Seven Conquests

by Poul Anderson

  “Yes, yes,” said Freylinghausen impatiently. “But what has this to do with the subject under discussion?”

  “Don’t you see, Professor? It was chance right down the line—chance which was skillfully exploited when it arose, to be sure, but nevertheless a set of unpredictable accidents. The Monitor blew up ten minutes ahead of schedule; as a result, the commando that did it was captured. Normally, this would have meant that the whole plan would have been given away. I can’t emphasize too strongly that the Humanists would have won if they’d only stayed where they were.”

  I tossed off a long gulp of porter, knocked the dottle from my pipe, and began refilling it. My hands weren’t quite steady. “But chance entered here, too, making Robert Crane’s brother the man to capture him. And Robert knew how to manipulate Ben. At the captains’ council, the Huitzilopochtli s skipper spoke the most strongly in favor of going out to do battle. His arguments, especially when everyone knew they were based on information obtained from a prisoner, convinced the others.”

  “But you said…” Neilsen-Singh looked confused. “Yes, I did.” I smiled at her, though my thoughts were entirely in the past. “But it wasn’t till years later that Ben heard the story of Br’er Rabbit and the briar patch; he came across it in his brother’s boyhood diary. Robert Crane told the truth, swore to it by a boyhood oath—but his brother could not believe he’d yield so easily. Robert was almost begging him to stay with K’ung’s original plan. Ben was sure that was an outright lie…that Dushanovitch-Alvarez must actually be planning to attack the navy in its orbit and could not possibly survive a battle in open space. So that, of course, was what he argued for at the council.”

  “It took nerve, though,” said Neilsen-Singh. “Knowing what the Huitzilopochtli would have to face…knowing you’d be aboard, too…

  “She was a wreck by the time the battle was over,” I said. “Not many in her survived.”

  After a moment, Buwono nodded thoughtfully. “I see your point, Captain. The accident of the bomb’s going off too soon almost wrecked the Union plan. The accident of that brotherhood saved it. A thread of coincidences…yes, I think you’ve proved your case.”

  “I’m afraid not, gentles.” Freylinghausen darted birdlike eyes around the table. “You misunderstood me. I was not speaking of minor ripples in the mainstream of history. Certainly those are ruled by chance. But the broad current moves quite inexorably, I assure you. Vide: Earth and Luna are back in the Union under a more or less democratic government, but no solution has yet been found to the problems which brought forth the Humanists. They will come again; under one name or another they will return. The war was merely a ripple.”

  “Maybe.” I spoke with inurbane curtness, not liking the thought. “We’ll see.”

  “If nothing else,” said Neilsen-Singh, “you people bought for Earth a few more decades of freedom. They can’t take that away from you.”

  I looked at her with sudden respect. It was true. Men died and civilizations died, but before they died they lived. No effort was altogether futile.

  I could not remain here, though. I had told the story, as I must always tell it, and now I needed aloneness.

  “Excuse me.” I finished my drink and stood up.

  “I have an appointment…just dropped in…very happy to have met you, gentles.”

  Buwono rose with the others and bowed formally. “I trust we shall have the pleasure of your company again, Captain Robert Crane.”

  “Robert—? Oh.” I stopped. I had told what I must in third person, but everything had seemed so obvious. “I’m sorry. Robert Crane was killed in battle. I am Captain Benjamin Clane, at your service, gentles.”

  I bowed to them and went out the door. The night was lonesome in the streets and across the desert.

  One reason for the persistence of war is that it has frequently been the only means that anyone could see for the preservation or establishment of certain values more dear than life. When this happens, whether pacifists like it or not, those who fight will be proud to do so, and they will glory in their victories.

  Inside Straight

  In the main, sociodynamic theory predicted quite accurately the effects of the secondary drive. It foresaw that once cheap interstellar transportation was available, there would be considerable emigration from the Solar System—men looking for a fresh start, malcontents of all kinds, “peculiar people” desiring to maintain their way of life without interference. It also predicted that these colonies would in turn spawn colonies, until this part of the galaxy was sprinkled with human-settled planets, and that in their relative isolation, these politically independent worlds would develop some very odd societies.

  However, the economic bias of the Renascence period, and the fact that war was a discarded institution in the Solar System, led these same predictors into errors of detail. It was felt that, since planets useful to man are normally separated by scores of light-years, and since any planet colonized 112 on a high technological level would be quite self-sufficient, there* would be little intercourse and no strife between these settlements. In their own reasonableness, the Renascence intellectuals overlooked the fact that man as a whole is not a rational animal, and that exploration and war do not always have economic causes.

  —Simon Vardis, A Short History of Pre-Commonwealth Politics, Reel I, Frame 617

  They did not build high on New Hermes. Plenty of space was available, and the few cities sprawled across many square kilometers in a complex of low, softly tinted domes and cylindroids. Parks spread green wherever you looked, each breeze woke a thousand bell-trees into a rush of chiming; flowers and the bright-winged summerflits ran wildly colored beneath a serene blue sky. The planetary capital, Arkinshaw, had the same leisurely old-fashioned look as the other towns Ganch had seen; only down by the docks were energy and haste to be found.

  The restaurant Wayland had taken him to was incredibly archaic; it even had live service. When they had finished a subtly prepared lunch, the waiter strolled to their table. “Was there anything else, sir?” he asked.

  “I thank you, no,” said Wayland. He was a small, lithe man with close-cropped gray hair and a brown nutcracker face in which lay startlingly bright blue eyes. On him, the local dress—a knee-length plaid tunic, green buskins, and yellow mantle—looked good…which was more than you could say for most of them, reflected Ganch.

  The waiter produced a tray. No bill lay on it, as Ganch had expected, but a pair of dice. Oh, no! he thought. By the Principle, no! Not this again!

  Wayland rattled the cubes in his hand, muttered an incantation. They Hipped on the table. Eight spots looked up. “Fortune seems to favor you, sir,” said the waiter.

  “May she smile on a more worthy son,” replied Wayland. Ganch noted with disgust that the planet’s urbanity-imperative extended even to servants. The waiter shook the dice and threw.

  “Snake eyes,” he smiled. “Congratulations, sir. I trust you enjoyed the meal.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Wayland, rising. “My compliments to the chef, and you and he are invited to my next poker game. “I’ll have an announcement about it on the telescreens.”

  He and the waiter exchanged bows and compliments. Wayland left, ushering Ganch through the door and out onto the slidewalk. They found seats and let it carry them toward the waterfront, which Ganch had expressed a desire to see.

  “Ah…” Ganch cleared his throat. “How was that done?”

  “Eh?” Wayland blinked. “Don’t you have dice on Dromm?”

  “Oh, yes. But I mean the principle of payment for the meal.”

  “I shook him. Double or nothing. I won.”

  Ganch shook his head. He was a tall, muscular man in a skintight black uniform. That and the scarlet eyes in his long bony face (not albinism, but healthy mutation) marked him as belonging to the Great Cadre of Dromm.

  “But then the restaurant loses money,” he said.

  “This time, yes,” nodded Wayland. “It evens out in the co
urse of a day, just as all our commerce evens out, so that in the long run everybody earns his rightful wage or profit.”

  “But suppose one—ah—cheats?”

  Surprisingly, Wayland reddened, and looked around. When he spoke again, it was in a low voice: “Don’t ever use that word, sir, I beg of you. I realize the mores are different on your planet, but here there is one unforgivable, utterly obscene sin, and it’s the one you just mentioned.” He sat back, breathing heavily for a while, before he cooled off and proffered cigars. Ganch declined—tobacco did not grow on Dromm—but Wayland puffed his own into lighting with obvious enjoyment.

  “As a matter of fact,” he said presently, “our whole social conditioning is such as to preclude the possibility of…unfairness. You realize how thoroughly an imperative can be inculcated with modern psychopediatrics. It is a matter of course that all equipment, from dice and coins to the most elaborate stellarium set, is periodically checked by a games engineer.”

  “I see,” said Ganch doubtfully.

  He looked around as the slidewalk carried him on. It was a pleasant, sunny day, like most on New Hermes. Only to be expected on a world with two small continents, the rest of the land split into a multitude of islands. The people he saw had a relaxed appearance, the men in their tunics and mantles, the women in their loose filmy gowns, the children in little or nothing. A race of sybarites; they had had it too easy here, and degenerated.

  Sharply he remembered Dromm, gaunt glacial peaks and wind-scoured deserts, storm and darkness galloping down from the poles, the iron cubicles of cities and the obedient gray-clad masses that filled them. That world had brought forth the Great Cadre, and tempered them in struggle and heartbreak, and given them power first over a people and then over a planet and then over two systems.

  Eventually…who knew? The galaxy?

  “I am interested in your history,” he said, recalling himself. “Just how was New Hermes settled?”

  “The usual process.” shrugged Wayland. “Our folk came from Caledonia, which had been settled from Old Hermes, whose people were from Earth. A puritanical gang got into control and started making all kinds of senseless restrictions on natural impulses. Finally a small group, our ancestors, could take no more, and went off looking for a planet of their own. That was about three hundred years ago. They went far, into this spiral arm which was then completely unexplored, in the hope of being left alone; and that hope has been realized. To this day, except for a couple of minor wars, we’ve simply had casual visitors like yourself.”

  Casual! A grim amusement twisted Ganch’s mouth upward.

  To cover it, he asked: “But surely you’ve had your difficulties? It cannot have been a mere matter of landing here and founding your cities.”

  “Oh, no, of course not. The usual pioneer troubles—unknown diseases, wild animals, storms, a strange ecology. They endured some hard times before the machines were constructed. Now, of course, we have it pretty good. There are fifty million of us, and space for many more; but we’re in no hurry to expand the population. We like elbow room.”

  Ganch frowned until he had deduced the meaning of that last phrase. They spoke Anglic here, as on Dromm and most colonies, but naturally an individual dialect had evolved.

  Excitement gripped him. Fifty million! There were two hundred million people on Dromm, and conquered Thanit added half again as many.

  Of course, said his military training, sheer numbers meant little. Automatized equipment made all but the most highly skilled officers and technicians irrelevant. War between systems involved sending a space fleet that met and beat the enemy fleet in a series of engagements: bases on planets had to be manned, and sometimes taken by ground forces, but the fighting was normally remote from the worlds concerned. Once the enemy navy was broken, its home had to capitulate or be sterilized by bombardment from the skies.

  Still…New Hermes should be an even easier prey than Thanit had been.

  “Haven’t you taken any precautions against…hostiles?” he asked, mostly because the question fitted his assumed character.

  “Oh, yes, to be sure,” said Wayland. “We maintain a navy and marine corps; matter of fact, I’m in the Naval Intelligence Reserve myself, captain’s rank. We had to fight a couple of small wars in the previous century, once with the Corridans—nonhumans out for loot—and once with Oberkassel, whose people were on a religious-fanatic kick. We won them both without much trouble.” He added modestly: “But of course, sir, neither planet was very intelligently guided.”

  Ganch suppressed a desire to ask for figures on naval strength. This guileless dice-thrower might well spout them on request, but…

  The slidewalk reached the waterfront and they got off. Here the sea glistened blue, streaked with white foam, and the harbor was crowded with shipping. Not only flying boats, but big watercraft were moored to the ferroconcrete piers. Machines were loading and unloading in a whirl of bright steel arms, warehouses gaped for the planet’s wealth, the air was rich with oil and spices. A babbling surfed around Ganch and broke on his eardrums.

  Wayland pointed unobtrusively around, his voice almost lost in the din: “See, we have quite a cultural variety of our own.- That tall blond man in the fur coat is from Norrin, he must have brought in a load of pelts. The little dark fellow in the sarong is a spice trader from the Radiant Islands. The Mongoloid wearing a robe is clear from the Ivory Gate, probably with handicrafts to exchange for our timber. And-”

  They were interrupted by a young woman, good-looking, with long black hair and a tilt-nosed freckled face. She wore a light blue uniform jacket, a lieutenant’s twin comets on the shoulders, as well as a short loose-woven skirt revealing slim brown legs. “Will! Where have you been?”

  “Showing the distinguished guest of our government around,” said Wayland formally. “The Prime Selector himself appointed me to that pleasant task. Ganch, may I have the honor of presenting my niece, Lieutenant Christabel Hesty of the New Hermesian Navy? Lieutenant Hesty, this gentleman hight Ganch, from Dromm. It’s a planet lying about fifty light-years from us, a fine place I’m sure. They are making a much overdue ethnographic survey of this galactic region, and Ganch is taking notes on us.”

  “Honored, sir.” She bowed and shook hands with herself in the manner of Arkinshaw. “We’ve heard of Dromm. Visitors have come thence in the past several years. I trust you are enjoying your stay?” Ganch saluted stiffly, as was prescribed for the Great Cadre. “Thank you, very much.” He was a little shocked at such blatant sexual egalitarianism, but reflected that it might be turned to advantage.

  “Will, you’re just the man I want to see.” Lieutenant Hesty’s voice bubbled over. “I came down to wager on a cargo from Thomcroft and you—”

  “Ah, yes. I’ll be glad to help you, though of course the requirements of my guild are—”

  “You’ll get your commission.” She made a face at him and turned laughing to Ganch. “Perhaps you didn’t know, sir, my uncle is a tipster?”

  “No, I didn’t,” said the Dromman. “What profession is that?”

  “Probability analyst. It takes years and’ years of training. When you want to make an important wager, you call in a tipster.” She tugged at Wayland’s sleeve. “Come on, the trading will start any minute.”

  “Do you mind, sir?” asked Wayland.

  “Not at all,” said Ganch. “I would be very interested. Your economic system is unique.” And, he added to himself, the most inefficient I have yet heard of They entered a building which proved to be a single great room. In the center was a long table, around which crowded a colorful throng of men and women. An outsize electronic device of some kind stood at the end, with a tall rangy man in kilt and beryllium-copper breastplate at the controls. Wayland stepped aside, his face taking on an odd withdrawn look.

  “How does this work?” asked Ganch—sotto voce, for the crowd did not look as if it wanted its concentration disturbed.

  “The croupier there is a trader from Thomcro
ft.” whispered Christabel Hesty. This close, with her head beneath his chin, Ganch could smell the faint sun-warmed perfume of her hair. It stirred a wistfulness in him, buried ancestral memories of summer meadows on Earth. He choked off the emotion and listened to her words.

  “He’s brought in a load of refined thorium, immensely valuable. He puts that up as his share, and those who wish to trade get into the game with shares of what they have—they cover him, as in craps, though they’re playing Orthotron now. The game is a complex one, I see a lot of tipsters around…yes, and the man in the green robe is a games engineer, umpire and technician. I’m afraid you wouldn’t understand the rules at once, but perhaps you would like to make side bets?”

  “No, thank you,” said Ganch. “I am content to observe.”

  He soon found out that Lieutenant Hesty had not exaggerated the complications. Orthotron seemed to be a remote descendant of roulette such as they had played on Thanit before the war, but the random-pulse tubes shifted the probabilities continuously, and the rules themselves changed as the game went on. When the scoreboard on the machine flashed, chips to the tune of millions of credits clattered from hand to hand. Garich found it hard to believe that anyone could ever learn the system, let alone become so expert in it as to make a profession of giving advice. A tipster would have to allow for the presence of other tipsters, and…

  His respect for Wayland went up. The little man must have put a lightning-fast mind through years of the most rigorous training; and there must be a highly developed paramathematical theory behind it all. If that intelligence and energy had gone into something useful, military technique, for instance…

  But it hadn’t, and New Hermes lay green and sunny, wide open for the first determined foe.

  Ganch grew aware of tension. It was not overtly expressed, but faces tightened, changed color, pupils narrowed and pulses beat in temples until be could almost feel the emotion, crackling like lightning in the room. Now and then Wayland spoke quietly to his niece, and she laid her bets accordingly.