Dielo's sword left its sheath. "Now, here's quick promotion," he exulted. "I'm a real swordsman, not a windy old failure."
The clang of swords echoed down the lanes of the old camp, bringing guardsmen at the run. The two men circled about. Slash, parry; slash, parry, slash. Stroke and counterstroke. Now a retreat, now an advance. No blood drawn yet. It was an exhibition of practiced and formal arms play. No question remained in the minds of the observers. Here were masters at work.
Philar was becoming annoyed. This man's boast had been partially correct. Surely, here was no beginner. In fact, this man was very nearly as good as that old fieldmaster who had taught recruits so many years before. Echoes of long gone lessons ran through Philar's mind.
"You, there, keep that point up. Hell drink your blood." An idea came into his head. He had often wondered about it, he remembered now. Most unconventional, but it should work. What's to lose, besides a head? On guard again, he disobeyed that first of all maxims. Casually, he allowed his point to lower below the permissible area. Instantly, Dielo seized his advantage. With a quick lunge, he beat down at the lowered sword, prepared to make the devastating swing to the head on the rebound. It was an easy stroke, and one which always worked, but this time, something went wrong. The lowered sword moved aside. As Dielo's blade continued its downward path, he felt something sharp slide under his kilt. A quick slash, and his leg became useless. He dropped to the ground with a grunt of surprise. Somehow, that blade which had come from nowhere swung over again, striking his sword hand. He lay weaponless.
The victor stepped back. "So," he thought, "the old, tried swordplay does have its weaknesses." He looked down at the victim of his strategy. The initial shock had passed. Pain was now coursing through the man.
"Please, sir," gasped Dielo. "Please, no sword art." He groaned. "Please make an end."
"No," denied Philar gently, "you are one of my men, and it is my duty to take care of you. You are badly hurt." He looked up. "Quick, Zerjo," he called to a guardmaster, "get the physician Marko. This is a case for his skill alone." He pointed to a couple of guardsmen. "Staunch me this man's wounds quickly, then carry him to a pallet. We will await the physician there."
Marko Dalu sat relaxed. Wine cup in hand, he was engaged in talking to a group of friends. Out in the hills, others were listening on their small communicators.
"Gentlemen," he was saying, "we have completed the first phase. It has become increasingly apparent that the only method of encysting the principles of government, art and science already attained is within a cloak of mysticism. You, therefore, will probably have to become the founders of a new religion. We will arrange a spectacular martyrdom of Marko Dalu, which may be used as you gentlemen see fit.
"Naturally, you and your successors will be visited periodically by members of the Corps, who will give you assistance and advice, but to a large extent, you will be on your own. Again, I have to tell you, gentlemen, that this service you have chosen is a dangerous one. You are powerfully armed and protected, but there are restrictions as to your use of your arms. Some of you may suffer torture. Some may die. I don't believe, however, that I have to point out to you the importance of your work, or the fact that your comrades will do all they can to get you out of any danger.
"I may add one thing. If any of you wish to withdraw, the way is still open." He sipped from his cup, waiting. The communicator was silent. None in the group before him spoke. Finally, one man stood up.
"I don't believe anyone wants to quit," he remarked, "so I would like to ask one question." He paused, looking about the room. "We have been given equipment and knowledge that is far in advance of this world of ours. Are we to retain this and yet keep it secret?"
Marko nodded. "You have the knowledge of your world on the one hand, and the knowledge of other worlds on the other. These must be kept separate for many centuries. Advanced knowledge may be hinted at under certain circumstances, but the hints must be very vague, and the source must never be given. The equipment must be safeguarded at all costs. You all have demolition instructions which must be carried out at any hint of danger or compromise of your equipment. Does that answer the question?"
The man nodded. "Perfectly," he said. "I was sure of the answer, but I wanted it clearly stated." As he sat down, Marko's apprentice ran in, closely followed by a guardmaster of the Empire, in full uniform. The boy was nervous.
"Sir," he started, "a guardsman—"
Zerjo thrust the boy aside. "No need for anxiety," he announced. "It is urgent, though. One of my comrades is seriously hurt. We would have you attend him."
Marko arose, smiling. "You know, of course," he remarked, "I am not regarded with too great favor by the governor."
"No matter," Zerjo was impatient. "Men say you are the best healer in Kleedra. Tonight, we have need of such."
"Very well, then." Marko bowed. "Let us go." He reached to an alcove, securing cloak and bag.
As they approached the camp, a crowd gathered. An angry murmur arose. Marko stopped.
"Easy, my friends," he cautioned. "Here is no cause for disturbance. I merely go to practice my profession."
From the rear of the crowd, a voice called out, "He better come out soon, guardsman." Zerjo looked around angrily, hand going to sword, but Marko placed a hand on his arm, urging him forward.
"Pay no attention," he reasoned. "They mean no harm. It is just that they do not wish to see harm done."
"Yes," growled Zerjo, "or they want to start a rebellion tonight."
Marko urged him on. "There will be no rebellion," he said firmly, "tonight, or ever." They walked into the camp.
As they entered the barrack, Philar looked up. "The man's pretty badly hurt," he informed Marko. "See what you can do for him."
The physician knelt beside the pallet, his fingers exploring the wound in the man's leg. He shook his head. "It'll be hard to make that limb usable again," he said. "How did it happen?"
Philar looked sharply at him. "He talked," he announced, "when he should have listened."
"I shall take care, then, to guard my own tongue," commented the physician. He bent again to his work.
Philar stood watching for a moment, then, "I would have words with you when your work is done." He strode away, thoughtfully. Something was strange about this healer. Surely, somewhere, sometime, he had seen the man before. He cast back into his long and excellent memory. No, it was impossible, he decided. The man was no more than thirty-five years of age. That meant he was barely born when Philar was last in this district. Besides, he was said to be from the countryside, rather than the town or hills. Still, somehow, the man was familiar. He seemed like an old companion.
Finally, Marko stood up. "At least," he remarked, "the pain is eased. The man will sleep now, and perhaps his leg will heal with time." He turned toward Philar. "You wished to speak to me?"
Philar nodded. "Yes. Come in here." He pointed to a small guardroom. "There are many things I want to ask you, and for the present, I'd rather speak in private."
He closed the curtains at the portal, then turned. "Now, then," he began.
Marko held up his hand in a peculiar gesture. "Awaken," he ordered.
"Now, by the sacred robes—" Philar's voice trailed off. "What did you say?"
Marko grinned at him. "I said, 'wake up,' " he repeated. "We've got work to do, pal."
Philar brushed a hand over his forehead. "Yeah," he agreed. "Yeah. We have, haven't we?" He pulled off his helmet, holding out a hand. "Gimme."
From somewhere in his robes, Marko produced a thin, brilliantly yellow circlet with a single ornamented bulge. Philar put it on his head, cocked it to one side, then slammed the helmet back on.
"C'mon, chum, let's take a walk," he growled.
A guard snapped to attention outside the portal. Absently, his commander returned his salute, and the two men strode out of the camp. As they left, Zerjo stepped up to his guard.
"What did they say?" he queried.
; The guard shook his head. "Honest, master, I don't know. They spoke in some foreign language."
"Foreign language?" queried Zerjo. He looked at the guard questioningly. "Was it one of the local dialects?"
The guard shook his head again; emphatically, this time.
"No, sir."
"Wish I'd been here," grumbled the guardmaster.
The morning was clear and hot. Philar stepped gratefully into the shaded door of the temple. Glancing about, he strode rapidly back toward the altar. A priest came toward him, hands outstretched.
"The benediction of our Divine Emperor be upon you, my son," he intoned, "but this part of the temple is only for the priesthood."
Philar looked at the man sternly. "You are the head priest here?" he demanded.
"No, I am but an assistant, but—"
"Take me to the head priest," ordered the guardsman.
The priest turned. "This way," he said.
As they entered his sanctum, the head of Kleedra's priesthood turned angrily. "I told you I was not to be disturbed," he said imperiously.
The company master stepped forward. "I," he announced, "am the Kalidar, Philar dar Burta. I have come here to inquire as to why you have allowed a heretic and traitor to run at large for so long in your district."
The priest glared angrily. "You, a mere soldier, dare to question me in this manner?" he stormed.
Philar met his eyes with a level stare. "I asked," he said firmly, "why you allow freedom to a heretic and traitor?"
The priest faltered. Somehow, the presence of this old soldier put a fog on his normally keen, calculating mind.
"Why do you allow the heretic and traitor Marko Dalu to walk the streets of Kleedra?" Philar demanded.
"But, the man is a civil offender," the priest protested.
Philar snorted. "Has he not scoffed at the Divinity of the Glorious Emperor? Has he not hinted at higher powers than those of our temple? Has he not criticized the conduct of the temple and of the priests? And, has he not done all these things in public? His are certainly more heretical than civil offenses. It is up to you, and you alone. What are you going to do?"
The priest spread his hands. He knew there was something wrong with this conversation. He knew that there were other plans, but he couldn't think straight; not with this furious soldier standing over him.
"What can we do?" he inquired.
"First, send your priests out among the people and have them denounce Marko as a dangerous heretic, an evil man, who would cause the destruction of the entire village. Go to the governor and demand a temple trial for this man. Have the priests hint to the people that if Marko is not delivered to the temple, pestilence, fire and the sword will surely visit them." He paused. "I can assure you that fire and the sword are awaiting any open disobedience," he added.
The priest lifted his head. "These things, I will do," he said decisively.
Philar, Kalidar of the Imperial Guard of the Dalturan Empire, leaned back at his ease in his own quarters. At last, this assignment was nearly accomplished. Soon, he'd be able to go back and relax for a while. In the privacy of his room, he had removed his helmet, and the golden circlet glowed against his dark hair.
"Well, Marc," he was thinking, "I'm coming after you tomorrow. How do you feel?"
"Swell," came the answering thought.
"By the way, did you run to completion on this one?" Philar asked.
Marc was disdainful. "Think I'm a snail? Great Space, they gave me almost four years. I had the job done in three. I beat it all through their heads, then clinched it on the other side. Picked up more recruits than we actually need for the job, too."
Philar started ticking off points on his fingers. "Philosophy, Ethics—"
"Yeah, yeah," he was interrupted. "Philosophy, Behaviorism, Organization, Techniques, Ethics, the works. I even got time to throw in a lot of extra hints that'll take two or three periods to decipher. They've got physical and biological science, up to and including longevity. They've got Galactic Ethics. I even slipped them a short course in Higher Psychology. 'Course, they'll have to do all the groundwork for themselves, but my recruits understand a good share of the stuff. When they're able to release their knowledge, this planet'll be on the team."
"Nice going, pal," Philar chuckled. "Well, as I said, I'm coming after you tomorrow, complete with a whole bunch of nice, tough Dalturan guardsmen. Hope your body shield's in good shape."
"You space worm," stormed Marko. "If you let those primeval monkeys get rough with me, so help me, I'll—"
"Ah, ah," Philar shook his finger, "naughty thoughts."
"Master Intelligence Technician Philar!" A third thought broke in sternly.
Philar groaned. "Oooh, I've done it again. Yes, sir."
"Attention to orders. After completion of your assignment tomorrow, you will march to the seaport, Dalyra. There, you will embark for the capital, Baratea. During the voyage, you will fall over the side and be lost." An impression of amusement intruded. "I'll be at the controls, sergeant, and for your sins, I'm going to bring you in wet. My friend, you will be so waterlogged that you'll be able to go without water for at least half a period."
"Yes, captain." Philar was doleful. He took the circlet off, holding it at arm's length and looking at it sourly.
"Thought control," he snorted aloud. "Thought control, that's what it is." He clapped the mentacom back on and composed himself to sleep.
Kloru Noile, High Priest of Kleedra, sat at his worktable. As he read, he nodded his head. Finally, he looked up. "Well, Plana," he remarked to his assistant, "looks as though the last of the despots has called it a day." He held out the paper. The man took it and read.
Informal Report
From: Barcu Lores, Security Technician Second Class
To: NCOIC, Philosophical Section 5/G3-4/572
Subject: Duke Klonda Bal Kithrel
1. Psychological work on the subject is nearing completion. Bal Kithrel has decided to allow elections of all magistrates, as well as three members of the advisory council. He is also considering a revision of the property laws. It is believed that this is the beginning of constitutional rule in this area. Work is continuing—
Plana handed the paper back. "I believe, sergeant," he remarked, "that we'll get a good inspection report this time."
Editor's Introduction To:
Data Vs. Evidence In The Voodoo Sciences
Jerry E. Pournelle, Ph.D
Contact! is an annual convention combining anthropologists and science fiction writers. The first one was held in the spring of 1983 in Santa Cruz, California.
I was invited to attend and present a paper. That sounded like fun, but it wasn't easy. As it happened, the previous week I was supposed to go to Houston, Texas for the L-5 Society Convention on Space Development, and from there to Ithaca, New York, where I delivered the annual C. P. Snow Memorial Lecture. I went directly from Ithaca to Santa Cruz. Since I hadn't been home for over a week, my paper was mostly written on airplanes.
That, incidentally, is much easier to do than it used to be, thanks to my NEC PC-8201 portable lap computer.
The first Contact! conference proved to be as interesting as I'd hoped, and the second was in many ways better. The conventions tend to be equally divided between fairly serious analysis and pure fun, with a kind of space-age Dungeons and Dragons game thrown in for free.
Since I wrote this essay, Charles Murray has published Losing Ground, a book that proves, or purports to prove, that most of the welfare policies of the U.S. are having precisely the opposite effect that the social scientists thought they would have. He cites the great Negative Income Tax experiment, which was apparently done quite well, and which seems to show beyond all doubt that if you give people free money, they don't work as much as they do when you don't. Naturally, the book has been either ignored or savagely attacked.
This was written some years ago, in haste, on an airplane, but I see no reason to revise a word of it.
&nbs
p; Data Vs. Evidence In The Voodoo Sciences
Jerry Pournelle
"Literary intellectuals at one pole—at the other scientists . . . Between the two a gulf of mutual incomprehension."
Lord C. P. Snow: The Two Cultures on the Scientific Revolution [1959]
The late C. P. Snow was concerned that we were developing two powerful cultures, neither of which understood the other. He thought this very dangerous. Science, with its power over the physical world, is terrifying if not humanely controlled; humanists without science are helpless.
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