“Here,” snapped Monnik. “Ignore these irritations. There’s work—”
Something went down his throat to the entrance of his lungs. Monnik coughed desperately. That only made things worse till he remembered to keep his mouth shut as he inhaled. Meanwhile, from those few spots where he wasn’t liberally covered by bandages, came an intense itching, and a sensation of being crawled over by countless tiny feet. Monnik grimly tried to ignore it. Now the things were going up his nostrils, crawling out onto his eyelids, and buzzing around inside his ears.
From outside came Hunter’s voice.
“Anyone who wants repellent, come on out here!”
Various officers began to edge for the door.
“None of that!” snarled Monnik. “Back to work!”
The officers milled around, futilely making an occasional grab at a report or fumbling with a movable symbol on the map.
The things were now biting Monnik on the eyes, on the face, in the ears and nostrils, on the lips, the backs of his hands and his wrists, and were working in from all directions to bite him through his thick fur, so that while it was bad now, it was bound to get worse shortly. Monnik estimated that he had killed possibly twenty of them, and the space around him plainly contained thousands eager to land.
Monnik told himself that a good general knows when to retreat. He growled, “Follow me, men!” and headed for the bug repellent.
* * *
It was only a few days later that the kingmen, their troops in flight before Monnik, and their civilians in flight before their troops, sent Monnik an emissary.
The emissary, his face puffed and bandaged, with eyes swollen nearly shut, stood swaying uncertainly as he glanced from Hunter to Monnik. The feathers at the back of his neck were badly rumpled—a sure sign of illness amongst the kingmen—and he looked as if he might collapse at any time. In a croaking voice, he said, “Where’s the surrender terms? I want to sign.”
Monnik had his staff draw up a suitable document, and meanwhile the kingman sat dozing in a camp chair, his head nodding forward and snapping upright, with one hand gripping the edge of the chair and the other swishing the empty air like a traveling fly-swatter.
The sight was beginning to unnerve Monnik when the document was brought over. He checked it carefully, then had an orderly shake the emissary awake.
“Here,” said Monnik, “you can read this, and if—”
“Don’t want to read it,” the emissary interrupted. “I just want to sign it. Then you’ll get rid of the bugs, won’t you?”
Monnik glanced at Hunter, who nodded. “Yes,” said Monnik.
The emissary scratched the pen rapidly across the bottom of the paper, then said, “We’ll need another signature.” He stepped to the door.
A dignitary covered with poultices was carried in on a stretcher, and allowed his hand to be guided across the page. The kingmen then shambled back to their ground-car and were loaded in.
“Great space,” said Monnik, “isn’t that a pathetic sight?”
“They’ll recover,” said Hunter. “If we’d blown the battlefield off the planet, they might have cause for complaint.”
Monnik watched the wavering ground-car for a moment.
“Well,” he said, “we beat them, all right, and I’m glad that’s settled. But I can’t help wondering.”
“About what?”
Monnik said uneasily, “Was it war?”
“An interesting question,” said Hunter. “And if a ‘layman’ makes a new discovery or invention, a host of professionals will ask, ‘But is it scientific?’ ”
He pointed down the road, where the kingmen’s ground-car weaved around the corner and crept out of sight.
“As I told you when we got here, we aren’t regular troops. We’re irregulars. And there’s only one yardstick you use to judge a job done by irregulars.”
“What’s that?” said Monnik.
“The simplest yardstick of all,” said Hunter. “The performance test:
“Did it work?”
Part IV: Pandora’s Unlocked Box
After Towers’ departure, Horsip remained on the warship that housed the Supreme Staff. He had his own room and his own office, but spent much of his time working on a special three-man committee formed to keep track of the Earthmen’s activities.
General Maklin and General Roffis sat with Horsip amidst growing stacks of papers, which they read with profanity and bafflement.
Horsip exasperatedly read of one Q. Zoffit, who had illegally bartered a Class VI landing-boat for a “classic Packard in mint condition.”
General Roffis smoothed back the thick white fur of his head and neck.
“While you were on this planet, Horsip, did you happen to have any experience with a . . . ah . . .” Roffis glanced at a document flattened onto his desk—” ‘glorious sun-drenched quarter acre on the warm sandy shores of a hidden inlet on Florida’s unspoiled west coast, all conveniences, golf course, pool, garbage pick-up, and exclusive clubhouse’?”
Horsip looked blank. “No, sir, I never ran into anything like that.”
“XXth Rest and Recuperation Battalion,” said Roffis, “purchased some of these ‘sun-drenched quarter acres’ for a rest and recuperation center for IInd Western Occupation Command.”
Maklin scowled. ” ‘Purchased’? Why not requisition them?”
“According to this document, the commanding officer intended to do just that, but got into a conversation with the ‘sales manager’ of the HiDry Land Reclamation Corporation, and the result was that the battalion bought the land ‘on time.’ ” Roffis glanced at Horsip. “What is ‘on time’?”
“I suppose . . . h’m . . . ‘on time’ would mean ‘without delay,’ wouldn’t it?”
“To get the ‘down payment,’ the commanding officer got talked into going to a ‘loan company.’ ”
“Loan company,” said Horsip. “That sounds like a usurer.”
“This outfit,” said Roffis, “charged 25 percent. The battalion pledged its space transport as ‘collateral’ for the loan.”
Maklin growled, “Then what happened?”
“The battalion couldn’t repay the loan—naturally, where would they get local currency, unless they stole it—so, the loan company claimed the transport. Then the HiDry Land Reclamation Corporation ‘repossessed’ the ‘sun-drenched quarter acres.’ The result is that the Earthmen have the space transport, and the XXth Rest and Recuperation Battalion has insect bites, sunburn, and three men ‘presumed eaten up by alligators.’ ”
Horsip nodded moodily.
“That sounds familiar.”
Roffis said, “When we have dealings with these Earthmen we get carried off in a basket.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How do they do it?”
“When they get through talking, everything looks different.”
“How do they accomplish that?”
“They seem to emphasize one point, and slant everything to build up that point.”
“Do they see what we overlook? Or do they take some unimportant aspect and puff it up out of proportion?”
“I think they emphasize whatever favors their argument.”
“Then they have a weakness. If they restricted themselves to truth, they would be strong. With this procedure, they will take up false positions.”
“Still, they pull our men off-base.”
Maklin’s eyes glinted. “They won’t pull all of us off-base.”
General Roffis said, “Nevertheless, we have a serious problem. They have gulled our men into giving up valuable space-ships in return for—let’s see—fancy ground-cars, cabin cruisers, vacation trailers, sauna baths, undeveloped real estate, a ‘private ocean backyard swimming pool’ . . .” Roffis looked up. “This isn’t very promising.”
Maklin growled, “And all this is against regulations. Every one of these transactions is a capital offense. Yet the punishment is light. Here, for instance, is a report on an individual who traded a supply ship for a ‘Complete Library of the Works of the Leaders of World Communism.’ On going into this further, I find that ‘communism’ is a scheme for overthrowing one ruling class to install another. What did the fellow want with this collection anyway?”
Roffis tossed his list on the desk.
“What we have here is trouble, now and in the future, on a scale we never saw before.”
“We could eliminate some of it,” said Maklin. “Hang the offenders. Then we’ll have an end to this business.”
Roffis picked up a slip of light-blue paper, and read aloud: “All offenses relative to the providing of space transportation to the local inhabitants will be dealt with leniently, as it is High Policy to disperse the Earthmen as rapidly as possible throughout the Integral Union . . .’ ”
Maklin said, “Argit is behind that. All right, disperse them. But this means of doing it violates discipline!”
Horsip was again getting that sensation he’d first had on Earth—the feeling of struggling uphill through layers of glue.
Roffis looked as if had a headache. He glanced at the stacks of unread reports.
“Horsip, you’ve had experience with these Earthmen. What do you think of our policy?”
“It won’t work. I thought at first that it would, but I don’t think so now.”
“Why?”
“The Earthmen are too smart. Somehow they’ll take over the Integral Union.”
“But they’d have to get control of the High Council. The High Council hasn’t got an Earthman on it.”
“No, sir, but they may not do it that way.”