First Command

by A Bertram Chandler

  The officer turned to face his captain, with his body hiding the hamper from Diomedes and his men. It was not intentional—or was it? Grimes, his face emotionless, lifted Brasidus’ torn tunic from the open top of the wickerwork container. He said calmly, “One wine flagon. About six inches of gnarled sausage. The heel of a loaf of crusty bread. You decide, Captain, what may be brought off the ship onto your world, I decide what may be brought from your world onto my ship. Mister Taylor, take this hamper to the biochemist so that its contents may be analyzed. And you, Doctor Lazenby, report at once to the surgeon. I’ll receive your report later.”

  “Commander Grimes, I insist that I inspect that hamper.” Three of the hoplites stepped forward, began to surround Mister Taylor.

  “Captain Diomedes, if any of your men dare to lay hands upon my officer the consequences will be serious.”

  Diomedes laughed incredulously. “You’d open fire over a mug of wine and a couple of scraps of bread and sausage?”

  “Too right I would.”

  Diomedes laughed again. “You aliens . . .” he said contemptuously. “All right, you can have your crumbs from the sergeants’ mess. And I’d like a few words with your Doctor Lazenby as soon as she can spare me the time. And I’ll have rather more than a few words with you, Brasidus, now!”

  Reluctantly Brasidus got out of the car.

  “And you let her threaten you with a laser weapon—and, furthermore, one that you had allowed her to carry . . .”

  Brasidus, facing Diomedes, who was lolling behind his desk, said rebelliously, “You, sir, checked her equipment. And she told me herself that the thing did function as a camera.”

  “All right. We’ll let that pass. You allowed her to use a stun gun on the village corporal and the innkeeper, and then you drove her out to the Exposure. Why, Brasidus, did you have to stop at Kilkis, of all villages, on this day, of all days?”

  “Nobody told me not to, sir. And, as you know, the dates of the Exposures are never advertised. You might have been informed, but I was not.”

  “So you drove her out to see the Exposure. And you got too close. And the wolves attacked you, and pulled her out of the car.”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  “Surely she could have used this famous laser-camera to defend herself.”

  “It was damaged, sir. She had to throw it away in a hurry. It blew up.”

  “Yes. I’ve been told that there’s an area on the hillside that looks as though some sort of bomb had been exploded.” He leaned back in his chair, looked up at the standing Brasidus. “You say that the wolves attacked her. Are you sure that it wasn’t you?”

  “And why should it have been me, sir?”

  “Because it should have been. You let an alien order you around at gun point, and then you ask me why you should have attacked her! And now . . .” the words came out with explosive violence, “What was in the hamper?”

  “Wine, sir. Bread. Sausage.”

  “And what was your tunic doing there?”

  “I lent it to her, sir, to replace her own shirt.”

  “So, instead of wearing it, she put it in the hamper.”

  “The air was warm, sir, when we got down from the mountains. She asked me if she could have it so that the fibers from which it is woven could be analyzed by the . . . the biochemist.”

  “H’m. All in all, Brasidus, you did not behave with great brilliance. Were it not for the fact that these aliens—or one alien in particular—seem to like you, I should dispense with your services. As it is, you are still useful. Now, just what were this Margaret Lazenby’s reactions when she learned of the Exposure?”

  Lying, Brasidus knew, would be useless. The village corporal at Kilkis would have made a full report. He said, “She was shocked. She wanted to get to the site in time to rescue the deformed and defective children.”

  “You were not in time, of course.”

  “No, sir. We were not in time.” He added virtuously, “I made sure of that.”

  “How, Brasidus?”

  “I knew the way, she did not. I was able to make a detour.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy Diomedes. He grunted, “All right. You may sit down.” For a few seconds he drummed on the desktop with his fingertips. “Meanwhile, Brasidus, the situation in the city is developing. Commander Grimes allowed his Arcadians, as well as the human members of his crew, shore leave. There was an unfortunate occurrence in the Tavern of the Three Harpies. An Arcadian, accompanied by a human spaceman, went in there. They got drinking with the other customers.”

  “Not the sort of place that I’d drink in by choice,” Brasidus said, the other’s silence seeming to call for some sort of comment.

  “They were not so fortunate as to have a guide, such as yourself, to keep them out of trouble.” (You sarcastic swine, thought Brasidus.) “Anyhow, there was the usual crowd in there. Helots of the laboring class, hoplites not fussy about the company they keep. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the two spacemen had just taken one drink and then walked out, but they stayed there, drinking with the locals, and allowed themselves to be drawn into an argument. And you know how arguments in the Three Harpies usually finish.”

  “There was a fight, sir?”

  “Brilliant, Brasidus, brilliant. There was a fight, and the human spaceman was laid out, and the Arcadian was beaten up a little, and then stripped. There was, you will understand, some curiosity as to what her body was like under her uniform.”

  “That was bad, sir.”

  “There’s worse to follow. At least four hoplites had sexual intercourse with her by force.”

  “So it is possible, sir, in spite of the malformation.”

  Diomedes chuckled obscenely. “It’s possible, all right. Everybody in the tavern would have had her if the other spaceman hadn’t come round and started screaming for help on a little portable transceiver he wore on his wrist. A dozen men from the ship rushed in, real toughs—and I wish that my own personnel could learn their techniques of unarmed combat. Then the police condescended to intervene and laid everybody out with their stun guns, and then Commander Grimes, who’d heard about it somehow, came charging into my office threatening to devastate the city, and . . . and . . .

  “Anyhow, you can see why I had to handle this Lazenby creature with kid gloves. Even though Grimes admits that his own crew were at fault—he had issued strict orders that no sightseeing party was to consist of fewer than six people—he was furious about the ‘rape,’ as he called it. You saw how he reacted when he thought that you had been doing something of the kind. He demanded that the rapists be punished most severely.”

  “But they were hoplites, sir, not helots. They had the right . . .”

  “I know, I know. When I need instruction in the finer points of Spartan law, I’ll come to you. The conduct was discourteous rather than criminal. The culprits will, by this time, have been reprimanded by their commanding officer, and will, in all probability, he back in the Three Harpies, telling anybody who cares to listen what intercourse is like with an Arcadian. It is, I gather, quite an experience. Are you quite sure that you didn’t . . .?”

  “Quite sure, sir.”

  “That’s your story, and you stick to it.” Again there was a pause, and the muffled drumming of Diomedes’ fingers on the top of his desk. Then he went on, “Even on Sparta we have experienced occasional mutiny, infrequent rebellion. Tell me, Brasidus, what are the prime causes of mutiny?”

  “Discontent, sir. Overly strict discipline. Unjust punishments . . .”

  “And . . .?”

  “That’s about all, sir.”

  “What about envy, Brasidus?”

  “No sir. We all know that if we show ability we shall become officers, with all the privileges that go with rank.”

  “But what if there’s a privilege out of reach to everybody except a few members of one aristocratic caste?”

  “I don’t see what you mean, sir.”

  “Brasidus, Brasidu
s, what do you use for brains? What about that nest of Arcadians in the créche? What do you suppose the doctors use them for?”

  “I . . . I can guess.”

  “And so they have something that the rest of us haven’t. And so”—Diomedes’ voice dropped almost to a whisper—“the power that they’ve enjoyed for so long, for too long, may be broken.”

  “And you,” said Brasidus, “envy them that power.”

  For long seconds the Captain glared at him across the desk. Then, “All right, I do. But it is for the good of the State that I am working against them.”

  Perhaps, thought Brasidus. Perhaps. But he said nothing.

  Chapter 20

  CLAD IN A LABORING HELOT’S DRAB, patched tunic, his feet unshod and filthy, his face and arms liberally besmeared with the dirt of the day’s toil, Brasidus sat hunched at one of the long tables in the Tavern of the Three Harpies. There were hoplites there as well as manual workers, but there was little chance that any of them would recognize him. Facial similarities were far from uncommon on Sparta.

  He sat there, taking an occasional noisy gulp from his mug and listening.

  One of the hoplites was holding forth to his companions. “Yes, it was on this very table that I had him. Or it. Good it was. You’ve no idea unless you’ve tried it yourself.”

  “Must’ve been odd. Wrong, somehow.”

  “It was odd, all right. But wrong nohow. This face-to-face business. And those two dirty great cushions for your chest to rest on . . .”

  “Is that what they’re for?”

  “Must be. Pity the doctors can’t turn out some of those creatures from their birth machine.”

  “But they do. Yes. They do.”

  Everybody turned to stare at the man who had just spoken. He was a stranger to Brasidus, but his voice and his appearance marked him for what he was. This was not the sort of inn that the nurses from the créche usually frequented—in an establishment such as this they would run a grave risk of suffering the same fate as the unfortunate Arcadian from the ship. “They do,” he repeated in his high-pitched sing-song, and looked straight at Brasidus. There was something in his manner that implied, And you know, too.

  So this was the fellow agent whom Diomedes had told him that he would find in the tavern, the operative to whom he was to render assistance if necessary.

  “And what do you know about it, dearie?” demanded the boastful hoplite.

  “I’m a nurse . . .”

  “That’s obvious, sweetie pie.”

  “I’m a nurse, and I work at the créche. We nurses aren’t supposed to stray from our wards, but . . .”

  “But with a snout like yours, you’re bound to be nosy,” said the hoplite laughing.

  The nurse stroked his overlong proboscis with his right index finger, grinned slyly. “How right you are, dearie. I admit it. I like to know what’s going on. Oh, those doctors! They live in luxury, all right. You might think that practically all of the créche is taken up by wards and machinery and the like, but it’s not. More than half the building is their quarters. And the things they have! A heated swimming pool, even.”

  “Decadent,” grunted a grizzled old sergeant.

  “But nice. Especially in midwinter. Not that I’ve ever tried it myself. There’s a disused storeroom, and this pool is on the other side of its back wall. There’re some holes in the wall, where there used to be wiring or pipes or something. Big enough for a camera lens.” The nurse fished a large envelope from inside the breast of his white tunic, pulled from it a sheaf of glossy photographs.

  “Lemme see. Yes, those are Arcadians, all right. Top-heavy, ain’t they, when you see them standing up. Wonder how they can walk without falling flat on their faces.”

  “If they did, they’d bounce.”

  “Look sort of unfinished lower down, don’t they?”

  “Let me see!”

  “Here, pass ‘em round, can’t you?”

  Briefly, Brasidus had one of the prints in his possession. He was interested more in the likeness of the man standing by the pool than in that of his companion. Yes, it was Heraklion, all right, Heraklion without his robe but still, indubitably, the supercilious doctor.

  “Must have come in that ship,” remarked somebody.

  “No,” the nurse told him. “Oh, no. They’ve been in the créche for years.”

  “You mean your precious doctors have always had them?”

  “Yes. Nothing but the best for the guardians of the purity of our Spartan stock, dearie. But who are we to begrudge them their little comforts?”

  “Soldiers, that’s who. It’s we who should be the top caste of this world, who should have the first pickings. After all, the King’s a soldier.”

  “But the doctors made him, dearie. They made all of us.”

  “Like hell they did. They just look after the birth machine. And if there wasn’t a machine, we’d manage all right, just as the animals do.”

  “We might have to,” the nurse said. “I heard two of the doctors talking. They were saying that the people were having it too soft, that for the good of the race we should have to return to the old ways. They’re thinking of shutting the machine down.”

  “What! How can you be a fighting man if you have to lug a child around with you?”

  “But you said that we could manage all right without the doctors.”

  “Yes. But that’s different. No, the way I see it is this. These doctors are getting scared of the military, but they know that if most of us are budding we shan’t be much good for fighting. Oh, the cunning swine! They just want things all their way all the time instead of for only most of the time.”

  “But you can’t do anything about it,” the nurse said.

  “Can’t we? Who have the weapons and the training to use ‘em? Not your doctors, that’s for certain. With no more than the men in this tavern, we could take the créche—and get our paws on to those Arcadians they’ve got stashed away there.”

  “More than our paws!” shouted somebody.

  “You’re talking mutiny and treason, hoplite,” protested the elderly sergeant.

  “Am I?” The man was on his feet now, swaying drunkenly. “But the King himself had one of the doctors executed. That shows how much he thinks of ‘em!” He paused, striving for words. They came at last. “Here, on Sparta, it’s fair shares for all—excepting you poor damn helots, of course. But for the rest of us, the rulers, it should be share an’ share alike. Oh, I know that the colonel gets better pay, better grub an’ better booze than I do—but in the field he lives the same as his men, an’ all of us can become colonels ourselves if we put ourselves to it, an’, come to that, generals. But the colonels an’ the generals an’ the admirals don’t have Arcadians to keep their beds warm. Not even the King does. An’ now there’s some of us who know what it’s like. An’ there’s some of us who want more of it.”

  “They’re plenty of Arcadians aboard the spaceship,” somebody suggested.

  “I may be drunk, fellow, but I’m not that drunk. The spaceship’s a battlewagon, and I’ve heard that the captain of her has already threatened to use his guns and missiles. No, the créche’ll be easy to take.”

  “Sit down, you fool!” ordered the elderly sergeant. “You got off light after you assaulted the Arcadian spaceman, but he was only a foreigner. Now you’re inciting to riot, mutiny, and the gods alone know what else. The police will use more than stun guns on you this time.”

  “Will they, old-timer? Will they? And what if they do? A man can die only once. What I did to that Arcadian has done something to me, to me, do you hear? I have to do it again, even though I get shot for it.” The man’s eyes were crazy and his lips, foam-flecked. “You don’t know what it was like. You’ll never know, until you do it. Don’t talk to me about boys, or about soft, puling nurses like our long-nosed friend here. The doctors have the best there is, the best that there can ever be, and they should be made to share it!”

  “The police . . .
” began the sergeant.

  “Yes. The police. Now let me tell you, old-timer, that I kept my ears flapping while they had me in their barracks. Practically every man has been called out to guard the spaceport—the spaceport, do you hear? That alien captain’s afraid that there’ll be a mob coming out to take his pretty Arcadians by force, and fat old Captain Diomedes is afraid that the space commander’ll start firing off in all directions if his ship and his little pets are menaced. By the time that the police get back to the city, every Arcadian in the créche’ll know what a real man is like, an’ we shall all be tucked up in our cots in our quarters sleeping innocently.”

  “I didn’t see a single policeman on my way here,” contributed the nurse. “I wondered why.” And then, in spurious alarm, “But you can’t. You mustn’t. You mustn’t attack the créche!”

  “And who says I mustn’t? You, you feeble imitation of a . . . a . . .” He concluded triumphantly, “of an alien monster! Yes, that’s a point. All this talk of them as alien monsters. It was only to put us off. But now we know. Or some of us know. Who’s with me?”

  The fools, thought Brasidus, the fools! as he listened to the crash of overturned benches, as he watched almost all the customers of the tavern, helots as well as hoplites, jump to their feet.

  “The fools,” he muttered aloud.

  “And you would have been with them,” whispered the nurse, “if I hadn’t slipped a capsule into your drink.” And then Brasidus saw the thin wisp of almost invisible vapor that was still trickling from the envelope in which the photographs had been packed. “I have access to certain drugs,” said the man smugly, “and this one is used in our schoolrooms. It enhances the susceptibility of the students.”

  “Students,” repeated Brasidus disgustedly.

  “They have a lot to learn, Lieutenant,” the nurse told him.

  “And so have I. I want to see what happens.”

  “Your orders were to protect me.”

  “There’s nobody here to protect you from, except that old sergeant. But why wasn’t he affected?”