Next of Kin

by Eric Frank Russell

  “Guard!” called the Commandant, visibly disappointed. He mooched uneasily around his cell for a full twelve days, occasionally chatting with Eustace night-times for the benefit of ears lurking outside the door. Definitely he’d wangled himself into a predicament that was a case of put up or shut up; in order to put up he dared not shut up.

  The food remained better in quantity though little could be said for its quality. Guards treated him with that diffidence accorded to captives who somehow are in cahoots with their superiors. Four more recaptured Rigellians were brought back but not shot. All the signs and portents were that he’d still got a grip on the foe.

  Though he’d said nothing to them, the other prisoners had got wind of the fact that in some mysterious way he was responsible for the general softening of prison conditions. At exercise-time they treated him as a deep and subtle character who could achieve the impossible. From time to time their curiosity got the better of them.

  “You know they didn’t execute those last four?”

  “Yes,” Leeming admitted.

  “It’s being said that you stopped the shooting.”

  “Who says so?”

  “It’s just a story going around.”

  “That’s right, it’s just a story going around.”

  “I wonder why they shot the first bunch but not the second. There must be a reason.”

  “Maybe the Zangastans have developed qualms of conscience, even if belatedly,” Leeming suggested.

  “There’s more to it than that.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Somebody has shaken them up.”

  “Who, for instance?”

  “I don’t know. There’s a strong rumour that you’ve got the Commandant eating out of your hand.”

  “That’s likely, isn’t it?” Leeming countered.

  “I wouldn’t think so. But one never knows where one is with the Terrans.” The other brooded a bit, asked, “What did you do with that wire I stole for you?”

  “I’m knitting it into a pair of socks. Nothing fits better nor wears longer than solid wire socks.”

  Thus he foiled their noseyness and kept silence, not wanting to arouse false hopes. Inwardly he was badly bothered. The Allies in general and Earth in particular knew nothing whatever about Eustaces and therefore were likely to treat a two-for-one proposition with the contempt it deserved. A blank refusal on their part might cause him to be plied with awkward questions impossible to answer.

  In that case it would occur to them sooner or later that they were afflicted with the biggest liar in history. They’d then devise tests of fiendish ingenuity. When he fluked them the balloon would go up.

  He wasn’t inclined to give himself overmuch credit for kidding them along so far. The few books he’d been able to read had shown that Zangastan religion was based upon reverence for ancestral spirits. The Zangastans were also familiar with what is known as poltergeist phenomena. The ground had been prepared for him in advance; he’d merely ploughed it and sown the crop. When a victim already believes in two kinds of invisible beings it isn’t hard to persuade him to swallow a third.

  But when the Allies beamed Anga Zangasta a curt invitation to make his bed on a railroad track it was possible that the third type of spirit would be regurgitated with violence. Unless by fast, convincing talk he could cram it back down their gullets when it was halfway out. How to do that?

  In his cell he was stewing this problem over and over when the guards came for him again. The Commandant was there but Pallam was not. Instead, a dozen civilians eyed him curiously. That made a total of thirteen enemies, a very suitable number to pronounce him ready for the chopper. Feeling as much the centre of attraction as a six-tailed wombat at the zoo, he sat down and four civilians immediately started chivvying him, taking it in relays. They were interested in one subject and one only, namely, bopamagilvies. It seemed that they’d been playing for hours with his samples, had achieved nothing except some practise in acting daft, and were not happy about it.

  On what principle did a bopamagilvie work? Did it focus telepathic output into a narrow, long-range beam? At what distance did his Eustace get beyond range of straight conversation and have to be summoned with the aid of a gadget? Why was it necessary to make directional search before obtaining a reply? How did he know how to make a coiled-loop in the first place?

  “I can’t explain. How does a bird know how to make a nest? The knowledge is wholly instinctive. I have known how to call my Eustace ever since I was old enough to shape a piece of wire.”

  “Could it be that your Eustace implants the necessary knowledge in your mind?”

  “Frankly, I’ve never given that idea a thought. But it is possible.”

  “Will any kind of wire serve?”

  “So long as it’s non-ferrous.”

  “Are all Terran loops of exactly the same construction and dimensions?”

  “No, they vary with the individual.”

  “We’ve made careful and thorough search of Terran prisoners held by the Lathians. Not one of them owns a similar piece of apparatus. How do you account for that?”

  “They don’t need one.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because when more than four hundred of them are imprisoned together they can always count on at least a few of their Eustaces being within easy reach at any given time.

  Somehow he beat them off, feeling hot in the forehead and cold in the belly. Then the Commandant took over. “The Allies have flatly refused to accept Terran prisoners ahead of other species, or to exchange them two for one, or to discuss the matter any further. What have you to say to that?”

  Steeling himself, Leeming commented; “Look, on your side there are more than twenty lifeforms of which the Lathians and the Zebs are by far the most powerful. Now if the Allies had wanted to give priority of exchange to one. species do you think the Combine would agree? If, for example, the favoured species happened to be the Tansites, would the Lathians and Zebs vote for them to get home first?”

  A tall, authoritative civilian chipped in. “I am Daverd; personal aide to Zangasta. He is of your own opinion. He believes that the Terrans have been outvoted. Therefore I am commanded to ask you one question.”

  “What is it?”

  “Do your allies know about your Eustaces?”

  “No.”

  “You have succeeded in hiding the facts from them?”

  “There’s never been any question of concealing anything from them. With friends the facts just don’t become apparent. Eustaces take effective action only against enemies and that is something that cannot be concealed for ever.”

  “Very well.” Daverd came closer, put on a conspiratorial air. “The Lathians started this war and the Zebs went with them by reason of their military alliance. The rest of us got dragged in for one reason or another. The Lathians are strong and arrogant but, as we now know, they are not responsible for their actions.”

  “What’s this to me?”

  “Separately we numerically weaker lifeforms cannot stand against the Lathians or the Zebs. But together we are strong enough to step out of the war and maintain our right to be neutral. So Zangasta has consulted the others.”

  “Lord! isn’t it amazing what can be done with a few yards of copper wire?

  “He has received their replies today,” Daverd went on. “They are willing to make a common front for the sake of enjoying mutual peace-providing that the Allies are equally willing to recognise their neutrality and exchange prisoners with them.”

  “Such sudden unanimity among the small fry tells me something pretty good,” observed Leeming with malice. “It tells you what?”

  “Allied forces have won a major battle lately. Somebody has been given a hell of a lambasting.”

  Daverd refused to Confirm or deny it. “You are the only Terran we hold on this planet. Zangasta thinks he can make, good use of you.”

  “How?”

  “He has decided to send you back to T
erra: It will be your task to persuade them to agree to our plans. If you fail, a couple of hundred thousand hostages will suffer—remember that!”

  “The prisoners have no say in this matter, no hand in it, no responsibility for it. If you vent your, spite upon them a time will surely come when you’ll be made to pay—remember that!”

  “The Allies will know nothing about it,” Daverd retorted. “There will be no Terrans and no Eustaces here to inform them by any underhanded method. Henceforth we are keeping Terrans out. The Allies cannot use knowledge they do not possess.”

  “No,” agreed Leeming. “It’s quite impossible to employ something you haven’t got.”

  They provided a light destroyer crewed by ten Zangastans. With one stop for refuelling and the fitting of new tubes it took him to a servicing planet right on the fringe of the battle area. This dump was a Lathian outpost but those worthies showed no interest in what their smaller allies were up to, neither did the’ realise that the one Terranlike creature really was a Terran. They got to work relining the destroyer’s tubes in readiness for its journey home. Meanwhile, Leeming was transferred to an unarmed one-man Lathian scoutship. The ten Zangastans officiously saluted before they left him. From this point he was strictly on his own. Take-off was a heller. The seat was far too big and shaped to fit the Lathian backside, which meant that it was humped in the wrong places. The controls were unfamiliar and situated too far apart. The little ship was fast and powerful but responded differently from his own. How he got up he never knew, but made it.

  After that there was the constant risk of being tracked by Allied detector stations and blown apart in full flight. He charged among the stars hoping for the best and left his beam transmitter severely alone; calls on an enemy frequency might make him a dead duck in no time at all.

  He arrowed straight for Terra. His sleeps were restless and uneasy. The tubes were not to be trusted despite that flight-duration would be only a third of that done in his own vessel. The strange autopilot was not to be trusted merely because it was of alien design. The ship itself was not to be trusted for the same reason. The forces of his own side were not to be trusted because they’d tend to shoot first and ask questions afterward.

  More by good luck than good management he penetrated the Allied front without interception. It was a feat that the foe could accomplish, given the audacity, but had never attempted because the risk of getting into Allied territory was as nothing to the trouble of getting out again.

  In due time he came in fast on Terra’s night side and plonked the ship down in a field a couple of miles west of the main spaceport. It would have been foolish to take a chance by landing a Lathian vessel bang in the middle of the port. Somebody behind a heavy gun might have stuttered with excitement and let fly.

  The moon was shining bright along the Wabash when he approached the front gate afoot and a sentry bawled, “Halt! Who goes there?”

  “Lieutenant Leeming and Eustace Phenackertiban.”

  “Advance and be recognised.”

  He ambled forward thinking to himself that such an order was manifestly dunderheaded. Be recognised. The sentry had never seen him in his life and wouldn’t know him from Myrtle McTurtle. Oh, well, baloney baffles brains.

  At the gate a powerful cone of light shone down upon him. Somebody with three chevrons on his sleeve emerged from a nearby hut bearing a scanner on the end of a thin, black cable. He waved the scanner over the arrival from head to foot, concentrating mostly on the face.

  A loudspeaker in the hut ordered, “Bring him into Intelligence H.Q.”

  They started walking.

  The sentry let go an agitated yelp. “Hey, where’s the other guy?”

  “What guy?” asked the sergeant, stopping and staring around. “Smell his breath,” Leeming advised.

  “You gave me two names,” asserted the sentry, full of resentment. “Well, if you ask the sergeant nicely he’ll give you two more,” said Leeming. “Won’t you, Sarge?”

  “Let’s get going,” growled the sergeant, displaying liverish impatience.

  They reached Intelligence H.Q. The duty officer was Colonel Farmer. He gaped at Leeming and said, “Well!” He said it seven times.

  Without preamble, Leeming demanded, “What’s all this about us refusing to make a two-for-one swap for Terran prisoners?”

  Farmer appeared to haul himself with an effort out of a fantastic dream. “You know of it?”

  “How could I ask if I didn’t?”

  “All right. Why should we accept such a cockeyed proposition? We’re in our right minds, you know!”

  Bending over the other’s desk, hands splayed upon it, Leeming said, “All we need do is agree upon one condition.”

  “What condition?”

  “That they make a similar agreement with respect to Lathians. Two of our men for one Lathian and one Willy.”

  “One what?”

  “One Willy. The Lathians will take it like birds. They have been propaganding all over the shop that one Lathian is worth two of anything else. They’re too conceited to refuse such an offer. They’ll advertise it as proof positive that even their enemies know how good they are.”

  “But—” began Farmer, slightly dazed.

  “Their allies will fall over themselves in their haste to agree also. They’ll do it from different motives to which the Lathians will wake up when it’s too late. Try it for size. Two of our fellows for one Lathian and his Willy.”

  Farmer stood up, his belly protruding, and roared, “What the blue blazes is a Willy?”

  “You can easily find out,” assured Leeming. “Consult your Eustace.”

  Showing alarm; Farmer lowered his tones to a soothing pitch and said as gently as possible, “Your appearance here has been a great shock to me. Many months ago you were reported missing and believed killed.”

  “I crash-landed and got taken prisoner in the back of beyond. They were a snake-skinned bunch called Zangastans. They slung me into the jug.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Colonel Farmer, making pacifying gestures. “But how on earth did you get away?”

  “Farmer, I cannot tell a lie hexed them with my bopamagilvie.”

  “Huh?”

  “So I left by rail,” informed Leeming, “and there were ten faplaps carrying it.” Taking the other unaware he let go a vicious kick at the desk and made a spurt of ink leap across the blotter. “Now let’s see some of the intelligence they’re supposed to have in Intelligence. Beam the offer. Two for a cootie-coated Lathian and a Willy Terwilliger.” He stared around, a wild look in his eyes. “And find me somewhere to sleep—I’m dead beat.”

  Holding himself in enormous restraint, Farmer said, “Lieutenant, is that the proper way in which to talk to a colonel?”

  “One talks in any way to anybody. Mayor Snorkum will lay the cake. Go paddle a poodle.” Leeming kicked the desk again. “Get busy and tuck me into bed.”

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  ank Russell, Next of Kin