Datasets:
elapt1c
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ElapticAI-512

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"I heard you the first time, Meikl," the officer snapped. "Watch your
tongue and your tone!"
A brief hush in the cabin as hostility flowed between them. There was
only the hiss of air from the ventilators, and the low whine of the
flagship's drive units somewhere below.
The erect and elderly gentleman who sat behind the desk cleared his
throat politely. "Have you any further clarifications to make, Meikl?"
he asked.
"It should be clear enough to all of you," the analyst retorted hotly.
He jerked his head toward the misty crescent of Earth on the viewing
screen that supplied most of the light in the small cabin. "You can see
what they are, what they've become. And you know what we are."
The two wingsmen bristled slightly at the edge of contempt in the
analyst's voice. The elderly gentlemen behind the desk remained
impassive, expressionless.
The analyst leaned forward with a slow accusing glance that swept the
faces of the three officers, then centered on his antagonist at the
other end of the desk. "You want to infect them, ThaĆ¼le?" he demanded.
The wingsman darkened. His fist exploded on the desktop. "Meikl, you're
in contempt! Restrict yourself to answering questions!"
"Yes, sir."
"There will be no further breaches of military etiquette during the
continuance of this conference," the elderly gentleman announced icily,
thus seizing the situation.
After a moment's silence, he turned to the analyst again. "We've got to
refuel," he said flatly. "In order to refuel, we must land."
"Yes, sir. But why not on Mars? We can develop our own facilities for
producing fuel. Why must it be Earth?"
"Because there will be some existing facilities on Earth, even though
they're out of space. The job would take five years on Mars."
The analyst lowered his eyes, shook his head wearily. "I'm thinking of a
billion earthlings. Aren't they worth considering, sir?"
"I've got to consider the men in my command, Meikl. They've been through
hell. We all have."
"The hell was our own making, baron."
"Meikl!"
"Sorry, sir."
Baron ven Klaeden paused ominously, then: "Besides, Meikl, your
predictions of disaster rest on certain assumptions not known to be
true. You assume that the recessive determinants still linger in the
present inhabitants. Twenty thousand years is a long time. Nearly a
thousand generations. I don't know a great deal about culturetics, but
I've read that kulturverlaengerung reaches a threshold of extinction
after about a dozen generations, if there's no restimulation."
"Only in laboratory cultures, sir," sighed the analyst. "Under rigid
control to make certain there's no restimulant. In practice, in a
planet-wide society, there's constant accidental restimulation,
unconsciously occuring. A determinant gets restimulated, pops back to
original intensity, and gets passed on. In practice, a kult'laenger
linkage never really dies out although, it can stay recessive and
unconscious."
"That's too bad," a wingsman growled sourly. "We'll wake it up, won't
we?"
"Let's not be callous," the other wingsman grunted in sarcasm. "Analyst
Meikl has sensitivities."
The analyst stared from one to the other of them in growing
consternation, then looked pleadingly at the baron. "Sir, I was
summoned here to offer my opinions about landing on Earth. You asked
about possible cultural dangers. I've told you."
"You discussed the danger to earthlings."
"Yes, sir."
"I meant 'danger' to the personnel of this fleet to their esprit, their
indoctrination, their group-efficiency. I take it you see none."
"On the contrary, I see several," said the analyst, coming slowly to his
feet, eyes flashing and darting among them. "Where were you born,
Wingman?" he asked the officer at the opposite end of the desk.
"Lichter Six, Satellite," the officer grunted after a moment of
irritable silence.
"And you?"
"Omega Thrush," said the other wingsman.