First Command (5 page)

“Yes. That’s so, sir. But how could they be traitors?”

“Opportunity, dear boy. Opportunity. Opportunity for a betrayal of the principles upon which our State was founded. Frankly, although I have long harbored suspicions, I did not really think that it was possible until the man Grimes landed here with his ship and his mixed crew. Now I realize the evil spell that can be exerted by those . . . creatures.”

“What creatures?” demanded Brasidus as impatiently as he dared.

“The Arcadians? Yes—that’s as good a name as any.” He refilled the mugs. “Now, I have to make my report and my recommendations to the Council. When Grimes made his first psionic contact with the spaceport authorities, before he reentered normal Space-Time, he requested permission to land and to take a census, and also to carry out ecological and ethological surveys. Ethology, by the way, is the science of behavior. I learned that much, although I’ve been making use of its principles for years. Later he confirmed this by normal radio—psionic reception at this end was rather garbled as our telepaths were completely unfamiliar with so many new concepts.

“As you well know, after your many spells of spaceport guard duty, it has always been contrary to Council policy to allow visiting spacemen to mingle with our population. But I shall recommend that in this case an exception be made, arguing that Grimes and his men are quite harmless, also that the Federation—yes, I’m afraid that there is one—is obviously powerful and might take offense if its servants are not hospitably received.

“My real reason for the recommendation I shall keep to myself.”

“And what is it, sir?”

“When a pot boils, Brasidus, all sorts of scum comes to the top. A few . . . Arcadians running around on Sparta might well bring the pot to the boil. And who will get scalded? That is the question.”

“You don’t like the doctors, Captain?”

“That I do not. I am hoping that those whom I suspect of treason will be forced to act—and to act rashly.”

“There is something suspicious about them—or about some of them.” Briefly, but omitting nothing, Brasidus told Diomedes of his encounter with Heraklion in the créche. “He was hiding something,” he concluded. “I am sure of that.”

“And you’re ideally situated to find out what it was, Brasidus.” Diomedes was thoughtful. “This is the way that we shall play it. Officially you are still a sergeant in the Police Battalion. Your pay will be made up, however, to lieutenant’s rates out of Security funds. You will be relieved of spaceport guard duties. You will discover, in fact, that your captain will be allowing you considerable free time—free insofar as he is concerned. As far as I am concerned, it will not be so free. Off duty, you will be able to visit your friend Achron at the créche. I already knew of your friendship with him, as a matter of fact—that was one of the reasons why I was considering having you transferred to my Branch. One of the nurses might have been a better recruit—but their loyalties are so unreliable. On duty, you will act as escort to Lieutenant Commander Grimes and his officers.

“And you will report to me everything—and I mean everything—you learn.”

“And what shall I learn, sir?”

“You’ll be surprised. It could be that I shall be, too.” He picked up the telephone on his desk, ordered his car brought round to the office. Then he said to Brasidus, “Give Hector his instructions. He can carry on until relieved. Then you can ride with me back to the city.”

Chapter 8

BACK IN THE CITY,
Diomedes had his driver proceed directly to the police barracks. There, with no trouble, he obtained an interview with Brasidus’ commanding officer. Brasidus, sitting on the hard bench outside the captain’s office, wondered what was being said about him. Then the door opened and he was called in.

He looked at the two men confronting him—the squat, somehow squalid Diomedes, the tall, soldierly Lycurgus. Diomedes looked smugly satisfied, Lycurgus, resentful. There could be no doubt as to how things had gone—and, suddenly, Brasidus hoped that he would not regret this change of masters.

“Sergeant—or should I say Lieutenant?” growled Lycurgus. “I think that you already know of your transfer. Officially, however, you are still a sergeant and you are still working for me. Your real orders, however, will come from Captain Diomedes.” He paused, then went on, “You are relieved from duty until 0800 hours tomorrow morning, at which time you are to report to the spaceport.” He turned to Diomedes. “He’s all yours, Diomedes.”

“Thank you, Lycurgus. You may accompany me. Brasidus.”

They left the office. Diomedes asked, “And when is your friend Achron on duty again, young man?”

“He has the midnight to 0600 shift for the rest of this week, sir.”

“Good. Then I propose that you spend the rest of the day at leisure; after all, this was supposed to be your free time, wasn’t it? Get some sleep this evening before midnight—you might visit Achron again then. Of course, you will report to me at the spaceport tomorrow morning. I have no doubt that I shall be able to persuade the Council to accede to Lieutenant Commander Grimes’ requests, so you will be required for escort duties.”

“And when I visit Achron, sir? Am I to carry out any investigations?”

“Yes. But cautiously, cautiously. Find out what you can without sticking your neck out. But I must leave you now. I have to report to my lords and masters.” His sardonic intonation left no doubt in Brasidus’ mind as to who was the real lord and master.

Brasidus went to the mess hall for a late and solitary luncheon of bread, lukewarm stew and beer. Then, conscious of his new (but secret) rank and his new responsibilities, he decided to visit the library. There were books, of course, in the recreation hall of the barracks, but these were mainly works of fiction, including the imaginative thrillers that were his favorite reading. (But none of the writers had imagined monsters so fantastic as these Arcadians—fantastic because of similarities to as well as differences from normal humankind.) He was in uniform still, but that did not matter. However, there was his belt, with its holstered pistols. He went to the desk sergeant to turn it in.

“Keep it, Brasidus,” he was told. “Captain Lycurgus said that you were on instant call as long as the spaceship’s in port.”

It made sense—just as the regulation forbidding the carrying of firearms when not on duty made sense; they might be used in a drunken brawl at one of the Clubs. However, Brasidus always felt happier when armed and so did not inquire further. He went out into the street, his iron-tipped sandals ringing on the cobbles. He stood on the sidewalk to watch a troop of armored cavalry pass, the tracks of the chariots striking sparks from the paving, the gay pennons whipping from the slender radio masts, the charioteers in their plumed helmets standing tall and proud in their turrets.

Cavalry in the city. The Council must be apprehensive.

Brasidus continued his walk when the chariots had gone by. He strode confidently up the wide stone steps to the white-pillared library entrance, but inside the cool building diffidence assailed him. An elderly man behind a big desk surveyed him disapprovingly, his gaze lingering on the weapons. “Yes, Sergeant? “ he demanded coldly.

“I . . . I want to do some reading.”

“Unless you’ve come here to make an arrest, that’s obvious. What sort of reading? We do have a thriller section.” He made “thriller” sound like a dirty word.

“No, not thrillers. We’ve plenty of those in our own recreation hall. History.”

The bushy white eyebrows lifted. “Oh. Historical thrillers.”

“No. Not thrillers.” Brasidus was finding it hard to keep his temper. “History.”

The old man did not get up from, his seat, but turned and pointed. “Through there, Sergeant. That door. If you want to take a book out, you’ll have to sign for it and pay a deposit, but there are tables and benches if you want to read on the premises.”

“Thank you,” said Brasidus.

He went through the door, noted the sign “HISTORICAL SECTION” above it. He stared at the book-lined walls, not knowing where to begin. He walked to the nearer shelves, just inside the doorway, the clatter of his uniform sandals on the marble floor drawing disapproving glares from the half dozen or so readers seated at the tables. But they were only helots, by the looks of them, and their feelings did not matter.

He scanned the row of titles. A History of Sparta, by Alcamenes. That would do to start with. He pulled it from its place on the shelf, carried it to a vacant table, sat down. He adjusted the reading lamp.

Yes, he had been lucky in his random choice. This seemed to be a very comprehensive history—starting, in fact, in prehistorical days. The story it told should not have been new to Brasidus. After all, he had been exposed to a normal education. But he had not paid much attention to his teachers, he had known that he was destined to be a soldier. So, apart from the study of past campaigns, of what value was education to him?

But here it all was. The evolution of a biped from a big-headed quadruped, with forelimbs modified to arms and hands. The slow, slow beginnings of civilization, of organized science. And then, at last, the invention of the birth machine by Lacedaemon, the perfection of the technique by which the father’s seed could be brought to maturity apart from his body. No longer hampered by the process of budding, men went ahead by leaps and bounds. Aristodemus, the first King of Sparta, organized and drilled his army and navy, subjugated the other city-states, imposed the name of his capital upon the entire planet, although (even to this day, as Brasidus knew) there were occasional armed revolts.

And there were the scientific advancements. The mechanical branch of the priesthood advanced from aeronautics to astronautics and, under Admiral Latterus, a star fleet was launched, its object being the colonization of a relatively nearby planet. But Latterus was ambitious, set up his own kingdom, and with him he had taken the only priests who knew the secret of the interstellar drive. After many generations the people of Latterhaven—as Latterus’ colony had been called—revisited Sparta. A trade agreement was drawn up and signed, complying with which the Latterhaveneers sent two ships every year, bringing various manufactured goods in exchange for shipments of the spices that grew only on Sparta.

Impatiently Brasidus turned to the index. Interstellar Federation. No. Not listed. Interstellar ships, interstellar drive, but no Federation. But that would have been too much to expect. Latterhaven had a history, but its people kept it to themselves. This Admiral Latterus had his ships and, no doubt, one planet had not been enough for him. He had his birth machines—and, even though Brasidus was no biologist, he was sure that it would be possible to accelerate production. The natural way—intercourse between two beings and, possibly, each one budding—was slow and wasteful. Suppose that all the seed were utilized. Then how long would it take to build up teeming populations on a dozen worlds?

Terra, for example.

And Arcadia?

No. Not Arcadia.

But were the Arcadians human? Could they be the result of a malfunction of the birth machine set up on their planet? If this was the case, how could they, with their obvious physical deficiencies, reproduce?

Brasidus looked up Arcadia in the index. It was not, of course, listed.

He put Alcamenes’ book back on the shelf, went out to see the old librarian. “Have you,” he asked, “anything on the Interstellar Federation? Or on a world called Arcadia?”

“I told you,” buffed the ancient man, “that it was fiction you wanted. Science fiction, at that.”

“Suppose I told you that there is an Interstellar Federation? Suppose I told you that there are, at present, Arcadians on Sparta?”

“I’d say, young man, that you were quite mad—if it wasn’t for your uniform. And it’s not that I’m afraid of that, or of the guns you wear into my library. It’s because that I know—as who doesn’t?—that a strange, unscheduled ship has made a landing at the spaceport. And you’re a sergeant in the Police Battalion of the Army, so you know more about what’s going on than we poor scholars.” He cackled. “Go on, Sergeant. Tell me more. I am always willing to acquire new knowledge.”

“What rumors have you heard?” asked Brasidus. After all, he was a Security officer now and might as well start acting like one.

“They say that this ship’s a battleship—and, with the Air Navy hanging over the spaceport like a bad smell and the streets full of cavalry, it could well be. They say that the President of Latterhaven has demanded our instant surrender. They say, too, that the ship’s not from Latterhaven at all, that it’s manned by robots with twin turrets on their chests from which they shoot lethal rays.”

“They must be functional . . .” mused Brasidus, “I suppose.”

“What must be?” demanded the librarian.

“Those twin turrets. Good day to you.”

He clanked out through the wide doorway, down the stone steps.

Chapter 9

BRASIDUS WALKED BACK
to his barracks, thinking over what he had read and what the librarian had told him. It all tied in—almost. But how did it tie in with Diomedes’ suspicions of the medical priesthood? Perhaps tonight he would be able to find something out.

In the mess hall he partook of an early evening meal—and still his active brain was working. The spices exported to Latterhaven were a luxury, so much so that they were used but rarely in Spartan cookery. And you can say that again, Brasidus told himself, chewing viciously on his almost flavorless steak. Obviously they were also a luxury on the other planet; otherwise why should the Latterhaveneers find it worthwhile to send two ships every year for the annual shipment? But what did the Latterhaveneers bring in return for the spices? Manufactured goods. But what manufactured goods?

Brasidus, as a spaceport guard, had watched the Latterhaven ships discharging often enough. He had seen the unmarked wooden crates sliding down the conveyor belts into the waiting trucks, had vaguely wondered where these same trucks were bound when, escorted by police chariots, they had left the spaceport. He had made inquiries once, of one of the charioteers whom he knew slightly. “We just convoy them into the city,” the man had told him. “They’re unloaded at that big warehouse—you know the one, not far from the créche. Andronicus Imports.”