"This isn't a planet," Dorser put in. "It's a pipsqueak moon."
"Not according to Yancy," Eckmund said. "We're supposed to think of Callisto as a planet."
"How?" Taverner asked.
"Spiritually, it's a planet. Yancy likes people to take a spiritual view of matters. He's strong on God and honesty in government and being hardworking and clean-cut. Warmed-over truisms."
The expression on Taverner's face hardened. "Interesting," he murmured. "I'll have to drop by and meet him."
"Why? He's the dullest, most mediocre man you could dream up."
"Maybe," Taverner answered, "that's why I'm interested."
Babson, huge and menacing, met Taverner at the entrance of the Yancy Building. "Of course you can meet Mr. Yancy. But he's a busy man – it'll take a while to squeeze in an appointment. Everybody wants to meet Mr. Yancy."
Taverner was unimpressed. "How long do I have to wait?"
As they crossed the main lobby to the elevators, Babson made a computation. "Oh, say four months."
"Four months?"
"John Yancy is just about the most popular man alive."
"Around here, maybe," Taverner commented angrily, as they entered the packed elevator. "I never heard of him before. If he's got so much on the ball, why isn't he piped all around Niplan?"
"Actually," Babson admitted, in a hoarse, confidential whisper, "I can't imagine what people see in Yancy. As far as I'm concerned he's just a big bag of wind. But people around here enjoy him. After all, Callisto is – provincial. Yancy appeals to a certain type of rural mind – to people who like their world simple. I'm afraid Terra would be too sophisticated for Yancy."
"Have you tried?"
"Not yet," Babson said. Reflectively, he added: "Maybe later."
While Taverner was pondering the meaning of the big man's words, the elevator ceased climbing. The two of them stepped off into a luxurious, carpeted hall, illuminated by recessed lights. Babson pushed open a door, and they entered a large, active office.
Inside, a screening of a recent Yancy gestalt was in progress. A group of yance-men watched it silently, faces alert and critical. The gestalt showed Yancy sitting at his old-fashioned oak desk, in his study. It was obvious that he had been working on some philosophical thoughts: spread out over the desk were books and papers. On Yancy's face was a thoughtful expression; he sat with his hand against his forehead, features screwed up into a solemn study of concentration.
"This is for next Sunday morning," Babson explained.
Yancy's lips moved, and he spoke. "Friends," he began, in his deep, personal, friendly, man-to-man voice, "I've been sitting here at my desk – well, about the way you're sitting around your living rooms." A switch in camera work occurred; it showed the open door of Yancy's study. In the living room was the familiar figure of Yancy's sweet-faced middle-aged homey wife; she was sitting on the comfortable sofa, primly sewing. On the floor their grandson Ralf played the familiar game of jacks. The family dog snoozed in the corner.
One of the watching yance-men made a note on his pad. Taverner glanced at him curiously, baffled.
"Of course, I was in there with them," Yancy continued, smiling briefly. "I was reading the funnies to Ralf. He was sitting on my knee." The background faded, and a momentary phantom scene of Yancy sitting with his grandson on his knee floated into being. Then the desk and the book-lined study returned. "I'm mighty grateful for my family," Yancy revealed. "In these times of stress, it's my family that I turn to, as my pillar of strength." Another notation was made by a watching yance-man.
"Sitting here, in my study, this wonderful Sunday morning," Yancy rumbled on, "I realize how lucky we are to be alive, and to have this lovely planet, and the fine cities and houses, all the things God has given us to enjoy. But we've got to be careful. We've got to make sure we don't lose these things."
A change had come over Yancy. It seemed to Taverner that the image was subtly altering. It wasn't the same man; the good humor was gone. This was an older man, and larger. A firm-eyed father, speaking to his children.
"My friends," Yancy intoned, "there are forces that could weaken this planet. Everything we've built up for our loved ones, for our children, could be taken away from us overnight. We must learn to be vigilant. We must protect our liberties, our possessions, our way of life. If we become divided, and fall to bickering among each other, we will be easy prey for our enemies. We must work together, my friends.
"That's what I've been thinking about this Sunday morning. Cooperation. Teamwork. We've got to be secure, and to be secure, we must be one united people. That's the key, my friends, the key to a more abundant life." Pointing out the window at the lawn and garden, Yancy said: "You know, I was…"
The voice trailed off. The image froze. Full room lights came on, and the watching yance-men moved into muttering activity.
"Fine," one of them said. "So far, at least. But where's the rest?"
"Sipling, again," another answered. "His slice still hasn't come through. What's wrong with that guy?"
Scowling, Babson detached himself. "Pardon me," he said to Taverner.
"I'll have to excuse myself-technical matters. You're free to look around, if you care to. Help yourself to any of the literature – anything you want."
"Thanks," Taverner said uncertainly. He was confused; everything seemed harmless, even trivial. But something basic was wrong.
Suspiciously, he began to prowl.
It was obvious that John Yancy had pontificated on every known subject. A Yancy opinion on every conceivable topic was available… modern art, or garlic in cooking, or the use of intoxicating beverages, or eating meat, or socialism, or war, or education, or open-front dresses on women, or high taxes, or atheism, or divorce, or patriotism – every shade and nuance of opinion possible.
Was there any subject that Yancy hadn't expressed himself on?
Taverner examined the voluminous tapes that lined the walls of the offices. Yancy's utterances had run into billions of tape feet… could one man have an opinion on everything in the universe?
Choosing a tape at random, he found himself being addressed on the topic of table manners.
"You know," the miniature Yancy began, his voice tinny in Taverner's ears, "at dinner the other night I happened to notice how my grandson Ralf was cutting his steak." Yancy grinned at the viewer, as an image of the six-year-old boy sawing grimly away floated briefly into sight. "Well, I got to thinking, there was Ralf working away at that steak, not having any luck with it. And it seemed to me -"
Taverner snapped the tape off and returned it to the slot. Yancy had definite opinions on everything… or were they so definite?
A strange suspicion was growing in him. On some topics, yes. On minor issues, Yancy had exact rules, specific maxims drawn from mankind's rich storehouse of folklore. But major philosophical and political issues were something else again.
Getting out one of the many tapes listed under War, Taverner ran it through at random.
"… I'm against war," Yancy pronounced angrily. "And I ought to know; I've done my share of fighting."
There followed a montage of battle scenes: the Jupiter-Mars War in which Yancy had distinguished himself by his bravery, his concern for his comrades, his hatred of the enemy, his variety of proper emotions.
"But," Yancy continued staunchly, "I feel a planet must be strong. We must not surrender ourselves meekly… weakness invites attack and fosters aggression. By being weak we promote war. We must gird ourselves and protect those we love. With all my heart and soul I'm against useless wars; but I say again, as I've said many times before, a man must come forward and fight a just war. He must not shrink from his responsibility. War is a terrible thing. But sometimes we must…"