by Bob Shaw
“Well, the Dorrinian viewpoint is that, as this planetary system was our home for millions of years before the first ships arrived from Earth, every resource of every planet in it automatically belongs to us.” The alien diplomat experimentally squeezed the chromed steel rail on the edge of the bar between finger and thumb, producing noticeable dents in it. “We don’t feel disposed towards trading our own property in exchange for our own property.”
“But you didn’t have the necessary space technology until we gave it to you.”
“It would have been developed,” Kston said matter-of-factly. “In any case, this planet is more than adequate recompense for a little technical know-how.”
Ciano smiled to conceal a pang of irritation and anger. The Dorrinian made a great show of being humble and sweetly reasonable, but underneath he was a stubborn and bloody-minded monstrosity who deserved to be fitted with concrete boots and sent for a walk on a riverbed. The trouble was, Ciano was beginning to suspect, that were he to arrange such an excursion the alien actually would go for a submarine stroll and then come up smiling.
Taking a hefty swig of his drink, Ciano saw that Kston’s attention had been drawn by a burst of cheering from the television set behind the bar. A heavyweight boxing match was in progress on the screen and the ringside crowd was erupting with excitement as one of the fighters, a giant in blue shorts, moved in for a devastating finish. He drove his opponent on to the ropes with a flurry of body blows, stepped back and caught him on the rebound with a right cross to the chin which landed with such leathery finality that, in spite of his preoccupations, Ciano winced in sympathy. The recipient went down on the instant, obviously unconscious before he hit the canvas, and lay like a side of bacon while the victor danced around him.
“This humble being fails to understand,” Kston said. “What is happening?”
Ciano put down his empty glass. “It’s a sport we humans call boxing. The idea is to…”
“The general idea is clear—we have a similar sport called dent-a-body—but why is that man pretending to sleep?”
“You mean you don’t…?” Ciano was wondering how he could explain the effects of a knock-out blow to the likes of Kston when his thoughts were diverted to a more serious problem—namely that of staying alive. A door at the rear of the large room crashed open, there were shouts and screams of panic, and in a mirror Ciano glimpsed his cousin Frankie—the Secretary for External Affairs—brandishing a demolisher. Ciano dropped to the floor with reflexive speed and crouched there, praying and swearing with equal fervour, while the weapon created its own version of hell. Blinding laser bursts seared the air and from the gun’s multiple barrels, firing at the rate of a hundred rounds a second, came sprays of high-velocity bullets—some of them explosive, some armour-piercing—converging on the sites of the laser strikes. For a brief moment Ciano saw the stubby outline of the Dorrinian at the terrible focus of the destruction—limned in radiant blue fire—then there was comparative silence, the only sounds being those of tinkling glass and fleeing footsteps.
Trying to control the trembling of his limbs, Ciano struggled to stand up, already rehearsing the disclaimer he would have to issue to the news media. I know the preliminary trade negotiations with the Dorrinian envoy were going badly, but that doesn’t mean my family was involved with his assassination. We are men of honour, not…not…
His thoughts dissolved into a confused blur as he saw that Kston was not only still on his feet, but apparently totally unharmed. The alien’s grey hide was, if anything, smoother than before, and the hand with which he helped Ciano to his feet was steady. Ciano began to feel ill.
“This humble being fears that your cousin has gone too far this time,” Kston said.
“You’re so right,” Ciano gritted. “I promise you he’ll pay for this.”
“The expense will be considerable.” Kston surveyed the shattered and smoking ruins of the bar counter. “Obviously Frankie learned about the Dorrinian custom of ablate-a-body—in which a thoughtful host refreshes a guest by scouring off the outer layer of dead skin cells—but it is usually done in special cubicles where there can be no damage to the surroundings. Perhaps your cousin got carried away in his eagerness to be hospitable.”
Ciano nodded, forcing his brain into action. “Frankie always was the cordial type. Look, Kston, can we go back to my office where it’s quiet and get on with the talks?”
“Of course!” Kston showed his dark teeth. “This humble being can’t imagine how you intend to negotiate from a position of such weakness, but he will be privileged to watch you try. Perhaps he will learn something.”
“Hope so.” Ciano spent a minute with the hotel manager, pacifying him by undertaking to foot all repair bills, then returned to his alien companion. “Let’s go—this place looks like there’s been a war.”
“War? Is that your word for ablate-a-body?”
“I suppose you could say that,” Ciano replied absently, his mind filled with the need to get hold of his wayward cousin and talk to him about his activities before something went seriously wrong. Ciano had no moral objections to murdering Kston—in fact, the more time he spent with the obsequious little alien the more attractive the idea seemed—but New Sicily was a recently formed colony, with severely limited military resources, and dared not antagonise the heavily populated neighbouring world of Dorrin. Secretary Ritzo was fully aware of the situation, which made his failed assassinations puzzling as well as embarrassing.
As soon as they were back in the Department of Trade building Ciano handed his guest over to the care of an assistant and went looking for Ritzo. He found him slumped over the bar in his private suite, drinking imported grappa straight from the bottle, his face several shades paler than usual.
“I got the shock of my life when I saw you coming back across the square with that…with that…” Unable to find a suitable epithet, Ritzo again raised the bottle with a trembling hand. “Didn’t I even scratch him?”
“Just about,” Ciano said. “Luckily for you, he enjoys being scratched.”
“I tell you, Johnny, that guy ain’t human.”
“Of course he isn’t human—that’s what being an alien means!” Ciano snatched the bottle from his cousin’s grasp and dropped it into a waste bin. “And there’s a couple of billion more where he comes from. Have you any idea what the Dorrinians would have done to us if by some chance you had managed to rub out their representative?”
“Nothing.”
“Precisely! And that’s why you’ve got to…What do you mean nothing?”
A look of furtive triumph appeared on Ritzo’s narrow face. “Some egghead in my department finally managed to translate those old Dorrinian books—you know the stuff that’s been gathering dust since the cultural exchange way back in ’22. One of them is a history book, Johnny, and d’you know what?”
“What?”
“The Dorrinians are total pacifists. Their written history goes back about twenty thousand years and they ain’t never had a war in all that time! These guys are so pacifist that they don’t have no armies or navies. They don’t have no weapons of any kind.”
“Maybe they don’t need them.”
“That’s not it, Johnny. They believe that everything can be settled by talking if they stick at it long enough. One of their conferences went on for over a hundred years—and that was just to decide on the height of streetlamps! We don’t have that sort of time.”
Ciano nodded. “So what do you propose?”
“A bit of old-style persuasion, is all. We send the little creep back where he came from in a wooden box and tell the Dorrinians they’re all gonna get the same treatment if they tries to interfere with our mining crews.”
“Mmmm.” Ciano stroked his jaw thoughtfully. “Not much finesse.”
“Johnny, this is not time to go soft.”
“Softness doesn’t come into it. It’s just that we have Kston here and we can talk to him. I think it would be better to make o
ur intentions clear, then send him back to spread the word.”
“I guess you’re right.” Ritzo’s reluctant expression gave way to one of relief. “I was gonna try him with a bomb next, but it might have taken a tactical nuke.”
As the sole representative of his planet, Kston had one side of the long conference table to himself. Opposite him were Ciano and Ritzo, accompanied by six other members of New Sicily’s ruling family, including the hulking form of Mario Vicenzi, Secretary for War. The broad smile with which he faced the group indicated that, far from feeling overwhelmed, Kston was enjoying the prospect of a tough negotiating session.
“This humble being is flattered by the presence of so many illustrious humans, and he will do his utmost to justify the honour,” he said. “Now that formal talks are about to begin, I propose that New Sicily should make a detailed presentation of its proposals. Twenty days should be sufficient for that phase of the talks, but I will not object to your taking longer as long as I am permitted equal time for my preliminary rejection of all your suggestions. As soon as each side has stated its position we can allocate, say, twenty days for debate on each point that we…”
“Pardon me for interrupting,” Ciano said firmly, “but we’re not going to bother with all that time-wasting crap.”
Kston’s smile faded. “Crap? This humble being doesn’t understand.”
“I’ll explain. Starting tomorrow, we are going to send mining equipment and crews to your planet and we’re going to take all the minerals we need. And if anybody tries to stop us we will drop thermonuclear bombs on your cities and large numbers of your people will be vaporised.”
“Vaporised?” Kston gazed solemnly into Ciano’s eyes. “You mean they would be…dead?”
“Very.” Ciano felt an uncharacteristic twinge of pity as he noted the stunned expression on Kston’s face. “You can’t get any more dead than they would be.” To his left the Secretary for War made an involuntary growling sound.
“But this is unfair! Unethical! If you are really prepared to do such a thing there is no point at all in discussing, debating, conferring, negotiating…”
“That’s what we like about our system,” Ciano put in. “Now, do you agree to give us unlimited mining rights?”
“This humble being has no other option,” Kston said faintly, rising to his feet. “This has been a great shock—twenty thousand years of tradition swept away in a few seconds—but this humble being will return to his people immediately and explain the new situation.”
“There’s no need to go this very minute.” Ciano stood up too, wishing the little alien had turned nasty instead of accepting the ultimatum so meekly. “After all, now that we understand each other there’s no reason why we can’t go on being good friends. Stay and share a bottle of wine with us while your ship is being readied.”
“Perhaps that is a good idea.” Kston summoned up a tremulous smile. “This humble being should try to get something out of the agreement.”
Ciano and Ritzo led the laughter which greeted the alien’s remark. Amid a sudden hubbub of good cheer the group, some of whom were slapping Kston’s back, moved to the refreshments table at the end of the conference room. Red wine was decanted in generous quantities and somebody conjured up appropriately festive music.
“That went off easier than I expected,” Ciano whispered to Ritzo. “I’ve never seen anybody cave in so fast.”
“That’s the way them Dorrinians is made,” Ritzo said contemptuously. “I told you, fighting is unknown to them. They ain’t got the spunk for it. No manliness. No pride. Watch this.”
“Maybe you should leave well enough alone.” Ciano tried to restrain his cousin, but was too late to prevent him sauntering over to Kston with a condescending grin.
“Drink a toast to eternal friendship,” Ritzo said with an insulting lack of sincerity, raising his glass.
“To eternal friendship,” Kston replied submissively, raising his glass.
“My little grey amico!” Ritzo bellowed, wine glistening on his chin as he gave Kston a resounding slap on the back.
“My large pink amico!” Kston lifted his free hand and, before Ciano could react to the sudden clamour of alarms in his head, used it to slap Ritzo’s back. The effect was instantaneous and dramatic. The force of the blow, in addition to snapping Ritzo’s spine, propelled him across the room and into a sickening impact with a marble column which became liberally smeared with blood as he slid down it. To all but one of the assembly it was obvious that Ritzo was dead.
“Why is my friend Frankie lying on the floor?” Kston piped, breaking the abrupt silence which had descended.
Secretary Vicenzi knelt beside the body and prodded it tentatively, then looked up at Kston with an ominous coldness in his yellowish eyes. “Because you killed him.”
“Killed him! But that is impossible. All this humble being did was…” Kston stared at his hand in perplexity for a moment, then raised his gaze to take in the intent group of humans. There was a look of dawning wonderment in his pebble-like eyes, a look which produced an icy sensation of dread in Ciano’s gut.
“We take you to our bosoms as a trusted friend,” Vicenzi rumbled, rising to his feet as he slid his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket. “And this is how you repay us!”
“But this humble being can’t believe that humans can be so frail,” Kston said, almost to himself. “You are so big, so aggressive that one naturally assumes…”
“I’ll show you aggressive,” Vicenzi interrupted as he produced an antique bone-handled cut-throat razor, a favourite weapon from his early days, and advanced on Kston. “I will also show you the colour of your own liver.”
“That would be most interesting,” Kston said politely, “but first this humble being must conduct a small experiment.” Moving with frightening speed, he grasped Vicenzi’s lapels in his left hand, pulling the big man down to his level, and slapped sideways with his right. There was an immediate fountaining of blood and something heavy struck the wall, bounced off and rolled underneath the conference table. Ciano, who had closed his eyes, knew without being told that it was Vicenzi’s head, a conclusion which was verified by the hoarse cries of dismay from the remaining onlookers.
He also understood, belatedly and with a terrible clarity, that he and Ritzo and the others had made a lethal error of judgement concerning the Dorrinians. Men had been partial to the use of violence ever since the first distant ancestor had used a club to settle a dispute, but there had been one necessary underlying condition—among mankind violence worked. There were, thanks to design deficiencies in the human physique, dozens of quick and comparatively simple ways in which a critic or an opponent could be rendered silent and ineffective, either temporarily or permanently. It was natural therefore that the more pragmatic of the species should exploit the situation, but the Dorrinians—as Ciano had observed—were virtually indestructible. Far back in their history individuals had probably experimented with clubs, knives and bullets, found them totally ineffective, and in consequence had been forced to accept that the only way to resolve differences was by means of discussion.
From Ciano’s point of view the sudden insight was cause for deep anxiety, but there was an even more disturbing factor to consider. Over the millennia man had developed a thing called a conscience, that inner voice which tempered his urge to kill off all who displeased him, thus making it possible for even the most violent to live in association with their fellows. Kston, however, was like a child who was enraptured with a brand-new plaything…
“I’ve been thinking things over, Kston,” Ciano announced, trying to keep his voice steady. “It occurs to me that we have been unreasonable in our demands—I think it only fair that we should have further talks.”
“This humble being has also been thinking things over, and he has an even better idea,” Kston said, tossing Vicenzi’s body into a far corner of the room. “My people can have as much sulphur as they want from this world—all this humble bei
ng has to do is kill the humans who would try to object. It’s so simple.”
“You can’t do that,” Ciano said, his mouth going dry.
“No? Watch this.” In a single blurring movement Kston sprang at the two men nearest him, leaping high to bring him above their shoulders and striking down on their heads with both fists. They dropped to the floor with concave skulls impacted into their collar bones.
“What I mean,” Ciano mumbled, cowering back, “Is that even if you killed everybody in this room you wouldn’t have gained anything. There will always be others to take our places. I mean, there’s a whole city out there…with thousands and thousands of human settlers in it…and you would have to kill every one of them.”
“But, Johnny! That’s exactly what this humble being intends to do!” Smiling his dark grey smile, the black cabochons of his eyes gleaming with ingenuous pleasure, the Dorrinian envoy went to work.
LOVE ME TENDER
It’s a funny thing—I can think all right, but I can’t think about the future. Tomorrow doesn’t seem to exist for me any more. There’s only today, and this drowsy, dreamy acceptance.
Most of the time it’s cool here in the shack, the mosquito screens are holding together fairly well, and the bed is a whole lot better than some of the flea pits I’ve been in lately.
And she waits on me hand and foot. Couldn’t be more attentive. Brings me food and drink—all I can stomach—and cleans me up afterwards. Even when I wake up during the night I can see her standing at the door of the room, always watching, always waiting.
But what’s she waiting for? That’s what I ask myself every so often, and when I do…
The swamp buggy had started off life as an ordinary Volkswagen, a beetle convertible, but somebody had extended the axles and fitted pudgy aircraft tyres which spread the vehicle’s weight sufficiently to keep it from sinking in mud. Snow chains had been wrapped around the tyres to provide traction. The buggy was noisy, ungainly and uncomfortable, but it was able to negotiate the narrow tracks that ran through the Everglades, and Joe Massick felt it had been well worth the trouble he had taken to steal it.