The Rival Rigelians

“Minor setbacks,” Kennedy chortled. “Must have had to bump off five million of the poor slobs before that peasant revolt on the communes was finished with.”

Watson said coldly, “We always have a few reactionaries, religious fanatics, misfits, crackpots and malcontents to deal with. However, these are not important. Our industrial potential has finally begun to roll. We doubled steel production this year and will do the same next year. Our hydroelectric installations tripled in the past two years. Coal production is four times higher, lumber production six times. We expect to increase the grain harvest forty percent next season. And…”

The Honorable Russ put in gently, “Please, Honorable Watson, your percentage figures are impressive only if we know from what basis you start. If you produced but five million tons of steel last year, then your growth to ten million is very good but it is still not a considerable amount for an entire planet.”

Buchwald said dryly, “If our agents are correct, Texcoco steel production is something like a quarter of our own. I assume that your other basic products are at about the same stage of development.”

Watson flushed. “The thing to remember is that our economy continues to grow each year. Yours spurts and stops, jerks ahead a few steps, then grinds to a halt or even retreats. Everything comes to a pause if you few on the top stop making a profit; all that counts in your economy is making money for you stutes in the saddle. Which reminds me. How in the world did you ever get out of that planet-wide depression you were in three years ago?”

Peter MacDonald grunted his disgust. “Planet-wide depression, indeed. A small recession. A temporary readjustment due to over-extension in certain economic and financial fields. It was more a matter of the economy moving sideways for a time. We have built-in guards against any such thing as a depression in the old sense.”

From the other side of the table, Dick Hawkins laughed at him. “Where’d you pick up that line of gobbledegook, Peter. You sound as though you’ve been prowling the Pedagogue’s library, looking up the old apologists.”

Peter MacDonald came to his feet in indignation. “I don’t have to put up with this sort of impudence,” he snapped. “What do you know about economics? That ridiculous collectivized society you’ve jerrybuilt over on Texcoco is proof enough that you’re incompetent to have intelligent opinions.”

Watson lurched to his own feet. “Nor do we have to listen to your snide cracks about the real progress Texcoco is making, MacDonald. We know what’s being accomplished there and we’re the ones doing it.”

He glared around at his associates. “We don’t seem to be making any progress around here,” he snapped. “Hawkins, Taller, Roberts! Let’s go. Ten years from now, we’ll be back and there’ll be another story to tell. Even a blind man will be able to see the difference by then.”

They marched down the Pedagogue’s corridor toward their space lighter, their military boots clanging loud on the bare metal of the floors.

Kennedy called after them: “Ten years from now every family on Genoa’ll have a car. Wait’ll you see. Television, too. We’re introducing TV next year. An’ civil aviation. Be all over the place in two, three years…”

The Texcocans slammed the spaceport after them.

Kennedy sloshed some more drink into his glass. “Slobs can’t stand the truth,” he explained to the others. “Bunch of cloddies.”

XI

With the exception of a few additional delegates of high ranking Texcocan and Genoese political and scientific heads, the line-up at the end of forty years was the same as ten years earlier—except for the absence of Jerry Kennedy.

Extra tables had been set up and chairs to accommodate the added numbers. To one side were the Genoese: Martin Gunther, Fredric Buchwald, Peter MacDonald with such repeat delegates as Baron Leonar and the Honorables Modrin and Russ and half a dozen newcomers. On the other were Barry Watson, Dick Hawkins and Natt Roberts, Taller and such Texcocans as the scientists Wiss and Foken, army heads, Security Police officials and other notables. All of the Texcocan delegation were in uniform, even the scientists.

Notepads had been placed before each of them and both Barry Watson and Martin Gunther were equipped with gavels.

While chairs were still being shuffled, Barry Watson said over the table to Gunther, “Jerry?”

Martin Gunther shrugged. “Jerry Kennedy is, ah, indisposed.” He hesitated, then added, “As a matter of fact, he’s at one of the mountain sanitariums, taking a cure. He’ll be all right.”

Dick Hawkins said grudgingly, “Good. We’ve lost too many.”

Watson pounded with his gavel. “Let’s come to order. Gunther, do you have anything to say in the way of preliminaries?”