The Rival Rigelians

“Probably, each call theirs The World,” the Co-ordinator smiled. “After all, the basic language, in spite of a thousand years, is still undoubtedly Amer-English. However, I assume you are familiar with our method of naming. The most advanced culture on Rigel’s first planet is to be compared to the Italian cities during Europe’s feudalistic years. We have named that planet Genoa. The most advanced of the second planet is comparable to the Aztecs at the time of the Spanish conquest. We considered Tenochtitlan, but it seemed a tongue twister, so Texcoco, the sister city of the Aztecs, is the alternative.”

“Modernizing Genoa,” Mayer mused, “should be considerably easier than the task of semi-primitive Texcoco.”

Plekhanov shrugged heavy shoulders, in a manner betraying his Slavic background. “Not necessarily,” he rumbled.

The Co-ordinator held up a hand and smiled at them. “Please, no discussion on methods at this point. An hour from now you will be in space with a year of travel before you. During that time, you’ll have opportunity for discussion, debate and hair pulling on every phase of your problem.”

His expression went more serious. “You are acquainted with the unique position you assume. These colonists are in your control to the extent that no small group has ever dominated millions of others before. No Caesar ever exerted the power that will be in your collective hands. For half a century, you will be as gods and goddesses. Your science, your productive know-how, your medicine—if it comes to that—your weapons, are many centuries ahead of theirs. As I said before, your position should be humbling.”

Mayer said suddenly, unhappily, “Why not check upon us, say, once every decade? In all, our ship’s company numbers but eighteen persons. Almost anything could happen. If you were to send a departmental craft each ten years…”

Kennedy whispered to Natalie Wieliczka, “Old Amschel’s trying to hedge our bets.”

She ignored him, making a prim moue. The Co-ordinator was shaking his head. “Your qualifications are as high as anyone available. Once on the scene you will begin accumulating information which we here, in Terra City, do not have. Were we to send another group in ten years to check upon you, all they could do would be interfere in a situation with which they would not be cognizant.”

Amschel Mayer shifted nervously. “But no matter how highly trained, nor how earnest our efforts, we still may fail.” His voice worried. “The department cannot expect guaranteed success. After all, we are the first.”

“Admittedly. Your group is first to approach the hundreds of thousands of planets we have seeded with our race. If you fail, we will use your failure to perfect the eventual system we must devise for future teams. Even your failure would be of infinite use to us.” He lifted and dropped a shoulder in a wry gesture. “I have no desire to undermine your belief in yourselves but—how are we to know? Perhaps there will be a score of failures before we find the ideal method of quickly bringing these primitive colonies into our Galactic Commonwealth.”

He came to his feet and sighed. He still hated to see them go. He said, “If there is no other discussion…” He went from one to the other, shaking hands.

II

Specialist Joseph Chessman stood solidly before a viewing screen. Theoretically, he was on watch. Actually, his eyes were unseeing, there was nothing to see. The star pattern changed so slowly as to be all but permanent.

Not that every other task on board the spaceship Pedagogue was not similar. One man could have taken the craft from the Solar System to Rigel just as easily as the eighteen handcrew was doing. Automation at its ultimate, not even the steward department had tasks adequate to fill the hours.

He had got beyond the point of yawning, his mind was blank during these hours of duty. Inwardly, he was of the opinion that Mayer was an idiot to insist that the crewman standing bridge watch not be allowed to read. The scrawny old duffer never stood a watch himself, in spite of the fact that he was the nearest thing to a captain that the Pedagogue had.

Joe Chessman was a stolid bear of a man, short and massive of build. His face, even in repose carried a frown. He was the type who could step out of a barber chair and three minutes later have rumpled hair—the type who could purchase an expensive suit and in half an hour look as though he had slept in it.

A voice behind him said, low, throaty, “Hi, Spaceman. Need company?”

He turned and scowled at her.

“Those off watch aren’t supposed to be on the bridge.” He took in her outfit. “You look like you’re going to a party.” He paused and added. “Quite a party.”

Isobel Sanchez smiled slowly. “I got tired of the everlasting coveralls. Don’t you think this is an improvement?” She turned, for his inspection.