Read Online This Fortress World by James Gunn - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Gunn
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the ruler, and his former ruler can no more enforce his orders than he could make the defenders obey him before the conquest. And if anyone says loyalty, I do not know what he means. The only loyalty inside a fortress is to oneself.
That is the psychology of the fortress. And this, too: A man on another world is an enemy, not a fellow human but an alien. We will hate him.
And this is the politics of the fortress: The defense must be determined and it must be efficient. Determination and efficiency are qualities that masses of people cannot share and continue sharing without diffusion. These can be enforced only from above. A fortress must be ruled by one man or a few men. A democracy is impossible.
There have been democracies within recorded history. Count them. There have been few enough. What was their fate? They changed their form of government, or it was changed for them. Progressive centralization made them into dictatorships, or they were conquered.
Count the major forces in the galaxy. The individual rulers, the Church, the Peddlers. The rulers are satisfied, the Church is satisfied, the Peddlers are content. The only loser is the people.
Is there no hope, then? And the answer is, none. The people cannot revolt because they have no power. They have no power to fight, but, more important, they have no power to think or, having thought, to communicate. The people are ignorant and illiterate. The rulers have kept them so. And if by some miracle, they do revolt, what then? In the ensuing chaos the nearest world swoops down to conquer.
And so we look at the stars and sigh for the golden time. And our sigh is a windy nothing fading into nothing…
I closed the book and put it aside as Siller entered with my clothes. They had been altered to fit me, and the dark stain around the neck had been removed.
There was no one nearby who looked like an Agent, Siller reported. If Sabatini was still searching, he was doing it secretly. Siller had heard that the Cathedral was being repaired. Hurriedly, because it was rumored that the Archbishop might make an inspection of Brancusi. When he spoke about the Cathedral, his eyes were on me, but my face was almost masklike from the immobility of the burned skin.
He watched me while I put on the clothes.
"What did the girl leave?" he asked casually.
"She left—" I began, and stopped.
"What?" Siller asked sharply.
"I don't remember."
"Sit down," he said. "It's time we talked."
I sat down on the edge of one of the chairs, conscious of a great fatigue. My face hurt and my head was aching again.
"What about?" I asked.
"About the girl and why she went into the Cathedral and what she left there and why you're going to give it to me," Siller said flatly. His emotionless, confident voice made me cold.
"I—"
"Never mind," he said. "You remember. You can stop pretending."
"I can't," I said wearily. "I can't give it to you. Even if I could give it to you, I wouldn't."
"You can," he said calmly. "And you will."
"I don't have it." His confidence gave me a feeling of desperation.
"I know. You can get it."
"I can't. It's hidden too well. No one can get it."
"I don't believe you," Siller said, and his mask of confidence slipped aside for a moment. Then it was back. "Let me tell you why you're going to give it to me."
I listened, frowning.
"Gratitude," he said. "I saved your life." He flipped a finger out negligently. "I have provided you with a hiding place. I've taught you what you need to stay alive."
"I am grateful," I said. "But I'm not that grateful."
He shrugged, but his voice was a little sharper. "Second, the matter of rightful ownership."
"The girl—"
"The girl is dead."
I flinched. "How do you know?"
He shrugged again, impatiently. "If she isn't, she wishes she were. She's in Sabatini's hands. From that moment, she was dead. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that the object falls into the proper hands now. Mine."
"Why yours?" I asked wearily.
"We know
That is the psychology of the fortress. And this, too: A man on another world is an enemy, not a fellow human but an alien. We will hate him.
And this is the politics of the fortress: The defense must be determined and it must be efficient. Determination and efficiency are qualities that masses of people cannot share and continue sharing without diffusion. These can be enforced only from above. A fortress must be ruled by one man or a few men. A democracy is impossible.
There have been democracies within recorded history. Count them. There have been few enough. What was their fate? They changed their form of government, or it was changed for them. Progressive centralization made them into dictatorships, or they were conquered.
Count the major forces in the galaxy. The individual rulers, the Church, the Peddlers. The rulers are satisfied, the Church is satisfied, the Peddlers are content. The only loser is the people.
Is there no hope, then? And the answer is, none. The people cannot revolt because they have no power. They have no power to fight, but, more important, they have no power to think or, having thought, to communicate. The people are ignorant and illiterate. The rulers have kept them so. And if by some miracle, they do revolt, what then? In the ensuing chaos the nearest world swoops down to conquer.
And so we look at the stars and sigh for the golden time. And our sigh is a windy nothing fading into nothing…
I closed the book and put it aside as Siller entered with my clothes. They had been altered to fit me, and the dark stain around the neck had been removed.
There was no one nearby who looked like an Agent, Siller reported. If Sabatini was still searching, he was doing it secretly. Siller had heard that the Cathedral was being repaired. Hurriedly, because it was rumored that the Archbishop might make an inspection of Brancusi. When he spoke about the Cathedral, his eyes were on me, but my face was almost masklike from the immobility of the burned skin.
He watched me while I put on the clothes.
"What did the girl leave?" he asked casually.
"She left—" I began, and stopped.
"What?" Siller asked sharply.
"I don't remember."
"Sit down," he said. "It's time we talked."
I sat down on the edge of one of the chairs, conscious of a great fatigue. My face hurt and my head was aching again.
"What about?" I asked.
"About the girl and why she went into the Cathedral and what she left there and why you're going to give it to me," Siller said flatly. His emotionless, confident voice made me cold.
"I—"
"Never mind," he said. "You remember. You can stop pretending."
"I can't," I said wearily. "I can't give it to you. Even if I could give it to you, I wouldn't."
"You can," he said calmly. "And you will."
"I don't have it." His confidence gave me a feeling of desperation.
"I know. You can get it."
"I can't. It's hidden too well. No one can get it."
"I don't believe you," Siller said, and his mask of confidence slipped aside for a moment. Then it was back. "Let me tell you why you're going to give it to me."
I listened, frowning.
"Gratitude," he said. "I saved your life." He flipped a finger out negligently. "I have provided you with a hiding place. I've taught you what you need to stay alive."
"I am grateful," I said. "But I'm not that grateful."
He shrugged, but his voice was a little sharper. "Second, the matter of rightful ownership."
"The girl—"
"The girl is dead."
I flinched. "How do you know?"
He shrugged again, impatiently. "If she isn't, she wishes she were. She's in Sabatini's hands. From that moment, she was dead. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that the object falls into the proper hands now. Mine."
"Why yours?" I asked wearily.
"We know
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