I want
you to get out your bicycle, ride into town, find the mayor, sheriff,
grand panjandrum, supreme galootie or whatever he is called, and tell
him that he is officially invited to evening dinner along with any other
civic dignitaries he cares to bring. That, of course, includes their
wives.’
‘Very well, sir.’
‘Informal attire,’ added the Ambassador.
Harrison jerked up one ear and drooped the other. ‘What was that,
sir?’
‘They can dress how they like.’
‘I get it. Do I go right now, sir?’
‘At once. Return as quickly as you can and bring me the reply.’
Saluting sloppily, Harrison went out. His Excellency found an easy-chair,
reposed in it at full length, smiled with satisfaction.
‘It’s as easy as that.’ Pulling out a long cigar,
he bit off its end. ‘If we can’t touch their minds we’ll
appeal to their bellies.’ He cocked a knowing eye at Grayder.
‘Captain, see that there is plenty to drink. Strong stuff. Venusian
cognac or something equally potent. Give them lots of hooch and an hour
at a well-filled table and they’ll talk all night. We won’t
be able to shut them up.’ He lit the cigar, puffed luxuriously.
‘That is the tried and trusted technique
of high diplomacy—the insidious seduction of the distended gut.
It always works. You’ll see!’
Chapter
3
Pedalling briskly down the road, Tenth Engineer Harrison reached the
first street on either side of which were small detached houses with
neat gardens back and front. A plump, amiable looking woman was trimming
a hedge halfway along. He pulled up near to her, politely touched his
cap.
‘Scuse me, ma’am, I’m looking for the biggest man
in town.’
She part-turned, gave him no more than a casual glance, pointed her
clipping-shears southward.
‘That would be Jeff Baines. First on the right and second on
the left. It’s a small delicatessen.’
‘Thank you.’
He moved on, hearing the steady snip-snip resume behind him. First
on the right. He curved around a long, low, rubber-balled truck parked
by the corner. Second on the left. Three children pointed at him dramatically
and yelled shrill warnings that his back wheel was going round. He found
the delicatessen, propped a pedal on the curb, gave his machine a reassuring
pat before he went inside and had a look at Jeff.
There was plenty to see. Jeff had four chins, a twenty-two inch neck,
and a paunch that stuck out half a yard. An ordinary mortal could have
got into either leg of his pants without bothering to take off his diving
suit. Jeff Baines weighed at least three hundred pounds and undoubtedly
was the biggest man in town.
‘Wanting something?’ inquired Jeff, lugging it up from
far down.
‘Not exactly.’ Harrison eyed the succulent food display
and decided that anything unsold by nightfall was not thrown out to
the cats. ‘I’m looking for a certain person.’
‘Are you now? Usually I avoid that sort—but every man to
his taste.’ He plucked a fat lip while he mused a moment, then
suggested. ‘Try Sid Wilcock over on Dane Avenue. He’s the
most certain man I know.’
‘I didn’t mean it that way,’ said Harrison. ‘I
meant that I’m searching for somebody particular.’
‘Then why the blazes didn’t you say so in the first place?’
Jeff Baines worked over the new problem, finally offered, ‘Tod
Green ought to fit that specification topnotch. You’ll find him
in the shoeshop at the end of this road. He’s particular enough
for anyone. He’s downright finicky.’
‘You persist in misunderstanding me,’ Harrison told him
and then went on to make it plainer, ‘I’m hunting a local
bigwig so that I can invite him to a feed.’
Resting himself on a high stool which he overlapped by a foot all round,
Jeff Baines eyed him peculiarly. ‘There’s something lopsided
about this. Indeed, it seems crazy to me.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re going to use up a considerable slice of your life
finding a fellow who wears a wig, especially if you insist that it’s
got to be a big one. And then again, where’s the point of dumping
an ob on him merely because he uses a bean-blanket?’
‘Eh?’
‘It’s plain horse-sense to plant an ob where it will cancel
another one out, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’ Harrison let his mouth hang open while his mind
struggled with the strange problem of how to plant an ob.
‘So you don’t know? You’re exposing your tonsils
and looking dopey because you don’t know?’
Jeff Baines massaged a couple of his chins and sighed. He pointed at
the other’s middle. ‘Is that a uniform you’re wearing?’
‘Yes.’
‘A genuine, pukka, dyed-in-the-wool uniform?’
‘Of course.’
‘Ah, said Jeff, ‘That’s where you’ve fooled
me—coming here by yourself, on your ownsome. If there had been
a gang of you dressed identically the same I’d have known at once
that it was a uniform. That’s what uniform means: all alike. Doesn’t
it?’
‘I suppose so,’ agreed Harrison, who had never given it
a thought.
‘So you’re from that ship. I ought to have guessed it in
the beginning. I must be slow on the uptake today. But I didn’t
expect to see one, just one, messing around on a pedal contraption.
It goes to show, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Harrison, glancing warily backward to make
sure that no opportunist had swiped his bicycle while he was engaged
in conversation. ‘It goes to show.’
‘All right, let’s have it. Why have you come here and what
do you want?’
‘I’ve been trying to tell you all along. ‘I’ve
been sent to—’
‘Been sent?’ Jeff’s eyes widened a little. ‘Mean
to say you actually let yourself be sent?’
Harrison gaped at him. ‘Of course. Why not?’
‘Oh, I get it now,’ said Jeff, his puzzled features suddenly
clearing. ‘You confuse me with the queer way you talk. What you
really mean is that you planted an ob on somebody, eh?’
Desperately, Harrison asked, ‘For heaven’s sake, what’s
an ob?’
‘He doesn’t know,’ commented Jeff Baines, looking
prayerfully at the ceiling. ‘He doesn’t even know that!’
For a short while he contemplated the ignoramus with condescending pity
before he said, ‘You hungry by any chance?’
‘Going on that way.’
‘All right. I could tell you what an ob is. But I’ll do
something better—I’ll show you.’ Heaving himself off
the stool, he waddled to the door at back. ‘God alone knows why
I should bother to educate a uniform. It’s just that I’m
bored. C’mon, follow me.’
Obediently, Harrison, went behind the counter, paused to give his bicycle
a reassuring nod, trailed the other through a passage and into a yard.
Jeff Baines pointed to a stack of cases. ‘Canned goods.’
He indicated an adjacent store. ‘Bust them open and pile the stuff
in there. Stack the empties outside. Please yourself whether you do
it or not. That’s freedom, isn’t it?’ He lumbered back into the shop.
Left to himself, Harrison scratched his large ears and thought it over.
Somewhere, he felt, there was an obscure sort of confidence trick. A
candidate named Harrison was being tempted to qualify for his sucker
certificate. But if the play was beneficial to its organizer it might
be worth learning because it could then be passed on to other victims.
One must speculate in order to accumulate.
So he dealt with the cases as required. It cost him twenty minutes
of hard, slogging work after which he returned to the shop.
‘Now,’ explained Baines, ‘you’ve done something
for me. That means you’ve planted an ob on me. I don’t thank
you for what you have done. There’s no need to. All I have to
do is get rid of the ob.’
‘Ob?’
‘Obligation. Why use a long word when a short one is plenty good
enough? An obligation is an ob. I shift it this way: Seth Warburton,
next door but one, has got half a dozen of my obs saddled on him. So
I get rid of mine to you and relieve him of one of his to me by sending
you around for a meal.’ He scribbled briefly on a slip of paper.
‘Give him this.’
Harrison stared at it. In casual scrawl it read, ‘Feed this bum.’
Slightly dazed, he wandered out, stood by his bicycle and again examined
the paper. Bum, it said. He could think of several on the ship who’d
explode with wrath at the sight of that. Then his attention drifted
to the second shop farther along. It had a window crammed with comestibles
and two big words on the sign-strip above: Seth’s Gulper.
Coming to a decision which was encouraged by his insides, he walked
into Seth’s holding the paper as if it were a death warrant. Beyond
the door there was a long counter, some steam and a clatter of crockery.
He chose a seat at a marble-topped table occupied by a gray-eyed brunette.
‘Do you mind?’ He inquired politely as he lowered himself
into the chair.
‘Do I mind what?’ She examined his ears as if they were
curious phenomena. ‘Rabies, dogs, aged relatives or standing around
in the rain?’
‘Do you mind me sitting here?’
‘I can please myself whether or not I endure it. That’s
freedom, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Harrison, ‘sure it is.’ He fidgeted
in his seat, feeling that he’d made a move and promptly lost a
pawn. He sought around for something else to say and at that point a
thin-featured man in a white coat dumped before him a large plate loaded
with fried chicken and three kinds of unfamiliar food. The sight unnerved
him. He couldn’t remember how many years it had been since he’d
last seen fried chicken or how many months since he’d been offered
vegetables in other than powder form.
‘Well,’ demanded the waiter, mistaking his fascinated reaction,
‘doesn’t it please you?’
‘Yes.’ Harrison handed over the slip of paper. ‘Sure
it does. You bet it does.’
Glancing at the note, the other called to somebody semi-visible at
one end of the counter. ‘You’ve wiped out one of Jeff’s.’
He strolled away, tearing the slip into small pieces.
That was a fast pass,’ commented the brunette, nodding at the loaded
plate. ‘He dumps a heavy feed-ob on you and you bounce it straight
back, leaving all quits. I’ll have to wash dishes to get rid of
mine. Or kill one Seth has got on somebody else.’
‘I stacked a ton of canned stuff.’ Harrison picked up knife
and fork, his mouth watering. There were no knives and forks on the
ship; they weren’t needed for powders and pills. ‘Don’t
give you much choice here, do they? You take what you get.’
‘Not if you’ve got an ob on Seth,’ she informed.
‘When you have, he must work it off the best way he can. You should
have put that to him instead of waiting for fate and complaining afterward.’
‘But I’m not complaining.’
‘It’s your right. That’s freedom, isn’t it?’
She mused a bit, went on, ‘It isn’t often I’m an ob
ahead of Seth but when I am I scream for iced pineapple and he comes
running. When he’s one ahead I do the running.’ Her gray
eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. ‘You’re listening as
if all this is new to you.’
‘Are you a stranger here?’
He nodded, his mouth full of chicken. A little later he managed, ‘I’m
off that spaceship.’
‘Good grief!’ She froze considerably. ‘An Antigand!
I wouldn’t have thought it. Why, you look almost human.’
‘I’ve long taken pride in that similarity.’ He chewed,
swallowed, looked inquiringly around. The white-coated man came up.
‘What’s to drink?’ Harrison asked.
‘Dith, double-dith, shemak or coffee.’
‘Coffee. Big and black.’
‘Shemak is better,’ advised the brunette as the waiter
went to get it. ‘But why should I tell you?’
The coffee came in a pint-sized mug. Putting it down, the waiter said,
‘It’s your choice seeing that Seth is working one off. What’ll
you have for after—apple pie, yimpik delice, grated tarfelsoufers
or canimelon in syrup?’
‘Iced pineapple.’
‘Ugh ! ’The other blinked at him, gave the brunette an
accusing stare, brought it and dumped it on the table.
Harrison pushed it across. ‘Take the plunge and enjoy yourself.’
‘It’s yours.’
‘Couldn’t eat it if I tried.’ He dug up another load
of chicken, stirred his coffee, he began to feel at perfect peace with
this world. ‘Got as much as I can manage right here.’ He
made an inviting motion with his fork. ‘Go on, be greedy and to
heck with the waistline.’
‘No.’ Firmly she pushed the pineapple back at him. ‘If
I ate my way through that I’d be saddled with an ob.’
‘So what?’
‘I don’t let strangers dump obs on me.’
‘Quite right, too. Very proper of you,’ approved Harrison.
‘Strangers often have strange notions.’
‘You’ve been around,’ she remarked. ‘Though
I don’t know what’s strange about the notions.’
‘Cynic!’ The pineapple got another pass in her direction.
‘If you feel that I’ll be burdening you with an ob that
you’ll have to pay off you can do it in seemly manner here and
now. All I want is some information.’
‘What is it?’
‘Just tell me where I can put my finger on the ripest cheese
in this locality.’
‘That’s easy. Go round to Alec Peters’
place, middle of Tenth Street.’ With that she
helped herself to the dish.
‘Thanks.
I was beginning to think that everyone was dumb or afflicted
with the funnies.’
He carried on with his own meal, finished it, lay back expansively.
Unaccustomed nourishment persuaded his brain to work a bit more dexterously
for after a minute an expression of chronic doubt clouded his face and
he inquired, ‘Does this Peters run a cheese warehouse?’
‘Of course.’ Emitting a sigh of pleasure, she pushed the
empty dish aside.
He groaned low down, then informed, ‘I’m chasing the mayor.’
‘What is that?’
‘Number one. The big boss. The sheriff, pohanko, or what-ever
you call him.’
‘I’m still no wiser,’ she said, genuinely puzzled.
‘The man who runs this town. The leading citizen.’
‘Make it a little clearer,’ she suggested, trying hard
to help him. ‘Who or what should this citizen be leading?’
‘You and Seth and everyone else.’ He waved a hand to encompass
the entire burg.
Frowning, she asked, ‘Leading us where?’
‘Wherever you’re going.’
She gave up, beaten, and signed the white-coated waiter to come to
her assistance.
‘Matt, are we going any place?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Well, ask Seth then.’
He went away, came back with, ‘Seth says he’s going home
at six o’clock and what’s it to you?’
‘Anyone leading him there?’ she inquired.
‘Don’t be daft,’ Matt advised. ‘He knows his
own way and he’s cold sober.’
Harrison chipped in. ‘Look, I don’t see why there should be so much difficulty about all this.
Just tell me where I can find an official, any official—the
police chief, the city treasurer, the mortuary keeper or even a mere
justice of the peace.’
‘What’s an official?’ asked Matt, openly baffled.
‘What’s a justice of the peace?’ added the brunette.
His mind side-slipped and did a couple of spins. It took him quite
a time to reassemble his thoughts and try another tack.
‘Let us suppose,’ he said to Matt, ‘that this joint
catches fire. What would you do?’
‘Fan it to keep it going,’ retorted Matt, fed up and making
no effort to conceal the fact. He returned to the counter with the air
of one not inclined to waste words on a congenital halfwit.
‘He’d put it out,’ informed the brunette . ‘What
else would you expect him to do?’
‘Suppose that he couldn’t?’
‘He’d call in others to help him.’
‘And would they?’
‘Of course.’ She surveyed him with a touch of pity. ‘They’d
jump at the chance. They’d be planting a nice, big crop of strong
obs, wouldn’t they?’
‘Yes, I guess so.’ He began to feel completely stalled, but made a last desperate shot
at the problem. ‘What if the fire were much too big and
fast for passers-by to tackle?’
‘Seth would summon the fire squad.’
Defeat receded, triumph replaced it.
‘Ah, so there is a fire squad? That’s what I mean by some-thing
official. That’s what I’ve been after all along. Quick,
tell me where I can find its headquarters.’
‘Bottom end of Twelfth Avenue. You can’t miss it.’
‘Thanks!’ He got up in a hurry. ‘See you again sometime.’
Going out fast, he grabbed his bicycle, shoved off from the curb.
The fire depot proved to be a big place containing four telescopic
ladders, a spray tower and two multiple pumps, all motorized on the
usual array of fat rubber balls. Inside, Harrison came face to face
with a small man wearing immense plus fours.
‘Looking for someone?’ asked the small man.
‘Yes, the fire chief.’
‘Who’s he?’
By now prepared for this sort of thing, Harrison spoke as one would
to a child. ‘See here, Mister, this is a fire-fighting outfit.
Somebody bosses it. Somebody organizes the whole affair, fills forms,
presses buttons, shouts orders, recommends promotions, kicks the shiftless,
grabs all the credit, transfers all the blame and generally lords it
around. He’s the most important man in the bunch and everybody
knows it.’ His forefinger tapped imperatively on the other’s
chest. ‘And he is the fellow I’m going to talk to if it’s
the last thing I do.’
‘Nobody is more important than anyone else. How can he be? I
think you’re crazy.’
‘You’re welcome to think what you please but I am telling
you that—’
A shrill bell clamoured, cutting off his sentence. Twenty men appeared
as if by magic, boarded a ladder and a multiple pump, roared into the
street.
Squat, basin-shaped helmets formed the only article of attire that
the crew had in common. Apart from these, they plumbed the depths of
sartorial iniquity. The man with the plus fours, having gained the pump
in one bold leap, was whirled out standing between a fat fire-fighter
wearing a rainbow-hued cummerbund and a thin one sporting a canary yellow
kilt. A late-comer decorated with ear-rings resembling little bells
hotly pursued the pump, snatched at its tailboard, missed, sourly watched
the outfit disappear from sight. He mooched back, swinging his helmet
from one hand.
‘Just my lousy luck,’ he griped at the gaping Harrison.
‘The sweetest, loveliest call of the year. A big brewery. The
sooner they get there the bigger the obs they’ll plant on it.’
Licking his lips at the thought, he sat on a coil of canvas hose. ‘Oh,
well, maybe it’s for the good of my health.’
‘Tell me something, Harrison probed, ‘How do you earn a
living?’
‘There’s a dopey question. You can see for yourself. I’m
on the fire squad.’
‘I know. What I mean is, who pays you?’
‘Pays me?’
‘Gives you money for all this.’
‘You talk mighty peculiar. What is money?’
Harrison rubbed his cranium to assist the circulation of blood through
the brain. What is money? Yeouw! He tried another angle.
‘If your wife needs a new coat, how does she get it?’
‘Goes to a store that’s carrying fire-obs, of course. She
knocks off one or two for them.’
‘But what if no clothing store has had a fire?’
‘You’re pretty ignorant, brother. Where in this world do
you come from?’ His ear-bells swung as he studied the other a
moment. ‘Almost all stores have fire-obs. If they’ve any
sense they allocate so many per month by way of insurance. They look
ahead, just in case, see? They plant obs on us in advance so that when
we rush to the rescue we’ve got to wipe out a dollop of theirs
before we can plant any new ones of our own. That stops us overdoing
it and making hogs of ourselves. Sort of cuts down the stores’
liabilities. It makes sense, doesn’t it?’
‘Maybe, but—’
‘I get it now,’ interrupted the other, narrowing his eyes.
‘You’re from that spaceship. You’re a lousy Antigand.’
‘I’m a Terran,’ informed Harrison with suitable dignity.
‘What’s more, all the folk who originally settled this planet
were Terrans.’
‘Are you trying to teach me history?’ He gave a harsh laugh.
‘You’re wrong. There was a five per cent strain of Martian.’
‘Even the Martians are descended from Terran stock,’ Harrison
riposted.
‘So what? That was a devil of a long time ago. Things change,
in case you haven’t heard. We’ve no Terrans or Martians
on this world except for your crowd which has barged in unasked. We’re
all Gands here. And you noseypokes are Antigands.’
‘We aren’t anti-anything that I know of. Where did you
get that idea?’
‘Myob!’ said the other, suddenly determined to refuse further
argument. He tossed his helmet to one side, spat on the floor.
‘You heard me. Go trundle your scooter.’
Harrison gave up and did just that. Gloomily he cycled back to the
ship.
His Excellency pinned him with an authoritative optic. ‘So you’re
back at last, Mister. How many are coming and at what time?’
‘None, sir,’ said Harrison, feeling kind of feeble.
‘None?’ August eyebrows lifted querulously. ‘Do you
mean that they have refused my invitation?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Come out with it. Mister,’ urged the Ambassador. ‘Don’t
stand there gawping as if your push-and-puff contraption has just given
birth to a roller-skate. You say they have not refused my invitation—but
nobody is coming. What am I supposed to make of that?’
‘I didn’t ask anyone.’
‘So you didn’t ask?’ Turning, he said to Grayder,
Shelton and the others, ‘He didn’t ask!’ His attention
came back to Harrison. ‘You forgot all about it, I presume? Intoxicated
by liberty and the power of man over machine, you flashed around the
town at nothing less than eighteen miles per hour, creating consternation
among the citizenry, tossing their traffic laws into the ash-can, putting
children and elderly persons in peril of their lives, not even troubling
to ring your bell or—’
‘I don’t have a bell, sir,’ stated Harrison, inwardly
resenting this list of enormities. ‘I have a whistle operated
by the rotation of the rear wheel.’
‘There!’ said the Ambassador like one abandoning all hope.
He sat down and smacked his forehead several times. ‘I am reliably
informed that somebody is going to get a bubble-pipe.’ He pointed
at Harrison. ‘And now I learn that he possesses a whistle.’
‘I designed it myself, sir,’ Harrison said helpfully.
‘I’m sure you did. I can imagine it. I would expect it
of you.’ The Ambassador took a fresh grip on himself. ‘See
here, Mister, I would like you to tell me something in strict confidence,
just between the two of us.’ Leaning forward, he put the question
in a whisper that ricochetted seven times around the room. ‘Why
didn’t you ask anyone?’
‘I couldn’t find out who to ask, sir. I did my level best
but nobody seemed to know what I was talking about. Or they pretended
they didn’t.’
‘Humph!’ The Ambassador glanced out of the nearest port,
consulted his watch. ‘The light is fading already. Night will
be upon us pretty soon. It’s too late for further action.’
An annoyed grunt. ‘Another day gone to pot. Two days here and
we’re still fiddling around.’ Then he added with grim resignation.
‘All right, Mister. We’re wasting time anyway so we might
as well hear your story in full. Tell us what happened in complete detail.
That way, we may be able to dig some sense out of it.’
Harrison told it, finishing, ‘It seemed to me, sir, that I could
carry on for weeks trying to argue it out with people whose brains are
oriented east-west while mine points north-south. One can talk with
them from now to doomsday, become really friendly and enjoy the conversation—without
either side fully understanding what the other is saying.’
‘So it appears,’ said the Ambassador dryly. He turned to
Grayder. ‘You’ve been around a lot and seen many new worlds
in your time. What do you make of all this twaddle, if anything?’
‘It’s a problem in semantics,’ diagnosed Grayder,
who had been compelled by circumstances to study that subject. ‘One
comes across it on many worlds that have been long out of touch, though
usually it hasn’t developed far enough to become tough and unsolvable.
For instance, the first fellow we met on Basileus said, cordially and
in what he imagined to be perfect Terran, “Joy you unboot now!”
’
‘Yes? And what did that mean?’
‘Come inside, put on your slippers and be happy. In other words,
welcome. It wasn’t difficult to understand, Your Excellency, especially
when one expects that sort of thing.’ Grayder cast a thoughtful
glance at Harrison and continued, ‘Here, the problem seems to
have developed to a greater extreme. The language remains fluent and
retains enough surface similarities to conceal underlying changes, but
basic meanings have been altered, concepts discarded and new ones substituted,
thought-forms re-angled and, of course, there is the inevitable impact
of locally created slang.’
‘Such as “myob”, ’ offered the Ambassador.
‘Now there is a queer word without recognizable Earth-root. I
don’t like the sarcastic way they use it. They make it sound downright
insulting. Obviously it has some kind of connection with these obs they
keep throwing around. It means “my obligation” or something
like that, but the real significance eludes me.’
‘There is no connection, sir,’ put in Harrison. He hesitated,
saw that they were waiting for him to go on. ‘On my way back I
met the lady who had directed me to Baines’ place. She asked whether
I’d found him and I told her I had. We chatted a short while.
I asked her what “myob” meant. She said it was initial-slang.’
He stopped and fidgeted uneasily.
‘Keep going,’ urged the Ambassador. ‘After some of
the sulphurous comments I’ve heard emerging from the Blieder-room
ventilation-shaft, I can stomach anything. What does it mean?’
‘M-y-o-b,’ informed Harrison, slightly embarrassed. ‘Mind-your-own-business.’
‘Ah!’ The other gained colour. ‘So that is what they’ve
been telling me all along?’
‘I’m afraid so, sir.’
‘Evidently they’ve a lot to learn.’ His neck swelled
with undiplomatic fury, he smacked a fat hand upon the table and declaimed
loudly. ‘And they’re going to learn it!’
‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Harrison, becoming more uneasy and anxious
to get out. ‘May I go now and tend to my bicycle?’
‘Yes, you may,’ said the Ambassador in the same noisy tones.
He performed a couple of meaningless gestures, turned a florid face
on Captain Grayder. ‘Bicycle! Does anyone on this vessel own a
slingshot?’
‘I doubt it, Your Excellency, but I will make inquiries,
if you wish.’
‘Don’t be an imbecile,’ ordered the Ambassador. ‘We
have our full quota of hollow-heads already.’
Chapter
4
Postponed until early morning, the next conference was relatively
short and sweet. The Ambassador took a seat, harumphed importantly,
straightened his tie, frowned around the table.
‘Let us have another look at what we’ve got. We know that
this planet’s mules call themselves Gands, don’t take any
interest in their Terran origin and insist on referring to us as Antigands.
This implies an education and resultant outlook inimical to ourselves.
They’ve been trained from childhood to take it for granted that
whenever we appeared upon the scene we would prove to be against whatever
they are for.’
‘And we haven’t the remotest notion of what they are for,’
put in Colonel Shelton, quite unnecessarily. But it served to show that
he was among those present, paying attention, and ready to lend the
full support of his powerful intellect.
‘I am only too aware of our ignorance in that respect,’
said the Ambassador, with a touch of acid. ‘They are maintaining
a conspiracy of silence about their prime motivation. We have got to
break it somehow.’
‘That,’ offered Shelton, unabashed, ‘is the problem.’
Taking no notice, the Ambassador continued, ‘They have a peculiar,
moneyless economic system which, in my opinion, manages to function
only because it is afflicted with large surpluses. It won’t survive
a day when over-population brings serious shortages. This economic set-up
appears to be based on a mixture of co-operative techniques, private
enterprise, a kindergarten’s honour system and plain unadorned
gimme. That makes it a good deal crazier than the food-in-the-bank system
they use on Epsilon’s four outer planets.’
‘But it works,’ observed Grayder pointedly.
‘After a fashion. That flap-eared engineer’s bicycle works—and
so does he while riding it. A motorized job would save him a lot of
sweat.’ Highly pleased with this analogy, the Ambassador enjoyed
the flavour of it for a few seconds before he continued. ‘This
local scheme of economics—if you can call it a scheme—almost
certainly is the end-result of the haphazard development of some hick
eccentricity imported by the original settlers. It is long overdue for
motorizing, so to speak. They know it as well as we do. But they don’t
want it because mentally they’re four hundred years behind the
times. They are afraid of change, improvement, efficiency—like
many backward peoples. Moreover, there’s little doubt that some
of them have a vested interest in keeping things exactly as they are.’
He sniffed loudly to express his contempt. ‘They are antagonistic
toward us simply because they don’t want to be disturbed.’
His stare went round the table, daring one of them to remark that this
might be as good a reason as any other. They were too disciplined to
fall into that trap. None offered a comment and so he went on.
‘In due time, after we have gained a proper grip on affairs,
we’re going to have a long and tedious task on our hands. We’ll
have to overhaul their entire educational system with a view to eliminating
anti-Terran prejudices and bringing them up to date on the facts of
life. That’s had to be done on several other planets though not
to anything like the extent as will be necessary here.’
‘We’ll cope,’ promised someone.
Ignoring him, the Ambassador finished, ‘However, all that is
in the future. Our real problem is in the present. It is in our laps
right now, namely, where are the reins of power and who is holding them?
We must solve that before we can make genuine progress. How are we going
to do it?’ Folding hands over his paunch, he added, ‘Get
your wits to work and let us have some bright suggestions.’
Grayder stood up, a big, leather-bound book in his hands. ‘Your
Excellency, I don’t think we need exercise our minds about new
plans for making contact and gaining essential information. The next
move is likely to be imposed upon us.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I have a good many old-timers in my crew. There are some among
the troops as well. Space- lawyers, every one of them.’ He tapped
the book significantly. ‘They know Space Regulations as well as
I do. Sometimes I think they know too much.’
‘And so—?’
Grayder opened the book. ‘Regulation 127 says that on a hostile
world the crew serves on a war-footing until back in free space. On
a non-hostile world they serve on a peace-footing.’
‘What of it?’
‘Regulation 131A says that on a peace-footing the crew—with
the exception of a minimum number required to keep the vessel’s
services in trim—is entitled to liberty immediately after unloading
cargo or within seventy-two Earth-hours of arrival, whichever period
is the shorter.’ He glanced up. ‘By mid- day the men will
be all set for land-leave and itching to go. There will be trouble if
they are not allowed out.’
‘Oh, will there?’ The Ambassador smiled lopsidedly. ‘What
if we declare this world to be hostile? That will pin their ears back,
won’t it?’
Impassively consulting his book, Grayder said, ‘Regulation 148
says that a hostile world is defined as any planet that systematically
opposes Terran citizens by force.’ He turned to the next page.
‘For the purpose of these regulations, force is defined as any
course of action calculated to inflict physical injury, regardless of
whether or not the said action succeeds in its intent.’
‘I don’t agree.’ The Ambassador frowned his strong
disapproval. ‘A world can be psychologically hostile without resorting
to force. We have an example right here. It can’t be called a
friendly world.’
‘There are no friendly worlds within the meaning of Space Regulations,’
Grayder informed. ‘Every planet falls into one of two classifications:
hostile or non-hostile.’ He tapped the bare leather cover. ‘It’s
all in the book.’
‘We’d be prize fools to let a mere book order us around
or allow the crew to boss us, either. Throw it out of the port. Stick
it into the disintegrator. Get rid of it any way you like and forget
it.’
‘Begging your pardon, Your Excellency, but I can’t do that.’
Grayder opened the tome at its beginning. ‘Basic regulations 1A,
lB and lC include the following: whether in space or on land, a vessel’s
personnel remain under direct command of its captain or his nominee
who will be guided solely and at all times by Space Regulations and
will be responsible only to the Space Committee situated on Terra. The
same applies to all troops, officials and civilian passengers aboard
a space-traversing vessel, whether said vessel is in flight or grounded,
regardless of rank or authority they are subordinate to the captain
or his nominee. A nominee is defined as a ship’s first, second
or third officer performing the duties of a captain when the latter
is incapacitated or absent.’
‘What all that rigmarole means is that you are king of your castle,’
remarked the Ambassador, none too pleased. ‘If we don’t
like it we must get out of the ship.’
‘With the greatest respect, Your Excellency, I must agree that
that is the position. I cannot help it—regulations are regulations.
And the men know it!’ Grayder placed the book on the table, poked
it away from him. ‘It’s highly likely that the men will
wait until mid-day, pressing their pants, creaming their hair and generally
prettying themselves up. They will then make approach to me in proper
manner to which I cannot object. They will request the first mate to
submit their leave roster for my approval.’ He gave a deep sigh.
‘The worst I could do would be to quibble about a few names and
switch some of them around. But I cannot refuse leave to a full quota.’
‘Liberty to paint the town red might be a good thing after all,’
suggested Shelton, not averse to doing some painting himself. ‘A
dump like this wakes up with a vengeance when the fleet’s in port.
We should make useful contacts by the dozens. And that’s what
we want, isn’t it?’
‘We want to pin down this planet’s political leaders,’
retorted the Ambassador. ‘I can’t see them powdering their
faces, putting on their best hats and rushing out to give the yoohoo
to a crowd of hungry sailors.’ His plump features quirked. ‘We’ve
got to find the needles in this haystack and that job won’t be
done by ratings on the rampage.’
‘You may be right, Your Excellency,’ put in Grayder. ‘But
we’ll have to take a chance on it. If the men insist on going
out I lack the power to prevent them. Only one thing can give me the
power.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Clear, indisputable evidence enabling me to define this world
as hostile within the meaning of Space Regulations.’
‘Well, can’t we arrange that somehow?’ Without waiting
for a reply, the Ambassador pursued, ‘Every crew has its stupid
and incurable trouble-maker. Find yours, give him a double shot of Venusian
cognac, tell him he’s being granted immediate liberty—then
warn him that he may not enjoy it because these lousy Gands view us
as a reason why people dig up the drains. After that, push him out of
the airlock. When he returns with a black eye and a boastful story about
the other fellow’s condition, declare this world hostile.’
He waved an expressive hand. ‘And there you are. Physical violence.
All according to the book.’
‘Regulation 148A,’ said Grayder, ‘emphasizing that
opposition by force must be systematic, warns that individual brawls
may not be construed as evidence of hostility.’
The Ambassador turned an irate face upon the senior civil servant.
‘When you return to Terra—if ever you do get back—you
can tell the appropriate department how the space service is balled
up, hamstrung, semi-paralysed and generally handicapped by bureaucrats
who write books.’
Before the other could think up a reply in defence
of his own kind, without contradicting the Ambassador,
a knock came at the door. First Mate Morgan entered,
saluted smartly, offered Grayder a sheet of paper.
‘First leave roster, sir. Do you approve it?’
More than four hundred men went to town in the early afternoon. They
advanced upon it in the usual manner of people long overdue for the
bright lights, that is to say, eagerly, expectantly, in gangs of two,
three, six or ten.
Gleed attached himself to Harrison. They were two odd rankers, Gleed
being the only sergeant on liberty while Harrison was the only tenth
engineer. They were also the only two fish out of water since both were
in civilian clothes and Gleed missed his uniform, Harrison felt naked
without his bicycle.
These trifling features gave them enough in common to justify at least
one day’s companionship.
‘This one’s a honey,’ declared Gleed with great enthusiasm.
‘I’ve been on a good many liberty jaunts in my time but
this one’s a honey. On all other trips the boys ran up against
the same problem: what to use for money. They had to go forth like a
battalion of Santa Clauses, loaded up with anything that might serve
for barter. Almost always nine-tenths of it wasn’t of any use
and had to be carted back to the ship.’
‘On Persephone,’ informed Harrison, ‘a long-shanked
Milik offered me a twenty-carat, blue-tinted, first-water diamond for
my bike.’
‘Jeepers, didn’t you take it?’
‘What was the good? I’d have had to go back sixteen light-years
for another bike.’
‘But, man, you could exist without a bike for a while.’
‘I can exist without a diamond. I can’t ride around on
a diamond.’
‘Neither can you sell a bicycle for the price of a sportster
Moon-boat.’
‘Yes, I can. I just told you this Milik offered me a rock like
an egg.’
‘It’s a crying shame. You could have got a fortune for
that blinder, if it had no flaws.’ Sergeant Gleed smacked his
lips at the thought of it. ‘Money and plenty of it, that’s
what I like. And that’s what makes this trip a winner. Every other
time we’ve gone out Grayder, Shelton and Bidworthy have lectured
us in turn about creating a favourable impression, behaving in a spacemanlike
manner and so forth. But this time Grayder talks about money.’
‘The Ambassador put him up to it.’
‘I like it all the same,’ enthused Gleed. ‘An extra
one week’s pay, a bottle of cognac and double liberty for any
man who brings back to the ship an adult Gand, male or female, who is
sociable and willing to talk.’
‘It won’t be easily earned.’
‘One month’s extra pay for whoever gets the name and address
of the town’s chief civic dignitary. Two months’ for the
name and accurate location of the world’s capital city.’
He whistled happily, added,’ somebody is going to make it rich
and it won’t be Bidworthy. His name didn’t come out of the
hat. I know—I was holding it.’
Ceasing his chatter, he turned to watch a tall, lithe blonde striding
past. Harrison pulled at his arm.
‘Here’s Baines’ place that I told you about. Let’s
go in.’
‘Oh, all right.’ Gleed followed with reluctance, his attention
still directed down the street.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Harrison to Jeff Baines.
‘Which it isn’t,’ contradicted Baines. ‘Trade’s
bad. There’s a semi-final being played and it has drawn half the
town away. They’ll come home and start thinking about their bellies
long after I’ve closed. Probably they’ll make a rush on
me to-morrow morning and I won’t be able to serve them fast enough.’
‘How can trade be bad if you don’t make money even when
it’s good?’ inquired Gleed, reasonably applying the information
Harrison had given him.
Jeff’s big moon eyes went over him slowly then turned to Harrison.
‘So he’s another bum off your boat, eh? What’s he
talking about?’
‘Money,’ explained Harrison. ‘It’s stuff we
use to simplify trade. It’s printed stuff, like documentary obs
of various sizes.’
‘That tells me a lot,’ Jeff Baines observed. ‘It
tells a crowd that has to make a printed record of every ob is not to
be trusted - because they don’t even trust each other.’
He waddled to his high stool and squatted on it. His breathing was laboured
and wheezy. ‘And that confirms what our schools have always taught,
namely, that an Antigand would swindle his widowed mother.’
‘Your schools have got it wrong,’ assured Harrison.
‘Maybe they have.’ Jeff saw no reason to argue the point.
‘But we’ll play safe until we know different.’ He
looked them over. ‘What do you two want, anyway?’
‘Some advice,’ Gleed shoved in quickly. ‘We’re
out on the spree. We’d like to know the best places for food and
fun.’
‘How long have you got?’
‘Until nightfall tomorrow.’
‘No use.’ Jeff Baines shook his head sorrowfully. ‘It
would take you from now until then to plant enough obs to qualify for
anything worth having. Besides, plenty of people would rather drop dead
than let an Antigand dump an ob on them. They have their pride, see?’
Harrison asked, ‘Can’t we get so much as a square meal?’
‘Well, I don’t know about that.’ Jeff thought it
over while massaging his several chins. ‘You might manage it—but
I can’t help you this time. There’s nothing I want of you
and so you can’t use any obs I’ve got stashed around.’
‘Can you offer any suggestions?’
‘If you were local citizens it would be lots different. You could
get all you want right now by taking on a load of obs to be wiped out
sometime in the future as and when the chances come along. But I can’t
see anybody giving credit to Antigands who are here today and gone tomorrow.’
‘Not so much of the gone tomorrow talk,’ advised Gleed.
‘When an Imperial Ambassador arrives it means that Terrans are
here for keeps.’
‘Who says so?’
‘The Terran Empire says so. You’re part of it, aren’t
you?’
‘No,’ said Jeff positively. ‘We are not part of anything,
don’t want to be and don’t intend to be. What’s more,
nobody’s going to make us part of anything.’
Leaning on the counter, Gleed gazed absently at a large can of pork.’
Seeing that I’m out of uniform and not on duty, I sympathize with
you though I still shouldn’t say it. I wouldn’t care myself
to be taken over body and soul by a gang of other-world bureaucrats.
But you folk are going to have a mighty tough time beating us off. That’s
the way it is.’
‘Not with what we’ve got,’ opined Jeff confidently.
‘You haven’t got much,’ scoffed Gleed, more in friendly
criticism than open contempt. He sought confirmation from Harrison.
‘Have they?’
‘It wouldn’t seem so,’ said Harrison.
‘Don’t go by appearances,’ warned Jeff. ‘We’ve
more than you bums can handle.’
‘Such as what?’
‘Well, just for a start, we’ve got the mightiest weapon
ever thought up by the mind of man. We’re Gands, see? So we don’t
need ships and guns and similar playthings. We’ve something better.
It’s effective. There’s no defence against it.’
‘Man, I’d like to see it,’ Gleed challenged. Data
concerning a new and exceptionally powerful weapon should be a good
deal more valuable than the mayor’s address. Grayder might be
sufficiently impressed by the importance thereof to arrange a fabulous
reward. With some sarcasm, he added, ‘But, of course, we can’t
expect you to give away precious secrets.’
‘There is nothing secret about it,’ said Jeff, very surprisingly.
‘You can have it free, gratis and for nothing any time you want.
Any Gand would give it to you for the mere asking. Like to know why?’
‘You bet.’
‘Because it works one way only. We can use it against you but
you can’t use it against us.’
‘Nonsense!’ declared Gleed. ‘There is no such thing.
There is no weapon inventable that the other fellow can’t employ
once he gets his hands on it and learns how to operate it.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘I am positive. I’ve been in the space service for twenty
years and you can’t be a trooper that long without learning all
about weapons of every conceivable kind from string bows to H-bombs.
You’re trying to kid me. Nothing doing. I’m too grey in
the hair and sharp in the tooth. A one-way weapon is impossible. And
that means im-poss-ible.’
‘Don’t argue with him,’ Harrison told Baines. ‘He’ll
never be convinced until he’s shown.’
‘I can see that.’ Jeff Baines’ face creased into
a massive grin. ‘I’ve told you that you can have our wonder-weapon
for the asking. Why don’t you ask?’
‘All right, I’m asking.’ Gleed put it without any
enthusiasm. A weapon that would be presented on request, without even
the necessity of first planting a minor ob, couldn’t be so mighty
after all. His imaginary large reward shrank
to a hand-full of small change and thence to nothing. ‘Hand it
over and let me look at it.’
Edging ponderously around on his stool, Jeff reached to the wall,
removed a small, shiny plaque from its hook and passed it across the
counter.
‘You may keep it,’ he said. ‘And much good may it
do you.’
Gleed examined it, turning it over and over between his fingers. It
was nothing more than an oblong strip of substance resembling ivory.
One side was polished and bare. The other bore three letters deeply
engraved in bold style:
F.—I.W.
Glancing up at Baines, his features puzzled, he said, ‘You call
this a weapon?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Then I don’t get it.’ He passed the plaque to Harrison.
‘Do you?’
‘No.’ Harrison examined it with care. ‘What does
this F.—I.W. mean?’
‘Initial-slang,’ informed Baines. ‘Made correct by
common usage. It has become a worldwide motto. You’ll see it all
over the place if you haven’t noticed it already.’
‘I have seen it here and there but attached no importance to
it and thought nothing more about it. I remember now that it was inscribed
in several places including Seth’s and the fire depot.’
‘It was on the sides of that bus we couldn’t empty,’
put in Gleed. ‘It didn’t mean anything to me.’
It means plenty,’ said Jeff, ‘Freedom-I won’t!’
‘That kills me,’ Gleed responded. ‘I’m stone
dead already.
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