2

IN THE CABIN Grayder, Shelton, Major Hame and the Ambassador surveyed the newcomer with mixed feelings. They didn’t like his ratty eyes, his scruffy appearance or anything about him.

“What’s your name?” Grayder began. “Alaman Tung.”

Somewhat to their surprise he did not come out with an angry tirade about his treatment. Neither did he refuse to answer questions. He merely stood before them wearing a fixed scowl as though thoroughly accustomed to the idea that in these circumstances protests would be useless. It seemed to the audience that he considered himself a prisoner of war with an unknown fate before him. Obviously he was convinced that Terrans must be enemies and for that he had some basis in the shape of Gleed’s boot.

“Where do you come from?” Grayder went on. “The Tung stronghold.”

“Is that the place across the river?”

“Yes.”

“You call it a stronghold. By that do you mean it is an official military center, a fort?”

“Fort?” echoed Alaman Tung, screwing up his eyes. “It is a place to be defended?”

“Of course.”

“Against whom?”

“Everyone.”

“Everyone,” repeated Grayder to the others. “What goes on here?” Without waiting for anyone to guess he said to Tung, “Whoever comes near your stronghold is regarded as a foe?”

“Unless he plays the trading signal.”

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“Ah, so it isn’t everyone as you’ve just said?”

“Everyone all the time except in the trading season.”

“How long does that last?” Grayder inquired.

“A few days.”

“How often?”

“Once a year. Just four or five days once a year. In the spring.”

“And what do you trade then?”

“Women,” said Tung with devastating casualness.

Grayder was horrified. “You mean you barter females like so much merchandise?”

“Only those who refuse to mate.”

His features grim, Grayder said, “What happens to them after they’ve been traded?”

“It depends.”

“That’s not an answer.” Grayder smacked a hand heavily on his desk. “We want to know exactly what happens to them.”

“Nothing much,” responded Tung, openly bored with the subject. “If they see a man they like in the other stronghold they settle down with him. If they don’t, they apply to be traded again. They go on that way until they are suited. Sometimes women make me sick.”

“They actually ask to be traded from one place to another?” questioned Grayder, surprised.

Before the other could reply the Ambassador broke in and said ponderously, “I see nothing dreadful about this, Captain. If you give your daughter away in marriage you have, in effect, traded her to the man of her choice. The chief difference here seems to be that they won’t let go of an eligible woman without receiving one in exchange.”

“But—”

“And anyway it’s a natural law that people marry outside their own families. A lot of intermarriage is undesirable.” He eyed the subject of their questions. “You call this place of yours the Tung stronghold. Does that mean it is occupied exclusively by Tungs?”

“Yes.”

“One big family? All related to each other even if distantly?”

“The Tung slaves are no relations,” said the other with unconcealed contempt.

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“Slaves?” chipped in Grayder, hard-eyed again. “How many slaves have the Tungs got?”

“Ten.”

“How did you acquire them?”

“In a fight.”

“You made prisoners of them?”

“Naturally.” He seemed to view this as a singularly stupid question. “They were lying around wounded and ready for the taking. They weren’t too injured to recover and get busy. Only a fool works when he can make someone else do it. We Tungs are not fools.”

“How would you like it if we made a slave of you?” Grayder asked with much curiosity.

It took the other aback. He had a period of confusion before he replied, “Isn’t that what you intend to do?”

“No.”

“But I am strong and healthy. I’m more valuable alive than dead. It will be your loss if you kill me.”

“We don’t kill people if we can help it,” Grayder told him. “Neither do we make slaves of them.”

“What do you do with them?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why am I here?”

“We want information. After we’ve got it you may go.”

“You must be imbeciles,” opined Alaman Tung, baffled and suspicious. “Or liars.”

“Idiots and liars don’t build ships like this one,” Grayder retorted. “If you’re up against something you can’t understand don’t try to understand it. Just answer our questions.” He let that sink in before he went on, “How many people live in the Tung stronghold?”

“About seven hundred.”

“How many other strongholds are there?”

“A lot.”

“Be more specific! What number?”

“How should I know what number? How should anyone know what number?” demanded Alaman Tung. “When it is risky to stray outside one’s own hunting-grounds do you expect people to explore the world? Nobody knows what number, not even the Roms.”

“Roms? Who are those?”

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“Dirt, fidgety dirt. They’re the only ones who move around and they haven t even got a stronghold. They roam the desert like animals and every once in a while they come out and poach on somebody’s hunting-grounds. They never fight if they can help it. At first sign of attack they disappear into the desert.”

“Sounds like the gang we noticed using tents,” ventured Major Hame.

Grayder nodded and returned to his questioning. “So you get food by hunting?”

“Mostly. The women gather some where they find it. The slaves grow some but not much.”

“Wouldn’t it be better, surer and easier to grow food systematically and on a wide scale?”

“What, and have it stolen in a night-raid the moment it was ready?” scoffed Alaman Tung. “We’re not so witless as to grow food for others to take. Besides, it means work.”

“You don’t like work?”

“Who does?”

“What’s wrong with it?” Grayder pressed.

“Plenty. It’s stupid. It isn’t necessary except for gnoits. Why work if you can live without it?”

Ignoring the point, Grayder said, “Did your father tell you that?”

“Sure he did. And his father told him. They all had brains, see? That’s why you shoved our ancestors out of Terra. They had brains. You worked and they didn’t. You didn’t like clever people making fools of you. It advertised your inferiority for all to see. So you had to get rid of them.”

“Did your father tell you that too?”

“Everybody knows it,” said Tung as if stating an incontrovertible fact.

“Well,” said Grayder, “if your ancestors were so remarkably superior why didn’t they kick us out?”

“There were too many of you. On Terra the dopes have always outnumbered the clever.”

“Am I a dope?” interjected the Ambassador curiously.

“I should think so,” answered Tung. “You look one to me. I daresay that if you found something valuable belonging to somebody else you would give it back to him.”

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“I certainly would.”

“That proves it.”

A little annoyed, the Ambassador said, “And why shouldn’t I give it back?”

“Finders keepers. It’s the finder’s reward for having his wits about him and the loser’s punishment for not having them. You people seem to have no idea of common justice.”

“If I stole the very clothes off your back and the food you were about to eat, would you consider it just?”

“Sure thing—if you were smart enough to do it and I was stupid enough to let you.”

“You’d not take any action about it?”

“Of course I would.”

“What would you do?”

“First chance I got I’d steal them back and more besides.”

“Suppose there wasn’t a chance?”

“Then I’d take them off some dopier dope.”

“In other words,” pursued the Ambassador, “you think it’s every man for himself and the Devil take the hindmost?”

“It’s the clever for themselves and let the stupid go soak. I don’t know what you mean by the Devil. I have never heard the word.”

As the Ambassador gave up, Grayder took over again and asked, “Have you ever heard of God?”

“What’s that?” inquired the other blankly.

Lying back in his seat, Grayder drummed his fingers on his desk and didn’t reply. He stared at Tung while his thoughts meandered around. After a while he said to the Ambassador, “To be frank, Your Excellency, I don’t think this is worth continuing. We’re wasting our time.”

“I feel the same way about it,” the Ambassador confirmed. “But Terra wants a report and expects to get one. We’d better make it look comprehensive even if it isn’t. I’d like to ask this fellow a few more questions. To give him his due he is willing enough to answer.”

“If he’s doing it truthfully,” commented Grayder, watching Tung.

There was no visible reaction. Without a doubt Tung had heard the remark and understood it. But he did not bristle with indignation as the average Terran would have done. He seemed com-

[34]

pletely indifferent as to whether he was viewed as a paragon of veracity or an incorrigible liar.

Grayder’s own brain did a couple of somersaults as he strove to analyze the other’s mind. Obviously Alaman Tung did not know the difference between right and wrong or, if he did, his estimates did not accord with Terran standards. He did not know the difference between honesty and dishonesty, justice and injustice. In view of this it was hardly likely that he could detect the wide gap between truth and untruth. If all his answers had been truthful, as was possible, it would be for one reason only, namely, that he had considered it convenient to tell the truth and inconvenient to tell lies. Expediency was the sole determining factor.

The Ambassador broke into Grayder’s train of thought by asking Tung, “What method of communication is there between these various strongholds?”

“Communication?” Tung looked baffled.

“You talk with them, don’t you?”

“Only in the trading season.”

“Never at any other time?”

“No.”

“Then how do you get news from far away?” said the Ambassador.

“We don’t. What do we want news for? We can’t eat it, drink it or sleep with it. What’s the use of news?”

“Surely you’d like to know what’s happening on your own planet?”

“We couldn’t care less. We tend our own business and leave others to tend theirs,” replied Tung. “What goes on elsewhere is no concern of ours. The nosey ask for all the trouble they get.”

The Ambassador tried another tack. “With how many strongholds do you have contact during the trading season?”

“With all those whose hunting-grounds happen to border on ours.”

“How many is that?”

“Six,” said Tung.

“And the same applies to them? They have contact only with their immediate neighbors?”

“That’s right.”

“Are all these other strongholds the same size as yours? Do they all hold about seven hundred people?”

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“The Howards have more than us, the Sommers have less but we don’t know their real numbers. Somewhere there may be places twenty times the size of ours. What does it matter to us so long as they leave us alone and keep strictly to their own territory?”

“So,” concluded the Ambassador, “there is no special group that maintains contact with all strongholds?”

“How could there be? They’d have to tramp over everyone’s corns to get around. They wouldn’t live long—unless they followed the Roms by scooting into the desert.”

“Let him go,” said the Ambassador to Grayder. “There is nothing more worth getting out of this character.”

Grayder pressed a wall-button. The escort appeared, conducted Alaman Tung to the airlock and sent him down the ladder. Tung descended awkwardly and walked to the river with what looked like a bad limp. A canoe came in response to his yells and took him across. On the farther bank he dragged from the right leg of his pants a jungle-knife half the size of a sword, waved it defiantly at the ship. Bidworthy, who was watching from a port, immediately held an inspection of the escort, found a trooper sans knife and defined the culprit’s idiocy in a voice that resounded partway through the ship.

In the control-cabin Grayder said, “In these circumstances I can’t let the men out to stretch their legs. If anyone near a stronghold is automatically regarded as an enemy it means that this world must be defined as hostile. We’d look like prize fatheads if we suffered casualties from crossbows.”

“I know,” replied the Ambassador. “Sergeant Gleed has been shot at already. If they didn’t kill or injure him it wasn’t for lack of trying.” He nursed his belly in big hands while he thought over the situation. “What you are hinting is that you’d like to push straight on to the next planet, eh?”

“We’ll have to go eventually, Your Excellency.”

“Yes, that’s true. But I think it might be wise if first we made another landing a good distance from here, picked up a second sample and cross-examined him also. We should make sure that conditions we have found right here are not peculiar to this locality. There’s a slight chance they might be considerably different elsewhere. But

[36]

if they’re pretty much the same on the other side of the world it’ll be reasonable to assume that they’re the same all over.”

“As you wish, Your Excellency,” said Grayder, concealing his lack of enthusiasm.

“I consider it essential that our official report should give Terra the impression that we have taken some pains with it. I don’t want anyone in high authority to think we merely sniffed at this planet and went away”

“No, that would be bad,” Grayder agreed. He took up the intercom phone, spoke to Chief Engineer McKechnie. “Close the lock and prepare to lift.”

Ten minutes afterward the warning siren wailed. Then the great ship soared in majestic silence, turned its nose over the Tung stronghold and bulleted westward. Shelton summoned Bidworthy to the cabin.

“Sergeant Major, I want you to have a squad ready in the midway lock. Immediately we land they are to hustle out and seize the first person they can lay hands on. There must be no unnecessary violence. I expect the job to be done with cool, calm efficiency. Whoever they get is to be brought straight here. Is this understood?”

“Yes, sir,” snapped Bidworthy with military precision.

“This order must not, repeat not be treated as a pretext to smuggle a woman on board,” continued Shelton, obsessed with the idea that his men were obsessed with ideas. “The captive must be an adult male, preferably with sufficient intelligence to count on his fingers. Make that quite clear to the squad, Sergeant Major.”

“I certainly will, sir,” promised Bidworthy, already concocting suitable phrases.

“Oh, and there is something else, Sergeant Major.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I was watching through the port when that Tung fellow crossed the river. I wasn’t using my field-glasses but my unaided sight is quite good. He climbed the bank and waved what appeared to be a jungle-knife, mark three, official issue, space-troops for the use of.” He gave the listener his best piercing look. “Could this be possible, Sergeant Major?”

Sergeant Major admitted that it could be possible. He was sorry to add that it could also be probable. In fact it gave him much

[37]

pain to describe it as practically a certainty inasmuch as the presence of the knife over there had been found to coincide with the absence of one over here.

“Who lost it?” demanded Shelton with an angry snort.

“Trooper Moran, sir.”

“He is remarkably well-named. How did he come to lose it?”

“He doesn’t know, sir. He says first it was there and then it wasn’t.”

“I presume that he is reliably informed as to whether he has still got his boots on?”

“I should hope so, sir,” said Bidworthy, keeping his eyes firmly focused on an invisible spot one inch in front of Shelton’s nose.

“What have you done about this?”

Taking a long, deep breath Bidworthy gave forth like a tape-recorder. “1727365 Trooper Moran, Patrick Michael Kevin, charged with losing equipment while on active service, namely, one jungle-knife, mark three, official issue, space-troops for the use of, stores-listed at seven dollars and forty cents. Found guilty and sentenced to ten days kitchen duties, the cost of the aforesaid equipment to be deducted from his pay.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Major,” said Shelton, gratified.

Snapping a salute that threatened to tear off his ear, Bidworthy removed his gaze from the invisible spot, performed an exhibitionist about-turn, crashed a steel-shod heel upon the floor and marched out.

“Discipline,” commented Shelton to Grayder and the Ambassador. “That’s the thing!”

Grayder said mildly, “Maybe.”

“There’s no maybe about it, man. Discipline and efficiency are one and the same.”

Without expression, Grayder picked up the intercom phone. “Chief, who was in charge of the airlock last time?”

“Harrison, sir.”

“No, I don’t want to talk to him. Just ask him if he’s lost anything lately.”

McKechnie went away, came back. “No, sir, nothing.”

Making no remark, Grayder replaced the phone, went to the observation-port and watched the ground flowing far below. Behind

[38]

him the Ambassador registered a fat smile while Shelton glowered. The next landing was impromptu. The nose-watch spotted a hunting party returning to its stronghold, phoned the control-cabin and Grayder brought the ship down between the hunters and their destination. At once the squad of troopers rushed out, spurred on by Bidworthy’s invective.

They outnumbered the quarry by two to one. Seeing this, the hunters paused not to parley but took to their heels. The fleeing ones were pretty good at it, having put in plenty of practice in the past. The result resembled a badly organized cross-country chase with the undisciplined rapidly increasing their lead over the disciplined.

Both parties swiftly diminished toward the horizon while Shelton clenched and unclenched his fists in the control-cabin and Bidworthy tramped round and round the airlock swearing horribly.

After an hour a cloud of dust appeared from a different direction, resolved itself into the hunters now leading by a couple of miles and not overstraining themselves. Stopping by the game they had dropped they picked it up, set off in a wide curve that would take them well clear of the ship and back to their stronghold.

Now the airlock phone yelped and Shelton’s voice came through. “Quick, Sergeant Major! Send a fresh squad after them while they’re exhausted. We’ve as good as got them. Put a move on, man!”

“There isn’t a squad ready, sir,” informed Bidworthy, sweating.

“Make one ready. Let’s see some effective action.”

Bidworthy organized a squad by the simple process of hustling out the first men he could find, regardless of their state of dress or undress. They scrambled, slid or half-fell down the ladder while frantically trying to fasten jackets, tighten belts and fix helmet-straps.

But at least they showed willing. As the dust-cloud of the first squad appeared belatedly in the distance they started off in full cry confident in the knowledge that the pursued were both tired and burdened. A long, rubber-legged corporal set the pace, bounding along like an agitated kangaroo. He covered fifty yards in record time before his pants fell down, wrapped themselves around his ankles and plunged him face-first into the dirt. The rest of the bunch hurdled him successfully except for one who paid off an old grudge by trampling on his belly.

[39]

The stronghold for which the chased were heading stood on a high bluff attainable only by one narrow path that zig-zagged up the nearest side. No river formed a barrier around it but its natural position was formidable. It resembled a tumbledown castle and was nearly twice the size of the Tung sanctuary.

Still clinging to their spoils, the hunting party reached the foot of the path and started scrambling up it as fast as they could go. By now the second squad was halfway to the bluff while the first was puffing and panting past the ship. At that point Grayder decided that enough was enough.

“I think we should sound the recall.”

“Permit me to remind you,” said Shelton, “that I am in charge of the troops.”

“And I am in charge of the ship,” said Grayder. “Do you want me to take off without them?”

“No, certainly not, but—”

“Sound the recall, Captain,” suggested the Ambassador, giving Shelton no chance to argue. “After being harried all over the landscape those people will be in no mood to come here for a chat. They’ll stay put and hold tight. If we want one of them we’ll have to winkle him out by force.”

“We’re quite capable of doing that,” Shelton pointed out with a trace of ire.

“I don’t doubt it in the least, my dear Colonel,” soothed the Ambassador. “But for heaven’s sake remember that when we return to Terra any bloodshed will have to be justified to the complete satisfaction of the authorities. I do not consider that it would be justified right now. Let us try someplace else.”

Shelton subsided grumpily. The ship’s siren tooted three times in rapid succession. Outside the running squads skidded to a stop, looked back as if they could not credit their ears. The siren tooted again to prove that ears are worthy of credit. With visible disgust the troops mooched slowly back. Some slouched, hands in pockets, to show what they thought of brasshats who couldn’t make up their minds.

Behind them the hunters ceased their hurried race up the bluff and had a wonderful time screaming highly imaginative remarks about gnoits and ponks. One who possessed a particularly shrill voice

[40]

contributed several observations about snelks. Another pretended to run like mad and let his pants drop. This spectacle, plus the disorderly retreat, made Bidworthy want to climb the curtains and butter himself

Perspiring and out of breath, the troops clambered on board while Bidworthy stood in the lock and seared each one individually. The unfortunate corporal was rewarded with an extra special double-sear. He scuttled hurriedly out of sight while Bidworthy remained glaring. With a squeak and a slam the plug wound in and the airlock closed.

Harrison said innocently, “You forgot to count their knives.”

“I want no sauce from you,” shouted Bidworthy. “You ... you—”

“How about crummy snelk?” Harrison offered.

“You crummy snelk,” bawled Bidworthy, too far gone to think up anything more appropriate. He stamped into the corridor and headed for the troops’ quarters. The sound of his progress was like that of an elephant shod with manhole-covers.

The warning siren sounded and soon after the ship went up yet again. It covered six thousand miles before it came down and settled alongside a small lake. A stronghold occupied the whole of a rocky island in the lake’s middle.

One trooper bearing a trumpet went down the ladder, advanced to the water’s edge, pointed his instrument toward the island and blew the first bar of I’m So Sad Without Mary. Nobody had any reason to suppose that this selection approximated to what Alaman Tung had described as the trading signal. But, as Grayder had opined, in these circumstances one piece of music was as good as another and any piece was better than a long-distance race or a thump on the pate.

Most of an hour went by during which the trooper patiently sounded the call once every five minutes. Then a boat put out from the island and pulled across under three pairs of oars. It came on steadily until it was twenty yards from the shore. There it stopped.

A spokesman in the bow called in ancient accents, “Are you from Terra?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Thought so. First spaceship we’ve ever seen. Some folk think

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they’re a myth. Taken you long enough to come again, hasn’t it?”

“That’s nothing to do with me,” said the trooper, refusing to accept the responsibility. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The captain would like a word with one of you.”

“Would he? What’s in it for us?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then go and ask him.”

Obediently the trooper went back to the ship, phoned from the airlock. “They want to know what’s in it for them, sir.”

Grayder said, “Ask them what they expect.”

He did so, returned and informed, “They want to know what you’ve got to offer.”

Overhearing this, Shelton exclaimed, “The nerve of them! How about us telling them we’ll sink their darned boat unless they come ashore at the double?”

“Given the free choice of all the loot on this ship,” ventured the Ambassador, “it’s a good bet that they’d ask for guns—assuming that they still know about Terran weapons. We can’t let them have guns. This planet is listed as a penal world despite the centuries that have passed. It will remain such until the Terran authorities see fit to unlist it.”

“Small arms are my department anyway,” reminded Shelton. “I wouldn’t donate a defective stun-gun even if they went down on their knees and begged for it.”

“Nobody is thinking of giving them guns,” said Grayder. He gazed thoughtfully through the port toward where the boat was lying, had a closer look through his field-glasses. The passengers, he noticed, looked even scruffier than the Tungs. “Denims wouldn’t do them any harm. They seem to have no idea of how to make decent clothes.”

“Come to that, they seem to have no idea of anything that involves hard work,” commented the Ambassador. “Do we have any spare denims?”

“Plenty. We’re always loaded in excess of requirements.” Phoning to stores, Grayder ordered a sample to be taken to the trooper. Then he switched to the airlock. “Cassidy is bringing denims to you. Take them out and show them to those mendicants. Three suits for the man who comes aboard and talks.”

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“Right, sir.”

Watching from the control-cabin they saw the trooper march down to the beach and exhibit the bribe. Some four-sided conversation followed. Then he came back. The phone rang.

“They say they’ll take the denims, sir, plus three pairs of boots like mine. They also want my trumpet.”

“Holy smoke!” said Shelton, outraged. “We’re dickering with the frowsy descendants of thugs like Arabs haggling over a carpet. Who do they think we are?”

“Tell them,” ordered Grayder, “three suits of denims and nothing else. That s the bargain, take it or leave it.”

Back traipsed the trooper. The ultimatum caused a good deal of discussion in the boat. Finally the oars dipped, the boat came to shore, one man stepped out. As the trooper led him toward the ship the other two put out their oars, retreated to what they considered a safe distance and waited.

Presently the newcomer arrived in the cabin. He had a skinny frame, the sharp, darting eyes of a wary monkey and looked rather like a racing tipster dead out of luck.

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Chapter 1 | TOC | Chapter 3