{"id":27219,"date":"2026-03-28T00:50:52","date_gmt":"2026-03-28T04:50:52","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=27219"},"modified":"2026-03-28T00:50:54","modified_gmt":"2026-03-28T04:50:54","slug":"ben-bova-a-small-kindness","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/ben-bova-a-small-kindness\/27219\/","title":{"rendered":"Ben Bova: A Small Kindness"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis:<\/strong> \u201cA Small Kindness\u201d is a short story by American writer Ben Bova, published in April 1983 in Analog Science Fiction\/Science Fact magazine. Jeremy Keating is a U.S. diplomatic agent sent to Athens on a mission to assassinate Kabete Rungawa, a venerable African leader known as \u201cThe Black Saint of the Third World,\u201d a key figure in the newly created World Government. Determined to carry out his mission, on a rainy night he follows his target through the city streets to the ruins of the ancient Acropolis. However, what appears to be a routine political assassination soon turns into an encounter that will shake Keating\u2019s certainties about the world, his enemies, and his own reasons for killing.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
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\"Ben<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

A Small Kindness<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Ben Bova
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jeremy Keating hated the rain. Athens was a dismal enough assignment, but in the windswept rainy night it was cold and black and dangerous.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Everyone pictures Athens in the sunshine, he thought. The Acropolis, the gleaming ancient temples. They don\u2019t see the filthy modern city with its endless streams of automobiles spewing out so much pollution that the marble statues are being eaten away and the ancient monuments are in danger of crumbling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Huddled inside his trenchcoat, Keating stood in the shadows of a deep doorway across the street from the taverna where his target was eating a relaxed and leisurely dinner\u2014his last, if things went the way Keating planned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stood as far back in the doorway as he could, pressed against the cold stones of the building, both to remain unseen in the shadows and to keep the cold rain off himself. Rain or no, the automobile traffic still clogged Filellinon Boulevard, cars inching by bumper to bumper, honking their horns, squealing on the slickened paving. The worst traffic in the world, night and day. A million and a half Greeks, all in cars, all the time. They drove the way they lived\u2014argumentatively.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man dining across the boulevard in the warm, brightly-lit taverna was Kabete Rungawa, of the Tanzanian delegation to the World Government conference. \u201cThe Black Saint of the Third World,\u201d he was called. The most revered man since Gandhi. Keating smiled grimly to himself. According to his acquaintances in the Vatican, a man had to be dead before he could be proclaimed a saint.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Keating was a tall man, an inch over six feet. He had the lean, graceful body of a trained athlete, and it had taken him years of constant painful work to acquire it. The earlier part of his adult life he had spent behind a desk or at embassy parties, like so many other Foreign Service career officers. But that had been a lifetime ago, when he was a minor cog in the Department of State\u2019s global machine. When he was a husband and father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His wife had been killed in the rioting in Tunis, part of the carefully-orchestrated Third World upheaval that had forced the new World Government down the throats of the white, industrialized nations. His son had died of typhus in the besieged embassy, when they were unable to get medical supplies because the U. S. government could not decide whether it should negotiate with the radicals or send in the Marines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the end, they negotiated. But by then it was too late. So now Keating served as a roving attach\u00e9 to U.S. embassies or consulates, serving where his special talents were needed. He had found those talents in the depths of his agony, his despair, his hatred.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Outwardly he was still a minor diplomatic functionary, an interesting dinner companion, a quietly handsome man with brooding eyes who seemed both unattached and unavailable. That made him a magnetic lure for a certain type of woman, a challenge they could not resist. A few of them had gotten close enough to him to trace the hairline scar across his abdomen, all that remained of the surgery he had needed after his first assignment, in Indonesia. After that particular horror, he had never been surprised or injured again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With an adamant shake of his head, Keating forced himself to concentrate on the job at hand. The damp cold was seeping into him. His feet were already soaked. The cars still crawled along the rainy boulevard, honking impatiently. The noise was making him irritable, jumpy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTerminate with extreme prejudice,\u201d his boss had told him, that sunny afternoon in Virginia. \u201cDo you understand what that means?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sitting in the deep leather chair in front of the section chief\u2019s broad walnut desk, Keating nodded. \u201cI may be new to this part of the department, but I\u2019ve been around. It means to do to Rungawa what the Indonesians tried to do to me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No one ever used the words kill <\/em>or assassinate <\/em>in these cheerfully lit offices. The men behind the desks, in their pinstripe suits, dealt with computer printouts and satellite photographs and euphemisms. Messy, frightening things like blood were never mentioned here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The section chief steepled his fingers and gave Keating a long, thoughtful stare. He was a distinguished-looking man with silver hair and smoothly tanned skin. He might be the board chairman you meet at the country club, or the type of well-bred gentry who spends the summer racing yachts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAny questions, Jeremy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Keating shifted slightly in his chair. \u201cWhy Rungawa?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The section chief made a little smile. \u201cDo you like having the World Government order us around, demand that we disband our armed forces, tax us until we\u2019re as poor as the Third World?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Keating felt emotions burst into flame inside his guts. All the pain of his wife\u2019s death, of his son\u2019s lingering agony, of his hatred for the gloating ignorant sadistic petty tyrants who had killed them\u2014all erupted in a volcanic tide of lava within him. But he clamped down on his bodily responses, used every ounce of training and willpower at his command to force his voice to remain calm. One thing he had learned about this organization, and about this section chief in particular: never let anyone know where you are vulnerable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve got no great admiration for the World Government,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The section chief\u2019s basilisk smile vanished. There was no need to appear friendly to this man. He was an employee, a tool. Despite his attempt to hide his emotions, it was obvious that all Keating lived for was to avenge his wife and child; it would get him killed, eventually, but for now his thirst for vengeance was a valuable handle for manipulating the man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRungawa is the key to everything,\u201d the section chief said, leaning back in his tall swivel chair and rocking slightly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Keating knew that the World Government, still less than five years old, was meeting in Athens to plan a global economic program. Rungawa would head the Tanzanian delegation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe World Government is taking special pains to destroy the United States,\u201d the section chief said, as calmly as he might announce a tennis score. \u201cWashington was forced to accept the World Government, and the people went along with the idea because they thought it would put an end to the threat of nuclear war. Well, it\u2019s done that\u2014at the cost of taxing our economy for every unemployed black, brown, and yellow man, woman, and child in the entire world.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd Rungawa?\u201d Keating repeated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The section chief leaned forward, pressed his palms on his desktop and lowered his voice. \u201cWe can\u2019t back out of the World Government, for any number of reasons. But we can\u2014with the aid of certain other Western nations\u2014we can take control of it, if we\u2019re able to break up the solid voting bloc of the Third World nations.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWould the Russians\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe can make an accommodation with the Russians,\u201d the section chief said impatiently, waving one hand in the air. \u201cNobody wants to go back to the old cold-war confrontations. It\u2019s the Third World that\u2019s got to be brought to terms.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBy eliminating Rungawa.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cExactly! He\u2019s the glue that holds their bloc together. \u2018The Black Saint.\u2019 They practically worship him. Eliminate him and they\u2019ll fall back into their old tangle of bickering selfish politicians, just as OPEC broke up once the oil glut started.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It had all seemed so simple back there in that comfortable sunny office. Terminate Rungawa and then set about taking the leadership of the World Government. Fix up the damage done by the Third World\u2019s jealous greed. Get the world\u2019s economy back on the right track again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But here in the rainy black night of Athens, Keating knew it was not that simple at all. His left hand gripped the dart gun in his trench coat pocket. There was enough poison in each dart to kill a man instantly and leave no trace for a coroner to find. The darts themselves dissolved on contact with the air within three minutes. The perfect murder weapon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Squinting through the rain, Keating saw through the taverna\u2019s big plate-glass window that Rungawa was getting up from his table, preparing to leave the restaurant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Terminate Rungawa. That was his mission. Kill him and make it look as if he\u2019d had a heart attack. It should be easy enough. One old man, walking alone down the boulevard to his hotel. \u201cThe Black Saint\u201d never used bodyguards. He was old enough for a heart attack to be beyond suspicion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But it was not going to be that easy, Keating saw. Rungawa came out of the taverna accompanied by three younger men. And he did not turn toward his hotel. Instead, he started walking down the boulevard in the opposite direction, toward the narrow tangled streets of the most ancient part of the city, walking toward the Acropolis. In the rain. Walking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Frowning with puzzled aggravation, Keating stepped out of the doorway and into the pelting rain. It was icy cold. He pulled up his collar and tugged his hat down lower. He hated the rain. Maybe the old bastard will catch pneumonia and die naturally, he thought angrily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As he started across the boulevard a car splashed by, horn bleating, soaking his trousers. Keating jumped back just in time to avoid being hit. The driver\u2019s furious face, framed by the rain-streaked car window, glared at him as the auto swept past. Swearing methodically under his breath, Keating found another break in the traffic and sprinted across the boulevard, trying to avoid the puddles even though his feet were already wet through.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stayed well behind Rungawa and his three companions, glad that they were walking instead of driving, miserable to be out in the chilling rain. As far as he could tell, all three of Rungawa\u2019s companions were black, young enough and big enough to be bodyguards. That complicated matters. Had someone warned Rungawa? Was there a leak in the department\u2019s operation?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With Keating trailing behind, the old man threaded the ancient winding streets that huddled around the jutting rock of the Acropolis. The four blacks walked around the ancient citadel, striding purposefully, as if they had to be at an exact place at a precise time. Keating had to stay well behind them because the traffic along Theonas Avenue was much thinner, and pedestrians, in this rain, were nowhere in sight except for his quarry. It was quieter here, along the shoulder of the great cliff. The usual nightly son et lumi\u00e8re <\/em>show had been cancelled because of the rain; even the floodlights around the Parthenon and the other temples had been turned off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a few minutes Keating wondered if Rungawa was going to the Agora instead, but no, the old man and his friends turned in at the gate to the Acropolis, the Sacred Way of the ancient Athenians.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was difficult to see through the rain, especially at this distance. Crouching low behind shrubbery, Keating fumbled in his trench coat pocket until he found the miniature \u201ccamera\u201d he had brought with him. Among other things, it was an infrared snooperscope. Even in the darkness and rain, he could see the four men as they stopped at the main gate. Their figures looked ghostly gray and eerie against a flickering dark background.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They stopped for a few moments while one of them opened the gate that was usually locked and guarded. Keating was more impressed than surprised. They had access to everything they wanted. But why do they want to go up to the Parthenon on a rainy wintry night? And how can I make Rungawa\u2019s death look natural if I have to fight my way past three bodyguards?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The second question resolved itself almost as soon as Keating asked it. Rungawa left his companions at the gate and started up the steep, rain-slickened marble stairs by himself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA man that age, in this weather, could have a heart attack just from climbing those stairs,\u201d Keating whispered to himself. But he knew that he could not rely on chance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He had never liked climbing. Although he felt completely safe and comfortable in a jet plane and had even made parachute jumps calmly, climbing up the slippery rock face of the cliff was something that Keating dreaded. But he did it, nevertheless. It was not as difficult as he had feared. Others had scaled the Acropolis, over the thirty-some centuries since the Greeks had first arrived at it. Keating clambered and scrambled over the rocks, crawling at first on all fours while the cold rain spattered in his face. Then he found a narrow trail. It was steep and slippery, but his soft-soled shoes, required for stealth, gripped the rock well enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He reached the top of the flat-surfaced cliff in a broad open area. To his right was the Propylaea and the little temple of Athene Nike. To his left, the Erechtheum, with its Caryatids patiently holding up the roof as they had for twenty-five hundred years. The marble maidens stared blindly at Keating. He glanced at them, then looked across the width of the clifftop to the half-ruined Parthenon, the most beautiful building on Earth, a monument both to man\u2019s creative genius and his destructive folly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The rain had slackened, but the night was still as dark as the deepest pit of hell. Keating brought the snooperscope up to his eyes again and scanned from left to right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And there stood Rungawa! Directly in front of the Parthenon, standing there with his arms upraised, as if praying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Too far away for the dart gun, Keating knew. For some reason, his hands started to shake. Slowly, struggling for absolute self-control, Keating put the \u201ccamera\u201d back into his trench coat and took out the pistol. He rose to his feet and began walking toward Rungawa with swift but unhurried, measured strides.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The old man\u2019s back was to him. All you have to do, Keating told himself, is to get within a few feet, pop the dart into his neck, and then wait a couple of minutes to make certain the dart dissolves. Then go down the way you came and back to the pensione <\/em>for a hot bath and a bracer of cognac.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As he came to within ten feet of Rungawa he raised the dart gun. It worked on air pressure, practically noiseless. No need to cock it. Five feet. He could see the nails on Rungawa\u2019s upraised hands, the pinkish palms contrasting with the black skin of the fingers and the backs of his hands. Three feet. Rungawa\u2019s suit was perfectly fitted to him, the sleeves creased carefully. Dry. He was wearing only a business suit, and it was untouched by the rain, as well-creased and unwrinkled as if it had just come out of the store.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot yet, Mr. Keating,\u201d said the old man, without turning to look at Jeremy. \u201cWe have a few things to talk about before you kill me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Keating froze. He could not move his arm. It stood ramrod straight from his left shoulder, the tiny dart gun in his fist a mere two feet from Rungawa\u2019s bare neck. But he could not pull the trigger. His fingers would not obey the commands of his mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rungawa turned toward him, smiling, and stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou may put the gun down now, Mr. Keating.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jeremy\u2019s arm dropped to his side. His mouth sagged open; his heart thundered in his ears. He wanted to run away, but his legs were like the marble of the statues that watched them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cForgive me,\u201d said Rungawa. \u201cI should not leave you out in the rain like that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The rain stopped pelting Jeremy. He felt a gentle warmth enveloping him, as if he were standing next to a welcoming fireplace. The two men stood under a cone of invisible protection. Jeremy could see the raindrops spattering on the stony ground not more than a foot away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA small trick. Please don\u2019t be alarmed.\u201d Rungawa\u2019s voice was a deep rumbling bass, like the voice a lion would have ifit could speak in human tongue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jeremy stared into the black man\u2019s eyes and saw no danger in them, no hatred or violence; only a patient amusement at his own consternation. No, more: a tolerance of human failings, a hope for human achievement, an understanding <\/em>born of centuries of toil and pain and striving.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho are you?\u201d Jeremy asked in a frightened whisper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rungawa smiled, and it was like sunlight breaking through the storm clouds. \u201cAh, Mr. Keating, you are as intelligent as we had hoped. You cut straight to the heart of the matter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou knew I was following you. You set up this meeting.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes. Yes, quite true. Melodramatic of me, I admit. But would you have joined me at dinner if I had sent one of my aides across the street to invite you? I think not.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s all crazy, Jeremy thought. I must be dreaming this.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, Mr. Keating. It is not a dream.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

An electric jolt flamed through Jeremy. Jesus Christ, he can read my mind!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course I can,\u201d Rungawa said gently, smiling, the way doctor tells a child that the needle will hurt only for an instant. \u201cHow else would I know that you were stalking me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jeremy\u2019s mouth went utterly dry. His voice cracked and failed him. If he had been able to move his legs he would have fled like a chimpanzee confronted by a leopard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPlease, do not be afraid, Mr. Keating. Fear is an impediment to understanding. If we had wanted to kill you, it would have been most convenient to let you slip while you were climbing up here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat…\u201d Jeremy had to swallow and lick his lips before he could ask, \u201cJust who are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am a messenger, Mr. Keating. Like you, I am merely a tool of my superiors. When I was assigned to this task, I thought it appropriate to make my home base in Tanzania.\u201d The old man\u2019s smile returned, and a hint of self-satisfaction glowed in his eyes. \u201cAfter all, Tanzania is where the earliest human tribes once lived. What more appropriate place for me to\u2014um, shall we say, associate <\/em>myself with the human race?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAssociate… with the human race.\u201d Jeremy felt breathless, weak. His voice was hollow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am not a human being, Mr. Keating. I come from a far-distant world, a world that is nothing like this one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo… that can\u2019t…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rungawa\u2019s smile slowly faded. \u201cSome of your people call me a saint. Actually, compared to your species, I am a god.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jeremy stared at him, stared into his deep black eyes, and saw eternity in them, whirlpools of galaxies spinning majestically in infinite depths of space, stars exploding and evolving, worlds created out of dust.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He heard his voice, weak and childlike, say, \u201cBut you look human.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course! Completely human. Even to your X-ray machines.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

An alien. Jeremy\u2019s mind reeled. An extraterrestrial. With a sense of humor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy not? Is not humor part of the human psyche? The intelligences who created me made me much more than human, but I have every human attribute\u2014except one. I have no need for vengeance, Mr. Keating.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cVengeance,\u201d Jeremy echoed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes. A destructive trait. It clouds the perceptions. It is an obstacle in the path of survival.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jeremy took a deep breath, tried to pull himself together. \u201cYou expect me to believe all this?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI can see that you do, Mr. Keating. I can see that you now realize that not all <\/em>the UFO stories have been hoaxes. We have never harmed any of your people, but we did require specimens for careful analysis.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTo help you find the correct path to survival. Your species is on the edge of a precipice. It is our duty to help you avoid extinction, if we\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour duty?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course. Do not your best people feel an obligation to save other species from extinction? Have not these human beings risked their fortunes and their very lives to protect creatures such as the whale and the seal from slaughter?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 Jeremy almost laughed. \u201cYou mean you\u2019re from some interstellar Greenpeace project?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is much more complex than that,\u201d Rungawa said. \u201cWe are not merely trying to protect you from a predator, or from an ecological danger. You human beings are your own worst enemy. We must protect you from yourselves\u2014without your knowing it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Before Jeremy could reply, Rungawa went on, \u201cIt would be easy for us to create a million creatures like myself and to land on your planet in great, shining ships and give you all the answers you need for survival. Fusion energy? A toy. World peace? Easily accomplished. Quadruple your global food production? Double your intelligence? Make you immune to every disease? All this we can do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThen why… ?\u201d Jeremy hesitated, thinking. \u201cIf you did all that for us, it would ruin us, wouldn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rungawa beamed at him. \u201cAh, you truly understand the problem! Yes, it would destroy your species, just as your Europeans destroyed the cultures of the Americas and Polynesia. Your anthropologists are wrong. There are<\/em> superior cultures and inferior ones. A superior culture always crushes an inferior, even if it has no intention of doing so.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the back of his mind, Jeremy realized that he had control of his legs again. He flexed the fingers of his left hand slightly, even the index finger that still curled around the trigger of the dart gun. He could move them at will once more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat you\u2019re saying,\u201d he made conversation, \u201cis that if you landed here and gave us everything we want, our culture would be destroyed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d Rungawa agreed. \u201cJust as surely as you whites destroyed the black and brown cultures of the world. We have no desire to do that to you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo you\u2019re trying to lead us to the point where we can solve our own problems.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPrecisely so, Mr. Keating.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s why you\u2019ve started this World Government,\u201d Keating said, his hand tightening on the gun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou started the World Government yourselves,\u201d Rungawa corrected. \u201cWe merely encouraged you, here and there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLike the riots in Tunis and a hundred other places.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe did not encourage that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut you didn\u2019t prevent them, either, did you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo. We did not.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Shifting his weight slightly to the balls of his feet, Keating said, \u201cWithout you the World Government will collapse.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The old man shook his head. \u201cNo, that is not true. Despite what your superiors believe, the World Government will endure even the death of \u2018the Black Saint.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you sure?\u201d Keating raised the gun to the black man\u2019s eye level. \u201cAre you absolutely certain?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rungawa did not blink. His voice became sad as he answered, \u201cWould I have relaxed my control of your limbs if I were not certain?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Keating hesitated, but held the gun rock-steady.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou are the test, Mr. Keating. You are the key to your species\u2019 future. We know how your wife and son died. Even though we were not directly responsible, we regret their deaths. And the deaths of all the others. They were unavoidable losses.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStatistics,\u201d Keating spat. \u201cNumbers on a list.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNever! Each of them was an individual whom we <\/em>knew much better than you could, and we regretted each loss of life as much as you do yourself. Perhaps more, because we understand what each of those individuals could have accomplished, had they lived.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut you let them die.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt was unavoidable, I say. Now the question is, Can you rise above your own personal tragedy, for the good of your fellow humans? Or will you take vengeance upon me and see your species destroy itself?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c<\/em>Youjust said the World Government will survive your death.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd it will. But it will change. It will become a world dictatorship, in time. It will smother your progress. Your species will die out in an agony of overpopulation, starvation, disease and terrorism. You do not need nuclear bombs to kill yourselves. You can manage it quite well enough merely by producing too many babies.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOur alternative is to let your people direct us, to become sheep without even knowing it, to jump to your tune.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo!\u201d Rungawa\u2019s deep voice boomed. \u201cThe alternative is to become adults. You are adolescents now. We offer you the chance to grow up and stand on your own feet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow can I believe that?\u201d Keating demanded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The old man\u2019s smile showed warmness. \u201cThe adolescent always distrusts the parent. That is the painful truth, is it not?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou have an answer for everything, don\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEverything, perhaps, except you. You are the key to your species\u2019 future, Mr. Keating. If you can accept what I have told you, and allow us to work with you despite all your inner thirst for vengeance, then the human species will have a chance to survive.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Keating moved his hand a bare centimeter to the left and squeezed the gun\u2019s trigger. The dart shot out with a hardly audible puff of compressed air and whizzed past Rungawa\u2019s ear. The old man did not flinch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou can kill me if you want to,\u201d he said to Keating. \u201cThat is your decision to make.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t believe you,\u201d Jeremy said. \u201cI can\u2019t believe you! It\u2019s too much, it\u2019s too incredible. You can\u2019t expect a man to accept everything you\u2019ve just told me\u2014not all at once!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe do expect it,\u201d Rungawa said softly. \u201cWe expect that and more. We want you working with us, not against us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jeremy felt as if his guts were being torn apart. \u201cWork with you?\u201d he screamed. \u201cWith the people who murdered my wife and son?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere are other children in the world. Do not deny them their birthright. Do not foreclose their future.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou bastard!\u201d Jeremy seethed. \u201cYou don\u2019t miss a trick, do you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt all depends on you, Mr. Keating. You are our test case. What you do now will decide the future of the human species.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A thousand emotions raged through Jeremy. He saw Joanna being torn apart by the mob and Jerry in his cot screaming with fever, flames and death everywhere, the filth and poverty of Jakarta and the vicious smile of the interrogator as he sharpened his razor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019s lying, Jeremy\u2019s mind shouted at him. He\u2019s got to be lying. All this is some clever set of tricks. It can\u2019t be true. It can\u2019t be!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In a sudden paroxysm of rage and terror and frustration Jeremy hurled the gun high into the rain-filled night, turned abruptly and walked away from Rungawa. He did not look back, but he knew the old man was smiling at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s a trick, he kept telling himself. A goddamned trick. He knew damned well I couldn\u2019t kill him in cold blood, with him standing there looking at me with those damned sad eyes of his. Shoot an old man in the face. I just couldn\u2019t do it. All he had to do was keep me talking long enough to lose my nerve. Goddamned clever black man. Must be how he lived to get so old.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Keating stamped down the marble steps of the Sacred Way, pushed past the three raincoated guards who had accompanied Rungawa, and walked alone and miserable back to the pensione.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

How the hell am I going to explain this back at headquarters? I\u2019ll have to resign, tell them that I\u2019m not cut out to be an assassin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They\u2019ll never believe that. Maybe I could get a transfer, get back into the political section, join the Peace Corps, anything!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was still furious with himself when he reached the pensione. <\/em>Still shaking his head, angry that he had let the old man talk him out of his assigned mission. Some form of hypnosis, Keating thought. He must have been a medicine man or a voodoo priest when he was younger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He pushed through the glassed front door of the pensione, <\/em>muttering to himself. \u201cYou let him trick you. You let that old black man hoodwink you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The room clerk roused himself from his slumber and got up to reach Jeremy\u2019s room key from the rack behind the desk. He was a short, sturdily-built Greek, the kind who would have faced the Persians at Marathon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou must have run very fast,\u201d he said to Keating in heavily accented English.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHuh? What? Why do you say that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The clerk grinned, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. \u201cYou did not get wet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Keating looked at the sleeve of his trench coat. It was perfectly dry. The whole coat was as clean and dry as if it had just come from a pressing. His feet were dry; his shoes and trousers and hat were dry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He turned and looked out the front window. The rain was coming down harder than ever, a torrent of water.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou run so fast you go between raindrops, eh?\u201d The clerk laughed at his own joke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jeremy\u2019s knees nearly buckled. He leaned against the desk. \u201cYeah. Something like that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The clerk, still grinning, handed him his room key. Jeremy gathered his strength and headed for the stairs, his head spinning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As he went up the first flight, he heard a voice, even though he was quite alone on the carpeted stairs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA small kindness, Mr. Keating,\u201d said Rungawa, inside his mind. \u201cI thought it would have been a shame to make you get wet all over again. A small kindness. There will be more to come.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Keating could hear Rungawa chuckling as he walked alone up the stairs. By the time he reached his room, he was grinning himself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cA Small Kindness\u201d is a short story by American writer Ben Bova, published in April 1983 in Analog Science Fiction\/Science Fact magazine. Jeremy Keating is a U.S. diplomatic agent sent to Athens on a mission to assassinate Kabete Rungawa, a venerable African leader known as \u201cThe Black Saint of the Third World,\u201d a key figure in the newly created World Government. Determined to carry out his mission, on a rainy night he follows his target through the city streets to the ruins of the ancient Acropolis. However, what appears to be a routine political assassination soon turns into an encounter that will shake Keating\u2019s certainties about the world, his enemies, and his own reasons for killing.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":27218,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[1679,552,570],"class_list":["post-27219","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-ben-bova","tag-science-fiction","tag-united-states","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":1679,"label":"Ben Bova"},{"value":552,"label":"Science fiction"},{"value":570,"label":"United States"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/04\/Ben-Bova-Una-pequena-amabilidad.webp",768,768,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":419,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":419,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":1679,"name":"Ben Bova","slug":"ben-bova","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":1679,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":1,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":552,"name":"Science fiction","slug":"science-fiction","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":552,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":121,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":570,"name":"United States","slug":"united-states","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":570,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":294,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27219","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=27219"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27219\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":27220,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27219\/revisions\/27220"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/27218"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=27219"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=27219"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=27219"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}