Judith Merril - The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 6

Muller snorted disgustedly. “You’re doing a lot of supposing,” he said. “Suppose you’re wrong? It’s the whole future of the human race you’re talking about, you know. That’s ... that’s us!”

Reese nodded. “I know,” he admitted placidly. “Whatever we do—whatever we decide—it will be thousands of years before the consequences come. I rather imagine we’ll have been forgotten. That puts a terrible responsibility on us. We must try to do what is right.”

“And on that basis you refuse to help them?” Hitchcock demanded. “Mr. Reese, I have never heard such a preposterous—!”

So all his arguments and efforts at persuasion had failed. Reese slumped in his chair, his arms on the rests. He wondered what to do. Muller’s careful half-truths—Hitchcock’s stubborn ignorance—together they were too much to fight. He could do nothing. He was helpless. Defeat and frustration wearied him, and he felt a sick pity for all the intelligent floppers who would now never be born.

It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.

But he did not say it. Thinking it to himself, he realized how futile it was to speak of fairness to these men. And besides, by what right could he ask for fairness—an ideal— from the real world?

Of course it wasn’t fair. Nothing was ever completely fair in the real world, because the real world conformed to the physical laws, not the rules of sportsmanship and fair play. It was a hard, bitter thought to accept, but Ben Reese accepted it. As a scientist, he had to accept it no matter how he felt about it.

And in that recognition, he saw, was the key—the way he could protect the floppers from both these men.

He turned to his phone again. “You will excuse me, won’t you?” he requested politely as he punched the number combination. His hand trembled.

Before either Hitchcock or Muller could nod their assent, someone answered the phone. “Clinic,” he said.

“Nick?” Reese guessed. “This is Ben. Could you send up a couple of your boys?”

“Sure,” the one identified as Nick consented. “But what—?”

“Never mind,” Reese said quickly. “Just send them.” He broke the connection.

“What’s the matter?” Muller wanted to know. “You feel sick?”

Reese ignored the question. “I’ve changed my mind, Sigurd,” he said. “You can stay here.”

Muller backed up a step. “Well, now, I don’t know,” he said warily. He scratched his beard. “I’ve been here a long time—”

“But, Sigurd,” Reese urged. “We’re going to need you here—at least for the next year. All the information you’ve held back—”

“It’s in my files,” Muller said. “You’ll find it, if you want it bad enough.” He moved toward the door. “I’m going to pack.” In a moment, he was gone.

Reese smiled a complacent smile. “There’ll be no room for him in the ship,” he confided to no one in particular. He leaned forward. “As for you, Mr. Hitchcock... sit down, please. There’s one thing more I want to say.”

Hitchcock paused uncertainly, then resumed his chair. “Let it never be said,” he declared, “that I will not hear all arguments.”

Reese nodded, pleased. Everything would be all right if he could keep Hitchcock in his office until the boys came from the clinic. “Mr. Hitchcock,” he said, “in a sense, I’m very glad you came.”

Hitchcock scowled.

“For one thing,” Reese went on, “it was you who ... who brought out the fact that the floppers are developing intelligence. If you hadn’t come, Sigurd might have concealed it for years. Of course, Sigurd was hoping you’d help him to ... to wipe out the intelligent ones, but that is beside the point.”

“Mr. Reese,” Hitchcock said sternly. “You cannot convince me that black is white.”

“Oh, of course,” Reese agreed willingly. “But there are hundreds of shades of gray. The other reason I’m glad you came...” He spoke earnestly. “You’ve forced me to reexamine what we’re doing here—to ... to question the rightness of our doing nothing about the conditions in which the floppers live. It’s not an easy thing to be sure of.”

“So you admit it!” Hitchcock pounced triumphantly. “You admit—”

Reese silenced him with a gesture. “No,” he said firmly, “I do not admit it. I have come to the same conclusions I have always held. But now—because of you—I know why it is right.”

“Impossible,” Hitchcock objected. “It is not right.”

Ben Reese was very patient with him. He could afford to be patient—it used up time, while the boys from the clinic were coming.

“You’re a very moral man, Mr. Hitchcock,” he said. “I’d be the first to admit it. But—unfortunately—a high moral sense isn’t enough. You see, Nature isn’t moral—it doesn’t conform to our concepts of right and wrong, and it isn’t limited to conditions where the right and wrong of a matter are easy to decide. There are times when an act that seems morally right can lead to... to something horrible. You cannot say a thing is morally right or wrong until you’ve considered the context in which it happens. And that, Mr. Hitchcock, is where your moral sense fails you.”

“I do not need a scientist to tell me the difference between right and wrong,” Hitchcock stated stubbornly.

Reese nodded pleasantly. “I expected you’d say that,” he admitted. “But you’re wrong. Until you know the consequences of an act, you cannot tell whether or not it is moral. And there are times—such as now—when a layman such as yourself does not understand the forces involved. When that happens, you cannot predict the consequences of an act.. Therefore, you cannot decide whether it is right or wrong.”

“You’re wrong!” Hitchcock insisted. “The end never justifies the means! Never!”

Reese didn’t deny it. He said, reasonably, “On the other hand, there are times when no other test applies—when all the possible courses of action look equally bad. And even when you can do something which seems absolutely right, you still have to think of the consequences. If the consequences are bad, the act itself must be bad. Or suppose there is a... a morally imperative goal which you can achieve only by doing things which any moral code would condemn.”

Hitchcock was incredulous. “Such a thing could not happen,” he objected.

“I am talking,” Reese said firmly, “about now. About the situation here. That is the problem we have been dealing with here, ever since this outpost was built—whether to help them—give them comfort and security—and destroy for all time their hope of ever becoming more than animals —or whether we should let nature take its course—allow many to die, and many more to suffer, so that some day their descendants can stand before us as equals.”

He shrugged expressively. “We can do only one thing. We must balance the wrong which we know we are doing against the goal we are morally obliged to support. We must go ahead and... and try not to let our consciences upset us too much.”

“If you must rationalize a thing,” Hitchcock stated, “it’s wrong. Good does not come from evil!”

Reese shrugged helplessly. “We must do what we think is right,” he said practically. “And if our judgments are different from someone else’s, we must follow our own. We—”

He broke off as the door opened. Two Floppers came in, wheeling a stretcher. Each one had a big red cross dyed in the fur on its chest.

Reese pointed at Hitchcock. “That man is sick.”

The Floppers advanced, their resilient feet rustling softly on the floor. Hitchcock, taken aback by Reese’s abrupt statement, thumbed his chest. “Me?” he wondered incredulously.