Pro

by Gordon R. Dickson

  “Witta!” he shouted cheerfully, crashing through the brush loudly and openly toward the Homskarter.

  “What brings you out here?”

  With the last words he broke through a final screen of small branches and saw Witta standing, scowling at him. The vice-king was wearing his sword but no shield, which might catch on branches and make noise going through thick woods. Instead, he had a bow and quiver of arrows slung on his back and carried a spear.

  “Hunting,” grunted Witta. But the vice-king was a poor liar. His self-consciousness of the falsehood he had just uttered showed in every line of his body, like the guilty crouch of a dog who has been sleeping on a forbidden sofa until the moment before its owners came home.

  “Good idea,” said Harb, cheerfully. “I’ll hunt with you. Side by side.”

  “I’m through hunting,” muttered Witta. He turned and crashed away in the direction of the others. Harb followed him.

  After that, Harb took to setting the alarm of the heat sensor at no less than fifty feet of range whenever he went into the woods alone. But Witta did not try to sneak up on him again. The fact that Harb had been able to not only discover the vice-king but identify him, and this when Witta was unseen with the wind blowing from Harb to him, apparently had awed the vice-king.

  The farewell parties along the way slowed them down and took their toll of the available slaves; but in time they did return to the lands of the Homskarters.The night before they were due to arrive at the Homskarter village, Harb drew Rajn aside.

  “What is it now, Outlander?” Rajn asked, eyeing Harb shrewdly as they walked along the lake shore out of hearing of the rest of the Homskarters.

  “About the slaves,” Harb said.

  “Ho, now it comes out at last,” said Rajn, humorously. “Tell me. What about the slaves, Outlander?”

  “It’s still only late spring here, King,” he said. “There’d still be time to get one crop in the ground and harvested before fall; and you have seed-grain to spare from the grain which you brought from the plains.”

  “I told you we were no farmers.”

  “True,” said Harb. “But the slaves are farmers—not only farmers, but experienced farmers, who have grown up in the craft of bringing food from the soil.”

  “The slaves,” said Rajn, “will be sacrificed as promised as soon as we are home.”

  “I know that was promised,” said Harb. He had a feeling of walking on eggs. How much did Rajn really believe in his Gods? There was no way of telling. “But what great harm could there be inputting off the sacrifice until after a harvest has been gotten in?

  “The Gods might weary of waiting and turn their anger against us,” said Rajn. But he said it without particular emotion, as a more industrialized man might mention the prospect of an economic turn down. “Besides, we have enough grain to see us through the winter. Enough and more.”

  “But there may be other forest villages and homesteads who may run short,” said Harb. “In which case, if you had grain to spare, you could trade it to them when their bellies begin to pinch, and glean for yourself the best of their wealth...” he paused, to give time for the idea to sink in. “Perhaps, for the food they need to live until spring. Then when next you go on the sword-trail, you would be so strong that the lesser chiefs would not even dare to argue with you.”

  Rajn said nothing. They continued walking along the shore together in silence. Eventually, Harb broke it.

  “This is the way a king may become greater,” he said.

  Rajn stopped and turned to face Harb, who had no choice but to stop also and face the native.

  “Outlander,” said Rajn, “I’m not sure but what you want is to push us into ways unfitting for warriors. Still... if I wished to use these slaves to plant grain, as you say, what could I say to my people? Few among them will come easily to the idea of putting off the Gods a second time.”

  “Tell them you’ll give the Gods a token sacrifice—kill a single slave as earnest of the sacrifice of all in the fall.”

  Rajn stood a moment, then turned and began walking back toward the camp. Harb fell in beside him.

  “I will give you this much, Outlander. You may suggest this action to me, tonight when we sit around the fire,” Rajn said after a moment. “Let it come from you and I will listen to what my men answer.”

  “All right,” said Harb. They walked on a few steps more. “By the way, could I also have two of the slaves for myself? A man and a woman, preferably two who’re fond of each other?”

  Rajn looked at him.

  “Such a gift is small return for what you have done for us,” the king said. “Choose your pair and be welcome.”

  “Thanks,” said Harb.

  That afternoon, Harb picked out his slaves. In actuality, he had had his eye on the pair he wanted for some time. He collected them from the separate camp where the slaves were bedded down and told them to come with him and stay with him. The plains people did not speak a mutually understandable tongue with the forest warriors, but the slaves had already learned some of the forest language and signs conveyed the rest of Harb’s message. Actually, Harb had trained himself as well in the plains’ tongue as in Rajn’s, but it would hardly have been wise to let the Homskarters hear him talking plains speech fluently with two of their captives.

  That night at the king’s fire in the warrior’s camp, once Rajn, Witta and the rest of the Homskarters close to the king had reached what Harb judged to be the optimum stage of alcoholic mellowness, Harb got to his feet.

  “King,” he said, “I have had an idea which you might wish to consider.”

  “Tell us, Outlander,” answered Rajn, blurring his words only slightly. He glanced at the Homskarter faces around the fire producing an immediate silence, and added pleasantly, “Your ideas are always welcome: Some, like the thought that we might take that city we conquered just before coming home, have proved quite worthy.”

  “Thank you, King,” said Harb. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure his two new slaves were standing side by side at his back as he had ordered them to, once he stood up. He looked back at Rajn and the warriors. “It came to my mind that this winter when food gets scarce for those of other villages who have not won as much in prizes on the sword-trail, that you and your Homskarters might gain both wealth and power by trading grain to those less fortunate, for whatever price might be obtained.

  ”There was a moment’s pause, then a slow mutter of approval generally around the fire. Only Witta and several warriors sitting on either side of him sat grimly with closed mouths.

  “A thought worth telling,” said Rajn, nodding. “Not but that I should have thought of it myself probably, when the snow was deep. But there is no knowing whether we will have much extra grain to trade. We must make sure our own bellies don’t go empty first.”

  “King,” said Harb, “there is a way you might have all the grain your bellies need and yet have ample to trade with.”

  “And how is that, Outlander?”

  Harb pointed toward the slave camp.

  “You now have slaves who are skilled at raising grain,” he said. “Put them to labor in fields through the summer and store up riches of food to be used as you wish.”

  “Those slaves are promised to the Gods!” snapped Witta. “By summer their bodies will be nothing but dry bones!”

  “Could not the Gods wait until fall? I am an Outlander, and of course don’t know the answer to questions like this,” added Harb, hastily, as the ring of faces and bodies about the fire went rigidly still, “but it occurs to me to ask if the Gods wouldn’t be willing to wait, just this once.”

  “They’ve waited already!” said Witta. He swung on Rajn. “Cousin and King, are we to flout Gods? Gods who can send us a winter that never ends? Gods who can turn our blades aside from the foe when we next go on the sword-trail?”

  “Forgive me!” Harb raised his voice above Witta’s. “I meant no disrespect to the Gods. But if they are truly the Gods of t
he Homskarters, I’d think for their own benefit they’d wish to see the Homskarters grow strong and bring them back many slaves for sacrifice every year—not just one. And it isn’t as if they’re being cheated of their present sacrifice. We need only to send them a messenger promising them that after the harvest is in all slaves will be sent to them, as well as many slaves each year from now on, when the Homskarters come back laden from the sword-trail!”

  A shiver went through the bodies around the fire.

  “A messenger? To the Gods? Outlander,” said the voice of Rajn, “who would carry such a message to the Gods?”

  “I have someone,” said Harb.

  Without hesitating he stepped back and to one side, drew his sword, and struck with it at the neck of the male slave behind him. The technologically sophisticated blade took the slave’s head completely off, and the body fell. With a cry, the plains woman fell on her knees beside the body; and without hesitating, Harb struck again, stretching her lifeless above the dead man.

  “You saw and heard,” said Harb to the Homskarter, “the woman loved the man, therefore her ghost will follow his. He will be your messenger to the Gods and she will come after him to witness that what he says is truly your intent.”

  There was a second with only the crackling of the fire to be heard. All the Homskarters were staring at the two bodies.

  “Outlander,” said Rajn very slowly into the silence, “I think you should leave us now. You are not one of us and we will talk of our Gods alone.”

  Harb turned and went off. He went a good distance off, as had become his habit since he had discovered Witta following him. His equipment showed him away through the pitch-dark woods to a spot in which he did not think any number of Homskarters were likely to find him before dawn. Curling up in a comfortable hollow, he set the thermostat on his clothing to keep him at a comfortable warmth, and fell asleep.

  In the morning, he rejoined the natives, and they started out on the last half-day of travel that would bring them home to the Homskarter village. Neither Rajn nor any of the others said anything to him. However, he noticed that a cairn of rocks had been raised and the bodies of the two he had slain were laid on top of it, out of the reach of animals. This was the procedure of the forest people in offering sacrifices to the Gods; and there could be only one reason why those two bodies were being treated as sacrifices. Harb smiled.

  They continued on home. There, once the festivities of their return were over, Rajn spoke once more privately to Harb.

  “It may be,” said the king, “seeing you’re of the same kind as the Other who scratches in the dirt with those cast off from our own people, that you, like him, know something of the growing of grain. Therefore, since it was a wish of yours to see us supplied with growing fields, suppose you take over the direction of these slaves and make them produce.”

  Harb had not bargained for the job of agricultural director, but things were going too much in the way he had planned for him to raise objections. Even though it did not take more than a half an eye to see Rajn’s true reason in putting him to work. If the fields and all that derived from them should prosper, then that would be all to the credit of the wise ruler who had permitted such an undertaking. While if anything should go wrong, then it must obviously be a case of the Gods, dealing with the impious outlander who had dared to suggest delaying their expected sacrifice.

  Harb did not blame Rajn for this particular ploy. It was, he thought, gazing at the king’s retreating back, exactly what he would have done in Rajn’s place. Rajn and he were both clever minds; and all-powerful as the king seemed to be, it was necessary that he keep safely always on the side of the majority opinion. Otherwise some ambitious aspirant for the throne might one day be able to head a successful uprising against him. Luckily, in the case of any such happening, Rajn had the four-square respectability of Witta to retreat behind. No one could doubt Witta’s devotion to the traditional ways. But it paid to make doubly safe by having a scapegoat ready, if necessary, as Rajn had just done. Harb respected him for it.

  He set about the job, organizing the slaves into two teams, one to clear the land, and one to loosen the earth for planting by jabbing it with the fire-hardened, sharpened ends of sticks. By these primitive methods he managed to clear and prepare fields.Then he put his slaves to the process of drilling holes in the loose earth with their pointed sticks, and hand-planting his seed grains.

  There seemed to be a different attitude toward him on the part of the slaves now. He could not put his finger on any specific sign of it; but he could feel it,almost like a solid wall of emotion when he was out in the field alone with them. Helmeted, armored and with sword and shield, he had nothing to fear from even fifty of them. Nonetheless, he began to be aware that if he should show any sign of weakness or fear, the slaves nearby would be on him like predators upon a wounded prey.

  It puzzled him for a while. The slaves had shown no such deep hatred for the Homskarters. Then he realized where the roots of their feeling lay. They had all come to know how he had sacrificed two of them at the camp the evening before their arrival here, and that knowledge had triggered off an emotional reaction in them reserved for him alone. To these people of the plains, the forest warriors were a natural disaster. When they came and killed you mourned the dead, but that was all. Raiders were something to be endured, like a flood or a stroke of lightning.

  But Harb was not something natural. He was alien, strange. To be killed by him was an unthinkable thing; while to kill him was instinctive reflex, as it might be instinct to kill a poisonous snake, even though it was not threatening you at the moment. Understanding this, for the first time Harb realized why Rajn, alone of the Homskarters, had ever had much to do with him. The Homskarters must have an instinctive antipathy for him, also; an antipathy that was personified in Witta, and which explained that individual’s actions toward Harb.

  It was curious, thought Harb suddenly, as he stood in the late afternoon sun on one of his fields beside the lake and watched the slaves drilling individual holes with their pointed sticks to take two grains apiece of the cereal they were planting, but the antipathy the Homskarters showed to him seemed to be entirely missing from them in the case of Bill Cohone. True, they made, fun of the Volunteer and scorned those of their own kind who went to work with him; but clearly not only those natives Cohone had “converted,” but the rest of the Homskarters had no dislike for the amateur human xenosociologist. In fact, just the contrary. They seemed almost to havethe sort of amused contempt for Cohone that bordered on a near-affection; for no good reason that Harb could see—except that Cohone had more or less fallen in with the role of buffoon as the natives saw it.

  All the same, thought Harb, it was too bad matters were not the other way around, with the natives hating Cohone and not disliking him. He had now done almost everything he had set out to accomplish. In a few months there would be grain to harvest, giving the Homskarters a tradeable surplus. This wealth would make life good for them, for which they would give credit to the Gods and assume that the taking of slaves and the growing of grain was not only profitable but blessed. Wealth, inevitably, would breed power. The Homskarters were on the way to ruling all the forest tribes and eventually forging an army of conquest that would go down to occupy and rule the kingdom of the plains. Pre-history here on 4938ID was all but nudged, now, into a new, accelerated path.

  However, meanwhile, there remained the matter of tidying up. It was quite true, as he had told Cohone, that the private rule of the emerging professional group among those who operated on the stellar frontiers was “survival of the fittest” and that the rule was not to avoid breaking the rules, but to make sure that if you broke them, you gained more than the rule-breaking cost. Harb’s own professional superiors would wink at his bringing in and using the tools of a high technology among these primitives just as long as his doing so got results and accelerated the local growth toward civilization. By getting results, even at the cost of breaking rules H
arb would have fulfilled the harsh letter of the fittest-survival code, and his superiors would cooperate in hiding any bad marks that otherwise might appear on his record.

  But beyond those superiors, there were the older human worlds, and particularly Earth itself, well-supplied with impractical armchair theoreticians and bleeding-heart types. If some influential individuals of that stamp should get wind through Cohone of what Harb had done with it here; and if a public outcry should be raised, Harb had no doubt his superiors would not hesitate in throwing him to the wolves. By the standard they used he would have failed the survival test.

  It followed therefore, that from the beginning Harb had been alive to the necessity of keeping Cohone from talking. That was why it was too bad that Cohone’s Homskarters were not just waiting for a chance to kill him, as the slaves were Harb. The rays of the late afternoon sun struck suddenly into Harb’s eyes as he turned, charging the landscape around him with the color of blood; and sudden inspiration woke in Harb’s mind.

  Of course Cohone’s converts were not like Harb’s slaves—waiting for the first opportunity to kill him—but no human except Harb himself knew that fact!

  That evening, Harb asked to speak to Rajn privately. They climbed together to the tower that was the scene of their earlier conferences. The summer moon of 4938ID was high enough above the horizon to give some light now, and the nighttime air in this season was almost balmy. Above them, the stars twinkled so brightly they seemed almost within reach of an upstretched arm.

  “What is it, Outlander?” Rajn asked.

  “A small problem, King,” said Harb. “He whom you call the Other has become jealous of me because I am growing more grain then he has been able to do with his handful of followers.”