Second Variety and Other Stories (61 page)

"The fighting," Williamson replied, with an expressive gesture.

"Fighting?"

"Clan wars between families are a major part of our culture." Williamson nodded toward the long
table. "We don't live long."

Rogers was stunned. "Clan wars? But --"

"We have pennants, and emblems -- like the old Scottish tribes."

He touched a bright ribbon on his sleeve, the representation of a bird. "There are emblems and
colors for each family and we fight over them. The Williamson family no longer controls this planet. There
is no central agency, now. For a major issue we have the plebiscite -- a vote by all the clans. Each family
on the planet has a vote."

"Like the American Indians."

Williamson nodded. "It's a tribal system. In time we'll be distinct tribes, I suppose. We still retain
a common language, but we're breaking up -- decentralizing. And each family to its own ways, its own
customs and manners."

"Just what do you fight for?"

Williamson shrugged. "Some real things like land and women. Some imaginary. Prestige for
instance. When honor is at stake we have an official semi-annual public battle. A man from each family
takes part. The best warrior and his weapons."

"Like the medieval joust."

"We've drawn from all traditions. Human tradition as a whole."

"Does each family have its separate deity?"

Williamson laughed. "No. We worship in common a vague animism. A sense of the general
positive vitality of the universal process." He held up a loaf of bread. "Thanks for all this."

"Which you grew yourselves."

"On a planet provided for us." Williamson ate his bread thoughtfully. "The old records say the
ship was almost finished. Fuel just about gone -- one dead, and waste after another. If this planet hadn't
turned up, the whole expedition would have perished."

"Cigar?" Williamson said, when the empty bowls had been pushed back.

"Thanks." Rogers accepted a cigar noncommittally. Williamson lit his own, and settled back
against the wall.

"How long are you staying?" he asked presently.

"Not long," Rogers answered.

"There's a bed fixed up for you," Williamson said. "We retire early, but there'll be some kind of
dancing, also singing and dramatic acts. We devote a lot of time to staging, and producing drama."

"There's a bed fixed up for you," Williamson said. "We retire early, but there'll be some kind of
dancing, also singing and dramatic acts. We devote a lot of time to staging, and producing drama."

"We enjoy making and doing things, if that's what you mean."

Rogers stared about him. The walls were covered with murals painted directly on the rough
wood. "So I see," he said. "You grind your own colors from clay and berries?"

"Not quite," Williamson replied. "We have a big pigment industry. Tomorrow I'll show you our
kiln where we fire our own things. Some of our best work is with fabrics and screen processes."

"Interesting. A decentralized society, moving gradually back into primitive tribalism. A society
that voluntarily rejects the advanced technocratic and cultural products of the Galaxy, and thus
deliberately withdraws from contact with the rest of mankind."

"From the uniform Relay-controlled society only," Williamson insisted.

"Do you know why Relay maintains a uniform level for all worlds?" Rogers asked. "I'll tell you.
There are two reasons. First, the body of knowledge which men have amassed doesn't permit duplication
of experiment. There's no time.

"When a discovery has been made it's absurd to repeat it on countless planets throughout the
universe. Information gained on any of the thousand worlds is flashed to Relay Center and then out again
to the whole Galaxy. Relay studies and selects experiences and coordinates them into a rational,
functional system with contradictions. Relay orders the total experience of mankind into a coherent
structure."

"And the second reason?"

"If uniform culture is maintained, controlled from a central source, there won't be war."

"True," Williamson admitted.

"We've abolished war. It's as simple as that. We have a homogeneous culture like that of ancient
Rome -- a common culture for all mankind which we maintain throughout the Galaxy. Each planet is as
involved in it as any other. There are no backwaters of culture to breed envy and hatred."

"Such as this."

Rogers let out his breath slowly. "Yes -- you've confronted us with a strange situation. We've
searched for Williamson's World for three centuries. We've wanted it, dreamed of finding it. It has
seemed like Prester John's Empire -- a fabulous world, cut off from the rest of humanity. Maybe not real
at all. Frank Williamson might have crashed."

"But he didn't."

"He didn't, and Williamson's World is alive with a culture of its own. Deliberately set apart, with
its own way of life, its own standards. Now contact has been made, and our dream has come true. The
people of the Galaxy will soon be informed that Williamson's World has been found. We can now
restore the first colony outside the Solar System to its rightful place in the Galactic culture."

Rogers reached into his coat, and brought out a metal packet. He unfastened the packet and laid
a clean, crisp document on the table.

"What's this?" Williamson asked.

"The Articles of Incorporation. For you to sign, so that Williamson's World can become a part of
the Galactic culture."

Williamson and the rest of the people in the room fell silent. They gazed down at the document,
none of them speaking.

"Well?" Rogers said. He was tense. He pushed the document toward Williamson. "Here it is."

Williamson shook his head. "Sorry." He pushed the document firmly back toward Rogers.
"We've already taken a plebiscite. I hate to disappoint you, but we've already decided not to join. That's
our final decision."

The Class-One battleship assumed an orbit outside the gravity belt of Williamson's World.
Commander Ferris contacted the Relay Center. "We're here. What next?"
"Send down a wiring team. Report back to me as soon as it has made surface contact."

Ten minutes later Corporal Pete Matson was dropped overboard in a pressurized gravity suit.
He drifted slowly toward the blue and green globe beneath, turning and twisting as he neared the surface
of the planet.

Ten minutes later Corporal Pete Matson was dropped overboard in a pressurized gravity suit.
He drifted slowly toward the blue and green globe beneath, turning and twisting as he neared the surface
of the planet.

His earphones clicked. "Any sign of activity?"

"None, Commander," he signaled back.

"There's what appears to be a village to your right. You may run into someone. Keep moving,
and watch out. The rest of the team is dropping, now. Instructions will follow from your Relay web."

"I'll watch out," Matson promised, cradling his blast rifle. He sighted it experimentally at a distant
hill and squeezed the trigger. The hill disintegrated into dust, a rising column of waste particles.

Matson climbed a long ridge and shielded his eyes to peer around him.

He could see the village. It was small, like a country town on Terra. It looked interesting. For a
moment he hesitated. Then he stepped quickly down from the ridge and headed toward the village,
moving rapidly, his supple body alert.

Above him, from the Class-One battleship, three more of the team were already falling, clutching
their guns and tumbling gently toward the surace of the planet...

Rogers folded up the Incorporation papers and returned them slowly to his coat. "You
understand what you're doing?" he asked.

The room was deathly silent. Williamson nodded. "Of course. We're refusing to join your Relay
system."

Rogers' fingers touched the trace web. The web warmed into life. "I'm sorry to hear that," he
said.

"Does it surprise you?"

"Not exactly. Relay submitted our scout's report to the computers. There was always the
possibility you'd refuse. I was given instructions in case of such an event."

"What are your instructions?"

Rogers examined his wristwatch. "To inform you that you have six hours to join us -- or be
blasted out of the universe." He got abruptly to his feet. "I'm sorry this had to happen. Williamson's
World is one of our most precious legends. But nothing must destroy the unity of the Galaxy."

Williamson had risen. His face was ash white, the color of death. They faced each other defiantly.

"We'll fight," Williamson said quietly. His fingers knotted together violently, clenching and
unclenching.

"That's unimportant. You've received Relay coordinates on weapons development. You know
what our war fleet has."

The other people sat quietly at their places, staring rigidly down at their empty plates. No one
moved.

"Is it necessary?" Williamson said harshly.

"Cultural variation must be avoided if the Galaxy is to have peace," Rogers replied firmly.

"You'd destroy us to avoid war?"

"We'd destroy anything to avoid war. We can't permit our society to degenerate into bickering
provinces, forever quarreling and fighting -- like your clans. We're stable because we lack the very
concept of variation. Uniformity must be preserved and separation must be discouraged. The idea itself
must remain unknown."

Williamson was thoughtful. "Do you think you can keep the idea unknown? There are so many
semantic correlatives, hints, verbal leads. Even if you blast us, it may arise somewhere else."

"We'll take that chance." Rogers moved toward the door. "I'll return to my ship and wait there. I
suggest you take another vote. Maybe knowing how far we're prepared to go will change the results."

"I doubt it."

Rogers' web whispered suddenly. "This is North at Relay."

Rogers' web whispered suddenly. "This is North at Relay."

"A Class-One Battleship is in your area. A team has already been landed. Keep your ship
grounded until it can fall back. I've ordered the team to lay out its fission-mine terminals."

Rogers said nothing. His fingers tightened around the web convulsively.

"What's wrong?" Williamson asked.

"Nothing." Rogers pushed the door open. "I'm in a hurry to return to my ship. Let's go."

Commander Ferris contacted Rogers as soon as his ship had left Williamson's World.

"North tells me you've already informed them," Ferris said.

"That's right. He also contacted your team directly. Had it prepare to attack."

"So I'm informed. How much time did you offer them?"

"Six hours."

"Do you think they'll give in?"

"I don't know," Rogers said. "I hope so. But I doubt it."

Williamson's World turned slowly in the viewscreen with its green and blue forest, rivers and
oceans. Terra might have looked that way, once. He could see the Class-One battleship, a great silvery
globe moving slowly in its orbit around the planet.

The legendary world had been found and contacted. Now it would be destroyed. He had tried to
prevent it, but without success. He couldn't prevent the inevitable.

If Williamson's World refused to join the Galactic culture its destruction became a necessity -grim,
axiomatic. It was either Williamson's World or the Galaxy. To preserve the greater, the lesser had
to be sacrificed.

He made himself as comfortable as possible by the view-screen, and waited.

At the end of six hours a line of black dots rose from the planet and headed slowly toward the
Class-One battleship. He recognized them for what they were -- old-fashioned jet-driven rocket ships. A
formation of antiquated war vessels, rising up to give battle.

The planet had not changed its mind. It was going to fight. It was willing to be destroyed, rather
than give up its way of life. The black dots grew swiftly larger, became roaring blazing metal disks puffing
awkwardly along. A pathetic sight. Rogers felt strangely moved, watching the jet-driven ships divide up
for the contact. The Class-One battleship had secured its orbit, and was swinging in a lazy, efficient arc.
Its banks of energy tubes were slowly rising, lining up to meet the attack.

Suddenly the formation of the ancient rocketships dived. They rumbled over the Class-One, firing
jerkily. The Class-One's tubes followed their path. They began to reform clumsily, gaining distance for a
second try, and another run.

A tongue of colorless energy flicked out. The attackers vanished.

Commander Ferris contacted Rogers. "The poor tragic fools." His heavy face was gray.
"Attacking us with those things."

"Any damage?"

"None whatever." Ferris wiped his forehead shakily. "No damage to me at all."

"What next?" Rogers asked stonily.

"I've declined the mine operation and passed it back to Relay. They'll have to do it. The impulse
should already be --" Below them, the green and blue globe shuddered convulsively. Soundlessly,
effortlessly, it flew apart. Fragments rose, bits of debris and the planet dissolved in a cloud of white
flame, a blazing mass of incandescent fire. For an instant it remained a miniature sun, lighting up the void.
Then it faded into ash.

The screens of Rogers' ship hummed into life, as the debris struck. Particles rained against them,
and were instantly disintegrated.

"Well," Ferris said. "It's over. North will report the original scout mistaken. Williamson's World
wasn't found. The legend will remain a legend."

Rogers continued to watch until the last bits of debris had ceased flying, and only a vague,
discolored shadow remained. The screens clicked off automatically. To his right, the Class-One
battleship picked up speed and headed toward the Riga System.