“Ever hear of Gregor Black?” he asked as he laid the book on the desk.
“Some sort of technosociologist, wasn’t he?” Finch replied. “But I believe his disciples are calling him ‘Noah’ Black now.”
“Right. His theory was that both the individual and society are best served when the individual is doing the job for which he is best suited: the old ‘right man for the right job’ maxim. He figured that not only would you achieve maximum productivity but you’d also allow the individual the personal satisfaction and sense of fulfillment that comes from doing what he can do best.”
“Where is he now?” Finch asked.
Gordon had opened the volume and was flipping through the pages. “Oh, somewhere in the Ninth Quadrant, I believe.”
Finch snapped his fingers. “That’s right! His group was outlawed so they decided to apply for a splinter colony.”
Ninety years ago they took up the government’s offer to any large enough group that wanted to settle an Earthclass planet and got free, one-way transportation to the prospective utopia of their choice. Since they were registered as a splinter colony, the planet was then declared off limits to all government traffic and Black and company could do whatever they wanted with it.
“I’d love to know who dreamed up the splinter colony idea,” Finch said with a smile and a shake of the head. “It’s probably one of the few deals in history in which everybody gets what he wants: the government not only colonizes world after world, but it gets rid of all the local dissidents to boot. And the dissidents get their own world on which to live the way they wish.”
Gordon was not listening, however. Pointing to the book on his desk, be said, “Here’s the reason Black’s group was outlawed: the Assessor.”
“I remember the name,” Finch remarked. “Gregor Black’s miracle machine.”
“Don’t be too light with the Assessor… nor with old Gregor. He designed quite a machine. With the Assessor screening a population you wouldn’t have, say, a potential physicist or chemist doing menial labor because his talents and abilities were never discovered and never developed. Nor would you have incompetents in important positions because of ‘connections.’ It’s too bad the Assessor jumbled the minds of a few of his followers during testing – that’s why its use was outlawed.”
“Jumbled, hell!” Finch snorted. “It turned a few of his faithful followers into vegetables!”
“Well, you’ve got to remember that ‘electrohypnosis’ – which was the term for mind-probing in those days – was still in the experimental stages. Its use was integral to the Assessor but its control had not yet been perfected. Thus, the tragic accidents.”
Finch yawned. “Just as well. Never would have worked anyway.”
Gordon smiled and leaned over his desk. “Oh, but it has!”
“You mean you’ve heard from Black’s splinter colony? I wouldn’t put too much faith in…
“No, no,” the CA. interrupted, “it has worked right here on Earth!”
“Where?”
“The Rigrod Peninsula.”
“So that’s what all the secrecy’s been about.”
Gordon was enthused now: “We started a colony out there twenty-six years ago using a thousand deserted children, each about a year old. Each was ‘assessed’ once a year for the first twenty years and education was modified and directed for each in accordance with the Assessor’s findings; we were thus able to give them twenty years of education in roughly fifteen. Six years ago they were all given the option of either going into their assigned fields or returning to the mainland.”
He paused dramatically. “All stayed.”
Finch affected a surprised expression. He had a few contacts in the government and knew all about the Rigrod experiment.
“And the advances in technology, the arts, the life sciences, business and hundreds of other fields in these past six years have been incredible!”
“I can see how it would work,” Finch said, “but why tell me about it?”
“Because it’s going to take a massive selling job to get the public to accept it and my advisers think that endorsements by popular personalities would be the best technique. You, Joe Finch, are going to help convince the public that the Assessor is the greatest thing ever to come along.”
“Oh, really? Not without a little more than a spiel from you, I’m afraid.”
Gordon sobered. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I want to see Rigrod and see exactly what it’s like. If this Assessor can do all you say it can, then I’ll back you on it. But I want to see for myself.”
“I’m afraid not,” the CA frowned. “We’ve allowed free access of outside information into Rigrod but all outsiders have been barred. We can make no exceptions.”
“Better make one this time.”
“Need I remind you, Mr. Finch, that your situation in regard to the law at the moment is quite precarious?”
“I endorse nothing sight unseen,” Finch stated. He was gambling now, gambling that the Finch endorsement was important enough to the CA to make him back down. “And besides, you’ve said nothing about my legal situation after I endorse the Assessor… how will I stand then?”
If you’re going to bluff, don’t do it halfheartedly.
Gordon studied Finch with narrowed eyes and nodded slowly. “All right. All right, dammit! I’ll publicly denounce the Picket Law and have the charges dropped after we go to Rigrod.”
“Well, Andy,” Finch said, scratching his pet’s snout, “looks like we’re going on a trip soon… and at government expense, no less.”
THE RIGROD PENINSULA had been turned into a minor city, a tiny nation of a thousand. Order and symmetry ruled its design and new structures of unique conceptualization were on the rise. The inhabitants came out in force to meet Joe Finch. They were only physically isolated here and the figure of the crusty individualist with his ever-present antbear companion was immediately recognized.
He wandered through the crowd of residents commenting on this and that, answering questions and shaking proffered hands. He was impressed. These people were friendly, articulate and every one a specialist in his or her field. But there was a subtle undercurrent here, an undercurrent he had been sure he would find.
After the tour, Gordon and Finch retired to the CA’s Rigrod offices. Finch was skimming through a manuscript he had found on the desk. It was called “Interstellar Business: A Theory,” by Peter J. Paxton.
“This Paxton is good,” he told the beaming Gordon. “His logistical concepts will revolutionize interstellar trade. Does he need a publisher?”
“Sorry, Joe,” Gordon laughed,” but Rigrod is setting up its own publishing house – and it will be a telestories format.” He was needling Finch and enjoying it. Changing the subject, he asked, “Well, now that you’ve seen our little project, what do you think of it?”
Now the touchy part: to stall for time. “I don’t know. There’s something about this setup that bother me.”
“What could bother you? It’s the perfect society! Utopia!”
“The whole idea of utopia makes me more than a little nervous,” Finch replied. “Can you give me a week or two to think on it?”
“I’ll give you a week, Finch. That should give you plenty of time to assimilate what you’ve seen here today. But remember, those charges still stand.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. But don’t you think the endorsement would hold more weight if it wasn’t so obvious that we had made a deal?”
“You have a point,” the CA admitted and paused, thinking. “Why don’t we try this: I’ll get the charges dropped if you give me a tentative affirmation.”
“Okay, Mr. Gordon. It’s a deal.”
And the Chief Administrator of Earth made good his promise the very next day.
WHEN GORDON AND TWO OTHER MEN burst into the Finch backyard, they found that he was not alone. Andy was there and so was a young, fair-haired man in his mid-twenties. Gordon instantly re
cognized him.
“Paxton! It figures I’d find you here! Go inside. I’ve something to discuss with Mr. Finch!”
The young man was cowed by the wrathful CA. He looked to Finch and Finch nodded toward the door.
“Do as he says. He brought a couple of his bully-boys along so we’d better humor him.”
When Paxton had disappeared into the house, Finch turned to Gordon. “Now what the hell is all this about?”
“You’re under arrest, Finch!” Gordon roared.
“What for?” Andy raised his head and wondered who was making all this noise on such a pleasant afternoon.
“You know very well what for… for destroying a government project!”
“You mean the Rigrod experiment?”
“Yes! The Rigrod experiment! The whole structure of the Assessor-built society started to break down soon after your visit. You did something out there. I’m going to find out what it was. I don’t care how popular you are, you’re going to tell me.”
“I’ll tell you what I did,” said Finch. “I visited the place. That’s all. You were with me all the time.”
“You pulled something–” Gordon began.
“Damn right I did,” Finch interrupted with a snort. “I destroyed that project willfully and with malice aforethought. And I did you a favor by doing it. It was bound to happen sooner or later! You thought you were creating the perfect society by basing it on human individuality, by making the best use of individual abilities. You took care of individuality… fine! But you forgot all about individualism!
“It never occurred to you that many people wouldn’t be happy doing ‘what they can do best.’ As a matter of fact, many people don’t give a damn about what they can do best. They’re more interested in doing what they like to do, what they want to do. There might be a musician playing at the music center tonight who could be a brilliant physicist if he wanted to be, but he likes music instead. In an Assessor-built society, however, he’d be working with mathematical formulae instead of chord progressions. He’d sit around envying musicians for just so long and then he’d either rebel or go mad. When are people like you going to learn that utopia is a fool’s game?”
Gordon was in a cold rage. The project, which was to be a monument to his name, was being torn to shreds by this man in front of him. He spoke through clenched teeth: “But why didn’t they rebel before you showed up? The project was working perfectly until then.”
“You’ve had no trouble on the peninsula until now,” Finch explained, “because you’ve been working with a biased sample. Those kids have been told all their lives that they are pioneers, that they’ll be the ones to prove that man can have utopia. And so all the square pegs in the round holes – the equivalents of our hypothetical musician-physicist – keep mum on the hope that their discontent will pass… they don’t want to destroy ‘man’s chance at utopia’ by a hasty decision. And in keeping mum they never find out that there are others like themselves.
“Then Joe Finch comes along.
“And I’m not a hero, Gordon. I’m a crackpot, an eccentric, a nut. I’ve known about Rigrod for over a decade now and spent that time building up a reputation as a rugged individualist. Many times I felt foolish but the press and the vid played right into my hands. I’ve been a walking publicity stunt for the last ten years. That’s why my pet is an antbear instead of a dog – although I wouldn’t trade Andy for anything now. I’ve been hoping for a chance to get to Rigrod and you gave it to me. And that was all I needed.
“Allowing someone with a reputation as a crackpot individualist to wander through the Rigrod Peninsula is like introducing a seed crystal to a supersaturated solution: all the underlying threads of doubt and discontent start to crystallize. But don’t blame me! Blame yourself and your inane theories and ambitions! You were a fool to be taken in by Black’s theory, you were a fool to bring me to the project and you were a fool to think that I’d have anything at all to do with such a plan!”
Gordon finally exploded. “Arrest him!” he told the two guards who had been standing idly by.
The guards, of course, did not know anything about antbears. The antbear has been long used in the areas to which it is indigenous as a watchdog. Its forelimbs have monstrous claws which it uses for digging into termite hills but it can rear up on its hind legs and use these claws for defense. And the antbear has an uncanny ability to roar like a lion.
The two guards were quickly made aware of these facts. Andy startled them with a roar as they made their first move toward Finch. A few swipes with his claws and the guards were down and gashed and bleeding.
Andy stood beside Finch and huffed warily as his master scratched his snout. Finch turned to the livid Chief Administrator.
“Now get out of here and take your friends with you.”
“All right, Finch. You’ve won for now. But let me warn you that your life here on Earth from now on will be hell! And don’t get any ideas about getting off-planet… you’re staying right here!”
BUT JOE FINCH had been far ahead of the CA. He had already sold his house, a printing firm had bought his machinery and all the properties of Finch House had been picked up by a telestories outfit. A handsome bribe had reserved two seats and one animal passage out from Earth on a moment’s notice, and Joe Finch, Peter J. Paxton and Andy were well into primary warp toward Ragna before Arthur Gordon had any idea they had left Earth.
With Finch’s money and organizational experience and Paxton’s business theories, Interstellar Business Advisers was born and grew with the expanding Federation. And Joe, at long last able to put aside his role of superindividualist, found a woman who loved him – and anteaters, too – and it wasn’t too long before Joe junior came along. But that’s another story.
HEALER – III
Hide Thyself
Age 271
The Healer’s advent coincided with a period of political turmoil within the Federation. The Restructurist movement was agitating with steadily increasing influence for a more active role by the Federation in planetary and interplanetary affairs. This attitude directly contradicted the laissez-faire orientation of the organization’s charter.
His departure from human affairs occurred as political friction was reaching its peak and was as abrupt as his arrival. Certain scholars claim that he was killed in a liner crash off Tarvodet, and there is some evidence to support this.
His more fanatical followers, however, insist that he is immortal and was driven from his calling by political forces. Their former premise is obviously ridiculous, but the latter may well have some basis in fact.
from The Healer: Man & Myth
by Emmerz Fent
THE HEALER, the most recognizable figure in the human galaxy, stood gloved, cloaked, cowled, and unrecognized and the small group of mourners as the woman’s body was tenderly placed within the machine that would reduce it to its component elements. He felt no need for tears. She had lived her life to the fullest, the latter half of it at his side. And when the youth treatments had finally become ineffective and she’d begun to notice a certain blurring on the perimeters of her intellectual function, she ended her life, calmly and quietly, to insure that she’d be remembered by her lover as the proud woman she had always been, not the lesser person she might become. And only The Healer, her lover, knew how she had died.
The wrinkled little man next to him suspected, of course. And approved. They and the others watched in silence as the machine swallowed her body, and all drank deeply of the air about them as it became filled with her molecules, each witness trying to incorporate into himself a tiny part of a cherished friend.
The old man looked at his companion, who had never deigned to show a year’s worth of aging in all the time he had known him – at least not on the surface. But there had been strain and fatigue growing behind the eyes during the past few years. A half century of sickness and deformity of mind and body, outstretched hands and blank eyes lay behind him and possibly endless years
of the same awaited him.
"You look weary, my friend."
"I am." The others began to drift away. "It all seems so futile. For every mind I open, two more are reported newly closed. The pressure continually mounts – ‘come to us’ – ‘no, come to us, we need you more!’ Everywhere I go I’m preceded by arguments, threats, and bribes between vying clinics and planets. I seem to have become a commodity."
The old man nodded with understanding. "Where to now?"
"Into private practice of some sort, I suppose. I’ve stayed with IMC this long only because of you… and her. As a matter of fact, a certain sector representative is waiting for me now. DeBloise is the name."
"A Restructurist. Be careful."
"I will." The Healer smiled. "But I’ll hear what he has to say. Stay well, friend," he said and walked away.
The wrinkled man gazed wistfully after him. "Ah, if only I had your talent for that."
SECTOR REPRESENTATIVE DEBLOISE had for some time considered himself quite an important man, yet it took him a few minutes to adjust to the presence of the individual seated calmly across the desk from him, a man of unmistakable appearance who had gained almost mythical stature in the past few decades: The Healer.
"In brief, sir," DeBloise said with the very best of his public smiles, "we of the Restructurist movement wish to encourage you to come to our worlds. You seem to have made a habit of avoiding us in the past."
"That’s because I worked through the IMC network in which the Restructurist worlds refuse to participate… something to do with the corps’ support of the LaNague charter, I’m told."
"That’s part of it." The smile became more ingratiating as he said, "Politics seems to work its way into everything, doesn’t it. But that’s irrelevant now, since it was the news that you’d no longer be with IMC that brought me here to Tolive. I want you to come to Jebinose; our Bureau of Medicine and Research will pay all your fees."