Joe Chessman grunted.

Just to be saying something, Kennedy said, “How do you stand in the big debate?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I favor Plekhanov. How we’re going to take a bunch of savages and teach them modern agriculture and industrial methods in fifty years, using democratic institutions, I don’t know. I can just see them putting it to a vote when we suggest fertilizer might be a good idea.” He didn’t feel like continuing the conversation. “See you later, Kennedy,” and then, as an afterthought, formally, “Relinquishing the watch to Second Officer.”

As he left the compartment, Jerry Kennedy called after him: “Hey, what’s the course?”

Chessman growled over his shoulder. “The same it was last month, and the same it’ll be next month.” It wasn’t much of a joke, but it was the only one they had between themselves.

In the ship’s combination lounge and mess he drew a cup of coffee. Joe Chessman, among whose specialties were propaganda and primitive socio-economic systems, was third in line in the expedition’s hierarchy. As such, he participated in the endless controversy dealing with overall strategy, but only as a junior member of the firm. Amschel Mayer and Leonid Plekhanov were the center of the fracas and right now were at it hot and heavy.

Joe Chessman listened with only half interest. He settled into a chair on the opposite side of the lounge and sipped at his coffee. They were going over their old battlefields, assaulting ramparts they’d stormed a thousand times over.

Plekhanov was saying doggedly: “Any planned economy is more efficient than any unplanned one. What could be more elementary than that? How could anyone in his right mind deny that?”

And Mayer snapped in high irritation. “I deny it. That term planned economy covers a multitude of sins. My dear Leonid, don’t be an idiot…”