“The occupation of any new planet,” said Crandall harshly, “involves risk and uncertainty. The Space Force is geared to act fast and strike hard in the event of trouble. Planetary Development is geared to make the most of a stable, predictable situation. When we make the first sizable landing on a new planet, we don’t know what the situation is going to be. That’s why we’re both concerned. It’s as much my job as yours.”
“But under Sections 67 and 68, you have the final say.” Buzzel frowned. “The evaluation of the situation properly belongs to us.”
Crandall shut his eyes and took a deep breath. “That’s beside the point. Sections 67 and 68 are already law. If we aren’t to have chaos, we have to obey the law. If you want a change, all right. But this isn’t the time or the place to make propaganda for it.”
Buzzel looked at Crandall with something approaching compassion. “Even if you know you’re right, how do you rouse popular support for your side without a striking incident? If the law forbids you to make the incident, how do you ever get a change so long as you obey the law?”
Crandall studied the tabletop as Buzzel went on. “I don’t have any thing against you personally, Colonel. I’m sorry if anyone gets hurt, but the principle involved outweighs personalities. Paley could explain this to you much better than I, but I’ll try. Let me tell you a little history. The first concern of man used to be food. The hunter was paramount. Then tribes and nations arose, and there were battles between them. The warrior was paramount. That day, colonel, has faded into the day of science. The most important concerns have become, not military, but scientific. Today, the scientist is paramount.”
Buzzel hesitated. “Paley could explain this much better than I. I used to accept Sections 67 and 68 as just ordinary aggravating routine. Now I can see that those sections are fossilized structures that we have to get rid of.”
Crandall said, “Which is higher, Buzzel, the brain, or the spinal cord?”
“The brain, of course.”
Crandall nodded. “Which is superior, a fully organized thought, or a reflex?
Buzzel frowned. “A fully organized thought. What are you driving at?”
“As man developed,” said Crandall, “did he subordinate everything to his brain? Did he subjugate all the mechanisms that went before to this latest and best one? If somebody slings a brick in your face, which has precedence, a calm, orderly estimate of all aspects of the situation, or a quick duck?”
Buzzel looked steadily at Crandall. “All right. But what does that have to do with this situation? There’s no danger here.”
Crandall said, “If a man looks at a python through two-inch glass, and the python strikes at him, will the man stand still, smiling, or will he jump? The reflex gives him the advantage of fast action in the event of danger. The disadvantage is, he may act fast and waste energy when there’s no real danger. But it has to be that way. Otherwise the reflex would have to stop and consult the brain, which would take twenty or thirty seconds to hand down a judgment on whether the python was really dangerous or only seemed to be. The man could be pulp by that time.”
Buzzel stared at the opposite wall. “I see what you mean. A simple mechanism may have precedence over a higher one. But how—Where does this fit in here?”
“Put the planet in the place of the python,” said Crandall, “and substitute the human race for the man looking at the snake. You’re part of the brain, and I’m part of the reflex arc. Now you tell me not to send the impulse to jump. What you say to me is ‘Don’t do your job. This python isn’t dangerous.’ Just how do you expect me to react?”
Buzzel bit his lip, looked down at the table, and frowned.
“You see,” said Crandall, “the irritation of jumping when you don’t need to is the price you pay for moving fast when it’s jump or die. Anyone who succeeds in changing Section 67 and 68 saves a good deal of friction and irritation. And when the right situation turns up, humanity will stand there thinking things over till the python gets a good grip and starts snapping ribs.”
Buzzel took a deep breath and looked up. In a low voice, he said, “The planet has been thoroughly researched. There’s no danger there.”
“So be it,” said Crandall. “But I am going to do my job.”
Buzzel frowned, and stared at the opposite wall. “Yes,” he said, “and I have to do mine.” He shook himself and pushed back his chair. Conversationally, he added. “There’s no danger in this.”
There was a moment’s silence as Crandall frowned, studying Buzzel’s reactions, and wondering why Buzzel said over and over. “There’s no danger. There’s no danger here.”
The moment stretched out into a long silence while neither man moved.
The ship jumped like a can hit by an iron bat. The metal walls rang like the sides of a bell.
Table and chairs jolted with a snap of bolts and slid.
Crandall and Buzzel flew sidewise, grabbed wildly for support, and slammed half-bent on the steel deck.
Violent acceleration piled them in a corner. Sharp deceleration slid them to the other end of the room. Crandall fended off a chair. The table tipped over and landed on Buzzel. The door opened and a ship’s officer glanced in. “You all right, sir?”
Buzzel heaved the table off his chest. Crandall shoved the chair back, got up, and helped Buzzel to his feet. Buzzel looked at the ship’s officer, who slowly congealed into a posture of attention. Crandall watched approvingly as Buzzel spat out words like bullets out of gun:
“What was that?”
“S-Sir, one of those things swung an arm around and—”
“One of what things?”
“One of those . . . one of . . . One of those suits, sir.”
“It did what?”
“Swung an arm around and hit the ship under a drive tube. It—The suit’s letting itself loose from the others right now, sir.”
Buzzel looked as if he’d been hit over the head with a club. “That’s preposterous. It couldn’t—” He cut himself off.
Crandall said, “Where’s the viewscreen?”
The ship’s officer tore his gaze from Buzzel, stared dully at Crandall, stiffened, and said: “Just down here, sir.”
Crandall and Buzzel followed the officer down a corridor and through a doorway.
On the screen, one of the shiny boxcars was moving in the center of a mass of writhing snaky limbs. The limbs untangled themselves from the others, the big gray crate above the boxcar drew its cables tight, and the whole thing started to pull loose from the rest. It was moving in toward Cygnes VI.
Buzzel said, “That can’t—” He whirled toward the ship’s officer. “Get in touch with Base. Have them make a roll call of suit operators.” He glanced at the screen. The huge boxcar was gathering headway. Buzzel bit his lip. “No. Don’t. Too slow.” he glanced around. His hands opened and closed.
Crandall said, “Is that suit equipped with a radio?”
“Yes. The operators can talk to each other. But not on any of our wave lengths.”
Crandall glanced at the suit, then at the ship’s officer. “Can you get in touch with my pilot?”
“Yes, sir.”
Crandall turned to Buzzel. “Am I right? Does this mean something a lot worse than the theft of a suit?”
“I don’t know,” said Buzzel. “If it’s that, it’s bad enough. But—” Buzzel hesitated. “Yes. It could mean something a lot worse.”
The ship’s officer handed Crandall a headset. Crandall heard his pilot say, “Sir? Hello?”
Crandall said, “Do you see that floating tangle of boxes and cables? Do you see that one that just cut itself loose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Swoop in front of it once or twice, and try to signal it to stop. If it doesn’t, fire a light missile so it strikes the front of that gray crate that’s doing the pulling.” Crandall covered the microphone and turned to Buzzel. “Or is that too dangerous?”
“No,” said Buzzel in a dreary voice. “It’ll wreck twenty million dollars worth of equipment, but— No. I’m right with you.”
On the screen, the scout spacer dove in front of the delGrange suit. The suit swung in a fast arc—arms, cables, and conveyer belt flailing out behind—and dove on the spacer. The spacer swung back in a tight fast loop and hung in place behind the suit.
The pilot’s voice spoke in the earphones. “Releasing missile.”
The delGrange suit swerved, climbed, and streaked for Cygnes VI. A thin bright line curved around its side and came back. There was a flash of white light. The suit raced on at constant speed, the wreckage of the crate drifting back to tangle the boxcar.