“Come inside, put on your slippers and be happy. In other words, welcome! It wasn’t difficult to get, your excellency, especially when you expect that sort of thing.” Grayder cast a thoughtful glance at Harrison, went on, “Here, things appear to have developed to a greater extreme. The language remains fluent, retains enough surface similarities to conceal deeper changes, but meanings have been altered, concepts discarded, new ones substituted, thought-forms reangled—and, of course, there is the inevitable impact of locally developed slang.”
“Such as ‘myob,’ ” offered His Excellency. “Now there’s a queer word without recognizable Earth root I don’t like the way they use it. Sounds downright insulting. Obviously it has some sort of connection with these obs they keep batting around. It means ‘my obligation’ or something like that, but the significance beats me.”
“There is no connection, sir,” Harrison contradicted. He hesitated, saw they were waiting for him, plunged boldly on. “Coming back I met the lady who directed me to Baines’ place. She asked whether I’d found him and I said yes, thank you. We chatted a bit I asked her what ‘myob’ meant. She said it was initial-slang.” He stopped at that point.
“Keep going,” advised the ambassador. “After some of the sulphurous comments I’ve heard coming out the Blieder-room ventilation-shaft, I can stomach anything. What does it mean?”
“M-y-o-b,” informed Harrison, blinking. “Mind your own business.”
“So!” His Excellency gained color. “So that’s what they’ve been telling me all along?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“Evidently they’ve a lot to learn.” His neck swelled with sudden undiplomatic fury, he smacked a large hand on the table and said, loudly, “And they are going to learn it!”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Harrison, becoming more uneasy and wanting out. “May I go now and attend to my bicycle?”
“Get out of my sight!” shouted the ambassador. He made a couple of meaningless gestures, turned a florid face on Captain Grayder. “Bicycle! Does anyone on this vessel own a slingshot?”
“I doubt it your excellency, but I will make inquiries, if you wish.”
“Don’t be an imbecile,” ordered His Excellency. “We have our full quota of hollow-heads already.”
Postponed until early morning, the next conference was relatively short and sweet. His Excellency took a seat, harumphed, straightened his vest, frowned around the table.
“Let’s have another look at what we’ve got. We know that this planet’s mules call themselves Gands, don’t take much interest in their Terran origin and insist on referring to us as Antigands. That implies an education and resultant outlook inimical to ourselves. They’ve been trained from childhood to take it for granted that whenever we appeared upon the scene we would prove to be against whatever they are for.”
“And we haven’t the remotest notion of what they’re for,” put in Colonel Shelton, quite unnecessarily. But it served to show that he was among those present and paying attention.
“I am grimly aware of our ignorance in that respect,” indorsed the ambassador. “They are maintaining a conspiracy of silence about their prime motivation. We’ve got to break it somehow.” He cleared his throat, continued, “They have a peculiar nonmonetary economic system which, in my opinion, manages to function only because of large surpluses. It won’t stand a day when overpopulation brings serious shortages. This economic setup appears to be based on cooperative techniques, private enterprise, a kindergarten’s honor system and plain unadorned gimme. That makes it a good deal crazier than that food-in-the-bank wackidoo they’ve got on the four outer planets of the Epsilon system.”
“But it works,” observed Grayder, pointedly.
“After a-fashion. That flap-eared engineer’s bicycle works—and so does he! A motorized job would save him a lot of sweat.” Pleased with this analogy, the ambassador mused over it a few seconds. “This local scheme of economics—if you can call it a scheme—almost certainly is the end result of the haphazard development of some hick eccentricity brought in by the original settlers. It is overdue for motorizing so to speak. They know it but don’t want it because mentally they’re three hundred years behind the times. They’re afraid of change, improvement, efficiency—like most backward peoples. Moreover, some of them have a vested interest in keeping things as they are.” He sniffed loudly to express his contempt “They are antagonistic toward us simply because they don’t want to be disturbed.”
His authoritative stare went round the table, daring one of them to remark that this might be as good a reason as any. They were too disciplined to fall into that trap. None offered comment, so he went on.
“In due time, after we’ve got a grip on affairs, we are going to have a long and tedious task on our hands. We’ll have to overhaul their entire educational system with a view to eliminating anti-Terr an prejudices and bringing them up to date on the facts of life. We’ve had to do that on several other planets, though not to anything like the same extent as will be necessary here.”
“We’ll cope,” promised someone.
Ignoring him, the ambassador finished, “However, all of that is in the future. We’ve a problem to solve in the present. It’s in our laps right now, namely, where are the reins of power and who’s holding them? We’ve got to solve that before we can make progress. How’re we going to do it?” He leaned back in his chair, added, “Get your wits working and let me have some bright suggestions.”
Captain Grayder stood up, a big, leather-bound book in his hands. “Your excellency, I don’t think we need exercise our minds over new plans for making contact and gaining essential information. It looks as if the next move is going to be imposed upon us.”
“How do you mean?”
“There are a good many old-timers in my crew. Space lawyers, every one of them.” He tapped the book. “They know official Space Regulations as well as I do. Sometimes I think they know too much.”
“And so—?”
Grayder opened the book. “Regulation 127 says that on a hostile world a crew serves on a war-footing until back in space. On a non-hostile world, they serve on a peace-footing.”
“What of it?”
“Regulation 131A says that on a peace-footing, the crew—with the exception of a minimum number required to keep the vessel’s essential services in trim—is entitled to land-leave immediately after unloading of cargo or within seventy-two Earth hours of arrival, whichever period is the shorter.” He glanced up. “By midday the men will be all set for land-leave and itching to go. There will be ructions if they don’t get it.”
“Will there now?” said the ambassador, smiling lopsidedly. “What if I say this world is hostile? That’ll pin their ears back, won’t it?”
Impassively consulting his book, Grayder came back with, “Regulation 148 says that a hostile world is defined as any planet that systematically opposes Empire citizens by force.” He turned the next page. “For the purpose of these regulations, force is defined as any course of action calculated to inflict physical injury, whether or not said action succeeds in its intent.”
“I don’t agree.” The ambassador registered a deep frown. “A world can be psychologically hostile without resorting to force. We’ve an example right here. It isn’t a friendly world.”
“There are no friendly worlds within the meaning of Space Regulations,” Grayder informed. “Every planet falls into one of two classifications: hostile or nonhostile.” He tapped the hard leather cover. “It’s all in the book.”
“We would be prize fools to let a mere book boss us around or allow the crew to boss us, either. Throw it out of the port. Stick it into the disintegrator. Get rid of it any way you like—and forget it”
“Begging your pardon, your excellency, but I can’t do that.” Grayder opened the tome at the beginning. “Basic regulations 1A, 1B and 1C include the following: whether in space or on land, a vessel’s personnel remain under direct command of its captain or his nominee who will be guided entirely by Space Regulations and will be responsible only to the Space Committee situated upon Terra. The same applies to all troops, officials and civilian passengers aboard a space-traversing vessel, whether in flight or grounded—regardless of rank or authority they are subordinate to the captain or his nominee. A nominee is defined as a ship’s officer performing the duties of an immediate superior when the latter is incapacitated or absent.”
“All that means you are king of your castle,” said the ambassador, none too pleased. “If we don’t like it, we must get off the ship.”
“With the greatest respect to yourself, I must agree that that is the position. I cannot help it—regulations are regulations. And the men know it!” Grayder dumped the book, poked it away from him. “Ten to one the men will wait to midday, pressing their pants, creaming their hair and so forth. They will then make approach to me in proper manner to which I cannot object. They will request the first mate to submit their leave-roster for my approval.” He gave a deep sigh. “The worst I could do would be to quibble about certain names on the roster and switch a few men around—but I couldn’t refuse leave to a full quota.”
“Liberty to paint the town red might be a good thing after all,” suggested Colonel Shelton, not averse to doing some painting himself. “A dump like this wakes up when the fleet’s in port. We ought to get contacts by the dozens. That’s what we want, isn’t it?”
“We want to pin down this planet’s leaders,” the ambassador pointed out. “I can’t see them powdering their faces, putting on their best hats and rushing out to invite the yoohoo from a bunch of hungry sailors.” His plump features quirked. “We have got to find the needles in this haystack. That job won’t be done by a gang of ratings on the rampage.”
Grayder put in, “I’m inclined to agree with you, your excellency, but we’ll have to take a chance on it. If the men want to go out, the circumstances deprive me of power to prevent them. Only one thing can give me the power.”
