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“Rachel, I already have started a project which will try to determine if there is something useful to us about the kelp. The director of that project and one of his assistants are sitting right down there.”
Oakes pointed down at Thomas and Waela, saw heads turned, people craning to see.
“Despite the dangers,” he said, “very potent and obvious dangers, as anyone will agree who has studied the data from these oceans, I have started this project. Your petition comes after the fact.”
“Then why couldn’t we have learned this when . . .”
“You want more open communication from those of us making the decisions?”
“We want to know whether we’re succeeding or failing!” Again, she had her amplifier turned too high.
“Reasonable,” Oakes said. “That is one of the reasons I have moved myself and my staff permanently groundside. In my head . . .” He tapped his skull. “. . . is the complete plan to make Pandora into a garden planet for . . .”
“We should have Council members on . . .”
“Rachel! You propose having your people at key positions? Why your people? What record of success do they have?”
“They’ve survived down here!”
Oakes fought to conceal anger. That had been a low blow. She implied that he had remained safely ensconced shipside while she and her friends risked Pandora’s perils. A reasonable tone was the only way to meet that challenge.
“I’m down here now,” he said. “I intend to stay. I will submit to your questions at any mutually acceptable time, despite the fact which we all know—time taken to debate our problems could be used to better advantage for Colony as a whole.”
“Will you answer our questions today?”
“That’s why I called this meeting.”
“Then what’s your objection to having an elected Council which . . .”
“Debating time, just that. We don’t have the time for such a luxury. I agreed with those who objected that this meeting took us away from more important work, from food. But you insisted, Rachel.”
“What’re you doing over on Black Dragon?” That was the objectionable perimeter guard down in the audience, taking a new tack now.
“We are attempting to build another foothold for Colony over on Dragon.”
Reasonable . . . reasonable, he reminded himself. Keep your voice reasonable.
“Dividing your energies?” Rachel Demarest demanded.
“We are using new clones provided by the ship’s facilities,” he said. “Jesus Lewis is out there now directing the effort. I assure you that we are risking only new clones who fully understand the nature of their involvement.”
Oakes smiled at Rachel Demarest, recalling Murdoch’s jocular admonition: “A few lies don’t hurt when you’ve given them some truth to admire.”
Turning back to face the audience, Oakes said: “But this diverts us from the orderly resolution of our meeting. Rather than waste our time this way, we should take the issues one at a time.”
His announcement about the attempt at Dragon had served its purpose, though. His listeners (even Rachel Demarest) were absorbing the implications with varying degrees of shock.
Someone away in the right rear quadrant of the room shouted: “What do you mean new clones?”
Silence followed his demand, a waiting silence which said it spoke a question in the minds of most.
“I’ll let Jesus Lewis speak to that at another meeting. It’s a technical question about matters which have been under his direct supervision. For now, I can say that the new clones are being bred and conditioned to defeat the perils we all know exist out on Dragon.”
There: Lewis was prepared with subtle lies and half truths. The injection of rumors and key elements of their prepared story into Colony’s grapevine would tie this issue down. Most people would accept the prepared story. It was always better to know that someone else was going into danger, sparing you that necessity.
“You didn’t answer our question about rest and recuperation,” Rachel Demarest accused.
“You may not realize it, Rachel, but the schedule of shipside R & R is the most important issue before us today.”
“You’re not going to buy us off with shipside time!” she said. She was clenching her wand with both hands, pointing it at him like a weapon.
“Again, I am aghast at your limited perception,” Oakes said. “You really are not fit to be making the decisions which you ask the power to make.”
At this direct attack, she backed two steps away from him, glared into his eyes.
Oakes shook his head sadly. “You have a friend down there brave enough to state the essential problem . . .” Oakes pointed down at the perimeter guard who sat in red-faced anger. (Have to watch that one. A fanatic for sure.) “. . . but not brave enough nor perceptive enough to see the full implications of his emotional outburst.”
That did it. The man was on his feet and shaking a fist at Oakes. “You’re a false Chaplain! If we follow you, Ship will destroy us!”
“Oh, sit down!”
Oakes used almost the full amplification to drown out the man’s voice. The sound-shock provided the man’s companions with the interval to pull him back into his seat.
Turning down the amplifier, Oakes asked: “Who among you asks what I ask? An obvious question: Where did WorShip originate? With the ship. That ship!”
He thrust a pointing finger ceilingward. “You all know this. But you don’t question it. As a scientist, I must ask the hard physical questions. Some among you argue that the ship has been motivated by the wish to save us—a beneficent savior. Some of you say WorShip is a natural response to our savior. Natural response? But what if we are guinea pigs?”
“What are your origins, Oakes?”
That was Rachel Demarest again. Beautiful. She could not have performed better for him had she been programmed. Didn’t she know that by the best guess, the naturals outnumbered the clones almost four to one?—perhaps even more. And she already had admitted to being a clone.
“I was a child of Earth,” Oakes said, and once more his voice was its most reasonable. He looked directly at her, then back at the audience. A little barbering of the
truth was called for now. No need to bring up the fact that old Edmond Kingston had chosen him as successor. “Most of you know my history. I was taken by the ship and trained as Chaplain/Psychiatrist. Don’t you understand what that means? The ship directed my training to lead WorShip! Don’t any of you find something strange in this?”
Right on cue, Rachel intruded: “That seems the most natural . . .”
“Natural?” Oakes allowed free reign to his rage. “A mirror and recorder would have done just as good a job as such a Chaplain! If we have no free will, our WorShip is sham! How can the ship expect to condition me for such a task? No! I question what that ship tells us. I don’t even doubt. I question! And I don’t like some of the answers.”
This was public blasphemy on a scale few of them had ever imagined. Coming from the Chaplain/Psychiatrist it amounted to an open revolt. Oakes allowed the shock to become well seated in them before hammering it home. He raised his face to the domed ceiling and shouted: “Why don’t you strike me dead, Ship?”
The hall became one long-held breath while Oakes turned and smiled at Murdoch, then turned the smile on his audience. He reduced the amplifier volume to the minimum required for reaching the hall’s extremities.
“I obey the ship because the ship is powerful. We are told to colonize this planet? Very well. That is what we are doing and we are going to succeed. But who can doubt that the ship is dangerous to us? Have you had enough food lately? Why is the ship reducing our food supplies? I am not doing this. Send a deputation shipside if you wish to verify this.” He shook his head from side to side. “No. Our survival requires that we depend as little as possible upon the ship, and . . . eventually, no dependence upon the ship at all. Buy you with shipside time, Rachel? Hell no! I intend to save you by freeing you from the ship!”
