either. Albert Cursiter looked from one face to another, wondering if they really thought Toni was all bad. Bob Foley stared at the floor, meditating on the ingratitude of children. Jackson took no further interest in the proceedings. He had told them what he thought; a man could do no more.
Only Brad nodded. "Ever considered this, folks?" he inquired. "Who talks of danger and death and dissension and destruction in this community? Who's worried? Who's unhappy? Not the youngsters. We wanted them to multiply, and that's what they're doing. We wanted them to grow crops, and settle down, and make Mundis their home, and so they have. What are we concerned about? Why don't we realize we've done our job, and die, and let them get on with it?"
Two days later the complete Inner Council, young and old, decided on a policy of closer co-operation between all groups.
The next day the whole Council decided that the Gap didn't matter anyway, and voted it out of existence, Pertwee and Toni could come back any time they liked and live where they liked. Robertson was shouted down, not by Rog Foley's party but by the founders.
Everyone was to live happily ever after, by order.
But Alice remarked shrewdly to Rog as they came out of the meeting together: "That wasn't what you wanted, was it?"
"No," Rog admitted.
"You wanted this to build up so that when it broke there would be a real snap, didn't you?"
"Yes," said Rog.
"So what are you going to do now?"
"Retire from politics," sighed Rog, "and raise a family."
6
Eight million miles away, on Secundis, Phyllis Barton was just reaching a basis for action on what Worsley had said to her when she lost the chance quite finally.
On one of the days when the full operational crew of the Clades was on board, a call to attention sounded from all the loudspeakers on the ship. There was only one thing that could mean, and Phyllis guessed at once it was Worsley who was going to play the central part. He had spoken to someone else, been reported and convicted, and she had lost an opportunity.
She fell in step with the others. Every steel corridor resounded to marching feet, until a loudspeaker order told all sections to break step. Girders don't take too kindly to a rhythmic, unified assault on them.
At first Phyllis seethed with self-reproach. Someone was certainly going to profit by Worsley's fall, and it wouldn't be her. But a few minutes thought restored her usual calm. Whoever had cut the ground from under the captain's feet had had more strings to pull than she had -- she'd have done it if she could.
Clades poured from the four locks and formed, with the symmetry and neatness of crystallization, a square six deep. Into the center marched Commodore Corey and -- yes, Worsley, in a uniform stripped of all indication of the rank he had held. With them was Mathers, wearing his ceremonial sword.
Phyllis was at once interested. Something might come of this after all. She had something that might possibly he used against Mathers.
Corey spoke into the microphone, and his voice thundered back from the ship. There was little or nothing to be learned from what he said -- Worsley was a traitor, Mathers had unmasked him, justice would be done. Phyllis knew all that. How had Mathers got real evidence? Naturally, Corey didn't say. The same methods could be used again and again, so long as they weren't freely discussed every time they were successful. Presumably, Mathers had somehow been able to record without Worsley knowing he was recording.
In the middie of the commodore's speech Worsley tried to grab his gun. It was futile; Mathers spun him back before he was near Corey.
And at the end Corey pointed dramatically to Mathers, who flicked out his sword. Muttering stopped. If one closed one's eyes one might, for all the sound there was, have been alone on the bare, pitted field.
The point of the sword made neat, rapid passes in the air. Worsley was held now, but it wasn't necessary. The ignominy of
Only Brad nodded. "Ever considered this, folks?" he inquired. "Who talks of danger and death and dissension and destruction in this community? Who's worried? Who's unhappy? Not the youngsters. We wanted them to multiply, and that's what they're doing. We wanted them to grow crops, and settle down, and make Mundis their home, and so they have. What are we concerned about? Why don't we realize we've done our job, and die, and let them get on with it?"
Two days later the complete Inner Council, young and old, decided on a policy of closer co-operation between all groups.
The next day the whole Council decided that the Gap didn't matter anyway, and voted it out of existence, Pertwee and Toni could come back any time they liked and live where they liked. Robertson was shouted down, not by Rog Foley's party but by the founders.
Everyone was to live happily ever after, by order.
But Alice remarked shrewdly to Rog as they came out of the meeting together: "That wasn't what you wanted, was it?"
"No," Rog admitted.
"You wanted this to build up so that when it broke there would be a real snap, didn't you?"
"Yes," said Rog.
"So what are you going to do now?"
"Retire from politics," sighed Rog, "and raise a family."
6
Eight million miles away, on Secundis, Phyllis Barton was just reaching a basis for action on what Worsley had said to her when she lost the chance quite finally.
On one of the days when the full operational crew of the Clades was on board, a call to attention sounded from all the loudspeakers on the ship. There was only one thing that could mean, and Phyllis guessed at once it was Worsley who was going to play the central part. He had spoken to someone else, been reported and convicted, and she had lost an opportunity.
She fell in step with the others. Every steel corridor resounded to marching feet, until a loudspeaker order told all sections to break step. Girders don't take too kindly to a rhythmic, unified assault on them.
At first Phyllis seethed with self-reproach. Someone was certainly going to profit by Worsley's fall, and it wouldn't be her. But a few minutes thought restored her usual calm. Whoever had cut the ground from under the captain's feet had had more strings to pull than she had -- she'd have done it if she could.
Clades poured from the four locks and formed, with the symmetry and neatness of crystallization, a square six deep. Into the center marched Commodore Corey and -- yes, Worsley, in a uniform stripped of all indication of the rank he had held. With them was Mathers, wearing his ceremonial sword.
Phyllis was at once interested. Something might come of this after all. She had something that might possibly he used against Mathers.
Corey spoke into the microphone, and his voice thundered back from the ship. There was little or nothing to be learned from what he said -- Worsley was a traitor, Mathers had unmasked him, justice would be done. Phyllis knew all that. How had Mathers got real evidence? Naturally, Corey didn't say. The same methods could be used again and again, so long as they weren't freely discussed every time they were successful. Presumably, Mathers had somehow been able to record without Worsley knowing he was recording.
In the middie of the commodore's speech Worsley tried to grab his gun. It was futile; Mathers spun him back before he was near Corey.
And at the end Corey pointed dramatically to Mathers, who flicked out his sword. Muttering stopped. If one closed one's eyes one might, for all the sound there was, have been alone on the bare, pitted field.
The point of the sword made neat, rapid passes in the air. Worsley was held now, but it wasn't necessary. The ignominy of
Similar Books
