Mack Reynolds - The Space Barbarians

Harmon said, a note of deprecation there, “It’s not the way I put it, Sam. Until you have taken soma yourself and walked with the Lord Krishna, you can have no idea of the reality of the experience.”

“However, no, thanks,” DeRudder said. He looked back at John. “Milt Harmon is an old, old associate. When his decade was up, I made sure to be there and made sure he took antisoma, rather than a new charge.”

“And what effect does this antisoma have?”

“It creates a prejudice against dosage of the hallucinogen. Otherwise…” The Sidonian shrugged. “Otherwise, there are few who wouldn’t continue to tread the way of the Avatara of Kalkin and the path of Lord Krishna.”

John finished his drink in one fell gulp but did not take his eyes from Harmon.

That worthy shook his head in self-deprecation. “John Hawk, I suppose I owe you apologies. You see, one effect of a decade spent with Krishna has a permanent aspect Though I am now…” He looked at DeRudder. “… now normal, many of the frailties and shortcomings of my former self have been burnt away or, if you will, cast aside. So then, my apologies for the harm I caused you”—he twisted his mouth ruefully—“or tried to in years past.”

John was saved the necessity of a reply by the musical note of the door.

Sam DeRudder went to answer it and returned with Nadine Pond, brisk and efficient as ever, her recorder slung over her shoulder.

She nodded to those present. “Milt, John. Have you already got underway?”

After coming to his feet to acknowledge her presence, Harmon said, “We’ve just been giving John a rundown on the short and longcomings of soma.”

“Longcomings,” she snorted. “I’ve never been an admirer of the effects of soma on the average person. For some, yes; the mentally upset, perhaps, under proper medical direction.

Milt Harmon reseated himself and said softly, “If you’ve never experienced it, don’t knock it.”

“You should know,” Nadine Pond told him, finding a place for herself in a comfort chair. “However, so far as outfits such as our United Interplanetary Mining sponsoring its use on recalcitrant natives, it defeats its purpose. Those who take soma are not good workers. They lack aggression, ambition, initiative. Perhaps your devoted follower of Lord Krishna is right, but whether or not ambition and aggression are desirable traits, men without them are not good workers. The zombi story is a myth. A zombi would be but worthless, even at brute physical labor. Two mentally and physically healthy men set to work digging a hole would accomplish the task in half the time a squad of zombis would. Why? Because they’d figure out some way to lighten the load which is, after all, on their shoulders. The zombis wouldn’t care.”

“I have heard the argument before, as one promoting free enterprise,” DeRudder said from the autobar, where he was dialing the newcomer a drink.

The assignment clerk-cum-anthropologist was impatient. “Not just free enterprise, or capitalism, which is the less mealy-mouthed term, but any socioeconomic system. Even under chattel slavery that slave who was bright and aggressive and had initiative could get to the top—unless his master was an unbelievably stupid dully. Many an ancient empire was in actuality run by slaves. They might have borne such titles as secretary or major-domo, but they were the brains behind the emperor. The same applied under feudalism. That man with push and brains could overcome the handicap of being born of low degree.”

“So far, you’ve mentioned class divided society.”

“The same applies to a collectivized society. Whenever man works, the bright and aggressive will attempt to make the load lighter, and he is as valuable under socialism, or even anarchism, for that matter, as he is under private ownership. Do you labor under the illusion that when the Russians were abuilding their so-called communist state the bright and efficient, the innovator and progressive, didn’t forge to the top?”

“They had a lot of disadvantages, in that particular example,” DeRudder argued, although not very strongly.

“That they did. But those who thwarted them eventually disappeared from the scene, especially the zombi types. As a Caledonian would say, the proof is there before you. Because they did reach their goals. It took time, but eventually they industrialized and became the second of the world powers of the period, and the reason was that eventually direction eased out of the hands of the politicians, at least on an industrial level, and into the hands of scientists, technicians and engineers.”

DeRudder sighed and lowered himself into his own favorite comfort chair. “So much for soma,” he said. “Let us get to the project at hand.” He looked at John contemplatively. “It’s not up to us to make final decisions, of course. This is simply a preliminary investigation of the possibilities. However, John Hawk, how would you like to be Mayor of New Sidon?”

John, who was even still in a mental whirl over the words of the past fifteen minutes, could only gape.

“Mayor!” he blurted.

Harmon chuckled. Nadine Pond smiled amusement.

“That’s right,” DeRudder nodded.

“But… but if I understand… if what I have been reading this past week… but that’s your equivalent of eldest sachem of a town. Even more than that.”

“Ummm, that’s right.”

“But I don’t understand. I am a Caledonian. New Sidon is a city of you from Beyond.”

Sam DeRudder leaned forward. “Only up to a certain point, John. We Sidonians, and others from Beyond, as you call it, have come to a crossroads. The initial exploitation of this planet’s resources has moved very rapidly; in fact, we’ve reached what was once called the takeoff point in industrialization. But that’s the economic aspect. Now it’s time for the political to be considered.”

“But I’m a Caledonian,” John repeated.

“Yes,” Nadine Pond said mildly. “And this is Caledonia.”

Harmon leaned forward to put in a word. “Were you of the opinion that United Interplanetary Mining expected to dominate this world indefinitely by force of arms?”

John looked at him blankly.

Sam DeRudder took over again. “John, the thing is this. Our mining concern is interested basically in Caledonia’s platinum, nothing more. Not even most of your other metals. The value of platinum is such through the League planets that it can profitably be shipped through space. In return for exploitation rights, the company can and does give a great deal to Caledonia and would like to contribute still more. In fact, the more it does contribute, the more profitable its own efforts. For instance, it would like to sponsor petroleum production, if for no other reason than that it is extremely expensive to cart its products all the way from Sidon or elsewhere. It would like to see schools turning out local doctors, so that it wouldn’t have to import such employees from the advanced planets. It would like to see skimmers being manufactured in Caledonian factories, because they’re so expensive to bring in from overspace. I could go on and on.”

John blurted, “But what has this got to do with my taking high office in a Sidonian City?”

“That’s the point,” Nadine Pond said. “This must not remain a Sidonian City. It must become a Caledonian city.

The time has come that you friendlies begin to take over the responsibilities of running your own affairs.”

John settled back in his chair, his face blank.

Milton Harmon said urgently, “You make a mistake if you think that we of the League planets are simply evil destroyers of what has been the way of Caledonia. Opportunistic, we admittedly might have been, but we bring much that you need, including the wherewithal, eventually, for this planet to join the League and take its place with the other advanced worlds.”