The Troublemakers by George O. Smith (english love story books .txt) 📗

"And you feel so firmly convinced of this that you had the temerity to bypass my office?"

"Sir, you yourself make a point of professing to know absolutely nothing about scientific matters."

"All right, we'll table this angle for a few minutes. Just what makes this notion of yours so important, Mr. Reed?"

"Sir," said Reed, "the maximum range for our most efficient spacecraft is only a bit over seventeen light-years to the point of no return. My suggestion deals with a means of extending that range a hundred times. Perhaps more. If it were my decision, sir, anything that even hinted at extending the cruising range would receive a maximum-urgency priority."

"In other words, you feel that anything we can do to extend our operations is the most important thing in the whole Space Service?"

"Well, sir, perhaps not the most important, but—"

"Your modesty is gratifying. I presume this modesty would prevent you from accepting any more than the Letter of Commendation from the Office of the Secretary?"

"I don't understand, sir."

"You don't? Mr. Reed, was your desire to improve the efficiency of Operations a simple desire to improve the Service—or did you hope that this brilliant suggestion would, perhaps, provide you with a better assignment?"

"I still do not understand."

"Oh, you don't? Mr. Reed, why did you join the Space Service in the first place?"

"Because, sir, I hoped that I could be instrumental in helping mankind to spread across the Galaxy."

"Mr. Reed, have you sand in your shoes?"

"Sir?"

The commander sighed. "You hoped to go along on the voyage, didn't you?"

"Well, sir, I did have a hope that I'd become a real spaceman."

"And you're disappointed?"

Howard Reed's face was wistful, torn between a desire to confide in his commanding officer and the fear of saying what he knew to be a sharp criticism of the Space Service.

Then Reed realized that he was in a bad pinch anyway, and so he said, "Sir, I'm commissioned as a junior spaceman, but in three years I've only made one short test flight—and only to Luna! I am competent to pilot—or at least that's what the flight simulators say in my checkout tests. I'm a junior spaceman—yet every time I apply for active space duty, I'm refused! Three years I've spent in the Service, sir, solving theoretical and hypothetical problems in space operations. But aside from one test flight to the Moon, I have yet to set a foot inside of a spacecraft, let alone stand on the soil of another world!"

"You must learn patience, Mr. Reed."

"Patience, sir? Look, sir, I took this sedentary duty until I'd had it up to here, and then I began to pry into the question of why we have a Space Force, complete with spacecraft, and still do so little space traveling. I found out. We're limited to a maximum range of seventeen light-years to the point of no return. Even a trip to Eden, Tau Ceti, our nearest colony, is eleven-point-eight light-years, and that takes prodigious power."

"Granted," said the commander.

"But now, sir, if we could increase our range by one hundred times, this does not necessarily mean that we must actually power the spacecraft for that point of no return. It also means that we could charge the ship with one one-hundredth of its former banks for the short trip to Eden, Tau Ceti—which would leave a fantastic amount of storage and cargo and passenger space. Sir, we could start real commerce!"

Commander Breckenridge gave no reaction.

"And you hoped to be among them."

"Yes, sir! As a kid, I read about mankind's first exploration of space two hundred years ago, sir. Of course, I couldn't hope to set foot on a new planet, since every possible planet within the seventeen-light-year range has been looked over. But I wanted to see space myself, sir—and I did hope that I might extend Man's frontier beyond our rather small limit."

"Yes, I can understand the impatience of youth," said Commander Breckenridge. "For that, I can forgive you. But for trying to do the other man's job, I cannot."

"Sir, you're as much as saying that no one can have a good technical idea but the technical people at the Bureau of Research."

In answer, the commander flipped over several pages of the file. He said: "Mister Reed, this is what resulted in your abortive attempt to gain a scientific ear instead of forwarding your suggestion through the standard channels. I'm going to quote some pertinent parts of a letter from Commander Briggs, head of the Bureau of Research. Listen:

"—young genius has rediscovered the line of mathematical argument known here at Research as 'Hansen's Folly' because it was first exploited by young Spaceman Hansen about a hundred and fifty years ago. Hansen's Folly is probably to be expected of a young, ambitious young officer with stars in his eyes. I'd be inclined to congratulate him—if it weren't for the fact that Hansen's Folly turns up with such regularity that we here at Research hold a regular pool against its next rediscovery. You'll be happy to know that you, your young genius, and your department have 'won' for me the great honor (?) of buying dinner for the crew at the Officers Club on Saturday next.

"Don't be too hard on young Reed; the rediscovery of Hansen's Folly takes a rather bright mind. However, Breck, I will congratulate your bright young man if he can—without any further clue—go back over his own mathematics and locate the flaw. I'll—"

"There's more of this, but it isn't germane," said Breckenridge quietly. "This is enough."

"Enough, sir?" repeated Reed blankly.

"Enough to let you know what goes on. Now, Mr. Reed, you've committed nothing but a brash act of bad taste in bypassing the standard channels. Such an indiscretion demands some form of punishment, but if I were to attempt to outline punishment officially, it would be unfortunately easy for some legal eagle to point out that your behavior was, to the best of your knowledge, intended for the betterment of the Service. And furthermore that I was wreaking vengeance upon your hapless soul for having made my name the brunt of jokes at the Officers Club."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Being sorry is not enough, Mr. Reed. But I have a plan that will gratify everybody concerned. You want to become an active spaceman? Very well, your next tour of duty will be at the Space Force Station on the planet Eden, Tau Ceti. It will terminate when you have finally succeeded in locating the flaw in Hansen's Folly and can show the error to the satisfaction of Commander Briggs. Have I made myself clear, Mr. Reed?"

"Yes, sir, and thank you, sir. You're really doing me a favor, sir."

"Mr. Reed, despite the age-old platitude, it is wise to look the gift horse in the mouth, at least before saying thanks."

III

Scholar Norman Ross smiled at his host's statement. "Yes, indeed, Mr. Harrison! Arranging these things so that we can maintain the Norm is often a delicate and arduous task. There are restrictions, and there are many variables involved, the most sensitive of which are the feelings of the people involved."

"Your job must call for the ultimate in diplomacy," said Mrs. Harrison.

To his host's wife, Scholar Ross nodded. "Yet," he said as an afterthought, "of even greater value is a high regard for the perfect truth. This includes the self-discipline of admitting it when one has been wrong, and being able to state precisely how, where, why, and, most important, to what degree."

"I don't understand," said his hostess.

"Mrs. Harrison, let's consider Bertram."

She cast a glance at her son. In an earlier age, he would have been called "indolent." During dinner, Bertram had employed the correct fork, plied his knife properly, conversed with his partners on both sides—yet she knew something was wrong.

"Bertram," she said, "haven't you been forgetting your pills?"

"Sorry, Mother," replied the young man tonelessly.

Bertram arose and left, and Scholar Ross said, "This is what I mean, Mrs. Harrison. Genetics is not a precise science; it is statistical. We can consider highly favorable the mating of two well-balanced people, and we can predict that this union will produce well-balanced children. Unfortunately we cannot guarantee the desired results. Hence we have anomalies such as Bertram, whose problem is simply a lack of drive. Now this is no fault of yours, Mrs. Harrison, nor of yours, Mr. Harrison. It may be the fault of Genetics, but if it is our 'fault,' then the fault lies in the lack of total knowledge; but not in the misuse, or lack of use, of what knowledge we do already have."

"I see what you mean, Scholar Ross."

"You'll also see the opposite when the Hanfords arrive. Here we have parents as stable as you two. You'll pardon me if I say that if all four of your characteristic cards were dropped at once and I had been expected to render a considered opinion as to their most favorable mating combination, I could render no preference, so equal are you. However, your union has produced Bertram. Conversely, their mating has produced a girl who is wild, headstrong, willful."

Bertram returned, seated himself quietly, and when Scholar Ross stopped talking, Bertram said apologetically, "I took a double dose, Mother."

"Is that all right?" she asked Scholar Ross.

"Probably won't do any harm," he said.

Mr. Harrison cleared his throat. "I'm not sure that I approve of Bertram marrying a headstrong girl, Scholar Ross."

Mrs. Harrison said, "William, you know it's best."

"For Bertram?"

"Now here," said Scholar Ross, "we must cease considering the welfare of the individual alone and start thinking of him as a part of an integrated society. No man is an island, Mr. Harrison. In a less advanced culture, Bertram would have been permitted to meet contemporary personalities. Perhaps might have met someone who—as he does—lacks drive and initiative, and the result would have been a family of dull children. Had he been unlucky enough to marry a woman with drive and ambition, their children might have been normal, but the entire home life would have been an emotional battlefield. And that—"

"Isn't that what you're about to achieve?" asked Mr. Harrison.

"Not at all. We shall achieve the normal, happy children who will undoubtedly grow into fine, stable adults. To gain this end, of course, their home life must be happy and tranquil. We'll prescribe for them—allowing for the emotional change that results from marriage and—"

The doorbell interrupted the scholar's explanation. "Allow me," he said, rising and heading for the apartment door. The Harrisons followed him at a slight distance. It was the Hanfords.

There was the full round robin of introductions and small talk: "You had no trouble?" "No, the intercity beacon was running clear—" "Lovely apartment, Mrs. Harrison." "Mrs. Hanford, here in Philadelphia we feel that we're almost in the suburbs." "Got a treat for you, Hanford—been saving a bottle of natural bourbon!" "That'll be a treat, all right!" "This is a real event. Scholar Ross." "You know, Mrs. Hanford, the vidphone hardly does you justice!" "Why, thank you!"

"Miss Hanford, may I present Bertram Harrison?" "How do you do?" "I do as I please. What's your excuse?" "Huh?" "Now, Gloria!" "Bertram, show Gloria the flower room. Go on, now!"

Scholar Ross watched the young couple walk through a French door to an outside terrace. He turned to Harrison and said, "Everything set?"

Harrison nodded. "Had a little trouble with the Music people till I used your priority. They said they'd have Program R-147 piped into the flower room. Frankly, I think R-215 is better."

Scholar Ross laughed gently. "Probably happy association."

"Wife and I still have it piped in for our anniversary," Mr. Harrison admitted.

"Good for you! But R-215 is for normal, happily well-balanced young people who'd probably fall in love without it. R-147 is sure-fire for emotional opposites."

"Well, we finally got the program piped in, so what do we do now?"

Scholar Ross smiled quietly. "We wait. We get acquainted, because there is a very high probability that you two families will be united through the marriage of your children. Then I shall enter a new file in the Genetics Bureau of the Department of Domestic Tranquility. We shall watch through the years as your grandchildren grow, and make periodic checks, and thereby advance mankind's knowledge of genetics."

"Doesn't this sort of master-minding ever give you a God complex?" asked Mr. Hanford.

"Not at all. Were I God, I'm sure I could arrange things a lot better."

"In what way?"

"By Man's own laws, we are prevented from doing active genetic research on the human race. We apply what happens to mice and fruit flies to the human family tree. We've known for centuries how to breed blue-eyed or brown-eyed people, or, if we wanted, we could make the race predominantly fat or thin, tall or short. However, our main aim is not the ultimate purity of any physical characteristic. Our goal is to produce a stable,