The Stradai were born, trained to maximum efficiency in the occupation which most needed them at the time of training, were permitted to set up a family unit — monogamous or polygamous, depending on the population balance of their home planet — were given physical and mental care on the basis of periodic examinations — were provided with dwelling space and food stations — were given credits for luxury items in ratio to the performance against the predetermined efficiency index in their occupations.
The working day was five hours long as a rule, varied to fit, when necessary, a longer or shorter rotational period of the planet. Creative art in all fields was encouraged but the majority of the Stradai preferred during their leisure hours to frequent the well-equipped recreation halls for the group games and entertainments devised by the Center, put into operation by the League.
The new planets as they were populated became known to their inhabitants by name — Homeplace, Blue, Pleasant Home. But to the central population records they were known by a number, the prefix being the year of preparation and the suffix being the year either in the past or future when full population would be reached.
At the time of the opening of the door to the twin worlds there were 562 planets, of which 486 had reached full population, 63 were in the process of being populated and equipped and 15 were in various stages of preparation.
No man had visited them all or even half of them. Both the Center and the League were aware that the entire 562, due to patrol fleet and maintenance fleet disposition, could be completely depopulated and/or fragmented in an estimated ten-day period.
Thus the smiling adjusted hard-working Stradai of the unpolitical classes walked about with that small ice-tight kernel of fear deep in their hearts. The very ground under them was potentially unstable and the heavens could gout a white fire that would consume them within the space of a catching of the breath, an upward glance of the eyes.
On 5980-91, one of the older planets, an elderly worker with production awards imprinted on the shoulders of his work clothes stood by the factory food station. He addressed ten other workers, the entire factory staff.
“Why aren’t we told more? Where did my son go? He’s been gone four years. I’ll never see him again. The Center took him and he wanted excitement and he was glad to go. Have they turned him into an assassin? Why? Where do the loveliest young women of this planet go? Where are they taken? Are they taken to secret places, to be the pleasure of the big men in the League and the Center?
“What is this thing we make here? Some think it is a weapon. I think it is a weapon. Who is going to use it? And on whom? Why are we so carefully forced, so early in the game, to swear secret loyalty to either the Center or the League? I no longer have any loyalty to either.”
The other men, white-lipped, turned uneasily away. The elderly man stood, waiting. At last, high in the wall, the brass voice of the speaker said, “Marana Seventy-nine C point One, report at once to BuPers. Report at once.”
He turned and walked out. The gong sounded the end of the short rest period. The others went back to work without looking directly at each other. In the late afternoon a young worker reported and took the place of the old man.
When they reported the next morning the few personal items that the old man had kept in the work bench drawer under the bank of lights that he had watched for thirty years were gone. No one asked who had taken them. There was no need for that.
The workers in the factory felt a certain pride in being allied with the Center. After discreet and subtle questioning they found that the young worker was also one of them. Tension relaxed and within a few weeks the old man was forgotten.
The small unimportant-looking Chief of the Center maneuvered his tiny ship toward the asteroid with the ease of long practise. The asteroid was a minute million-ton chunk of black rock, selected originally because it was firm in its orbit, readily predictable, yet without motion on its own axis.
He brought his speed in relation to the asteroid to nearly zero, guided the ship slowly into the circular mouth of the tunnel, keeping it a foot from the vitrified floor. As it reached the gravitized area the prow nosed down, scraped and the small ship settled, rocking slightly before coming to rest. After he activated the port behind the ship he waited and watched the dial indicating outside air pressure creep up to normal.
Wearily he climbed out of the ship, opened the smaller port at the deep end of the tunnel, pulled it shut behind him. Drugged with exhaustion he made his way to his bedroom, pulled off his clothes, stepped into the bath.
Here in the hollow interior of the asteroid were ail of the fruits and awards his position merited, the best the culture could provide. Tart wines from the rocky hills of distant planets. Quiet, peace, luxury, service so perfect as to be barely noticeable. A million hours of music no farther away than the nearest wall selector. The golden girls of Garva or the cat-fragile women of Tsain.
He lay in the deep hot bath and the water swirled around him, washing away some of the ache, the tension.
The League knew of this place and undoubtedly knew of his arrival to the exact moment. And, knowing of it, somewhere a trained hand would rest close to a button or switch. The asteroid would make a very small puff of blue-white flame. But if that were done within one second a few dozen sybaritic retreats of League leaders would disappear in like fashion. It was a form of truce and he had come to accept it almost as a form of security.
The rush of warm air absorbed the moisture from his body. He went back into the bedroom and found that the soiled clothes had disappeared. Fresh ones were laid out for him. He knew that the servitors were awaiting his orders, that there had been a great alertness among them since the moment of his arrival.
Yet there was restlessness mingled with the weariness and he decided that for a time they should wait.
He pushed a button recessed into the top of a small table and stood back, naked, his arms crossed, watching the wide wall of the bedroom. It took on a misty look, shimmered, and was gone. As always the utter blackness was breathtaking, the stars burning with that fierce brilliance so impossible to describe to one who never left the atmospheric envelope of his home planet.
It took him but a moment to orient himself to this familiar sight. And he found Strada, not harsh like the stars but misted like the other planets, so small that even were the atmosphere gone he would have been unable to pick out the outlines of the continents.
The self-doubt which he had felt of late was new to him. Never before had he doubted his own decisions. Always he had done his work, hoping and planning and dreaming that one day there would appear a chance to break the stalemate, to win the first and last victory over the League. And now the chance had come with this doorway into another world.
Why not use it at once? Devise a clever plan of transporting vast numbers of key Center personnel into the new world. Enlarge the doorway and set up others. Turn the other world into an arsenal. Flood their heavens with ships of the Center. Then, with the first genuinely impregnable fortress that had existed for a dozen generations, issue forth to smash the League. Why not?
He knew he had lied to Lofta. There was no real reason for great slowness. There was every reason to make haste. Who could know what the League planned?
And yet — he smiled. The three agents, Amro, Massio and Faven, had reported to him in person. Amro had been their spokesman. It was the first time in his career that he had permitted direct contact with the agents. The honor had awed them. And yet through their awe he had sensed their pleasure in this new world, this quiet, primitive world.
The woman agent, Faven, had very cleverly insinuated the idea that Amro had formed a very unnecessary emotional attachment for the Earthwoman who lived among them, not suspecting their origin. And he had seen Amro’s anger, in itself a guarantee of the truth.