[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Why shouldn't a culture mimic another right
down to the last little detail? Because the
last detail may be just that--the final one!
The planet Lanit II had dwindled to a luminous speck. They were in
clear space now, at Breakoff Point. Beliakoff held the ship in position
while Kelly set dials for the jump into the hyperspatial drift opening,
which deep-space men knew as the Slot.
Beliakoff cracked his bony knuckles nervously. "Now, Johnny," he said,
"easy this time. _Real_ easy. Gentle her into it. She's not a new ship.
She resents being slammed into the Slot."
"She'll take it," Kelly said, with a boyish grin of almost suicidal
abandon.
"Maybe she will, but how about us? You sort of creased the Slot getting
us off Torriang. A little closer and--"
"I was still getting the touch. You ought to be glad I'm an
instinctive astrogator."
He set the last dial with a rapid twirl and reached for the kissoff
switch.
"You're out two decimal points," said Beliakoff, who worried about such
trifles. "Enough to ionize us."
"I know, I know," Kelly grumbled, adjusting the dial. "I was just
touching it for luck. Here we go!"
He depressed the kissoff switch. Beliakoff shut his eyes as the ship
lurched Slotward, wishing that Kyne, their government-inspected,
college-graduated astrogator was still aboard. Kyne had been an expert
at the job. But then, three planets back, he had suddenly gone after
a native stevedore with a micro-edge cleaver, screaming that no dirty
alien would ever marry _his_ daughter.
Kyne had no daughter.
Currently he was confined in Azolith, awaiting transportation
Earthside, to a padded little homy room in the Spaceman's Snug Port.
* * * * *
"How about that?" Kelly asked proudly, once the ship was locked in
hyperspace. "Superior intelligence and steel nerves do the trick every
time."
"Poor devil, Kyne," Beliakoff sighed.
"A paranoid," Kelly diagnosed. "Did he ever tell you about the plot to
keep him out of the Luna Military Academy?"
"He never talked to me much."
"That's because you're a cold, distant, unsympathetic type," Kelly
said, with a complacent smile. "Me, he told everything. He applied to
Luna every year. Studied all the textbooks on military organization,
land tactics, sea tactics, space strategy, histories of warfare.
Crammed his cabin with that junk. Knew it inside out. Fantastic memory!"
"Why didn't he get in?"
"Hemophilia. He couldn't pass the physical. He thought they were
plotting against him. Still, I'm grateful for the chance at a little
astrogation." With the barest hint of a smile, Kelly said, "I
understand it's possible to bring a ship sidewise through the Slot at
Terra."
"Please don't try," Beliakoff begged, shuddering. "I knew we should
have waited for Kyne's replacement at Mala."
"We'd still be there, with a cargo of kvash turning sour."
"I was afraid it would sour anyhow," Beliakoff said, with a worrier's
knack for finding trouble. "Mala is the slowest loading port this side
of the Rift. I must admit, however, they didn't do badly this time."
"Noticed that, did you?" Kelly asked.
"Hm? Did you find a way of speeding them up?"
"Sure. Gave them Kyne's old dog-eared books. They're crazy about books.
Really hustled for them."
Beliakoff said nothing for several seconds, but his long, sallow face
became pale. "You what?"
"Gave 'em the books. Don't worry," Kelly said quickly. "Kyne gave them
to me before they hauled him away."
"You gave the _warfare books_ to the people on Mala?"
"You mean I shouldn't have? Why not? What's wrong with Mala?"
"Plenty." Beliakoff grimly did some quick figuring. "It'll be a year,
their time, when we can get back. Kelly, take us out of hyperspace!"
"Now?" Kelly gasped. "Here?"
"At once!"
"But we might come out inside a star or--"
"That," Beliakoff said, his voice filled with righteousness, "simply
cannot be helped. We must return at once to Mala!"
* * * * *
General Drak, Commander of the Forces of the Empress, Wearer of the
Gold Star of Mala, sat at his desk in the Supreme Command Post, which
had recently been converted from a hardware store. He was engaged in a
fiery argument over the telephone with Nob, the Empress's right-hand
man.
"But damn it all," General Drak shouted, "I must have it! I am the
Supreme Commander, the General of All the Armies of the Dictatorship!
Doesn't that mean anything?"
"Not under the circumstances," Nob answered.
Two soldiers, standing guard in the General's quarters, listened
interestedly.
"Think he'll get it?" one asked.
"Not a chance," the other answered.
Drak glared them into silence, then returned to the argument. "Will
you please attempt to understand my position?" he said hoarsely. "You
put me in command. At my orders, the Armies of the Dictatorship move
against the Allied Democracies. All the other generals obey me. _Me!_
Correct?"
"He's got a point," one soldier said.
"He'll never get it," the other replied.
"Shut up, you two!" Drak roared. "Nob, aren't I right? It's the Earthly
way, Nob. Authority must be recognized!"
"I'm sorry," Nob said. "Extremely sorry. Personally, I sympathize with
you. But the _Book of Terran Rank Equivalents_ is quite specific. Seven
shoulder stars are the most--the absolute most--that any general can
wear. I absolutely cannot allow you to wear eight."
"But you gave Frix seven! And he's just Unit General!"
"That was before we understood the rules completely. We thought there
was no limit to the number of stars we could give and Frix was sulky.
I'm sorry, General, you'll just have to be satisfied with seven."
"Take one away from Frix, then."
"Can't. He'll resign."
"In that case, I resign."
"You aren't allowed to. The book, _Military Leadership_, specifically
states that a Supreme Commander never resigns during hostilities. An
Earthman would find the very thought inconceivable."
"All right!" Drak furiously slammed down the telephone.
The two soldiers exchanged winks.
"At attention, you two," Drak said. "You're supposed to be honor
guards. Why can't you act like honor guards?"
"We haven't got weapons," one of the soldiers pointed out.
"Can't be helped. I sent what we had to the front."
"But we need them here," the soldier said earnestly. "It's bad for
morale, us not having weapons, and morale is vital for victory."
Drak hated to be lectured, but he had to accept textbook truth when it
was quoted at him.
"You may be right," he agreed. "I'll try to get some back."
He rubbed his eyes tiredly. Everything had happened so quickly!
* * * * *
Just a week ago, Nob had walked into his store and inquired, "Drak, how
would you like to be a general?"
"I don't know," Drak had confessed honestly. "What is it and why do we
need one?"
"War starting," Nob said. "You've heard of war, haven't you? Earth
idea, _very_ Earthly. I'll explain later how it works. What do you say?"
"All right. But do you really think I'm the right type?"
"Absolutely. Besides, your hardware store is perfectly situated for the
Supreme Command Post."
But aside from the location of his hardware store, Drak had other
qualifications for leadership. For one thing, he looked like an Earth
general and this had loomed large in Nob's eyes. Drak was over six feet
tall, strongly built, solidly muscled. His eyes were gray, deep-set and
fierce; his nose was aquiline; his mouth was firm because he usually
held nails in it when he was out on a repair job.
In his uniform, Drak looked every inch a general; as a matter of fact,
he looked like several generals, for his cap came from the Earth-Mars
war of '82, his tunic was a relic of the D'eereli Campaign, his belt
was in the style of the Third Empire, his pants were a replica of the
Southern Star Front, while his shoes reminded one of the hectic days of
the Fanzani Rebellion.
But at least all his clothes were soldiers' clothes. His honor
guard had to piece out their uniforms with personal articles. They
had complained bitterly about the injustice of this, and had come
close to deserting. But Drak, after some hasty reading in Smogget's
_Leadership_, told them about the Terran doctrine of the Privileges of
Rank.
In front of him now was a report from the Allani Battle Front. He
wasn't sure what it said, since it was coded and he had neglected to
write down the code. Was it ENEMY REPULSED US WITH HEAVY LOSSES or
should it read US REPULSED ENEMY WITH HEAVY LOSSES?
He wished he knew. It made quite a difference.
The door burst open and a young corporal rushed in. "Hey, General, take
a look out the window!"
Drak started to rise, then reconsidered. Rules were rules.
"Hey, what?" he demanded.
"Forgot," the corporal said. "Hey, _sir_, take a look out the window,
huh?"
"Much better." Drak walked to the window and saw, in the distance, a
mass of ascending black smoke.
"City of Chando," the corporal said proudly. "Boy, we smacked it today!
Saturation bombing for ten hours. They can't use it for anything but a
gravel pit now!"
"Sir," Drak reminded.
"Sir. The planes are fueled up and waiting. What shall we flatten next,
huh, sir?"
"Let me see...." General Drak examined a wall map upon which the
important enemy cities were circled in red. There were Alis and Dryn,
Kys and Mos and Dlettre. Drak could think of no reason for leveling one
more than another. After a moment's thought, he pushed a button on his
desk.
"Yeah?" asked a voice over the loudspeaker.
"Which one, Ingif?"
"Kys, of course," said the cracked voice of his old hardware store
assistant. "Fellow over there owes us money and won't pay up."
"Thanks, Ingif." Drak turned to the corporal. "Go to it, soldier!"
"Yes, sir!"
The corporal hurried out.
General Drak turned back to the reports on his desk, trying again to
puzzle out what had happened at Allani. Repulsed Us? Us Repulsed? How
should it read?
"Oh, well," Drak said resignedly. "In the long run, I don't suppose it
really makes much difference."
* * * * *
Miles away, in no man's land, stood a bunker of reinforced concrete and
steel. Within the bunker were two men. They sat on opposite sides of
a plain wooden table and their faces were stern and impassive. Beside
each man was a pad and pencil. Upon each pad were marks.
Upon the table between them was a coin.
"Your toss," said the man on the right.