“You can trace the same basic struggle right down through history,” he told them. “Two opposed ideologies-the feudalism of the aristocracies on one side, and the republicanism of the artisans, scientists, and city-builders on the other. You had it with the slave economies of the ancient world, the intellectual oppressions of the Church in Europe in the Middle Ages, the colonialism of the British Empire, and, later on, Eastern Communism and Western consumerism.”
“Keep ’em working hard, give ’em a cause to believe in, and don’t teach ’em to think too hard, huh?” Caidwell commented.
“Exactly.” Pacey nodded. “The last thing you want is an educated, affluent, and emancipated population. Power hinges on the restriction and control of wealth. Science and technology offer un-limited wealth. Therefore science and technology have to be controlled. Knowledge and reason are enemies; myth and unreason are the weapons you fight them with.”
Lyn was still thinking about the conversation an hour later when the three of them were sitting around a small table in a quiet alcove that opened off one end of the lobby. They had opted for a last drink before calling it a night, but the bar had seemed too crowded and noisy. It was the same war that Vic, consciously or not, had been fighting all his life, she realized. The Sverenssens who had almost shut down Thurien stood side by side with the In-
quisition that had forced Galileo to recant, the bishops who had opposed Darwin, the English nobility who would have ruled the Americas as a captive market for home industry, and the politicians on both sides of the Iron Curtain who had seized the atom to hold a world to ransom with bombs. She wanted to contribute something to his war, even if only a token gesture to show that she was on his side. But what? She had never felt so restless and so helpless at the same time.
Eventually Caldwell remembered an urgent call that he needed to make to Houston. He excused himself and stood up, saying he would be back in a few minutes, then disappeared into the arcade of souvenir and menswear shops that led to the elevators. Pacey lounged back in his seat, put his glass down on the table, and looked across at Lyn. “You’re being very quiet,” he said. “Eat too much steak?”
She smiled. “Oh . . . just thinking. Don’t ask what about. We’ve talked too much shop today already.”
Pacey stretched out an arm to pick up a cracker from the dish in the center of the table and popped it into his mouth. “Do you get up to D.C. much?” he asked.
“Quite a bit. I don’t stay here very often, though. I usually put up at the Hyatt or the Constitution.”
“Most UNSA people do. I guess this is one of the two or three favorite places for political people. It’s almost like an after-hours diplomatic club at times.”
“The Hyatt’s pretty much like that for UNSA.”
“Uh huh.” Pause. “You’re from the East Coast, aren’t you?”
“New York originally-upper East Side. I moved south after college to join UNSA. I thought I was going to be an astronaut, but I ended up flying a desk.” She sighed. “Not complaining though. Working with Gregg has its moments.”
“He seems quite a guy. I imagine he’d be an easy boss to get along with.”
“He does what he says he’s going to do, and he doesn’t say he’s going to do what he can’t. Most of the people in Navcomms respect him a lot, even if they don’t always agree with him. But it’s mutual. You know, one of the things he always-”
A call from the paging system interrupted. “Calling Mr. Norman Pacey. Would Norman Pacey come to the front desk, please.
There is an urgent message waiting. Urgent message for Norman Pacey at the front desk. Thank you.”
Pacey rose from his chair. “I wonder what the hell that is. Excuse me.”
“Sure.”
“Want me to order you another drink?”
“I’ll do it. You go ahead.”
Pacey made his way across the lobby, which was fairly busy with people coming and going and parties assembling for late dinner. One of the clerks at the desk raised his eyebrows inquiringly as he approached. “My name is Pacey. You paged me just now. There should be a message here somewhere.”