H. Beam Piper - Federation 01, page 2
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.
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 Ullran 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.
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. 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 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 native 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 King Jaikark 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 they had gotten the wounded man into the car. The girl, having dropped her bolo, was leaning against the side of the car.
“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-Ullran. 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 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 quirled 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 Ullr for the last three months; ever since the City of Canberra got in from Niflheim. On Ullr, 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,” he added quickly.
“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. We talked with Mr. Keeluk for a while, 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…. I never in my life saw anything as beautiful as you coming through that mob swinging that warclub!”
* * *
The aircar swung out over Konkrook Channel and headed toward the blue-gray Company buildings on Gongonk Island, and the Company airport.
“Just what happened, while you and Mr. Ferriera were in Keeluk’s house, Miss Quinton?” 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.
“Why, yes….” Paula Quinton’s eyes widened. “But there are no dogs on Ullr, 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.”
“But, what …?” the girl began, her voice puzzled.
“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 Ullr Company?”
“It’s just a big brown collie named Stalin. But somebody stole it, and Keeluk was keeping it. We want to know why. We don’t like geek mysteries—not when they lead to murderous attacks on Terrans, at least.”
It seemed to satisfy her, as the aircar let down on the hospital landing stage. But it didn’t satisfy von Schlichten. He could smell trouble brewing. Just what could the geeks do with a dog? Nothing, so far as he could tell—but they didn’t go in for such behaviour without what they considered good reason. Good for them, that is!
* * *
III
Governor-General Sidney Harrington had a ruddy outdoors-man’s face and a ragged gray mustache; in his old tweed coat spotted with pipe ashes, he might have been any of a dozen-odd country-gentlemen of von Schlichten’s boyhood in the Argentine. His face was composed enough for the part, too. But beyond him in the governor’s office, Lieutenant-Governor Eric Blount matched von Schlichten’s frown, his sandy-haired and younger face puckered in worry.
“We picked up a few of Keeluk’s goon-gang,” von Schlichten was reporting. “But I doubt if they’ll tell us anything we don’t already know. The dog was gone, but we found where it had been kept; at least one of the rabbits had been there, too. No trace of the goat. Anyhow, the riot’s been put down. The Kragans and some of King Jaikark’s infantry are patrolling the section. Jaikark’s troops are busy making mass arrests. Either more slaves for the King’s court favorites or else our Prime Minister Gurgurk wants to use them for patronage.”
Blount nodded. “Gurgurk’s building quite a political organization, lately. He must be about ready to shove Jaikark off the throne.”
“Oh, Gurgurk wouldn’t dare try anything like that,” Harrington said. “He knows we wouldn’t let him get away with it.”
“Then why’s he subsidizing this Mad Prophet Rakkeed?” Blount wanted to know. “Rakkeed is preaching a holy war against all Terrans and against Jaikark. Gurgurk subsidizes Rakkeed, and….”
“You haven’t any proof of that,” the governor protested.
Blount shrugged, his face looking grim. Von Schlichten knew how he felt. They couldn’t prove it, but both knew that Rakkeed had been getting funds from the hands of Gurgurk. The prophet had been stepping up his crusade against the Terrans, and Gurgurk wasn’t the only one backing him. The Prime Minister probably figured on using Rakkeed to stir up an outbreak; then Gurgurk could step in, after Jaikark was killed, put down the revolt he helped incite, and claim to be the best friend of the Company. But the question was whether Rakkeed could be used that way. He was becoming more of a menace than Gurgurk could ever be. Everywhere they turned, Rakkeed was at the bottom of their trouble—just in this case, where Keeluk was one of Rakkeed’s followers.
His power seemed to be growing, too. There were rumors that he had been entertained at the palace in Keegark, just as he was usually entertained by the big shipowning nobles here at Konkrook; come to think of it, the last time here, he’d been guest of the Keegarkan ambassador. He went all over Ullr, crusading, traveling coolie-class in disguise on Company ships, according to their best information.
Blount sighed heavily. “This damned dog business worries me.”
“Worries me, too,” Harrington said. “I’m fond of that mutt, and God only knows what sort of stuff he’s been getting to eat.”
“I’m a lot more worried about why Keeluk was hiding him, and why he was willing to murder the only two Terrans on Konkrook who trust him, to prevent our finding out he had Stalin,” Blount struck in.
Von Schlichten chain-lit another cigarette and stubbed out the old one. “Maybe Keeluk turned him over to Rakkeed to kill before a congregation of his followers—killing us in effigy. Or maybe they figure we worship Stalin, and getting him would give them power over us. I wish I knew a little more about Ullran psychology.”
“One thing,” Blount said. “It doesn’t take any Ullran psychologist to know about eighty per cent 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, but nine-tenths of them have benefitted enormously from us.”
“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, doesn’t it?” Harrington retorted. “He hates us so much he’s offered us a spaceport at his city….”
“At what cost?” Blount asked. “He takes the land from some noble he executes for treason and gives it to us—together with forced labor. We furnish everything else. We get a port we don’t need, and he gets all the business it’ll bring. In fact, considering that Rakkeed is a welcome guest there, I wonder if he isn’t fomenting trouble here at Konkrook to make us move our main base to Keegark. He’s so sure we’ll accept already that he’s started building two new power-reactors to handle the additional demand from increased business.”
“Where’s he getting the plutonium?” von Schlichten asked, suspiciously.
“He just bought four tons of it from us, off the City of Pretoria,” Harrington replied.
“A hell of a lot of plutonium,” Blount said. “I wonder if he has any idea of what else plutonium can be used for?”
“Oh, God, I hope not!” Harrington exclaimed. “Bosh! What about those letters Keeluk gave the Quinton girl?”
“All addressed to rabidly anti-Terran Rakkeed disciples,” von Schlichten replied. “We couldn’t find any indication of a cipher, but the gossip about Keeluk’s friends might have had code-meanings. I’ll have to advise her to have nothing to do with any of the people Keeluk gave her letters to.”
“Think she’ll listen to you? These Extraterrestrial Rights Association people are a lot of blasted fanatics, themselves. They think we’re a gang of bloody-fisted, flint-hearted imperialists.”
“Oh, they’re not as bad as all that. Old Mohammed Ferriera’s always been decent enough. And the Association’s really done a lot of good in other places.”
A calculating look came into Harrington’s eye. “She was going to Skilk, eh? And you’re going there yourself, to investigate some of this Rakkeed worry of Eric’s. Why not invite her along, and maybe you can plant a couple of ideas where they’ll do the most good. We all know there are a lot of things at the polar mines that would look bad to anybody who didn’t understand. And with all this trouble being stirred up now….”
It was his first admission that there was trouble, but von Schlichten let it pass. “Her company wouldn’t be any heavy cross to bear,” he replied. “I won’t guarantee anything, of course….”
The intercom-speaker on the table whistled, and Harrington 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, coming up the roadway to Company House. A platoon of Jaikark’s Household Guards with a royal litter, Spear of State, gift-litter, nobles and such.”
“Gurgurk with indemnity for the riot, eh? Let them in, give them an honor guard of Kragans, but keep their own gun-toters outside. Take them to Reception Hall until I signal from Audience Hall, then herd them in.” He flipped back the switch and turned back. “We’ll have to let them wait or they’ll think we’re worried. But you see—everything’s going along normal lines.”
Blount nodded, but his face showed disbelief. And von Schlichten grumbled unhappily to himself, without knowing why, until they finally went out to the big Audience Hall to meet the delegation.
Governor-General Sidney Harrington, on the comfortably-upholstered bench on the dais of the Audience Hall, didn’t look particularly regal. But then, to a Terran, any of the kings of Ullr 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 the Ullran psychology.
He took the false palate and tongue-clicker, officially designated as an “enunciator, Ullran” 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 Ullran 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. The retinue of nobles behind Gurgurk ran through the whole spectrum, from a princeling who was almost oyster-gray to the Keegarkan Ambassador, who was even blacker and more red-speckled than Gurgurk.
