Collected Short Fiction, page 58
HE STUMBLED into the little hut the next morning, after a terrifying night filled with the far-off noise of shots and screams, and through it all the persistent grey chanting of the Songs of the Dead. He knew he was somewhere behind Krozni lines, but he didn’t care; the hut meant people, and he didn’t want to be alone any longer.
The interior of the hut was dimly lit. There were two Krozni squatting on the floor at the entrance-stubby, ashen-grey creatures wearing just breechclouts. Delaunay looked at them scornfully, and wondered why such creatures should be able to overthrow so easily an ancient and sophisticated civilization.
“Hello there,” said a warm, husky voice from the shadows of the back of the hut. “Good to see a human face again.” The voice spoke in Terran.
“Who’s there?” Delaunay asked.
“The name is Bronstein,” said the voice. “You can come closer, if you like.”
Delaunay peered into the shadows and saw a middle-aged Terran, bald, with a pair of old-fashioned spectacles hiding weak-looking, probably watery eyes. He moved closer.
The other muttered a few guttral words to the two Krozni, who clambered to their feet and stumped out. Then he turned to Delaunay.
“You’re the Earthman who’s been fighting with the Sallat, aren’t you? I suppose you’re going to hate me, then.”
“Hate you? Why? A fellow-Terran held captive on an alien planet? We should be the best of friends,” Delaunay said.
“I’m no captive,” said Bronstein carefully. “I’m the Krozni general.”
FOR A MOMENT Delaunay did not understand. Then it slowly filtered through to him.
“You’re the Krozni general?” he repeated slowly.
“Of course,” the other said, smiling. “Without me the Sallat would have mopped these animals up in a week, once they overcame their strange ways of making war. I’m the one who’s responsible, all by myself.”
“An Earthman deliberately destroying the Sallat?” In a sudden burst of unthinking rage Delaunay reached forward to seize Bronstein, but the other nimbly retreated back into the shadow’s. They confronted each other across Bronstein’s portable desk.
“That’s not the way to get even,” Bronstein said. “It would take a long time to beat me to death.” He pointed to Delaunay’s holster. “Why not just shoot me? I’m unarmed.”
Delaunay drew his gun and contemplated it for a moment. Then he looked up at Bronstein.
“You’re leading the Krozni?” he said again, as if refusing to believe it. “Why, for God’s sake?”
“Sit down,” Bronstein said. “Put that gun away and I’ll tell you.”
“I’ll keep it out.”
“Fair enough. But listen to me. I’ve been sent by Earth to aid the Krozni in their struggle against the Sallat. The men who sent me know exactly what they’re doing. And the Sallat have nothing to do with the plan, except that they happen to be in the way. They’re elected to be the first victims of the Krozni.”
One of the Krozni re-entered the shack, and Bronstein whispered something in his ear. Then he turned back to Delaunay.
“What are you doing here?” he asked conversationally. “Why did you leave Earth?”
“I lost interest in Earth,” Delaunay said, mastering his anger. “I’m seeking something on this planet. And I was finding it. Until—until you started stirring up the Krozni.”
“You lost interest in Earth,” said Bronstein. “Exactly. You’re well aware that Terra is stagnating from lack of challenge. Terra is almost a sleepwalker’s world now, with everyone but a few going through a mindless routine simply because there’s nothing better to do. You knew that. What did you try to do about it?”
“Nothing,” Delaunay admitted. “I left and came here.”
“You left and came here,” Bronstein repeated, mimicking Delaunay’s inflection. “Very fine. You ran away from Earth because it bored you. But has it occurred to you that there are some people who are coping with Earth’s problems in a more constructive fashion?”
“What does this have to do with the Sallat?” Delaunay demanded.
“Nothing, unfortunately. I greatly regret that the Sallat are mixed up in this. Our only concern is with the Krozni. Earth needs the Krozni. The Krozni represent a potential challenge to Earth—the challenge necessary to stop this slow slide downward. We’re in the position of having to create enemies because there are none around.”
“You mean you’re deliberately helping the Krozni crush the Sallat for the sake of Earth?”
“Forget the Sallat,” Bronstein said impatiently. “What we’re doing is building up the Krozni. We want to develop them until they’re serious challengers to Earth. The raw material’s there; they’re a battling, aggressive people—the way the Earthmen used to be. With a little guidance, a few well-engineered victories, the proper cultural manipulation, they’ll overcome their present primitivism and start looking toward Earth. And then Earth will rise and slap them down. It’s a matter of challenge and response. Earth is dying from lack of challenge, so we have to build one out of the most likely material.”
Delaunay drew a deep breath. He was astonished by the audacity of the scheme, and even more by Bronstein’s coolness. “Without your intervention the Sallat would have put down the Krozni, and Earth wouldn’t get its challenger?”
“Probably. They’d have had a hard time of it, because they’re so fantastically unwarlike, but eventually I think they’d have beaten the Krozni. When I started working with the Krozni they hardly knew anything about the teamwork necessary for war; it’s only been since I’ve been here that they’ve become an efficient fighting machine.”
“Then I’m going to have to kill you,” Delaunay said. He raised the gun.
“Wait!” said Bronstein. The single syllable cut hard into Delaunay. “Before you start blasting, tell me why.”
“Because I’m entering into the situation myself—on the side of the Sallat. I happen to think the Sallat are every bit as important as Earth, and that there’s just as much reason to save one as the other. I’m not worried about Earth.”
Bronstein nodded, staring at Delaunay’s gun. “I know. You never were.”
“Why should I be? I’ve withdrawn from Earth. Why not be loyal to the Sallat instead?”
“That’s a hard question,” Bronstein replied slowly. “But you’re overlooking one big factor. Earth’s worth saving. The Sallat aren’t. Despite what you’re thinking. The Sallat are through; they’ve had it. They’re dead without knowing it. Look at the way they’re meeting the challenge of the Krozni right now. Are they adapting to cope with it? No, not at all. Their culture’s long past the point of adaptability. Tell me what they’re doing?”
“They’re singing songs and getting killed like flies,” Delaunay said lamely.
“Maybe now you see the picture a little more clearly. There are many superficial similarities between the culture of Terra and that of Sallat,” Bronstein said. “They’re both bogged down in a morass of traditions and rituals and routines. You probably didn’t realize that; the things you loved about Sallat were the very things you despised on Earth, with subtle variations. But there’s a real difference.
“The Sallat are an incredibly old people. They have a wonderful culture, but it’s fossilized around them. They’re in an age-old never-never land of rituals and singing. All very beautiful, and I can appreciate your attachment to it, but it’s sterile. The first really serious problem they come up against will finish them. I’m proving that right now.”
“But Earth—”
“But Earth isn’t that way at all,” said Bronstein. “The Terran culture is quite the opposite. It seems to be showing cultural tendencies isomorphic to those of Sallat, but the pattern’s not the same. Both cultures are in a sort of stasis just now, but for Sallat it’s the permanent stasis of senility. Terra is still immature; it’s a young culture which has outgrown all its growth stimuli. Terra needs the challenge of the Krozni to dynamite it out of its rut and push it on to its full growth. And the Sallat, who have had their day, now can make themselves useful for the last time as stepping-stones for the Krozni.”
Delaunay considered this. He thought of Brascon and his manystringed guitar, and of the strange harmonies of the Sallat music, and of Tsalto lying dead somewhere on a hill.
“It’s a cold-blooded, ghastly thing, and it stinks.”
“True,” said Bronstein. “But necessary.”
NECESSARY? Delaunay looked at Bronstein’s placid face. He wondered what the Sallat would say—Marya, for instance.
Suppose Marya were facing Bronstein, and Bronstein told her that her people stood in the way of Earth’s progress. Chokingly, he realized what she would say—she, or Demet, or Tsalto, or any of them: “Then we must be destroyed, of course.”
He pictured one, then another Sallat. And the answer was always the same. The Sallat had nothing greedy about them. They would see the cosmic necessity, and would bow to it.
In any case, he alone couldn’t change the picture. He handed his gun over to Bronstein. “You’re right,” he said softly. It was a bitter-tasting concession. “You win.”
Bronstein smiled. “All right, Jack,” he called to someone outside the hut. Another Terran entered, tall, bronzed, carrying a powerful Bedrickson blaster.
“You had me covered all the time,” Delaunay said ruefully.
“We can’t afford to miss any bets,” replied Bronstein. “We have to have aces in the hole all the time.”
Delaunay looked at the tall man named Jack, and back at Bronstein. Together, these two were methodically destroying a culture which had been building for a thousand thousand years, for the sake of one whose years were still numbered in thousands.
“What should I do now?”
“Nothing,” replied Bronstein. “Just go back to Sallat and stay there. Don’t tell them anything, and don’t try to help them win the war. It’ll only make our job harder, and it won’t work, as I think you found out. And it mustn’t work.”
“All right,” said Delaunay, sourly. “I’ll go back and study my music and collect pieces of sculpture and go to dances. And one day you and your Krozni are going to come roaring in and smash the whole thing.”
“It’s sad, isn’t it?” said Bronstein, and Delaunay thought he could detect some genuine sadness on the older man’s face. “But Earth is more important.”
“Yes,” Delaunay found his voice saying. “Earth is more important.”
Again the voice within him said, withdraw, withdraw, but this time he realized that the voice was speaking just from habit. There was nothing he could do but withdraw, and his final withdrawal was, paradoxically, the greatest involvement. By refusing t.o aid the Sallat he was striking a mighty blow for Earth. The Sallat were doomed, and the Earth these men desired would be triumphantly reborn—someday. First the Krozni would have to grow, and crush dozens of other civilizations throughout the galaxy, before their march would at last shake Terra out of her lethargy.
He turned to go. These men had all the bets covered. There was no point in struggling to save the Sallat, now that he saw the Sallat themselves would not want to be saved if they knew the situation. There was nothing left but withdrawal and waiting, he and Marya and his music—and the dream of Earth.
He got up and walked toward the door of the shack. Before he stepped out he turned back and looked at Bronstein, and wondered just what was going through Bronstein’s mind.
“There’s one bet you haven’t covered,” Delaunay said, beginning to tremble. “One part of your plan that might go astray.”
“What’s that?” asked Bronstein.
“Suppose the Krozni become too good a challenge for Earth? Suppose they decide not to be just sparring partners, and they go ahead and march right through Terra the way they’re marching through the Sallat? Suppose Terra can’t stop them either?”
It seemed to Delaunay that a trace of naked fear showed on Bronstein’s pale face for a moment. “That’s the wild card in the deck,” Bronstein said, as Delaunay started to walk away. “The joker.”
Delaunay nodded, and wondered how Bronstein could assume the burden of such a crushing responsibility. Then he turned and started trudging off in the general direction of the Sallat village, to await the onslaught of the Krozni.
The Promised Land
But why were the Earthmen working at setting up that School . . . what were they seeking to gain in their manipulations of the people of Nidor . . . ?
They were having something of a ceremony. Out on the lawn in front of the main building of the Bel-rogas School of Divine Law, they were celebrating the school’s anniversary. On this date, sixty-one years before, the Earthmen had come down from the sky to help bring the Law to the people of Nidor.
Sindi geKiv Brajjyd, who was in her first year of study at the school, stood in the shadows of the stable behind the great building and watched the multitude out front. All she could think of was the way they were crushing the grass on the lawn. It seemed a silly and overly sentimental thing, all this speech-making.
She patted the smooth flank of her deest. “There, boy,” she said, “I’m bored, too.” The graceful animal snorted and nosed up against the hitching post as if he were anxious to be almost anywhere else but where he was.
That was the way Sindi felt too, she decided, as her sharp eyes picked out the earnest face of her father. He was seated out front. Kiv, like a good alumnus and responsible leader of Nidorian society, had, of course, come to Bel-rogas to take in the festivities. Right now he was watching the speaker as if he were the Great Light Himself.
As a matter of fact, the speaker actually was Grandfather Drel peNibro Brajjyd, the current Brajjyd representative on the sixteen-man Council of Elders. Grandfather Drel peNibro had succeeded to the Nidorian ruling body some ten years earlier, on the death of the venerable Bor peDrogh Brajjyd. Sindi could still remember the gnarled, silvered old man who had headed their clan in the years before the accession of Drel peNibro. She had seen Grandfather Bor peDrogh preside over an important religious function only a few weeks before his death. That had been when she was seven.
Grandfather Drel peNibro was a pompous, somewhat self-important old man who loved making speeches at ceremonial occasions. Sindi was aware of her father’s private opinion of him—that he was a tradition-bound, unintelligent old man who had succeeded to the Council solely because he had outlasted all of the deserving contenders. Kiv, who was a priest in Drel peNibro’s entourage, had let that opinion drop once, and had done his best to cover for it. But Sindi had noticed it, and it formed part of her mental approach toward the Nidorian Grandfather-hood that constituted the Council.
Sindi watched Drel peNibro from the shelter of the deest stable. He was wearing the full formal regalia of a Council member, a flamboyant outfit which seemed to Sindi a fairly silly affair and yet somehow still terribly impressive. His voice floated to her through the quiet air of the Nidorian midafternoon.
“This noble day,” he was saying, and then his voice drifted away for a moment. In the distance, Sindi heard the chuffing of the Central Railway Extension that ran the Eve miles from the Holy City of Gelusar to the Bel-rogas School.
Then his voice became audible again. Sindi managed to catch him as he said, “. . . Is our duty to express gratitude toward our benefactors. And yet we cannot do it directly. For whatever benefits the Earthmen have brought us, these sixty-one years, are creditable, not to them—let me make that clear, not to them, but to the Agent of their arrival on our soil.”
The Elder looked upward. The assembled multitude followed suit, and Sindi found herself doing the same thing. She scrutinized the iron-gray cloud layer which partially obscured the Great Light, but which failed to hide His effulgence completely from view.
Then Grandfather Drel peNibro Went on. “The Bel-rogas School,” he said, “in its sixty-one years of bringing the Law to the young people of Nidor, has served as an incalculably valuable—”
Sindi strained to catch the Elder’s words, which were competing with the harsh breathing-sounds of the deest and the distant drone of the railway. As she leaned forward to hear better—because, though she was too independent a girl to take part willingly in any such foolishness as the anniversary ceremony, she was far too curious about everything to let a word of it escape her ears—as she leaned forward, a new voice came from directly behind her, startling her.
“Sindi? What are you doing here?”
She whirled and saw a tall, grave-looking man dismounting from a deest and reaching for a hitching rope. He was pale-skinned, darkeyed, and bearded. He was Smith, one of the Earthmen who guided the operations of the Bel-rogas School.
“Hello, Smith,” Sindi said uncertainly.
Smith drew a cloth from his pocket and wiped his face. He was sweating heavily, as most of the Earthmen did in Nidor’s moist air. Sindi saw that his deest was near the point of exhaustion. Obviously, Smith had had a long, hard ride from somewhere.
“Why aren’t you out there listening to the Grandfather?” Smith asked. His voice was kind and gentle, like those of all the other Earthmen. “All of the students belong out there, you know. You should be with them.”
Sindi nodded absently. “My father’s out there, too,” she said.
Suddenly Smith moved very close to her, and she became conscious of his curious Earthman odor. His eyes were weary-looking, and his beard needed combing. He looked at her for a long time without speaking.
“Tell me,” he finally said, “why you aren’t out there with everyone else. Why aren’t you with them?”
Sindi slowly rubbed her hand back and forth over her deest’s flank. “Because,” she said thoughtfully, not wanting to get into any more trouble than she was already in. “Just because.”
“That’s not enough of a reason,” the Earthman said. Suddenly Sindi felt terribly small and young next to him.
