“What happened while I was out?”
“We got into production on the barriers and cages to protect the nests. We’ve got a pilot project going down there.”
Towers got carefully to his feet. “How’s it working?”
“Inside the test area, the insects knock the humanoids’ normal daytime procedure to bits and pieces, and the more virulent ones create a terrific casualty rate. At night, a few individuals and little groups of humanoids hunt out the insects. At first the cages cut the humanoids to ribbons, and we thought it was going to be the same procedure as outside on the cliff. The ones in front rush on because they’re pressed from behind, and the ones behind neither know nor care what happens to the ones in front. But apparently the humanoids that hunt the nests at night have a little more initiative than the rest.”
“What happened?”
“Early the other night, we were watching a scene on infra red, and one of those scarred-up humanoids got into a terrific fight with two others, finally beat them into a stupor, dragged them around to opposite sides of a fence of knives protecting the base of a pole with a nest on it, and by sheer persistence finally got the others to press down the two separated release-levers simultaneously. The fence collapsed, and the three of them got the big nest for their reward. The next day, these three stayed together, and a couple of nights later, they got at a trickier nest. Now there are half-a-dozen humanoids in this group, they generally stick together in the daytime, and they don’t get broken up by the others. Swarms of the less-virulent bugs create so much distraction that not many of the humanoids can spare the patience to stalk the others. What’s getting formed down there is a tribe, with a leader.”
Towers breathed a sigh of relief. “When that process picks up enough speed, we should have something it’s possible to deal with.”
Logan said, “Klossig thinks so, too. When we started the second test area—a ring of virulent bugs on the outside to stop migration, with the less virulent ones scattered around the interior—he insisted on having special briefings for his troops. It’s boosted morale terrifically, and the Centrans are in high spirits.” Logan glanced out the window and added, “Most of them, that is.” Then he said, “I think these humanoids are the toughest opposition we’ve ever run into.”
Towers glanced out the window to see what Logan had seen that made him add the qualification “Most of them, that is.”
Outside was a Centran colonel, in charge of a small crew of Centrans led by a private wearing a uniform with threads sticking out in the form of sergeant’s chevrons. Towers leaned forward, and recognized the colonel and the sergeant who had caused Logan and him so much trouble when they first landed on the planet.
The colonel gloomily led his little band slowly past the barracks, where they picked up cigarette butts, chewing-gum wrappers, odd bits of string and broken rubber bands, and other miscellaneous junk.
Towers laughed. “Klossig’s caught up with the colonel.”
“Yes,” said Logan, glancing out the window, “the colonel’s in charge of the worst foul-ups in camp. Last week Klossig had the colonel and his boys putting new crack-filler between all the boards in the main hall of the Headquarters Building. It’s only about two hundred feet long.”
Towers grinned, then said suddenly, “As a matter of fact, these humanoids aren’t our toughest opponents. They’re just one minor variety of our toughest opponents. Think of the colonel. Think of Cartwright, before he started to use his head. Think of either of us sitting in that office, seeing the antics of that bug without realizing something was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our toughest opponents,” said Towers, “are all those who have the capacity for thought, but—for some reason—won’t think.”
Towers and Logan looked out the window, glanced from the colonel to the humanoids to Cartwright, just crossing the yard below. Then they cast a furtive glance at each other.
An object across the room caught Towers’ attention. He cleared his throat.
“Look there, Logan. There’s the worst offender of all.”
“Who?”
“Right there. Look.” He pointed.
Logan glanced around, then growled under his breath.
Towers laughed.
Then he paused, and thought the matter over carefully.
He was right there in the mirror, too.
Part VI: Contagious Earthitis
Horsip and Moffis, on returning from their trip to Adrok IV, were a little dazed. Their heads whirled with details of installment loan contracts, franchises, interest compounded at 24 percent, inflation increasing at 8 percent, and riches for everyone, with poverty in lock step close behind. But before leaving, they had made arrangements with the Holy Brotherhood and others to transmit information on the planet; so that, at least, was accomplished. Their organization was now sending the High Council information on the numerous activities of the Earthmen. Horsip, however, was dissatisfied.
“Moffis, do you understand this stuff we’re sending out?”
Moffis hesitated. “To tell the truth—no.”
“Me either,” said Horsip. “We have this report we sent back about our own visit. Consider the oil production information alone. By the time figures are on hand, it’s obvious the Earthmen are increasing oil production at a fantastic rate. Despite an inflation on the planet, the price of oil has dropped. That benefits everyone who buys it. Despite big taxes on the oil, the drillers and refiners are getting rich. That’s to their benefit. Apparently everyone benefits. But—meanwhile—there’s this ‘Society for a Livable Environment.’ They claim that if something isn’t done quick, the air will be unbreathable in twenty-six years and a half. They’ve got the facts to prove it. Then there’s ‘Concerned Citizens for Community Conservation.’ They say the oil will run out in 24.7 years, unless rationing starts now; they’ve got figures to prove that. Next there’s the ‘Oil Industry Research Council,’ and they claim that if they’re allowed to push their production to the limit, that will give them money for research, and they’ll be able to make oil out of rock inside of twenty years. They’ve got the figures for that. Each one of these organizations is run by an Earthman, and they all disagree. Moreover, each one can prove he’s right. But, at best, only one can be right, because they contradict each other.”
Moffis looked harassed.
“It’s even worse than it seems. I just got a batch of reports wherein our people disguised themselves as ‘newsmen,’ and questioned some of these Earthmen. The Earthmen were all glad enough to answer questions. . . . Listen to this.”
Moffis separated a bulky sheaf of papers from a bulging stack of reports, leafed through the sheaf, and read aloud:
“Mr. Smith was checking over his company’s figures as I came in. He was beaming with good nature. He motioned me to sit down while he totaled up a column of figures, and murmured, ‘Sixty million two hundred eighty-six thousand four hundred seventy-two. That checks.’ He looked up, smiled broadly, and said, ‘What can I do for you, young fellow? You aren’t here to tell me your government has come out with an income tax, I hope.’ He looked worried, and said, ‘You aren’t, are you?’ ”
Moffis paused, and scanned the pages rapidly. “Here we are. This is the part I wanted. . . . Mr. Smith stated, ‘Our purpose, young fellow, is to press back the frontiers of poverty and the wilderness of despair. We can do this through sheer productiveness. Produce!—That’s the answer to the problem! Make, build, produce, build, and produce again! Pile it up! Poverty can’t stand up against it! That’s the way to do it! With our methods of production, we can turn out ten, a hundred, a thousand items while the hand-laborer is working on one. Ours may not be quite as good as his, at first, but that’s the next step. Produce, that’s the first step. Improve, that’s the second step. The more you make, the cheaper it gets to make it. Just let the forces of the market guide production into the right lines, and keep the producers unhampered, and the problem’s solved. Nobody can be poor when he’s got everything he needs. And he isn’t likely to be despairing, either. As the stuff piles up, the price on it gets cheaper. It’s bound to. Then everybody can afford it. This way, everybody gets rich. There’s only one thing—keep the government out of it. Once they start sucking the profit out, all the prices go up. And they aren’t subject to the laws of the market, either. They’ll push production into the wrong lines. Then they’ve got a special bag of tricks to keep away any depression. A depression, you know, is when all the mistakes add up, and the something-for-nothing crowd gets taught what the truth is. A little depression puts everyone on his toes, after he’s got fat and lazy from too much easy living. . . . So, you’ve got to keep the government out of it. And one other thing—you got to put some kind of limit on the number of college professors there are running around loose. You get a lot of funny things out of college professors. I don’t understand it, but that’s how it is.’ “