4

THE HYGEIANS WERE very tall, well-built to the point of being over-muscled. Each carried a personal bag slung by a strap from one shoulder. Each was tastefully attired in a pair of sandals, those and nothing more. Apart from the footgear they were as naked as on the day they were born.

Studying his audience with unconcealed disdain, one gave fraternal greeting by saying, “Terrans—as dirty-minded as ever.”

The Ambassador was taking a second look when this observation hit him over the head. He bristled at once.

“What d’you mean?”

“Hiding yourselves from the glorious sunshine and the face of creation,” informed the other. Letting his gaze linger significantly upon the ambassadorial belly, he remarked to his companion, “I suppose it can be conceded that this one has good reason to be ashamed of his body, eh, Pincuff?”

“Yaz,” agreed Pincuff. “Years of greed and neglect have taken their toll.”

“I resent that,” said the Ambassador.

“He resents it, Boogle,” said Pincuff. Then he let go a loud and vulgar laugh. His roving eyes took in the ship, found its ports full of astonished faces. “Look at that lot, Boogle. Afraid to come out and show themselves. Pale and weedy to a man.”

“Yaz,” Boogle confirmed. “God bless their shriveled little chests.” Then he threw himself fiat, did twenty push-ups, sprang to his feet and massaged his bare midriff. “Let’s see you do that,” he invited the Ambassador.

“For your information, I am the Terran representative and not a circus acrobat.”

[58]

“You don’t say? Then how about doing a mere six up-and-downs?” “

“No. Certainly not.”

“Just one then,” pleaded Boogle. “One for a start. You can always work up to more. Do you a lot of good.”

“I am the sole arbiter of what does me good,” declared the Ambassador, holding his temper firmly in check. “And I have not come here to indulge in pointless calisthenics. I wish to meet someone in a position of authority.”

“What for?”

“The purpose is confidential.”

“Hear that?” Boogle asked Pincuff, full of suspicion. “There’s something smelly here.”

“It’s coming from the ship,” Pincuff informed. “Full of stale air and old clothing. Nobody has bathed for months. A real goat’s nest.”

“The ship’s air is automatically cleaned and sterilized six times per hour,” Grayder told him.

“I should think so, too,” approved Pincuff. “Else you could cut it with a knife.”

“Real stinkers,” Boogle added for good measure. “Probably the only form of life that has found it necessary to invent delousing stations.”

“And where did you hear about those?” asked the Ambassador coldly.

“We’ve been educated. We know a lot concerning Terra. Every one there is dirty-minded about his own body, dirty in physique, dirty in habits. Diseased, verminous and depraved. Persecutors of anyone who isn’t afraid to face the wind, the rain and the sun in his natural state.”

“You call that education?”

“Yaz. And it is, too.”

Changing his angle of attack, the Ambassador hazarded, “I suppose these are the orthodox teachings of the Sons of Freedom, eh?”

“Jumping Joseph!” exclaimed Pincuff, horrified. “He thinks we’re Doukhobors.”

“If you want the Douks,” said Boogle contemptuously, “they’re way over the hills playing around in the mud. We drove them out a couple of hundred years ago.”

“Why?”

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“Couldn’t get on with them no matter how we tried. A preaching, praying, mealy-mouthed bunch always trying to convert us to their way of thinking and abusing us when we refused to see the light. They thought that because we Naturists had been victimized for nakedness we must be easy meat. They let us come here with the idea of boosting their own strength. That was their mistake.”

“And what happened?”

“We bided our time until we were ready and then we rushed them down south. Anyone who joins the Douks is mentally deficient. And that’s one thing we Naturists are not.” He performed a couple of full stretches, danced around and shadowboxed for half a minute, finished with, “A healthy mind in a healthy body. Do I speak wisdom, Pincuff?”

“Yaz,” said Pincuff.

The Ambassador fished for information. “Do you people outnumber these . . . er . . . Douks?”

“Sure do. By at least twenty to one. They’re dying out.”

“Which means that Naturists hold most of the developed part of the planet?”

“Correct.”

“So that to all intents and purposes your government is the government of this world?”

“Yaz.”

“Good! I want to have an interview with members of the government.”

“He doesn’t want much,” observed Pincuff, speaking to nobody in particular.

“Sure doesn’t,” confirmed Boogle. “Go fetch me your government just like that. Thinks they’re sitting around waiting for us to summon them and they’ll come on the run.”

“Flatterer,” said Pincuff to the Ambassador.

“All I ask,” the Ambassador persisted, “is that you go to that town and report our presence. Officialdom can be trusted to do something about it.”

“The town is well aware of your presence,” Pincuff assured. “It’s within plain view and they can’t have failed to notice the landing of a ship this size.”

“We’ve got eyes,” contributed Boogle. “Good, healthy ones.” He

[60]

pointed to the senior civil servant who was staring at him fascinatedly through horn-rimmed spectacles. “We’re not half-blind like that dumb-looking wreck.”

“Bet you fifty percent of them wear glasses,” said Pincuff. “And half of those who don’t are in need of them.”

“Same with false teeth,” supported Boogle. He gaped wide open, revealing a double row of pure white fangs, and shoved this spectacle towards the Ambassador’s face. “All my own. How many have you got?”

“That is nothing to do with you,” said the Ambassador.

“Won’t talk,” Boogle told the general assembly. “Not a real tooth in his head.”

“But arch supports in his boots,” guessed Pincuff.

“I do not use arch supports,” the Ambassador denied.

“Then let’s see you do this.” Boogle bounced up and down like a demented kangaroo. “Go ahead and try it. Keep time with me. One-sy, two-sy, I’ll beat you-sy. Two-sy, three-sy, you beat me-sy.”

“Nonsense!” said the Ambassador flatly.

“Physical fitness is nonsense,” Boogle informed Pincuff. “Can you imagine anything more typically Terran?”

“Yaz,” said Pincuff. “Dirty-mindedness.”

The Ambassador turned to Grayder, Shelton and the others. “No useful purpose can be served by prolonging this stupid conversation. Let us go into the ship and wait until someone with more brains arrives.”

With that he marched up the gangway. The rest followed, carefully maintaining the proper order of precedence. Bidworthy went last, pausing only to sear the Hygeians with his glare.

“Defective liver and superfluous bile,” diagnosed Pincuff.

“Fatty buttocks,” added Boogle. “Hopelessly out of condition. Needs a twenty-mile race and an hour in the steam-bath.”

“You two can go to hell,” declared Bidworthy and made the gangway tremble with the thunder of his ascent.

“Foul-mouthed as well,” remarked Pincuff as if confirming a foregone conclusion. “Let’s get back to civilization.”

Ignoring the hundreds of faces still gaping from the ports, they turned and headed toward the town, perforce showing the audience

[61]

their hinder parts. To the onlookers this rear-end view held vague suggestion of a declaration of independence.

First Mate Morgan peered into the cubby-hole, frowned at what he saw. “What, are you at it again? Can’t you think of any better way in which to spend your spare time?”

“Yes—riding around,” answered Tenth Engineer Harrison. “I can’t do that in the ship. I’ve got to be outside with a firm road under my wheels and a pleasant landscape before me. You don’t mind me tending to my bike, do you?”

“I couldn’t care less,” said Morgan. “But I still think it a crazy way to use one’s off-duty.” Producing a notebook, he poised a pencil over it. “Which leave roster d’you want to be on, first, second or third?”

“So we’re getting leave, are we?”

“Not immediately. Our entitlement starts at six o’clock Thursday evening. The Captain knows the regulations and he’ll expect me to produce the rosters for his approval. Which one d’you want to be on?”

“There are advantages and disadvantages,” mused Harrison, rubbing his nose with a polishing-cloth. “The first bunch go out blind whereas the last have the benefit of information brought back by the earlier ones. On the other hand, if the first lot arouse the dislike of the natives the last lot will have to bear the brunt of it. A couple of rowdy drunks can earn later comers a harvest of black eyes.”

“Make up your mind,” urged Morgan impatiently. “I can’t stand here all day while you examine the respective merits of this, that and the other. Which d’you want, first, second or third?”

“I’ll take third. I’d rather go out primed than ignorant.”

“Third,” repeated Morgan, writing it down. “Where are Ninth Engineer Hope and Eighth Engineer Carslake?”

“Went running to their cabins a couple of minutes ago. Said they wanted to load their cine-cameras. They seemed to be excited about something.”

“Did they?” Morgan eyed him briefly. “Where have you been this last hour?”

“Right here, cleaning my bike. Why? Anything wrong with that?”

[62]

“No, nothing wrong.” Morgan went in search of Hope and Carslake, leaving the other staring after him.

A little later Harrison was spinning his rear wheel and listening to the smooth, oily ticking of its ball-race when Sergeant Gleed looked in.

“Morgan been after you yet?”

“Yes.”

“What did you pick?”

“Third roster.”

“A mistake,” pronounced Gleed. “Leave won’t last that long. You should have chosen to go first. A bird in the hand is worth two on the bust.”

“In the bush,” corrected Harrison.

“You know what I mean. Rush to open when opportunity knocks and pause not for cogitation. The first bunch will get away with murder. The second might. The third won’t.”

“Why not?”

“There’ll be trouble aplenty with at least some of the first crowd. You know what sailors are.

“What d’you mean?”

“The local warriors are going to object to the way some of our fellows use their eyes. One thing will lead to another as sure as Bidworthy barks in his sleep. It’ll end up in a real free-for-all if not a massacre. Grayder will then refuse to approve the next roster.”

“Don’t know what you’re so morbid about,” observed Harrison, starting to give his saddle its sixth successive polish. “There’s no reason why we should find more trouble here than in any other place.”

“How long have you been fooling around with this contraption?”

“I don’t know. I don’t time myself. I’m not on duty so what does it matter?”

“You’ve not had a look at the natives?”

“No,” said Harrison. “They’re our own kind, exactly the same as ourselves. I’ve seen Terrans aplenty.”

“Not stark,” said Gleed.

“What d’you mean, stark?”

“These Hygeians are stark raw.”

“I don’t understand.”

[63]

“How about treating yourself to a lucid moment?” Gleed suggested, and went on, “They’re naked. Not a stitch.”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes!” insisted Gleed.

“Women as well?”

“We’ve seen none as yet but you can bet on it.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“You will,” promised Gleed.

Towards eventide a deputation arrived. It consisted of half a dozen elderly, sunburnt nudists led by one who looked ninety years older than God. This character sported a thirty-inch beard that concealed his chest and much of his abdomen and gave him the appearance of being improperly dressed. He was carrying a gold-painted rod bearing on its top a wooden disc carved with what resembled a coat of arms.

Reaching the foot of the gangway, the bearded one gazed up at the airlock doorway in which Sergeant Gleed was lounging. A brief look of distaste passed across his aged features before he lifted his rod ceremoniously and spoke.

“Health be yours.”

“It is,” said Gleed, not feeling especially decrepit.

The other seemed to doubt this assurance but was not inclined to dispute it. “I am Radaschwon Bouchaine, the mayor of Sunnyside.” He gestured toward the town. Then he indicated his fellows who were studying Gleed’s clothing with the air of maiden ladies inspecting a long-dead rat. “And these are some of my councillors.”

“How nice,” acknowledged Gleed, rewarding them with a craggy smile.

“We would like to meet your leader,” finished Mayor Bouchaine.

“Wait there and I’ll see what he says.” Gleed took the intercom phone from the wall, listened to its steady buzz-buzz at the other end, decided that so far as he was concerned whoever answered would be the leader. As it happened it was Grayder. To him, Gleed said, “There’s a bunch of nakes at the gangway, sir, and they want to have a word with you. One of them says he’s the local mayor. He’s got a totem-pole to prove it.”

“Bring them to the chartroom, Sergeant,” ordered Grayder.

[64]

Gleed returned to the top of the gangway. “You can come aboard.”

That started an argument among the seven during which the words dirt, germs and vermin were freely used. Gleed listened with growing ire, not liking their ready acceptance of the notion that everyone on the ship was crammed to the ears with bacteria.

Eventually he gave way to his feelings and bawled, “What d’you think this is, a leper colony?”

A momentary silence fell before Mayor Bouchaine asked, “Couldn’t your leader come to see us out here?”

“No, Pop. I don’t give him orders. He gives them to me. He’s just told me to bring you to the chartroom. Are you coming or not?”

“At my age what have I to lose?” remarked the Mayor, commencing to climb the gangway. Five of the councillors reluctantly followed. The sixth sat down on his hams and assumed the expression of a determined non-starter.

“Mayor, I’m not prepared to accept the risk of contamination.”

“You do as you please, Gerpongo,” said the Mayor, going up.

“You do as you please, Gerpongo,” echoed Gleed as unpleasantly as possible. “You squat on your fundament, Gerpongo, and be happy. Let the fresh, clean air play around your chassis, Gerpongo, and you’ll be topnotch.”

“That ought everyone to do,” said Gerpongo pointedly. “And that is my intention.”

Somewhat disgruntled, Gleed led the way through the ship, the others padding after him in single file. He noticed that they maintained complete silence, exchanging no remarks, and got the idea that they were trying to avoid breathing any more than was absolutely necessary. Reaching the chartroom, he showed them inside and went away muttering to himself.

“Gerpongo,” he said. It sounded like an alien cuss-word.

Within the room the Mayor stroked his beard and looked in turn at the Ambassador, Captain Grayder, Colonel Shelton and Major Hame, decided to address himself to the former.

“Health be yours.”

“Thank you,” said the Ambassador, relishing a fragment of courtesy.

“This is the first ship to come here from the old world since we

[65]

became established,” the Mayor went on. “Naturally we have taken it for granted that Terra isn’t interested in us. We’ve had every reason to do so. But now it seems that we were wrong. The government has told me to seek an interview and ask the purpose of this visit.”

“Oh, so you have been in touch with your government already?”

“Of course. I phoned through to Radiant City immediately you landed.”

“Well, now,” said the Ambassador, highly pleased, “it would simplify matters if we could deal direct with your chief officials.” He turned to Grayder. “The pictures, Captain.” From a drawer Grayder extracted the enormously enlarged photographs and spread them on his desk. The Ambassador suggested to Mayor Bouchaine, “Now if you will be so good as to show us the precise location of Radiant City we’ll move the ship there and thus save you a lot of time and trouble.”

“You mean you want me to point to our seat of government?”

“That’s right.”

“I am not authorized to do so.”

The Ambassador eyed him with surprise. “Why not?”

“I shal1 have to consult them first,” insisted the Mayor.

“But why on earth shouldn’t you tell us where your government is? What possible harm can it do? You don’t think we’re scheming to overthrow it, do you?”

“I cannot accept the responsibility of transferring a potential epidemic to our capital,” said the Mayor flatly.

“An epidemic?” The Ambassador gazed bewilderedly around the room. “An epidemic of what?”

“We want no Terran diseases here,” the Mayor informed. “If a center of infection is positioned adjacent to Radiant City it must be with official permission.”

“Frankly, I can’t imagine what you’re talking about,” exclaimed the Ambassador. “After all, you people are of Terran origin and therefore it follows that any sickness you may have must also be Terran.”

“We don’t have illnesses apart from the common cold,” said the Mayor.

“And lumbago,” contributed a councillor.

[66]

“And an occasional bellyache,” offered another, then hurriedly added, “Attributable to a mistake in diet. People should not make such errors. If they do they must expect to suffer. Diet is very important.”

“That’s right, Rampot,” approved a third. “A healthy mind in a healthy body.”

“Look,” chipped in the Ambassador, “I want to come to an understanding with your government.”

“About what?” inquired the Mayor, fingering his beard and looking foxey.

“About making a military agreement.”

“Military?” Mayor Bouchaine screwed up his eyes until they almost disappeared. He had a period of strenuous thought before he admitted, “I’ve come across that word somewhere, probably in our history books. But for the life of me I can’t remember what it means.”

“So you have no army, no soldiers?”

“Army? Soldiers?”

“No warriors, no fighters?”

“Ah, yaz, fighters.” The Mayor’s whiskery face showed sudden understanding. “We have boxers and wrestlers in great number. Strong, athletic and highly skilled, I assure you. I once saw one throw four Douks into the river and did they get wet! Let me tell you—”

Colonel Shelton, who had been listening with incredulity, interrupted by asking, “When you chased out the Doukhobors did you ever kill one?”

“Hear that?” the Mayor said to his councillors who were mutually appalled. He looked around as if seeking somewhere to vomit.

“Well, what did you do to them?” persisted Shelton.

“We smacked their bottoms,” informed the Mayor as though mentioning the obvious.

Openly disgusted, Shelton said, “What would you do if attacked by a lifeform so alien and bizarre that you couldn’t tell its bottom from its top?”

“Which lifeform is that?”

“One that may come upon you suddenly and without warning.

“From where?

“From anywhere out of the cosmos.

[67]

“Faulty diet and unhealthy living creates bad dreams,” remarked the Mayor virtuously. “We never have bad dreams.”

“It’ll be more than a dream when it really happens,” Shelton persisted.

“It hasn’t happened in the last four hundred years and we’ve no reason to suppose it will happen in the next four thousand.”

“You’re in poor position to do any supposing,” Shelton pointed out. “You’ve no ships, you’re doing no cosmic exploration. You’re just sitting around in your skins and waiting for the blow to fall.”

“That’s right,” chimed in the Ambassador for good measure. “There might have been a non-human people native to this planet; it’d have been wholly their own fault if they’d been taken by surprise when you poured in from Terra. Surely you can see that what you have done others can do equally as well? If another intelligence should suddenly expand into the starfield and take a liking to Hygeia—”

The Mayor thought it over. “Yaz, that is true. What we have done somebody else could do—if there is a somebody else to do it. But it is not for me to consider such a hypothetical problem. I’ll pass it along to our government.”

“Good!” said the Ambassador.

“But,” continued Mayor Bouchaine, “they will want to know what all this has to do with Terra. What am I to say?”

“Tell them that a ruthless enemy could swiftly conquer a few weak, independent worlds one at a time. It would be a vastly different matter to take on a powerful confederation, in close communication, united in resolve to beat off the common foe. So Terra thinks it high time steps were taken to reach a mutual understanding.”

“What steps?”

“Just for a start,” informed the Ambassador as glibly as possible, “we would like to establish a consul upon Hygeia. He would function as our representative, a mere token of Terran authority. Of course we’d have to provide him with a small staff to deal with routine matters. And a bodyguard.

“A bodyguard? What for?”

“To protect him against outside attack. Such protection is his entitlement and our responsibility, you understand? Just a company of

[68]

forty or fifty troops armed with modern weapons. They’d be quite an asset to your own defences, too.” He bestowed a smile of pure benevolence. “We’d also like to leave a couple of powerful long-range transmitters with enough technicians to keep them in operation.”

“Putting us in permanent contact with Terra?” suggested the Mayor, hinting at a skunk in the bed.

“Yes, of course. Swift communication is essential in space-war. How can we rush to your aid unless we know that you need it?”

“I don’t know,” admitted the Mayor, unable to find a satisfactory answer but convinced that he was seeing the thin end of the wedge. “I’II phone through to headquarters. It’s up to them to make the decisions.”

“You do that,” approved the Ambassador.

Gleed conducted them through the airlock, watched them go down the gangway. Gerpongo got off his hams, fumbled in his shoulder-bag, produced a thing resembling a fire-extinguisher. The others stood in line and held their jaws wide open while Gerpongo sprayed each in turn. He made a thorough job of it, tending first to their mouths and then to their bodies, front and back. An odor faintly reminiscent of coal-tar and cinnamon drifted up to the airlock. First Mate Morgan joined Gleed as that worthy snorted his disgust.

“So the conflab is finished?” said Morgan.

“Yes. They’re now busy killing brasshat lice or something. Don’t want to go home with Terran passengers in their hair.”

“If the Captain is disengaged I’d better see him about this first roster. You’re on it, aren’t you?”

“I am. But I don’t know whether it’s worth it.”

“Not worth getting away from this metal can for a few hours? Not worth treading good, solid earth, going to town, seeing the bright lights and having a wonderful time? Are you sickening for something?”

“I’m suspicious,” said Gleed.

“Of what?”

“That everyone in that place will carefully keep their distance.

[69]

And that if anyone does speak to us he or she will do so from ten yards away while fanning the air towards us.”

“Then fan it back,” advised Morgan. “The answer to an implied smell is an imaginary stench.”

“Some spree, eh?” said Gleed. “The pinnacle of gay abandon. Everyone wafting the atmosphere at everyone else. Man, the prospect thrills me so that I can hardly wait.”

“It’d be exercise if nothing else,” opined Morgan. “I’m going to see Grayder.” Leaving the airlock, he trudged along corridors, reached the chartroom, knocked and entered. He laid a paper on the Captain’s desk. “First leave roster, sir. Do you approve it?”

Grayder sighed wearily. “Mr. Morgan, the basic rule is that everyone on leave must at all times comport himself in a spacemanlike manner, observe and respect all local customs and conventions and do nothing to earn the antagonism of the inhabitants.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Morgan. “I’ll give them a stiff warning about getting drunk and rowdy.”

“I am not bothered about their sobriety or lack of it, Mr. Morgan. I am thinking about their attire.”

“Sergeant Major Bidworthy and I invariably check the men for smartness as they go out,” Morgan assured. “Any man who has not made himself a credit to the ship is promptly—”

“There are different ideas of what constitutes credit,” said Grayder. “Physique, for instance.”

“Yes, sir,” said Morgan, not seeing what the other was getting at

Grayder put it bluntly. “Mr. Morgan, I am afraid that the men will have to go out unclothed.”

“Without clothes?” An expression of inutterable horror bloomed into Morgan’s features. “Naked?”

“That’s how it is, Mr. Morgan. These Hygeians are determined faddists. They think it healthier and more decent to go around in the raw. We are not yet in a position to impose better ideas upon them. Therefore we must accept their customs and adapt our own behaviour accordingly. Any men who wish to go to town must do so unclothed.”

“But, sir—”

“I am not forbidding leave,” Grayder emphasized. “I am conceding the men’s right to take time off in a non-hostile world. But I can

[70]

not allow a riot to start over the question of somebody’s pants. The men must take their liberty in their birthday suits and that’s an order.”

“Good God!” said Morgan, gulping.

“They can wear boots,” put in the Ambassador. “The Hygeians were using sandals.”

Shelton, who had rapidly grown crimson in the face, now rasped at Grayder, “What you do with your crew is wholly your own business but I cannot permit my troops to exhibit themselves in nothing but boots.”

Not wanting to let Morgan witness an unpleasant clash of authority, Grayder gave a shrug of resignation, glanced appealingly at the Ambassador.

That person immediately responded by saying, “My dear Colonel, we cannot grant shore-leave to the crew and refuse it to the troops. Privileges must be distributed without fear or favor. To differentiate between the personnel on this ship would be most reprehensible. It could create jealousy, resentment and destroy the cordial relations that exist between the Captain’s men and yours.”

“I am not denying leave to my men,” insisted Shelton. “I am saying that they must go out in ceremonial uniform as prescribed by regulations.”

“There are other regulations, Colonel. Captain Grayder has just said it’s a strict rule that they must respect local customs. What have you to say to that?”

“It’s an equally strict rule that they go out properly dressed.”

“The proper dress here is a snazzy pair of sandals,” said the Ambassador. “Short of those, we’ll have to use boots. Do you accept the full blame for any trouble caused by your men’s gross indecency?”

“Heavens!” Shelton burst out. “It is the Hygeians who are indecent.”

“Their opinion is the opposite. It is their town that the men propose to visit.”

Perceiving that this argument could continue forever while the astounded Morgan listened pop-eyed, Grayder interrupted with, “Your Excellency, perhaps the Colonel would be good enough to accept your official order that his men go out undressed.”

[71]

“Would you?” asked the Ambassador.

“Under strong protest,” said Shelton, secretly glad to be rid of the responsibility.

“Very well.” The Ambassador spoke to Morgan. “The roster is approved providing that the leave-takers go naked.”

Picking up the list, Morgan said feebly, “I don’t know what the men will say about this.”

“Neither do I,” remarked the Ambassador. “But their reactions should be interesting.”

Morgan departed, slightly dazed.

[72]

Chapter 3 | TOC | Chapter 5