“I hear that Wye is pretty strong in Joranumite thinking.
“Different reason. The old Wye Mayors always wanted to be Emperors. Did you know that?”
Raych shook his head.
“Eighteen years ago,” said the man, “Mayor Rashelle nearly carried through a coup in that direction. So the Wyans are rebels, not so much Joranumite as anti-Cleon.”
Raych said, “I don’t know nothing about that. I ain’t against the Emperor.”
“But you are for popular representation, aren’t you? Do you think that some sort of elected assembly could run the Galactic Empire without bogging down in politics and partisan bickering? Without paralysis?”
Raych said, “Huh? I don’t understand.”
“Do you think a great many people could come to some decision quickly in times of emergency? Or would they just sit around and argue?”
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t seem right that just a few people should have all the say over all the worlds.”
“Are you willing to fight for your beliefs? Or do you just like to talk about them?”
“No one asked me to do any fighting,” said Raych.
“Suppose someone did. How important do you think your beliefs about democracy—or Joranumite philosophy—are?”
“I’d fight for them—if I thought it would do any good.”
“There’s a brave lad. So you came to Wye to fight for your beliefs.”
“No,” said Raych uncomfortably, “I can’t say I did. I came to look for a job, sir. It ain’t easy to find no jobs these days—and I ain’t got no credits. A guy’s gotta live.”
“I agree. What’s your name?”
The question shot out without warning, but Raych was ready for it. “Planchet, sir.”
“First or last name?”
“Only name, as far as I know.”
“You have no credits and, I gather, very little education.”
“Afraid so.”
“And no experience at any specialized job?”
“I ain’t worked much, but I’m willing.”
“All right. I’ll tell you what, Planchet.” He took a small white triangle out of his pocket and pressed it in such a way as to produce a printed message on it. Then he rubbed his thumb across it, freezing it. “I’ll tell you where to go. You take this with you and it may get you a job.”
Raych took the card and glanced at it. The signals seemed to fluoresce, but Raych could not read them. He looked at the other man warily. “What if they think I stole it?”
“It can’t be stolen. It has my sign on it and now it has your name.”
“What if they ask me who you are?”
“They won’t. —You say you want a job. There’s your chance. I don’t guarantee it, but there’s your chance.” He gave him another card. “This is where to go.” Raych could read this one.
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
The man made little dismissing gestures with his hand.
Raych rose and left—and wondered what he was getting into.
13
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
Gleb Andorin watched Gambol Deen Namarti trudging up and down. Namarti was obviously unable to sit still under the driving force of the violence of his passion.
Andorin thought: He’s not the brightest man in the Empire or even in the movement, not the shrewdest, certainly not the most capable of rational thought. He has to be held back constantly—but he’s driven as none of the rest of us are. We would give up, let go, but
Namarti stopped, as though he felt Andorin’s eyes boring into his back. He turned around and said, “If you’re going to lecture me again on Kaspalov, don’t bother.”
Andorin shrugged lightly. “Why bother lecturing you? The deed is done. The harm—if any—has been done.”
“What harm, Andorin? What harm? If I had not done it,
“I know. I was there. I heard what he said.”
“Then you understand there was no choice. No choice. You don’t think I liked to have an old comrade killed, do you? I had no choice.”
“Very well. You had no choice.”
Namarti resumed his tramping, then turned again. “Andorin, do you believe in gods?”
Andorin stared, “In what?”
“In gods.”
“I never heard the word. What is it?”
Namarti said, “It’s not Galactic Standard. Supernatural influences. How’s that?”
“Oh, supernatural influences. Why didn’t you say so? No, I don’t believe in that sort of thing. By definition, something is supernatural if it exists outside the laws of nature and nothing exists outside the laws of nature. Are you turning into a mystic?” Andorin asked it as though he were joking, but his eyes narrowed with sudden concern.
Namarti stared him down. Those blazing eyes of his could stare anyone down. “Don’t be a fool. I’ve been reading about it. Trillions of people believe in supernatural influences.”
“I know,” said Andorin. “They always have.”
“They’ve done so since before the beginning of history. The word ‘gods’ is of unknown origin. It is, apparently, a hangover from some primeval language of which no trace any longer exists, except that word. —Do you know how many different varieties of beliefs there are in various kinds of gods?”
“Approximately as many as the varieties of fools among the Galactic population, I should say.”
Namarti ignored that. “Some people think the word dates back to the time when all humanity existed on but a single world.”
“Itself a mythological concept. That’s just as lunatic as the notion of supernatural influences. There never was one original human world.”
“There would have to be, Andorin,” said Namarti, annoyed. “Human beings can’t have evolved on different worlds and ended as a single species.”
“Even so, there’s no
“These gods,” said Namarti, continuing to follow his own line of thought, “are supposed to protect humanity and keep it safe or at least to care for those portions of humanity that know how to make use of the gods. At a time when there was only one human world, it makes sense to suppose they would be particularly interested in caring for that one tiny world with a few people. They would care for such a world as though they were big brothers—or parents.”
“Very nice of them. I’d like to see them try to handle the entire Empire.”
“What if they could? What if they were infinite?”
“What if the Sun were frozen? What’s the use of ‘what if’?”
“I’m just speculating. Just thinking. Haven’t you ever let your mind wander freely? Do you always keep everything on a leash?”
