by A. J. Offutt
The man behind the desk was big, too, and it was obvious he wielded vast power, just as it was obvious he was accustomed to power and knew how to wield it.
Judging from what showed above the top of the desk, he had to be at least six feet two. There was a swelling expanse of at least two feet between his shoulders. His neck was thick and the head above it massive and jowly.
The face was slightly red, the hair gray-shot brown and cut crisply short The nose was too large even for the man who wore it. His brows were bushy and dark, without the streaks of gray in his hair. Beneath them, very round, very dark brown eyes glistened and pierced like diamond drills.
His hands were the biggest Gorham had ever seen, and the hairiest. The cigar smelled, like all cigars to Gorham, bad. The bear-man (man-bear?) behind the desk seldom took it out of his mouth, but when he did, with two hairy fingers, its ends was a wet, thoroughly shredded pulp.
As Gorham entered, the cigar jutted out of the face like a second nose.
"Captain Gorham, I believe," said the big man, the cigar bobbing up and down. "Come on in and sit down, Captain. I haven't bitten anyone in years.
Captain Gorham walked to the desk, hesitated, and sat. The chair on his side of the desk was a great deal smaller, its front legs shorter than the rear ones.
"You'll pardon me for not rising, Captain, but as you no doubt know, I'm crippled. And if you're anything like me, you wouldn't deign to shake hands with a seated man."
"Quite so," Gorham said. He crossed his legs.
"That isn't true, really," the big man went on. "My, leg is quite all right. I don't rise because it gives me an advantage— makes the other fellow feel uncomfortable. Uncomfortable chair, isn't it?"
"Well, I wouldn't-"
"Of course it is. Purposely uncomfortable, and for the same reason. I'd offer you a cigar, Captain Gorham, but this one is so visibly distasteful to you I won't waste the effort."
"I never-"
"What can I do for you, Captain Gorham?"
Gorham mustered himself. "Mr. Blacksword— "
"Someone should've briefed you, Captain Gorham. I'm not called Mister. Blacksword suffices. My father gave it to me in one piece, but a GBS newscaster took the liberty of changing it to two words. Sorry to interrupt. Please go on."
The brown eyes drilled into Gorham and he cleared his throat. Then he caught the twinkle in the eyes and took another ten seconds.
"If you're quite through attempting to make me feel ill at ease, Blacksword, I'd like to talk with you a few minutes and be on my way. I have pressing duties elsewhere."
Blacksword stared. Then he snatched the cigar out of his mouth and fell back in the swivel chair, laughing. Following the example set by centuries of swivel chairs, it creaked.
"Well, I'll just be happy damned! My very sincere apologies, Captain—" he broke off into laughter. "My very sincere apologies! Just a moment, will you?"
He bent forward across the immense desk and activated the communicator. "Bring a comfortable chair in here, please. And—" he looked up, one eyebrow raised — "Captain, I realize you're on duty, but you won't force a man to drink alone, will you?"
"Never. Severe breach of etiquette."
"Two scotches on the rocks," Blacksword continued into the box, beaming at Gorham. "Fast."
HE clicked off and leaned back with the cigar in his mouth again. "May as well discuss the weather, Captain. The s.o.b. would probably interrupt us right in the middle of a vital sentence, anyhow."
"Nice weather you're having here," Gorham remarked.
"Very. Sorry I had to cut your man out of it the other day. But let's face it, Captain, he's a disgrace to TAI." Blacksword shook his head. "Lousiest spy I ever saw."
"I'm afraid I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about," Gorham smiled.
"Of course you haven't. Oh, I don't mind — that's why I fired him from my staff ostensibly for seducing one of the girls in the kitchen. But we all understand each other; she was paid to seduce him."
Captain Gorham shrugged. "Suit yourself."
"My prime aim in life. That's why I'm keeping my pilot. He's such a damn fine pilot, I intend to let him continue reporting to his superior in TAI. He'll be surprised when he sees the new uniform I've designed for him, however. Green and blue!"
Gorham glanced down at his green and blue TAI uniform with a rather sickly grin.
"Ah! I think you'll find that chair a little better, Captain Gorham. Thanks, Swahili." Blacksword took the drinks and handed one to Gorham after the Captain had settled himself into the new chair.
"One of my personal idiosyncrasies," Blacksword said, smacking his lips. "Always call my servants Swahili." He leaned back and rattled the ice in his glass. "I requested a representative of TAI, Captain Gorham, because I thought I'd better find out your views concerning the Troy-Macedon situation."
Captain Gorham appeared to swallow with the wrong tract. "Sir?"
"As far as I'm able to see, there's no reason here for TAI to interfere," Blacksword explained.
"As far as I can see, Blacksword, you're correct," Gorham said. "You're aware of our policy."
"Big brother. Shoulder to cry on. Helping hand if needed. No intervention unless someone threatens galactic security. The usual benevolent TAI policy. My spies had so informed me, but I wanted to hear it from the horse's mouth."
Gorham made a mental note to demand a thorough security check of his staff.
"I also wanted to assure you I have absolutely no intentions of threatening anyone but the Macedonians. As a matter of fact, I'm not threatening them. They're the troublemakers here."
"That's very thoughtful of you," Gorham said. "In that case, we shall go on keeping an eye on you, but remain outside the dispute. By the same token, we can't be expected to lend assistance to the defeated planet."
"Oh, certainly not. But naturally Earth will. She always comes through in a pinch. It's almost worthwhile being defeated, just to let good old Earth come in and rehabilitate."
Gorham smiled drily. "Surely you don't intend being defeated?"
Blacksword snorted. "Captain, perhaps there's one thing more we should get straight between us. TAI will be very happy to know this. Ifs something your spies don't — and won't — know. I have absolutely no intention of being defeated, because I have absolutely no intention of fighting."
STEP FIVE
THE big man with the smelly cigar was ushered into the office of Vassily Kearney, President of United Earth. Noting the cigar, President Kearney delightedly lit one of his own.
"Have to be very careful with these," he explained. "Diplomacy, y'know. Some people don't like cigar smoke."
"That's why I haven't a reputation for diplomacy," Blacksword informed him. "That a genuine Havana?"
Kearney nodded, turning the cigar lovingly between his fingers. "One of our chief exports."
"How well I know," Blacksword snorted. "Cost forty dollars each on Troy."
Kearney extended a humidor. "In the White House, they're free to guests," he beamed.
Blacksword helped himself to a handful and stuffed them in his pockets. He carefully stubbed his own out in the guest ashtray, lit the Havana, and sent up a cloud to arouse the envy of any ancient rocket ship. Kearney stared at the mangled butt.
"I'm well aware of the value of your time, President Kearney," Blacksword puffed, "and I'll try to take up very little of it. As you've probably heard, I'm now affiliated with Troy."
"Oh, yes. As dictator."
Blacksword looked introspective. "I just had a thought I'm not going to fire my laundry maid. The one with the Earth accent and the pocket transmitter. She doesn't find out much and she's very nice to look at."
Kearney coughed. "I — ah — understand Troy and Macedon are about to go to war." He sounded very unhappy.
Blacksword nodded and leaned back. "Looks that way," he said. I'm glad you brought it up. that's mainly what I wanted to discuss with you."
"Yes. I suppose ifs a
bout the rehab-"
"In a way. How'd this rehabilitation business get started, anyhow?"
"It's one of our oldest — ah — traditions," Kearney said, shaking his head regretfully. "We're the Mother Planet, you know, and somehow we've always continued the — ah — tradition of aiding conquered peoples get back on their feet."
"I see," Blacksword sympathized. "That must cost Earth a pretty penny."
"My dear fellow!" Kearney cried. "You have no idea! You should see the World Debt!"
"Then you'd be most happy to avoid such expenditures whenever possible. Which explains your spies being on every inhabited planet in the Galaxy, I suppose."
The President looked embarrassed. "Ah — Mr. Blacksword — about your ah — laundry maid. We shall-"
"My apologies for bringing in my household affairs," Blacksword interrupted. "What would you estimate the cost of rehabilitating, say, Troy or Macedon?"
Kearney threw up his hands. "Any amount! Depending, of course, on the amount of destruction."
"A real holocaust," Blacksword said with a careless wave of his hand. "Say, forty per cent destruction."
Kearney groaned.
"That can be avoided, Mr. President," Blacksword said.
Kearney stared at him questioningly. And hopefully.
"I can stave off a war. Personally. Alone. I hate to sound pompous, but I doubt seriously if anyone else could."
Kearney began thanking him on behalf of all Earth.
BLACKSWORD raised a hand. "This is rather embarrassing," he said, wearing his best embarrassed look, "but we'll need a small sum to carry it off. Without a shot being fired," he went on smoothly, as Kearney opened his mouth. "A very small sum, compared to the cost of rehabilitation. We figure half a million."
"Good heavens! My dear fellow-"
"You must remember," Blacksword pressed, "that Troy is a very poor planet, but that it will be a very big war."
"— is that all it would cost?" Kearney finished.
"— and — " Blacksword clamped his lips together and nodded solemnly. The sales job was over. "Guaranteed: no war!"
Kearney was obviously elated. But he remembered to be politic. "We'd need assurance—"
"The Secondary Control Council of Troy has authorized me to write out an agreement to the effect that, in the event of war, there'd be no rehabilitation appeal to Earth. Signed by me, as Dictator of Troy." His hand came out of his pocket with a pen and a cigar. He replaced the Havana lovingly.
Overjoyed, Kearney pulled letterheads from a desk drawer.
"Oh, I already have the agreement. Had to clear it with the Council before I left, of course," Blacksword explained with a winning smile. "It lacks only our signatures."
"Of course," the President said. Then, "Of course!"
They signed.
"Now there's the matter of efficacy," Blacksword said. "I believe that in a democracy the people must be consulted on expen—"
"Not at all, not at all! Comes out of petty cash. Goes on the budget under 'defense' or 'foreign affairs' or something." He pressed a button on his desk.
Ten minutes later the draft made out to Blacksword personally — was in his hands and Kearney was saying, "It has been a pleasure, sir. Delighted."
"Always glad to do business with a democracy," Blacksword said, and he left.
He put a coin in the Newsbuoy on the corner and requested the current handicap on the expected war between Macedon and Troy.
"According to GBS computer, probability factor of Macedon emerging victorious is 72.9, Troy's 27.1."
"Suggest you check with Earth High Command," Blacksword said, and walked on. "Ah, that Kearney drives a shrewd bargain!"
At a bank six blocks away, he opened an account. The size of his initial deposit carried him into the office of the President, who called the White House for verification of the half-million-dollar check. The White House was delighted that Blacksword was opening an account on Earth. So was the President of the Home Planet Bank and Trust Co. of Earth.
"A very wise move," he was saying as Blacksword left with a checkbook. "We have been in business for one hundred and seventy-six years, and in all that time we have never—"
Blacksword neither heard nor cared what the bank had not done in one hundred and seventy-six years. He limped out hurriedly.
At the post office on the corner, he filled out a $500,000 check from his new book, marked it for deposit only, and mailed it to the First Planetary Bank of Luna, to the personal account of G. Paul Blacksword.
The owner of the First Planetary Bank of Luna, G. Paul Blacksword, then departed for Troy.
STEP SIX
THE Lieutenant took Blacksword in to the Captain, who took him in to the Major, who escorted him upstairs to the Sector Colonel.
"The Black Sword!" Colonel McClintock exclaimed. "Come in! Sit down! What may I do for you?"
Blacksword sat down quickly and rubbed his leg. "Business call, Colonel," he growled. He took the last gratis Havana from his lips and pointed it at the Colonel. "I've got a complaint to make."
Colonel McClintock nodded and fitted his hands together. "I see. I've heard, of course, about Troy's disagreement with Macedon— "
"No doubt. This complaint isn't against Macedon, Colonel. Ifs against TAI, in the person of Captain T. L. Gorham, and it will mean your eagles, your career, and your pension."
Colonel McClintock raised the CO2 content of the room with a whoosh. "Sir?"
Blacksword leaned forward and drummed stubby fingers on McClintock's desk. "Am I correct in assuming that the — as you put it — disagreement between my planet and Macedon is our own business and not subject to TAI intervention?"
"Well, I Blacksword, I yes. And we have kept our hands off."
"Perhaps so. But Captain Gorham has not I told Captain Gorham, in my office, in strictest confidence, that I had absolutely no intention of fighting Macedon."
Colonel McClintock nodded. "Captain Gorham reported that fact directly to me and I assure you, sir, the information has not left this office!"
"The information has left this office, Colonel. In Gorham's fat mouth. And it did not stay there! Hold on, I'm far from through. Gorham went straight to King Robert of Macedon and dropped a hint that I was not planning to fight. I suppose he hoped Macedon would be overjoyed — they didn't really want to fight either — there'd be no war, and he'd get the credit. I'd judge he's bucking for your job, on the sly."
"The scoundrel!"
"Well," Blacksword went on, "Macedon was overjoyed, all right. So overjoyed, they immediately redoubled their offensive preparations, and completely shelved defensive plans."
The Colonel opened his mouth.
"Dammit, I'm not through yet!" Blacksword rapped out. "This constitutes illegal TAI intervention. Whether Gorham was authorized or not, he represents TAI and he spilled the beans. And he's your man. Ten words to your superior, Colonel, and that chicken farm you've been planning for your old age will end right there — in the planning stage. Along with your career."
COLONEL McClintock stared. He sagged slowly back in his chair. It objected squeakily. When he finally found his voice, it was scarcely less squeaky than the chair. "And — and —?"
Blacksword leaned back complacently. "And why have I come to you, rather than your superior? Because you and I have had no trouble to date. You can handle this easily. First, you drum Gorham out of TAI."
The Colonel waited a long moment, then prompted Blacksword hopefully. "Second?"
"Second," came Blacksword's voice from a billowing cloud of smoke, "since my feelings are hurt and my plan endangered, and since my feelings and my plans come high, you can assuage my deep injury by about half a million dollars."
Colonel McClintock bounced up in his chair and clamped his hands on the edge of his desk. "Why, that's nothing but black—"
"-sword," Blacksword cut in. "Careful with your language, Colonel. My feelings might get even more hurt. What's the name of your superior, by the way?"
McClintock fell back in the chair. "Well, I'll be damned!"
"You'll be worse than that if you don't dig out a checkbook!" Blacksword snapped. "And sign this agreement that the check is bona fide and you won't try any nonsense such as stopping payment." He flipped the paper across the desk. "And let's have no nonsense about the money. I can name you any one of six TAI accounts for six different exigencies, any one of which will never feel a mere half million. Do you need a pen?"