“As it is, the Galaxy is at peace. Eighty or ninety percent of all planets know the League is their friend and have nothing but praise for the Patrol that protects them. When trouble arises, we quietly settle it, and the Galaxy goes on its unknowing way. Those something times ten to the fifteenth beings are free to live their lives out without fear of racial extinction.”
“Peace can be bought too dearly at times. Peace without honor—”
“Honor!” Alak sprang from his chair. His red hair blazed about the suddenly angry face. He paced before Voal with a cold and bitter glare.
“Honor!” he sneered. “Another catchword. I get so sick of those unctuous phrases— Don’t you realize that deliberate scoundrels do little harm, but that the evil wrought by sincere fools is incalculable?
“Murder breeds its like. For psychological reasons, it is better to prohibit Patrolmen completely from killing than to set up legalistic limits. But if we can’t use force, we have to use any other means that comes in handy. And I, for one, would rather break any number of arbitrary laws and moral rules, and wreck a handful of lives of idiots who think with a blaster, than see a planet go up in flames or ... or see one baby killed in a war it never even heard about!”
~ * ~
He calmed down. For a while he continued pacing, then he sat down and said conversationally:
“Let me give you a few examples from recent cases of Patrol methods. Needless to say, this is strictly confidential. All the Galaxy knows is that there is peace—but we had to use every form of perfidy and betrayal to maintain it.”
He thought a moment, then began: “Sirius and Alpha Centauri fought a war just before the founding of the League which nearly ruined both. They’ve managed to reconstruct since, but there is an undying hatred between them. League or no League, they mean to be at each other’s throats the first chance they get.
“Well, no matter what methods we use to hold the Centaurians in check. But on Sirius the government has become so hopelessly corrupt, the military force so graft-ridden and inefficient, that action is out of the question.
“Now a vigorous young reformer rose, honest, capable, popular, all set to win an election which would sweep the rascally incumbents out and bring good government to Sirius for the first time in three centuries. And—the Patrol bribed him to throw the election. He wouldn’t take the money, but he did as we said, because otherwise, as he knew, we’d make it the dirtiest election in even Sirian history, ruin his business and reputation and family life, and defeat him.
“Why? Because, of course, the first thing he’d have done if elected would have been to get the military in trim. Which would have meant the murder of several hundred million Centaurians—unless they struck first. Sure, we don’t like crooked government either—but it costs a lot less in lives, suffering, natural resources, and even money than war.
“Then there was the matter of an obscure barbarian system whose people are carnivorous and have a psychological need of combat. Imagine them loose in the Galaxy! We have to hold them in check for several generations until sublimation can be achieved. Fortunately, they are under an absolute monarch. A native woman whom we had educated managed to become his mistress and completely dominate him. And when the great nobles showed signs of revolt, she seduced one of them to act as her agent provocateur and smoke out the rebellious ones.
“Immoral? Sure. But two or three centuries hence, even the natives will thank us for it. Meanwhile, the Galaxy is safe from them.
“A somewhat similar case was a race by nature so fanatically religious that they were all set to go crusading among the stars with all the weapons of modern science. We wrecked that scheme by introducing a phony religion with esoteric scientific ‘miracles’ and priests who were Patrolmen trained in psychotechnology—a religion that preaches peace and tolerance. A dirty trick to play on a trusting people, but it saved their neighbors—and also themselves, since otherwise their extinction might have been necessary.
“We really hit a moral bottom in the matter of another primitive and backward system. Its people are divided into clans whose hereditary chiefs have absolute authority. When one of the crown princes took a tour through the Galaxy, our agents managed to guide him into one of the pleasure houses we maintain here and there. And we got records. Recently this being succeeded to the chiefship of the most influential clan. We were pretty sure, from study of his psychographs, that before long he would want to throw off the League ‘yoke’ and go off on a spree of conquest—it’s a race of warriors with a contempt for all outsiders. So—the Patrol used those old records to blackmail him into refusing the job in favor of a safely conservative brother.
“Finally we came to your present case. Marhal was ready to fight for the rich prize of Lhing, and the League arbitrator, underestimating the determination of Luan, awarded the whole planet to them. That was enough to swing an election so that a pro-League government came into power there. I was sent here to check on your reactions, and soon saw a serious mistake had been made. War seemed inevitable. I tried the scoundrelly procedure of fomenting sabotage and revolution. After all, that damage would have been negligible compared to the cost of even a short war.”
“The cost to Marhal,” said Voal grimly.
“Maybe. But after all, I had to think of the whole Galaxy, not Luan. Sometimes someone must suffer a little lest someone else suffer a lot more. At any rate, my scheme failed. I resorted to alliance with a dope smuggler—he ruins a very few lives, while war takes them by the millions—and to kidnaping. I threatened and bluffed until you had backed up so far that mediation was possible.
“Well, that’s all, then. The League commission is on its way. They’ll have some other fat plum to give Luan in place of Lhing —which I suppose will make trouble elsewhere for the Patrol to settle. Your government will have to go out of power after such an about-face—you’re rejoining the League, of course—but I daresay it’ll soon get back in. And you have been entrusted with a secret which could split the Galaxy wide open.”
“I’ll keep it,” said Voal. He smiled faintly. “From what I know of your methods—I’d better!” For a moment he hesitated, then: “And thanks. I was a fool. All Luan was populated by hysterical fools.” He grimaced. “Only I still wonder if that isn’t better than being a rogue.”
“Take your choice,” shrugged Wing Alak. “As long as the Galaxy keeps going I don’t care. That’s my job.”
<
~ * ~
Bureau of Slick Tricks
BY H. B. FYFE
R
amsay stood on the smooth, springy floor of the empty anteroom, staring absently at the wall map of Terra’s economic empire and trying to decide whether he was there by invitation or under duress.
Certainly, the suave young man had been very apologetic about interrupting Ramsay’s vacation. He had also been alert to haul the tall, black-haired spaceman from the path of that water-logged Venusian, speeding down the hall outside in his three-wheeled, air-tight tank.
Yes, Tom, he muttered to himself, two years in space and you don’t know how to act on Terra.
Something about the stellar map disturbed him. Surely the star Cagsan was not that near to Sol. And where was the whole Fegashite binary system?
For foreign visitors, I suppose, he thought.
The map might well be deliberately distorted. As the economic crossroads of a sector of the galaxy, Terra sometimes was reluctant to reveal the exact locations of rich planets. In fact, communications to some star systems were often practically secret.
The map did show, in rather schematic fashion, the relationship of Sol with the multitude of stars lying out toward the “edge” of the galaxy, as well as points of contact with the vague and mighty civilizations farther toward the center. Finding profitable the role of middleman for a large volume of space, Terra had become a sort of front office for exploiting a huge trading empire. One of the devices useful to its interstellar “credit diplomacy” was the Burea
u of Special Trading.
This was a scattered, intricate organization, designed to handle all the delicately shady problems arising from intercourse with thousands of different worlds—many of them with peculiar views of their own importance of adhering to quite exotic codes of behavior.
A musical note sounded, followed by a voice from an address system, requesting Mr. Ramsay to step into the office.
Ramsay slid open the door and strode into the next room. His calf-high spaceman’s boots sank noticeably into the floor as the man behind the desk rose to greet him.
“Good afternoon,” said a pleasant baritone.
The occupant of the office was dressed informally. His light-blue slacks and full-cut turquoise neck scarf contrasted pleasantly with a wine-colored jacket of the current draped and belted style. Feeling very dull in his dark green, Ramsay wished he had at least worn one of his new gold and red neck scarves.
He was waved into a comfortable chair, and in a few minutes began to feel more at ease. J. Gilbert Fuller was a very superior type indeed, but he was frank to confide to Ramsay that he was worried.
“And you say I can help you?” the spaceman asked, wondering if the wavy golden hair above his host’s ruddily tanned features could possibly be natural.
Fuller maintained an amiable expression, but raised a nervous finger to stroke his trim mustache.
“I am sure that you can,” he said. “Ah . . . perhaps I should first explain the . . . functions ... of the Bureau.”
“I’ve heard of it,” said Ramsay.
“Oh, well, then, of course you know that our main occupation is encouraging that sort of good will which influences visitors to continue doing business with Terra.”
“And in keeping them happy,” agreed Ramsay pleasantly, “you find it necessary to do some queer things.”
Fuller’s hands and features joined in an expressive gesture, suggesting bland denial, deprecating modesty, and willingness to treat Ramsay as a knowing insider.
“Oh, I know those jokes that have become popular,” he chuckled. “Wild deals by the Bureau of ‘Slick Tricks’—but they are merely hearsay. I can offer only a routine matter for your interest.”
“What makes me so special?” asked Ramsay.
“What makes you specially valuable? The fact, to speak loosely, that you are the only man available at the moment who can speak Kosorian.”
~ * ~
Ramsay straightened in his chair. He decided that Fuller probably never spoke loosely. How thoroughly had they checked him beforehand?
“That,” he said slowly, “was a place I was glad to blast off from. How did you know about it?”
“Well . . . anyhow, it seems to be as near to the absolute Edge as any Terran has ventured. Nevertheless, a spaceship from that star is due to land on Terra shortly.”
“From Kosor?” demanded Ramsay.
“Yes, a patrol rocket has just brought down three of their representatives. You know our policy of supplying interpreters familiar with the customs and language of our visitors. Unfortunately, speakers of Kosorian are few; the Deep Space Agency listed only you at present on Terra.”
Ramsay stared at him.
“Did you say they were going to land on Terra?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Do you know their propulsion methods?”
“Why, the Bureau signaled them in interstellar code, explaining which ships can land, what sizes have to land on Luna or the other planets, and that atomic-powered rockets must take up orbits around Luna while their freight is lightered down to Terra. They made no declaration of restriction.”
“Watch out for them!” warned Ramsay.
“What do you mean?”
“Kosorians are . . . well, it wouldn’t even occur to them to take the trouble to obey a law. Whatever they can get away with, they do.”
“Are you telling me they are lawless? Criminal?”
Ramsay crossed his long legs and ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. Fuller’s eyes followed the motion, staring at the narrow scar running back from the spaceman’s left temple.
“That’s not it exactly,” said Ramsay. “They have a few general laws of a queer sort. They stick to them when it’s convenient. They’re . . . what’s the word I want? . . . they’re amoral. They just don’t think the way we do.”
“But we have no repressive statutes,” protested Fuller. “There should be no cause for friction.”
“Don’t you get it?” demanded Ramsay. “Just for example, when I was there, they were using atomic jets. Did they warn you? You better see to it they’re not allowed to land directly on Terra!”
Fuller’s face lost its blandness. For an instant, hardness showed through, and Ramsay sensed a wily, ruthless competence. That apparent plumpness might be layers of muscle over a stocky frame. He wondered if Fuller had anything against him.
The other turned meanwhile to his desk visor and spoke into it. Detecting a snapping undertone in the confident voice, the spaceman could imagine the stimulation of glands and the rise of blood pressure at the other end.
Fuller finished, flipped a switch, and leaned back.
“How did you make out in the Kosorian system, Ramsay?” he asked in a conversational tone.
“Got skinned to the bone. I went in there with a shipload of radium and jewels from Bormek, precision instruments from Terra, and . . . uh—”
“Go on,” Fuller encouraged him. “The B.S.T. has no interest in the dysenine you picked up around Fegash. Take a hint, however; the Interstellar Narcotics Department was quite puzzled when so much of it disappeared.”
Ramsay held his features perfectly expressionless—and knew that he was not fooling this slicker one bit. Lucky for him that there was little co-operation between the Bureau and the more legal-minded governmental agencies!
“Well,” he continued, “I was going to say, they haven’t got any ethics at all. Those that paid off at all tried to hand me gyp merchandise. A bunch of them even argued in cold blood about whether to space-freeze me right away for my ship, or wait till I had a cargo.”
“What stopped them?” asked Fuller.
“One of them came on the sly to ask me what life was worth.”
“By the way,” said Fuller chattily, “what was it worth?”
Ramsay stared at him coldly.
‘Two hundred Bormekian neurovibrators and the last of my radium.”
“That was very bad,” murmured Fuller. ‘Transporting deadly weapons. Interstellar Council is touchy about that. I suppose he made himself master of at least one planet?”
“No, I had to salvage some respect, so I told on him and put in for the reward.”
“Reward?”
“Most of their so-called laws are reinforced in the only way that works. They admired me for it, besides liking the chance to unload my jets.”
“From what you tell me, I wonder how you escaped.”
“Ah, that’s where I had a lightyear on them. Before their Senior Council paid off, I let my intended course leak out. I stowed away the stuff, about a thousand kilocredits’ worth of iraz crystals, and blew off the other way.”
“And then?”
“Worked back to Sol about six weeks ago, but before that I sold the crystals to a Bormekian who had been around Kosor. He told me the story was all through their system, how the smart boys had missed the Terran. Said I was the only alien in forty of their years to get out with more than he took in.”
Before the Bureau man could answer, his visor chimed.
“Send them right in,” he said after listening to the message. “Here they are,” he added to Ramsay.
~ * ~
The door was opened by the same unobtrusive young man who had brought Ramsay. He ushered in the visitors and discreetly withdrew as Fuller rose to greet them. Ramsay saw the B.S.T. man start to thrust out his hand, then pull it back in confusion as he sighted the tentacles.
The Kosorians walked steadily on three tapering extremities wh
ich functioned similarly to human legs; but the other triad of tentacles, corresponding to arms, seemed less natural because they grew from a base at the top of the Kosorian.
The spaceman enjoyed the look on Fuller’s face as the man scanned the dull greenish, cylindrical bodies and the gleaming metallic clothing and decorations for something at which he could talk. Finally, he realized that there was no single “head.” Under each of the upper tentacles was a collection of sensory and feeding organs: eyestalks, mandibles, auditory tympanna, and others more puzzling.
Travelers of Space - [Adventures in Science Fiction 03] Page 45