"Disabuse your mind, Trontar," the Accountant snapped, and he was no
longer a kindly old man but a thin-lipped Haldorian snapper, "of any
idea that you have saved the Empire--or any such nonsense!" Having
cracked his verbal whip about my shoulders he just crouched there,
glaring at me, his mouth entirely vanished and his eyes--well, I'd just
as soon not think about some things.
Yes, and then he gave me the Shout/Silence treatment, the whole thing
so masterfully timed that at the end he could have signed me on as
a permanent latrine keeper on a spy satellite in the Slug Galaxy.
A genius, that man was. The sort of man who could--and probably
did--control forty wives without a weapon.
"Your information, as it happens," he said after I had regained my
senses, "checks with other data I've received. It might be, of course,
that the whole thing is a fabrication of my enemies. In that case,
Trontar--" he looked at me earnestly--"you can be assured you'll not be
around to rejoice at or to profit from my downfall."
"Of course, Sir," I said, quite as earnestly as he.
"But we both know that you are only a genuine patriot," he said with a
hearty chuckle, a chuckle exactly like that of a Father Goodness--that
kindly old godfather who brings such nice presents to every Haldorian
child until they are six, and who on that last exciting visit brings,
and enthusiastically uses, a bundle of large and heavy whips to
demonstrate that no one can be trusted. Efficient teachers, the
Haldorians.
"Just a genuine patriot," the Accountant repeated, "who has rendered
a considerable service to the Empire. Trontar," he said, all friendly
and intimate, "the Empire likes to reward well its faithful sons. What
would you most like to have or to do?"
"To serve Haldoria, Sir!" I was back on my mental feet at last.
He dropped his act then. He was, I think, just practicing anyway. We
had a short talk then, the kind in which one person is quickly and
efficiently pumped of everything he knows. After about ten minutes of
question and answers, the Accountant leaned back and studied my face
carefully.
"Have you considered Officers' Selection Course, Trontar? I might be
able to help you a little in getting in."
Officers' Selection Course was, I knew, Fighter Basic Course multiplied
in length and casualties. Less than 20 per cent graduate ... or escape.
* * * * *
"No, Sir," I said. "I wondered if I mightn't be of more value to
Haldoria in some way other than being in the combat services." So now
I'd said it and there was nothing to do but to go on. "Perhaps," I
ventured, "I might be of some help in the administrative services."
The Accountant said nothing, his face was immobile, his hands still.
He'd learned his lessons well, once.
"In fact," I said, deciding to go for broke, "with my knowledge of the
language and the customs here, I might be of most service to Haldoria
right here on this planet."
"Had you guessed, by any chance, Trontar," the Accountant's voice was
neutrally soft, "that we won't be terraforming this world? And that we
may not even exploit the slavery proposition?"
"I thought both those possibilities likely," I admitted.
"But you know that in such a case we would have no administrative
services on this world? Thus you are, in fact, asking for a position
that wouldn't exist." The Accountant, without a change of position or
expression, somehow gave the impression of looming over me.
"I thought," I said, trying to pick exactly the right words, and at the
same time all too conscious of a twitching muscle in my left eyelid,
"that there might be an analogous position, even so."
The Accountant loomed higher.
"If only," he said, "you hadn't come to us, Trontar. I mean that you,
in effect, sold your associates out to me. And I hold that once a
seller, always a seller. If I could be certain that you are and will be
perfectly loyal to the Haldorian Way...."
I managed to quiet the twitching eyelid and to look perfectly loyal to
the Haldorian Way.
"Yes, Trontar," the Accountant said decisively, "I'll buy it."
* * * * *
The results of my conference with the Accountant were not long in
appearing.
The Haldorian troops were called in, along with the military governors
and the whole administrative body, and they all shipped out, somewhere
into the Big Out-There they all love so much. A surprised Earth was
informed that she was now a full-fledged and self-governing member of
the Haldorian Empire. The Terrans were not informed of the economic
factors behind this decision, though it might have been cheering for
them to know that their Spanglt Resistance Quotient indicated they
would make unsatisfactory slaves. Nor did the high cost of terraforming
the planet get mentioned. We Haldorians prefer the gratitude of others
towards us to be unalloyed with baser, or calculating, emotions.
Not all the Haldorian personnel went out to fight or to administer. I
understand the space-freighter run to the battle fleet in the Slug
Galaxy gained many new deck-hands, among them one whose uniform showed
the marks where Trontar's stripes had perched.
As for myself?
Well, a relatively minor operation changed me into a black-skinned
Terran, though the surgeon/replacers could do nothing, ironically
enough in view of my new color, to increase my resistance to heat. I
remember those stirring days of combat sometimes, usually when I am
making my semi-annual flight between Churchill, Manitoba, and Tierra
Del Fuego. In fact, during those flights when I am practically alone
is the only time I have to reflect or remember, because on both of my
estates there is nothing but noise, children, and wives.
But it's a good life when the snow is driving down out of a low gray
overcast, just like it does back on Haldor. It's a good life being
Resident Trader on Terra, especially when one is, on the side, a
trusted agent of the Accountant. It would be a perfect life--if the
Accountant hadn't been right about people being unable to stop selling
out.
Right now I'm up to my neck in this Terran conspiracy to revolt against
the very light bonds Haldoria left on this planet. But how could I
resist the tempting offer the Terrans made me? The long sought-for good
life, it now occurs to me, isn't so much in escaping from something,
but in knowing when to stop. But that I know. I'm drawing the line
right now. I'll just tell that agent of the Slug Galaxy that I have no
intention of selling out both this solar system _and_ Haldoria!