“Barbarian!” he choked. “Madman! You hit him! You struck another entity! Yes—” His words choked off as matter momentarily triumphed over mind and his stomach broke out in open rebellion.
Kit left him gagging in a corner and started down the corridor. His knuckles were sore but there was an uncommon erectness to his carriage. Green-bearded warriors peeped timidly out at him from side passageways, but none of them came near.
* * * *
On Saar negotiations had skidded to a sudden halt. In spite of the strain imposed by keeping a thirty-eight inch waist sucked in so that it approximated a regulation thirty-two, Squadron Commander Simmons was completing a report that was a model of military crispness.
“…and at 0813 galactic time our courier again took evasive action. The Polarian cruiser launched a homing torpedo which completely destroyed it. We came in to attack, but the cruiser flipped into hyperspace and disappeared.”
Prince Tarz pounded his fist on the table angrily. “I tell you again it’s impossible. All our units have received strict orders to observe the peace.”
“You are sure that the cruiser was Polarian?” asked Space Marshall Kincaide.
“No doubt about it, sir,” answered Simmons. “They are the only ones that have their front blasters mounted in ball turrets.”
Kincaide’s face was white with anger as he turned to Prince Tarz. “I think you have some explaining to do.”
“I have already said that all our units were under orders to refrain from any hostile acts,” said Tarz. “Polarian spacemen do not disobey orders. Your man is obviously mistaken.”
Kincaide rose slowly to his feet. “The squadron commander is not mistaken!” He pointed to a folder of documents on the table. “There is the evidence. Sworn statements of other crew members. Photographs of your ship. Examine it, sir.”
Prince Tarz brushed the pile of documents aside contemptuously. “It is not necessary to examine them.” His voice was frosty. “The word of a Polarian officer is sufficient in itself!”
Kincaide’s voice carried an equal chill. “In this case we shall have to insist on something a little more substantial.”
Prince Tarz’ face tightened, and he came slowly to his feet. With an angry shake of his shoulders he shrugged his thurk skin to one side, exposing his gleaming battle sickle.
“I trust I misunderstand you, sir.” His hand dropped to the hilt of his curved blade. “Though we wear these for tradition’s sake, we have not forgotten how to use them!”
There was open anger in the space marshal’s voice as he said slowly, “In the face of evidence, my government will require more than the word of a barbarian, even though it is backed by the weapons of a barbarian.”
As the Polarian’s blade hissed out of its scabbard, the Saarian emissary gave a horrified gasp and fainted.
“Barbarian, is it! My ancestors were blazing the starways when yours were still crawling around in the mud of your stinking planet. And by Thweela, if it’s war you want, we’ll beat you back so deep into that same mud that you’ll never dare brave space again!”
The Saarian had by now revived and was forcing himself to watch. Tarz suddenly caught himself and bowed formally.
“My apologies, sir. In my anger I forgot that we were meeting under a flag of truce. Unless you wish to apologize, I suggest that we continue this beyond planetary limits.”
Kincaide bowed with equal formality. “It will be a pleasure, sir.” He turned to his executive officer who was standing by with jaw hanging. “Give orders for immediate embarkation of all personnel. We are leaving Saar.”
“But Marshall,” protested the other, “what about our business here?”
“File it under ‘unfinished,’ ” snapped Kincaide. “Right now we’ve got a war to fight.”
At the word “War,” Commander Simmons brightened perceptibly. So, oddly enough, did the Saarian emissary.
Space Marshall Kincaide was packing his personal gear when an orderly entered.
“Beg pardon, sir, but there’s a pilot officer outside who insists on seeing you. He says he’s captured a battle cruiser and wants to know what you want him to do with it.” Kincaide stopped pacing.
“He what?”
“He wants to know what he’s supposed to do with it,” repeated the orderly stolidly.
Kincaide exploded. “Tell him he can take it and… No, send him in here. I’ll teach him to play games at a time like this.”
A moment later Kit entered and gave an awkward salute. Before Kincaide could say anything, Simmons gave a gasp of amazed recognition.
“Marshall! This is the officer who was captured by the Polarians!” He slapped Kit on the back. “Good boy! How did you manage to escape?”
“It wasn’t difficult once I figured what they were up to,” said Kit. “They had me locked up for a while and they said they were going to eat me, so I convinced the guard that I was his prophet and he let me out and…”
“Just a second,” said Kincaide. “I’m lost already. Whose prophet?”
“Thweela’s sir. He’s the Polarian god of violent death and destruction. And then we ran into another fellow who was Thweela, too, so there was a sort of mix-up until I took my gun away from him and took over the ship. I figured I’d better get here in a hurry and stop the war before it had a chance to really get started, so I smashed the cruiser’s main drive and left it hanging out there.”
“Just a second,” said Kincaide. “Are you trying to tell me you took over a star class cruiser armed only with a blaster?”
Kit shook his head. “I used a much more effective weapon. You see, sir, they really weren’t Polarians even if they were wearing green beards. The whole thing was just a plot to make me think they were so that when I escaped…”
“Let me get this clear,” said Kincaide. “You say that everybody on the ship was plotting against you?”
“Yes, sir. But it wasn’t just me.”
Kincaide turned to Simmons. “Are you sure that this is the pilot of the ship that was destroyed by the Polarians?”
“No question about it, sir.”
A look of compassion came into Kincaide’s eyes. “Poor devil! They must have used a psychoprobe on him and cracked him wide open. You’d better have him taken over to the psychcorpsmen. If his brain isn’t damaged too much, they may be able to bring him around enough to find out how he managed to escape.” His voice became hard. “Tarz is going to pay for this!”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” protested Kit. “They didn’t hurt me at all. And they weren’t Polarians. They just thought they were. They were really Saarians.”
“That’s right,” said Kincaide soothingly. “You captured a cruiser with a secret weapon and it was full of Saarians who thought they were Polarians.”
“Not all of them,” said Kit. “The priests knew what was up all the time because they weren’t really priests, they just pretended to be.”
Simmons beckoned to the orderly. He came up and took Kit by the arm.
“You’ve had a rough time, boy,” said Kincaide, “but we’re going to take care of you. You just go along with the orderly and everything will be all right.”
“But, sir, you haven’t heard the whole story.”
“We’ll talk about it when you feel better.”
Before Kit could say anything more, he was propelled vigorously out of the tent by the orderly.
As soon as Kincaide’s indignation drained away, a feeling of uncertainty began to take its place. He looked across the table at Commander Simmons and then down at the damning pile of documents. He couldn’t be wrong. But yet he had never known a Polarian officer to tell a lie. He began to wonder how to best break the news to the Solar Alliance that he had managed to involve Earth in a large scale war. Then he thought of what had been done to Kit. He was starting to get angry all over again when, without pausing to have himself announced, Prince Tarz stormed into the tent.
“Will you step outside? There is a matter of pe
rsonal honor to be settled.”
Kincaide had an unhappy feeling that he was going to have to eat his words about barbarian weapons. Prince Tarz had handled the side arm that tradition required him to wear with an air of familiar competence. An equally traditional and equally anachronistic weapon hung at Kincaide’s side. The only trouble was that he hadn’t the slightest idea how one went about using it. Damning the custom that required flag rank officers to wear sabers rather than blasters, he stepped out into the bright sunshine.
In front of the tent stood an Earthman, surrounded by an angry group of Polarian officers. Tarz stabbed a stiff forefinger at him. “This…”—his voice shook—“this person has subjected Phalanx Leader Der to an insult so terrible that it can only be wiped out with blood!”
“Why inform me,” said Kincaide stiffly. “My men are perfectly competent to conduct their own affairs of honor.”
“Your man said he can’t accept the challenge until you give your permission.”
“My permission?” said Kincaide in amazement. “Here, let me talk to him.” He shouldered his way through the crowd with Commander Simmons at his heels.
“What kind of nonsense is…” His voice suddenly trailed off. “OH, NO! Not you again! Didn’t I order you sent to the psychcorpsman for observation?”
Kit saluted respectfully and nodded.
Kincaide snorted in disgust and turned to Prince Tarz. “Much as I dislike it, this is one case where I’m going to have to interfere. I can’t let this man fight, he’s mentally unbalanced.”
Prince Tarz looked at Kit skeptically. “He looks all right to me.”
“He’s suffering from delusions of grandeur,” explained Kincaide. “He was the pilot of the courier that was blasted by your cruiser. He was captured somehow and later escaped. The poor fellow’s mind cracked during his ordeal. He believes that he captured your cruiser with his bare hands and took it as a prize of war. He’s obviously unfit for combat.”
Prince Tarz’s disbelief was obvious. “Since no Polarian ship has been involved in an incident with one of your fleet units, this man could not have been captured. Since he could not have been captured, you are obviously lying to protect him.”
It was Kincaide’s turn to have his face whiten.
“You are calling me a liar, sir?”
“I am calling you a liar, sir.”
“In that case may I suggest that two fighters be made ready at once. I will meet you at sunset at eighty thousand feet.”
Prince Tarz saluted stiffly, made an abrupt about face, and started away, his officers following close at his heels.
The gap between the two groups widened for a moment and then suddenly a slight figure bolted from the Earthman’s ranks. It was Kit.
He was yelling hotly.
“Prince Tarz! Prince Tarz! Wait up! I can explain everything.” He heard Kincaide’s angry voice behind him, “Corpsman, place that man under restraint!” Grabbing hold of the Prince’s arm desperately, Kit swung him half around.
“Sir, you’ve got to listen to me. It was a Saarian ship that captured me. They’re trying to get us to fight each other!”
Tarz gave him a look usually reserved for small crawling things and brushed his hand away.
Kit’s Adam’s apple jerked convulsively as he swallowed twice and then suddenly jerked his blaster from its holster and jammed it into Prince Tarz’s midriff. A gasp of horror went up from both parties.
Kit’s voice shook. “I’m a peace loving citizen and I’m not going to sit back and let myself get sucked into a war that has no point. I’ve got something to say and I’m going to be listened to or else!” Kit’s voice wasn’t the only thing that was shaking. His hand was trembling so badly that his trigger finger kept bouncing against the firing stud. Prince Tarz noticed it and felt a sudden urge to talk things over.
From the corner of his eye, Kit saw Space Marshall Kincaide running toward him. “Stand back, sir,” he yelled. “If you try to grab me, this thing might go off.” Kincaide skidded to a sudden halt.
“Put that gun down, Carpenter. This is a truce site.”
Kit’s voice had steadied. “I’ll put it down under one condition. You two have got to promise that you’ll give me ten minutes to explain what’s going on. After that I don’t care what you do with me.”
“Certainly not!” snapped Kincaide. “I refuse to be intimidated!”
“You refuse to be intimidated?” howled Prince Tarz. “Whose belly is that blaster sticking in, anyway? You can have your ten minutes,” he said to Kit.
“No!” said Kincaide stubbornly.
“May I point to the consequences if I should be killed by a member of your forces on a truce site,” said Tarz.
Kincaide thought about it for a moment and then reluctantly growled, “All right, ten minutes it is.”
“I have complete freedom to do anything I want without interference?” asked Kit.
The two commanders nodded. With a shaky sigh of relief, Kit shoved his blaster back in its holster.
“Good. Now follow me.” With the two groups trailing behind him, he walked across the field to the six-man scout in which he had arrived two hours before. Kit punched the release stud beneath the outer hatch of its entrance lock. A moment later the assembled officers gasped in amazement as two warriors wearing tremendous thurk pelts and gigantic green beards swaggered out into the bright sunlight.
“It can’t be!” gasped Tarz.
Kit stepped back three paces, flopped down on his knees, and knocked his head against the earth three times. He was the only one aware that he had all his fingers crossed and was trying desperately to interlock his toes. Raising his head, he addressed a point half way between the two figures.
“Your pardon, Holiness, but would you deign to reveal which of these bodies is the vessel of thy terrible spirit? It would be unseemly if we gave homage to the wrong one, for is it not written, ‘There is but one Thweela.’ ”
The two green bearded figures stepped forward as one god and proclaimed in unison, “I am Thweela.”
Kit uncrossed his fingers.
“Lord, we cannot give worship until we know in truth which of thee is the true god of death and destruction. Let the true strike down the false that we may tremble before him.
A moment went by without response and then simultaneously the two figures sprang apart and faced each other in a half crouch. There was a flicker of light on steel and each held his glittering battle sickle ready. Slowly, light as jungle cats and as terrible to the sight, they circled each other warily until without warning, his lips spewing insults, one danced forward, his blade set for a midriff cut. The other dropped his guard and with an underhand swing caught his opponent’s sickle in the hook of his own. There was a moment’s ferocious tugging as each sought to wrest away the other’s weapon. They pulled closer until they were pressed chest to chest. Faces twisting horribly, they howled at each other. A thin white froth began to form on their lips.
Prince Tarz and Space Marshall Kincaide stood side by side watching the struggle in amazement, their differences momentarily forgotten. With the air of a ringmaster about to present the special feature attraction, Kit stepped up to them and saluted.
“By your leave, gentlemen.”
Before either of them could answer, he stepped over to the two straining warriors and gripped each by the shoulder. With a sudden wrench he jerked them apart and swung them around so they both stood facing him. Then slowly and deliberately, he unhooked his gun belt and dropped both harness and blaster to the ground.
“Watch it, Carpenter,” yelled Kincaide involuntarily. ‘They’re battle-crazy. They’ll split your skull if you interfere!”
Kit ignored him and suddenly, without warning, administered the supreme insult as with cold deliberation he spit first in the right eye of the warrior on his left and then in the left eye of the warrior on his right. Then without waiting for either of them to react, he reached forward and grabbed hold of both their beards
simultaneously. With a quick jerk he pulled them completely off and threw them to the ground. With the air of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, he pointed to the bared faces.
“Observe, gentlemen. No chins.”
Then, pulling his right hand in close to his chest so that it couldn’t be seen by the groups behind him, he made a sudden gesture. The result was electric. Two shrieks of fright rang out and a second later all that could be seen of the two Thweelas were their backs as they scuttled in terror back into the scout.
Kit turned and displayed his clenched fist. “My secret weapon,” he said modestly.
Space Marshall Kincaide fingered his lantern jaw and Prince Tarz rubbed his long pointed one. Then they went to look for the Saarian emissary who didn’t have any chin at all.
* * * *
“…and so,” Kit finally concluded, “the escape they had planned for me to make didn’t come off. The way they had it set up, I was supposed to knock out the guard, take his keys, and escape in a scout that had just happened to be standing by with its jets primed. My report on what they were planning to do with me would have made conflict inevitable. Fortunately Thweela moved in just at the right time.”
An old and walrus-mustached staff officer harrumphed. “But spitting! Really, Carpenter, things like that just aren’t done by gentlemen—not even temporary gentlemen!”
“I know,” said Kit apologetically, “but you all thought I was crazy. I had to do something drastic to get you all to listen to me long enough for me to show what had happened.”
Prince Tarz held up his hand for silence. “I’m still confused. For one thing, the crew of that cruiser carried side arms. A Saarian not only couldn’t carry a weapon, he’d get sick at his stomach at the sight of one.”
“A normal Saarian, you mean,” corrected Kit. “What you overlooked was that, even though they have a fear of violence that you might term psychopathic, the Saarians are not a stupid race. We put them in a spot where they had to take action, so they did. Knowing the pugnacious nature of both our cultures, what easier way to get us off their necks than to have a supposed Polarian cruiser destroy an Earth ship during negotiations? They predicted the consequence perfectly. Earth would accuse, Polarius would deny, both sides would lose their tempers and BANG!” He turned to the Saarian emissary.
The First Theodore R. Cogswell Megapack Page 18
