“You don’t sound very happy about the whole thing,” said Mortenson, a chemist who wore a neat, silvery mustache.
“Are you overjoyed,” said Hockley, “that we are to swap the National Lab for a bottomless encyclopedia?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Mortenson. “There are some minor objections, but in the end I’m certain we’ll all be satisfied with what we get.”
“Satisfied! Happy!” exclaimed the mathematician, Dr. Silvers. “How can you use words so prosaic and restrained in references to these great events which we shall be privileged to witness in our lifetimes?”
He had taken his stand by the library table and was now filling the glasses with the clear, bubbling champagne, sloshing it with ecstatic abandon over the table and the rug.
Hockley glanced toward him. “You don’t believe, then, Dr. Silvers, that we should maintain any reserve in regard to the Rykes?”
“None whatever! The gods themselves have stepped down and offered an invitation direct to paradise. Should we question or hold back, or say we are merely happy. The proper response of a man about to enter heaven is beyond words!”
The bombast of the mathematician never failed to enliven any backroom session in which he participated. “I have no doubt,” he said, “that within a fortnight we shall be in possession of a solution to the Legrandian Equations. I have sought this for forty years.”
“I think it would be a mistake to support the closing of the National Laboratories,” said Hockley slowly.
As if a switch had been thrown, their expressions changed. There was a sudden carefulness in their stance and movements, as if they were feinting before a deadly opponent.
“I don’t feel it’s such a bad bargain,” said a thin, bespectacled physicist named Judson. He was seated across the room from Hockley. “I’ll vote to sacrifice the Lab in exchange for what the Rykes will give us.”
“That’s the point,” said Hockley. “Exactly what are the Rykes going to give us? And we speak very glibly of sharing their science. But shall we actually be in any position to share it? What becomes of the class of scientists on Earth when the Lab is abandoned?”
Wilkins stood abruptly, his hands shoved part way into his pockets and his lower jaw extended tensely. “I don’t believe that’s part of this question,” he said. It is not just we scientists who are to share the benefits of the Rykes. It is Mankind. At this time we have no right to consider mere personal concerns. We would betray our whole calling— our very humanity—if we thought for one moment of standing in the way of this development because of our personal concern over economic and professional problems. There has never been a time when a true scientist would not put aside his personal concerns for the good of all.”
Hockley waited, half expecting somebody to start clapping. No one did, but there were glances of self-righteous approval in Wilkins’ direction. The biologist straightened the sleeves of his coat with a smug gesture and awaited Hockley’s rebuttal.
“We are Mankind,” Hockley said finally. “You and I are as much a part of humanity as that bus load of punch machine clerks and store managers passing on the street outside. If we betray ourselves we have betrayed humanity.
“This is not a sudden thing. It is the end point of a trend which has gone on for a long time. It began with our first contacts beyond the galaxy, when we realized there were peoples far in advance of us in science and economy. We have been feeding on them ever since. Our own developments have shrunk in direct proportion. For a long time we’ve been on the verge of becoming intellectual parasites in the Universe. Acceptance of the Ryke offer will be the final step in that direction.”
Instantly, almost every other man in the room was talking at once. Hockley smiled faintly until the angry voices subsided. Then Silvers cleared his throat gently. He placed his glass beside the bottles on the table with a precise motion. “I am sure,” he said, “that a moment’s thought will convince you that you do not mean what you have just said.
“Consider the position of pupil and teacher. One of Man’s greatest failings is his predilection for assuming always the position of teacher and eschewing that of pupil. There is also the question of humility, intellectual humility. We scientists have always boasted of our readiness to set aside one so-called truth and accept another with more valid supporting evidence.
“Since our first contact with other galactic civilizations we have had the utmost need to adopt an attitude of humility. We have been fortunate in coming to a community of worlds where war and oppression are not standard rules of procedure. Among our own people we have encountered no such magnanimity as has been extended repeatedly by other worlds, climaxed now by the Ryke’s magnificent offer.
“To adopt sincere intellectual humility and the attitude of the pupil is not to function as a parasite, Dr. Hockley.”
“Your analogy of teacher and pupil is very faulty in expressing our relation to the Rykes,” said Hockley. “Or perhaps I should say it is too hellishly accurate. Would you have us remain the eternal pupils? The closing of the National Laboratories means an irreversible change in our position. Is it worth gaining a universe of knowledge to give up your own personal free inquiry?”
“I am sure none of us considers he is giving up his personal free inquiry,” said Silvers almost angrily. “We see unlimited expansion beyond anything we have imagined in our wildest dreams.”
On a few faces there were frowns of uncertainty, but no one spoke up to support him. Hockley knew that until this vision of paradise wore off there were none of them on whom he could count.
He smiled broadly and stood up to ease the tension in the room. “Well, it appears you have made your decision. Of course, Congress can accept the Ryke plan whether we approve or not, but it is good to go on record one way or the other. I suppose that on the way out tonight it would be proper to check in at Personnel and file a services available notification.”
And then he wished he hadn’t said that. Their faces grew a little more set at his unappreciated attempt at humor.
Showalter remained after the others left. He sat across the desk while Hockley turned back to the window. Only the tip of the gammatron tower now caught the late afternoon sunlight.
“Maybe I’m getting old,” Hockley said. “Maybe they’re right and the Lab isn’t worth preserving if it means the difference between getting or not getting tutelage from the Rykes.”
“But you don’t feel that’s true,” said Showalter.
“No.”
“You’re the one who built the Lab into what it is. It has as much worth as it ever had, and you have an obligation to keep it from being destroyed by a group of politicians who could never understand its necessity.”
“I didn’t build it,” said Hockley. “It grew because I was able to find enough people who wanted the institution to exist. But I’ve been away from research so long—I never was much good at it really. Did you ever know that? I’ve always thought of myself as a sort of impressario of scientific productions, if I might use such a term. Maybe those closer to the actual work are right. Maybe I’m just trying to hang onto the past. It could be time for a jump to a new kind of progress.”
“You don’t believe any of that.”
Hockley looked steadily in the direction of the Lab buildings. “I don’t believe any of it. That isn’t just an accumulation of buildings over there, with a name attached to them. It’s the advancing terminal of all Man’s history of trying to find out about himself and the Universe. It started before Neanderthal climbed into his caves a half million years ago. From then until now there’s a steady path of trial and error—of learning. There’s exultation and despair, success and failure. Now they want to say it was all for nothing.”