Uller Uprising
by H. Beam Piper · English · Gutenberg #19474 · 337,482 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Uller Uprising
Author: H. Beam Piper
Contributor: John F. Carr
John D. Clark
Release date: October 5, 2006 [eBook #19474]
Most recently updated: June 6, 2013
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19474
Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Sankar Viswanathan, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ULLER UPRISING ***
Produced by Greg Weeks, Sankar Viswanathan, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the
U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
H. BEAM PIPER
ULLER
UPRISING
ACE SCIENCE FICTION BOOKS
NEW YORK
* * * * *
This Ace Science Fiction Book contains the complete text of the
original hardcover edition. It has been completely reset in a typeface
designed for easy reading, and was printed from new film.
PRINTING HISTORY
Twayne edition/ 1952
Ace edition/ June 1983
Copyright © 1952 by Twayne Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © renewed 1983 by Charter Communications, Inc.
Introduction © 1952, 1983 by Dr. John D. Clark
New Introduction © 1983 by John F. Carr
Cover art by Gino D'Achille
* * * * *
Introduction to
_ULLER UPRISING_
by John F. Carr
With the publication of this novel, _Uller Uprising_, all of H. Beam
Piper's previously published science fiction is now available in Ace
editions. _Uller Uprising_ was first published in 1952 in a Twayne
Science Fiction Triplet--a hardbound collection of three thematically
connected novels. (The other two were Judith Merril's _Daughters of
Earth_ and Fletcher Pratt's _The Long View_.) A year later it appeared
in the February and March issues of _Space Science Fiction_, edited by
Lester Del Rey.
The magazine version, which was abridged by about a third, was
believed by many bibliographers to be the only version--and as a
novella it was too short for book publication. The Twayne version had
a small print run and is so scarce that few people have seen it. Those
bibliographers who knew of its existence assumed that both versions of
_Uller_ were the same. It was through a telephone conversation with
Charles N. Brown, publisher of _Locus_ and correspondent with Piper,
that I learned about the Twayne edition and its greater length. Brown
allowed me to photocopy his original, for which we owe him a debt of
thanks; because the Twayne version is not only novel length, but far
better than the shorter one that appeared in _Space Science Fiction_.
Probably the most surprising and interesting thing about the Twayne
edition is the essay that forms the introduction to that volume, and
is reprinted here. The essay is by Dr. John D. Clark, an eminent
scientist of the fourties and fifties and one of the discoverers of
sulfa, the first "miracle drug." It describes in great detail the
planetary system of the star Beta Hydri, and gives the names of those
planets: Uller and Niflheim. A publisher's note states that Clark's
essay was written first, and given to the contributors as background
material for a novel they would then write.
The fans of H. Beam Piper seem to owe a great debt to Dr. Clark.
_Uller Uprising_ became the foundation of Piper's monumental
Terro-Human Future History; the first story where we encounter the
Terran Federation. In it we learn about Odin, the planet that will one
day be the capital of the First Galactic Empire; and humble Niflheim,
which in more decadent times will become a common expletive, a word
meaning hell. This is also where Piper introduced and explained the
Atomic Era dating system (A.E.). _Uller Uprising_ is set in the early
years of the Terran Federation's expansion and exploration, an epoch
of great vitality. In "The Edge of the Knife" Piper compares this time
of discovery to the Spanish conquest of the Americas. This feeling of
vigor and unlimited possibilities runs through all the early
Federation stories: _Uller Uprising_, "Omnilingual," "Naudsonce,"
"When in the Course--," and, to a lesser degree, in the late
Federation novels, _Little Fuzzy_, _Fuzzy Sapiens_, and _Fuzzies and
Other People_. (See _Federation_ by H. Beam Piper for a good overview
of this period.)
In these stories we see Terro-Humans at their best and at their worst:
Individual heroism and bravery in the face of grave danger in _Uller
Uprising_; Federation law and justice in _Little Fuzzy_ and its
sequels; and, in "Omnilingual" and "Naudsonce," the spirit of science
and rational inquiry. Yet we also see colonial exploitation and
subjugation in _Uller Uprising_ and "Oomphel in the Sky," the greed
and corruption of Chartered land companies in _Little Fuzzy_, and
political corruption in _Four-Day Planet_. These stories are about a
living Terro-Human culture, not a utopia.
It was Piper's attention to historical realism and his use of actual
historical models that have helped his work to pass the test of time
and have led to his becoming the favorite of a new generation of
readers more than twenty-five years after his death.
_Uller Uprising_ is the story of a confrontation between a human
overlord and alien servants, with an ironic twist at the end. Like
most of Piper's best work, _Uller Uprising_ is modeled after an actual
event in human history; in this case the Sepoy Mutiny (a Bengal
uprising in British-held India brought about when rumors were spread
to native soldiers that cartridges being issued by the British were
coated with animal fat. The rebellion quickly spread throughout India
and led to the massacre of the British Colony at Cawnpore.). Piper's
novel is not a mere retelling of the Indian Mutiny, but rather an
analysis of an historical event applied to a similar situation in the
far future.
* * * * *
Like many philosophers and social theorists before him, Piper
attempted to chart the progress of human-kind; unlike most, however,
he did not envision or try to create a system of ethics that would end
all of humanity's problems. The best he could offer was his model of
the self-reliant man: The man who "actually knows what has to be done
and how to do it, and he's going to go right ahead and do it, without
holding a dozen conferences and round-table discussions and giving
everybody a fair and equal chance to foul things up for him."
Piper brought his own ideas and judgments about society and history
into all of his work, but they appear most clearly in his Terro-Human
Future History. While not everyone will agree with Piper's theories
they give his work a bite that most popular fiction lacks. One cannot
read Piper complacently. And one can often find a wry insight
sandwiched in between the blood and thunder.
Other future histories may span more centuries or better illuminate
the highlights of several decades, but until a rival is created with
more historical depth and attention to detail, H. Beam Piper's
Terro-Human Future History will stand as the Bayeux Tapestry of
science fiction histories.
In many ways--certainly during his lifetime--Piper was the most
underrated of the John W. Campbell's "Astounding" writers. He was
probably also the most Campbellian; his _self-reliant man_ is almost a
mirror image of Campbell's "Citizen."
Piper died a bitter man, a failure in his own mind; shortly before his
death he believed he could no longer earn a living as a writer without
charity from his friends or the state.
Now he's the cornerstone of Ace Books. Had he lived long enough to
finish another half dozen books, he would have been among the sf
greats of the sixties....
But maybe he does know, after all. Jerry Pournelle, who was very much
influenced by Piper and in many ways considers himself Beam's
spiritual descendant--and incidently was John W. Campbell's last major
_discovery_--has said that sometimes, when he's gotten down a
particularly good line, he can hear the "old man" chuckle and whisper,
_atta boy_.
Introduction
Dr. John D. Clark
THE SILICONE WORLD
1. THE STAR AND ITS MOST IMPORTANT PLANET
The planet is named Uller (it seems that when interstellar travel was
developed, the names of Greek Gods had been used up, so those of Norse
gods were used). It is the second planet of the star Beta Hydri, right
angle 0:23, declension-77:32, G-0 (solar) type star, of approximately
the same size as Sol; distance from Earth, 21 light years.
Uller revolves around it in a nearly circular orbit, at a distance of
100,000,000 miles, making it a little colder than Earth. A year is of
the approximate length of that on Earth. A day lasts 26 hours.
The axis of Uller is in the same plane as the orbit, so that at a
certain time of the year the north pole is pointed directly at the
sun, while at the opposite end of the orbit it points directly away.
The result is highly exaggerated seasons. At the poles the temperature
runs from 120°C to a low of-80°C. At the equator it remains not far
from 10°C all year round. Strong winds blow during the summer and
winter, from the hot to the cold pole; few winds during the spring and
fall. The appearance of the poles varies during the year from baked
deserts to glaciers covered with solid CO_{2}. Free water exists in
the equatorial regions all year round.
2. SOLAR MOVEMENT AS SEEN FROM ULLER
As seen from the north pole--no sun is visible on Jan. 1. On April 1,
it bisects the horizon all day, swinging completely around. April 1 to
July 1, it continues swinging around, gradually rising in the sky, the
spiral converging to its center at the zenith, which it reaches July
1. From July 1 to October 1 the spiral starts again, spreading out
from the center until on October 1 it bisects the horizon again. On
October 1 night arrives to stay until April 1.
At the equator, the sun is visible bisecting the southern horizon for
all 26 hours of the day on January 1. From January 1 to April 1, the
sun starts to dip below the horizon at night, to rise higher above it
during the day. During all this time it rises and sets at the same
hours, but rises in the southeast and sets in the southwest. At noon
it is higher each day in the southern sky until April 1, when it rises
due east, passes through the zenith and sets due west. From April 1 to
July 1, its noon position drops down to the north, until on July 1, it
is visible all day, bisected by the northern horizon.
3. CHEMISTRY AND GEOLOGY OF ULLER
Calcium and chlorine are rarer than on earth, sodium is somewhat
commoner. As a result of the shortage of calcium there is a higher
ration of silicates to carbonates than exists on earth. The water is
slightly alkaline and resembles a very dilute solution of sodium
silicate (water glass). It would have a pH of 8.5 and tastes slightly
soapy. Also, when it dries out it leaves a sticky, and then a glassy,
crackly film. Rocks look fairly earthlike, but the absence or scarcity
of anything like limestone is noticeable. Practically all the
sedimentary rocks are of the sandstone type.
All rivers are seasonal, running from the polar regions to the central
seas in the spring only, or until the polar cap is completely dried
out.
4. ANIMAL LIFE
As on Earth life arose in the primitive waters and with a carbon base,
but because of the abundance of silicone, there was a strong tendency
for the microscopic organisms to develop silicate exoskeletons, like
diatoms. The present invertebrate animal life of the planet is of this
type and is confined to the equatorial seas. They run from amoeba-like
objects to things like crayfish, with silicate skeletons. Later, some
species of them started taking silicone into their soft tissues, and
eventually their carbon-chain compounds were converted to silicone
type chains, from
| | | | | | | |
--C--C--C-- to O--Si--O--Si--O--Si,
| | | | | | | |
with organic radicals on the side links. These organisms were a
transitional type, with silicone tissues and water body fluids,
resembling the earthly amphibians, and are now practically extinct.
There are a few species, something like segmented worms, still to be
seen in the backwaters of the central seas.
A further development occurred when the silicone chain animals began
to get short-chain silicones into their circulatory systems, held in
solution by OH or NH_{2} groups on the ends and branches of the
chains. The proportion of these compounds gradually increased until
the water was a minor and then a missing constituent. The larger
mobile species were, then, practically anhydrous. Their blood consists
of short-chain silicones, with quartz reinforcing for the soft parts
and their armor, teeth, etc., of pure amorphous quartz (opal). Most of
these parts are of the milky variety, variously tinted with metallic
impurities, as are the varieties of sapphires.
These pure silicone animals, due to their practical indestructibility,
annihilated all but the smaller of the carbon animals, and drove the
compromise types into odd corners as relics. They developed into a
fish-like animal with a very large swim-bladder to compensate for the
rather higher density of the silicone tissues, and from these fish the
land animals developed. Due to their high density and resulting high
weight, they tend to be low on the ground, rather reptilian in look.
Three pairs of legs are usual in order to distribute the heavy load.
There is no sharp dividing line between the quartz armor and the
silicone tissue. One merges into the other.
The dominant pure silicone animals only could become mobile and
venture far from the temperate equatorial regions of Uller, since they
neither froze nor stiffened with cold, nor became incapacitated by
heat. Note that all animal life is cold-blooded, with a negligible
difference between body and ambient temperatures. Since the animals
are silicones, they don't get sluggish like cold snakes.
5. PLANT LIFE
The plants are of the carbon-metabolism, silicate-shell type, like the
primitive animals. They spread out from the equator as far as they
could go before the baking polar summers killed them. They have normal
seasonal growth in the temperate zones and remain dormant and frozen
in the winter. At the poles there is no vegetation, not because of the
cold winter, but because of the hot summer. The winter winds
frequently blow over dead trees and roll them as far as the equatorial
seas. Other dead vegetation, because of the highly silicious water,
always gets petrified unless it is eaten first. What with the
quartz-speckled hides of the living vegetation and the solid quartz of
the dead, a forest is spectacular.
The silicone animals live on the plants. They chew them up, dehydrate
them, and convert their silicious outer bark and carbonaceous
interiors into silicones for themselves. When silicone tissue is
metabolized, the carbon and hydrogen go to CO_{2} and H_{2}O, which
are breathed out, while the silicone goes into SiO_{2}, which is
deposited as more teeth and armor. (Compare the terrestrial octopus,
which makes armor-plating out of calcium urate instead of excreting
urea or uric acid.) The animals can, of course, eat each other too, or
make a meal of the small carbonaceous animals of the equatorial seas.
Further note that the animals cannot digest plants when they are cold.
They can eat them and store them, but the disposal of the solid water
and CO_{2} is too difficult a problem. When they warm up, the water in
the plants melts and can be disposed of, and things are simpler.
II
THE FLUORINE PLANET
1. THE STAR AND PLANET
The planet named Niflheim is the fourth planet of Nu Puppis, right
angle 6:36, declension-43:09; B8 type star, blue-white and hot, 148
light years distant from Earth, which will require a speed in excess
of light to reach it.
Niflheim is 462,000,000 miles from its primary, a little less than the
distance of Jupiter from our sun. It thus does not receive too great a
total amount of energy, but what it does receive is of high potential,
a large fraction of it being in the ultra-violet and higher
frequencies. (Watch out for really super-special sunburn, etc., on
unwarned personnel.)
The gravity of Niflheim is approximately 1 g, the atmospheric pressure
approximately 1 atmosphere, and the average ambient temperature
about-60°C;-76°F.
2. ATMOSPHERE
The oxidizer in the atmosphere is free fluorine (F_{2}) in a rather
low concentration, about 4 or 5 percent. With it appears a mad
collection of gases. There are a few inert diluents, such as N_{2}
(nitrogen), argon, helium, neon, etc., but the major fraction consists
of CF_{4} (carbon tetrafluoride), BF_{3} (boron trifluoride), SiF_{4}
(silicon tetrafluoride), PF_{5} (phosphorous pentafluoride), SF_{6}
(sulphur hexafluoride) and probably others. In other words, the
fluorides of all the non-metals that can form fluorides. The
phosphorous pentafluoride rains out when the weather gets cold. There
is also free oxygen, but no chlorine. That would be liquid except in
very hot weather. It sometimes appears combined with fluorine in
chlorine trifluoride. The atmosphere has a slight yellowish tinge.
3. SOIL AND GEOLOGY
Above the metallic core of the planet, the lithosphere consists
exclusively of fluorides of the metals. There are no oxides, sulfides,
silicates or chlorides. There are small deposits of such things as
bromine trifluoride, but these have no great importance. Since
fluorides are weak mechanically, the terrain is flattish. Nothing
tough like granite to build mountains out of. Since the fluoride ion
is colorless, the color of the soil depends upon the predominant metal
in the region. As most of the light metals also have colorless ions,
the colored rocks are rather rare.
4. THE WATERS UNDER THE EARTH
They consist of liquid hydrofluoric acid (HF). It melts at-83°C and
boils at 19.4°C. In it are dissolved varying quantities of metallic
and non-metallic fluorides, such as boron trifluoride, sodium
fluoride, etc. When the oceans and lakes freeze, they do so from the
bottom up, so there is no layer of ice over free liquid.
5. PLANTS AND PLANT METABOLISM
The plants function by photosynthesis, taking HF as water from the
soil, and carbon tetrafluoride as the equivalent of carbon dioxide
from the air to produce chain compounds, such as:
H H H H
| | | |
--C--C--C--C--
| | | |
F F F F
and at the same time liberating free fluorine. This reaction could
only take place on a planet receiving lots of ultra-violet because so
much energy is needed to break up carbon tetrafluoride and
hydrofluoric acid. The plant catalyst (doubling for the magnesium in
chlorophyll) is nickel. The plants are colored in various ways. They
get their metals from the soil.
6. ANIMALS AND ANIMAL METABOLISM
Animals depend upon two main reactions for their energy, and for the
construction of their harder tissues. The soft tissues are about the
same as the plant molecules, but the hard tissues are produced by the
reaction:
H H H F F F
| | | | | |
--C--C--C-- + F_{2} --> --C--C--C-- + HF
| | | | | |
F F F F F F
resulting in a teflon boned and shelled organism. He's going to be
tough to do much with. Diatoms leave strata of powdered teflon. The
main energy reaction is:
H H H
| | |
--C--C--C-- ... + F_{2} --> CF_{4} + HF
| | |
F F F
The blood catalyst metal is titanium, which results in colorless
arterial blood and violet veinous, as the titanium flips back and
forth between tri and tetra-valent states.
7. EFFECT ON INTRUDING ITEMS
Water decomposes into oxygen and hydrofluoric acid. All organic matter
(earth type) converts into oxygen, carbon tetrafluoride, hydrofluoric
acid, etc., with more or less speed. A rubber gas mask lasts about an
hour. Glass first frosts and then disappears. Plastics act like
rubber, only a little slower. The heavy metals, iron, nickel, copper,
monel, etc., stand up well, forming an insoluble coat of fluorides at
first and then doing nothing else.
8. WHY GO THERE?
Large natural crystals of fluorides, such as calcium difluoride,
titanium tetrafluoride, zirconium tetrafluoride, are extremely useful
in optical instruments of various forms. Uranium appears as uranium
hexafluoride, all ready for the diffusion process. Compounds of such
non-metals as boron are obtainable from the atmosphere in high purity
with very little trouble. All metallurgy must be electrical. There are
considerable deposits of beryllium, and they occur in high
concentration in its ores.
PROLOGUE
On Satan's Footstool
The big armor-tender vibrated, gently and not unpleasantly, as the
contragravity field alternated on and off, occasionally varying its
normal rate of five hundred to the second when some thermal updraft
lifted the vehicle and the automatic radar-altimeter control acted to
alter the frequency and lower it again. Sometimes it rocked slightly,
like a boat on the water, and, in the big screen which served in lieu
of a window at the front of the control cabin, the dingy-yellow
landscape would seem to tilt a little. If unshielded human eyes could
have endured the rays of Nu Puppis, Niflheim's primary, the whole scene
would have appeared a vivid Saint Patrick's Day green, the effect of
the blue-predominant light on the yellow atmosphere. The outside
'visor-pickup, however, was fitted with filters which blocked out the
gamma-rays and X-rays and most of the ultra-violet-rays, and added the
longer light-waves of red and orange which were absent, so that things
looked much as they would have under the light of a G0-type star like
Sol. The air was faintly yellow, the sky was yellow with a greenish
cast, and the clouds were green-gray.
A thousand feet below, the local equivalent of a forest grew, the
trees, topped with huge ragged leaves, looking like hundred-foot
stalks of celery. There would be animal life down there, too--little
round things, four inches across, like eight-legged crabs, gnawing at
the vegetation, and bigger things, two feet long, with articulated
shell-armor and sixteen legs, which fed on the smaller herbivores.
Beyond, in the middleground, was open grassland, if one could so call
a mat of wormlike colorless or pastel-tinted sprouts, and a river
meandered through it. On the skyline, fifty miles away, was a range of
low dunes and hills, none more than a thousand feet high.
No human had ever set foot on the surface, or breathed the air, of
Niflheim. To have done so would have been instant death; the air was a
mixture of free fluorine and fluoride gasses, the soil was metallic
fluorides, damp with acid rains, and the river was pure hydrofluoric
acid. Even the ordinary spacesuit would have been no protection; the
glass and rubber and plastic would have disintegrated in a matter of
minutes. People came to Niflheim, and worked the mines and uranium
refineries and chemical plants, but they did so inside power-driven
and contragravity-lifted armor, and they lived on artificial
satellites two thousand miles off-planet. This vehicle, for instance,
was built and protected as no spaceship ever had to be, completely
insulated and entered only through a triple airlock--an outer lock,
which would be evacuated outward after it was closed, a middle lock
kept evacuated at all times, and an inner lock, evacuated into the
interior of the vehicle before the middle lock could be opened.
Niflheim was worse than airless, much worse.
The chief engineer sat at his controls, making the minor lateral
adjustments in the vehicle's position which were not possible to the
automatic controls. One of the radiomen was receiving from the orbital
base; the other was saying, over and over, in an exasperatedly
patient voice: "Dr. Murillo. Dr. Murillo. Please come in, Dr.
Murillo." At his own panel of instruments, a small man with grizzled
black hair around a bald crown, and a grizzled beard, chewed nervously
at the stump of a dead cigar and listened intently to what was--or for
what wasn't--coming in to his headset receiver. A couple of assistants
checked dials and refreshed their memories from notebooks and peered
anxiously into the big screen. A large, plump-faced, young man in
soiled khaki shirt and shorts, with extremely hairy legs, was doodling
on his notepad and eating candy out of a bag. And a black-haired girl
in a suit of coveralls three sizes too big for her, and, apparently,
not much of anything else, lounged with one knee hooked over her
chair-arm, staring into the screen at the distant horizon.
"Dr. Murillo. Dr. Mur--" The radioman broke off in mid-syllable and
listened for a moment. "I hear you, doctor, go ahead." Then, a moment
later "What's your position, now, doctor?"
"I can see them," the girl said, lifting a hand in front of her. "At
two o'clock, about one of my hand's-breadths above the horizon."
The man with the grizzled beard put his face into the fur around the
eyepiece of the telescopic-'visor and twisted a dial. "You have good
eyes, Miss Quinton," he complimented. "Only four personal armors;
Ahmed, ask him where the fifth is."
"We only see four of your personal-armors," the radioman said. "Who's
missing, and why?" He waited for a moment, then lowered the hand-phone
and turned. "The fifth one's inside the handling-machine. One of the
Ullerans. Gorkrink."
The larger of the specks that had appeared on the horizon resolved
itself into a handling-machine, a thing like an oversized
contragravity-tank, with a bulldozer-blade, a stubby derrick-boom
instead of a gun, and jointed, claw-tipped arms to the sides. The
smaller dots grew into personal armor--egg-shaped things that sprouted
arms and grab-hooks and pushers in all directions. The man with the
grizzled beard began talking rapidly into his hand-phone, then hung it
up. There was a series of bumps, and the armor-tender, weightless on
contragravity, shook as the handling-machine came aboard.
"You ever see any nuclear bombing, Miss Quinton?" the young man with
the hairy legs asked, offering her his candy bag.
"Only by telecast, back Sol-side," she replied, helping herself.
"Test-shots at the Federation Navy proving-ground on Mars. I never
even heard of nuclear bombs being used for mining till I came here,
though."
"Well, if this turns out as well as the other job, three months ago,
it'll be something to see," he promised. "These volcanoes have been
dormant for, oh, maybe as long as a thousand years; there ought to be
a pretty good head of gas down there. And the magma'll be thick,
viscous stuff, like basalt on Terra. Of course, this won't be anything
like basalt in composition--it'll be intensely compressed metallic
fluorides, with a very high metal-content. The volcanoes we shot three
months ago yielded a fine flow of lava with all sorts of
metals--nickel, beryllium, vanadium, chromium, indium, as well as
copper and iron."
"What sort of gas were you speaking about?" she asked.
"Hydrogen. That's what's going to make the fireworks; it combines
explosively with fluorine. The hydrogen-fluorine combination is what
passes for combustion here; the result is hydrofluoric acid, the
local equivalent of water. See, the metallic core of this planet is
covered, much less thickly than that of Terra, with fluoride
rock--fluorspar, and that sort of thing. There's nothing like granite
here, for instance. That's why those big dunes, out there, are the
best Niflheim has in the way of mountains. The subsurface hydrogen is
produced when the acid filters down through the rock, combines with
pure metals underneath."
"Dr. Murillo's inside, now," the radioman said. "Just came out of the
inner airlock. He'll be up as soon as he gets out of his
pressure-suit."
"As soon as he gets here, I'll touch it off," the bearded man said.
"Everything set, de Jong?"
"Everything ready, Dr. Gomes," one of his assistants assured him.
The door at the rear of the control-cabin opened, and Juan Murillo,
the seismologist, entered, followed by an assistant. Murillo was a big
man, copper-skinned, barrel-chested; he looked like a third-or
fourth-generation Martian, of Andes Indian ancestry. He came forward
and stood behind Gomes' chair, looking down at the instruments. His
assistant stopped at the door. This assistant was not human. He was a
biped, vaguely humanoid, but he had four arms and a face like a
lizard's, and, except for some equipment on a belt, he was entirely
naked.
He spoke rapidly to Murillo, in a squeaking jabber. Murillo turned.
"Yes, if you wish, Gorkrink," he said, in the
English-Spanish-Afrikaans-Portuguese mixture that was Sixth Century,
A.E., Lingua Terra. Then he turned back to Gomes as the Ulleran sat
down in a chair by the door.
"Well, she's all yours, Lourenço, shoot the works."
Gomes stabbed the radio-detonator button in front of him. A voice came
out of the PA-speaker overhead: "In sixty seconds, the bombs will be
detonated ... thirty seconds ... fifteen seconds ... ten seconds ...
five seconds, four seconds, three seconds, two seconds, one
second...."
Out on the rolling skyline, fifty miles away, a lancelike ray of
blue-white light shot up into the gathering dusk--a clump of five
rays, really, from five deep shafts in an irregular pentagon half a
mile across, blended into one by the distance. An instant later, there
was a blinding flash, like sheet-lightning, and a huge ball of
varicolored fire belched upward, leaving a series of smoke-rings to
float more slowly after it. That fireball flattened, then spread to
form the mushroom-head of a column of incandescent gas that mounted to
overtake it, engorging the smoke-rings as it rose, twisting, writhing,
changing shape, turning to dark smoke in one moment and belching flame
and crackling with lightning the next. The armor-tender began to pitch
and roll; it was all the engineer and one of the assistants could do,
together, to keep it level.
"In about half an hour," the large young man told the girl, "the real
fireworks should be starting. What's coming up now is just small
debris from the nuclear blast. When the shockwaves get down far enough
to crack things open, the gas'll come up, and then steam and ash, and
then the magma. This one ought to be twice as good as the one we shot
three months ago; it ought to be every bit as good as Krakatoa, on
Terra, in 59 Pre-Atomic."
"Well, even this much was worth staying over for," the girl said,
watching the screen.
"You going on to Uller on the _City of Canberra_?" Lourenço Gomes
asked. "I wish I were; I have to stay over and make another shot, in a
month or so, and I've had about all of Niflheim I can take, now. The
sooner I get onto a planet where they don't ration the air, the better
I'll like it."
"Well, what do you know!" the large young man with the hairy legs
mock-marveled. "He doesn't like our nice planet!"
"Nice planet!" Gomes muttered something. "They call Terra God's
Footstool; well, I'll give you one guess who uses this thing to prop
his cloven hoofs on."
"When are you going to Terra?" the girl asked him.
"Terra? I don't know, a year, two years. But I'm going to Uller on the
next ship--the _City of Pretoria_--if we get the next blast off in
time. They want me to design some improvements on a couple of
power-reactors, so I'll probably see you when I get there."
"Here she comes!" the chief engineer called. "Watch the base of the
column!"
The pillar of fiery smoke and dust, still boiling up from where the
bombs had gone off far underground, was being violently agitated at
the bottom. A series of new flashes broke out, lifting and spreading
the incandescent radioactive gasses, and then a great gush of flame
rose. A column of pure hydrogen must have rushed up into the vacuum
created by the explosion; the next blast of flame, in a lateral sheet,
came at nearly ten thousand feet above the ground, and great rags of
fire, changing from red to violet and back through the spectrum to red
again, went soaring away to dissipate in the upper atmosphere. Then
geysers of hot ash and molten rock spouted upward; some of the
white-hot debris landed almost at the acid river, half-way to the
armor-tender.
"We've started a first-class earthquake, too," the Hispano-Indian
Martian Murillo said, looking at the instruments. "About six big
cracks opening in the rock-structure. You know, when this quiets down
and cools off, we'll have more ore on the surface than we can handle
in ten years, and more than we could have mined by ordinary means in
fifty."
About four miles from the original blast, another eruption began with
a terrific gas-explosion.
"Well, that finishes our work," the large young man said, going to a
kitbag in the corner of the cabin and getting out a bottle. "Get some
of those plastic cups, over there, somebody; this one calls for a
drink."
"That's right," Gomes said. "You do something once, it may be an
accident; you repeat the performance, and it's a success." He began
pushing papers aside on his desk, and the girl in the too-ample
coveralls brought drinking cups.
The Ulleran, in the background, rose quickly and squeaked
apologetically. Murillo nodded. "Yes, of course, Gorkrink. No need for
you to stay here." The Ulleran went out, closing the door behind him.
"That taboo against Ullerans and Terrans watching each other eat and
drink," Murillo said. "What is that, part of their religion?"
"No, it's their version of modesty," the girl replied. "Like some of
our sex-inhibitions, which they can't even begin to understand.... But
you were speaking to him in Lingua Terra; I didn't know any of them
understood it."
"Gorkrink does," Murillo said, uncorking the bottle and pouring into
the plastic cups. "None of them can speak it, of course, because of
the structure of their vocal organs, any more than we can speak their
languages without artificial aids. But I can talk to him in Lingua
Terra without having to put one of those damn gags in my mouth, and he
can pass my instructions on to the others. He's been a big help; I'll
be sorry to lose him."
"Lose him?"
"Yes, his year's up; he's going back to Uller on the _Canberra_. You
know, it's impossible to keep some trace of fluorine from the air in
the handling-machines, or even out on the orbiters, and it plays the
devil with their lungs. He wanted to stay on another three months, to
help with the next shot, but the medics wouldn't hear of it.... He's
from Keegark, wherever on Uller that is; claims to be a prince, or
something. I know all the other geeks kowtow to him. But he's a damn
good worker. Very smart; picks things up the first time you tell him.
I'll recommend him unqualifiedly for any kind of work with
contragravity or mechanized equipment."
They all had drinks, now, except the chief engineer, who wanted a
rain-check on his.
"Well, here's to us," Murillo said. "The first A-bomb miners in
history...."
I.
Commander-in-Chief Front and Center
General Carlos von Schlichten threw his cigarette away, flexed his
hands in his gloves, and set his monocle more firmly in his eye,
stepping forward as the footsteps on the stairway behind him ceased
and the other officers emerged from the squat flint keep--Captain
Cazabielle, the post CO; big, chocolate-brown Brigadier-General
Themistocles M'zangwe; little Colonel Hideyoshi O'Leary. Far in front
of him, to the left, the horizon was lost in the cloudbank over Takkad
Sea; directly in front, and to the right, the brown and gray and black
flint mountains sawed into the sky until they vanished in the
distance. Unseen below, the old caravan-trail climbed one side of the
pass and slid down the other, a sheer five hundred feet below the
parapet and the two corner catapult-platforms which now mounted 90-mm
guns. On the little hundred-foot-square parade ground in front of the
keep, his aircar was parked, and the soldiers were assembled.
Ten or twelve of them were Terrans--a couple of lieutenants,
sergeants, gunners, technicians, the sergeant-driver and
corporal-gunner of his own car. The other fifty-odd were Ulleran
natives. They stood erect on stumpy legs and broad, six-toed feet.
They had four arms apiece, one pair from true shoulders and the other
connected to a pseudo-pelvis midway down the torso. Their skins were
slate-gray and rubbery, speckled with pinhead-sized bits of quartz
that had been formed from perspiration, for their body-tissues were
silicone instead of carbon-hydrogen. Their narrow heads were
unpleasantly saurian; they had small, double-lidded red eyes, and
slit-like nostrils, and wide mouths filled with opalescent teeth.
Except for their belts and equipment, they were completely naked; the
uniform consisted of the emblem of the Chartered Uller Company
stencil-painted on chests and backs. Clothing, to them, was
unnecessary, either for warmth or modesty. As to the former, they were
cold-blooded and could stand a temperature-range of from a hundred and
twenty to minus one hundred Centigrade. Von Schlichten had seen them
sleeping in the open with their bodies covered with frost or freezing
rain; he had also seen them wade through boiling water. As to the
second, they had practically no sex-inhibitions; they were all of the
same gender, true, functional, hermaphrodites. Any individual among
them could bear young, or fertilize the ova of any other individual.
Fifteen years ago, when he had come to Uller as a former Terran
Federation captain newly commissioned colonel in the army of the Uller
Company, it had taken some time before he had become accustomed to the
detailing of a non-com and a couple of privates out of each platoon
for baby-sitting duty. At least, though, they didn't have the
squaw-trouble around army posts on Uller that they had on Thor, where
he had last been stationed.
An airjeep, coming in out of the sun, circled the crag-top fort and
let down onto the terrace next to von Schlichten's command-car. It
carried a bristle of 15-mm machine-guns, and two of the eight 50-mm
rocket-tubes on either side were empty and freshly smoke-stained. The
duraglass canopy slid back, and the two-man crew--lieutenant-driver
and sergeant-gunner--jumped out. Von Schlichten knew them both.
"Lieutenant Kendall; Sergeant Garcia," he greeted. "Good afternoon,
gentlemen."
Both saluted, in the informal, hell-with-rank-we're-all-human manner
of Terran soldiers on extraterrestrial duty, and returned the
greeting.
"How's the Jeel situation?" he asked, then nodded toward the fired
rocket-tubes. "I see you had some shooting."
"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said. "Two bands of them. We sighted the
first coming up the eastern side of the mountain about two miles this
side of the Blue Springs. We got about half of them with MG-fire, and
the rest dived into a big rock-crevice. We had to use two rockets on
them, and then had to let down and pot a few of them with our pistols.
We caught the second band in that little punchbowl place about a mile
this side of Zortolk's Old Fort. There were only six of them; they
were bunched together, feeding. Off one of their own gang, I'd say;
the way we've been keeping them up in the high rocks, they've been
eating inside the family quite a bit, lately. We let them have two
rockets. No survivors. Not many very big pieces, in fact. We let down
at Zortolk's for a beer, after that, and Captain Martinelli told us
that one of his jeeps caught what he thinks was the same band that was
down off the mountain night-before-last and ate those peasants on
Prince Neeldink's estate."
"By God, I'm glad to hear that!" There'd been a perfect hell of a flap
about that business. Before the Terrans came to Uller, it was a good
year when not more than five hundred farm-folk would be killed and
eaten by Jeel cannibals. The incident of two nights ago had been the
first of its kind in almost six months, but the nobleman whose serfs
had been eaten was practically accusing the Company of responsibility
for the crime. "I'll see that Neeldink is informed. The more you do
for these damned geeks, the more they expect from you.... When you get
your vehicle re-ammoed, lieutenant, suppose you buzz back to where you
machine-gunned that first gang. If there are any more around, they'll
have moved in for the free meal by now." This breakdown of the Jeels'
taboo against eating fellow-tribesmen was one of the best things he'd
heard from the cannibal-extermination project for some time.
He turned to Themistocles M'zangwe. "In about two weeks, get a little
task-force together. Say ten combat-cars, about twenty airjeeps, and a
battalion of Kragan Rifles in troop-carriers. Oh, yes, and this
good-for-nothing Konkrook Fencibles outfit of Prince Jaizerd's; they
can be used for beaters, and to block escape routes." He turned back
to Lieutenant Kendall and Sergeant Garcia. "Good work, boys. And if
the synchro-photos show that any of that first bunch got away, don't
feel too badly about it. These Jeels can hide on the top of a
pool-table."
He climbed into the command-car, followed by Themistocles M'zangwe and
Hideyoshi O'Leary. Sergeant Harry Quong and Corporal Hassan Bogdanoff
took their places on the front seat; the car lifted, turned to nose
into the wind, and rose in a slow spiral. Below, the fort grew
smaller, a flat-topped rectangle of masonry overlooking the pass, a
gun covering each approach, and two more on the square keep to cover
the rocky hogback on which the fort had been built, with the flagpole
between them. Once that pole had lifted a banner of ragged black
marsh-flopper skin bearing the device of the Kragan riever-chieftain
whose family had built the castle; now it carried a neat rectangle of
blue bunting emblazoned with the wreathed globe of the Terran
Federation and, below that, the blue-gray pennant which bore the
vermilion trademark of the Chartered Uller Company.
"Where now, sir?" Harry Quong asked.
He looked at his watch. Seventeen-hundred; there wasn't time for a
visit to Zortolk's Old Fort, ten miles to the north at the next pass.
"Back to Konkrook, to the island."
The nose of the car swung east by south; the cold-jet rotors began
humming and then the hot-jets were cut in. The car turned from the
fort and the mountains and shot away over the foothills toward the
coastal plain. Below were forests, yellow-green with new foliage of
the second growing season of the equatorial year, veined with narrow
dirt roads and spotted with occasional clearings. Farther east, the
dirty gray woodsmoke of Uller marked the progress of the
charcoal-burnings. It took forty years to burn the forests clear back
to the flint cliffs; by the time the burners reached the mountains,
the new trees at the seaward edge would be ready to cut. Off to the
south, he could see the dark green squares, where the hemlocks and
Norway spruce had been planted by the Company. With a little chemical
fertilizer, they were doing well, and they made better charcoal than
the silicate-heavy native wood. That was the only natural fuel on
Uller; there was no coal, of course, since fallen timber and even
standing dead trees petrified in a matter of a couple of years. There
was too much silica on Uller, and not enough of anything else; what
would be coal-seams on Terra were strata of silicified wood. And, of
course, there was no petroleum. There was less charcoal being burned
now than formerly; the Uller Company had been bringing in great
quantities of synthetic thermoconcentrate-fuel, and had been setting
up nuclear furnaces and nuclear-electric power-plants, wherever they
gained a foothold on the planet.
Beyond the forests came the farmlands. Around the older estates, thick
walls of flint and petrified wood had been built, and wide moats dug,
to keep out the shellosaurs. But now the moats were dry, and the walls
falling into disrepair. Some of the newer farms, land devoted to
agriculture with the declining demand for charcoal, had neither moats
nor walls. That was the Company, too; the huge shell-armored beasts
had become virtually extinct in the Konk Isthmus now, since the
introduction of bazookas and recoilless rifles. There seemed to be
quite a bit of power-equipment working in the fields, and big
contragravity lorries were drifting back and forth, scattering
fertilizer, mainly nitrates from Mimir or Yggdrasill. There were still
a good number of animal-drawn plows and harrows in use, however.
As planets went, Uller was no bargain, he thought sourly. At times, he
wished he had never followed the lure of rapid promotion and
fantastically high pay and left the Federation regulars for the army
of the Uller Company. If he hadn't, he'd probably be a colonel, at
five thousand sols a year, but maybe it would be better to be a
middle-aged colonel on a decent planet--Odin, with its two moons,
Hugin and Munin, and its wide grasslands and its evergreen forests
that looked and even smelled like the pinewoods of Terra, or Baldur,
with snow-capped mountains, and clear, cold lakes, and rocky rivers
dashing under great vine-hung trees, or Freya, where the people were
human to the last degree and the women were so breathtakingly
beautiful--than a Company army general at twenty-five thousand on
this combination icebox, furnace, wind-tunnel and stonepile, where the
water tasted like soapsuds and left a crackly film when it dried;
where the temperature ranged, from pole to pole, between two hundred
and fifty and minus a hundred and fifty Fahrenheit and the
Beaufort-scale ran up to thirty; where nothing that ran or swam or
grew was fit for a human to eat, and where the people....
Of course, there were worse planets than Uller. There was Nidhog, cold
and foggy, its equatorial zone a gloomy marsh and the rest of the planet
locked in eternal ice. There was Bifrost, which always kept the same
face turned to its primary; one side blazingly hot and the other close
to absolute zero, with a narrow and barely habitable twilight zone
between. There was Mimir, swarming with a race of semi-intelligent
quasi-rodents, murderous, treacherous, utterly vicious. Or Niflheim. The
Uller Company had the franchise for Niflheim, too; they'd had to take
that and agree to exploit the planet's resources in order to get the
franchise for Uller, which furnished a good quick measure of the
comparative merits of the two.
Ahead, the city of Konkrook sprawled along the delta of the Konk river
and extended itself inland. The river was dry, now. Except in spring,
when it was a red-brown torrent, it never ran more than a trickle, and
not at all this late in the northern summer. The aircar lost altitude,
and the hot-jet stopped firing. They came gliding in over the suburbs
and the yellow-green parks, over the low one-story dwellings and
shops, the lofty temples and palaces, the fantastically twisted
towers, following a street that became increasingly mean and squalid
as it neared the industrial district along the waterfront.
Von Schlichten, on the right, glanced idly down, puffing slowly on
his cigarette. Then he stiffened, the muscles around his right eye
clamping tighter on the monocle. Leaning forward, he punched Harry
Quong lightly on the shoulder.
"Circle back, sergeant; let's have a look at that street again," he
directed. "Something going on, down there; looks like a riot."
"Yes, sir; I saw it," the Chinese-Australian driver replied. "Terrans
in trouble; bein' mobbed by geeks. Aircar parked right in the bloody
middle of it."
The car made a twisting, banking loop and came back, more slowly.
Colonel Hideyoshi O'Leary was using the binoculars.
"That's right," he said. "Terrans being mobbed. Two of them, backed up
against a house. I saw one of them firing a pistol."
Von Schlichten had the handset of the car's radio, and was punching
out the combination of the Company guardhouse on Gongonk Island; he
held down the signal button until he got an answer.
"Von Schlichten, in car over Konkrook. Riot on Fourth Avenue, just off
Seventy-second Street." No Terran could possibly remember the names of
Konkrook's streets; even native troops recruited from outside found
the numbers easier to learn and remember. "Geeks mobbing a couple of
Terrans. I'm going down, now, to do what I can to help; send troops in
a hurry. Kragan Rifles. And stand by; my driver'll give it to you as
it happens."
The voice of somebody at the guardhouse, bawling orders, came out of
the receiver as he tossed the phone forward over Harry Quong's
shoulder; Quong caught it and began speaking rapidly and urgently into
it while he steered with the other hand. Von Schlichten took one of
the five-pound spiked riot-maces out of the rack in front of him.
Themistocles M'zangwe had already drawn his pistol; he shifted it to
his left hand and took a mace in his right. The Nipponese-Irish
colonel, looking like a homicidally infuriated pixie, had an automatic
in one hand and a long dagger in the other.
Harry Quong and Hassan Bogdanoff were old Uller hands; they'd done
this sort of work before. Bogdanoff rose into the ball-turret and
swung the twin 15-mm's around, cutting loose. Quong brought the car in
fast, at about shoulder-height on the mob. Between them, they left a
swath of mangled, killed, wounded, and stunned natives. Then, spinning
the car around, Quong set it down hard on a clump of rioters as close
as possible to the struggling group around the two Terrans. Von
Schlichten threw back the canopy and jumped out of the car, O'Leary
and M'zangwe behind him.
There was another aircar, a dark maroon civilian job, at the curb; its
native driver was slumped forward over the controls, a short
crossbow-bolt sticking out of his neck. Backed against the closed door
of a house, a Terran with white hair and a small beard was clubbing
futilely with an empty pistol. He was wounded, and blood was streaming
over his face. His companion, a young woman in a long fur coat, was
laying about her with a native bolo-knife.
Von Schlichten's mace had a spiked ball-head, and a four-inch spike in
front of that. He smashed the ball down on the back of one Ulleran's
head, and jabbed another in the rump with the spike.
"_Zak! Zak!_" he yelled, in pidgin-Ulleran. "_Jik-jik_, you
lizard-faced Creator's blunder!"
The Ulleran whirled, swinging a blade somewhere between a big
butcherknife and a small machete. His mouth was open, and there was
froth on his lips.
"_Znidd suddabit!_" he screamed.
Von Schlichten parried the cut on the steel shaft of his mace.
"_Suddabit_ yourself, you geek bastard!" he shouted back, ramming the
spike-end into the opal-filled mouth. "And _znidd_ you, too," he
added, recovering and slamming the ball-head down on the narrow
saurian skull. The Ulleran went down, spurting a yellow fluid about
the consistency of gun-oil. Then, without wasting words, he maced
another of the things.
Ahead, one of the natives had caught the wounded Terran with both
lower hands, and was raising a dagger with his upper right. The girl
in the fur coat swung wildly, slashing the knife-arm, then chopped
down on the creature's neck. To one side, a native somewhat better
dressed than the others, to the extent of a couple of belts with gold
ornaments, drew a Terran automatic. Von Schlichten hurled his mace and
drew his pistol, thumbing off the safety as he swung it up, but before
he could fire, Hassan Bogdanoff had seen and swung his guns around;
the double burst caught the native in the chest and fairly tore him
apart.
Another of them closed with the girl, grabbing her right arm with all
four hands and biting at her; she screamed and kicked her attacker in
the groin, where an Ulleran is, if anything, even more vulnerable than
a Terran. The native howled hideously, and von Schlichten, jumping
over a couple of corpses, shoved the muzzle of his pistol into the
creature's open mouth and pulled the trigger, blowing its head apart
like a rotten pumpkin and splashing both himself and the girl with
yellow blood and rancid-looking gray-green brains.
Hideyoshi O'Leary, jumping forward after von Schlichten, stuck his
dagger into the neck of a rioter and left it there, then caught the
girl around the waist with his free arm. Themistocles M'zangwe dropped
his mace and swung the frail-looking man onto his back. Together, they
struggled back to the command-car, von Schlichten covering the retreat
with his pistol. Another rioter--a Zirk nomad from the North, he
guessed--was aiming one of the long-barreled native air-rifles,
holding the ten-inch globe of the air-chamber in both lower hands. Von
Schlichten shot him, and the Zirk literally blew to pieces.
For an instant, he wondered how the small bursting-charge of a 10-mm
explosive pistol-bullet could accomplish such havoc, and assumed that
the native had been carrying a bomb in his belt. Then another
explosion tossed fragmentary corpses nearby, and another and another.
Glancing quickly over his shoulder, he saw four combat-cars coming in,
firing with 40-mm auto-cannon and 15-mm machine-guns. They swept
between the hovels on one side and the warehouses on the other,
strafing the mob, darted up to a thousand feet, looped, and came
swooping back, and this time there were three long blue-gray
troop-carriers behind them.
These landed in the hastily cleared street and began disgorging native
Company soldiers--Kragan mercenaries, he noted with satisfaction. They
carried a modified version of the regular Terran Federation infantry
rifle, stocked and sighted to conform to their physical peculiarities,
with long, thorn-like, triangular bayonets. One platoon ran forward,
dropped to one knee, and began firing rapidly into what was left of
the mob. Four-handed soldiers can deliver a simply astonishing volume
of fire, particularly when armed with auto-rifles having twenty-shot
drop-out magazines which can be changed with the lower hands without
lowering the weapon.
There was a clatter of shod hoofs, and a company of the King of
Konkrook's cavalry came trotting up on their six-legged,
lizard-headed, quartz-speckled mounts. Some of these charged into side
alleys, joyfully lancing and cutting down fleeing rioters, while
others dismounted, three tossing their reins to a fourth, and went to
work with their crossbows. Von Schlichten, who ordinarily entertained
a dim opinion of the King of Konkrook's soldiery, admitted,
grudgingly, that it was smart work; four hands were a big help in
using a crossbow, too.
A Terran captain of native infantry came over, saluting.
"Are you and your people all right, general?" he asked.
Von Schlichten glanced at the front seat of his car, where Harry
Quong, a pistol in his right hand, was still talking into the
radio-phone, and Hassan Bogdanoff was putting fresh belts into his
guns. Then he saw that the Graeco-African brigadier and the
Irish-Japanese colonel had gotten the wounded man into the car. The
girl, having dropped her bolo, was leaning against the side of the
car, one foot heedlessly in what was left of an Ulleran who had gotten
smashed under it, weak with nervous reaction.
"We seem to be, Captain Pedolsky. Very smart work; you must have those
vehicles of yours on hyperspace-drive.... How is he, colonel?"
"We'd better get him to the hospital, right away," O'Leary replied. "I
think he has a concussion."
"Harry, call the hospital. Tell them what the score is, and tell them
we're bringing the casualty in to their top landing stage.... Why,
we'll make out very nicely, captain. You'd better stay around with
your Kragans and make sure that these geeks of King Jaikark's don't
let the riot flare up again and get away from them. And don't let them
get the impression that they can maintain order around here without
our help; the Company would like to see that attitude discouraged."
"Yes, sir, I understand." Captain Pedolsky opened the pouch on his
belt and took out the false palate and tongue-clicker without which no
Terran could do more than mouth a crude and barely comprehensible
pidgin-Ulleran. Stuffing the gadget into his mouth, he turned and
began jabbering orders.
Von Schlichten helped the girl into the car, placing her on his right.
The wounded civilian was propped up in the left corner of the seat,
and Colonel O'Leary and Brigadier-General M'zangwe took the
jump-seats. The driver put on the contragravity-field, and the car
lifted up.
"Them, see if there's a flask and a drinking-cup in the door pocket
next to you," he said. "I think Miss Quinton could use a drink."
The girl turned. Even in her present disheveled condition, she was
beautiful--a trifle on the petite side, with black hair and black eyes
that quirked up oddly at the outer corners. Her nails were
black-lacquered and spotted with little gold stars, evidently a new
feminine fad from Terra.
"I certainly could, general.... How did you know my name?"
"You've been on Uller for the last three months; ever since the _City
of Canberra_ got in from Niflheim. On Uller, there aren't enough of us
that everybody doesn't know all about everybody else. You're Dr. Paula
Quinton; you're an extraterrestrial sociographer, and you're a
field-agent for the Extraterrestrials' Rights Association, like
Mohammed Ferriera, here." He took the cup and flask from Themistocles
M'zangwe and poured her a drink. "Take this easy, now; Baldur
honey-rum, a hundred and fifty proof."
He watched her sip the stuff cautiously, cough over the first
mouthful, and then get the rest of it down.
"More?" When she shook her head, he stoppered the flask and relieved
her of the cup. "What were you doing in that district, anyhow?" he
wanted to know. "I'd have thought Mohammed Ferriera would have had
more sense than to take you there, or go there, himself, for that
matter."
"We went to visit a friend of his, a native named Keeluk, who seems to
be a sort of combination clergyman and labor leader," she replied.
"I'm going to observe labor conditions at the North Pole mines in a
short while, and Mr. Keeluk was going to give me letters of
introduction to friends of his at Skilk."
With the aid of his monocle, von Schlichten managed to keep a straight
face. Neither M'zangwe nor O'Leary had any such aid; the African
rolled his eyes and the Japanese-Irishman grimaced.
"We talked with Mr. Keeluk for a while," the girl said, "and when we
came out, we found that our driver had been killed and a mob had
gathered. Of course, we were carrying pistols; they're part of this
survival-kit you make everybody carry, along with the emergency-rations
and the water-desilicator. Mr. Ferriera's wasn't loaded, but mine was.
When they rushed us, I shot a couple of them, and then picked up that
big knife...."
"That's why you're still alive," von Schlichten commented.
"We wouldn't be if you hadn't come along," she told him. "I never in
my life saw anything as beautiful as you coming through that mob
swinging that war-club!"
"Well, I never saw anything much more beautiful than those 40-mm's
beginning to land in the mob," von Schlichten replied.
The aircar swung out over Konkrook Channel and headed toward the
blue-gray Company buildings on Gongonk Island, and the Company
airport, swarming with lorries and airboats, where the ten
thousand-ton _Oom Paul Kruger_ had just come in from Keegark, and the
Company's one real warship, the cruiser _Procyon_, was lifting out for
Grank, in the North. Down at the southern tip of the island, the
three-thousand-foot globe of the spaceship _City of Pretoria_, from
Niflheim, was loading with cargo for Terra.
"Just what happened, while you and Mr. Ferriera were in Keeluk's
house. Miss Quinton?" Hideyoshi O'Leary asked, trying not to sound
official. "Was Keeluk with you all the time? Or did he go out for a
while, say fifteen or twenty minutes before you left?"
"Why, yes, he did." Paula Quinton looked surprised. "How did you guess
it? You see, a dog started barking, behind the house, and he excused
himself and...."
"A dog?" von Schlichten almost shouted. The other officers echoed him,
and on the front seat, Harry Quong said, "Coo-bli'me!"
"Why, yes...." Paula Quinton's eyes widened. "But there are no dogs on
Uller, except a few owned by Terrans. And wasn't there something
about ...?"
Von Schlichten had the radio-phone and was calling the command car at
the scene of the riot. The sergeant-driver answered.
"Von Schlichten here; my compliments to Captain Pedolsky, and tell him
he's to make immediate and thorough search of the house in front of
which the incident occurred, and adjoining houses. For his
information, that's Keeluk's house. Tell him to look for traces of
Governor-General Harrington's collie, or any of the other terrestrial
animals that have been disappearing--that goat, for instance, or those
rabbits. And I want Keeluk brought in, alive and in condition to be
interrogated. I'll send more troops, or Constabulary, to help you." He
handed the phone to M'zangwe. "You take care of that end of it, Them;
you know who can be spared."
"But, what ...?" the girl began.
"That's why you were attacked," he told her. "Keeluk was afraid to let
you get away from there alive to report hearing that dog, so he went
out and had a gang of thugs rounded up to kill you."
"But he was only gone five minutes."
"In five minutes, I can put all the troops in Konkrook into action.
Keeluk doesn't have radio or TV--we hope--but he has his forces
concentrated, and he has a pretty good staff."
"But Mr. Keeluk's a friend of ours. He knows what our Association is
trying to do for his people...."
"So he shows his appreciation by setting that mob on you. Look, he has
a lot of influence in that section. When you were attacked, why wasn't
he out trying to quiet the mob?"
"When they jumped you, you tried to get back into the house," M'zangwe
put in. "And you found the door barred against you."
"Yes, but...." The girl looked troubled; M'zangwe had guessed right.
"But what's all the excitement about the dog? What is it, the sacred
totem-animal of the Uller Company?"
"It's just a big brown collie, named Stalin, like half the dogs on
Terra. Somebody stole it, and Keeluk was keeping it, and we want to
know why. We don't like geek mysteries; not when they lead to
murderous attacks on Terrans, at least."
The aircar let down on the hospital landing stage. A stretcher was
waiting, with a Terran interne and two Ulleran orderlies. They got the
still-unconscious Mohammed Ferriera out of the car.
"You'd better go with them, yourself, Miss Quinton," von Schlichten
advised. "You have a couple of nasty-looking bruises and bumps. A
couple of abrasions, too, where those geeks grabbed you; they have
hides like sandpaper. And better have that coat cleaned, before that
goo on it hardens, or it'll be ruined."
"Yes. You have a lot of it on your uniform, too."
He glanced down at the blue-gray jacket. "So I have. And another
thing. Those letters Keeluk was going to give you, the ones to his
friends in Skilk. Did you get them?"
She felt in the pocket of her coat. "Yes. I still have them."
"I wish you'd let Colonel O'Leary have a look at them. There may be
more to them than you think.... Hid, will you go with Miss Quinton?"
II.
Rakkeed, Stalin, and the Rev. Keeluk
Von Schlichten, in a fresh uniform, sat at the end of the table in
Sidney Harrington's office; Harrington and Eric Blount, the
Lieutenant-Governor, faced each other across it, over the three-foot
disc of an Ulleran chess-board. Harrington had the white, or center,
position. Blount, sandy-haired and considerably younger, was playing
black, and his pieces were closing in relentlessly from the outer rim.
"Well, then what?" Harrington asked.
Von Schlichten dropped ash from his cigarette into the tray that
served all three of them.
"Nothing much," he replied. "Keeluk bugged out as soon as he saw my
car let down. We picked up a few of his ragtag-and-bobtail, and
they're being questioned now, but I doubt if they'll tell us anything
we don't know already. The dog had been kept in a lean-to back of the
house; it had been removed, probably as soon as Keeluk called in his
goon-gang. At least one of the rabbits had been kept on the premises,
too, some time ago. No trace of the goat."
He watched Blount move one of his pieces and nodded approvingly. "The
riot's been put down," he continued, "but we're keeping two companies
of Kragans in the city, and about a dozen airjeeps patrolling the
section from Eightieth down to Sixty-fourth, and from the waterfront
back to Eighth Avenue. There is also the equivalent of a regiment of
King Jaikark's infantry--spearmen, crossbowmen, and a few
riflemen--and two of those outsize cavalry companies of his, helping
hold the lid down. They're making mass arrests, indiscriminately. More
slaves for Jaikark's court favorite, of course."
"Or else Gurgurk wants them to use for patronage," Blount added. "He's
been building quite a political organization, lately. Getting ready to
shove Jaikark off the throne, I'd say."
Harrington pushed one of his pieces out along a radial line toward the
rim. Blount promptly took a pawn, which, under Ulleran rules, entitled
him to a second move. He shifted another piece, a sort of combination
knight and bishop, to threaten the piece Harrington had moved.
"Oh, Gurgurk wouldn't dare try anything like that," the
Governor-General said. "He knows we wouldn't let him get away with it.
We have too much of an investment in King Jaikark."
"Then why's Gurgurk been supporting this damned Rakkeed?" Blount
wanted to know, hastily interposing a piece. "Gurgurk can follow one
of two lines of policy. He can undertake to heave Jaikark off the
throne and seize power, or he has to support Jaikark on the throne.
We're subsidizing Jaikark. Rakkeed has been preaching this crusade
against the Terrans, and against Jaikark, whom we control. Gurgurk has
been subsidizing Rakkeed...."
"You haven't any proof of that," Harrington protested.
"My Intelligence Section has," von Schlichten put in. "We can give
sums of money, and dates, and the names of the intermediaries through
whom they were paid to Rakkeed. Eric is absolutely correct in making
that statement."
"Personally, I think Gurgurk's plan is something like this: Rakkeed
will stir up anti-Terran sentiment here in Konkrook, and direct it
against our puppet, Jaikark, as well as against us," Blount said.
"When the outbreak comes, Jaikark will be killed, and then Gurgurk
will step in, seize the Palace, and use the Royal army to put down the
revolt that he's incited in the first place. That will put him in the
position of the friend of the Company, and most of his dupes will be
rounded up and sold as slaves, and King Gurgurk'll pocket the
proceeds. The only question is, will Rakkeed let himself be used that
way? I think Rakkeed's bigger than Gurgurk ever can be. And more of a
threat to the Company. Everywhere we turn, Rakkeed's at the bottom of
whatever happens to be wrong. This business, for instance; Keeluk's
one of Rakkeed's followers."
"Eric, you have Rakkeed on the brain!" Harrington exclaimed
impatiently, then moved the threatened piece counterclockwise on the
circle where he had placed it. "He's just a barbarian caravan-driver."
Eric Blount moved the piece that had taken Harrington's pawn.
"Your king's in danger," he warned. "And Hitler was just a
paper-hanger."
"Rakkeed has no following, except among the rabble." Harrington puffed
furiously at his pipe, trying to figure the best protection for his
king.
"You just think he hasn't," Blount retorted. "Here in Konkrook, he's
always entertained by one or another of the big ship-owning nobles.
They probably deprecate his table-manners, but they just love his
politics. And the same thing at Keegark, and at the Free Cities along
the Eastern Shore."
"The last time Rakkeed was in Konkrook, he was the guest of the
Keegarkan Ambassador," von Schlichten stated. "Intelligence got that
from a spy we'd planted among the embassy servants."
"You sure this spy wasn't just romancing?" Harrington asked. "You get
so confounded many wild stories about Rakkeed. Three days after he was
reported here at Konkrook, he was reported at Skilk, five thousand
miles away, said to be having an audience with King Firkked."
"No mystery to that," von Schlichten said. "He travels on our ships,
in disguise, coolie-class, on the geek-deck."
"Be a good idea if he could be caught at it, some time," Blount said,
making another move. "One of the lower-deck loading ports could be
left unlocked, by carelessness, and he could blunder overboard at
about five thousand feet." He watched Harrington make a deceptively
pointless-looking move. "Sid, this damn dog business worries me."
"Worries me, too. I'm fond of that mutt, and God only knows what sort
of stuff he's been getting to eat. And I hate to think of why those
geeks stole him, too."
"Well, at risk of seeming heartless, I'm not so much worried for
Stalin as I am about why Keeluk was hiding him, and why he was willing
to murder the only two Terrans in Konkrook who trust him, to prevent
our finding out that he had him."
"A Mr. Keeluk, a clergyman," von Schlichten quoted. He chain-lit
another cigarette and stubbed out the old one. "Maybe the Rev. Keeluk
wanted Stalin for sacramental purposes."
Blount looked up sharply. "Ritual killing?" he asked. "Or sympathetic
magic?"
Von Schlichten shrugged. "Take your choice. Maybe Rakkeed wanted the
dog, to kill before a congregation of his followers, killing us by
proxy, or in effigy. Or maybe they think we worship Stalin, and
getting control of him would give them power over us. I wish we knew a
little more about Ulleran psychology."
That wasn't the first time he'd made that wish. Even if sex weren't
the paramount psychological factor the ancient Freudians believed, it
was an extremely important one, and on Uller most of the fundamental
terms of Terran psychology were meaningless. At the same time, the
average Ulleran probably had complexes and neuroses that would have
had Freud talking to himself, and they certainly indulged in practices
that would have even stood Krafft-Ebing's hair on end.
"One thing," Blount said. "It doesn't take any Ulleran psychologist to
know that about eighty percent of them hate us poisonously."
"Oh, rubbish!" Harrington blew the exclamation out around his
pipe-stem with a gush of smoke. "A few fanatics hate us, and a few
merchants who lost money when we replaced this primitive barter
economy of theirs, but nine-tenths of them have benefited enormously
from us, and continue to benefit...."
"And hate us more deeply with each new benefit," Blount added. "They
resent everything we've done for them."
"Yes, this spaceport proposition of King Orgzild of Keegark looks like
it, now doesn't it?" Harrington retorted. "He hates and resents us so
much that he's offered us a spaceport at his city...."
"What's it going to cost him?" Blount asked. "He furnishes the
land--sequestered from the estate of some noble he executed for
treason--and the labor--all forced. We furnish the structural steel,
the machine-equipment, the engineering. We get a spaceport we don't
really need, and he gets all the business it'll bring to Keegark.
Considering the fact that Rakkeed is a welcome guest at his embassy
here, and at the Royal Palace at Keegark, I'm beginning to wonder if
he isn't fomenting trouble for us here at Konkrook to make us willing
to move our main base to his city."
He made a move. Instantly, Harrington slashed out from the middle of
the board with one of his heavy-duty, all-purpose pieces and took a
piece, then moved again.
"Now look whose king's threatened!" he crowed.
"Yes, I see." Blount brought a piece clockwise around the board and
took the threatening piece, then moved again. "I hope you see whose
king's threatened, now."
Harrington swore, reached out to move a piece, and then jerked his
hand back as though the piece were radioactive. For a while, he sat
puffing his pipe and staring at the board.
"In fact, Orgzild's so sure that we're going to accept his offer that
he's started building two new power-reactors, to handle the additional
power-demand that'll result from the increased business," Blount
continued.
"Where's he getting the plutonium?" von Schlichten asked.
"Where can he get it?" Harrington replied. "He just bought four tons
of it from us, off the _City of Pretoria_."
"That's a hell of a lot of plutonium," Blount said. "I wonder if he
mightn't have some idea of what else plutonium can be used for,
beside generating power."
"Oh, God, I hope not!" Harrington exclaimed. "You're going to get me
started seeing burglars under the bed, next...."
"Maybe there are burglars," Blount said, pointing with his
cigarette-holder to Harrington's threatened king. "Can't you do
something about that, Sid?" Then he turned to von Schlichten. "Before
we get off the subject, how about those letters the Rev. Keeluk gave
to the Quinton girl?"
"All addressed to Skilkans known to be Rakkeed disciples and rabidly
anti-Terran," von Schlichten replied. "We radioed the list to Skilk;
Colonel Cheng-Li, our intelligence man there, teleprinted us back a
lot of material on them that looks like the Newgate Calendar. We
turned the letters themselves over to Doc Petrie, the Ulleran
philology sharp, who is a pretty fair cryptanalyst. He couldn't find
any indications of cipher, but there was a lot of gossip about
Keeluk's friends and parishioners which might have arbitrary
code-meanings. I'm going to explain the situation to Miss Quinton, and
advise her to have nothing to do with any of the people Keeluk gave
her letters to."
Harrington had gotten his king temporarily out of danger, losing a
piece doing it.
"Think she'll listen to you?" he asked. "These Extraterrestrials'
Rights Association people are a lot of blasted fanatics, themselves.
We're a gang of bloody-handed, flint-hearted, imperialistic sons of
bitches in their book, and anything we say's sure to be a Hitler-sized
lie."
"Oh, they're not as bad as all that. I never met the girl before
today, but old Mohammed Ferriera's a decent bloke. And their
association's really done a lot of good. For one thing, they put an
end to the peonage system on Yggdrasill, and I know what conditions
were like, there, before they did."
A calculating look came into Harrington's eye. He puffed slowly at his
pipe and slid a piece from the center toward the sector of the board
nearest him. Blount whistled softly and made a quick re-arrangement.
"Carlos, did you say she told you she was going to Skilk, in the near
future?" Harrington asked. "Well, look here; you're going up that way,
yourself, with that battalion of Kragans, on the _Aldebaran_. Why
don't you invite her to make the trip with you? You can be quite
attractive to young ladies, when you try, and she'll be grateful for
that rescue this afternoon, which is always a good foundation. Maybe
you can plant a couple of ideas where they'll do the most good. She's
only been here for three months--since the _Canberra_ got in from
Niflheim. You know and I know and we all know that there are a lot of
things up there at the polar mines that would look like hell to
anybody who didn't understand local conditions...."
"Well, Miss Quinton's company won't be any particularly heavy cross
for me to bear," von Schlichten replied. "I won't guarantee anything,
of course...."
The intercom-speaker on the table whistled several times. Harrington
swore, laid down his pipe, and got up, brushing ashes from the front
of his coat. He flipped a switch and spoke into the box.
"Governor," a voice replied out of it, "there's a geek procession just
landed from a water-barge in front, and is coming up the roadway to
Company House. A platoon of Jaikark's Household Guards, with rifles;
the Spear of State; a royal litter; about thirty geek nobles, on foot;
a gift-litter; another platoon of riflemen, if you say the last
syllable quick enough."
"That'll be Gurgurk, coming to tell us how unhappy his Sodden and
Inebriated Geekship is about that fracas on Seventy-second Street,"
Harrington said. "The gift-litter will contain the customary
indemnity, at the current market quotation. Have Gurgurk and party
admitted, all but the rifle-platoons; give him an honor guard of our
Kragans, and keep his own gun-toters outside. Take them to the
Reception Hall, and hold them there till I signal from the Audience
Hall, and then herd them in."
He came back and made a move. Immediately, Blount took one of his
pieces, moved again, took another, and made the third move to which he
was entitled.
"I'll mate you in four moves," he predicted. "Want to play it out,
before we go down?"
"Sure; what's time to a geek? Gurgurk'd think we were worried about
something if we didn't keep him waiting.... Good Lord! You do have me
over a barrel, Eric!"
III.
Four-and-Twenty Geek Heads
Governor-General Sidney Harrington sat on the comfortably upholstered
bench on the dais of the Audience Hall, flanked by von Schlichten and
Eric Blount. He didn't look particularly regal, even on that high
seat--with his ruddy outdoorsman's face and his ragged gray mustache
and his old tweed coat spotted with pipe-ashes, he might have been any
of the dozen-odd country-gentleman neighbors of von Schlichten's
boyhood in the Argentine. But then, to a Terran, any of the kings of
Uller would have looked like a freak birth in a lizard-house at a zoo;
it was hard to guess what impression Harrington would make on an
Ulleran.
He took the false palate and tongue-clicker, officially designated as
an "enunciator, Ulleran" and, colloquially, as a geek-speaker, out of
his coat pocket and shoved it into his mouth. Von Schlichten and
Blount put in theirs, and Harrington pressed the floor-button with his
toe. After a brief interval, the wide doors at the other end of the
hall slid open, and the Konkrookan notables, attended by a dozen
Company native-officers and a guard of Kragan Rifles, entered. The
honor-guard advanced in two columns; between them marched an unclad
and heavily armed native carrying an ornate spear with a three-foot
blade upright in front of him with all four hands. It was the
Konkrookan Spear of State; it represented the proxy-presence of King
Jaikark. Behind it stalked Gurgurk, the Konkrookan equivalent of Prime
Minister or Grand Vizier; he wore a gold helmet and a thing like a
string-vest made of gold wire, and carried a long sword with a
two-hand grip, a pair of Terran automatics built for a hand with six
four-knuckled fingers, and a pair of matched daggers. He was
considerably past the Ulleran prime of life--seventy or eighty, to
judge from the worn appearance of his opal teeth, the color of his
skin, and the predominantly reddish tint of his quartz-speckles. An
immature Ulleran would be a very light gray, white under the arms, and
his quartz-specks would run from white to pale yellow. The retinue of
nobles behind Gurgurk ran through the whole spectrum, from a
princeling who was almost oyster-gray to old Ghroghrank, the Keegarkan
Ambassador, who was even blacker and more red-speckled than Gurgurk.
All of them carried about as much ironmongery as the Prime
Minister--the pistols were all Terran, and the swords and daggers were
mostly made either on Terra or at the Terran-operated steel-works on
Volund.
Four slaves brought up the rear carrying an ornately inlaid box on
poles. When the spear-bearer reached the exact middle of the hall, he
halted and grounded his regalia-weapon with a thump. Gurgurk came up
and halted a couple of paces behind and to the left of the spear, and
all the other nobles drew up in two curved lines some ten paces to the
rear, with considerable pushing and jostling and a _sotto voce_
argument, with overtones of weapon-fingering, about precedence. All,
that is, but Ghroghrank and another noble, who came up and planted
themselves beside Gurgurk. Von Schlichten regarded the assemblage
sourly through his monocle. Maybe Sid Harrington _did_ look regal,
after all.
The Governor-General rose slowly and descended from the dais,
advancing to within ten paces of the Spear, von Schlichten and Blount
accompanying him. Out of the corner of his eye, von Schlichten watched
a couple of Kragan mercenaries with fifty-shot machine-rifles move
unobtrusively to positions from whence they could, if necessary, spray
the visitors with bullets without endangering the Terrans.
"Welcome, Gurgurk," Harrington gibbered through his false palate. "The
Company is honored by this visit."
"I come in the name of my royal master, His Sublime and Ineffable
Majesty, Jaikark the Seventeenth, King of Konkrook and of all the
lands of the Konk Isthmus," Gurgurk squeaked and clicked. "I have the
honor to bring with me the Lord Ghroghrank, Ambassador of King Orgzild
of Keegark to the court of my royal master."
"And I," Ghroghrank said, after being suitably welcomed, "am honored
to be accompanied by Prince Gorkrink, special envoy from my master,
his Royal and Imperial Majesty King Orgzild, who is in your city to
receive the shipment of power-metal my royal master has been honored
to be permitted to purchase from the Company."
More protocol about welcoming Gorkrink. Then Gurgurk cleared his
throat with a series of barking sounds.
"My royal master, His Sublime and Ineffable Majesty, is prostrated
with grief," he stated solemnly. "Were his sorrow not so overwhelming,
he would have come in His Own Sacred Person to express the pain and
shame which he feels that people of the Company should be set upon
and endangered in the streets of the royal city."
If he weren't doped to the ears, von Schlichten substituted mentally.
There was a native drug which had, on its users, the combined effects
of hashish, heroin and yohimbine; Jaikark and all his court circle
were addicts. He probably hadn't even heard of the riot.
"The soldiers of His Sublime and Ineffable Majesty came most promptly
to the aid of the troops of the Company, did they not, General von
Schlichten?" Harrington asked.
"Within minutes, Your Excellency," von Schlichten replied gravely.
"Their promptness, valor, and efficiency were most exemplary."
Gurgurk spoke at length, expressing himself as delighted, on behalf of
his royal master, at hearing such high praise from so distinguished a
soldier. Eric Blount then contributed a short speech, beseeching the
gods that the deep and beautiful friendship existing between the
Chartered Uller Company and His Sublime etcetera would continue
unimpaired, and that His Sublime etcetera would enjoy long life and
peaceful reign, managing, by a trick of Konkrookan grammar, to imply
that the second would be conditional upon the first. The Keegarkan
Ambassador then spoke his piece, expressing on behalf of King Orgzild
the deepest regret that the people of the Company should be so
molested, and managing to hint that things like that simply didn't
happen at Keegark.
The Prince Gorkrink then spoke briefly, in sympathy for the great and
good friend of all Ulleran peoples, Mohammed Ferriera, who had been
injured, and hoping that he would soon enjoy full health again. He
also managed to convey King Orgzild's pleasure at having obtained the
plutonium. Von Schlichten noticed that a few of his more recent
quartz-specks were slightly greenish in tinge, a sure sign that he
had, not long ago, been exposed to the fluorine-tainted air which men
and geeks alike breathed on Niflheim. When a geek prince hired out as
a laborer for a year on Niflheim, he did so for only one purpose--to
learn Terran technologies.
Gurgurk then announced that so enormous a crime against the friends of
His Sublime etcetera had not been allowed to go unpunished, signaling
behind him with one of his lower hands for the box to be brought
forward. The slaves carried it to the front, set it down, and opened
it, taking from it a rug which they spread on the floor. On this, from
the box, they placed twenty-four newly severed opal-grinning heads, in
four neat rows. They had all been freshly scrubbed and polished, but
they still smelled like crushed cockroaches.
The three Terrans looked at them gravely. A double-dozen heads was
standard payment for an attack in which no Terran had been killed.
Ostensibly, they were the heads of the ringleaders: in practice, they
were usually lopped from the first two-dozen prisoners or over-age
slaves at hand, without regard for whether the victims had even heard
of the crime which they were expiating. If the Extraterrestrial's
Rights Association were really serious about the rights of these
geeks, they'd advocate booting out all these native princes and
turning the whole planet over to the Company. That had been the Terran
Federation's idea, from the beginning; why else give the Company's
chief representative the title of Governor-General?
There was another long speech from Gurgurk, with the nobles behind him
murmuring antiphonal agreement--standard procedure, for which there
was a standard pun, geek chorus--and a speech of response from Sid
Harrington. Standing stiffly through the whole rigamarole, von
Schlichten waited for it to end, as finally it did.
They walked back from the door, whence they had escorted the
delegation, and stood looking down at the saurian heads on the rug.
Harrington raised his voice and called to a Kragan sergeant whose
chevrons were painted on all four arms.
"Take this carrion out and stuff it in the incinerator," he ordered.
"If any of you think you can clean up this rug and this box, you're
welcome to them."
"Wait a moment," von Schlichten told the sergeant. Then he disgorged
and pouched his geek-speaker. "See that head, there?" he asked,
rolling it over with his toe. "I killed that geek, myself, with my
pistol, while Them and Hid were getting Ferriera into the car. Miss
Quinton killed that one with the bolo; see where she chopped him on
the back of the neck? The cut that took off the head was a little low,
and missed it. And Hid O'Leary stuck a knife in that one." He walked
around the rug, turning heads over with his foot. "This was cut-rate
head-payment; they just slashed off two-dozen heads at the scene of
the riot. I don't like this butchery of worn-out slaves and petty
thieves any better than anybody else, but this I don't like either.
Six months ago, Gurgurk wouldn't have tried to pull anything like
this. Now he's laughing up his non-existent sleeve at us."
"That's what I've been preaching, all along," Eric Blount took up
after him. "These geeks need having the fear of Terra thrown into
them."
"Oh, nonsense, Eric; you're just as bad as Carlos, here!" Harrington
tut-tutted. "Next, you'll be saying that we ought to depose Jaikark
and take control ourselves."
"Well, what's wrong with that, for an idea?" von Schlichten demanded.
"Don't you think we could? Our Kragans could go through that army of
Jaikark's like fast neutrons through toilet-paper."
"My God!" Harrington exploded. "Don't let me hear that kind of talk
again! We're not _conquistadores_; we're employees of a business
concern, here to make money honestly, by exchanging goods and services
with these people...."
He turned and walked away, out of the Audience Hall, leaving von
Schlichten and Blount to watch the removal of the geek-heads.
"You know, I went a little too far," von Schlichten confessed. "Or too
fast, rather. He's got to be conditioned to accept that idea."
"We can't go too slowly, either," Blount replied. "If we wait for him
to change his mind, it'll be the same as waiting for him to retire.
And that'll be waiting too long."
Von Schlichten nodded seriously. "Did you notice the green specks in
the hide of that Prince Gorkrink?" he asked. "He's just come back from
Niflheim. Not on the _Pretoria_, I don't think. Probably on the
_Canberra_, three months ago."
"And he's here to get that plutonium, and ship it to Keegark on the
_Oom Paul Kruger_," Blount considered. "I wonder just what he learned,
on Niflheim."
"I wonder just what's going on at Keegark," von Schlichten said.
"Orgzild's pulled down a regular First-Century-model iron curtain. You
know, four of our best native Intelligence operatives have been
murdered in Keegark in the last three months, and six more have just
vanished there."
"Well, I'm going there in a few days, myself, to talk to Orgzild about
this spaceport deal," Blount said. "I'll have a talk with Hendrik
Lemoyne and MacKinnon. And I'll see what I can find out for myself."
"Well, let's go have a drink," von Schlichten suggested, consulting
his watch. "About time for a cocktail."
IV.
If You Read It in Stanley-Browne
Von Schlichten and Blount entered the bar together--the Broadway Room,
decorated in gleaming plastics and chromium in enthusiastic if
slightly inaccurate imitation of a First Century New York nightclub.
There were no native servants to spoil the illusion, such as it was:
the service was fully automatic. Going to a bartending machine, von
Schlichten dialed the cocktail they had decided upon and inserted his
key to charge the drinks to his account, filling a four-portion jug.
As they turned away, they almost collided with Hideyoshi O'Leary and
Paula Quinton. The girl wore a long-sleeved gown to conceal a bandage
on her right wrist, and her face was rather heavily powdered in spots;
otherwise she looked none the worse for recent experiences.
"Well, you seem to have gotten yourself repaired, Miss Quinton," he
greeted her. "Feel better, now?... Miss Quinton, this is
Lieutenant-Governor Blount. Eric, Miss Paula Quinton."
"Delighted, Miss Quinton," Blount said. "Carlos tells us he found you
standing over poor Mohammed Ferriera, fighting like a commando. How is
Mohammed, by the way? No danger, I hope; we all like him."
Mohammed Ferriera was still unconscious, the girl reported; he had a
minor concussion, but the medics were not greatly disturbed, and
expected him to be fully recovered in a few weeks. Von Schlichten
invited her and her escort to join him and Blount. Colonel O'Leary was
carrying a cocktail jug and a couple of glasses; finding a table out
of the worst of the noise, they all sat down together.
"I suppose you think it's a joke, our being nearly murdered by the
people we came to help," Paula began, a trifle defensively.
"Not a very funny joke," von Schlichten told her. "It's been played on
us till it's lost its humor."
"Yes, geek ingratitude's an old story to all of us," Blount agreed.
"You stay on this planet very long and you'll see what I mean."
"You call them that, too?" she asked, as though disappointed in him.
"Maybe if you stopped calling them geeks, they wouldn't resent you the
way they do. You know, that's a nasty name; in the First Century
Pre-Atomic, it designated a degraded person who performed some sort of
revolting public exhibition...."
"Biting off live chickens' heads, in a sideshow wild-man act,"
Hideyoshi O'Leary supplied. "When you get up north, watch how the
peasants kill these little things like six-legged iguanas that they
raise for food."
"That isn't the reason, though," von Schlichten said. "As we use it,
the word's pure onomatopoeia. You've learned some of the languages;
you know what they sound like. _Geek-geek-geek._"
"As far as that goes, you know what the geek name for a Terran is?"
Blount asked. "_Suddabit._"
She looked puzzled for a moment, then slipped in her enunciator. Even
in the absence of any native, she used her handkerchief to mask the
act.
"Suddabit," she said, distinctly. "Sud-da-a-bit." Taking out the
geek-speaker, she put it away. "Why, that's exactly how they'd
pronounce it!"
"And don't tell me you haven't heard it before," O'Leary said. "The
geeks were screaming it at you, over on Seventy-second Street, this
afternoon. _Znidd suddabit_; kill the Terrans. That's Rakkeed the
Prophet's whole gospel."
"So you see," Eric Blount rammed home the moral, "this is just another
case of nobody with any right to call anybody else's kettle black....
Cigarette?"
"Thank you." She leaned toward the lighter-flame O'Leary had snapped
into being. "I suspect that of being a principle you'd like me to bear
in mind at the polar mines, when I see, let's say, some laborer being
beaten by a couple of overseers with three foot lengths of
three-quarter-inch steel cable."
"Well, you could also remember that a native's skin is about half an
inch thick, and a good deal tougher than a human's," von Schlichten
told her. "And it wouldn't hurt any if you found out how these
laborers are treated at home. Mostly they're serfs hired from the big
landowners; it's a fact you can easily verify that permission to join
the labor-companies at the polar mines is regarded as a privilege,
granted as a reward or denied as a punishment. And most of the geek
landowners are bitterly critical of the way we treat our labor at the
mines; they claim we make them dissatisfied with the treatment they
get at home."
"Of course, they're always glad to have the peasants taken off their
hands during a slack agricultural season," Blount added, "and we train
workers to handle contragravity power-equipment. I won't deny that
there's a lot of unnecessary brutality on the part of the native
foremen and overseers, which we're trying, gradually, to eliminate.
You'll have to remember, though, that we're dealing with a naturally
brutal race."
"Of course, mistreatment of native labor is always blamed on other
natives, never on the gentle and kindly Terrans," she replied. "That's
been SOP on every planet our Association's had any experience with."
"Now look; you just came here from Niflheim," von Schlichten objected.
"The Company employs quite a few geeks there; how much brutality did
you run into there?"
"Well, I must admit, the Ullerans who work there are very well
treated. Except that I don't think it's right to employ any people
with silicone body-tissues where they're going to breathe
fluorine-tainted air."
"Nobody ought to be employed on that planet!" Hideyoshi O'Leary
declared. "I did a two-year hitch there, when I was first commissioned
in the Company service."
"I put in two years there, too," Blount supported him. "And I might
add that that's a year longer than any Ulleran native is ever allowed
to spend on Niflheim. You know what the setup is, there, don't you?
The Terran Federation Space Navy discovered and explored both Uller
and Niflheim, which made both planets public domain. The Company was
originally formed to exploit Uller alone, but the Federation insisted
that both planets would have to be franchised to the same company.
They wanted Niflheim exploited, mainly because of the uranium-deposits
there. As it turned out, the Company's making as much money out of
Niflheim as we are out of Uller."
"What you miss is this," von Schlichten pointed out. "On Niflheim,
there are about a thousand Terrans, and not more than five hundred
geeks, all employed on construction-work and in the mines, on the
planet itself, working directly under Terran supervision. We use them
because they have four hands, and in the power-driven contragravity
armor that's necessary there, they can manipulate more controls and do
more things at once than we can. Here on Uller, at the polar mines,
there are about ten thousand geeks working under five hundred Terrans,
and most of the latter are engineers or technicians who don't do
supervisory work. So we have to use native foremen, and they're guilty
of what mistreatment the workers suffer."
"And remember, too," O'Leary added, "work at the polar mines can only
go on for about two months out of the year--mid-September to
mid-November at the Arctic, and mid-March to mid-May at the Antarctic.
Naturally, things have to be done in a hurry and under pressure."
"Well, why do you work mines at the poles? Aren't there mineral
deposits in places where you can work all year 'round?"
"Not as rich, or as accessible," Blount said. "You know what the
seasons are like, at the poles of this planet. The temperature will
range from about two-fifty Fahrenheit in mid-summer to a hundred and
fifty below in winter. There's the most intense sort of thermal
erosion you can imagine--the ice-cap melts in the spring to a sea,
which boils away completely by the middle of the summer. There will be
violent circular storms of hot wind, blowing away the light sand and
dust and leaving the heavier particles of metallic ores and metals
behind. Then, when the winds fall, we move in for a couple of months.
It isn't really mining, or even quarrying; we just scoop up ore from
the surface, load it onto ore-boats, and fly it down to Skilk and
Krink and Grank, where it's smelted through the winter. The natives
run the smelters; use the heat to thaw frozen food for themselves and
their livestock while they're melting the ore. In the north,
metallurgy and food-preparation have always been combined that way."
"Yes, if you think the natives who work at the mines feel themselves
ill-treated, you might propose closing them down entirely and see what
the native reaction would be," von Schlichten told her. "Independently
hired free workers can make themselves rich, by native standards, in a
couple of seasons; many of the serfs pick up enough money from us in
incentive-pay to buy their freedom after one season."
"Well, if the Company's doing so much good on this planet, how is it
that this native, Rakkeed, the one you call the Mad Prophet, is able
to find such a following?" Paula demanded. "There must be something
wrong somewhere."
"That's a fair question," Blount replied, inverting a cocktail jug
over his glass to extract the last few drops. "When we came to Uller,
we found a culture roughly like that of Europe during the Seventh
Century Pre-Atomic, or, more closely, like that of Japan before the
beginning of the First Century P. A. We initiated a technological and
economic revolution here, and such revolutions have their casualties,
too. A number of classes and groups got squeezed pretty badly, like
the horse-breeders and harness-manufacturers on Terra by the invention
of the automobile, or the coal and hydroelectric interests when direct
conversion of nuclear energy to electric current was developed, or
the railroads and steamship lines at the time of the discovery of the
contragravity-field. Naturally, there's a lot of ill-feeling on the
part of merchants and artisans who weren't able or willing to adapt
themselves to changing conditions; they're all backing Rakkeed and
yelling '_Znidd suddabit!_' now. You know, it's a shame that geek
messiah isn't a smart crook, instead of an honest fanatic; he could
take in the equivalent of a couple of million sols a year off the
North Uller merchants and the Equatorial Zone shipowners. But it is a
fact, which not even Rakkeed can successfully deny, that we've raised
the general living standard of this planet by about two hundred
percent."
"Rakkeed is a Zirk," von Schlichten said. "They're the nomads who hire
out to the northern merchants as caravan-drivers, and also prey, or
used to prey, on the caravans as brigands. Since our air-freighters
got into operation, neither caravan-driving nor caravan-raiding has
been a paying business, and our air-patrols have made caravan-raiding
suicidal as well. So the Zirks don't like us. The only thing they know
or are willing to learn is handling these six-legged riding-and
pack-animals we call hipposaurs. We employ a few of them as cavalry,
and a few more of them work as the local equivalent of _gauchos_, and
the rest just sit around and listen to Rakkeed's sermons."
Both jugs were empty. Colonel O'Leary, as befitted his junior rank,
picked them up; after a good-natured wrangle with von Schlichten,
Blount handed the colonel his credit-key.
"The merchants in the north don't like us; beside spoiling the
caravan-trade, we're spoiling their local business, because the
land-owning barons, who used to deal with them, are now dealing
directly with us. At Skilk, King Firkked's afraid his feudal nobility
is going to try to force a Runnymede on him, so he's been currying
favor with the urban merchants; that makes him as pro-Rakkeed and as
anti-Terran as they are. At Krink, King Jonkvank has the support of
his barons, but he's afraid of his urban bourgeoisie, and we pay him a
handsome subsidy, so he's pro-Terran and anti-Rakkeed. At Skilk,
Rakkeed comes and goes openly; at Krink he has a price on his head."
"Jonkvank is not one of the assets we boast about too loudly,"
Hideyoshi O'Leary said, pausing on his way from the table. "He's as
bloody-minded an old murderer as you'd care not to meet in a dark
alley anywhere."
"We can turn our backs on him and not expect a knife between our
shoulders, anyhow," von Schlichten said. "And we can believe, oh, up
to eighty percent of what he tells us, and that's sixty percent better
than any of the other native princes, except King Kankad, of course.
The Kragans are the only real friends we have on this planet." He
thought for a moment. "Miss Quinton, are you doing sociographic
research-work here, in addition to your Ex-Rights work?" he asked.
"Well, let me advise you to pay some attention to the Kragans. You'll
only find them treated at any length at all in that compendium of
misinformation, Willard Stanley-Browne's _Short Sociographic History
of Beta Hydrae II_, and ninety percent of what Stanley-Browne says
about them is completely erroneous."
"Oh, but they're just a parasite-race on the Terrans," Dr. Paula
Quinton objected. "You find races like that all through the explored
galaxy--pathetic cultural mongrels."
Both men laughed heartily. Colonel O'Leary, returning with the jugs,
wanted to know what he'd missed. Blount told him.
"Ha! She's been reading that thing of Stanley-Browne's," he said.
"What's the matter with Stanley-Browne?" Paula demanded.
"Stanley-Browne is one author you can depend on," O'Leary assured her.
"If you read it in Stanley-Browne, it's wrong. You know, I don't think
she's run into many Kragans. We ought to take her over and introduce
her to King Kankad."
Von Schlichten allowed himself to be smitten by an idea. "By Allah, so
we had!" he exclaimed. "Look, you're going to Skilk, in the next week,
aren't you? Well, do you think you could get all your end-jobs cleared
up here and be ready to leave by 0800 Tuesday? That's four days from
today."
"I'm sure I could. Why?"
"Well, I'm going to Skilk, myself, with the armed troopship
_Aldebaran_. We're stopping at King Kankad's Town to pick up a
battalion of Kragan Rifles for duty at the polar mines, where you're
going. Suppose we leave here in my command-car, go to Kankad's Town,
and wait there till the _Aldebaran_ gets in. That would give us about
two to three hours. If you think the Kragans are 'pathetic cultural
mongrels,' what you'll see there will open your eyes. And I might add
that the nearest Stanley-Browne ever came to seeing Kankad's Town was
from the air, once, at a distance of four miles."
"Well, they live entirely by serving as mercenary soldiers for the
Uller Company, don't they?"
"More or less. You see, when we came to Uller, they were barbarian
brigands; had a string of forts along caravan-roads and at fords and
mountain-passes, and levied tolls. They raided into Konkrook and
Keegark territory, too. Well, we had to break that up. We fought a
little war with them, beat them rather badly in a couple of
skirmishes, and then made a deal with them. That was before my time,
when old Jerry Kirke was Governor-General. He negotiated a treaty with
their King, bought their rievers'-forts outright, and paid them a
subsidy to compensate for loss of tolls and raid-spoil, and agreed to
employ the whole tribe as soldiers. We've taught them a lot--you'll
see how much when you visit their town--but they aren't cultural
mongrels. You'll like them."
"Well, general, I'll take you up," she said. "But I warn you; if this
is some scheme to indoctrinate me with the Uller Company's side of the
case and blind me to unjust exploitation of the natives here, I don't
propagandize very easily."
"Fair enough, as long as you don't let fear of being propagandized
blind you to the good we're doing here, or impair your ability to
observe and draw accurate conclusions. Just stay scientific about it
and I'll be satisfied. Now, let's take time out for lubrication," he
said, filling her glass and passing the jug.
Two hours and five cocktails later, they were still at the table, and
they had taught Paula Quinton some twenty verses of _The Heathen
Geeks, They Wear No Breeks_, including the four printable ones.
V.
You Can Depend on It It's Wrong
Gongonk Island, with its blue-gray Company buildings, and the Terran
green of the farms, and the spaceport with its ring of mooring-pylons
empty since the _City of Pretoria_ had lifted out, two days before,
for Terra, was dropping away behind. Von Schlichten held his lighter
for Paula Quinton, then lit his own cigarette.
"I was rather horrified, Friday afternoon, at the way you and Colonel
O'Leary and Mr. Blount were blaspheming against Stanley-Browne," she
said. "His book is practically the sociographers' Koran for this
planet. But I've been checking up, since, and I find that everybody
who's been here any length of time seems to deride it, and it's full
of the most surprising misstatements. I'm either going to make myself
famous or get burned at the stake by the Extraterrestrial Sociographic
Society after I get back to Terra. In the last three months, I've been
really too busy with Ex-Rights work to do much research, but I'm
beginning to think there's a great deal in Stanley-Browne's book that
will have to be reconsidered."
"How'd you get into this, Miss Quinton?" he asked.
"You mean sociography, or Ex-Rights? Well, my father and my
grandfather were both extraterrestrial sociographers--anthropologists
whose subjects aren't anthropomorphic--and I majored in sociography
at the University of Montevideo. And I've always been in sympathy
with extraterrestrial races; one of my great-grandmothers was a
Freyan."
"The deuce; I'd never have guessed that, as small and dark as you
are."
"Well, another of my great-grandmothers was Japanese," she replied.
"The family name's French. I'm also part Spanish, part Russian, part
Italian, part English ... the usual modern Argentine mixture."
"I'm an Argentino, too. From La Rioja, over along the Sierra de
Velasco. My family lived there for the past five centuries. They came
to the Argentine in the Year Three, Atomic Era."
"On account of the Hitler bust-up?"
"Yes. I believe the first one, also a General von Schlichten, was what
was then known as a war-criminal."
"That makes us partners in crime, then," she laughed. "The Quintons
had to leave France about the same time; they were what was known as
collaborationists."
"That's probably why the Southern Hemisphere managed to stay out of
the Third and Fourth World Wars," he considered. "It was full of the
descendants of people who'd gotten the short end of the Second."
"Do you speak the Kragan language, general?" she asked. "I understand
it's entirely different from the other Equatorial Ulleran languages."
"Yes. That's what gives the Kragans an entirely different semantic
orientation. For instance, they have nothing like a subject-predicate
sentence structure. That's why, Stanley-Browne to the contrary
notwithstanding, they are entirely non-religious. Their language
hasn't instilled in them a predisposition to think of everything as
the result of an action performed by an agent. And they have no
definite parts of speech; any word can be used as any part of speech,
depending on context. Tense is applied to words used as nouns, not
words used as verbs; there are four tenses--spatial-temporal present,
things here-and-now; spatial present and temporal remote, things which
were here at some other time; spatial remote and temporal present,
things existing now somewhere else, and spatial-temporal remote,
things somewhere else some other time."
"Why, it's a wonder they haven't developed a Theory of Relativity!"
"They have. It resembles ours about the way the Wright Brothers'
airplane resembles this aircar, but I was explaining the
Keene-Gonzales-Dillingham Theory and the older Einstein Theory to King
Kankad once, and it was beautiful to watch how he picked it up. Half
the time, he was a jump ahead of me."
The aircar began losing altitude and speed as they came in over
Kraggork Swamp; the treetops below blended into a level plain of
yellow-green, pierced by glints of stagnant water underneath and
broken by an occasional low hillock, sometimes topped by a stockaded
village.
"Those are the swamp-savages' homes," he told her. "Most of what you
find in Stanley-Browne about them is fairly accurate. He spent a lot
of time among them. He never seems to have realized, though, that they
are living now as they have ever since the first appearance of
intelligent life on this planet."
"You mean, they're the real aboriginal people of Uller?"
"They and the Jeel cannibals, whom we are doing our best to
exterminate," he replied. "You see, at one time, the dominant type of
mobile land-life was the thing we call a shellosaur, a big thing,
running from five to fifteen tons, plated all over with silicate
shell, till it looked like a six-legged pine-cone. Some were
herbivores and some were carnivores. There are a few left, in remote
places--quite a few in the Southern Hemisphere, which we haven't
explored very much. They were a satisfied life-form. Outside of a
volcano or an earthquake or an avalanche, nothing could hurt a
shellosaur but a bigger shellosaur.
"Finally, of course, they grew beyond their sustenance-limit, but in
the meantime, some of them began specializing on mobility instead of
armor and began excreting waste-matter instead of turning it to shell.
Some of these new species got rid of their shell entirely. _Parahomo
sapiens Ulleris_ is descended from one of these.
"The shellosaurs were still a serious menace, though. The ancestors of
the present Ulleran, the proto-geeks, when they were at about the Java
Ape-Man stage of development, took two divergent courses to escape the
shellosaurs. Some of them took to the swamps, where the shellosaurs
would sink if they tried to follow. Those savages, down there, are
still living in the same manner; they never progressed. Others
encountered problems of survival which had to be overcome by
invention. They progressed to barbarism, like the people of the
fishing-villages, and some of them progressed to civilization, like
the Konkrookans and the Keegarkans.
"Then, there were others who took to the high rocks, where the
shellosaurs couldn't climb. The Jeels are the primitive, original
example of that. Most of the North Uller civilizations developed from
mountaineer-savages, and so did the Zirks and the other northern
plains nomads."
"Well, how about the Kragans?" Paula asked. "Which were they?"
Von Schlichten was scanning the horizon ahead. He pulled over a pair
of fifty-power binoculars on a swinging arm and put them where she
could use them.
"Right ahead, there; just a little to the left. See that brown-gray
spot on the landward edge of the swamp? That's King Kankad's Town.
It's been there for thousands of years, and it's always been Kankad's
Town. You might say, even the same Kankad. The Kragan kings have
always provided their own heirs, by self-fertilization. That's a
complicated process, involving simultaneous male and female
masturbation, but the offspring is an exact duplicate of the single
parent. The present Kankad speaks of his heir as 'Little Me,' which is
a fairly accurate way of putting it."
He knew what she was seeing through the glasses--a massive butte of
flint, jutting out into the swamp on the end of a sharp ridge, with a
city on top of it. All the buildings were multi-storied, some piling
upward from the top and some clinging to the sides. The high
watchtower at the front now carried a telecast-director, aimed at an
automatic relay-station on an unmanned orbiter two thousand miles
off-planet.
"They're either swamp-people who moved up onto that rock, or they're
mountaineers who came out that far along the ridge and stopped," she
said. "Which?"
"Nobody's ever tried to find out. Maybe if you stay on Uller long
enough, you can. That ought to be good for about eight to ten honorary
doctorates. And maybe a hundred sols a year in book royalties."
"Maybe I'll just do that, general.... What's that, on the little
island over there?" she asked, shifting the glasses. "A clump of
flat-roofed buildings. Under a red-and-yellow danger-flag."
"That's Dynamite Island; the Kragans have an explosives-plant there.
They make nitroglycerine, like all the thalassic peoples; they also
make TNT and catastrophite, and propellants. Learned that from us, of
course. They also manufacture most of their own firearms, some of them
pretty extreme--up to 25-mm for shoulder rifles. Don't ever fire one;
it'd break every bone in your body."
"Are they that much stronger than us?"
He shook his head. "Just denser, heavier. They're about equal to us in
weight-lifting. They can't run, or jump, as well as we can. We often
come out here for games with the Kragans, where the geeks can't watch
us. And that reminds me--you're right about that being a term of
derogation, because I don't believe I've ever knowingly spoken of a
Kragan as a geek, and in fact they've picked up the word from us and
apply it to all non-Kragans. But as I was saying, our baseball team
has to give theirs a handicap, but their football team can beat the
daylights out of ours. In a tug-of-war, we have to put two men on our
end for every one of theirs. But they don't even try to play tennis
with us."
"Don't the other natives make their own firearms?"
"No, and we're not going to teach them how. The thalassic peoples here
in the Equatorial Zone are fairly good empirical, teaspoon-measure,
chemists. Well, no, alchemists. They found out how to make
nitroglycerine, and use it for blasting and for bombs and mines, and
they screw little capsules of it on the ends of their arrows. Most of
their chemistry, such as it is, was learned in trying to prevent
organic materials, like wood, from petrifying. Up in the north, where
it gets cold, they learned a lot about metallurgy and ceramics, and
about forced-draft pneumatics, from having to keep fires going all
winter to thaw frozen food. They make air-rifles, to shoot metal
darts."
The aircar came in, circling slowly over the town on the big rock, and
let down on the roof of the castle-like building from which the
watchtower rose. There were a dozen or so individuals waiting for
them--the five Terrans, three men and two women, from the telecast
station, and the rest Kragans. One of these, dark-skinned but with
speckles no darker than light amber, armed only with a heavy dagger,
came over and clapped von Schlichten on the shoulder, grinning
opalescently.
"Greetings, Von!" he squawked in Kragan, then, seeing Paula, switched
over to the customary language of the Takkad Sea country. "It makes
happiness to see you. How long will you stay with us?"
"Till the _Aldebaran_ gets in from Konkrook, to pick up the rifles,"
von Schlichten replied, in Lingua Terra. He looked at his watch. "Two
hours and a half ... Kankad, this is Paula Quinton; Paula, King
Kankad."
He took out his geek-speaker and crammed it into his mouth. Before any
other race on Uller, that would have been the most shocking sort of
bad manners, without the token-concealment of the handkerchief. Kankad
took it as a matter of course. At some length, von Schlichten
explained the nature of Paula's sociographic work, her connection with
the Extraterrestrials' Rights Association, and her intention of going
to the Arctic mines. Kankad nodded.
"You were right," he said. "I wouldn't have understood all that in
your language. If I had read it, maybe, but not if I heard it." He put
his upper right hand on Paula's shoulder and uttered a clicking
approximation of her name. "I make you one of us," he told her. "You
must come back, after the work stops at the mines; if you want to
learn about my people, I'll show you what you want to see, and tell
you what you want to know. But why not stay here? Why bother about
those geeks at the mines; the Company treats them much better than
they deserve. Stay here with us; we will make you happy to be with
us."
Paula replied slowly: "I thank Kankad, but I must go. Those on Terra
who sent me here want me to learn for myself how the workers at the
mines are treated. But I will come back--in a hundred, a hundred and
fifty days."
Kankad's opal-jeweled grin widened. "Good! We'll be waiting for you."
He turned and introduced another Kragan, about his own age, who wore
the equipment and insignia of a Company native-major and was freshly
painted with the Company emblem. "This is Kormork. He and I have borne
young to each other. Kormork, you watch over Paula Quinton." He
managed, on the second try, to make it more or less recognizable.
"Bring her back safe. Or else find yourself a good place to hide."
Kankad introduced the rest of his people, and von Schlichten
introduced the Terrans from the telecast-station. Then Kankad looked
at the watch he was wearing on his lower left wrist.
"We will have plenty of time, before the ship comes, to show Paula the
town," he suggested. "Von, you know better than I do what she would
like to see."
He led the way past a pair of long 90-mm guns to a stone stairway. Von
Schlichten explained, as they went down, that the guns of King
Kankad's Town were the only artillery above 75-mm on Uller in
non-Terran hands. They climbed into an open machine-gun carrier and
strapped themselves to their seats, and for two hours King Kankad
showed her the sights of the town. They visited the school, where
young Kragans were being taught to read Lingua Terra and studied from
textbooks printed in Johannesburg and Sydney and Buenos Aires. Kankad
showed her the repair-shops, where two-score descendants of Kragan
riever-chieftains were working on contragravity equipment, under the
supervision of a Scottish-Afrikaner and his Malay-Portuguese wife; the
small-arms factory, where very respectable copies of Terran rifles and
pistols and auto-weapons were being turned out; the machine-shop; the
physics and chemistry labs; the hospital; the ammunition-loading
plant; the battery of 155-mm Long Toms, built in Kankad's own shops,
which covered the road up the sloping rock-spine behind the city; the
printing-shop and book-bindery; the observatory, with a big telescope
and an ingenious orrery of the Beta Hydrae system; the nuclear-power
plant, part of the original price for giving up brigandage.
Half an hour before the ship from Konkrook was due, they had arrived
at the airport, where a gang of Kragans were clearing a berth for the
_Aldebaran_. From somewhere, Kankad produced two cold bottles of Cape
Town beer for Paula and von Schlichten, and a bowl of some boiling-hot
black liquid for himself. Von Schlichten and Paula lit cigarettes;
between sips of his bubbling hell-brew, Kankad gnawed on the stalk of
some swamp-plant. Paula seemed as much surprised at Kankad's disregard
for the eating taboo as she had been at von Schlichten's open flouting
of the convention of concealment when he had put in his geek-speaker.
"This is the only place on Uller where this happens," von Schlichten
told her. "Here, or in the field when Terran and Kragan soldiers are
together. There aren't any taboos between us and the Kragans."
"No," Kankad said. "We cannot eat each others' food, and because our
bodies are different, we cannot be the fathers of each others' young.
But we have been battle-comrades, and worksharers, and we have learned
from each other, my people more from yours than yours from mine.
Before you came, my people were like children, shooting arrows at
little animals on the beach, and climbing among the rocks at
dare-me-and-I-do, and playing war with toy weapons. But we are growing
up, and it will not be long before we will stand beside you, as the
grown son stands beside his parent, and when that day comes, you will
not be ashamed of us."
It was easy to forget that Kankad had four arms and a rubbery,
quartz-speckled skin, and a face like a lizard.
"I have always wished that some of your people could come to Terra, to
study," von Schlichten said. "I was talking about it with Sid
Harrington, only a short while ago. He thinks it would be a good
thing, for your people and for mine."
"Yes. I want Little Me, when he's old enough to travel, to visit your
world," Kankad said. "And some of the other young ones. And when
Little Me is old enough to take over the rule of our people, I would
like to go to Terra, myself."
"Some day, I am going to return to Terra; I would like to have you
make the trip with me," von Schlichten said.
"That would be wonderful, Von!" Kankad exclaimed. "I want to see your
world, before I die. It must be a wonderful place. A world is what its
people make it, and your people must be able to make anything of your
world that you would want."
"We almost made a lifeless desert, like the poles of Uller, out of our
world, once," von Schlichten told him. "Four hundred and more years
ago, we fought great wars among ourselves, with weapons such as I hope
will never even be thought of on Uller. Our whole Northern Hemisphere,
where our greatest nations were, was devastated; much of it is
wasteland to this day. But we put an end to that folly in time; we
made one nation out of all our people, and swore never to commit such
crimes again, and then we built the ships that took us out to the
stars. But I want you to see our world, and some of the other worlds
that we have visited, I think you would like it."
"I know I would. And with you to tell me what the things I would see
meant...." Kankad was silent for a moment. Then he spoke again,
changing the subject abruptly.
"I hope Paula will pardon me, but isn't Paula the kind of Terran that
bears young?"
"That's right, Kankad. I never bore any, yet, but that's the kind of
Terran I am."
"I like Paula," Kankad said. "She has come all the way from Terra to
help us, and to learn about us. Of course, the Kragans don't need that
kind of help, and the geeks, who would stick a knife in her as soon as
she turned her back on them, don't deserve it. But she wants to learn
about us, just as I want to learn about Terra. Von, why don't you and
Paula have young?" he asked. "I think that would be fine. Then, Little
Paula-Von and Little Me could be friends, long after the three of us
are dead and gone."
VI.
The Bad News Came After the Coffee
The last clatter of silverware and dishes ceased as the native
servants finished clearing the table. There was a remaining clatter of
cups and saucers; liqueur-glasses tinkled, and an occasional
cigarette-lighter clicked. At the head table, the voices seemed
louder.
"... don't like it a millisol's worth," Brigadier-General Barney
Mordkovitz, the Skilk military CO, was saying to the lady on his
right. "They're too confounded meek. Nowadays, nobody yells '_Znidd
suddabit!_' at you. Nobody sticks all four thumbs in his mouth and
waves his fingers. Nobody commits nuisance on the sidewalk in front of
you. They just stand and look at you like a farmer looking at a turkey
the week before Christmas, and that I don't like!"
"Oh, bosh!" Jules Keaveney, the Skilk Resident-Agent, at the head of
the table, exclaimed. "You soldiers are all alike--begging your
pardon, General von Schlichten," he nodded in the direction of the
guest of honor. "If they don't bow and scrape to you and get off the
sidewalk to let you pass, you say they're insolent and need a lesson.
If they do, you say they're plotting insurrection."
"What I said," Mordkovitz repeated, "was that I expect a certain
amount of disorder, and a certain minimum show of hostility toward us
from some of these geeks, to conform to what I know to be our
unpopularity with many of them. When I don't find it, I want to know
why."
"I'm inclined," von Schlichten came to his subordinate's support, "to
agree. This sudden absence of overt hostility is disquieting. Colonel
Cheng-Li," he called on the local Intelligence officer and
Constabulary chief. "This fellow Rakkeed was here, about a month ago.
Was there any noticeable disorder at that time? Anti-Terran
demonstrations, attacks on Company property or personnel, shooting at
aircars, that sort of thing?"
"No more than usual, general. In fact, it was when Rakkeed came here
that the condition General Mordkovitz was speaking of began to become
conspicuous. We did catch some of Rakkeed's disciples trying to get in
among the enlisted men of the Tenth N.U.N.I. and the Fifth Zirk
Cavalry and promote disaffection. That was reported at the time, sir."
"And acted upon, as far as the civil administration would permit," von
Schlichten replied. "And I might say that Lieutenant-Governor Blount
has reported from Keegark, where he is now, that the same unnatural
absence of hostility exists there."
"Well, of course, general," Keaveney said patronizingly. "King Orgzild
has things under pretty tight control at Keegark. He'd not allow a few
fanatics to do anything to prejudice these spaceport negotiations."
"I wonder if the idea back of that spaceport proposition isn't to get
us concentrated at Keegark, where Orgzild could wipe us all out in one
surprise blow," somebody down the table suggested.
"Oh, Orgzild wouldn't be crazy enough to try anything like that,"
Commander Dirk Prinsloo, of the _Aldebaran_, declared. "He'd get away
with it for just twelve months--the time it would take to get the
news to Terra and for a Federation Space Navy task-force to get here.
And then, there'd be little bits of radioactive geek floating around
this system as far out as the orbit of Beta Hydrae VII."
"That's quite true," von Schlichten agreed. "The point is, does
Orgzild know it? I doubt if he even believes there is a Terra."
"Then where in Space does he think we come from?" Keaveney demanded.
"I believe he thinks Niflheim is our home world," von Schlichten
replied. "Or, rather, the string of orbiters and artificial satellites
around Niflheim. Where he thinks Niflheim is, I wouldn't even try to
guess."
"Well, it takes six months for a ship to go between here and Nif,"
Prinsloo considered. "Because of the hyperdrive effects, the
experienced time of the voyage, inside the ship, is of the order of
three weeks. Taking that as the figure, he'd estimate the distance at
about a quarter-million miles, assuming the velocity as being the
speed of one of our contragravity-ships here on Uller. I'm assuming he
doesn't even know there is a hyperdrive."
"Yes. After he'd wiped us out, he might even consider the idea of an
invasion of Niflheim with captured contragravity ships," Hideyoshi
O'Leary chuckled. "That would be a big laugh--if any of us were alive,
then, to do any laughing."
"You don't really believe that, general?" Keaveney asked. His tone was
still derisive, but under the derision was uncertainty. After all, von
Schlichten had been on Uller for fifteen years, to his two.
"Any question of geek psychology is wide open as far as I'm concerned;
the longer I stay here, the less I understand it." Von Schlichten
finished his brandy and got out cigarette-case and lighter. "I have
an idea of the sort of garbled reports these spies of his who spend a
year on Niflheim as laborers bring back."
"You know the line Rakkeed's been taking, of course," Colonel Cheng-Li
put in. "He as much as says that Niflheim's our home, and that the
farms where we raise food here, and those evergreen plantings on Konk
Isthmus and between here and Grank are the beginning of an attempt to
drive all native life from this planet and make it over for
ourselves."
"And that savage didn't think an idea like that up for himself; he got
it from somebody like Orgzild," the black-bearded brigadier-general
added. "You know, the main base off Niflheim is practically
self-supporting, with hydroponic-gardens and animal-tissue culture
vats. And it's enough bigger than one of the _City_ ships to pass for
a little world. Yes, somebody like Orgzild, or King Firkked here,
could easily pick up the idea that that's our home planet."
"But King Kankad was talking about...." Paula Quinton began.
"We were speaking of geeks, not Kragans." Von Schlichten lit his
cigarette and held his lighter for hers. "You saw that big Beta Hydrae
orrery at Kankad's observatory. Well, there's quite a little story
about that. You know, it's generally realized by the natives here that
Uller is a globe. The North Zirks have ridden all the way around it,
on hipposaur-back, in the high latitudes, and the thalassic peoples at
the Equator have sailed all the five equatorial seas and portaged all
the isthmuses between. But, of course, Uller is the center of the
universe; the sun travels around it, on a rather complicated
double-spiral track. As a theory, it explains most of what they're
able to observe, and any minor effects that don't conform to it are
just ignored. They have a model, a most ingenious affair run by
clockwork, at the University of Konkrook, to show the apparent
movement and position of Beta Hydrae in the sky; it does so fairly
accurately.
"Well, some of our astronomers constructed this orrery, and exhibited
it to a gathering of the leading native scholars, who are also the
high-priests of the local religion. Sort of combined Academy of Arts
and Sciences and College of Cardinals. They almost were massacred. As
soon as the assembled pundits saw this thing and grasped its meaning,
they began geeking and skreeking and yorking and squawking and
brandishing knives--it was blasphemous, and sacrilegious, and
undermined the Faith, and invalidated the whole logic-system.
"I was brigadier-general, in command of Konkrook military district,
then--the post Them M'zangwe has now. When I got a riot-call from the
University, I hustled around with a company of Kragans, and we cleared
the hall with the bayonet and ran the reverend professors out onto the
campus, and after we got things in hand, the Kragans crowded around
the orrery, trying to set it up to show the existing position of the
planet relative to the primary and figure out the theory back of it.
They were very much interested; some of them must have sent word home
about it, because Kankad came in on the next ship, wanting to see it.
He was so much taken with it that Sid Harrington gave it to him. It's
one of his most cherished possessions, but the Konkrook pundits bite
all four thumbs and wave their fingers every time they think of it."
He warmed his coffee from a controlled-temperature pot. "You can't use
Kragan thinking on any subject as a criterion of what somebody like
Orgzild's opinions will be."
"I never could understand the admiration some of you military people
have for those cutthroats," Keaveney declared. "Oh, yes, I can. You
like them because they do your dirty work for you."
"He reads Stanley-Browne, too, I'll bet," Hideyoshi O'Leary said.
"Miss Quinton, how did you like your visit to Kankad's Town? Still
think the Kragans are cultural mongrels?"
"Why, they're wonderful! I never expected anything like it. They just
seem to have picked up everything they could from us, and then gone on
from there to develop a culture of their own with our techniques. For
instance, those big guns, the ones they call the Ridge Battery, that
they built for themselves. They aren't copies of Terran guns. They
don't look like our work, or give you the feel our work would. And
that telescope at the observatory," she continued. "Did they build
that, too?"
"Yes, all we furnished was a couple of textbooks on lens-grinding and
telescope-design, and a book on optics. You see, when we made that
deal with them, they realized that we weren't any better fighters than
they were; we just had better weapons. To have the same kind of
weapons, they'd have to learn to make them, and once they began
studying technology, they found that they had to study science.
Weapon-making was the entering-wedge; after that, they found that they
could use the same skills to make anything else they wanted. Give them
another century or so and they'll be one of the great races of the
galaxy."
"Yes, and it's a good thing they're our friends, too," Mordkovitz
added. "I'm only sorry there are so few of them, and so many of the
geeks."
"Yes, the Company ought to let us stockpile nuclear weapons here, just
to be on the safe side," another officer, farther down the table,
said.
"Well, I'm not exactly in favor of that," von Schlichten replied.
"It's the same principle as not allowing guards who have to go in
among the convicts to carry firearms. If somebody like Orgzild got
hold of a nuclear bomb, even a little old First-Century H-bomb, he
could use it for a model and construct a hundred like it, with all the
plutonium we've been handing out for power reactors. And there are too
few of us, and we're concentrated in too few places, to last long if
that happened. What this planet needs, though, is a visit by a
fifty-odd-ship task-force of the Space Navy, just to show the geeks
what we have back of us. After a show like that, there'd be a lot less
_znidd suddabit_ around here."
"General, I deplore that sort of talk," Keaveney said. "I hear too
much of this mailed-fist-and-rattling-saber stuff from some of the
junior officers here, without your giving countenance and
encouragement to it. We're here to earn dividends for the stockholders
of the Uller Company, and we can only do that by gaining the
friendship, respect and confidence of the natives...."
"Mr. Keaveney," Paula Quinton spoke up. "I doubt if even you would
seriously accuse the Extraterrestrials' Rights Association of favoring
what you call a mailed-fist-and-rattling-saber policy. We've done
everything in our power to help these people, and if anybody should
have their friendship, we should. Well, only five days ago, in
Konkrook, Mr. Mohammed Ferriera and I were attacked by a mob, our
native aircar driver was murdered, and if it hadn't been for General
von Schlichten and his soldiers, we'd have lost our own lives. Mr.
Ferriera is still hospitalized as a result of injuries he received. It
seems that General von Schlichten and his Kragans aren't trying to
get friendship and confidence; they're willing to settle for respect,
in the only way they can get it--by hitting harder and quicker than
the geeks can."
Somebody down the table--one of the military, of course--said, "Hear,
hear!" Von Schlichten came as close as a man wearing a monocle can to
winking at Paula. Good girl, he thought; she's started playing on the
Army team!
"Well, of course...." Keaveney began. Then he stopped, as a Terran
sergeant came up to the table and bent over Barney Mordkovitz'
shoulder, whispering urgently. The black-bearded brigadier rose
immediately, taking his belt from the back of his chair and putting it
on. Motioning the sergeant to accompany him, he spoke briefly to
Keaveney and then came around the table to where von Schlichten sat,
the Resident-Agent accompanying him.
"Message just came in from Konkrook, general," he said softly. "Sid
Harrington's dead."
It took von Schlichten all of a second to grasp what had been said.
"Good God! When? How?"
"Here's all we know, sir," the sergeant said, giving him a radioprint
slip. "Came in ten minutes ago."
It was an all-station priority telecast. Governor-General Harrington
had died suddenly, in his room, at 2210; there were no details. He
glanced at his watch; it was 2243. Konkrook and Skilk were in the same
time-zone; that was fast work. He handed the slip to Mordkovitz, who
gave it to Keaveney.
"You from the telecast station, sergeant?" he asked. "All right, let's
go."
"Wait a minute, general." Keaveney put out a hand to detain him as he
took his belt and put it on. "How about this?" He gestured nervously
with the radioprint slip.
"Get up and make an announcement, now," von Schlichten told him,
fastening the buckle and hitching his pistol and survival-kit into
place. "It'll be out all over the planet in half an hour. Never hold
news out unnecessarily." He stubbed out his cigarette. "Come on,
sergeant."
As he hurried from the banquet-room, he could hear Keaveney tapping on
his wine-glass.
"Everybody, please! Let me have your attention! There has just come in
a piece of the most tragic news...."
VII.
Bismillah! How Dumb Can We Get?
The lights had come on inside the semicircular and now open
storm-porch of Company House, but it was still daylight outside. The
sky above the mountain to the west was fading from crimson to
burnt-orange, and a couple of the brighter stars were winking into
visibility. Von Schlichten and the sergeant hurried a hundred yards
down the street between low, thick-walled office buildings to the
telecast station, next to the Administration Building.
A woman captain met him just inside the door of the big soundproofed
room.
"We have a wavelength open to Konkrook, general," she said. "In booth
three."
He nodded. "Thank you, captain.... We've all lost a true friend,
haven't we?"
Another girl, a tech-sergeant, was in the booth; on the screen was the
image of a third young woman, a lieutenant, at Konkrook station. The
sergeant rose and started to leave the booth.
"Stick around, sergeant," von Schlichten told her. "I'll want you to
take over when I'm through." He sat down in front of the combination
visiscreen and pickup. "Now, lieutenant, just what happened?" he
asked. "How did he die?"
"We think it was poison, general. General M'zangwe has ordered autopsy
and chemical analysis. If you can wait about ten minutes, he'll be
able to talk to you, himself."
"Call him. In the meantime, give me everything you know."
"Well, the governor decided to go to bed early; he was going hunting
in the morning. I suppose you know his usual routine?"
Von Schlichten nodded. Harrington would have taken a shower, put on
his dressing-gown, and then sat down at his desk, lighted his pipe,
poured a drink of Terran bourbon, and begun to write his diary.
"Well, at 2210, give or take a couple of minutes, the Kragan
guard-sergeant on that floor heard ten pistol-shots, as fast as they
could be fired semi-auto, in the governor's room. The door was locked,
but he shot it off with his own pistol and went in. He found Governor
Harrington on the floor, wearing only his gown, holding an empty
pistol. He was in convulsions, frothing at the mouth, in horrible
pain. Evidently he'd fired his pistol, which he kept on his desk, to
call help; all the bullets had gone into the ceiling. The sergeant
punched the emergency button, beside the bed, and reported, then tried
to help the governor, but it was too late. One of the medics got there
in five minutes, just as he was dying. He'd written his diary up to
noon of today, and broken off in the middle of a word. There was a
bottle and an overturned glass on his desk. The Constabulary got there
a few minutes later, and then Brigadier-General M'zangwe took charge.
A white rat, given fifteen drops from the whiskey-bottle, died with
the same symptoms in about ninety seconds."
"Who had access to the whiskey-bottle?"
"A geek servant, who takes care of the room. He was caught, an hour
earlier, trying to slip off the island without a pass; they were
holding him at the guardhouse when Governor Harrington died. He's now
being questioned by the Kragans." The girl's face was bleakly
remorseless. "I hope they do plenty to him!"
"I hope they don't kill him before he talks."
"Wait a moment, general; we have General M'zangwe, now," the girl
said. "I'll switch you over."
The screen broke into a kaleidoscopic jumble of color, then cleared;
the chocolate-brown face of Themistocles M'zangwe was looking out of
it.
"I heard what happened, how they found him, and about that geek
chamber-valet being arrested," von Schlichten said. "Did you get
anything out of him?"
"He's admitted putting poison in the bottle, but he claims it was his
own idea. But he's one of Father Keeluk's parishioners, so...."
"Keeluk! God damn, so that was it!" von Schlichten almost shouted.
"Now I know what he wanted with Stalin, and that goat, and those
rabbits!"
Five thousand miles away, in Konkrook, Themistocles M'zangwe whistled.
"_Bismillah_! How dumb can we get?" he cried. "Of course they'd need
terrestrial animals, to find out what would poison a Terran! Wait a
minute; I'll make a note of that, to spring on this geek, if the
Kragans haven't finished him by now." Von Schlichten watched M'zangwe
pick up a stenophone and whisper into it for a moment. "All right,
Carlos, what else?"
"Has Eric been notified?"
"We called Keegark, but he's in audience with King Orgzild, and we
can't reach him."
"Well, who's in charge at Konkrook, now?"
"Not much of anybody. Laviola, the Fiscal Secretary, and Hans
Meyerstein, the Banking Cartel's lawyer, and Howlett, the Personnel
Chief, and Buhrmann, the Commercial Secretary, have made up a sort of
quadrumvirate and are trying to run things. I don't know what would
happen if anything came up suddenly...." A blue-gray uniformed arm,
with a major's cuff-braid, came into the screen, handing a slip of
paper to M'zangwe; he took it, glanced at it, and swore. Von
Schlichten waited until he had read it through.
"Well, something has, all right," the African said. "We just got a
call from Jaikark's Palace--a revolt's broken out, presumably headed
by Gurgurk; Household Guards either mutinied or wiped out by the
mutineers, all but those twenty Kragan Rifles we loaned Jaikark. They,
and about a dozen of Jaikark's courtiers and their personal retainers,
are holding the approaches to the King's apartments. The
native-lieutenant in charge of the Kragans just radioed in; says the
situation is desperate."
"When a Kragan says that, he means damn near hopeless. Is this being
recorded?" When M'zangwe nodded, he continued: "All right. Use the
recording for your authority and take charge. I'm declaring martial
rule at Konkrook, as of now, 2253. Tell Eric Blount what's happened,
and what you've done, as soon as you can get in touch with him. I'm
leaving for Konkrook at once; I ought to get in by 0800.
"Now, as to the trouble at the Palace. Don't commit more than one
company of Kragans and ten airjeeps and four combat-cars, and tell
them to evacuate Jaikark and his followers and our Kragans to Gongonk
Island. And alert your whole force. These geek palace revolutions are
always synchronized with street-rioting, and this thing seems to have
been synchronized with Sid Harrington's death, too. Get our Kragans
out if you can't save anybody else from the Palace, but sacrificing
thirty or forty men to save twenty is no kind of business. And keep
sending reports; I can pick them up on my car radio as I come down."
He turned to the girl sergeant. "Keep on this; there'll be more coming
in."
He rose and left the booth. If we can pull Jaikark's bacon off the
fire, he was thinking, the Company can dictate its own terms to him
afterward; if Jaikark's killed, we'll have Gurgurk's head off for it,
and then take over Konkrook. In either case, it'll be a long step
toward getting rid of all these geek despots. And with Eric Blount as
Governor-General....
The girl captain in charge of the station met him as he came out.
"Poison," he told her. "A geek servant did the job, on orders from
Gurgurk and possibly Rakkeed. Gurgurk's started a putsch against King
Jaikark; I'm going to Konkrook at once. Call the military airport and
have my command-car brought to Company House."
Harry Quong and Hassan Bogdanoff had been at the banquet, too; on a
world of lizard-faced silicate-eaters, the social difference between a
human general and a human aircar-driver was almost infinitesimal. He'd
have to talk to Barney Mordkovitz, too; when word of events at
Konkrook got out among the local geeks, as it probably had already....
The inner door of the soundproofed telecast-room burst open, three men
hurried inside, and it slammed shut behind them. In the brief
interval, there had been firing audible from outside. One of the men
had a pistol in his right hand, and with his left arm he supported a
companion, whose shoulder was mangled and dripped blood. The third man
had a burp-gun in his hands. All were in civilian dress-shorts and
light jackets. The man with the pistol holstered it and helped his
injured companion into a chair. The burp-gunner advanced into the
room, looked around, saw von Schlichten, and addressed him.
"General! The geeks turned on us!" he cried. "The Tenth North Uller's
mutinied; they're running wild all over the place. They've taken their
barracks and supply-buildings, and the lorry-hangars and the
maintenance-yard; they're headed this way in a mob. Some of the Zirk
Cavalry's joined them."
"How about the Kragans?"
"The Eighteenth Rifles? They're with us. I saw a party of them firing
into the mob; I saw some of the Tenth N.U.N.I. tossing a dead Kragan
on their bayonets...."
"Have any ammo left for that burp-gun? Come on, then; let's see what
it's like at Company House," von Schlichten said. "Captain Malavez,
you know what to do about defending this station. Get busy doing it.
And have that girl in booth three tell Konkrook what's happened here,
and say that I won't be coming down, as planned, just yet."
He opened the door, and the rattle of shots outside became audible
again. The civilian with the burp-gun knew better than to let a
general go out first; elbowing von Schlichten out of the way, he
crouched over his weapon and dashed outside. Drawing his pistol, von
Schlichten followed, pulling the door shut after him.
Darkness had fallen, while he had been inside; now the whole Company
Reservation was ablaze with electric lights. Somebody at the
power-plant--either the regular staff, if they were still holding, or
the mutineers, if they had taken it--had thrown on the emergency
lights. There was a confused mass of gray-skinned figures in front of
Company House, reflected light twinkling on steel over them; from the
direction of the native-troops barracks more natives were coming on
the run. On the roof of a building across the street, two machine-guns
were already firing into the mob. A group of Terrans came running out
of a roadway between two buildings, from the direction of the
repair-shops; several of them paused to fire behind them with pistols.
They started toward Company House, saw what was going on there, and
veered, darting into the door of the building from which the
auto-weapons were firing. From up the street, a hundred-odd
saurian-faced native soldiers were coming at the double, bayonets
fixed and rifles at high port; with them ran several Terrans.
Motioning his companion to follow, von Schlichten ran to meet them,
falling in beside a Terran captain who ran in front.
"What's the score, captain?" he asked.
"Tenth North Uller and the Fifth Cavalry have mutinied; so have these
rag-tag Auxiliaries. That mob down there's part of them." He was
puffing under the double effort of running and talking. "Whole thing
blew up in seconds; no chance to communicate with anybody...."
A Terran woman, in black slacks and an orange sweater, ran across the
street in front of them, pursued by a group of enlisted "men" of the
Tenth North Uller Native Infantry, all shrieking "_Znidd suddabit!_"
The fugitive ran into a doorway across the street; before her pursuers
were aware of their danger, the Kragans had swept over them. There was
no shooting; the slim, cruel-bladed bayonets did the work. From behind
him, as he ran, von Schlichten could hear Kragan voices in a new cry:
"_Znidd geek! Znidd geek!_"
The mob were swarming up onto the steps and into the semi-rotunda of
the storm-porch. There was shooting, which told him that some of the
humans who had been at the banquet were still alive. He wondered,
half-sick, how many, and whether they could hold out till he could
clear the doorway, and, most of all, he found himself thinking of
Paula Quinton. Skidding to a stop within fifty yards of the mob, he
flung out his arms crucifix-wise to halt the Kragans. Behind, he could
hear the Terrans and native-officers shouting commands to form front.
"Give them one clip, reload, and then give them the bayonet!" he
ordered. "Shove them off the steps and then clear the porch!"
"One clip, fire, and reload, at will!" somebody passed it on in
Kragan.
The hundred rifles let go all at once, and for five seconds they
poured a deafening two thousand rounds into the mutineers. There was
some fire in reply; a Zirk corporal narrowly missed him with a pistol,
he saw the captain's head fly apart when an explosive rifle-bullet hit
him, and half a dozen Kragans went down.
"Reload! Set your safeties!" von Schlichten bellowed. "Charge!"
Under human officers, the North Uller Native Infantry would have stood
firm. Even under their native-officers and sergeants, they should not
have broken as they did, but the best of these had paid for their
loyalty to the Company with their lives, and the rest had destroyed
their authority by revolting against the source from which it was
derived. At that, the Skilkan peasantry who made up the Tenth Infantry
and the Zirk cavalrymen tried briefly to fight as individuals,
shrieking "_Znidd suddabit!_" until the Kragans were upon them,
stabbing and shooting. They drove the rioters from the steps or killed
them there, they wiped out those who had gotten into the semicircle of
the storm-porch. The inside doors, von Schlichten saw, were open, but
beyond them were Terrans and a dozen or so Kragans. Hideyoshi O'Leary
and Barney Mordkovitz seemed to be in command of these.
"We had about thirty seconds' warning," Mordkovitz reported, "and the
Kragans in the hall bought us another sixty seconds. Of course, we all
had our pistols...."
"Hey! These storm-doors are wedged!" somebody discovered. "Those
goddam geek servants ...!"
"Yeah, kill any of them you catch," somebody else advised. "If we
could have gotten these doors closed...."
The mob, driven from the steps, was trying to reform and renew the
attack. From up the street, the machine-guns, silent during the
bayonet-fight, began hammering again. The mob surged forward to get
out of their fire, and were met by a rifle-blast and a hedge of
bayonets at the steps; they surged back, and the machine-guns flailed
them again. They started to rush the building from whence the
automatic-fire came, and there was a fusillade and a shriek of "_Znidd
geek!_" from up the street. They turned and fled in the direction from
whence they had come, bullets scourging them from three directions at
once.
For a moment, von Schlichten and the three Terrans and eighty-odd
Kragans who had survived the fight stood on the steps, weapons poised,
seeking more enemies. The machine-guns up the street stuttered a few
short bursts and were silent. From behind, the beleaguered Terrans and
their Kragan guards were emerging. He saw Jules Keaveney and his wife,
Commander Prinsloo of the _Aldebaran_, Harry Quong and Bogdanoff. Ah,
there she was! He heaved a breath of relief and waved to her.
The Kragans were already setting about their after-battle chores.
About twenty of them spread out on guard; the others, by fours, went
into the street, one covering with his rifle while the other three
checked on their own casualties, used the short, leaf-shaped swords
they carried to slash off the heads of enemy wounded, and collected
weapons and ammunition. A couple of hundred more Kragans, led by
Native-Major Kormork, the co-parent of young with King Kankad, came up
at the double and stopped in front of Company House.
"We were in quarters, aboard the _Aldebaran_ and in the guesthouse at
the airport," Kormork reported. "We were attacked, fifteen minutes
ago, by a mob. We took ten minutes beating them off, and five more
getting here. I sent Native-Captain Zeerjeek and the rest of the force
to retake the supply-depot and the shops and lorry hangars, which had
been taken, and relieve the military airport, which is under attack."
There was still firing from the commercial airport and the smaller
military airfield. Once there was a string of heavy explosions that
sounded like 80-mm rockets.
"Good enough. I hope you didn't spread yourself out too thin. What's
the situation at the commercial airport?"
"The two ships, the _Aldebaran_ and the freighter _Northern Star_, are
both safe," Kormork replied. "I saw them go on contragravity and rise
to about a hundred feet."
"Whose crowd is that you have?" he asked the Terran lieutenant who had
taken over command of the first force of Kragans.
"Company 6, Eighteenth Rifles, sir. We were on duty at the guardhouse;
fighting broke out in the direction of the native barracks. A couple
of runners from Captain Retief of Company 4 came in with word that he
was being attacked by mutineers from the Tenth N.U.N.I. but that he
was holding them back. So Captain Charbonneau, who was killed a few
minutes ago, left a Terran lieutenant and a Kragan native-lieutenant
and a couple of native-sergeants and thirty Kragans to hold the
guardhouse, and brought the rest of us here."
Von Schlichten nodded. "You'd pass the military airport and the
power-plant, wouldn't you?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. The military airport's holding out, and I saw the
red-and-yellow danger-lights on the fence around the power-plant."
That meant the power-plant was, for the time, safe; somebody'd turned
twenty thousand volts into the fence.
"All right. I'm setting up my command post at the telecast station,
where the communication equipment is." He turned to the crowd that had
come out onto the porch from inside. "Where's Colonel Cheng-Li?"
"Here, general." The Intelligence and Constabulary officer pushed
through the crowd. "I was on the phone, talking to the military
airport, the commercial airport, ordnance depot, spaceport, ship-docks
and power-plant. All answer. I'm afraid Pop Goode, at the city
power-plant, is done for; nobody answers there, but the TV-pickup is
still on in the load-dispatcher's room, and the place is full of
geeks. Colonel Jarman's coming here with a lorry to get combat-car
crews; he's short-handed. Port-Captain Leavitt has all the native
labor at the airport and spaceport herded into a repair dock; he's
keeping them covered with the forward 90-mm gun of the _Northern
Star_. Lorry-hangars, repair-shops and maintenance-yards don't
answer."
"That's what I was going to ask you. Good enough. Harry Quong, Hassan
Bogdanoff!"
His command-car crew front-and-centered.
"I want you to take Colonel O'Leary up, as soon as my car's brought
here.... Hid, you go up and see what's going on. Drop flares where
there isn't any light. And take a look at the native-labor camp and
the equipment-park, south of the reservation.... Kormork, you take all
your gang, and half these soldiers from the Eighteenth, here, and help
clear the native-troops barracks. And don't bother taking any
prisoners; we can't spare personnel to guard them."
Kormork grinned. The taking of prisoners had always been one of those
irrational Terran customs which no Ulleran regarded with favor, or
even comprehension.
VIII.
Authority of Governor-General von Schlichten
There was fresh intelligence from Konkrook, by the time he returned to
the telecast station. Mutiny had broken out there among the laborers
and native troops, who outnumbered the Terrans and their Kragan
mercenaries on Gongonk Island by five thousand to five hundred and
fifteen hundred respectively. The attempt to relieve Jaikark's palace
had been called off before the relief-force could be sent; there was
heavy and confused fighting all over the island, and most of the
combat contragravity and about half the Kragan Rifles had had to be
committed to defend the Company farms across the Channel, on the
mainland, south of the city. There had also been an urgent call for
help from Colonel Rodolfo MacKinnon, in command of Company troops at
the Keegark Residency, and another from the Residency at Kwurk, one of
the Free Cities on the eastern shore of Takkad Sea.
He called Keegark; a girl, apparently one of the civilian telecast
technicians, answered.
"We must have help, General von Schlichten," she told him. "The native
troops, all but two hundred Kragans, have mutinied. They have
everything here except Company House--docks, airport, everything.
We're trying to hold out, but there are thousands of them. Our Takkad
Native Infantry, soldiers of King Orgzild's army, and townspeople.
They all seem to have firearms...."
"What happened to Eric Blount and your Resident-Agent, Mr. Lemoyne?"
"We don't know. They were at the Palace, talking to King Orgzild.
We've tried to call the Palace, but we can't get through, general, we
must have help...."
A call came in, a few minutes later, from Krink, five hundred miles to
the northeast across the mountains; the Resident-Agent there, one
Francis Xavier Shapiro, reported rioting in the city and an attempted
palace-revolution against King Jonkvank, and that the Residency was
under attack. By way of variety, it was the army of King Jonkvank that
had mutinied; the Sixth North Uller Native Infantry and the two
companies of Zirk cavalry at Krink were still loyal, along with the
Kragans.
There was a pattern to all this. Von Schlichten stood staring at the
big map, on the wall, showing the Takkad Sea area at the Equatorial
Zone, and the country north of it to the pole, the area of Uller
occupied by the Company. He was almost beginning to discern the
underlying logic of the past half-hour's events when Keaveney, the
Skilk Resident, blundered into him in a half-daze.
"Sorry, general, didn't see you." His face was ashen, and his jowls
sagged. Von Schlichten wondered if there could be another spectacle so
woe-begone as a back-slapping extrovert with the bottom knocked out of
him. "My God, it's happening all over Uller! Not just here at Skilk;
everywhere where we have a residency or a trading-station. Why, it's
the end of all of us!"
"It's not quite that bad, Mr. Keaveney." He looked at his watch. It
was now nearly an hour since the native troops here at Skilk had
mutinied. Insurrections like this usually succeeded or failed in the
first hour. It was a little early to be certain, but he was beginning
to suspect that this one hadn't succeeded. "If we all do our part,
we'll come out of it all right," he told Keaveney, more cheerfully
than he felt, then turned to ask Brigadier-General Mordkovitz how the
fighting was going at the native-troops barracks.
"Not badly, general. Colonel Jarman's got some contragravity up and
working. They blew out all four of the Tenth N.U.N.I.'s barracks; the
Tenth and the Zirks are trying to defend the cavalry barracks. Some of
our Kragans managed to slip around behind the cavalry stables. They're
leading out hipposaurs, and sniping at the rear of the cavalry
barracks."
"That'll give us some cavalry of our own; a lot of these Kragans are
good riders.... How about the repair-shops and maintenance-yard and
lorry-hangars? I don't want these geeks getting hold of that equipment
and using it against us."
"Kormork's outfit are trying to take back the lorry-hangars. Jarman's
got a couple of airjeeps and a combat-car helping them."
"... won't be one of us left by this time tomorrow," Keaveney was
wailing, to Paula Quinton and another woman. "And the Company is
finished!"
"We'd better get him a drink, or a cup of coffee, general," Mordkovitz
suggested. "With a knockout-drop in it."
Colonel Cheng-Li, the Intelligence officer, seemed to have somewhat
the same idea. He approached Keaveney and tried to quiet him. At the
same time, a woman in black slacks and an orange sweater--the one
whose pursuers had been overrun by the Kragans at the beginning of
the fighting--approached von Schlichten.
"General, King Kankad's calling," she said. "He's on the screen in
booth four."
"Right." To avoid any possibility of misunderstanding, he slipped his
geek-speaker into his mouth before entering the booth. Kankad's face
was looking out of the screen at him, with Phil Yamazaki, the telecast
operator at Kankad's Town, standing behind him.
"Von!" The Kragan spoke almost as though in physical pain. "What can I
do to help? I have twenty thousand of my people here who are capable
of bearing arms, all with firearms, but I have transport for only five
hundred. Where shall I send them?"
Von Schlichten thought quickly. Keegark was finished; the Residency
stood in the middle of the city, surrounded by two hundred thousand of
King Orgzild's troops and subjects. Since Ullerans were bisexual, the
total population, less the senile, crippled, and very young, was the
military potential. Sending Kankad's five hundred warriors and his
meager contragravity there would be the same as shoveling them into a
furnace. The people at Keegark would have to be written off, like the
twenty Kragans at Jaikark's palace.
"Send them to Konkrook," he decided. "Them M'zangwe's in command,
there; he'll need help to hold the Company farms. Maybe he can find
additional transport for you. I'll call him."
"I'll send off what force I can, at once," Kankad promised. "How does
it go with you at Skilk?"
"We're holding, so far," he replied. "Paula is with me, here; she
sends her friendship."
Captain Inez Malavez, the woman officer in charge of the station, put
her head into the booth.
"General! Immediate-urgency message from Colonel O'Leary," she said.
"Native laborers from the mine-labor camp are pouring into the
mine-equipment park. Colonel O'Leary's used all his rockets and
MG-ammunition trying to stop them."
"Call you back, later," von Schlichten told Kankad. "I'll see what
Them M'zangwe can do about transport; get what force you can started
for Konkrook at once."
He left the booth, removing his geek-speaker. "Barney!" he called.
"General Mordkovitz! Who's the ranking officer in direct contact with
the Eighteenth Rifles? Major Falkenberg?"
"That's right."
"Well, tell him to get as many of his Kragans as he can spare down to
the equipment-park." He turned to Inez Malavez. "You call Jarman; tell
him what O'Leary reported, and tell him to get cracking on it. Tell
him not to let those geeks get any of that equipment onto
contragravity; knock it down as fast as they try to lift out with it.
And tell him to see what he can do in the way of troop-carriers or
lorries, to get Falkenberg's Rifles to the equipment-park.... How's
business at the lorry-hangars and maintenance-yard?"
"Kormork's still working on that," the girl captain told him. "Nothing
definite, yet."
In one corner of the big room, somebody had thumbtacked a
ten-foot-square map of the Company area to the floor. Paula Quinton
and Mrs. Jules Keaveney were on their knees beside it, pushing out
handfuls of little pink and white pills that somebody had brought in
two bottles from the dispensary across the road, each using a
billiard-bridge. The girl in the orange sweater had a handful of
scribbled notes, and was telling them where to push the pills. There
were other objects on the map, too--pistol-cartridges, and cigarettes,
and foil-wrapped food-concentrate wafers. Paula, seeing him,
straightened.
"The pink are ours, general," she said. "The white are the geeks." Von
Schlichten suppressed a grin; that was the second time he'd heard her
use that word, this evening. "The cigarettes are airjeeps, the
cartridges are combat-cars, and the wafers are lorries or
troop-carriers."
"Not exactly regulation map-markers, but I've seen stranger things
used.... Captain Malavez!"
"Yes, sir?" The girl captain, rushing past, her hands full of
teleprint-sheets, stopped in mid-stride.
"What we need," he told her, "is a big TV-screen, and a pickup mounted
on some sort of a contragravity vehicle at about two to five thousand
feet directly overhead, to give us an image of the whole area. Can
do?"
"Can try, sir. We have an eight-foot circular screen that ought to do
all right for two thousand feet. I'll implement that at once."
Going into a temporarily idle telecast booth, he called Konkrook.
First he spoke to a civilian who chewed a dead cigar, and then he got
Themistocles M'zangwe on the screen.
"How is it, now?" he asked.
"Getting a little better," the Graeco-African replied. "Half an hour
ago, we were shooting geeks out the windows, here; now we have them
contained between the spaceport and the native-troops and labor
barracks, and down the east side of the island to the farms. We have
the wire around the farms on the island electrified, and we're using
almost all our combat contragravity to keep the farms on the mainland
clear." He hesitated for a moment. "Did you hear about Eric and
Lemoyne?"
Von Schlichten shook his head.
"We just got a call from Rodolfo MacKinnon. He took a couple of
prisoners and made them talk. The whole party that were at Orgzild's
palace were massacred. Some of them were lucky enough to get killed
fighting. The geeks took Eric and Hendrik alive; rolled them in a
puddle of thermoconcentrate fuel and set fire to them. When we can
spare the contragravity, we're going to drop something on the Kee-geek
embassy, over in town."
"Well, that was what I wanted to call you about--contragravity." He
told M'zangwe about King Kankad's offer. "His crowd ought to be coming
in in a couple of hours. What can you scrape up to send to Kankad's
Town to airlift Kragans in?"
"Well, we have three hundred-and-fifty-foot gun-cutters, one 90-mm gun
apiece. The _Elmoran_, the _Gaucho_, and the _Bushranger_. But they're
not much as transports, and we need them here pretty badly. Then, we
have five fertilizer and charcoal scows, and a lot of heavy transport
lorries, and two one-eighty-foot pickup boats."
"How about the _Piet Joubert_?" von Schlichten asked. "She was due in
Konkrook from the east about 1300 today, wasn't she?"
M'zangwe swore. "She got in, all right. But the geeks boarded her at
the dock, within twenty minutes after things started. They tried to
lift out with her, and the Channel Battery shot her down into Konkrook
Channel, off the Fifty Sixth Street docks."
"Well, you couldn't let the geeks have her, to use against us. What do
you hear from the other ships?"
"_Procyon_'s at Grank; we haven't had any reports of any kind from
there, which doesn't look so good. The _Northern Lights_ is at Grank,
too. The _Oom Paul Kruger_ should have been at Bwork, in the east,
when the gun went off. And the _Jan Smuts_ and the _Christiaan De
Wett_ were both at Keegark; we can assume Orgzild has both of them."
"All right. I'm sending _Aldebaran_ to Kankad's, to pick up more
reenforcements for you."
"We can use them! And with _Aldebaran_, we ought to be able to take
the offensive against the city by this time tomorrow. Anything else?"
"Not at the moment. I'll see about getting _Aldebaran_ sent off, now."
Leaving the booth, he heard, above the clatter of
communications-machines and hubbub of voices, Jules Keaveney arguing
contentiously. Evidently Colonel Cheng-Li's efforts to drag the
Resident out of his despondency had been an excessive success.
"But it's crazy! Not just here; everywhere on Uller!" Keaveney was
saying. "How did they do it? They have no telecast equipment."
"You have me stopped, Jules," Mordkovitz was replying. "I know a lot
of rich geeks have receiving sets, but no sending sets."
The pattern that had been tantalizing von Schlichten took visible
shape in his mind. For a moment, he shelved the matter of the
_Aldebaran_.
"They didn't need sending equipment, Barney," he said. "They used
ours."
"What do you mean?" Keaveney challenged.
"Look what happened. Sid Harrington was poisoned in Konkrook. The
news, of course, was sent out at once, as the geeks knew it would be,
to every residency and trading-station on Uller, and that was the
signal they'd agreed upon, probably months in advance. All they had to
do was have that geek servant put poison in Harrington's whiskey, and
we did the rest."
"Well, what was our intelligence doing--sleeping?" Keaveney demanded
angrily.
"No, they were writing reports for your civil administration blokes to
stuff in the wastebasket, and being called mailed-fist-and-rattling-saber
alarmists for their pains." He turned away from Keaveney. "Barney, where's
Dirk Prinsloo?"
"Aboard his ship. He hitched a ride to the airport with Jarman, when
he was here picking up air-crews."
"Call him. Tell him to take the _Aldebaran_ to Kankad's Town, at once;
as soon as he arrives there, which ought to be about 1100, he's to
pick up all the Kragans he can pack aboard and take them to Konkrook.
From then on, he'll be under Them M'zangwe's orders."
"To Konkrook?" Keaveney fairly howled. "Are you nuts? Don't you think
we need reenforcements here, too?"
"Yes, I do. I'm going to try to get them," von Schlichten told him.
"Now pipe down and get out of people's way."
He crossed the room, to where two Kragans, a male sergeant, and the
ubiquitous girl in the orange sweater were struggling to get a big
circular TV-screen up, then turned to look at the situation-map. A
girl tech-sergeant was keeping Paula Quinton and Mrs. Jules Keaveney
informed.
"Start pushing geeks out of the Fifth Zirk Cavalry barracks," the
sergeant was saying. "The one at the north end, and the one next to
it; they're both on fire, now." She tossed a slip into the wastebasket
beside her and glanced at the next slip. "And more pink pills back of
the barracks and stables, and move them a little to the northwest;
Kragans as skirmishers, to intercept geeks trying to slip away from
the cavalry barracks."
"Though why we want to do that, I don't know," Mrs. Keaveney said,
pushing out a handful of pink pills with her billiard-bridge. "Let
them go, and good riddance!"
"I never did like this bridge-of-silver-for-a-fleeing-enemy idea,"
Paula Quinton said, evicting token-mutineers from the two northern
barracks. "There's usually two-way traffic on bridges. Kill them here
and we won't have to worry about keeping them out."
Of course, it was easy to be bloodthirsty about pink pills and white
pills. Once, on a three-months' reaction-drive voyage from Yggdrasill
to Loki, he had taught a couple of professors of extraterrestrial
zoology to play _kriegspiel_, and before the end of the trip, he was
being horrified by the callous disregard they showed for casualties.
But little Paula had the right idea; dead enemies don't hit back.
A young Kragan with his lower left arm in a sling and a daub of
antiseptic plaster over the back of his head came up and gave him a
radioprint slip. Guido Karamessinis, the Resident-Agent at Grank, had
reported, at last. The city, he said, was quiet, but King Yoorkerk's
troops had seized the Company airport and docks, taken the _Procyon_
and the _Northern Lights_ and put guards aboard them, and were
surrounding the Residency. He wanted to know what to do.
Von Schlichten managed to get him on the screen, after a while.
"It looks as though Yoorkerk's trying to play both sides at once," he
told the Grank Resident. "If the rebellion's put down, he'll come
forward as your friend and protector; if we're wiped out elsewhere,
he'll yell '_Znidd suddabit!_' and swamp you. Don't antagonize him; we
can't afford to fight this war on any more fronts than we are now.
We'll try to do something to get you unfrozen, before long."
He called Krink again. A girl with red-gold hair and a dusting of
freckles across her nose answered.
"How are you making out?" he asked.
"So far, fine, general. We're in complete control of the Company area,
and all our native troops, not just the Kragans, are with us.
Jonkvank's pushed the mutineers out of his palace, and we're keeping
open a couple of streets between there and here. We air-lifted all our
Kragans and half the Sixth N.U.N.I. to the Palace, and we have the
Zirks patrolling the streets on 'saurback. Now, we have our lorries
and troop-carriers out picking up elements of Jonkvank's loyal troops
outside town."
"Who's doing the rioting, then?"
She named three of Jonkvank's regiments. "And the city hoodlums, and
priests from the temples of one sect that followed Rakkeed, and
Skilkan fifth columnists. Mr. Shapiro can give you the details. Shall
I call him?"
"Never mind. He's probably busy, he's not as easy on the eyes as you
are, and you're doing all right.... How long do you think it'd take,
with the equipment you have, to airlift all of Jonkvank's loyal troops
into the city?"
"Not before this time tomorrow."
"All right. Are you in radio communication with Jonkvank now?"
"Full telecast, audio-visual," the girl replied. "Just a minute,
general."
He put in his geek-speaker. The screen exploded into multi-colored
light, then cleared. Within a few minutes, a saurian Ulleran face was
looking out of it at him--a harsh-lined, elderly face, with an old
scar, quartz-crusted, along one side.
"Your Majesty," von Schlichten greeted him.
Jonkvank pronounced something intended to correspond to von
Schlichten's name. "We have image-met under sad circumstances,
general," he said.
"Sad for both of us, King Jonkvank; we must help one another. I am
told that your soldiers in Krink have risen against you, and that your
loyal troops are far from the city."
"Yes. That was the work of my War Minister, Hurkkurk, who was in the
pay of King Firkked of Skilk, may Jeels devour him alive! I have
Hurkkurk's head here somewhere, if you want to see it, but that will
not bring my loyal soldiers to Krink any sooner."
"Dead traitors' heads do not interest me, King Jonkvank," von
Schlichten replied, in what he estimated that the Krinkan king would
interpret as a tone of cold-blooded cruelty. "There are too many
traitors' heads still on traitors' shoulders.... What regiments are
loyal to you, and where are they now?"
Jonkvank began naming regiments and locating them, all at minor
provincial towns at least a hundred miles from Krink.
"Hurkkurk did his work well; I'm afraid you killed him too
mercifully," von Schlichten said. "Well, I'm sending the _Northern
Star_ to Krink. She can only bring in one regiment at a trip, the way
they're scattered; which one do you want first?"
Jonkvank's mouth, until now compressed grimly, parted in a gleaming
smile. He made an exclamation of pleasure which sounded rather like a
boy running along a picket fence with a stick.
"Good, general! Good!" he cried. "The first should be the regiment
Murderers, at Furnk; they all have rifles like your soldiers. Have
them brought to the Great Square, at the Palace here. And then, the
regiment Fear-Makers, at Jeelznidd, and the regiment Corpse-Reapers,
at...."
"Let that go until the Murderers are in," von Schlichten advised.
"They're at Furnk, you say? I'll send the _Northern Star_ there,
directly."
"Oh, good, general! I will not soon forget this! And as soon as the
work is finished here, I will send soldiers to help you at Skilk.
There shall be a great pile of the heads of those who had part in this
wickedness, both here and there!"
"Good. Now, if you will pardon me, I'll go to give the necessary
orders...."
As he left the booth, he saw Hideyoshi O'Leary in front of the
situation-map, and hailed him.
"Harry and Hassan are getting the car re-ammoed; they dropped me off
here. Want to come up with us and see the show?"
"No, I want you to go to Krink, as soon as Harry brings the car here
again." He told O'Leary what he intended doing. "You'll probably have
to go around ahead of the _Star_ and alert these regiments. And as
soon as things stabilize at Krink, prod Jonkvank into airlifting
troops here. You're authorized, in my name, to promise Jonkvank that
he can assume political control at Skilk, after we've stuffed
Firkked's head in the dustbin."
Jules Keaveney, who always seemed to be where he wasn't wanted, heard
that and fairly screamed.
"General von Schlichten! That is a political decision! You have no
authority to make promises like that; that is a matter for the
Governor-General, at least!"
"Well, as of now, and until a successor to Sid Harrington can be sent
here from Terra, I'm Governor-General," von Schlichten told him,
mentally thanking Keaveney for reminding him of the necessity for such
a step. "Captain Malavez! You will send out an all-station telecast,
immediately: Military Commander-in-Chief Carlos von Schlichten, being
informed of the deaths of both Governor-General Harrington and
Lieutenant-Governor Blount, assumes the duties of Governor-General, as
of 0001 today." He turned to Keaveney. "Does that satisfy you?" he
asked.
"No, it doesn't. You have no authority to assume a civil position of
any sort, let alone the very highest position...."
Von Schlichten unbuttoned his holster and took out his authority,
letting Keaveney look into the muzzle of it.
"Here it is," he said. "If you're wise, don't make me appeal to it."
Keaveney shrugged. "I can't argue with that," he said. "But I don't
fancy the Uller Company is going to be impressed by it."
"The Uller Company," von Schlichten replied, "is six and a half
parsecs away. It takes a ship six months to get from here to Terra,
and another six months to get back. A radio message takes a little
over twenty-one years, each way." He holstered the pistol again. "You
were bitching about how we needed reenforcements, a while ago. Well,
here's where we have to reverse Clausewitz and use politics as an
extension by other means of war."
"That brings up another question, general," one of Keaveney's
subordinates said. "Can we hold out long enough for help to get here
from Terra?"
"By the time help could reach us from Terra," von Schlichten replied,
"we'll either have this revolt crushed, or there won't be a live
Terran left on Uller." He felt a brief sadistic pleasure as he watched
Keaveney's face sag in horror. "What do you think we'll live on, for a
year?" he asked. "On this planet, there's not more than a three
months' supply of any sort of food a human can eat. And the ships
that'll be coming in until word of our plight can get to Terra won't
bring enough to keep us going. We need the farms and livestock and the
animal-tissue culture plant at Konkrook, and the farms at Krink and on
the plateau back of Skilk, and we need peace and native labor to work
them."
Nobody seemed to have anything to say after that, for a while. Then
Keaveney suggested that the next ship was due in from Niflheim in
three months, and that it could be used to evacuate all the Terrans on
Uller.
"And I'll personally shoot any able-bodied Terran who tries to board
that ship," von Schlichten promised. "Get this through your heads, all
of you. We are going to break this rebellion, and we are going to hold
Uller for the Company and the Terran Federation." He looked around
him. "Now, get back to work, all of you," he told the group that had
formed around him and Keaveney. "Miss Quinton, you just heard me order
my adjutant, Colonel O'Leary, on detached duty to Krink. I want you to
take over for him. You'll have rank and authority as colonel for the
duration of this war."
She was thunderstruck. "But I know absolutely nothing about military
matters. There must be a hundred people here who are better qualified
than I am...."
"There are, and they all have jobs, and I'd have to find replacements
for them, and replacements for the replacements. You won't leave any
vacancy to be filled. And you'll learn, fast enough." He went over to
the situation-map again, and looked at the arrangement of pink and
white pills. "First of all, I want you to call Jarman, at the military
airport, and have an airjeep and driver sent around here for me. I'm
going up and have a look around. Barney, keep the show going while I'm
out, and tell Colonel Quinton what it's all about."
IX.
Don't Push Them Anywhere Put Them Back in the Bottle
He looked at his watch, and stood for a moment, pumping the stale air
and tobacco-smoke of the telecast station out of his lungs, as the
light airjeep let down into the street. Oh-one-fifteen--two hours and
a half since the mutiny at the native-troops barracks had broken out.
The Company reservation was still ablaze with lights, and over the
roof of the hospital and dispensary and test-lab he could see the
glare of the burning barracks. There was more fire-glare to the south,
in the direction of the mine-equipment park and the mine-labor camp,
and from that direction the bulk of the firing was to be heard.
The driver, a young lieutenant who seemed to be of predominantly
Malayan and Polynesian blood, slid back the duraglass canopy for him
to climb in, then snapped it into place when he had strapped himself
into his seat.
"Can you handle the armament, sir?" he asked.
Von Schlichten nodded approvingly. Not a very flattering question, but
the boy was right to make sure, before they started out.
"I've done it, once or twice," he understated. "Let's go; I want a
look at what's going on down at the equipment-park and the labor-camp,
first."
They lifted up, the driver turning the nose of the airjeep in the
direction of the flames and explosions and magnesium-lights to the
south and tapping his booster-button gently. The vehicle shot forward
and came floating in over the scene of the fighting. The situation-map
at the improvised headquarters had shown a mixture of pink and white
pills in the mine-equipment park; something was going to have to be
done about the lag in correcting it, for the area was entirely in the
hands of loyal Company troops, and the mob of laborers and mutinous
soldiers had been pushed back into the temporary camp where the
workers had been gathered to await transportation to the Arctic. As he
feared, the rioting workers, many of whom were trained to handle
contragravity equipment, had managed to lift up a number of
dump-trucks and powershovels and bulldozers, intending to use them as
improvised airtanks, but Jarman's combat-cars had gotten on the job
promptly and all of these had been shot down and were lying in
wreckage, mostly among the rows of parked mining-equipment.
From the labor-camp, a surprising volume of fire was being directed
against the attack which had already started from the retaken
equipment-park. This was just another evidence of the failure of
Intelligence and the Constabulary--and consequently of himself--to
anticipate the brewing storm. There was, of course, practically no
chance of keeping Ullerans from having native weapons, swords, knives,
even bows and air-rifles, and a certain number of Volund-made
trade-quality automatic pistols could be expected, but most of the
fire was coming from military rifles, and now and then he could see
the furnace-like backflash of a recoilless rifle or a bazooka, or the
steady flicker of a machine-gun. Even if a few of these weapons had
been brought from the barracks by retreating Tenth Infantry or Fifth
Cavalry mutineers, there were still too many.
Hovering above the fighting, aloof from it, he saw six long
troop-carriers land and disgorge Kragan Rifles who had been released
by the liquidation of resistance at the native-troops barracks. A
little later, two airtanks floated in, and then two more, going off
contragravity and lumbering on treads to fire their 90-mm rifles. At
the same time, combat-cars swooped in, banging away with their lighter
auto-cannon and launching rockets. The titanium prefab-huts, set up to
house the laborers and intended to be taken north with them for their
stay on the polar desert, were simply wiped away. Among the wreckage,
resistance was being blown out like the lights of a candelabrum. Push
the white pills out, girls, he thought. Don't push them anywhere; put
them back in the bottle. This year, there wouldn't be any mining done
at the North Pole; next year, the stockholders'll be bitching about
their dividend-checks. And a lot of new machine operators are going to
have to be trained for next year's mining. If there is any mining,
next year.
He took up the hand-phone and called HQ.
"Von Schlichten, what's the wavelength of the officer in command at
the equipment-park?"
A voice at the telecast station furnished it; he punched it out.
"Von Schlichten, right overhead. That you, Major Falkenberg? Nice
going, major, how are your casualties?"
"Not too bad. Twenty or thirty Kragans and loyal Skilkans, and eight
Terrans killed, about as many wounded."
"Pretty good, considering what you're running into. Get many of your
Kragans mounted on those hipposaurs?"
"About a hundred, a lot of 'saurs got shot, while we were leading
them out from the stables."
"Well, I can see geeks streaming away from the labor-camp, out the
south end, going in the direction of the river. Use what cavalry you
have on them, and what contragravity you can spare. I'll drop a few
flares to show their position and direction."
Anticipating him, the driver turned the airjeep and started toward the
dry Hoork River. Von Schlichten nodded approval and told him to
release flares when over the fugitives.
"Right," Falkenberg replied. "I'll get on it at once, general."
"And start moving that mine-equipment up into the Company area. Some
of it we can put into the air; the rest we can use to build
barricades. None of it do we want the geeks getting hold of, and the
equipment-park's outside our practical perimeter. I'll send people to
help you move it."
"No need to do that, sir; I have about a hundred and fifty loyal North
Ullerans--foremen, technicians, overseers--who can handle it."
"All right. Use your own judgment. Put the stuff back of the
native-troops barracks, and between the power-plant and the Company
office-buildings, and anywhere else you can." The lieutenant nudged
him and pushed a couple of buttons on the dashboard.
"Here go the flares, now."
Immediately, a couple of airjeeps pounced in, to strafe the fleeing
enemy. Somebody must have already been issuing orders on another
wavelength; a number of Kragans, riding hipposaurs, were galloping
into the light of the flares.
"Now, let's have a look at the native barracks and the
maintenance-yards," he said. "And then, we'll make a circuit around
the Reservation, about two or three miles out. I'm not happy about
where Firkked's army is."
The driver looked at him. "I've been worrying about that, too, sir,"
he said. "I can't understand why he hasn't jumped us, already. I know
it takes time to get one of these geek armies on the road, but...."
"He's hoping our native troops and the mine laborers will be able to
wipe us out, themselves," von Schlichten said. "For the timidity and
stupidity of our enemies, Allah make us truly thankful, amen. It's
something no commander should depend on, but be glad when it happens.
If Firkked had had a couple of regiments on hand outside the
reservation to jump us as soon as the Tenth and the Zirks mutinied, he
could have swamped us in twenty minutes and we'll all have had our
throats cut by now."
There was nothing going on in the area between the native barracks and
the mountains except some sporadic firing as small patrols of Kragans
clashed with clumps of fleeing mutineers. All the barracks, even those
of the Rifles, were burning; the red-and-yellow danger-lights around
the power-plant and the water-works and the explosives magazines were
still on. Most of the floodlights were still on, and there was still
some fighting around the maintenance-yard. It looked as though the
survivors of the Tenth N.U.N.I. were in a few small pockets which were
being squeezed out.
There was nothing at all going on north of the Reservation; the
countryside, by day a checkerboard of walled fields and small
villages, was dark, except for a dim light, here and there, where the
occupants of some farmhouse had been awakened by the noise of battle.
The airjeep dropped lower, and the driver slid open the window beside
him; von Schlichten could hear the grunts and snorts and squawks of
farm-animals, similarly aroused.
Then, two miles east of the Reservation, he caught a new sound--the
flowing, riverlike, murmur of something vast on the move.
"Hear that, lieutenant?" he asked. "Head for it, at about a thousand
feet. When we're directly above it, let go some flares."
"Yes, sir." The younger man had lowered his voice to a whisper.
"That's geek, headed for the Reservation."
"Maybe Firkked's army," von Schlichten thought aloud. "Or maybe a city
mob."
"Not quite noisy enough for a mob, is it, sir?"
"A tired mob," von Schlichten told him. "They'd start out on a run,
yelling '_Znidd Suddabit_!' By the time they got across the bridges to
this side of the river, they'd be winded. They'd stop for a blow, and
then they'd settle down to steady slogging to save their wind.
Sometimes a mob like that's worse than a fresh mob. They get stubborn;
they act more deliberately."
The noises were growing clearer, louder. He picked up the phone and
punched the wavelength of the military airport.
"Von Schlichten, my compliments to Colonel Jarman. Tell him there's a
geek mob, or possibly Firkked's regulars, on the main highway from
Skilk, two miles east of the Reservation. Get some combat
contragravity over here, at once. We'll light them up for you. And
tell Colonel Jarman to start flying patrols up and down along the
Hoork River; this may not be the only gang that's coming out to see
us."
The sounds were directly below, now--the scuffing of horny-soled feet
on the dirt road, the clink and rattle of slung weapons, the clicking
and squeeking of Ulleran voices.
The lieutenant said, "Here go the flares, sir."
Von Schlichten shut his eyes, then opened them slowly. The driver,
upon releasing the flares, had nosed up, banked, turned, and was
coming in again, down the road toward the advancing column. Von
Schlichten peered into his all-armament sight, his foot on the
machine-gun pedal and his fingers on the rocket buttons. The highway
below was jammed with geeks, and they were all stopped dead and
staring upward, as though hypnotized by the lights. A second later,
they had recovered and were shooting--not at the airjeep, but at the
four globes of blazing magnesium. Then he had the close-packed mass of
non-humanity in his sights; he tramped the pedal and began punching
buttons. He still had four rockets left by the time the mob was behind
him.
"All right, let's take another pass at them. Same direction."
The driver put the airjeep into a quick loop and came out of it in
front of the mob, who now had their backs turned and were staring in
the direction in which they had last seen the vehicle. Again, von
Schlichten plowed them with rockets and harrowed them with his guns.
Some of the Skilkans were trying to get over the high fences on either
side of the road--really stockades of petrified tree-trunks. Others
were firing, and this time they were shooting at the airjeep. It took
one hit from a heavy shellosaur-rifle, and, immediately, the driver
banked and turned away from the road.
"Dammit, why did you do that?" von Schlichten demanded, lifting his
foot from the gun-pedal. "Are you afraid of the kind of popguns those
geeks are using?"
"I am not afraid to risk my vehicle, or myself, sir," the lieutenant
replied, with the extreme formality of a very junior officer chewing
out a very senior one. "I am, however, afraid to risk my passenger.
Generals are not expendable, sir; neither are they issued for use as
clay pigeons."
He was right, of course. Von Schlichten admitted it. "I'm too old to
play cowboy, like this," he said. "Back to the Reservation, telecast
station."
Looking back over his shoulder, he saw eight or ten more flares
alight, and the ground-flashes of exploding shells and rockets; the
air above the road was sparkling with gun-flames. Jarman must have had
some contragravity ready to be sent off on the instant.
While he had been out, somebody had gotten a TV-pickup mounted on a
contragravity-lifter and run up to two thousand feet, on the end of a
steel-tough tensilon mooring-line. The big circular screen was lit,
showing the whole Company Reservation, with the surrounding
countryside foreshortened by perspective to the distant lights of
Skilk. The map had been taken up from the floor, and a big
terrain-board had been brought in from the Chief Engineer's office and
set up in its place. In front of the screen, Paula Quinton, Barney
Mordkovitz, Colonel Cheng-Li, and, conspicuously silent, Jules
Keaveney sat drinking coffee and munching sandwiches. Half a dozen
Terrans, of both sexes, were working furiously to get the markers
which replaced the pink and white pills placed on the board, and one
of Captain Inez Malavez's non-coms, with a headset, was getting
combat reports directly from the switchboard. Everything was clicking
like well-oiled machinery.
On the TV-screen, the Residency area was ablaze with light, and so
were the ship-docks, the airport and spaceport, the shops, and the
maintenance-yard. On the terrain-board, the latter was now marked as
completely in Company hands. The ruins of the native-troops barracks
were still burning, and there was a twinkle of orange-red here and
there among the ruins of the labor-camp. Much of the equipment for the
polar mines had already been shifted into defensible ground. The rest
of the circle was dark, except for the distant lights of Skilk, where
the nuclear power plant was apparently still functioning in native
hands.
Then, without warning, a spot of white light blazed into being
southeast of the Company area and southwest of Skilk, followed by
another and another. Instantly, von Schlichten glanced up at the row
of smaller screens, and on one of them saw the view as picked up by a
patrolling airjeep.
The army of King Firkked of Skilk had finally put in its appearance,
coming in two columns, one southward from Skilk and the other
northward along the west bank of the dry river. The former had crossed
over and joined the latter, about three miles south of the
Reservation. The scene in the screen was similar to the one he had,
himself, witnessed through his armament-sight. The Skilkan regulars
had been marching in formation, some on the road and some along
parallel lanes and paths. They had the look of trained and disciplined
troops, but they had made the same mistake as the rabble that had been
shot up on the north side of the Reservation. Unused to attack from
the air, they had all halted in place and were gaping open-mouthed,
their opal teeth gleaming in the white flare-light. However, before
the aircar had passed over them, the lead company of one regiment,
armed with Terran rifles, had begun firing.
In the big screen, it could be seen that Colonel Jarman had thrown
most of his available contragravity at them, including the
combat-cars, that had already started to form the second wave of the
attack on the mob to the north. Other flares bloomed in the darkness,
and the fiery trails of rockets curved downward to end in yellow
flashes on the ground.
The airjeep with the pickup circled back; the troops on the road and
in the adjoining fields had broken. The former were caught between the
fences which made Ulleran roads such death-traps when under
air-attack. The latter had dispersed, and were running away,
individually and by squads; at first, it looked like a panic, but he
could see officers signaling to the larger groups of fugitives to open
out, apparently directing the flight. By this time, there were ten or
twelve combat-cars and about twenty airjeeps at work. In the moving
view from the pickup-jeep, he saw what looked like a 90-mm rocket land
in the middle of a company that was still trying to defend itself with
small-arms fire on the road, wiping out about half of them.
"Make the most of it, boys," Barney Mordkovitz, his mouth full of
sandwich, was saying. "Heave it to them; you won't get another chance
like that at those buggers."
"Why not?" Colonel Paula Quinton wanted to know. Her military
education was progressing, but it still had a few gaps to fill in.
"The next time they're air-struck, they won't stay bunched,"
Mordkovitz replied. "A lot of them didn't stay bunched this time, if
you noticed. And they'll keep out from between the fences."
In the large screen, a quick succession of gun-flashes leaped up from
the direction of the Hoork River and shells began bursting over the scene
of the attack. The screen tuned to the pickup on the airjeep went
dead; in the big screen, there was a twinkling of falling fire. Almost
at once, thirty or forty rocket-trails converged on the gun-position,
and, for a moment, explosions burned like a bonfire.
"They had a 75-mm at the rear of the column," somebody called from the
big switchboard. "Lieutenant Kalanang's jeep was hit; Lieutenant
Vermaas is cutting in his pickup on the same wavelength."
The small screen lighted again. In the big screen, a cluster of
magnesium-lights appeared above where the Skilkan gun had been; in the
small screen, there was a stubbled grain-field, pocked with craters,
and the bodies of fifteen or twenty natives, all rather badly mangled.
An overturned and apparently destroyed 75-mm gun lay on its side.
Five or six fairly large fires had broken out, by this time, around
the point of attack. Von Schlichten nodded approvingly.
"I was wondering how long it'd take somebody to think of that," he
said. "Granaries and forage-stacks on some of these farms. They'll
burn for half an hour, at least." He looked at his watch. "And by that
time, it'll be daylight."
"As far as we know, that was the only 75-mm gun Firkked had," Colonel
Cheng-Li said. "He has at least six, possibly ten, 40-mm's. It's a
wonder we haven't seen anything of them."
"Well, there's no way of being sure," Jules Keaveney said, "but I
have an idea they're all at or around the Palace. Firkked knows about
how much contragravity we have. He's probably wondering why we aren't
bombing him, now."
"He doesn't know we've sold the Palace to King Jonkvank for an army,"
von Schlichten said. "And that reminds me--how much contragravity
could Firkked scrape together, for an attack on us? I've been
expecting a geek _Luftwaffe_ over here, at any moment."
Colonel Cheng-Li studied the smoking tip of his cigarette for a
moment. "Well, Firkked owns, personally, three ten-passenger aircars,
a thing like a troop-carrier that he transports some of his courtiers
around in, four airjeeps armed with a pair of 15-mm machine-guns
apiece, and two big lorries. There are possibly two hundred vehicles
of all types in Skilk and the country around, but some of them are in
the hands of natives friendly to us and or hostile to Firkked. I can
get the exact figures from the Constabulary office at Company House."
"That's close enough," von Schlichten told him. "And there'll be
oodles of thermoconcentrate-fuel, and blasting explosives. Colonel
Quinton, suppose you call Ed Wallingsby, the Chief Engineer, right
away; have him commissioned colonel. Tell him to get to work making
this place secure against air attack; tell him to consult with Colonel
Jarma
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