by Mike Resnick
At exactly midnight, the Federation of Miners went on strike. At eleven minutes after midnight, the flagship of the 27th Fleet demanded that the miners of Spica II relinquish their daily quota of iron.
At twelve minutes after midnight, the miners refused. At fourteen minutes after midnight, the 27th Fleet gave the miners a ten-minute ultimatum, after which they stated that they would take the iron by force and arrest the miners.
At twenty-two minutes after midnight, the seventy-two miners who formed the total population of Spica
II gathered by the largest single refinery on the planet and set off a series of three nuclear bombs. And at three minutes after one in the morning, Coleman was ushered into the Secretary's office under armed guard.
“Just what the hell are you trying to prove?” demanded the Secretary, who had obviously just been aroused from a sound sleep.
“We're not trying to prove anything,” said Coleman. “We're trying to win something: our rights. These miners have undergone three hours of intense hypnotic conditioning every day for more than a decade, and are fully prepared to die for their rights if need be. In fact, they are so completely conditioned that they have no choice in the matter; any opposition by the Republic will trigger this reaction. I assure you that there can and will be no weakening of our resolve.” “Dammit, you're the best-paid men in the Republic!'’ “Not in relation to the service we render to the Republic,” said Coleman. “Are you ready to agree to our demands yet?”
“You can blow every last mining world to hell before we'll submit to this kind of coercion!” snapped the Secretary.
“I doubt that, sir,” said Coleman. “Once the Republic discovers how deeply these miners believe in their cause...”
“The public won't find out a damned thing,” said the Secretary. “We stopped your ship, and we'll stop every other ship that attempts to approach a mining world.” “Then ultimately your own conscience will force you to yield to us,” said Coleman. “Get him out of here,” said the Secretary disgustedly. “Is he under arrest?” asked one of the military aids. “Hell, yes! Charge him with treason and lock him up!” Coleman was escorted to an electrified cell. He was well fed and was treated with the utmost cordiality. Each morning he was allowed to view the newstapes. He could find nothing about the results of the strike, nor even any acknowledgment of its existence, but he knew it would be continuing. The Republic could get along without the mining worlds for a week or two, possibly three. But then all interstellar traffic would come grinding to a halt. Before long the hospitals would be screaming for supplies. They'd be the first to feel the pinch, and for that he was sorry; but they'd be followed in short order by the huge spacecraft cartels, and they'd scream good and loud. Even the Secretary couldn't keep the lid on this for too much longer.
He spent exactly nineteen days, six hours, and twenty-four minutes in prison. Then he was once again ushered into the Secretary's presence.
The Secretary seemed to have aged perceptibly since the last time he had seen him. There were deep,
heavy lines around his eyes, and his pendulous jowls seemed to sag even more.
“If you ever had any friends on Praesepe II and VI, Alphard XVII, or Altair V, you'll never see them again. I hope that makes you happy.”
“It makes me very sad,” said Coleman sincerely. “And I know their deaths must weigh heavily on the conscience of the Republic.”
“How aboutyour conscience?” said the Secretary. “Doesn't the fact that well over four thousand patients have died because your strike has prevented our hospitals from getting vital materials bother you at all?” “I deeply regret their deaths,” said Coleman carefully. “But our stand has been taken. We are totally committed to our cause, and too many of us have died to back down now. If the Republic cares for either the rights of its miners or the lives of its patients, it has the wherewithal to end the strike this very minute.”
“I told you before: We will not yield to threats.” “We can wait,” said Coleman. “Time is on our side. Not even you, with all the resources of the Republic behind you, can keep this quiet for much longer. If you'd made it public to begin with, you might have been able to stir up sentiment for your side. But now the miners of five worlds are dead, and not a single member of the military has been harmed. Where do you think the public's sentiment will rest?” “What's to stop us from surrounding every remaining mining world and moving in after every last miner blows himself to bits?”
“We're using exceptionally dirty bombs,” said Coleman calmly. “It would be years before most of the worlds could be opened for mining, or before the mined material could be safely used. Do you think the Republic's economy can stand that?”
The Secretary closed his eyes and lowered his head in thought for a full minute. Then he looked up at his aides. “Will you leave Mr. Coleman and me alone for a few moment, please?” When the room emptied out, he gestured for Coleman to sit down opposite him. “If we agree to your financial terms, will you relinquish your request for greater political representation?” Coleman shook his head. “You're going to sign it anyway, so why should we yield? Too many of us have died to start striking bargains now.” “What do you get out of this?” asked the Secretary. “Justice.”
“I mean, personally.”
“I get a salary of a quarter million credits a year,” said Coleman. “And I donate ninety percent of it to our medical program.”
“I never could stand dealing with a thoroughly righteous man,” sighed the Secretary. He pulled the miners’ demands out of the drawer, picked up the seal of his office, stamped the papers, and signed his
name.
* * * *
Victory celebrations were in progress on almost a thousand scattered worlds, not the least of which was Gamma Leporis IX. Intoxicants flowed and happiness reigned supreme on this final night of idleness. “Hey!” cried somebody. “Let's let Ferdy in and give him a drink! He's got as much right inside here as anybody.”
Indeed he did, agreed Ferdinand silently. He had no auditory orifices with which to hear, but he had means of understanding what was said, and he'd been listening intently all evening. He didn't especially like being inside the auditorium. It was warm and uncomfortable, the higher oxygen content of the air made his eyes smart, and his metabolism couldn't cope with the whiskey they were feeding him. But Men were a pretty pleasant species, and he was very happy to kill nelsons in exchange for magnesium.
Tomorrow morning, he decided, would be soon enough to present them with the Butterballs’ list of demands.
4: THE PSYCHOLOGISTS
...Probably no field of study was more instantly expanded than that of psychology, for where Man originally had only himself as a subject, he now had literally thousands of races, many with such foreign values that simply separating sentient from nonsentient life forms became a titanic task. For half a millennium Man was able to communicate with less than five percent of the other races of the galaxy; as his new psychological skills improved, he was ultimately able to understand and exchange ideas with almost half of them...
—Man: Twelve Millennia of Achievement ...Conceived as a pure science, Man's mastery of psychology soon became simply another tool to be used in his expansionist endeavors, often pointing out the weaknesses in an enemy's mental defenses. Nonetheless, in its formative years—100 to G.E.—the purpose of alien psychology was still rather pure and idealistic. Some fascinating problems arose and were ultimately solved, and many of Man's methods have since been adopted by... —Origin and History of the Sentient Races, Vol. 7 Consuela Orta walked into the room and smiled politely at the Madcap. The Madcap immediately began eating its tail.
“Good morning,” she said.
The Madcap growled hideously at her, then started battering its head against the padded wall. “Would you like some water?” asked Consuela, placing a dish on the floor. The Madcap giggled hysterically, took another bite of its tail, and lay on its back, its feet held rigidly in the air.
&nbs
p; Consuela remained where she was for five minutes. Then, with a sigh, she opened the door to leave. “Good morning,” said the Madcap.
“Good morning,” repeated Consuela.
The Madcap raced twice around the room, turned over its water bowl, and began licking the liquid up from the floor. Consuela closed the door behind her and stepped out into the hallway to join the man who had been observing her through a one-way mirror. “That one's crazier than most of them, isn't he?” asked the man. “It's well-named,” agreed Consuela, walking toward the commissary. “It's a fascinating creature!” said the man enthusiastically. “Just fascinating! Sometimes I think I went into the wrong field.”
“And just whatis your field, Mr. Tanayoka?” asked Consuela. “I was told to show you our facilities and extend every conceivable courtesy to you, but no one has yet told me why.”
“I'll come to that in just a moment, Ms. Orta,” said the small, black-haired man. “Mrs.Orta,” she corrected him.
“My mistake. Now, about the Madcap: Is it intelligent?” “That is a very chancy question.” Consuela smiled. “I have known many humans that I didn't think were intelligent. If you mean, is it sentient, I suspect that it probably is. No nonsentient life form could possibly come up with so many different aberrant reactions to the same stimuli. A life form incapable of all creative thought would fall into a set pattern, whereas yesterday, for example, the Madcap drank the water immediately, gravely shook hands with me, and then tried to stand on the ceiling.” “Maybe it wasn't thirsty today,” suggested Tanayoka. “Given its history of behavior, I'd suggest that it's just as likely that it wasn't thirsty yesterday and was dying of thirst today. No, the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that it's probably sentient. Unbalanced, perhaps, but sentient. Now all I have to do is make some degree of sense out of what it does.” She uttered a grim laugh.
“If anyone can do it, I'm told you're the one,” said Tanayoka. “You've succeeded in almost thirty-five percent of your cases; that's more than twice the norm.” “That's me: surrogate mother to the galaxy.” Consuela paused, then turned to Tanayoka. “How did you know that?”
“I told your superiors that I needed their best alien psychologist. And with these credentials"—he flashed a metal card before Consuela's eyes—"I usually get what I want.” “And you want me.”
“So I'm told,” agreed Tanayoka cheerfully.
“Well, what rare beastie am I to make sense out of for your department?” asked Consuela.
“Have you ever heard of the planet Beelzebub?” “Sounds like something right out ofParadise Lost ,” commented Consuela. “I very much doubt that it was ever a candidate for Paradise,” said Tanayoka. “It's about forty-five light-years from here. I won't go into all its physical features, but it's pretty valuable. The place is simply lousy with gold, platinum, silver, and even uranium.” “I don't see the problem,” said Consuela. “The problem is that there happens to be a resident alien population on Beelzebub. We've been mining there for about eight months. They never tried to contact us or communicate with us, but they didn't hide their presence from us either. At any rate, we had no problems for thirty weeks. Then, eighteen days ago, when we began to load the processed ores onto our ship prior to moving to another area, they began ripping our miners to shreds. The Federation of Miners has gone on strike, and they won't go back to Beelzebub until the Republic can guarantee their safety.” “It's a big galaxy,” said Consuela. “Why not do your mining on some other planet?” “It's not generally known,” said Tanayoka, “but the Republic is having more than a little difficulty backing its currency these days. We still use rare metals, you know, and though the days of gold-backed currency are definitely numbered, they're not over yet. We need what Beelzebub has to offer, Mrs. Orta, and we need it badly.”
“Badly enough to exterminate an entire native population if it should turn out that they aren't sentient?” asked Consuela, a gleam of understanding coming to her eyes. Tanayoka nodded. “Your primary job is to determine whether or not they're intelligent. We don't want another Doradus IV.”
Consuela nodded. Ever since Doradus IV, when the Navy had destroyed an entire sentient population while defoliating the world prior to mining it—from the air Doradusians bore a striking resemblance to cabbages—a number of alien worlds had closed their doors to the Republic's commerce. The government had suddenly grown very sensitive about its public image, not without cause, and needed no new disasters.
“You mentioned my primary job as if there is a secondary one as well,” said Consuela. “Is there?” “Absolutely,” said Tanayoka. “If theyare sentient, we want you to try to convince them to let us perform our mining operations in peace.”
“And if I can't?”
“Why consider unattractive alternatives?” said Tanayoka. “You're the best in your field. Let's just assume that you're going to get the job done.” Consuela suddenly remembered why she had devoted her life to dealing with nonhuman beings possessed of nonhuman motivations.
“I'll meet you at the spaceport this evening,” said Tanayoka. “And Mrs. Orta, there is one other
consideration.”
“Oh?” asked Consuela, her eyebrows rising. “My department is being pressured to come up with a solution, so I'm afraid I'm going to have to pass some of that pressure down the line to you.” “How much time do I have?”
“Twenty days.”
“Twenty days!” she exploded. “Do you realize how long it takes to learn an alien tongue, or to discover what motivates an alien mind, or—”
“They originally gave me ten days,” said Tanayoka apologetically. “This is the best I can do.”
“Well, you can tell your department that I think it stinks!” “I do have the authority to make you come,” said Tanayoka softly. “Oh, I'll come, all right. There's not much I can do in twenty days, but these poor creatures deserve some consideration before you exterminate them!”
She was still fuming when she boarded Tanayoka's ship, and she hadn't calmed down appreciably by the time they landed on Beelzebub. Tanayoka escorted her to an armored groundcar and took her to the mining sight. Seven small mountains had been strip-mined. The miners had carefully restored the landscape before moving on, and had broken down their ore refinery, which had been at the base of the largest mountain.
“Where was their ship, and at what point were they attacked?” asked Consuela after she had given the area a cursory inspection.
“The ship was about two miles south of us,” replied Tanayoka, “and the miners were attacked just about where you and I are standing.”
“I assume they fought back?'’ she said dryly. “Their contract gives them the right to defend themselves,” said Tanayoka, “although it specifically prohibits offensive or aggressive actions.” “I don't suppose anyone thought to save an alien corpse?” “I'm afraid our weapons fried them to a crisp,” admitted Tanayoka. “However, I do have some photographs of the aliens taken by Elaine Bowman, the Pioneer who opened the planet up.” “Why didn't you show them to me during our flight?” asked Consuela. “You never asked,” said Tanayoka.
“May I see them now?”
He withdrew a pair of transparent cubes from his pocket. Inside each was a hologram of an inhabitant of the planet. They stood erect, though she couldn't begin to guess how tall or short they might be, since there was no point of reference. Their heads possessed rather large eyes, ample mouths, and barely discernible auditory orifices. She couldn't make out any nostrils, but assumed they must have been narrow slits so tiny that they didn't show up on the holograms. The creatures possessed thin, leathery skin of reddish hue.
“Well, what do you make of them?” asked Tanayoka when she had finished studying them. “So soon?” she said with a smile.
“I thought perhaps they might give you an inkling as to whether or not these creatures are intelligent.” “They tell me a lot more about the planet than the aliens,” said Consuela. “Gravity about the same as Earth and Deluros
VIII, or else they wouldn't be both erect and slender. Mean temperature between twenty-five and forty-eight degrees Centigrade; any less and they'd need hair or feathers or some other body covering for warmth, any greater and they'd probably be nocturnal, which these beasties definitely are not. Also, they don't come from a very mountainous section of Beelzebub, or their motor muscles would be much better developed.”