“There is yet hope, Sire,” said Kat Zul quickly. “The space station is only partially completed and, as far as we can determine, occupied only by a construction crew. None of its defensive armament has been installed yet. Once they drop their screen, we have them. We can fortify the station ourselves, and control of the system will be ours.”
The Gollen reached into a silver bowl filled with wiggling guba, selected an especially fat one, and bit off its head with his lower mouth.
“Why should they?” he said with his upper one.
“Should they what?”
“Drop their protective screens. Their power piles can keep them energized for the next hundred years.”
“Ah, Highness, but screen generators are tricky things. They require constant attention. When no humans are alive to tend them, they will shut off automatically. And within two months there will be no humans left alive. They will all have starved to death. We captured their supply ship yesterday.”
“I don’t like it. In the first place, a starved human is an inedible human, and in the second, their relief fleet won’t take more than a month to get there. I believe you were talking in terms of two months. You’ll have to do better than that, Kat Zul, or you’ll be fricassee by evening!”
As the stew pot came nearer, Kat Zul thought faster. He barely beat the deadline.
“In this life, Highness,” he said pontifically, “it is either eat or be eaten.”
“This is obvious,” said the Gollen, “and since for you to eat me would be lèse majesté, the second half of your truism is more appropriate to the present occasion. Cook!”
“You don’t understand,” said Kat Zul in desperation. “In this case we can eat by being ready to be eaten.” He retreated around the table. “Listen, please! The robot supply ship we captured was loaded with food. If we wait another two weeks, the humans in the space station will be getting terribly hungry.”
“I’m getting mighty hungry right now,” said the Gollen. “But I’ll listen. Go ahead.”
“Among the food on the supply ship we found several hundred cans containing strange clawed creatures in a nutrient solution. They’re alive!”
“So?”
“So we’ll remove all the food from the ship except those cans. Then we will open them carefully and remove the animals inside. Next we will replace them with ourselves and have the cans resealed.”
“What!”
“A stroke of sheer genius, Highness! In each of the cans will be one of my best fighting men. We will put the robot supply ship back on course and chase it to the space station, firing near misses all the way. When they see it coming with us in pursuit, the humans will open their screens enough to let it through. Once they’ve checked it carefully with their scanners, they’ll bring it into the station and unload it at once. They’ll be so hungry that the first thing they’ll go for will be the food. But when they open the cans, instead of finding little live animals, out will spring my warriors. Ah, Sire, there will be a fine slitting of throats. With the screens shut off, we can arm the station at once, and when the human fleet comes…” He laughed exultantly and clicked his razor-sharp forward mandibles together like castanets.
“As you say, Kat Zul, a stroke of sheer genius,” said the Gollen. “Have you selected your personal can yet?”
The fleet commander’s olfactory feelers stood straight out. “Me? To tell you the truth, Highness, I hadn’t planned on being one of the raiding party. The fact is that I suffer from a touch of claustrophobia and…”
“Would you rather stay for dinner?”
“Well, Sire…”
“Cook!”
“On second thought…”
“Hey, Mac.”
“Yeah?”
“What’n the hell’s lobster?”
“Beats me. Why?”
“Somebody sure fouled up back at base. There’s about a thousand cans of it on the supply ship—and nothing else.”
“Well, open one and find out. I’m hungry!”
“Who isn’t? But they’re alive. It says so on the can. They’re packed away in some sort of nutrient solution.”
“So they’re alive. There’s a law says you can’t take them out and kill them?”
“There’s a picture on the can.”
“So?”
“They got big claws. Looks like they could take a man’s finger off with one good bite. Whatta they mean sending stuff like that out?”
“Look, Pinky, I’m busy. Do what you want but don’t bother me. I got to nurse this generator. If it flickers just once, we’re done for. Now beat it!”
“Okay. I’ll go open one up and see what happens.”
There was silence broken only by a chomping of jaws. The eating was good. Kat Zul, the Supreme Commander of the Royal Zardonian fleet, rested motionless at the far end of the table in the place of honor, his belly distended and his eye closed.
At the other end of the table, two hungry mouths opened simultaneously.
“More!”
Pinky beamed cheerfully, picked up the platter on which Kat Zul rested and passed it down to the two hungry electronics men.
“Help yourselves, boys. There’s lots more where that came from.”
He took another piece himself. “This sure beats chicken.
The way these things are built, there’s enough legs for everybody.” He pushed his white chef’s cap back on his perspiring forehead and surveyed the little group of technicians and construction men happily. This was a red-letter day. Nobody had ever asked for seconds of his cooking before.
“Pinky.”
“Yes, Mac?”
“What do they call these things again?”
“Lobsters. They sure don’t look like the pictures on the cans, though. Guess the guy that made up the label was one of these here abstractionists. You know, those characters that don’t paint a thing like it is, but like it would be if it was.”
“Yeah,” said Mac, “sure.” He noticed a bandage on Pinky’s right forefinger. “I see ya got nipped after all.”
Pinky held his finger up and inspected it with interest. “Sure was a mean cut, almost to the bone it was. And that reminds me, when’s one of you mechanical wizards going to fix my can opener for me? For a month I’ve been after you and all I get is promises.”
“Tomorrow, first thing,” said Mac.
“Tomorrow, always tomorrow,” said Pinky. “Look at that finger. That ain’t no bite; it got ripped on the edge of a can. I didn’t take no chances on being bitten. I was all set to open the first can when I got to looking at the picture on the label, and the more I looked at it, the less I liked the idea of having something like that running around my galley alive. So ya know what I did?”
“No,” said Mac patiently, tearing another leg off the carcass of Kat Zul and munching on it appreciatively.
“Well, you know I mostly cook by intuition…”
A collective groan went up from his listeners. Every time Pinky had an inspiration, it usually involved a handful or so of curry powder.
“But this time I decided to go by the book. The recipe said to boil vigorously for twenty minutes, so I did. Once the kettle got boiling good, I tossed in a dozen, can and all. I figured they would cook as well inside the container as outside, and that way I wouldn’t have to worry about their claws. They was alive all right, too. You should have heard them batting around inside those cans for the first couple of minutes.”
Mac shivered uncomfortably. “Don’t seem human somehow to make critters suffer so. Next time you’d better open the cans and kill them first. If you’re scared, call me and I’ll come down and do the job for you.”
“There’s no need for that,” said Pinky. “Them things can’t feel nothing. They ain’t got no nervous systems. It says so in the cookbook.”
“If that’s what it says,” said Mac, “I guess it’s so. Just keep dishing them out the way you did tonight and I’ll be happy.” He loosened his belt, leaned back, and sigh
ed contentedly.
Pinky wasn’t listening. He could hardly wait until time came to prepare breakfast. With just a touch of curry…
Editor's Introduction to:
THE PROUD FOOT OF THE CONQUEROR
by Reginald Bretnor
All power tends to corrupt. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.
—Lord Acton
The ancient Greeks believed that history flowed in cycles. So did government. Monarchy became aristocracy, “rule of the best.” Aristocracies became oligarchies of wealth. Democracy rose, became degenerate, and fell, giving place to tyrants, whose descendents became legitimized as monarchs. Through ages of ages these cycles ran.
They did not always run smoothly. Sometimes one stage was prolonged. Another time, one of the stages might be skipped over. Moreover, there were intermediate states, unstable to be sure, but interesting.
One of these was timocracy, defined by Plato as the rule of honor. It generally came about when the soldiers tired of the corruption of an oligarchy and took rule into their own hands. For a time their military virtues prevailed; the state was ruled harshly, but fairly.
The twentieth century has shown that rule by honor does not last. The juntas and caudillos begin with high intentions, but Acton’s dictum prevails. Yet even after the inevitable corruption sets in, the ideals of virtue and honor may remain to haunt those who have lost both.
THE PROUD FOOT OF THE CONQUEROR
by Reginald Bretnor
From the Diary of
Space-Marshal Sir Francis Mackenzie Latrouche,
United Nations Armed Forces (Canada), Retired
August 28
It has happened. What we have all hoped for. What we have all feared. What we have been expecting since we ventured out beyond Jupiter, beyond Neptune—ever since the Space Force first came into being. I only wish it had occurred while I was still on active duty, before they forced me out and destroyed Peking, Tientsin, Shanghai—and how many other cities? And how many tens of millions?
As things stand, I suppose I’m fortunate to even have heard about it. Hardesty, my former aide, got in touch from Ottawa, breaking security, which was brave of him. Torkonnen’s made it tighter than it ever was before. The world can’t hear the greatest story in its history until he gives the word. Space-Marshal V.I. Torkonnen, Hero of the Soviet Empire, Chief of the United Nations General Staff, who killed Bombay, Calcutta, and Peking, is in command now as humanity meets its first alien race, a race from beyond our solar system certainly, and from how much farther out in space and time? Torkonnen, who will never forgive me for sending him that copy of General Burns’ Megamurder, nor for my inscription in it.
The Fleet first encountered them three weeks ago as they emerged from behind Pluto. Who they are, I do not know—I have not been informed. But their vessels are said to be like little worlds—their size measured in miles. Hardesty didn’t say how many there were, but he hinted that communication has been established and that there are a lot of surprises for us all behind Torkonnen’s wall of secrecy.
The power and knowledge possessed by beings who can move entire armadas between the stars must be fantastic, and Torkonnen is the last man I’d trust to evaluate them accurately and to influence the critical decisions Earth’s leaders may have to make.
Well, we shall see. In the meantime—in this terrible time of waiting—it’s hard for me to take an interest in those small things that become so important in one’s daily life after retirement. Yesterday Josie, our black Lab, had eleven puppies—five males, six females—and Louise handed me the honor of naming them. Now the only name I can think of is Torkonnen, and I’m damned if I’ll call any decent dog after him!
Almost a week has passed, a week of sustained secrecy and silence from UNAF Hqs. However, this morning Hardesty brought me Torkonnen’s top-secret report to the Secretary General on our visitors.
It is astounding. We’ve all wondered what sort of weird aliens the universe might eventually throw our way—wigglies with tentacles, hive minds evolved from insectoids, silicon-based life forms, all the rest. And now, of all improbabilities, they turn out to be men, men very like ourselves, with only minor differences in bone structure and the structure of the eye, at least as far as we can tell—and they are not only men, but military men, the very quintessence of military men. Their whole society is military. They are literally bred to be military. Their officers are not a class; they are a race. So are their noncoms. So are their other ranks. And so are their priest-scientists, themselves a part of the military establishment. We call ourselves men; they call themselves The Conquerors and make no bones about it.
They are extremely methodical, and very patient. They tell us that they remained in the lee of Pluto for months while their drones relayed our media broadcasts to them: audio, video, holo. Their scientists unraveled English with no trouble—it is the nearest thing to a world language—and now they know a great deal about us, about our manners and morals, our diversity of religions and political beliefs, our rivalries and wars. They know a great deal too much in my opinion, considering their own rigid codes of conduct and their absolute uniformity. They seem completely unimpressed by our technology, our weaponry, and they appear to think even less of us as warriors.
How do they define civilization? According to them, the whole goal of man—meaning themselves—is to conquer lesser men, to subdue them so completely that they will remain conquered and continue to serve their conquerors even after those conquerors have gone their way. The report doesn’t go into detail, but it states that they’ve shown very convincing evidence that they have done this to many, many worlds. (Can you imagine a web of empire stretched between the stars, an empire without satraps, without prefects, without governors general?)
Typically, Torkonnen sums up by refusing to take their claims seriously. He suggests that very possibly they are bluffing. But even he agrees that we will have to have much more information before we can formulate a policy or reply to any demands they may make. Apparently the first real meeting after contact was at our Saturn Station, in orbit around that mighty planet. They came in a single ship—and it now seems that the original reports were exaggerated; their vessels are huge, but not miles long, perhaps half again as long as the largest twentieth-century giant tanker or aircraft carrier. Eight of their personnel arrived in a shuttle craft, and we now know that, like ourselves, they have antigravity.
The report adds that further information, with photographs and additional details regarding their organization, weapons, etc., will be on its way to the Secretary General as soon as possible. I hope Hardesty can get me a copy of that too.
September 7
Thank God for Hardesty. His personal loyalty has touched me deeply. The report this time is signed by General Casimirski, a very gallant Pole whom I remember well and favorably. He commands the Station, and his description of the deputation sent shivers down my back.
“They are human,” he wrote. “But at the same time, they are unhuman. The great differences are in the way they move, in the fact that their faces seem totally expressionless, and even more, in their eyes. Their eyes have pupils like our own, but they have no true whites. It is as though the iris gradually merges with the surrounding eye. Imagine a greenish moss agate, very pale around its outer rim and gradually darkening toward a hard, cold, obsidian pupil. Physically, as men, they are superb, lean as greyhounds, taut as strung bows, yet totally relaxed. Their uniforms are extremely simple, in unobtrusive colors apparently denoting something, their only ornaments insignia of rank worn around their necks and multicolored vertical badges where we would wear our service ribbons. They have no facial hair; their lips are thin, their noses unvaryingly hawklike. They have individuality, but only as Doberman pinschers have individuality. The ones who can speak English, but they speak it slowly, like machines, as though the concepts in their own tongue are so completely alien that every word has to be weighed and sorted.
“Their leader, whom I could t
ell was older than the others, stared at me for perhaps a minute. Then he introduced himself as General—he hesitated over the word as though it were not precisely accurate—Rhuzar’yi. Then I introduced myself and said, ‘General, we welcome you and your people. This is the first time we have had the pleasure of meeting people from another world. Be assured that we shall make the necessary arrangements for you to meet Earth’s leaders as soon as possible.’
‘‘‘Your leaders,’ he replied, ‘are what you call… civilians. We are The Conquerors, please understand. We do not speak with such as these. Our… Commander will speak with your Commander, he who commands your forces, you understand? That is necessary. We must know whether you have—’ Again he hesitated, using an alien word; then, reluctantly, he translated it as honor. ‘We must determine whether you have honor. What we have learned of you tells us that certain men in your history have been capable of honor, but what of your entire…’ Again the hesitation. ‘…your entire army, your command?’”
There had been no exchange of politenesses, no acceptance of preferred hospitality, but they had answered Casimirski’s questions openly and fully. They had fourteen ships, each approximately as large as the one that had brought them. “If you wish, you can come back to it with us,” the envoy said. “Then you can report to your superiors all we will show you.”
Casimirski had of course accepted, taking two of his aides with him. “I was astounded,” he reported. “The vessel was not a battleship; it seemed completely unarmed. But they showed me that it had many, many small attack craft, each perhaps fifty feet long, like combined vessel/vehicles. But more than anything else, I was reminded of a Mongol ordo, for all their women and children were aboard. Everything was disciplined; and at once I saw the great difference between officers, noncommissioned officers, and other ranks. It was physical. The noncoms looked like intelligent but unimaginative prizefighters; the privates hulked like willing tame bears. But the strangest thing was the perfect courtesy between ranks. Subordinates did not always render their equivalent of a salute first; all ranks saluted one another. It reminded me of those novels of old Poland by Sienkiewicz: With Fire and Sword and The Deluge and Pan Machael. There was such mutual respect between ranks then.”
There Will Be War Volume IV Page 10