Adaptation | Page 3

board was not similar. One man could have
taken the Pedagogue from the Solar System to Rigel, just as easily as
its sixteen hand crew was doing. Automation at its ultimate, not even
the steward department had tasks adequately to fill the hours.
He had got beyond the point' of yawning, his mind was a blank during
these hours of duty. He was a stolid, bear of a man, short and massive
of build.

A voice behind him said, "Second watch reporting. Request permission
to take over the bridge."
Chessman turned and it took a brief moment for the blankness in his
eyes to fade into life. "Hello Kennedy, you on already? Seems like I
just got here." He muttered in self contradiction, "Or that I've been here
a month."
Technician Jerome Kennedy grinned. "Of course, if you want to
stay ..."
Chessman said glumly, "What difference does it make where you are?
What are they doing in the lounge?"
Kennedy looked at the screen, not expecting to see anything and
accomplishing just that. "Still on their marathon argument."
Joe Chessman grunted.
Just to be saying something, Kennedy said, "How do you stand in the
big debate?"
"I don't know. I suppose I favor Plekhanov. How we're going to take a
bunch of savages and teach them modern agriculture and industrial
methods in fifty years under democratic institutions, I don't know. I can
see them putting it to a vote when we suggest fertilizer might be a good
idea." He didn't feel like continuing the conversation. "See you later,
Kennedy," and then, as an afterthought, formally, "Relinquishing the
watch to Third Officer."
As he left the compartment, Jerry Kennedy called after him, "Hey,
whit's the course!"
Chessman growled over his shoulder, "The same it was last month, and
the same it'll be next month." It wasn't much of a joke but it was the
only one they had between themselves.
In the ship's combination lounge and mess he drew a cup of coffee. Joe

Chessman, among whose specialties were propaganda and primitive
politics, was third in line in the expedition's hierarchy. As such he
participated in the endless controversy dealing with overall strategy but
only as a junior member of the firm. Amschel Mayer and Leonid
Plekhanov were the center of the fracas and right now were at it hot and
heavy.
Joe Chessman listened with only half interest. He settled into a chair on
the opposite side of the lounge and sipped at his coffee. They were
going over their old battlefields, assaulting ramparts they'd stormed a
thousand times over.
Plekhanov was saying doggedly, "Any planned economy is more
efficient than any unplanned one. What could be more elementary than
that? How could anyone in his right mind deny that?"
And Mayer snapped, "I deny it. That term planned economy covers a
multitude of sins. My dear Leonid, don't be an idiot ..."
"I beg your pardon, sir!"
"Oh, don't get into one of your huffs, Plekhanov."
They were at that stage again.
Technician Natt Roberts entered, a book in hand, and sent the trend of
conversation in a new direction. He said, worriedly, "I've been studying
up on this and what we're confronted with is two different ethnic
periods, barbarism and feudalism. Handling them both at once doubles
our problems."
One of the junior specialists who'd been sitting to one side said, "I've
been thinking about that and I believe I've got an answer. Why not all
of us concentrate on Texcoco? When we've brought them to the Genoa
level, which shouldn't take more than a decade or two, then we can start
working on the Genoese, too."
Mayer snapped, "And by that time we'll have hardly more than half our

fifty years left to raise the two of them to an industrial technology.
Don't be an idiot, Stevens."
Stevens flushed his resentment.
Plekhanov said slowly, "Besides,
I'm not sure that, given the correct method, we cannot raise Texcoco to
an industrialized society in approximately the same time it will take to
bring Genoa there."
Mayer bleated a sarcastic laugh at that opinion.
Natt Roberts tossed his book to the table and sank into a chair. "If only
one of them had maintained itself at a reasonable level of development,
we'd have had help in working with the other. As it is, there are only
sixteen of us." He shook his head. "Why did the knowledge held by the
original colonists melt away? How can an intelligent people lose such
basics as the smelting of iron, gunpowder, the use of coal as a fuel?"
Plekhanov was heavy with condescension. "Roberts, you seem to have
entered upon this expedition with a lack of background. Consider. You
put down a hundred colonists, products of the most advanced culture.
Among these you have one