The warrior looked at him coldly. “Regulations of the Polarian Imperial Fleet provide that all personnel refrain from unauthorized physical contact with prisoners. You are a prisoner. Shaking hands with you would be unauthorized physical contact. During my current avatar I am appearing in the physical guise of a Polarian officer. Do I make myself clear?”
He was smug about it.
Kit withdrew his hand. “Not quite. Would you mind going over that ‘current avatar’ part again?”
“You may substitute the terms ‘embodiment’ or ‘manifestation’ if you prefer,” said the other stiffly. “Regulations also provide that guards shall not carry on unnecessary conversations with prisoners. This conversation is unnecessary.” With that he turned his back to Kit.
Kit was bothered. There was something about the whole situation that was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Why should the Polarians want to break the peace? And if they did, why did they tip their hand by knocking off an old clunker like the Pelican? And above all, why did they go to all the trouble of taking him prisoner? He certainly didn’t know anything that would be of value to them. It didn’t make sense! Nothing made sense—including the position of the guard who was now leaning against the bars with his back toward Kit so that the bunch of keys protruding from his back pocket were within easy reach.
Without stopping to think, Kit stretched out his hand cautiously, His fingers had almost touched the key ring when the guard gave a sudden bound like a frightened rabbit and then lurched into the opposite corridor wall.
As Kit watched him his eyes turned glassy and rolled up slightly. He stood rigid, head half-cocked as if listening to inaudible voices.
“Do you hear them?” he demanded.
Kit shook his head cautiously. “Who?”
“The voices. The voices that are one voice.” The guard’s voice dropped into a rumbling chant. “The voices that cry out through the empty blackness between the stars.”
Kit shifted uneasily. He couldn’t get at the guard, but the guard could get at him.
“The rabbits have gathered in their warrens. They are summoning death, cold wracking death streaming in from the dark nebula. The millions are kneeling together, their minds throbbing out a single cry . . . over and over . . . over and over . . . Come Thweela . . . COME THWEELA!”
He pressed both hands against his head and began to shake and tremble. His eyeballs turned up until only the muddy whites could be seen and he seemed to be choking on his own tongue. He pushed back against the bulkhead, spreading his arms out. His head lolled clown on his chest and in the half darkness it almost seemed as if he hung there crucified.
Kit felt surge after surge of alarm as he watched the guard. Thweela? Thweela was the old Polarian god of death and destruction. But this!
There was silence for a moment and then a strangled sob burst from the guard’s throat.
“Not the Death! Let me live out this avatar in peace!”
He stood as if waiting for an answer. When it came his massive chest expanded as his shoulders squared and his head came up. Like a great automaton he stalked slowly, majestically toward Kit.
High above the liberators’ headquarters on Saar there were brilliant bursts of purple flame as Squadron 7 entered atmosphere with braking jets roaring out their full-throated thunder. Commander Simmons was in his stateroom checking over his full dress uniform for the umpteenth time. When he was quite satisfied he stiffened, adjusted his face to a maximum of sternness, and said briskly to his mirror, “At 0748 this morning a WCD was received from the auxiliary freighter Pelican . . .”
Kit retreated rapidly to the rear of the cell and looked around desperately for something he could use as a weapon. There wasn’t anything. Realizing the hollowness of the gesture, he cocked his fists and assumed what he hoped was a defensive position. A roaring contemptuous laugh came from the guard.
“You dare raise your hands against Thweela the Mighty?”
Kit’s fists and jaw dropped at the same time.
“Thweela?”
The guard nodded majestically. “I have selected this body for my purposes,” he said.
Even though Kit carried a rabbit’s foot in his pocket, he had always vaguely considered himself an agnostic. As a result he wasn’t quite sure how one was supposed to behave in the presence of a god—but he did the best he could. Trying to keep thought one step ahead of action, he flopped down on his knees and stretched out his arms.
“My Lord!”
“You know me then?” A terrible light shone in Thweela’s eyes as he glared through the bars at the Earthman.
“There is but one Thweela and Carpenter is his prophet.”
The guard’s expression of wrath changed to one of doubt.
“Thou art somewhat flatchested to be the chosen sword of Thweela.” There was a moment of pregnant silence. “But so be it. Thou shalt stand at our right hand and be our sword and buckler.”
Kit knocked his head three times against the deck plates in acknowledgment of his gratitude.
“Have I my lord’s permission to rise?”
Taking silence for assent Kit hoisted himself to his feet. A vague plan was beginning to form in the back of his mind.
“Will not my lord now reveal himself to the others on this ship so that they too may worship him?” he pleaded.
A grim smile played over Thweela’s face and his hand dropped to caress his battle sickle.
“They shall know me in my time and in my fashion.”
Kit had a feeling it was now or never. Trying to keep from sounding too concerned, he asked, “Would it not be well for the Prophet of Thweela to go before and prepare his people to greet him? It is not well that a god should go forth unannounced.” The other considered the suggestion gravely and then nodded. Taking the keys that dangled from his back pocket, he produced a small glowing sliver of metal and inserted it in the lock. There was a dick and the cell door swung open. Kit slipped out quickly and bowed.
“If my lord will wait here, I will go ahead and assemble the ship’s company to do him homage.”
Thweela shook his head. “My mission brooks no waiting!”
Kit made another quick try. “May I suggest then that we proceed at once to the flight deck. There is space there sufficient for grouping all those who will assemble to hear thy words.”
He waited, taut. Finally there was a majestic nod of assent.
Three minutes later he was half way to the flight deck. He kept two steps behind the guard, trying to look as much as possible like a-prisoner being conducted some place on official business. Several green bearded warriors passed, but none gave the pair more than casual attention.
With the occasional white-robed priest that went by, the situation was somewhat different. It seemed to Kit that they recognized him but for some reason or other wanted to give him the impression that they didn’t. There was something fishy about the whole business. Things were going too smoothly. Then, suddenly, everything blew up in his face.
As he turned into a narrow passageway that looked as if it might lead to the flight deck, he saw a noisy procession advancing toward him. As it drew nearer, he saw it was headed by a familiar figure. It was Captain Klag, the officer who had threatened to blow his head off. He was still wearing Kit’s blaster. Behind him came several warriors who were beating out a cacaphonous march on an odd assortment of pots and pans. It occurred to Kit that they might be celebrating the coming banquet, and he pressed against the corridor wall to get out of their way. Head averted, he started to sidle by the group. For a moment he thought he was going to make it, but just as he was almost past them, a harsh voice bawled in his ear and a rough hand grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Kit decided not to answer on ground that it might incriminate him and turned to Thweela for assistance. The guard wasn’t there. He was thirty feet down the corridor, leaning against a bulkhead and shaking his head as if to clear it.<
br />
“Lord Thweela,” shouted Kit, “this person is trying to interfere with our mission.”
The warrior who was holding Kit started to laugh. “That’s not Thweela. Sometimes he thinks he is, but the real God is with us!” He pointed triumphantly to Klag.
“Behold the god of death and destruction!”
The towering figure of Klag stalked forward with the intentness of a panther preparing to pounce upon a rabbit. The men behind him began to inch in until Kit found himself penned back against the cold steel of the corridor wall by a menacing human bulwark.
A tremor ran through the crowd, a ripple of hostility that grew in intensity until it hung over him like a tidal wave. As it started to break, he saw a white-robed figure trying to force its way through the crowd to him.
The new Thweela shoved his ugly face close to Kit’s, cleared his throat and changed the course of Terrestrial history.
Pilot Officer Carpenter was a peace loving citizen who enjoyed nothing more than avoiding a good brawl, but there are certain insults that no normal human male can accept. When the small savage that lurks within all of us saw what the warrior was preparing to do, it seized control. Raw impulse pulsed down Kit’s neurons and lie suddenly exploded into an awkward pistolling of arms and legs. By luck more than design, one fist smashed into a scowling bearded face. The result was chaos.
Warriors went hooting and screaming in all directions. In a moment only the priest was left and even he seemed to be on the verge of becoming violently sick to his stomach.
“Barbarian!” he choked. “Madman! You hit him! You struck another entity! You—” His words choked off as matter momentarily triumphed over mind and his stomach broke out in open rebellion.
Kit left him gagging in a corner and started down the corridor. His knuckles were sore but there was an uncommon erectness to his carriage. Green bearded warriors peeped timidly out at him from side passageways, but none of them came near.
On Saar negotiations had skidded to a sudden halt. In spite of the strain imposed by keeping a thirty-eight inch waist sucked in so that it approximated a regulation thirty-two, Squadron Commander Simmons was completing a report that was a model of military crispness.
“. . . and at 0813 galactic time our courier again took evasive action. The Polarian cruiser launched a homing torpedo which completely destroyed it. We came in to attack, but the cruiser flipped into hyper-space and disappeared.”
Prince Tarz pounded his fist on the table angrily. “I tell you again it’s impossible. All our units have received strict orders to observe the peace.”
“You are sure that the cruiser was Polarian?” asked Space Marshall Kincaide.
“No doubt about it, sir,” answered Simmons. “They are the only ones that have their front blasters mounted in ball turrets.”
Kincaide’s face was white with anger as he turned to Prince Tarz. “I think you have some explaining to do.”
“I have already said that all our units were under orders to refrain from any hostile acts,” said Tarz. “Polarian spacemen do not disobey orders. Your man is obviously mistaken.”
Kincaide rose slowly to his feet. “The squadron commander is not mistaken!” He pointed to a folder of documents on the table. “There is the evidence. Sworn statements of other crew members. Photographs of your ship. Examine it, sir.”
Prince Tarz brushed the pile of documents aside contemptuously. “It is not necessary to examine them.” His voice was frosty. “The word of a Polarian officer is sufficient in itself!” Kincaide’s voice carried an equal chill. “In this case we shall have to insist on something a little more substantial.”
Prince Tarz’ face tightened, and he came slowly to his feet. With an angry shake of his shoulders he shrugged his think skin to one side, exposing his gleaming battle sickle.
“I trust I misunderstand you, sir.” His hand dropped to the hilt of his curved blade. “Though we wear these for tradition’s sake, we have not forgotten how to use them!”
There was open anger in the space marshall’s voice as he said slowly, “In the face of evidence, my government will require more than the word of a barbarian—even though it is backed by the weapons of a barbarian.”
As the Polarian’s blade hissed out of its scabbard, the Saarian emissary gave a horrified gasp and fainted.
“Barbarian, is it! My ancestors were blazing the starways when yours were still crawling around in the mud of your stinking planet. And by Thweela. if it’s war you want, we’ll beat you back so deep into that same mud that you’ll never dare brave space again!”
The Saarian had by now revived and was forcing himself to watch. Tarz suddenly caught himself and bowed formally.
“My apologies, sir. In my anger I forgot that we were meeting under a flag of truce. Unless you wish to apologize, I suggest that we continue this beyond planetary limits.”
Kincaide bowed with equal formality. “It will be a pleasure, sir.” He turned to his executive officer who was standing by with jaw hanging. “Give orders for immediate embarkation of all personnel. We are leaving Saar.”
“But Marshall,” protested the other, “what about our business here?”
“File it under ‘unfinished’,” snapped Kincaide. “Right now we’ve got a war to fight.”
At the word “war”, Commander Simmons brightened perceptibly. So, oddly enough, did the Saarian emissary.
Space Marshall Kincaide was packing his personal gear when an orderly entered.
“Beg pardon, sir, but there’s a pilot officer outside who insists on seeing you. He says he’s captured a battle cruiser and wants to know what you want him to do with it.”
Kincaide stopped pacing.
“He what?”
“He wants to know what he’s supposed to do with it,” repeated the orderly stolidly.
Kincaide exploded. “Tell him he can take it and . . . No, send him in here. I’ll teach him to play games at a time like this.”
A moment later Kit entered and gave an awkward salute. Before Kincaide could say anything, Simmons gave a gasp of amazed recognition.
“Marshall! This is the officer who was captured by the Polarians!” He slapped Kit on the back. “Good boy! How did you manage to escape?”
“It wasn’t difficult once I figured what they were up to,” said Kit. “They had me locked up for a while and they said they were going to eat me, so I convinced the guard that I was his prophet and he let me out and . . .”
“Just a second,” said Kincaide.
“I’m lost already. Whose prophet?”
“Thweela’s sir. He’s the Polarian god of violent death and destruction. And then we ran into another fellow who was Thweela, too, so there was a sort of mix-up until I took my gun away from him and took over the ship. I figured I’d better get here in a hurry and stop the war before it had a chance to really get started, so I smashed the cruiser’s main drive and left it hanging out there.”
“Just a second,” said Kincaide. “Are you trying to tell me you took over a star class cruiser armed only with a blaster?”
Kit shook his head. “I used a much more effective weapon. You see, sir, they really weren’t Polarians even if they were wearing green beards. The whole thing was just a plot to make me think they were so that when I escaped . . .”
“Let me get this clear,” said Kincaide. “You say that everybody on the ship was plotting against you?”
“Yes, sir. But it wasn’t just me.”
Kincaide turned to Simmons. “Are you sure that this is the pilot of the ship that was destroyed by the Polarians?”
“No question about it, sir.”
A look of compassion came into Kincaide’s eyes. “Poor devil! They must have used a psychoprobe on him and cracked him wide open. You’d better have him taken over to the psychcorpsmen. If his brain isn’t damaged too much, they may be able to bring him around enough to find out how he managed to escape.” His voice became hard. “Tarz is going to pay for this!”
“That’s right,” said Kincaide soothingly. “You captured a cruiser with a secret weapon and it was full of Saarians who thought they were Polarians.”
“Not all of them,” said Kit. “The priests knew what was up all the time because they weren’t really priests, they just pretended to be.”
Simmons beckoned to the orderly. He came up and took Kit by the arm.
“You’ve had a rough time, boy,” said Kincaide, “but we’re going to take care of you. You just go along with the orderly and everything will be all right.”
“But, sir, you haven’t heard the whole story.”
“We’ll talk about it when you feel better.”
Before Kit could say anything more, he was propelled vigorously out of the tent by the orderly.
As soon as Kincaide’s indignation drained away, a feeling of uncertainty began to take its place. He looked across the table at Commander Simmons and then down at the damning pile of documents. He couldn’t be wrong. But yet he had never known a Polarian officer to tell a lie. He began to wonder how to best break the news to the Solar Alliance that he had managed to involve Earth in a large scale war. Then he thought of what had been done to Kit. He was starting to get angry all over again when, without pausing to have himself announced, Prince Tarz stormed into the tent.
“Will you step outside? There is a matter of personal honor to be settled.”
Kincaide had an unhappy feeling that he was going to have to eat his words about barbarian weapons. Prince Tarz had handled the side arm that tradition required him to wear with an air of familiar competence. An equally traditional and equally anachronistic weapon hung at Kincaide’s side. The only trouble was that he hadn’t the slightest idea how one went about using it. Damning the custom that required flag rank officers to wear sabers rather than blasters, he stepped out into the bright sunshine.
Collected Fiction Page 11