“Yes, sir.”
The communications officer stepped in, looking bemused, and held out a slip of message paper.
Horsip read:
High Admiral Querk Drekkil of course recognizes the superior position of General Horsip in the hierarchy of the Integral Union, and respectfully offers salute as the Fleet passes.
Horsip’s lips drew back from his teeth. A crawling sensation traveled up and down his spine. The squadron commander looked uneasy.
The large-scale magnification on the screen showed the long-range detection apparatus of Drekkil’s ships searching in every direction.
Horsip shrugged in disgust, reached out for the message pad, and wrote:
The Fleet returns the salute.
The communications officer hurried out.
Horsip handed Drekkil’s latest message to the squadron commander, who said, “In case they change their tune, the gunnery officers have their targets selected.”
Horsip nodded, but had given up hope of any such result. Drekkil had sensed Horsip wanted a fight, and Drekkil was having nothing to do with it.
Drekkil’s next message wished Horsip a fine journey, and Horsip could only return the good wishes. But while Horsip was disappointed, everyone else in the squadron seemed exhilarated. The substance of the messages leaked out, and was duly distorted, the resulting version being that Drekkil had warned Horsip he was outnumbered, and must stop, and Horsip had replied, “This is the Fleet, and the Fleet stops for no one. Stand aside or be destroyed.” Instantly, Horsip’s squadron was transformed into a crack unit that drilled continuously, willingly, with no hint of complaint.
And then, ships and men in perfect order, they began to see what the Integral Union had been transformed into, as one by one they visited the planets.
* * *
Looming through smoke and fumes, Horsip, at the bridge of the flagship, could see a thing like eighteen roads crisscrossing one atop the other. Vehicles of weird design careened around the numerous curves, while in the background loomed a giant city. Beyond the towers of the city there rose up, slightly to one side, a cone-shaped mound of peculiar reddish tinge mingled with all sorts of other colors in a vertical patchwork.
“Ah, that,” said the planetary governor, perspiring freely, “that, now, is a . . . well . . . that’s where we put the vehicles when they are . . . ah . . . used up. Yes, sir.”
“I see,” said Horsip, frowning. He had invited the governor aboard on a courtesy visit, according to hallowed custom of the Centran Fleet. The arrival of the Centran squadron had produced a sensation, as if a rug made out of some defunct wild animal had stood up and roared.
The governor, turning to Horsip, said hesitantly, “But that . . . ah . . . dump you refer to is just a by-product. There, you see, rising over the city, is the great tower where Mr. Schmidt rules over the planet through his gigantic enterprises. And that tower to the left, a little lower—that is the Consolidated Credit Building. Off there in the distance is Monopoly Motors. You see, it is not quite so high, but it is a very impressive building. And over there is the Intercontinental Construction Cartel. . . . They built this multilevel here—one of the biggest on the planet.” The governor peered around the control room furtively, and lowered his voice:
“Ah, General Horsip, if I might ask . . . who . . . ah . . . who is your Earthman?”
“My what?” said Horsip, looking blank.
“Your Earthman, sir. Who gives you your orders?”
“The High Council gives me my orders.”
“Ah, of course. Are they still in existence, then?”
“Of course they are in existence! Why not?”
“But what purpose do they serve, Earthwise.”
Horsip grappled with the word “Earthwise.”
“No purpose,” said Horsip, flatly.
The governor looked nervous. “Have you no Earthman, sir?”
Horsip said shortly, “I take my orders from the High Council, and I am a member of the Supreme Staff. There is no Earthman on the High Council, and only one on the Supreme Staff.”
The governor blinked, then suddenly looked relieved. “Ah, then it’s all right. . . . Well, well, that’s fine.”
Horsip eyed the governor with no great affection.
“And just who do you take your orders from?”
The governor thrust out his chest.
“From Mr. Schmidt. Personally.”
“Earthmen run this planet, then?”
“Definitely, sir. How else?”
“What are all these fumes?”
“A . . . well . . . you see those factory chimneys down there, and all those ground-cars too. I suppose, plus . . . well, there’s that dump over there, at the edge of the city. All those gas tanks are draining slowly, and . . . well I imagine that’s where it comes from. Yes, sir. . . . Most of it, anyway.”
“Isn’t it hard to breathe down there?”
“Incidence of respiratory diseases was up 2 percent last year.”
“What is the advantage of all that smoke?”
“We are making more ground-cars. Mr. Schmidt has announced that this year, for the first time, everyone, on the average, will have a new ground-car before the year is out.”
The governor beamed. “A new ground-car a year for everyone on the planet, on the average. Think of it!”
Horsip’s mind boggled.
The governor banged his fist into his hand.
“And soon we may have a new ground-car twice a year! I have it from Mr. Schmidt—himself.”
“I see,” said Horsip. “But what will you do with two of them a year? And what about the old one?”
“Why, we will put them on that pile there that you just asked me about. What else?”
Horsip glanced back at the odd-looking mound.
“That is a heap of used-up ground-cars?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, now, look here . . . You mean to say these things wear out in a year?”
“Certainly. We have to use them very hard to get back and forth over the roads to work and still live in the country and at the sea shore.”
“In order to get out of the smoke, eh?”
“Well, that’s one reason, yes.”
“Certainly they don’t wear out all at once. Why not just replace the parts that wear out, and save all that work?”
The governor looked at him fishily.
“That would be very bad for business.”
“To make these things so you have to throw them away every year is wasteful. They should be made so you could hand them down from generation to generation. That way a man could save a little money. As for using them to go back and forth from home to work—that is ridiculous! You should use iron roads—”
The governor muttered, “Mr. Schmidt would not approve of this . . . Sir, we do not have iron roads. They do not exist.”
“Then,” said Horsip, “you are progressing backward. All this murk is created, you say, by these factories and ground-cars. There’s the answer to your problem. Make the ground-cars so they last, put in iron roads, and you can shut down the factories except for making replacements and spare parts. Then you will be able to breathe again. See, the answer is right in front of you.”
“We could not do that,” said the governor angrily. “Everybody’s work and income is connected with the making ground-cars. That was Mr. Schmidt’s first stroke of genius when he first came to this planet. No, General Horsip. You would create unemployment if you closed down the factories. If people received no pay, they could not only buy no ground-cars, but they could buy no other improvements, and they could buy no food. It would be a disaster. Mr. Schmidt would never allow it.”
Horsip angrily began to speak, but then shrugged.
The governor said tolerantly, “Ask your Earthman about it sometime, General Horsip. He will explain it to you.”
* * *
Horsip’s next visit took him to a planet where the air was relatively pure, but hosts of iron-helmeted troops marched by as a beaming trio returned the salutes from a reviewing stand. Guns and armored ground-cars rumbled past in such profusion as to bring back memories of the invasion of Earth. Clouds of air-planes swooped overhead, to be followed by a formidable fleet of space-ships. The dictator himself, an Earthman, kindly explained to Horsip, “You see, Jack, I got the idea out of this book I read when I was a kid. My Battle, or something like that. But I’d have never had the chance to try it out if you hadn’t come down on Earth, and given us a chance to spread out, like, and get a little elbow-room. Our people are kind of stubborn. These people here, though, they lap it up. Can’t say I’m as big as Ganfre, but I’m doing all right.”
When Horsip got back to his flagship, he found Moffis going through the latest batch of reports in silence. Horsip groped for a chair, and sat down. Moffis reached out with the look of a punch-drunk fighter for another report, turned the pages automatically, put the report in another pile. He reached out for another report, turned the pages automatically, set the report in another pile, and reached out for a fresh report. He turned the pages automatically, and—