“The Morah Jhan can rest assured,” said Whin, “any Morah held by my troops will be returned to him, immediately.”
“I will expect that return then,” said the Jhan, “by the time
Ambassador Dormu has received his instructions from Earth and we meet to talk again.”
He rose, abruptly; and without any further word, turned and left the room. The servers and the musician followed him.
Dormu got as abruptly to his own feet and led the way back out of the room in the direction from which he and Whin had come.
“Where are you going?” demanded Whin. “We go left for the lifts to the Message Center.”
“We’re going back to look at our kidnapped prisoner,” said Dormu. “I don’t need the Message Center.”
Whin looked sideways at him.
“So . . . you were sent out here with authority to talk on those terms of his, after all, then?” Whin asked.
“We expected them,” said Dormu briefly.
“What are you going to do about them?”
“Give in,” said Dormu. “On all but the business of giving them corridors through our space. That’s a first step to breaking us up into territorial segments.”
“Just like that—” said Whin. “You’ll give in?”
Dormu looked at him, briefly.
“You’d fight, I suppose?”
“If necessary,” said Whin. They got into the lift tube and slipped downward together.
“And you’d lose,” said Dormu.
“Against the Morah Jhan?” demanded Whin. “I know within ten ships what his strength is.”
“No. Against all the Morah,” answered Dormu. “This situation’s been carefully set up. Do you think the Jhan would ordinarily be that much concerned about a couple of small settlements of our people, away off beyond his natural frontiers? The Morah—all the Morah—have started to worry about our getting too big for them to handle. They’ve set up a coalition of all their so-called Empires to contain us before that happens. If we fight the Jhan, we’ll find ourselves fighting them all.”
The skin of Whin’s face grew tight.
“Giving in to a race like the Morah won’t help,” he said.
“It may gain us time,” said Dormu. “We’re a single, integrated society. They aren’t. In five years, ten years, we can double our fighting strength. Meanwhile their coalition members may even start fighting among themselves. That’s why I was sent here to do what I’m doing—give up enough ground so that they’ll have no excuse for starting trouble at this time; but not enough ground so that they’ll feel safe in trying to push further.”
“Why won’t they—if they know they can win?”
“Jhan has to count the cost to him personally, if he starts the war,” said Dormu, briefly. They got off the lift tube. “Which way’s the Medical Section?”
“There”—Whin pointed. They started walking. “What makes you so sure he won’t think the cost is worth it?”
“Because,” said Dormu, “he has to stop and figure what would happen if, being the one to start the war, he ended up more weakened by it than his brother-emperors were. The others would turn on him like wolves, given the chance; just like he’d turn on any of them. And he knows it.”
Whin grunted his little, humorless laugh.
They found the fugitive lying on his back on an examination table in one of the diagnostic rooms of the Medical Section. He was plainly unconscious.
“Well?” Whin demanded bluntly of the medical lieutenant colonel. “Man, or Morah?”
The lieutenant colonel was washing his hands. He hesitated, then rinsed his fingers and took up a towel.
“Out with it!” snapped Whin. “Marshal,” the lieutenant colonel hesitated again, “to be truthful ... we may never know.”
“Never know?” demanded Dormu. General Stigh came into the room, his mouth open as if about to say something to Whin. He checked at the sight of Dormu and the sound of the ambassador’s voice.
“There’s human RNA involved,” said the lieutenant colonel. “But we know that the Morah have access to human bodies from time to time, soon enough after the moment of death so that the RNA might be preserved. But bone and flesh samples indicate Morah, rather than human origin. He could be human and his RNA be the one thing about him the Morah didn’t monkey with. Or he could be Morah, treated with human RNA to back up the surgical changes that make him resemble a human. I don’t think we can tell, with the facilities we’ve got here; and in any case—”
“In any case,” said Dormu, slowly, “it may not really matter to the Jhan.”
Whin raised his eyebrows questioningly; but just then he caught sight of Stigh.
“Mack?” he said. “What is it?”
Stigh produced a folder.
“I think we’ve found out who he is,” the Military Police general said. “Look here—a civilian agent of the Intelligence Service was sent secretly into the spatial territory of the Morah Jhan eight years ago. Name—Paul Edmonds. Description— superficially the same size and build as this man here.” He nodded at the still figure on the examining table. “We can check the retinal patterns and fingerprints.”
“It won’t do you any good,” said the lieutenant colonel. “Both fingers and retinas conform to the Morah pattern.”
“May I see that?” asked Dormu. Stigh passed over the folder. The little ambassador took it. “Eight years ago, I was the State Dpartment’s Liaison Officer with the Intelligence Service.”
He ran his eyes over the information on the sheets in the folder.
“There’s something I didn’t finish telling you,” said the lieutenant colonel, appealing to Whin, now that Dormu’s
attention was occupied. “I started to say I didn’t think we could tell whether he’s man or Morah; but in any case—the question’s probably academic. He’s dying.”
“Dying?” said Dormu sharply, looking up from the folder. “What do you mean?”
Without looking, he passed the folder back to Stigh.
“I mean . . . he’s dying,” said the lieutenant colonel, a little stubbornly. “It’s amazing that any organism, human or Morah, was able to survive, in the first place, after being cut up and altered that much. His running around down on the docks was evidently just too much for him. He’s bleeding to death internally from a hundred different pinpoint lesions.” “Hm-m-m,” said Whin. He looked sharply at Dormu. “Do you think the Jhan would be just as satisfied if he got a body back, instead of a live man?”
“Would you?” retorted Dormu.
“Hm-m-m ... no. I guess I wouldn’t,” said Whin. He turned to look grimly at the unconscious figure on the table; and spoke almost to himself. “If he is Paul Edmonds—” “Sir,” said Stigh, appealingly.
Whin looked at the general. Stigh hesitated.
“If I could speak to the marshal privately for a moment—” he said.
“Never mind,” said Whin. The line of his mouth was tight and straight. “I think I know what you’ve got to tell me. Let the ambassador hear it, too.”
“Yes, sir.” But Stigh still looked uncomfortable. He glanced at Dormu, glanced away again, fixed his gaze on Whin. “Sir, word about this man has gotten out all over the Outpost. There’s a lot of feeling among the officers and men alike—a lot of feeling against handing him back ...”
He trailed off.
“You mean to say,” said Dormu sharply, “that they won’t obey if ordered to return this individual?”
“They’ll obey,” said Whin, softly. Without turning his head, he spoke to the lieutenant colonel. “Wait outside for us, will you, Doctor?”
The lieutenant colonel went out, and the door closed behind him. Whin turned and looked down at the fugitive on the table. In unconsciousness the face was relaxed, neither human nor Morah, but just a face, out of many possible faces. Whin looked up again and saw Dormu’s eyes still on him.
“You don’t understand, Mr. Ambassador,” Whin said, in the same soft voice
. “These men are veterans. You heard the doctor talking about the fact that the Morah have had access to human RNA. This outpost has had little, unreported, border clashes with them every so often. The personnel here have seen the bodies of the men we’ve recovered. They know what it means to fall into Morah hands. To deliberately deliver anyone back into those hands is something pretty hard for them to take. But they’re soldiers. They won’t refuse an order.”
He stopped talking. For a moment there was silence in the room.
“I see,” said Dormu. He went across to the door and opened it. The medical lieutenant colonel was outside, and he turned to face Dormu in the opened door. “Doctor, you said this individual was dying.”
“Yes,” answered the lieutenant colonel.
“How long?”
“A couple of hours—” the lieutenant colonel shrugged helplessly. “A couple of minutes. I’ve no way of telling, nothing to go on, by way of comparable experience.”
“All right.” Dormu turned back to Whin. “Marshal, I’d like to get back to the Jhan as soon as the minimum amount of time’s past that could account for a message to Earth and back.”
An hour and a half later, Whin and Dormu once more entered the room where they had lunched with the Jhan. The tables were removed now; and the servers were gone. The musician was still there; and, joining him now, were two grotesqueries of altered Morah, with tiny, spidery bodies and great, grinning heads. These scuttled and climbed on the heavy, thronelike chair in which the Jhan sat, grinning around it and their Emperor, at the two humans.
“You’re prompt,” said the Jhan to Dormu. “That’s promising.
“I believe you’ll find it so,” said Dormu. “I’ve been authorized to agree completely to your conditions—with the minor exceptions of the matter of recognizing that the division of peoples is by territory and not by race, and the matter of spatial corridors for you through our territory. The first would require a referendum of the total voting population of our people, which would take several years; and the second is beyond the present authority of my superiors to grant. But both matters will be studied.”
“This is not satisfactory.”
“I’m sorry,” said Dormu. “Everything in your proposal that it’s possible for us to agree to at this time has been agreed to. The Morah Jhan must give us credit for doing the best we can on short notice to accommodate him.”
“Give you credit?” The Jhan’s voice thinned; and the two bigheaded monsters playing about his feet froze like startled animals, staring at him. “Where is my kidnapped Morah?”
“I’m sorry,” said Dormu, carefully, “that matter has been investigated. As we suspected, the individual you mention turns out not to be a Morah, but a human. We’ve located his records. A Paul Edmonds.”
“What sort of lie is this?” said the Jhan. “He is a Morah. No human. You may let yourself be deluded by the fact he looks like yourselves, but don’t try to think you can delude us with looks. As I told you, it’s our privilege to play with the shapes of individuals, casting them into the mold we want, to amuse ourselves; and the mold we played with in this case, was like your own. So be more careful in your answers. I would not want to decide you deliberately kidnapped this Morah, as an affront to provoke me.”
“The Morah Jhan,” said Dormu, colorlessly, “must know how unlikely such an action on our part would be—as unlikely as the possibility that the Morah might have arranged to turn this individual loose, in order to embarrass us in the midst of these talks.”
The Jhan’s eyes slitted down until their openings showed hardly wider than two heavy pencil lines.
“You do not accuse me, human!” said the Jhan. “I accuse you! Affront my dignity; and less than an hour after I lift ship from this planetoid of yours, I can have a fleet here that will reduce it to one large cinder!”
He paused. Dormu said nothing. After a long moment, the slitted eyes relaxed, opening a little.
“But I will be kind,” said the Jhan. “Perhaps there is some excuse for your behavior. You have been misled, perhaps—by this business of records, the testimony of those amateur butchers, you humans call physicians and surgeons. Let me set your mind at rest. I, the Morah Jhan, assure you that this prisoner of yours is a Morah, one of my own Morah; and no human. Naturally, you will return him now, immediately, in as good shape as when he was taken from us.”
“That, in any case, is not possible,” said Dormu.
“How?” said the Jhan.
“The man,” said Dormu, “is dying.”
The Jhan sat without motion or sound for as long as a man might comfortably hold his breath. Then, he spoke.
“The Morah ” he said. “I will not warn you again.”
“My apologies to the Morah Jhan,” said Dormu, tonelessly. “I respect his assurances, but I am required to believe our own records and experienced men. The man, I say, is dying.” The Jhan rose suddenly to his feet. The two small Morah scuttled away behind him toward the door.
“I will go to the quarters you’ve provided me, now,” said the Jhan, “and make my retinue ready to leave. In one of your hours, I will reboard my ship. You have until that moment to return my Morah to me.”
He turned, went around his chair and out of the room. The door shut behind him.
Dormu turned and headed out the door at their side of the room. Whin followed him. As they opened the door, they saw Stigh, waiting there. Whin opened his mouth to speak, but Dormu beat him to it.
“Dead?” Dormu asked.
“He died just a few minutes ago—almost as soon as you’d both gone in to talk to the Jhan,” said Stigh.
Whin slowly closed his mouth. Stigh stood without saying anything further. They both waited, watching Dormu, who did not seem to be aware of their gaze. At Stigh’s answer, his face had become tight, his eyes abstract.
“Well,” said Whin, after a long moment and Dormu still stood abstracted, “it’s a body now.”
His eyes were sharp on Dormu. The little man jerked his head up suddenly and turned to face the marshal.
“Yes,” said Dormu, a little strangely. “He’ll have to be buried, won’t he? You won’t object to a burial with full military honors?”
“Hell, no!” said Whin. “He earned it. When?”
“Right away.” Dormu puffed out a little sigh like a weary man whose long day is yet far from over. “Before the Jhan leaves. And not quietly. Broadcast it through the Outpost.”
Whin swore gently under his breath, with a sort of grim happiness.
“See to it!” he said to Stigh. After Stigh had gone, he added softly to Dormu. “Forgive me. You’re a good man once the chips are down, Mr. Ambassador.”
“You think so?” said Dormu, wryly. He turned abruptly toward the lift tubes. “We’d better get down to the docking area. The Jhan said an hour—but he may not wait that long.”
The Jhan did not wait. He cut his hour short, like someone eager to accomplish his leaving before events should dissuade him. He was at the docking area twenty minutes later; and
only the fact that it was Morah protocol that his entourage must board before him, caused him to be still on the dock when the first notes of the Attention Call sounded through the Outpost.
The Jhan stopped, with one foot on the gangway to his vessel. He turned about and saw the dockside Military Police all now at attention, facing the nearest command screen three meters wide by two high, which had just come to life on the side of the main docking warehouse. The Jhan’s own eyes went to the image on the screen—to the open grave, the armed soldiers, the chaplain and the bugler.
The chaplain was already reading the last paragraph of the burial service. The religious content of the human words could have no meaning to the Jhan; but his eyes went comprehendingly, directly to Dormu, standing with Whin on the other side of the gangway. The Jhan took a step that brought him within a couple of feet of the little man.
“I see,” the Jhan said. “He is dead.”
�
�He died while we were last speaking,” answered Dormu, without inflection. “We are giving him an honorable funeral.”
“I see—” began the Jhan, again. He was interrupted by the sound of fired volleys as the burial service ended and the blank-faced coffin began to be let down into the pulverized rock of the Outpost. A command sounded from the screen. The soldiers who had just fired went to present arms—along with every soldier in sight in the docking area—as the bugler raised his instrument and taps began to sound.
“Yes.” The Jhan looked around at the saluting Military Police, then back at Dormu. “You are a fool,” he said, softly. “I had no conception that a human like yourself could be so much a fool. You handled my demands well—but what value is a dead body, to anyone? If you had returned it, I would have taken no action—this time, at least, after your concessions on the settlements. But you not only threw away all you’d gained, you flaunted defiance in my face, by burying the body before I could leave this Outpost. I’ve no choice now—after an affront like that. I must act.”
“No,” said Dormu.
“No?” The Jhan stared at him.
“You have no affront to react against,” said Dormu. “You erred only through a misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstanding?” said the Jhan. ‘7 misunderstood? I not only did not misunderstand, I made the greatest effort to see that you did not misunderstand. I cannot let you take a Morah from me, just because he looks like a human. And he was a Morah. You did not need your records, or your physicians, to tell you that. My word was enough. But you let your emotions, the counsel of these lesser people, sway you—to your disaster, now. Do you think I didn’t know how all these soldiers of yours were feeling? But 1 am the Morah Jhan. Did you think I would lie over anything so insignificant as one stray pet?”
“No,” said Dormu.
“Now—” said the Jhan. “Now, you face the fact. But it is too late. You have affronted me. I told you it is our privilege and pleasure to play with the shapes of beings, making them into what we desire. I told you the shape did not mean he was human. I told you he was Morah. You kept him and buried him anyway, thinking he was human—thinking he was that lost spy of yours.” He stared down at Dormu. “I told you he was a Morah.”
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