The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 459
"You swear to that?"
"Yes," said Shaipin, positively.
"Good! Could any one of them be restored in less than seven days? Could it be made to function in between your regular checks?"
"No, sire. It would take at least a month to repair any one of them."
"All right. I continue to hold you personally responsible for seeing to it that nobody interferes with these transmitters. Anyone caught trying to operate one of them is to be killed on the spot. If you fail in this, you will answer for it with your head." The look he threw the other showed that he meant it. "Is Heisham around or is he vacationing some place?"
"He returned from a tour three or four days ago, sire. Probably he will be in his apartment in the west wing."
"Tell him I want to see him immediately. While you're at it, find Fox and send him here also."
Heisham and Fox arrived together, the former wearing a broad grin, the latter impassive as usual.
Zalumar said to Heisham, "You are in charge of the nominal roll. What is our present strength?"
"Fourteen hundred seventy, sire."
"So we're down one hundred thirty, eh?" observed Zalumar, watching Fox as he said it but getting no visible reaction.
"Yes, sire," agreed Heisham, too well-pleased with himself to be sobered by statistics.
"A self-satisfied smirk is at least a pleasant change from Lakin's miserable features," commented Zalumar. "What has made you so happy?"
"I have been awarded a Black Belt," informed Heisham, swelling with pride.
"You have been awarded it? By whom?"
"By the Terrans, sire."
Zalumar frowned. "There can be no worth-while award on a world where anything may be confiscated."
"A Black Belt means nothing if merely grabbed," explained Heisham. "Its value lies in the fact that it must be won. I got mine at the risk of my neck."
"So we're down one-thirty and you've been trying to make it one-thirty-one. No wonder the men get careless when senior officers set such a bad example. What is this thing you have won?"
"IT'S LIKE this, sire," said Heisham. "Over a year ago I was telling a bunch of Terrans that we warriors are raised like warriors. We don't play silly games like chess, for instance. Our favorite sport is wrestling. We spend a lot of our childhood learning how to break the other fellow's arm. The natural result is that every Raidan is a first-class wrestler and hence an efficient fighting-machine."
"So—?" prompted Zalumar.
"A medium-sized Terran showed great interest, asked what style of wrestling we used. I offered to show him. Well, when I recovered consciousness—"
"Eh?" ejaculated Zalumar.
"When I recovered consciousness," Heisham persisted, "he was still there, leaning against the wall and looking at me. A lot of witnesses were hanging around, all of them Terrans, and in the circumstances there was nothing I could do about this fellow except kill him then and there."
"Quite right," approved Zalumar, nodding emphatically.
"So I snatched him in dead earnest and when they'd picked me off the floor again I asked—"
"Huh?"
"I asked him to show me how he'd done it. He said it would need a series of lessons. So I made arrangements and took the lessons, every one of them. I passed tests and examinations and persisted until I was perfect." He stopped while he inflated his chest to suitable size. "And now I have won a Black Belt."
Zalumar switched attention to Fox. "Did you have any hand in this matter?"
"No, sire."
"It is just as well. Folly is reprehensible enough—I would not tolerate Terran encouragement of it." He turned back to Heisham. "Nobody has anything to teach us. But you, a senior officer, consent to take lessons from the conquered."
"I don't think it matters much, sire," offered Heisham, unabashed.
"Why doesn't it?"
"I learned their technique, mastered it and applied it better than they could themselves. To win my prize I had to overcome twenty of them one after the other. Therefore it can be said that I have taught them how to play their own game."
"Humph!" Zalumar was slightly mollified but still suspicious. "How do you know that they didn't let you throw them?"
"They didn't appear to do so, sire."
"Appearances aren't always what they seem," Zalumar said, dryly. He thought a bit, went on, "How did it happen that the medium-sized Terran mastered you in the first place?"
"I was caught napping by his extraordinary technique. This Terran wrestling is very peculiar."
"In what way?"
Heisham sought around for an easily explainable example, said, "If I were to push you it would be natural for you to oppose my push and to push back. But if you push a Terran he grabs your wrists and pulls the same way. He helps you. It is extremely difficult to fight a willing helper. It means that everything you try to do is immediately taken farther than you intended."
"The answer is easy," scoffed Zalumar. "You give up pushing. You pull him instead."
"If you change from pushing to pulling, he promptly switches from pulling to pushing," Heisham answered. "He's still with you, still helping. There's no effective way of controlling it except by adopting the same tactics."
"It sounds crazy to me. However, it is nothing unusual for aliens to have cockeyed ways of doing things. All right, Heisham, you may go away and coddle your hard-won prize. But don't encourage any of the others to follow your bad example. We are losing men too rapidly already."
He waited until Heisham had gone, then fixed attention on Fox.
"FOX, I have known you for quite a time. I have found you consistently obedient, frank and truthful. Therefore you stand as high in my esteem as any mere Terran can."
"Thank you, sire," said Fox, showing gratitude.
"It would be a pity to destroy that esteem and plunge yourself from the heights to the depths. I am relying upon you to give me candid answers to one or two questions. You have nothing to fear and nothing to lose by telling the absolute truth."
"What do you wish to know, sire?"
"Fox, I want you to tell me whether you are waiting, just waiting."
Puzzled, Fox said, "I don't understand."
"I want to know whether you Terrans are playing a waiting game, whether you are biding your time until we die out."
"Oh, no, not at all."
"What prevents you?" Zalumar inquired.
"Two things," Fox told him. "Firstly, we suppose that other and probably stronger Raidan forces will replace you sometime. Obviously they won't leave you here to the end of your days."
Hah, won't they? thought Zalumar. He smiled within himself, said, "Secondly?"
"We're a Raidan colony. That means you're stuck with the full responsibilities of ownership. If anyone else attacks us, you Raidans must fight to keep us—or let go. That suits us quite well. Better the devil we know than the devil we don't."
It was glib and plausible, too glib and plausible. It might be the truth—but only a tiny fragment of it. For some reason he couldn't define Zalumar felt sure he wasn't being told the whole of it. Something vital was being held back. He could not imagine what it might be, neither could he devise an effective method of forcing it into the open. All that he did have was this vague uneasiness. Maybe it was the after-effect of Lakin's persistent morbidity. Damn Lakin, the prophet of gloom.
For lack of any better tactic he changed the subject. "I have an interesting report from one of our experts named Marjamian. He is an anthropologist or a sociologist or something. Anyway, he is a scientist, which means that he'd rather support an hypothesis than agree with an idea. I want your comments on what he has to say."
"It is about we Terrans?"
"Yes. He says your ancient history was murderous and that you came near to exterminating yourselves. In desperation you reached accord on the only item about which everyone could agree. You established permanent peace by mutually recognizing the basic right of every race and nation to live its own life in its own way." He glanced at his listener. "Is that correct?"
"More or less," said Fox, without enthusiasm.
"Later, when you got into free space, you anticipated a need to widen this understanding. So you agreed to recognize the basic right of every species to live its own life in its own way." Another glance. "Correct?"
"More or less," repeated Fox, looking bored.
"Finally, we arrived," continued Zalumar. "Our way of life is that of ruthless conquest. That must have put you in a mental and moral dilemma. All the same, you recognized our right even at great cost to yourselves."
"We didn't have much choice about it, considering the alternative," Fox pointed out. "Besides, the cost isn't killing us. We have been keeping a few hundred Raidans in luxury. There are three thousand millions of us. The expense works out at approximately two cents per head per annum."
Zalumar's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "That's one way of looking at it."
"For which price," added Fox, "the planet remains intact and we get protection."
"I see. So you regard the situation as mutually beneficial. We've got what we want and so have you." He yawned to show the interview was over. "Well, it takes all sorts to make a cosmos."
But he did not continue to yawn after Fox had gone. He sat and stared unseeingly at the ornamental drapes covering the distant door, narrowing his eyes occasionally and striving within his mind to locate an invisible Terran tomahawk that might or might not exist.
He had no real reason to suppose that a very sharp hatchet lay buried some place, waiting to be dug up. There was nothing to go on save a subtle instinct that stirred within him from time to time.
Plus unpleasant tinglings in the scalp.
ANOTHER three and a half years, making six in all. Suddenly the hatchet was exhumed.
Zalumar's first warning of the beginning of the end came in the form of a prolonged roar that started somewhere east of the palace and died away as a shrill whine high in the sky. He was abed and in deep sleep when it commenced. The noise jerked him awake, he sat up unsure whether he had dreamed it.
For a short time he remained gazing toward the bedroom's big windows and seeing only the star-spangled sky in between small patches of cloud. Outside there was now complete silence, as though a slumbering world had been shocked by this frantic bellowing in the night.
Then came a brilliant pink flash that lit up the undersides of the clouds. Another, another and another. Seconds later came a series of dull booms. The palace quivered, its windows rattled. Scrambling out of bed he went to the windows, looked out, listened. Still he could see nothing but clearly through the dark came many metallic hammerings and the shouts of distant voices.
Bolting across the room he snatched up his bedside phone, rattled it impatiently while his eyes examined a nearby list of those on duty tonight. Ah, yes, Arnikoj was commander of the palace guard. He gave the phone another shake, cursed underbreath until a voice answered.
"Arnikoj, what's going on? What's happening?"
"I don't know, sire. There seems to be some sort of trouble at the spaceport."
"Find out what's the matter. You have got a line to the port, haven't you?"
"It is dead, sire. We cannot get a reply. I think it has been cut."
"Cut?" He fumed a bit. "Nonsense, man! It may be accidentally broken. Nobody would dare to cut it."
"Cut or broken," said Arnikoj, "it is out of action."
"You have radio communication as well. Call them at once on your transmitter. Have you lost your wits, Arnikoj?"
"We have tried, sire, and are still trying. There is no response."
"Rush an armed patrol there immediately. Send a portable transmitter with them. I must have accurate information without delay."
Dropping the phone, he threw on his clothes as swiftly as possible. A dozen voices yelled in the garden not a hundred yards from his windows. Something let go with a violent hammering. He made a jump for the door but the phone shrilled and called him back.
He grabbed it. "Yes?"
Arnikoj screamed at him, "It is too late, sire. They are already—" A loud br-r-op-op interrupted him, his voice changed to a horrid gurgling that receded and slowly ceased.
Zalumar raced out the room and along the outer passage. His mind seemed to be darting forty ways at once. "They", who are "they"? Another Raidan expedition that had discovered this hide-out of renegades? Unknown and unsuspected Terran allies at long last come to the rescue? Mutineers led by Lakin? Who?
He rounded a corner so fast that he gave himself no chance to escape three armed Terrans charging along the corridor. They grabbed him even as he skidded to a stop. This trio were big, brawny, tough-looking, wore steel helmets, were smothered in equipment and bore automatic guns.
"What is meant by this?" shouted Zalumar. "Do you realize—"
"Shut up!" ordered the largest of the three.
"Somebody will pay for—"
"I said to shut up!" He swung a big hand, slapped Zalumar with force that rattled his teeth and left him dazed. "See if he's clean, Milt."
One of the others ran expert hands over Zalumar's person. "Nothing on him, not even a loaded sock."
"O.K. Toss him in that small room. You stand guard, Milt. Beat his ears off if he gets uppish."
With that, two of them hustled around the corner, guns held ready. Twenty more similarly armed Terrans appeared and chased after the first two, none of them bothering to give the captive a glance in passing. Milt opened a door, shoved Zalumar's shoulder.
"Get inside."
"To whom do you think you're—"
Milt swung a heavy, steel-tipped boot at the other's tail and roared, "Get inside when you're told!"
ZALUMAR got in. The small room held a long, narrow table and eight chairs. He flopped into the nearest chair and glowered at Milt who leaned casually against the wall by the door. A minute later someone opened the door and slung Lakin through. Lakin had a badly discolored face and a thin trickle of blood along the jawline.
"Arnikoj is dead," said Lakin. "Also Dremith and Vasht and Marjamian and half the palace guard." He touched his features tenderly. "I suppose I'm lucky. They only beat me up."
"They will pay dearly for this," promised Zalumar. He studied the other curiously. "I suspected you of disloyalty to me. It seems that I was wrong."
"One can foresee trouble without having to take part in it. I've known for long enough that Heisham was brewing something. It was obvious that sooner or later—"
"Heisham?"
"Yes. His term of service ended two years ago—and he was still here. He is not the kind to sit around and do nothing about it. So he waited his chance."
"What chance?"
"We maintain a permanent ships' guard of eighty men. Everyone serves in rotation. Heisham needed only to bide his time until he and a bunch of sympathizers were selected for guard duty. The ships would then be his to do with as he pleased."
"That would be of no use. He couldn't take away ten cruisers with a mere eighty men."
"He could make off with two ships, each with a skeleton crew of forty," said Lakin.
"The fellow is stark, staring mad," declaimed Zalumar. "Immediately he shows his face on Raidan he and all those with him will have to undergo interrogation, with torture if necessary. And when they've given up every item of information they'll be executed as traitors."
"Heisham doesn't think so," Lakin responded. "He is going to put all the blame on you. He's going to tell them that you prohibited the sending of a report because you wanted all the spoils and the glory for yourself."
"They won't take his unsupported word for that."
"There are eighty men with him and they'll all say the same. They've got to—they're in the same jam. Besides, he has persuaded the Terrans to confirm his story. When a Raidan commission arrives to check up the Terrans will give evidence in Heisham's favor. He's quite confident that this tactic will not only save his life but also gain him honor."
"How do you know all this?" demanded Zalumar.
"He told me of his plans. He invited me to come in with him."
"Why didn't you?"
"I didn't share his optimism. Heisham always was too cocksure for my liking."
"Then why didn't you inform me of this plot?"
Lakin spread hands to indicate helplessness. "What was the use? You'd have taxed him with treachery and he'd have denied it, knowing full well that you were already tired of my warnings. Would you have believed me?"
Letting that awkward question pass unanswered, Zalumar buried himself in worried thought, eventually said, "The Terrans will not support his tale. They have nothing to gain by doing so. It is of total indifference to them whether Heisham's gang live or die."
"The Terrans have agreed to confirm everything he says—for a price."
Leaning forward, Zalumar asked in tones of suppressed fury, "What price?"
"The eight ships Heisham could not take."
"Intact and complete with their planet-busting equipment?"
"Yes," Lakin brooded a moment, added, "Even Heisham would have refused such payment had the Terrans any idea of where Raidan is located. But they don't know. They haven't the slightest notion."
Taking no notice, Zalumar sat breathing heavily while his features changed color. Then suddenly he shot to his feet and yelled at the guard.
"You piece of filth! You dirty, lowdown animal!"
"Now, now!" said Milt, mildly amused. "Take it easy."
THE DOOR opened. Fox entered along with McKenzie and Vitelli. The latter bestowed on Zalumar the same unctuous smile that had not varied in six long years.
All three wore uniform and carried guns. Thus attired they looked much different; they'd acquired a hardness not noticed before. It wasn't quite like Raidan hardness, either. There was something else, a sort of patient craftiness.
Zalumar still had an ace up his sleeve; without giving them time to speak, he played it. "The ships won't do you any good. We shall never tell you where Raidan is."
"There's no need to," said Fox, evenly. "We know."
"You're a liar. None of my men would give you that information, not even a self-seeking swine like Heisham."
