Oscar Khamermann,
Chief of the Tribe of British Columbia,
Secretary to the Council.
Jonnie read it, shrugged, and tossed it in the wastebasket.
Part 17
1
Brown Limper Staffor came away from the compound utterly ill with envy—he called it “righteousness.”
What a horrible, vulgar spectacle!
All those people crowding about, cheering even, touching his moccasins, absolutely fawning. It was more than a normal sane man like Brown Limper could tolerate.
He had felt he was losing ground lately, and he beat his head to think of ways and means, even criminal, to correct this gross mistake people were making about that Tyler!
Since Jonnie Goodboy Tyler had come to the village last year, prancing about, bribing people with gifts—while really only trying to do them out of their lands and houses—and since Brown Limper had realized that Tyler was not only not properly dead but apparently moving in a larger world and moving far too successfully, Brown Limper had been lying in wait.
When he recalled how he had been put upon and scorned and held up to ridicule by Tyler ever since they were children, he seethed. He had to be careful not to dwell on it too much, for then he would lie awake in bed and roll and toss and grit his teeth and bring on a fever. That the instances of Tyler’s doing those things could not be directly recalled or isolated as actual incidents only made it grindingly worse. They must have happened or Brown Limper wouldn’t feel this way, would he? It proved itself.
When he heard that Tyler was crippled and likely to die, a flood of relief had poured through Brown Limper. But here he was today, limping maybe, but certainly making a nauseating spectacle of himself with those Psychlos.
It was not that Brown Limper had not been trying. Some time since when old Jimson had complained of rheumatism, Brown Limper had kindly shown him how beneficial locoweed was to aches and pains—Parson Staffor had left a supply. Brown Limper had performed this act of humanity right after he had been startled to find old Jimson inclining toward Tyler’s criminal proposals to destroy the village and move the people to some desolate mountainside and abandon them there to starve and freeze. Jimson obviously could not be trusted to govern, due of course to his aches and pains. Mercifully, now he had retired to his bed and awoke when his family brought him some food. It was so gratifying to see that the old man was out of his pain and not worried and harassed by village affairs. It was, of course, a bit of a burden to take all the work on himself, but Brown Limper was patient and enduring, if a bit pious, about it.
When the coordinators had come from the World Federation for the Unification of the Human Race, Brown Limper had thought of them as interfering busybodies at first. Then they had shown him some books.
Old Parson Staffor, before he began to chew on locoweed day and night, had taken his responsibilities seriously, both to his village and to his family. He had sought to initiate Brown Limper into the church and had brought out from hiding a secret book no one else in the village knew about called The Bible, and in strict privacy he had taught Brown Limper how to read. But Brown Limper had not much cared for a career as a parson, and he had thought it was better to aspire to be a mayor. A parson could only persuade, but a mayor . . . well now!
It was quite simple logic. There was Tyler, prancing around on his horses, ogling the girls, the young men following his lead and getting into trouble, the council soft-headedly overlooking his criminal pursuits. And there was Brown Limper—wise, tolerant, understanding and brilliant—overlooked and even scorned and cast aside. And hadn’t Tyler’s own father—if he really was Jonnie Goodboy Tyler’s father—protested when Brown Limper was born clubfooted and mutated and was allowed to live. Well, maybe not just older Tyler but Brown Limper’s mother used to tell him that some had protested, but that she had prevailed and saved his life. She used to tell him that several times a week and Brown Limper had gotten the message: the Tylers had attempted to murder him!
So it was only sensible he should be upset and take measures to protect not only himself, but the whole village as well. It would be utterly irresponsible not to do so.
These coordinators had been delighted to find he could read and had given him some texts on “government” and one on “parliamentary procedure” called Robert’s Rules of Order. They had astonished him by informing him that as the active and only mayor, he was the chief of the American tribe. Apparently nearly all the people in America (they had to show him where it was on the globe) had been slaughtered or died off; his was the principal tribe and, being near the minesite, the most influential group politically.
Getting right down to it, what was this council? Well, it was the heads of tribes all over the world, and they met or sent their deputies to meet in a sort of parliament right here in his front yard, so to speak.
They mentioned that he of course should be very interested due to the fact that the Jonnie came from there. Brown Limper did not just become interested, he became obsessed!
Were there any other peoples in America? Well, there were a couple found in British Columbia and four found in the Sierra Nevadas—a mountain range to the west—and some Indians—not really from India but called that—in some mountains way to the south. There were Eskimo and Alaskan tribes, but they didn’t count geographically in America.
Brown Limper had been making progress. Since each council member had one vote, he engineered the rescue of the couple in British Columbia and the four in the Sierra Nevadas (this was all humanitarian, of course) and settled them in his village as tribes and now claimed three council votes. He was just now working on the Indian question to get a member of that tribe up here and so have four council votes.
He hoped he was also making progress in other ways. At the council he would casually and very truthfully drop remarks about Tyler. How the village had always considered him wild, rash and irresponsible, even though he personally had tried to correct such impressions. He mentioned how as a child Tyler was always running about playing and refused even to draw water for his family, an obligation all well-behaved, thoughtful children had. He made light of any rumor that Tyler had known about the tomb all the time and had hidden the information so that he, Tyler, could go there and rob the honorable dead: Tyler only went now and then, he said, and the parson of the village had once tried his best to correct him, and had even taken some of the things the boy had stolen away from him as punishment. Tyler had eventually run away entirely and left his family and the whole village to starve for two winters. As to Tyler and Chrissie not being married, well, actually that was a village secret—the parson had found out certain things when they were children and had forbidden marriage. Not that Tyler cared much for authority—youth being what it was . . .
A lot of the older chiefs from far-off places did not know much of what was going on, and wasn’t Chief Staffor the only one around who had been Tyler’s own dear companion?
Just a couple of days before, Brown Limper had been argued with by some ignorant lout, a chief from the Siberian tribe, and Brown Limper had a feeling they didn’t all quite believe him. So he had been morose. Didn’t he know Tyler, the real Tyler? And now this disgusting spectacle of self-aggrandizement today. What a conceited oaf. Ugh! Spit! And now he had the nerve to go around pretending he couldn’t walk. Just more mockery of Brown Limper.
Brown Limper had noticed that the Psychlo in the cage seemed to be on very good speaking terms with Tyler. While he did not know what they were saying, it was obvious that they were actually well known to each other. But he had detected some bit of frostiness there.
Grabbing at a straw, Brown Limper decided to look into this a bit further and returned that evening to the compound. The sentries, of course, would not dream of saying anything to a senior council member wearing a bit of colored ribbon that denoted his tribe, and Brown Limper hung about, watching the huge Psychlo from a distance. And he saw something very curious. A young Swedish pilot trai
nee stood for a while outside the bars talking to him.
The sentry said yes, the cadet came quite routinely after the classes of the day; he was polishing up his Psychlo: all pilots had to be very expert on Psychlo, and the monster in that cage was a real Psychlo, and there weren’t many others around to talk to. No, he didn’t know what they talked about, for the sentry couldn’t speak Psychlo, being part of the Argyll raiders on duty here, but the cadet’s name, it says here in the log, is Lars Thorenson, and thank you very much, Chief, sir, for mentioning that sentries should have cloaks and promising to take it up with the council.
So, using his influence, Brown Limper found in Academy records that Lars Thorenson had been a member of a Swedish tribe that emigrated, way back, to Scotland; that he had originally been chosen as a coordinator trainee because he spoke Swedish and English and had a gift for tongues; that his father was a fascist minister and had urged the boy to use the Federation to spread the call of fascism, in view of the fact that it had been the state religion of Sweden, and had had some important military figure named Hitler as its head and was needed by the world; that the boy had been dropped therefore by the Federation, but had reapplied due to the scarcity of manpower and been accepted as a flying cadet; that he was doing horribly in stunt flying and was right now healing up from a bad landing and was temporarily suspended, and probably would be sent back to the farm in Scotland on the basis that while he might have a gift for languages, he didn’t seem all right in the head.
Well! A senior council member could easily get that threat of dismissal quashed.
Brown Limper began to take a very definite interest in Lars Thorenson, and through him, in that monster in the cage.
Things were definitely looking up. Certain crimes must be corrected, even if the criminal were an old companion!
2
That day had left Terl feeling very optimistic.
It had gone off just like he knew it would. Someone sooner or later was going to get teleportation in operation again on this planet, and with what joy he had found that the animal himself was taking an interest in it!
Terl was a highly trained security chief, the best by his own admission, and he knew all about teleportation. All about it.
When the animal went over to the Chamco dome, Terl had even pleasantly waited for the shots. They came!
Terl was of two minds about the outcome. He was very pleased there was a fight and that the Chamcos had reacted exactly as predicted, and at the same time he was disappointed the animal had only received a scratched face. It was a difficult emotional conflict to be glad the animal had shot up the Chamcos successfully and to be unhappy to see the animal still hobbling around alive afterward. Well, one couldn’t have everything.
He waited for two days for the news that the Chamcos had committed suicide. It finally came to him through the stupid cadet who visited him of an evening. Practicing talking a language required having something to talk about and so Terl got lots of news.
“You know those two Psychlos that used to work over in that dome,” said Lars, talking through the barrier and bars. “Well, they put them in a cell down in the dormitory area, and this afternoon, despite a great deal of precautions, the two hung themselves with their chains. Over a crossbeam. They broke their chains apart and made a pair of nooses with them and they hung themselves. They could have escaped maybe, but instead they simply strung themselves up.”
“No!” said Terl, pretending he didn’t expect just that. “The poor fellows. Must have been hurt terribly badly by the animal. I saw it from here. He just stood there and kept firing into them. When a Psychlo is hit too badly and knows he can’t recover, he is likely to commit suicide.” Which was about as far from the facts as Terl would allow himself to stray. Without breaking down laughing.
“They’re giving the sentry and the guard sergeant drumhead court-martials,” said Lars. “Probably send them back to Scotland. They’re Argylls. Clanargyll, that is.”
Terl clicked his fangs in sympathy over this gross injustice and said so.
Lars could agree how unjust authorities could be. But he mustn’t go too far. “There’s someone here I’d like you to meet. He’s very important, a senior council member. I won’t mention his name. He’s standing over in the shadows under the pole. Do you see him?”
Terl had seen him the instant he took position over there. He said, “Where? Oh? What’s a senior council member?”
So Lars—it was great practice for his Psychlo—filled him in on the whole political background that was now functioning. And Terl said, well, certainly he’d talk through his friend the cadet to this very important official, it would be glorious practice for the cadet’s Psychlo.
So, using a couple of mine radios (Brown Limper said the glaring lights in front of the cage hurt his eyes and he had had a fever lately), a considerable amount of conversation occurred with Lars in the middle.
Terl gave the politician a lot of very good, “factual” data. The Psychlos were actually a peaceable people, interested in commerce, and here, only in mining. A disaster had occurred a thousand or so years ago that made it possible for the Psychlo company to move in. No, he didn’t know what caused the disaster, probably some natural cataclysm. The company had tried to save all the people they could, but the inhabitants misunderstood their intentions and hid from the peace missions and rescue teams, and the company, being only a commercial company and not political, had been quite poor and unable to continue with the financial burden of rescue since profits were down and so the whole thing had gone on.
Yes, well, he could say that this animal (Tyler?) had provoked a crisis. Rash? Well, yes, come to think of it, pretty rash. Wild, too. He knew. He had tried to befriend him and now he, Terl, was in a cage—without trial too! But of course his feelings of guilt and desire for repentance were the real reason he wanted to be in the cage. This animal—what did you say its name was? Tyler? He didn’t know it had a name; it was very secretive, bad-tempered in fact. Well, look what he had done to Terl’s two best friends just a couple of days ago, and they had been so badly injured they had now committed suicide.
Oh, indeed the Psychlos were very peace-loving people. Honest, kind, good to their friends. Trustworthy. He, himself, made it a rule of his life never to betray a trust.
What? Oh, yes, it was too bad this animal Tyler didn’t have the principles and morals of a Psychlo. Yes, he agreed someone should have taught him to be honest and upright when he was young.
Oh, no, the Psychlos would never think of counterattacking. They weren’t a military nation and Intergalactic was only a mining company, only interested in struggling along and staying at peace with the universe. Badly misunderstood people, the Psychlos.
After they left, Lars was very gratified at all the Psychlo practice he had had, and the shadow under the pole was seemingly desirous of further conversations. Terl hugged himself enough to crush his rib bones.
He would get off Earth, that was for sure. His plans were really sparking! What a lucky break. He would have made it without the break, but how easy it all became. He was not only going to get home to his gold, he was going to blow this planet out of the sky. And he was going to take a prisoner with him. They had air chambers on Psychlo. They could question a captive from almost any system for weeks—and very painful weeks they were. Yes, he’d take a prisoner. Not this silly cadet who knew nothing, not that crooked self-serving politician who was too crap-brained to know valuable information from trash, not the animal Tyler since he could be awfully dangerous . . . well, maybe Tyler if he had no success with anyone else. But it better be somebody else, somebody who would know all their plans and military preparedness. . . . Who?
Terl was hugging his ribs to keep from laughing with delight. He didn’t want the sentry to log something about his conduct. Maybe the sentry would think he had a stomachache.
Oh, it was too much!
His professors were absolutely right. He was easily the greatest officer they h
ad ever trained!
The laughs finally erupted from him but the guard had changed by then and the new sentry thought he was just being more insane than usual. There was nothing in the log except that that cadet had been there for a routine visit to practice talking Psychlo. The new sentry walked about. He had an odd feeling of foreboding. Had the summer night turned cold? Or was it just that insane laughter from the cage?
3
“We,” said Jonnie, “are going to Africa.”
Dr. MacKendrick looked up from his task of removing the cast from Thor’s arm, a little startled.
All the wounded Scots but Thor had left the underground hospital; Thor’s arm had had to be rebroken and set but now it was fine, and with Thor gone, the hospital would be empty save for Jonnie. Dr. Allen had returned to Scotland to care for his practice and Dr. MacKendrick had been thinking of doing so as well.
As he finished cracking off the cast, Dr. MacKendrick said, “We?”
“Yes,” said Jonnie. “You are a bone man but you are also a neurosurgeon, I think they call it.”
Dr. MacKendrick looked at the tall young man, standing there leaning on his cane. He liked this young man. He liked him very much. His practice was being run at home by a competent young doctor and he supposed that arrangement could continue. He had thought a little vacation might be appropriate before taking up his tools in the Aberdeen cave. But Africa?
Thor was flexing his arm, looking very pleased. MacKendrick told him all about what exercises he must now do to keep his muscles from collapsing. It looked like a pretty good job of bone-setting this time.
Jonnie beckoned and MacKendrick followed him as he hobbled into a sickroom Jonnie had been using as an office. An old operating table was covered with papers, photographs and books.
“I need some dead Psychlos and I need some live Psychlos,” said Jonnie.
Thor, in the doorway, laughed. “I shouldn’t think you’d have any trouble with the dead ones. There’s nearly a thousand somewhere around the compound.”
Battlefield Earth: A Saga of the Year 3000 Page 56
