THE GREEN HILLS OF EARTH

No, the book arose, not from any expectation of publication, but from a half-subconscious need to arrange his thoughts. He had suffered a complete upsetting of all the evaluations by which he had lived; for his mental health it was necessary that he formulate new ones. It was natural to his orderly, if somewhat unimaginative, mind that he set his reasons and conclusions forth in writing.

Somewhat diffidently he offered the manuscript to Doc. He had learned that the nickname title had derived from the man's former occupation on Earth; he had been a professor of economics and philosophy in one of the smaller universities. Doc had even offered a partial explanation of his presence on Venus. «A little matter involving one of my women students,» he confided. «My wife took an unsympathetic view of the matter and so did the board of regents. The board had long considered my opinions a little too radical.»

«Were they?»

«Heavens, no! I was rockbound conservative. But I had an unfortunate tendency to express conservative principles in realistic rather than allegorical language.»

«I suppose you're a radical now.»

Doc's eyebrows lifted slightly. «Not at all. Radical and conservative are terms for emotional attitudes, not sociological opinions.»

Doc accepted the manuscript, read it through, and returned it without comment. But Wingate pressed him for an opinion. «Well, my boy, if you insist – »

«I do.»

» – I would say that you have fallen into the commonest fallacy of all in dealing with social and economic subjects – the 'devil theory.' »

«Huh?»

«You have attributed conditions to villainy that simply result from stupidity. Colonial slavery is nothing new; it is the inevitable result of imperial expansion, the automatic result of an antiquated financial structure – »

«I pointed out the part the banks played in my book.»

«No, no, no! You think bankers are scoundrels. They are not. Nor are company officials, nor patrons, nor the governing classes back on earth. Men are constrained by necessity and build up rationalizations to account for their acts. It is not even cupidity. Slavery is economically unsound, non-productive, but men drift into it whenever the circumstances compel it. A different financial system – But that's another story.»

«I still think it's rooted in human cussedness,» Wingate said stubbornly.

«Not cussedness – simple stupidity. I can't prove it to you, but you will learn.»

The success of the «silent radio» caused the Governor to send Wingate on a long swing around the other camps of the free federation to help them rig new equipment and to teach them how to use it. He spent four hard-working and soul-satisfying weeks, and finished with the warm knowledge that he had done more to consolidate the position of the free men against their enemies than could be done by winning a pitched battle.

When he returned to his home community, he found Sam Houston Jones waiting there.

Wingate broke into a run. «Sam!» he shouted, «Sam! Sam !» He grabbed his hand, pounded him on the back, and yelled at him the affectionate insults that sentimental men use in attempting to cover up their weakness. «Sam, you old scoundrel! When did you get here? How did you escape? And how the devil did you manage to come all the way from the South Pole? Were you transferred before you escaped?»

«Howdy, Hump,» said Sam. «Now one at a time, and not so fast.»

But Wingate bubbled on. «My, but it's good to see your ugly face, fellow. And am I glad you came here – this is a great place. We've got the most up-and-coming little state in the whole federation. You'll like it. They're a great bunch – »

«What are you?» Jones asked, eyeing him. «President of the local chamber of commerce?»

Wingate looked at him, and then laughed. «I get it. But seriously, you will like it. Of course, it's a lot different from what you were used to back on Earth – but that's all past and done with. No use crying over spilt milk, eh?»

«Wait a minute. You are under a misapprehension, Hump. Listen. I'm not an escaped slave. I'm here to take you back .»

Wingate opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. «But Sam,» he said, «that's impossible. You don't know.»

«I think I do.»

«But you don't. There's no going back for me. If I did, I'd have to face trial, and they've got me dead to rights. Even if I threw myself on the mercy of the court and managed to get off with a light sentence, it would be twenty years before I'd be a free man. No, Sam, it's impossible. You don't know the things I'm charged with.»

«I don't, eh? It's cost me a nice piece of change to clear them up.»

«Huh?»

«I know how you escaped. I know you stole a crock and kidnapped your patron and got two other clients to run with you. It took my best blarney and plenty of folding money to fix it. So help me, Hump – why didn't you pull something mild, like murder, or rape, or robbing a post office?»