Competition

They would learn what caused the murderous disease—if it was the last thing they did!
January 18, Earth Time
I wish Max would treat me like a woman .
An hour ago, at dinner, John Armitage proposed a toast, especially for my benefit. He loves to play the gallant. Big man, silver mane, very blue eyes, a porcelain smile. The head of WSC, the perfect example of the politician-scientist.
To the colony, he announced, raising his glass. May Epsilon love them and keep them. May it only be transmittal trouble.
Amen, Max said.
We drank. Taylor Bishop put down his glass precisely. Bishop is a gray little man with a diffident voice that belies his reputation as the best biochemist in the system. Has Farragut hinted otherwise? he asked mildly.
Armitage frowned. It would be scarcely prudent for Senator Farragut to alarm the populace with disaster rumors.
Bishop looked at him out of his pale eyes. Besides, it's an election year.
The silence was suddenly ugly.
Then Armitage chuckled. All right, he said. So the Senator wants to be a national hero. The fact still remains that Epsilon had better be habitable or Pan-Asia will scream we're hogging it. They want war anyway. Within a month—boom.
For a moment, I was afraid he was going to make a speech about Earth's suffocating billions, the screaming tension of the cold war, and the sacred necessity of Our Mission. If he had, I'd have gotten the weeping shrieks. Some responsibilities are too great to think about. But instead he winked at me. For the first time, I began to realize why Armitage was the Director of the Scientists' World Council.