I am not a cruel man. I sincerely hope my recent visitor—and the dozen earlier versions of me—enjoy their opportunity to make real advances in physics.
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The Power of Illusion by Christopher Anvil
Illustrated by V. Shane
Colonel Valentine Sanders of the Interstellar Patrol passed a hand over his close-cropped iron-grey hair, leaned forward at his desk, and did his best to speak politely and persuasively:
"Sir, I just don't think I should put this off onto someone else. I wouldn't feel right about it."
He heard his voice come out with a quality suggestive of a crooked dealer in used spaceships. To expect anyone to miss that would be asking too much.
Just across Sanders' desk, where the bulkhead normally presented its neutral grey surface, was the convincing electronic image of a lean broad-shouldered man wearing the same style of uniform as Sanders, but with two stars at the lapel in place of Sanders' silver eagle. He, too, spoke politely, but with a frown that was becoming more pronounced as the conversation wore on.
"Val, you do understand, regardless who does it, it's against regulations to intervene on a planet classified as, in effect, alien?"
Sanders gave up on persuasion and tried stubbornness. Now, at least, he sounded natural. "Whose regulations, sir?"
"And this planet is so designated."
"By whom, sir?"
"By PDA, of course."
"Then, sir, Planetary Development Authority is insane. And I don't remember any regulation of ours that forbids intervention, provided we use some sense when we do it."
"PDA makes the rules for new planets. As for their being insane, that may well be—but why do you say it?"
"There are two intelligent races on this planet. One is so much like us that we can forget trying to find a difference that means anything. Their hearing and vision are unusually sharp, but that's it. The other race has a shorter average build and a kind of close dark hair or fur; people who have never been off their own home world might think the furred race is alien. Yet, when they're not killing each other, the two races trade, and interbreeding produces fertile offspring. The planet is earth-type. They even have rugged quadrupeds that look like and serve the function of horses. How does PDA see this place as an 'alien planet'?"
"No doubt they've got some esoteric reason."
"But does that make it so?"
"No. It also doesn't change regulations."
Sanders, feeling as if he were making his way across thin ice over deep water, again tried hard to sound reasonable:
"Sir, Planetary Development is bound by regulations. So is the Space Force. This tends to make their actions predictable. Yet they both can go on operating by the book, because every large-scale thug, racketeer, and confidence artist, human or alien, also has us to contend with. The rules of the Interstellar Patrol aren't known, and can't be worked into their calculations. Sir, if we adopt PDA's regulations, how do we do our own job?"
Sanders thought this was reasonable. He didn't see how anyone could object to it. But the expression on the General's face told him he had miscalculated somewhere.
"Now you're explaining my job to me, Colonel?"
"No, sir."
"That's what it sounds like to me."
"Well, sir—if we're bound by PDA's regulations—"
"There is such a thing as judgment."
"But—if we follow the same rules—"
"PDA obeys them slavishly. We use them voluntarily."
"If we use them 'voluntarily,' then we can suspend them at will. Sir, I think we need to suspend this rule that any planet they think is alien is automatically off-limits."
"So I gather. Look, Val, I have here your requisition for all this theatrical equipment, and an H-class ship and crew. This came in along with a mess of routine housekeeping stuff—glance at it, initial it, and forget it—but this requisition adds up to a traveling magic extravaganza, to be used on a planet listed by PDA as 'alien-inhabited.'"
"Sir, they aren't aliens. But if we follow PDA's rules, the planet could end up alien."
"What do you mean?"
Sanders decided to try taking the offensive. "Sir, are you aware that this planet is part of a star system so close to the border between Stath territory and ours that the Stath can use it to test us? That collection of murderous overgrown weasels can run rings around PDA. PDA thinks aliens are there? They are. But they aren't either of the races that inhabit that planet. The aliens there are the Stath!"
Sanders had expected the General to at least be startled. Instead, he looked faintly bored, and irritated.
"Spare me the red flags, capes, and picadors, damn it, and get to the facts. Naturally I know where the planet is, and of course the Stath can use it to test us, if they don't mind getting another bloody nose or broken jaw out of it. How does this answer the question?"
"Sir, that's the point."
"Look, Val, the point is that on the basis of some need I don't understand, and which has yet to be explained, I am to provide equipment, plus scarce personnel, for a peculiar junket that will take my Chief of Operations completely off the scene for who knows how long! Meanwhile, PDA is getting into what looks like the mess of the century, and I expect the yell for help any time. When it comes, I'll need everyone I can lay my hands on."
"Yes, sir. But—"
"But when I try to find out what this is all about, what happens? It turns into a philosophical discussion on accepting the rules of other organizations, followed by a shocker revelation that the Stath would like to eat us alive. Is that supposed to be news? This isn't an answer. It's a smoke screen."
"Sir, the main problem is that the Stath are working a stunt that PDA is too blockheaded to understand."
"That's the main problem, eh? All right. Specifically?"
"This planet has two races. The clearly human race has a feudal society. The other is a collection of warlike tribes. There's a wide river that separates them, and though they raid some, they usually respect each other's territory."
"I get the picture. What of it?"
"For several years, the Stath have been visiting the less obviously human part of the planet, disguising the visits as emergency landings, treaty-approved mapping missions, navigation errors, and so on. This spring, the furred race crossed the river, and, using weapons they never had before, started slaughtering the humans."
For the first time, Sanders could see his superior's interest. "And you think the Stath are behind it?"
"Yes, sir. While PDA piously bars us from the planet, the Stath are already there. That pack of bloodthirsty weasels backs a local race, and in return gets a useful ally in disputed territory. And having got away with this stunt, they will have a lower opinion of us in the future. Who knows what they'll try next? Sir, to obey PDA's regulations could be an expensive proposition. This is exactly the kind of thing we're meant to take care of."
Abruptly, it dawned on Sanders that, with the argument all but won, he had just said a few words too many.
The General nodded slowly, and looked up.
"Then why is this the first I've heard of it?"
"Sir, I just found it out myself—and only because of unusual circumstances. PDA didn't mention it, because they haven't caught on."
"Look, Val—Why didn't you make a little more noise? Why just send me this requisition?"
There was the catch. As Sanders had just said, this was the exact kind of thing the Interstellar Patrol was meant to take care of. Why, then, hadn't he handled it as usual? Of course, he knew why, but he desperately did not want to mention that. Sanders, who rarely acted impulsively, was even worse at explaining an impulsive action than the average person, who at least had a little more practice at it.
But the General was still waiting, with rapidly evaporating patience, for an explanation.
Inspiration failing to provide a way out, Sanders still had to say something. And improvising plausible-soundin
g excuses was another skill Sanders lacked. In horror, he heard himself say:
"Well,—I—ah—Sir, I just didn't want to bother you—with—ah—"
Across the desk, the strongly built uniformed figure leaned forward. The silver stars glinted. Sanders felt like an onion whose outer layers were rapidly being stripped away.
"Val—"
"Sir?"
"Why are you approaching this backward?"
"I—Ah—"
"We have here a legitimate request which you present to me hind-end first. There has to be some reason. The most obvious is to conceal something. Say, you want to go yourself, but don't want to explain why. A routine requisition might just slip through unquestioned. Val, do you have some personal interest in this mess?"
"Sir, I—"
"Well?"
Sanders could feel the perspiration trickle down.
"I—Ah—"
"It must be even worse than it looks. All right, let's have the whole thing. Have you been on this planet? What are the 'unusual circumstances' that told you what's going on there? Is there an extra booby trap somewhere in this sink-hole? Let's have it, and from the beginning, for a change."
Sanders, pinned in his superior's searchlight gaze, with an effort began to talk.
"A long time ago, sir, a ship crashed on this planet. There was apparently just one survivor—" He hesitated.
"Just keep going, Val. A ship crashed. There was one survivor. I follow that. Go on."
Sanders took a deep breath. "The survivor was a baby in a safety cradle. The ship was on fire when it crashed, and there was the danger that it might explode. A second ship followed it down, but couldn't get there before the first ship blew up."
"Were you there?"
"Yes, sir. In the second ship."
"All right. I follow it, so far. Keep going."
"The father of the baby and the crew of the second ship rushed to the wreck, searched the remains, and found no survivors. After they had given up hope, there walked through the smouldering debris a local chief or king, carrying the cradle. He had risked his life, and gotten the baby out just before the explosion."
The General opened his mouth, then closed it without speaking. He nodded slowly.
Sanders said, "The crew of the second ship took the safety cradle. The father was overcome with emotion. He took the guard ring from his hand, and put it on the hand of the local chief."
"A guard ring?"
"Yes, sir."
There was a lengthy silence. It was this detail, which Sanders could not even explain to himself, that he had wanted to avoid mentioning.
The General stared at Sanders. "The father, of course, was a member of the Interstellar Patrol?"
"Yes, sir."
"He was a member of the Patrol when this happened?"
"Yes, sir."
"Was he aware of the PDA rule that no technological device is to be introduced onto an unclassified planet?"
"Yes, sir."
"This ring was not dropped, or lost inadvertently, in which case—"
"No, sir. It was placed intentionally on the chief's hand."
"In full awareness of the technological nature of the guard ring, and of the rule barring exactly such actions?"
"Yes, sir, and in full awareness that the rule was a rule of PDA, and not a rule of the Interstellar Patrol."
"This ring was, of course, a technological device of the Interstellar Patrol? Granted that there are other outfits—including the Stellar Scouts—that have devices disguised as jewelry—rings, pins, belt buckles, bracelets, watches, and so on. This was one of ours?"
"Yes, sir. It was one of ours."
"What justification for this could there be, bearing in mind that the guard ring was equipment of the Patrol, not the property of the person giving it away? Incidentally, where did this guard ring come from?"
"From an agent of the Patrol who had passed away—a retired member on a partly settled planet."
"Passed away how?"
"By natural causes, sir."
"This ring had not been issued to the member who gave it to the local chief?"
"No, sir."
"Had the ring been collected on orders to turn it in?"
"No, sir. It was being brought back voluntarily."
"I see. Was the transaction reported?"
"No, sir, it was not."
"Why not?"
"It might have been disapproved."
"I see . . . How long ago did this happen?"
"About twenty-three years ago, sir."
After a silence, the General cleared his throat. "You'll have to report it, Val. Never mind the details. Just state to me verbally that you do now report it."
Sanders, caught off-balance, hesitated, then said, "Yes, sir. I do now report it."
"Disposition of the guard ring is approved. This local king is obviously a capable individual, well suited to be an involuntary agent of the Patrol on the said planet, allowing for the possibility of subterfuge by the neighboring Stath. Now, what happened? Did the baby survive?"
"Yes, sir."
"And is now where—and what?"
"He's grown up, sir. A second lieutenant."
"In what organization?"
"The Interstellar Patrol, sir."
There was a brief pleasant interval as the General smiled. Sanders understood the reaction. In the Patrol, perpetually shorthanded, each recruit was precious.
"Well, now I can understand, at least. But Val, if there's anything more technological than a guard ring—"
"Sir, PDA wouldn't know one if they saw it."
"Granted. But we know what it is. All right, now, let's see. We not only have the Stath, and the local invasion, but this guard ring, introduced into this tinderbox years ago. Is there anything more?"
"That's most of it, sir. When the patrol ship took off, an outphased watch satellite was left in orbit, just in case. It would note landings on the planet, and could, to some extent, at our signal plant spy devices, so we could learn more if we needed to."
"This satellite transmitted reports at intervals?"
"No, sir. There was no interest in the place then. The satellite was set to send any accumulated information on our transmit signal. Since there was no suspicion of what the Stath were doing, no transmit signal was sent—until the guard ring alerted the communications net about three weeks ago."
"Three weeks?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's the unusual way you became aware something was going on?"
"Yes, sir."
"Okay. Now, let's be sure there's no misunderstanding. This guard ring was keyed to the person whose finger it was put on?"
"Sir, there wouldn't be much point giving a guard ring inactive. It was keyed."
"You know guard rings have been taken out of general use?"
"I didn't think they ever were actually in general use. I know they're dispensed with great caution."
"But this local king on this barbarian planet has been walking around all this time with this ring on his finger?"
"Sir, I don't know. The signal we got recently shows no change in identity, so he was wearing it then."
"In the meantime, it could have been traded back and forth for cattle, or nubile girls, for all we know?"
"Yes, sir. But I think he would have kept it, and worn it. We know he has it now."
"What style is this ring? Is it a plain regulation type, or an ornamental ring?"
"Ornamental, sir. The control crystal appears to be a large gem—like a star sapphire—until it's activated. There's a lion to either side of the gem. The setting looks like gold."
"Then he probably has worn it. Well, I don't know what the damned Stath gave their fur-bearing allies, but I can scarcely wait to find out what happens when they run into this ring."
Sanders kept his mouth shut. Right there was the reason he was anxious to get to the planet.
The General cleared his throat.
"Has the invasion got to th
is local king yet?"
"Not yet, sir. When we got the alert on the communications net, we sent the transmit signal to the satellite, and that's when we found out the Stath had been visiting the planet. Then we had to learn all we could in a hurry."
"I can imagine. We didn't know any of this before?"
"No, sir. Supposedly, PDA was taking care of it."
"PDA doesn't understand how the Stath think. So, this requisition you've sent in—All this theatrical equipment, an H-Class ship and crew—this was to try to recover this guard ring?"
"No, sir, it was to stop the Stath from taking over, through their local allies. Of course, in the process, that would hopefully keep the device from becoming fully activated."
There was a little silence, during which Colonel Sanders had time to consider how many different organizations would have had him drawn and quartered by now. Yet the General, who had had him in just the right position for a verbal beheading, or worse, instead had buried the really deadly question with a harmless one, then legitimized the impulse Sanders still couldn't explain to himself: Why had he put the guard ring on the local chief's hand? He could remember no calculation, no reasoning, no thought; he had just acted, and become aware of it afterward, as if he were a spectator in his own life. How did anyone explain an impulse? Then a clearing of the throat warned him the questioning wasn't over yet.
"How close is this invasion to our—ah—involuntary agent on this planet?"
"I think we might just have time to get there before he's hit. We've flooded the place with subminiaturized spy devices, and been pretty well swamped with information we haven't had time to digest. There's even a local prophecy of what sounds like our intervention on the planet."
"You've located the opposing forces?"
"Yes, sir, that's clear enough. Though there aren't two equal forces. The invaders heavily outnumber the defenders."
"Okay. I'm approving your requisition. I don't think we should fool around with this, whatever PDA might think. The planet may be near the boundary, but it's in our territory, and the mental processes of the Stath are as you describe them. We can't let them get away with this. However, these local inhabitants on both sides are also people, and the less gratuitous slaughter we inflict, the better."
Jim Baen's Universe Volume 1 Number 3 October 2006 Page 13
