"Hotheads," Flannery told the walls thoughtfully, "make the best men
obtainable, once they're tamed. Nothing beats an idealist who can face
facts. And the intelligent ones usually grow up. Captain, I've studied
your strategy against Throm on that last drive after Dayole was killed.
Brilliant! I need a good man, and I can pay for one. If you give me a
chance, I can also show you why you should take it. Know anything about
how Earth got started on its present course?"
"Dumb luck and cowardice, as far as I can see," Duke answered.
When Earth discovered the first inefficient version of the high drive,
she had found herself in a deserted section of the universe, with the
nearest inhabited star system months away. The secret of the drive
couldn't be kept, of course, but the races who used it to build war
fleets found it easier to fight with each other than with distant
Earth. Later, when faster drives were developed, Earth was protected by
the buffer worlds she had rebuilt.
Flannery grinned. "Luck--and experience. We learned something from our
early nuclear-technological wars. We learned more from the interstellar
wars of others. We decided that any planet ruined by such war wouldn't
fight again--the women and children who lived through that hell would
see to it--unless new hatreds grew up during the struggle back. So we
practically pauperized ourselves at first to see that they recovered
too quickly for hate and fear. We also began digging into the science
of how to manipulate relationships--Earth's greatest discovery--to set
up a system that would work. It paid off for us in the long run."
"So what's all that got to do with me?" Duke asked. He'd heard of the
great science of Earth and her ability to manipulate all kinds of
relationships before, spoken of in hush-hush terms when he was still in
college. But he'd quit believing in fairy tales even before then. Now
he was even sicker of Earth's self-justification.
Flannery frowned, and then shrugged. "It's no secret I need a good man
on Throm, and you're the logical candidate, if I can pound some facts
into your head. I've found that sending an Earthman they know as a
competent enemy works wonders. Not at first--there's hostility for a
while--but in the long run it gives them a new slant on us."
"Then you'd better get an Earthman," Duke snapped. "You're talking to a
citizen of Meloa! By choice!"
"I hadn't finished my explanation," Flannery reminded.
Duke snorted. "I was brought up on explanations. I heard men spouting
about taming the aliens when I first learned to talk--as if they were
wild animals. I read articles on how the Clovisem and those things from
Sugfarth needed kindness. It's the same guff I heard about how to
handle lions. But the men doing the talking weren't in the ring; and I
noticed the ringmaster carried a whip and gun. He knew the beasts. I
know the aliens of Throm."
"From fighting them? From hating them? Or from being more afraid of
them than you think Earth is, captain? I've talked to more aliens than
you've ever seen."
"And the Roman diplomats laughed at the soldiers who told them the
Goths were getting ready to sack Rome."
Flannery stared at him in sudden amusement. "We aren't in an Empire
period, O'Neill. But you might look up what the Romans did to conquered
people during the Republic, when Rome was still growing. Captain, I'm
not underrating the aliens!"
"Tame aliens! Or ones faking tameness. You've seen them smiling, maybe.
I saw the other side."
The old man sighed heavily and reached for his shirt. He began
unbuttoning it and pulling it over his head. "You've got a nice
prosthetic hand," he said. "Now take a look at some real handiwork!"
There was a strap affair around his shoulders, with a set of
complicated electronic controls slipped into the muscle fibers. From
them, both arms hung loose, unattached at the shoulder blades. Further
down, another affair of webbing went around his waist.
"Only one leg is false," he explained, "but the decorations are real.
They came from a highly skilled torturer. I've had my experience with
aliens. Clovisem, if you're curious. I was the second in command on
Djamboula's volunteer raid, forty years ago."
Duke dropped his eyes from the scars. For a second, he groped for words
of apology. Then the cold, frozen section of his brain swallowed the
emotions. "I've seen a woman with a prosthetic soul," he said bitterly.
"Only she didn't turn yellow because of what the aliens did!"
Red spots shot onto Flannery's cheeks and one of the artificial arms
jerked back as savagely as a real one. He hesitated, then reached for
his shirt. "O.K., squawman!"
The word had no meaning for Duke, though he knew it was an insult. But
he couldn't respond to it. He fumbled through his memories, trying to
place it. Something about Indians--
Flannery began buttoning his pants over the shirt. "I'm out of bounds,
captain," he said more quietly. "I hope you don't know the prejudices
behind that crack. But you win. If you ever want the rest of the
explanation, look me up."
He closed the door behind him softly and went striding evenly up the
passage.
Duke frowned after him. The talk had gotten under his skin. If there
were things he didn't know--
Then he swore at himself. There was plenty he didn't know. But the
carefully developed indoctrination propaganda of the top Earth
psychologists wasn't the answer he wanted.
He'd have to make his stay on Earth shorter than he'd planned. If they
could get to a man who had served under Djamboula and convince him that
Clovisem were nice house pets, it was little wonder they could wrap the
rest of Earth around their psychological fingers.
Too bad their psychology wasn't adjusted to aliens!