The Marching Morons
to colonize Venus with a vanguard of patriotic citizens like those
minutemen of yore.
"Mr. President and gentlemen! There are in this world nations, envious
nations--I do not name Mexico--who by fair means or foul may seek to
wrest from Columbia's grasp the torch of freedom of space; nations
whose low living standards and innate depravity give them an unfair
advantage over the citizens of our fair republic.
"This is my program: I suggest that a city of more than 100,000
population be selected by lot. The citizens of the fortunate city
are to be awarded choice lands on Venus free and clear, to have and
to hold and convey to their descendants. And the national government
shall provide free transportation to Venus for these citizens. And this
program shall continue, city by city, until there has been deposited on
Venus a sufficient vanguard of citizens to protect our manifest rights
in that planet.
"Objections will be raised, for carping critics we have always with
us. They will say there isn't enough steel. They will call it a cheap
giveaway. I say there _is_ enough steel for _one_ city's population to
be transferred to Venus, and that is all that is needed. For when the
time comes for the second city to be transferred, the first, emptied
city can be wrecked for the needed steel! And is it a giveaway? Yes! It
is the most glorious giveaway in the history of mankind! Mr. President
and gentlemen, there is no time to waste--Venus must be American!"
* * * * *
Black-Kupperman, at the Pole, opened his eyes and said feebly, "The
style was a little uneven. Do you think anybody'll notice?"
"You did fine, boy; just fine," Barlow reassured him.
Hull-Mendoza's bill became law.
Drafting machines at the South Pole were busy around the clock and the
Pittsburgh steel mills spewed millions of plates into the Los Alamos
spaceport of the Evening Star Travel and Real Estate Corporation. It
was going to be Los Angeles, for logistic reasons, and the three most
accomplished psycho-kineticists went to Washington and mingled in the
crowd at the drawing to make certain that the Los Angeles capsule
slithered into the fingers of the blind-folded Senator.
Los Angeles loved the idea and a forest of spaceships began to blossom
in the desert. They weren't very good space ships, but they didn't have
to be.
A team at the Pole worked at Barlow's direction on a mail setup. There
would have to be letters to and from Venus to keep the slightest
taint of suspicion from arising. Luckily Barlow remembered that the
problem had been solved once before--by Hitler. Relatives of persons
incinerated in the furnaces of Lublin or Majdanek continued to get
cheery postal cards.
* * * * *
The Los Angeles flight went off on schedule, under tremendous press,
newsreel and television coverage. The world cheered the gallant
Angelenos who were setting off on their patriotic voyage to the land
of milk and honey. The forest of spaceships thundered up, and up, and
out of sight without untoward incident. Billions envied the Angelenos,
cramped and on short rations though they were.
Wreckers from San Francisco, whose capsule came up second, moved
immediately into the city of the angels for the scrap steel their own
flight would require. Senator Hull-Mendoza's constituents could do no
less.
The president of Mexico, hypnotically alarmed at this extension of
_yanqui imperialismo_ beyond the stratosphere, launched his own
Venus-colony program.
Across the water it was England versus Ireland, France versus Germany,
China versus Russia, India versus Indonesia. Ancient hatreds grew into
the flames that were rocket ships assailing the air by hundreds daily.
Dear Ed, how are you? Sam and I are fine and hope you are fine. Is
it nice up there like they say with food and close grone on trees?
I drove by Springfield yesterday and it sure looked funny all the
buildings down but of coarse it is worth it we have to keep the
greasers in their place. Do you have any truble with them on Venus?
Drop me a line some time. Your loving sister, Alma.
Dear Alma, I am fine and hope you are fine. It is a fine place here
fine climate and easy living. The doctor told me today that I seem
to be ten years younger. He thinks there is something in the air
here keeps people young. We do not have much trouble with the
greasers here they keep to theirselves it is just a question of us
outnumbering them and staking out the best places for the Americans.
In South Bay I know a nice little island that I have been saving
for you and Sam with lots of blanket trees and ham bushes. Hoping
to see you and Sam soon, your loving brother, Ed.
Sam and Alma were on their way shortly.
Poprob got a dividend in every nation after the emigration had passed
the halfway mark. The lonesome stay-at-homes were unable to bear the
melancholy of a low population density; their conditioning had been to
swarms of their kin. After that point it was possible to foist off the
crudest stripped-down accommodations on would-be emigrants; they didn't
care.
Black-Kupperman did a final job on President Hull-Mendoza, the last
job that genius of hypnotics would ever do on any moron, important or
otherwise.
Hull-Mendoza, panic-stricken by his presidency over an emptying nation,
joined his constituents. The _Independence_, aboard which traveled
the national government of America, was the most elaborate of all the
spaceships--bigger, more comfortable, with a lounge that was handsome,
though cramped, and cloakrooms for Senators and Representatives. It
went, however, to the same place as the others and Black-Kupperman
killed himself, leaving a note that stated he "couldn't live with my
conscience."
* * * * *
The day after the American President departed, Barlow flew into a rage.
Across his specially built desk were supposed to flow all Poprob
high-level documents and this thing--this outrageous thing--called
Poprob_term_ apparently had got into the executive stage before he had
even had a glimpse of it!
He buzzed for Rogge-Smith, his statistician. Rogge-Smith seemed to be
at the bottom of it. Poprobterm seemed to be about first and second and
third derivatives, whatever they were. Barlow had a deep distrust of
anything more complex than what he called an "average."
While Rogge-Smith was still at the door, Barlow snapped, "What's the
meaning of this? Why haven't I been consulted? How far have you people
got and why have you been working on something I haven't authorized?"
"Didn't want to bother you, Chief," said Rogge-Smith. "It was really
a technical matter, kind of a final cleanup. Want to come and see the
work?"
Mollified, Barlow followed his statistician down the corridor.
"You still shouldn't have gone ahead without my okay," he grumbled.
"Where the hell would you people have been without me?"
"That's right, Chief. We couldn't have swung it ourselves; our minds
just don't work that way. And all that stuff you knew from Hitler--it
wouldn't have occurred to us. Like poor Black-Kupperman."
They were in a fair-sized machine shop at the end of a slight upward
incline. It was cold. Rogge-Smith pushed a button that started a motor,
and a flood of arctic light poured in as the roof parted slowly. It
showed a small spaceship with the door open.
* * * * *
Barlow gaped as Rogge-Smith took him by the elbow and his other boys
appeared: Swenson-Swenson, the engineer; Tsutsugimushi-Duncan, his
propellants man; Kalb-French, advertising.
"In you go, Chief," said Tsutsugimushi-Duncan. "This is Poprobterm."
"But I'm the world Dictator!"
"You bet, Chief. You'll be in history, all right--but this is
necessary, I'm afraid."
The door was closed. Acceleration slammed Barlow cruelly to the metal
floor. Something broke and warm, wet stuff, salty-tasting, ran from his
mouth to his chin. Arctic sunlight through a port suddenly became a
fierce lancet stabbing at his eyes; he was out of the atmosphere.
Lying twisted and broken under the acceleration, Barlow realized that
some things had not changed, that Jack Ketch was never asked to dinner
however many shillings you paid him to do your dirty work, that murder
will out, that crime pays only temporarily.
The last thing he learned was that death is the end of pain.