by Kris Neville
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to stop it,” Beliakoff said, and Kelly nodded his agreement.
Jusa gave Nob a beseeching look, but the Prime Minister averted his eyes. The dilemma was there again, enormous, insurmountable, and squarely on Jusa’s shoulders. To stop the war now would be Unearthlike; to refuse the Earthmen was unthinkable.
“I just don’t know,” Jusa said. She looked at Kelly, who wore the guilty expression of a man caught murdering a fawn. Then she burst into tears and collapsed on a couch.
NOB and the Earthmen looked at each other, made several helpless gestures, and left.
“What now?” Beliakoff asked, in the corridor. “Do you think she’ll stop the war?”
Nob shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? It’s a problem without a solution.”
“But she has to make up her mind,” Kelly said. “That’s one of the duties of authority.”
“The Empress is aware of that. And she will make up her mind, though it could take a year or more. Unless she fails completely under the strain.”
“Poor kid,” Kelly said. “She needs a man to help her out.”
“Indeed she does,” Nob agreed hastily. “A strong man, a wise man, a man who could guide her and be as adviser and husband to her.”
Kelly blinked, then laughed nervously. “Don’t look at me! I mean she’s a cute kid, nice girl, make some man a wonderful wife, but I’m not the marrying kind, you know what I mean?”
“Johnny,” said Beliakoff, “I’d like to have a serious talk with you.”
Nob led them to a vacant room and left discreetly.
“I won’t do it!” Kelly declared bluntly.
“You have to,” Beliakoff said. “You got us into this mess. Now you can marry us out.”
“No!”
“She’d make a wonderful wife,” Beliakoff quoted Kelly’s words back at him. “Docile, pretty, but spirited. What more could you ask?”
“Freedom of choice,” Kelly said grimly.
“That’s for adolescents.”
“Speaking.”
“She’ll never be able to make up her mind to stop the war unless you marry her. Until the war ends, that interdictory ship is going to sit in orbit, waiting for us. You haven’t anything to lose,” Beliakoff added.
“I haven’t?”
“Not a thing. It’s a big galaxy and our freighter is always waiting.”
“That’s true. . ..” Kelly admitted.
Ten minutes later, Beliakoff dragged him into the corridor. They were joined by Nob, who ushered them back to the Empress’s chambers.
“It’s okay by me if it’s okay by you, kid,” Kelly blurted out, in a tone that made Beliakoff shudder and made Nob smile in outright hero-worship.
“What is all right?” Jusa asked.
“Marriage,” Kelly said. “What d’ya say?”
Jusa studied his face for several seconds. “But do you love me?”
“Give it time, kid! Give it time!”
Jusa must have seen something in his expression, something behind the embarrassment and anger. Very softly she said, “I will be most happy to marry you.”
IT WAS a double-ring ceremony and authentically Terran. Beliakoff produced a Bible from the freighter and the ancient words of the Earth ceremony were read. When it was over, Kelly, grinning, perspiring, nervously rubbing his hands together, turned to his bride.
“Now stop the war, honey.”
“Yes, dear,” Jusa said dutifully. She heaved a great sigh.
“What’s wrong?” Kelly asked.
“I just tremble to think of our cities being bombed out of existence and us not able to do anything about it because we’ve stopped fighting.”
“What are you talking about? If we stop fighting—”
“They won’t!” she said. “Why should they? It’s Earthlike to continue conquering, and if we quit fighting, there’ll be nothing to stop them from conquering us completely.”
“Nob!” Kelly shouted. “Igor! What can we do about this?”
Nob said, “There would appear to be only one certain solution. I can arrange a meeting for you—” he turned to Beliakoff—“with Lanvi, the President of the Allies.”
“What would I say to him?” asked Beliakoff.
“To her,” Nob corrected. “You can say, I suppose, the same sort of thing your friend said.”
Beliakoff, ashy pale, started to back away. Kelly caught him in one meaty fist. “Okay, Mr. Fixer. Your duty is plain. Marry us out of trouble.”
“But I’ve got a girl friend in Minsk—”
“She forgot you years ago. Stop squirming, buddy.”
“What does she look like?” Beliakoff queried in apprehension.
“Very pretty,” Nob said.
DURING the double-ring ceremony, Beliakoff peered at his bride with cautious approval. Lanvi was indeed a pretty girl and she seemed to possess the Malan virtues of obedience, patience and fire.
As soon as the final words were spoken, the war was declared officially over. Peace, an authentic Earth custom, was proclaimed.
“Now the real work begins,” Beliakoff said. “First, we’ll need a list of the casualties.”
“The what?” Nob asked.
“Casualties.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” said the Prime Minister.
“Casualties! The number of people killed in the warfare.”
“Now wait a moment,” Nob said, his voice trembling. “Do I understand you correctly? Are you trying to tell me that civilized people kill people in their wars? Do you mean that they leave people in the cities they bomb?”
Kelly looked at Beliakoff. Beliakoff looked at Kelly.
“Lord, Lord,” murmured Kelly.
Beliakoff merely gulped.
“Is it possible?” asked Nob. “Do civilized people really—”
“Of course not,” said Beliakoff.
“Never,” Kelly said.
Nob pursed his lips. “I’ve been wanting to ask a real authority, a genuine Earthman, some questions on the subject. Our texts were by no means complete and some parts we couldn’t understand at all. Like the matter of determining victories. That’s something we couldn’t figure out. We decided you must use a complicated system of umpires. It was too much for us, so we built a bunker in no man’s land and put a man from each side in it. They tossed coins to determine whose turn it was. The winning side would bomb an enemy city. After the occupants had been evacuated, of course.”
“Of course,” said Beliakoff.
“It worked out rather well with the coins,” Nob said. “Law of averages, in fact.”
“Substantially our system,” said Kelly.
“Just the way we do it,” Beliakoff added.
“A few more questions, if you please,” Nob said. “Jusa, would you bring in the big War Encyclopedia?”
JUSA and Lanvi had been gossiping on the other side of the room. They hurried out and returned with the great book.
“Now here,” Nob said, opening the volume, “it seems to imply—”
“Wait,” Beliakoff broke in. He took the book from Nob’s hands and flipped through it rapidly, then turned to Kelly. In a whisper, he said in Propendium, “It looks as though Kyne blotted out all references to killing.”
“Sure!” exclaimed Kelly, brightening. “I told you he was a hemophiliac—a bleeder. Naturally, he’d cut out every single mention of bloodshed!”
“This point—” Nob began.
“Later,” Beliakoff said. “Right now, we’d like to get a few articles from our spaceship.” He winked at Kelly, who winked back. “It won’t take a moment and then we’ll be only too happy to—”
“Oh, dear,” said Nob. “You mean you wanted the spaceship?”
“What?”
“Well, I assumed that you’d have no further use for it. Metal is hard to get nowadays and it seemed only proper to erect heroic statues to both of you, the men who brought the institution of peace to Mala. Did I do something wr
ong?”
“Not at all, not at all,” Kelly said. “Oh, not at all. Perfectly delighted. Not at—”
“Johnny!” said Beliakoff.
“Sorry,” Kelly apologized, a broken man.
The brides stepped forward to claim their husbands.
Peace and prosperity came to Mala, under the deft guidance of their Terran leaders. In time, spaceships arrived and departed, but neither man showed any particular desire to board one, for their wives—docile, patient, yet fiery—proved more appealing than the lonely far reaches of space.
Beliakoff sometimes pondered the opportune melting down of their freighter. He was never able to discover who had signed the order. But all Mala knew the saying, “An Earthman is easy to catch, but hard to hold.” He wondered whether that had been the true reason behind the order to scrap the ship.
By this time, of course, he didn’t really care; if his wife or Kelly’s had been responsible, it was all the more reason to feel appreciated.
NOB knew the answer, but he had other things on his mind. He lay awake, restless, until his wife asked worriedly what was wrong.
“I’ve been wondering,” he said. “Those war books that the Earthmen had us turn in—I never did understand why all those deletions were made. You know, the ones that made us figure out a way of deciding which side won.”
“But the Earthmen said they used the very same system,” she reminded him. “And they wouldn’t lie, would they?”
“They would, if it was for our good. That’s what is known as diplomacy, dear. Statesmanship. Or politics. Interchangeable terms.”
She looked impressed. “Oh. And?”
“I’ve tried to question the crews of ships that land here. The answers are so evasive that I can’t help thinking—”
“Yes, dear?” she prompted.
“—that civilized people actually kill each other in wars.”
She turned a shocked face toward him. “How can you think such a thing? What would be the advantage?”
“Advantage?” he repeated. Then his expression cleared and he fell back on his pillow, completely relaxed. “I hadn’t thought of that, dear. None, of course. It would really be too much, wouldn’t it?”
“No question of it, dear,” she said. “Now that that’s settled, can you go to sleep?”
There was no answer. He was already snoring peacefully.
IN THE BEGINNING
He was a native of this deadly planet so the aliens from Earth were bound to be his enemies
Sam was running; he had always wanted to run, not like on the treadmill in his room that went around and around without going anywhere, but really run, and not be stopped by walls or barriers, either.
A barrier was a thing that didn’t look like a wall, a thing you could see through, but a thing that, if you explored with your hands, if you felt, was just like a wall. There was—had been—a big barrier in his room. One whole side of his room had been a barrier. He had picked up the heavy table and thrown it against the barrier. He had thrown it hard, really hard, because the barrier was very strong. But he was strong, too, stronger than the barrier, and he had broken through it.
For his first dozen awkward strides he had thought he might run into another barrier; so he had pulled the table after him, but when he didn’t run into one, he dropped the table and ran faster and faster, his heart growing in his body as he felt the air hitting on his face.
He ran fast, fast as he knew he would be able to run if he ever tried, faster than they thought, and he was stronger than they thought, and he had kept that to himself, so they never thought he could break the barrier.
There was a small rise of ground between him and the Dome now, and he felt better. He was free and they would never find him, because he wouldn’t let them find him. If he saw one of them coming after him, he would run and run—
Or—
He smiled to himself. He was stronger than they thought he was, because they never thought he could break the barrier, and if he saw one of them coming toward him, one of them inside of a black, shiny thing, he would—he would—
He didn’t want to think. Not now. He wanted to run.
There was a dark patch ahead of him, the big dark patch. He knew that he could go into it like he had seen things that moved do.
(Some things moved, and they were the things that were alive like he was alive, and the things that didn’t move, they were the things that were not-alive.) He had seen alive things, big, pretty alive things, move in and out of the woods, so he knew that he could go in, and he knew that it would hide him.
Often he had looked out from behind his barrier and felt it call to him, that dark patch, call to him in a silent voice that made his blood tingle, call to him, say, “You belong here,” say, “This is your home, your place is here, away from them.”
He used his hands to help him run, and it made him run faster.
Squat, insect-like he was, scuttling toward the dark woods.
The underbrush was thick; it tore at him. But it felt good, even, to have something tear at him, because it meant that he was free of the Dome.
Deeper and deeper into the woods. Until the tall, gnarled trees were all around him, and the soft darkness they made was all around him.
Sam rested.
He drew up his body into a big, fuzzy ball and rested; the ground was warm to him and the wood was friendly to him and he was tired, oh, so very tired because he had run and run.
Sam slept:
When he awoke, it was dark—not dim, but dark. There were not even any of the long-tailed things there in the sky. For a moment he was afraid and he was not sure where he was; then, slowly, he knew, and he was not afraid any more. And if he waited, it would get lighter. (It always got light after it got dark, if he just waited.)
He huddled there, waiting for the huge, bluish sun to rise, to give him light, so that lie might see the new world around him.
By and by he heard strange sounds in the trees, and he knew that something alive, like he was alive, was up there making the sounds. He wanted to be able to see them, but it was still too dark. (Although, far to his left, above the tops of the trees, he could see the jet of the sky begin to colour, on, ever so slightly, and he knew if he waited just a little more he would be able to see the things up there that were alive like he was alive.)
He thought of the Dome while he squatted, waiting. And he thought of the ugly things inside the Dome.
They would stand there in the Dome, stand there before a little barrier and look into his room, and they would look in on him, stand and stare and watch him. They were always watching him.
They were tall and pale—with only two arms and only two legs and only two eyes—and ugly, oh so very ugly. And they looked all soft and squeezy. If he had one of them in his arms, he could mash it. Into a little pulp.
But when they got inside the black, shiny things, they weren’t soft any more. They were hard, hard and cold. And he couldn’t mash one of them then.
Sam had tried.
Not hard, not so hard they could see how strong he was, but hard enough to see that he couldn’t mash one of them when it was inside a black, shiny thing, and when he touched them, they always touched cold and hard.
Ever since he could know, they touched cold and hard.
Sometimes he wanted to touch one of them when it wasn’t inside a black, shiny thing, and it hurt him bad, deep, , to think of that—wanting to touch one of them very softly (oh, so very softly), and feel one of them touch him and pet him until he went to sleep. But they always put on their black, shiny things when they came to see him, came into his room to see him, and they touched cold, not at all like he wanted to be touched.
But lately, it didn’t hurt him so deep. Anyhow, not so much, lately.
They were too ugly, he told himself, not pretty like him, but ugly, and he didn’t want anything as ugly as that to touch him, he told himself.
He didn’t like them, he told himself. He never did like th
em, and that was why he had run away and away, because he didn’t like them.
It was light, and he could see little things above him moving. They were very pretty, and he wanted to hold one of them in his hands.
But just to see them made Sam know that he was different from them in a way that he was not different from the ugly ones, and it was very puzzling. He wasn’t like the little, moving, alive things that he wanted to to hold in his hands but couldn’t because he did not know how to get up to them, up there in the treetops above him.
It made him sad.
He looked around, in the first dim light.
If he were back in the Dome, they would be bringing in the goodtasting things again; he looked around some more.
And he saw some of the good tasting things, hanging ripely red on a bush, there, ripely red and shining.
They tasted even better than they ever had, and he ate all he wanted, more than they had ever given him.
He moved on, deeper into the woods, and as he moved, he heard sounds all around him of things moving like he was moving, of things alive like he was alive.
One time he saw a big bulk of a thing, up ahead, through the dense trees, and he gave a little, sharp shout and ran after it, but it heard him, and it ran away, knocking down the littler of the trees, and he couldn’t catch it because it ran so fast.
That made Sam feel very bad, very bad indeed, and he sat down and felt very bad for a long time.
Then he got up.
This time he wouldn’t let one of them get away; he wouldn’t make a cry so it could hear him; he would be very quiet until he got near enough to reach out and touch it, and then hold it, to keep it from running away.
Finally he saw another one of the alive things, not as big as the first and lots more furry.
He crept up on it very slowly.
He saw, when he was near enough, that it was bending over and eating at something that looked like it might have been alive, once like he was alive, but that wasn’t alive any more.
Sam was very close now, behind a little tree, watching it eat, hearing it eat, seeing long teeth rip into the thing on the ground.
Sam stepped out.