walls displaying a fireplace, complete with hypnotic crackling flames.
Wilmot himself was obviously dressed for an evening alone. He wore a deep burgundy dressing gown over rumpled, baggy tweed trousers. His feet were shod in comfortable old slippers. He was considerably bulkier than Eberly, a tall, thickset man with a bushy gray moustache and iron-gray hair, his face seamed and permanently tanned by long years in the field on anthropological expeditions.
Eberly was in his office attire: a light blue hip-length tunic over crisply creased charcoal slacks. Wilmot thought the tunic hid the man’s potbelly well. Strange creature, the professor said to himself, as he gestured Eberly to a worn old leather armchair. The man has obviously spent a great deal of effort to make his face look handsome, even commanding. Yet below the neck he’s soft as putty.
“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Wilmot asked, sinking into his favorite chair. A half-empty glass of whisky sat on the coffee table between them. Wilmot did not so much as glance at it, nor did he offer his visitor a drink.
Eberly’s sculpted face grew serious, almost grave. “I thought it best to discuss this face-to-face, and not in my office,” he began.
There he goes, thought Wilmot. Always some dire emergency. Always the need for secrecy. The man’s a born schemer.
“Some sort of problem?” he asked.
Nodding, Eberly said, “We need to amend the constitution.”
“Do we?”
“Yes. I can see now that calling for elections every year was a mistake. We need to change that.”
“Ah.” Wilmot smiled knowingly. “Now that you are in power you don’t want to run the risk of being voted out.”
“It’s not that,” Eberly protested.
“Then what?”
Eberly’s face twisted into a nervous grimace. Wilmot could see the wheels turning in his mind.
At last the younger man said, “Having elections every year means that whoever is in office must prepare for the coming election campaign. Every year! It distracts from his duties. I’m so busy trying to convince people I’m doing the best possible job for them that I don’t have the time to do the job they elected me to do.”
Wilmot considered this for a moment. “You could step down and allow someone else to take the job.”
“But I’m the best qualified!” Eberly cried. “I really am. You know the people of this habitat. They’re lazy. They don’t want the responsibilities of office. They’d rather let someone else do it.”
“They are averse to political responsibilities, true enough,” Wilmot admitted. “Perhaps we should institute a draft—”
“A draft?”
“It’s been suggested, you know. Pick our administrative officers by lot. Let the personnel department’s computer run the show. It might even generate some enthusiasm among the people, a lottery.”
“And whoever got picked would refuse to serve,” Eberly said, almost sullenly.
Wilmot realized he was tired of this tomfoolery. Besides, his drink was waiting for him. He rose to his feet. Eberly looked surprised, then slowly got up out of his chair.
“The real reason we have elections every year,” he said, gripping Eberly’s thin arm in one strong hand, “is to allow the people of this habitat to vent some political steam. Elections are a safety valve, you see. They give people the illusion that they have some degree of control over their government. Without elections, who knows what kind of protests and outright rebellions we might get—even from these lazy, noninvolved citizens. They’re slackers and noncomformists, no doubt, but if they feel the government is not sensitive to their needs, they
will hunt for a way to change the government. Elections are better than revolts.”
Eberly stood there, looking decidedly unhappy. He’s trying to think of a rebuttal, Wilmot could see. I can smell the wood burning.
“I doubt that you have anything to worry about, my boy,” Wilmot said jovially, clapping
Wilmot himself was obviously dressed for an evening alone. He wore a deep burgundy dressing gown over rumpled, baggy tweed trousers. His feet were shod in comfortable old slippers. He was considerably bulkier than Eberly, a tall, thickset man with a bushy gray moustache and iron-gray hair, his face seamed and permanently tanned by long years in the field on anthropological expeditions.
Eberly was in his office attire: a light blue hip-length tunic over crisply creased charcoal slacks. Wilmot thought the tunic hid the man’s potbelly well. Strange creature, the professor said to himself, as he gestured Eberly to a worn old leather armchair. The man has obviously spent a great deal of effort to make his face look handsome, even commanding. Yet below the neck he’s soft as putty.
“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Wilmot asked, sinking into his favorite chair. A half-empty glass of whisky sat on the coffee table between them. Wilmot did not so much as glance at it, nor did he offer his visitor a drink.
Eberly’s sculpted face grew serious, almost grave. “I thought it best to discuss this face-to-face, and not in my office,” he began.
There he goes, thought Wilmot. Always some dire emergency. Always the need for secrecy. The man’s a born schemer.
“Some sort of problem?” he asked.
Nodding, Eberly said, “We need to amend the constitution.”
“Do we?”
“Yes. I can see now that calling for elections every year was a mistake. We need to change that.”
“Ah.” Wilmot smiled knowingly. “Now that you are in power you don’t want to run the risk of being voted out.”
“It’s not that,” Eberly protested.
“Then what?”
Eberly’s face twisted into a nervous grimace. Wilmot could see the wheels turning in his mind.
At last the younger man said, “Having elections every year means that whoever is in office must prepare for the coming election campaign. Every year! It distracts from his duties. I’m so busy trying to convince people I’m doing the best possible job for them that I don’t have the time to do the job they elected me to do.”
Wilmot considered this for a moment. “You could step down and allow someone else to take the job.”
“But I’m the best qualified!” Eberly cried. “I really am. You know the people of this habitat. They’re lazy. They don’t want the responsibilities of office. They’d rather let someone else do it.”
“They are averse to political responsibilities, true enough,” Wilmot admitted. “Perhaps we should institute a draft—”
“A draft?”
“It’s been suggested, you know. Pick our administrative officers by lot. Let the personnel department’s computer run the show. It might even generate some enthusiasm among the people, a lottery.”
“And whoever got picked would refuse to serve,” Eberly said, almost sullenly.
Wilmot realized he was tired of this tomfoolery. Besides, his drink was waiting for him. He rose to his feet. Eberly looked surprised, then slowly got up out of his chair.
“The real reason we have elections every year,” he said, gripping Eberly’s thin arm in one strong hand, “is to allow the people of this habitat to vent some political steam. Elections are a safety valve, you see. They give people the illusion that they have some degree of control over their government. Without elections, who knows what kind of protests and outright rebellions we might get—even from these lazy, noninvolved citizens. They’re slackers and noncomformists, no doubt, but if they feel the government is not sensitive to their needs, they
will hunt for a way to change the government. Elections are better than revolts.”
Eberly stood there, looking decidedly unhappy. He’s trying to think of a rebuttal, Wilmot could see. I can smell the wood burning.
“I doubt that you have anything to worry about, my boy,” Wilmot said jovially, clapping
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