The Rival Rigelians

“I’m not going to put up with my subordinates going against my interests.”

“In this case, what can you do about it? Business is business.”

“You hold quite a bit of their paper, don’t you?” The older man’s voice held a sly quality.

“You know that. Most of our team’s finances funnel through my hands.”

“We’ll close them out. They’ve become too concerned with their wealth. They’ve forgotten why the Pedagogue was sent here. I’ll break them, Jerry. They’ll come crawling. Perhaps I’ll send them back to the Pedagogue. Make them stay aboard as a permanent crew.”

Kennedy shrugged. “Well, Peter MacDonald is going to hate that. He’s developed into quite a high playboy— gourmet food, women, one of the most lavish estates on the southern continent.”

“Ha!” Mayer snorted. “Let him go back to ship’s rations and crews’ quarters.”

A servant entered the lushly furnished room and announced: “The Honorable Gunther calling on the Honorables Mayer and Kennedy.”

“Show him in, of course,” Mayer ordered. Martin Gunther, for once his calm ruffled, hurried into the room. “Rykov,” he blurted. “He’s disappeared. The barons have probably got him!”

Amschel Mayer shot to his feet. “That’s the end,” he swore shrilly. “Only in the west have the barons held out. I thought we’d slowly wear them down, take over their powers bit by bit. But this does it. This means we fight!”

He spun to Kennedy.

“Jerry, make preparations to take a trip out to the Pedagogue. You know the extent of Genoa’s industrial progress. Seek out the most advanced weapons this technology could produce.”

Kennedy put down his glass, and came to his own feet, shocked by Gunther’s words. “But, Amschel, do you think it’s wise to start an intercontinental war? Remember, we’ve been helping to industrialize the west, too. It’s almost as advanced as our continent. Their war potential isn’t weak.”

“Nevertheless,” Mayer snapped, “we’ve got to break the backs of the barons and the Temple monks. Get messages off to Baron Leonar and young Mannerheim, to Russ and Olderman. We’ll want them to put pressure on their local politicians. What we need is a continental alliance for this war.”

Gunther said, “Should I get in touch with Rosetti and Dean? They’re still over there.”

Mayer hesitated. “No,” he said. “Well keep Mike and Louis informed but they’d better stay where they are. We’ll still want our men in the basic positions of higher power when we’ve won.”

“They might get hurt,” Gunther scowled. “The barons might get them too. I’m not so sure about their cover. The Temple’s got a lot of strings out. They might know we’re all interconnected.”

“Nonsense. Mike and Louis can take care of themselves.”

Jerry Kennedy was upset. He was not by nature a man of violence. He said, “Are you sure about this war, chief? Isn’t a conflict of this size apt to hold up our overall plans?”

“Of course not,” Mayer scoffed. “Man makes his greatest progress under pressure. A major war will unite the nations of both the western continent and this one as nothing else could. Both will push their development to the utmost.”

He added, thoughtfully, “Which reminds me. It might be a good idea for us to begin accumulating interests in such industries as will be affected by a war economy.”

Jerry Kennedy chuckled at him. “Merchant of death.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Kennedy said. “Something I read about on an historical tape.”

VIII

At the decade’s end, once again the representatives of the Genoese team were first in the Pedagogue’s lounge. Mayer sat at the officers’ table, Martin Gunther at his right. Jerry Kennedy leaned against the ship’s bar, sipping appreciatively at a highball in a tall glass; the drink was inordinately dark.

They could hear the impact of the spaceboat from Texcoco when it slid into its bed.

“Poor piloting,” Gunther mused. “Whoever’s doing that flying doesn’t get enough practice.”

They could hear the ports opening and then the sound of approaching feet. The footsteps had a strangely military ring, for a group of scientists and technicians.

Joe Chessman entered, followed immediately by Barry Watson, Dick Hawkins and Natt Roberts. They were all dressed in heavy uniform, complete with colorful decorations. Behind them were four Texcocans, including Reif and his teen-age son, Taller, also in uniform, though the other two Tulans wore civilian dress.

Mayer scowled at them in the way of greeting. “Where’s Plekhanov?” he snapped. “The agreement was that the heads of teams meet each decade.”

“Leonid Plekhanov is no longer with us,” Chessman said sourly. “Under pressure his mind evidently snapped and he made decisions that would have meant the collapse of the expedition. He resisted when we reasoned with him.”

The four members of the Genoese team stared without speaking. Jerry Kennedy put down his glass at last. “You mean you had to restrict him? Why didn’t you bring him back to the ship?”

Barry Watson said slowly, “He was put under guard. We were in combat. The men who guarded him disappeared in the fray. Leonid evidently died with them. We are lucky any of us survived.”

“You should have taken more efficient steps to protect him,” Mayer snapped. “I had my differences with Leonid Plekhanov, but, after all, he was second in command of this expedition. I am not at all sure, now that he is gone, who I will appoint to take his place.”

Dick Hawkins chuckled softly.

Chessman took a chair at the table. The others assumed standing positions behind him. He said coldly, “I am afraid we’ll have to reject your views on the subject. Twenty years ago this expedition split into two groups. My team will accomplish its original mission, its tasks. Your opinons are not needed.”

Amschel Mayer glared at the others in hostility but when he spoke again it was on a different subject. He said, “You have certainly come in force this time.”

Chessman said flatly, “Save for Mrs. Chessman, that is, Doctor Sanchez, and Steve Cogswell, who have been left behind to hold things together, this is all of us, Mayer.”

“All of you? Where are Stevens and MacBride?”

Barry Watson said, “Plekhanov’s fault. Lost in the battle that broke the back of the rebels. At least they died in good cause.”

Joe Chessman looked at his military chief. “I’ll act as team spokesman, Barry.”

“Broke the back of the rebels,” Jerry Kennedy mused. “That opens all sorts of avenues, doesn’t it?”

Chessman growled. “I suppose that in the past twenty years your team had no obstacles. Not a drop of blood shed. Come on, the truth. How many of your team has been lost in this peaceful program of yours?”

Mayer shifted in his chair. “Possibly your point is well taken. Nick Rykov fell into the hands of a group of malcontents, some of the barons and Temple monks who oppose our reforms. Our reports indicate he is dead.”

“Only one man lost, eh?”

Mayer stirred uncomfortably then flushed at the other’s tone. “Something has happened to Buchwald and MacDonald. They must be insane. They’ve broken off contact with me, are amassing personal fortunes in the eastern hemisphere.”

Hawkins laughed abruptly. “Free competition,” he said.

Barry Watson leaned forward and said to Kennedy, rather than to Amschel Mayer. “How is, uh, Doctor Wieliczka? Why didn’t she come?”

Kennedy cocked his head questioningly but said, “Too busy. She’s got a whole string of medical universities and hospitals under her care. However, she sent you a message.”

Watson looked at him. “Well?”

Kennedy said slowly, “She said, give him my love…”