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Impact By: Irving E. Cox |
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By IRVING E. COX, Jr. Illustrated by GRAYAM They were languorous, anarchic, shameless
in their pleasures ... were they lower
than man ... or higher?
Over the cabin 'phone, Ann's voice was crisp with anger. "Mr. Lord, I must
see you at once." "Of course, Ann." Lord tried not to sound uncordial. It was all part of a
trade agent's job, to listen to the recommendations and complaints of the
teacher. But an interview with Ann Howard was always so arduous, so stiff
with unrelieved righteousness. "I should be free until " "Can you come down to the schoolroom, Mr. Lord?" "If it's necessary. But I told you yesterday, there's nothing we can do to
make them take the lessons." "I understand your point of view, Mr. Lord." Her words were barely civil,
brittle shafts of ice. "However, this concerns Don; he's gone." "Gone? Where?" "Jumped ship." "Are you sure, Ann? How long ago?" "I rather imagined you'd be interested," she answered with smug
satisfaction. "Naturally you'll want to see his note. I'll be waiting for
you." The 'phone clicked decisively as she broke the connection. Impotent fury
lashed Lord's mind anger at Don Howard, because the engineer was one of
his key men; and, childishly, anger at Don's sister because she was the one
who had broken the news. If it had come from almost anyone else it would,
somehow, have seemed less disastrous. Don's was the fourth desertion in
less than a week, and the loss of trained personnel was becoming serious
aboard the Ceres . But what did Ann Howard expect Lord to do about it?
This was a trading ship; he had no military authority over his crew. As Lord stood up, his desk chair collapsed with a quiet hiss against the
cabin wall, and, on greased tubes, the desk dropped out of sight beneath
the bunk bed, giving Lord the luxury of an uncluttered floor space eight
feet square. He had the only private quarters on the ship the usual
distinction reserved for a trade agent in command. From a narrow wardrobe, curved to fit the projectile walls of the ship,
Lord took a lightweight jacket, marked with the tooled shoulder insignia of
command. He smiled a little as he put it on. He was Martin Lord, trade
agent and heir to the fabulous industrial trading empire of Hamilton Lord,
Inc.; yet he was afraid to face Ann Howard without the visible trappings of
authority. He descended the spiral stairway to the midship airlock, a lead walled
chamber directly above the long power tubes of the Ceres . The lock door
hung open, making an improvised landing porch fifty feet above the charred
ground. Lord paused for a moment at the head of the runged landing ladder.
Below him, in the clearing where the ship had come down, he saw the rows of
plastic prefabs which his crew had thrown up laboratories, sleeping
quarters, a kitchen, and Ann Howard's schoolroom. Beyond the clearing was the edge of the magnificent forest which covered so
much of this planet. Far away, in the foothills of a distant mountain
range, Lord saw the houses of a village, gleaming in the scarlet blaze of
the setting sun. A world at peace, uncrowded, unscarred by the feverish
excavation and building of man. A world at the zenith of its native
culture, about to be jerked awake by the rude din of civilization. Lord
felt a twinge of the same guilt that had tormented his mind since the
Ceres had first landed, and with an effort he drove it from his mind. He descended the ladder and crossed the clearing, still blackened from the
landing blast; he pushed open the sliding door of the schoolroom. It was
large and pleasantly yellow walled, crowded with projectors, view booths,
stereo miniatures, and picture books all the visual aids which Ann Howard
would have used to teach the natives the cultural philosophy of the
Galactic Federation. But the rows of seats were empty, and the gleaming
machines still stood in their cases... Continue reading book >>
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