“But how could you find it?”
Bhelabher smiled, preening. “People don’t hide things in chests with false bottoms, or secret rooms, anymore, young man. They hide them in computers, with secret activation codes. But whatever code one man can think up, another can deduce—especially if he has his own computer to do the donkey-work of searching. I am an expert, after all—and I did have some time.”
Dar stared. “You mean you actually managed to break each of their personal codes?”
“Only Satrap’s and Boundbridge’s; General Forcemain held his inside the military computer, which is somewhat better protected against even expert pilfering. But the Electors’ dossiers sufficed—especially since they directed me to several others. No, young man, that code I’ve given you will reveal enough documented evidence to convince even the Secretary-General.”
The slip of paper suddenly seemed to burn Dar’s fingers. He held onto it resolutely, the numbers fairly searing his retinas. “Somehow I don’t think I’ll have any trouble remembering these numbers now, Honorable.”
“Stout fellow!” Bhelabher clasped his arm and pumped his hand. “I’ll be eternally indebted to you—and so will quadrillions of other persons, most of whom have not even been born yet!”
“I’ll collect when they’ve grown, and the interest has, too.” Dar forced a smile. “Don’t worry, Honorable—I’ll do my best.”
“More than that, no man can ask.” Bhelabher looked up. “Except possibly your commander; I see he wants another word with you.” He stepped aside, and Shacklar stepped up. “It’s about time to depart, Ardnam.”
A high-pitched whine hit their ears as the ferry’s coolant pumps started up. Sam pushed her way through the door and strode over to the small ship.
“Allow me to escort you,” Shacklar murmured, taking Dar by the elbow and steering him out the door.
Once outside, he raised his voice to be heard over the beginning rumbles of superheated steam. “You do realize the importance of the mission you’re undertaking?”
“Yeah, to make sure BOA leaves us alone,” Dar called back. “Uh, General …”
Shacklar gave him an inquiring blink.
“The Honorable just told me about a coup the LORDS’re planning, back on Terra. Think I should take him seriously?”
“Oh, very seriously. I’ve been sure it would happen for quite some time now.”
Dar whirled to stare to him, appalled. “You knew?”
“Well, not ‘knew,’ really. I can’t tell you the date of its beginning, nor who will be behind it—but I do see the general shape of it. Any man who’s read a bit of history can see it coming. On the inner worlds, it’s all about you, the signs of a dying democracy. I’d been watching it happen for twenty years, before I came out here.”
“And that’s why you came out here?”
Shacklar nodded, pleased. “You’re perceptive, young fellow. Yes. If democracy is doomed on the interstellar scale, it can at least be kept alive on individual planets.”
“Especially one that’s far enough away from Terra so that whatever dictatorship replaces the I.D.E. will just forget about it,” Dar inferred.
Shacklar nodded again. “Because it’s too costly to maintain communication with it. Yes. By the end of the century, I expect we’ll be left quite thoroughly to our own devices.”
“Not a pleasant picture,” Dar said, brooding, “but better than being ruled by a dictator on Terra. So what should I do about it?”
“Do?” Shacklar repeated, surprised. “Why, there’s nothing you can do, really—except to make the quixotic gesture: inform the media, if you like, or the Secretary-General, or something of the sort.”
“You can’t mean it,” Dar said, shocked. “We can’t let democracy go down without a fight!”
“But it already has gone down, don’t you see? And all you can gain by a dramatic flourish is, perhaps, another decade or so of life for the forms of it—the Assembly, and the Cabinet, and so forth. But that won’t change the reality—that the frontier worlds have already begun to govern themselves, and that Terra and the other Central Worlds are already living under a dictatorship, for all practical purposes. Ask anyone who’s lived there, if you doubt me.”
Dar thought of Sam’s disgust and despair, and saw Shacklar’s point. “Are you saying democracy isn’t worth fighting for?”
“Not at all—but I am saying that all such fighting will get you is a lifelong prison sentence in a real, Terrestrial prison, perhaps for a very short life. The press of social forces is simply too great for anyone to stop. If you really want to do something, try to change those social forces.”
Dar frowned. “How can you do that?”
Shacklar shrugged. “Invent faster-than-light radio, or a way of educating the vast majority to skepticism and inquiring thought—but don’t expect to see the effects of it within your lifetime. You can start it—but it’ll take a century or two before it begins to have an effect.”
“Well, that’s great for my grandchildren—but what do I do about the rest of my life?”
Shacklar sighed. “Try to find a nice, quiet little out-of-the-way planet that the new dictators are apt to overlook, and do your best to make it a pocket of freedom for the next few centuries, and live out your life there in whatever tranquility you can manage.”
“Which is what you’ve done,” Dar said softly.
Shacklar flashed him a smile. “Well, it’s still in process, of course.”
“It always will be, for the rest of your life. Which is how you’re going to maintain your illusion of meaning in your life.”
“Quite so,” Shacklar said, grinning, “and can you be certain it is an illusion?”
“Not at all,” Dar breathed. “If I could, it wouldn’t work. But that line of thought is supposed to induce despair.”
“Only if you take it as proof that there is no purpose in life—which your mind may believe, but your heart won’t. Not once you’re actually involved in it. It’s a matter of making unprovability work for you, you see.”
“I think I begin to.” Dar gave his head a quick shake. “Dunno if I’m up to making that little ‘pocket of freedom,’ though.”
“You’ll always be welcome back here, of course,” Shacklar murmured.
“Two minutes till lift-off,” declared a brazen voice from the ship.
“You’d better run.” Shacklar pressed a thick envelope into Dar’s hand. “You’ll find all the credentials you’ll need in there, including a draft on the Bank of Wolmar for two first-class, round-trip fares from Wolmar to Terra.” He slapped Dar on the shoulder. “Good luck, and remember—don’t be a hero.”
Dar started to ask what he meant, but Shacklar was already turning away, and the ship rumbled threateningly deep in its belly, so Dar had to turn and run.
“Took you long enough,” Sam groused as he dropped into the acceleration couch beside her and stretched the shock webbing across his body. “What was that high-level conference all about?”
“About why I should flow with the social tide.”
“Hm.” Sam pursed her lips, and nodded slowly. “Quite a man, your General.”
“Yeah. I really feel badly about deceiving him.” Dar rolled back the envelope flap.
“What’s that?” Sam demanded.
Dar didn’t answer. He was too busy staring.
“Hi, there!” Sam waved. “Remember me? What have you got there?”
“My credentials,” Dar said slowly.
“What’s the matter? Aren’t they in order?”
“Very. They’re all for ‘Dar Mandra.’ ”
“Oh.” Sam sat quietly for a few minutes, digesting that. Then she sighed and leaned back in her couch. “Well. Your General … perceptive, too, huh?”