Between the Stars (11 page)

For the first time, Favre laughed. It was a pleasant, musical sound. "I confess, when I saw you in the holos, I thought you the dullest sort of politician. I was appalled when I heard that the general had invited you to this affair. But now I find that I like you. Now I understand why the general esteems you so highly. As I alluded a moment ago, Hitler himself was an ordinary looking man of little personal presence save when on the speaking platform."

"And you," Larsen said, "are not the talented but shallow aesthete I had thought, despite your strenuous efforts to convey exactly that impression."

The two men smiled honestly for the first time, and they shook hands again. This time the gesture was sincere.

"Dinner is served!" shouted a handsome young servant of powerful physique and voice. The well-lubricated crowd of men flowed into the banqueting hall. Larsen was relieved to see that it was not the nightmarish great hall, but another room nearly as large, with a lower ceiling, lit by genuine torches burning in cressets.

Larsen had a fondness for theatrical trappings, and he occupied the first few minutes of the banquet analyzing its components. He was seated near the head of the table, next to Shevket. The table itself was made of age-blackened wood, scarred and dented. The torchlight and candlelight provided a ruddy illumination that encouraged a crude, masculine conviviality.

"Welcome, gentlemen," said Shevket, the fires striking dramatic highlights from his shiny uniform. "Tonight, we have much to speak about. But before all the talk, let us feast as men should feast. Food and drink now, words later." He resumed his seat amid approving cheers.

The servants began to bring in the first courses. Others circulated with pitchers of various wines and beers. Larsen noted that they all wore the chromed chains around their necks. He had a disturbing but intriguing feeling that these were not mere servants, but slaves. How could this be possible? One thing was certain: If any man could accomplish it, it would be Mehmet Shevket.

The food was delicious but robust. There was a profusion of wild game, imparting a carnivorous atmosphere that plainly suited the men assembled there. Larsen noted that no meat dish was served that made any attempt at disguising its animal origin. It was all entire beasts, birds or fish, or recognizable parts of such. There was a clatter of vessels, a gnashing of knives against plates, the clamor of loud voices. Whatever else these men might be, Larsen thought, they were certainly not elegant.

There was something both stimulating and oppressive about the profusion of colorful uniforms, the impression of strength and barely restrained violence. Most of these men had gained their rank by killing dissidents and rebels in great numbers.

Tiring of the spectacle of militant gorging, Larsen raised his eyes to the wall opposite him. Even there, the atmosphere remained consistent. Ancient weapons sprawled across the wall—halberds and axes, swords, maces, fans of spears arranged behind shields. Intermixed with the lethal steel were the skulls of animals, crested with horns and antlers.

After an hour of guzzling and eating, during which Larsen had merely sipped and nibbled, the last trays were borne away by the silent servitors. The conversation died down to a mutter as men fed to repletion tried to regather their faculties.

Larsen turned to the man sitting next to him, Favre. The poet had spent most of the meal talking with the man on his other side, a young and very handsome captain in the Greek service. Larsen noted that Favre had drunk much and eaten little.

"I am curious," the Dane began, "about your poetic antecedents. In your work I find of course hints of Rimbaud and Verlaine, certain touches of Merimee, and naturally your own individual style. What other poets have influenced you?"

"D'Annunzio," Favre said, "and Mishima. I discovered them young and never forgot their work."

Larsen had never heard of them. "I fear that my scholarship is not that detailed. I am unfamiliar with the gentlemen."

Favre showed a trace of animation. "They were poets who understood the dark corridors of our minds, the places where joy in power and carnality reign. There was another named Lawrence—"

Shevket stood and the muttering of conversation died away.

"My friends! My honored guests! Tonight we are assembled to speak of important matters—serious matters that will affect all of history to come." His words, delivered in a penetrating voice, began to pierce the alcohol-induced fog enveloping his listeners.

The general easily dominated the room, standing to his commanding height, his aura of power and authority wrapping him as perfectly as his uniform. "It is time for a social experiment that has long outlived its time to be discarded. I speak of our worldwide system of feeding useless mouths and dignifying the worthless bulk of our population by pretending that their lives are sacred and somehow of inestimable value. We have never truly acted as if this were the case, and I propose that we cease even the pretense."

Men straightened, glancing at their fellows for sign of reaction. Even in this gathering, these were strong words. By force of habit, Larsen took a quick reading of expressions. There was much astonishment, but no dismay.

"At the risk of being accused of oratory, I shall share with you my thoughts on the situation in which we now find ourselves, and how we got here." He paced back and forth at the head of the table, a huge scarlet banner draped behind him. He had their total attention now.

"The principal folly of both classical capitalism and the somewhat later myth of communism/socialism lies in their rejection of any heroic, action-oriented role for man as an individual or in the mass. Instead, they have reduced him to a purely economic unit." He pronounced "economic" with a sneer. "To the communist he is a worker. To the capitalist he is a consumer. Neither role could ever be satisfying to any but the most spiritless." Larsen saw heads nodding. Thus far, Shevket had said nothing these men disagreed with.

"Even the profession of soldier," he gestured to his own uniform, to the many others lining the table, "is to be undertaken only as an onerous duty. Its participation in sanctioned violence is to be tolerated but not enjoyed, and its only reward is the stingy approbation of the noncombatant populace." His voice rose sharply. "The concepts of glory, honor and duty have been discarded as archaic and nonproductive.

"It is against this pallid interpretation of man's place in society that we must rebel. That all men should rebel! We must rebel not merely in opposition to a moribund economic and social order, but in defense of our very sanity! Man did not evolve from cud-chewing vegetarians, but from hunters. The highest, the best among us are still killers and carnivores."

This was bizarre, but Larsen felt it strangely stimulating. He saw that the men around him were likewise enthralled. He had never considered Shevket anything but a dangerous brute, to be used but never to be anything more than an implement. There were depths here he had never suspected.

"Now, we find ourselves mere herdsmen of our fellow men, and I use the term 'men' advisedly. Of course, there is nothing wrong with the pastoral life. Herding was the first step in our development after hunting. But no one ever raised cattle and sheep and other animals for the satisfaction of knowing the beasts were taken care of. No one wanted to give the animals a chance to attain their 'full potential.' They were to be eaten, or shorn, or skinned or worked or ridden!" With each word he pounded on the table for emphasis. His eyes held an almost demented ferocity. "They were to be used! Beyond the demands of personal, family loyalty, or duty to a comrade, that is the only sane reason for taking care of another being, human or otherwise."

Approval was more open now. Men were nodding and smiling, making curt comments to one another, as if to say that this was what they had been thinking all along. Larsen noted two whose attitude differed: Favre the poet was gazing at Shevket with rapt admiration, almost worship. There was something repellently erotic in his glazed gaze, his flushed complexion, in the way the breath came quick through his half-parted lips. The other was Norwich, the media man. He watched the others at the table with the calculation of one attuned to audience reaction. Larsen realized that he probably wore the same look himself. As in in acknowledgement, Norwich gave him a conspiratorial look and nodded slightly.

When the muttering died down, Shevket went on. "I need hardly remind you that people will not rebel spontaneously. The mass mind is too dim to comprehend that anything is wrong. The problem and the solution must be presented to them by those who have the vision to encompass the catastrophe and the charisma to attract and compel a following. By my words, do not think that I speak of establishing some kind of 'people's government.' " He charged the words with irony. "It will not be necessary to gain the support of all or even a majority of the population. A few sheep dogs can handle any number of sheep." Amid applause he raised a tankard and took a long swallow of ale. He set it solidly on the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Larsen wondered where he had learned his gestures. Every move he made seemed to ingratiate him with the men present.

"This degenerative process cannot be reversed by anyone who conceives of power and its exercise as it has become traditional in the so-called democratic nations; by currying the favor of an indulged and pampered electorate by promising yet more indulgence, more pampering. It goes without saying that this is a legitimate path to power for someone who has no intention of honoring scrupulously his campaign promises. Still, power thus gained remains too dependent upon the apparatus of election. Far more desirable would be the elevation to absolute power of a man swept upward upon a wave of mass enthusiasm by those who are ready to shake off their assumed mantle of gentleness and passivity!"

The hearers were actually cheering now. Larsen wondered whether their exultation, fueled by alcohol and oratory, would survive a night's sleep. He decided that it might. There men were plainly being offered power and high position in a new world order. If they continued to believe in Shevket.

"What has always stood in the path of such a movement?" The Turk spread his hands questioningly. "Principally, it has been the imposition of a myth which has suppressed the superior human being and offered instead the spectacle of the inferior led by the mediocre. For natural aggression, it has substituted passive spectatorship. It has cast up entertainers and athletes as political experts and models for the young. This is not merely insanity, it is suicidal insanity."

He placed his palms on the table and leaned forward. "I propose that we change all this. What will the price be? Freedom? Who has any of that vague commodity? Much of the world's population has never had it and will never miss it. The supposedly democratic West extolled the virtues of this freedom and accomplished nothing.

"In this illogical system, man finds himself assured at every turn that it is his birthright to conduct and express himself in perfect freedom as an individual. He is, through growth and education, to determine his wants and his capabilities, and by a sober evaluation of each to conduct his life upon a course of fulfillment and happiness, insofar as that course does not interfere with the rights of his fellow man. Such was the inspiring, conventional interpretation of the rights of man within the framework of Western democracy, as promulgated by the American and French revolutions. But how closely does this pleasant vision conform with reality and human nature?" He knew he had them now. Every face at the table was rapt with attention. They might not be thinking through all he said, but that was not necessary. Sufficient that they sensed power for themselves in his words, and the conviction that he was the master of his theory.

"The fact is, it fails utterly at almost every turn. Called upon to exercise personal responsibility for every important decision of his life, the average man finds himself smitten with terror. Most will seek guidance through some exterior authority. It may be a parent or other authority figure, a church, even a newspaper or holo horoscope. It is no puzzle that seers and fortunetellers have never lacked for an audience, even among those thought to be enlightened. It is another way of shirking responsibility for one's own life. Leave it to the gods or the stars or whatever. Anything is better than self-determination.

"Likewise with the supposed fulfillment of the self-guided life. Most lead aimless, nonproductive lives of utter dependency upon state handouts. The few that work find themselves locked into dead-end jobs with no purpose except maintenance of a minimum standard of living, and no prospect of anything better. They would be as well off under almost any political-economic system, and it is highly unlikely that any amount of education or access to opportunity would improve their lot one iota. The fact is that the average man is a drone, has always been a drone and will always be a drone. What, then, is the value of this much-touted freedom?"

He took another pull at his ale, this time amid utter silence. "The one thing all of us here at this table know is that men must fight. If their leaders give them no enemy to destroy, they will waste their aggressive energies in futile rebellions and hopeless insurgencies. I propose that we give our people someone to fight. We all know the enemy. It is those who were too cowardly to face life on a declining planet and instead found for themselves a place less demanding. Now these space-dwelling parasites insult us with their material wealth, implying that
we
need
them
in order to survive!"

Amid indignant murmurs he turned his attention to the men who wore the uniform of the space services. "I mean, of course, no disparagement to the officers and men of our space forces. On the contrary, theirs is the most dangerous and demanding duty in all our military establishment, since they must serve in an environment more hostile and unforgiving of error than the open sea. But the planets and satellites are there for conquest and exploitation. They were never meant to be refuges for those too spineless to live on the motherworld!" At this the cheering was ferocious. These men had spent their careers without a chance at a decent war. Most of the senior service officers had made their reputations during the Space War. These men had burned for such an opportunity since first donning the uniform.