style="font-size:15px;"> The Texcocans studied him thoughtfully, but Jerry Kennedy waved in negation with the hand that held his glass. “You don’t get it, Baron. You see, the thing is we wanta find out what system is going to do the most the quickest. If we co-operate with Barry’s gang, everything’ll get all mixed up.”
The Honorable Russ, now a wizened man of at least seventy, but still sharply alert, said, “However, Texcoco and Genoa might both profit.”
Kennedy said happily, “What do we care? You gotta take the long view. What we’re working out here is going to be used on half a million planets eventually.” He tried to snap his fingers. “These two lousy planets don’t count that much.” He succeeded in snapping them this time. “Not that much.”
Barry Watson said, “You’re stoned, Kennedy.”
“Why not?” Kennedy grinned. “Finally perfected a decent brandy. I’ll have to send you a few cases, Barry.”
“How would you go about that, Jerry?” Watson said softly.
“Shucks, man, our space lighter makes a trip to Texcoco every month or so. Gotta keep up with you boys. Maybe throw a wrench or so in the works once inna while.”
Peter MacDonald said, “Shut up, Jerry. You talk too much.”
“Don’t talk to me that way. You’ll find yourself having one helluva time floating that loan you need next month. How about another drink, everybody? This party’s dead.”
Watson said, “How about the progress reports? Briefly, we’ve all but completely united Texcoco. Minor setbacks have sometimes deterred us but the march of progress goes on. We—”
“Minor setbacks,” Kennedy chortled. “Must of had to bump off five million of the poor slobs before that commune revolt was finished with.”
Watson said coldly, “We always have a few reactionaries, religious fanatics, misfits, crackpots, malcontents to deal with. However, these are not important. Our industrial potential has finally begun to roll. We doubled steel production this year, will do the same next. Our hydro-electric installations tripled in the past two years. Coal production is four times higher, lumber production six times. We expect to increase grain harvest forty per cent next season. And—”
The Honorable Modrin put in gently, “Please, Honorable Watson, your percentage figures are impressive only if we know from what basis you start. If you produced but five million tons of steel last year, then your growth to ten million is very good but it is still not a considerable amount for an entire planet.”
Buchwald said dryly, “If our agents are correct, Texcocan steel production is something like a quarter of our own. I assume your other basic products are at about the same stage of development.”
Watson flushed. “The thing to remember is that our economy continues to grow each year. Yours spurts and stops, jerks ahead a few steps, then grinds to a halt or even retreats. Everything comes to a pause if you few on the top stop making a profit; all that counts in your economy is making money. Which reminds me, how in the world did you ever get out of that planet-wide depression you were in three years ago?”
Peter MacDonald grunted his disgust. “Planet-wide depression, indeed. A small recession. A temporary readjustment due to overextension in certain economic and financial fields.”
From the other side of the table, Dick Hawkins laughed at him. “Where’d you pick up that line of gobbledygook, Peter?” he asked.
Peter MacDonald came to his feet. “I don’t have to put up with this sort of impudence,” he snapped.
Watson lurched to his own feet. “Nor do we have to listen to your snide cracks about the real progress Texcoco is making. We don’t seem to be getting anywhere.” He snapped to his associates, “Hawkins, Taller, Roberts! Let’s go. Ten years from now, there’ll be another story to tell. Even a blind man will see the difference.”
They marched down the Pedagogue’s corridor toward their space boat.
Kennedy called after them, “Ten years from now every family on Genoa’ll have a car. Wait’ll you see. Television, too. We’re introducing TV next year. An’ civil aviation. Be all over the place in two, three years—”
The Texcocans slammed the spaceport after them.
Kennedy sloshed some more drink into his glass. “Slobs can’t stand the truth,” he explained to the others.
XI.
With the exception of a few additional delegates composed of high-ranking Texcocan and Genoese political and scientific heads, the line-up at the end of forty years was the same as ten years earlier—except for the absence of Jerry Kennedy.
Extra tables had been set up, and chairs to accommodate the added numbers. To one side were the Genoese: Martin Gunther, Fredric Buchwald, Peter MacDonald, with such repeat delegates as Baron Leonar and the Honorables Modrin and Russ and half a dozen newcomers. On the other were Barry Watson, Dick Hawkins and Natt Roberts, Taller and such Texcocans as the scientists Wiss and Fokin, army heads, Security Police officials and other notables.
Note pads had been placed before each of them and both Watson and Gunther were equipped with gavels.
While chairs were still being shuffled, Barry Watson said over the table to Gunther, “Jerry?”
Martin Gunther shrugged “Jerry’s indisposed. As a matter of fact, he’s at one of the mountain sanitariums, taking a cure. He’ll be all right.”
“Good,” Dick Hawkins said. “We’ve lost too many.”
Watson pounded with his gavel. “Let’s come to order. Gunther do you have anything to say in the way of preliminaries?”
“Not especially. I believe we all know where we stand, including the newcomers from Genoa and Texcoco. In brief, this is the fourth meeting of the Earth teams that were sent to these two planets to bring backward colonists to an industrialized culture. It would seem that we are both succeeding—possibly at different rates. Forty years have passed, ten remain to us.”
For a moment there was silence.
Finally Roberts said, “Possibly you have already discovered this through your agents, but we have released the information on prolonging of life.”
Peter MacDonald said wryly, “We, too, were pressured into such a step.”
Baron Leonar said, “And why not?”
Taller, across the table from him, nodded.
Martin Gunther tapped twice on the table with his gavel. “The basic reason for our meeting is to report progress and to reconsider the possibilities of new elements having entered into the situation which might cause us to re-examine our policies. I think we already have a fairly good idea of each other’s development.” His voice went wry. “At least our agents do a fairly good job of reporting yours.”
“And ours, yours,” Watson rapped.
“However,” MacDonald said, “now that we are drawing near the end of our half century, I think it becomes obvious that Amschel Mayer’s original contention—that a freely competitive
