“But?” prompted Tymball.
Kane’s fingers turned his paperweight over and over. “The Lhasinu are growing harsher this past year. They are almost arrogant.” He looked up suddenly. “I am not quite a free agent, you know, and haven’t the influence and power you seem to think I have.”
His eyes dropped again, and a troubled note entered his voice, “The Lhasinu suspect. They are beginning to detect the workings of a tightly-knit conspiracy underground, and we cannot afford to become entangled in it.”
“I know. If necessary, you are quite willing to sacrifice us as your predecessor sacrificed the patriots five centuries ago. Once again, Loarism shall play its noble part.”
“What good are your rebellions?” came the weary reply. “Are the Lhasinu so much more terrible than the oligarchy of Humans that rules Santanni or the dictator that rules Trantor? If the Lhasinu are not Human, they are at least intelligent Loarism must live at peace with the rulers.”
And now Tymball smiled. There was no humor in it- rather mocking irony, and from his sleeve, he drew forth a small card.
“You think so, do you? Here, read this. It is a reduced photostat of-no, don’t touch it-read it as / hold it, and-”
His further remarks were drowned in the sudden hoarse cry from the other. Kane’s face twisted alarmingly into a mask of horror, as he snatched-desperately at the reproduction held out to him.
“Where did you get this?” He scarcely recognized his own voice.
“What odds? I have it, haven’t I? And yet it cost the life of a brave man, and a ship of His Reptilian Eminence’s navy. I believe you can see that there is no doubt as to the genuineness of this.”
“No-no!” Kane put a shaking hand to his forehead. “That is the Emperor’s signature and seal. It is impossible to forge them.”
“You see. Excellency,” there was sarcasm in the title, “the renewal of the Galactic Drive is a matter of two years-or three-in the future. The first step in the drive comes within the year-and it is concerning that first step,” his voice took on a poisonous sweetness, “that this order has been issued to the Viceroy.”
“Let me think a second. Let me think.” Kane dropped into his chair.
“Is there the necessity?” cried Tymball, remorselessly. “This is nothing but the fulfillment of my prediction of six months ago, to which you would not listen. Earth, as a Human world, is to be destroyed; its population scattered in groups throughout the Lhasinuic portions of the Galaxy; every trace of Human occupancy destroyed.”
“But Earth, Earth, the home of the Human Race; the beginning of our civilization.”
“Exactly! Loarism is dying and the destruction of Earth will kill it And with Loarism gone, the last unifying force is destroyed, and the human planets, invincible when united, shall be wiped out, one by one, in the Second Galactic Drive. Unless-”
The other’s voice was toneless.
“I know what you’re going to say.”
“No more than I said before. Humanity must unite, and can do so only about Loarism. It must have a Cause for which to fight, and that Cause must be the liberation of Earth. I shall fire the spark here on Earth and you must convert the Human portion of the Galaxy into a powder-keg.”
“You wish a Total War-a Galactic Crusade,” Kane spoke in a whisper, “yet who should know better than I that a Total War has been impossible for these thousand years.” He laughed suddenly, harshly, “Do you know how weak Loarism is today?”
“Nothing is so weak that it cannot be strengthened. Although Loarism has weakened since its great days during the First Galactic Drive, you still have your organization and your discipline; the best in the Galaxy. And your leaders are, as a whole, capable men, I must say that for you. A thoroughly centralized group of capable men, working desperately, can do much. It must do much, for it has no choice.”
“Leave me,” said Kane, brokenly, “I can do no more now. I must think.” His voice trailed away, but one finger pointed toward the door.
“What good are thoughts?” cried Tymball, irritably. “We need deeds!” And with that, he left.
The night had been a horrible one for Kane. His face was pale and drawn; his eyes hollow and feverishly brilliant. Yet he spoke loudly and firmly.
“We are allies, Tymball.”
Tymball smiled bleakly, took Kane’s outstretched hand for a moment, and dropped it, “By necessity. Excellency, only. I am not your friend.”
“Nor I yours. Yet we may work together. My initial orders have gone out and the Central Council will ratify them. In that direction, at least, I anticipate no trouble.”
“How quickly may I expect results?”
“Who knows? Loarism still has its facilities for propaganda. There are still those who will listen from respect and others from fear, and still others from the mere force of the propaganda itself. But who can say? Humanity has slept, and Loarism as well. There is little anti-Lhasinuic feeling, and it will be hard to drum it up out of nothing.”
“Hate is never hard to drum up,” and Tymball’s moon-face seemed oddly harsh. “Emotionalism! Propaganda! Frank and unscrupulous opportunism! And even in its weakened state, Loarism is rich. The masses may be corrupted by words, but those in high places, the important ones, will require a bit of the yellow metal.”
Kane waved a weary hand, “You preach nothing new. That line of dishonor was Human policy far back in the misty dawn of history when only this poor Earth was Human and even it split into warring segments.” Then, bitterly, “To think that we must return to the tactics of that barbarous age.”
The conspirator shrugged his shoulders cynically, “Do you know any better?”
“And even so, with all that foulness, we may yet fail.”
“Not if our plans are well-laid.”
Loara Paul Kane rose to his feet and his hands clenched before him, “Fool! You and your plans! Your subtle, secret, snaky, tortuous plans! Do you think that conspiracy is rebellion, or rebellion, victory? What can you do? You can ferret out information and dig quietly at the roots, but you can’t lead a rebellion. I can organize and prepare, but I can’t lead a rebellion.”
Tymball winced, “Preparation-perfect preparation-”
“-is nothing, I tell you. You can have every chemical ingredient necessary, and all the proper conditions, and yet there may be no reaction. In psychology-particularly mob psychology-as in chemistry, one must have a catalyst.”
“What in space do you mean?”
“Can you lead a rebellion?” cried Kane. “A crusade is a war of emotion. Can you control the emotions? Why, you conspirator, you could not stand the light of open warfare an instant. Can I lead the rebellion? I, old and a man of peace? Then who is to be the leader, the psychological catalyst, that can take the dull worthless clay of your precious ‘preparation’ and breathe life into it?”
Russell Tymball’s jaw muscles quivered, “Defeatism! So soon?”
The answer was harsh, “No! Realism!”
There was angry silence and Tymball turned on his heel and left.
It was midnight, ship time, and the evening’s festivities were reaching their high point. The grand salon of the superliner Flaming Nova was filled with whirling, laughing, glittering figures, growing more convivial as the night wore on.
“This reminds me of the triply-damned affairs my wife makes me attend back on Lacto,” muttered Sammel Maronni to his companion. “I thought I’d be getting away from some of it, at least out here in hyperspace, but evidently I didn’t.” He groaned softly and gazed at the assemblage with a faintly disapproving stare.
Maronni was dressed in the peak of fashion, from purple headsash to sky-blue sandals, and looked exceedingly uncomfortable. His portly figure was crammed into a brilliantly red and terribly tight tunic and the occasional jerks at his wide belt showed that he was only too conscious of its ill fit.
His companion, taller and slimmer, bore his spotless white uniform with an ease born of long experience, and his imposing figure contrasted strongly with the slightly ridiculous appearance of Sammel MaronnL
The Lactonian exporter was conscious of this fact. “Blast it, Drake, you’ve got one fine job here. You dress like a nob and do nothing but look pleasant and answer salutes. How much do you get paid, anyway?”
“Not enough.” Captain Drake lifted one gray eyebrow and stared quizzically at the Lactonian. “I wish you had my job for a week or so. You’d sing mighty small after that. If you think taking care of fat dowager damsels and curly-headed society snobs is a bed of roses, you’re welcome to it.” He muttered viciously to himself for a moment and then bowed politely to a bejeweled harridan who simpered past. “It’s what’s grayed my hair and furrowed my brow, by Rigel.”
Maronni drew a long Karen smoke out of his waist-pouch and lit up luxuriously. He blew a cloud of apple-green smoke into the Captain’s face and smiled impishly.
“I’ve never heard the man yet who didn’t knock his own job, even when it was the pushover yours is, you hoary old fraud. Ah, if I’m not mistaken, the gorgeous Ylen Surat is bearing down upon us.”
“Oh, pink devils of Sirius! I’m afraid to look. Is that old hag actually moving in our direction?”
“She certainly is-and aren’t you the lucky one! She’s one of the richest women on Santanni and a widow, too. The uniform gets them, I suppose. What a pity I’m married.”