“Freehold is larger than Germania, I believe.” Dietrith’s attempt at pompousness struck Ridenour as pathetic.
“Or Terra,” the xenologist said. “Equatorial diameter in excess of 16,000 kilometers. But the mean, density is quite low, making surface gravity a bare ninety per cent of standard.”
—“Then why does it have such thick air, sir? Especially with an energetic sun and a nearby moon of good size.”
Hrn, Ridenour thought, you’re a pretty bright boy after all. Brightness should be encouraged; there’s precious little of it around. “Gravitational potential,” he said. “Because of the great diameter, field strength decreases quite slowly. Also, even if the ferrous core is small, making for weaker tectonism and less outgassing of atmosphere than normal—still, the sheer pressure of mass on mass, in an object this size, was bound to produce respectable quantities of air and heights of mountains. These different factors work out to the result that the sea-level atmosphere is denser. than Terran, but safely breathable at all altitudes of terrain.” He stopped to catch his breath.
“If it has few heavy elements, the planet must be ex tremely old,” Dietrich ventured.
“No, the early investigators found otherwise,” Ridenour said. “The system’s actually younger than Sol’s. It evidently formed in some metal-poor region of the galaxy and wandered into this spiral arm afterward.”
“But at least Freehold is old by historical standards. I have heard it was settled more than five centuries ago. And yet the population is small. I wonder why?”
“Small initial colony, and not many immigrants afterward, to this far edge of everything. High mortality rates, too—originally, I mean, before men learned the ins and out of a world which they had never evolved on: a more violent and treacherous world than the one your ancestors found, Dietrich. That’s why, for many generations, they tended to stay in their towns, where they could keep nature at bay. But they didn’t have the economic base to enlarge the towns very fast. Therefore they practiced a lot of birth control. To this day, there are only nine cities on that whole enormous surface, and five of them are on the same continent. Their inhabitants total fourteen and a half megapeople.”
“But I have heard about savages, sir. How many are they?”
“Nobody knows,” Ridenour said. “That’s one of the things I’ve been asked to find out.”
He spoke too curtly, of a sudden, for Dietrich to dare question him further. It was unintentional. He had merely suffered an experience that came to him every once in a while, and shook him down to bedrock.
Momentarily, he confronted the sheer magnitude of the universe.
Good God, he thought, if You do not exist—terrible God, if You do—here we are, Homo sapiens, children of Earth, creators of bonfires and flint axes and proton converters and gravity generators and faster-than-light spaceships, explorers and conquerors, dominators of an Empire which we ourselves founded, whose sphere is estimated to include four million blazing suns… here we are, and what are we? What are four million stars, out on the fringe of one arm of the galaxy, among its hundred billion; and what is the one galaxy among so many?
Why; I shall tell you what we are and these are, John Ridenour. We are one more-or-less intelligent species in a universe that produces sophonts as casually as it produces snowflakes, We are not a hair better than our great, greenskinned, gatortailed Merseian rivals, not even considering that they have no hair; we are simply different in looks and language, similar in imperial appetites. The galaxy—what tiny part of it we can ever control—cares not one quantum whether their youthful greed and boldness overcome our wearied satiety and caution. (Which is a thought born of an aging civilization, by the way).
Our existing domain is already too big for us. We don’t comprehend it. We can’t.
Never mind the estimated four million suns inside our borders. Think just of the approximately one hundred thousand whose planets we do visit, occupy, order about, accept tribute from. Can you visualize the number? A hundred thousand; no more; you could count that high in about seven hours. But can you conjure up before you, in your mind, a well with a hundred thousand bricks in it: and see all the bricks simultaneously?
Of course not. No human brain can go as high as ten.
Then consider a planet, a world, as big and diverse and old and mysterious as ever Terra was. Can you see the entire planet at once? Can you hope to understand the entire planet?
Next consider a hundred thousand of them.
No wonder Dietrich Steinhauer here is altogether ignorant about Freehold. I myself had never heard of the place before I was asked to take this job. And I am a specialist in worlds and the beings that inhabit them. I should be able to treat them lightly. Did I not, a few years ago, watch the total destruction of one?
Oh, no. Oh, no. The multiple millions of… of everything alive… bury the name Starkad, bury it forever. And yet it was a single living world that perished, a mere single world.
No wonder Imperial Terra let the facts about Freehold lie unheeded in the data banks. Freehold was nothing but an obscure frontier dominion, a unit in the statistics. As long as no complaint was registered worthy of the sector governor’s attention, why inquire further? How could one inquire further? Something more urgent is always demanding attention elsewhere. The Navy, the intelligence services, the computers, the decision makers are stretched too ghastly thin across too many stars.
And today, when war ramps loose on Freehold and Imperial marines are dispatched to fight Merseia’s Arulian cat’s-paws—we still see nothing but a border action. It is most unlikely that anyone at His Majesty’s court is more than vaguely aware of what is happening. Certainly our admiral’s call for help took long to go through channels: “We’re having worse and worse trouble with the hinterland savages. The city people are no use. They don’t seem to know either what’s going on. Please advise.”
And the entire answer that can be given to this appeal thus far is me. One man. Not even a Naval officer—not even a specialist in human cultures—such cannot be gotten, except for tasks elsewhere that look more vital. One civilian xenologist, under contract to investigate, report; and recommend appropriate action. Which counsel may or may not be heeded.
If I die—and the battles grow hotter each month—Lissa will weep; so will our children, for a while. I like to think that a few friends will feel sorry, a few colleagues remark what a loss this is, a few libraries keep my books on micro for a few more, generations. However, that is the mosti can hope for.
And this big, beautiful planet Freehold can perhaps hope for much less: The news of my death will be slow to reach official eyes. The request fore ac replacement will move slower yet. It may quite easily get lost.
Then what, Freehold of the Nine Cities and the vast. mapless, wild-man-haunted outlands that encircle them? Then what?
Once the chief among the settlements was Sevenhouses; but battle had lately passed through it. Though the spaceport continued in use and the Ottokar set down there, Ridenour learned that Terran military headquarters had been shifted to Nordyke. He hitched a ride in a supply barge. Because of the war, its robopilot was given a human boss, a young lieutenant named Muhammad Sadik, who invited the xenologist to sit in the control turret with him. Thus Ridenour got a good look at the country.