The Rival Rigelians up-3

by Mack Reynolds

  Mayer said, “Monks usually do. How much property is in the hands of the Temple?”

  Russ admitted sourly, “The monks are the greatest landlords of all. I would say at least one-third of the land and the serfs belong to the Temple.”

  “Ah ha,” Mayer said thoughtfully. “That bears some further looking into. We must investigate the possibilities of a Reformation. But that can come later. Now I wish to expand upon my reasons for gathering you.

  “Honorables, Genoa is to change rapidly. To survive, you will have to move fast. I have not introduced these revolutionary changes without self interest. Each of you is free to use them to his profit, however, I expect a thirty percent interest.”

  There was a universal drawing in of breath.

  Olderman said, “Honorable Mayer, you have already demonstrated your devices. What is there to prevent us from playing you false?”

  Mayer laughed. “My dear Olderman, I have other inventions to reveal as rapidly as you develop the technicians, the workers capable of building and operating them. If you cheat me now, you will be passed by next time.”

  Russ muttered. “Thirty percent! Your wealth will be unbelievable.”

  “As fast as it accumulates, Honorables, it shall be invested. For instance, I have great interest in expanding our inadequate universities. The advance I expect will only be possible if we educate the people. Field serfs are not capable of running even that simple steam engine Jerry demonstrated.”

  Baron Leonar said, “What you contemplate is mind shaking. Do I understand that you wish a confederation of all our cities? A joining together to combat the strength of the present lords and of the Temple?”

  Mayer was shaking his head. “No, no. As the barons lose power, each of your cities will strengthen and possibly expand to become nations. Perhaps some will unite. But largely you will compete against each other and against the nations of the other continents. In such competition you’ll have to show your mettle, or go under. Man develops at his fastest when pushed by such circumstances.”

  The Earthling looked off, unseeing, into a far corner of the room. “At least, so is my contention. Far away from here, a colleague is attempting to prove me wrong. We shall see.”

  V

  Barry Watson was dressed in the leather kilts and fatigue jacket of the Tulan non-com. Except for the heavy hand gun, slung low on his hip, he was indistinguishable from the drill sergeants who sweated and swore in the mid-day sun. Looking nothing so much as a lanky youngster, he sauntered up, checking a sheaf of reports as he came.

  Terry Stevens, still attired in the coveralls that had been standard garb on the spaceship Pedagogue, called an order to one of his sergeants, who, as sergeants ever, barked out a command that could be heard from one end of the drill field to the other. The shuffling footmen came to a halt, fell into an at ease stance.

  Barry Watson looked out over the field. The men were dressed in fatigues, the weapons they carried were of wood, the shields were light frameworks covered with cloth.

  Barry said, “How’re they coming, Terry?”

  Stevens grunted and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “All right, I suppose. This isn’t exactly my game, you know. They start out stumbling all over their feet, get their spears stuck between their legs. That goes on for weeks. They don’t seem to learn anything. Then, all of a sudden, the whole cohort is moving like a machine. They’re doing all right.”

  Watson looked down at his reports. “This gang should’ve been ready for campaigning a couple of weeks ago. They should be in the field by now.”

  Stevens said defensively, “I’m not as up on this as you are, Barry. It’s not my line.”

  “It’s not my line, either. Only out of books. We’re all playing it more or less by ear. We’re lucky we’re not trying to train really well drilled men. The phalanx was originally conceived to take peasants, arm them simply and send them into action with a minimum of training.”

  “Well, if all this is what you call a minimum of training, I’d hate to have to go through getting them into real trim.”

  Barry chuckled. “Well, things have developed. A Theban named Epaminondas figured out some new departures. His innovations were so acute that they were continued and utilized as late as Frederick the Great.”

  “I thought this was all based on the Greeks,” Stevens said, not really interested.

  “The Macedonians. Philip came along, learned all that the Thebans knew about the phalanx and added some contributions of his own, particularly the use of cavalry in conjunction with the foot.”

  Stevens snorted. “You want to know something? Back at the university, they used to call me the last of the pacifists.”

  Barry Watson looked at him.

  Stevens chuckled. “We used to have debates on whether or not the military should be tolerated on the newly opening planets.”

  “And what did you decide?”

  “Nothing. What’s ever decided by debating?”

  Barry Watson turned to one of the drill sergeants. “Let’s put them through open phalanx to tortuga, sergeant.”

  The non-com Tulan came to the salute. “Yes, sir.” He wheeled about sharply and barked out an order.

  The men snapped to attention. For the next few minutes, Barry watched them, narrow eyed. They went into ranks six deep. They wheeled, they turned about, they marched this way and that, and back again.

  “Tortuga,” Barry Watson snapped to the sergeant. The non-com rasped.

  Of a sudden, ranks closed tight. The first file lowered its shields, the second, crowded behind, extended their own over the heads of the first rank so that their drill shields topped the others. Behind, the third rank, and fourth held their shields above their heads, horizontally. The fifth and sixth ranks had about faced sharply and duplicated the shield wall. They were a living war tank.

  Barry grunted unhappily, tugging at his right ear. He said to Stevens, “That’s a Roman maneuver, actually. These cloddies aren’t doing it any too well.”

  He turned to one of the drill sergeants. “That man at the end of the third file, sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have him over here.” The sergeant barked commands. Terry Stevens said, “What’s the matter?”

  “Is that recruit a new man or something?”

  “No,” Stevens said uncomfortably. “He’s got family troubles. He’s got a lot on his mind.”

  Barry looked at him. “Haven’t we all? Who told him he had a mind? He’s a phalanx man.”

  The cohort had ground to a halt again. In a moment, the footman in question approached at the double. He faced the two Earthmen and came to a half-hearted salute. His lack of enthusiasm wasn’t lost on Barry Watson.

  Watson looked at him for a long moment. “You don’t seem to have your heart in this, spearman.” The other said nothing.

  The Earthman said, “The whole theory is that every man moves exactly so. Just one man doesn’t and the whole thing falls apart. In combat, that’s a matter of life and death. Let those nomad funkers break your ranks, and you’ve all had it. You should know all this. Answer me!”

  The footman said, his voice surly, “I should be working in the fields. This is not the season for war. It is the season to plant and hoe. It is not fitting that the strongest should be playing at war, with spears without points and shields made of cloth, while the women and children are in the fields.”

  “I see,” Barry Watson said, his voice very level. “Then let me tell you this, spearman. You are not needed in the fields with your hoe. Specialist MacBride has succeeded in exploiting the islands off the coast. Technician Hawkins has introduced your people to the plow and reaper. The women and the new war prisoners are capable of producing more in the fields than was ever done before when you were breaking your back with your hoe. You are needed to defend the State against the nomads and rebels.”

  “The nomads were no danger until…” the footman began, his voice low still.

  Barry
Watson turned to the sergeant. “Flog this man,” he snapped. “If he is able to move in less than a week, you answer for it.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Barry looked at another of the non-coms. The man’s face was stolid and empty. They were good men, drawn from the ranks of the Khan’s standing bodyguard. They were warriors born, and Barry Watson knew they were heart and soul behind the innovations he was making. Nothing succeeds like success, he knew, and these professionals knew success when they saw it. So far as,the drill sergeants were concerned, there was no resentment against this instructor from space.

  The Earthman snapped: “Take over the drill, sergeant. These men are going to be ready for the field by the end of the week. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Barry looked at his companion. “Walk on over here with me, Terry. I have something.”

  They strolled toward the side of the drill field, Stevens scowling unhappily.

  “You sure that was a good idea?”

  “What? Having that man flogged?”

  Stevens said nothing for a moment, then, finally, “There’s only eight of us—and Isobel.”

  Barry Watson grunted sour humor. “And that’s probably the reason I should have had him shot for insubordination, instead of simply whipped. Tula is at war. Joe Chessman has the right idea. You don’t run a military machine by being humanitarian, Terry.”

  “Maybe there was some other way to do it,” Stevens muttered.

  “Some other way of uniting Texcoco?” Barry grinned at him. “You should have come up with it sooner, friend. It would’ve saved me a lot of grief.”

  Stevens took a deep breath. “What’d you want to talk about, Barry?”

  The other stopped and turned. He said evenly, “Mynor has defected. The Chief Priest. He’s gone over to the nomads and rebels.”

  Stevens pursed his lips and thought about it. “He’s a big wig on this planet. That religion of his is pretty well worldwide. What does Leonid Plekhanov think it will mean?”

  Watson said sourly, “He’s dithering, as usual. Joe was in favor of rounding up Mynor’s closest associates and shooting them before they have a chance to take off too.”

  “Holy Jumping Zen,” Stevens protested. “Plekhanov stopped that idea, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. As predictable. Our intrepid leader is great with his books, or in debate with somebody like Amschel Mayers, but when it comes to thinking on his feet, he dithers.”

  “Well, I’d rather have Plekhanov dithering, than Joe Chessman running around shooting everybody that doesn’t look right to him.”

  Barry Watson said thoughtfully, “I don’t know, Terry. I don’t know. Sometimes by shooting one or two, you don’t have to shoot one or two thousand a few weeks later.”

  Terry Stevens said, “And by shooting one or two thousand, you don’t have to shoot ten or twenty thousand a month later?” Watson laughed, though without humor. “You’re beginning to get it.” But then he sobered. “I didn’t ask for this job, Terry. But if this planet is ever going to become united, we’ve got to have a military to do it. It’s anarchy now. Mynor and his rebels want only one thing: to turn the wheels backward to the old days.”

  “It’s their world,” Stevens muttered.

  Barry Watson laughed his humorless laugh again. “Whose side are you on? Remember us? We’re the handful of specialists sent out by the Office of Galactic Colonization to bring this world into the human community. Nobody thought it was going to be fun.”

  “I suppose so,” Stevens said. “I’m just tired.”

  Watson grinned. “You’ll be more tired tomorrow. I’m leaving you and Steve Cogswell in charge when we go up to the Pedagogue to confer with Amschel Mayer and his team. Plekhanov is leaving Isobel, Dick Hawkins, MacBride and you and Cogswell to hold the fort.”

  “Shouldn’t either he or Chessman be here?”

  Barry winked. “He’s afraid to leave Joe Chessman. He labors under the illusion that Joe is his only rival for Hot Pants Sanchez.”

  Stevens flushed.

  Barry Watson cocked his head and looked at his colleague narrowly. “Don’t tell me our good doctor has got to you, too. Why don’t you take a lesson from Cogswell and round yourself up a bevy from the Tulan curves? With the man shortage that’s beginning to develop around here, we’re developing the largest number of round heeled mopsies known in history.”

  “You think it’s a good example for us to be setting?” Stevens said accusingly.

  Watson shrugged as he turned to make off. “I’ll be a cloddy if I know. I suppose we have to keep the birthrate up somehow.”

  Leonid Plekhanov returned to the Pedagogue with a certain ostentatious ceremony. He was accompanied by Joe Chessman, Natt Roberts and Barry Watson of his original group, but four young, hard-eyed, hard-faced and armed Tulans were also in the party.

  Their space lighter swooped in, nestled to the Pedagogue’s hull in the original bed it had occupied on the trip from Terra City, and her port opened to the corridors of the mother ship.

  Plekhanov, flanked by Chessman and Watson, strode heavily toward the ship’s lounge. Natt Roberts and two of the Tulans remained with the small boat and busied themselves acquiring various items they wished to take back to Texcoco on the return.

  The two other natives followed the Earthmen to the lounge, their eyes going here and there in continued amazement, in spite of their efforts to appear untouched by it all. They were in full uniform, in the leather jerkins and kilts that had been adopted by Chessman for his troops. At their sides were short swords. In this they differed from their Earthling officers all of whom wore pistols.

  Amschel Mayer was already seated at the officers’ table. His face displayed his irritation at the other’s methods of presenting himself. “Good Heavens, Plekhanov, what is this, an invasion?”

  The other registered surprise.

  Mayer indicated the Texcocans. “Do you think it necessary to bring armed men aboard the Pedagogue? Frankly, I have not even revealed to a single Genoese the existence of the ship.”

  Jerry Kennedy was seated to one side of Mayer, Natalie Wieliczka to the other. They were the only members of the Genoa team who had accompanied him for this meeting. Kennedy winked at Watson and Chessman and Watson grinned back but held his peace. He was trying to think of some manner in which to get Natalie aside, and for the moment, couldn’t.

  Plekhanov sank into a chair, rumbling, “We hold no secrets from the Texcocans. The sooner they advance to where they can utilize our libraries and laboratories, the better. And the fact that these boys are armed has no significance. My Tulans are currently embarked on a campaign to unite the planet. Arms are sometimes necessary, and Tula, my capital, is somewhat of an armed camp. All able-bodied men—”

  Mayer broke in heatedly. “And this is the method you use to bring civilization to Texcoco? Is this what you consider the purpose of the Office of Galactic Colonization? An armed camp! How many persons have you slaughtered thus far?”

  Joe Chessman sent a dour look at the two Tulans who were standing in the background. He looked back at Mayer. “Easy,” he said.

  Amschel Mayer spun on him. “I need no instruction from you, Chessman. Please remember I am senior in charge of this expedition and as such rank you.”

  Plekhanov thudded a heavy hand on the table. “I’ll call my assistants to order, Mayer, if I feel it necessary. Admittedly, when this expedition left Terra City you were the ranking officer. Now, however, we’re divided—at your suggestion, please remember. Now there are two independent groups and you no longer have jurisdiction over mine. You can hardly expect to supervise developments on Texcoco by getting together with us once every ten years. We’ll go our own way, Mayer.”

  “Indeed!” Mayer barked. “And suppose I decide to withhold the use of the Pedagogue’s libraries and laboratories to you. I tell you, Plekhanov—”

  Leonid Plekhanov interrupted him coldly. “I would not suggest you attempt any such step, Mayer
. For one thing, I doubt if you have the…ability to carry it out.”

  Natalie Wieliczka was looking from one to the other of them in dismay. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” she said gently. “We’re all colleagues.”

  Barry Watson chuckled. “Second the motion,” he said. “What’s all this jetsam about, anyway?”

  Mayer glared but suddenly reversed himself. “Let’s settle down and become more sensible. This is the first conference of the five we have scheduled. Ten years have elapsed. Actually, of course, we’d had some idea of each other’s progress since team members sometimes meet on trips back here to the Pedagogue to consult the library, or do some work in one of the laboratories or shops. I am afraid, my dear Leonid, that your theories on rapid industrialization are being proven inaccurate.”

  “Nonsense!” Plekhanov rumbled in complete disgust. “The opposite is true.”

  Mayer said smoothly, “In the decade past, my team’s efforts have more than tripled the Genoese industrial potential. Last week, one of our steamships crossed the second ocean. We’ve located petroleum and the first wells are going down. We’ve introduced a dozen crops that had disappeared through misadventure to the original colonists, including maize and oats. And, oh yes, our first railroad is scheduled to begin running between Bari and Ronda next spring. There are six new universities, including three Doctor Wieliczka has established to concentrate on medicine, and in the next decade I expect twenty more.”

  “Very good, indeed,” Plekhanov grumbled.

  “Only a beginning,” Mayer pursued. “The breath of competition, of enterprise is sweeping Genoa. Feudalism crumbles. Customs, mores and traditions that have held up progress for a century or more are now on their way out.”

  Joe Chessman growled. “Some of the boys tell me you’ve had a few difficulties with this crumbling feudalism thing. In fact, didn’t Buchwald barely escape with his life when the barons on your southern continent united to suppress all chartered cities?”

  Mayer’s thin face had darkened. “Never fear, my dear Joseph, those barons responsible for shedding the blood of southern hemisphere elements of progress will shortly pay for their crimes.”