Birthright

Pilar. “As long as Rodat seems to be sleeping comfortably, would you care to go for a brief walk?” asked Mihal. “I haven't seen much of the village.” “All right,” she agreed. “Though there's not much to see.” They stepped outside, and Mihal felt the huge sun beating down on him again. He was amazed by the poverty surrounding him. Even for a ghetto it was bad. He wondered what some alien race, finding traces of Man here in the far future, would make of it. Would there be any sign that this hapless creature had once ruled the galaxy? He doubted it.

“How long will you be with us, Per Mihal?” asked Pilar as they wove their way in and out of the dilapidated buildings.

“Until I'm reassigned,” he said. “Which means anywhere from a week to a lifetime.” “Well, you won't be hurting for business,” she said. “I wish that weren't so.”

“Oh?”

“I suppose priests are like doctors,” he said. “Nothing would make us happier than a lack of patients.” “Not very likely in this day and age. Our empire is gone, our primacy is just a distant memory, we're hunted like animals on some worlds and shoved into ghettos on others. As long as things don't get any better, you can keep your shingle up.”

“We don't feed on misery,” said Mihal gently. “We fight it.” “You'd look pretty silly fighting empty air, wouldn't you?” Pilar laughed. “You'd be like a navy without

an opponent. It's people like us that keep people like you in business.”

“Believe me, Pilar,” he said, “nothing could make me happier than seeing an end to all poverty and misery.”

“And what would you do with all that spare time?” “I would spend all my waking hours praising God for His benevolence,” said Mihal devoutly. “Really? And do you spend all your present waking hours condemning Him for forsaking us?” “Of course not!” said Mihal. “I ask Him to forgive us for the sins we have committed during our long and bloody history, and for which we are now suffering.” “Oh,” said Pilar.

“Do you feel that this is incorrect?”

“I'm not a priest, and I don't know very much about religion,” said Pilar, “but if it was me, I'd ask Him to keep His hands off and let us climb back to the top of the heap if we can.” “I find it very disquieting to see so many people who possess this sort of attitude,” said Mihal. “After all, if you can acknowledge God's existence, then surely...” “Oh, I believe in God, all right,” said Pilar. “I just believe in Man more.” “Isn't that a little inconsistent?” asked Mihal gently. “Look around you, Per Mihal,” said Pilar, gesturing toward the dust-covered streets and crumbling buildings. “This is God's handiwork. Then look at Deluros, or Caliban, or Earth. Man built them.” “Man built them,” agreed Mihal, “but only by the grace of God. Only God can create a world.” “True,” said Pilar, “but only Man can put it to use. I view it as a kind of partnership. God provides, and we dispose. Only God hasn't been providing very well these days.” “Then we must ask His forgiveness for whatever we've done to offend Him.” “I respect God too much to lie to Him, and I'd be lying if I said I was sorry for anything Man has done. Religion is supposed to be a spiritual crutch, Per Mihal. If it forces us to lie and grovel, it's not acting as a crutch—it's amputating our legs in order to attain God's sympathy. What kind of deity could be fooled like that?”

“Nobody wants you to lie, Pilar,” said Mihal. “What religion tries to do is give you an awareness of your relationship to God. Once you understand that relationship, asking forgiveness won't be a lie.” “Don't you feel a certain measure of pride in what we've done?” asked Pilar. “Man, in his time, has walked on a million alien worlds and bent Nature to his will. He gave shape and scope and meaning to the galaxy. Why should I be ashamed of that?” “Look where it got us,” said Mihal.

“Next time we'll do it better.”

Mihal shrugged. “I think we'd better be getting back. We've been gone almost forty minutes.” They returned to Rodat's side and took turns watching him throughout the remainder of the day. As night fell his breathing became more uneven, and his left arm started twitching spasmodically. Finally he opened his eyes.

“Still here, priest?”

“I'm not about to leave you,” said Mihal solemnly. The old man muttered something unintelligible. Its tone was not complimentary. Suddenly his body stiffened, as if riddled with intense pain. Mihal reached out and held his hand. “Have courage,” he said softly, as Rodat began to relax. “I wish you the same,” said the old man. “And strength.” “Me? Why?”

“Because, priest, you're going to need it.” He sat in silence for a few minutes. Then he started reading from his prayer book again. Rodat told him to keep quiet and stared boldly out at the darkness, eyes unblinking, jaw set, ready to meet his Maker on his own terms.

Mihal closed the book and sighed. He suddenly had a terrible apprehension that he was going to spend the rest of his life being tolerated.

“I think you're right, old man,” he said at last. “Eh?”

“It's going to be a long tour of duty.” 25: THE PACIFISTS

(No mention of the Pacifists can be found inOrigin and History of the Sentient Races. ) The huge room was filling up. Here was a Canphorite, tall, slender, dignified; there sat an Emran, muscles bulging, shifting uncomfortably; walking through the doorway were ambassadors from Lodin XI, Castor V, and Procyon III, looking as unalike as any three sentient beings could look. And standing in the midst of the gaudily dressed beings who had come from all points of the galactic compass were two Men.

“Looks like a pretty good turnout,” said Lipas, the smaller of the two. “It's even better than I had hoped for,” said Thome. “We just may come out of this in good shape.”

A Teroni, its face obscured by the chlorine gas inside its helmet, approached them.

“Where is your delegation?” it asked.

“They'll be here, never fear,” said Thome in Galactic-O. “They had better be,” said the Teroni, walking away to where a number of other chlorine-breathers were gathered.

“I wonder whatis keeping them,” said Lipas softly. “We're not going to be able to stall much longer.” “They're only about half an hour late,” said Thome confidently. “And besides, a third of the aliens aren't here yet either.”

“Butthey aren't vital to the meeting,” said Lipas. “Weare.” That was indeed the crux of it. It was Man who was the focal point of the meeting; any other race or even any group of races was merely window dressing. Man had fallen upon hard times in the past century, hard even compared to those that existed at the beginning of the millennium. From four thousand worlds he was now reduced to less than five hundred. His military might, which during the heyday of the Oligarchy and early Monarchy could not even be computed, was now a matter of record: 53,305 battleships, a standing army of less than a billion, and some seventeen billion hand weapons. These were still formidable figures, but precious few of the races assembled in this room had any reason to be envious of them; most possessed far more firepower, and incomparably better communication systems. Man's economy had suffered even more than his military power. Of his 489 worlds, some 368 were in the throes of a severe depression, while most of the others were fighting a losing battle against runaway inflation. The Deluros VI planetoids, with no finances available to maintain them, had finally been cannibalized and sold to alien scientific establishments. On every front, Man's star was fast approaching its nadir. Isolated anti-human pogroms had turned into widescale wars of extermination, economic sanctions had turned into galaxywide boycotts, and treaties were signed and broken by alien races with the regularity that had once characterized the race of Man. Man responded with bluff, guile, and pressure in proportions that he thought would do the most good; but the aliens had possessed a master teacher for millennia, and had learned their lessons well. So Man resorted to force. Half his meager Navy was lost in one brief battle around Praesepe VI. The entire planet of Aristotle was blown up. The worlds of the Spica system were taken, one by one, in less than a week. Torn and reeling, bloody but unbowed, Man fought on. Or rather, most Men did. But there were a few, such as Thome, who could see no sense in absorbing defeat after defeat, humiliation after humiliation. He did not preach surrender, for no Man—including himself—ever surrendered. But he spoke in favor of reaching a political accommodation with the other races of the galaxy, and soon had so many followers that he was encouraged to form a political party. It ran candidates for offices on Sirius V, Delta Scuti II, and Earth ... and lost every election. After an appropriate interval his followers ran again, and lost again.