structure and to flood the planet with them, trading them to private individuals for elements that were of equivalent value to Man. Fifty percent of the merchants’ profits went back into continuous market flooding, until the various coins of the Korusian realm became all but worthless. The remaining fifty percent of the profits were applied to “saving” the Korusian economy by putting it into synchronization with that of the Republic, for which the merchants were granted fifty years of exclusive trading rights to the planet. Within a decade, Korus XVI had been added to the list of the Republic's economic satellites.
Now and again a planet would attempt to withdraw from economic association with the Republic; rarely was it successful. Total trade embargo was the first means of reprisal. If this proved unsatisfactory, any
medium of financial exchange used by the planet could be duplicated in huge quantities by the merchants
in charge of commerce in that particular system. Except for fissionable materials, which were in ever-increasing demand across the galaxy, there was nothing so rare that Man couldn't spare a planetload of it to push an unruly economic entity back into line: diamonds, rare earths, drugs, grain, whatever an independent-minded planet held near and dear, would immediately be made worthless. Most economies, whether natural or imposed by the Republic, dealt in essentially artificial mediums of exchange, made valuable only by the populace's confidence in them. There were a few worlds, however, where this did not hold true. If, for example, World X prized apples above all else, and apples were the prime medium of exchange, to be eaten when accumulated, introducing more apples into the society wasn't about to turn it into an economic entity that the Republic could influence and deal with. But finding something that destroyed apple crops, and then reintroducing them through the Republic's merchants, usually did the trick.
Yes, Ngana knew his job, and knew it well. More than four thousand sentient races had been discovered, and well over fifteen hundred of them were already integral cogs in the Republic's vast economic machinery. By the time he retired, Ngana expected to see that figure more than double. But in the meantime, he was uneasy, and he couldn't quite put his finger on the reason for it. He'd been feeling apprehensive for more than a year now, filled with vague doubts about the wisdom of assimilating so many races so quickly. He did not fear any strivings for economic independence; such problems could and would be dealt with quickly and efficiently. It was something else, something he sensed was more far-reaching, but it was like a glimmer of light he could see only out of the corner of his eye; when he turned full face to it, it was gone.
A buzzer sounded on his desk, and he pressed a button that activated the inter-office communicator. It was Renyan, the Secretary of Commerce and Trade, his immediate superior. The gray-haired visage on the small screen looked troubled.
“Kip,” said Renyan, “cancel everything you have on for today and get over to my office right away.” “Something serious?” asked Ngana.
“Very.”
“On my way,” said Ngana, flicking off the intercom. He debated taking a pocket computer, but decided that the meeting would probably be on record if he needed to go over anything later. Five minutes found him seated at a large oval table with Renyan and an elderly woman he didn't recognize. “Kip,” said Renyan, “I'd like you to meet Miss Agatha Moore, a member of our trade commission to Lodin XI. Miss Moore, it seems, is the bearer of rather grim tidings.” “Well, what can we do for you, Miss Moore?” asked Ngana. “Not a thing,” said Agatha Moore. “But it's just possible that I can do something for you. Or, at least, prepare you for something that's going to be done
“I'm afraid not,” said Miss Moore. “I refer to you only insofar as you are a member of the Republic.
And,” she added thoughtfully, “because your consummate skill at your job has created the problem.” “I'm afraid I don't follow you at all, Miss Moore,” said Ngana, running his fingers through his wiry black hair.
“If you were aware of what I was going to say, I wouldn't be here speaking to you,” said Agatha Moore rather primly.
“I apologize,” said Ngana. “Please continue.” “Mr. Ngana, I am no psychologist, and I don't imagine you are either. However, it shouldn't take a master of that field to realize what's going on.” Ngana looked at Renyan again, convinced that this was about to become some kind of elaborate joke. “To continue,” said Miss Moore, “let me ask you exactly what your specialty is, Mr. Ngana.” “My job is to create favorable economic conditions among alien civilizations and to open their planets up for trade with the Republic's merchants.” “In other words, you develop undeveloped planets and give them all the economic benefits that accrue to the Republic's member worlds.”
“That is essentially correct,” said Ngana. “Are you aware of the GGP for the past twelve months?” “1,600.4 trillion credits or thereabouts,” said Ngana. “1,600.369 to be precise,” said Miss Moore. “And are you aware of what portion of that product is due directly to the output of nonhuman worlds and populations?” “No, I am not.”
“988.321 trillion credits,” said Miss Moore. “Does that imply something to you?” “Only that we've done a hell of a good job incorporating them into the economy,'’ said Ngana. “That's your side of the coin,” said Miss Moore. “They, on the other hand, seem to feel that they're economic slaves.'’
“Meaning?”
“Meaning they feel that if they're to supply such a large proportion of the Republic's capital, they want a share of the profits. Or, to be more precise, they want immediate enfranchisement.” “The other shoe,” said Ngana glumly.
“What?” asked Renyan.
“Nothing,” he replied. “How do you know this is so?”
“In your work, you deal with figures,” said Miss Moore. “In mine, I deal with people, human and nonhuman alike. At a convention on Lodin XI, this was the prime topic of discussion among the alien members present, nor did they seem intent on hiding their feelings or their purposes. They want value received for their economic contributions to the Republic.” “So they want a piece of the action, do they?” asked Ngana. “How well organized are they?” “Very,” said Miss Moore. “As I said, Mr. Ngana, you've done your job too well. They now possess an economic club—a club
“Have you contacted Psychology yet?”
“No, Kip,” said Renyan. “I thought we'd better discus all our options first.” “I'll begin by assuming that the Republic isn't crazy about the notion of giving four hundred billion aliens the vote,” said Ngana wryly. “Which means whatever action we decide upon must be aimed at preventing this movement from coming to fruition, correct?” “May I remind you that it was only twenty-six hundred years ago that your own race was held in a slavery more severe than the economic bonds you now shackle these worlds with?” said Miss Moore. “Your point is noted,” said Ngana, “although my own ancestors never left the African continent until long after the American Civil War. And, to be honest with you, Miss Moore, if I were an inhabitant of the Denebian colonies, or Lodin XI, or any other recently assimilated world, I'd be very much in favor of complete and immediate enfranchisement, just as I would have been were I an American slave centuries ago. But I am neither. I am a ranking member of the Republic, charged with perpetuating the interests of my employer. Or to be blunt, I'm one of the Haves. The Have-nots’ arguments appeal to me emotionally, but I run my job with my intellect, not with my heart. And if Man is to fulfill whatever destiny he has in the galaxy and claim whatever birthright is his, he'll reach his goal a lot sooner if he does not allow all of his achievements to become subservient to some alien's notion of fair play and morality, or even his own such notion.”
“How noble!” said Miss Moore sarcastically. “Nobility is a drag on the market. I'm paid for solving problems, not for moralizing them away. I'm sorry that you don't admire my ethics; but on the other hand, I don't think too much of your pragmatism.” “Kip,” broke in Renyan hastily, “wait in the anteroom for me, and check out the ramifications of the problem with Psychology. I'll be with you shortly.” Ngana took his leave, walked to the plush anteroom, and sat down. Renyan walked out a few minutes later, looking somewhat flustered.
“You know, Kip,” he began, “when I called you in we had only one crisis on our hands. Now we have
