“Surely you’re not asking my advice?”
“No, no! Not on that. I’ve made my decision. The Action-in-Council would have been carried out in any case, either by me or by Mr. Vanning-so I decided to do it. The question is: will I have your help, or will I not?”
Barstow hesitated, while rapidly reviewing Ford’s political career in his mind. The earlier part of Ford’s long administration had been almost a golden age of statesmanship. A wise and practical man, Ford had shaped into workable rules the principles of human freedom set forth by Novak in the language of the Covenant. It had been a period of good will, of prosperous expansion, of civilizing processes which seemed to be permanent, irreversible.
Nevertheless a setback had come and Barstow understood the reasons at least as well as Ford did. Whenever the citizens fix their attention on one issue to the exclusion of others, the situation is ripe for scalawags, demagogues, ambitious men on horseback. The Howard Families, in all innocence, had created the crisis in public morals from which they now suffered, through their own action, taken years earlier, in letting the shortlived learn of their existence. It mattered not at all that the “secret” did not exist; the corrupting effect did exist. Ford at least understood the true situation- “We’ll help,” Barstow answered suddenly. “Good. What do you suggest?”
Barstow chewed his lip. “Isn’t there some way you can stall off this drastic action, this violation of the Covenant itself?”
Ford shook his head. “It’s too late.”
“Even if you went before the public and told the citizens, face to face, that you knew that-“
Ford cut him short. “I wouldn’t last in office long enough to make the speech. Nor would I be believed. Besides that-understand me clearly, Zaccur Barstow-no matter what sympathy I may have personally for you and your people, I would not do so if I could. This whole matter is a cancer eating into vitals of our society; it must be settled. I have had my hand forced, true … but there is no turning back. It must be pressed on to a solution.”
In at least one respect Barstow was a wise man; he knew that another man could oppose him and not be a villain. Nevertheless he protested, “My people are being persecuted.”
“Your people,” Ford said forcefully, “are a fraction of a tenth of one per cent of all the people … and I must find a solution for all! I’ve called on you to find out if you have any suggestions toward a solution for everyone. Do you?”
“I’m not sure,” Barstow answered slowly. “Suppose I concede that you must go ahead with this ugly business of arresting my people, of questioning them by unlawful means-I suppose I have no choice about that-“
“You have no choice. Neither have I.” Ford frowned. “It will be carried out as humanely as I can manage it-I am not a free agent.”
“Thank you. But, even though you tell me it would be useless for you yourself to go to the people, nevertheless you have enormous propaganda means at your disposal. Would it be possible, while we stall along, to build up a campaign to convince the people of the true facts? Prove to them that there is no secret?” Ford answered, “Ask yourself: will it work?”
Barstow sighed. “Probably not.”
“Nor would I consider it a solution even if it would! The people-even my trusted assistants-are clinging to their belief in a fountain of youth because the only alternative is too bitter to think about. Do you know what it would mean to them? For them to believe the bald truth?”
“Go on?’
“Death has been tolerable to me only because Death has been the Great Democrat, treating all alike. But now Death plays favorites. Zaccur Barstow, can you understand the bitter, bitter jealousy of the ordinary man of-oh, say ‘fifty’- who looks on one of your sort? Fifty years … twenty of them he is a child, he is well past thirty before he is skilled in his profession. He is forty before he is established and respected. For not more than the last ten years of his fifty he has really amounted to something.”
Ford leaned forward in the screen and spoke with sober emphasis: “And now, when he has reached his goal, what is his prize? His eyes are failing him, his bright young strength is gone, his heart and wind are ‘not what they used to be.’ He is not senile yet … but he feels the chill of the first frost. He knows what is in store for him. He knows-he knows!
“But it was inevitable and each man learned to be resigned to it.”
“Now you come along,” Ford went on bitterly. “You shame him in his weakness, you humble him before his children. He dares not plan for the future; you blithely undertake plans that will not mature for fifty years-for a hundred. No matter what success he has achieved, what excellence he has attained, you will catch up with him, pass him-outlive him. In his weakness you are kind to him.
“Is it any wonder that he hates you?”
Barstow raised his head wearily. “Do you hate me, Slayton Ford?”
“No. No, I cannot afford to hate anyone. But I can tell you this,” Ford added suddenly, “had there been a secret, I would have it out of you if I had to tear you to pieces!”
“Yes. I understand that.” Barstow paused to think. “There is little that we of the Howard Families can do. We did not plan it this way; it was planned for us. But there is one thing we can offer.”
“Yes?”
Barstow explained.
Ford shook his head. “Medically what you suggest is feasible and I have no doubt that a half interest in your heritage would lengthen the span of human life. But even if women were willing to accept the germ plasm of your men-I do not say that they would-it would be psychic death for all other men. There would be an outbreak of frustration and hatred that would split the human race to ruin. No, no matter what we wish, our customs are what they are. We can’t breed men like animals; they won’t stand for it.”
“I know it,” agreed Barstow, “but it is all we have to offer … a share in our fortune through artificial impregnation.”
“Yes. I suppose I should thank you but I feel no thanks and I shan’t. Now let’s be practical. Individually you old ones are doubtless honorable, lovable men. But as a group you are as dangerous as carriers of plague. So you must be quarantined.”
Barstow nodded. “My cousins and I had already reached that conclusion.”
Ford looked relieved. “I’m glad you’re being sensible about it.”
“We can’t help ourselves. Well? A segregated colony? Some remote place that would be a Coventry of our own? Madagascar, perhaps? Or we might take the British Isles, build them up again and spread from there into Europe as the radioactivity died down.”
Ford shook his head. “Impossible. That would simply leave the problem for my grandchildren to solve. By that time you and yours would have grown in strength; you might defeat us. No, Zaccur Barstow, you and your kin must leave this planet entirely!”
Barstow looked bleak. “I knew it would come to that. Well where shall we go?”
“Take your choice of the Solar System. Anywhere you like.”
“But where? Venus is no prize, but even if we chose it, would they accept us? The Venerians won’t take orders from Earth; that was settled in 2020. Yes, they now accept screened immigrants under the Four Planets Convention but would they accept a hundred thousand whom Earth found too dangerous to keep? I doubt it.”
“So do I. Better pick another planet.”
“What planet? In the whole system there is not another body that will support human life as it is. It would take almost superhuman effort, even with unlimited money and the best of modern engineering, to make the most promising of them fit for habitation.”
“Make the effort. We will be generous with help.”
“I am sure you would. But is that any better solution in the long run than giving us a reservation on Earth? Are you going to put a stop to space travel?”