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Title: That Share of Glory
Author: Kornbluth, Cyril M. (1924-1958)
Author [introductory description]: Anonymous
Date of first publication: January 1952
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: Astounding Science-Fiction, January 1952
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 2 October 2014
Date last updated: 2 October 2014
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1206

This ebook was produced by Al Haines and Mark Akrigg


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

The illustrations by Canadian artist Hubert Rogers
(1898-1982) in the original printed edition have been
omitted from this ebook for copyright reasons.

About three quarters of the way through the story,
Judge Krarl initiates his hearing with a mumbled sentence
which Kornbluth represents as a single very long word beginning
"Letbattlebejoined". We have split this single word across
three lines, joined by hyphens.

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

Bold letters in the original printed edition are indicated =thus=.




THAT SHARE OF GLORY

BY C. M. KORNBLUTH




_=A language= is more than a pattern of words; it's part and parcel
of a vaster system of concomitant traditions and cultural beliefs.
And being a Translator for a galaxy of planetary folk..._




Young Alen, one of a thousand in the huge refectory, ate
absent-mindedly as the reader droned into the perfect silence of the
hall.  Today's lesson happened to be a word-list of the Thetis VIII
planet's sea-going folk.

"_Tlon_--a ship," droned the reader.

"_Rtlo_--some ships, number unknown.

"_Long_--some ships, number known, always modified by cardinal.

"_Ongr_--a ship in a collection of ships, always modified by ordinal.

"_Ngrt_--first ship in a collection of ships; an exception to _ongr_."

A lay brother tiptoed to Alen's side.  "The Rector summons you," he
whispered.

Alen had no time for panic, though that was the usual reaction to a
summons from the Rector to a novice.  He slipped from the refectory,
stepped onto the northbound corridor and stepped off at his cell, a
minute later and a quarter-mile farther on.  Hastily, but meticulously,
he changed from his drab habit to the heraldic robes in the cubicle
with its simple stool, washstand, desk, and paperweight or two.  Alen,
a level-headed young fellow, was not aware that he had broken any
section of the Order's complicated Rule, but he was aware that he could
have done so without knowing it.  It might, he thought, be the last
time he would see the cell.

He cast a glance which he hoped would not be the final one over it; a
glance which lingered a little fondly on the reel rack where were
stowed: "Nicholson on Martian Verbs," "The New Oxford Venusian
Dictionary," the ponderous six-reeler "Deutche-Ganymediche
Konversasionslexikon" published long ago and far away in Leipzig.  The
later works were there, too: "The Tongues of the Galaxy--An Essay in
Classification," "A Concise Grammar of Cephean," "The Self-Pronouncing
Vegan II Dictionary"--scores of them, and, of course, the worn reel of
old Machiavelli's "The Prince."

Enough of that!  Alen combed out his small, neat beard and stepped onto
the southbound corridor.  He transferred to an eastbound at the next
intersection and minutes later was before the Rector's lay secretary.

"You'd better review your Lyran irregulars," said the secretary
disrespectfully.  "There's a trader in there who's looking for a cheap
herald on a swindling trip to Lyra VI."  Thus unceremoniously did Alen
learn that he was not to be ejected from the Order but that he was to
be elevated to Journeyman.  But as a herald should he betrayed no sign
of his immense relief.  He did, however, take the secretary's advice
and sensibly reviewed his Lyran.

While he was in the midst of a declension which applied only to
inanimate objects, the voice of the Rector--and what a mellow voice it
was!--floated through the secretary's intercom.

"Admit the novice, Alen," said the Master Herald.



A final settling of his robes and the youth walked into the Rector's
huge office, with the seal of the Order blazing in diamonds above his
desk.  There was a stranger present; presumably the trader--a
black-bearded fellow whose rugged frame didn't carry his Vegan cloak
with ease.

Said the Rector: "Novice, this is to be the crown of your toil if you
are acceptable to--?"  He courteously turned to the trader, who
shrugged irritably.

"It's all one to me," growled the blackbeard.  "Somebody cheap,
somebody who knows the cant of the thievish Lyran gem peddlers, above
all, somebody _at once_.  Overhead is devouring my flesh day by day as
the ship waits at the field.  And when we are space-borne, my imbecile
crew will doubtless waste liter after priceless liter of my fuel.  And
when we land the swindling Lyrans will without doubt make my ruin
complete by tricking me even out of the minute profit I hope to
realize.  Good Master Herald, let me have the infant cheap and I'll bid
you good day."

The Rector's shaggy eyebrows drew down in a frown.  "Trader," he said
sonorously, "our mission of galactic utilitarian culture is not
concerned with your margin of profit.  I ask you to test this youth
and, if you find him able, to take him as your Herald on your voyage.
He will serve you well, for he has been taught that commerce and words,
its medium, are the unifying bonds which will one day unite the cosmos
into a single humankind.  Do not conceive that the College and Order of
Heralds is a mere aid to you in your commercial adventure."

"Very well," growled the trader.  He addressed Alen in broken Lyran:
"Boy, how you make up Vegan stones of three fires so Lyran women like,
come buy, buy again?"

Alen smoothly replied: "The Vegan triple-fire gem finds most favor on
Lyran and especially among its women when set in a wide glass anklet if
large, and when arranged in the Lyran 'lucky five' pattern in a glass
thumb-ring if small."  He was glad, very glad, he had come across--and
as a matter of course memorized, in the relentless fashion of the
Order--a novel which touched briefly on the Lyran jewel trade.



The trader glowered and switched to Cephean--apparently his native
tongue.  "That was well-enough said, Herald.  Now tell me whether
you've got guts to man a squirt in case we're intercepted by the
thieving so-called Customs collectors of Eyolf's Realm between here and
Lyra?"

Alen knew the Rector's eyes were on him.  "The noble mission of our
Order," he said, "forbids me to use any weapon but the truth in
furthering cosmic utilitarian civilization.  No, master trader, I shall
not man one of your weapons."

The trader shrugged.  "So I must take what I get.  Good Master Herald,
make me a price."

The Rector said casually: "I regard this chiefly as a training mission
for our novice; the fee will be nominal.  Let us say twenty-five per
cent of your net as of blastoff from Lyra, to be audited by
Journeyman-Herald Alen."

The trader's howl of rage echoed in the dome of the huge room.  "It's
not fair!" he roared.  "Who but you thievish villains with your Order
and your catch-'em-young and your years of training can learn the
tongues of the galaxy?  What chance has a decent merchant busy with
profit and loss got to learn the cant of every race between Sirius and
the Coalsack?  It's not fair!  It's not fair and I'll say so until my
dying breath!"

"Die outside if you find our terms unacceptable, then," said the
Rector.  "The Order does not haggle."

"Well I know it," sighed the trader brokenly.  "I should have stuck to
my own system and my good father's pump-flange factory.  But no!  I had
to pick up a bargain in gems on Vego!  Enough of this--bring me your
contract and I'll sign it."

The Rector's shaggy eyebrows went went up.  "There is no contract," he
said.  "A mutual trust between Herald and trader is the cornerstone
upon which cosmos-wide amity and understanding will be built."

"At twenty-five per cent of an unlicked pup," muttered blackbeard to
himself in Cephean.



None of his instructors had played Polonius as Alen, with the seal of
the Journeyman-Herald on his brow, packed for blastoff and vacated his
cell.  He supposed they knew that twenty years of training either had
done their work or had not.

The trader taking Alen to the field where his ship waited, was less
wise.  "The secret of successful negotiation," he weightily told his
Herald, "is to yield willingly.  This may strike you as a paradox, but
it is the veritable key to my success in maintaining the profits of my
good father's pump-flange trade.  The secret is to yield with rueful
admiration of your opponent--but _only in unimportant details_.  Put up
a little battle about delivery date or about terms of credit and then
let him have his way.  But you never give way a hair's breadth on your
asking price unless--"

Alen let him drivel on as they drove through the outer works of the
College.  He was glad the car was open.  For the first time he was
being accorded the doffed hat that is the due of Heralds from their
inferiors in the Order, and the grave nod of salutation from equals.
Five-year-old postulants seeing his brow-seal tugged off their headgear
with comical celerity; fellow-novices, equals a few hours before,
uncovered as though he were the Rector himself.

The ceremonial began to reach the trader.  When, with a final
salutation, a lay warder let them through the great gate of the curtain
wall, he said with some irritation: "They appear to hold you in high
regard, boy."

"I am better addressed as 'Herald'," said Alen composedly.

"A plague descend on the College and Order!  Do you think I don't know
my manners?  Of course, I call a Herald 'Herald,' but we're going to be
cooped up together and you'll be working for me.  What'll happen to
ship's discipline if I have to kowtow to you?"

"There will be no problem," said Alen.

Blackbeard grunted and trod fiercely on the accelerator.

"That's my ship," he said at length.  "_Starsong_.  Vegan registry--it
may help passing through Eyolf's Realm.  though it cost me overmuch in
bribes.  A crew of eight, lazy, good-for-nothing wastrels--Agh!  Can I
believe my eyes?"  The car jammed to a halt before the looming ship and
blackbeard was up the ladder and through the port in a second.
Settling his robes, Alen followed.



He found the trader fiercely denouncing his chief engineer for using
space drive to heat the ship; he had seen the faint haze of a minimum
exhaust from the stern tubes.

"For that, dolt," screamed blackbeard, "we have a thing known as
electricity.  Have you by chance ever heard of it?  Are you aware that
a chief engineer's responsibility is the efficient and _economical_
operation of his ship's drive mechanism?"

The chief, a cowed-looking Cephean, saw Alen with relief and swept off
his battered cap.  The Herald nodded gravely and the trader broke off
in irritation.  "We need none of that bowing and scraping for the rest
of the voyage," he declared.

"Of course not, sir," said the chief.  "O'course not.  I was just
welcoming the Herald aboard.  Welcome aboard, Herald.  I'm Chief Elwon,
Herald.  And I'm glad to have a Herald with us."  A covert glance at
the trader.  "_I've_ voyaged with Heralds and without, and I don't mind
saying I feel safer indeed with you aboard."

"May I be taken to my quarters?" asked Alen.

"Your--?" began the trader, stupefied.

The chief broke in: "I'll fix you a cabin, Herald.  We've got some
bulkheads I can rig aft for a snug little space, not roomy, but the
best a little ship like this can afford."

The trader collapsed into a bucket seat as the chief bustled aft and
Alen followed.

"Herald," the chief said with some embarrassment after he had collared
two crewmen and set them to work, "you'll have to excuse our good
master trader.  He's new to the interstar lanes and he doesn't exactly
know the jets yet.  Between us we'll get him squared away."

Alen inspected the cubicle run up for him--a satisfactory enclosure
affording him the decent privacy he rated.  He dismissed the chief and
the crewmen with a nod and settled himself on the cot.

Beneath the iron composure in which he had been trained, he felt scared
and alone.  Not even old Machiavelli seemed to offer comfort or
council: "There is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more
perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the
lead in the introduction of a new order of things," said Chapter Six.

But what said Chapter Twenty-Six?  "Where the willingness is great, the
difficulties cannot be great."



_Starsong_ was not a happy ship.  Blackbeard's nagging stinginess hung
over the crew like a thundercloud, but Alen professed not to notice.
He walked regularly fore and aft for two hours a day greeting the crew
members in their various native tongues and then wrapping himself in
the reserve the Order demanded--though he longed to salute them
man-to-man, eat with them, gossip about their native planets, the past
misdeeds that had brought them to their berths aboard the miserly
_Starsong_ and their hopes for the future.  The Rule of the College and
Order of Heralds decreed otherwise.  He accepted the uncoverings of the
crew with a nod and tried to be pleased because they stood in growing
awe of him that ranged from Chief Elwon's lively appreciation of a
Herald's skill to Wiper Jukkl's superstitious reverence.  Jukkl was a
low-browed specimen from a planet of the decadent Sirius system.  He
outdid the normal slovenliness of an all-male crew on a freighter--a
slovenliness in which Alen could not share.  Many of his waking hours
were spent in his locked cubicle burnishing his metal and cleaning and
pressing his robes.  A Herald was never supposed to suggest by his
appearance that he shared mortal frailties.

Blackbeard himself yielded a little, to the point of touching his cap
sullenly.  This probably was not so much awe at Alen's studied manner
as respect for the incisive, lightning-fast job of auditing the Herald
did on the books of the trading venture--absurdly complicated books
with scores of accounts to record a simple matter of buying gems cheap
on Vega and chartering a ship in the hope of selling them dearly on
Lyra.  The complicated books and overlapping accounts did tell the
story, but they made it very easy for an auditor to erroneously read a
number of costs as far higher than they actually were.  Alen did not
fall into the trap.

On the fifth day after blastoff, Chief Elwon rapped, respectfully but
urgently, on the door of Alen's cubicle.

"If you please, Herald," he urged, "could you come to the bridge?"

Alen's heart bounded in his chest, but he gravely said: "My meditation
must not be interrupted.  I shall join you on the bridge in ten
minutes."  And for ten minutes he methodically polished a murky link in
the massive gold chain that fastened his boat-cloak--the "meditation."
He donned the cloak before stepping out; the summons sounded like a
full-dress affair in the offing.



The trader was stamping and fuming.  Chief Elwon was riffling through
his spec book unhappily.  Astrogator Hufner was at the plot computer
running up trajectories and knocking them down again.  A quick glance
showed Alen that they were all high-speed trajectories in the "evasive
action" class.

"Herald," said the trader grimly, "we have broken somebody's detector
bubble."  He jerked his thumb at a red-lit signal.  "I expect we'll be
overhauled shortly.  Are you ready to earn your twenty-five per cent of
the net?"

Alen overlooked the crudity.  "Are you rigged for color video,
merchant?" he asked.

"We are."

"Then I am ready to do what I can for my client."

He took the communicator's seat, stealing a glance in the still-blank
screen.  The reflection of his face was reassuring, though he wished he
had thought to comb his small beard.

Another light flashed on, and Hufner quit the operator to study the
detector board.  "Big, powerful and getting closer," he said tersely.
"Scanning for us with directionals now.  Putting out plenty of energy--"

The loud-speaker of the ship-to-ship audio came to life.

"What ship are you?" it demanded in Vegan.  "We are a Customs cruiser
of the Realm of Eyolf.  What ship are you?"

"Have the crew man the squirts," said the trader softly to the chief.

Elwon looked at Alen, who shook his head.  "Sorry, sir," said the
engineer apologetically.  "The Herald--"

"We are the freighter _Starsong_, Vegan registry," said Alen into the
audio mike as the trader choked.  "We are carrying Vegan gems to Lyra."

"They're on us," said the astrogator despairingly, reading his
instruments.  The ship-to-ship video flashed on, showing an arrogant,
square-jawed face topped by a battered naval cap.

"Lyra indeed!  We have plans of our own for Lyra.  You will heave to--"
began the officer in the screen, before he noted Alen.  "My pardon,
Herald," he said sardonically.  "Herald, will you please request the
ship's master to heave to for boarding and search?  We wish to assess
and collect Customs duties.  You are aware, of course, that your vessel
is passing through the Realm."

The man's accented Vegan reeked of Algol IV.  Alen switched to that
obscure language to say: "We were not aware of that.  Are you aware
that there is a reciprocal trade treaty in effect between the Vegan
system and the Realm which specifies that freight in Vegan bottoms is
dutiable only when consigned to ports in the Realm?"

"You speak Algolian, do you?  You Heralds have not been underrated, but
don't plan to lie your way out of this.  Yes, I am aware of some such
agreement as you mentioned.  We shall board you, as I said, and assess
and collect duty in kind.  If, regrettably, there has been any mistake
you are, of course, free to apply to the Realm for reimbursement.  Now,
heave to!"

"I have no intentions of lying.  I speak the solemn truth when I say
that we shall fight to the last man any attempt of yours to board and
loot us."



Alen's mind was racing furiously through the catalogue of planetary
folkways the Rule had decreed that he master.  Algol IV--some
ancestor-worship; veneration of mother; hand-to-hand combat with
knives; complimentary greeting, "May you never strike down a weaker
foe"; folk-hero Gaarek unjustly accused of slaying a cripple and exiled
but it was an enemy's plot--

A disconcerted shadow was crossing the face of the officer as Alen
improvised: "You will, of course, kill us all.  But before this happens
I shall have messaged back to the College and Order of Heralds the
facts in the case, with a particular request that your family be
informed.  Your name, I think, will be remembered as long as
Gaarek's--though not in the same way, of course; the Algolian whose
hundred-man battle cruiser wiped out a virtually unarmed freighter with
a crew of eight."

The officer's face was dark with rage.  "You devil!" he snarled.
"Leave my family out of this!  I'll come aboard and fight you
man-to-man if you have the stomach for it!"

Alen shook his head regretfully.  "The Rule of my Order forbids
recourse to violence," he said.  "Our only permissible weapon is the
truth."

"We're coming aboard," said the officer grimly.  "I'll order my men not
to harm your people.  We'll just be collecting customs.  If your people
shoot first, my men will be under orders to do nothing more than
disable them."

Alen smiled and uttered a sentence or two in Algolian.

The officer's jaw dropped and he croaked, after a pause: "I'll cut you
to ribbons.  You can't say that about my mother, you--" and he spewed
back some of the words Alen had spoken.

"Calm yourself," said the Herald gravely.  "I apologize for my
disgusting and unheraldic remarks.  But I wished to prove a point.  You
would have killed me if you could; I touched off a reaction which had
been planted in you by your culture.  I will be able to do the same
with the men of yours who come aboard.  For every race of man there is
the intolerable insult that must be avenged in blood.

"Send your men aboard under orders not to kill if you wish; I shall
goad them into a killing rage.  We shall be massacred, yours will be
the blame and you will be disgraced and disowned by your entire
planet."  Alen hoped desperately that the naval crews of the Realm
were, as reputed, a barbarous and undisciplined lot--

Evidently they were, and the proud Algolian dared not risk it.  In his
native language he spat again: "You devil!" and switched back into
Vegan.  "Freighter _Starsong_," he said bleakly, "I find that my space
fix was in error and that you are not in Realm territory.  You may
proceed."

The astrogator said from the detector board, incredulously: "He's
disengaging.  He's off us.  He's accelerating.  Herald _what_ did you
say to him?"

But the reaction from blackbeard was more gratifying.  Speechless, the
trader took off his cap.  Alen acknowledged the salute with a grave nod
before he started back to his cubicle.  It was just as well, he
reflected, that the trader didn't know his life and his ship had been
unconditionally pledged in a finish fight against a hundred-man battle
cruiser.



Lyra's principal spaceport was pocked and broken, but they made a
fair-enough landing.  Alen, in full heraldic robes, descended from
_Starsong_ to greet a handful of port officials.

"Any metals aboard?" demanded one of them.

"None for sale," said the Herald.  "We have Vegan gems, chiefly
triple-fire."  He knew that the dull little planet was short of metals
and, having made a virtue of necessity was somehow prejudiced against
their import.

"Have your crew transfer the cargo to the Customs shed," said the port
official studying _Starsong's_ papers.  "And all of you wait there."

All of them--except Alen--lugged numbered sacks and boxes of gems to
the low brick building designated.  The trader was allowed to pocket a
handful for samples before the shed was sealed--a complicated business.
A brick was mortared over the simple ironwood latch that closed the
ironwood door, a pat of clay was slapped over the brick and the port
seal stamped in it.  A mechanic with what looked like a pottery
blowtorch fed by powdered coal played a flame on the clay seal until it
glowed orange-red and that was that.

"Herald," said the port official, "tell the merchant to sign here and
make his fingerprints."

Alen studied the document; it was a simple identification form.
Blackbeard signed with the reed pen provided and fingerprinted the
document.  After two weeks in space he scarcely needed to ink his
fingers first.

"Now tell him that we'll release the gems on his written fingerprinted
order to whatever Lyran citizens he sells to.  And explain that this
roundabout system is necessary to avoid metal smuggling.  Please remove
_all_ metal from your clothes and stow it on your ship.  Then we will
seal that, too, and put it under guard until you are ready to take off.
We regret that we will have to search you before we turn you loose, but
we can't afford to have our economy disrupted by irresponsible
introduction of metals."  Alen had not realized it was that bad.

After the thorough search that extended to the confiscation of
forgotten watches and pins, the port officials changed a sheaf of the
trader's uranium-backed Vegan currency into Lyran legal tender based on
man-hours.  Blackbeard made a partial payment to the crew, told them to
have a good liberty and check in at the port at sunset tomorrow for
probable take-off.



Alen and the trader were driven to town in an unlikely vehicle whose
power plant was a pottery turbine.  The driver, when they were safely
out on the open road, furtively asked whether they had any metal they
wanted to discard.

The trader asked sharply in his broken Lyran: "What you do you get
metal?  Where sell, how use?"

The driver, following a universal tendency, raised his voice and lapsed
into broken Lyran himself to tell the strangers: "Black market science
men pay much, much for little bit metal.  Study, use build.
Politicians make law no metal, what I care politicians?  But you no
tell, gentlemen?"

"We won't tell," said Alen.  "But we have no metal for you."

The driver shrugged.

"Herald," said the trader, "what do you make of it?"

"I didn't know it was a political issue.  We concern ourselves with the
basic patterns of a people's behavior, not the day-to-day expressions
of the patterns.  The planet's got no heavy metals, which means there
were no metals available to the primitive Lyrans.  The lighter metals
don't occur in native form or in easily-split compounds.  They
proceeded along the ceramic line instead of the metallic line and
appear to have done quite well for themselves up to a point.  No
electricity, of course, no aviation and no space flight."

"And," said the trader, "naturally the people who make these buggies
and that blowtorch we saw are scared witless that metals will be
imported and put them out of business.  So naturally they have laws
passed prohibiting it."

"Naturally," said the Herald, looking sharply at the trader.  But
blackbeard was back in character a moment later.  "An outrage," he
growled.  "Trying to tell a man what he can and can't import when he
sees a decent chance to make a bit of profit."

The driver dropped them at a boardinghouse.  It was half-timbered
construction, which appeared to be swankier than the more common brick.
The floors were plate glass, roughened for traction.  Alen got them a
double room with a view.

"What's that thing?" demanded the trader, inspecting the view.

The thing was a structure looming above the slate and tile roofs of the
town--a round brick tower for its first twenty-five meters and then
wood for another fifteen.  As they studied it, it pricked up a pair of
ears at the top and began to flop them wildly.

"Semaphore," said Alen.

A minute later blackbeard piteously demanded from the bathroom: "_How_
do you make water come out of the tap?  I touched it all over but
nothing happened."

"You have to turn it," said Alen, demonstrating.  "And that thing--you
pull it sharply down, hold it and then release."

"Barbarous," muttered the trader.  "Barbarous."

An elderly maid came in to show them how to string their hammocks and
ask if they happened to have a bit of metal to give her for a souvenir.

They sent her away and, rather than face the public dining room, made a
meal from their own stores and turned in for the night.

It's going well, thought Alen drowsily: going very well indeed.



He awoke abruptly, but made no move.  It was dark in the double room,
and there were stealthy, furtive little noises nearby.  A hundred
thoughts flashed through his head of Lyran treachery and
double-dealing.  He lifted his eyelids a trifle and saw a figure
silhouetted against the faint light of the big window.  If a burglar,
he was a clumsy one.

There was a stirring from the other hammock, the trader's.  With a
subdued roar that sounded like "Thieving villains!" blackbeard launched
himself from the hammock at the intruder.  But his feet tangled in the
hammock cords and he belly-flopped on the floor.

The burglar, if it was one, didn't dash smoothly and efficiently for
the door.  He straightened himself against the window and said
resignedly: "You need not fear.  I will make no resistance."

Alen rolled from the hammock and helped the trader to his feet.  "He
said he doesn't want to fight," he told the trader.

Blackbeard seized the intruder and shook him like a rat.  "So the rogue
is a coward too!" he boomed.  "Give us a light, Herald."

Alen uncovered the slow-match, blew it to a flame, squeakily pumped up
a pressure torch until a jet of pulverized coal sprayed from its nozzle
and ignited it.  A dozen strokes more and there was enough heat feeding
back from the jet to maintain the pressure cycle.

Through all of this the trader was demanding in his broken Lyran: "What
make here, thief?  What reason thief us room?"

The Herald brought the hissing pressure lamp to the window.  The
intruder's face was not the unhealthy, neurotic face of a criminal.
Its thin lines told of discipline and thought.

"What did you want here?" asked Alen.

"Metal," said the intruder simply.  "I thought you might have a bit of
iron."

It was the first time a specific metal had been named by any Lyran.  He
used, of course, the Vegan word for iron.

"You are particular," remarked the Herald.  "Why iron?"

"I have heard that it possesses certain properties--perhaps you can
tell me before you turn me over to the police.  Is it true, as we hear,
that a mass of iron whose crystals have been aligned by a sharp blow
will strongly attract another piece of iron with a force related to the
distance between them?"

"It is true," said the Herald, studying the man's face.  It was lit
with excitement.  Deliberately Alen added: "This alignment is more
easily and uniformly effected by placing the mass of iron in an
electric field--that is, a space surrounding the passage of an electron
stream through a conductor."  Many of the words he used had to be
Vegan; there were no Lyran words for "electric," "electron" or
"conductor."

The intruder's face fell.  "I have tried to master the concept you
refer to," he admitted.  "But it is beyond me.  I have questioned other
interstar voyagers and they have touched on it, but I cannot grasp
it--But thank you, sir; you have been very courteous.  I will trouble
you no further while you summon the watch."

"You give up too easily," said Alen.  "For a scientist, much too
easily.  If we turn you over to the watch, there will be hearings and
testimony and whatnot.  Our time is limited here on your planet; I
doubt that we can spare any for your legal processes."

The trader let go of the intruder's shoulder and grumbled: "Why you no
ask we have iron, I tell you no.  Search, search, take all metal away.
We no police you.  I sorry hurted you arms.  Here for you."  Blackbeard
brought out a palmful of his sample gems and picked out a large
triple-fire stone.  "You not be angry me," he said, putting it in the
Lyran's hand.

"I can't--" said the scientist.

Blackbeard closed his fingers over the stone and growled: "I give, you
take.  Maybe buy iron with, eh?"

"That's so," said the Lyran.  "Thank you both, gentlemen.  Thank you--"

"You go," said the trader.  "You go, we sleep again."

The scientist bowed with dignity and left their room.

"Gods of space," swore the trader.  "To think that Jukkl, the
_Starsong's_ wiper, knows more about electricity and magnetism than a
brainy fellow like that."

"And they are the key to physics," mused Alen.  "A scientist here is
dead-ended forever, because their materials are all insulators!  Glass,
clay, glaze, wood."

"Funny, all right," yawned blackbeard.  "Did you see me collar him once
I got on my feet?  Sharp, eh?  Good night, Herald."  He gruntingly
hauled himself into the hammock again, leaving Alen to turn off the
hissing light and cover the slow-match with its perforated lid.



They had roast fowl of some sort or other for breakfast in the public
dining room.  Alen was required by his Rule to refuse the red wine that
went with it.  The trader gulped it approvingly.  "A sensible, though
backward people," he said.  "And now if you'll inquire of the
management where the thievish jewel-buyers congregate, we can get on
with our business and perhaps be off by dawn tomorrow."

"So quickly?" asked Alen, almost forgetting himself enough to show
surprise.

"My charter on _Starsong_, good Herald--thirty days to go, but what
might not go wrong in space?  And then there would be penalties to
mulct me of whatever minute profit I may realize."

Alen learned that Gromeg's Tavern was the gem mart and they took
another of the turbine-engined cabs through the brick-paved streets.

Gromeg's was a dismal, small-windowed brick barn with heavy-set men
lounging about, an open kitchen at one end and tables at the other.  A
score of smaller, sharp-faced men were at the tables sipping wine and
chatting.

"I am Journeyman-Herald Alen," announced Alen clearly, "with Vegan gems
to dispose of."

There was a silence of elaborate unconcern, and then one of the dealers
spat and grunted: "Vegan gems.  A drug on the market.  Take them away,
Herald."

"Come, master trader," said Alen in the Lyran tongue.  "The gem dealers
of Lyra do not want your wares."  He started for the door.

One of the dealers called languidly: "Well, wait a moment.  I have
nothing better to do; since you've come all this way I'll have a look
at your stuff."

"You honor us," said Alen.  He and blackbeard sat at the man's table.
The trader took out a palmful of samples, counted them meaningfully and
laid them on the boards.

"Well," said the gem dealer, "I don't know whether to be amused or
insulted.  I am Garthkint, the gem dealer--not a retailer of _beads_.
However, I have no hard feelings.  A drink for your frowning friend,
Herald?  I know you gentry don't indulge."  The drink was already on
the table, brought by one of the hulking guards.

Alen passed Garthkint's own mug of wine to the trader, explaining
politely: "In my master trader's native Cepheus it is considered
honorable for the guest to sip the drink his host laid down and none
other.  A charming custom, is it not?"

"Charming, though unsanitary," muttered the gem dealer--and he did not
touch the drink he had ordered for blackbeard.

"I can't understand a word either of you is saying--too flowery.  Was
this little rat trying to drug me?" demanded the trader in Cephean.

"No," said Alen.  "Just trying to get you drunk."  To Garthkint in
Lyran, he explained, "The good trader was saying that he wishes to
leave at once.  I was agreeing with him."

"Well," said Garthkint, "perhaps I can take a couple of your gauds.
For some youngster who wishes a cheap ring."

"He's getting to it," Alen told the trader.

"High time," grunted blackbeard.



"The trader asks me to inform you," said Alen, switching back to Lyran,
"that he is unable to sell in lots smaller than five hundred gems."

"A compact language, Cephean," said Garthkint, narrowing his eyes.

"Is it not?" Alen blandly agreed.

The gem dealer's forefinger rolled an especially fine three-fire stone
from the little pool of gems on the table.  "I suppose," he said
grudgingly, "that this is what I must call the best of the lot.  What,
I am curious to know, is the price you would set for five hundred equal
in quality and size to this poor thing?"

"This," said Alen, "is the good trader's first venture to your
delightful planet.  He wishes to be remembered and welcomed all of the
many times he anticipates returning.  Because of this he has set an
absurdly low price, counting good will as more important than a
prosperous voyage.  Two thousand Lyran credits."

"Absurd," snorted Garthkint.  "I cannot do business with you.  Either
you are insanely rapacious or you have been pitifully misguided as to
the value of your wares.  I am well-known for my charity; I will assume
that the latter is the case.  I trust you will not be too downcast when
I tell you that five hundred of these muddy, under-sized out-of-round
objects are worth no more than two hundred credits."

"If you are serious," said Alen with marked amazement, "we would not
dream of imposing on you.  At the figure you mention, we might as well
not sell at all but return with our wares to Cepheus and give these
gems to children in the streets for marbles.  Good gem trader, excuse
us for taking up so much of your time and many thanks for your warm
hospitality in the matter of the wine."  He switched to Cephean and
said: "We're dickering now.  Two thousand and two hundred.  Get up;
we're going to start to walk out."

"What if he lets us go?" grumbled blackbeard, but he did heave himself
to his feet and turn to the door as Alen rose.

"My trader echoes my regrets," the Herald said in Lyran.  "Farewell."

"Well, stay a moment," said Garthkint.  "I am well-known for my soft
heart toward strangers.  A charitable man might go as high as five
hundred and absorb the inevitable loss.  If you should return some day
with a passable lot of _real_ gems, it would be worth my while for you
to remember who treated you with such benevolence and give me fair
choice."

"Noble Lyran," said Alen, apparently almost overcome.  "I shall not
easily forget your combination of acumen and charity.  It is a lesson
to traders.  It is a lesson to me.  I shall _not_ insist on two
thousand.  I shall cut the throat of my trader's venture by reducing
his price to eighteen hundred credits, though I wonder how I shall dare
tell him of it."

"What's going on now?" demanded blackbeard.

"Five hundred and eighteen hundred," said Alen.  "We can sit down
again."

"Up, down--up, down," muttered the trader.



They sat, and Alen said in Lyran: "My trader unexpectedly indorses the
reduction.  He says, 'Better to lose some than all'--an old proverb in
the Cephean tongue.  And he forbids any further reduction."

"Come, now," wheedled the gem dealer.  "Let us be men of the world
about this.  One must give a little and take a little.  Everybody knows
he can't have his own way forever.  I shall offer a good, round eight
hundred credits and we'll close on it, eh?  Pilquis, fetch us a pen and
ink!"  One of the burly guards was right there with an inkpot and a
reed pen.  Garthkint had a Customs form out of his tunic and was busily
filling it in to specify the size, number and fire of gems to be
released to him.

"What's it now?" asked blackbeard.

"Eight hundred."

"Take it!"

"Garthkint," said Alen regretfully, "you heard the firmness and
decision in my trader's voice?  What can I do?  I am only speaking for
him.  He is a hard man but perhaps I can talk him around later.  I
offer you the gems at a ruinous fifteen hundred credits."

"Split the difference," said Garthkint resignedly.

"Done at eleven-fifty," said Alen.

That blackbeard understood.  "Well done!" he boomed at Alen and took a
swig at Garthkint's winecup.  "Have him fill in 'Sack eighteen' on his
paper.  It's five hundred of that grade."

The gem dealer counted out twenty-three fifty-credit notes and
blackbeard signed and fingerprinted the release.

"Now," said Garthkint, "you will please remain here while I take a trip
to the spaceport for my property."  Three or four of the guards were
suddenly quite close.

"You will find," said Alen dryly, "that our standard of commercial
morality is no lower than yours."

The dealer smiled politely and left.

"Who will be the next?" asked Alen of the room at large.

"I'll look at your gems," said another dealer, sitting at the table.

With the ice-breaking done, the transactions went quicker.  Alen had
disposed of a dozen lots by the time their first buyer returned.

"It's all right," he said.  "We've been tricked before, but your gems
are as represented.  I congratulate you, Herald, on driving a hard,
fair bargain."

"That means," said Alen regretfully, "that I should have asked for
more."  The guards were once more lounging in corners and no longer
seemed so menacing.



They had a mid-day meal and continued to dispose of their wares.  At
sunset Alen held a final auction to clean up the odd lots that remained
over and was urged to stay to dinner.

The trader, counting a huge wad of the Lyran manpower-based notes,
shook his head.  "We should be off before dawn, Herald," he told Alen.
"Time is money, time is money."

"They are very insistent."

"And I am very stubborn.  Thank them and let us be on our way before
anything else is done to increase my overhead."

Something did turn up--a city watchman with a bloody nose and split lip.

He demanded of the Herald: "Are you responsible for the Cephean maniac
known as Elwon?"

Garthkint glided up to mutter in Alen's ear: "Beware how you answer!"

Alen needed no warning.  His grounding included Lyran legal
concepts--and on the backward little planet touched with many relics of
feudalism "responsible" covered much territory.

"What has Chief Elwon done?" he parried.

"As you see," the watchman glumly replied, pointing to his wounds.
"And the same to three others before we got him out of the wrecked
wineshop and into the castle.  Are you responsible for him?"

"Let me speak with my trader for a moment.  Will you have some wine
meantime?"  He signaled and one of the guards brought a mug.

"Don't mind if I do.  I can use it," sighed the watchman.

"We are in trouble," said Alen to blackbeard.  "Chief Elwon is in the
'castle'--prison--for drunk and disorderly conduct.  You as his master
are considered responsible for his conduct under Lyran law.  You must
pay his fines or serve his penalties.  Or you can 'disown' him, which
is considered dishonorable but sometimes necessary.  For paying his
fine or serving his time you have a prior lien on his services, without
pay--but of course that's unenforceable off Lyra."

Blackboard was sweating a little.  "Find out from the policeman how
long all this is likely to take.  I don't want to leave Elwon here and
I do want us to get off as soon as possible.  Keep him occupied, now,
while I go about some business."

The trader retreated to a corner of the darkening barnlike tavern,
beckoning Garthkint and a guard with him as Alen returned to the
watchman.

"Good keeper of the peace," he said, "will you have another?"

He would.

"My trader wishes to know what penalties are likely to be levied
against the unfortunate Chief Elwon."

"Going to leave him in the lurch, eh?" asked the watchman a little
belligerently.  "A fine master you have!"

One of the dealers at the table indignantly corroborated him.  "If you
foreigners aren't prepared to live up to your obligations, why did you
come here in the first place?  What happens to business if a master can
send his man to steal and cheat and then say: 'Don't blame _me_--it was
_his_ doing!'"

Alen patiently explained: "On other planets, good Lyrans, the tie of
master and man is not so strong that a man would obey if he were
ordered to go and steal or cheat."

They shook their heads and muttered.  It was unheard-of.

"Good watchman," pressed the Herald, "my trader does not _want_ to
disown Chief Elwon.  Can you tell me what recompense would be
necessary--and how long it would take to manage the business?"



The watchman started on a third cup which Alen had unostentatiously
signaled for.  "It's hard to say," he told the Herald weightily.  "For
my damages, I would demand a hundred credits at least.  The three other
members of the watch battered by your lunatic could ask no less.  The
wineshop suffered easily five hundred credits' damage.  The owner of it
was beaten, but that doesn't matter, of course."

"No imprisonment?"

"Oh, a flogging, of course"--Alen started before he recalled that the
"flogging" was a few half-hearted symbolic strokes on the covered
shoulders with a light cane--"but no imprisonment.  His Honor, Judge
Krarl, does not sit on the night bench.  Judge Krarl is a newfangled
reformer, stranger.  He professes to believe that mulcting is
unjust--that it makes it easy for the rich to commit crime and go
scot-free."

"But doesn't it?" asked Alen, drawn off-course in spite of himself.
There was pitying laughter around him.

"Look you," a dealer explained kindly.  "The good watchman suffers
battery, the mad Cephean or his master is mulcted for damages, the
watchman is repaid for his injuries.  What kind of justice is it to the
watchman if the mad Cephean is locked away in a cell unfilled?"

The watchman nodded approvingly.  "Well-said," he told the dealer.
"Luckily we have on the night bench a justice of the old school, His
Honor, Judge Treel.  Stern, but fair.  You should hear him!  'Fifty
credits!  A hundred credits and the lash!  Robbed a ship, eh?  Two
thousand credits!'"  He returned to his own voice and said with awe:
"For a murder, he never assesses less than _ten thousand credits_!"

And if the murderer couldn't pay, Alen knew, he became a "public
charge," "responsible to the state"--that is, a slave.  If he could
pay, of course, he was turned loose.

"And His Honor, Judge Treel," he pressed, "is sitting tonight?  Can we
possibly appear before him, pay the fines and be off?"

"To be sure, stranger.  I'd be a fool if I waited until morning,
wouldn't I?"  The wine had loosened his tongue a little too far and he
evidently realized it.  "Enough of this," he said.  "Does your master
honorably accept responsibility for the Cephean?  If so, come along
with me, the two of you, and we'll get this over with."

"Thanks, good watchman.  We are coming."

He went to blackbeard, now alone in his corner, and said: "It's all
right.  We can pay off--about a thousand credits--and be on our way."

The trader muttered darkly: "Lyran jurisdiction or not, it's coming out
of Elwon's pay.  The bloody fool!"



They rattled through the darkening streets of the town in one of the
turbine-powered wagons, the watchman sitting up front with the driver
and the trader and the Herald behind.

"Something's burning," said Alen to the trader, sniffing the air.

"This stinking buggy--" began blackbeard.  "Oops," he said,
interrupting himself and slapping at his cloak.

"Let me, trader," said Alen.  He turned back the cloak, licked his
thumb, and rubbed out a crawling ring of sparks spreading across a few
centimeters of the cloak's silk lining.  And he looked fixedly at what
had started the little fire.  It was an improperly-covered slow-match
protruding from a holstered device that was unquestionably a hand
weapon.

"I bought it from one of their guards while you were parleying with the
policeman," explained blackbeard embarrassedly.  "I had a time making
him understand.  That Garthkint fellow helped."  He fiddled with the
perforated cover of the slow-match, screwing it on more firmly.

"A pitiful excuse for a weapon," he went on, carefully arranging his
cloak over it.  "The trigger isn't a trigger and the thumb-safety isn't
a safety.  You pump the trigger a few times to build up pressure, and a
little air squirts out to blow the match to life.  Then you uncover the
match and pull back the cocking-piece.  This levers a dart into the
barrel.  _Then_ you push the thumb-safety which puffs coaldust into the
firing chamber and also swivels down the slow-match onto a touch-hole.
_Poof_, and away goes the dart if you didn't forget any of the steps or
do them in the wrong order.  Luckily, I also got a knife."

He patted the nape of his neck and said, "That's where they carry 'em
here.  A little sheath between the shoulderblades--wonderful for a fast
draw-and-throw, though it exposes you a little more than I like when
you reach.  The knife's black glass.  Splendid edge and good balance.

"And the thieving Lyrans knew they had me where it hurt.  Seven
thousand, five hundred credits for the knife and gun--if you can call
it that--and the holsters.  By rights I should dock Elwon for them, the
bloody fool.  Still, it's better to buy his way out and leave no hard
feelings behind us, eh, Herald?"

"Incomparably better," said Alen.  "And I am amazed that you even
entertained the idea of an armed jail-delivery.  What if Chief Elwon
had to serve a few days in a prison?  Would that be worse than forever
barring yourself from the planet and blackening the names of all
traders with Lyra?  Trader, do not hope to put down the credits that
your weapons cost you as a legitimate expense of the voyage.  I will
not allow it when I audit your books.  It was a piece of folly on which
you spent personal funds, us far as the College and Order of Heralds is
concerned."

"Look here," protested blackbeard.  "You're supposed to be spreading
utilitarian civilization, aren't you?  What's utilitarian about leaving
one of my crewmen here?"



Alen ignored the childish argument and wrapped himself in angry
silence.  As to civilization, he wondered darkly whether such a trading
voyage and his part in it was relevant at all.  Were the slanders true?
Was the College and Order simply a collection of dupes headed by
cynical oldsters greedy for luxury and power?

Such thoughts hadn't crossed his mind in a long time.  He'd been too
busy to entertain them, cramming his head with languages, folk-ways,
mores, customs, underlying patterns of culture, of hundreds of galactic
peoples--and for what?  So that this fellow could make a profit and the
College and Order take a quarter of that profit.  If civilization was
to come to Lyra, it would have to come in the form of metal.  If the
Lyrans didn't want metal, _make_ them take it.

What did Machiavelli say?  "The chief foundations of all states--are
good laws and good arms; and as there cannot be good laws where the
state is not well-armed, it follows that where they are well-armed,
they have good laws."  It was odd that the teachers had slurred over
such a seminal idea, emphasizing instead the spiritual integrity of the
weaponless College and Order--or was it?

The disenchantment he felt creeping over him was terrifying.

"The castle," said the watchman over his shoulder, and their wagon
stopped with a rattle before a large but unimpressive brick structure
of five stories.

"You wait," the trader told the driver after they got out.  He handed
him two of his fifty-credit bills.  "You wait, you get many, many more
money.  You understand, wait?"

"I wait plenty much," shouted the driver delightedly.  "I wait all
night, all day.  You wonderful master.  You great, great master, I
wait--"

"All right," growled the trader, shutting him off.  "You wait."

The watchman took them through an entrance hall lit by hissing pressure
lamps and casually guarded by a few liveried men with truncheons.  He
threw open the door of a medium-sized, well-lit room with a score of
people in it, looked in, and uttered a despairing groan.

A personage on a chair that looked like a throne said sharply, "Are
those the star-travelers?  Well, don't just stand there.  Bring them
in!"

"Yes, your honor, Judge Krarl," said the watchman unhappily.

"_It's the wrong judge!_" Alen hissed at the trader.  "This one gives
out jail sentences!"

"Do what you can," said blackbeard grimly.

The watchman guided them to the personage in the chair and indicated a
couple of low stools, bowed to the chair and retired to stand at the
back of the room.

"Your honor," said Alen, "I am Journeyman-Herald Alen, Herald for the
trading voyage--"

"Speak when you're spoken to," said the judge sharply.  "Sir, with the
usual insolence of wealth you have chosen to keep us waiting.  I do not
take this personally; it might have happened to Judge Treel, who--to
your evident dismay--I am replacing because of a sudden illness, or to
any other member of the bench.  But as an insult to our justice, we
cannot overlook it.  Sir, consider yourself reprimanded.  Take your
seats.  Watchman, bring in the Cephean."

"Sit down," Alen murmured to the trader.  "This is going to be bad."



A watchman brought in Chief Elwon, bleary-eyed, tousled and sporting a
few bruises.  He gave Alen and the trader a shamefaced grin as his
guard sat him on a stool beside them.  The trader glared back.

Judge Krarl mumbled perfunctorily: "Letbattlebejoinedamongtheseveral-
partiesinthisdisputeletnomanquestionourimpartialawardingofthevictory-
speaknowifyouyieldinsteadtoourjudgment.  _Well_?  Speak up, you
watchmen!"

The watchman who had brought the Herald and the trader started and said
from the back of the room: "Iyieldinsteadtoyourhonorsjudgment."

Three other watchmen and a battered citizen, the wineshop keeper,
mumbled in turn: "Iyieldinsteadtoyourhonorsjudgment."

"Herald, speak for the accused," snapped the judge.

Well, thought Alen, I can try.  "Your Honor," he said, "Chief Elwon's
master does not yield to your honor's judgment.  He is ready to battle
the other parties in the dispute or their masters."

"What insolence is this?" screamed the judge, leaping from his throne.
"The barbarous customs of other worlds do not prevail in this court!
Who spoke of battle--?"  He shut his mouth with a snap, evidently
abruptly realizing that _he_ had spoken of battle, in an archaic phrase
that harked back to the origins of justice on the planet.  The judge
sat down again and told Alen, more calmly: "You have mistaken a mere
formality.  The offer was not made in earnest."  Obviously, he didn't
like the sound of that himself, but he proceeded, "Now say
'Iyieldinsteadtoyourhonorsjudgment! and we can get on with it.
For yourinformation, trial by combat has not been practiced for
many generations on our enlightened planet."

Alen said politely: "Your Honor, I am a stranger to many of the ways of
Lyra, but our excellent College and Order of Heralds instructed me well
in the underlying principles of your law.  I recall that one of your
most revered legal maxims declares: 'The highest crime against man is
murder; the highest crime against man's society is breach of promise.'"

Purpling, the judge snarled: "Are you presuming to bandy law with me,
you slippery-tongued foreigner?  Are you presuming to accuse me of the
high crime of breaking my promise?  For your information, a promise
consists of an offer to do, or refrain from doing, a thing in return
for a consideration.  There must be the five elements of promiser,
promisee, offer, substance, and consideration."

"If you will forgive a foreigner," said Alen, suddenly feeling the
ground again under his feet, "I maintain that you offered the parties
in the dispute your services in awarding the victory."

"An empty argument," snorted the judge.  "Just as an offer with
substance from somebody to nobody for a consideration is no promise, or
an offer without substance from somebody to somebody for a
consideration is no promise, so my offer was no promise, for there was
no consideration involved."

"Your honor, must the consideration be from the promisee to the
promiser?"

"Of course not.  A third party may provide the consideration."

"Then I respectfully maintain that your offer was a promise, since a
third party, the government, provided you with the considerations of
salary and position in return for you offering your services to the
disputants."

"Watchmen, clear the room of uninterested persons," said the judge
hoarsely.  While it was being done, Alen swiftly filled in the trader
and Chief Elwon.  Blackbeard grinned at the mention of a
five-against-one battle royal, and the engineer looked alarmed.



When the doors closed leaving the nine of them in privacy, the judge
said bitterly: "Herald, where did you learn such devilish tricks?"

Alen told him: "My College and Order instructed me well.  A similar
situation existed on a planet called England during an age known as the
Victorious.  Trial by combat had long been obsolete, there as here, but
had never been declared so--there as here.  A litigant won a hopeless
lawsuit by publishing a challenge to his opponent and appearing at the
appointed place in full armor.  His opponent ignored the challenge and
so lost the suit by default.  The English dictator, one Disraeli,
hastily summoned his parliament to abolish trial by combat."

"And so," mused the judge, "I find myself accused in my own chamber of
high crime if I do not permit you five to slash away at each other and
decide who won."

The wineshop keeper began to blubber that he was a peaceable man and
didn't intend to be carved up by that black-bearded, bloodthirsty
star-traveler.  All he wanted was his money.

"Silence!" snapped the judge.  "Of course there will be no combat.
Will you, shopkeeper, and you watchmen, withdraw if you receive
satisfactory financial settlements?"

They would.

"Herald, you may dicker with them."

The four watchmen stood fast by their demand for a hundred credits
apiece, and got it.  The terrified shopkeeper regained his balance and
demanded a thousand.  Alen explained that his black-bearded master from
a rude and impetuous world might be unable to restrain his rage when
he, Alen, interpreted the demand and, ignoring the consequences, might
beat him, the shopkeeper, to a pulp.  The asking price plunged to a
reasonable five hundred, which was paid over.  The shopkeeper got the
judge's permission to leave and backed out, bowing.

"You see, trader," Alen told blackbeard, "that it was needless to buy
weapons when the spoken word--"

"And now," said the judge with a sneer, "we are easily out of _that_
dilemma.  Watchmen, arrest the three star-travelers and take them to
the cages."

"Your honor!" cried Alen, outraged.

"Money won't get you out of _this_ one.  I charge you with treason."

"The charge is obsolete--" began the Herald hotly, but he broke off as
he realized the vindictive strategy.

"Yes, it is.  And one of its obsolete provisions is that treason
charges must be tried by the parliament at a regular session, which
isn't due for two hundred days.  You'll be freed and I may be
reprimanded, but by my head, for two hundred days you'll regret that
you made a fool of me.  Take them away."

"A trumped-up charge against us.  Prison for two hundred days," said
Alen swiftly to the trader as the watchmen closed in.

"Why buy weapons?" mocked the blackbeard, showing his teeth.  His left
arm whipped up and down, there was a black streak through the air--and
the judge was pinned to his throne with a black glass knife through his
throat and the sneer of triumph still on his lips.

The trader, before the knife struck, had the clumsy pistol out, with
the cover off the glowing match and the cocking piece back.  He must
have pumped and cocked it under his cloak, thought Alen numbly as he
told the watchmen, without prompting: "Get back against the wall and
turn around." They did.  They wanted to live, and the grinning
blackbeard who had made meat of the judge with a flick of the arm was a
terrifying figure.

"Well done, Alen," said the trader.  "Take their clubs, Elwon.  Two for
you, two for the Herald.  Alen, don't argue!  I had to kill the judge
before he raised an alarm--nothing but death will silence his breed.
You may have to kill too before we're out of this.  Take the clubs."
He passed the clumsy pistol to Chief Elwon and said: "Keep it on their
backs.  The thing that looks like a thumb-safety is a trigger.  Put a
dart through the first one who tries to make a break.  Alen, tell the
fellow on the end to turn around and come to me slowly."



Alen did.  Blackbeard swiftly stripped him, tore and knotted his
clothes into ropes and bound and gagged him.  The others got the same
treatment in less than ten minutes.

The trader holstered the gun and rolled the watchmen out of the line of
sight from the door of the chamber.  He recovered his knife and wiped
it on the judge's shirt.  Alen had to help him prop the body behind the
throne's high back.

"Hide those clubs," blackbeard said.  "Straight faces.  Here we go."

They went out, single file, opening the door only enough to pass.
Alen, last in line, told one of the liveried guards nearby: "His honor,
Judge Krarl, does not wish to be disturbed."

"That's news?" asked the tipstaff sardonically.  He put his hand on the
Herald's arm.  "Only yesterday he gimme a blast when I brought him a
mug of water he asked me for himself.  An outrageous interruption, he
called me, and he asked for the water himself.  What do you think of
that?"

"Terrible," said Alen hastily.  He broke away and caught up with the
trader and the engineer at the entrance hall.  Idlers and loungers were
staring at them as they headed for the waiting wagon.

"I wait!" the driver told them loudly.  "I wait long, much.  You pay
more, more?"

"We pay more," said the trader.  "You start."

The driver brought out a smoldering piece of punk, lit a pressure
torch, lifted the barn-door section of the wagon's floor to expose the
pottery turbine and preheated it with the torch.  He pumped squeakily
for minutes, spinning a flywheel with his other hand, before the rotor
began to turn on its own.  Down went the hatch, up onto the seats went
the passengers.

"The spaceport," said Alen.  With a slate-pencil screech the driver
engaged his planetary gear and they were off.

Through it all, blackbeard had ignored frantic muttered questions from
Chief Elwon, who had wanted nothing to do with murder, especially of a
judge.  "You sit up there," growled the trader, "and every so often you
look around and see if we're being followed.  Don't alarm the driver.
And if we get to the spaceport and blast off without any trouble, keep
your story to yourself."  He settled down in the back seat with Alen
and maintained a gloomy silence.  The young Herald was too much in awe
of this stranger, so suddenly competent in assorted forms of violence,
to question him.



They did get to the spaceport without trouble, and found the crew in
the Customs shed, emptied of the gems by dealers with releases.  They
had built a fire for warmth.

"We wish to leave immediately," said the trader, to the port officer.
"Can you change my Lyran currency?"

The officer began to sputter apologetically that it was late and the
vault was sealed for the night--

"That's all right.  We'll change it on Vega.  It'll get back to you.
Call off your guards and unseal our ship."

They followed the port officer to _Starsong's_ dim bulk out on the
field.  The officer cracked the seal on her with his club in the light
of a flaring pressure lamp held by one of the guards.

Alen was sweating hard through it all.  As they started across the
field he had seen what looked like two closely spaced green stars low
on the horizon towards town suddenly each jerk up and towards each
other in minute arcs.  The semaphore!

The signal officer in the port administration building would be
watching too--but nobody on the field, preoccupied with the routine of
departure, seemed to have noticed.

The lights flipped this way and that.  Alen didn't know the code and
bitterly regretted the lack.  After some twenty signals the lights
flipped to the "rest" position again as the port officer was droning
out a set of take-off regulations: bearing, height above settled areas,
permissible atomic fuels while in atmosphere--Alen saw somebody start
across the field toward them from the administration building.  The
guards were leaning on their long, competent looking weapons.

Alen inconspicuously detached himself from the group around _Starsong_
and headed across the dark field to meet the approaching figure.
Nearing it, he called out a low greeting in Lyran, using the
noncom-to-officer military form.

"Sergeant," said the signal officer quietly, "go and draw off the men a
few meters from the star-travelers.  Tell them the ship mustn't leave,
that they're to cover the foreigners and shoot if--"

Alen stood dazedly over the limp body of the signal officer.  And then
he quickly hid the bludgeon again and strolled back to the ship,
wondering whether he'd cracked the Lyran's skull.

The port was open by then and the crew filing in.  He was last.  "Close
it fast," he told the trader.  "I had to--"

"I saw you," grunted blackbeard.  "A semaphore message?"  He was
working as he spoke, and the metal port closed.

"Astrogator and engineer, take over," he told them.

"All hands to their bunks," ordered Astrogator Hufner.  "Blast-off
immediate."



Alen took to his cubicle and strapped himself in.  Blast-off deafened
him, rattled his bones and made him thoroughly sick as usual.  After
what seemed like several wretched hours, they were definitely
space-borne under smooth acceleration, and his nausea subsided.

Blackboard knocked, came in, and unbuckled him.

"Ready to audit the books of the voyage?" asked the trader.

"No," said Alen feebly.

"It can wait," said the trader.  "The books are the least important
part, anyway.  We have headed off a frightful war."

"War?  We have?"

"You wondered why I was in such haste to get off Lyra, and why I
wouldn't leave Elwon there.  It is because our Vegan gems were most
unusual gems.  I am not a technical man, but I understand they are
actual gems which were treated to produce a certain effect at just
about this time."

Blackboard glanced at his wrist chronometer and said dreamily: "Lyra is
getting metal.  Wherever there is one of our gems, pottery is
decomposing into its constituent aluminum, silicon, and oxygen.  Fluxes
and glazes are decomposing into calcium, zinc, barium, potassium,
chromium, _and iron_.  Buildings are crumbling, pants are dropping as
ceramic belt-buckles disintegrate--"

"It means chaos!" protested Alen.

"It means civilization and peace.  An ugly clash was in the making."
Blackbeard paused and added deliberately: "Where neither their property
nor their honor is touched, most men live content."

"'The Prince', Chapter 19.  You are--"

"There was another important purpose to the voyage," said the trader,
grinning.  "You will be interested in this."  He handed Alen a document
which, unfolded, had the seal of the College and Order at its head.

Alen read in a daze: "Examiner 19 to the Rector--final clearance of
Novice--"

He lingered pridefully over the paragraph that described how he had
"with coolness and great resource" foxed the battle cruiser of the
Realm, "adapting himself readily in a delicate situation requiring not
only physical courage but swift recall, evaluation and application of a
minor planetary culture."

Not so pridefully he read: "--inclined towards pomposity of manner
somewhat ludicrous in one of his years, though not unsuccessful in
dominating the crew by his bearing--"

And: "--highly profitable disposal of our gems; a feat of no mean
importance since the College and Order must, after all, maintain
itself."

And: "cleared the final and crucial hurdle with some mental turmoil if
I am any judge, but did clear it.  After some twenty years of
indoctrination in unrealistic non-violence, the youth was confronted
with a situation where nothing but violence would serve, correctly
evaluated this, and applied violence in the form of a truncheon to the
head of a Lyran signal officer, thereby demonstrating an ability to
learn and common sense as precious as it is rare."

And, finally, simply: "Recommended for training."



"Training?" gasped Alen.  "You mean there's more?"

"Not for most, boy.  Not for most.  The bulk of us are what we seem to
be: oily, gun-shy, indispensable adjuncts to trade who feather our nest
with percentages.  We need those percentages and we need gun-shy
Heralds."

Alen recited slowly: "Among other evils which being unarmed brings you,
it causes you to be despised."

"Chapter 14," said blackbeard mechanically.  "We leave such clues lying
by their bedsides for twenty years, and they never notice them.  For
the few of us who do--more training."

"Will I learn to throw a knife like you?" asked Alen, repelled and
fascinated at once by the idea.

"On your own time, if you wish.  Mostly it's ethics and morals so
you'll be able to weigh the values of such things as knife-throwing."

"Ethics!  Morals!"

"We started as missionaries, you know."

"Everybody knows that.  But the Great Utilitarian Reform--"

"Some of us," said blackbeard dryly, "think it was neither great, nor
utilitarian, nor a reform."

It was a staggering idea.  "But we're spreading utilitarian
civilization!" protested Alen.  "Or if we're not, what's the sense of
it all?"

Blackbeard told him: "We have our different motives.  One is a sincere
utilitarian; another is a gambler--happy when he's in danger and his
pulses are pounding.  Another is proud and likes to trick people.  More
than a few conceive themselves as servants of mankind.  I'll let you
rest for a bit now."  He rose.

"But you?" asked Alen hesitantly.

"Me?  You will find me in Chapter Twenty-Six," grinned blackbeard.
"And perhaps you'll find someone else."  He closed the door behind him.

Alen ran through the chapter in his mind, puzzled, until--that was it.

It had a strange and inevitable familiarity to it as if he had always
known that he would be saying it aloud, welcomingly, in this cramped
cubicle aboard a battered starship:

"God is not willing to do everything, and thus take away our free will
and that share of glory which belongs to us."




THE END






[End of That Share of Glory, by C. M. Kornbluth]
