Transcriber's Note:

    This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction March 1958.
    Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
    copyright on this publication was renewed.


                           The Ethical Way


                          By JOSEPH FARRELL


     _There is a way around every tabu, knock on wood--but just
      watch out that the wood doesn't knock back!_


                        Illustrated by JOHNSON

       *       *       *       *       *




"Is it time?" Jarth Rolan asked anxiously. Pilot Lan Barda pushed him
gently back into a seat. "No, but very soon. And be calm--you're
jumpier than a human."

"But we've waited so long--yes, a long time. And I _am_ anxious to get
home."

Lan peered calmly out of his vehicle. They were hovering in Earth's
upper atmosphere, at the permitted limit.

"Be patient. These people have almost reached the critical point.
We'll get the signal before long."

Jarth Rolan popped out of his chair and danced about in nervous
excitement.

"Won't it be dangerous? For us, I mean. Going down into that
radioactive atmosphere. And how about them--will any of them live?
Suppose we wait too long?"

Lan Barda laughed. He was a husky humanoid, pinkish of skin and
completely hairless, like all galactics. He slapped Jarth Rolan's
back.

"We have experts watching. These humans have used four cobalt bombs,
and plenty of smaller stuff. The fallout is close to the danger point.
Our observers will know just when we can move in because--" he winked
and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper--"they're using
automatically controlled instruments."

"Oh, my!" Jarth Rolan clapped his hands to his cheeks. "But those are
robots--and the use of robots is against religion."

"I know, Jarth. But we won't be using them much longer, will we?" He
poked a playful finger into Jarth's ribs. "We'll have slaves--and
it'll be completely ethical."

Jarth Rolan winced. "Must you use that word 'slaves,' Lan? It sounds
so--" He waved his hands.

Lan laughed again. "Be honest with yourself, Jarth. You're out to make
a few _dopolins_ for yourself as a slave raider."

"An entrepreneur," said Jarth. "In personal services."

Lan Barda became serious. "There's the signal--it's time to go down.
Let's go, Jarth, before somebody else gets them all."

       *       *       *       *       *

An hour later, it was Lan Barda's turn to be nervous. He watched a
needle creep into the red zone.

"Hurry, Jarth. We've been on this planet long enough. That fifth
cobalt bomb is sending the index up fast. Can't you skip these last
few?"

"Oh, no. Very unethical to leave these three here to die. Must take a
small chance, you know. Besides, see the sign on that taxi--just
married. A fine young couple. And a fine young taxi driver. Couldn't
sleep if I didn't help these three."

"Couldn't sleep thinking of the profit you'd passed up. Here, let me
take that one. We have to get out of here fast."

Jarth Rolan fluttered anxiously about the pilot until they were safely
above the poisoned atmosphere.

"How many?" he asked. "Did we fill the ship?"

Lan Barda checked off items on his clipboard. "A thousand and three,
with these last ones. You'll make a good profit."

"Not so much the profit. Oh, no. More than that involved. Ethics and
religion, Lan. Yes. With all these sla--servants, our people will
never have to use robots. They'll be relieved of routine labor and can
devote their lives to art and science. And it's all ethical--oh, yes,
for these people were doomed."

"Want to know something, Jarth?" Lan Barda bent closer and whispered
wickedly. "This ship has automatic controls. Has to. No living being
has fast enough reactions to handle an interstellar ship. All robot
driven, at least in part."

"Robots! May we be forgiven!" Jarth stared suspiciously at Lan Barda.
"Sometimes, Lan, I think you are an agnostic."

The pilot became more serious. "Maybe, Jarth. In our work, we must use
robots. We joke about it, but it goes against all galactic belief to
let a machine think for us. Maybe that's why we pilots are so
cynical."

"A galactic is always ethical," said Jarth Rolan solemnly. "This
affair, for example. We let these poor creatures of Earth handle their
own affairs with no interference until they doomed themselves. It was
unethical to intervene a minute sooner. Yes--the ethical way and I
feel better for it and proud to be a galactic."

"That's true," said Lan Barda. "A galactic wouldn't feel right, being
a member of the dominant race of the Galaxy, if he didn't help the
less fortunate."

       *       *       *       *       *

Jarth Rolan had prepared a center on his estate for the slaves. The
demand was greater than the supply. He chatted happily with his wife.

"An excellent investment, Shalla--yes. And the highest group council
wants us to lease them out by the day for the present instead of
selling outright."

She nodded. "That's the fair way. Everybody can have a turn having a
slave."

"And," said Jarth, rubbing his pink hands, "we'll collect every day
and still hold title."

"Will they multiply fast," asked Shalla, "so there will be enough for
all?"

"They always did on Earth. Yes. By the time we pass our estate on to
our son, this investment will have multiplied in value."

At the center, the slaves clustered about the bulletin boards to read
the slave code. The three who had been brought aboard last stood
together. Laurent Crotier and his wife Jean were still in their
wedding clothes, and Sam the taxi driver was in uniform. They read the
seven articles of the slave code.

"We have to work twelve hours a day," Laurent observed. "And have off
every seventh day. This could be worse."

"We'll keep our eyes open and wait for our chance," Sam piped up.
"Some day we'll make a break out of here."

"Yeah," said Jean. "And remember, Frenchy, no kids."

Nine months later, Laurent, Jr., was born. Before the blessed event,
Laurent went to Jarth Rolan with a complaint.

"She can't do it, work twelve hours a day now. You have to change the
rules. By gar, if my wife die 'count of this, I goin' kill you, Jarth
Rolan."

Jarth Rolan waltzed about nervously, biting his fingernails.

"No, we do not want her to have trouble. No. She will need proper
rest. There is a meeting of the highest group council right now,
concerning this. Others have the same problem. But yes, I will relieve
her of work without waiting for the council's decision. Tell your wife
to stay home, Laurent, until the baby is born."

Laurent pushed his luck. "And after that, too. A kid got to have a
mother. I do the work for three, you let my wife take care of the
family."

"Oh, this _is_ a problem!" Jarth Rolan rubbed his fingers unhappily
over his bald scalp. "Some of the other females are in the same
condition. But it is like planting a crop--one labors hard at the
beginning to reap a great harvest later. We will work this out."

The next day, fifteen articles amending the code arrived and were
posted. Laurent read happily.

"Now," he said to Jean, "it is the law. You will stay home and have
the baby."

"'And for such further period'," she read, "'as is considered
necessary.' You sure told him off, Frenchy."

She squeezed his arm affectionately and his chest went out a little.

"And remember," she said, "this is the last one."

"Look at this rule," said Sam. "All kids must be educated. I'm only--"
he winked at them--"thirteen. It's off the job and back to school for
me."

Laurent blinked. "By gar, Sam, I think you been shaving pretty near as
long as I am. But if Jarth Rolan ask me, I say I know Sam is
thirteen."

Jarth Rolan came along to explain the amendments.

"We don't want the slaves to be ignorant. Oh, no. It will be worth
extra effort and expense to reap the harvest. The slaves will work at
many specialized tasks. Even personal servants will read and write
letters and help at business and keep accounts--yes, indeed. We must
assign some slaves to teaching."

       *       *       *       *       *

About the time Laurent, Jr., started school, Laurent led a delegation
to Jarth Rolan.

"We got some complaint to make. These food servings pretty small
lately. We work hard, we have to eat more."

Jarth Rolan's facial skin had developed wrinkles, though the
galactics' life span was comparable to a human's and he was only about
forty. He fidgeted.

"I am sorry--oh, yes. Sorry. There have been delays in food
shipments--the same trouble all over. Too many excused from the work
force, you know. Most of the women are pregnant or have children, and
teachers and special assignments--but things will improve, believe me.
Yes. You will soon find an improvement. Yes--very soon."

The delegation talked it over outside Jarth Rolan's house.

"He's been letting himself go," said a woman. "Did you notice how thin
he's become? And the same with his family."

Laurent reflected. "To raise a lot of kids is hard. My father, he work
like hell all the time. Raise his own food, don't depend on nobody. I
think that land back of the center, we should plough it up and put in
some potatoes."

"On our own time?" Sam exclaimed.

Laurent chuckled. "Well, Sam, you got no kids--you just a young boy
eighteen years old. By gar, I think you have gray hair when you
twenty-one."

The others joined the laughter. Sam's lie about his age had
boomeranged--he had been kept in school and denied permission to marry
until he was officially eighteen, a few months ago.

Laurent fingered his chin thoughtfully. "I think we look over that
land. Maybe we get some time out from our regular work, we do some
farming."

Before the blowup on Earth, the galactics had made occasional landings
to gather animals and seeds of food plants. Certain centers were put
under government control to grow food for the slaves. The people at
Jarth Rolan's center saw that this arrangement was breaking down
because of the increasing slave population and the diversion of labor
to child raising. They looked over the piece of land and Laurent
okayed it. They went back to Jarth Rolan. He approved at once.

"Oh, indeed. I can obtain all the equipment you'll need. Get started
right away. We can grow a good part of our own food. Yes. I am sure it
will work out."

"We goin' need some time for work the farm," Laurent pointed out.

"Oh? I thought maybe in your spare time--"

"You want to kill us?" Sam demanded. "Put us on an extra job after
working us hard twelve hours a day?"

"But--there's so little coming in. Still, maybe you're right. Worth
the extra trouble and expense now. Building for the future--that's the
idea."

       *       *       *       *       *

Jarth Rolan notified his group leader of the arrangement and it
percolated swiftly up through the hierarchy to the council of the
highest group heads, who directed policy for the entire Galaxy. There
were nine of them and they talked over this development.

"I approve. We should have done it this way from the beginning."

"Of course. But certain advocates of government control insisted on
public ownership of the food farms--"

"What do you mean, certain advocates? If you mean me, be galactic
enough to say so."

"I intend no personal offense to anybody. But there is bound to be
inefficiency in any government project--"

The chairman pounded the table. "Stay with the subject. It has been
suggested that each center grow part of its food. I am in favor."

"But it cuts down the available labor force. We're having complaints
now about the shortage of slaves--"

"Think of the future. I admit the present situation is difficult. It's
like raising a herd of prize cattle--all expense and no profit at
first. Then the herd is built up and suddenly you're rich."

"But we're putting so much into it--"

"The more we put in, the more we take out. And they're multiplying
rapidly. Remember our new goal of two slaves for each galactic--one
for the day shift and one for the night. It's the only way our people
can live a decent life, freed from routine labor, devoting themselves
to art and science."

"That's right. We work so our children can lead the better life. It's
worth some sacrifice."

The chairman stood up. "Most of us seem willing to endure a little
hardship now for the benefit of our children. I suggest we endorse
this new procedure."

       *       *       *       *       *

Laurent, Jr., married the girl next door. Laurent celebrated the
wedding with a barrel of beer he had brewed on the farm. Sam became
glassy-eyed and lectured the young couple.

"Just wait for the right time. Rise up and capture their spaceships.
That's what we'll do. We'll go back to Earth and then let them try to
get us off it again."

"But Earth is dead," Laurent, Jr., objected. "We can't live there.
Poisonous radiation."

"By gar!" Laurent drained another brew. "You believe everything they
tell you, hah? We goin' show them sometime. Like Sam says, not now,
but sometime. Maybe me and Sam don't do it, but don't you kids
forget--you not goin' be slaves always. You watch for the right time,
like Sam says."

His son looked dubious. "But what you told me about Earth doesn't
sound so good. Like the way you were so cold and hungry in that shack
in Canada. And Mama walking up five flights in New York after working
all day in the garment factory. And all those wars! Why did you
people spend half your time shooting each other, Dad?"

[Illustration]

Laurent belched indignantly. "By gar, boy! We was free! We don't have
no galactic stand over us, do this, do that. We was free!"

"We don't work so hard," said his son. "And look at old Jarth Rolan
and the others out there--they've given us the day off, but the
galactics are all busy in the fields. Everybody has to work, Dad."

Laurent looked through a slight haze at the masters laboring in the
potato fields. Farm work and teaching and other special assignments
had created a shortage of personal slaves. Jarth Rolan gave preference
in leasing slaves to those who came and helped him at the center.

Since having a personal slave was a mark of prestige among the
galactics, many of those laboring on the farm were from the highest
levels of society.

"They don't know nothing about raise potatoes," Laurent grumbled. "We
put in complaint, by damn. We want each one have his own land. I work
like jackass, I want to get paid for it."

       *       *       *       *       *

The highest group council was in session. One member was explaining:
"It's the custom of tipping slaves. At first, those who could get a
slave were so happy that they often gave him a few coins. Now the
custom is firmly established--anybody who doesn't tip a slave is
considered cheap. I do it and so do you."

"Of course. What's wrong with giving them a few _polins_ now and then?
Or a _dopolin_ or two when they have a baby or a wedding?"

"Nothing wrong with it, in itself. But they don't spend anything. We
supply their food and clothing; nothing else we have seems to appeal
to them. The money goes out of circulation. It's estimated that half
the money in the Galaxy is being hoarded by slaves."

"What? That's impossible. Just from those small tips?"

"Small tips, but day after day; year after year. Add up some time what
you've given and multiply by the number who've been doing it."

"Then that's behind our economic troubles. A currency shortage. Can we
take it away from them?"

"Of course not. Besides being unethical, it would turn them against
us. They wouldn't understand."

"Then we'll abolish tipping."

"Too late. What we need is an ethical way of getting back that
currency."

A new member spoke: "I understand that on Earth these slaves were
often addicted to alcohol, gambling and various alkaloids. Perhaps we
could introduce these items, under government control, of course--"

He stopped. Eight pair of eyes were blazing at him.

"You're new here," the chairman said. "If you ever make another
suggestion like that--"

They pondered. The chairman fingered some papers.

"Here's a suggestion. The slaves have been petitioning for the right
to own land. It seems to be the only thing they'll spend their money
for."

"Impossible!"

"But maybe--"

"We could limit the holdings."

"And have the land subject to condemnation by the government at a fair
price."

The chairman called for order. "Let's argue this out. Remember the
slaves will need time to work their land. Since their work day is down
to nine hours, we'll have to arrange something."

       *       *       *       *       *

Jean had been complaining about the lumps in the mattress. When
Laurent took them out, there was enough in galactic currency to buy a
piece of land in his name and hers, plus a plot for each of the
children, and a new mattress as well. Sam was suspicious.

"They're out to get what little we've been able to save, Laurent. They
can take the land anytime--for what they call a fair price. Fair! Fine
chance they'll be fair about it."

But Laurent kept the land and was even able to buy a piece for each
grandchild, although they arrived faster and faster as his own large
family grew up and married. One day Jean called him to a new house at
the edge of the widely expanded center to see the latest arrival.

Laurent poked a finger at the squalling creature. "So I'm another
grandpa. Which one this?"

"This time you're a great-grandpa, Frenchy. This is Laurent 4th."

"You mean we gettin' that old? By damn! Well, I'm buy him a piece of
land, too. So much new building, this land be worth plenty when he
grows up."

The 512th amendment permitted slaves to retire at 65. Laurent was a
leading real estate dealer by that time. He had twenty-three children
and more grandchildren than he could count. The center was grown to a
city, its main street running through what had been his first farm.
Sometimes Laurent relaxed in his rocking chair and needled Sam.

"By gar, Sam, if you not the oldest-looking man of fifty-five I ever
see. I think you a hundred years old when you retire. When you havin'
that revolution?"

"The day will come if we keep after the young ones. But damn it,
Laurent, it's hard to talk any sense into them. Some of them can't
even understand me."

"Well, they all talk galactic, Sam. My grandson, he call himself Loran
Kotay. But these young people, they have to live their own lives. Hey,
look at old Jarth Rolan up there, washing his windows. Old guy should
retire, Sam. I'm goin' see a couple of my boys give him a hand."

       *       *       *       *       *

But Jarth Rolan died before he could afford to retire and was replaced
by his only grandson, Jarro Kogar. Laurent and Jean passed on shortly
after, leaving nearly four hundred descendants.

Jarro Kogar was a newly married galactic in his early thirties. He
moved into the mansion and talked things over with his wife.

"Don't see how we can afford a child right now. Wouldn't be fair to
the child. Things will improve in a few years."

"Of course," she said. "We're young--we'll have time to start our
family. If we wait, we'll be able to give them more."

They held similar conversations later and one day realized it was too
late. Jarro Kogar died in his sixties. His widow directed the center
for several more years. The slaves liked her and took good care of
her. She left them the estate when she died.

Loran Krotalu protested to the authorities that the slaves didn't want
the estate. But the group heads ruled it legal under amendment 1,486,
especially since no relatives could be located.

Loran left the center and moved to another city where he found a
galactic couple who wanted a slave. He and his family served the
galactic couple for many years. This couple, like Jarro Kogar and his
wife, were childless and when they both died, Loran and his wife were
very grieved.

After the funeral, Loran went into the city. He returned hours later,
tired and depressed.

"It's no use," he told his wife. "There's not an unattached galactic
in the area. We might get a few hours work a week with one, but we
can't have one to ourselves."

"But, Loran, _everybody_ in our set works for a galactic!"

"I know," he said miserably. "But it's no use. There must be fifty
slaves for every galactic. I've taken a job at the spaceship factory.
It's the best I can do."

       *       *       *       *       *

Membership on the highest group council had become a killing job.
Chief problem was the revision of the slave code, which had 3,697
articles. After trying for years to simplify the code, the council
members called in Loran Krovalo to fill a vacancy and take over the
job.

Loran was known and liked by galactic and slave alike for his
brilliant essays on the master-slave relationship. While he was on the
council, the Cerberan affair broke out. The Cerberans, an intelligent
saurian race from a globular cluster, exploded into the Galaxy in vast
numbers. Military action became necessary.

"We can handle them," Loran told the council. "Our factories are
mobilized and we have any number of spacemen. We have robot
instruments for fighting that are better than anything they have. We
can carry the war to their home planets."

Some of the galactics objected.

"But the use of robots is forbidden. We can't fight the Cerberans with
robot-controlled weapons."

"Don't worry, sir," Loran said kindly. "We slaves will take care of
it. Our form of religion doesn't prohibit robots unless they are in
the shape of a man. We think of real robots as being human in shape."

One of the galactics rose.

"I know you're right, but my conscience won't let me vote for robots
in any form. Therefore I am resigning from the council."

A second rose, then a third and fourth. They looked at each other, and
one spoke for the group.

"We are also resigning. I suggest that four slaves be appointed in our
places for the duration of the war. Then they will have a majority and
no galactic need violate his conscience by voting for the use of
robots."

The Cerberans were crushed, but the infested area was huge and the
invasion of the globular cluster took time. The war emergency lasted
fifty years. When it was over, the slaves called on the galactics to
take back control of the government.

But the widespread use of robot mechanisms in the war had caused a
reaction among the galactics. Their consciences simmered and a wave of
orthodoxy swept over their race. There was difficulty in persuading
galactics to leave their home planets to sit on the council, because
faster-than-light ships used robot controls.

The slaves scoured the planet that housed the council and kept two or
three seats filled with galactics for a while. But they were generally
old, and they died, and most of them were unmarried or childless.

       *       *       *       *       *

Loran Crotay, twelfth-generation slave, sat in his home chatting with
a friend from far-off Pornalu VI. Being in the space-shipping
business, he had many friends throughout the Galaxy.

His wife answered the door and a pink humanoid shuffled in, mumbling
greetings, and went into the other room. He was middle-aged, studious
and bespectacled, and he wore a wig. Loran's friend watched him
curiously.

"Haven't seen one of them in years, Loran. We have a reservation for
the poor devils on my planet. Don't reproduce very fast, you know, and
they may become extinct. Too bad--they're so likable. Always so
ethical and conscientious."

"I know." Loran nodded. "We let poor Vendro make a few _dopolins_
tutoring our son. He's very intelligent and a good teacher. I like to
help them all I can--the only ethical thing to do. I wouldn't feel
like a slave if I didn't give poor Vendro a break."

"That's true," said his friend. "A slave wouldn't feel right, being a
member of the dominant race of the Galaxy, if he didn't help the less
fortunate."

                                                       --JOSEPH FARRELL

       *       *       *       *       *








--- Provided by LoyalBooks.com ---