10

POSTPONED UNTIL EARLY morning, the next conference was relatively short and sweet. The Ambassador took a seat, harumphed importantly, straightened his tie, frowned around the table.

“Let us have another look at what we’ve got. We know that this planet’s mules call themselves Gands, don’t take any interest in their Terran origin and insist on referring to us as Antigands. This implies an education and resultant outlook inimical to ourselves. They’ve been trained from childhood to take it for granted that whenever we appeared upon the scene we would prove to be against whatever they are for,”

“And we haven’t the remotest notion of what they are for,” put in Colonel Shelton, quite unnecessarily. But it served to show that he was among those present, paying full attention, and ready to lend the full support of his powerful intellect.

“I am only too aware of our ignorance in that respect,” said the Ambassador, with a touch of acid. “They are maintaining a conspiracy of silence about their prime motivation, We have got to break it somehow.”

“That,” offered Shelton, unabashed, “is the problem.”

Taking no notice, the Ambassador continued, “They have a peculiar, moneyless economic system which, in my opinion, manages to function only because it is afflicted with large surpluses. It won’t survive a day when over-population brings serious shortages. This economic set-up appears to be based on a mixture of cooperative techniques, private enterprise, a kindergarten’s honor system and plain, unadorned gimme. That makes it a good deal crazier than the food-in-the-bank system they use on Epsilon’s four outer planets.”

“But it works,” observed Grayder pointedly.

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“After a fashion. That flap-eared engineer’s bicycle works—and so does he while riding it. A motorized job would save him a lot of sweat.” Highly pleased with this analogy, the Ambassador enjoyed the flavor of it for a few seconds before he continued. “This local scheme of economics—if you can call it a scheme—almost certainly is the end-result of the haphazard development of some hick eccentricity imported by the original settlers. It is long overdue for motorizing, so to speak. They know it as well as we do. But they don’t want it because mentally they’re four hundred years behind the times. They are afraid of change, improvement, efficiency—like many backward peoples. Moreover, there’s little doubt that some of them have a vested interest in keeping things exactly as they are.” He sniffed loudly to express his contempt. “They are antagonistic toward us simply because they don’t want to be disturbed.”

His stare went round the table, daring one of them to remark that this might be as good a reason as any other. They were too disciplined to fall into that trap. None offered a comment and so he went on.

“In due time, after we have gained a proper grip on affairs, we’re going to have a long and tedious task on our hands. We’ll have to overhaul their entire educational system with a view to eliminating anti-Terran prejudices and bringing them up to date on the facts of life. That’s had to be done on several other planets though not to anything like the extent as will be necessary here.”

“We’ll cope,” promised someone.

Ignoring him, the Ambassador finished, “However, all that is in the future. Our real problem is in the present. It is in our laps right now, namely, where are the reins of power and who is holding them? We must solve that before we can make genuine progress. How are we going to do it?” Folding hands over his paunch, he added, “Get your wits to work and let us have some bright suggestions.”

Grayder stood up, a big, leather-bound book in his hands. “Your Excellency, I don’t think we need exercise our minds about new plans for making contact and gaining essential information. The next move is likely to be imposed upon us.

“What do you mean?”

“I have a good many old-timers in my crew. There are some among the troops as well. Space-lawyers, every one of them.” He

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tapped the book significantly. “They know Space Regulations as well as I do. Sometimes I think they know too much.”

“And so—?”

Grayder opened the book. “Regulation 1~7 says that on a hostile world the crew serves on a war-footing until back in free space. On a non-hostile world they serve on a peace-footing.”

“What of it?”

“Regulation 131A says that on a peace-footing the crew—with the exception of a minimum number required to keep the vessel’s services in trim—is entitled to liberty immediately after unloading cargo or within seventy-two Earth-hours of arrival, whichever period is the shorter.” He glanced up. “By mid-day the men will be all set for land-leave and itching to go. There will be trouble if they are not allowed out.”

“Oh, will there?” The Ambassador smiled lopsidedly. “What if we declare this world to be hostile? That will pin their ears back, won’t it?”

Impassively consulting his book, Grayder said, “Regulation 148 says that a hostile world is defined as any planet that systematically opposes Terran citizens by force.” He turned to the next page. “For the purpose of these regulations, force is defined as any course of action calculated to inflict physical injury, regardless of whether or not the said action succeeds in its intent.”

“I don’t agree.” The Ambassador frowned his strong disapproval. “A world can be psychologically hostile without resorting to force. We have an example right here. It can’t be called a friendly world.”

“There are no friendly worlds within the meaning of Space Regulations,” Grayder informed. “Every planet falls into one of two classifications: hostile or non-hostile.” He tapped the hard leather cover. “It’s all in the book.”

“We’d be prize fools to let a mere book order us around or allow the crew to boss us, either. Throw it out of the port. Stick it into the disintegrator. Get rid of it any way you like—and forget it.”

“Begging your pardon, Your Excellency, but I can’t do that.” Grayder opened the tome at its beginning. “Basic regulations 1A, 1B and 1C include the following: whether in space or on land, a vessel’s personnel remain under direct command of its captain or his nominee who will be guided solely and at all times by Space Regulations and

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will be responsible only to the Space Committee situated on Terra. The same applies to all troops, officials and civilian passengers aboard a space-traversing vessel, whether said vessel is in flight or grounded—regardless of rank or authority they are subordinate to the captain or his nominee. A nominee is defined as a ship’s first, second or third officer performing the duties of a captain when the latter is incapacitated or absent.”

“What all that rigmarole means is that you are king of your castle,” remarked the Ambassador, none too pleased. “If we don’t like it we must get out of the ship.”

“With the greatest respect, Your Excellency, I must agree that that is the position. I cannot help it—regulations are regulations. And the men know it!” Grayder placed the book on the table, poked it away from him. “It’s highly likely that the men will wait until mid-day, pressing their pants, creaming their hair and generally prettying themselves up. They will then make approach to me in proper manner to which I cannot object. They will request the first mate to submit their leave roster for my approval.” He gave a deep sigh. “The worst I could do would be to quibble about a few names and switch some of them around. But I cannot refuse leave to a full quota.”

“Liberty to paint the town red might be a good thing after all,” suggested Shelton, not averse to doing some painting himself. “A dump like this wakes up with a vengeance when the fleet’s in port. We should make useful contacts by the dozens. And that’s what we want, isn’t it?”

“We want to pin down this planet’s political leaders,” retorted the Ambassador. “I can’t see them powdering their faces, putting on their best hats and rushing out to give the yoohoo to a crowd of hungry sailors.” His plump features quirked. “We’ve got to find the needles in this haystack and that job won’t be done by ratings on the rampage.”

“You may be right, Your Excellency,” put in Grayder. “But we’ll have to take a chance on it. If the men insist on going out I lack the power to prevent them. Only one thing can give me the power.”

“And what is that?”

“Clear, indisputable evidence enabling me to define this world as hostile within the meaning of Space Regulations.”

“Well, can’t we arrange that somehow?” Without waiting for a re

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ply, the Ambassador pursued, “Every crew has its stupid and incurable trouble-maker. Find yours, give him a double shot of Venusian cognac, tell him he’s being granted immediate liberty—then warn him that he may not enjoy it because these lousy Gands view us as a reason why people dig up the drains. After that, push him out of the airlock. When he returns with a black eye and a boastful story about the other fellow’s condition, declare this world hostile.” He waved an expressive hand. “And there you are. Physical violence. A11 according to the book.”

“Regulation 148A,” said Grayder, “emphasizing that opposition by force must be systematic, warns that individual brawls may not be construed as evidence of hostility.”

The Ambassador turned an irate face upon the senior civil servant, “When you return to Terra—if ever you do get back—you can tell the appropriate department how the space service is balled up, hamstrung, semi-paralysed and generally handicapped by bureaucrats who write books.”

Before the other could think up a reply in defence of his own kind, without contradicting the Ambassador, a knock came at the door. First Mate Morgan entered, saluted smartly, offered Grayder a sheet of paper.

“First leave roster, sir. Do you approve it?”

More than four hundred men went to town in the early afternoon. They advanced upon it in the usual manner of people long overdue for the bright lights, that is to say, eagerly, expectantly, in gangs of two, three, six or ten.

Gleed attached himself to Harrison. They were two odd rankers, Gleed being the only sergeant on liberty while Harrison was the only tenth engineer. They were also the only two fish out of water since both were in civilian clothes and Gleed missed his uniform, Harrison felt naked without his bicycle. These trifling features gave them enough in common to justify at least one day’s companionship.

“This one’s a honey,” declared Gleed with great enthusiasm. “I’ve been on a good many liberty jaunts in my time but this one’s a honey. On all other trips the boys ran up against the same problem: what to use for money. They had to go forth like a battalion of Santa Clauses, loaded up with anything that might serve for barter. Almost always

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nine-tenths of it wasn’t of any use and had to be carted back to the ship.”

“On Persephone,” informed Harrison, “a long-shanked Milik offered me a twenty-karat, blue-tinted, first-water diamond for my bike.”

“Jeepers, didn’t you take it?”

“What was the good? I’d have had to go back sixteen light-years for another bike.”

“But, man, you could exist without a bike for a while.”

“I can exist without a diamond. I can’t ride around on a diamond.”

“Neither can you sell a bicycle for the price of a sportster Moonboat.”

“Yes, I can. I just told you this Milik offered me a rock like an egg.”

“It’s a crying shame. You could have got a fortune for that blinder, if it had no flaws.” Sergeant Gleed smacked his lips at the thought of it. “Money and plenty of it, that’s what I like. And that’s what makes this trip a winner. Every other time we’ve gone out, Grayder, Shelton and Bidworthy have lectured us in turn about creating a favorable impression, behaving in a spacemanlike manner and so forth. But this time Grayder talks about money.”

“The Ambassador put him up to it.”

“I like it all the same,” enthused Gleed. “An extra one week’s pay, a bottle of cognac and double liberty for any man who brings back to the ship an adult Gand, male or female, who is sociable and willing to talk.”

“It won’t be easily earned.”

“One month’s extra pay for whoever gets the name and address of the town’s chief civic dignitary. Two months’ for the name and accurate location of the world’s capital city.” He whistled happily, added, “Somebody is going to make it rich and it won’t be Bidworthy. His name didn’t come out of the hat. I know—I was holding it.

Ceasing his chatter, he turned to watch a tall, lithe blonde striding past. Harrison pulled at his arm.

“Here’s Baines’ place that I told you about. Let’s go in.”

“Oh, all right.” Gleed followed with reluctance, his attention still directed down the street.

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“Good afternoon,” said Harrison to Jeff Baines.

“Which it isn’t,” contradicted Baines. “Trade’s bad. There’s a semifinal being played and it has drawn ha]f the town away. They’ll come home and start thinking about their bellies long after I’ve closed. Probably they’ll make a rush on me tomorrow morning and I won’t be able to serve them fast enough.”

“How can trade be bad if you don’t make money even when it’s good?” inquired Gleed, reasonably applying the information Harrison had given him.

Jeff’s big moon eyes went over him slowly then turned to Harrison. “So he’s another bum off your boat, eh? What’s he talking about?”

“Money,” explained Harrison. “It’s stuff we use to simplify trade. It’s printed stuff, like documentary obs of various sizes.”

“That tells me a lot,” Jeff Baines observed. “It tells a crowd that has to make a printed record of every ob is not to be trusted—because they don’t even trust each other.” He waddled to his high stool and squatted on it. His breathing was labored and wheezy. “And that confirms what our schools have always taught, namely, that an Antigand would swindle his widowed mother.”

“Your schools have got it wrong,” assured Harrison.

“Maybe they have.” Jeff saw no reason to argue the point. “But we’ll play safe until we know different.” He looked them over. “What do you two want, anyway?”

“Some advice,” Gleed shoved in quickly. “We’re out on the spree. We’d like to know the best places for food and fun.”

“How long have you got?”

“Until nightfall tomorrow.”

“No use.” Jeff Baines shook his head sorrowfully. “It would take you from now until then to plant enough obs to qualify for anything worth having. Besides, plenty of people would rather drop dead than let an Antigand dump an ob on them. They have their pride, see?”

Harrison asked, “Can’t we get so much as a square meal?”

“Well, I don’t know about that.” Jeff thought it over while massaging his several chins. “You might manage it—but I can’t help you this time. There’s nothing I want of you and so you can’t use any obs I’ve got stashed around.”

“Can you offer any suggestions?”

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“If you were local citizens it would be lots different. You could get all you want right now by taking on a load of obs to be wiped out sometime in the future as and when the chances come along. But I can’t see anybody giving credit to Antigands who are here today and gone tomorrow.”

“Not so much of the gone tomorrow talk,” advised Gleed. “When an Imperial Ambassador arrives it means that Terrans are here for keeps.”

“Who says so?”

“The Terran Empire says so. You’re part of it, aren’t you?”

“No,” said Jeff positively. “We are not part of anything, don’t want to be and don’t intend to be. What’s more, nobody’s going to make us part of anything.”

Leaning on the counter, Gleed gazed absently at a large can of pork. “Seeing that I’m out of uniform and not on duty, I sympathize with you though I still shouldn’t say it. I wouldn’t care myself to be taken over body and soul by a gang of other-world bureaucrats. But you folk are going to have a mighty tough time beating us off. That’s the way it is.”

“Not with what we’ve got,” opined Jeff confidently.

“You haven’t got much,” scoffed Gleed, more in friendly criticism than open contempt. He sought confirmation from Harrison. “Have they?”

“It wouldn’t seem so,” said Harrison.

“Don’t go by appearances,” warned Jeff. “We’ve more than you bums can handle.”

“Such as what?”

“Well, just for a start, we’ve got the mightiest weapon ever thought up by the mind of man. We’re Gands, see? So we don’t need ships and guns and similar playthings. We’ve something better. It’s effective. There’s no defence against it.”

“Man, I’d like to see it,” Gleed challenged. Data concerning a new and exceptionally powerful weapon should be a good deal more valuable than the mayor’s address. Grayder might be sufficiently impressed by the importance thereof to arrange a fabulous reward. With some sarcasm, he added, “But, of course, we can’t expect you to give away precious secrets.”

“There is nothing secret about it,” said Jeff, very surprisingly. “You

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can have it free, gratis and for nothing any time you want. And Gand would give it to you for the mere asking. Like to know why?”

“You bet.”

“Because it works one way only. We can use it against you—but you can’t use it against us.”

“Nonsense!” declared Gleed. “There is no such thing. There is no weapon inventable that the other fellow can’t employ once he gets his hands on it and learns how to operate it.

“Are you sure about that?”

“I am positive. I’ve been in the space service for twenty years you can’t be a trooper that long without learning all about weapons of every conceivable kind from string bows to H-bombs. You’re trying to kid me. Nothing doing. I’m too gray in the hair and sharp in the tooth. A one-way weapon is impossible. And that means imposs-ible.”

.

“Don’t argue with him,” Harrison told Baines. “He’ll never be convinced until he’s shown.”

“I can see that.” Jeff Baines’ face creased into a massive grin. “I’ve told you that you can have our wonder-weapon for the asking. Why don’t you ask?”

“All right, I’m asking.” Gleed put it without any enthusiasm. A weapon that would be presented on request, without even the necessity of first planting a minor ob, couldn’t be so mighty after all. His imaginary large reward shrank to a handful of small change and thence to nothing. “Hand it over and let me look at it.”

Edging ponderously around on his stool, Jeff reached to the wall, removed a small, shiny plaque from its hook and passed it across the counter.

“You may keep it,” he said. “And much good may it do you.”

Gleed examined it, turning it over and over between his fingers. It was nothing more than an oblong strip of substance resembling ivory. One side was polished and bare. The other bore three letters deeply engraved in bold style:

F.—I.W.

Glancing up at Baines, his features puzzled, he said, “You call this a weapon?”

“Certainly.”

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“Then I don’t get it.” He passed the plaque to Harrison. “Do you?”

“No.” Harrison examined it with care. “What does this F.—I.W. mean?”

“Initial-slang,” informed Baines. “Made correct by common usage. It has become a worldwide motto. You’ll see it all over the place if you haven’t noticed it already.”

“I have seen it here and there but attached no importance to it and thought nothing more about it. I remember now that it was inscribed in several places including Seth’s and the fire depot.”

“It was on the sides of that bus we couldn’t empty,” put in Gleed. “It didn’t mean anything to me.”

“It means plenty,” said Jeff. “Freedom—I Won t!”

“That kills me,” Gleed responded. “I’m stone dead already. I’ve dropped in my tracks.” He watched Harrison thoughtfully pocketing the plaque. “A piece of abracadabra. What a weapon!”

“Ignorance is bliss,” asserted Baines, strangely sure of himself. “Especially when you don’t know that what you’re playing with is the safety catch of something that goes bang.”

“All right,” challenged Gleed, taking him up on that. “Tell us how it works.”

“I won’t.” Baines’ grin reappeared. He seemed to be highly satisfied about something.

“That’s a fat lot of help.” Gleed felt let down, especially over that momentary hoped-for reward. “You brag and boast about a one-way weapon, toss across a slip of stuff with three letters on it and then go dumb. Any folly will do for braggarts and any braggart can talk through the seat of his pants. How about backing up your talk?”

“I won’t,” repeated Baines, his grin broader than ever. He gave the onlooking Harrison a fat, significant wink.

It made something spark vividly within Harrison’s mind. His jaw dropped, he dragged the plaque from his pocket and stared at it as if seeing it for the first time.

“Give it back to me,” requested Baines, watching him.

Replacing it in his pocket, Harrison said very firmly, “I won’t.”

Baines chuckled. “Some people catch on quicker than others.”

Resenting that, Gleed held his hand out to Harrison. “Let me have another look at that thing.”

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“I won’t,” said Harrison, meeting him eye to eye.

“Hey, don’t start being awkward with me. That’s not the way—” Gleed’s protesting voice petered out. He stood there a moment, his optics slightly glassy, while his brain performed several loops. Then in hushed tones he said, “Good grief!”

“Precisely,” approved Baines. “Grief and plenty of it. You were a bit slow on the uptake.”

Overcome by the flood of insubordinate ideas now pouring upon him, Gleed said hoarsely to Harrison, “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ve got to think. I want to sit somewhere nice and quiet while I think.”

There was a tiny park with seats and lawns and flowers and a little fountain around which a small group of children were playing. Choosing a place facing a colorful carpet of exotic un-Terran blooms, they sat and brooded for quite a time.

Eventually, Gleed commented, “For one solitary, mulish character it would be martyrdom, but for a whole world—” His voice drifted off, came back. “I’ve been taking this as far as I can make it go and the results give me the leaping fantods:’

Harrison said nothing.

“For instance,” Gleed continued. “Suppose that when I go back to the ship that snorting rhinoceros Bidworthy gives me an order. And I give him the frozen eye and say, ’I won’t.’ What happens? It follows as an inviolable law of Nature that he either drops dead or throws me in the clink.”

“That would do you a lot of good.”

“Wait a bit—I haven’t finished yet. I’m in the pokey, demoted and a disgrace to the service, but the job still needs doing. So Bidworthy picks on somebody else. The victim, being a soul-mate of mine, also donates the icy optic and says, “I won’t.’ Into the jug he goes and I’ve got company. Bidworthy tries again. And again and again and again. There are more of us crammed in the brig. It will hold only twenty. So they take over the engineers’ mess.”

“Leave our mess out of this,” requested Harrison.

“They take over the mess,” insisted Gleed, thoroughly determined to penalize the engineers. “Pretty soon it’s filled to the roof with I-won’ters. Bidworthy is still raking them in as fast as he can go—if

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by then he hasn’t burst a dozen blood vessels. So they take over the Blieder dormitories.”

“Why keep picking on my crowd?”

“And pile them ceiling-high with bodies,” Gleed said, deriving sadistic pleasure from the picture. “Until in the end Bidworthy has to get buckets and brushes and go down on his knees and do his own deck-scrubbing while Grayder, Shelton and the rest take turn for guard-duty. By that time His Loftiness the Ambassador is in the galley busily cooking for the prisoners and is being assisted by a disconcerted bunch of yessing pen-pushers.” He had another look at this mental scene. “Holy smoke!”

A colored ball rolled his way. Stooping, he picked it up, held on to it. Promptly a boy of about seven ran near, eyed him gravely.

“Give me my ball, please.”

“I won’t,” said Gleed, his fingers firmly around it.

There was no protest, no anger, no tears. The child merely registered disappointment and turned away.

“Here you are, sonny.” He tossed the ball.

“Thanks.” Grabbing it, the other chased off.

Harrison said, “What if every living being in the Terran Empire, from Prometheus to Kaldor Four, across eighteen hundred light-years of space, should get an income-tax demand, tear it up and say, “I won’t.’ What happens then?”

“No tax. Authority does without it because it darned well has to.”

“There would be chaos.” Harrison nodded toward the fountain and the children playing around it. “But it doesn’t look anything like chaos here. Not to my eyes. Evidently they don’t overdo this blank refusal business. They apply it judiciously on some mutually recognized basis. But what that basis might be beats me completely.”

“Me, too.”

An elderly man paused near them, surveyed them hesitantly, decided to pick on a passing youth.

“Can you tell me where I can find the roller for Martinstown?”

“Other end of Eighth,” directed the youth. “One every hour. They’ll fix your manacles before they start.”

“Manacles?” The oldster raised white eyebrows. “Whatever for?”

“That route runs past the spaceship. The Antigands may try to drag you out.”

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“Oh, yes, of course.” He ambled on, glanced again at Gleed and Harrison, remarked in passing, “These Antigands—such a nuisance.”

“Definitely,” supported Gleed. “We keep telling them to clear out and they keep saying, “We won’t.’“

The old gentleman missed a step, recovered, gave him a peculiar look, continued on his way.

“One or two seem to cotton on to our accent,” Harrison said. “Though nobody baulked at mine when I was having that meal in Seth’s.”

Gleed perked up with sudden interest. “Where you’ve had one feed you should be able to get another. Come on, let’s try. What have we to lose?”

“Our patience.” Harrison got off his seat, stretched himself. “We’ll pick on Seth. If he won’t play we’ll have a try at somebody else. And if nobody will play we’ll scoot back to the ship before we starve to death.”

“Which appears to be exactly what they want us to do,” Gleed pointed out with some annoyance. “I can tell you something here and now—they’ll get their way over my dead body.”

“That’s how,” agreed Harrison. “Over your dead body.”

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Chapter 9 | TOC | Chapter 11