The Project Gutenberg EBook of Uller Uprising, by
Henry Beam Piper, John D. Clark and John F. Carr

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Uller Uprising

Author: Henry Beam Piper, John D. Clark and John F. Carr

Release Date: January 21, 2007 [EBook #19474]
[Original Release Date: October 5, 2006]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ULLER UPRISING ***




Produced by Greg Weeks, Sankar Viswanathan, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









                         Transcriber's Note:

       Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the
       U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.



                            H. BEAM PIPER


                                ULLER
                               UPRISING




                      ACE SCIENCE FICTION BOOKS

                               NEW YORK


       *       *       *       *       *

This Ace Science Fiction Book contains the complete text of the
original hardcover edition. It has been completely reset in a typeface
designed for easy reading, and was printed from new film.

PRINTING HISTORY
Twayne edition/ 1952
Ace edition/ June 1983

Copyright © 1952 by Twayne Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © renewed 1983 by Charter Communications, Inc.
Introduction © 1952, 1983 by Dr. John D. Clark
New Introduction © 1983 by John F. Carr
Cover art by Gino D'Achille

       *       *       *       *       *




Introduction to

_ULLER UPRISING_

by John F. Carr


With the publication of this novel, _Uller Uprising_, all of H. Beam
Piper's previously published science fiction is now available in Ace
editions. _Uller Uprising_ was first published in 1952 in a Twayne
Science Fiction Triplet--a hardbound collection of three thematically
connected novels. (The other two were Judith Merril's _Daughters of
Earth_ and Fletcher Pratt's _The Long View_.) A year later it appeared
in the February and March issues of _Space Science Fiction_, edited by
Lester Del Rey.

The magazine version, which was abridged by about a third, was
believed by many bibliographers to be the only version--and as a
novella it was too short for book publication. The Twayne version had
a small print run and is so scarce that few people have seen it. Those
bibliographers who knew of its existence assumed that both versions of
_Uller_ were the same. It was through a telephone conversation with
Charles N. Brown, publisher of _Locus_ and correspondent with Piper,
that I learned about the Twayne edition and its greater length. Brown
allowed me to photocopy his original, for which we owe him a debt of
thanks; because the Twayne version is not only novel length, but far
better than the shorter one that appeared in _Space Science Fiction_.

Probably the most surprising and interesting thing about the Twayne
edition is the essay that forms the introduction to that volume, and
is reprinted here. The essay is by Dr. John D. Clark, an eminent
scientist of the fourties and fifties and one of the discoverers of
sulfa, the first "miracle drug." It describes in great detail the
planetary system of the star Beta Hydri, and gives the names of those
planets: Uller and Niflheim. A publisher's note states that Clark's
essay was written first, and given to the contributors as background
material for a novel they would then write.

The fans of H. Beam Piper seem to owe a great debt to Dr. Clark.
_Uller Uprising_ became the foundation of Piper's monumental
Terro-Human Future History; the first story where we encounter the
Terran Federation. In it we learn about Odin, the planet that will one
day be the capital of the First Galactic Empire; and humble Niflheim,
which in more decadent times will become a common expletive, a word
meaning hell. This is also where Piper introduced and explained the
Atomic Era dating system (A.E.). _Uller Uprising_ is set in the early
years of the Terran Federation's expansion and exploration, an epoch
of great vitality. In "The Edge of the Knife" Piper compares this time
of discovery to the Spanish conquest of the Americas. This feeling of
vigor and unlimited possibilities runs through all the early
Federation stories: _Uller Uprising_, "Omnilingual," "Naudsonce,"
"When in the Course--," and, to a lesser degree, in the late
Federation novels, _Little Fuzzy_, _Fuzzy Sapiens_, and _Fuzzies and
Other People_. (See _Federation_ by H. Beam Piper for a good overview
of this period.)

In these stories we see Terro-Humans at their best and at their worst:
Individual heroism and bravery in the face of grave danger in _Uller
Uprising_; Federation law and justice in _Little Fuzzy_ and its
sequels; and, in "Omnilingual" and "Naudsonce," the spirit of science
and rational inquiry. Yet we also see colonial exploitation and
subjugation in _Uller Uprising_ and "Oomphel in the Sky," the greed
and corruption of Chartered land companies in _Little Fuzzy_, and
political corruption in _Four-Day Planet_. These stories are about a
living Terro-Human culture, not a utopia.

It was Piper's attention to historical realism and his use of actual
historical models that have helped his work to pass the test of time
and have led to his becoming the favorite of a new generation of
readers more than twenty-five years after his death.

_Uller Uprising_ is the story of a confrontation between a human
overlord and alien servants, with an ironic twist at the end. Like
most of Piper's best work, _Uller Uprising_ is modeled after an actual
event in human history; in this case the Sepoy Mutiny (a Bengal
uprising in British-held India brought about when rumors were spread
to native soldiers that cartridges being issued by the British were
coated with animal fat. The rebellion quickly spread throughout India
and led to the massacre of the British Colony at Cawnpore.). Piper's
novel is not a mere retelling of the Indian Mutiny, but rather an
analysis of an historical event applied to a similar situation in the
far future.

       *       *       *       *       *

Like many philosophers and social theorists before him, Piper
attempted to chart the progress of human-kind; unlike most, however,
he did not envision or try to create a system of ethics that would end
all of humanity's problems. The best he could offer was his model of
the self-reliant man: The man who "actually knows what has to be done
and how to do it, and he's going to go right ahead and do it, without
holding a dozen conferences and round-table discussions and giving
everybody a fair and equal chance to foul things up for him."

Piper brought his own ideas and judgments about society and history
into all of his work, but they appear most clearly in his Terro-Human
Future History. While not everyone will agree with Piper's theories
they give his work a bite that most popular fiction lacks. One cannot
read Piper complacently. And one can often find a wry insight
sandwiched in between the blood and thunder.

Other future histories may span more centuries or better illuminate
the highlights of several decades, but until a rival is created with
more historical depth and attention to detail, H. Beam Piper's
Terro-Human Future History will stand as the Bayeux Tapestry of
science fiction histories.

In many ways--certainly during his lifetime--Piper was the most
underrated of the John W. Campbell's "Astounding" writers. He was
probably also the most Campbellian; his _self-reliant man_ is almost a
mirror image of Campbell's "Citizen."

Piper died a bitter man, a failure in his own mind; shortly before his
death he believed he could no longer earn a living as a writer without
charity from his friends or the state.

Now he's the cornerstone of Ace Books. Had he lived long enough to
finish another half dozen books, he would have been among the sf
greats of the sixties....

But maybe he does know, after all. Jerry Pournelle, who was very much
influenced by Piper and in many ways considers himself Beam's
spiritual descendant--and incidently was John W. Campbell's last major
_discovery_--has said that sometimes, when he's gotten down a
particularly good line, he can hear the "old man" chuckle and whisper,
_atta boy_.




Introduction

Dr. John D. Clark

THE SILICONE WORLD


1. THE STAR AND ITS MOST IMPORTANT PLANET

The planet is named Uller (it seems that when interstellar travel was
developed, the names of Greek Gods had been used up, so those of Norse
gods were used). It is the second planet of the star Beta Hydri, right
angle 0:23, declension-77:32, G-0 (solar) type star, of approximately
the same size as Sol; distance from Earth, 21 light years.

Uller revolves around it in a nearly circular orbit, at a distance of
100,000,000 miles, making it a little colder than Earth. A year is of
the approximate length of that on Earth. A day lasts 26 hours.

The axis of Uller is in the same plane as the orbit, so that at a
certain time of the year the north pole is pointed directly at the
sun, while at the opposite end of the orbit it points directly away.
The result is highly exaggerated seasons. At the poles the temperature
runs from 120°C to a low of-80°C. At the equator it remains not far
from 10°C all year round. Strong winds blow during the summer and
winter, from the hot to the cold pole; few winds during the spring and
fall. The appearance of the poles varies during the year from baked
deserts to glaciers covered with solid CO_{2}. Free water exists in
the equatorial regions all year round.


2. SOLAR MOVEMENT AS SEEN FROM ULLER

As seen from the north pole--no sun is visible on Jan. 1. On April 1,
it bisects the horizon all day, swinging completely around. April 1 to
July 1, it continues swinging around, gradually rising in the sky, the
spiral converging to its center at the zenith, which it reaches July
1. From July 1 to October 1 the spiral starts again, spreading out
from the center until on October 1 it bisects the horizon again. On
October 1 night arrives to stay until April 1.

At the equator, the sun is visible bisecting the southern horizon for
all 26 hours of the day on January 1. From January 1 to April 1, the
sun starts to dip below the horizon at night, to rise higher above it
during the day. During all this time it rises and sets at the same
hours, but rises in the southeast and sets in the southwest. At noon
it is higher each day in the southern sky until April 1, when it rises
due east, passes through the zenith and sets due west. From April 1 to
July 1, its noon position drops down to the north, until on July 1, it
is visible all day, bisected by the northern horizon.


3. CHEMISTRY AND GEOLOGY OF ULLER

Calcium and chlorine are rarer than on earth, sodium is somewhat
commoner. As a result of the shortage of calcium there is a higher
ration of silicates to carbonates than exists on earth. The water is
slightly alkaline and resembles a very dilute solution of sodium
silicate (water glass). It would have a pH of 8.5 and tastes slightly
soapy. Also, when it dries out it leaves a sticky, and then a glassy,
crackly film. Rocks look fairly earthlike, but the absence or scarcity
of anything like limestone is noticeable. Practically all the
sedimentary rocks are of the sandstone type.

All rivers are seasonal, running from the polar regions to the central
seas in the spring only, or until the polar cap is completely dried
out.


4. ANIMAL LIFE

As on Earth life arose in the primitive waters and with a carbon base,
but because of the abundance of silicone, there was a strong tendency
for the microscopic organisms to develop silicate exoskeletons, like
diatoms. The present invertebrate animal life of the planet is of this
type and is confined to the equatorial seas. They run from amoeba-like
objects to things like crayfish, with silicate skeletons. Later, some
species of them started taking silicone into their soft tissues, and
eventually their carbon-chain compounds were converted to silicone
type chains, from

  |  |  |         |   |  |   |  |
--C--C--C-- to O--Si--O--Si--O--Si,
  |  |  |         |   |  |   |  |

with organic radicals on the side links. These organisms were a
transitional type, with silicone tissues and water body fluids,
resembling the earthly amphibians, and are now practically extinct.
There are a few species, something like segmented worms, still to be
seen in the backwaters of the central seas.

A further development occurred when the silicone chain animals began
to get short-chain silicones into their circulatory systems, held in
solution by OH or NH_{2} groups on the ends and branches of the
chains. The proportion of these compounds gradually increased until
the water was a minor and then a missing constituent. The larger
mobile species were, then, practically anhydrous. Their blood consists
of short-chain silicones, with quartz reinforcing for the soft parts
and their armor, teeth, etc., of pure amorphous quartz (opal). Most of
these parts are of the milky variety, variously tinted with metallic
impurities, as are the varieties of sapphires.

These pure silicone animals, due to their practical indestructibility,
annihilated all but the smaller of the carbon animals, and drove the
compromise types into odd corners as relics. They developed into a
fish-like animal with a very large swim-bladder to compensate for the
rather higher density of the silicone tissues, and from these fish the
land animals developed. Due to their high density and resulting high
weight, they tend to be low on the ground, rather reptilian in look.
Three pairs of legs are usual in order to distribute the heavy load.
There is no sharp dividing line between the quartz armor and the
silicone tissue. One merges into the other.

The dominant pure silicone animals only could become mobile and
venture far from the temperate equatorial regions of Uller, since they
neither froze nor stiffened with cold, nor became incapacitated by
heat. Note that all animal life is cold-blooded, with a negligible
difference between body and ambient temperatures. Since the animals
are silicones, they don't get sluggish like cold snakes.


5. PLANT LIFE

The plants are of the carbon-metabolism, silicate-shell type, like the
primitive animals. They spread out from the equator as far as they
could go before the baking polar summers killed them. They have normal
seasonal growth in the temperate zones and remain dormant and frozen
in the winter. At the poles there is no vegetation, not because of the
cold winter, but because of the hot summer. The winter winds
frequently blow over dead trees and roll them as far as the equatorial
seas. Other dead vegetation, because of the highly silicious water,
always gets petrified unless it is eaten first. What with the
quartz-speckled hides of the living vegetation and the solid quartz of
the dead, a forest is spectacular.

The silicone animals live on the plants. They chew them up, dehydrate
them, and convert their silicious outer bark and carbonaceous
interiors into silicones for themselves. When silicone tissue is
metabolized, the carbon and hydrogen go to CO_{2} and H_{2}O, which
are breathed out, while the silicone goes into SiO_{2}, which is
deposited as more teeth and armor. (Compare the terrestrial octopus,
which makes armor-plating out of calcium urate instead of excreting
urea or uric acid.) The animals can, of course, eat each other too, or
make a meal of the small carbonaceous animals of the equatorial seas.

Further note that the animals cannot digest plants when they are cold.
They can eat them and store them, but the disposal of the solid water
and CO_{2} is too difficult a problem. When they warm up, the water in
the plants melts and can be disposed of, and things are simpler.




II

THE FLUORINE PLANET

1. THE STAR AND PLANET


The planet named Niflheim is the fourth planet of Nu Puppis, right
angle 6:36, declension-43:09; B8 type star, blue-white and hot, 148
light years distant from Earth, which will require a speed in excess
of light to reach it.

Niflheim is 462,000,000 miles from its primary, a little less than the
distance of Jupiter from our sun. It thus does not receive too great a
total amount of energy, but what it does receive is of high potential,
a large fraction of it being in the ultra-violet and higher
frequencies. (Watch out for really super-special sunburn, etc., on
unwarned personnel.)

The gravity of Niflheim is approximately 1 g, the atmospheric pressure
approximately 1 atmosphere, and the average ambient temperature
about-60°C;-76°F.


2. ATMOSPHERE

The oxidizer in the atmosphere is free fluorine (F_{2}) in a rather
low concentration, about 4 or 5 percent. With it appears a mad
collection of gases. There are a few inert diluents, such as N_{2}
(nitrogen), argon, helium, neon, etc., but the major fraction consists
of CF_{4} (carbon tetrafluoride), BF_{3} (boron trifluoride), SiF_{4}
(silicon tetrafluoride), PF_{5} (phosphorous pentafluoride), SF_{6}
(sulphur hexafluoride) and probably others. In other words, the
fluorides of all the non-metals that can form fluorides. The
phosphorous pentafluoride rains out when the weather gets cold. There
is also free oxygen, but no chlorine. That would be liquid except in
very hot weather. It sometimes appears combined with fluorine in
chlorine trifluoride. The atmosphere has a slight yellowish tinge.


3. SOIL AND GEOLOGY

Above the metallic core of the planet, the lithosphere consists
exclusively of fluorides of the metals. There are no oxides, sulfides,
silicates or chlorides. There are small deposits of such things as
bromine trifluoride, but these have no great importance. Since
fluorides are weak mechanically, the terrain is flattish. Nothing
tough like granite to build mountains out of. Since the fluoride ion
is colorless, the color of the soil depends upon the predominant metal
in the region. As most of the light metals also have colorless ions,
the colored rocks are rather rare.


4. THE WATERS UNDER THE EARTH

They consist of liquid hydrofluoric acid (HF). It melts at-83°C and
boils at 19.4°C. In it are dissolved varying quantities of metallic
and non-metallic fluorides, such as boron trifluoride, sodium
fluoride, etc. When the oceans and lakes freeze, they do so from the
bottom up, so there is no layer of ice over free liquid.


5. PLANTS AND PLANT METABOLISM

The plants function by photosynthesis, taking HF as water from the
soil, and carbon tetrafluoride as the equivalent of carbon dioxide
from the air to produce chain compounds, such as:

  H  H  H  H
  |  |  |  |
--C--C--C--C--
  |  |  |  |
  F  F  F  F

and at the same time liberating free fluorine. This reaction could
only take place on a planet receiving lots of ultra-violet because so
much energy is needed to break up carbon tetrafluoride and
hydrofluoric acid. The plant catalyst (doubling for the magnesium in
chlorophyll) is nickel. The plants are colored in various ways. They
get their metals from the soil.


6. ANIMALS AND ANIMAL METABOLISM

Animals depend upon two main reactions for their energy, and for the
construction of their harder tissues. The soft tissues are about the
same as the plant molecules, but the hard tissues are produced by the
reaction:

  H  H  H                 F  F  F
  |  |  |                 |  |  |
--C--C--C-- + F_{2} --> --C--C--C-- + HF
  |  |  |                 |  |  |
  F  F  F                 F  F  F

resulting in a teflon boned and shelled organism. He's going to be
tough to do much with. Diatoms leave strata of powdered teflon. The
main energy reaction is:

  H  H  H
  |  |  |
--C--C--C-- ... + F_{2} --> CF_{4} + HF
  |  |  |
  F  F  F

The blood catalyst metal is titanium, which results in colorless
arterial blood and violet veinous, as the titanium flips back and
forth between tri and tetra-valent states.


7. EFFECT ON INTRUDING ITEMS

Water decomposes into oxygen and hydrofluoric acid. All organic matter
(earth type) converts into oxygen, carbon tetrafluoride, hydrofluoric
acid, etc., with more or less speed. A rubber gas mask lasts about an
hour. Glass first frosts and then disappears. Plastics act like
rubber, only a little slower. The heavy metals, iron, nickel, copper,
monel, etc., stand up well, forming an insoluble coat of fluorides at
first and then doing nothing else.


8. WHY GO THERE?

Large natural crystals of fluorides, such as calcium difluoride,
titanium tetrafluoride, zirconium tetrafluoride, are extremely useful
in optical instruments of various forms. Uranium appears as uranium
hexafluoride, all ready for the diffusion process. Compounds of such
non-metals as boron are obtainable from the atmosphere in high purity
with very little trouble. All metallurgy must be electrical. There are
considerable deposits of beryllium, and they occur in high
concentration in its ores.




PROLOGUE

On Satan's Footstool


The big armor-tender vibrated, gently and not unpleasantly, as the
contragravity field alternated on and off, occasionally varying its
normal rate of five hundred to the second when some thermal updraft
lifted the vehicle and the automatic radar-altimeter control acted to
alter the frequency and lower it again. Sometimes it rocked slightly,
like a boat on the water, and, in the big screen which served in lieu
of a window at the front of the control cabin, the dingy-yellow
landscape would seem to tilt a little. If unshielded human eyes could
have endured the rays of Nu Puppis, Niflheim's primary, the whole scene
would have appeared a vivid Saint Patrick's Day green, the effect of
the blue-predominant light on the yellow atmosphere. The outside
'visor-pickup, however, was fitted with filters which blocked out the
gamma-rays and X-rays and most of the ultra-violet-rays, and added the
longer light-waves of red and orange which were absent, so that things
looked much as they would have under the light of a G0-type star like
Sol. The air was faintly yellow, the sky was yellow with a greenish
cast, and the clouds were green-gray.

A thousand feet below, the local equivalent of a forest grew, the
trees, topped with huge ragged leaves, looking like hundred-foot
stalks of celery. There would be animal life down there, too--little
round things, four inches across, like eight-legged crabs, gnawing at
the vegetation, and bigger things, two feet long, with articulated
shell-armor and sixteen legs, which fed on the smaller herbivores.
Beyond, in the middleground, was open grassland, if one could so call
a mat of wormlike colorless or pastel-tinted sprouts, and a river
meandered through it. On the skyline, fifty miles away, was a range of
low dunes and hills, none more than a thousand feet high.

No human had ever set foot on the surface, or breathed the air, of
Niflheim. To have done so would have been instant death; the air was a
mixture of free fluorine and fluoride gasses, the soil was metallic
fluorides, damp with acid rains, and the river was pure hydrofluoric
acid. Even the ordinary spacesuit would have been no protection; the
glass and rubber and plastic would have disintegrated in a matter of
minutes. People came to Niflheim, and worked the mines and uranium
refineries and chemical plants, but they did so inside power-driven
and contragravity-lifted armor, and they lived on artificial
satellites two thousand miles off-planet. This vehicle, for instance,
was built and protected as no spaceship ever had to be, completely
insulated and entered only through a triple airlock--an outer lock,
which would be evacuated outward after it was closed, a middle lock
kept evacuated at all times, and an inner lock, evacuated into the
interior of the vehicle before the middle lock could be opened.
Niflheim was worse than airless, much worse.

The chief engineer sat at his controls, making the minor lateral
adjustments in the vehicle's position which were not possible to the
automatic controls. One of the radiomen was receiving from the orbital
base; the other was saying, over and over, in an exasperatedly
patient voice: "Dr. Murillo. Dr. Murillo. Please come in, Dr.
Murillo." At his own panel of instruments, a small man with grizzled
black hair around a bald crown, and a grizzled beard, chewed nervously
at the stump of a dead cigar and listened intently to what was--or for
what wasn't--coming in to his headset receiver. A couple of assistants
checked dials and refreshed their memories from notebooks and peered
anxiously into the big screen. A large, plump-faced, young man in
soiled khaki shirt and shorts, with extremely hairy legs, was doodling
on his notepad and eating candy out of a bag. And a black-haired girl
in a suit of coveralls three sizes too big for her, and, apparently,
not much of anything else, lounged with one knee hooked over her
chair-arm, staring into the screen at the distant horizon.

"Dr. Murillo. Dr. Mur--" The radioman broke off in mid-syllable and
listened for a moment. "I hear you, doctor, go ahead." Then, a moment
later "What's your position, now, doctor?"

"I can see them," the girl said, lifting a hand in front of her. "At
two o'clock, about one of my hand's-breadths above the horizon."

The man with the grizzled beard put his face into the fur around the
eyepiece of the telescopic-'visor and twisted a dial. "You have good
eyes, Miss Quinton," he complimented. "Only four personal armors;
Ahmed, ask him where the fifth is."

"We only see four of your personal-armors," the radioman said. "Who's
missing, and why?" He waited for a moment, then lowered the hand-phone
and turned. "The fifth one's inside the handling-machine. One of the
Ullerans. Gorkrink."

The larger of the specks that had appeared on the horizon resolved
itself into a handling-machine, a thing like an oversized
contragravity-tank, with a bulldozer-blade, a stubby derrick-boom
instead of a gun, and jointed, claw-tipped arms to the sides. The
smaller dots grew into personal armor--egg-shaped things that sprouted
arms and grab-hooks and pushers in all directions. The man with the
grizzled beard began talking rapidly into his hand-phone, then hung it
up. There was a series of bumps, and the armor-tender, weightless on
contragravity, shook as the handling-machine came aboard.

"You ever see any nuclear bombing, Miss Quinton?" the young man with
the hairy legs asked, offering her his candy bag.

"Only by telecast, back Sol-side," she replied, helping herself.
"Test-shots at the Federation Navy proving-ground on Mars. I never
even heard of nuclear bombs being used for mining till I came here,
though."

"Well, if this turns out as well as the other job, three months ago,
it'll be something to see," he promised. "These volcanoes have been
dormant for, oh, maybe as long as a thousand years; there ought to be
a pretty good head of gas down there. And the magma'll be thick,
viscous stuff, like basalt on Terra. Of course, this won't be anything
like basalt in composition--it'll be intensely compressed metallic
fluorides, with a very high metal-content. The volcanoes we shot three
months ago yielded a fine flow of lava with all sorts of
metals--nickel, beryllium, vanadium, chromium, indium, as well as
copper and iron."

"What sort of gas were you speaking about?" she asked.

"Hydrogen. That's what's going to make the fireworks; it combines
explosively with fluorine. The hydrogen-fluorine combination is what
passes for combustion here; the result is hydrofluoric acid, the
local equivalent of water. See, the metallic core of this planet is
covered, much less thickly than that of Terra, with fluoride
rock--fluorspar, and that sort of thing. There's nothing like granite
here, for instance. That's why those big dunes, out there, are the
best Niflheim has in the way of mountains. The subsurface hydrogen is
produced when the acid filters down through the rock, combines with
pure metals underneath."

"Dr. Murillo's inside, now," the radioman said. "Just came out of the
inner airlock. He'll be up as soon as he gets out of his
pressure-suit."

"As soon as he gets here, I'll touch it off," the bearded man said.
"Everything set, de Jong?"

"Everything ready, Dr. Gomes," one of his assistants assured him.

The door at the rear of the control-cabin opened, and Juan Murillo,
the seismologist, entered, followed by an assistant. Murillo was a big
man, copper-skinned, barrel-chested; he looked like a third-or
fourth-generation Martian, of Andes Indian ancestry. He came forward
and stood behind Gomes' chair, looking down at the instruments. His
assistant stopped at the door. This assistant was not human. He was a
biped, vaguely humanoid, but he had four arms and a face like a
lizard's, and, except for some equipment on a belt, he was entirely
naked.

He spoke rapidly to Murillo, in a squeaking jabber. Murillo turned.

"Yes, if you wish, Gorkrink," he said, in the
English-Spanish-Afrikaans-Portuguese mixture that was Sixth Century,
A.E., Lingua Terra. Then he turned back to Gomes as the Ulleran sat
down in a chair by the door.

"Well, she's all yours, Lourenço, shoot the works."

Gomes stabbed the radio-detonator button in front of him. A voice came
out of the PA-speaker overhead: "In sixty seconds, the bombs will be
detonated ... thirty seconds ... fifteen seconds ... ten seconds ...
five seconds, four seconds, three seconds, two seconds, one
second...."

Out on the rolling skyline, fifty miles away, a lancelike ray of
blue-white light shot up into the gathering dusk--a clump of five
rays, really, from five deep shafts in an irregular pentagon half a
mile across, blended into one by the distance. An instant later, there
was a blinding flash, like sheet-lightning, and a huge ball of
varicolored fire belched upward, leaving a series of smoke-rings to
float more slowly after it. That fireball flattened, then spread to
form the mushroom-head of a column of incandescent gas that mounted to
overtake it, engorging the smoke-rings as it rose, twisting, writhing,
changing shape, turning to dark smoke in one moment and belching flame
and crackling with lightning the next. The armor-tender began to pitch
and roll; it was all the engineer and one of the assistants could do,
together, to keep it level.

"In about half an hour," the large young man told the girl, "the real
fireworks should be starting. What's coming up now is just small
debris from the nuclear blast. When the shockwaves get down far enough
to crack things open, the gas'll come up, and then steam and ash, and
then the magma. This one ought to be twice as good as the one we shot
three months ago; it ought to be every bit as good as Krakatoa, on
Terra, in 59 Pre-Atomic."

"Well, even this much was worth staying over for," the girl said,
watching the screen.

"You going on to Uller on the _City of Canberra_?" Lourenço Gomes
asked. "I wish I were; I have to stay over and make another shot, in a
month or so, and I've had about all of Niflheim I can take, now. The
sooner I get onto a planet where they don't ration the air, the better
I'll like it."

"Well, what do you know!" the large young man with the hairy legs
mock-marveled. "He doesn't like our nice planet!"

"Nice planet!" Gomes muttered something. "They call Terra God's
Footstool; well, I'll give you one guess who uses this thing to prop
his cloven hoofs on."

"When are you going to Terra?" the girl asked him.

"Terra? I don't know, a year, two years. But I'm going to Uller on the
next ship--the _City of Pretoria_--if we get the next blast off in
time. They want me to design some improvements on a couple of
power-reactors, so I'll probably see you when I get there."

"Here she comes!" the chief engineer called. "Watch the base of the
column!"

The pillar of fiery smoke and dust, still boiling up from where the
bombs had gone off far underground, was being violently agitated at
the bottom. A series of new flashes broke out, lifting and spreading
the incandescent radioactive gasses, and then a great gush of flame
rose. A column of pure hydrogen must have rushed up into the vacuum
created by the explosion; the next blast of flame, in a lateral sheet,
came at nearly ten thousand feet above the ground, and great rags of
fire, changing from red to violet and back through the spectrum to red
again, went soaring away to dissipate in the upper atmosphere. Then
geysers of hot ash and molten rock spouted upward; some of the
white-hot debris landed almost at the acid river, half-way to the
armor-tender.

"We've started a first-class earthquake, too," the Hispano-Indian
Martian Murillo said, looking at the instruments. "About six big
cracks opening in the rock-structure. You know, when this quiets down
and cools off, we'll have more ore on the surface than we can handle
in ten years, and more than we could have mined by ordinary means in
fifty."

About four miles from the original blast, another eruption began with
a terrific gas-explosion.

"Well, that finishes our work," the large young man said, going to a
kitbag in the corner of the cabin and getting out a bottle. "Get some
of those plastic cups, over there, somebody; this one calls for a
drink."

"That's right," Gomes said. "You do something once, it may be an
accident; you repeat the performance, and it's a success." He began
pushing papers aside on his desk, and the girl in the too-ample
coveralls brought drinking cups.

The Ulleran, in the background, rose quickly and squeaked
apologetically. Murillo nodded. "Yes, of course, Gorkrink. No need for
you to stay here." The Ulleran went out, closing the door behind him.

"That taboo against Ullerans and Terrans watching each other eat and
drink," Murillo said. "What is that, part of their religion?"

"No, it's their version of modesty," the girl replied. "Like some of
our sex-inhibitions, which they can't even begin to understand.... But
you were speaking to him in Lingua Terra; I didn't know any of them
understood it."

"Gorkrink does," Murillo said, uncorking the bottle and pouring into
the plastic cups. "None of them can speak it, of course, because of
the structure of their vocal organs, any more than we can speak their
languages without artificial aids. But I can talk to him in Lingua
Terra without having to put one of those damn gags in my mouth, and he
can pass my instructions on to the others. He's been a big help; I'll
be sorry to lose him."

"Lose him?"

"Yes, his year's up; he's going back to Uller on the _Canberra_. You
know, it's impossible to keep some trace of fluorine from the air in
the handling-machines, or even out on the orbiters, and it plays the
devil with their lungs. He wanted to stay on another three months, to
help with the next shot, but the medics wouldn't hear of it.... He's
from Keegark, wherever on Uller that is; claims to be a prince, or
something. I know all the other geeks kowtow to him. But he's a damn
good worker. Very smart; picks things up the first time you tell him.
I'll recommend him unqualifiedly for any kind of work with
contragravity or mechanized equipment."

They all had drinks, now, except the chief engineer, who wanted a
rain-check on his.

"Well, here's to us," Murillo said. "The first A-bomb miners in
history...."




I.

Commander-in-Chief Front and Center


General Carlos von Schlichten threw his cigarette away, flexed his
hands in his gloves, and set his monocle more firmly in his eye,
stepping forward as the footsteps on the stairway behind him ceased
and the other officers emerged from the squat flint keep--Captain
Cazabielle, the post CO; big, chocolate-brown Brigadier-General
Themistocles M'zangwe; little Colonel Hideyoshi O'Leary. Far in front
of him, to the left, the horizon was lost in the cloudbank over Takkad
Sea; directly in front, and to the right, the brown and gray and black
flint mountains sawed into the sky until they vanished in the
distance. Unseen below, the old caravan-trail climbed one side of the
pass and slid down the other, a sheer five hundred feet below the
parapet and the two corner catapult-platforms which now mounted 90-mm
guns. On the little hundred-foot-square parade ground in front of the
keep, his aircar was parked, and the soldiers were assembled.

Ten or twelve of them were Terrans--a couple of lieutenants,
sergeants, gunners, technicians, the sergeant-driver and
corporal-gunner of his own car. The other fifty-odd were Ulleran
natives. They stood erect on stumpy legs and broad, six-toed feet.
They had four arms apiece, one pair from true shoulders and the other
connected to a pseudo-pelvis midway down the torso. Their skins were
slate-gray and rubbery, speckled with pinhead-sized bits of quartz
that had been formed from perspiration, for their body-tissues were
silicone instead of carbon-hydrogen. Their narrow heads were
unpleasantly saurian; they had small, double-lidded red eyes, and
slit-like nostrils, and wide mouths filled with opalescent teeth.
Except for their belts and equipment, they were completely naked; the
uniform consisted of the emblem of the Chartered Uller Company
stencil-painted on chests and backs. Clothing, to them, was
unnecessary, either for warmth or modesty. As to the former, they were
cold-blooded and could stand a temperature-range of from a hundred and
twenty to minus one hundred Centigrade. Von Schlichten had seen them
sleeping in the open with their bodies covered with frost or freezing
rain; he had also seen them wade through boiling water. As to the
second, they had practically no sex-inhibitions; they were all of the
same gender, true, functional, hermaphrodites. Any individual among
them could bear young, or fertilize the ova of any other individual.
Fifteen years ago, when he had come to Uller as a former Terran
Federation captain newly commissioned colonel in the army of the Uller
Company, it had taken some time before he had become accustomed to the
detailing of a non-com and a couple of privates out of each platoon
for baby-sitting duty. At least, though, they didn't have the
squaw-trouble around army posts on Uller that they had on Thor, where
he had last been stationed.

An airjeep, coming in out of the sun, circled the crag-top fort and
let down onto the terrace next to von Schlichten's command-car. It
carried a bristle of 15-mm machine-guns, and two of the eight 50-mm
rocket-tubes on either side were empty and freshly smoke-stained. The
duraglass canopy slid back, and the two-man crew--lieutenant-driver
and sergeant-gunner--jumped out. Von Schlichten knew them both.

"Lieutenant Kendall; Sergeant Garcia," he greeted. "Good afternoon,
gentlemen."

Both saluted, in the informal, hell-with-rank-we're-all-human manner
of Terran soldiers on extraterrestrial duty, and returned the
greeting.

"How's the Jeel situation?" he asked, then nodded toward the fired
rocket-tubes. "I see you had some shooting."

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said. "Two bands of them. We sighted the
first coming up the eastern side of the mountain about two miles this
side of the Blue Springs. We got about half of them with MG-fire, and
the rest dived into a big rock-crevice. We had to use two rockets on
them, and then had to let down and pot a few of them with our pistols.
We caught the second band in that little punchbowl place about a mile
this side of Zortolk's Old Fort. There were only six of them; they
were bunched together, feeding. Off one of their own gang, I'd say;
the way we've been keeping them up in the high rocks, they've been
eating inside the family quite a bit, lately. We let them have two
rockets. No survivors. Not many very big pieces, in fact. We let down
at Zortolk's for a beer, after that, and Captain Martinelli told us
that one of his jeeps caught what he thinks was the same band that was
down off the mountain night-before-last and ate those peasants on
Prince Neeldink's estate."

"By God, I'm glad to hear that!" There'd been a perfect hell of a flap
about that business. Before the Terrans came to Uller, it was a good
year when not more than five hundred farm-folk would be killed and
eaten by Jeel cannibals. The incident of two nights ago had been the
first of its kind in almost six months, but the nobleman whose serfs
had been eaten was practically accusing the Company of responsibility
for the crime. "I'll see that Neeldink is informed. The more you do
for these damned geeks, the more they expect from you.... When you get
your vehicle re-ammoed, lieutenant, suppose you buzz back to where you
machine-gunned that first gang. If there are any more around, they'll
have moved in for the free meal by now." This breakdown of the Jeels'
taboo against eating fellow-tribesmen was one of the best things he'd
heard from the cannibal-extermination project for some time.

He turned to Themistocles M'zangwe. "In about two weeks, get a little
task-force together. Say ten combat-cars, about twenty airjeeps, and a
battalion of Kragan Rifles in troop-carriers. Oh, yes, and this
good-for-nothing Konkrook Fencibles outfit of Prince Jaizerd's; they
can be used for beaters, and to block escape routes." He turned back
to Lieutenant Kendall and Sergeant Garcia. "Good work, boys. And if
the synchro-photos show that any of that first bunch got away, don't
feel too badly about it. These Jeels can hide on the top of a
pool-table."

He climbed into the command-car, followed by Themistocles M'zangwe and
Hideyoshi O'Leary. Sergeant Harry Quong and Corporal Hassan Bogdanoff
took their places on the front seat; the car lifted, turned to nose
into the wind, and rose in a slow spiral. Below, the fort grew
smaller, a flat-topped rectangle of masonry overlooking the pass, a
gun covering each approach, and two more on the square keep to cover
the rocky hogback on which the fort had been built, with the flagpole
between them. Once that pole had lifted a banner of ragged black
marsh-flopper skin bearing the device of the Kragan riever-chieftain
whose family had built the castle; now it carried a neat rectangle of
blue bunting emblazoned with the wreathed globe of the Terran
Federation and, below that, the blue-gray pennant which bore the
vermilion trademark of the Chartered Uller Company.

"Where now, sir?" Harry Quong asked.

He looked at his watch. Seventeen-hundred; there wasn't time for a
visit to Zortolk's Old Fort, ten miles to the north at the next pass.

"Back to Konkrook, to the island."

The nose of the car swung east by south; the cold-jet rotors began
humming and then the hot-jets were cut in. The car turned from the
fort and the mountains and shot away over the foothills toward the
coastal plain. Below were forests, yellow-green with new foliage of
the second growing season of the equatorial year, veined with narrow
dirt roads and spotted with occasional clearings. Farther east, the
dirty gray woodsmoke of Uller marked the progress of the
charcoal-burnings. It took forty years to burn the forests clear back
to the flint cliffs; by the time the burners reached the mountains,
the new trees at the seaward edge would be ready to cut. Off to the
south, he could see the dark green squares, where the hemlocks and
Norway spruce had been planted by the Company. With a little chemical
fertilizer, they were doing well, and they made better charcoal than
the silicate-heavy native wood. That was the only natural fuel on
Uller; there was no coal, of course, since fallen timber and even
standing dead trees petrified in a matter of a couple of years. There
was too much silica on Uller, and not enough of anything else; what
would be coal-seams on Terra were strata of silicified wood. And, of
course, there was no petroleum. There was less charcoal being burned
now than formerly; the Uller Company had been bringing in great
quantities of synthetic thermoconcentrate-fuel, and had been setting
up nuclear furnaces and nuclear-electric power-plants, wherever they
gained a foothold on the planet.

Beyond the forests came the farmlands. Around the older estates, thick
walls of flint and petrified wood had been built, and wide moats dug,
to keep out the shellosaurs. But now the moats were dry, and the walls
falling into disrepair. Some of the newer farms, land devoted to
agriculture with the declining demand for charcoal, had neither moats
nor walls. That was the Company, too; the huge shell-armored beasts
had become virtually extinct in the Konk Isthmus now, since the
introduction of bazookas and recoilless rifles. There seemed to be
quite a bit of power-equipment working in the fields, and big
contragravity lorries were drifting back and forth, scattering
fertilizer, mainly nitrates from Mimir or Yggdrasill. There were still
a good number of animal-drawn plows and harrows in use, however.

As planets went, Uller was no bargain, he thought sourly. At times, he
wished he had never followed the lure of rapid promotion and
fantastically high pay and left the Federation regulars for the army
of the Uller Company. If he hadn't, he'd probably be a colonel, at
five thousand sols a year, but maybe it would be better to be a
middle-aged colonel on a decent planet--Odin, with its two moons,
Hugin and Munin, and its wide grasslands and its evergreen forests
that looked and even smelled like the pinewoods of Terra, or Baldur,
with snow-capped mountains, and clear, cold lakes, and rocky rivers
dashing under great vine-hung trees, or Freya, where the people were
human to the last degree and the women were so breathtakingly
beautiful--than a Company army general at twenty-five thousand on
this combination icebox, furnace, wind-tunnel and stonepile, where the
water tasted like soapsuds and left a crackly film when it dried;
where the temperature ranged, from pole to pole, between two hundred
and fifty and minus a hundred and fifty Fahrenheit and the
Beaufort-scale ran up to thirty; where nothing that ran or swam or
grew was fit for a human to eat, and where the people....

Of course, there were worse planets than Uller. There was Nidhog, cold
and foggy, its equatorial zone a gloomy marsh and the rest of the planet
locked in eternal ice. There was Bifrost, which always kept the same
face turned to its primary; one side blazingly hot and the other close
to absolute zero, with a narrow and barely habitable twilight zone
between. There was Mimir, swarming with a race of semi-intelligent
quasi-rodents, murderous, treacherous, utterly vicious. Or Niflheim. The
Uller Company had the franchise for Niflheim, too; they'd had to take
that and agree to exploit the planet's resources in order to get the
franchise for Uller, which furnished a good quick measure of the
comparative merits of the two.

Ahead, the city of Konkrook sprawled along the delta of the Konk river
and extended itself inland. The river was dry, now. Except in spring,
when it was a red-brown torrent, it never ran more than a trickle, and
not at all this late in the northern summer. The aircar lost altitude,
and the hot-jet stopped firing. They came gliding in over the suburbs
and the yellow-green parks, over the low one-story dwellings and
shops, the lofty temples and palaces, the fantastically twisted
towers, following a street that became increasingly mean and squalid
as it neared the industrial district along the waterfront.

Von Schlichten, on the right, glanced idly down, puffing slowly on
his cigarette. Then he stiffened, the muscles around his right eye
clamping tighter on the monocle. Leaning forward, he punched Harry
Quong lightly on the shoulder.

"Circle back, sergeant; let's have a look at that street again," he
directed. "Something going on, down there; looks like a riot."

"Yes, sir; I saw it," the Chinese-Australian driver replied. "Terrans
in trouble; bein' mobbed by geeks. Aircar parked right in the bloody
middle of it."

The car made a twisting, banking loop and came back, more slowly.
Colonel Hideyoshi O'Leary was using the binoculars.

"That's right," he said. "Terrans being mobbed. Two of them, backed up
against a house. I saw one of them firing a pistol."

Von Schlichten had the handset of the car's radio, and was punching
out the combination of the Company guardhouse on Gongonk Island; he
held down the signal button until he got an answer.

"Von Schlichten, in car over Konkrook. Riot on Fourth Avenue, just off
Seventy-second Street." No Terran could possibly remember the names of
Konkrook's streets; even native troops recruited from outside found
the numbers easier to learn and remember. "Geeks mobbing a couple of
Terrans. I'm going down, now, to do what I can to help; send troops in
a hurry. Kragan Rifles. And stand by; my driver'll give it to you as
it happens."

The voice of somebody at the guardhouse, bawling orders, came out of
the receiver as he tossed the phone forward over Harry Quong's
shoulder; Quong caught it and began speaking rapidly and urgently into
it while he steered with the other hand. Von Schlichten took one of
the five-pound spiked riot-maces out of the rack in front of him.
Themistocles M'zangwe had already drawn his pistol; he shifted it to
his left hand and took a mace in his right. The Nipponese-Irish
colonel, looking like a homicidally infuriated pixie, had an automatic
in one hand and a long dagger in the other.

Harry Quong and Hassan Bogdanoff were old Uller hands; they'd done
this sort of work before. Bogdanoff rose into the ball-turret and
swung the twin 15-mm's around, cutting loose. Quong brought the car in
fast, at about shoulder-height on the mob. Between them, they left a
swath of mangled, killed, wounded, and stunned natives. Then, spinning
the car around, Quong set it down hard on a clump of rioters as close
as possible to the struggling group around the two Terrans. Von
Schlichten threw back the canopy and jumped out of the car, O'Leary
and M'zangwe behind him.

There was another aircar, a dark maroon civilian job, at the curb; its
native driver was slumped forward over the controls, a short
crossbow-bolt sticking out of his neck. Backed against the closed door
of a house, a Terran with white hair and a small beard was clubbing
futilely with an empty pistol. He was wounded, and blood was streaming
over his face. His companion, a young woman in a long fur coat, was
laying about her with a native bolo-knife.

Von Schlichten's mace had a spiked ball-head, and a four-inch spike in
front of that. He smashed the ball down on the back of one Ulleran's
head, and jabbed another in the rump with the spike.

"_Zak! Zak!_" he yelled, in pidgin-Ulleran. "_Jik-jik_, you
lizard-faced Creator's blunder!"

The Ulleran whirled, swinging a blade somewhere between a big
butcherknife and a small machete. His mouth was open, and there was
froth on his lips.

"_Znidd suddabit!_" he screamed.

Von Schlichten parried the cut on the steel shaft of his mace.
"_Suddabit_ yourself, you geek bastard!" he shouted back, ramming the
spike-end into the opal-filled mouth. "And _znidd_ you, too," he
added, recovering and slamming the ball-head down on the narrow
saurian skull. The Ulleran went down, spurting a yellow fluid about
the consistency of gun-oil. Then, without wasting words, he maced
another of the things.

Ahead, one of the natives had caught the wounded Terran with both
lower hands, and was raising a dagger with his upper right. The girl
in the fur coat swung wildly, slashing the knife-arm, then chopped
down on the creature's neck. To one side, a native somewhat better
dressed than the others, to the extent of a couple of belts with gold
ornaments, drew a Terran automatic. Von Schlichten hurled his mace and
drew his pistol, thumbing off the safety as he swung it up, but before
he could fire, Hassan Bogdanoff had seen and swung his guns around;
the double burst caught the native in the chest and fairly tore him
apart.

Another of them closed with the girl, grabbing her right arm with all
four hands and biting at her; she screamed and kicked her attacker in
the groin, where an Ulleran is, if anything, even more vulnerable than
a Terran. The native howled hideously, and von Schlichten, jumping
over a couple of corpses, shoved the muzzle of his pistol into the
creature's open mouth and pulled the trigger, blowing its head apart
like a rotten pumpkin and splashing both himself and the girl with
yellow blood and rancid-looking gray-green brains.

Hideyoshi O'Leary, jumping forward after von Schlichten, stuck his
dagger into the neck of a rioter and left it there, then caught the
girl around the waist with his free arm. Themistocles M'zangwe dropped
his mace and swung the frail-looking man onto his back. Together, they
struggled back to the command-car, von Schlichten covering the retreat
with his pistol. Another rioter--a Zirk nomad from the North, he
guessed--was aiming one of the long-barreled native air-rifles,
holding the ten-inch globe of the air-chamber in both lower hands. Von
Schlichten shot him, and the Zirk literally blew to pieces.

For an instant, he wondered how the small bursting-charge of a 10-mm
explosive pistol-bullet could accomplish such havoc, and assumed that
the native had been carrying a bomb in his belt. Then another
explosion tossed fragmentary corpses nearby, and another and another.
Glancing quickly over his shoulder, he saw four combat-cars coming in,
firing with 40-mm auto-cannon and 15-mm machine-guns. They swept
between the hovels on one side and the warehouses on the other,
strafing the mob, darted up to a thousand feet, looped, and came
swooping back, and this time there were three long blue-gray
troop-carriers behind them.

These landed in the hastily cleared street and began disgorging native
Company soldiers--Kragan mercenaries, he noted with satisfaction. They
carried a modified version of the regular Terran Federation infantry
rifle, stocked and sighted to conform to their physical peculiarities,
with long, thorn-like, triangular bayonets. One platoon ran forward,
dropped to one knee, and began firing rapidly into what was left of
the mob. Four-handed soldiers can deliver a simply astonishing volume
of fire, particularly when armed with auto-rifles having twenty-shot
drop-out magazines which can be changed with the lower hands without
lowering the weapon.

There was a clatter of shod hoofs, and a company of the King of
Konkrook's cavalry came trotting up on their six-legged,
lizard-headed, quartz-speckled mounts. Some of these charged into side
alleys, joyfully lancing and cutting down fleeing rioters, while
others dismounted, three tossing their reins to a fourth, and went to
work with their crossbows. Von Schlichten, who ordinarily entertained
a dim opinion of the King of Konkrook's soldiery, admitted,
grudgingly, that it was smart work; four hands were a big help in
using a crossbow, too.

A Terran captain of native infantry came over, saluting.

"Are you and your people all right, general?" he asked.

Von Schlichten glanced at the front seat of his car, where Harry
Quong, a pistol in his right hand, was still talking into the
radio-phone, and Hassan Bogdanoff was putting fresh belts into his
guns. Then he saw that the Graeco-African brigadier and the
Irish-Japanese colonel had gotten the wounded man into the car. The
girl, having dropped her bolo, was leaning against the side of the
car, one foot heedlessly in what was left of an Ulleran who had gotten
smashed under it, weak with nervous reaction.

"We seem to be, Captain Pedolsky. Very smart work; you must have those
vehicles of yours on hyperspace-drive.... How is he, colonel?"

"We'd better get him to the hospital, right away," O'Leary replied. "I
think he has a concussion."

"Harry, call the hospital. Tell them what the score is, and tell them
we're bringing the casualty in to their top landing stage.... Why,
we'll make out very nicely, captain. You'd better stay around with
your Kragans and make sure that these geeks of King Jaikark's don't
let the riot flare up again and get away from them. And don't let them
get the impression that they can maintain order around here without
our help; the Company would like to see that attitude discouraged."

"Yes, sir, I understand." Captain Pedolsky opened the pouch on his
belt and took out the false palate and tongue-clicker without which no
Terran could do more than mouth a crude and barely comprehensible
pidgin-Ulleran. Stuffing the gadget into his mouth, he turned and
began jabbering orders.

Von Schlichten helped the girl into the car, placing her on his right.
The wounded civilian was propped up in the left corner of the seat,
and Colonel O'Leary and Brigadier-General M'zangwe took the
jump-seats. The driver put on the contragravity-field, and the car
lifted up.

"Them, see if there's a flask and a drinking-cup in the door pocket
next to you," he said. "I think Miss Quinton could use a drink."

The girl turned. Even in her present disheveled condition, she was
beautiful--a trifle on the petite side, with black hair and black eyes
that quirked up oddly at the outer corners. Her nails were
black-lacquered and spotted with little gold stars, evidently a new
feminine fad from Terra.

"I certainly could, general.... How did you know my name?"

"You've been on Uller for the last three months; ever since the _City
of Canberra_ got in from Niflheim. On Uller, there aren't enough of us
that everybody doesn't know all about everybody else. You're Dr. Paula
Quinton; you're an extraterrestrial sociographer, and you're a
field-agent for the Extraterrestrials' Rights Association, like
Mohammed Ferriera, here." He took the cup and flask from Themistocles
M'zangwe and poured her a drink. "Take this easy, now; Baldur
honey-rum, a hundred and fifty proof."

He watched her sip the stuff cautiously, cough over the first
mouthful, and then get the rest of it down.

"More?" When she shook her head, he stoppered the flask and relieved
her of the cup. "What were you doing in that district, anyhow?" he
wanted to know. "I'd have thought Mohammed Ferriera would have had
more sense than to take you there, or go there, himself, for that
matter."

"We went to visit a friend of his, a native named Keeluk, who seems to
be a sort of combination clergyman and labor leader," she replied.
"I'm going to observe labor conditions at the North Pole mines in a
short while, and Mr. Keeluk was going to give me letters of
introduction to friends of his at Skilk."

With the aid of his monocle, von Schlichten managed to keep a straight
face. Neither M'zangwe nor O'Leary had any such aid; the African
rolled his eyes and the Japanese-Irishman grimaced.

"We talked with Mr. Keeluk for a while," the girl said, "and when we
came out, we found that our driver had been killed and a mob had
gathered. Of course, we were carrying pistols; they're part of this
survival-kit you make everybody carry, along with the emergency-rations
and the water-desilicator. Mr. Ferriera's wasn't loaded, but mine was.
When they rushed us, I shot a couple of them, and then picked up that
big knife...."

"That's why you're still alive," von Schlichten commented.

"We wouldn't be if you hadn't come along," she told him. "I never in
my life saw anything as beautiful as you coming through that mob
swinging that war-club!"

"Well, I never saw anything much more beautiful than those 40-mm's
beginning to land in the mob," von Schlichten replied.

The aircar swung out over Konkrook Channel and headed toward the
blue-gray Company buildings on Gongonk Island, and the Company
airport, swarming with lorries and airboats, where the ten
thousand-ton _Oom Paul Kruger_ had just come in from Keegark, and the
Company's one real warship, the cruiser _Procyon_, was lifting out for
Grank, in the North. Down at the southern tip of the island, the
three-thousand-foot globe of the spaceship _City of Pretoria_, from
Niflheim, was loading with cargo for Terra.

"Just what happened, while you and Mr. Ferriera were in Keeluk's
house. Miss Quinton?" Hideyoshi O'Leary asked, trying not to sound
official. "Was Keeluk with you all the time? Or did he go out for a
while, say fifteen or twenty minutes before you left?"

"Why, yes, he did." Paula Quinton looked surprised. "How did you guess
it? You see, a dog started barking, behind the house, and he excused
himself and...."

"A dog?" von Schlichten almost shouted. The other officers echoed him,
and on the front seat, Harry Quong said, "Coo-bli'me!"

"Why, yes...." Paula Quinton's eyes widened. "But there are no dogs on
Uller, except a few owned by Terrans. And wasn't there something
about ...?"

Von Schlichten had the radio-phone and was calling the command car at
the scene of the riot. The sergeant-driver answered.

"Von Schlichten here; my compliments to Captain Pedolsky, and tell him
he's to make immediate and thorough search of the house in front of
which the incident occurred, and adjoining houses. For his
information, that's Keeluk's house. Tell him to look for traces of
Governor-General Harrington's collie, or any of the other terrestrial
animals that have been disappearing--that goat, for instance, or those
rabbits. And I want Keeluk brought in, alive and in condition to be
interrogated. I'll send more troops, or Constabulary, to help you." He
handed the phone to M'zangwe. "You take care of that end of it, Them;
you know who can be spared."

"But, what ...?" the girl began.

"That's why you were attacked," he told her. "Keeluk was afraid to let
you get away from there alive to report hearing that dog, so he went
out and had a gang of thugs rounded up to kill you."

"But he was only gone five minutes."

"In five minutes, I can put all the troops in Konkrook into action.
Keeluk doesn't have radio or TV--we hope--but he has his forces
concentrated, and he has a pretty good staff."

"But Mr. Keeluk's a friend of ours. He knows what our Association is
trying to do for his people...."

"So he shows his appreciation by setting that mob on you. Look, he has
a lot of influence in that section. When you were attacked, why wasn't
he out trying to quiet the mob?"

"When they jumped you, you tried to get back into the house," M'zangwe
put in. "And you found the door barred against you."

"Yes, but...." The girl looked troubled; M'zangwe had guessed right.
"But what's all the excitement about the dog? What is it, the sacred
totem-animal of the Uller Company?"

"It's just a big brown collie, named Stalin, like half the dogs on
Terra. Somebody stole it, and Keeluk was keeping it, and we want to
know why. We don't like geek mysteries; not when they lead to
murderous attacks on Terrans, at least."

The aircar let down on the hospital landing stage. A stretcher was
waiting, with a Terran interne and two Ulleran orderlies. They got the
still-unconscious Mohammed Ferriera out of the car.

"You'd better go with them, yourself, Miss Quinton," von Schlichten
advised. "You have a couple of nasty-looking bruises and bumps. A
couple of abrasions, too, where those geeks grabbed you; they have
hides like sandpaper. And better have that coat cleaned, before that
goo on it hardens, or it'll be ruined."

"Yes. You have a lot of it on your uniform, too."

He glanced down at the blue-gray jacket. "So I have. And another
thing. Those letters Keeluk was going to give you, the ones to his
friends in Skilk. Did you get them?"

She felt in the pocket of her coat. "Yes. I still have them."

"I wish you'd let Colonel O'Leary have a look at them. There may be
more to them than you think.... Hid, will you go with Miss Quinton?"




II.

Rakkeed, Stalin, and the Rev. Keeluk


Von Schlichten, in a fresh uniform, sat at the end of the table in
Sidney Harrington's office; Harrington and Eric Blount, the
Lieutenant-Governor, faced each other across it, over the three-foot
disc of an Ulleran chess-board. Harrington had the white, or center,
position. Blount, sandy-haired and considerably younger, was playing
black, and his pieces were closing in relentlessly from the outer rim.

"Well, then what?" Harrington asked.

Von Schlichten dropped ash from his cigarette into the tray that
served all three of them.

"Nothing much," he replied. "Keeluk bugged out as soon as he saw my
car let down. We picked up a few of his ragtag-and-bobtail, and
they're being questioned now, but I doubt if they'll tell us anything
we don't know already. The dog had been kept in a lean-to back of the
house; it had been removed, probably as soon as Keeluk called in his
goon-gang. At least one of the rabbits had been kept on the premises,
too, some time ago. No trace of the goat."

He watched Blount move one of his pieces and nodded approvingly. "The
riot's been put down," he continued, "but we're keeping two companies
of Kragans in the city, and about a dozen airjeeps patrolling the
section from Eightieth down to Sixty-fourth, and from the waterfront
back to Eighth Avenue. There is also the equivalent of a regiment of
King Jaikark's infantry--spearmen, crossbowmen, and a few
riflemen--and two of those outsize cavalry companies of his, helping
hold the lid down. They're making mass arrests, indiscriminately. More
slaves for Jaikark's court favorite, of course."

"Or else Gurgurk wants them to use for patronage," Blount added. "He's
been building quite a political organization, lately. Getting ready to
shove Jaikark off the throne, I'd say."

Harrington pushed one of his pieces out along a radial line toward the
rim. Blount promptly took a pawn, which, under Ulleran rules, entitled
him to a second move. He shifted another piece, a sort of combination
knight and bishop, to threaten the piece Harrington had moved.

"Oh, Gurgurk wouldn't dare try anything like that," the
Governor-General said. "He knows we wouldn't let him get away with it.
We have too much of an investment in King Jaikark."

"Then why's Gurgurk been supporting this damned Rakkeed?" Blount
wanted to know, hastily interposing a piece. "Gurgurk can follow one
of two lines of policy. He can undertake to heave Jaikark off the
throne and seize power, or he has to support Jaikark on the throne.
We're subsidizing Jaikark. Rakkeed has been preaching this crusade
against the Terrans, and against Jaikark, whom we control. Gurgurk has
been subsidizing Rakkeed...."

"You haven't any proof of that," Harrington protested.

"My Intelligence Section has," von Schlichten put in. "We can give
sums of money, and dates, and the names of the intermediaries through
whom they were paid to Rakkeed. Eric is absolutely correct in making
that statement."

"Personally, I think Gurgurk's plan is something like this: Rakkeed
will stir up anti-Terran sentiment here in Konkrook, and direct it
against our puppet, Jaikark, as well as against us," Blount said.
"When the outbreak comes, Jaikark will be killed, and then Gurgurk
will step in, seize the Palace, and use the Royal army to put down the
revolt that he's incited in the first place. That will put him in the
position of the friend of the Company, and most of his dupes will be
rounded up and sold as slaves, and King Gurgurk'll pocket the
proceeds. The only question is, will Rakkeed let himself be used that
way? I think Rakkeed's bigger than Gurgurk ever can be. And more of a
threat to the Company. Everywhere we turn, Rakkeed's at the bottom of
whatever happens to be wrong. This business, for instance; Keeluk's
one of Rakkeed's followers."

"Eric, you have Rakkeed on the brain!" Harrington exclaimed
impatiently, then moved the threatened piece counterclockwise on the
circle where he had placed it. "He's just a barbarian caravan-driver."

Eric Blount moved the piece that had taken Harrington's pawn.

"Your king's in danger," he warned. "And Hitler was just a
paper-hanger."

"Rakkeed has no following, except among the rabble." Harrington puffed
furiously at his pipe, trying to figure the best protection for his
king.

"You just think he hasn't," Blount retorted. "Here in Konkrook, he's
always entertained by one or another of the big ship-owning nobles.
They probably deprecate his table-manners, but they just love his
politics. And the same thing at Keegark, and at the Free Cities along
the Eastern Shore."

"The last time Rakkeed was in Konkrook, he was the guest of the
Keegarkan Ambassador," von Schlichten stated. "Intelligence got that
from a spy we'd planted among the embassy servants."

"You sure this spy wasn't just romancing?" Harrington asked. "You get
so confounded many wild stories about Rakkeed. Three days after he was
reported here at Konkrook, he was reported at Skilk, five thousand
miles away, said to be having an audience with King Firkked."

"No mystery to that," von Schlichten said. "He travels on our ships,
in disguise, coolie-class, on the geek-deck."

"Be a good idea if he could be caught at it, some time," Blount said,
making another move. "One of the lower-deck loading ports could be
left unlocked, by carelessness, and he could blunder overboard at
about five thousand feet." He watched Harrington make a deceptively
pointless-looking move. "Sid, this damn dog business worries me."

"Worries me, too. I'm fond of that mutt, and God only knows what sort
of stuff he's been getting to eat. And I hate to think of why those
geeks stole him, too."

"Well, at risk of seeming heartless, I'm not so much worried for
Stalin as I am about why Keeluk was hiding him, and why he was willing
to murder the only two Terrans in Konkrook who trust him, to prevent
our finding out that he had him."

"A Mr. Keeluk, a clergyman," von Schlichten quoted. He chain-lit
another cigarette and stubbed out the old one. "Maybe the Rev. Keeluk
wanted Stalin for sacramental purposes."

Blount looked up sharply. "Ritual killing?" he asked. "Or sympathetic
magic?"

Von Schlichten shrugged. "Take your choice. Maybe Rakkeed wanted the
dog, to kill before a congregation of his followers, killing us by
proxy, or in effigy. Or maybe they think we worship Stalin, and
getting control of him would give them power over us. I wish we knew a
little more about Ulleran psychology."

That wasn't the first time he'd made that wish. Even if sex weren't
the paramount psychological factor the ancient Freudians believed, it
was an extremely important one, and on Uller most of the fundamental
terms of Terran psychology were meaningless. At the same time, the
average Ulleran probably had complexes and neuroses that would have
had Freud talking to himself, and they certainly indulged in practices
that would have even stood Krafft-Ebing's hair on end.

"One thing," Blount said. "It doesn't take any Ulleran psychologist to
know that about eighty percent of them hate us poisonously."

"Oh, rubbish!" Harrington blew the exclamation out around his
pipe-stem with a gush of smoke. "A few fanatics hate us, and a few
merchants who lost money when we replaced this primitive barter
economy of theirs, but nine-tenths of them have benefited enormously
from us, and continue to benefit...."

"And hate us more deeply with each new benefit," Blount added. "They
resent everything we've done for them."

"Yes, this spaceport proposition of King Orgzild of Keegark looks like
it, now doesn't it?" Harrington retorted. "He hates and resents us so
much that he's offered us a spaceport at his city...."

"What's it going to cost him?" Blount asked. "He furnishes the
land--sequestered from the estate of some noble he executed for
treason--and the labor--all forced. We furnish the structural steel,
the machine-equipment, the engineering. We get a spaceport we don't
really need, and he gets all the business it'll bring to Keegark.
Considering the fact that Rakkeed is a welcome guest at his embassy
here, and at the Royal Palace at Keegark, I'm beginning to wonder if
he isn't fomenting trouble for us here at Konkrook to make us willing
to move our main base to his city."

He made a move. Instantly, Harrington slashed out from the middle of
the board with one of his heavy-duty, all-purpose pieces and took a
piece, then moved again.

"Now look whose king's threatened!" he crowed.

"Yes, I see." Blount brought a piece clockwise around the board and
took the threatening piece, then moved again. "I hope you see whose
king's threatened, now."

Harrington swore, reached out to move a piece, and then jerked his
hand back as though the piece were radioactive. For a while, he sat
puffing his pipe and staring at the board.

"In fact, Orgzild's so sure that we're going to accept his offer that
he's started building two new power-reactors, to handle the additional
power-demand that'll result from the increased business," Blount
continued.

"Where's he getting the plutonium?" von Schlichten asked.

"Where can he get it?" Harrington replied. "He just bought four tons
of it from us, off the _City of Pretoria_."

"That's a hell of a lot of plutonium," Blount said. "I wonder if he
mightn't have some idea of what else plutonium can be used for,
beside generating power."

"Oh, God, I hope not!" Harrington exclaimed. "You're going to get me
started seeing burglars under the bed, next...."

"Maybe there are burglars," Blount said, pointing with his
cigarette-holder to Harrington's threatened king. "Can't you do
something about that, Sid?" Then he turned to von Schlichten. "Before
we get off the subject, how about those letters the Rev. Keeluk gave
to the Quinton girl?"

"All addressed to Skilkans known to be Rakkeed disciples and rabidly
anti-Terran," von Schlichten replied. "We radioed the list to Skilk;
Colonel Cheng-Li, our intelligence man there, teleprinted us back a
lot of material on them that looks like the Newgate Calendar. We
turned the letters themselves over to Doc Petrie, the Ulleran
philology sharp, who is a pretty fair cryptanalyst. He couldn't find
any indications of cipher, but there was a lot of gossip about
Keeluk's friends and parishioners which might have arbitrary
code-meanings. I'm going to explain the situation to Miss Quinton, and
advise her to have nothing to do with any of the people Keeluk gave
her letters to."

Harrington had gotten his king temporarily out of danger, losing a
piece doing it.

"Think she'll listen to you?" he asked. "These Extraterrestrials'
Rights Association people are a lot of blasted fanatics, themselves.
We're a gang of bloody-handed, flint-hearted, imperialistic sons of
bitches in their book, and anything we say's sure to be a Hitler-sized
lie."

"Oh, they're not as bad as all that. I never met the girl before
today, but old Mohammed Ferriera's a decent bloke. And their
association's really done a lot of good. For one thing, they put an
end to the peonage system on Yggdrasill, and I know what conditions
were like, there, before they did."

A calculating look came into Harrington's eye. He puffed slowly at his
pipe and slid a piece from the center toward the sector of the board
nearest him. Blount whistled softly and made a quick re-arrangement.

"Carlos, did you say she told you she was going to Skilk, in the near
future?" Harrington asked. "Well, look here; you're going up that way,
yourself, with that battalion of Kragans, on the _Aldebaran_. Why
don't you invite her to make the trip with you? You can be quite
attractive to young ladies, when you try, and she'll be grateful for
that rescue this afternoon, which is always a good foundation. Maybe
you can plant a couple of ideas where they'll do the most good. She's
only been here for three months--since the _Canberra_ got in from
Niflheim. You know and I know and we all know that there are a lot of
things up there at the polar mines that would look like hell to
anybody who didn't understand local conditions...."

"Well, Miss Quinton's company won't be any particularly heavy cross
for me to bear," von Schlichten replied. "I won't guarantee anything,
of course...."

The intercom-speaker on the table whistled several times. Harrington
swore, laid down his pipe, and got up, brushing ashes from the front
of his coat. He flipped a switch and spoke into the box.

"Governor," a voice replied out of it, "there's a geek procession just
landed from a water-barge in front, and is coming up the roadway to
Company House. A platoon of Jaikark's Household Guards, with rifles;
the Spear of State; a royal litter; about thirty geek nobles, on foot;
a gift-litter; another platoon of riflemen, if you say the last
syllable quick enough."

"That'll be Gurgurk, coming to tell us how unhappy his Sodden and
Inebriated Geekship is about that fracas on Seventy-second Street,"
Harrington said. "The gift-litter will contain the customary
indemnity, at the current market quotation. Have Gurgurk and party
admitted, all but the rifle-platoons; give him an honor guard of our
Kragans, and keep his own gun-toters outside. Take them to the
Reception Hall, and hold them there till I signal from the Audience
Hall, and then herd them in."

He came back and made a move. Immediately, Blount took one of his
pieces, moved again, took another, and made the third move to which he
was entitled.

"I'll mate you in four moves," he predicted. "Want to play it out,
before we go down?"

"Sure; what's time to a geek? Gurgurk'd think we were worried about
something if we didn't keep him waiting.... Good Lord! You do have me
over a barrel, Eric!"




III.

Four-and-Twenty Geek Heads


Governor-General Sidney Harrington sat on the comfortably upholstered
bench on the dais of the Audience Hall, flanked by von Schlichten and
Eric Blount. He didn't look particularly regal, even on that high
seat--with his ruddy outdoorsman's face and his ragged gray mustache
and his old tweed coat spotted with pipe-ashes, he might have been any
of the dozen-odd country-gentleman neighbors of von Schlichten's
boyhood in the Argentine. But then, to a Terran, any of the kings of
Uller would have looked like a freak birth in a lizard-house at a zoo;
it was hard to guess what impression Harrington would make on an
Ulleran.

He took the false palate and tongue-clicker, officially designated as
an "enunciator, Ulleran" and, colloquially, as a geek-speaker, out of
his coat pocket and shoved it into his mouth. Von Schlichten and
Blount put in theirs, and Harrington pressed the floor-button with his
toe. After a brief interval, the wide doors at the other end of the
hall slid open, and the Konkrookan notables, attended by a dozen
Company native-officers and a guard of Kragan Rifles, entered. The
honor-guard advanced in two columns; between them marched an unclad
and heavily armed native carrying an ornate spear with a three-foot
blade upright in front of him with all four hands. It was the
Konkrookan Spear of State; it represented the proxy-presence of King
Jaikark. Behind it stalked Gurgurk, the Konkrookan equivalent of Prime
Minister or Grand Vizier; he wore a gold helmet and a thing like a
string-vest made of gold wire, and carried a long sword with a
two-hand grip, a pair of Terran automatics built for a hand with six
four-knuckled fingers, and a pair of matched daggers. He was
considerably past the Ulleran prime of life--seventy or eighty, to
judge from the worn appearance of his opal teeth, the color of his
skin, and the predominantly reddish tint of his quartz-speckles. An
immature Ulleran would be a very light gray, white under the arms, and
his quartz-specks would run from white to pale yellow. The retinue of
nobles behind Gurgurk ran through the whole spectrum, from a
princeling who was almost oyster-gray to old Ghroghrank, the Keegarkan
Ambassador, who was even blacker and more red-speckled than Gurgurk.
All of them carried about as much ironmongery as the Prime
Minister--the pistols were all Terran, and the swords and daggers were
mostly made either on Terra or at the Terran-operated steel-works on
Volund.

Four slaves brought up the rear carrying an ornately inlaid box on
poles. When the spear-bearer reached the exact middle of the hall, he
halted and grounded his regalia-weapon with a thump. Gurgurk came up
and halted a couple of paces behind and to the left of the spear, and
all the other nobles drew up in two curved lines some ten paces to the
rear, with considerable pushing and jostling and a _sotto voce_
argument, with overtones of weapon-fingering, about precedence. All,
that is, but Ghroghrank and another noble, who came up and planted
themselves beside Gurgurk. Von Schlichten regarded the assemblage
sourly through his monocle. Maybe Sid Harrington _did_ look regal,
after all.

The Governor-General rose slowly and descended from the dais,
advancing to within ten paces of the Spear, von Schlichten and Blount
accompanying him. Out of the corner of his eye, von Schlichten watched
a couple of Kragan mercenaries with fifty-shot machine-rifles move
unobtrusively to positions from whence they could, if necessary, spray
the visitors with bullets without endangering the Terrans.

"Welcome, Gurgurk," Harrington gibbered through his false palate. "The
Company is honored by this visit."

"I come in the name of my royal master, His Sublime and Ineffable
Majesty, Jaikark the Seventeenth, King of Konkrook and of all the
lands of the Konk Isthmus," Gurgurk squeaked and clicked. "I have the
honor to bring with me the Lord Ghroghrank, Ambassador of King Orgzild
of Keegark to the court of my royal master."

"And I," Ghroghrank said, after being suitably welcomed, "am honored
to be accompanied by Prince Gorkrink, special envoy from my master,
his Royal and Imperial Majesty King Orgzild, who is in your city to
receive the shipment of power-metal my royal master has been honored
to be permitted to purchase from the Company."

More protocol about welcoming Gorkrink. Then Gurgurk cleared his
throat with a series of barking sounds.

"My royal master, His Sublime and Ineffable Majesty, is prostrated
with grief," he stated solemnly. "Were his sorrow not so overwhelming,
he would have come in His Own Sacred Person to express the pain and
shame which he feels that people of the Company should be set upon
and endangered in the streets of the royal city."

If he weren't doped to the ears, von Schlichten substituted mentally.
There was a native drug which had, on its users, the combined effects
of hashish, heroin and yohimbine; Jaikark and all his court circle
were addicts. He probably hadn't even heard of the riot.

"The soldiers of His Sublime and Ineffable Majesty came most promptly
to the aid of the troops of the Company, did they not, General von
Schlichten?" Harrington asked.

"Within minutes, Your Excellency," von Schlichten replied gravely.
"Their promptness, valor, and efficiency were most exemplary."

Gurgurk spoke at length, expressing himself as delighted, on behalf of
his royal master, at hearing such high praise from so distinguished a
soldier. Eric Blount then contributed a short speech, beseeching the
gods that the deep and beautiful friendship existing between the
Chartered Uller Company and His Sublime etcetera would continue
unimpaired, and that His Sublime etcetera would enjoy long life and
peaceful reign, managing, by a trick of Konkrookan grammar, to imply
that the second would be conditional upon the first. The Keegarkan
Ambassador then spoke his piece, expressing on behalf of King Orgzild
the deepest regret that the people of the Company should be so
molested, and managing to hint that things like that simply didn't
happen at Keegark.

The Prince Gorkrink then spoke briefly, in sympathy for the great and
good friend of all Ulleran peoples, Mohammed Ferriera, who had been
injured, and hoping that he would soon enjoy full health again. He
also managed to convey King Orgzild's pleasure at having obtained the
plutonium. Von Schlichten noticed that a few of his more recent
quartz-specks were slightly greenish in tinge, a sure sign that he
had, not long ago, been exposed to the fluorine-tainted air which men
and geeks alike breathed on Niflheim. When a geek prince hired out as
a laborer for a year on Niflheim, he did so for only one purpose--to
learn Terran technologies.

Gurgurk then announced that so enormous a crime against the friends of
His Sublime etcetera had not been allowed to go unpunished, signaling
behind him with one of his lower hands for the box to be brought
forward. The slaves carried it to the front, set it down, and opened
it, taking from it a rug which they spread on the floor. On this, from
the box, they placed twenty-four newly severed opal-grinning heads, in
four neat rows. They had all been freshly scrubbed and polished, but
they still smelled like crushed cockroaches.

The three Terrans looked at them gravely. A double-dozen heads was
standard payment for an attack in which no Terran had been killed.
Ostensibly, they were the heads of the ringleaders: in practice, they
were usually lopped from the first two-dozen prisoners or over-age
slaves at hand, without regard for whether the victims had even heard
of the crime which they were expiating. If the Extraterrestrial's
Rights Association were really serious about the rights of these
geeks, they'd advocate booting out all these native princes and
turning the whole planet over to the Company. That had been the Terran
Federation's idea, from the beginning; why else give the Company's
chief representative the title of Governor-General?

There was another long speech from Gurgurk, with the nobles behind him
murmuring antiphonal agreement--standard procedure, for which there
was a standard pun, geek chorus--and a speech of response from Sid
Harrington. Standing stiffly through the whole rigamarole, von
Schlichten waited for it to end, as finally it did.

They walked back from the door, whence they had escorted the
delegation, and stood looking down at the saurian heads on the rug.
Harrington raised his voice and called to a Kragan sergeant whose
chevrons were painted on all four arms.

"Take this carrion out and stuff it in the incinerator," he ordered.
"If any of you think you can clean up this rug and this box, you're
welcome to them."

"Wait a moment," von Schlichten told the sergeant. Then he disgorged
and pouched his geek-speaker. "See that head, there?" he asked,
rolling it over with his toe. "I killed that geek, myself, with my
pistol, while Them and Hid were getting Ferriera into the car. Miss
Quinton killed that one with the bolo; see where she chopped him on
the back of the neck? The cut that took off the head was a little low,
and missed it. And Hid O'Leary stuck a knife in that one." He walked
around the rug, turning heads over with his foot. "This was cut-rate
head-payment; they just slashed off two-dozen heads at the scene of
the riot. I don't like this butchery of worn-out slaves and petty
thieves any better than anybody else, but this I don't like either.
Six months ago, Gurgurk wouldn't have tried to pull anything like
this. Now he's laughing up his non-existent sleeve at us."

"That's what I've been preaching, all along," Eric Blount took up
after him. "These geeks need having the fear of Terra thrown into
them."

"Oh, nonsense, Eric; you're just as bad as Carlos, here!" Harrington
tut-tutted. "Next, you'll be saying that we ought to depose Jaikark
and take control ourselves."

"Well, what's wrong with that, for an idea?" von Schlichten demanded.
"Don't you think we could? Our Kragans could go through that army of
Jaikark's like fast neutrons through toilet-paper."

"My God!" Harrington exploded. "Don't let me hear that kind of talk
again! We're not _conquistadores_; we're employees of a business
concern, here to make money honestly, by exchanging goods and services
with these people...."

He turned and walked away, out of the Audience Hall, leaving von
Schlichten and Blount to watch the removal of the geek-heads.

"You know, I went a little too far," von Schlichten confessed. "Or too
fast, rather. He's got to be conditioned to accept that idea."

"We can't go too slowly, either," Blount replied. "If we wait for him
to change his mind, it'll be the same as waiting for him to retire.
And that'll be waiting too long."

Von Schlichten nodded seriously. "Did you notice the green specks in
the hide of that Prince Gorkrink?" he asked. "He's just come back from
Niflheim. Not on the _Pretoria_, I don't think. Probably on the
_Canberra_, three months ago."

"And he's here to get that plutonium, and ship it to Keegark on the
_Oom Paul Kruger_," Blount considered. "I wonder just what he learned,
on Niflheim."

"I wonder just what's going on at Keegark," von Schlichten said.
"Orgzild's pulled down a regular First-Century-model iron curtain. You
know, four of our best native Intelligence operatives have been
murdered in Keegark in the last three months, and six more have just
vanished there."

"Well, I'm going there in a few days, myself, to talk to Orgzild about
this spaceport deal," Blount said. "I'll have a talk with Hendrik
Lemoyne and MacKinnon. And I'll see what I can find out for myself."

"Well, let's go have a drink," von Schlichten suggested, consulting
his watch. "About time for a cocktail."




IV.

If You Read It in Stanley-Browne


Von Schlichten and Blount entered the bar together--the Broadway Room,
decorated in gleaming plastics and chromium in enthusiastic if
slightly inaccurate imitation of a First Century New York nightclub.
There were no native servants to spoil the illusion, such as it was:
the service was fully automatic. Going to a bartending machine, von
Schlichten dialed the cocktail they had decided upon and inserted his
key to charge the drinks to his account, filling a four-portion jug.

As they turned away, they almost collided with Hideyoshi O'Leary and
Paula Quinton. The girl wore a long-sleeved gown to conceal a bandage
on her right wrist, and her face was rather heavily powdered in spots;
otherwise she looked none the worse for recent experiences.

"Well, you seem to have gotten yourself repaired, Miss Quinton," he
greeted her. "Feel better, now?... Miss Quinton, this is
Lieutenant-Governor Blount. Eric, Miss Paula Quinton."

"Delighted, Miss Quinton," Blount said. "Carlos tells us he found you
standing over poor Mohammed Ferriera, fighting like a commando. How is
Mohammed, by the way? No danger, I hope; we all like him."

Mohammed Ferriera was still unconscious, the girl reported; he had a
minor concussion, but the medics were not greatly disturbed, and
expected him to be fully recovered in a few weeks. Von Schlichten
invited her and her escort to join him and Blount. Colonel O'Leary was
carrying a cocktail jug and a couple of glasses; finding a table out
of the worst of the noise, they all sat down together.

"I suppose you think it's a joke, our being nearly murdered by the
people we came to help," Paula began, a trifle defensively.

"Not a very funny joke," von Schlichten told her. "It's been played on
us till it's lost its humor."

"Yes, geek ingratitude's an old story to all of us," Blount agreed.
"You stay on this planet very long and you'll see what I mean."

"You call them that, too?" she asked, as though disappointed in him.
"Maybe if you stopped calling them geeks, they wouldn't resent you the
way they do. You know, that's a nasty name; in the First Century
Pre-Atomic, it designated a degraded person who performed some sort of
revolting public exhibition...."

"Biting off live chickens' heads, in a sideshow wild-man act,"
Hideyoshi O'Leary supplied. "When you get up north, watch how the
peasants kill these little things like six-legged iguanas that they
raise for food."

"That isn't the reason, though," von Schlichten said. "As we use it,
the word's pure onomatopoeia. You've learned some of the languages;
you know what they sound like. _Geek-geek-geek._"

"As far as that goes, you know what the geek name for a Terran is?"
Blount asked. "_Suddabit._"

She looked puzzled for a moment, then slipped in her enunciator. Even
in the absence of any native, she used her handkerchief to mask the
act.

"Suddabit," she said, distinctly. "Sud-da-a-bit." Taking out the
geek-speaker, she put it away. "Why, that's exactly how they'd
pronounce it!"

"And don't tell me you haven't heard it before," O'Leary said. "The
geeks were screaming it at you, over on Seventy-second Street, this
afternoon. _Znidd suddabit_; kill the Terrans. That's Rakkeed the
Prophet's whole gospel."

"So you see," Eric Blount rammed home the moral, "this is just another
case of nobody with any right to call anybody else's kettle black....
Cigarette?"

"Thank you." She leaned toward the lighter-flame O'Leary had snapped
into being. "I suspect that of being a principle you'd like me to bear
in mind at the polar mines, when I see, let's say, some laborer being
beaten by a couple of overseers with three foot lengths of
three-quarter-inch steel cable."

"Well, you could also remember that a native's skin is about half an
inch thick, and a good deal tougher than a human's," von Schlichten
told her. "And it wouldn't hurt any if you found out how these
laborers are treated at home. Mostly they're serfs hired from the big
landowners; it's a fact you can easily verify that permission to join
the labor-companies at the polar mines is regarded as a privilege,
granted as a reward or denied as a punishment. And most of the geek
landowners are bitterly critical of the way we treat our labor at the
mines; they claim we make them dissatisfied with the treatment they
get at home."

"Of course, they're always glad to have the peasants taken off their
hands during a slack agricultural season," Blount added, "and we train
workers to handle contragravity power-equipment. I won't deny that
there's a lot of unnecessary brutality on the part of the native
foremen and overseers, which we're trying, gradually, to eliminate.
You'll have to remember, though, that we're dealing with a naturally
brutal race."

"Of course, mistreatment of native labor is always blamed on other
natives, never on the gentle and kindly Terrans," she replied. "That's
been SOP on every planet our Association's had any experience with."

"Now look; you just came here from Niflheim," von Schlichten objected.
"The Company employs quite a few geeks there; how much brutality did
you run into there?"

"Well, I must admit, the Ullerans who work there are very well
treated. Except that I don't think it's right to employ any people
with silicone body-tissues where they're going to breathe
fluorine-tainted air."

"Nobody ought to be employed on that planet!" Hideyoshi O'Leary
declared. "I did a two-year hitch there, when I was first commissioned
in the Company service."

"I put in two years there, too," Blount supported him. "And I might
add that that's a year longer than any Ulleran native is ever allowed
to spend on Niflheim. You know what the setup is, there, don't you?
The Terran Federation Space Navy discovered and explored both Uller
and Niflheim, which made both planets public domain. The Company was
originally formed to exploit Uller alone, but the Federation insisted
that both planets would have to be franchised to the same company.
They wanted Niflheim exploited, mainly because of the uranium-deposits
there. As it turned out, the Company's making as much money out of
Niflheim as we are out of Uller."

"What you miss is this," von Schlichten pointed out. "On Niflheim,
there are about a thousand Terrans, and not more than five hundred
geeks, all employed on construction-work and in the mines, on the
planet itself, working directly under Terran supervision. We use them
because they have four hands, and in the power-driven contragravity
armor that's necessary there, they can manipulate more controls and do
more things at once than we can. Here on Uller, at the polar mines,
there are about ten thousand geeks working under five hundred Terrans,
and most of the latter are engineers or technicians who don't do
supervisory work. So we have to use native foremen, and they're guilty
of what mistreatment the workers suffer."

"And remember, too," O'Leary added, "work at the polar mines can only
go on for about two months out of the year--mid-September to
mid-November at the Arctic, and mid-March to mid-May at the Antarctic.
Naturally, things have to be done in a hurry and under pressure."

"Well, why do you work mines at the poles? Aren't there mineral
deposits in places where you can work all year 'round?"

"Not as rich, or as accessible," Blount said. "You know what the
seasons are like, at the poles of this planet. The temperature will
range from about two-fifty Fahrenheit in mid-summer to a hundred and
fifty below in winter. There's the most intense sort of thermal
erosion you can imagine--the ice-cap melts in the spring to a sea,
which boils away completely by the middle of the summer. There will be
violent circular storms of hot wind, blowing away the light sand and
dust and leaving the heavier particles of metallic ores and metals
behind. Then, when the winds fall, we move in for a couple of months.
It isn't really mining, or even quarrying; we just scoop up ore from
the surface, load it onto ore-boats, and fly it down to Skilk and
Krink and Grank, where it's smelted through the winter. The natives
run the smelters; use the heat to thaw frozen food for themselves and
their livestock while they're melting the ore. In the north,
metallurgy and food-preparation have always been combined that way."

"Yes, if you think the natives who work at the mines feel themselves
ill-treated, you might propose closing them down entirely and see what
the native reaction would be," von Schlichten told her. "Independently
hired free workers can make themselves rich, by native standards, in a
couple of seasons; many of the serfs pick up enough money from us in
incentive-pay to buy their freedom after one season."

"Well, if the Company's doing so much good on this planet, how is it
that this native, Rakkeed, the one you call the Mad Prophet, is able
to find such a following?" Paula demanded. "There must be something
wrong somewhere."

"That's a fair question," Blount replied, inverting a cocktail jug
over his glass to extract the last few drops. "When we came to Uller,
we found a culture roughly like that of Europe during the Seventh
Century Pre-Atomic, or, more closely, like that of Japan before the
beginning of the First Century P. A. We initiated a technological and
economic revolution here, and such revolutions have their casualties,
too. A number of classes and groups got squeezed pretty badly, like
the horse-breeders and harness-manufacturers on Terra by the invention
of the automobile, or the coal and hydroelectric interests when direct
conversion of nuclear energy to electric current was developed, or
the railroads and steamship lines at the time of the discovery of the
contragravity-field. Naturally, there's a lot of ill-feeling on the
part of merchants and artisans who weren't able or willing to adapt
themselves to changing conditions; they're all backing Rakkeed and
yelling '_Znidd suddabit!_' now. You know, it's a shame that geek
messiah isn't a smart crook, instead of an honest fanatic; he could
take in the equivalent of a couple of million sols a year off the
North Uller merchants and the Equatorial Zone shipowners. But it is a
fact, which not even Rakkeed can successfully deny, that we've raised
the general living standard of this planet by about two hundred
percent."

"Rakkeed is a Zirk," von Schlichten said. "They're the nomads who hire
out to the northern merchants as caravan-drivers, and also prey, or
used to prey, on the caravans as brigands. Since our air-freighters
got into operation, neither caravan-driving nor caravan-raiding has
been a paying business, and our air-patrols have made caravan-raiding
suicidal as well. So the Zirks don't like us. The only thing they know
or are willing to learn is handling these six-legged riding-and
pack-animals we call hipposaurs. We employ a few of them as cavalry,
and a few more of them work as the local equivalent of _gauchos_, and
the rest just sit around and listen to Rakkeed's sermons."

Both jugs were empty. Colonel O'Leary, as befitted his junior rank,
picked them up; after a good-natured wrangle with von Schlichten,
Blount handed the colonel his credit-key.

"The merchants in the north don't like us; beside spoiling the
caravan-trade, we're spoiling their local business, because the
land-owning barons, who used to deal with them, are now dealing
directly with us. At Skilk, King Firkked's afraid his feudal nobility
is going to try to force a Runnymede on him, so he's been currying
favor with the urban merchants; that makes him as pro-Rakkeed and as
anti-Terran as they are. At Krink, King Jonkvank has the support of
his barons, but he's afraid of his urban bourgeoisie, and we pay him a
handsome subsidy, so he's pro-Terran and anti-Rakkeed. At Skilk,
Rakkeed comes and goes openly; at Krink he has a price on his head."

"Jonkvank is not one of the assets we boast about too loudly,"
Hideyoshi O'Leary said, pausing on his way from the table. "He's as
bloody-minded an old murderer as you'd care not to meet in a dark
alley anywhere."

"We can turn our backs on him and not expect a knife between our
shoulders, anyhow," von Schlichten said. "And we can believe, oh, up
to eighty percent of what he tells us, and that's sixty percent better
than any of the other native princes, except King Kankad, of course.
The Kragans are the only real friends we have on this planet." He
thought for a moment. "Miss Quinton, are you doing sociographic
research-work here, in addition to your Ex-Rights work?" he asked.
"Well, let me advise you to pay some attention to the Kragans. You'll
only find them treated at any length at all in that compendium of
misinformation, Willard Stanley-Browne's _Short Sociographic History
of Beta Hydrae II_, and ninety percent of what Stanley-Browne says
about them is completely erroneous."

"Oh, but they're just a parasite-race on the Terrans," Dr. Paula
Quinton objected. "You find races like that all through the explored
galaxy--pathetic cultural mongrels."

Both men laughed heartily. Colonel O'Leary, returning with the jugs,
wanted to know what he'd missed. Blount told him.

"Ha! She's been reading that thing of Stanley-Browne's," he said.

"What's the matter with Stanley-Browne?" Paula demanded.

"Stanley-Browne is one author you can depend on," O'Leary assured her.
"If you read it in Stanley-Browne, it's wrong. You know, I don't think
she's run into many Kragans. We ought to take her over and introduce
her to King Kankad."

Von Schlichten allowed himself to be smitten by an idea. "By Allah, so
we had!" he exclaimed. "Look, you're going to Skilk, in the next week,
aren't you? Well, do you think you could get all your end-jobs cleared
up here and be ready to leave by 0800 Tuesday? That's four days from
today."

"I'm sure I could. Why?"

"Well, I'm going to Skilk, myself, with the armed troopship
_Aldebaran_. We're stopping at King Kankad's Town to pick up a
battalion of Kragan Rifles for duty at the polar mines, where you're
going. Suppose we leave here in my command-car, go to Kankad's Town,
and wait there till the _Aldebaran_ gets in. That would give us about
two to three hours. If you think the Kragans are 'pathetic cultural
mongrels,' what you'll see there will open your eyes. And I might add
that the nearest Stanley-Browne ever came to seeing Kankad's Town was
from the air, once, at a distance of four miles."

"Well, they live entirely by serving as mercenary soldiers for the
Uller Company, don't they?"

"More or less. You see, when we came to Uller, they were barbarian
brigands; had a string of forts along caravan-roads and at fords and
mountain-passes, and levied tolls. They raided into Konkrook and
Keegark territory, too. Well, we had to break that up. We fought a
little war with them, beat them rather badly in a couple of
skirmishes, and then made a deal with them. That was before my time,
when old Jerry Kirke was Governor-General. He negotiated a treaty with
their King, bought their rievers'-forts outright, and paid them a
subsidy to compensate for loss of tolls and raid-spoil, and agreed to
employ the whole tribe as soldiers. We've taught them a lot--you'll
see how much when you visit their town--but they aren't cultural
mongrels. You'll like them."

"Well, general, I'll take you up," she said. "But I warn you; if this
is some scheme to indoctrinate me with the Uller Company's side of the
case and blind me to unjust exploitation of the natives here, I don't
propagandize very easily."

"Fair enough, as long as you don't let fear of being propagandized
blind you to the good we're doing here, or impair your ability to
observe and draw accurate conclusions. Just stay scientific about it
and I'll be satisfied. Now, let's take time out for lubrication," he
said, filling her glass and passing the jug.

Two hours and five cocktails later, they were still at the table, and
they had taught Paula Quinton some twenty verses of _The Heathen
Geeks, They Wear No Breeks_, including the four printable ones.




V.

You Can Depend on It It's Wrong


Gongonk Island, with its blue-gray Company buildings, and the Terran
green of the farms, and the spaceport with its ring of mooring-pylons
empty since the _City of Pretoria_ had lifted out, two days before,
for Terra, was dropping away behind. Von Schlichten held his lighter
for Paula Quinton, then lit his own cigarette.

"I was rather horrified, Friday afternoon, at the way you and Colonel
O'Leary and Mr. Blount were blaspheming against Stanley-Browne," she
said. "His book is practically the sociographers' Koran for this
planet. But I've been checking up, since, and I find that everybody
who's been here any length of time seems to deride it, and it's full
of the most surprising misstatements. I'm either going to make myself
famous or get burned at the stake by the Extraterrestrial Sociographic
Society after I get back to Terra. In the last three months, I've been
really too busy with Ex-Rights work to do much research, but I'm
beginning to think there's a great deal in Stanley-Browne's book that
will have to be reconsidered."

"How'd you get into this, Miss Quinton?" he asked.

"You mean sociography, or Ex-Rights? Well, my father and my
grandfather were both extraterrestrial sociographers--anthropologists
whose subjects aren't anthropomorphic--and I majored in sociography
at the University of Montevideo. And I've always been in sympathy
with extraterrestrial races; one of my great-grandmothers was a
Freyan."

"The deuce; I'd never have guessed that, as small and dark as you
are."

"Well, another of my great-grandmothers was Japanese," she replied.
"The family name's French. I'm also part Spanish, part Russian, part
Italian, part English ... the usual modern Argentine mixture."

"I'm an Argentino, too. From La Rioja, over along the Sierra de
Velasco. My family lived there for the past five centuries. They came
to the Argentine in the Year Three, Atomic Era."

"On account of the Hitler bust-up?"

"Yes. I believe the first one, also a General von Schlichten, was what
was then known as a war-criminal."

"That makes us partners in crime, then," she laughed. "The Quintons
had to leave France about the same time; they were what was known as
collaborationists."

"That's probably why the Southern Hemisphere managed to stay out of
the Third and Fourth World Wars," he considered. "It was full of the
descendants of people who'd gotten the short end of the Second."

"Do you speak the Kragan language, general?" she asked. "I understand
it's entirely different from the other Equatorial Ulleran languages."

"Yes. That's what gives the Kragans an entirely different semantic
orientation. For instance, they have nothing like a subject-predicate
sentence structure. That's why, Stanley-Browne to the contrary
notwithstanding, they are entirely non-religious. Their language
hasn't instilled in them a predisposition to think of everything as
the result of an action performed by an agent. And they have no
definite parts of speech; any word can be used as any part of speech,
depending on context. Tense is applied to words used as nouns, not
words used as verbs; there are four tenses--spatial-temporal present,
things here-and-now; spatial present and temporal remote, things which
were here at some other time; spatial remote and temporal present,
things existing now somewhere else, and spatial-temporal remote,
things somewhere else some other time."

"Why, it's a wonder they haven't developed a Theory of Relativity!"

"They have. It resembles ours about the way the Wright Brothers'
airplane resembles this aircar, but I was explaining the
Keene-Gonzales-Dillingham Theory and the older Einstein Theory to King
Kankad once, and it was beautiful to watch how he picked it up. Half
the time, he was a jump ahead of me."

The aircar began losing altitude and speed as they came in over
Kraggork Swamp; the treetops below blended into a level plain of
yellow-green, pierced by glints of stagnant water underneath and
broken by an occasional low hillock, sometimes topped by a stockaded
village.

"Those are the swamp-savages' homes," he told her. "Most of what you
find in Stanley-Browne about them is fairly accurate. He spent a lot
of time among them. He never seems to have realized, though, that they
are living now as they have ever since the first appearance of
intelligent life on this planet."

"You mean, they're the real aboriginal people of Uller?"

"They and the Jeel cannibals, whom we are doing our best to
exterminate," he replied. "You see, at one time, the dominant type of
mobile land-life was the thing we call a shellosaur, a big thing,
running from five to fifteen tons, plated all over with silicate
shell, till it looked like a six-legged pine-cone. Some were
herbivores and some were carnivores. There are a few left, in remote
places--quite a few in the Southern Hemisphere, which we haven't
explored very much. They were a satisfied life-form. Outside of a
volcano or an earthquake or an avalanche, nothing could hurt a
shellosaur but a bigger shellosaur.

"Finally, of course, they grew beyond their sustenance-limit, but in
the meantime, some of them began specializing on mobility instead of
armor and began excreting waste-matter instead of turning it to shell.
Some of these new species got rid of their shell entirely. _Parahomo
sapiens Ulleris_ is descended from one of these.

"The shellosaurs were still a serious menace, though. The ancestors of
the present Ulleran, the proto-geeks, when they were at about the Java
Ape-Man stage of development, took two divergent courses to escape the
shellosaurs. Some of them took to the swamps, where the shellosaurs
would sink if they tried to follow. Those savages, down there, are
still living in the same manner; they never progressed. Others
encountered problems of survival which had to be overcome by
invention. They progressed to barbarism, like the people of the
fishing-villages, and some of them progressed to civilization, like
the Konkrookans and the Keegarkans.

"Then, there were others who took to the high rocks, where the
shellosaurs couldn't climb. The Jeels are the primitive, original
example of that. Most of the North Uller civilizations developed from
mountaineer-savages, and so did the Zirks and the other northern
plains nomads."

"Well, how about the Kragans?" Paula asked. "Which were they?"

Von Schlichten was scanning the horizon ahead. He pulled over a pair
of fifty-power binoculars on a swinging arm and put them where she
could use them.

"Right ahead, there; just a little to the left. See that brown-gray
spot on the landward edge of the swamp? That's King Kankad's Town.
It's been there for thousands of years, and it's always been Kankad's
Town. You might say, even the same Kankad. The Kragan kings have
always provided their own heirs, by self-fertilization. That's a
complicated process, involving simultaneous male and female
masturbation, but the offspring is an exact duplicate of the single
parent. The present Kankad speaks of his heir as 'Little Me,' which is
a fairly accurate way of putting it."

He knew what she was seeing through the glasses--a massive butte of
flint, jutting out into the swamp on the end of a sharp ridge, with a
city on top of it. All the buildings were multi-storied, some piling
upward from the top and some clinging to the sides. The high
watchtower at the front now carried a telecast-director, aimed at an
automatic relay-station on an unmanned orbiter two thousand miles
off-planet.

"They're either swamp-people who moved up onto that rock, or they're
mountaineers who came out that far along the ridge and stopped," she
said. "Which?"

"Nobody's ever tried to find out. Maybe if you stay on Uller long
enough, you can. That ought to be good for about eight to ten honorary
doctorates. And maybe a hundred sols a year in book royalties."

"Maybe I'll just do that, general.... What's that, on the little
island over there?" she asked, shifting the glasses. "A clump of
flat-roofed buildings. Under a red-and-yellow danger-flag."

"That's Dynamite Island; the Kragans have an explosives-plant there.
They make nitroglycerine, like all the thalassic peoples; they also
make TNT and catastrophite, and propellants. Learned that from us, of
course. They also manufacture most of their own firearms, some of them
pretty extreme--up to 25-mm for shoulder rifles. Don't ever fire one;
it'd break every bone in your body."

"Are they that much stronger than us?"

He shook his head. "Just denser, heavier. They're about equal to us in
weight-lifting. They can't run, or jump, as well as we can. We often
come out here for games with the Kragans, where the geeks can't watch
us. And that reminds me--you're right about that being a term of
derogation, because I don't believe I've ever knowingly spoken of a
Kragan as a geek, and in fact they've picked up the word from us and
apply it to all non-Kragans. But as I was saying, our baseball team
has to give theirs a handicap, but their football team can beat the
daylights out of ours. In a tug-of-war, we have to put two men on our
end for every one of theirs. But they don't even try to play tennis
with us."

"Don't the other natives make their own firearms?"

"No, and we're not going to teach them how. The thalassic peoples here
in the Equatorial Zone are fairly good empirical, teaspoon-measure,
chemists. Well, no, alchemists. They found out how to make
nitroglycerine, and use it for blasting and for bombs and mines, and
they screw little capsules of it on the ends of their arrows. Most of
their chemistry, such as it is, was learned in trying to prevent
organic materials, like wood, from petrifying. Up in the north, where
it gets cold, they learned a lot about metallurgy and ceramics, and
about forced-draft pneumatics, from having to keep fires going all
winter to thaw frozen food. They make air-rifles, to shoot metal
darts."

The aircar came in, circling slowly over the town on the big rock, and
let down on the roof of the castle-like building from which the
watchtower rose. There were a dozen or so individuals waiting for
them--the five Terrans, three men and two women, from the telecast
station, and the rest Kragans. One of these, dark-skinned but with
speckles no darker than light amber, armed only with a heavy dagger,
came over and clapped von Schlichten on the shoulder, grinning
opalescently.

"Greetings, Von!" he squawked in Kragan, then, seeing Paula, switched
over to the customary language of the Takkad Sea country. "It makes
happiness to see you. How long will you stay with us?"

"Till the _Aldebaran_ gets in from Konkrook, to pick up the rifles,"
von Schlichten replied, in Lingua Terra. He looked at his watch. "Two
hours and a half ... Kankad, this is Paula Quinton; Paula, King
Kankad."

He took out his geek-speaker and crammed it into his mouth. Before any
other race on Uller, that would have been the most shocking sort of
bad manners, without the token-concealment of the handkerchief. Kankad
took it as a matter of course. At some length, von Schlichten
explained the nature of Paula's sociographic work, her connection with
the Extraterrestrials' Rights Association, and her intention of going
to the Arctic mines. Kankad nodded.

"You were right," he said. "I wouldn't have understood all that in
your language. If I had read it, maybe, but not if I heard it." He put
his upper right hand on Paula's shoulder and uttered a clicking
approximation of her name. "I make you one of us," he told her. "You
must come back, after the work stops at the mines; if you want to
learn about my people, I'll show you what you want to see, and tell
you what you want to know. But why not stay here? Why bother about
those geeks at the mines; the Company treats them much better than
they deserve. Stay here with us; we will make you happy to be with
us."

Paula replied slowly: "I thank Kankad, but I must go. Those on Terra
who sent me here want me to learn for myself how the workers at the
mines are treated. But I will come back--in a hundred, a hundred and
fifty days."

Kankad's opal-jeweled grin widened. "Good! We'll be waiting for you."
He turned and introduced another Kragan, about his own age, who wore
the equipment and insignia of a Company native-major and was freshly
painted with the Company emblem. "This is Kormork. He and I have borne
young to each other. Kormork, you watch over Paula Quinton." He
managed, on the second try, to make it more or less recognizable.
"Bring her back safe. Or else find yourself a good place to hide."

Kankad introduced the rest of his people, and von Schlichten
introduced the Terrans from the telecast-station. Then Kankad looked
at the watch he was wearing on his lower left wrist.

"We will have plenty of time, before the ship comes, to show Paula the
town," he suggested. "Von, you know better than I do what she would
like to see."

He led the way past a pair of long 90-mm guns to a stone stairway. Von
Schlichten explained, as they went down, that the guns of King
Kankad's Town were the only artillery above 75-mm on Uller in
non-Terran hands. They climbed into an open machine-gun carrier and
strapped themselves to their seats, and for two hours King Kankad
showed her the sights of the town. They visited the school, where
young Kragans were being taught to read Lingua Terra and studied from
textbooks printed in Johannesburg and Sydney and Buenos Aires. Kankad
showed her the repair-shops, where two-score descendants of Kragan
riever-chieftains were working on contragravity equipment, under the
supervision of a Scottish-Afrikaner and his Malay-Portuguese wife; the
small-arms factory, where very respectable copies of Terran rifles and
pistols and auto-weapons were being turned out; the machine-shop; the
physics and chemistry labs; the hospital; the ammunition-loading
plant; the battery of 155-mm Long Toms, built in Kankad's own shops,
which covered the road up the sloping rock-spine behind the city; the
printing-shop and book-bindery; the observatory, with a big telescope
and an ingenious orrery of the Beta Hydrae system; the nuclear-power
plant, part of the original price for giving up brigandage.

Half an hour before the ship from Konkrook was due, they had arrived
at the airport, where a gang of Kragans were clearing a berth for the
_Aldebaran_. From somewhere, Kankad produced two cold bottles of Cape
Town beer for Paula and von Schlichten, and a bowl of some boiling-hot
black liquid for himself. Von Schlichten and Paula lit cigarettes;
between sips of his bubbling hell-brew, Kankad gnawed on the stalk of
some swamp-plant. Paula seemed as much surprised at Kankad's disregard
for the eating taboo as she had been at von Schlichten's open flouting
of the convention of concealment when he had put in his geek-speaker.

"This is the only place on Uller where this happens," von Schlichten
told her. "Here, or in the field when Terran and Kragan soldiers are
together. There aren't any taboos between us and the Kragans."

"No," Kankad said. "We cannot eat each others' food, and because our
bodies are different, we cannot be the fathers of each others' young.
But we have been battle-comrades, and worksharers, and we have learned
from each other, my people more from yours than yours from mine.
Before you came, my people were like children, shooting arrows at
little animals on the beach, and climbing among the rocks at
dare-me-and-I-do, and playing war with toy weapons. But we are growing
up, and it will not be long before we will stand beside you, as the
grown son stands beside his parent, and when that day comes, you will
not be ashamed of us."

It was easy to forget that Kankad had four arms and a rubbery,
quartz-speckled skin, and a face like a lizard.

"I have always wished that some of your people could come to Terra, to
study," von Schlichten said. "I was talking about it with Sid
Harrington, only a short while ago. He thinks it would be a good
thing, for your people and for mine."

"Yes. I want Little Me, when he's old enough to travel, to visit your
world," Kankad said. "And some of the other young ones. And when
Little Me is old enough to take over the rule of our people, I would
like to go to Terra, myself."

"Some day, I am going to return to Terra; I would like to have you
make the trip with me," von Schlichten said.

"That would be wonderful, Von!" Kankad exclaimed. "I want to see your
world, before I die. It must be a wonderful place. A world is what its
people make it, and your people must be able to make anything of your
world that you would want."

"We almost made a lifeless desert, like the poles of Uller, out of our
world, once," von Schlichten told him. "Four hundred and more years
ago, we fought great wars among ourselves, with weapons such as I hope
will never even be thought of on Uller. Our whole Northern Hemisphere,
where our greatest nations were, was devastated; much of it is
wasteland to this day. But we put an end to that folly in time; we
made one nation out of all our people, and swore never to commit such
crimes again, and then we built the ships that took us out to the
stars. But I want you to see our world, and some of the other worlds
that we have visited, I think you would like it."

"I know I would. And with you to tell me what the things I would see
meant...." Kankad was silent for a moment. Then he spoke again,
changing the subject abruptly.

"I hope Paula will pardon me, but isn't Paula the kind of Terran that
bears young?"

"That's right, Kankad. I never bore any, yet, but that's the kind of
Terran I am."

"I like Paula," Kankad said. "She has come all the way from Terra to
help us, and to learn about us. Of course, the Kragans don't need that
kind of help, and the geeks, who would stick a knife in her as soon as
she turned her back on them, don't deserve it. But she wants to learn
about us, just as I want to learn about Terra. Von, why don't you and
Paula have young?" he asked. "I think that would be fine. Then, Little
Paula-Von and Little Me could be friends, long after the three of us
are dead and gone."




VI.

The Bad News Came After the Coffee


The last clatter of silverware and dishes ceased as the native
servants finished clearing the table. There was a remaining clatter of
cups and saucers; liqueur-glasses tinkled, and an occasional
cigarette-lighter clicked. At the head table, the voices seemed
louder.

"... don't like it a millisol's worth," Brigadier-General Barney
Mordkovitz, the Skilk military CO, was saying to the lady on his
right. "They're too confounded meek. Nowadays, nobody yells '_Znidd
suddabit!_' at you. Nobody sticks all four thumbs in his mouth and
waves his fingers. Nobody commits nuisance on the sidewalk in front of
you. They just stand and look at you like a farmer looking at a turkey
the week before Christmas, and that I don't like!"

"Oh, bosh!" Jules Keaveney, the Skilk Resident-Agent, at the head of
the table, exclaimed. "You soldiers are all alike--begging your
pardon, General von Schlichten," he nodded in the direction of the
guest of honor. "If they don't bow and scrape to you and get off the
sidewalk to let you pass, you say they're insolent and need a lesson.
If they do, you say they're plotting insurrection."

"What I said," Mordkovitz repeated, "was that I expect a certain
amount of disorder, and a certain minimum show of hostility toward us
from some of these geeks, to conform to what I know to be our
unpopularity with many of them. When I don't find it, I want to know
why."

"I'm inclined," von Schlichten came to his subordinate's support, "to
agree. This sudden absence of overt hostility is disquieting. Colonel
Cheng-Li," he called on the local Intelligence officer and
Constabulary chief. "This fellow Rakkeed was here, about a month ago.
Was there any noticeable disorder at that time? Anti-Terran
demonstrations, attacks on Company property or personnel, shooting at
aircars, that sort of thing?"

"No more than usual, general. In fact, it was when Rakkeed came here
that the condition General Mordkovitz was speaking of began to become
conspicuous. We did catch some of Rakkeed's disciples trying to get in
among the enlisted men of the Tenth N.U.N.I. and the Fifth Zirk
Cavalry and promote disaffection. That was reported at the time, sir."

"And acted upon, as far as the civil administration would permit," von
Schlichten replied. "And I might say that Lieutenant-Governor Blount
has reported from Keegark, where he is now, that the same unnatural
absence of hostility exists there."

"Well, of course, general," Keaveney said patronizingly. "King Orgzild
has things under pretty tight control at Keegark. He'd not allow a few
fanatics to do anything to prejudice these spaceport negotiations."

"I wonder if the idea back of that spaceport proposition isn't to get
us concentrated at Keegark, where Orgzild could wipe us all out in one
surprise blow," somebody down the table suggested.

"Oh, Orgzild wouldn't be crazy enough to try anything like that,"
Commander Dirk Prinsloo, of the _Aldebaran_, declared. "He'd get away
with it for just twelve months--the time it would take to get the
news to Terra and for a Federation Space Navy task-force to get here.
And then, there'd be little bits of radioactive geek floating around
this system as far out as the orbit of Beta Hydrae VII."

"That's quite true," von Schlichten agreed. "The point is, does
Orgzild know it? I doubt if he even believes there is a Terra."

"Then where in Space does he think we come from?" Keaveney demanded.

"I believe he thinks Niflheim is our home world," von Schlichten
replied. "Or, rather, the string of orbiters and artificial satellites
around Niflheim. Where he thinks Niflheim is, I wouldn't even try to
guess."

"Well, it takes six months for a ship to go between here and Nif,"
Prinsloo considered. "Because of the hyperdrive effects, the
experienced time of the voyage, inside the ship, is of the order of
three weeks. Taking that as the figure, he'd estimate the distance at
about a quarter-million miles, assuming the velocity as being the
speed of one of our contragravity-ships here on Uller. I'm assuming he
doesn't even know there is a hyperdrive."

"Yes. After he'd wiped us out, he might even consider the idea of an
invasion of Niflheim with captured contragravity ships," Hideyoshi
O'Leary chuckled. "That would be a big laugh--if any of us were alive,
then, to do any laughing."

"You don't really believe that, general?" Keaveney asked. His tone was
still derisive, but under the derision was uncertainty. After all, von
Schlichten had been on Uller for fifteen years, to his two.

"Any question of geek psychology is wide open as far as I'm concerned;
the longer I stay here, the less I understand it." Von Schlichten
finished his brandy and got out cigarette-case and lighter. "I have
an idea of the sort of garbled reports these spies of his who spend a
year on Niflheim as laborers bring back."

"You know the line Rakkeed's been taking, of course," Colonel Cheng-Li
put in. "He as much as says that Niflheim's our home, and that the
farms where we raise food here, and those evergreen plantings on Konk
Isthmus and between here and Grank are the beginning of an attempt to
drive all native life from this planet and make it over for
ourselves."

"And that savage didn't think an idea like that up for himself; he got
it from somebody like Orgzild," the black-bearded brigadier-general
added. "You know, the main base off Niflheim is practically
self-supporting, with hydroponic-gardens and animal-tissue culture
vats. And it's enough bigger than one of the _City_ ships to pass for
a little world. Yes, somebody like Orgzild, or King Firkked here,
could easily pick up the idea that that's our home planet."

"But King Kankad was talking about...." Paula Quinton began.

"We were speaking of geeks, not Kragans." Von Schlichten lit his
cigarette and held his lighter for hers. "You saw that big Beta Hydrae
orrery at Kankad's observatory. Well, there's quite a little story
about that. You know, it's generally realized by the natives here that
Uller is a globe. The North Zirks have ridden all the way around it,
on hipposaur-back, in the high latitudes, and the thalassic peoples at
the Equator have sailed all the five equatorial seas and portaged all
the isthmuses between. But, of course, Uller is the center of the
universe; the sun travels around it, on a rather complicated
double-spiral track. As a theory, it explains most of what they're
able to observe, and any minor effects that don't conform to it are
just ignored. They have a model, a most ingenious affair run by
clockwork, at the University of Konkrook, to show the apparent
movement and position of Beta Hydrae in the sky; it does so fairly
accurately.

"Well, some of our astronomers constructed this orrery, and exhibited
it to a gathering of the leading native scholars, who are also the
high-priests of the local religion. Sort of combined Academy of Arts
and Sciences and College of Cardinals. They almost were massacred. As
soon as the assembled pundits saw this thing and grasped its meaning,
they began geeking and skreeking and yorking and squawking and
brandishing knives--it was blasphemous, and sacrilegious, and
undermined the Faith, and invalidated the whole logic-system.

"I was brigadier-general, in command of Konkrook military district,
then--the post Them M'zangwe has now. When I got a riot-call from the
University, I hustled around with a company of Kragans, and we cleared
the hall with the bayonet and ran the reverend professors out onto the
campus, and after we got things in hand, the Kragans crowded around
the orrery, trying to set it up to show the existing position of the
planet relative to the primary and figure out the theory back of it.
They were very much interested; some of them must have sent word home
about it, because Kankad came in on the next ship, wanting to see it.
He was so much taken with it that Sid Harrington gave it to him. It's
one of his most cherished possessions, but the Konkrook pundits bite
all four thumbs and wave their fingers every time they think of it."
He warmed his coffee from a controlled-temperature pot. "You can't use
Kragan thinking on any subject as a criterion of what somebody like
Orgzild's opinions will be."

"I never could understand the admiration some of you military people
have for those cutthroats," Keaveney declared. "Oh, yes, I can. You
like them because they do your dirty work for you."

"He reads Stanley-Browne, too, I'll bet," Hideyoshi O'Leary said.
"Miss Quinton, how did you like your visit to Kankad's Town? Still
think the Kragans are cultural mongrels?"

"Why, they're wonderful! I never expected anything like it. They just
seem to have picked up everything they could from us, and then gone on
from there to develop a culture of their own with our techniques. For
instance, those big guns, the ones they call the Ridge Battery, that
they built for themselves. They aren't copies of Terran guns. They
don't look like our work, or give you the feel our work would. And
that telescope at the observatory," she continued. "Did they build
that, too?"

"Yes, all we furnished was a couple of textbooks on lens-grinding and
telescope-design, and a book on optics. You see, when we made that
deal with them, they realized that we weren't any better fighters than
they were; we just had better weapons. To have the same kind of
weapons, they'd have to learn to make them, and once they began
studying technology, they found that they had to study science.
Weapon-making was the entering-wedge; after that, they found that they
could use the same skills to make anything else they wanted. Give them
another century or so and they'll be one of the great races of the
galaxy."

"Yes, and it's a good thing they're our friends, too," Mordkovitz
added. "I'm only sorry there are so few of them, and so many of the
geeks."

"Yes, the Company ought to let us stockpile nuclear weapons here, just
to be on the safe side," another officer, farther down the table,
said.

"Well, I'm not exactly in favor of that," von Schlichten replied.
"It's the same principle as not allowing guards who have to go in
among the convicts to carry firearms. If somebody like Orgzild got
hold of a nuclear bomb, even a little old First-Century H-bomb, he
could use it for a model and construct a hundred like it, with all the
plutonium we've been handing out for power reactors. And there are too
few of us, and we're concentrated in too few places, to last long if
that happened. What this planet needs, though, is a visit by a
fifty-odd-ship task-force of the Space Navy, just to show the geeks
what we have back of us. After a show like that, there'd be a lot less
_znidd suddabit_ around here."

"General, I deplore that sort of talk," Keaveney said. "I hear too
much of this mailed-fist-and-rattling-saber stuff from some of the
junior officers here, without your giving countenance and
encouragement to it. We're here to earn dividends for the stockholders
of the Uller Company, and we can only do that by gaining the
friendship, respect and confidence of the natives...."

"Mr. Keaveney," Paula Quinton spoke up. "I doubt if even you would
seriously accuse the Extraterrestrials' Rights Association of favoring
what you call a mailed-fist-and-rattling-saber policy. We've done
everything in our power to help these people, and if anybody should
have their friendship, we should. Well, only five days ago, in
Konkrook, Mr. Mohammed Ferriera and I were attacked by a mob, our
native aircar driver was murdered, and if it hadn't been for General
von Schlichten and his soldiers, we'd have lost our own lives. Mr.
Ferriera is still hospitalized as a result of injuries he received. It
seems that General von Schlichten and his Kragans aren't trying to
get friendship and confidence; they're willing to settle for respect,
in the only way they can get it--by hitting harder and quicker than
the geeks can."

Somebody down the table--one of the military, of course--said, "Hear,
hear!" Von Schlichten came as close as a man wearing a monocle can to
winking at Paula. Good girl, he thought; she's started playing on the
Army team!

"Well, of course...." Keaveney began. Then he stopped, as a Terran
sergeant came up to the table and bent over Barney Mordkovitz'
shoulder, whispering urgently. The black-bearded brigadier rose
immediately, taking his belt from the back of his chair and putting it
on. Motioning the sergeant to accompany him, he spoke briefly to
Keaveney and then came around the table to where von Schlichten sat,
the Resident-Agent accompanying him.

"Message just came in from Konkrook, general," he said softly. "Sid
Harrington's dead."

It took von Schlichten all of a second to grasp what had been said.
"Good God! When? How?"

"Here's all we know, sir," the sergeant said, giving him a radioprint
slip. "Came in ten minutes ago."

It was an all-station priority telecast. Governor-General Harrington
had died suddenly, in his room, at 2210; there were no details. He
glanced at his watch; it was 2243. Konkrook and Skilk were in the same
time-zone; that was fast work. He handed the slip to Mordkovitz, who
gave it to Keaveney.

"You from the telecast station, sergeant?" he asked. "All right, let's
go."

"Wait a minute, general." Keaveney put out a hand to detain him as he
took his belt and put it on. "How about this?" He gestured nervously
with the radioprint slip.

"Get up and make an announcement, now," von Schlichten told him,
fastening the buckle and hitching his pistol and survival-kit into
place. "It'll be out all over the planet in half an hour. Never hold
news out unnecessarily." He stubbed out his cigarette. "Come on,
sergeant."

As he hurried from the banquet-room, he could hear Keaveney tapping on
his wine-glass.

"Everybody, please! Let me have your attention! There has just come in
a piece of the most tragic news...."




VII.

Bismillah! How Dumb Can We Get?


The lights had come on inside the semicircular and now open
storm-porch of Company House, but it was still daylight outside. The
sky above the mountain to the west was fading from crimson to
burnt-orange, and a couple of the brighter stars were winking into
visibility. Von Schlichten and the sergeant hurried a hundred yards
down the street between low, thick-walled office buildings to the
telecast station, next to the Administration Building.

A woman captain met him just inside the door of the big soundproofed
room.

"We have a wavelength open to Konkrook, general," she said. "In booth
three."

He nodded. "Thank you, captain.... We've all lost a true friend,
haven't we?"

Another girl, a tech-sergeant, was in the booth; on the screen was the
image of a third young woman, a lieutenant, at Konkrook station. The
sergeant rose and started to leave the booth.

"Stick around, sergeant," von Schlichten told her. "I'll want you to
take over when I'm through." He sat down in front of the combination
visiscreen and pickup. "Now, lieutenant, just what happened?" he
asked. "How did he die?"

"We think it was poison, general. General M'zangwe has ordered autopsy
and chemical analysis. If you can wait about ten minutes, he'll be
able to talk to you, himself."

"Call him. In the meantime, give me everything you know."

"Well, the governor decided to go to bed early; he was going hunting
in the morning. I suppose you know his usual routine?"

Von Schlichten nodded. Harrington would have taken a shower, put on
his dressing-gown, and then sat down at his desk, lighted his pipe,
poured a drink of Terran bourbon, and begun to write his diary.

"Well, at 2210, give or take a couple of minutes, the Kragan
guard-sergeant on that floor heard ten pistol-shots, as fast as they
could be fired semi-auto, in the governor's room. The door was locked,
but he shot it off with his own pistol and went in. He found Governor
Harrington on the floor, wearing only his gown, holding an empty
pistol. He was in convulsions, frothing at the mouth, in horrible
pain. Evidently he'd fired his pistol, which he kept on his desk, to
call help; all the bullets had gone into the ceiling. The sergeant
punched the emergency button, beside the bed, and reported, then tried
to help the governor, but it was too late. One of the medics got there
in five minutes, just as he was dying. He'd written his diary up to
noon of today, and broken off in the middle of a word. There was a
bottle and an overturned glass on his desk. The Constabulary got there
a few minutes later, and then Brigadier-General M'zangwe took charge.
A white rat, given fifteen drops from the whiskey-bottle, died with
the same symptoms in about ninety seconds."

"Who had access to the whiskey-bottle?"

"A geek servant, who takes care of the room. He was caught, an hour
earlier, trying to slip off the island without a pass; they were
holding him at the guardhouse when Governor Harrington died. He's now
being questioned by the Kragans." The girl's face was bleakly
remorseless. "I hope they do plenty to him!"

"I hope they don't kill him before he talks."

"Wait a moment, general; we have General M'zangwe, now," the girl
said. "I'll switch you over."

The screen broke into a kaleidoscopic jumble of color, then cleared;
the chocolate-brown face of Themistocles M'zangwe was looking out of
it.

"I heard what happened, how they found him, and about that geek
chamber-valet being arrested," von Schlichten said. "Did you get
anything out of him?"

"He's admitted putting poison in the bottle, but he claims it was his
own idea. But he's one of Father Keeluk's parishioners, so...."

"Keeluk! God damn, so that was it!" von Schlichten almost shouted.
"Now I know what he wanted with Stalin, and that goat, and those
rabbits!"

Five thousand miles away, in Konkrook, Themistocles M'zangwe whistled.

"_Bismillah_! How dumb can we get?" he cried. "Of course they'd need
terrestrial animals, to find out what would poison a Terran! Wait a
minute; I'll make a note of that, to spring on this geek, if the
Kragans haven't finished him by now." Von Schlichten watched M'zangwe
pick up a stenophone and whisper into it for a moment. "All right,
Carlos, what else?"

"Has Eric been notified?"

"We called Keegark, but he's in audience with King Orgzild, and we
can't reach him."

"Well, who's in charge at Konkrook, now?"

"Not much of anybody. Laviola, the Fiscal Secretary, and Hans
Meyerstein, the Banking Cartel's lawyer, and Howlett, the Personnel
Chief, and Buhrmann, the Commercial Secretary, have made up a sort of
quadrumvirate and are trying to run things. I don't know what would
happen if anything came up suddenly...." A blue-gray uniformed arm,
with a major's cuff-braid, came into the screen, handing a slip of
paper to M'zangwe; he took it, glanced at it, and swore. Von
Schlichten waited until he had read it through.

"Well, something has, all right," the African said. "We just got a
call from Jaikark's Palace--a revolt's broken out, presumably headed
by Gurgurk; Household Guards either mutinied or wiped out by the
mutineers, all but those twenty Kragan Rifles we loaned Jaikark. They,
and about a dozen of Jaikark's courtiers and their personal retainers,
are holding the approaches to the King's apartments. The
native-lieutenant in charge of the Kragans just radioed in; says the
situation is desperate."

"When a Kragan says that, he means damn near hopeless. Is this being
recorded?" When M'zangwe nodded, he continued: "All right. Use the
recording for your authority and take charge. I'm declaring martial
rule at Konkrook, as of now, 2253. Tell Eric Blount what's happened,
and what you've done, as soon as you can get in touch with him. I'm
leaving for Konkrook at once; I ought to get in by 0800.

"Now, as to the trouble at the Palace. Don't commit more than one
company of Kragans and ten airjeeps and four combat-cars, and tell
them to evacuate Jaikark and his followers and our Kragans to Gongonk
Island. And alert your whole force. These geek palace revolutions are
always synchronized with street-rioting, and this thing seems to have
been synchronized with Sid Harrington's death, too. Get our Kragans
out if you can't save anybody else from the Palace, but sacrificing
thirty or forty men to save twenty is no kind of business. And keep
sending reports; I can pick them up on my car radio as I come down."
He turned to the girl sergeant. "Keep on this; there'll be more coming
in."

He rose and left the booth. If we can pull Jaikark's bacon off the
fire, he was thinking, the Company can dictate its own terms to him
afterward; if Jaikark's killed, we'll have Gurgurk's head off for it,
and then take over Konkrook. In either case, it'll be a long step
toward getting rid of all these geek despots. And with Eric Blount as
Governor-General....

The girl captain in charge of the station met him as he came out.

"Poison," he told her. "A geek servant did the job, on orders from
Gurgurk and possibly Rakkeed. Gurgurk's started a putsch against King
Jaikark; I'm going to Konkrook at once. Call the military airport and
have my command-car brought to Company House."

Harry Quong and Hassan Bogdanoff had been at the banquet, too; on a
world of lizard-faced silicate-eaters, the social difference between a
human general and a human aircar-driver was almost infinitesimal. He'd
have to talk to Barney Mordkovitz, too; when word of events at
Konkrook got out among the local geeks, as it probably had already....

The inner door of the soundproofed telecast-room burst open, three men
hurried inside, and it slammed shut behind them. In the brief
interval, there had been firing audible from outside. One of the men
had a pistol in his right hand, and with his left arm he supported a
companion, whose shoulder was mangled and dripped blood. The third man
had a burp-gun in his hands. All were in civilian dress-shorts and
light jackets. The man with the pistol holstered it and helped his
injured companion into a chair. The burp-gunner advanced into the
room, looked around, saw von Schlichten, and addressed him.

"General! The geeks turned on us!" he cried. "The Tenth North Uller's
mutinied; they're running wild all over the place. They've taken their
barracks and supply-buildings, and the lorry-hangars and the
maintenance-yard; they're headed this way in a mob. Some of the Zirk
Cavalry's joined them."

"How about the Kragans?"

"The Eighteenth Rifles? They're with us. I saw a party of them firing
into the mob; I saw some of the Tenth N.U.N.I. tossing a dead Kragan
on their bayonets...."

"Have any ammo left for that burp-gun? Come on, then; let's see what
it's like at Company House," von Schlichten said. "Captain Malavez,
you know what to do about defending this station. Get busy doing it.
And have that girl in booth three tell Konkrook what's happened here,
and say that I won't be coming down, as planned, just yet."

He opened the door, and the rattle of shots outside became audible
again. The civilian with the burp-gun knew better than to let a
general go out first; elbowing von Schlichten out of the way, he
crouched over his weapon and dashed outside. Drawing his pistol, von
Schlichten followed, pulling the door shut after him.

Darkness had fallen, while he had been inside; now the whole Company
Reservation was ablaze with electric lights. Somebody at the
power-plant--either the regular staff, if they were still holding, or
the mutineers, if they had taken it--had thrown on the emergency
lights. There was a confused mass of gray-skinned figures in front of
Company House, reflected light twinkling on steel over them; from the
direction of the native-troops barracks more natives were coming on
the run. On the roof of a building across the street, two machine-guns
were already firing into the mob. A group of Terrans came running out
of a roadway between two buildings, from the direction of the
repair-shops; several of them paused to fire behind them with pistols.
They started toward Company House, saw what was going on there, and
veered, darting into the door of the building from which the
auto-weapons were firing. From up the street, a hundred-odd
saurian-faced native soldiers were coming at the double, bayonets
fixed and rifles at high port; with them ran several Terrans.
Motioning his companion to follow, von Schlichten ran to meet them,
falling in beside a Terran captain who ran in front.

"What's the score, captain?" he asked.

"Tenth North Uller and the Fifth Cavalry have mutinied; so have these
rag-tag Auxiliaries. That mob down there's part of them." He was
puffing under the double effort of running and talking. "Whole thing
blew up in seconds; no chance to communicate with anybody...."

A Terran woman, in black slacks and an orange sweater, ran across the
street in front of them, pursued by a group of enlisted "men" of the
Tenth North Uller Native Infantry, all shrieking "_Znidd suddabit!_"
The fugitive ran into a doorway across the street; before her pursuers
were aware of their danger, the Kragans had swept over them. There was
no shooting; the slim, cruel-bladed bayonets did the work. From behind
him, as he ran, von Schlichten could hear Kragan voices in a new cry:
"_Znidd geek! Znidd geek!_"

The mob were swarming up onto the steps and into the semi-rotunda of
the storm-porch. There was shooting, which told him that some of the
humans who had been at the banquet were still alive. He wondered,
half-sick, how many, and whether they could hold out till he could
clear the doorway, and, most of all, he found himself thinking of
Paula Quinton. Skidding to a stop within fifty yards of the mob, he
flung out his arms crucifix-wise to halt the Kragans. Behind, he could
hear the Terrans and native-officers shouting commands to form front.

"Give them one clip, reload, and then give them the bayonet!" he
ordered. "Shove them off the steps and then clear the porch!"

"One clip, fire, and reload, at will!" somebody passed it on in
Kragan.

The hundred rifles let go all at once, and for five seconds they
poured a deafening two thousand rounds into the mutineers. There was
some fire in reply; a Zirk corporal narrowly missed him with a pistol,
he saw the captain's head fly apart when an explosive rifle-bullet hit
him, and half a dozen Kragans went down.

"Reload! Set your safeties!" von Schlichten bellowed. "Charge!"

Under human officers, the North Uller Native Infantry would have stood
firm. Even under their native-officers and sergeants, they should not
have broken as they did, but the best of these had paid for their
loyalty to the Company with their lives, and the rest had destroyed
their authority by revolting against the source from which it was
derived. At that, the Skilkan peasantry who made up the Tenth Infantry
and the Zirk cavalrymen tried briefly to fight as individuals,
shrieking "_Znidd suddabit!_" until the Kragans were upon them,
stabbing and shooting. They drove the rioters from the steps or killed
them there, they wiped out those who had gotten into the semicircle of
the storm-porch. The inside doors, von Schlichten saw, were open, but
beyond them were Terrans and a dozen or so Kragans. Hideyoshi O'Leary
and Barney Mordkovitz seemed to be in command of these.

"We had about thirty seconds' warning," Mordkovitz reported, "and the
Kragans in the hall bought us another sixty seconds. Of course, we all
had our pistols...."

"Hey! These storm-doors are wedged!" somebody discovered. "Those
goddam geek servants ...!"

"Yeah, kill any of them you catch," somebody else advised. "If we
could have gotten these doors closed...."

The mob, driven from the steps, was trying to reform and renew the
attack. From up the street, the machine-guns, silent during the
bayonet-fight, began hammering again. The mob surged forward to get
out of their fire, and were met by a rifle-blast and a hedge of
bayonets at the steps; they surged back, and the machine-guns flailed
them again. They started to rush the building from whence the
automatic-fire came, and there was a fusillade and a shriek of "_Znidd
geek!_" from up the street. They turned and fled in the direction from
whence they had come, bullets scourging them from three directions at
once.

For a moment, von Schlichten and the three Terrans and eighty-odd
Kragans who had survived the fight stood on the steps, weapons poised,
seeking more enemies. The machine-guns up the street stuttered a few
short bursts and were silent. From behind, the beleaguered Terrans and
their Kragan guards were emerging. He saw Jules Keaveney and his wife,
Commander Prinsloo of the _Aldebaran_, Harry Quong and Bogdanoff. Ah,
there she was! He heaved a breath of relief and waved to her.

The Kragans were already setting about their after-battle chores.
About twenty of them spread out on guard; the others, by fours, went
into the street, one covering with his rifle while the other three
checked on their own casualties, used the short, leaf-shaped swords
they carried to slash off the heads of enemy wounded, and collected
weapons and ammunition. A couple of hundred more Kragans, led by
Native-Major Kormork, the co-parent of young with King Kankad, came up
at the double and stopped in front of Company House.

"We were in quarters, aboard the _Aldebaran_ and in the guesthouse at
the airport," Kormork reported. "We were attacked, fifteen minutes
ago, by a mob. We took ten minutes beating them off, and five more
getting here. I sent Native-Captain Zeerjeek and the rest of the force
to retake the supply-depot and the shops and lorry hangars, which had
been taken, and relieve the military airport, which is under attack."

There was still firing from the commercial airport and the smaller
military airfield. Once there was a string of heavy explosions that
sounded like 80-mm rockets.

"Good enough. I hope you didn't spread yourself out too thin. What's
the situation at the commercial airport?"

"The two ships, the _Aldebaran_ and the freighter _Northern Star_, are
both safe," Kormork replied. "I saw them go on contragravity and rise
to about a hundred feet."

"Whose crowd is that you have?" he asked the Terran lieutenant who had
taken over command of the first force of Kragans.

"Company 6, Eighteenth Rifles, sir. We were on duty at the guardhouse;
fighting broke out in the direction of the native barracks. A couple
of runners from Captain Retief of Company 4 came in with word that he
was being attacked by mutineers from the Tenth N.U.N.I. but that he
was holding them back. So Captain Charbonneau, who was killed a few
minutes ago, left a Terran lieutenant and a Kragan native-lieutenant
and a couple of native-sergeants and thirty Kragans to hold the
guardhouse, and brought the rest of us here."

Von Schlichten nodded. "You'd pass the military airport and the
power-plant, wouldn't you?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. The military airport's holding out, and I saw the
red-and-yellow danger-lights on the fence around the power-plant."

That meant the power-plant was, for the time, safe; somebody'd turned
twenty thousand volts into the fence.

"All right. I'm setting up my command post at the telecast station,
where the communication equipment is." He turned to the crowd that had
come out onto the porch from inside. "Where's Colonel Cheng-Li?"

"Here, general." The Intelligence and Constabulary officer pushed
through the crowd. "I was on the phone, talking to the military
airport, the commercial airport, ordnance depot, spaceport, ship-docks
and power-plant. All answer. I'm afraid Pop Goode, at the city
power-plant, is done for; nobody answers there, but the TV-pickup is
still on in the load-dispatcher's room, and the place is full of
geeks. Colonel Jarman's coming here with a lorry to get combat-car
crews; he's short-handed. Port-Captain Leavitt has all the native
labor at the airport and spaceport herded into a repair dock; he's
keeping them covered with the forward 90-mm gun of the _Northern
Star_. Lorry-hangars, repair-shops and maintenance-yards don't
answer."

"That's what I was going to ask you. Good enough. Harry Quong, Hassan
Bogdanoff!"

His command-car crew front-and-centered.

"I want you to take Colonel O'Leary up, as soon as my car's brought
here.... Hid, you go up and see what's going on. Drop flares where
there isn't any light. And take a look at the native-labor camp and
the equipment-park, south of the reservation.... Kormork, you take all
your gang, and half these soldiers from the Eighteenth, here, and help
clear the native-troops barracks. And don't bother taking any
prisoners; we can't spare personnel to guard them."

Kormork grinned. The taking of prisoners had always been one of those
irrational Terran customs which no Ulleran regarded with favor, or
even comprehension.




VIII.

Authority of Governor-General von Schlichten


There was fresh intelligence from Konkrook, by the time he returned to
the telecast station. Mutiny had broken out there among the laborers
and native troops, who outnumbered the Terrans and their Kragan
mercenaries on Gongonk Island by five thousand to five hundred and
fifteen hundred respectively. The attempt to relieve Jaikark's palace
had been called off before the relief-force could be sent; there was
heavy and confused fighting all over the island, and most of the
combat contragravity and about half the Kragan Rifles had had to be
committed to defend the Company farms across the Channel, on the
mainland, south of the city. There had also been an urgent call for
help from Colonel Rodolfo MacKinnon, in command of Company troops at
the Keegark Residency, and another from the Residency at Kwurk, one of
the Free Cities on the eastern shore of Takkad Sea.

He called Keegark; a girl, apparently one of the civilian telecast
technicians, answered.

"We must have help, General von Schlichten," she told him. "The native
troops, all but two hundred Kragans, have mutinied. They have
everything here except Company House--docks, airport, everything.
We're trying to hold out, but there are thousands of them. Our Takkad
Native Infantry, soldiers of King Orgzild's army, and townspeople.
They all seem to have firearms...."

"What happened to Eric Blount and your Resident-Agent, Mr. Lemoyne?"

"We don't know. They were at the Palace, talking to King Orgzild.
We've tried to call the Palace, but we can't get through, general, we
must have help...."

A call came in, a few minutes later, from Krink, five hundred miles to
the northeast across the mountains; the Resident-Agent there, one
Francis Xavier Shapiro, reported rioting in the city and an attempted
palace-revolution against King Jonkvank, and that the Residency was
under attack. By way of variety, it was the army of King Jonkvank that
had mutinied; the Sixth North Uller Native Infantry and the two
companies of Zirk cavalry at Krink were still loyal, along with the
Kragans.

There was a pattern to all this. Von Schlichten stood staring at the
big map, on the wall, showing the Takkad Sea area at the Equatorial
Zone, and the country north of it to the pole, the area of Uller
occupied by the Company. He was almost beginning to discern the
underlying logic of the past half-hour's events when Keaveney, the
Skilk Resident, blundered into him in a half-daze.

"Sorry, general, didn't see you." His face was ashen, and his jowls
sagged. Von Schlichten wondered if there could be another spectacle so
woe-begone as a back-slapping extrovert with the bottom knocked out of
him. "My God, it's happening all over Uller! Not just here at Skilk;
everywhere where we have a residency or a trading-station. Why, it's
the end of all of us!"

"It's not quite that bad, Mr. Keaveney." He looked at his watch. It
was now nearly an hour since the native troops here at Skilk had
mutinied. Insurrections like this usually succeeded or failed in the
first hour. It was a little early to be certain, but he was beginning
to suspect that this one hadn't succeeded. "If we all do our part,
we'll come out of it all right," he told Keaveney, more cheerfully
than he felt, then turned to ask Brigadier-General Mordkovitz how the
fighting was going at the native-troops barracks.

"Not badly, general. Colonel Jarman's got some contragravity up and
working. They blew out all four of the Tenth N.U.N.I.'s barracks; the
Tenth and the Zirks are trying to defend the cavalry barracks. Some of
our Kragans managed to slip around behind the cavalry stables. They're
leading out hipposaurs, and sniping at the rear of the cavalry
barracks."

"That'll give us some cavalry of our own; a lot of these Kragans are
good riders.... How about the repair-shops and maintenance-yard and
lorry-hangars? I don't want these geeks getting hold of that equipment
and using it against us."

"Kormork's outfit are trying to take back the lorry-hangars. Jarman's
got a couple of airjeeps and a combat-car helping them."

"... won't be one of us left by this time tomorrow," Keaveney was
wailing, to Paula Quinton and another woman. "And the Company is
finished!"

"We'd better get him a drink, or a cup of coffee, general," Mordkovitz
suggested. "With a knockout-drop in it."

Colonel Cheng-Li, the Intelligence officer, seemed to have somewhat
the same idea. He approached Keaveney and tried to quiet him. At the
same time, a woman in black slacks and an orange sweater--the one
whose pursuers had been overrun by the Kragans at the beginning of
the fighting--approached von Schlichten.

"General, King Kankad's calling," she said. "He's on the screen in
booth four."

"Right." To avoid any possibility of misunderstanding, he slipped his
geek-speaker into his mouth before entering the booth. Kankad's face
was looking out of the screen at him, with Phil Yamazaki, the telecast
operator at Kankad's Town, standing behind him.

"Von!" The Kragan spoke almost as though in physical pain. "What can I
do to help? I have twenty thousand of my people here who are capable
of bearing arms, all with firearms, but I have transport for only five
hundred. Where shall I send them?"

Von Schlichten thought quickly. Keegark was finished; the Residency
stood in the middle of the city, surrounded by two hundred thousand of
King Orgzild's troops and subjects. Since Ullerans were bisexual, the
total population, less the senile, crippled, and very young, was the
military potential. Sending Kankad's five hundred warriors and his
meager contragravity there would be the same as shoveling them into a
furnace. The people at Keegark would have to be written off, like the
twenty Kragans at Jaikark's palace.

"Send them to Konkrook," he decided. "Them M'zangwe's in command,
there; he'll need help to hold the Company farms. Maybe he can find
additional transport for you. I'll call him."

"I'll send off what force I can, at once," Kankad promised. "How does
it go with you at Skilk?"

"We're holding, so far," he replied. "Paula is with me, here; she
sends her friendship."

Captain Inez Malavez, the woman officer in charge of the station, put
her head into the booth.

"General! Immediate-urgency message from Colonel O'Leary," she said.
"Native laborers from the mine-labor camp are pouring into the
mine-equipment park. Colonel O'Leary's used all his rockets and
MG-ammunition trying to stop them."

"Call you back, later," von Schlichten told Kankad. "I'll see what
Them M'zangwe can do about transport; get what force you can started
for Konkrook at once."

He left the booth, removing his geek-speaker. "Barney!" he called.
"General Mordkovitz! Who's the ranking officer in direct contact with
the Eighteenth Rifles? Major Falkenberg?"

"That's right."

"Well, tell him to get as many of his Kragans as he can spare down to
the equipment-park." He turned to Inez Malavez. "You call Jarman; tell
him what O'Leary reported, and tell him to get cracking on it. Tell
him not to let those geeks get any of that equipment onto
contragravity; knock it down as fast as they try to lift out with it.
And tell him to see what he can do in the way of troop-carriers or
lorries, to get Falkenberg's Rifles to the equipment-park.... How's
business at the lorry-hangars and maintenance-yard?"

"Kormork's still working on that," the girl captain told him. "Nothing
definite, yet."

In one corner of the big room, somebody had thumbtacked a
ten-foot-square map of the Company area to the floor. Paula Quinton
and Mrs. Jules Keaveney were on their knees beside it, pushing out
handfuls of little pink and white pills that somebody had brought in
two bottles from the dispensary across the road, each using a
billiard-bridge. The girl in the orange sweater had a handful of
scribbled notes, and was telling them where to push the pills. There
were other objects on the map, too--pistol-cartridges, and cigarettes,
and foil-wrapped food-concentrate wafers. Paula, seeing him,
straightened.

"The pink are ours, general," she said. "The white are the geeks." Von
Schlichten suppressed a grin; that was the second time he'd heard her
use that word, this evening. "The cigarettes are airjeeps, the
cartridges are combat-cars, and the wafers are lorries or
troop-carriers."

"Not exactly regulation map-markers, but I've seen stranger things
used.... Captain Malavez!"

"Yes, sir?" The girl captain, rushing past, her hands full of
teleprint-sheets, stopped in mid-stride.

"What we need," he told her, "is a big TV-screen, and a pickup mounted
on some sort of a contragravity vehicle at about two to five thousand
feet directly overhead, to give us an image of the whole area. Can
do?"

"Can try, sir. We have an eight-foot circular screen that ought to do
all right for two thousand feet. I'll implement that at once."

Going into a temporarily idle telecast booth, he called Konkrook.
First he spoke to a civilian who chewed a dead cigar, and then he got
Themistocles M'zangwe on the screen.

"How is it, now?" he asked.

"Getting a little better," the Graeco-African replied. "Half an hour
ago, we were shooting geeks out the windows, here; now we have them
contained between the spaceport and the native-troops and labor
barracks, and down the east side of the island to the farms. We have
the wire around the farms on the island electrified, and we're using
almost all our combat contragravity to keep the farms on the mainland
clear." He hesitated for a moment. "Did you hear about Eric and
Lemoyne?"

Von Schlichten shook his head.

"We just got a call from Rodolfo MacKinnon. He took a couple of
prisoners and made them talk. The whole party that were at Orgzild's
palace were massacred. Some of them were lucky enough to get killed
fighting. The geeks took Eric and Hendrik alive; rolled them in a
puddle of thermoconcentrate fuel and set fire to them. When we can
spare the contragravity, we're going to drop something on the Kee-geek
embassy, over in town."

"Well, that was what I wanted to call you about--contragravity." He
told M'zangwe about King Kankad's offer. "His crowd ought to be coming
in in a couple of hours. What can you scrape up to send to Kankad's
Town to airlift Kragans in?"

"Well, we have three hundred-and-fifty-foot gun-cutters, one 90-mm gun
apiece. The _Elmoran_, the _Gaucho_, and the _Bushranger_. But they're
not much as transports, and we need them here pretty badly. Then, we
have five fertilizer and charcoal scows, and a lot of heavy transport
lorries, and two one-eighty-foot pickup boats."

"How about the _Piet Joubert_?" von Schlichten asked. "She was due in
Konkrook from the east about 1300 today, wasn't she?"

M'zangwe swore. "She got in, all right. But the geeks boarded her at
the dock, within twenty minutes after things started. They tried to
lift out with her, and the Channel Battery shot her down into Konkrook
Channel, off the Fifty Sixth Street docks."

"Well, you couldn't let the geeks have her, to use against us. What do
you hear from the other ships?"

"_Procyon_'s at Grank; we haven't had any reports of any kind from
there, which doesn't look so good. The _Northern Lights_ is at Grank,
too. The _Oom Paul Kruger_ should have been at Bwork, in the east,
when the gun went off. And the _Jan Smuts_ and the _Christiaan De
Wett_ were both at Keegark; we can assume Orgzild has both of them."

"All right. I'm sending _Aldebaran_ to Kankad's, to pick up more
reenforcements for you."

"We can use them! And with _Aldebaran_, we ought to be able to take
the offensive against the city by this time tomorrow. Anything else?"

"Not at the moment. I'll see about getting _Aldebaran_ sent off, now."

Leaving the booth, he heard, above the clatter of
communications-machines and hubbub of voices, Jules Keaveney arguing
contentiously. Evidently Colonel Cheng-Li's efforts to drag the
Resident out of his despondency had been an excessive success.

"But it's crazy! Not just here; everywhere on Uller!" Keaveney was
saying. "How did they do it? They have no telecast equipment."

"You have me stopped, Jules," Mordkovitz was replying. "I know a lot
of rich geeks have receiving sets, but no sending sets."

The pattern that had been tantalizing von Schlichten took visible
shape in his mind. For a moment, he shelved the matter of the
_Aldebaran_.

"They didn't need sending equipment, Barney," he said. "They used
ours."

"What do you mean?" Keaveney challenged.

"Look what happened. Sid Harrington was poisoned in Konkrook. The
news, of course, was sent out at once, as the geeks knew it would be,
to every residency and trading-station on Uller, and that was the
signal they'd agreed upon, probably months in advance. All they had to
do was have that geek servant put poison in Harrington's whiskey, and
we did the rest."

"Well, what was our intelligence doing--sleeping?" Keaveney demanded
angrily.

"No, they were writing reports for your civil administration blokes to
stuff in the wastebasket, and being called mailed-fist-and-rattling-saber
alarmists for their pains." He turned away from Keaveney. "Barney, where's
Dirk Prinsloo?"

"Aboard his ship. He hitched a ride to the airport with Jarman, when
he was here picking up air-crews."

"Call him. Tell him to take the _Aldebaran_ to Kankad's Town, at once;
as soon as he arrives there, which ought to be about 1100, he's to
pick up all the Kragans he can pack aboard and take them to Konkrook.
From then on, he'll be under Them M'zangwe's orders."

"To Konkrook?" Keaveney fairly howled. "Are you nuts? Don't you think
we need reenforcements here, too?"

"Yes, I do. I'm going to try to get them," von Schlichten told him.
"Now pipe down and get out of people's way."

He crossed the room, to where two Kragans, a male sergeant, and the
ubiquitous girl in the orange sweater were struggling to get a big
circular TV-screen up, then turned to look at the situation-map. A
girl tech-sergeant was keeping Paula Quinton and Mrs. Jules Keaveney
informed.

"Start pushing geeks out of the Fifth Zirk Cavalry barracks," the
sergeant was saying. "The one at the north end, and the one next to
it; they're both on fire, now." She tossed a slip into the wastebasket
beside her and glanced at the next slip. "And more pink pills back of
the barracks and stables, and move them a little to the northwest;
Kragans as skirmishers, to intercept geeks trying to slip away from
the cavalry barracks."

"Though why we want to do that, I don't know," Mrs. Keaveney said,
pushing out a handful of pink pills with her billiard-bridge. "Let
them go, and good riddance!"

"I never did like this bridge-of-silver-for-a-fleeing-enemy idea,"
Paula Quinton said, evicting token-mutineers from the two northern
barracks. "There's usually two-way traffic on bridges. Kill them here
and we won't have to worry about keeping them out."

Of course, it was easy to be bloodthirsty about pink pills and white
pills. Once, on a three-months' reaction-drive voyage from Yggdrasill
to Loki, he had taught a couple of professors of extraterrestrial
zoology to play _kriegspiel_, and before the end of the trip, he was
being horrified by the callous disregard they showed for casualties.
But little Paula had the right idea; dead enemies don't hit back.

A young Kragan with his lower left arm in a sling and a daub of
antiseptic plaster over the back of his head came up and gave him a
radioprint slip. Guido Karamessinis, the Resident-Agent at Grank, had
reported, at last. The city, he said, was quiet, but King Yoorkerk's
troops had seized the Company airport and docks, taken the _Procyon_
and the _Northern Lights_ and put guards aboard them, and were
surrounding the Residency. He wanted to know what to do.

Von Schlichten managed to get him on the screen, after a while.

"It looks as though Yoorkerk's trying to play both sides at once," he
told the Grank Resident. "If the rebellion's put down, he'll come
forward as your friend and protector; if we're wiped out elsewhere,
he'll yell '_Znidd suddabit!_' and swamp you. Don't antagonize him; we
can't afford to fight this war on any more fronts than we are now.
We'll try to do something to get you unfrozen, before long."

He called Krink again. A girl with red-gold hair and a dusting of
freckles across her nose answered.

"How are you making out?" he asked.

"So far, fine, general. We're in complete control of the Company area,
and all our native troops, not just the Kragans, are with us.
Jonkvank's pushed the mutineers out of his palace, and we're keeping
open a couple of streets between there and here. We air-lifted all our
Kragans and half the Sixth N.U.N.I. to the Palace, and we have the
Zirks patrolling the streets on 'saurback. Now, we have our lorries
and troop-carriers out picking up elements of Jonkvank's loyal troops
outside town."

"Who's doing the rioting, then?"

She named three of Jonkvank's regiments. "And the city hoodlums, and
priests from the temples of one sect that followed Rakkeed, and
Skilkan fifth columnists. Mr. Shapiro can give you the details. Shall
I call him?"

"Never mind. He's probably busy, he's not as easy on the eyes as you
are, and you're doing all right.... How long do you think it'd take,
with the equipment you have, to airlift all of Jonkvank's loyal troops
into the city?"

"Not before this time tomorrow."

"All right. Are you in radio communication with Jonkvank now?"

"Full telecast, audio-visual," the girl replied. "Just a minute,
general."

He put in his geek-speaker. The screen exploded into multi-colored
light, then cleared. Within a few minutes, a saurian Ulleran face was
looking out of it at him--a harsh-lined, elderly face, with an old
scar, quartz-crusted, along one side.

"Your Majesty," von Schlichten greeted him.

Jonkvank pronounced something intended to correspond to von
Schlichten's name. "We have image-met under sad circumstances,
general," he said.

"Sad for both of us, King Jonkvank; we must help one another. I am
told that your soldiers in Krink have risen against you, and that your
loyal troops are far from the city."

"Yes. That was the work of my War Minister, Hurkkurk, who was in the
pay of King Firkked of Skilk, may Jeels devour him alive! I have
Hurkkurk's head here somewhere, if you want to see it, but that will
not bring my loyal soldiers to Krink any sooner."

"Dead traitors' heads do not interest me, King Jonkvank," von
Schlichten replied, in what he estimated that the Krinkan king would
interpret as a tone of cold-blooded cruelty. "There are too many
traitors' heads still on traitors' shoulders.... What regiments are
loyal to you, and where are they now?"

Jonkvank began naming regiments and locating them, all at minor
provincial towns at least a hundred miles from Krink.

"Hurkkurk did his work well; I'm afraid you killed him too
mercifully," von Schlichten said. "Well, I'm sending the _Northern
Star_ to Krink. She can only bring in one regiment at a trip, the way
they're scattered; which one do you want first?"

Jonkvank's mouth, until now compressed grimly, parted in a gleaming
smile. He made an exclamation of pleasure which sounded rather like a
boy running along a picket fence with a stick.

"Good, general! Good!" he cried. "The first should be the regiment
Murderers, at Furnk; they all have rifles like your soldiers. Have
them brought to the Great Square, at the Palace here. And then, the
regiment Fear-Makers, at Jeelznidd, and the regiment Corpse-Reapers,
at...."

"Let that go until the Murderers are in," von Schlichten advised.
"They're at Furnk, you say? I'll send the _Northern Star_ there,
directly."

"Oh, good, general! I will not soon forget this! And as soon as the
work is finished here, I will send soldiers to help you at Skilk.
There shall be a great pile of the heads of those who had part in this
wickedness, both here and there!"

"Good. Now, if you will pardon me, I'll go to give the necessary
orders...."

As he left the booth, he saw Hideyoshi O'Leary in front of the
situation-map, and hailed him.

"Harry and Hassan are getting the car re-ammoed; they dropped me off
here. Want to come up with us and see the show?"

"No, I want you to go to Krink, as soon as Harry brings the car here
again." He told O'Leary what he intended doing. "You'll probably have
to go around ahead of the _Star_ and alert these regiments. And as
soon as things stabilize at Krink, prod Jonkvank into airlifting
troops here. You're authorized, in my name, to promise Jonkvank that
he can assume political control at Skilk, after we've stuffed
Firkked's head in the dustbin."

Jules Keaveney, who always seemed to be where he wasn't wanted, heard
that and fairly screamed.

"General von Schlichten! That is a political decision! You have no
authority to make promises like that; that is a matter for the
Governor-General, at least!"

"Well, as of now, and until a successor to Sid Harrington can be sent
here from Terra, I'm Governor-General," von Schlichten told him,
mentally thanking Keaveney for reminding him of the necessity for such
a step. "Captain Malavez! You will send out an all-station telecast,
immediately: Military Commander-in-Chief Carlos von Schlichten, being
informed of the deaths of both Governor-General Harrington and
Lieutenant-Governor Blount, assumes the duties of Governor-General, as
of 0001 today." He turned to Keaveney. "Does that satisfy you?" he
asked.

"No, it doesn't. You have no authority to assume a civil position of
any sort, let alone the very highest position...."

Von Schlichten unbuttoned his holster and took out his authority,
letting Keaveney look into the muzzle of it.

"Here it is," he said. "If you're wise, don't make me appeal to it."

Keaveney shrugged. "I can't argue with that," he said. "But I don't
fancy the Uller Company is going to be impressed by it."

"The Uller Company," von Schlichten replied, "is six and a half
parsecs away. It takes a ship six months to get from here to Terra,
and another six months to get back. A radio message takes a little
over twenty-one years, each way." He holstered the pistol again. "You
were bitching about how we needed reenforcements, a while ago. Well,
here's where we have to reverse Clausewitz and use politics as an
extension by other means of war."

"That brings up another question, general," one of Keaveney's
subordinates said. "Can we hold out long enough for help to get here
from Terra?"

"By the time help could reach us from Terra," von Schlichten replied,
"we'll either have this revolt crushed, or there won't be a live
Terran left on Uller." He felt a brief sadistic pleasure as he watched
Keaveney's face sag in horror. "What do you think we'll live on, for a
year?" he asked. "On this planet, there's not more than a three
months' supply of any sort of food a human can eat. And the ships
that'll be coming in until word of our plight can get to Terra won't
bring enough to keep us going. We need the farms and livestock and the
animal-tissue culture plant at Konkrook, and the farms at Krink and on
the plateau back of Skilk, and we need peace and native labor to work
them."

Nobody seemed to have anything to say after that, for a while. Then
Keaveney suggested that the next ship was due in from Niflheim in
three months, and that it could be used to evacuate all the Terrans on
Uller.

"And I'll personally shoot any able-bodied Terran who tries to board
that ship," von Schlichten promised. "Get this through your heads, all
of you. We are going to break this rebellion, and we are going to hold
Uller for the Company and the Terran Federation." He looked around
him. "Now, get back to work, all of you," he told the group that had
formed around him and Keaveney. "Miss Quinton, you just heard me order
my adjutant, Colonel O'Leary, on detached duty to Krink. I want you to
take over for him. You'll have rank and authority as colonel for the
duration of this war."

She was thunderstruck. "But I know absolutely nothing about military
matters. There must be a hundred people here who are better qualified
than I am...."

"There are, and they all have jobs, and I'd have to find replacements
for them, and replacements for the replacements. You won't leave any
vacancy to be filled. And you'll learn, fast enough." He went over to
the situation-map again, and looked at the arrangement of pink and
white pills. "First of all, I want you to call Jarman, at the military
airport, and have an airjeep and driver sent around here for me. I'm
going up and have a look around. Barney, keep the show going while I'm
out, and tell Colonel Quinton what it's all about."




IX.

Don't Push Them Anywhere Put Them Back in the Bottle


He looked at his watch, and stood for a moment, pumping the stale air
and tobacco-smoke of the telecast station out of his lungs, as the
light airjeep let down into the street. Oh-one-fifteen--two hours and
a half since the mutiny at the native-troops barracks had broken out.
The Company reservation was still ablaze with lights, and over the
roof of the hospital and dispensary and test-lab he could see the
glare of the burning barracks. There was more fire-glare to the south,
in the direction of the mine-equipment park and the mine-labor camp,
and from that direction the bulk of the firing was to be heard.

The driver, a young lieutenant who seemed to be of predominantly
Malayan and Polynesian blood, slid back the duraglass canopy for him
to climb in, then snapped it into place when he had strapped himself
into his seat.

"Can you handle the armament, sir?" he asked.

Von Schlichten nodded approvingly. Not a very flattering question, but
the boy was right to make sure, before they started out.

"I've done it, once or twice," he understated. "Let's go; I want a
look at what's going on down at the equipment-park and the labor-camp,
first."

They lifted up, the driver turning the nose of the airjeep in the
direction of the flames and explosions and magnesium-lights to the
south and tapping his booster-button gently. The vehicle shot forward
and came floating in over the scene of the fighting. The situation-map
at the improvised headquarters had shown a mixture of pink and white
pills in the mine-equipment park; something was going to have to be
done about the lag in correcting it, for the area was entirely in the
hands of loyal Company troops, and the mob of laborers and mutinous
soldiers had been pushed back into the temporary camp where the
workers had been gathered to await transportation to the Arctic. As he
feared, the rioting workers, many of whom were trained to handle
contragravity equipment, had managed to lift up a number of
dump-trucks and powershovels and bulldozers, intending to use them as
improvised airtanks, but Jarman's combat-cars had gotten on the job
promptly and all of these had been shot down and were lying in
wreckage, mostly among the rows of parked mining-equipment.

From the labor-camp, a surprising volume of fire was being directed
against the attack which had already started from the retaken
equipment-park. This was just another evidence of the failure of
Intelligence and the Constabulary--and consequently of himself--to
anticipate the brewing storm. There was, of course, practically no
chance of keeping Ullerans from having native weapons, swords, knives,
even bows and air-rifles, and a certain number of Volund-made
trade-quality automatic pistols could be expected, but most of the
fire was coming from military rifles, and now and then he could see
the furnace-like backflash of a recoilless rifle or a bazooka, or the
steady flicker of a machine-gun. Even if a few of these weapons had
been brought from the barracks by retreating Tenth Infantry or Fifth
Cavalry mutineers, there were still too many.

Hovering above the fighting, aloof from it, he saw six long
troop-carriers land and disgorge Kragan Rifles who had been released
by the liquidation of resistance at the native-troops barracks. A
little later, two airtanks floated in, and then two more, going off
contragravity and lumbering on treads to fire their 90-mm rifles. At
the same time, combat-cars swooped in, banging away with their lighter
auto-cannon and launching rockets. The titanium prefab-huts, set up to
house the laborers and intended to be taken north with them for their
stay on the polar desert, were simply wiped away. Among the wreckage,
resistance was being blown out like the lights of a candelabrum. Push
the white pills out, girls, he thought. Don't push them anywhere; put
them back in the bottle. This year, there wouldn't be any mining done
at the North Pole; next year, the stockholders'll be bitching about
their dividend-checks. And a lot of new machine operators are going to
have to be trained for next year's mining. If there is any mining,
next year.

He took up the hand-phone and called HQ.

"Von Schlichten, what's the wavelength of the officer in command at
the equipment-park?"

A voice at the telecast station furnished it; he punched it out.

"Von Schlichten, right overhead. That you, Major Falkenberg? Nice
going, major, how are your casualties?"

"Not too bad. Twenty or thirty Kragans and loyal Skilkans, and eight
Terrans killed, about as many wounded."

"Pretty good, considering what you're running into. Get many of your
Kragans mounted on those hipposaurs?"

"About a hundred, a lot of 'saurs got shot, while we were leading
them out from the stables."

"Well, I can see geeks streaming away from the labor-camp, out the
south end, going in the direction of the river. Use what cavalry you
have on them, and what contragravity you can spare. I'll drop a few
flares to show their position and direction."

Anticipating him, the driver turned the airjeep and started toward the
dry Hoork River. Von Schlichten nodded approval and told him to
release flares when over the fugitives.

"Right," Falkenberg replied. "I'll get on it at once, general."

"And start moving that mine-equipment up into the Company area. Some
of it we can put into the air; the rest we can use to build
barricades. None of it do we want the geeks getting hold of, and the
equipment-park's outside our practical perimeter. I'll send people to
help you move it."

"No need to do that, sir; I have about a hundred and fifty loyal North
Ullerans--foremen, technicians, overseers--who can handle it."

"All right. Use your own judgment. Put the stuff back of the
native-troops barracks, and between the power-plant and the Company
office-buildings, and anywhere else you can." The lieutenant nudged
him and pushed a couple of buttons on the dashboard.

"Here go the flares, now."

Immediately, a couple of airjeeps pounced in, to strafe the fleeing
enemy. Somebody must have already been issuing orders on another
wavelength; a number of Kragans, riding hipposaurs, were galloping
into the light of the flares.

"Now, let's have a look at the native barracks and the
maintenance-yards," he said. "And then, we'll make a circuit around
the Reservation, about two or three miles out. I'm not happy about
where Firkked's army is."

The driver looked at him. "I've been worrying about that, too, sir,"
he said. "I can't understand why he hasn't jumped us, already. I know
it takes time to get one of these geek armies on the road, but...."

"He's hoping our native troops and the mine laborers will be able to
wipe us out, themselves," von Schlichten said. "For the timidity and
stupidity of our enemies, Allah make us truly thankful, amen. It's
something no commander should depend on, but be glad when it happens.
If Firkked had had a couple of regiments on hand outside the
reservation to jump us as soon as the Tenth and the Zirks mutinied, he
could have swamped us in twenty minutes and we'll all have had our
throats cut by now."

There was nothing going on in the area between the native barracks and
the mountains except some sporadic firing as small patrols of Kragans
clashed with clumps of fleeing mutineers. All the barracks, even those
of the Rifles, were burning; the red-and-yellow danger-lights around
the power-plant and the water-works and the explosives magazines were
still on. Most of the floodlights were still on, and there was still
some fighting around the maintenance-yard. It looked as though the
survivors of the Tenth N.U.N.I. were in a few small pockets which were
being squeezed out.

There was nothing at all going on north of the Reservation; the
countryside, by day a checkerboard of walled fields and small
villages, was dark, except for a dim light, here and there, where the
occupants of some farmhouse had been awakened by the noise of battle.
The airjeep dropped lower, and the driver slid open the window beside
him; von Schlichten could hear the grunts and snorts and squawks of
farm-animals, similarly aroused.

Then, two miles east of the Reservation, he caught a new sound--the
flowing, riverlike, murmur of something vast on the move.

"Hear that, lieutenant?" he asked. "Head for it, at about a thousand
feet. When we're directly above it, let go some flares."

"Yes, sir." The younger man had lowered his voice to a whisper.
"That's geek, headed for the Reservation."

"Maybe Firkked's army," von Schlichten thought aloud. "Or maybe a city
mob."

"Not quite noisy enough for a mob, is it, sir?"

"A tired mob," von Schlichten told him. "They'd start out on a run,
yelling '_Znidd Suddabit_!' By the time they got across the bridges to
this side of the river, they'd be winded. They'd stop for a blow, and
then they'd settle down to steady slogging to save their wind.
Sometimes a mob like that's worse than a fresh mob. They get stubborn;
they act more deliberately."

The noises were growing clearer, louder. He picked up the phone and
punched the wavelength of the military airport.

"Von Schlichten, my compliments to Colonel Jarman. Tell him there's a
geek mob, or possibly Firkked's regulars, on the main highway from
Skilk, two miles east of the Reservation. Get some combat
contragravity over here, at once. We'll light them up for you. And
tell Colonel Jarman to start flying patrols up and down along the
Hoork River; this may not be the only gang that's coming out to see
us."

The sounds were directly below, now--the scuffing of horny-soled feet
on the dirt road, the clink and rattle of slung weapons, the clicking
and squeeking of Ulleran voices.

The lieutenant said, "Here go the flares, sir."

Von Schlichten shut his eyes, then opened them slowly. The driver,
upon releasing the flares, had nosed up, banked, turned, and was
coming in again, down the road toward the advancing column. Von
Schlichten peered into his all-armament sight, his foot on the
machine-gun pedal and his fingers on the rocket buttons. The highway
below was jammed with geeks, and they were all stopped dead and
staring upward, as though hypnotized by the lights. A second later,
they had recovered and were shooting--not at the airjeep, but at the
four globes of blazing magnesium. Then he had the close-packed mass of
non-humanity in his sights; he tramped the pedal and began punching
buttons. He still had four rockets left by the time the mob was behind
him.

"All right, let's take another pass at them. Same direction."

The driver put the airjeep into a quick loop and came out of it in
front of the mob, who now had their backs turned and were staring in
the direction in which they had last seen the vehicle. Again, von
Schlichten plowed them with rockets and harrowed them with his guns.
Some of the Skilkans were trying to get over the high fences on either
side of the road--really stockades of petrified tree-trunks. Others
were firing, and this time they were shooting at the airjeep. It took
one hit from a heavy shellosaur-rifle, and, immediately, the driver
banked and turned away from the road.

"Dammit, why did you do that?" von Schlichten demanded, lifting his
foot from the gun-pedal. "Are you afraid of the kind of popguns those
geeks are using?"

"I am not afraid to risk my vehicle, or myself, sir," the lieutenant
replied, with the extreme formality of a very junior officer chewing
out a very senior one. "I am, however, afraid to risk my passenger.
Generals are not expendable, sir; neither are they issued for use as
clay pigeons."

He was right, of course. Von Schlichten admitted it. "I'm too old to
play cowboy, like this," he said. "Back to the Reservation, telecast
station."

Looking back over his shoulder, he saw eight or ten more flares
alight, and the ground-flashes of exploding shells and rockets; the
air above the road was sparkling with gun-flames. Jarman must have had
some contragravity ready to be sent off on the instant.

While he had been out, somebody had gotten a TV-pickup mounted on a
contragravity-lifter and run up to two thousand feet, on the end of a
steel-tough tensilon mooring-line. The big circular screen was lit,
showing the whole Company Reservation, with the surrounding
countryside foreshortened by perspective to the distant lights of
Skilk. The map had been taken up from the floor, and a big
terrain-board had been brought in from the Chief Engineer's office and
set up in its place. In front of the screen, Paula Quinton, Barney
Mordkovitz, Colonel Cheng-Li, and, conspicuously silent, Jules
Keaveney sat drinking coffee and munching sandwiches. Half a dozen
Terrans, of both sexes, were working furiously to get the markers
which replaced the pink and white pills placed on the board, and one
of Captain Inez Malavez's non-coms, with a headset, was getting
combat reports directly from the switchboard. Everything was clicking
like well-oiled machinery.

On the TV-screen, the Residency area was ablaze with light, and so
were the ship-docks, the airport and spaceport, the shops, and the
maintenance-yard. On the terrain-board, the latter was now marked as
completely in Company hands. The ruins of the native-troops barracks
were still burning, and there was a twinkle of orange-red here and
there among the ruins of the labor-camp. Much of the equipment for the
polar mines had already been shifted into defensible ground. The rest
of the circle was dark, except for the distant lights of Skilk, where
the nuclear power plant was apparently still functioning in native
hands.

Then, without warning, a spot of white light blazed into being
southeast of the Company area and southwest of Skilk, followed by
another and another. Instantly, von Schlichten glanced up at the row
of smaller screens, and on one of them saw the view as picked up by a
patrolling airjeep.

The army of King Firkked of Skilk had finally put in its appearance,
coming in two columns, one southward from Skilk and the other
northward along the west bank of the dry river. The former had crossed
over and joined the latter, about three miles south of the
Reservation. The scene in the screen was similar to the one he had,
himself, witnessed through his armament-sight. The Skilkan regulars
had been marching in formation, some on the road and some along
parallel lanes and paths. They had the look of trained and disciplined
troops, but they had made the same mistake as the rabble that had been
shot up on the north side of the Reservation. Unused to attack from
the air, they had all halted in place and were gaping open-mouthed,
their opal teeth gleaming in the white flare-light. However, before
the aircar had passed over them, the lead company of one regiment,
armed with Terran rifles, had begun firing.

In the big screen, it could be seen that Colonel Jarman had thrown
most of his available contragravity at them, including the
combat-cars, that had already started to form the second wave of the
attack on the mob to the north. Other flares bloomed in the darkness,
and the fiery trails of rockets curved downward to end in yellow
flashes on the ground.

The airjeep with the pickup circled back; the troops on the road and
in the adjoining fields had broken. The former were caught between the
fences which made Ulleran roads such death-traps when under
air-attack. The latter had dispersed, and were running away,
individually and by squads; at first, it looked like a panic, but he
could see officers signaling to the larger groups of fugitives to open
out, apparently directing the flight. By this time, there were ten or
twelve combat-cars and about twenty airjeeps at work. In the moving
view from the pickup-jeep, he saw what looked like a 90-mm rocket land
in the middle of a company that was still trying to defend itself with
small-arms fire on the road, wiping out about half of them.

"Make the most of it, boys," Barney Mordkovitz, his mouth full of
sandwich, was saying. "Heave it to them; you won't get another chance
like that at those buggers."

"Why not?" Colonel Paula Quinton wanted to know. Her military
education was progressing, but it still had a few gaps to fill in.

"The next time they're air-struck, they won't stay bunched,"
Mordkovitz replied. "A lot of them didn't stay bunched this time, if
you noticed. And they'll keep out from between the fences."

In the large screen, a quick succession of gun-flashes leaped up from
the direction of the Hoork River and shells began bursting over the scene
of the attack. The screen tuned to the pickup on the airjeep went
dead; in the big screen, there was a twinkling of falling fire. Almost
at once, thirty or forty rocket-trails converged on the gun-position,
and, for a moment, explosions burned like a bonfire.

"They had a 75-mm at the rear of the column," somebody called from the
big switchboard. "Lieutenant Kalanang's jeep was hit; Lieutenant
Vermaas is cutting in his pickup on the same wavelength."

The small screen lighted again. In the big screen, a cluster of
magnesium-lights appeared above where the Skilkan gun had been; in the
small screen, there was a stubbled grain-field, pocked with craters,
and the bodies of fifteen or twenty natives, all rather badly mangled.
An overturned and apparently destroyed 75-mm gun lay on its side.

Five or six fairly large fires had broken out, by this time, around
the point of attack. Von Schlichten nodded approvingly.

"I was wondering how long it'd take somebody to think of that," he
said. "Granaries and forage-stacks on some of these farms. They'll
burn for half an hour, at least." He looked at his watch. "And by that
time, it'll be daylight."

"As far as we know, that was the only 75-mm gun Firkked had," Colonel
Cheng-Li said. "He has at least six, possibly ten, 40-mm's. It's a
wonder we haven't seen anything of them."

"Well, there's no way of being sure," Jules Keaveney said, "but I
have an idea they're all at or around the Palace. Firkked knows about
how much contragravity we have. He's probably wondering why we aren't
bombing him, now."

"He doesn't know we've sold the Palace to King Jonkvank for an army,"
von Schlichten said. "And that reminds me--how much contragravity
could Firkked scrape together, for an attack on us? I've been
expecting a geek _Luftwaffe_ over here, at any moment."

Colonel Cheng-Li studied the smoking tip of his cigarette for a
moment. "Well, Firkked owns, personally, three ten-passenger aircars,
a thing like a troop-carrier that he transports some of his courtiers
around in, four airjeeps armed with a pair of 15-mm machine-guns
apiece, and two big lorries. There are possibly two hundred vehicles
of all types in Skilk and the country around, but some of them are in
the hands of natives friendly to us and or hostile to Firkked. I can
get the exact figures from the Constabulary office at Company House."

"That's close enough," von Schlichten told him. "And there'll be
oodles of thermoconcentrate-fuel, and blasting explosives. Colonel
Quinton, suppose you call Ed Wallingsby, the Chief Engineer, right
away; have him commissioned colonel. Tell him to get to work making
this place secure against air attack; tell him to consult with Colonel
Jarman. Tell him to get those geeks Leavitt has penned in the
repair-dock at the airport and use them to dig slit-trenches and fill
sandbags and so on. He can use Kragan limited-duty wounded to guard
them.... Mr. Keaveney, you'll begin setting up something in the way of
an ARP-organization. You'll have to get along on what nobody else
wants. You will also consult with Colonel Jarman, and with Colonel
Wallingsby. Better get started on it now. Just think of everything
around here that could go wrong in case of an air attack, and try to
do something about it in advance."




X.

The Geek Luftwaffe and the Kragan Airlift


At 0245, an attack developed on the northwestern corner of the
Reservation, in the direction of the explosives magazines. It turned
out to be relatively trivial. Remnants of the mob that had been broken
up by air attack on the road had gotten together and were making
rushes in small bands, keeping well spread out. Beating them off took
considerable ammunition, but it was accomplished with negligible
casualties to the defenders. They finally stopped coming around
daylight.

In the meantime, Themistocles M'zangwe called from Konkrook, appearing
in the screen with his left arm in a freshly white sling.

"What the hell have you been doing to yourself?" von Schlichten wanted
to know.

"Crossbow-bolt, about half an hour ago. A couple of inches lower and
acting Brigadier-General Colbert'd have been talking to you, now,
instead of me."

"Lucky it didn't have a nitro-capsule on the end. How are you making
out? Have Kankad's people started coming in, yet?"

"Oh, yes, about six hundred of them have gotten in already, in the
damnedest collection of vehicles you ever saw. Kankad must be using
every scrap of contragravity he has; it's a regular airborne
Dunkirk-in-reverse. Kankad sent word that he's coming here in person,
as soon as he has things organized at his place. And the geeks here
have scraped together an air-force of their own--farm-lorries,
aircars, that sort of thing--and they're using them to bomb us here
and at the mainland farm, mostly with nitroglycerine. We've shot down
about twenty of them, but they're still coming. They tried a
boat-attack across the Channel; that's how I got this. We've been
doing some bombing, ourselves; we made a down payment for Eric Blount
and Hendrik Lemoyne. Took a fifty-ton tank off a fuel-lorry, fitted it
with a detonator, filled it with thermoconcentrate, and ferried it
over on the _Elmoran_ and dumped it on the Keegarkan Embassy. It must
have landed in the middle of the central court; in about fifteen
seconds, flames were coming out every window in the place." His face
became less jovial. "We had something pretty bad happen here, too," he
said. "That Konkrook Fencibles rabble of Prince Jaizerd's mutinied,
along with the others; they got into the hospital and butchered
everybody in the place, patients and staff. The Kragans got there too
late to save anybody, but they wiped out the Fencibles. Jaizerd
himself was the only one they took alive, and he didn't stay that way
very long."

"How are you making out with your Civil Administration crowd?"

M'zangwe grimaced. "I haven't had to put any of them under actual
arrest, so far, but we've had to keep Buhrmann away from the
communications equipment by force. He wanted to call you up and chew
you out for not evacuating everybody in the north to Konkrook."

"Is he crazy?"

"No, just scared. He says you're going to get everybody on Uller
massacred by detail, when you could save Konkrook by bringing them
all here."

"You tell him I'm going to hold this planet, not just one city. Tell
him I have a sense of my duty to the Company and its stockholders, if
he hasn't; put it in those terms and he may understand you."

"Yes, I'll try that out on Meyerstein, too. He's in a hell of a state
about the losses the Banking Cartel are taking on this deal.... Well,
I'll call you when there's anything new."

By 0330, it was daylight; the attacks against the northwest corner of
the perimeter stopped entirely. Wallingsby had the three-hundred-odd
Skilkan laborers at work; he had gathered up all the tarpaulin he could
find, and had the two sewing-machines in the tentmaker's shop running on
sandbags. Jules Keaveney, to von Schlichten's agreeable surprise, had
taken hold of his ARP assignment, and was doing an efficient job in
organizing for fire-fighting, damage-control and first aid. Colonel
Jarman had his airjeeps and combat-cars working in ever-widening circles
over the countryside, shooting up everything in sight that even looked
like contragravity equipment. Some of these patrols had to be recalled,
around 1030, when sporadic nuisance-sniping began from the side of the
mountain to the west. And, along with everything else, Paula Quinton
managed, along with her other work, to get a complete digest prepared of
the situation elsewhere in the Terran-occupied parts of the planet.

The situation at Konkrook was brightening steadily. The second wave of
Kankad's improvised airlift, reenforced by contragravity from
Konkrook, had come in; there were now close to two thousand fresh
Kragans on Gongonk Island and the mainland farms, Kankad himself with
them. The _Aldebaran_ had reached Kankad's Town, and was loading
another thousand Kragans.... There was nothing more from Keegark. A
message from Colonel MacKinnon had come in at dawn, to the effect that
the geeks had penetrated his last defenses and that he was about to
blow up the Residency; thereafter Keegark went off the air.... By
0730, the _Northern Star_ had landed the regiment Murderers, armed
with first-quality Terran infantry-rifles and a few machine-guns and
bazookas, at the Palace at Krink, and by 0845 she had returned with
another regiment, the Jeel-Feeders. The three-lane street connecting
the Palace and the Residency had been widened to six, and then to
eight.... Guido Karamessinis, at Grank, was still at uneasy peace with
King Yoorkerk, who was still undecided whether the rebels or the
Company were going to be the eventual victors, and afraid to take any
irrevocable step in either direction.... Eight men and four women, the
survivors of a trading-station on the eastern shore of Takkad Sea,
reached Konkrook in a lorry; another trading station, on the south
shore, reported by telecast that the natives there had refused to rise
against them, and had crucified five of Rakkeed's disciples who had
come among them preaching _znidd suddabit_.

At 1100, Paula Quinton and Barney Mordkovitz virtually ordered him to
get some sleep. He went to his quarters at Company House, downed a
spaceship-captain's-size drink of honey-rum, and slept until 1600. As
he dressed and shaved, he could hear, through the open window, the
slow sputter of small-arms' fire, punctuated by the occasional
_whump-whump-whump_ of 40-mm auto-cannon or the hammering of a
machine-gun.

Returning to his command-post at the telecast station, the
terrain-board showed that the perimeter of defense had been pushed out
in a bulge at the northwest corner; the TV-screen pictured a crude
breast-work of petrified tree-trunks, sandbags, mining machinery,
packing-cases and odds-and-ends, upon which Wallingsby's native
laborers were working under guard while a skirmish-line of Kragans had
been thrown out another four or five hundred yards and were exchanging
pot-shots with Skilkans on the gullied hillside.

"Where's Colonel Quinton?" he asked. "She ought to be taking a turn in
the sack, now."

"She's taking one," Major Falkenberg, who had commanded the action at
the native-troops barracks and the labor-camp, the night before, told
him. "General Mordkovitz chased her off to bed a couple of hours ago,
called me in to take her place, and then went out to replace me.
Colonel Guilliford's in the hospital; got hit about thirteen hundred.
They're afraid he's going to lose a leg."

"That's a bloody shame!" He pointed to the northwest corner of the
perimeter on the screen. "Whose idea was that?" he asked. "It's a good
one; I ought to have thought of it, myself."

"Your new adjutant," Falkenberg grinned. "She asked somebody what
those big domes, up there, were. When they told her there were ten
thousand tons of thermoconcentrate, five thousand tons of
blasting-explosives, and five tons of plutonium, under them, she
damned near fainted, and then she ordered that, right away."

More reports came in. The entire garrison of the small Residency at
Kwurk, the most northern of the eastern shore Free Cities, had arrived
at Kankad's Town in two hundred-foot contragravity scows and five
aircars. Two of the aircars arrived half an hour behind the rest of
the refugee flotilla, having turned off at Keegark to pay their
respects to King Orgzild. They reported the Keegark Residency in
ruins, its central buildings vanished in a huge crater; the _Jan
Smuts_ and the _Christiaan De Wett_ were still in the Company docks,
both apparently damaged by the blast which had destroyed the
Residency. One of the aircars had rocketed and machine-gunned some
Keegarkans who appeared to be trying to repair them; the other blew up
King Orgzild's nitroglycerine plant. Von Schlichten called Konkrook
and ordered a bombing-mission against Keegark organized, to make sure
the two ships stayed out of service.

The _Northern Star_ was still bringing loyal troops into Krink. King
Jonkvank, whom von Schlichten called, was highly elated.

"We are killing traitors wherever we find them!" he exulted. "The city
is yellow with their blood; their heads are piled everywhere! How is
it with you at Skilk?"

"We have killed many, also," von Schlichten boasted. "And tonight, we
will kill more; we are preparing bombs of great destruction, which we
will rain down upon Skilk until there is not one stone left upon
another, or one infant of a day's age left alive!"

Jonkvank reacted as he was intended to. "Oh, no, general, don't do all
that!" he exclaimed. "You promised me that I should have Skilk, on the
word of a Terran. Are you going to give me a city of ruins and
corpses? Ruins are no good to anybody, and I am not a Jeel, to eat
corpses."

Von Schlichten shrugged. "When you are strong, you can flog your
enemies with a whip; when you are weak, all you can do is kill them.
If I had five thousand more troops, here...."

"Oh, I will send troops, as soon as I can," Jonkvank hastened to
promise. "All my best regiments: the Murderers, the Jeel-Feeders, the
Corpse-Reapers, the Devastators, the Fear-Makers. But, now that we
have stopped this sinful rebellion, here, I can't take chances that it
will break out again as soon as I strip the city of troops."

Von Schlichten nodded. Jonkvank's argument made sense; he would have
taken a similar position, himself.

"Well, get as many as you can over here, as soon as possible," he
said. "We'll try to do as little damage to Skilk as we can, but ..."

At 1830, Paula joined him for her breakfast, while he sat in front of
the big screen, eating his dinner. There had been light ground-action
along the southern end of the perimeter--King Firkked's regulars,
reenforced by Zirk tribesmen and levies of townspeople, all of whom
seemed to have firearms, were filtering in through the ruins of the
labor-camp and the wreckage of the equipment-park--and there was
renewed sniping from the mountainside. The long afternoon of the
northern autumn dragged on; finally, at 2200, the sun set, and it was
not fully dark for another hour. For some time, there was an ominous
quiet, and then, at 0030, the enemy began attacking in force, driving
herds of livestock--lumbering six-legged brutes bred by the North
Ullerans for food--to test the defenses for electrified wire and
land-mines. Most of these were shot down or blown up, but a few got as
far as the wire, which, by now, had been strung and electrified
completely around the perimeter.

Behind them came parties of Skilkan regulars with long-handled
insulated cutters; a couple of cuts were made in the wire, and a
section of it went dead. The line, at this point, had been rather
thinly held; the defenders immediately called for air-support, and
Jarman ordered fifteen of his remaining twenty airjeeps and five
combat-cars into the fight. No sooner were they committed than the
radar on the commercial airport control-tower picked up air vehicles
approaching from the north, and the air-raid sirens began howling and
the searchlights went on.

As a protection from the sudden fury of the summer and winter gales,
the buildings were all low, thick-walled, and provided with steel
doors and window-shutters which were electrically operated and
centrally controlled. These slammed shut in every occupied building.
The contragravity which had been sent to support the ground-defense at
the south side of the Reservation turned to meet this new threat, and
everything else available, including the four heavy airtanks, lifted
up. Meanwhile, guns began firing from the ground and from rooftops.

There had been four aircars, ordinary passenger vehicles equipped with
machine-guns on improvised mounts, and ten big lorries converted into
bombers, in the attack. All the lorries, and all but one of the
makeshift fighter-escort, were shot down, but not before explosive and
thermoconcentrate bombs were dumped all over the place. One lorry
emptied its load of thermoconcentrate-bombs on the control-building at
the airport, starting a raging fire and putting the radar out of
commission. A repair-shop at the ordnance-depot was set on fire, and a
quantity of small-arms and machine-gun ammunition piled outside for
transportation to the outer defenses blew up. An explosive bomb landed
on the roof of the building between Company House and the telecast
station, blowing a hole in the roof and demolishing the upper floor.
And another load of thermoconcentrate, missing the power-plant, set
fire to the dry grass between it and the ruins of the native-troops
barracks.

Before the air-attack had been broken up, the soldiers of King Firkked
and their irregular supporters were swarming through the dead section
of wire. They had four or five big farm-tractors, nuclear-powered but
unequipped with contragravity-generators, which they were using like
ground-tanks of the First Century. This attack penetrated to the
middle of the Reservation before it was stopped and the attackers
either killed or driven out; for the first time since daybreak, the
red-and-yellow lights came on around the power-plant.

As soon as the combined air and ground attack was beaten off, von
Schlichten ordered all his available contragravity up, flying patrols
around the Reservation and retaliatory bombing missions against Skilk,
and began bombarding the city with his 90-mm guns. A number of fires
broke out, and at about 0200 a huge expanding globe of orange-red
flame soared up from the city.

"There goes Firkked's thermoconcentrate stock," he said to Paula, who
was standing beside him in front of the screen.

Half an hour later, he discovered that he had been overly optimistic.
Much of the enemy's supply of Terran thermoconcentrate had been
destroyed, but enough remained to pelt the Reservation and the Company
buildings with incendiaries, when a second and more severe air-attack
developed, consisting of forty or fifty makeshift lorry-bombers and
fifteen aircars. The previous attack von Schlichten had viewed in the
screen at the telecast station; it was his questionable good fortune
to observe the second one directly, having been out inspecting the
defenses around the ordnance-depot at the time.

Like the first, the second air-attack was beaten off, or, more
exactly, down. Most of the enemy contragravity was destroyed; at least
two dozen vehicles crashed inside the Reservation. As in the first
instance, there was a simultaneous ground attack from the southern
side, with a demonstration-attack at the north end. For a while, von
Schlichten found himself fighting hand-to-hand, first with his pistol
and then, when his ammunition was gone, with a picked-up rifle and
bayonet. It was full daylight before the last of the attackers was
either killed or driven out.

Five minutes later, while he was reloading his pistol-clips with
salvaged cartridges, the _Northern Star_ came bulking over the
mountains from the west.




XI.

Of Princedoms Which Have Been Won by Conquest


Holstering his pistol, he raced for the telecast station, to receive a
call from a Colonel Khalid ib'n Talal, a Zanzibar Arab, aboard the
approaching ship.

"I've one of Jonkvank's regiments, the Jeel-Feeders, armed with Terran
9-mm rifles and a few bazookas; I have a company of our Zirks, with
their mounts, and a battalion of the Sixth N.U.N.I.; I also have four
90-mm guns, Terran-manned," he reported. "What's the situation,
general, and where do you want me to land?"

Von Schlichten described the situation succinctly, in an ancient and
unprintable military cliche. "Try landing south of the Reservation, a
little west of the ruins of the labor-camp," he advised. "The bulk of
Firkked's army is in that section, and I want them run out as soon as
possible. We'll give you all the contragravity and fire support we
can."

The _Northern Star_ let down slowly, firing her guns and dropping
bombs; as she descended, rifle-fire spurted from all her lower-deck
portholes. There was cheering, human and Ulleran, from inside the
battered defense-perimeter; combat-cars, airjeeps, and improvised
bombers lifted out to strafe the Skilkans on the ground, and the four
airtanks moved out to take position and open fire with their 90-mm's,
helping to flush King Firkked's regulars and auxiliaries out of the
gullies and ruins and drive them south along the mountain, away from
where the ship would land and also away from the city of Skilk. The
_Northern Star_ set down quickly, and troops and artillery began to be
unloaded, joining in the fighting.

It was five hundred miles to Krink; three hours after lifting out, the
_Northern Star_ was back again, with two more of King Jonkvank's
infantry regiments, and by 1300, when the fourth load arrived from
Krink, the fighting was entirely on the eastern bank of the dry Hoork
River. This last contingent of reenforcements was landed in the
eastern suburbs of Skilk and began fighting their way into the city
from the rear.

It was evident, however, that the pacification of Skilk would not be
accomplished as rapidly as von Schlichten wished--street fighting,
against a determined enemy, is notoriously slow work--and he decided
to risk the _Northern Star_ in an attack against the Palace itself,
and, over the objections of Paula Quinton, Jules Keaveney, and Barney
Mordkovitz, to lead the attack in person.

Inside the city, he found that the Zirk cavalry from Krink had thrust
up one of the broader streets to within a thousand yards of the
Palace, and, supported by infantry, contragravity, and a couple of
airtanks, were pounding and hacking at a mass of Skilkans whose
uniform lack of costume prevented distinguishing between soldiery and
townsfolk. Very few of these, he observed, seemed to be using
firearms; with his glasses, he could see them shooting with long
northern air-rifles and a few Takkad Sea crossbows. Either weapon
would shoot clear through a Terran or half-way through an Ulleran at
fifty yards, but at over two hundred they were almost harmless. There
were a few fires still burning from the bombardment of the night
before--Ulleran, and particularly North Ulleran, cities did not burn
well--and the blaze which had consumed the bulk of Firkked's stock of
thermoconcentrate fuel had long ago burned out, leaving an area of six
or eight blocks blackened and lifeless.

The ship let down, while the six combat-cars which had accompanied her
buzzed the Palace roof, strafing it to keep it clear, and the Kragans
aboard fired with their rifles. She came to rest on seven-eighths
weight reduction, and even before the gangplanks were run out, the
Kragans were dropping to the flat roof, running to stairhead
penthouses and tossing grenades into them.

The taking of the Palace was a gruesome business. Knowing exactly how
much mercy they would have shown had they been storming the Residency,
Firkked's soldiers and courtiers fought desperately and had to be
exterminated, floor by floor, room by room, hallway by hallway. There
was some attempt at escape from the ground floor as von Schlichten and
his Kragans fought their way down from above, but the _Northern Star_
and her escort of combat-cars and airjeeps bombed and machine-gunned
and rocketed the fugitives from above, and the loyal Zirk cavalry,
bursting through the mob, came up shooting and lancing. By this time,
an aircar fitted with a sound-amplifier was circling overhead, while a
loyal native-officer of the Sixth N.U.N.I. shouted offers of quarter
and orders to the troops to spare any who surrendered.

Driving down from above, von Schlichten and his Kragans slithered over
floors increasingly greasy with yellow Ulleran blood. He had picked up
a broadsword at the foot of the first stairway down; a little later,
he tossed it aside in favor of another, better balanced and with a
better guard. There was a furious battle at the doorways of the throne
room; finally, climbing over the bodies of their own dead and the
enemy's, they were inside.

Here there was no question of quarter whatever, at least as long as
Firkked lived; North Ulleran nobles did not surrender under the eyes
of their king, and North Ulleran kings did not surrender their thrones
alive. There was also a tradition, of which von Schlichten was
mindful, that a king must only be killed by his conqueror, in personal
combat, with steel.

With a wedge of Kragan bayonets around him and the picked-up
broadsword in his hand, he fought his way to the throne, where Firkked
waited, a sword in one of his upper hands, his Spear of State in the
other, and a dagger in each lower hand. With his left hand, von
Schlichten detached the bayonet from the rifle of one of his followers
and went forward, trying not to think of the absurdity of a man of the
Sixth Century A.E., the representative of a civilized Chartered
Company, dueling to the death with swords with a barbarian king for a
throne he had promised to another barbarian, or of what could happen
on Uller if he allowed this four-armed monstrosity to kill him.

It was not as bad as it looked, however. The ornate Spear of State, in
spite of its long, cruel-looking blade, was not an especially good
combat-weapon, at least for one hand, and Firkked seemed confused by
the very abundance of his armament. After a few slashes and jabs, von
Schlichten knocked the unwieldy thing from his opponent's hand. This
raised a fearful ululation from the Skilkan nobility, who had stopped
fighting to watch the duel; evidently it was the very worst sort of a
bad omen. Firkked, seemingly relieved to be disencumbered of the
thing, caught his sword in both hands and aimed a roundhouse swing at
von Schlichten's head; von Schlichten dodged, crippled one of
Firkked's lower hands with a quick slash, and lunged at the royal
belly. Firkked used his remaining dagger to parry, backed a step
closer to his throne, and took another swing with his sword, which von
Schlichten parried on the bayonet in his left hand. Then, backing, he
slashed at the inside of Firkked's leg with the thousand-year-old
_coup-de-Jarnac_. Firkked, unable to support the weight of his
dense-tissued body on one leg, stumbled; von Schlichten ran him neatly
through the breast with his sword and through the throat with the
bayonet.

There was silence in the throne room for an instant, and then, with a
horrible collective shriek, the Skilkans threw down their weapons. One
of von Schlichten's Kragans slung his rifle and picked up the Spear of
State with all four hands, taking his post ceremoniously behind the
victor. A couple of others dragged the body of Firkked to the edge of
the dais, and one of them drew his leaf-shaped short-sword and
beheaded it.

       *       *       *       *       *

At mid-afternoon, von Schlichten was on the roof of the Palace,
holding the Spear of State, with Firkked's head impaled on the point,
while a Terran technician aimed an audio-visual recorder.

"This," he said, with the geek-speaker in his mouth, "is King
Firkked's Spear of State, and here, upon it, is King Firkked's head.
Two days ago, Firkked was at peace with the Company, and Firkked was
King in Skilk. If he had not dared raise his feeble hand against the
might of the Uller Company, he would still be alive, and his Spear
would still be borne behind him. So must all those who rise against
the Company perish.... Cut."

The camera stopped. A Kragan came forward and took the Spear of State,
with its grisly burden, carrying it to a nearby wall and leaning it
up, like a piece of stage property no longer required for this scene
but needed for the next. Von Schlichten took out his geek-speaker,
wiped and pouched it, and took his cigarette case from his pocket.

"Well, this is the limit!" Paula Quinton, who had come up during the
filming of the scene, exploded. "I thought you had to kill him
yourself in order to encourage your soldiers; I didn't think you
wanted to make a movie of it to show your friends. I'm through; you
can find yourself a new adjutant!"

Von Schlichten tapped the cigarette on the gold-and-platinum case and
stared at her through his monocle.

"You can't resign," he told her. "Resignations of officers are not
being accepted until the end of hostilities. In any case, I shouldn't
care to have you go; you're the best adjutant, Hideyoshi O'Leary not
excepted, I ever had. Sit down, colonel." He lit the cigarette. "Your
politico-military education still needs a little filling in.

"At Grank, we have two ships. One is the _Northern Lights_, sister
ship of the _Northern Star_. The other is the cruiser _Procyon_, the
only real warship on Uller, with a main battery of four 200-mm guns.
How King Yoorkerk was able to get control of those ships I don't know,
but there will be a board of inquiry and maybe a couple of
courts-martial, when things get stabilized to a point where we can
afford such luxuries. As it is, we need those ships desperately, and
as soon as he gets in, I'm sending Hideyoshi O'Leary to Grank with
the _Northern Star_ and a load of Kragan Rifles, to pry them loose.
The audio-visual of which this is the last scene is going to be one of
the crowbars he's going to use."

"Oh! I get it!" Her eyes widened with pleasure at having finally
caught on; she accepted the cigarette and the light von Schlichten
offered. "Good old _nervenkrieg_!"

"Yes. A little idea I adapted from my Nazi ancestors of four hundred
and fifty years ago. Hideyoshi's going to treat King Yoorkerk to a
movie-show. Want to bet he won't loosen up and release _Procyon_ and
_Northern Lights_ and unblockade the Grank Residency after he sees
that shot of Firkked's head leering at him off the point of that
overgrown asagai? As I said, that's only the last scene, too. I've
been having scenes shot all through this fight; some of them are
really horrifying."

"But why did you have to fight Firkked yourself?" she asked. "You took
an awful chance, with two hands to his four."

"Not so awful, remember what I told you about the physical limitations
of Ullerans. But I had to kill him myself, with a sword; according to
local custom that makes me King of Skilk."

"Why, your Majesty!" She rose and curtsied mockingly. "But I thought
you were going to make Jonkvank King of Skilk."

He shook his head. "Just Viceroy," he corrected. "I'm handing the
Spear of State down to him, not up to him; he'll reign as my vassal,
and, consequently, as vassal of the Company, and before long, he won't
be much more at Krink either. That'll take a little longer--there'll
have to be military missions, and economic missions, and
trade-agreements, and all the rest of it, first--but he's on the way
to becoming a puppet-prince."

Half an hour later, a large and excessively ornate air-launch,
specially built at the Konkrook shipyards for King Jonkvank, was
sighted coming over the mountain from the east. An escort of
combat-cars was sent to meet it, and a battalion of Kragans and the
survivors of Firkked's court were drawn up on the Palace roof.

"His Majesty, Jonkvank, King of Krink!" the former herald of King
Firkked's court, now herald to King Carlos von Schlichten, shouted,
banging on a brass shield with the flat of his sword, as Jonkvank
descended from his launch, attended by a group of his nobles and his
Spear of State, with Hideyoshi O'Leary and Francis N. Shapiro
shepherding them. As the guests advanced across the roof, the herald
banged again on his shield.

"His Majesty, Carlos von Schlichten,"--which came out more or less as
Karlok vonk Zlikdenk--"King, by right of combat, of Skilk!"

Von Schlichten advanced to meet his fellow-monarch, his own Spear of
State, with Firkked's head still grinning from it, two paces behind
him.

Jonkvank stopped, his face contorted with saurian rage.

"What is this?" he demanded. "You told me that I could be King of
Skilk; is this how a Terran keeps his word?"

"A Terran's word is always good, Jonkvank," von Schlichten replied,
omitting the titles, as was proper in one sovereign addressing
another. "My word was that you should reign in Skilk, and my word
stands. But these things must be done decently, according to custom
and law. I killed Firkked in single combat. Had I not done so, the
Spear of Skilk would have been left lying, for any of the young of
Firkked to pick up. Is that not the law?"

Jonkvank nodded grudgingly. "It is the law," he admitted.

"Good. Now, since I killed Firkked in lawful manner, his Spear is
mine, and what is mine I can give as I please. I now give you the
Spear of Skilk, to carry in my name, as I promised."

The Kragan who was carrying the ceremonial weapon tossed the head of
Firkked from the point; another Kragan kicked it aside and advanced to
wipe the spear-blade with a rag. Von Schlichten took the Spear and
gave it to Jonkvank.

"This is not good!" one of the Skilkan nobles protested. He had a
better right than any of the others to protest; he had, a few hours
before, ridden in at the head of a company of his retainers to swear
loyalty to the Company. "That you should rule over us, yes. You killed
Firkked in single combat, and you are the soldier of the Company,
which is mighty, as all here have seen. But that this foreigner be
given the Spear of Skilk, that is not good!"

Some of the others, emboldened by his example, were jabbering
agreement.

"Listen, all of you!" von Schlichten shouted. "Here is no question of
Krink ruling over Skilk. Does it matter who holds the Spear of Skilk,
when he does so in my name? And King Jonkvank will be no foreigner. He
will come and live among you, and later he will travel back and forth
between Krink and Skilk, and he will leave the Spear of Krink in
Krink, and the Spear of Skilk in Skilk, and in Skilk he will be a
Skilkan."

That seemed to satisfy everybody except Jonkvank, and he had wit
enough not to make an issue of it. He even had the Spear of Krink
carried back aboard his launch, out of sight, and when he accompanied
von Schlichten, an hour later, to see Hideyoshi O'Leary off for Grank,
he had the Spear of Skilk carried behind him. When he was alone with
von Schlichten, in the room that had been King Firkked's bedchamber,
however, he exploded: "What is all this foolishness which you promised
these people in my name and which I must now carry out? That I am to
leave the Spear of Skilk in Skilk and the Spear of Krink in Krink, and
come here to live...."

"You wish to hold Skilk?" von Schlichten asked.

"I intend to hold Skilk. To begin with, there shall be a great killing
here. A very great killing: of all those who advised that fool of a
Firkked to start this business; of those who gave shelter to the false
prophet, Rakkeed, when he was here; of the faithless priests who gave
ear to his abominable heresies and allowed him to spew out his
blasphemies in the temples; of those who sent spies to Krink, to
corrupt and pervert my soldiers and nobles; of those who...."

"All that is as it should be," von Schlichten agreed. "Except that it
must be done quickly and all at once, before the memories of these
crimes fade from the minds of the people. And great care must be taken
to kill only those who can be proven to be guilty of something; thus
it will be said that the justice of King Jonkvank is terrible to
evildoers but a protection and a shield to those who keep the peace
and obey the laws. Thus you will gain the name of being a wise and
just king. And when the priests are to be killed it should be done
under the direction of those other priests who were faithful to the
gods and whom King Firkked drove out of their temples, and it must be
done in the name of the gods. Thus will you be esteemed a pious, and
not an impious, king. As to why you must be a Skilkan in Skilk, you
heard the words of Flurknurk, and how the others agreed with him. It
must not be allowed to seem that the city has come under foreign rule.
And you must not change the laws, unless the people petition you to do
so, nor must you increase the taxes, and you must not confiscate the
estates of those who are put to death, for the death of parents is
always forgiven before the loss of patrimonies. And you should select
certain Skilkan nobles, and become the father of their young, and
above all, you must leave none of the young of Firkked alive, to raise
rebellion against you later."

Jonkvank nodded, deeply impressed. "By the gods, Karlok vonk Zlikdenk,
this is wisdom! Now it is to be seen why the likes of Firkked cannot
prevail against you, or against the Company as long as you are the
Company's upper sword-arm!"

Honesty tempted von Schlichten, for a moment, to disclaim originality
for the principles he had just enunciated, even at the price of trying
to pronounce the name of Niccolo Machiavelli with a geek-speaker. On
second thought, however, considerations of policy restrained him. If
Jonkvank ever heard of _The Prince_, nothing would satisfy him short
of an Ulleran translation, and von Schlichten would have been just
about as happy over an Ulleran translation of a complete set of
Bethe-cycle bomb specifications.




XII.

The Shadow of Niflheim


The sun slid lower and lower toward the horizon behind them as the
aircar bulleted south along the broad valley and dry bed of the Hoork
River, nearing the zone of equal day and night. Hassan Bogdanoff drove
while Harry Quong finished his lunch, then changed places to begin his
own. Von Schlichten got two bottles of beer from the refrigerated
section of the lunch-hamper and opened one for Paula Quinton and one
for himself.

"What are we going to do with these geeks,"--she was using the nasty
and derogatory word unconsciously and by custom, now--"after this is
all over? We can't just tell them, 'Jolly well played, nice game,
wasn't it?' and go back to where we were Wednesday evening."

"No, we can't. There's going to have to be a Terran seizure of
political power in every part of this planet that we occupy, and as
soon as we're consolidated around and north of Takkad Sea, we're going
to have to move in elsewhere," he replied. "Keegark, Konkrook, and the
Free Cities, of course, will be relatively easy. They're in arms
against us now, and we can take them over by force. We had to make
that deal with Jonkvank, or, rather, I did, so that will be a slower
process, but we'll get it done in time. If I know that pair as well as
I think I do, Jonkvank and Yoorkerk will give us plenty of pretexts,
before long. Then, we can start giving them government by law instead
of by royal decree, and real courts of justice; put an end to the
head-payment system, and to these arbitrary mass arrests and
tax-delinquency imprisonments that are nothing but slave-raids by the
geek princes on their own people. And, gradually, abolish serfdom. In
a couple of centuries, this planet will be fit to admit to the
Federation, like Odin and Freya."

"Well, won't that depend a lot on whom the Company sends here to take
Harrington's place?"

"Unless I'm much mistaken, the Company will confirm me," he replied.
"Administration on Uller is going to be a military matter for a long
time to come, and even the Banking Cartel and the mercantile interests
in the Company are going to realize that, and see the necessity for
taking political control. The Federation Government owns a bigger
interest in the Company than the public realizes, too; they've always
favored it. And just to make sure, I'm sending Hid O'Leary to Terra on
the next ship, to make a full report on the situation."

"You think it'll be cleared up by then? The _City of Montevideo_ is
due in from Niflheim in a little under three months."

"It'll have to be cleared up by then. We can't keep this war going
more than a month, at the present rate. Police-action, and mopping-up,
yes, full-scale war, no."

"Ammunition?" she asked.

He looked at her in pleased surprise. "Your education has been
progressing, at that," he said. "You know, a lot of professional
officers, even up to field rank in the combat branches, seem to think
that ammo comes down miraculously from Heaven, in contragravity
lorries, every time they pray into a radio for it. It doesn't; it has
to be produced as fast as it's expended, and we haven't been doing
that. So we'll have to lick these geeks before it runs out, because we
can't lick them with gunbutts and bayonets."

"Well, how about nuclear weapons?" Paula asked. "I hate to suggest
it--I know what they did on Mimir, and Fenris, and Midgard, and what
they did on Terra, during the First Century. But it may be our only
chance."

He finished his beer and shoved the bottle into the waste-receiver,
then got out his cigarettes.

"I'd hate to have to make a decision like that, Paula," he told her.
"The military use of nuclear energy is the last--well, the
next-to-last--thing I'd want to see on Uller. Fortunately, or
unfortunately, it's a decision I won't have to make. There isn't a
single nuclear bomb on the planet. The Company's always refused to
allow them to be manufactured or stockpiled here."

"I don't think there'd be any criticism of your making them, now,
general. And there's certainly plenty of plutonium. You could make
A-bombs, at least."

"There isn't anybody here who even knows how to make one. Most of our
nuclear engineers could work one up, in about three months, when we'd
either not need one or not be alive."

"Dr. Gomes, who came in on the _Pretoria_, two weeks ago, can make
them," she contradicted. "He built at least a dozen of them on
Niflheim, to use in activating volcanoes and bringing ore-bearing lava
to the surface."

Von Schlichten's hand, bringing his lighter to the tip of his
cigarette, paused for a second. Then he completed the operation,
snapped it shut, and put it away.

"When did all this happen?"

She took time out for mental arithmetic; even a spaceship officer had
to do that, when a question of interstellar time-relations arose.

"About three-fifty days ago, Galactic Standard. They'd put off the
first shot, six bombs, before I got in from Terra. I saw the second
shot a day or so before I left Niflheim on the _Canberra_. Dr. Gomes
had to stay over till the _Pretoria_ to put off the third shot. Why?"

"Did you run into a geek named Gorkrink, while you were on Nif?" he
asked her. "And what sort of work was he doing?"

"Gorkrink? I don't seem to remember.... Oh, yes! He was helping Dr.
Murillo, the seismologist. His year was up after the second shot; he
came to Uller on the _Canberra_. Dr. Murillo was sorry to lose him. He
understood Lingua Terra perfectly; Dr. Murillo could talk to him, the
way you do with Kankad, without using a geek-speaker."

"Well, but what sort of work ...?"

"Helping set and fire the A-bombs.... _Oh! Good Lord!_"

"You can say that again, and deal in Allah, Shiva, and Kali," von
Schlichten told her. "Especially Kali.... Harry! See if you can get
some more speed out of this can. I want to get to Konkrook while it's
still there!"

       *       *       *       *       *

It was full dark when Konkrook came in view beyond the East Konk
Mountains, a lurid smear on the underside of the clouds, and, at
Gongonk Island and at the Company farms to the south, a couple of
bunches of searchlights fingering about in the sky. When von
Schlichten turned on the outside sound-pickup, he could hear the
distant tom-tomming of heavy guns, and the crash of shells and bombs.
Keeping the car high enough to be above the trajectories of incoming
shells, Harry Quong circled over the city while Hassan Bogdanoff
talked to Gongonk Island on the radio.

The city was in a bad way. There were seventy-five to a hundred big
fires going, and a new one started in a rising ball of thermoconcentrate
flame while they watched. The three gun-cutters, _Elmoran_, _Gaucho_,
and _Bushranger_, and about fifty big freight lorries converted to
bombers, were shuttling back and forth between the island and the city.
The Royal Palace was on fire from end to end, and the entire waterfront
and industrial district were in flames. Combat-cars and airjeeps were
diving in to shell and rocket and machine-gun streets and buildings. He
saw six big bomber-lorries move in dignified procession to unload, one
after the other, on a row of buildings along what the Terrans called
South Tenth Street, and on the roofs of buildings a block away, red and
blue flares were burning, and he could see figures, both human and
Ulleran, setting up mortars and machine-guns.

Landing on the top stage of Company House, on the island, they were
met by a Terran whom von Schlichten had seen, a few days ago, bossing
native-labor at the spaceport, but who was now wearing a major's
insignia. He greeted von Schlichten with a salute which he must have
learned from some movie about the ancient French Foreign Legion. Von
Schlichten seriously returned it in kind.

"Everybody's down in the Governor-General's office, sir," he said.
"Your office, that is. King Kankad's here with us, too."

He accompanied them to the elevator, then turned to a telephone; when
von Schlichten and Paula reached the office, everybody was crowded at
the door to greet them: Themistocles M'zangwe, his arm in a sling;
Hans Meyerstein, the Johannesburg lawyer, who seemed to have even more
Bantu blood than the brigadier-general; Morton Buhrmann, the
Commercial Superintendent; Laviola, the Fiscal Secretary; a dozen or
so other officers and civil administrators. There was a hubbub of
greetings, and he was pleased to detect as much real warmth from the
civil administration crowd as from the officers.

"Well, I'm glad to be back with you," he replied, generally. "And let
me present Colonel Paula Quinton, my new adjutant; Hid O'Leary's on
duty in the north.... Them, this was a perfectly splendid piece of
work here; you can take this not only as a personal congratulation,
but as a sort of unit citation for the whole crowd. You've all behaved
simply above praise." He turned to King Kankad, who was wearing a pair
of automatics in shoulder-holsters for his upper hands and another
pair in cross-body belt holsters for his lower. "And what I've said
for anybody else goes double for you, Kankad," he added, clapping the
Kragan on the shoulder.

"All he did was save the lot of us!" M'zangwe said. "We were hanging
on by our fingernails here till his people started coming in. And
then, after you sent the _Aldebaran_...."

"Where is the _Aldebaran_, by the way? I didn't see her when I came
in."

"Based on Kankad's, flying bombardment against Keegark, and keeping
an eye out for those ships. Prinsloo caught the _De Wett_ in the docks
there and smashed her, but the _Jan Smuts_ got away, and we haven't
been able to locate the _Oom Paul Kruger_, either. They're probably
both on the Eastern Shore, gathering up reenforcements for Orgzild,"
M'zangwe said.

"Our ability to move troops rapidly is what's kept us on top this
long, and Orgzild's had plenty of time to realize it," von Schlichten
said. "When we get _Procyon_ down here, I'm going to send her out,
with a screen of light scout-vehicles, to find those ships and get rid
of them.... How's Hid been making out, at Grank, by the way? I didn't
have my car-radio on, coming down."

That touched off another hubbub: "Haven't you heard, general?" ...
"Oh, my God, this is simply out of this continuum!" ... "Well, tell
him, somebody!" ... "No, get Hid on the screen; it's his story!"

Somebody busied himself at the switchboard. The rest of them sat down
at the long conference-table. Laviola and Meyerstein and Buhrmann were
especially obsequious in seating von Schlichten in Sid Harrington's
old chair, and in getting a chair for Paula Quinton. After a while,
the jumbled colors on the big screen resolved themselves into an image
of Hideyoshi O'Leary, grinning like a pussy-cat beside an empty
goldfish-bowl.

"Well, what happened?" von Schlichten asked, after they had exchanged
greetings. "How did Yoorkerk like the movies? And did you get the
_Procyon_ and the _Northern Lights_ loose?"

"Yoorkerk was deeply impressed," O'Leary replied. "His story is that
he is and always was the true and ever-loving friend of the Company;
he acted to prevent quote certain disloyal elements unquote from
harming the people and property of the Company. _Procyon's_ on the way
to Konkrook. I'm holding _Northern Lights_ here and _Northern Star_ at
Skilk; where do you want them sent?"

"Leave _Northern Star_ at Skilk, for the time being. Tell the
Company's great and good friend King Yoorkerk that the Company expects
him to contribute some soldiers for the campaign here and against
Keegark, when that starts; be sure you get the best-armed and
best-trained regiments he has, and get them down here as soon as
possible. Don't send any of your Kragans or Karamessinis' troops here,
though; hold them in Grank till we make sure of the quality of
Yoorkerk's friendship."

"Well, general, I think we can be pretty sure, now. You see, he turned
Rakkeed the Prophet over to me...."

"_What_?" Von Schlichten felt his monocle starting to slip and took a
firmer grip on it. "Who?"

"Pay me, Them; he didn't drop it," Hideyoshi O'Leary said. "Why,
Rakkeed the Prophet. Yoorkerk was holding our ships and our people in
case we lost; he was also holding Rakkeed at the Palace in case we
won. Of course, Rakkeed thought he was an honored guest, right up till
Yoorkerk's guards dragged him in and turned him over to us...."

"That geek," von Schlichten said, "is too smart for his own good. Some
of these days he's going to play both ends against the middle and both
ends'll fold in on him and smash him." A suspicion occurred to him.
"You sure this is Rakkeed? It would be just like Yoorkerk to try to
sell us a ringer."

O'Leary shook his head solemnly. "I thought of that, right away. This
is the real article; Karamessinis' Constabulary and Intelligence
officers certified him for me. What do you want me to do, send him
down to Konkrook?"

Von Schlichten shook his head. "Get the priests of the locally
venerated gods to put him on trial for blasphemy, heresy,
impersonating a prophet, practicing witchcraft without a license, or
any other ecclesiastical crimes you or they can think of. Then, after
he's been given a scrupulously fair trial, have the soldiers of King
Yoorkerk behead him, and stick his head up over a big sign, in all
native languages, 'Rakkeed the False Prophet.' And have audio-visuals
made of the whole business, trial and execution, and be sure that the
priests and Yoorkerk's officers are in the foreground and our people
stay out of the pictures."

"Soap and towels, for General Pontius von Pilate!" Paula Quinton
called out.

"That's an idea; I was wondering what to give Yoorkerk as a
testimonial present," Hideyoshi O'Leary said. "A nice thirty-piece
silver set!"

"Quite appropriate," von Schlichten approved. "Well, you did a first-class
job. I want you back with us as soon as possible--incidentally, you're now
a brigadier-general--but not till the situation at Grank-Krink-Skilk is
stabilized. And, eventually, you'll probably have to set up permanent
headquarters in the north."

After Hideyoshi O'Leary had thanked him and signed off, and the screen
was dark again, he turned to the others.

"Well, gentlemen, I don't think we need worry too much about the
north, for the next few days. How long do you estimate this operation
against Konkrook's going to take, to complete pacification, Them?"

"How complete is complete pacification, general?" Themistocles
M'zangwe wanted to know. "If you mean to the end of organized
resistance by larger than squad-size groups, I'd say three days, give
or take twelve hours. Of course, there'll be small groups holding out
for a couple of weeks, particularly in the farming country and back in
the forest...."

"We can forget them; that's minor-tactics stuff. We'll need to keep
some kind of an occupation force here for some time; they can deal
with that. We'll have to get to work on Keegark, as soon as possible;
after we've reduced Keegark, we'll be able to reorganize for a
campaign against the Free Cities on the Eastern Shore."

"Begging your pardon, general, but reduce is a mild word for what we
ought to do to Keegark," Hans Meyerstein said. "We ought to raze that
city as flat as a football field, and then play football on it with
King Orgzild's head."

"Any special reason?" von Schlichten asked. "In addition to the
Blount-Lemoyne massacre, that is?"

"I should say so, general!" Themistocles M'zangwe backed Meyerstein
up. "Bob, you tell him."

Colonel Robert Grinell, the Intelligence officer, got up and took the
cigar out of his mouth. He was short and round-bodied and bald-headed,
but he was old Terran Federation Regular Army.

"Well, general, we've been finding out quite a bit about the genesis
of this business, lately," he said. "From up north, it probably looked
like an all-Rakkeed show; that's how it was supposed to look. But the
whole thing was hatched at Keegark, by King Orgzild. We've managed to
capture a few prominent Konkrookans"--he named half a dozen--"who've
been made to talk, and a number of others have come in voluntarily and
furnished information. Orgzild conceived the scheme in the beginning;
Rakkeed was just the messenger-boy. My face gets the color of the
Company trademark every time I think that the whole thing was planned
for over a year, right under our noses, even to the signal that was to
touch the whole thing off...."

"The poisoning of Sid Harrington, and our announcement of his death?"
von Schlichten asked.

"You figured that out yourself, sir? Well, that was it." Grinell went
on to elaborate, while von Schlichten tried to keep the impatience out
of his face. Beside him, Paula Quinton was fidgeting, too; she was
thinking, as he was, of what King Orgzild and Prince Gorkrink were
doing now. "And I know positively that the order for the poisoning of
Sid Harrington came from the Keegarkan Embassy here, and was passed
down through Gurgurk and Keeluk to this geek here who actually put the
poison in the whiskey."

"Yes. I agree that Keegark should be wiped out, and I'd like to have
an immediate estimate on the time it'll take to build a nuclear bomb
to do the job. One of the old-fashioned plutonium fission A-bombs will
do quite well."

Everybody turned quickly. There was a momentary silence, and then
Colonel Evan Colbert, of the Fourth Kragan Rifles, the senior officer
under Themistocles M'zangwe, found his voice.

"If that's an order, general, we'll get it done. But I'd like to
remind you, first, of the Company policy on nuclear weapons on this
planet."

"I'm aware of that policy. I'm also aware of the reason for it. We've
been compelled, because of the lack of natural fuel on Uller, to set
up nuclear power reactors and furnish large quantities of plutonium to
the geeks to fuel them. The Company doesn't want the natives here
learning of the possibility of using nuclear energy for destructive
purposes. Well, gentlemen, that's a dead issue. They've learned it,
thanks to our people on Niflheim, and unless my estimate is entirely
wrong, King Orgzild already has at least one First-Century
Nagasaki-type plutonium bomb. I am inclined to believe that he had at
least one such bomb, probably more, at the time when orders were sent
to his embassy here, for the poisoning of Governor-General
Harrington."

With that, he selected a cigarette from his case, offered it to Paula,
and snapped his lighter. She had hers lit, and he was puffing on his
own, when the others finally realized what he had told them.

"That's impossible!" somebody down the table shouted, as though that
would make it so. Another--one of the civil administration
crowd--almost exactly repeated Jules Keaveney's words at Skilk: "What
the hell was Intelligence doing, sleeping?"

"General von Schlichten," Colonel Grinell took oblique cognizance of
the question, "you've just made, by implication, a most grave charge
against my department. If you're not mistaken in what you've just
said, I deserve to be court-martialed."

"I couldn't bring charges against you, colonel; if it were a
court-martial matter, I'd belong in the dock with you," von Schlichten
told him. "It seems, though, that a piece of vital information was
possessed by those who were unable to evaluate it, and until this
afternoon, I was ignorant of its existence. Colonel Quinton, suppose
you repeat what you told me, on the way down from Skilk."

"Well, general, don't you think we ought to have Dr. Gomes do that?"
Paula asked. "After all, he constructed those bombs on Niflheim, and
it'll be he who'll have to build ours."

"That's right." He looked around. "Where's Dr. Lourenço Gomes, the
nuclear engineer who came in on the _Pretoria_, two weeks ago? Send
out for him, and get him in here at once."

There was another awkward silence. Then Kent Pickering, the chief of
the Gongonk Island power-plant, cleared his throat.

"Why, general, didn't you know? Dr. Gomes is dead. He was killed
during the first half hour of the uprising."




XIII.

A Bag of Tricks We Don't Have


He flinched inwardly, and tightened his eye-muscles on the edge of the
monocle to keep from flinching physically as well, trying to freeze
out of his face the consternation he felt.

"That's bad, Kent," he said. "Very bad. I'd been counting heavily on
Dr. Gomes to design a bomb of our own."

"Well, general, if you please." That was Air-Commodore Leslie
Hargreaves. "You say you suspect that King Orgzild has developed a
nuclear bomb. If that's true, it's a horrible danger to all of us. But
I find it hard to believe that the Keegarkans could have done so, with
their resources and at their technological level. Now, if it had been
the Kragans, that would have been different, but...."

"Paula, you'd better carry on and explain what you told me, and add
anything else you can think of that might be relevant.... Is that
sound-recorder turned on? Then turn it on, somebody; we want this
taped."

Paula rose and began talking: "I suppose you all understand what
conditions are on Niflheim, and how these Ulleran native workers are
employed; however, I'd better begin by explaining the purpose for
which these nuclear bombs were designed and used...."

He smiled; she realized that he needed time to think, and she was
stalling to provide it. He drew a pencil and pad toward him and began
doodling in a bored manner, deliberately closing his mind to what she
was saying. There were two assumptions, he considered: first, that
King Orgzild already possessed a nuclear bomb which he could use when
he chose, and, second, that in the absence of Dr. Gomes, such a bomb
could only be produced on Gongonk Island after lengthy experimental
work. If both of these assumptions were true, he had just heard the
death-sentence of every Terran on Uller. The first he did not for a
moment doubt. The reasons for making it were too good. He dismissed it
from further consideration and concentrated on the second.

"... what's known as a Nagasaki-type bomb, the first type of
plutonium-bomb developed," Paula was saying. "Really, it's a
technological antique, but it was good enough for the purpose, and Dr.
Gomes could build it with locally available materials...."

That was the crux of it. The plutonium bomb, from a military
standpoint, was as obsolete as the flintlock musket had been at the
time of the Second World War. He reviewed, quickly, the history of
weapons-development since the beginning of the Atomic Era. The
emphasis, since the end of the Second World War, had all been on
nuclear weapons and rocket-missiles. There had been the H-bomb, itself
obsolescent, and the Bethe-cyle bomb, and the subneutron bomb, and the
omega-ray bomb, and the nega-matter bomb, and then the end of
civilization in the Northern Hemisphere and the rise of the new
civilization in South America and South Africa and Australia. Today,
the small-arms and artillery his troops were using were merely slight
refinements on the weapons of the First Century, and all the modern
nuclear weapons used by the Terran Federation were produced at the
Space Navy base on Mars, by a small force of experts whose skills were
almost as closed to the general scientific and technical world as the
secrets of a medieval guild. The old A-bomb was an historical
curiosity, and there was nobody on Uller who had more than a layman's
knowledge of the intricate technology of modern nuclear weapons. There
were plenty of good nuclear-power engineers on Gongonk Island, but how
long would it take them to design and build a plutonium bomb?

"... also has a good understanding of Lingua Terra," Paula was saying.
"He and Dr. Murillo conversed bilingually, just as I've heard General
von Schlichten and King Kankad talking to one another. I haven't any
idea whether or not Gorkrink could read Lingua Terra, or, if so, what
papers or plans he might have seen."

"Just a minute, Paula," he said. "Colonel Grinell, what does your
branch have on this Gorkrink?"

"He's the son of King Orgzild, and the daughter of Prince Jurnkonk,"
Grinell said. "We knew he'd signed on for Nif, two years ago, but the
story we got was that he'd fallen out of favor at court and had been
exiled. I can see, now, that that was planted to mislead us. As to
whether or not he can read Lingua Terra, my belief is that he can. We
know that he can understand it when spoken. He could have learned to
read at one of those schools Mohammed Ferriera set up, ten or fifteen
years ago."

"And Dr. Gomes and Dr. Murillo and Dr. Livesey left papers and plans
lying around all over the place," Paula added. "If he went to Niflheim
as a spy, he could have copied almost anything."

"Well, there you have it," von Schlichten said. "When Gorkrink found
out that plutonium can be used for bombs, he began gathering all the
information he could. And as soon as he got home, he turned it all
over to Pappy Orgzild."

"That still doesn't mean that the Kee-geeks were able to do anything
with it," Air-Commodore Hargreaves argued.

"I think it does," von Schlichten differed. "As soon as Orgzild would
hear about the possibility of making a plutonium bomb, he'd set up an
A-bomb project, and don't think of it in terms of the old First
Century Manhattan Project. There would be no problem of producing
fissionables--we've been scattering refined plutonium over this planet
like confetti."

"Well, an A-bomb's a pretty complicated piece of mechanism, even if
you have the plans for it," Kent Pickering said. "As I recall, there
have to be several subcritical masses of plutonium, or U-235, or
whatever, blown together by shaped charges of explosive, all of which
have to be fired simultaneously. That would mean a lot of electrical
fittings that I can't see these geeks making by hand."

"I can," Paula said. "Have you ever seen the work these native
jewelers do? And didn't you tell me about a clockwork thing they have
at the university here, to show the apparent movements of the sun...."

"That's right," von Schlichten said. "And what they couldn't make,
they could have bought from us; we've sold them a lot of electrical
equipment."

"All right, they could have built an A-bomb," Buhrmann said. "But did
they?"

"We assume they tried to. Gorkrink got back from Nif on the Canberra,
three months ago," von Schlichten said. "If Orgzild decided to build
an A-bomb, he wouldn't give the signal for this uprising until he
either had one or knew he couldn't make one, and he wouldn't give up
trying in only three months. Therefore, I think we can assume that he
succeeded, and had succeeded at the time he sent Gorkrink here to get
that four tons of plutonium we let him have, and, incidentally, to
tell Ghroghrank to pass the word to have Sid Harrington poisoned
according to plan."

"Then why didn't he just use it on us at the start of the uprising?"
Meyerstein wanted to know.

"Why should he? Getting rid of us is only the first step in Orgzild's
plan," Grinell said. "Back as far as geek history goes, the Kings of
Keegark have been trying to conquer Konkrook and the Free Cities and
make themselves masters of the whole Takkad Sea area. Let Konkrook
wipe us out, and then he can move in his troops and take Konkrook. Or,
if we beat off the geeks here, as we seem to be doing, he can bomb us
out and then move in on Konkrook. I think that as long as we're
fighting here, he'll wait. The more damage we do to Konkrook, the
easier it'll be for him."

"Then we'd better start dragging our feet on the Konkrook front,"
Laviola said. "And get busy trying to build a bomb of our own."

Von Schlichten looked up at the big screen, on which the battle of
Konkrook was being projected from an overhead pickup.

"I'll agree on the second half of it," von Schlichten said. "And we'll
also have to set up some kind of security-patrol system against
bombers from Keegark. And as soon as _Procyon_ gets here, we'll have
to send her out to hunt down and destroy those two Boer-class
freighters, the _Jan Smuts_ and the _Kruger_. And we'll have to
arrange for protection of Kankad's Town; that's sure to be another of
Orgzild's high-priority targets. As to the action against Konkrook,
I'll rely on your advice, Them. Can we delay the fall of the city for
any length of time?"

M'zangwe shook his head. "When we divert contragravity to
security-patrol work, the ground action'll slow up a little, of
course. But the geeks are about knocked out, now."

"The hell with it, then. I doubt if we'd be able to buy much time from
Orgzild by delaying victory in the city, and we'll probably need the
troops as workers over here." He turned to Pickering. "Dr. Pickering,
what sort of a crew can you scrape together to design a bomb for us?"
he asked.

"Well, there's Martirano, and Sternberg, and Howard Fu-Chung, and Piet
van Reenen, and...." He nodded to himself. "I can get six or eight of
them in here in about twenty minutes; I'll have a project set up and
working in a couple of hours. There has to be somebody qualified on
duty at the plant, all the time, of course, but...."

"All right, call them in. I want the bomb finished by yesterday
afternoon. And everybody with you, and you, yourself, had better
revert to civilian status. This isn't something you can do by the
numbers, and I don't want anybody who doesn't know what it's all about
pulling rank on your outfit. Go ahead, call in your gang, and let me
know what you'll be able to do, as soon as possible."

He turned to Hargreaves. "Les, you'll have charge of flying the
security patrols, and doing anything else you can to keep Orgzild from
bombing us before we can bomb him. You'll have priority on everything
second only to Pickering."

Hargreaves nodded. "As you say, general, we'll have to protect
Kankad's, as well as this place. It's about five hundred miles from
here to Kankad's, and eight-fifty miles from Kankad's to Keegark...."

He stopped talking to von Schlichten, and began muttering to himself,
running over the names of ships, and the speeds and pay-load
capacities of airboats, and distances. In about five minutes, he would
have a programme worked out; in the meantime, von Schlichten could
only be patient and contain himself. He looked along the table, and
caught sight of a thin-faced, saturnine-looking man in a green shirt,
with a colonel's three concentric circles marked on the shoulders in
silver-paint. Emmett Pearson, the communications chief.

"Emmett," he said, "those orbiters you have strung around this planet,
two thousand miles out, for telecast rebroadcast stations. How much of
a crew could be put on one of them?"

Pearson laughed. "Crew of what, general? White mice, or trained
cockroaches? There isn't room inside one of those things for anything
bigger to move around."

"Well, I know they're automatic, but how do you service them?"

"From the outside. They're only ten feet through, by about twenty in
length, with a fifteen-foot ball at either end, and everything's in
sections, which can be taken out. Our maintenance-gang goes up in a
thing like a small spaceship, and either works on the outside in
spacesuits, or puts in a new section and brings the unserviceable one
down here to the shops."

"Ah, and what sort of a thing is this small spaceship, now?"

"A thing like a pair of fifty-ton lorries, with airlocks between, and
connected at the middle; airtight, of course, and pressurized and
insulated like a spaceship. One side's living quarters for a six-man
crew--sometimes the gang's out for as long as a week at a time--and
the other side's a workshop."

That sounded interesting. With contragravity, of course, terms like
"escape-velocity" and "mass-ratio" were of purely antiquarian
interest.

"How long," he asked Pearson, "would it take to fit that vehicle with
a full set of detection instruments--radar, infrared and ultra-violet
vision, electron-telescope, heat and radiation detectors, the whole
works--and spot it about a hundred to a hundred and fifty miles above
Keegark?"

"That I couldn't say, general," Emmett Pearson replied. "It'd have to
be a shipyard job, and a lot of that stuff's clear outside my
department. Ask Air-Commodore Hargreaves."

"Les!" he called out. "Wake up, Les!"

"Just a second, general." Hargreaves scribbled frantically on his pad.
"Now," he said, raising his head. "What is it, sir?"

"Emmett, here, has a junior-grade spaceship that he uses to service
those orbital telecast-relay stations of his. He'll tell you what it's
like. I want it fitted with every sort of detection device that can be
crammed into or onto it, and spotted above Keegark. It should, of
course, be high enough to cover not only the Keegark area, but
Konkrook, Kankad's, and the lower Hoork and Konk river-valleys."

"Yes, I get it." Hargreaves snatched up a phone, punched out a
combination, and began talking rapidly into it in a low voice. After a
while, he hung up. "All right, Mr. Pearson--Colonel Pearson, I mean.
Have your space-buggy sent around to the shipyard. My boys'll fix it
up." He made a note on another piece of paper. "If we live through
this, I'm going to have a couple of supra-atmosphere ships in service
on this planet.... Now, general, I have a tentative setup. We're
going to need the _Elmoran_ for patrol work south and east of
Konkrook, and the _Gaucho_ and _Bushranger_ to the north and
northeast, based on Kankad's. We'll keep the _Aldebaran_ at Kankad's,
and use her for emergencies. And we'll have patrols of light
contragravity like this." He handed a map, with red-pencil and
blue-pencil markings, along to von Schlichten. "Red are Kankad-based;
blue are Konkrook-based."

"That looks all right," von Schlichten said. "There's another thing,
though. We want scout-vehicles to cover the Keegark area with
radiation-detectors. These geeks are quite well aware of
radiation-danger from fissionables, but they're accustomed to the
ordinary industrial-power reactors, which are either very lightly
shielded or unshielded on top. We want to find out where Orgzild's
bomb-plant is."

"Yes, general, as soon as we can get radiation detectors sent out to
Kankad's, we'll have a couple of fast aircars fitted with them for
that job."

"We have detectors, at our laboratory and reaction-plant," Kankad
said. "And my people can make more, as soon as you want them." He
thought for a moment. "Perhaps I should go to the town, now. I could
be of more use there than here."

Kent Pickering, who had been talking with his experts at a table
apart, returned.

"We've set up a programme, general," he said. "It's going to be a lot
harder than I'd anticipated. None of us seem to know exactly what we
have to do in building one of those things. You see, the uranium or
plutonium fission-bomb's been obsolete for over four hundred years. It
was a classified-secret matter long after its obsolescence, because it
hadn't been rendered any the less deadly by being superseded--there
was that A-bomb that the Christian Anarchist Party put together at
Buenos Aires in 378 A.E., for instance. And then, after it was
declassified, it had been so far superseded that it was of only
antiquarian interest; the textbooks dealt with it only in general
terms. The principles, of course, are part of basic nuclear science;
the "secret of the A-bomb" was just a bag of engineering tricks that
we don't have, and which we will have to rediscover. Design of
tampers, design of the chemical-explosive charges to bring subcritical
masses together, case-design, detonating mechanism, things like that."

"The complete data on even the old Hiroshima and Nagasaki types is
still in existence, of course. You can get it at places like the
University of Montevideo Library, or Jan Smuts Memorial Library at
Cape Town. But we don't have it here. We're detailing a couple of
junior technicians to make a search of the library here on Gongonk
Island, but we're not optimistic. We just can't afford to pass up any
chance, even when it approaches zero-probability."

Von Schlichten nodded. "That's about what I'd expected," he said. "I
suppose Gomes got his data out of one of the dustier storage-stacks at
Jan Smuts or Montevideo, in the first place.... Well, I still want
that bomb finished by yesterday afternoon, but since that's
impractical, you'll have to take a little--but as little as
possible--longer."

"What are we going to do about publicity on this?" Howlett, the
personnel man, asked. "We don't want this getting out in garbled
form--though how it could be made worse by garbling I couldn't
guess--and having the troops watching the sky over their shoulders and
going into a panic as soon as they saw something they didn't
understand."

"No, we don't. I've seen a couple of troop-panics," von Schlichten
said. "There can't be anything much worse than a panic."

"I think the Terrans ought to be told the worst," Hargreaves said.
"And told that our only hope is to get a bomb of our own built and
dropped first. As to the Kragans.... What do you think, King Kankad?"

"Tell them that we are building a bomb to destroy Keegark; that we are
running short of ammunition, and that it is our only hope of finishing
the war before the ammunition is gone," Kankad said. "Tell them
something of what sort of a bomb it is. But do not tell them that King
Orgzild already has such a bomb. Old Kankad, who made me out of
himself, told me about how our people fled in panic from the weapons
of the Terrans, when your people and mine were still enemies. This
thing is to the weapons they faced then as those weapons were to the
old Kragans' spears and bows.... And when the geeks from Grank come
here, tell them that we are winning and that if they fight well, they
can share the loot of Konkrook and Keegark."

Von Schlichten looked up at the big screen. Already, Themistocles
M'zangwe had ordered the Channel Battery to reduce fire; the big guns
were firing singly, in thirty-second-interval salvos. There was less
bombing, too; contragravity was being drawn out of the battle.

"Well, we all have things to do," he said, "and I think we've
discussed everything there is to discuss. Anybody think of anything
we've forgotten?... Then we're adjourned."

He and Paula Quinton took the elevator to the roof, and sat side by
side, silently watching the conflagration that was raging across the
channel and the nearer flashes of the big guns along the island's
city side.

"Wednesday night, I thought we were all cooked," Paula told him.
"Cleaning up the north in two days seemed like an impossibility, too.
Maybe you'll do it again."

"If I pull this one out of the fire, I won't be a general; I'll be a
magician," he said. "Pickering'll be a magician, I mean; he's the boy
who'll save our bacon, if it's saveable." He looked somberly across
the flame-reflecting water. "Let's not kid ourselves; we're just
kicking and biting at the guards on the way up the gallows-steps."

"Well, why stop till the trap's sprung?" she asked. "What'll happen to
these people on this planet, after we're atomized?"

"That I don't want to think about. Kankad's Town will get the second
bomb; Orgzild won't dare leave the Kragans after he's wiped us out.
Yoorkerk and Jonkvank, in the north, will turn on Keaveney and Shapiro
and Karamessinis and Hid O'Leary and wipe them out. And when the next
ship gets in here and they find out what happened, they'll send the
Federation Space Navy, and this planet'll get it worse than Fenris
did. They'll blast anything that has four arms and a face like a
lizard...."

Half a dozen aircars lifted suddenly from the airport and streaked
away to the northeast. As they went past, in the light of the burning
city, he could see that at least three of them had multiple
rocket-launchers on top. In a matter of seconds, a gun-cutter raced
after them, and a second, which had been over Konkrook, jettisoned a
bomb and turned away to follow.

"Maybe that's it," Paula said.

"Well, if it is, we won't be any better off anywhere else than here,"
he told her. "Let's stay and watch."

After what seemed like a long time, however, a twinkle of lights
showed over the East Konk Mountains. They weren't the flashes of
explosions; some were magnesium flares, and some were the lights of a
ship.

"That's _Procyon_, from Grank," he said. "Everybody gets a good mark
for this--detection stations, interceptors, gun-cutters. If that had
been it, there'd have been a good chance of stopping it." He felt
better than he had since Pickering had told him that Lourenço Gomes
was dead. "It's a good thing Gorkrink didn't pick up any dope on
guided missiles, while he was at it. As long as they have to deliver
it with contragravity, we have a chance."

They rose from the balustrade where they had been sitting, and, for
the first time, he discovered that he had had his left arm over her
shoulder and that she had had her right hand resting on the point of
his right hip, just above his pistol. He picked up the folder of
papers she had been carrying, and put her into the elevator ahead of
him, and it was only when they parted on the living-quarters level
that he recalled having followed the older protocol of gallantry
rather than the precedence of military rank.




XIV.

The Reviewers Panned Hell Out of It


He woke with a guilty start and looked up at the clock on the ceiling;
it was 0945. Kicking himself free of the covers, he slid his feet to
the floor and sprinted for the bathroom. While he was fussing to get
the shower adjusted to the right temperature, he bludgeoned his
conscience by telling himself that a wide-awake general is more good
than a half-asleep general, that there was nothing he could do but
hope that Hargreaves's patrols would keep the bomb away from Konkrook
until Pickering's brain-trust came up with one of their own, and that
the fact that the commander-in-chief was making sack-time would be
much better for morale than the spectacle of him running around in
circles. He shaved carefully; a stubble of beard on his chin might
betray the fact that he was worried. Then he dressed, put his monocle
in his eye, and called the headquarters that had been set up in Sid
Harrington's--now his--office. A girl at the switchboard appeared on
his screen, and gave place to Paula Quinton, who had been up for the
past two hours.

"The _Northern Lights_ got in about three hours ago, general," she
told him. "She had four of King Yoorkerk's infantry regiments
aboard--the Seventh, Glorious-and-Terrible, the Fourth,
Firm-in-Adversity, the Second, Strength-of-the-Throne, and the
Twelfth, Forever-Admirable. They're the sorriest-looking rabble I
ever saw, but Hideyoshi says they're the best Yoorkerk has, and they
all have Terran-style rifles. General M'zangwe broke them into
battalions, and put a battalion in with each of the Kragan regiments.
I think they're more afraid of the Kragans than they are of the
rebels."

He nodded. That was probably the best way to employ them, within the
existing situation. The trouble was, Them M'zangwe was incurably
tactical-minded. Put those geeks of Yoorkerk's in with the Kragans and
they'd be most useful in conquering Konkrook, but the trouble was
that, after associating with Kragans, they might develop into
reasonably good troops themselves, to the undesired improvement of
King Yoorkerk's army. On the other hand maybe not. Keep them in
Company service long enough, and they might want to forget about
Yoorkerk and stay there.

"How's the situation over in town?" he asked.

"Well, it's slowing up, since we began pulling contragravity out," she
told him, "but the geeks are breaking up rapidly.... Oh, there was
something funny about that hassle, last evening, when the _Procyon_
came in. Two contragravity vehicles, an aircar and an air-lorry, that
went out to meet the ship, are unaccounted for."

"You mean two of our vehicles are missing?"

She shook her head, frowning in perplexity. "Well, no. All the
vehicles that answered that unidentified-aircraft alert returned, but
there were these two that went out that we haven't any record of.
Colonel Grinell is investigating, but he can't find out anything...."

"Tell him not to waste any more time," he said. "Those two were
probably geeks from Konkrook. You know, that's how the von Schlichten
family got out of Germany, in the Year Three--flew a bomber to Spain.
The Konkrook war-criminals are getting out before the Army of
Occupation moves in."

"Well, the posts at the old Kragan castles report some contragravity,
and parties riding 'saurs, moving west from the city," she told him.
"There are a lot of refugees on the roads. And combat reports from
Konkrook agree that resistance is getting weaker every hour.... And
the supra-atmosphere observation-craft--they're beginning to call her
the _Sky-Spy_--is up a hundred and fifty miles over Keegark. We have
radar and vision screens and telemetered radiation and other detectors
here, tuned to her. They're installing a similar set on the _Northern
Lights_ at the shipyard. By the way, Air-Commodore Hargreaves wants to
know if he can take a pair of 155-mm rifles from the Channel Battery
and mount them on the _Lights_."

"Yes, of course, he can have anything he wants, as long as it isn't
urgently needed for the bomb project."

"_Sky-Spy_ reports normal contragravity traffic between Keegark and
the farming-villages around--aircars, lorries, a few scows--but
nothing suspicious. No trace of either of the Boer-class ships.
Kankad's people are building receiving sets to install on the
_Procyon_ and the _Aldebaran_, and another set for Kankad's Town.
Pickering and his people are still working, but they all look pretty
frustrated. They have Major Thornton, at the ammunition plant, doing
experimental work on chemical-explosive charges to bring the
subcritical masses together and hold them together till an explosion
can be produced; they're using most of the skilled electrical and
electronics people to work up a detonating device. That's why Kankad's
people are doing most of the detection-device work. Hargreaves is
fitting a lot of small craft-- combat-cars and civilian aircars--with
radar sets, to use for patrolling."

"That sounds good," von Schlichten said. "I'll be around and see how
things are, after I've had some breakfast."

He had breakfast at the main cafeteria, four floors down; there wasn't
as much laughing and talking as usual, but the crowd there seemed in
good spirits. He spent some time at headquarters, watching Keegark by
TV and radar. So far, nothing had been done about direct
reconnaissance over Keegark with radiation-detectors, but Hargreaves
reported that a couple of privately owned aircars were being fitted
for the job.

He made a flying inspection trip around the island, and visited the
farms south of the city, on the mainland, and, finally, made a sweep
in the command-car over the city itself. Reconnaissance in person was
an archaic and unprogressive procedure, and it was a good way to get
generals killed, but one could see a lot of things that would be
missed on TV. He let down several times in areas that had already been
taken, and talked to company and platoon officers. For one thing, King
Yoorkerk's flamboyantly named regiments weren't quite as bad as Paula
had thought. She'd been spoiled by the Kragans in her appreciation of
other native troops. They had good, standard-quality, Volund-made
arms; they were brave and capable; and they had been just enough
insulted by being integrated into Kragan regiments to try to make a
good showing.

By noon, resistance in the city was beginning to cave in. Surrender
flags were appearing on one after another of the Konkrookan rebel
strong-points, and at 1430, after he had returned to the Island, a
delegation, headed by the Konkrookan equivalent of Lord Mayor and
composed largely of prominent merchants, came across the channel under
a flag of truce to surrender the city's Spear of State, with abject
apologies for not having Gurgurk's head on the point of it. Gurgurk,
they reported, had fled to Keegark by air the night before, which
explained the incident of the unaccountable aircar and lorry. The
Channel Battery stopped firing, and, with the exception of an
occasional spatter of small-arms fire, the city fell silent.

At 1600, von Schlichten visited the headquarters Pickering had set up
in the office building at the power-plant. As he stepped off the lift
on the third floor, a girl, running down the hall with her arms full
of papers in folders, collided with him; the load of papers flew in
all directions. He stooped to help her pick them up.

"Oh, general! Isn't it wonderful?" she cried. "I just can't believe
it!"

"Isn't what wonderful?" he asked.

"Oh, don't you know? They've got it!"

"Huh? They have?" He gathered up the last of the big envelopes and
gave them to her. "When?"

"Just half an hour ago. And to think, those books were around here all
the time, and.... Oh, I've got to run!" She disappeared into the lift.

Inside the office, one of Pickering's engineers was sitting on the
middle of his spinal column, a stenograph-phone in one hand and a book
in the other. Once in a while, he would say something into the
mouthpiece of the phone. Two other nuclear engineers had similar books
spread out on a desk in front of them; they were making notes and
looking up references in the _Nuclear Engineers' Handbook_, and making
calculations with their sliderules. There was a huddle around the
drafting-boards, where two more such books were in use.

"Well, what's happened?" he demanded, catching Pickering by the arm as
he rushed from one group to another.

"Ha! We have it!" Pickering cried. "Everything we need! Look!"

He had another of the books under his arm. He held it out to von
Schlichten, and von Schlichten suddenly felt sicker than he had ever
felt since, at the age of fourteen, he had gotten drunk for the first
time. He had seen men crack up under intolerable strain before, but
this was the first time he had seen a whole roomful of men blow their
tops in the same manner.

The book was a novel--a jumbo-size historical novel, of some seven or eight
hundred pages. Its dust-jacket bore a slightly-more-than-bust-length
picture of a young lady with crimson hair and green eyes and jade earrings
and a plunging--not to say power-diving--neckline that left her affiliation
with the class of Mammalia in no doubt whatever. In the background, a
mushroom-topped smoke-column rose, and away from it something intended to
be a four-motor propeller-driven bomber of the First Century was racing
madly. The title, he saw, was _Dire Dawn_, and the author was one
Hildegarde Hernandez.

"Well, it has a picture of an A-bomb explosion on it," he agreed.

"It has more than that; it has the whole business. Case
specifications, tampers, charge design, detonating device, everything.
Why, the end-papers even have diagrams, copies of the original
Nagasaki-bomb drawings. Look."

Von Schlichten looked. He had no more than the average intelligent
layman's knowledge of nuclear physics--enough to recharge or repair a
conversion-unit--but the drawings looked authentic enough. They seemed
to be copies of ancient blueprints, lettered in First Century English,
with Lingua Terra translations added, and marked TOP SECRET and U.S.
ARMY CORPS OF ENGINEERS and MANHATTAN ENGINEERING DISTRICT.

"And look at this!" Pickering opened at a marked page and showed it to
him. "And this!" He opened where another slip of paper had been
inserted. "Everything we want to know, practically."

"I don't get this." He wasn't sick, anymore, just bewildered. "I read
some reviews of this thing. All the reviewers panned hell out of
it--'World War II Through a Bedroom Keyhole'; 'Henty in Black Lace
Panties'--that sort of thing."

"Yeh, yeh, sure," Pickering agreed. "But this Hernandez had illusions
of being a great serious historical novelist, see. She won't try to
write a book till she's put in years of research--actually, about six
months' research by a herd of librarians and college-juniors and other
such literary coolies--and she boasts that she never yet has been
caught in an error of historical background detail.

"Well, this opus is about the old Manhattan Project. The heroine is a
sort of super-Mata-Hari, who is, alternately and sometimes
simultaneously, in the pay of the Nazis, the Soviets, the Vatican,
Chiang Kai-Shek, the Japanese Emperor, and the Jewish International
Bankers, and she sleeps with everybody but Joe Stalin and Mao
Tse-tung, and of course, she is in on every step of the A-bomb
project. She even manages to stow away on the _Enola Gay_, with the
help of a general she's spent fifty incandescent pages seducing.

"In order to tool up for this production-job, La Hernandez did her
researching just where Lourenço Gomes probably did his--University of
Montevideo Library. She even had access to the photostats of the old
U.S. data that General Lanningham brought to South America after the
debacle in the United States in A.E. 114. Those end-papers are part of
the Lanningham stuff. As far as we've been able to check
mathematically, everything is strictly authentic and practical. We'll
have to run a few more tests on the chemical-explosive charges--we
don't have any data on the exact strength of the explosives they used
then--and the tampers and detonating device will need to be tested a
little. But in about half an hour, we ought to be able to start
drawing plans for the case, and as soon as they're finished, we'll
rush them to the shipyard foundries for casting."

Von Schlichten handed the book back to Pickering, and sighed deeply.
"And I thought everybody here had gone off his rocker," he said. "We
will erect, on the ruins of Keegark, a hundred-foot statue of Señorita
Hildegarde Hernandez.... How did you get onto this?"

Pickering pointed to a young man with dull brick colored hair, who was
punching out some kind of a problem on a small computing machine.

"Piet van Reenen, over there, he has a girl-friend whose taste runs to
this sort of literary bubble-gum. She told him it was all in a book
she'd just read, and showed him. We descended in force on the bookshop
and grabbed every copy in stock. We are now running a sort of
gaseous-diffusion process, to separate the nuclear physics from the
pornography. I must say, Hildegarde has her biological data very well
in hand, too."

"I'll bet she'd have fun writing a novel about these geeks," von
Schlichten said. "Well, how soon do you think you can have a bomb
ready for us?"

"Casting the cases is going to slow us down the most," Pickering said.
"But, even with that, we ought to have one ready in three days, at the
most. By two weeks, we'll be turning them out on an assembly-line."

"I hope we don't need more than one. But you'd better produce at least
half a dozen. And have some practice-bombs made up, out of concrete or
anything, as long as they're the right weight and airfoil and have
some way of releasing smoke. Get them done as soon as you have your
case designed. We want to be able to make a couple of practice drops."

There was no use, he thought, of raising hopes which might prove
premature. He told Paula Quinton, of course, and Themistocles
M'zangwe, and, by telecast on sealed beam, King Kankad and
Air-Commodore Hargreaves. Beyond that, there was nothing to do but
wait, and hope that Hargreaves could keep Orgzild's bombers away from
Gongonk Island and Kankad's Town and that Hildegarde Hernandez had
been playing fair with her public. He visited the city, where a few
pockets of diehard resistance were being liquidated, and where
everybody who had not been too deeply and publicly involved in the
_znidd suddabit_ conspiracy was now coming forward and claiming to
have been a lifelong friend of the Terrans and the Company. Von
Schlichten returned to Gongonk Island, debating with himself whether
to declare a general amnesty or to set up a dozen guillotines in the
city and run them around the clock for a week. There were cogent
arguments for and against either procedure.

By 2100, the last organized resistance had been wiped out, and curfew
had been imposed, and peace of a sort restored. There was still the
threat from Keegark, but it was looking less ominous now than it had
the evening before. Von Schlichten and Paula were having dinner in the
Broadway Room, confident that there was nothing left to do that they
could do anything about, when the extension phone that had been
plugged in at their table rang.

"Colonel Quinton here," Paula identified herself into it, and listened
for a moment. "There has? When?... Well, where did it come from?... I
see. And the direction?... Anything else?"

Apparently there was nothing else. She hung up, and turned to von
Schlichten.

"The _Sky-Spy_ just detected a ship lifting out from Keegark, presumed
one of the Boer-class freighters, either the _Jan Smuts_ or the _Oom
Paul Kruger_. It was first picked up on contragravity at about a
hundred feet, rising vertically from near the Palace. The supposition
is the geeks had her camouflaged since the time Commander Prinsloo
first bombarded Keegark with the _Aldebaran_. That was about twenty
minutes ago; at last report, she's fifty miles north of Keegark,
headed up the Hoork River."

Von Schlichten started thinking aloud: "That could be a feint, to draw
our ships north after her, and leave the approach to Konkrook or
Kankad's open, but that would be presuming that they know about the
_Sky-Spy_, and I doubt that, though not enough to take chances on.
They know we have ground and ship-radar, and they may think they can
slip down the Konk Valley either undetected or mistaken for one of our
ships from North Uller."

He picked up the phone. "Get me through on telecast to Air-Commodore
Hargreaves, aboard the _Procyon_," he said. "I'll take it in the
office; I'll be up directly." He rose. "Finish your dinner, and have
the rest of mine sent up," he told Paula.

Leaving the elevator, he rushed into the big headquarters room just as
contact was established with the _Procyon_, on station over the
northwestern corner of Takkad Sea, between Kankad's Town and Keegark.
The _Aldebaran_, he knew, was west of Keegark; the _Northern Lights_,
now fitted with a pair of 155-mm guns, in addition to her 90's, had
just arrived at Kankad's. He had the _Aldebaran_ sent north along the
crest of the mountain-range between the Hoork and Konk river-valleys,
where she could cover both with her own radar and other
detection-devices and exchange information with the _Sky-Spy_, and the
_Gaucho_ sent in what looked like the right course to intercept the
Boer-class freighter from Keegark. The _Northern Lights_, also with
screens tuned to the _Sky-Spy_, was sent to take over the
_Aldebaran's_ regular station. Finally, he called Skilk and had the
_Northern Star_ sent south down the Hoork Valley.

After that, there was nothing to do but wait, and watch the screens.
Paula Quinton put in an appearance shortly after he had finished
calling Skilk, pushing a cocktail-wagon on which their interrupted
dinners had been placed. They finished eating, and drank coffee, and
smoked. Most of the rest of his staff who were not busy on the
bomb-project or at the shipyards or with the occupation of Konkrook
drifted in; they all sat and stared from one to another of the
screens, which told, in radar-patterns and direct vision and
telescopic vision and heat and radiation detection, the story of what
was going on to the northeast of them.

Keegark was dark, on the vision-screen; evidently King Orgzild had invented
the blackout, too. Not that it did him any good; the radar-screen showed
the city clearly, and it was just as clear on the radiation and
heat-screens. The Keegarkan ship was completely blacked out, but the
radiations from her engines and the distinctive radiation-pattern of her
contragravity-field showed clearly, and there was a speck that marked her
position on the radar-screen. The same position was marked with a pin-point
of light on the vision-screen--some device on the _Sky-Spy_, synchronized
with the detectors, kept it focused there. The Company ships and
contragravity vehicles all were carrying topside lights, visible only from
above, which flashed alternate red and blue to identify them.

Time crawled slowly around the clock-face on the wall, the
sixty-five-second minutes of Uller dragging like hours. The spots that
marked the enemy ship and her hunters crawled, too; seen from the
hundred-and-fifty-mile altitude of the _Sky-Spy_, even the
six-hundred-mile speed of the _Gaucho_ was barely visible. They drank
coffee till the stuff revolted them; they smoked until their throats
and mouths were dry, they watched the screens until they thought that
they would see them in their dreams forever. Then the _Gaucho_
reported radar-contact with the Keegarkan ship, which had begun to
turn in a hairpin-shaped course and was coming south down the Konk
Valley.

After that, the _Gaucho_ began reporting directly, and her topside
identification-light went out.

"... doused our lights; we're down in the valley, altitude about a
thousand feet. We're trying to get a glimpse of her against the sky,"
a voice came in. "We're cutting in our forward TV-pickup." The voice
repeated, several times, the wavelength, and somebody got an auxiliary
screen tuned in. There was nothing visible on it but the darkness of
the valley, the star-jeweled sky, and the loom of the East Konk
Mountains. "We still can't see her, but we ought to, any moment; radar
shows her well above the mountains. Ah, there she is; she just
obscured Beta Hydrae V; she's moving toward that big constellation to
the east of it, the one they call Finnegan's Goat. Now she'll be right
in the center of the screen; we're going straight for her. We're going
to try to slow her down till the _Aldebaran_ can get here...."

The enemy ship was vaguely visible, now, becoming clearer in the
starlight. She was a Boer-class freighter, all right. Probably the
_Jan Smuts_; the _Oom Paul Kruger_ had last been reported at Bwork,
and there was little chance that she had slipped into Keegark since
the uprising had started. For all anybody knew, she could have been
destroyed in the fighting before the Bwork Residency fell.

"All right, we have her spotted; we're going to open up on her," the
voice from the _Gaucho_ announced. "She has two 90's to our one; we'll
try to disable them, first." The vision-screen lit with the indirect
glare of the gun-flash, and the image in it jiggled violently as the
ship shook to the recoil, then steadied again, with the enemy ship
visible in the middle of it, growing larger and larger as the _Gaucho_
rushed toward her. The gun fired again and again, flooding the screen
with momentary yellow light and disturbing the image as the recoil
shook the gun-cutter. The enemy ship began firing in reply, the shots
were all wide misses. Apparently the geek guncrew didn't know how to
synchronize the radar sights, and were ignorant of the correct setting
for the proximity-fuses. The _Gaucho_'s searchlights came on, bathing
her quarry in light. It was the _Jan Smuts_; the name and the
figurehead-bust of the old soldier-philosopher were plainly visible.
Her forward gun had been knocked out, and she was trying to swing
about to get a field of fire for her stern-gun.

"We're going to give her a rocket-salvo," the voice said. "Watch this,
now!"

The rockets leaped forward, from the topside racks, four and four and
four and four, at half-second intervals. The first four hit the
_Smuts_ amidships and low, exploding with a flare that grew before it
could die away as the second four landed. Nobody ever saw the third
and fourth four land. The _Jan Smuts_ vanished in a blaze of light
that blinded everybody in the room; when they could see again, after
some thirty seconds, the screen was dark.

In the direct-vision screen from the _Sky-Spy_, the whole countryside
of the Konk Valley, five hundred miles north of Konkrook, was lighted.
The heat and radiation detectors were going insane. And in the
shifting confusion on the radar-screen, there was no trace either of
the _Jan Smuts_ or the _Gaucho_.

"Well, the geeks did have an A-bomb," Themistocles M'zangwe said, at
length. "I'd been trying to kid myself that we were just preparing
against a million-to-one chance. I wonder how many more they have."

"Paula, find out who was in command of the _Gaucho_; he'd be a
junior-grade lieutenant. Fix up orders promoting him to navy captain,
as of now. It's probably the only thing we can do for him, anymore.
And promotions of the same order for everybody else aboard that
cutter. Authority Carlos von Schlichten, acting Governor-General." He
picked up a phone. "Get me Commander Prinsloo, on _Aldebaran_...."

He ordered Prinsloo to launch airboats and make a search; cautioned
him to be careful of radiation, but to take no chances on any of the
_Gaucho_'s complement being still alive and in need of help. While
that was going on, the _Sky-Spy_ reported another ship coming over her
horizon to the east, from the direction of Bwork. That would be the
_Oom Paul Kruger_. Hargreaves had already learned of the advent of the
second freighter. He was unwilling to take the _Procyon_ off her
station until the _Aldebaran_ returned from the Konk Valley. In this,
von Schlichten concurred.

Somebody suggested that a drink would be in order. They had just
watched the all-but-certain death of three Terran officers, fifteen
Terran airmen, and ten Kragans, but they had all been living in too
close companionship with death in the past three days--or was it three
centuries--to be too deeply affected. And they had also watched, at
least for a day or so, the removal of the threat that had hung over
their heads. And they had seen proof that they had a defense against
King Orgzild's bombs.

They were still mixing cocktails when Pickering phoned in.

"Some good news, general, from Operation 'Hildegarde.' We ought to
have at least one bomb ready to drop by 1500 tomorrow, four or five
more by next midnight," he said. "We don't need to have cases cast. We
got our dimensions decided, and we find that there are a lot of big
empty liquid-oxygen flasks, or tanks, rather, at the spaceport,
that'll accommodate everything--fissionables, explosive-charges,
tampers, detonator, and all."

"Well, go ahead with it. Make up a few of them; as many as you can
between now and 2400 Sunday." He thought for a moment. "Don't waste
time on those practice bombs I mentioned. We'll make a practice drop
with a live bomb. And don't throw away the design for the cast case.
We may need that, later on."




XV.

A Place in my Heart for Hildegarde


The company fleet hung off Keegark, at fifteen thousand feet, in a
belt of calm air just below the seesawing currents from the warming
Antarctic and the cooling deserts of the Arctic. There was the
_Procyon_, from the bridge of which von Schlichten watched the
movements of the other ships and airboats and the distant horizon. The
_Aldebaran_ was ten miles off, to the west, her metal sheathing
glinting in the red light of the evening sun. There was the _Northern
Star_, down from Skilk, a smaller and more distant twinkle of
reflected light to the north of _Aldebaran_. The _Northern Lights_ was
off to the east, and between her and _Procyon_ was a fifth ship;
turning the arm-mounted binoculars around, he could just make out, on
her bow, the figurehead bust of a man in an ancient tophat and a
fringe of chin-beard. She was the _Oom Paul Kruger_, captured by the
_Procyon_ after a chase across the mountains northeast of Keegark the
day before. And, remote from the other ships, to the south, a tiny
speck of blue-gray, almost invisible against the sky, and a smaller
twinkle of reflected sunlight--a garbage-scow, unflatteringly but
somewhat aptly rechristened _Hildegarde Hernandez_, which had been
altered as a bomb-carrier, and the gun-cutter _Elmoran_. With the
glasses, he could see a bulky cylinder being handled off the scow and
loaded onto the improvised bomb-catapult on the _Elmoran_'s stern.
Shortly thereafter, the gun-cutter broke loose from the tender and
began to approach the fleet.

"General, I must protest against your doing this," Air-Commodore
Hargreaves said. "There's simply no sense in it. That bomb can be
dropped without your personal supervision aboard, sir, and you're
endangering yourself unnecessarily. That infernal machine hasn't been
tested or anything; it might even let go on the catapult when you try
to drop it. And we simply can't afford to lose you, now."

"No, what would become of us, if you go out there and blow yourself up
with that contraption?" Buhrmann supported him. "My God, I thought Don
Quixote was a Spaniard, instead of a German!"

"Argentino," von Schlichten corrected. "And don't try to sell me that
Irreplaceable Man line, either. Them M'zangwe can replace me, Hid
O'Leary can replace him, Barney Mordkovitz can replace him, and so on
down to where you make a second lieutenant out of some sergeant. We've
been all over this last evening. Admitted we can't take time for a
long string of test-shots, and admitted we have to use an untested
weapon; I'm not sending men out under those circumstances and staying
here on this ship and watch them blow themselves up. If that bomb's
our only hope, it's got to be dropped right, and I'm not going to take
a chance on having it dropped by a crew who think they've been sent
out on a suicide mission. What happened to the _Gaucho_ when she blew
the _Smuts_ up is too fresh in everybody's mind. But if I, who ordered
the mission, accompany it, they'll know I have some confidence that
they'll come back alive."

"Well I'm coming along, too, general," Kent Pickering spoke up. "I
made the damned thing, and I ought to be along when it's dropped, on
the principle that a restaurant-proprietor ought to be seen eating his
own food once in a while."

"I still don't see why we couldn't have made at least one test shot,
first," Hans Meyerstein, the Banking Cartel man, objected.

"Well, I'll tell you why," Paula Quinton spoke up. "There's a good
chance that the geeks don't know we have a bomb of our own. They may
believe that it was something invented on Niflheim for mining
purposes, and that we haven't realized its military application.
There's more than a good chance that the loss of the _Jan Smuts_ has
temporarily demoralized them. Personally, I believe that both King
Orgzild and Prince Gorkrink were aboard her when she blew up. That's
something we'll never know, positively, of course. That ship and
everything and everybody in her were simply vaporized, and the
particles are registering on our geigers now. But I'm as sure as I am
of anything about these geeks that one or both of them accompanied
her."

"Paula knows what she's talking about," King Kankad jabbered in the
Takkad Sea language which they all understood. "Just like Von saying
that he has to go on our cutter, to encourage the crew. They always
insist that their kings and generals go into battle, particularly if
something important is to be done. They think the gods get angry if
they don't."

"And we have to hit them now," von Schlichten said. "They still have a
couple of bombs left. We haven't been able to locate them with
detectors, but those geeks Kankad's men caught on that commando-raid,
last night, say that there were at least three of them made. We can't
take a chance that some fanatic may load one into an aircar and make
a kamikaze-raid on Gongonk Island."

The _Elmoran_ ran alongside, with her Masai-warrior figurehead and the
black cylinder on her catapult aft. Somebody had painted, on the bomb:
DIRE DAWN _by Hildegarde Hernandez. Compliments of the author to H.M.
King Orgzild of Keegark._ A canvas-entubed gangway was run out to
connect the ship with the cutter. Von Schlichten and Kent Pickering
went down the ladder from the bridge, the others accompanying them. As
he stepped into the gangway, Paula Quinton fell in behind him.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded.

"Along with you," she replied. "I'm your adjutant, I believe."

"You definitely are not going along. Personally, I don't believe
there's any danger, but I'm not having you run any unnecessary
risks...."

"Von, I don't know much about the way Terrans think, except about
fighting and about making things," Kankad told him. "And I don't know
anything at all about the kind of Terrans who have young. But I
believe this is something important to Paula. Let her go with you,
because if you go alone and don't come back, I don't think she will
ever be happy again."

He looked at Kankad curiously, wondering, as he had so often before,
just what went on inside that lizard-skull. Then he looked at Paula,
and, after a moment, he nodded.

"All right, colonel, objection withdrawn," he said.

Aboard the _Elmoran_, they gave the bomb a last-minute inspection and
checked the catapult and the bomb-sight, and then went up on the
bridge.

"Ready for the bombing mission, sir?" the skipper, a Lieutenant
(j.g.) Morrison, asked.

"Ready if you are, lieutenant. Carry on; we're just passengers."

"Thank you, sir. We'd thought of going in over the city at about five
thousand for a target-check, turning when we're half-way back to the
mountains, and coming back for our bombing-run at fifteen thousand. Is
that all right, sir?"

Von Schlichten nodded. "You're the skipper, lieutenant. You'd better
make sure, though, that as soon as the bomb-off signal is flashed,
your engineer hits his auxiliary rocket-propulsion button. We want to
be about fifteen miles from where that thing goes off."

The lieutenant (j.g.) muttered something that sounded unmilitarily
like, "You ain't foolin', brother!"

"No, I'm not," von Schlichten agreed. "I saw the _Jan Smuts_ on the
TV-screen."

The _Elmoran_ pointed her bow, and the long blade of the figurehead
warrior's spear, toward Keegark. The city grew out of the ground-mist,
a particolored blur at the delta of the dry Hoork River, and then a
color-splashed triangle between the river and the bay and the hills on
the landward side, and then it took shape, cross-ruled with streets
and granulated with buildings. As they came in, von Schlichten, who
had approached it from the air many times before, could distinguish
the landmarks--the site of King Orgzild's nitroglycerin plant, now a
crater surrounded by a quarter-mile radius of ruins; the Residency,
another crater since Rodolfo MacKinnon had blown it up under him; the
smashed _Christiaan De Wett_ at the Company docks; King Orgzild's
Palace, fire-stained and with a hole blown in one corner by the
_Aldebaran_'s bombs.... Then they were past the city and over open
country.

"I wish we had some idea where the rest of those bombs are stored,
sir," Lieutenant Morrison said. "We don't seem to have gotten anything
significant when we flew reconnaissance with the radiation detectors."

"No, about all that was picked up was the main power-plant, and the
radiation-escape from there was normal," Pickering agreed. "The bombs
themselves wouldn't be detectable, except to the extent that, say, a
nuclear-conversion engine for an airboat would be. They probably have
them underground, somewhere, well shielded."

"Those prisoners Kankad's commandos dragged in only knew that they
were in the city somewhere," von Schlichten considered. "How about
midway between the Palace and the Residency for our ground-zero,
lieutenant? That looks like the center of the city."

The cutter turned and started back, having risen another ten thousand
feet. Morrison passed the word to the bombardier. The city, with the
sea beyond it now, came rushing at them, and von Schlichten, standing
at the front of the bridge, discovered that he had his arm around
Paula's waist and was holding her a little more closely than was
military. He made no attempt to release her, however.

"There's nothing to worry about, really," he was assuring her.
"Pickering's boys built this thing according to the best principles of
engineering, and the stuff they got out of that big-economy-size
shilling-shocker all checked mathematically...."

The red light on the bridge flashed, and the intercom shouted, "_Bomb
off!_" He forced Paula down on the bridge deck and crouched beside
her.

"Cover your eyes," he warned. "You remember what the flash was like in
the screen when the _Jan Smuts_ blew up. And we didn't get the worst
of it; the pickup on the _Gaucho_ was knocked out too soon."

He kept on lecturing her about gamma-rays and ultra-violet rays and
X-rays and cosmic rays, trying to keep making some sort of intelligent
sounds while they clung together and waited, and, with the other half
of his mind, trying not to think of everything that could go wrong
with that jerry-built improvisation they had just dumped onto Keegark.
If it didn't blow, and the geeks found it, they'd know that another
one would be along shortly, and....

An invisible hand caught the gun-cutter and hurled her end-over-end,
sending von Schlichten and Paula sprawling at full length on the deck,
still clinging to one another. There was a blast of almost palpable
sound, and a sensation of heat that penetrated even the airtight
superstructure of the _Elmoran_. An instant later, there was another,
and another, similar shock. Two more bombs had gone off behind them,
in Keegark; that meant that they had found King Orgzild's remaining
nuclear armament. There were shattering sounds of breaking glass, and
heavy thumps that told of structural damage to the cutter, and hoarse
shouts, and lurid cursing as Morrison and his airmen struggled with
the controls. The cutter began losing altitude, but she was back on a
reasonably even keel. Von Schlichten rose, helping Paula to her feet,
and found that they had been kissing one another passionately. They
were still in each other's arms when the pitching and rolling of the
cutter ceased and somebody tapped him on the shoulder.

He came out of the embrace and looked around. It was Lieutenant (j.g.)
Morrison.

"What the devil, lieutenant?" he demanded.

"Sorry to interrupt, sir, but we're starting back to _Procyon_. And
here, you'll want this, I suppose." He held out a glass disc. "I
never expected to see it, but at that it took three A-bombs to blow
you loose from your monocle."

"Oh, that?" Von Schlichten took his trademark and set it in his eye.
"I didn't lose it," he lied. "I just jettisoned it. Don't you know,
lieutenant, that no gentleman ever wears a monocle while he's kissing
a lady?"

He looked around. They were at about eight hundred to a thousand feet
above the water, with a stiff following wind away from the explosion
area. The 90-mm gun, forward, must have been knocked loose and carried
away; it was gone, and so was the TV-pickup and the radar. Something,
probably the gun, had slammed against the front of the bridge--the
metal skeleton was bent in, and the armor-glass had been knocked out.
The cutter was vibrating properly, so the contragravity-field had not
been disturbed, and her jets were firing.

"It was the second and third bombs that did the damage, sir," Morrison
was saying. "We'd have gone through the effects of our own bomb with
nothing more than a bad shaking--of course, on contragravity, we're
weightless relative to the air-mass, but she was built to stand the
winds in the high latitudes. But the two geek bombs caught us off
balance...."

"You don't need to apologize, lieutenant. You and your crew behaved
splendidly, lieutenant-commander, best traditions, and all that sort
of thing. It was a pleasure, commander, hope to be aboard with you
again, captain."

They found Kent Pickering at the rear of the bridge, and joined him
looking astern. Even von Schlichten, who had seen H-bombs and
Bethe-cycle bombs, was impressed. Keegark was completely obliterated
under an outward-rolling cloud of smoke and dust that spread out for
five miles at the bottom of the towering column.

There had been a hundred and fifty thousand people in that city, even
if their faces were the faces of lizards and they had four arms and
quartz-speckled skins. What fraction of them were now alive, he could
not guess. He had to remind himself that they were the people who had
burned Eric Blount and Hendrik Lemoyne alive; that two of the three
bombs that had contributed to that column of boiling smoke had been
made in Keegark, by Keegarkans, and that, with a few causal factors
altered, he was seeing what would have happened to Konkrook. Perhaps
every Terran felt a superstitious dread of nuclear energy turned to
the purposes of war; small wonder, after what they had done on their
own world.

For one thing, he thought grimly, the next geek who picks up the idea
of soaking a Terran in thermoconcentrate and setting fire to him will
drop it again like a hot potato. And the next geek potentate who tries
to organize an anti-Terran conspiracy, or the next crazy
caravan-driver who preached _znidd suddabit_, will be lynched on the
spot. But this must be the last nuclear bomb used on Uller....

Drunkard's morning-after resolution! he told himself contemptuously.
The next time, it will come easier, and easier still the time after
that. After you drop the first bomb, there is no turning back, any
more than there had been after Hiroshima, four-hundred-and-fifty-odd
years ago. Why, he had even been considering just where, against the
mountains back of Bwork, he would drop a demonstration bomb as a
prelude to a surrender demand.

You either went on to the inevitable catastrophe, or you realized, in
time, that nuclear armament and nationalism cannot exist together on
the same planet, and it is easier to banish a habit of thought than a
piece of knowledge. Uller was not ready for membership in the Terran
Federation; then its people must bow to the Terran Pax. The Kragans
would help--as proconsuls, administrators, now, instead of
mercenaries. And there must be manned orbital stations, and the
Residencies must be moved outside the cities, away from possible
blast-areas. And Sid Harrington's idea of encouraging the natives to
own their own contragravity-ships must be shelved, for a long time to
come. Maybe, in a century or so....

Kankad had a good idea, at that, a most meritorious idea. He was sold
on it, already, and he doubted if it would take much salesmanship with
Paula, either. Already, she was clinging to his arm with obvious
possessiveness. Maybe their grandchildren, and the Kankad of that
time, would see Uller a civilized member of the Federation....

They paused, as the gun-cutter nuzzled up to the _Procyon_ and the
canvas-entubed gangway was run out and made fast, looking back at the
fearful thing that had sprouted from where Keegark had been.

"You know," Paula was saying, echoing his earlier thought, "but for
that female pornographer, that would have been Konkrook."

He nodded. "Yes. I hope you won't mind, but there will always be a
place in my heart for Hildegarde."

Then they turned their backs upon the abomination of Keegark's
desolation and went up the gangway together, looking very little like
a general and his adjutant.

       *       *       *       *       *

     With a broadsword in his hand, von Schlichten fought his way
     toward the throne. There Firkked waited, a sword in one of
     his upper hands, his Spear of State in the other, and a
     dagger in each lower hand. Von Schlichten fought on, trying
     not to think of the absurdity of a man of the Sixth Century
     A.E., the representative of a civilized Chartered Company,
     dueling to the death with a barbarian king for a throne he
     had promised to another barbarian ... or of what could
     happen on Uller if he allowed this four-armed monstrosity to
     kill him!


_Ace Science Fiction Books by H. Beam Piper_

EMPIRE
FEDERATION
FIRST CYCLE
FOUR-DAY PLANET/LONE STAR PLANET
FUZZY PAPERS
FUZZY SAPIENS
LITTLE FUZZY
LORD KALVAN OF OTHERWHEN
PARATIME!
SPACE VIKING
ULLER UPRISING
THE WORLDS OF H. BEAM PIPER

       *       *       *       *       *




ULLER UPRISING

"ZNIDD SUDDABIT!"


So the Ulleran challenge begins, with the rantings of a prophet and a
seemingly incidental street riot. Only when a dose of poison lands in
the governor-general's whiskey does it become clear that the "geeks"
have had it up to their double-lidded eyeballs with the imperialist
Terran Federation's Chartered Uller Company. Then, overnight, war is
everywhere.

How it will end is in the (merely) two Terran hands of the new
governor-general, a man shrewd enough to know that "it is easier to
banish a habit of thought than a piece of knowledge." The problem is,
the particular piece of knowledge he needs hasn't been used in 450
years....

       *       *       *       *       *






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Uller Uprising, by
Henry Beam Piper, John D. Clark and John F. Carr

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ULLER UPRISING ***

***** This file should be named 19474-8.txt or 19474-8.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
        http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/4/7/19474/

Produced by Greg Weeks, Sankar Viswanathan, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.



*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://gutenberg.org/license).


Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
     address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
     License.  You must require such a user to return or
     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.


Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.


Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
http://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at http://pglaf.org

For additional contact information:
     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
     Chief Executive and Director
     gbnewby@pglaf.org


Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://pglaf.org

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate


Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.


Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.


Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

     http://www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.