No World of Their Own by Poul Anderson Page A

of politics and war? Do you think maybe I want power for myself? That’s for fools who want to command other fools. It’s fun to play, though. Life gets so thundering tedious otherwise. What else can I do that I haven’t done a hundred times already? But it’s fun to match wits with Brannoch and that slobbering redbeard. Win, lose, or draw, it’s amusing; but I intend to win.”
    â€œEver thought of … compromising?”
    â€œDon’t let Brannoch bluff you. He’s one of the coldest and cleverest brains in the galaxy. Fairly decent sort—I’ll be sorry when I finally have to kill him—but—never mind!” Chanthavar turned away. “Come on, let’s get down to the serious business of getting drunk.”

VI
    Progress does get made: Langley’s refresher cabinet removed all trace of hangover from him the next morning, and the service robot slid breakfast from a chute onto a table and removed it when he was through. But after that there was a day of nothing to do but sit around and brood.
    It would be so easy to give in, cooperate with Chanthavar, and glide with the current. How did he know it wouldn’t be right? The Technate seemed to represent order, civilization, justice of sorts. He had no business setting himself up against twenty billion people and 5000 years of history. Had Peggy been along, he would have surrendered; her neck was not one to risk for a principle he wasn’t even sure of.
    But Peggy was dead, and he had little except principle to live for. It was no fun playing God, even on this petty scale, but he had come from a society which laid on each man the obligation to decide things for himself.
    Chanthavar called on the group that afternoon. He was still yawning. “What a time to get up!” he complained. “Life isn’t worth the effort before sundown. Well, shall we go?”
    As he led them out, half a dozen of his guards closed in around the party. “What’re they for, anyhow?” asked Langley. “Protection against the commons?”
    â€œI’d like to see a commoner even think about making trouble,” said Chanthavar. “If he can think, which I sometimes doubt. No, I need these fellows against my own rivals. Brannoch, for instance, would gladly knock me off just to get an incompetent successor. I’ve ferreted out a lot of his agents. And then I have my competitors within the Technate. Having discovered that bribery and cabals won’t unseat me, they may very well try the direct approach.”
    â€œWhat would they stand to gain by … assassinating you?” inquired Blaustein.
    â€œPower, position, maybe some of my estates. Or they may be out and out enemies. I had to kick in a lot of teeth on my own way up.”
    They emerged on a bridgeway and let its moving belt carry them along, dizzily high over the city. At this altitude, Langley could see that Lora was built as a single integrated unit. No building stood alone. They were all connected, and there was a solid roof underneath decking over the lower levels.
    Chanthavar pointed to the misty horizon, where a single great tower reared. “Weather-control station,” he said. “Most of what you see belongs to the city, Ministerial public park, but over that way is the boundary of an estate belonging to Tarahoe. He raises grain on it, being a back-to-nature crank.”
    â€œHaven’t you any small farms?” asked Langley.
    â€œSpace, no!” Chanthavar looked surprised. “They do on the Centaurian planets, but I’d find it hard to imagine a more inefficient system. A lot of our food is synthesized; the rest is grown on Ministerial lands.”
    They had lunch at a terrace restaurant, where machines served a gaily dressed, stiff-mannered clientele of aristocrats. Chanthavar paid the bill with a shrug. “I hate to put money into the purse of Minister Agaz—he’s after my head—but you