Astounding Science Fiction, October 1950 — page 25: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

~ REGULATIONS PROVIDE in trouble. Do they land or don’t they?” “We're proceeding according to I. G. Board agreement,” said O’Conners. “Regu- lations provide—” “That even if a guy is about dead he can go ahead and die as long as he hasn’t got a letter of introduction from [I.G.” “Regulations provide,” continued the in- spector patiently, “that in case of first contact between a visiting race and a given planet, the representatives arriving shall present adequate data for identification which shall then be verified through the I.G. Central Operations unit. That is what we are doing.” : “Even if it kills the strangers.” “No exceptions were provided or could be provided for emergency cases. You know that very well. You cannot have forgotten the Trojan incident of Malabar Seven. And sO we are proceeding according to regula- tions and agreement. Any of us would get the same -treatment from their planet, wherever that might be.” “You mean you haven’t even got ibe pegged, yet? I told you yesterday they were from Nerane IV and I pointed it out on the charts and showed your central operators the encyclopedic data—” O’Conners waved disparagingly. “Your sorter isn’t official. It has to be verified by our Official machines.” - *“°’Sfunny,” said Joe, “that after all these hundreds of years the word ‘official’ is still synonymous with inefficiency and general chowder-headedness. My sorter gets the data in fifteen minutes—yours hasn’t got it in more than eighteen hours.” “Official sources require accuracy. We could not afford to be wrong if the land- ing of this ship involves violation of the I. G. B. regulations, or if these creatures cannot be identified. Your sorter is not concerned with such. factors, understand- ably. You are concerned only with repair- ing the vessel and making a profit on the operation.” “And what a wicked thing that is! Eh?” said Joe. “We’ve been over this before. I know when I’m licked, but when will that obsolete monstrosity get its official bowels in gear and give out with the data? I’ve had a crew standing by since yesterday.” O’Conners didn’t answer. He looked speculatively around the plush, luxurious office that was Joe’s one vice and his only indulgence. He looked out at the vast pro- perties that represented as much as a small nation might have once possessed. The 23 great shops and laboratories rivaled a government facility. “We'll be taking you over one of these days,” said the inspector. “A, government can’t tolerate a private enterprise of this scope. This should belong to the people.” “Like the Tyrannosaurus,” muttered Joe in a ‘cloud of smoke. “He must have kicked and jumped and squealed to the last, too. And you’ve got just about as much chance now as he had. As long as there is space, you bureaucrats will never be on top again. It took a civil world war to get your kind off the top of the heap once and you're off for good. In an ex- panding economy civilization simply passes by while you fuss and holler. It’s only in a shrinking world that people think they need bureaucrats and socialists to tell them what to do.” O’Conners shook his héad sadly. “The government needs men like you. It’s tragic that the organizing and technical ability you possess should be coupled with such atavism.” He turned to the door. “Tl send you an official clearance to bring them in as soon as—and if—the sorter verifies the data given by the disabled craft, and cen- tral confirms it.” He left. Every time, Joe thought. Every time it was like this. Sometimes sooner, some- times longer. He went to the window and looked out upon the hundred or so craft — from every part of the universe that lay on the landing field. That they represented genius incredibly far removed from his comprehension troubled O’Conners not at all. One of them, a huge vessel a mile and a half long and fiffeen hundred feet in diameter had come almost three million light-years out of space, the farthest com- munication that men of Earth had yet had with other sentient beings. But O’Conners was not impressed. He’d Kept them in an orbit above Earth’s barrier screen for three days while he checked their credentials. If there had turned up the slightest in- consistency in the communication between their alien minds and his primitive Earth mentality, he’d have refused entry to their crippled and nearly helpless vessel. He would probably have let them die in space rather than let them down, Joe thought bitterly. The bureaucratic mind! He stepped back to the desk and called Comichook (S©)