Ben Bova - Titan

Gaeta raised his hands in a mock surrender. “Hey, I’m retired. I got no interest in doing stunts anymore.”

But Pancho arched a brow. “Y’know, maybe what your lander needs is a repairman. Or woman.”

“You volunteering?” Gaeta kidded her.

“I was an astronaut, ’way back when. I’ve fixed more’n one balky robot in orbit. I remember once, before Moonbase became the nation of Selene …”

Pancho regaled the table for the next hour and more with tales of her exploits on the Moon.

Meanwhile, Professor James Colraine Wilmot was entertaining an unwelcome guest in his quarters.

“I’m sorry to have interrupted your evening,” said Eberly, as he stepped into the professor’s sitting room.

“Yes, obviously,” Wilmot said with barely-concealed distaste.

Wilmot’s two-room suite was no larger than the standard apartments in the village of Athens: a sitting room and a bedroom, spacious by the standards of a spacecraft, yet as compact as an efficiency apartment in a major Earthside metropolis. It was as comfortable and unpretentious as Wilmot himself, though. The professor had furnished it just like his old digs in Cambridge; indeed, most of the warm, dark wooden furniture had been taken from his home there. He even had a section of one of the smart walls displaying a fireplace, complete with hypnotic crackling flames.

Wilmot himself was obviously dressed for an evening alone. He wore a deep burgundy dressing gown over rumpled, baggy tweed trousers. His feet were shod in comfortable old slippers. He was considerably bulkier than Eberly, a tall, thickset man with a bushy gray moustache and iron-gray hair, his face seamed and permanently tanned by long years in the field on anthropological expeditions.

Eberly was in his office attire: a light blue hip-length tunic over crisply creased charcoal slacks. Wilmot thought the tunic hid the man’s potbelly well. Strange creature, the professor said to himself, as he gestured Eberly to a worn old leather armchair. The man has obviously spent a great deal of effort to make his face look handsome, even commanding. Yet below the neck he’s soft as putty.

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Wilmot asked, sinking into his favorite chair. A half-empty glass of whisky sat on the coffee table between them. Wilmot did not so much as glance at it, nor did he offer his visitor a drink.

Eberly’s sculpted face grew serious, almost grave. “I thought it best to discuss this face-to-face, and not in my office,” he began.

There he goes, thought Wilmot. Always some dire emergency. Always the need for secrecy. The man’s a born schemer.

“Some sort of problem?” he asked.

Nodding, Eberly said, “We need to amend the constitution.”

“Do we?”

“Yes. I can see now that calling for elections every year was a mistake. We need to change that.”

“Ah.” Wilmot smiled knowingly. “Now that you are in power you don’t want to run the risk of being voted out.”

“It’s not that,” Eberly protested.

“Then what?”

Eberly’s face twisted into a nervous grimace. Wilmot could see the wheels turning in his mind.

At last the younger man said, “Having elections every year means that whoever is in office must prepare for the coming election campaign. Every year! It distracts from his duties. I’m so busy trying to convince people I’m doing the best possible job for them that I don’t have the time to do the job they elected me to do.”

Wilmot considered this for a moment. “You could step down and allow someone else to take the job.”

“But I’m the best qualified!” Eberly cried. “I really am. You know the people of this habitat. They’re lazy. They don’t want the responsibilities of office. They’d rather let someone else do it.”

“They are averse to political responsibilities, true enough,” Wilmot admitted. “Perhaps we should institute a draft—”

“A draft?”

“It’s been suggested, you know. Pick our administrative officers by lot. Let the personnel department’s computer run the show. It might even generate some enthusiasm among the people, a lottery.”

“And whoever got picked would refuse to serve,” Eberly said, almost sullenly.

Wilmot realized he was tired of this tomfoolery. Besides, his drink was waiting for him. He rose to his feet. Eberly looked surprised, then slowly got up out of his chair.

“The real reason we have elections every year,” he said, gripping Eberly’s thin arm in one strong hand, “is to allow the people of this habitat to vent some political steam. Elections are a safety valve, you see. They give people the illusion that they have some degree of control over their government. Without elections, who knows what kind of protests and outright rebellions we might get—even from these lazy, noninvolved citizens. They’re slackers and noncomformists, no doubt, but if they feel the government is not sensitive to their needs, they will hunt for a way to change the government. Elections are better than revolts.”

Eberly stood there, looking decidedly unhappy. He’s trying to think of a rebuttal, Wilmot could see. I can smell the wood burning.

“I doubt that you have anything to worry about, my boy,” Wilmot said jovially, clapping Eberly on the shoulder and steering him to the door. “As you say, the good citizens of this habitat are woefully apathetic. Most of ’em don’t even bother to vote—as long as there are elections. But take away the elections and you’ll have trouble on your hands. Remember, as the incumbent, you have a powerful advantage. I doubt that you have anything to fear. Really I do.”

Eberly looked far from reassured as he said good night and Wilmot closed the door on him.

Damned schemer, Wilmot thought, as he headed back to his drink. Blackmailer. He’d do anything to hold on to power.

He sat heavily and took a long sip of the whisky. Feeling its warmth working its way through him, Wilmot relaxed somewhat. I’m out of it, he said to himself. I’m merely an observer now, nothing more.

He took another sip, then leaned his head back. It’s damned interesting, though. Ten thousand men and women locked inside this oversized sardine tin. The ideal anthropological experiment. Despite it all, I’m quite a lucky man.

Eberly, meanwhile, was walking along the corridor to his own apartment. There were plenty of people coming up in the other direction. Eberly was surprised to see that most of them looked tanned, even golden. What is this? he asked himself. A new fad that I haven’t caught onto?

Everyone who passed him recognized Eberly, of course, and greeted him with smiles and hellos. That made him feel better. They know me. They like me. They even admire me, most of them.

Wilmot’s not going to offer any support for amending the constitution, he realized. But then he brightened. Still and all, the old man won’t offer any opposition, either. His moral power in this habitat is nil. I’ve seen to that.

He quickened his stride as he headed for his apartment.

“So how serious are you about this bodyguard of yours?” Holly asked her sister.

The two women were sitting in Holly’s kitchen. She had invited Pancho for breakfast and a one-on-one talk. There were no eggs in the habitat, no chickens. Most of the protein came from aquaculture fish, frogs or shellfish, or from the genetically engineered protein the inhabitants of Goddard fondly called “McGlop.” Holly had microwaved a plate of the processed protein for them and added sliced fruits from the habitat’s orchards.

Pancho shrugged her slim shoulders. “We been livin’ together for a few months now. We get along real well.”