Mike Resnick - Birthright

“That, too,” agreed Bowman. “But I was thinking of the life expectancy of the race. After all, at the rate it's blowing itself up, the planet can't last another five thousand years before there's nothing left of it. And these creatures aren't ever going to migrate to anywhere else. Hell, there is nowhere else for a race that can live here.”

“How about a star?”

“Not a chance. Any star the size of Zeta Cancri would sizzle them before they got close, and even if it didn't, it's still a totally different environment. Besides, they're never going to come upon space travel. The only fuel they've got is their food, and as long as they've got food, why leave?” “Because you're not the only guy in the galaxy who knows the planet's dying.” “Maybe,” said Bowman. “But we're presupposing that they're intelligent. I think it's far more likely that they're not.”

“Why?”

“Because this is obviously a young planet. It's going to die in its adolescence, so to speak. That's barely enough time to develop life of any sort, let alone intelligent life. Besides, no creature could adapt so greatly that it can become an energy-eater if it was something else to begin with. And, assuming that these beings have always eaten energy, why should they have developed intelligence? There was no environmental need for it.”

“Not so,” said Nelson. “The probe said they're living underground. They may have had to develop

intelligence to keep one step ahead of the explosions.” “The probe said they were on or under the surface. There's no reason to assume one rather than the other.”

“The hell there isn't. You've seen the explosions, Milt. Nothing could survive those.” “If they've evolved anything,” said Bowman, “it's probably an instinctive awareness of what areas to avoid at what times.”

“Maybe,” said Nelson. “But it sounds like so much rationalizing to me.” Bowman sighed. “You're probably right. Still, we've got a job to do. We've signed a contract, we're a million dollars in the hole already, and about to shell out another million. After expenses, we're not going to break even, but we'll come close. The alternative is to forfeit the contract and pay off the Master Computer from future jobs.”

“I guess that's what it boils down to in the end,” said Nelson. “I guess so,” agreed Bowman grimly. “We'd better reach a decision.” The silent, peaceful natives of Zeta Cancri IV were blissfully unaware of the discussion going on hundreds of miles above them. They went about their business, which was unintelligible to anyone but themselves, hopefully planning for the future, thankfully praising their God for this land of plenty He had provided for them.

Their decision made, the Pioneers tied in to the Master Computer once again; and, light-years distant, the Republic chalked up another world on Man's side of the ledger. 2: THE CARTOGRAPHERS

...Unquestionably the greatest scientific achievement up to its time, and well beyond it, the Department of Cartography—and most especially the complex at Caliban—soon took on an importance undreamed of by the populace at large. For the first time since Man had reached for the stars, the military was totally subservient to a scientific arm of the Republic, and the expansionist movement took on a high degree of order and direction.

The various segments of the Cartographic Department first coalesced under the inspired leadership of Robert Tileson Landon, an almost unbelievably perceptive scholar who had been given total control of Cartography in 301 G.E., and proceeded to shape and mold the budding science into something far more vital than even Caliban's original planners could have anticipated. During the fifty-six years that Landon headed the Department, phenomenal gains were made in... — Man: Twelve Millennia of Achievement ...The Department of Cartography, established on Caliban in 197 G.E., was an almost perfect example of the transformation of a pure science into a vehicle for continued territorial aggrandizement. The chief motivational force behind this perversion was a Dr. Robert T. Landon. Spending as much time on his public image as on his appetite for Empire, Landon managed to die a beloved hero in the eyes of his people, which in no way alters the fact that he was responsible, directly or indirectly, for...

— Origin and History of the Sentient Races , Vol. 7. Vast, thought Nelson, was an understatement.

Even before the ship entered the atmosphere, the building stood out. Though he had never been to

Earth, he didn't see how it could possibly house any structure larger than the Big C. It stretched some sixty miles by forty miles, its solid shining steel reflecting the reddish-yellow rays of the sun, a silver iceberg with well over nine-tenths of its bulk beneath the ground, even though it rose some six thousand feet above the surface.

Yes, vast was an understatement, but then, the word hadn't yet been created that would do the Big C justice. The Big C wasn't its real name, of course; but somehow, the Department of Cartography just didn't conjure up enough grandeur, and so the Pioneers had come up with their own term for it. Nelson had never seen the Big C before, though he had heard a great deal about it. Any structure that cost more than ten trillion dollars and housed half a million full-time staffers was bound to receive more than casual attention from the media. Parts of it were open to anyone with minimal security clearance, but not too many people bothered taking the tour. For one thing, the planet Caliban was well off the beaten track in a galaxy that was quite underpopulated in terms of humanity; for another, it would require a minimum of two days just to walk from one end of one level of the Big C to the other. As for learning exactly what went on there, it would take considerably more than a lifetime. Not that each of the Big C's levels were open for walking all that easily. Nelson had complete clearance and was there by invitation from Landon himself, and it still took him the better part of three hours to be admitted to the Director's outer office, and another hour before Landon was able to greet him. He'd never seen the Director in the flesh, but the man's visage was as familiar to the public as was the complex that he ran with an iron hand. Landon was middle-aged—Nelson guessed he was in his late forties—and had a somewhat unkempt curly brown beard. If the men of his family had ever possessed a humorous or kindly twinkle in their eye, it had been bred out of the line before Landon was born. Nor did Landon look haggard or worn, as one might expect of a man with his responsibilities. If there was one intangible quality about the man, the hard-set line of his jaw, the precise measured movement of his hands, it was total self-confidence.

“Nelson?'’ The Director extended his hand in greeting. “I'm Landon.” “Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Nelson. “Shall I call you Doctor, or Mister, or ... ?” “Just Landon will do,” said the Director. “Come on into my office and have a seat.” Nelson followed him into a room that was almost Spartan in its austerity. He hadn't known quite what to expect, but this certainly wasn't it: a plain wood desk, three chairs, two intercom devices, a small bookcase, a couple of rather common pastoral paintings which he suspected were prints, and a tray containing a pitcher of water and four glasses. The floor was badly scuffed, and made of a type of wood with which he was unfamiliar.

Landon activated a holo screen and began reading it, glancing at Nelson from time to time. “Bartholomew Nelson,” he said, half reading, half musing. “Seventeen years of service with the Pioneer Corps, degrees in geology, chemistry and sociology. Given twenty-four contracts, fulfilled sixteen, forfeited seven, one being processed in the courts.” He looked up. “Not a bad record, given some of those planets. You any relation to the Nelson who helped open up Bowman 29?” “He was my grandfather, sir,” said Nelson.