“Consider the position of pupil and teacher. One of Man’s greatest failings is his predilection for assuming always the position of teacher and eschewing that of pupil. There is also the question of humility, intellectual humility. We scientists have always boasted of our readiness to set aside one so-called truth and accept another with more valid supporting evidence.
“Since our first contact with other galactic civilizations we have had the utmost need to adopt an attitude of humility. We have been fortunate in coming to a community of worlds where war and oppression are not standard rules of procedure. Among our own people we have encountered no such magnanimity as has been extended repeatedly by other worlds, climaxed now by the Ryke’s magnificent offer.
“To adopt sincere intellectual humility and the attitude of the pupil is not to function as a parasite, Dr. Hockley.”
“Your analogy of teacher and pupil is very faulty in expressing our relation to the Rykes,” said Hockley. “Or perhaps I should say it is too hellishly accurate. Would you have us remain the eternal pupils? The closing of the National Laboratories means an irreversible change in our position. Is it worth gaining a universe of knowledge to give up your own personal free inquiry?”
“I am sure none of us considers he is giving up his personal free inquiry,” said Silvers almost angrily. “We see unlimited expansion beyond anything we have imagined in our wildest dreams.”
On a few faces there were frowns of uncertainty, but no one spoke up to support him. Hockley knew that until this vision of paradise wore off there were none of them on whom he could count.
He smiled broadly and stood up to ease the tension in the room. “Well, it appears you have made your decision. Of course, Congress can accept the Ryke plan whether we approve or not, but it is good to go on record one way or the other. I suppose that on the way out tonight it would be proper to check in at Personnel and file a services available notification.”
And then he wished he hadn’t said that. Their faces grew a little more set at his unappreciated attempt at humor.
Showalter remained after the others left. He sat across the desk while Hockley turned back to the window. Only the tip of the gammatron tower now caught the late afternoon sunlight.
“Maybe I’m getting old,” Hockley said. “Maybe they’re right and the Lab isn’t worth preserving if it means the difference between getting or not getting tutelage from the Rykes.”
“But you don’t feel that’s true,” said Showalter.
“No.”
“You’re the one who built the Lab into what it is. It has as much worth as it ever had, and you have an obligation to keep it from being destroyed by a group of politicians who could never understand its necessity.”
“I didn’t build it,” said Hockley. “It grew because I was able to find enough people who wanted the institution to exist. But I’ve been away from research so long—I never was much good at it really. Did you ever know that? I’ve always thought of myself as a sort of impressario of scientific productions, if I might use such a term. Maybe those closer to the actual work are right. Maybe I’m just trying to hang on to the past. It could be time for a jump to a new kind of progress.”
“You don’t believe any of that.”
Hockley looked steadily in the direction of the Lab buildings. “I don’t believe any of it. That isn’t just an accumulation of buildings over there, with a name attached to them. It’s the advancing terminal of all Man’s history of trying to find out about himself and the Universe. It started before Neanderthal climbed into his caves a half million years ago. From then until now there’s a steady path of trial and error—of learning. There’s exultation and despair, success and failure. Now they want to say it was all for nothing.”
“But to be pupils—to let the Rykes teach us—”
“The only trouble with Silvers’ argument is that our culture has never understood that teaching, in the accepted sense, is an impossibility. There can be only learning—never teaching. The teacher has to be eliminated from the actual learning process before genuine learning can ever take place. But the Rykes offer to become the Ultimate Teacher.”
“And if this is true,” said Showalter slowly, “you couldn’t teach it to those who disagree, could you? They’d have to learn it for themselves.”
Hockley turned. For a moment he continued to stare at his assistant. Then his face broke into a narrow grin. “Of course you’re right! There’s only one way they’ll ever learn it: go through the actual experience of what Ryke tutelage will mean.”
Most of the workrooms at Information Central were empty this time of evening. Hockley selected the first one he came to and called for every scrap of data pertaining to Rykeman III. There was a fair amount of information available on the physical characteristics of the world. Hockley scribbled swift, privately intelligible notes as he scanned. The Rykes lived under a gravity one third heavier than Earth’s, with a day little more than half as long, and they received only forty percent as much heat from their frail sun as Earthmen were accustomed to.
Cultural characteristics included a trading system that made the entire planet a single economic unit. And the planet had no history whatever of war. The Rykes themselves had contributed almost nothing to the central libraries of the galaxies concerning their own personal makeup and mental functions, however. What little was available came from observers not of their race.
There were indications they were a highly unemotional race, not given to any artistic expression. Hockley found this surprising. The general rule was for highly intellectual attainments to be accompanied by equally high artistic expression.
But all of this provided no data that he could relate to his present problem, no basis for argument beyond what he already had. He returned the films to their silver cans and sat staring at the neat pile of them on the desk. Then he smiled at his own obtuseness. Data on Rykeman III might be lacking, but the Ryke plan had been tried on plenty of other worlds. Data on them should not be so scarce.
He returned the cans and punched out a new request on the call panel. Twenty seconds later he was pleasantly surprised by a score of new tapes in the hopper. That was enough for a full night’s work. He wished he’d brought Showalter along to help.
Then his eye caught sight of the label on the topmost can in the pile: Janisson VIII. The name rang a familiar signal somewhere deep in his mind. Then he knew—that was the home world of Waldon Thar, one of his closest friends in the year when he’d gone to school at Galactic Center for advanced study.
Thar had been one of the most brilliant researchers Hockley had ever known. In bull session debate he was instantly beyond the depth of everyone else.
Janisson VIII. Thar could tell him about the Rykes!
Hockley pushed the tape cans aside and went to the phone in the workroom. He dialed for the interstellar operator. “Government priority call to Janisson VIII,” he said. “Waldon Thar. He attended Galactic Center Research Institute twenty-three years ago. He came from the city Plar, which was his home at that time. I have no other information, except that he is probably employed as a research scientist.”
There was a moment’s silence while the operator noted the information. “There will be some delay,” she said finally. “At present the inter-galactic beams are full.”
“I can use top emergency priority on this,” said Hockley. “Can you clear a trunk for me on that?”
“Yes. One moment, please.”