Roggil favored the Columbian with an equally unpleasant smile.
“When you open up a box of incomprehensible oddities such as we found on Earth, how do you know how they work until you try them out?”
The Columbian blinked. After a considerable silence, he glanced at his companion.
The companion nodded slowly.
Roggil, with no special look of good humor, waited.
The Columbian looked back at Roggil, and spoke carefully.
“Do you mean to say you deliberately exposed millions of your citizens to a horrible death—in order to test the value of various Earth attitudes and procedures?”
“Yes,” said Roggil, “that’s exactly what I mean. We deliberately found out now what these Earth attitudes and procedures were, rather than wait three centuries and have them rammed down our throats step by step, on your Earth installment plan.”
The Columbian smiled suddenly.
“So, for mere principles, you risked lives?”
“We’ll risk lives for the sake of principles anytime. As soon as you lose principles, your lives are first worthless and next lost.”
“But could you have won without us?”
“You were part of the calculation. We had to assume that somewhere in the incredible diversity, there was something on Pandora’s Planet that made sense.”
“So you let everything out to show what it could do, so you could pick the best of the lot? Well . . . all right. But why in such a hurry?”
“Very simple,” said Roggil. “If we had held the Earthmen back, they would have had time to multiply. Their undesirable systems would have developed more slowly, and been backed up by Earthmen from top to bottom. Therefore the Earthmen were permitted to expand rapidly. While they held most of the positions at the top, the body of their organizations were made up of Centrans—who are subject to Mikeril attack.”
The two Columbians nodded, and looked agreeably at Roggil, and the spokesman of the two said, “Your reasons make sense. We just didn’t want to ally ourselves with a selection of . . . ah . . .”
“Dullards,” supplied Roggil, smiling.
The Columbian nodded. “That’s the word . . . Well, what’s the business? This mess you speak of?”
Roggil drew out a thick report, eyed it a moment, and now there was that sense of working in harmony.
The members waited intently.
“Here,” said Roggil, “we have a report on a new race discovered at a location . . .” He touched a button, and a star map appeared on the ceiling of the room. A ghostly pointer moved around it, to pick out a star Horsip was not familiar with.
“This,” said Roggil, “is at the edge of our latest advance into new territory. Here we have run into a humanoid race which poses for us a peculiar problem.” He glanced at the two Columbians. “We will be interested to learn your suggestions.”
The Columbians looked interested.
“What’s the problem?”
Horsip leaned forward intently.
“The problem,” said Roggil, “is that we have discovered a race,” he looked at the Columbians quizzically—”which is more intelligent than we—or you.”
The Columbians sat up.
Roggil went on, “They are, in effect, a race of geniuses—by your standards as well as ours. On the average, we would say, their general intelligence is as far above yours as Earth’s general intelligence is—on the average—above that of Centra.”
The two Columbians looked profoundly blank.
Roggil sat back and smiled.
“Now, gentlemen—what do you suggest?”
SWEET REASON
Editor’s note: Although it is not directly connected to the Horsip/Towers stories which constitute Pandora’s Legions, “Sweet Reason” is the one other story which Christopher Anvil wrote set in the Pandora universe. We are therefore including it as an appendix to this volume.
I
Captain Karp Moklin, Centran assistant psychologist at the local prison camp, nodded to the perspiring Earth psychotherapist who was his visitor.
“Yes, Dr. Garvin. As you say, such cases as these are for the specialist.”
Garvin drew a shaky breath. “I certainly do feel privileged, Captain, to come and watch a Centran psychologist at work. I’m very anxious to meet Major Poffis. My own—ah—efforts certainly don’t seem to have accomplished much.”
In the cell behind him stood a large Centran soldier, his fur unbrushed and untrimmed, tail thrashing in triumph, a sneer on his face, and a chunk of Dr. Garvin’s sport jacket in his hand.
“Of course,” said Garvin, “really deep psychotherapy is a very slow process. This is why I am so anxious to see one of your own people, and observe his methods. Possibly if we could—ah—pool our resources it might be possible to considerably accelerate the course of treatment.”
Moklin nodded. “Major Poffis himself has often complained that the work takes too long.”
“Is the—ah—the incidence of relapses—” Gavin hesitated, then rephrased the question to fit the less developed Centran mentality. “I mean, do the patients have to come back very often for a second course of treatment?”
The Centran seemed startled at this idea. “No, of course not.”
“The treatments are usually successful?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Does the major also treat those suffering from—ah—battle fatigue—”
The Centran looked puzzled. “Everyone is fatigued in battle. No, the major’s treatment is not meant for that. He handles mostly these uncontrollables, the ones with—”
“Severe neuroses?”
“With the—ah—with the violent—ah—” Moklin paused as if mentally searching for some word or phrase that he had memorized once with the intention of using it later for effect. He straightened, and said learnedly, “With the ‘violent antisocial tendencies.’ ”
Garvin blinked. “This is Major Poffis’ specialty, then?”
“Yes,” said Captain Moklin. “He does a lot of this work.”
“That is precisely what we find most difficult.” Garvin glanced uneasily at the prisoner, who with coy gestures was now urging him to come closer to the bars. “We find,” he coughed slightly, “that these are often the most obstinate cases. They are difficult to reach—to contact—to form any common—”
The captain glanced at the wall clock.
“Major Poffis can reach them. He will be here soon. He is always on time. Then you will see how he does it.”
The prisoner methodically tore his piece of Garvin’s jacket to shreds, and leered at Garvin through the bars.
The clang of an outer door and the sound of voices heralded the arrival of Major Poffis.
Dr. Garvin said anxiously, “Is the major, ah, quite high in your academic hierarchy? In civilian life, I mean.”
The Centran captain looked blank. “He has a Qh.Q.”
“Ah, I see. Of course. Well—I’m not really familiar with the niceties of Centran—ah—academic protocol. Shall I call him ‘major,’ or ‘doctor’?”
The Centran looked blank. “He is a major.”
Garvin had the sensation of coming up solidly against a blank wall. He nodded hastily, and barely stopped himself from saying, “Silly of me to ask.” Such comments, he had found, were likely to cause the Centrans to agree. Instead, he prepared himself to greet the Centran academic.
From the man’s record of cures, he was a veritable master psychologist. Some of Garvin’s colleagues, of course, did not consider the record of cures really significant. For them what counted were the methods used and the theoretical justification of the methods. But Garvin personally found it a little embarrassing to do no better than unaided nature. From Major Poffis—in his mind he decided to call him Dr. Poffis—from Dr. Poffis he would learn the best of Centran practices, then combine it with the highest Earth theory, and perhaps thus create a universal treatment superior to any hitherto used.
A murmur just outside the door told of Dr. Poffis’ approach.
Garvin prepared his smile and readied the comment, “I hope that a useful cross-fertilization of our mutual concepts may bear fruit in a more successful treatment, Doctor.” Just where he would put this into the conversation Garvin wasn’t sure, but he wanted it to be ready when the time came.
The door latch clicked, and Garvin extended his right hand. He was on the alert to approach the tall distinguished Centran who would come in, who would perhaps be impressively silver-furred, with a slightly wry smile, or perhaps with a look of blazing incandescent genius demanding the instant submission of lesser intellects, and—
The door opened. A Centran major of above average height, broadly built, with muscles up both sides of his neck under the fur, walked in and growled, “All right, Moklin, what’s on the sheet for today?”
Captain Moklin bawled, “Attention!”
The prisoner raised his right hand to his forehead, as if in salute. Then he lowered the thumb and forefinger to the sides of his nose and blew out hard. In case the idea didn’t get across, he spat through the bars onto the major’s tunic.
The major showed no sign of noticing anything unusual. “At ease. What do we have today, Moklin?”
“This is the first one, sir, in the cell right here.”
The major nodded, started to speak, then frowned at Garvin. Garvin had his phrases all set, and now heard himself say stupidly, “How do you do? I am Dr. Garvin from Rolling Hills Rest and Recuperation Center. I—er—had hoped that a—ah—a useful cross-fertilization of our—ah—mutual—”