Kaldor, Steve - [SS] Whatever Happened to Suderov [v1.0].htm

Whatever Happenedto Suderov?

STEVE KALDOR

The first time the question popped up wasat the Paxtons place. I have known Lou and Jerry Paxton for many years. Ourfriendship started way back, when we all worked on the columns of a since thendefunct periodical. Jerry was the features editor and I did roving reporting.Lou was our joint secretary and girl-friday.

The paperfunny howthese old terms stickis probably long forgotten by everybody, and the onlygood thing that came out of it was that Lou and Jerry met there.

After the Paxtonsgot married Jerry stayed in straight journalism, while I turned into afree-lancer and later took to politics. My work took me all over theConfederated Galaxy, and at some time or other I have visited just about everyplanet of the Terran Federationbut, whenever I have come back to Earth, it hasbeen a must for me to look up the Paxtons. I suppose, to a planet-trottingbachelor like myself, they represented a kind of permanency. No matter whathappened on Ursa Major, in the Paxtons bar there was always a bottle of coolbeer just for me.

As I was saying, wewere having dinner at their place, when Jerry asked the question. He had justtold me of his latest venture, his first attempt to start a business of hisown. It was to be a small publishing firm, specialising in series of low-pricedbut high quality info-reels on current affairs. His target was the student andyoung intellectual market, which had discriminating taste without the pocket tomatch it.

It sounded like agood idea to me. There is always a steady demand for these sorts of things. Buthe would probably never make a fortune out of it. I told him so.

Jerry laughed. Sowhat, matey? Who cares? I dont want to be a millionaire. What I really neednow is a few meaty manuscripts on good contemporary topicslike that fellow youworked forthat Russian politician.

Suderov?

Yes, thats him.Say, Pete whatever happened to old Suderov! One minute he is up in thelimelight, then boing he vanishes into thin air . . . Jerry looked at mehopefully. Couldnt you give us a story about him? Just a two-reeler ofsay30,000 words. . . . Surely you must know more about him than most people.

To be quite honestit was the idea farthest from my mind to write a monograph about anybody. I hadjust returned from covering the Emperors abdication on Vega and was reallylooking forward to a couple of months rest, but then Jerry had ways of twistinga mans arm and Lous meringue-pie tasted lovely, and it was a new venture andwe were old friends, etcetera. ... By the time I left them that evening, I wasmore or less committed.

* * * *

In any case, I really did know IvanVasilievich Suderov, who was the permanent representative of the TerranFederation at the Galactic Council until the day, a few years ago, when hesimply vamoosed. And nobody had seen or heard of him since.

I worked for him ashis press-secretary (a de-jure title to a de-facto ghost-writer)in three years of his campaigns, including his last one.

Suderov was a tallgaunt man, with the slight stoop only lanky people have. He carried the mostdyspeptic expression one could ever see outside a funeral parlour. In short, hewas an ugly-looking customer, but a shrewd politician, right down to his hardcore. I dont mean this as an insult, for he was a professional, and apretty good one too. (Even in those days I wouldnt have worked for someone Ididnt respect at least a little.) The Terran Federation could have done anawful lot worse than having him as a delegate.

One gets to know aperson during the tension-filled weeks of an election campaign, and we weretogether in three of them. Even so I am at loss to explain why he disappeared.

Did he jump, or washe pushed?

Or was hekidnapped? I began to get interested.

His last campaignhad been the toughest in his career, and for that matter in mine too. For thefirst time in his electioneeringand he started in politics at twentyhe was upagainst a tough opposition. Not that he was an amateurhe had spent at leastten years in local politics, the dirtiest of them all, and another five or sixin Federal, and by the time he turned Galactic he was a hardboiled pro. Withhis experience at the United Nations, The Terran Federation and two spells onthe Galactic Council, his re-election for the third term would have been acinch, except for the Frenchman.

Maurice deJourdanor Morry the Shrewdywas our opposition, a dapper and ebullientFrenchman who had an impressive record in Terran politics. To my mind he waseverything Suderov wasnta very smooth, fast-talking man-of-the-world oozingGallic charm from every pore. Also, a formidable ladykiller and the fastestbabykisser in the trade. Far be it from me to try to glorify the memory of myex-boss just because he may be dead, but Suderov was a better man forthe job, though he couldnt have charmed some old lady off her feet, even if hehad tried.

As usual, westarted our campaign with Terra, the cradle of the Federation, and still themost highly populated, hence the most votiferous of all the planets.According to tradition, we followed the opposition by one week. I had made acareful study of de Jourdans tactics and we analysed his policy speeches indetail. It was a very busy seven days for the whole team.

The Frenchman was aclever strategist; he deserved his nickname, no question about it. He waswell-known in Terran circles, while Suderov had spent most of the previous sixyears off-planet at the Galactic Council. Being an attractive man with a greatdeal of sex-appeal, de Jourdan concentrated his personal appearances on thefemale section of the population, the forgotten fifty-five percent. He alsoused extensively giant three-dee blow-ups with pre-recorded oratory, whichenabled him to cover the territory much quicker and at the same time kept himsafe from embarrassing questions. You cant heckle, or quiz a hundred footthree-dee image.

We decided on adifferent approach. You must go in the flesh, Chief, I said to him. We mustexpose you to the voters. They must see you as a person, not just an image.

Suderov agreed,though by the end of the Terran campaign the exhaustion had nearly killed him(and all of us too, I might add). Terra was always a hard nut to crack, but youcould never go wrong if you promised a cut-down on the outgoings. The Terranvoter is a peculiar sort of an animal. On the one hand, he likes to impressvisiting extra-terrestrials with our Federation and our Colonies (pitifullysmall, as it happens, if you compared them with some of the really bigsystems in the Confederated Galaxy). On the other hand, isnt it part of ourhuman heritage that we hate parting from our dough?

Morry the Shrewdypromised a twenty percent reduction in the colonial subsidy, . . . and ifnecessary we shall scrap all projects which dont show profit in a reasonabletime, lest we build an Empire in the Stars for our grandchildrensgrandchildren, at the cost of hungry babies on Earth today.

This, of course, wecouldnt top and our project-statisticians advised against trying: the two orthree percent donkey-votes we might lose on Terra would be more thancompensated by the colonial support, if we played our cards right. We had amore middle-of-the-road approach. I have always stood on the platform ofproportional development for every member of the human race, saidSuderovwhich means much the same, but sounds so much more acceptable tocolonial ears.

We wrapped up theTerran campaign in three weeks; one week more than the opposition but it wasworth it Starting as rank outsiders on Terra, we reduced de Jourdans leadconsiderably, and the campaign just begun. We were confident of doing better inthe Colonies.

* * * *

Next station: Luna.

Luna is atransitional zone. Close enough to Earth to feel the influence of the MotherCountry, people there respect Terran authority, and after a few drinks feelnostalgic. Fifty percent of their income is from colonial tourism. A lot ofextra-Terrans have never been closer to Earth than Luna. Its an orbitingpleasure-place, with hotels, casinos and pretty girls, but primarily the Lunarpeople are business people, out to get what they can while the Sun shines.

The ProgressiveHumanist Party wants to see a strong, self-sufficient mini-planet circling theold globe. We shall, if elected, see to the reduction of the Orbital Dues,said Mr de Jourdan at a luncheon given for him by the Lunar Ladies League. Hewas wildly cheered by the assembled dowagers, who thought he was gorgeous. Heeven danced a fandango with the Madame-president, which is no mean achievementconsidering Lunar gravity.

For us, Luna provedmuch easier than Earth. The idea was mine originally, but Suderov laterattributed it to himself. (Small matter I suppose, but if I ever write thatmonograph for Jerry I shall put the records straight.)

When re-elected,this candidate of the Human Advancement Party, pledges himself to the abolitionof the unjust and archaic Orbital Dues altogether. This of course, justabout brought the house down in the ultramontane Luna Club, where most of thehusbands of the Lunar Ladies belonged. (And why not? To me it always seemedridiculous to levy tax on the Moon just because it happens to be in orbitaround Terra. The financial boys on the team assured us that once elected wecould always find some way to replace the lost revenue. If I remember correctly,the legislation later introduced the Tidal Damages Act for this purpose.)

It was computedthat we carried Luna with a small margin.

* * * *

After Luna, we turned to Venus, the land offat, satisfied farmers; I cant remember meeting anybody there who wasnt someway or other connected with the hydroponic plants. To me, they all lookedalike, stolid, prosperous and somewhat dull. It may be the rotten climate theyhave up there....

Our sister planet,of course, is the Food Factory of the Terran Federation, and boythey never letyou live it down.

They all have arather supercilious attitude towards Terra. Their attitude is: We are happywithout you, Mum; you are the one who needs us, which isbasically true, but not quite.

It was on Venus, Ifeel, that de Jourdan made his first tactical error. (It wasnt really hisfault; I knew my opposite number on his teamlots of theory, but noextra-Terran experience at allstrictly second rate.) He tried to rekindle thecinders of the old Monroe Doctrine: Venus is for the Venerians, and that wasa fatal faux pas. A thing like that could have gone down quite well onMars, but not on Venus.

The averageVenerian is a pretty decent sort of a cove, a bit dull and very sentimental.They look upon Terra like a rich Aunty on the prodigal nephewOnce I am gone,youll inherit all. They knew they were rich, and needed no upstart Terranpoliticians to tell them what to do with their wealth. What they wanted to hearwas: Oh no, Aunt Agatha, you shall live for ever.

I can reassure thevaliant people of Venus that as long as the Morning Star shines in the blue skythey will always be remembered for their glorious efforts and steel-likeendurance. Earth shall always cherish his pretty little sister in Heaven. Itwas so corny that I almost puked writing it, but Suderov was rewarded by thefat drops of tears that came running from tender Venerian eyes. They evenelected him an Honorary Fellow of the Venerian Agricultural Society.

Good old Earth,they never forget us.

Until Venus wetrailed de Jourdan. After Venus we were ahead.

* * * *

Mercury is an insignificant place, it iseconomically un-colonisable, and the only human inhabitants are in orbit aroundit: the Power House Mob.

The Solar Energy Commissionowns the station and runs it at a loss; there were, all counted, about 4000engineers and technicians and their families.

Mr de Jourdan didntbotherand that was another mistake on which we capitalised heavily. Trueenough, their voting power was nilless than 10-13 of onepercentbut our P-R unit made it worth a fortune.

It wasnt strictlyspeaking my department, but I always enjoyed watching good machinery in action:

THETERRAN DELEGATE AT THE FARTHEST OUTPOST OF THE FEDERATION. NUMBERS ARE NOTIMPORTANT, SAYS SUDEROV. LITTLE OR BIG, I REPRESENT THEM.

I can remember onlya few of the headline blurbs, but there were many more and the publicity boyswere raking the votes in. Our chief project statistician was confident that wegained quite a lot of swinging votes on Terra.

Mercury was a verysuccessful detour.

The outer planets,if my memory serves me right, we split fifty-fifty. Uranus and Neptune went tode Jourdan, which was as we expected, for these two had never supported asitting candidate yet. (We even tried some old-fashioned chauvinism on Neptune,because a lot of the original settlers were of Russian descent, but it wasntmuch use.)

Jupiter and Saturnfell to us, though not without a fight. On Jupiter, which previously had alwayssupported Suderov, we struck trouble, but at the last moment the Chief pulled afast one. On his first two campaigns he had promised planetary status andrepresentation to two of the larger satellites, Ganymede and Callisto. A preposterousidea, if you ask me, but it brought in the required number of votes. This time,however, Morry the Shrewdy was there before us and pinched the concept, lock,stock and barrelso there we were without a platform to stand on. I must handit to Suderov; when the chips were down he rose to the occasion: My opponentwants to divide the people of Jupiter, said Suderov. My conscience wontallow it. The citizens of lo and Europa shall not be second-class citizens, aslong as I represent them! And without pausing for a breath, he promisedplanethood to two more pieces of rock.

Four is better thantwowe carried Jupiter with the best margin we ever had there.

Then we bracedourselves, and hit Mars.

Mars was the realMcCoy. Whoever carried Mars would win the election, with votes to spare. Thatmuch was pretty clear to us and also to the de Jourdan camp. We set up ourcampaign headquarters on Deimos and the opposition rented the whole of Phobos.There we poised, watching through the windows the enormous arridity of the RedPlanet swish by, flexing our muscles for the final showdown.

Mars has alwaysgiven me the creeping horrors. The first astronautsor was it cosmonauts?whosaw Earth out of space for the very first time were lost for words . . . Beautiful.. . Magnificent . . . Brilliant, defies description. . . . Thirty yearslater Man orbited Mars. The good colonel, his name escapes me, who commandedthe mission reported to his Control Centre, with these classical words: Itshuge . . . Its red... Its UGLY

Huge, red anduglyexactly my sentiments. Mars hasnt changed much in the centuries passedsince then.

As for the Martianvoter, he is a politicians nightmare naturally suspicious, distrustinganything from Terra, arrogant and rude to the nth degree. But above all, theMartian colonist is TOUGH.

To survive on aGodforsaken planet, which was never meant for an oxygen-breathing, warm-bloodedrace like ours, he had either to be tough or to perish. They did not perish.Mars became the planet where extra-Terran culture, the dream of the bravedreamers, first became a reality.

When the firstsettlers arrived in their pitiful plastic domes, it was meant to be anexperimental project, a test of adaptability and stamina. But the shortexpedition turned out to be a long one, as back on Terra there was a war on.The original nations that sent them up there were so busy killing each otheroff, they forgot, oras they say on Marswrote off, their Martiancolonists. Those who survived were tough. The meek may inherit Earth, but Marswas strictly for the survival types. In a sense I can appreciate that theMartian citizen hasnt got much love for the old country, but understanding itdoesnt make him any more likeable as a person.

When the Great Warwas over, there started a slow steady trickle of migrants to Mars, mainlydisgruntled young people, ex-army and service types from both sides, who justcouldnt find their niche in the post-war economic buoyance. They were themalcontent, the maladjusted, the embittered ones, but Mars took them.

Mars took everybodyand everything.

The GreatTerraforming Project was started by the reformed United Nations Tribune in themiddle of the 24th century, a project so ambitious that it almost bankruptedthe Terran economy. There were literally billions poured into the Red Planet;photo-synthetic crops, oxygen-fixing stations, the U-V Absorption Screen andsuchlike. The net result, after three centuries, is that today the native-bornMartian is quite happy in his thin atmosphere of fifteen percent oxygen, butall Terran visitors are still advised to carry their oxy-packs and masks.

Nowadays with theresources of the Terran Federation of Planets, the project has speeded up abit, but it still has a long way to go. Repeated attempts to get Galacticbacking were turned down hypocritically by the Council: We dont interferewith intra-system economics. But at least it is on the records that MrSuderov from Sol-III has made (several) representations.

Candidate Suderov didtry for Mars.

The native Martianis tall, about 250 centimetres, and rangy, and from the age of about fifteenyears onwards his skin is getting gradually darker. Regardless of their ethnic origin,they all look like American Indians. Even the children have dry leathery skinsfrom the lack of water vapour in the atmosphere.

Water, or ratherthe lack of it, is the biggest problem on Mars. The most fertile valleys onMars would drive an Australian Aboriginal to run amuck. The key bargainingpoint in any election campaign on Mars is water. Water is gold, water is VOTES.

The first blows ofthe campaign were suffered by our side. Martians are almost paranoic about theabuse or wastage of Waters, and this lent itself to a marvellous jibe from deJourdan. He was addressing a meeting of bearded bauxite miners when he droppedthis little beauty: My opponent tells you, good people, that he is going toget you water. But do you know what his entourage uses every day for shavingonly? Two hectolitres of water; 200 litres of good Martian aitch-two-oh.

When two days laterwe arrived unsuspecting at the same mining town, the locals almost lynched us.The constabulary made a half-hearted attempt to control the mob, but it wasobvious that they would have been much happier to join them. Most of usreceived a few kicks and bruises and Suderov ended up with a nice lump on hisskull.

Morry and his merrymen must have had a field day back on Phobos while we were putting coldcompresses on our wounds. The Martian Press, which until this episode wascoldly impartial, took a definite turn against us. The influential Monitor devoteda quarter-reel editorial to the matter.

Mr Suderov may notbe the water-hog his opponent wants us to believe, the Commentator saidacidly, but isnt he the most cleanshaven candidate ever to grace ourshores? (I forgot to mention that de Jourdan and his associates all grew bigbushy, Martian type beards, which coupled with the Frenchmans swarthycomplexion made him look like one of the boys. Suderov, who as a child sufferedfrom radiation burns and could grow no facial hair, refused to wear falsies;they irritated his skin.)

Somepaleo-historians say that the ancient Roman Empire of Terra went into declinebecause of the lead goblets Roman emperors drank their wine from. They weresupposed to have chronic lead-poisoning with the accompanying heavy-metalpsychosis which drove them to inane and insane actionshence the fall of theRoman Empire. I am not a historian, but this theory to me illustrates theimportance of little things. For the want of a beard we almost lost theMartian campaign.

Off to a goodstart, de Jourdan pressed his advantage. Assured ofat leastsympathetic presscoverage, he expounded his main campaign theme, an updated version of theNakamura-Swenson Plan, a project still dear to Martian ears.

Seventy years agoNakamura and Swenson, two brilliant young scientists from the Osaka School ofSpace Biology, published a series of articles in a popular science monthly,euphemistically entitled: How To Create Paradise? Their idea was that byshipping huge chunks of poly-ice from Venus and the outer ring of Saturn anddepositing them on Mars, one could create a hydrosphere of poly-water aroundMars. Poly-water of course is not much good for human consumption, but bothNakamura and Swenson being biologists primarily, they postulated that certainplant-forms could be devised that would break down poly-water and in time, makehonest to goodness H2O out of it. And in sizeable quantities too.

De Jourdansimprovement of the plan was to cut out the vegetables altogether. No plantintermediary, but a series of giant cracking stations all over Mars which wouldproduce clean water by the mega-litres. In my dreams, he said theatrically, Ican see oceans on Mars, miles of steel-blue water...

TheNakamura-Swenson theory, like most other theories formulated by eager youngscientists, had only one pitfall: economy. It is possible withpresent-day technology to de-polymerise poly-water in cracking plants, and Isuppose the efficiency of the operation could be improved to make it worth theeffort, but there is one thing no scientist can change, and that is the meandistance from Mars to Saturn and Venus.

Cargo-space forinterplanetary transport is expensive. To ferry the necessary amount ofpoly-ice to Mars across the distance from its source to the cracking plantswhere it is required would take up to 300 yearsprovided that the totalworkforce of the Terran Federation did nothing but build cargo-ships for thepurpose.

The amount spent onTerraforming Mars so far was a mere bagatelle compared to the cost of thisplan. We knew it, and so did de Jourdan, and most of the better educated,thinking Martians knew it toobut, unfortunately even on Mars there were morepeople with IQs under 150 than with over.

Suderov reliedheavily on his well-known record of being a crusader for Galactic help to Mars.His efforts were respected and appreciated, but it was very hard to pit twounsuccessful attempts against de Jourdans promise of Paradise. The tide wasdefinitely against us, and when de Jourdan flew in a couple of experts fromEarth, one of them a Martian-born Professor of hydrology, we had cause to beworried. The Professor, having spent half of his life on Mars, was emotionallycommitted to the Plan, but being a scientist he was fastidiously honest in theusual uncommitted way. I remember the sinking feeling we had while we watchedhim on three-dee, interviewed by a half a dozen of Marss leading politicalcorrespondents.

Question:Professor,do you believe that the Nakamura-Swenson Plan as modified by Mr de Jourdancould provide water to Mars?

Answer:Ithas never been tried on such a large scale, but theoretically it is possible.

Question:Wouldyou support the Plan yourself?

Answer:Iwas born here, Gentlemen ... I would support old Moses if I could get him todivine up some water on Mars.

Question:Accordingto Mr Suderov, to implement this plan is an economic impossibility. Would youcare to comment, Professor?

Answer:MrSuderov is a politician and I am a hydrologist; neither of us are specialistsin global finance or planetary economics.

After the interviewwe had an emergency conference. There was no use denying it, de Jourdan wasforging ahead. To check his progress we had to do something desperate.Eventually Suderov decided on the Artesian Project, and we rebuilt our campaignaround it.

The only indigenouswater on Mars came from deep artesian wells. Apparently there was sufficientwater on the planet, but it was very deep underground, and usually at the mostinaccessible part of the desert. Mars, being a primary producer without a sizeableheavy industry, had to rely on Terran equipment and technicians for itswater-wells. It was either that or hand-digging. Mazers couldnt go deep enoughand nucleonic techniques would have contaminated the water for generations.

Suderov promised todeliver one hundred drilling rigs and crew-training units. Unlike my opponent,I dont offer cloud castles to the People of Mars, he said. I offer you themeans to bring up your own water, by your own people. If you are prepared towork, I shall provide you with one hundred rigs for every year of my term. Thismuch I can promise.

This was the rightline of approach. Martians were hardheaded realists, and to most of them theidea of water-rigs was more digestible than visionary dreams of Martianwaterfalls; hard work they understood. Of the fact that Suderov couldnt hopeto deliver a quarter of what he promised, they were blissfully unaware. To them,his proposition sounded realistic and we certainly didnt enlighten them.Once the election was won, there would be three long years before Suderov wouldface Martians again. He wasnt worried.

Our team swung intoaction. I wrote speeches of a deliberately sober tone, clear and factual,devoid of polysyllabic adjectives, hammering the simple message: You elect; wedeliver. We held all-night rallies, threw junkets with the most expensiveLunar pleasure-girls our agents could hire. Suderovs image handing a toywater-rig to a little girl was subliminally intra-jected at ten minuteintervals on all the major three-dee networks.

It cost us afortune, but slowly we started to regain the lost terrain. Unfortunately, timewas running out. I think I mentioned before that the Martian voter is apoliticians nightmareonce he has made up his mind, and he does that slowly,it takes Hells own time to sway him. Had we but one more week, theproject-statistician assured us, we would have walked in, but as it happened wewere still trailing by 2-3 percent on Poll-Day-minus-two.

De Jourdansinitial impact must have been much greater than we had thought. Our last hopewas the final planet-wide three-dee hookup, traditionally on P-Day-minus-one,which allowed the candidates their last say.

We were desperate.A miracle was needed and there was nothing in sight. I can recollect thedepression, the cold frustration that spread over us, thicker than smog,blanketing out all our initiatives. So close to victory and so far from it.Suderov threw the meeting open to the whole team. Everybody was invited tocontribute and we all did. When 280 people think togetherand boy, did we rackour brains something usually comes out of it, but by 4 a.m. local time thebest offer in was still to kidnap the opposition and convert the race to a soloaffair. Since they were on Phobos and we on Deimos this scheme had definitely afew drawbacks.

At 4.30 a.m. youngTeddy Wilson, a junior mob-manipulator, approached the Chief. Suderov was in ahalf daze, resting his chin in his cupped palms, eyes crimson withsleeplessness.

Whats up, son?Suderov said tiredly.

Sir, said TeddyWilson to the Chief, would you be prepared to drink a small glass of your ownblood in public?

A gallon of it,son, Suderov said with a tired half-grin, still keeping his gallows humour, ifit does any good.

Young Teddy was anexchange student at Mars University before graduating as a mob-psychologist,and the only one among us (myself included) who previously had spent any lengthof time on Mars. When he started to explain his suggestion, for the first timethat night everybody listened. Apparently, in the early days of Mars, so thefolklore goesthere was a young colonist by the name of Berotta or Perrotta whobroke his leg hundreds of miles from his base camp. Knowing that his oxygenwouldnt last until help could arrive, he stuck a hypo-needle in his cubitalvein and slowly exsanguinated himself into a plastic bottle, in which he hadcarefully placed some anti-coagulant crystals. Its a pretty gruesome tale, buton Mars it is considered the pinnacle of self-sacrificethe heroic pioneer whoin his dying moments thinks of nothing but the needs of his comrades.

In later years, sothe story says, his memory was honoured by the Seal of Blood, a kind of sacrosanctpledge which, once made, no Martian would dream of breaking.

My idea is, Sir,said young Teddy Wilson hesitantly, that, you should make this sacrifice ...in full view of all the three-dee cameras and ...

Suderov jumped up,grabbed the young man by the shoulder and solemnly kissed him on both cheeks,like a Russian peasant.

Son, you are agenius. If this doesnt work, Ill retire to Siberia. Suderov stretchedhimself to his full height as if to shake off his exhaustion, then started tofire orders in every direction. The boys who five minutes before were ready tothrow in the towel sprang into action with the galvanised enthusiasm of freshtroops. To me, he had just one order: Pete, write the best dam speech of yourlifeand I did. I am an old fox at political journalism, but I dont think Ihave ever approached or surpassed the piece I wrote for Suderov in that Martiandawn. But I am not kidding myself, it was Suderovs day and it was his magneticdelivery alone that made it so ...

* * * *

His peroration was masterful. We haveheard a lot about water in the past few weeks. My opponent seems to think thatbegging other planets of the Federation would be your answer ... I know itisnt. I know there is no handout without strings. The regrettably shorttime I could spend among you has taught me one lesson: this is not your way,not the Martian way and definitely not the path Antonio Perrotta and hiscomrades would have chosen. I say to you, and experts back me up on it, thereis water on this planet of yours, good water, Martian waterbut it is hardwater. You have to dig for it and dig deep, maybe a thousand, maybe fifteenhundred or even two thousand metres. So what? It is your own. When didhard work ever stop a Martian voortrekker?

Suderov stoppeddramatically and to the surprise of ourselves, watching him on monitors, thestudio audience burst into applause. It was the first unrehearsed spontaneousapplause I have ever witnessed in my career. Our P-R boys had nothing to dowith it. It surprised them too.

. . . So you wantto dream of green fields and rivers abounding with fishwell, People of Mars,dream away. But dream not of Terran money and Venerian rocks of ice, for youshall have a rude awakening. If you want to dream, my friends, you shall haveto dream of the vigour and power, the enthusiasm and the muscles of the youthof this planet. There and there alone is the salvation of Mars. If you areready for hard work, if you are prepared to pit your strength against thedesert, the Paradise my opponent dazzled you with shall be yours.

As for myself, Iam a man of facts. I promised you no miracles, no grandiose mirages in the ariddesert. I promised you just humble water rigs. But what I have promised, uponmy honour, I shall deliver. . . . Suderov stopped, as if emotion had overcomehim, and slowly in full view of all the three-dee pickups he took out a longshiny knife from his pocket. Slowly, but with a determined slash, he cut his leftarm just above the wrist.

As the bloodstarted to spurt, he picked up a small transparent cup and let the blood gushin it. When it was half full, he snapped a bandage cuff on the wound, and whileall of us watched him fascinatedly, he faced the pickups.

People of Mars,said Suderov, I pledge myself with the Seal of Blood, upon the sacred memoryof Antonio Perrotta, that I shall deliver to you one hundred water rigs forevery year of my three year term. Should I not fulfil my word, I pledge to cometo Mars myself and dig up those wells personally with my own hands.

Suderov held up hisstill bleeding left arm and waved a tight fisted farewell to the cameras.

What followed ishard to describe. The sedate Martians of our studio audience, the cold, suspicious,unbribable mob exploded. They screamed, they cheered, they roared, theyfought with each other for the honour of carrying Suderov on their shoulders.

And all these, on aplanet-wide, pole to pole hook-up.

We won the electionwith a landslide; de Jourdan conceded defeat before even the count started.

* * * *

After the results from all planets of theFederation were collated, Mr Suderov and myself parted company. Now theofficially endorsed Terran representative for the third consecutive term, heflew to the Galactic Council.

As there was acivil war in the Orion-system, my agent sent me there, post haste. I spent thenext six months writing hair-raising reports of cruelty and valour; and spentmost of my time drinking beer with old buddies under the safety of a forcefield in the Press-bubble.

I heard aboutSuderovs disappearance about twelve months after the elections. After all itwas newsand news is my businessbut then again many people disappearfor one reason or another. Maybe he became sick of being the big wheel andwanted to become a small cog for a change. Maybe he was caught playing footsywith a fellow diplomats wife? I didnt know and didnt care.

Until that night atthe Paxtons place, when Jerry asked me about him.

I sat in my hotelroom, thinking.

Its funny how amans mind works, how little pictures, words and half-formed thoughts flashthrough your brain, once something triggers off the chain . . . young TeddyWilson . . . Suderovs bleeding wrist . . . that ridiculous pledge . . . theface of the barman at Mars-Port, six weeks ago: I am very sorry, Sir, thereare water restrictions . . . the vision of sinewy emaciated hands digging ...a shovel . . . the wheeze of an air-hungry chest . . . heat . . . desert . . .MARS . ..

I just wonder

Really...

Whatever happenedto old Suderov?

a N.E.R.D's Release.txtA N.E.R.D's Release

nerdsproject@gmail.com

NERDs would like to remind you that it welcomes the re-proofing of its scans, but don't change the version number unless you improve the text. If you are just going to fiddle with formatting for your own benefit, don't distribute your conversion. It is the text that matters, not how pretty you think it looks (because you may think it looks pretty, but others think it looks ugly).