I was loath to dishearten them by voicing what had occurred to me, but when they insisted, I said, “Alas, good men, worse may already have befallen us.”
“Well?” barked Sir Brian Fitz-William. “What is it? Don’t just sit there sniveling!”
“We had no sure way to tell time on the voyage hither,” I whispered. “Hourglasses are too inaccurate, and since reaching this devil-made place we’ve neglected even to turn them. How long is the day here? What time is it on our earth?”
Sir Brian looked a trifle blank. “Indeed, I know not. What of it?”
“I presume you had a haunch of beef to break your fast,” I said. “Are you sure it is not Friday?”
They gasped and regarded each other with round eyes.
“When is it Sunday?” I cried. “Will you tell me the date of Advent? How shall we observe Lent and Easter, with two moons morris-dancing about to confuse the issue?”
Thomas Bullard buried his face in his hands. “We’re ruined!”
Sir Roger stood up. “No!” he shouted into the strickenness. “I’m no priest, nor even very godly. But did not Our Lord himself say the Sabbath was made for man and not man for the Sabbath?”
Father Simon looked doubtful. “I can grant special dispensations under extraordinary circumstances,” he said, “but I am really not sure how far I can strain such powers.”
“I like it not,” mumbled Bullard. “I take this to be a sign that God has turned his face from us, withdrawing the due times of the fasts and sacraments.”
Sir Roger grew red. He stood a moment more, watching the courage drain from his men like wine from a broken cup. Then he calmed himself, laughed aloud, and cried:
“Did not our Lord command his followers to go forth as far as they were able, bringing His word, and He would be with them always? But let’s not bandy texts. Perhaps we are venially sinning in this matter. Well, if that be so, a man should not grovel but should make amends. We’ll make costly offerings in atonement. To get the means for such offerings . . . have we not the entire Wersgor Empire at hand, to squeeze for ransom till its yellow eyes pop? This proves that God himself has commanded us to this war!” He drew his sword, blinding in the daylight, and held it before him hilt uppermost. “By this, my knightly sigil and arm, which is also the sign of the Cross, I vow to do battle for God’s glory!”
He tossed the weapon so it swung glittering in the hot air, caught it again and swung it so it shrieked. “With this blade will I fight!”
The men gave him a rather feeble cheer. Only glum Bullard hung back. Sir Roger leaned down to that captain, and I heard him hiss: “The clinching proof of my reasoning is, that I’ll cut anyone who argues further into dogmeat.”
Actually, I felt that in his crude way my master had grasped truth. In my spare time I would recast his logic into proper syllogistic form, to make sure; but meanwhile I was much encouraged, and the others were at least not demoralized.
Now a man-at-arms fetched Branithar, who stood glaring at us. “Good day,” said Sir Roger mildly, through me. “We shall want you to help interrogate prisoners and instruct us in our studies of captured engines.”
The Wersgor drew himself up with a warrior’s pride. “Save your breath,” he spat. “Behead me and be done with it. I misjudged your capabilities once, and it has cost many lives of my people. I shall not betray them further.”
Sir Roger nodded. “I looked for such an answer,” he said. “What became of One-Eyed Hubert?”
“Here I am, sire, here I am, here’s good old Hubert,” and the baron’s executioner hobbled up, adjusting his hood. The ax was tucked under one scrawny arm, and the noosed rope laid around his hump. “I was only wandering about, sire, picking flowers for me youngest grandchild, sire. You know her, the little girl with long gold curls and she’s so honey-sweet fond o’ daisies. I hoped I could find one or other o’ these paynim blooms might remind her o’ our dear Lincolnshire daisies, and we could weave a daisy chain together—”
“I’ve work for you,” said Sir Roger.
“Ah, yes, sire, yes, yes, indeed.” The old man’s single rheumy eye blinked about, he rubbed his hands and chuckled. “Ah, thank you, sire! ’Tis not that I mean to criticize, that ain’t old Hubert’s place, and he knows his humble place, him who has served man and boy, and his father and grandsire afore him, executioners to the noble de Tournevilles. No, sire, I knows me place and I keeps it as Holy Writ commands. But God’s truth, you’ve kept poor old Hubert very idle all these years. Now your father, sire, Sir Raymond, him we called Raymond Red-Hand, there was a man what appreciated art! Though I remember his father, your grandsire, me lord, old Nevil Rip-Talon, and his justice was the talk o’ three shires. In his day, sire, the commons knew their place and gentlefolk could get a decent servant at a decent wage, not like now when you let ’em off with a fine or maybe a day in the stocks. Why, ’tis a scandal—”
“Enough,” said Sir Roger. “The blueface here is stubborn. Can you persuade him?”
“Well, sire! Well, well, well!” Hubert sucked toothless gums with a pure and simple delight. He walked around our rigid captive, studying him from all angles. “Well, sire, now this is another matter, ’tis like the good old days come back, ’tis, yes, yes, yes, Heaven bless my good kind master! Now o’ course I took little equipment with me, only a few thumbscrews and pincers and such-like, but it won’t take me no time, sire, to knock together a rack. And maybe we can get a nice kettle of oil. I always says, sire, on a cold gray day there ain’t nothing so cozy as a glowing brazier and a nice hot kettle of oil. I think o’ my dear old daddy and I gets tears in this old eye, yes, sire, that I do. Let me see, let me see, tum-te-tum-te-tum.” He began measuring Branithar with his rope.
The Wersgor flinched away. His smattering of English was enough to give him the drift of conversation. “You won’t!” he yelled. “No civilized folk would ever—”
“Now let’s just see your hand, if you please.” Hubert took a thumbscrew from his pouch and held it against the blue fingers. “Yes, yes, ’twill fit snug and proper.” He unpacked an array of little knives. “Sumer is icumen in,” he hummed, “lhude sing cucu.”
Branithar gulped. “But you’re not civilized,” he said weakly. Choking and snarling: “Very well. I will do it. Curse you for a pack of beasts! When my people have smashed you, it will be my turn!”
“I can wait,” I assured him.
Sir Roger beamed. But suddenly his face fell again. The deaf old executioner was still counting over his apparatus. “Brother Parvus,” said my lord, “would you . . . could you . . . break the news to Hubert? I confess I’ve not the heart to tell him.”
I consoled the old fellow with the thought that if Branithar were caught lying, or otherwise failing to give us honest help, there would be punishment. This sent him hobbling happily off to construct a rack. I told Branithar’s guard to make sure the Wersgor saw that work.
Chapter X
* * *
AT LAST it came time for the conference. Since most of his important followers were occupied with the study of enemy materials, Sir Roger made out a full score for his party by taking their ladies along in their finest clothes. Otherwise only a few unarmed troopers, in borrowed court panoply, accompanied him and me.
As they rode across the field toward that pergolalike structure which a Wersgor machine had erected in an hour between the two camps, of some shimmering pearly material, Sir Roger said to his wife: “I would not take you into peril like this if I had any choice. ’Tis only that we must impress them with our power and wealth.”
Her face remained stony, turned from him toward the vast, sinister columns of grounded ships. “I will be no more endangered there, my lord, than are my children back in the pavilion.”
“God’s name!” he groaned. “I was wrong. I should have left that cursed vessel alone and sent word to the King. But will you hold my mista
ke against me all our lives?”
“They will not be long lives, thanks to your mistake,” she said.
He bridled. “You swore at the wedding—”
“Oh, yes. Have I not kept my oath? I have refused you no obedience.” Her cheeks flamed. “But God alone may command my feelings.”
“I won’t trouble you any more,” he said thickly.
This I did not hear myself. They rode ahead of us all, the wind tossing their scarlet cloaks, his plumed bonnet and the veils on her conical headdress, like a picture of the perfect knight and his love. But I set it down here, conjecturally, in light of the evil luck which followed.
Being of gentle blood, Lady Catherine controlled her manner. When we drew up at the meeting place, her delicate features showed only a cold scorn, directed at the common foe. She took Sir Roger’s hand and dismounted cat-graceful. He led the way more clumsily, with stormy brows.
Inside the curtained pergola was a round table, encircled by a kind of cushioned pew. The Wersgor chiefs filled one half, their snouted blue faces unreadable to us but their eyes flickering nervously. They wore metal-mesh tunics with bronze insignia of rank. In silk and vair, golden chains, ostrich plumes, cordovan hose, slashed and puffed sleeves, curl-toed shoes, the English showed like peacocks in a hen yard. I could see that the aliens were taken aback. The contrasting plainness of my friar’s habit jarred them all the worse.
I folded my hands, standing, and said in the Wersgor tongue, “For the success of this parley, as well as to seal the truce, let me offer a Paternoster.”
“A what?” asked the chief of the foe. He was somewhat fat, but dignified and with a strong visage.
“Silence, please.” I would have explained, but their abominable language did not seem to have any word for prayer; I had asked Branithar. “Pater noster, qui est in coelis,” I began, while the other English knelt with me.
I heard one of the Wersgorix mutter: “See, I told you they are barbarians. It’s some superstitious ritual.”
“I’m not so sure,” answered the chief dubiously. “The Jairs of Boda, now, have certain formulas for psychological integration. I’ve seen them temporarily double their strength, or stop a wound from bleeding, or go days without sleep. Control of inner organs via the nervous system. . . . And in spite of all our own propaganda against them, you know the Jairs are as scientific as we.”
I heard these clandestine exchanges readily enough, yet they did not seem aware of my awareness. I remembered now that Branithar had seemed a little deaf, too. Evidently all Wersgorix had ears less acute than men. This, I learned subsequently, was because their home planet had denser air than Terra, which made them wont to hear sounds more loudly. Here on Tharixan, with air about like England, they must raise their voices to be heard. At the time, I accepted God’s gift thankfully, without stopping to wonder why nor to warn the foe.
“Amen,” I finished. We all sat down at the table.
Sir Roger stabbed the chief with bleak gray eyes. “Am I dealing with a person of suitable rank?” he asked.
I translated. “What does he mean by ‘rank’?” the head Wersgor wondered. “I am the governor of this planet, and these are the primary officers of its security forces.”
“He means,” I said, “are you sufficiently wellborn that he will not demean himself by treating with you?”
They looked still more bewildered. I explained the concept of gentle birth as well as I could: which, with my limited vocabulary, was not well at all. We must thresh it over for quite some time before one of the aliens said to his lord:
“I believe I understand, Grath Huruga. If they know more than we do about the art of breeding for certain traits—” I must interpret many words new to me from context—“then they may have applied it to themselves. Perhaps their entire civilization is organized as a military force, with these carefully bred superbeings in command.” He shuddered at the thought. “Of course, they wouldn’t waste time talking to any creature of less intelligence.”
Another officer exclaimed, “No, that’s fantastic! In all our explorations, we’ve never found—”
“We have touched only the smallest fragment of the Via Galactica so far,” Lord Huruga answered. “We dare not assume they are less than they claim to be, until we have more information.”
I, who had sat listening to what they believed were whispers, favored them with my most enigmatic smile.
The governor said to me: “Our empire has no fixed ranks, but stations each person according to merit. I, Huruga, am the highest authority on Tharixan.”
“Then I can treat with you until word has reached your emperor,” said Sir Roger through me.
I had trouble with the word “emperor.” Actually, the Wersgor domain was like nothing at home. Most wealthy, important persons dwelt on their vast estates with a retinue of blueface hirelings. They communicated on the far-speaker and visited in swift aircraft or spaceships. Then there were the other classes I have mentioned elsewhere, such as warriors, merchants, and politicians. But no one was born to his place in life. Under the law, all were equal, all free to strive as best they might for money or position. Indeed, they had even abandoned the idea of families. Each Wersgor lacked a surname, being identified by a number instead in a central registry. Male and female seldom lived together more than a few years. Children were sent at an early age to schools, where they dwelt until mature, for their parents oftener thought them an encumbrance than a blessing.
Yet this realm, in theory a republic of freemen, was in practice a worse tyranny than mankind has known, even in Nero’s infamous day.
The Wersgorix had no special affection for their birthplace; they acknowledged no immediate ties of kinship or duty. As a result, each individual had no one to stand between him and the all-powerful central government. In England, when King John grew overweening, he clashed both with ancient law and with vested local interests; so the barons curbed him and thereby wrote another word or two of liberty for all Englishmen. The Wersgor were a lickspittle race, unable to protest any arbitrary decree of a superior. “Promotion according to merit” meant only “promotion according to one’s usefulness to the imperial ministers.”
But I digress, a bad habit for which my archbishop has often been forced to reprove me. I return, then, to that day in the place of nacre, when Huruga turned his terrible eyes on us and said: “It appears there are two varieties of you. Two species?”
“No,” said one of his officers. “Two sexes, I’m sure. They are clearly mammals.”
“Ah, yes.” Huruga stared at the gowns across the table, cut low in shameless modern modes. “So I see.”
When I had rendered this for Sir Roger, he said, “Tell them, in case they are curious, that our womenfolk wield swords side by side with the men.”
“Ah.” Huruga pounced on me. “That word sword. Do you mean a cutting weapon?”
I had no time to ask my master’s advice. I prayed inwardly for steadiness and answered, “Yes. You have observed them on our persons in camp. We find them the best tool for hand-to-hand combat. Ask any survivor of the Ganturath garrison.”
“Mmm . . . yes.” One of the Wersgorix looked grim. “We have neglected the tactics of infighting for centuries, Grath Huruga. There seemed no need for them. But I do remember one of our unofficial border clashes with the Jairs. It was out on Uloz IV, and they used long knives to wicked effect.”
“For special purposes . . . yes, yes.” Huruga scowled. “However, the fact remains that these invaders prance around on live animals—”
“Which need not be fueled, Grath, save by vegetation.”
“But which could not endure a heat beam or a pellet. They wave weapons out of the prehistoric past. They come not in their own ships, but in one of ours—” He broke off his murmur and barked at me:
“See here! I’ve delayed long enough. Yield to our judgment, or we shall
destroy you.”
I interpreted. “The force screen protects us from your flame weapons,” said Sir Roger. “If you wish to attack on foot, we shall make you welcome.”
Huruga turned purple. “Do you imagine a force screen will stop an explosive shell?” he roared. “Why, we could lob just one, let it burst inside your screen, and wipe out every last creature of you!”
Sir Roger was less taken aback than I. “We’ve already heard rumors of such bursting weapons,” he said to me. “Of course, he’s trying to frighten us with that talk of a single shot being enough. No ship could lift so great a mass of gunpowder. Does he take me for a yokel who’ll believe any tinker’s yarn? However, I grant he could fire many explosive barrels into our camp.”
“So what shall I tell him?” I asked fearfully.
The baron’s eyes gleamed. “Render this very exactly, Brother Parvus: ‘We are holding back our own artillery of this sort because we wish to talk with you, not merely kill you. If you insist on bombarding us, though, please commence. Our defenses will thwart you. Remember, however, that we are not going to keep our Wersgor prisoners inside those defenses!’”
I saw that this threat shook them. Even these hard hearts would not willingly kill some hundreds of their own people. Not that the hostages we held would stop them forever; but it was a bargaining point, which might gain us time. I wondered how we could possibly use that time, though, save to prepare our souls for death.
“Well, now,” huffed Huruga, “I didn’t imply I was not ready to hear you out. You have not yet told us why you have come in this unseemly, unprovoked manner.”
“It was you who attacked us first, who had never harmed you,” answered Sir Roger. “In England we give no dog more than one bite. My king dispatched me to teach you a lesson.”
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