This World is Condemned

by Ward Botsford

The Earthmen came to the peaceful world of Yull with the high justice and the low. In their sureness, they looked it over quickly and doomed it to a state of near exile, cut off from all civilization and trade. It had no machines, to be sure—but it had something else!

The last film had been shown, the final spectrograph analyzed and there was silence in the high-walled room. Somewhere a calculator chuckled quietly to itself as final data was fed it. Then almost apologetically, the ting of a bell; the operator slid a sheet of paper from a slot and handed it to the Director.

A moment he scanned it and then: “As we surmised, Antares 4 is an A5-17-b type culture. Excellent stability figure and a high degree of potential intelligence—however, in accordance with MC rules, the culture is several levels too low to permit union with the Confederation.”

He stopped speaking and the several hundred people began to leave the chamber. The Director remained as did Telmann and Infrost.

Telmann watched the Director closely and held his gaze while saying, as if to himself, “For once I think the calculator is mistaken.”

Infrost and the Director raised respective eyebrows.

“How so?”

“Oh, really that wasn’t meant to be heard. You know I was commander of that expedition and those people are different—”

Infrost laughed, “Your own survey showed them to be thoroughly humanoid. Surely you’re not trying to say that it is a non-Human civilization!”

“No, not that at all—well, you’ll see for yourself.”

The Director’s voice broke in, “How soon will you leave for Antares, Telmann?”

Telmann calculated swiftly, “Well, it’s about 177 light years from Earth which means a trip of about 10 ship days. Since you want their ambassador here before you leave for Vega 7, we will leave tomorrow.”

“Excellent. My trip to Vega is scheduled for February 30, so that will leave the necessary two weeks visiting time. And now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me—”

“Certainly, sir.”

Again the high-walled room was silent.

The Delta class cruiser of the Confederation winked into normal space 20 light minutes from the MO redness that was Antares. While calculators were plotting a course to the blazing primary’s fourth planet, Telmann and Infrost conferred in the latter’s cabin.

“How soon will we touch down?”

“Not for about twelve hours. Yull’s main Continent is asleep now.”

“Yull?” Infrost asked.

“The inhabitants’ name for their planet.”

“Oh.”

“By the way, you’ve been briefed on them, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but I would very much like to hear your views. In the Director’s chamber you seemed to think that they were somehow—‘odd’.”

Telmann frowned, “No, not odd exactly. They are Telepaths, you know.”

“Well, that’s hardly ‘odd’. We’ve found Telepaths on Sirius 5, Procyon 7, Castor 6—on a lot of planets. Strange as it may seem to us. Telepathy is a rule outside our own system—not the exception to it.”

“That’s true, of course. These people are long range Telepaths, too. Though that’s not too unusual—Archernat 5’s are.”

“Then, what—?”

“It’s hard to put it into words, but I think what struck me was their indifference. It wasn’t any laissez-faire or Gandhism. It was almost as if they were absolutely sure of themselves.” Telmann stopped short, aware that he was being a little silly.

Infrost grinned, “Well, we’ll see tomorrow.”

The field on which the cruiser rested was covered with short, well-cropped grass. A small stream with strange plumaged birds resting on its surface was nearby. Telmann was sitting by the banks watching some children in a grove of tall stately trees playing a game with a big ball and some sticks. Telmann reflected that if it were not for the fact that the children never spoke or laughed, this could be a scene on Earth—almost.

The children had seen him and the ship; had stared after the way of children and gone back to their play.

Telmann reflected on what the attitude of children on Earth, say three centuries ago, would have been had an alien ship set down in one of their parks.

“Peaceful, isn’t it?” Telmann turned and saw Infrost leaning against a tree.

“Yes, very. How did you make out?”

“Very well. They’ve appointed an ambassador to go with us to Earth.”

“And do you, too, find them ‘odd’?”

“No—although you’re right, they are very sure of themselves, and for no particular reason.”

There was a frown on Telmann’s face, “I don’t know, they have every right to be proud of their planet. No wars, very little disease, poverty nonexistent.”

“Yes, but practically no technical achievement at all.”

“Well, isn’t that because of their Telepathy? I mean, doesn’t it make up for their lack of technical skill?”

Infrost shook his head, took off his jacket and sat down. “No, you’ve got the cart before the horse. As far as I can figure out they developed Telepathy after they discovered that any major technical device was impossible.”

“Impossible? How so?”

“Their buildings are all plastic. Even their cars are plastic. No metal. This planet has an almost complete dearth of ferrous ores and metals, generally. As far as I can find from borings and from information they’ve given me, Uranium and Thorium are unknown except as theoretical possibilities.”

“Hmmm. We’ll probably find that the Urey-Legham distribution curve of this system has dumped the metals on another planet.”

“Probably.”

“Do they know yet the Confederation MC rules governing cultures of a lower than 19 rating?”

“No, that’s not my task. The Director will tell them all about that. They’ll be disappointed, I think—though they’ll never let us see it. They’re a race that doesn’t believe in showing emotion. Tharax, who is their chief of government and who will be accompanying us back to Earth has been with me most of this week. He’s been very keen on the Confederation—and, incidentally, on the possibilities of trade.”

Telmann idly skipped a stone in the water. “Well, a 17-b culture can trade, can’t it?—even if it can’t enter the Confederation.”

“Yes, theoretically, the MC grants permission but there are practical considerations which are going to strictly limit it, I’m afraid.”

“How do you mean?”

“Nothing to trade. After all, what the Confederation needs are metals: Thorium, Magnesium, Uranium.”

“How about food or culture in some basic form?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Their food production is strictly limited by their lack of metal. Enough for themselves but not for others. As for culture, it’s entirely in the Telepathic vein. No visible or audible signs to speak of. It’s a shame, too, because without metals, they’ve reached a static point in their cultural development. I think they have the necessary drive and intelligence, too.” He watched Telmann skip another stone across the placid waters. “You know, I think they’re awfully nice people.”

They sat there by the banks of the little stream skipping stones with red Antares looking down on the peaceful planet.

Ships coming in from Vega or Fomalhaut—from the thousand strange named places which the Confederation embraced—the rattle and roar of cargo booms—the clatter of incoming and outgoing passengers—A Great Space Port—

“Director, this is Fer Tharax of Yull, Ambassador to the Confederation.”

“We are most happy to meet you. If you are not too fatigued with your journey, we will go directly to my offices so that I may explain the laws of the Confederation to you.”

Tharax’ thought came easily, “As the Director wishes.”

Telmann and Infrost watched Tharax’ expression closely as the little NGC took them swiftly toward the imposing spires of the Confederation buildings some fifteen kilometers away. Infrost noted that Tharax’ keen glances slipped easily over the panorama of the mighty civilization which spread a thousand meters below. He was certainly not overawed by it. Interested, yes, but not overawed. Which was strange. Usually when so non-technical a civilization as Tharax’ was introduced to so highly technical a one as Earth’s, the result was likely to be awe, approaching upon worship.

Then they were in the cool offices of the Director and the Director was telling Tharax of the Laws of the Confederation. He was telling how bitter experience had taught the Confederation that until a culture had reached a certain level, technical information must be withheld for the good of both the Confederation and the Planet concerned. There was an embarrassed pause. Infrost felt that even the Director had been charmed by Tharax’ odd paradox of interest and indifference. Perhaps the Director did not wish to tell Tharax that—

Tharax’ thought was clear and quick, “It will be impossible for my people to receive technical aid from the Confederation.” It was a statement, not a question.

The Director: “That is so. We are sorry—”

Tharax waved his hand as if the matter was of no moment. “But Trade, is that possible?”

“Yes, so long as the imports that Yull makes are non-technical. The exact rules will be explained to you by our Head of Commerce.”

“Am I to be allowed to stay on Earth?”

“For a period of two of our weeks. After that, you or another agent, may visit Earth once a year. Incidentally, during your stay, you may purchase whatever you wish up to a weight limit of a thousand kilograms—technical devices beyond a certain level excepted. The Confederation will pay for it.”

“Thank you.”

“He is gone?”

“Yes, Director, this morning.”

“You have a list of his purchases?”

“Yes, Director. He did not even ask for any technical equipment or technical books—usually they try to take some with them.”

“What did he take?”

“Mostly books, Director.”

“On what subjects?”

“Here is a complete list, Director. Mostly on Music and Art, some on Philosophy and History, quite a number on Hobbies and a number on Sports. He used less than 200 kilograms of weight and expended 476 credits.”

The Director looked puzzled. “Strange—very strange—yes, yet I like him; I rather like him.”

“I, too, Director.”

It was almost a year later according to Earth reckoning, that Infrost had occasion to notice Antares 4 again. And then it was practically by accident. Glancing over import figures which had been left on his desk, he looked idly down the list—found that Teg with her greatly advanced 20-c culture had exported over twenty billion basic credits last year—found that Hardlo with almost that amount—a planet called Yull had exported something over one billion credits, which wasn’t bad for a 17-b culture—

“Yull!” Why that was Antares 4! One billion credits! Impossible! Nothing to trade! Nothing at all!

He pressed a button on his desk visor and his secretary’s face swam into view. “Will you get me the Head of Commerce, please?” A few moments’ pause and the striking black eyes which were the Head of Commerce’s chief asset looked quizzically at him.

“I have glanced at a sheet of the latest planetary exports, sir, and I noticed that Yull, of the Antares System, has exported something in excess of one billion credits. Surely this is a mistake. I was chief of the second survey of Yull and I reported at that time that due to a lack of metal and material culture, as well as excess food stuffs, export was almost impossible. Would you check this for me?”

“Surely.”

One billion credits. Impossible—and yet, Tharax and his people were so—

“That figure is correct.”

“But how? To where?”

“As to where, mostly to Earth, although a large amount does go to Dras and Grander of the Mizar System. Apparently, they only export to groups settled by Earthmen. Mizar is Earth settled, you know. As to what, I really don’t know. You would have to consult the Director.”

The Head of Commerce smiled and Infrost broke the connection after a courteous word of thanks.

The Director’s office had not changed since that first day, years ago that Infrost had crossed its portals. Nor had the Director changed much. Still the efficient but human creature which commanded obedience and respect. Now the Director was speaking:

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I had noticed the import level of Antares 4. Something less than one billion credits, wasn’t it?”

“Slightly more, sir.”

“Well, then?”

“But Director, what could they export?” The Director smiled—indeed, he almost laughed. “I think you will be surprised. Yes, very surprised. They export postage stamps.”

“Stamps, sir?” Infrost asked.

“Stamps.”

“But I do not understand—they aren’t—”

“Yull is now a prime producer of Philatelics.”

Infrost was the picture of surprise, astonishment and disbelief.

The Director continued, “You’ll remember that Tharax took a number of books on hobbies with him. I find that among these were a number of volumes on Stamp Collecting. When a representative of the Earth’s Trade Commission visited Yull, Tharax asked and received permission to export stamps. What is wrong with that? Philately is a hobby as ancient almost as is Earth herself.”

“But, Director, it is impossible! The inhabitants have no written language at all—they have no postal system, none is necessary; they are long range Telepaths.”

“Again you are right. That is true,” the Director replied with a suspicion of a laugh.

“But, Director, then that is fraud!”

“By no means. They actually do send some letters now to places outside of Yull and even a little to themselves, I understand. Of course, they had no printing presses but that was well within their cultural development. They made one themselves, patterned, I should say, after pictures in our history books. Hand presses, probably. Crude, but workable. I’m told they put out beautiful stamps. Already they have over 500 issues. With the first money they made by selling them, they began to advertise. And—well, you know that philately is Earth’s largest hobby.”

Infrost’s look of disbelief and surprise was now one of respect and amusement. “I begin to see. A very shrewd people. A wonderful people.”

The Director nodded with enthusiasm. “A wonderful planet and a wonderful people, indeed. It is one to watch.”

Infrost looked a question.

“Oh, yes,” the Director smiled, “I’ve been there just recently—when you were on Spica 9. Tharax has re-applied for entry into the Confederation.”

“It is really a shame that his people cannot join.”

“But they can! No, this case is one of mind over matter. As you know, the Council gives me wide freedom to overrule the Calculator when I feel it is desirable. This is most certainly a ‘Desirable Case.’ Any people so ingenious as to be able to make one billion credits without assistance of any kind in less than a year is a people of a high cultural level, I assure you. The fact that they chose so erudite a method as philately is another mark in their favor.”

The Director arose and strolled to the high windows that looked out across the city. He turned to Infrost and said, “You know, Tharax hasn’t spent more than a few thousand of those credits. He told me he was absolutely sure of getting into the Confederation and he wanted to keep the money to buy metal. As Telmann said, they are so sure of themselves! Well,” a real laugh this time, “do you agree that it was wise to allow them in the Confederation?”

“Indeed, yes, Director. I am happy they have achieved a higher status so rapidly. In fact, I believe it is a record, is it not, Director?”

“I believe so. And would you be so good as to change their level with the MC to A5-19-b. I would appreciate that.”

“Certainly, Director. And thank you.”

When he was gone, the Director called his secretary, “When is my next appointment, please?”

“In one hour, Director.”

“Thank you. Would you please see that I am not disturbed during this time.”

“Yes, Director.”

From a drawer in his desk, the Director removed a large book, a small magnifying glass and a pair of blunt-end tweezers. Then from another drawer, he carefully removed a large sheet of heavy paper interlined with perforations and with artistic markings on the smaller squares. He removed one square and looked at it under the magnifying glass. Tharax had given him the first of the new commemorative issue—the general public issue wouldn’t be out for over another month—twenty-four perfect Red-Greens, showing the great seal of the Confederation of which he was Director. The Director chuckled joyfully to himself and began to enter the stamps on the pages of the large book.