by Mike Resnick
your position.”
They agreed with everything he said. The Bureau would make the task of contacting other races infinitely easier, and certainly they had nothing against Man, who had freed them, ages ago, from the tyrannical yoke of the Lemm. But, on the other hand, those few other races they had been in contact with felt that a gesture must be made against Man's ironfisted control of the galaxy, and while they personally had only the highest regard for Man, they would not go against the will of the majority, especially in a situation such as this, where they were physiologically prohibited from gaining a full appreciation of the problem. They intended no offense, but under the circumstances... And so it went, on world after world, with race after race. By the time he visited the twentieth alien planet, he found out that he was far from the only emissary of the Commonwealth trying to persuade the aliens to reconsider their stand. He struck paydirt on the twenty-seventh planet, Balok VII, only to have his work undone when the Commonwealth began putting economic sanctions on all alien worlds that had not yet come back into the fold. The Balokites, who had been all set to rejoin the Bureau, dug in their heels and again withdrew their support. The Setts actually went to war with the Navy, and held their own for almost a month before they were totally exterminated. As failure after failure greeted Man's efforts, work nonetheless proceeded on the Bureau. Foundations were laid, walls and facades erected, environmental systems laid in, communication and translation systems set up, food synthesis laboratories installed, medical centers created, decorations and furniture imported.
Within a decade the Bureau was complete, a huge, proud, unbelievably complex monolith of a building, towering many thousands of feet above the rocky surface of Deluros IV, visible for miles in every direction, all of its internal systems functioning smoothly, its exterior a paean to the art of a thousand sentient races.
Thus it stood. And thus, Mallow knew, it would stand for all eternity, an empty, unused monument both to Man's brilliance and his shortcomings, an edifice so mature and farsighted in its conception and execution that neither Man nor his neighbors in the galaxy would ever be ready for it. The night it was completed Mallow got rip-roaring drunk and stayed that way for a week. When he finally sobered up he resigned his position, left the Deluros system, set up shop some forty thousand light-years away, and made a fortune designing inexpensive but highly efficient group housing for the colonists of Delta Scuti II.
21: THE COLLECTORS
...With the Commonwealth entering a period of severe unrest, it was primarily the duty of the planetary governors to hold their native populations in check. They were a remarkable lot, these governors, charged with the responsibility of speaking for the Commonwealth on their respective worlds. One of the greatest of them was Selimund (6888- G.E.), who, in addition to his political abilities, founded the Museum of Antique Weaponry on Deluros VIII...
—Man: Twelve Millennia of Achievement (No mention can be found of either Selimund, his fabled
collection, or collectors and collections in general inOrigin and History of the Sentient Races. ) Being a governor had its advantages, reflected Selimund, even when one was sitting on a powder keg like Mirzam X. For one thing, damned near all the alien worlds were powder kegs these days, and since Mirzam X was a little bigger than most, the job held a little more prestige than most. For another, the
natives despised humanity so devoutly and so openly that he perforce had very little contact with them.
And, too, there was his collection.
Man had always had the urge to collect things, to surround himself with ordered series of possessions. Possibly it was an intellectualization of the primordial territorial instinct, possibly not. Selimund himself called it the “pack-rat urge,” although no member of that long-extinct species had ever carried the fetish quite so far as Man had done. There was something in his nature that reveled not only in pride of ownership, but in the painstaking formulation of lists of objects to be procured, lists of objects already procured, and the numerical, alphabetical, or other orderly arrangement of both possessions and lists. It wasn't exactly avarice, for most collectors spent enormous amounts of time and capital on the accumulation of objects—or, more often, sets and series of objects—that most other people considered either trivial or worthless.
Collecting, over the eons, had become highly specialized, just as had all other forms of endeavor. There was once an era when it was possible for a man to know, in his own lifetime, the sum total of all scientific knowledge. By the time the race had left its birthplace and begun to permeate the galaxy, no man could even know his own highly specialized field with any degree of completeness, and the concept of the true Renaissance Man was lost forever. So, too, did collections become more and more specialized. It was still possible to collect the entire works of a single author or painter, or representative stamps from every period of a planet's history—but to try to collectall the literary works of a single genre, orall the stamps from a certain point of galactic history, was an out-and-out impossibility. Undaunted, Man continued to yield happily to the joy of ownership, the striving toward completion of some fancy or other which had piqued his imagination or awakened his greed. From stamps and currency to masterpieces of art to any other objects, no matter how unlikely or intrinsically worthless, Man collected.
And very few men collected with the skill, passion, or success of the current governor of Mirzam X. Selimund, whose closest association with military life was the armed guard around his executive mansion, had for reasons probably not even known to himself decided early in life that there was nothing quite so fascinating as the study—and, hence, the collecting—of alien firearms. The production and possession of all such weapons had been strictly prohibited since the inception of the Commonwealth, but that merely made their acquisition all the more challenging. He had begun with handguns from the Canphor Twins and Lodin XI from the Democracy, and had gradually increased his possessions, moving both forward and backward from that historical point in time. He was acknowledged to be the greatest living authority on the weaponry of the late Democratic period, and more than once he had been called in to determine the authenticity of a piece from that era. His collection was on permanent display back on Deluros VIII, and had been willed to the Commonwealth upon his death. Its value had been placed at some 22 million credits, but, like all collectors, the evaluation of his collection was dealt with in terms of emotion rather than currency, for no piece would ever be offered for sale.
Somepieces, however, might well be offered in trade, and it was for this purpose that he had cleared his
desk early this afternoon, and was awaiting the arrival of Baros Durmin, a dealer in antique weaponry who had supposedly come upon an unbelievably valuable cache of ancient firearms. Durmin was finding it harder to replenish his stock, and so he had proposed a trade rather than an out-and-out cash transaction. Selimund didn't know exactly what Durmin had to offer, but the man usually delivered high-quality items, and so the governor was willing at least to take a look at his wares.
Durmin, a huge man with hamlike hands and a deep, booming voice, was ushered into Selimund's office,
followed by two assistants who carried in a large, ornate container the size of a trunk. “Hello, Baros,” said Selimund. “Now, what's this fantastic find you've been raving about?” “You won't believe it until you see it, Governor,” said Durmin. “Okay, boys, open it up.” The two men unlocked the container and opened it. Selimund looked in, trying not to appear too anxious, and Durmin withdrew a small object wrapped in Toranian spider-silk. He removed the covering without a word and handed it over to Selimund, who began examining it gingerly. “A laser pistol,” he murmured, holding it up to the light. “Early Democracy ... no, make that late Republic. Handcrafted. Good for about four minutes without repowering. Trigger device fits a near-human hand, probably a little smaller. Emra IV, I'd say, or possibly Lemm.” He paused lost in thought. “No, it couldn't be Lemm. They never developed laser weapons. Pro
bably Emran. Well-built. Looks almost new.” He looked up at Durmin. “What else have you got?” Durmin handed him another weapon.
“Lovely!” exclaimed Selimund. “Absolutely gorgeous!” He handled it as if it were made of the finest crystal, apt to shatter at any instant. “An explosive-projectile hand pistol! I've only got one in my whole collection. They went out of fashion early in the Democracy. Never understood why. It was a deadly little weapon. Where did you get all this stuff, Baros?” “Sorry,” Durmin grinned. “Professional secret.” Selimund nodded. He hadn't really expected an answer to the question. He spent the next few hours going over the remaining seventeen weapons, studying each, appraising their craftsmanship and market value in his mind. The condition of the pieces was beautiful, as if they had just been turned out of a factory that morning. Moving parts were well oiled, metal parts glistened, stocks and handles were smooth as glass. All had been used by the Emrans, or a race very similar to them, for all were made for the same type of hand: three or four fingers, with a short thumb, somewhat smaller than a human hand.
“What are you asking for the lot?'’ asked Selimund at last. “Well, Governor, if I were to name a price, it would be in the neighborhood of half a million credits,” said Durmin. “However, as I said, I'm not putting these up for cash sale. They're for trade only. I might consider the atom cannon from Doradus IV that you have on display at Deluros, plus two early Republic hand weapons from Torqual and Procyon III.” “Not the cannon,” said Selimund emphatically. “You'd have to offer twice as many weapons for that.” “That could be arranged,” said Durmin. “This isn't the sum total of the cache.” “Why not bring the rest tomorrow morning, and we'll talk business,” suggested Selimund. “Fair enough,” said Durmin. “I've got fourteen more pieces.” “Then I think we'll be able to do some dealing,” said Selimund. “If you like, you can leave these
weapons overnight. I'll have them placed under heavy guard and will personally guarantee their safely.”
Durmin seemed to be debating the matter for a moment, then agreed and left with his assistants. Selimund had a late dinner, then tried to relax with a newstape. It didn't work. His thoughts kept going back to the weapons sitting in his office, and finally he yielded to the urge to examine them again. He dismissed the guard, closed the door behind them, and carefully laid the firearms on his massive desk. He decided that three of the pieces were definitely Emran, probably as many as seven of them. The others had belonged to similar species, but he was at a loss as to why all the weapons had been unearthed in a single spot. Well, finding them was Durmin's business; his was acquiring them. And acquire them he would. Durmin's estimate had been somewhat low; he mentally priced the lot at three-quarters of a million credits, and tomorrow's addition would up the value to almost twice that. He sat back and gazed lovingly at the weapons, imagining how they would look on display at his museum back on Deluros VIII. What a find! He hadn't honestly expected to accumulate this many early Democracy and late Republic hand weapons during the remainder of his life. As for the cannon, he could always replace it, and besides, he'd never cared for it that much. Hand weapons were his specialty, and this was like a magical windfall from some benevolent deity. Carefully, lovingly, he picked up another of the old-style explosive-projectile pistols and examined it again. The balance was exquisite, and the restoration job Durmin had done was unbelievable. There was absolutely no sign of wear, of corrosion in any of the moving parts. He began disassembling it, marveling at the workmanship that had gone into it. This was no showpiece, this weapon; it had been made for one purpose and one purpose only—to destroy; and it was as neat a little engine of destruction as had ever been built. He noticed that he had gotten some fingerprints on the pistol while examining it, and he opened one of his desk drawers, withdrawing a soft cloth with which to clean it. It was as he was cleaning the barrel prior to reassembling it that he saw the powder. Something was wrong. The weapon was thousands of years old, and had been cleaned at least once in the past few weeks. There shouldn't be any trace whatsoever of gunpowder. He laid the pistol down gently and stared at it. He knew enough about the restoration of ancient weaponry to be sure that the powder wasn't a residue from the cleaning or restorative process. No, while there wasn't enough to smell or taste, there was no doubt in his mind that it was gunpowder. But why? The pistol wasn't used in target ranges; one explosive bullet from its barrel would take out the side of a building the size of a governor's mansion. He signaled for the guards, and asked them to find out if there had been any armed rebellions since the Setts went to war with the Commonwealth over the ill-conceived Bureau of Alien Affairs project. The answer came back in a matter of minutes: There had been sporadic disturbances on the Canphor Twins and perhaps a dozen other worlds, but all had been put down almost instantly. He spent the next two hours tracing Durmin's movements during the past year. Durmin was a well-traveled man, but at no time had he set foot on any of the worlds that had had disturbances.
And that meant that there was more to this than met the eye. Much more.
For one thing, it meant that there was more alien trouble brewing. For another, it meant that whoever Durmin had gotten the weapons from was pretty well supplied with firepower, or they'd never have let so many pieces go, no matter what price Durmin was willing to pay. And that implied that, far from being weaponless, the aliens had some seven millennia of firearms to draw upon, and that most if not all of them were in working order.
Which led to other thoughts. Such as: Why did Durmin want the Doradusian cannon? It wasn't worth anywhere near as much as the hand weapons—at least, not to a collector. But to a gunrunner whose clientele needed some really heavy firepower, it was probably worth hundreds of pistols. And the two pistols that Durmin wanted in addition to the cannon? His commission for effecting the trade. Not a bad commission, either, decided Selimund; they were worth about 35,000 credits for the pair. One by one Selimund began disassembling the other weapons. He couldn't tell about the laser pistols, but seven of the eleven explosive pistols showed traces of recent use. Probably these were rejects, he decided, weapons that were too inefficient to be used by the rebels. But rejects or not, they were beautiful, masterpieces of the ancient weaponers’ art. What a display they'd make at the museum! Except for the Republic laser pistol; that one would stay in his office, hermetically sealed in a transparent showcase. Possibly he'd add a little bronze plaque at its base, describing its use and manufacture.
He shook his head vigorously. That was enough pipedreaming. The first order of business was to find out where these rebel forces were, what their strength was, and when they planned to mobilize. This would then be reported to the Floating Kingdom, and if all went well, it would be good for a handsome raise in salary.
The problem was that he didn't need any more money. What he needed was things to spend it on. Things like weapons from the Republic and Democracy.... He reassembled all the weapons, called the guards, and went to bed, a troubled man. He woke up feeling no better.
He skipped breakfast and went back to his office and looked at the weapons again, touching each one lovingly, regretfully. They were so damned beautiful! He had already considered arresting Durmin on the spot and confiscating the weapons as evidence. But they'd have to be turned over to the court, and that would be the last he'd ever see of them. He had even toyed with assassinating the dealer and his aides, but decided against it on strictly practical grounds. No, he'd have to follow the thing through. Collection or no collection, his first loyalty lay with the Commonwealth.
Not that the Commonwealth would really need his help or his loyalty. After all, what could one planet—even a well-armed one—do against the combined might of almost two million worlds? It wouldn't amount to much more than a policing action. Of course, the cannon could do an enormous amount of damage, but that could be taken care of by the simple expedient of destroying the trigger mechanism before turning it over to Durmin. In all likelihood any race that had been able to recondition the firearm
s before him would be able to repair the cannon, but there was always the chance that such an intricate mechanism was beyond their abilities. At least, he liked to think so.
Furthermore, the galaxy was in a state of flux. Rebellions were cropping up with greater frequency, and
surely Durmin's contacts weren't the only aliens who had been surreptitiously stockpiling weapons over the centuries against the day that they would finally dig in their heels and strike back at the oppression of the Commonwealth. Blowing the whistle on this operation wouldn't solve anything; in all probability, it wouldn't even delay the uprisings on any of the other worlds. There were a thousand races that sooner or later would take up arms against Man—but there was only one collection, and probably only this one opportunity to add such precious treasures to it. Besides, in these days of instant interstellar communication, there wasn't a ghost of a chance that the aliens would still have their arsenal around by the time the Navy got there. Turning Durmin in would just be a gesture in futility, an act of misplaced nobility.
He picked up the explosive pistol again, caressed it lovingly, cradled it in his hands. He was still holding it when Durmin returned with another container. “Here are the rest of them,” he said, carefully unloading the items on Selimund's desk. Selimund looked them over one by one. Suddenly he froze. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked softly. “I thought you'd like it, Governor,” said Durmin, smiling. “A pistol from Twenty-Seventh Century Earth,” whispered Selimund. He reached out a trembling hand and touched it gingerly, reverently. “I've seen a couple of drawings, but...” “It's a beauty, isn't it?” said Durmin. Selimund nodded.
