Mission: Earth "Doomed Planet" (19 page)

"Gods," said Noble Arthrite Stuffy in more of a groan than a word. He daubed at his forehead, found it was still bandaged. He clenched his hand. "Oh, I really think that ruined it," said Noble Arthrite Stuffy. "I have never seen a population rise to such a fever pitch!" "Look at the backfeed monitors," said Heller. They all did. The crowds in the streets were thinning.

THE PEOPLE WERE GOING HOME!

"I don't understand," said Stuffy. "I think what you don't understand," said Bis, "is the business of a combat engineer. As a favor, Jet, tell us." "You really want to know?" The general and admiral and Captain Roke nodded eagerly. They did not understand why the crowds were dispersing. Heller sighed. Then he said, "I set it up with High-tee. And she certainly carried through. The credit is hers. All I did was take advantage of a cautionary theorem in Advanced Symbolic Logic: The apparency of an answer can be mistaken for the answer. A parallel is that the apparency of a result can be mistaken for the result. This once, it seems to have worked. The bulk of the people of the Confederacy will now think of Earth as dead. Those who don't won't be able to find anybody else all that interested. "If you noticed, Hightee even let them sing too long. They got tired of it. They have also worked their spleen out quite thoroughly. I trust we have replaced mass hysteria with mass agreement, and mass agreement is the true substance of reality. Frankly, it's only combat engineer elementary mathematics." "Wait," said Stuffy. "Completely aside from the fact that we have not handled Earth at all and now must, what you did seems like molding mass opinion. This seems very close to 'public relations.' Are you sure this isn't like Madison's PR?" Bis let out a snort. "Noble Stuffy," he said, "Fleet combat engineers have been defeating and stampeding mobs of enemy people since before Madison's race learned to wear fur pants. Just yesterday, Jet defeated fifty thousand Apparatus troops in this very city, using a population-control weapon, all by himself. How'd you think we retook the place with no real casualties or destruction?" Stuffy gawped. "I didn't know that." "NOT for publication," said Heller. He looked again at the backfeed monitors. The people were indeed going home. And even as he looked, a couple monitors went blank as Homeview camera crews in far cities began to pack up. "We've chilled the mobs. Now let's get to work on the sixth proclamation and decide just how we are going to dispose of the real Earth. Unfortunately, it is NOT an electronic illusion and His Majesty has given us our orders."

It was very quiet in the hall now. The backfeed monitors were going off, one by one. The main channel program now concerned weather for the coming day. At the table it threatened to be stormy. The six sat there, a small group in this vast expanse. Heller was no longer sitting on the dais. He had taken a place at the table to be closer to them. The Fleet admiral scrubbed his jowls. He was surveying his own console as he fed displays to it, displays which concerned the military potentials of the planet Blito-P3. "Looking at these factors, the satellites they have and so on, I think we're left no option but to blow it up: they could develop space travel." "Technically, they might," said Heller, "though they would have to overcome gross faults in their sciences. Socially, they won't. Only two things motivate their thinking: one is commerce, the other is war. Their power elite could not see any commercial advantage in space travel, and the moment such research does not lead to internal superiority in war they curtail it. "But actually, there is another factor which defeats them at every turn and that'is an oddity in leadership. Even a casual study of their history shows that they only worship and obey leaders who kill: Caesar, Napoleon, Bismarck, Hitler, Eisenhower are just a few names. They revere scientists the same way: the biggest known names basically made it possible to build the biggest weapons. Einstein, for instance. It's a pretty primitive attitude. "They actually revile and degrade and kill decent men who try to help them. It's as much as your life is worth to try to do anything for them that will benefit all. "I doubt they could attain space travel before such ills as bad leadership, socialism, inflation and other things ate them up internally. They are actually totally incapable of doing something nationally just because it is the sensible thing to do or because it's fun. It always has to have a twist, such as who can make a million from it or who will it do in. They're pretty mixed up. As for achieving real space travel, I don't think you have a thing to worry about." But he had not made his point. The admiral said, "Blast! No wonder the Emperor wants them disposed of!" "When Jet was down there," said Captain Roke, "I got interested in the place and looked it up more thoroughly-though I will admit that Hisst was sitting on the key surveys. I worked out the routes to other systems that are targeted and I couldn't find one that had to go through Blito: it's a yellow-dwarf but it is off the direct traffic tracks. I was appalled by its social structure, really, and although I laughed at Jet at first when he said Prince Caucalsia might have taken some of the Voltar civilization to it, I think Jet must be right. It's a clutter of primitive and modern, but the think they use in utilizing the modern is primitive. They'll blow up culturally before they ever get to a stage of real space travel. So if it were disposed of, it really would have no key effect on anything else we were doing." "Well, then," said the general, "I don't see why the Fleet can't just transport several Army biological warfare units to the upper atmosphere and we lay in a barrage of germs and defoliants and just bullet-ball the place: no landing." "There are always survivors," said Heller. "And it would leave it on the Invasion Timetable." "Jet is right," said the admiral. "I'd hate to put marines in there 115 years from now if bacterial warfare were used. Bugs mutate. No telling what diseases we'd be bringing back to Voltar: we'd have real contamination. But what I don't like about any of this is the disturbance to our operating schedules: we're committed to another invasion-Colipin-next month. And if you start deranging schedules, you wind up falling behind. We, frankly, would have to use several home-based fleets for any attack on Blito-P3, and they're needed for normal defense, especially with the recent unsettled conditions. I imagine quite a few Apparatus units escaped and will be into piracy without having heard of the amnesty. You can't double patrols with less ships." "We're short, too," said the general. "Having to assist the Domestic Police will absorb available Army reserves." "Well, let's see where we stand," said Heller. "The Emperor does not want to hear of Blito-P3 again and we've got to dispose of it to get it off the Invasion Timetable. If we land on it to attack, we risk further contamination of Voltar." "My Gods, this is a dilemma," said the admiral. "It certainly is," said the general. Heller's heart was beating very fast but he kept his face quite calm. Would he get away with it? He picked up the sixth proclamation. "Well, gentlemen," he said with a sad shake of his head, "the only way I can see out of this is simply to proclaim that Blito-P3, Earth, doesn't exist." There was a stunned shock. They thought it over. Heller waited with bated breath. The general looked at him. The admiral looked at him. Captain Roke looked at him. Bis looked at him. Noble Arthrite Stuffy looked at him. Their eyes were round. Hastily Heller wrote the possible text:

In that the planet Blito-P3, Earth, has been found to possess elements of criminality inimical to the best interests and culture of Voltar, In that the landing of troops upon it would risk further contamination of the Confederacy, In that it is our Royal command that we never hear of the planet, Blito-P3, Earth, again, The planet is officially declared to be a nonplanet. It is therefore proclaimed that said planet DOES NOT EXIST AND IT WILL NOT EXIST FROM THIS DAY FORWARD FOR VOLTAR, FOREVER! They read it. It was the only way out. They began to nod. A surge of elation went through Heller. He had won! He had won for Izzy and Bang-Bang and Babe and five billion people. He lowered his head so they would not see his grin and hastily transferred it all to the proclamation in neat script. They signed above the Royal signature. Now came his coup de grace. THIS was the reason he had raked in Noble Stuffy and appointed a Censor. Solemnly he looked at the ex-publisher. "Now we come to your vital part in this. Noble Arthrite Stuffy, His Majesty never wants to hear of Earth again. You therefore must eradicate every mention of these recent riots and upsets in every newssheet morgue." Noble Stuffy gawped. "This proclamation is YOURS to put in force! You must eradicate every reference to Blito-P3 in every book ind text, on every map-a clean sweep." "Everywhere?" said round-eyed Stuffy. "Everywhere," said Heller. "And it is your sworn duty to prevent all future mention of that planet anywhere. AND THAT INCLUDES EVEN THIS PROCLAMATION!" "Oh, dear!" said Noble Stuffy. "And when," Heller continued in a hard voice, "anybody asks you what happened to Blito-P3, you are going to flinch and look sad and say it was so unspeakable it had to be censored and forbid them to even breathe its name again. Understood?" Noble Arthrite Stuffy nodded numbly. From the look in Heller's eye he also understood Heller would probably personally break his neck if he did not comply. So he did! And to this day, that Royal proclamation lies in a lead case in the office of the Royal Historian and Censor.

Don't doubt me. / have seen it! The Royal Historian and Censor, my great-uncle Lord Invay, was out to lunch! Now, how's that, dear reader? Does it make me the investigative reporter of all time or doesn't it? The answer is yes, yes, yes! I knew you would agree!

BLITO-P3-EARTH-EXISTS!

AND THE PLACE WHERE IT SHOULD BE IN THE INVASION TIMETABLE IS BLANK!

Isn't that monstrous? And if it hadn't been removed, it would be scheduled for invasion just a few years from now.

THE PEOPLE OF VOLTAR MUST KNOW ABOUT THIS!

THEY'RE BEING DEPRIVED OF A PERFECTLY GOOD PLANET TO INVADE!

Despite what Soltan Gris said at the very beginning of his confession about Heller being the hero of it, I must solemnly advise you that this isn't true! The actual villain of this whole disgraceful affair is NO OTHER THAN JETTERO HELLER! He has been lurking behind the scenes, POSING as a hero, when in actual, sober, solemn fact, JETTERO HELLER WAS THE VILLAIN, DOUBLE-DYED, ALL THE TIME! JETTERO HELLER was the one who instigated the greatest cover-up in ALL VOLTAR HISTORY! That makes him the villain. Right? Well, enough said. You better make your voice heard to remedy this scandal. There is still time to get at it right on schedule!

PEOPLE OF VOLTAR, INSIST ON ADHERENCE TO TRADITION!

OUR ANCESTORS DETERMINED THAT EARTH SHOULD BE INVADED ON SCHEDULE.

My message to you: SWEEP ASIDE THIS COVER-UP AND INVADE!

I finished the book up to here and before I wrapped it up to send it to the publisher, I read it all to Shafter (Hound wouldn't listen because he saw it had some poetry in it). When I got all done, expecting to see Shafter absolutely stunned, he didn't stun. He laid down his wrench– I had had to follow him around while he did routine inspections which were behind-and he looked at me and said, "Young Monte, for the love of comets, you've left so many strings untied it looks like the wiring when you get to fooling with an engine and I don't stop you. You completely left out what you found on your visit to Manco and you haven't said a blasted thing about all the trouble we had over Relax Island. The book is fine so far, but you've left it at ten thousand feet. Land it, boy, land it. Finish it up in style!" So, as Shafter is my best critic-the only one I have so far-I sweated and slaved and added an "Envoi." All for you, dear reader, so you won't be left ten thousand feet up with no landing in sight. Read on. Be careful not to crash! Readers are valuable!

Hightee Heller, after two weeks assisting me dig up old papers and logs-but spending most of her time rambling around old haunts on Manco-had to return to the planet Voltar to keep a long-arranged engagement to appear at a benefit on Hightee Heller Day, an annual event. At the shuttleport where she was catching the deluxe spaceliner for Voltar, she gave me a pat on the shoulder and a motherly kiss on the cheek and said, "Now, don't forget to lay the real stress of your book on my brother's later life. As a writer you must see that he gets good press: he's FAR too reticent about himself. So ta-ta now. I'm leaving you in good hands. It's been fun. Good-bye." As the shuttle took off upward and I waved, I was thinking that it might have been just fun for her-it had been deadly serious hard work for me and it would continue! I had almost worn my thumb off clicking copies 'of logs and documents, my ears ached with the high whine of copying recording strips. And while I had the story down to the end of the last fatal war council about Earth (and had yet to spend many hard weeks writing what you have just so quickly read), I as yet did not have the final tag ends all tied neatly. How hara, how very hard I have worked for you, dear reader! The chauffeur was waiting as arranged by Hightee, and I was flown back to the vast estates of the Duke and Duchess of Manco where we had been staying. The estates embrace a whole range of wild mountains and a thousand square miles of fertile plain adjacent to a city-provincial, but three times the size of New York-named Atalanta. We landed in the Rose Park and I was in luck. The Duchess, just that minute, was entering a salon. She was tall and blonde and, despite being in her late middle age and despite children, quite beautiful. The years had been very kind to the one-time Countess Krak. "Hello, Monte," she said. "You look quite worn. Did Hightee get off all right?" I nodded. The Duchess of Manco usually made me feel a little bit tongue-tied and awkward: she moved with an easy grace and her gray-blue eyes looked at you with an impact. She was dressed in leather today and had probably been out supervising things around the estate. "Your Grace," I managed, "if you will give me a little time, there are some loose ends I haven't tied up." She smiled. "Well, come in and sit down and fire away. I need to catch my breath, myself. My latest grandchild has been running everyone's legs off all day. He's been into everything on the place! He's only seven but he takes a dozen people to keep him from an early demise. Exactly like his grandfather." And she went on to tell me, very proudly, how they'd just now fished him out of an irrigation lake when his self-built boat had capsized. His mother had evidently taken him home to the city where his father, Heller's younger son, was governor. The park day salon was nice and cool, very rustic, all of native stone with an actual fireplace. You could have drilled a company in it. The walls were lined with paintings. There were Jettero's three sons, all middle-aged now but in the paintings still boys: two were shown in the uniforms of the Royal Academy and the third in the helmet of a speed flier. Their own daughter was shown, painted as costumed in some school play: she looked startlingly like Hightee, but she had something in the way she stood that was definitely Krak. The Duchess called for some cool drinks and rambled on about her grandchildren, of whom she now had six. The eldest of these, at forty, had just ambitiously taken on the stewardship of the Krak estates in northern Atalanta, since he would inherit the title, and was apparently wrestling at the moment with a flood. I was not very attentive. I was trying to get a word in edgewise and get my story tied up. I had a little list. I peeked at it and in a lull, I said, "Could you tell me whatever happened to Mister Calico?" She laughed and gave a small, sharp whistle. In about thirty seconds a calico cat came tearing into the room and leaped up on her lap. I was stunned. "Is this Mister Calico?" She laughed again, for'the cat had looked up search-ingly at me and then, deciding I hadn't meant it, went back to lapping at the sparklewater canister she was holding for him. Then she looked a little sad. "About ten years after we returned from Earth, Jettero and Mister Calico were taking a walk up in the mountains. You realize I never did get Jettero to lead a nice, safe life, but in this case he was simply limbering up after a long session in Palace City. They weren't even hunting. And Mister Calico spotted a lepertige! He tackled it head on! Imagine jumping on a ton of lepertige! But that was Mister Calico. Before Jettero could stop him, he'd come off second best." She sighed. Then she pointed. "That's the lepertige pelt right over there by the fireplace. It's pretty ratty for this room, I know, but Jettero would never let me throw it away. And that's what happened to Mister Calico." The cat in her lap looked up at the name again. She said, "However, once every generation since that time, after the old one is dead, another cat gets born in the litters that answers to the name of Mister Calico without ever being told. This is the tenth one! "You know," she continued proudly, "since we brought these cats to Manco, there isn't a single vermin left in the province. I just hope these felines don't take it into their heads to wipe out the lepertiges!" I had my next item. "There were five ships sent from Earth to Calabar. Did they ever arrive?" "Oh, Faht Bey's crew. Oh, yes. They operated the Fleer repair base on Calabar for some years and then retired and went home. That reminds me, I have a postcard here someplace I haven't answered. He retired as postmaster in some little town in Flisten and his daughter got the post. She's half Turkish, you know. I must get a new social secretary. When you finish your book, you wouldn't care for the job, would you, Monte?" I cringed. These elderly people were all alike. They didn't think investigative reporting was serious business! Well, I'd show them! "Now," I said, ignoring the offer sternly, "when all those criminals were amnestied, was there any social upheaval? I mean, a new crime wave?" "Oh, what would make you think that? Factually, they all seemed to think they owed Mortiiy something and most of them reformed. Let me see, it was so long ago. Oh, yes. Only one percent were ever apprehended again and executed. It was a period that was almost crimeless. I remember a party now at the end of the first year. It was sort of my amnesty, you know. But since that time the state actually hasn't had any crime waves, as you call them. Even Slum City got cleaned up." "Well, that's fine," I said. "Now could you tell me if you ever, in any way, heard any more about a man called Izzy Epstein?" She looked at me a little strangely. Then she shrugged and sent a footman off. He came back presently with a metal box. She opened it, took out some sheets and set the box down on the floor. I would have loved to see what was in the rest of that box but she only offered me the sheets she held. Then just as quickly she took them back. "I forgot," she said, "that you wouldn't be able to read English" The sheets were very, very old and yellowed and she handled them very gently. She put them back in the box and brought out a piece of translating paper in not much better shape. She gave me that. I took an immediate photograph of the cover note and translation, and I give them to you in full: