by Roger Elwood
“Great is the honor. Since the last visitors from your high civilization were confined largely to this region, perhaps you have no knowledge of mine. May I therefore say that Lafdigu lies in the southern hemisphere, occupying a goodly part of its continent. In those days we were unindustrialized, but now, one hopes, the situation has altered.”
“Nay, Warmaster, be sure our folk heard much about Lafdigu’s venerable culture and regretted they had no time to learn therefrom.” Chee got more tactful the bigger the lies she told. Inwardly, she groaned: Oh, no! We haven’t troubles enough, there has to be international politicking too!
A servant appeared with a cut-crystal decanter and goblets.
“I trust that your race, like the Terran, can partake of Merseian refreshment?” Dagla said.
“Indeed,” Chee replied. “ Tis necessary that they who voyage together use the same stuffs. I thank the Hand.”
“But we had not looked for, hurgh, a guest your size,” Olgor said. “Perhaps a smaller glass? The wine is potent.”
“This is excellent.” Chee hopped onto a low table, squatted, and raised her goblet two-handed. “Galactic custom is that we drink to the health of friends. To yours, then, worthies.” She took a long draught. The fact that alcohol does not affect the Cynthian brain was one she had often found it advantageous to keep silent about.
Dagla tossed off a yet larger amount, took a turn around the room, and growled: “Enough formalities, by your leave, Shipmaster.” She discarded her cloak. “Shipmistress?” He gulped. His society had a kitchen-church-and-kids attitude toward females. “We … kh-h-h … we’ve grave matters to discuss.”
“The Hand is too abrupt with our noble guest,” Olgor chided.
“Nay, time is short,” Chee said. “And clearly the business hath great weight, sith ye went to the length of suborning a servant in Morruchan’s very stronghold.”
Dagla grinned. “I planted Wedhi there eight years ago. He’s a good voice-tube.”
“No doubt the Hand of the Vach Hallen hath surety of all his own servitors?” Chee purred.
Dagla frowned. Olgor’s lips twitched upward.
“Chances must be taken.” Dagla made a chopping gesture. “All we know is what was learned from your first radio communications, which said little. Morruchan was quick to isolate you. His hope is plainly to let you hear no more of the truth than he wants. To use you! Here, in this house, we may speak frankly with each other.”
As frankly as you two klongs choose, Chee thought. “I listen with care,” she said.
Piece by piece, between Dagla and Olgor, the story emerged. It sounded reasonable, as far as it went.
When the Survey team arrived, the Wilwidh culture stood on the brink of a machine age. The scientific method had been invented. There was a heliocentric astronomy, a post-Newtonian pre-Maxwellian physics, a dawning chemistry, a well-developed taxonomy, some speculations about evolution. Steam engines were at work on the first railroads. But political power was fragmented among the Vachs. The scientists, the engineers, the teachers were each under the patronage of one or another Hand.
The visitors from space had too much sense of responsibility to pass on significant practical information. It wouldn’t have done a great deal of good anyway. How do you make transistors, for instance, before you can refine ultrapure semimetals? And why should you want to, when you don’t yet have electronics? But the humans had given theoretical and experimental science a boost by what they related—above all, by the simple and tremendous fact of their presence.
And then they left.
§
A fierce, proud people had their noses rubbed in their own insignificance. Chee guessed that here lay the root of most of the social upheaval which followed. And belike a more urgent motive than curiosity, or profit, began to drive the scientists: the desire, the need to catch up, to bring Merseia in one leap onto the galactic scene.
The Vachs had shrewdly ridden the wave. Piecemeal they shelved their quarrels, formed a loose confederation, met the new problems well enough that no movement arose to strip them of their privileges. But rivalry persisted, and crosspurposes, and often a reactionary spirit, a harking back to olden days when the young were respectful of the God and their elders.
And meanwhile modernization spread across the planet. A country which did not keep pace soon found itself under foreign domination. Lafdigu had succeeded best. Chee got a distinct impression that the Republic was actually a hobnail-booted dictatorship. Its own imperial ambitions clashed with those of the Hands. Nuclear war was averted on the ground, but space battles had erupted from time to time, horribly and inconclusively.
‘‘So here we are,” Dagla said. “Largest, most powerful, the Vach Dathyr speak loudest in this realm. But others press upon them, Hallen, Ynvory, Rueth, yes, even landless Urdiolch. You can see what it would mean if any one of them obtained your exclusive services.”
Olgor nodded. “Among other things,” he said, “Morruchan Long-Ax would like to contrive that my country is ignored. We are in the southern hemisphere. We will get the worst of the supernova blast. If unprotected, we will be removed from his equations.”
“In whole truth, Shipmistress,” Dagla added, “I don’t believe Morruchan wants your help. Khraich, yes, a minimum, to forestall utter collapse. But he has long ranted against the modem world and its ways. He’d not be sorry to see industrial civilization reduced so small that full-plumed feudalism returns.”
“How shall he prevent us from doing our work?” Chee asked. “Surely he is not fool enough to kill us. Others will follow.”
“He’ll bet the knucklebones as they fall,” Dagla said. “At the very least, he’ll try to keep his position—that you work through him and get most of your information from his sources —-and use it to increase his power. At the expense of every other party!”
“We could predict it even in Lafdigu, when first we heard of your coming,” Olgor said. “The Strategic College dispatched me here to make what alliances I can. Several Hands are not unwilling to see my country continue as a force in the world, as the price for our help in diminishing their closer neighbors.”
Chee said slowly: “Meseems ye make no few assumptions about us, on scant knowledge.”
“Shipmistress,” said Olgor, “civilized Merseia has had two centuries to study each word, each picture, each legend about your people. Some believe you akin to gods—or demons—yes, whole cults have flowered from the expectation of your return, and I do not venture to guess what they will do now that you are come. But there have also been cooler minds; and that first expedition was honest in what it told, was it not?”
“Hence: the most reasonable postulate is that none of the starfaring races have mental powers we do not. They simply have longer histories. And as we came to know how many the stars are, we saw how thinly your civilization must be spread among them. You will not expend any enormous effort on us, in terms of your own economy. You cannot. You have too much else to do. Nor have you time to learn everything about Merseia and decide every detail of what you will effect. The supernova will flame in our skies in less than three years. You must cooperate with whatever authorities you find and take their word for what the crucial things are to save and what others must be abandoned. Is this not truth?”
Chee weighed her answer. “To a certain degree,” she said carefully, “ye have right.”
“Morruchan knows this,” Dagla said. “He’ll use the knowledge as best he can.” He leaned forward, towering above her. “For our part, we will not tolerate it. Better the world go down in ruin, to be rebuilt by us, than that the Vach Dathyr engulf what our ancestors wrought. No planetwide effort can succeed without the help of a majority. Unless we get a full voice in what decisions are made, we’ll fight.”
“Hand, Hand,” reproved Olgor.
“Nay, I take not offense,” Chee said. “Rather, I give thanks for so plain a warning. Ye will understand, we bear ill will toward none of Merseia and have no partisan
ship—” in your wretched little jockeyings. “If ye have prepared a document stating your position, gladly will we ponder on the same.”
§
Olgor opened a casket and took out a sheaf of papers bound in something like snakeskin. “This was hastily written,” he apologized. “At another date we would like to give you a fuller account.”
“ Twill serve for the nonce.” Chee wondered if she should stay awhile. No doubt she could learn something further. But chaos, how much propaganda she’d have to strain out of what she heard! Also, she’d now been diplomatic as long as anyone could expect. Hadn’t she?
They could call the ship directly, she told them. If Morruchan tried to jam the airwaves, she’d jam him, into an unlikely posture. Olgor looked shocked. Dagla objected to communication which could be monitored. Chee sighed. “Well, then, invite us hither for a private talk,” she said. “Will Morruchan attack you for that?”
“No … I suppose not … but he’ll get some idea of what we know and what we’re doing.”
“My belief was,” said Chee in her smoothest voice, “that the Hand of the Vach Hallen wished naught save an end to these intrigues and selfishness, an openness in which Merseians might strive together for the common welfare.”
She had never cherished any such silly notion, but Dagla couldn’t very well admit that his chief concern was to get his own relatives on top of everybody else. He made wistful noises about a transmitter which could not be detected by Merseian equipment. Surely the galactics had one? They did, but Chee wasn’t about to pass on stuff with that kind of potentialities. She expressed regrets—nothing had been brought along—so sorry—good night, Hand, good night, Warmaster.
The guard who had let her in escorted her to the front door. She wondered why her hosts didn’t. Caution, or just a different set of mores? Well, no matter. Back to the ship. She ran down the frosty street, looking for an alley from which her takeoff wouldn’t be noticed. Someone might get trigger-happy.
An entrance gaped between two houses. She darted into darkness. A body fell upon her. Other arms clasped tight, pinioning. She yelled. A light gleamed briefly, a sack was thrust over her head, she inhaled a sweet-sick odor and whirled from her senses.
§
Adzel still wasn’t sure what was happening to him or how it had begun. There he’d been, minding his own business, and suddenly he was the featured speaker at a prayer meeting. If that was what it was.
He cleared his throat. “My friends,” he said.
A roar went through the hall. Faces and faces and faces stared at the rostrum which he filled with his four and a half meters of length. A thousand Merseians must be present: clients, commoners, city proletariat, drably clad for the most part. Many were female; the lower classes didn’t segregate sexes as rigidly as the upper. Their odors made the air thick and musky. Being in a new part of Ardaig, the hall was built plain. But its proportions, the contrasting hues of paneling, the symbols painted in scarlet across the walls reminded Adzel he was on a foreign planet.
He took advantage of the interruption to lift the transceiver hung around his neck up to his snout and mutter plaintively, “David, what shall I tell them?”
“Be benevolent and noncommittal,” Falkayn’s voice advised. “I don’t think mine host likes this one bit.”
The Wodenite glanced over the seething crowd to the entrance. Three of Morruchan’s household guards stood by the door.
He didn’t worry about physical attack. Quite apart from having the ship for a backup, he was too formidable himself: a thousand-kilo centauroid, his natural armorplate shining green above and gold below, his spine more impressively ridged than any Merseian’s. His ears were not soft cartilage but bony, a similar shelf protected his eyes, his rather crocodilian face opened on an alarming array of fangs. Thus he had been the logical member of the team to wander around the city today, gathering impressions. Morruchan’s arguments against this had been politely overruled. “Fear no trouble, Hand,” Falkayn said truthfully. “Adzel never seeketh any out. He is a Buddhist, a lover of peace who can well afford tolerance anent the behavior of others.”
By the same token, though, he had not been able to refuse the importunities of the crowd which finally cornered him.
“Have you got word from Chee?” he asked.
“Nothing yet,” Falkayn said. “Muddlehead’s monitoring, of course. I imagine she’ll contact us tomorrow. Now don’t you interrupt me either. I’m in the middle of an interminable official banquet.”
Adzel raised his arms for silence, but here that gesture was an encouragement for more shouts. He changed position, his hooves clattering on the platform, and his tail knocked over a floor candelabrum. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he exclaimed. A red-robed Merseian named Gryf, the chief nut of this organization —Star Believers, was that what they called themselves?— picked the thing up and managed to silence the house.
“My friends,” Adzel tried again. “Er … my friends. I am, er, deeply appreciative of the honor ye do me in asking for some few words.” He tried to remember the political speeches he had heard while a student on Earth. “In the great fraternity of intelligent races throughout the universe, surely Merseia hath a majestic part to fulfill.”
“Show us … show us the way!” howled from the floor. “The way, the truth, the long road futureward!”
“Ah … yes. With pleasure.” Adzel turned to Gryf. “But perchance first your, er, glorious leader should explain to me the purposes of this … this—” What was the word for “club”? Or did he want “church”?
Mainly he wanted information.
“Why, the noble galactic jests,” Gryf said in ecstasy. “You know we are those who have waited, living by the precepts the galactics taught, in loyal expectation of their return which they promised us. We are your chosen instrument for the deliverance of Merseia from its ills. Use us!”
§
Adzel was a planetologist by profession, but his large bump of curiosity had led him to study in other fields. His mind shuffled through books he had read, societies he had visited . ..
yes, he identified the pattern. These were cultists who’d attached a quasi-religious significance to what had actually been quite a casual stopover. Oh, the jewel in the lotus! What kind of mess had ensued?
He had to find out.
“That’s, ah, very fine,” he said. “Very fine indeed. Ah … how many do ye number?”
“More than two million, Protector, in twenty different nations. Some high ones are among us, yes, the Heir of the Vach Isthyr. But most belong to the virtuous poor. Had they all known the Protector was to walk forth this day— Well, they’ll come as fast as may be, to hear your bidding.”
An influx like that could make the pot boil over, Adzel foresaw. Ardaig had been restless enough as he quested through its streets. And what little had been learned about basic Merseian instincts, by the Survey psychologists, suggested they were a combative species. Mass hysteria could take ugly forms.
“No!” the Wodenite cried. The volume nearly blew Gryf off the podium. Adzel moderated his tone. “Let them stay home. Calm, patience, carrying out one’s daily round of duties, those are the galactic virtues.”
Try telling that to a merchant adventurer! Adzel checked himself. “I fear we have no miracles to offer.”
He was about to say that the word he carried was of blood, sweat, and tears. But no. When you dealt with a people whose reactions you couldn’t predict, such news must be released with care. Falkayn’s first radio communications had been guarded, on precisely that account.
“This is clear,” Gryf said. He was not stupid, or even crazy, except in his beliefs. “We must ourselves release ourselves from our oppressors. Tell us how to begin.”
Adzel saw Morruchan’s troopers grip their rifles tight. We’re expected to start some kind of social revolution? he thought wildly. But we can’t! It’s not our business. Our business is to save your lives, and for that we must not weaken but strengthen whatever
authority can work with us, and any revolution will he slow to mature, a consequence of technology— Dare 1 tell them this tonight?
Pedantry might soothe them, if only by boring them to sleep. “Among those sophonts who need a government,” Adzel said, “the basic requirement for a government which is to function well is that it be legitimate, and the basic problem of any political innovator is how to continue, or else establish anew, a sound basis for that legitimacy. Thus newcomers like mineself cannot—”
He was interrupted—later he was tempted to say “rescued” —by a noise outside. It grew louder, a harsh chant, the clatter of feet on pavement. Females in the audience wailed. Males snarled and moved toward the door. Gryf sprang from the platform, down to what Adzel identified as a telecom, and activated the scanner. It showed the street and an armed mob. High over them, against snow-laden roofs and night sky, flapped a yellow banner.
“Demonists!” Gryf groaned. “I was afraid of this.”
Adzel joined him. “Who be they?”
“A lunatic sect. They imagine you galactics mean, have meant from the first, to corrupt us to our destruction. I was prepared, though. See.” From alleys and doorways moved close-ranked knots of husky males. They carried weapons.
A trooper snapped words into the microphone of a walkie-talkie. Sending for help, no doubt, to quell the oncoming riot. Adzel returned to the rostrum and filled the hall with his pleas that everyone remain inside.
He might have succeeded, by reverberation if not reason. But his own transceiver awoke with Falkayn’s voice: “Get here at once! Chee’s been nabbed!”
“What? Who did it? Why?” The racket around became of scant importance.
“I don’t know. Muddlehead just alerted me. She’d left this place she was at. Muddlehead received a yell, sounds of scuffling, then no more from her. I’m sending him aloft to try and track her by the carrier wave. He says the source is moving. You move too, back to Afon.”