Keene looked from one to the other as he took a draft of his beer. It didn’t take a lot of imagination to guess who they—and the others that they had alluded to—considered more qualified to exercise that control.
But Keene had seen enough on Earth to know what happened when science sold out and allowed itself to be conscripted to serve politics. The question of resources might be a valid one, but it didn’t follow that the solution had to be some centrally directed policy. It was more likely, in fact, to impede finding the right solution. Bureaucratic control virtually guaranteed that the unorthodox and unpredictable—less amenable to forecasts and planning, but at the same time more likely to yield truly novel approaches—would never be attempted.
Now Keene thought he was beginning to see what this was about. Grasse and Valcroix hadn’t come here so much to invite his opinion as to sound him out as a prospective recruit to something that they weren’t prepared to disclose for the present. Or to be marked as a potential enemy. He would need to play this carefully. He sought for a reply that would avoid commitment, while keeping open his options. Sometimes the Kronian way of going about things seemed so much cleaner and simpler.
“Are you saying they shouldn’t be planning on resuming missions back to Earth?” he replied. “For all we know, a general return there might eventually be forced. Or we could find we can’t manage without its resources. Either way, it makes sense to have pilot bases there as soon as it’s safe, if just for insurance. And then there’s the simple humanitarian reason of doing what can be done for any survivors there might still be.”
“No, no . . . It’s the kind of mission,” Valcroix said. “They need properly formulated goals, relevant to the immediate interests of this colony. We can’t allow such efforts to be misdirected into providing elaborate playgrounds for academics.”
Keene nodded in a neutral way. He could see no point in taking issue at the moment. “The Kronians seem to have done a pretty good job of surviving so far,” he pointed out instead, taking up Grasse’s other point.
Grasse nodded his gnomish head and sighed. “Yes, yes . . . I agree. They are to be commended on a remarkable achievement. But let us remember, Dr. Keene, that it was done by a small population of self-selected idealists. The lack of an economic imperative might seem to work for a while among highly motivated people, all dedicated to their cause. But that will change now. As Kronia grows, all the different views and arguments that we know from Earth will reappear. There will have to be adopted a practical way for quantifying priorities and allocating resources. This we know from our own history of experiences. But the Kronians, they do not have the experience.”
“You mean by means of a monetary system,” Keene said.
“Yes, of course. Financial controls.” Grasse indicated the glass that Keene was holding. “There is an example in your hand. You walk in; they give you the drink; you pay nothing. It is an absurdity. How can an economy of any sense grow from this basis?” Keene didn’t know either. But looking around, he didn’t see any drunks. He decided to let the point go. Grasse went on, “However, now it so happens that some of us with skills in just these areas have arrived here from Earth. It could mean the difference between life and death to this colony. So perhaps, when one thinks this through logically, it is not just that we can help the Kronians meet what will become a vital need by introducing our methods. Some would say we have a moral obligation to do so. Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Keene?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Rakki climbed through steep, slippery rain gullies gouged between walls of broken rock, picking his way through tangles of gray, leathery growth, moist from vapors carried by the wind from the swamps below. He moved surely but cautiously, avoiding the thorn thickets and turning aside the limbs of coarse leaves that tried to tear at his arms and legs. His feet were bare. On his body he wore just a loin covering of skin and a vest of some thick, stiff, Oldworld material, open at the chest and with holes for the arms, that he had taken from the body of an enemy dispatched long ago. There was still a blood-blackened patch on one side. Shifting veils of gray formed a permanent canopy overhead, thickening into a black murk above the fire mountains to the east that glowed red at night, where lightning flickered intermittently and nothing lived. Yesterday had seen snowflakes and squalls of wind-driven ice. Yet the rivulets of muddy water running down from the heights above were warm around his feet.