In thirty-two hours, the supply ship would leave this planet for Lambda Serpentis. Adam Hitchcock felt fine.
He would be glad to leave. The dome was like a prison. Outside, the wind was bitter cold and the sea crashed endlessly on the island’s rocky shore. The domesticated Floppers were always underfoot, brainlessly stupid. His quarters had none of the comforts a civilized man was accustomed to, and the food he got was abominably plain.
His endurance had been rudely tested. He was impatient to return to civilization.
But he was satisfied. His mission had been a complete success. He had found out the facts—-he knew the truth, and as soon as he returned home everyone would know the truth. The suffering natives would be given—finally—the aid denied them for so long.
And the record of his Society for Humane Practices would remain a record of unblemished success. Truly, he had reason to be proud.
Before he left, though, he had one more task. It was not important—actually only a mere formality: to give the scientists a chance to correct the conditions he had exposed. They would refuse him, of course—he expected that—but when they refused, they would lose their right to protest when he aroused public censure against them.
He walked into the office of Ben Reese. Reese, engrossed in a mound of papers, did not see him at once.
“I’m a fair man,” Hitchcock proclaimed.
Ben Reese looked up, startled. His paperwork was like a fortress around him. “Did I ever say you weren’t?” he wondered innocently.
Implacably, Hitchcock went on. “I have proof,” he declared, “absolute proof—that the natives of this planet are being maltreated and enslaved, that their needs have been ignored, and that your people have been hounding them to death. Nevertheless, I give you fair warning: if you do not correct these conditions, I shall be compelled to make a public report of my findings. If you force me to do that, I will not be responsible for anything that happens afterward.”
Reese listened in silence. “We’re concerned with scientific research here,” he explained apologetically. “Not welfare. To... to follow your demands would mean the end of everything we’ve worked for, everything we’ve hoped—”
Doubletalk, of course. Hitchcock had expected that. He wasn’t fooled.
“Everything you’ve worked for!” he repeated scathingly. “The deliberate suppression of a people as deserving of human rights as you or I! In clear conscience, I cannot stand by and permit this to go on! I shall—”
Reese raised a placating hand. “That is not true,” he protested. He actually seemed embarrassed. “You forget, Mr. Hitchcock—they are animals, not people. Their minds are primitive... undeveloped.”
“That,” Hitchcock accused, “is a lie! I have definite proof that they are even more intelligent than men. Any men. I say you are deliberately suppressing them because you fear what they could become!”
Gesturing helplessly, Reese said softly, “I have not seen this evidence.”
“Another lie!” Hitchcock accused. He shook his fist. “Do you expect me to believe,” he stormed, “that one of your men could have this evidence and you did not know of it? The whole idea is preposterous.”
“But I don’t know of it,” Reese insisted. He sounded almost reasonable. “What proof? Where did you get it?”
“Your man in charge of intelligence testing showed me some of his records,” Hitchcock stated. “And some photographs of brain tissue. They prove conclusively that the floppers...that the natives of this planet have minds as good as yours or mine.”
Ben Reese was like a man stunned. “I know nothing about this,” he protested blankly. “Are you... are you sure the evidence really proves that? I mean, perhaps you didn’t understand—”
“If Dr. Muller had not helped me,” Hitchcock replied, “the evidence would have meant nothing at all.”
Reese shook his head. “This is hard to believe,” he confessed. “Did he say why he showed you these things?”
“He showed them to me,” Hitchcock said, “because I asked him to. He was very co-operative, in spite of his contempt for them, which... he made absolutely no attempt to conceal. He said—almost in so many words—that you are doing everything you can to suppress them. He was proud of it!”
Reese looked worried. His idle hands, unnoticed, were nervously tearing notepad paper into progressively smaller and smaller bits. A pile of confetti-sized fragments collected on his blotter.
Hitchcock felt a wonderful exhilaration. He had the man totally helpless.
He was about to rise, repeat his ultimatum, and walk out, when Reese turned to the phone at his elbow, saying, “Excuse me a moment. Please.”
Without waiting for a reply, he punched out a number. The phone’s light blinked. A voice rasped from the speaker.
“Brains department. Muller speaking.”
“Sigurd?” Reese asked. “This is Ben. Would you mind coming down here? Something has come up.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“I’d much rather you came down,” Reese said mildly. “It’s rather complicated.”
Muller made an annoyed sound, but then he said, “I’ll come.” The phone’s light went out.
Reese turned back to Hitchcock. “We’ll wait till he gets here,” he proposed. “All right?”
Reluctantly, Hitchcock sat back and folded his arms. Scowling, he waited.
This was something he hadn’t expected.
Not that it made any difference, of course. Reese was caught in an impossible position. All he could possibly do was try to justify himself.
Hitchcock settled back to wait. He was supremely confident. Just let him try to justify himself. Just let him try!
He could not do it.
Ben Reese was deeply troubled. Adam Hitchcock was a well-intentioned fool, and his ability to understand was limited, but Sigurd must have shown him something. Whatever else had happened—whatever else he had been told—Hitchcock must have seen something. Ben Reese tried to imagine what it could have been. He couldn’t. He would have to wait. Sigurd Muller would have to explain.
Reese pretended to be busy with his papers. It was all the excuse he could think of not to talk to Hitchcock while they waited. But he couldn’t work. There was a lot that still had to be gone over before the Wayfarer went back to Lambda Serpentis, but until Muller came and the matter was settled, he could not put his mind to it. ‘
Then Muller walked in, his pointed beard jutting like a prow. He glanced around quickly, noticed Hitchcock, but didn’t even pause. “What’s up?” he asked jauntily. He grabbed a chair, whirled it around, and straddled it.
Reese put his papers aside. “Mr. Hitchcock tells me the floppers are intelligent,” he explained. “That you showed him proof it.”
Muller’s eyes shifted from Reese to Hitchcock, then back again. “He did, huh?” he said neutrally.
“This was the first I’d heard of it,” Reese said pointedly.
Muller shrugged. “So what?” he said. “If you’d look at the reports I turn in—” He gestured at the papers on the desk.
“I have read your reports,” Reese said. “I studied them carefully. You did not mention this development.”
“Yeah?” Muller challenged. “Who’re you saying that for? Me or him?” He jerked a thumb at Hitchcock.
Reese didn’t let himself be steered off. “Do you confirm it?” he persisted.
Muller glanced at Hitchcock again before he answered. “Yeah,” he admitted. “There’s been a few smart ones turn up.”
So it was true! Reese wanted to shout with excitement. “How many?” he asked breathlessly.