; the second based on geographical lines and property.”

“And the third?”

“Based on your work, your profession, where you hold down your job.”

“There we’re peers, eh?”

“Yes. If a man is knowledgeable at all, he’s knowledgeable when he talks shop. He may not know the duties of a senator as compared to those of a bishop, he may be tempted to vote for a president because the man projects well on a TriDi, or one with an excellent staff of speechwriters. He might be an absolute flat when it comes to politics—I suspect most people are—but on the job he’s knowledgeable, whether he works at digging ditches or in a laboratory.

“Let’s picture an industry here on Amazonia. Say the hat-making industry. In one of the hat planets there is a gang of eight men who must vote for one of their number to be foreman. Since they work each day with each other, they are in the best position to know who among them is best suited to hold down the job. It is to their interest to elect the best man, since a good foreman can so coordinate their efforts as to make the job easier for all. Very well. The dozen or so foremen in that particular section of the plant work together each day on the problems involved in being a foreman. They elect from their number a section supervisor. The section supervisors of the plant, who also work together each day,select from their number a factory manager. All the factory managers of the hat industry of all Paphlagonia send representatives to an industry-wide conference of the clothing industry, which meets periodically, and in turn sends representatives to the central congress of the nation. There, of course, are the delegates from each field of endeavor, not only manufacturing, but from the professions and from the arts as well. At this congress is planned the production of the nation.”

“Syndicalism,” Ronny muttered. “They messed around with the idea in the 19th century in Europe.”

“I beg your pardon?” Podner said.

Ronny coud begin to anticipate more of his puzzle pieces falling into position.

He said, drawing the other out with argument. “Ummm. I see your idea. But look. That’s a pretty limited democracy. Your gang of unskilled laborers on the bottom can vote for their foreman, but that’s all. Suppose the overwhelming majority in the plant are opposed to the, say, manager? There’s no way of getting rid of him. Only the section supervisors have anything to say about him.”

Podner nodded. “It’s an interesting question, and highly debated. In fact, over in Lybia, they’re trying another system. There, the foremen can only nominate a section supervisor, and he must be confirmed by a majority vote of all the men who are to work under him. In turn, the supervisors can only nominate from their number a manager of the factory, and all employees of the plant must vote to confirm him in office. And so up, all the way to the central congress.”

Another piece had dropped into place. The puzzle was beginning to show final form. It wasn’t complete by any means, but it was shaping up.

Ronny, still searching, said, as though half in sympathy, “Ummm. That sounds very fine. Another form of democracy, perhaps. But how does the Hippolyte come into this, and those heads of the pylons , and women’s domination of the planet?”

“Oh, that’s not important. That’s civil government.”

Ronny darted a sharp glance at him. “How do you mean…?”

But suddenly the other’s mouth clamped shut. “I talk too much,” he muttered.

Ronny said quickly, “I thought the Hippolyte was the supreme head of Paphlagonia. The chief of state.”

“She is,” Podner said lowly.

“Well, how does that fit in with the central congress bit?”

“I’ve said enough,” Podner muttered, unhappily. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“Here,” Ronny told him, swinging into the curb. “I suspect it’s one place nobody will be searching for me.”

Podner Bates looked up at the building, showing no signs that he had ever seen it before.

He said, “You realize, of course, that this amounts to kidnapping? I’m accompanying you under duress.”

Ronny had to laugh, even as he left the hovercar. “ You’re complaining? You should’ve been through what I have in the past twenty-four hours or so. Amazonia, ha!”

He had the actor precede him to the entrance and then up the stairs.

Ronny said, in half explanation, “I was here just a short time ago. I doubt if anyone would expect me to return. We can talk it out further, and there’s someone else here that might help out with a few matters.”

The door of Patricia O’Gara’s apartment was ajar. Ronny scowled at that. Instead of activating the eye, he pushed his way through, saying over his shoulder, “Don’t try to buzz off. A beam in the leg doesn’t look good, fella.”

Podner grunted.

Ronny Bronston came to an abrupt halt, his right hand flicked to the gun in his belt. On the floor, partly obscured to his view, lay a girl. Over her, back turned, bent a figure, a gun in one hand.

Ronny snapped, “Drop the shooter!”

The figure stiffened, held the pose for a moment, then let the gun go. The head turned. The man came slowly erect.

Ronny said, “Teucer!”

The other looked at him warily, his hands held wide from his body, palms forward, showing he was taking no action.

Ronny Bronston said, “Get over there by the window. Quick!”

Teucer said, “She’s dying.”

Minythyia, her face contorted in pain, opened her eyes and stared up at the Section G operative.

Ronny said, even as he sank to his knees beside her, “What happened? This doesn’t make sense. This doesn’t fit in!”

“It fits in,” Teucer growled from his position near the window. There was no belligerence in him.

“Artimis!” Podner Bates ejaculated. “It’s the Hippolyte’s daughter! She’s been hurt. We’ve got to get help.”

“Shut up!” Teucer said wearily.

Minythyia looked up at Ronny Bronston. Pain racked her again. She whispered, “Cutey…kiss me the way they do in the Tri-Di shows from Earth…”

His face agonized, he bent toward her.

But she was dead.

Ronny Bronston came up, Arctic cold. The gun was steady in his hand. He looked at Teucer.