_There are--and very probably
will always be--some Terrestrials
who can't, and for
that matter don't want, to call
their souls their own...._
Xanabar lays across the Spiral Arm, a sprawling sphere of influence
vast, mighty, solid at the core. Only the far-flung boundary shows the
slight ebb and flow of contingent cultures that may win a system or two
today and lose them back tomorrow or a hundred years from now. Xanabar
is the trading post of the galaxy, for only Xanabar is strong enough to
stand over the trading table when belligerents meet and offer to take
them both at once if they do not sheathe their swords. For this service
Xanabar assesses her percentage, therefore Xanabar is rich. Her riches
buy her mercenaries to enforce her doctrines. Therefore Xanabar is
rotten at the under-core, for mercenaries have no god but gold.
* * * * *
The clatter of a hundred tongues mingled with the clink of glasses and
floated through strata of smoke from the burning weeds of a hundred
planets. From one of the tables, voices rise in mild disagreement. There
is a jeering laugh from one side and a roar of anger from the other. Two
men rise and face one another ready to follow their insults with
violence. Before the eruption can start, a mercenary steps forward on
lithe feet and lightly catches the back-swung arm, a quick hand removes
the poised glass before it can be thrown into the adversary's face.
"Sit!" says the mercenary in a cold voice, and they sit still glaring at
one another.
"Now," says the mercenary, "settle your differences by talk. Or depart
in opposite directions. This is Xanabar!"
"He lies! He brags!"
"I do not lie. They _are_ barbarians. I do not brag. I _can_ bring you
one."
"You--"
"A wager," said the mercenary. "A wager. Xanabar can take no tax in
blood." He faces one. "You claim you can do that which he says you can
not." Then not waiting for a reply he faces the other, "And if he does,
how much are you willing to pay?"
"How much is his life worth?"
"How much are you willing to pay?" demands the mercenary coldly.
"Five hundredweight in crystal-cut."
"An honorable sum. Do you agree?"
"Not enough--"
"For a task as easy as you claim it to be," said the mercenary, "Five
hundredweight of crystal-cut seems honorable."
"But it means--"
"We in Xanabar are not interested in the details. Only in the tax. An
honest wager-contract, outlanders. Otherwise I rule that your eruption
here disturbed the peace."
The two outlanders look at one another; schoolboys caught fighting in
the alley by a monitor who demands a bite of their apple in lieu of a
visit to the principal. As if loath to touch one another they reach
forward hesitantly and handshake in a quick light grip.
"Good!" glows the mercenary. He waves a hand and his fellows converge
with contract-platen and etching stylus. "Now, gentlemen, please state
the terms for Xanabar."
* * * * *
Peter Hawley strolled down a side street with a dog at his heel. It was
a dog of many breeds, but not a mixture of careless parentage. Peter
paused at a cross-street and looked uncertainly to left and right. "What
do you make, Buregarde?"
"The noble dog says right," replied Buregarde.
"Right," said Peter turning up the street. "And stop this 'Noble dog'
routine."
"Man is dog's best friend," said Buregarde. "If you'd called me
something sensible, I wouldn't have looked it up. There is a statue to
me in the Okeefenokee back on Earth. I am the noble dog. Pogo says so."
"I--"
"Easy Peter!" said the dog in a near-whisper.
"All right. Do we play down the chatter?"
Buregarde sat, lifted his nose and sniffed. His natural voice gave a
faint whine of discontent. "I'm supposed to have a nose," he complained.
"This is like trying to smell out a lone mouse in a zoological garden in
midsummer."
"Why the warning?" asked Peter.
"All races smell the same when they are poised for violence," said the
dog. "Trouble is that man-smell isn't pointed the way it's going, only
where it's coming from."