Satan's World

by Poul Anderson

  Fleet Admiral Wiaho of the Polesotechnic League gave him a chill stare. “What do you think the Shenna were planning to do to us?” He was born on Ferra; saber tusks handicapped him in speaking human languages. But his scorn was plain to hear.

  “You hadn’t even the decency to notify us. If Freeman Garver’s investigations had not uncovered evidence strong enough to bring me here in person—”

  “Why should the League consult the Commonwealth, or any government?” Wiaho jerked a claw at Dathyna, where it spun in the viewscreen. “We are quite beyond their jurisdictions. Let them be glad that we are dealing with a menace and not charging them for the service.”

  “Dealing?” Mahavany protested. “Bringing an overwhelming armada here . . . with no overt provocation . . . forcing those poor, ah, Shenna to surrender everything they worked so hard to build, their space fleet, their key factories . . . tampering with their sovereignty . . . reducing them to economic servitude—do you call that dealing with the situation? Oh, no, sir. I assure you otherwise. It is nothing but the creation of a hatred which will soon explode in greater conflict. The Commonwealth government must insist on a policy of conciliation. Do not forget, any future war will involve us, too.”

  “Won’t be any,” Wiaho said. “We’re seeing to that. Not by ‘enslavement,’ either. I give you, zugaya, we have taken the warmaking capability out of their hands, we supervise their industry, we weave their economy together with ours till it cannot function independently. But the precise reason for this is to keep revanchism from having any chance of success. Not that we expect it to arise. The Shenna don’t deeply resent being ordered about—by someone who’s proven to them he’s stronger.”

  A human female passed by the open door, memotape in one hand. Wiaho hailed her. “Would you come in for a minute, pray? Freelady Beldaniel, Freeman Mahavany from Earth. Freelady Beldaniel is our most valuable liaison with the Shenna. She was raised by them, have you heard? Don’t you agree, what the League is doing is best for their entire race?”

  The thin, middle-aged woman frowned, not in anger but in concentration. “I don’t know about that, sir,” she answered frankly. “But I don’t know what better can be done, either, than turn them into another member of Technic civilization. The alternative would be to destroy them.” She chuckled. On the whole, she must enjoy her job. “Seeing that the rest of you insist on surviving, too.”

  “But what about the economics?” Mahavany protested.

  “Well, naturally we cannot operate for nothing,” Wiaho said. “But we are not pirates. We make investments, we expect a return on them. Remember, though, business is not a zero-sum game. By improving this world, we benefit its dwellers.”

  Mahavany flushed. “Do you mean . . . your damned League, sir, has the eternal gall to arrogate to itself the functions of a government?”

  “Not exactly,” Wiaho purred. “Government couldn’t accomplish this much.” He uncoiled his length from the settee he occupied. “Now, if you will excuse Freelady Beldaniel and myself, we have work to do.”

  On Earth, in a garden, van Rijn turned from the screen on which was projected a view brought home by the latest expedition to Satan. He smiled unctuously at a boardful of lesser screens, wherein showed human and nonhuman faces, the mightiest industrialists in the known galaxy.

  “Hokay, friends,” he said, “you seen what I got a full clear claim on, namely you by the short hairs. However, I is a tired old man what mainly wants only sitting in the sun scratching his memories and having maybe just one more Singapore sling before evening—and anyhows is a dealer in sugar and spice and everything nice, not in dark Satanic mills. I don’t want no managing for myself, on this fine planet where is money to make by the shipload every second. No, I will be happy with selling franchises . . . naturally, we make a little profit-sharing arrangement, too; nothing fancy, a token like maybe thirty or forty percent of net . . . I is very reasonable. You want to start bidding?”

  Beyond the Moon, Muddlin’ Through accelerated outward. Falkayn looked long in the after screen. “What a girl she was,” he said.

  “Who, Veronica?” Chee asked.

  “Well, yes. Among others.” Falkayn lit his pipe. “I don’t know why we’re starting out again, when we’re rich for life. I honestly don’t.”

  “I know why you are,” Chee said. “Any more of the kind of existence you’ve been leading, and you’d implode.” Her tail switched. “And me, I grew bored. It’ll be good to get out under fresh skies again.”

  “And find new enlightenments,” Adzel said.

  “Yes, of course,” Falkayn said. “I was joking. It sounded too pretentious, though, to declaim that the frontier is where we belong.”

  Muddlehead slapped down a pack of cards and a rack of poker chips onto the table, with the mechanical arms which had been installed for such purposes. “In that event, Captain,” it said, “and pursuant to the program you outlined for us to follow during the next several hours, it is suggested that you shut up and deal.” ■