Imperial Stars 3-The Crash of Empire Page 5

  "Apparently, they believe in self-defense. A little impractical, if proper precautions have not been made."

  "Hm-m-m. How did the crewmen know about this?"

  "They had made many delivery trips to the planet. It seems that the Earthmen call this planet, among themselves, 'Storehouse.' The code name is given in the documents there, and it is formally named 'Faith.' But to the Earthmen, it is 'Storehouse.' "

  "Why?"

  "These religious Earthlings have perfected means to preserve provisions with no loss whatever. Even live animals are in some way frozen, gassed, irradiated—or somehow treated—so they are just as good when they come out as when they went in. This is handy for shippers who have a surplus due to a temporary glut on the market, or because it's a bad year for the buyers. So, within practicable shipping distance, Storehouse does a thriving business, preserving goods from a time of surplus to a time of need."

  Vire absently grated his ripping claws on their rests.

  "Hm-m-m . . . And the basis of this process is not generally known?"

  "No, sir. They have a monopoly. Moreover, they use their monopoly to enforce codes of conduct on the shippers. Shippers who employ practices they regard as immoral, or who deal in goods they disapprove of, have their storage quotas cut. Shippers they approve of get reduced rates. And they are incorruptible, since they are religious fanatics—like our Cult of the Sea, who resist the last molt, and stick to gills."

  "Well, well, this does offer possibilities. But, would the Earthmen be willing to lose this valuable facility, even if it is not a member of their Federation? On the other hand—I wonder if these fanatics have antagonized the Earthmen as the cursed sea cult antagonizes us? That collection of righteous clams."

  Grele nodded. "From what Admiral Nade learned, it certainly seems so. The crew of the distressed ship, for instance, had just had their quota cut because they had been caught 'shooting craps'—a form of gambling—while on their own ship waiting to unload."

  "Yes, that sounds like it. Nade, I suppose, has his fleet in position?"

  "Excellency, he chafes at the restraints."

  "No doubt."

  Vire balanced the possibilities.

  "It is rumored that some who have attacked independent Earth-settled planets have not enjoyed the experience."

  "The Earthlings would be bound to spread such rumors. But what can mere religious fanatics do against the guns of our men? The fanatics are skilled operators of a preserving plant; of what use is that in combat?"

  Vire settled back. Either the Earthmen were truly unprepared, in which case he, Vire, would receive partial credit for a valuable acquisition; or else the Earthmen were prepared, and Nade would get such a dent in his shell that his reputation would never recover.

  "All right," said Vire cheerfully, "but we must have a pretext—these religious fanatics must have delivered some insult that we want to avenge, and it must fit in with their known character. If possible, it must rouse sympathy, even, for us. Let's see . . ."

  Elder Hugh Phillips eyed the message dourly.

  "These lobsters have their gall. Look at this."

  Deacon Bentley adjusted his penance shirt to make the bristles bite in better, and took the message. He read aloud in a dry methodical voice:

  " 'Headquarters, the Imperial Hatchery, Khlaftschiflran'—lot of heathenish gabble there, I'll skip all that. Let's see '. . . Pursuant to the blessings of the' . . . heh. . . 'fertility god Fflahvritschtsvri . . . Pursuant to the blessings of the fertility god, What's-His-Name, the Royal Brood has exceeded expectations this season, all praise to So-and-So, et cetera, et cetera, and exceeds the possibility of the Royal Hatchery to handle. We, therefore, favor you with the condescension of becoming for the next standard year an Auxiliary Royal Hatchery, consecrated according to the ritual of Fflahvrit . . . et cetera . . . and under due direction of the Imperial Priesthood, and appropriate Brood Masters, you to receive in addition to the honor your best standard payment for the service of maintaining the Royal Brood in good health, and returning same in time for the next season, undamaged by the delay, to make up the deficiency predicted by the Brood Masters. The fertility god, What's-His-Name, directs us through his Priesthood to command your immediate notice of compliance, as none of the precious Brood must be endangered by delay.' "

  Deacon Bentley looked up.

  "To make it short, we're supposed to store the royal lobsters for a year, is that it?"

  "Evidently."

  "There's no difficulty there." Bentley eyed the message coldly. "As for being consecrated according to the lobster's fertility god, there we part company."

  Elder Phillips nodded.

  "They do offer good pay, however."

  "All worldly money is counterfeit. The only reward is in Heaven."

  "Amen. But from their own heathen viewpoint, the offer is fair. Obviously, we can't accept it. But we must be fair in return, even to lobsters. We will take care of the Royal Brood, but as for their Priesthood"—he cleared his throat—"with due humility, we must decline that provision. Now, who writes the answer?"

  "Brother Fry would be ideal for it."

  "He's on a fast. How about Deacon Fenell?"

  "No good. He went into a cell on Tuesday. Committed himself for a month."

  "He did, eh? Able's boy, Wilder, would have been good at this. Too bad."

  Phillips nodded.

  "Unfortunately, not all can conquer their own nature. Some require grosser enemies." He sighed. "Let's see. How do we start the thing off?"

  "Let's just say, 'We will put up your brood for so-and-so much per year. We decline the consecration.' That's the gist of the matter. Then we nail some diplomacy on both ends of it, dress it up a little, and there we are."

  "I wish Brother Fry were here. This nonsense can eat up time. However, he's not here, so let's get at it."

  Iadrubel Vire read the message over again intently:

  From:

  Central Contracting Office

  Penitence City

  Planet of Faith

  To:

  Headquarters

  The Imperial Hatchery

  Khlaftschiffranzitschopendischkla

  Dear Sirs:

  We are in receipt of your request of the 22nd instant that we put the excess of the Royal Brood in storage for a period approximating one standard year.

  We agree to do this, in accord with our standard rate schedule "D" appended, suitable for nonpreferred live shipments. Kindly note that these rates apply from date of delivery to the storehouse entrance, to date of reshipment from the same point.

  We regret that we must refuse your other terms, to wit:

  a) Accompaniment of the shipment by priests and broodmasters.

  b) Consecration to the fertility god, referred to in your communication.

  In reference to a), no such accompaniment is necessary or allowed.

  In reference to b), the said god, so-called, is, of course, nonexistent.

  In view of the fact that your race is known to be heathen, these requests will not be held against you in determining the rate schedule, beyond placing you in the nonpreferred status.

  We express our appreciation for this order, and trust that our service will be found satisfactory in every respect.

  Truly yours,

  Hugh Bentley

  Chief Assistant

  Central Contracting Office

  Vire sat back, absently scratched his ripping claws on their rest, reached out with a manipulator, and punched a call-button.

  A door popped open, and Margash Grele stepped in and bowed.

  "Excellency?"

  "Read this."

  Grele read it, and looked up.

  "These people are, as I told you, sir, like our sea cult—only worse."

  "They certainly take an independent line for an isolated planet dealing with an interstellar empire—and on a sensitive subject, at that."

  "Not so, Excellency. It is independent from our viewpoint.
If you read between the lines, you can see that, for them, they are bent over backwards."

  Vire absently squeaked the sharp tips of his right-hand battle claw together.

  "Maybe. In any case, I don't think we would be quite justified by this reply in doing anything drastic. However, I think we can improve on this. Tell Nade to get his claws sharpened up, and we'll see what happens with the next message."

  Hugh Phillips handed the message to Deacon Bentley.

  "There seems to have been something wrong with our answer to these crabs."

  "What, did we lose the order? Let's see."

  Bentley's eyebrows raised.

  "Hm-m-m. . . 'Due to your maligning the religious precepts of our Race, we must demand a full retraction and immediate apology . . .' When did we do that?"

  "There was something about that part where we said they were heathens."

  "They are heathens."

  "I know."

  "Truth is Truth."

  "That is so. Nevertheless—well, Brother Fry would know how to handle this."

  "Unfortunately, he is not here. Well, what to do about this?"

  Phillips looked at it.

  "What is there to do?"

  Bentley's look of perplexity cleared away.

  "True. We can't have lobsters giving us religious instruction." He looked wary. "On the other hand, we mustn't fall into the sin of pride, either."

  "Here, let's have a pen." Phillips wrote rapidly, frowned, then glanced at Bentley. "How is your sister's son coming along? Her next-to-eldest?"

  Bentley shook his head.

  "I fear he is not meant for righteousness. He has refused to do his penances."

  Phillips shook his head, then looked at what he had written. After a moment, he glanced up.

  "If the truth were told, some of us shaved by pretty close, ourselves. I suppose it's to be expected. The first settlers were certainly descended from a rough lot." He cleared his throat. "I am not so sure my eldest is going to make it."

  Bentley caught his breath.

  "Perhaps you judge too harshly."

  "No. As a boy, he did not play marbles. He lined them up in ranks, and studied the formations. We would find him with his mother's pie plate and a pencil, holding them to observe how a space fleet in disk might destroy one in column. I have tried to . . ." Phillips cleared his throat. "Here, read this. See if you can improve it. We must be strictly honest, and must not truckle to these heathens. It would be bad for them as well as us."

  "Amen, Elder. Let's see, now—"

  Iadrubel Vire straightened up in his seat, reread the message, and summoned Margash Grele.

  Margash bowed deferentially.

  "Excellency?"

  "This is incredible. Read this."

  Grele read aloud:

  " 'Sirs: We acknowledge receipt of yours of the 28th instant, and are constrained, in all truth, to reply that you are heathen: that your so-called fertility god is no god at all; that your priests are at best misled, and at worst representatives of the devil: and that we can on no account tolerate priests of heathen religions on this planet. As these are plain facts, there can be no retraction and no apology, as there is no insult, but only a plain statement of truth. As a gesture of compromise, and to prove good will, we will allow one (1) broodmaster to accompany the shipment, provided he is not a priest of any godless 'religion,' so-called. We will not revise the schedule of charges on this occasion, but warn you plainly that this is our final offer. Truly yours . . ' "

  Grele looked up blankly.

  Vire said, "There is a tone to this, my dear Grele, that does not appear consistent with pacifism. Not with pacifism as I understand the word."

  "I certainly see what you mean, sir. Nevertheless, they are pacifists. We have carefully checked our information."

  "And we are certain they are not members of the Federation?"

  "Absolutely certain."

  "Well, there is something here that we do not understand. This message could not be better planned if it were a bait to draw us to the attack."

  "It is certainly an insulting message, but one well suited to our purpose."

  "That, too, is suspicious. Events rarely fall into line so easily."

  "Excellency, they are religious fanatics. There is the explanation."

  "Nevertheless, we must draw the net tighter before we attempt to take them. Such utter fearlessness usually implies either a formidable weapon, or a formidable protector. We must be certain the Federation does not have some informal agreement with this planet."

  "Excellency, Admiral Nade grows impatient."

  Vire's right-hand battle claw quivered. "We will give him the chance to do the job, once we have done ours. We must make certain we do not send our troops straight into the jaws of a trap. There is a strong Space Force fleet so situated that it might intervene."

  General Larssen, of the Space Force, looked up from copies of the messages. "The only place in this end of space where we can store supplies with no spoilage, and they have to wind up in a fight with the lobsters over royal lobster eggs. And we aren't allowed to do anything about it."

  "Well, sir," said Larssen's aide, "they were pretty insulting about it. And they've had every chance to join the Federation. It's hard to see why the Federation should take on all Crustax for them now."

  " 'All Crustax,' nuts. The lobsters would back down if we'd ram a stiff note down their throat. Do we have any reply from the . . . er . . . 'court of last resort' on this?"

  "No, sir, they haven't replied yet."

  "Much as I dislike them, they don't pussyfoot around, anyway. Let's hope—"

  There was a quiet rap, and Larssen looked up.

  "Come in!"

  The communications officer stepped in, looking serious.

  "I wanted to bring you this myself, sir. The Interstellar Patrol declines to intervene, because it feels that the locals can take care of themselves."

  Larssen stared. "They're a bunch of pacifists! All they're strong at is fighting off temptation!"

  "Yes, sir. We made that point. All we got back was, 'Wait and see.' "

  "Well, we tried, at least. Now we've got a ringside seat for the slaughter."

  Admiral Nade was in his bunk when the top priority message came in. His aide entered the room, approached the bunk, and hesitated. Nade was completely covered up, out of sight.

  The aide looked around nervously. The chief was a trifle peevish when roused out of a sound sleep.

  The aide put the message on the admiral's cloak of rank on the nightstand near the bunk, retraced his steps to the hatch, opened it wide, then returned to the bunk. Hopeful, he waited, but Nade didn't stir.

  The aide spoke hesitantly: "Ah . . . a message, sir." Nothing happened. He tried again.

  Nade didn't move.

  The aide climbed over the raised lip of the catch tray, took hold of the edge of the bunk, dug several claws into the wood in his nervousness, and cautiously scratched back a little of the fine white sand. The admiral was in there somewhere. He scratched a little more urgently. A few smooth pebbles rattled into the tray.

  Just then, he bumped something.

  Claws shot up. Sand flew in all directions.

  The aide fell over the edge of the tray, scrabbled violently, and hurled himself through the doorway.

  The admiral bellowed, "WHO DARES—"

  The aide rounded corners, and shot down cross-corridors as the admiral grabbed his cloak of rank, then spotted the message.

  Nade seized the message, stripped off various seals the message machine had plastered on it, growled: "The fool probably wants more delay." Then he tore open the lightproof envelope that guaranteed no one would see it but him, unfolded the message itself, and snarled, "'. . . received your message #4e67t3fs . . . While I agree—' Bah! '. . . extreme caution is advised . . .' That clawless wonder! Let's see, what's this? '. . . Provided due consideration is given to these precautions, you are hereby authorized to carry out the seizure b
y force of the aforesaid planet, its occupation, its annexation, and whatever ancillary measures may appear necessary or desirable. You are, however, warned on no account to engage forces of the Federation in battle, the operation to be strictly limited to the seizure, et cetera, of the aforesaid planet. If possible, minimum damage is to be done to the planet's storage equipment, as possession of this equipment should prove extremely valuable. . .' Well, he's a hard-shell, after all! Let's see . . . 'Security against surprise by Federation forces will be employed without, however, endangering success of the operation by undue dividing of the attacking force . . .' That doesn't hurt anything. Now, the quicker we take them, the better!"