" The Prince', Chapter 19. You are—"
"There was another important purpose to the voyage," said the trader, grinning. "You will be interested in this." He handed Alen a document which, unfolded, had the seal of the College and Order at its head.
Alen read in a daze: "Examiner 19 to the Rector—final clearance of Novice—"
He lingered pridefully over the paragraph that described how he had
"with coolness and great resource" foxed the battle cruiser of the Realm, "adapting himself readily in a delicate situation requiring not only physical courage but swift recall, evaluation and application of a minor planetary culture."
Not so pridefully he read: "—inclined towards pomposity of manner somewhat ludicrous in one of his years, though not unsuccessful in dominating the crew by his bearing—"
And: "—highly profitable disposal of our gems; a feat of no mean importance since the College and Order must, after all, maintain itself."
And: "—cleared the final and crucial hurdle with some mental turmoil if I am any judge, but did clear it. After some twenty years of indoctrination in unrealistic non-violence, the youth was confronted with a situation where nothing but violence would serve, correctly evaluated this, and applied violence in the form of a truncheon to the head of a Lyran signal officer, thereby demonstrating an ability to learn and common sense as precious as it is rare."
And, finally, simply: "Recommended for training."
"Training?" gasped Alen. "You mean there's more?"
"Not for most, boy. Not for most. The bulk of us are what we seem to be: oily, gun-shy, indispensable adjuncts to trade who feather our nest with percentages. We need those percentages and we need gun-shy Heralds."
Alen recited slowly: "Among other evils which being unarmed brings you, it causes you to be despised."
"Chapter 14," said blackboard mechanically. "We leave such clues lying by their bedsides for twenty years, and most never notice them. For the few of us who—"
"Will I learn to throw a knife like you?" asked Alen impelled and fascinated at once by the idea.
"On your own time, if you wish. Mostly it's ethics and morals so you'll be able to weigh the values of such things at knife-throwing."
"Ethics! Morals!"
"We started as missionaries, you know."
"Everybody knows that. But the Great Utilitarian Reform…"
"Some of us," said blackboard dryly, "think it was neither great, nor utilitarian, nor a reform."
It was a staggering idea. "But we're spreading utilitarian civilization!"
protested Alen. "Or if we're not, what's the sense of it all?"
Blackboard told him: "We have our different motives. One is a sincere utilitarian; another is a gambler—happy when he's in danger and his pulses are pounding. Another is proud and likes to trick people. More than a few conceive themselves as servants of mankind. I'll let you rest for a bit now." He rose.
"But you?" asked Alen hesitantly.
"Me? You will find me in Chapter Twenty-Six," grinned blackbeard.
"And perhaps you'll find someone else." He closed the door behind him.
Alen ran through the chapter in his mind, puzzled, until— that was it.
It had a strange and inevitable familiarity to it as if he had always known that he would be saying it aloud, welcomingly, hi this cramped cubicle aboard a battered starship:
"God is not willing to do everything, and thus take away our free will and that share of glory which belongs to us."
The Adventurer
President Folsom XXIV said petulantly to his Secretary of the Treasury:
"Blow me to hell, Bannister, if I understood a single word of that. Why can't I buy the Nicolaides Collection? And don't start with the rediscount and the Series W business again. Just tell me why."
The Secretary of the Treasury said with an air of apprehension and a thread-like feeling across his throat: "It boils down to—no money, Mr.
President."
The President was too engrossed in thoughts of the marvelous collection to fly into a rage. "It's such a bargain," he said mournfully.
"An archaic Henry Moore figure-really too big to finger, but I'm no culture-snob, thank God—and fifteen early Morrisons and I can't begin to tell you what else." He looked hopefully at the Secretary of Public Opinion. "Mightn't I seize it for the public good or something?"
The Secretary of Public Opinion shook his head. His pose was gruffly professional. "Not a chance, Mr. President. We'd never get away with it.
The art lovers would scream to high Heaven."
"I suppose so …Why isn't there any money?" He had swiveled dangerously on the Secretary of the Treasury again.
"Sir, purchases of the new Series W bond issue have lagged badly because potential buyers have been attracted to—"
"Stop it, stop it, stop it! You know I can't make head or tail of that stuff.
Where's the money going?"
The Director of the Budget said cautiously: "Mr. President, during the biennium just ending, the Department of Defense accounted for seventy-eight per cent of expenditures—"
The Secretary of Defense growled: "Now wait a minute, Felder! We were voted—"
The President interrupted, raging weakly: "Oh, you rascals! My father would have known what to do with you! But don't think I can't handle it.
Don't think you can hoodwink me." He punched a button ferociously; his silly face was contorted with rage and there was a certain tension on all the faces around the Cabinet table.
Panels slid down abruptly in the walls, revealing grim-faced Secret Servicemen. Each Cabinet officer was covered by at least two automatic rifles.
"Take that-that traitor away!" the President yelled. His finger pointed at the Secretary of Defense, who slumped over the table, sobbing. Two Secret Servicemen half-carried him from the room.
President Folsom XXIV leaned back, thrusting out his lower lip. He told the Secretary of the Treasury: "Get me the money for the Nicolaides Collection. Do you understand? I don't care how you do it. Get it." He glared at the Secretary of Public Opinion. "Have you any comments?"
"No, Mr. President."
"All right, then." The President unbent and said plaintively: "I don't see why you can't all be more reasonable. I'm a very reasonable man. I don't see why I can't have a few pleasures along with my responsibilities.
Really I don't. And I'm sensitive. I don't like these scenes. Very well.
That's all. The Cabinet meeting is adjourned."
They rose and left silently in the order of their seniority. The President noticed that the panels were still down and pushed the button that raised them again and hid the granite-faced Secret Servicemen. He took out of his pocket a late Morrison fingering-piece and turned it over in his hand, a smile of relaxation and bliss spreading over his face. Such amusing textural contrast! Such unexpected variations on the classic sequences!
The Cabinet, less the Secretary of Defense, was holding a rump meeting in an untapped corner of the White House gymnasium.
"God," the Secretary of State said, white-faced. "Poor old Willy!"
The professionally gruff Secretary of Public Opinion said: "We should murder the bastard. I don't care what happens—"
The Director of the Budget said dryly: "We all know what would happen. President Folsom XXV would take office. No; we've got to keep plugging as before. Nothing short of the invincible can topple the Republic …"
"What about a war?" the Secretary of Commerce demanded fiercely.
"We've no proof that our program will work. What about a war?"
State said wearily: "Not while there's a balance of power, my dear man.
The Io-Callisto Question proved that. The Republic and the Soviet fell all over themselves trying to patch things up as soon as it seemed that there would be real shooting. Folsom XXIV and his excellency Premier Yersinsky know at least that much."
The Secretary of the Treasury said: "What would you all think of Steiner for Defense?"