The Janus Paradox
by Margaret Pearce
part 1
The new president, or Lord High Balancer, as he was termed by Earth’s latest allies, lounged back in his leather swivel chair and yawned.
The necessities of war made strange bedfellows. Whoever would have thought that he, ex-spaceship commander George Wilkins, would end up as president of the planet Janus.
The Janarians were telepaths, and every planet in the Federation gave them a wide berth. However, their contribution to the war effort — the integrated circuits that were making such a difference to the battle cruisers’ mobility — was very welcome.
“In fact,” the Commander-in-Chief announced at George’s initial briefing, “we can’t do without them. It’s not only the technology, but also the substance they use. We can’t duplicate it anywhere in the galaxy. Although there was no need for them to get involved, you know,” he continued thoughtfully.
George waited in respectful silence. The Commander-in-Chief was thinking aloud, trying to work out something all his colleagues had puzzled over and over.
“No alien would touch them or their planet.” He scowled and pushed a model rocket ship around his desktop. It was the new Cruiser 111 that had been fitted with the first of the integrated circuitry offered by the Janarians. “Could touch them,” he amended.
He shrugged, and came back to the present problem. His eyes were hard again. “You know the conditions, George: one qualified off-world person to be president — er, Lord High Balancer — of their planet and they’ll keep the equipment coming.”
George remained silent. All this was common knowledge. What also was common knowledge was that he was going to be the seventh president. An ex-prime minister had been rejected as soon as he set foot on the planet.
“Bent,” the Janarians explained.
A sadistic psychopathic monster certainly couldn’t stay on a planet of telepaths. George tried to keep his grin under control as he remembered the next two presidents and the embarrassed delegations who had to listen to weeping public confessions before the visitors had even stepped off the landing ramp.
One ex-politician had cascaded gold and amassed gemstones at their feet in an orgy of self-accusation. Six months later, his successor, a cultured, dignified academic with an intergalactic reputation for learning and more like the Janarians in looks than the Janarians themselves, was also abasing himself in tears before the landing ramp had fully extended. His dignified exterior covered an odorous pit of sexual tastes. The embarrassment caused by that confession, despite the most rigid efforts at suppressing the spicier details, had reddened faces all over the galaxy.
The presidency then had been offered in turn to a high-ranking diplomat, an abdicated king, and a retired space fleet commander. All were psychologically sound and men of integrity. All three had committed suicide.
“Definitely suicides, George,” the Commander-in-Chief stressed. “We checked it out thoroughly. But why did they do it?”
George thought about it. He had been over the files, too. After all, he was the next candidate. The previous men had been well-balanced and dedicated, with everything to live for. There appeared to be little or no stress, since the president’s duties were minimal. And the natives, despite their disconcerting habit of reading minds, were pleasant and kindly.
“If anything should happen to you, George” — and the Commander-in-Chief’s voice held a grim note — “we will still have to keep on feeding that damned planet with presidents until the war is won, but we are counting on you.”
George saluted and shook his commander’s hand. His record was unblemished, which was why the computer had thrown up his name. He had been a daring and reckless fighter pilot on the solo ships, before being promoted to command his own cruiser. He was loyal, dedicated and honest. He was also an intelligent well-adjusted human being. There was no hint of cruelty, vice or greed thrown up from any of the battery of psychological tests.
“I won’t commit suicide on you, sir,” he promised and departed for his year of servitude as Lord High Balancer on Janus.
He was installed as president of the planet with due pomp and ceremony, and the witnessing delegations took off to continue their war effort. George stood on his presidential balcony and saluted them rather wryly as they roared their salute and blasted off.
Their sighs of relief were inaudible, but he felt the gust of them as strongly as their rocket exhausts. Their preference was for the straightforward struggle of battle and the relentless fighting for each parsec of space rather than the safety of Janus. Three days on the peaceful planet with its classically proportioned people and buildings were enough to make the toughest and most disciplined of delegates acutely uncomfortable.
Now, George’s first six months were nearly up. He had settled into enjoying his lifestyle as president more and more. If the Janarians’ habit of watching his thoughts was disconcerting, that was all it was. It meant that his every wish was anticipated and his every mood pampered. The palace had a well-stocked library, a hauntingly beautiful art collection and a swimming pool. He approved of the courtesy of the Janarians and the warm bond of affection they had for each other.
His duties consisted of initialling the stock sheets of every consignment of equipment that went off the planet, and travelling from place to place for what appeared to be ceremonial visits. He was also the adjudicator in disputes. “You are the Balancer, Honoured One,” his attendant Janarian explained.
George thought he was starting to understand their intricate social system and contemplated writing a report. He shrugged off the impulse. After all, he wasn’t an anthropologist, and the reliance upon an outside adjudicator was simply logical, not worth drawing attention to.
Because the Janaraians were telepathic, they had a complete understanding and consensus of opinion. If they genuinely differed, their ruling was to stand by outside opinion. They considered indecision a form of dissension, corrosive and dangerous. They preferred to be united over everything.
George settled decisions on where to build a bridge, which name for a firstborn and which design for a house on the basis of a spun coin. The Janarians were never wrong; they were too meticulous for that but, when two right choices emerged, George cast the deciding vote.
This particular morning, George was bored. His next tour of duty was at least a week off. He had signed his morning’s quota of stock sheets, and there were no listed cases or decisions that required his attention. In a fortnight, the delegation would be back for the six-month’s visit to their longest surviving president.
He gazed out the window again at the rolling countryside, and contemplated the thought of constructing a golf course. The metal domes could be the hazards, and he could fill sandtraps in the hollows.
“Except, honoured sir, the forcefield would disintegrate the balls,” the gentle voice said from the doorway.
“Just a thought, Jarid.”
Jarid, the Janarian who was his personal attendant, waited, deep eyes fixed on George.
“Is there something wrong?” George asked.
He wondered if he spent enough time on the planet, whether he, too, would become telepathic. He definitely sensed that Jarid — indeed, the entire community — was seriously perturbed about something.
“There is a matter for your attention, honoured sir.”
George swung his feet off the desk, brushed down his immaculate uniform and put on his cap. Together they went down the imposing steps to the small silver flier waiting. The trip took some two hours, and crossed a monotonous area of swamp and hills.
Jarid remained silent. George relaxed against the contoured seat and waited. Whatever it was, he would come to it soon enough, and he was by now sufficiently aware of the custom of silence. The Janarians usually spoke only when directly addressed.
The flier at last swooped down and landed at the style of settlement George had come to associate with the Janarians. Cultivated fields, a collection of Greek-temple type buildings and the gleam of water; two metal domes with their shimmering heat hazes above them, half-obscured by the purple trees and yellow, oversized mushrooms.
Jarid led the way down to the airlock style entrance of a dome. Groups of Janarians were motionless and rigid, locked in some private grief, ignoring the newcomers. George went down the steps with open interest. It was the first time he had been in one of the metal domes. The double airlock opened into what appeared to be decontamination and changing lockers.
Jarid kept on going. The heavy doors slid back as they approached. They went down a long passage, and Jarid paused at a door. It slid back and they walked into a brightly-lit room with a tangled litter of circuitry on the workbenches.
Copyright © 2023 by Margaret Pearce
