And the decision had been made: secrecy. By what condign struggles the secrecy had been enforced, the secrecy itself concealed. But it had worked. Once the radiating colonizers had reached their goals, the nucleophoretic effect had been obliterated from their records and, except for a single man on each planet, from their minds.
Why the single man? Why not bury it entirely?
Haarland said slowly, “There was always the chance that something would go wrong, you see. And—it has.”
Ross said hesitantly, “You mean the nine planets that have gone out of communication?”
Haarland nodded. He hesitated. “Do you understand it now?” he asked.
Ross shook his head dizzily. “I’m trying,” he said. “This little ship—it travels faster than light. It has been circling out here—how long? Fourteen hundred years? And you kept it secret—you and your ancestors before you because you were afraid it might be used in war?” He was frowning.
“Not ‘afraid’ it would be used,” Haarland corrected gently. “We knew it would be used.”
Ross grimaced. “Well, why tell me about it now? Do you expect me to keep it secret all the rest of my life?”
“I think you would,” Haarland said soberly.
“But suppose I didn’t? Suppose I blabbed all over the Galaxy, and it was used in war?”