“What do you know about Sergeant Gleed?” demanded the ambassador.
The other licked his lips, seemed sorry that he had mentioned the missing man. “It’s like this, your honor, I—”
“Call me ‘sir.’ ”
“Yes, sir.” More disconcerted blinking. “I went out with the second party early this morning, came back a couple of hours ago because my stomach was acting up. On the way, I saw Sergeant Gleed and spoke to him.”
“Where? When?”
“In town, sir. He was sitting in one of those big long-distance coaches. I thought it a bit queer.”
“Get down to the roots, man! What did he tell you, if anything?”
“Not much, sir. He seemed pretty chipper about something. Mentioned a young widow struggling to look after two hundred acres. Someone had told him about her and he thought he’d take a peek.” He hesitated, backed away a couple of paces, added, “He also said I’d see him in irons or never.”
“One of your men,” said the ambassador to Colonel Shelton. “A trooper, allegedly well-disciplined. One with long service, three stripes, and a pension to lose.” His attention returned to the informant “Did he say exactly where he was going?”
“No, sir. I asked him, but he just grinned and said, ‘Myob!’ So I came back to the ship.”
“All right. You may go.” His Excellency watched the other depart then continued with Harrison. “You were with that first quota.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me tell you something, mister. Four hundred twenty men went out. Only two hundred have returned. Forty of those were in various stages of alcoholic turpitude. Ten of them are in the clink yelling, ‘I won’t!’ in steady chorus. Doubtless they’ll go on yelling until they’ve sobered up.”
He stared at Harrison as if that worthy were personally responsible, then went on, “There’s something paradoxical about this. I can understand the drunks. There are always a few individuals who blow their tops first day on land. But of the two hundred who have condescended to come back, about half returned before time, the same as you did. Their reasons were identical—the town was unfriendly, everyone treated them like ghosts until they’d had enough.”
Harrison made no comment.
“So we have two diametrically opposed reactions,” the ambassador complained. “One gang of men say the place stinks so much that they’d rather be back on the ship. Another gang finds it so hospitable that either they get filled to the gills on some stuff called double dith, or they stay sober and desert the service. I want an explanation. There’s got to be one somewhere. You’ve been twice in this town. What can you tell us?”
Carefully, Harrison said, “It all depends on whether or not you’re spotted as a Terran. Also on whether you meet Gands who’d rather convert you than give you the brush-off.” He pondered a moment, finished, “Uniforms are a giveaway.”
“You mean they’re allergic to uniforms?”
“More or less, sir.”
“Any idea why?”
“Couldn’t say for certain, sir. I don’t know enough about them yet. As a guess, I think they may have been taught to associate uniforms with the Terran regime from which their ancestors escaped.”
“Escaped nothing!” scoffed the ambassador. “They grabbed the benefit of Terran inventions, Terran techniques and Terran manufacturing ability to go someplace where they’d have more elbow room.” He gave Harrison the sour eye. “Don’t any of them wear uniforms?”
“Not that I could recognize as such. They seem to take pleasure in expressing their individual personalities by wearing anything they fancy, from pigtails to pink boots. Oddity in attire is the norm among the Gands. Uniformity is the real oddity—they think it’s submissive and degrading.”
“You refer to them as Gands. Where did they dig up that name?” Harrison told him, thinking back to Elissa as she explained it. In his mind’s eye be could see her now. And Seth’s place with the tables set and steam rising behind the counter and mouth-watering smells oozing from the background. Now that he came to visualize the scene again, it appeared to embody an elusive but essential something that the ship had never possessed.
“And this person,” he concluded, “invented what they call The Weapon.”
“Hm-m-m! And they assert he was a Terran? What does he look like? Did you see a photograph or a statue?”
“They don’t erect statues, sir. They say no person is more important than another.”
“Bunkum!” snapped the ambassador, instinctively rejecting that viewpoint. “Did it occur to you to ask at what period in history this wonderful weapon was tried out?”
“No, sir,” Harrison confessed. “I didn’t think it important”
“You wouldn’t. Some of you men are too slow to catch a Callis-trian sloth wandering in its sleep. I don’t criticize your abilities as spacemen, but as intelligence-agents you’re a dead loss.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Harrison.
Sorry? You louse! whispered something deep within his own mind.
Why should you be sorry? He’s only a pompous fat man who couldn’t kill an ob if he tried. He’s no better than you. Those raw boys prancing around on Hygeia would maintain that he’s not as good as you because he’s got a pot belly. Yet you keep looking at his pot belly and saying, “Sir,” and, “I’m sorry.” If he tried to ride your bike, he’d fall off before he’d gone ten yards. Go spit in his eye and say, “I won’t.” You’re not scared, are you?
“No!” announced Harrison, loudly and firmly.
Captain Grayder glanced up. ‘If you’re going to start answering questions before they’ve been asked, you’d better see the medic. Or have we a telepath on board?”
“I was thinking,” Harrison explained.
“I approve of that,” put in His Excellency. He lugged a couple of huge tomes out of the wall-shelves, began to thumb rapidly through them. “Do plenty of thinking whenever you’ve the chance and it will become a habit. It will get easier and easier as time rolls on. In fact, a day may come when it can be done without pain.”
He shoved the books back, pulled out two more, spoke to Major Hame who happened to be at his elbow. “Don’t pose there glassyeyed like a relic propped up in a military museum. Give me a hand with this mountain of knowledge. I want Gandhi, anywhere from three hundred to a thousand Earth-years ago.”
Hame came to life, started dragging out books. So did Colonel Shelton. Captain Grayder remained at his desk and continued to mourn the missing.
“Ah, here it is, four-seventy years back.” His Excellency ran a plump finger along the printed lines. “Gandhi, sometimes called Bapu, or Father, Citizen of Hindi. Politico-philosopher. Opposed authority by means of an ingenious system called civil disobedience. Last remnants disappeared with the Great Explosion, but may still persist on some planet out of contact.”
