Poul Anderson T B V R HE OOK OF AN IJN © 1956-1978 by Poul Anderson CONTENTS Hank Davis Planets and Profits Introducing Nicholas Van Rijn and the Polesotechnic League [02] Margin of Profit [04] Hank Davis Afterword to Margin of Profit [15] Introduction to The Man Who Counts [16] The Man Who Counts [17] Sandra Miesel The Man Who Counts and the Technic Civilization Series [69] Hiding Place [72] Territory [88] Sandra Miesel The Chronology of the Technic Civilization [109] Hank Davis PLANETS AND PROFITS: Introducing Nicholas Van Rijn and the Polesotechnic League… …AND ALSO INTRODUCING one of the grandest sagas in science fiction: the Technic Civilization series. It begins in the not-distant future, with humans still locked in the Solar System and recovering from a hinted-at time of chaos (which might be our own present day), voyaging outward to explore the moons of Saturn. It ends over five thousand years later, with human civilization, now sprawling across a vast span of the galaxy, recovering from another, much longer time of chaos—the Long Night which followed the fall of the Terran Empire. The writing of the saga and its appearances in print spanned a time far shorter, but still unusually long in the field, beginning with the novelet "Tiger by the Tail," published in the January 1951 issue of that grand old pulp Planet Stories, and ending with the novel The Game of Empire, published in 1985. However, those two yarns do not mark the end points of the series, the stories comprising which were written very much out of sequence. Both fall late in the timeline, being episodes in the flamboyant career of Captain Sir Dominic Flandry, who'll make his swashbuckling appearance in volume four of the Technic Civilization series. (Be patient, please—after all, Flandry won't be born until about 570 years after the last story in this first volume.) If this book's title doesn't make it obvious, the main player in the book you're holding in your hands is the blustering, vulgar and bigger than life (both literally and figuratively) human volcano named Nicholas van Rijn (rhymes with "fine"), a merchant prince in the star-spanning Poulsotechnic, pardon me, Polesotechnic League, a loose-knit organization of interstellar traders. That authoritative expert on Poul Anderson's writings, Sandra Miesel, writes that the word "Polesotechnic" was coined by Poul's wife Karen Anderson from the Greek for "selling skills." By that meaning, van Rijn is beyond doubt the most polesotechnical of the polesotechnicians. On van Rijn, Poul Anderson wrote, "While some readers couldn't stand this burly, beery, uninhibited merchant prince, on the whole he was probably the most popular character I ever hit upon, and the stories about him enjoyed a long and lusty run." Van Rijn's first appearance in the saga (and in this book) was the novelet "Margin of Profit," published in the September 1956 issue of Astounding Science Fiction, though the version of "Margin of Profit" in these pages is the one which Anderson rewrote for the 1978 collection, The Earth Book of Stormgate, to give Nick more of his inimitable mannerisms than he had displayed in his debut appearance, and also to eliminate a few discrepancies with the Technic Civilization universe as it later developed. (More about that later.) "Two meters in height and more than broad enough to match," van Rijn is described on his first appearance, and he may remind the reader of Falstaff, but Nick's no mere braggart, no empty suit—he makes good on his brags and delivers the goods. Poul Anderson once mentioned Long John Silver as another influence on his creation of van Rijn, and that charismatic scoundrel was certainly no empty suit (ahrrrr!). Van Rijn unravels mysteries and solves problems as well as any sf hero of old, without benefit of the heretofore obligatory square jaw, steely gaze and laconic dialogue of the classic pulp hero. Still, there's muscle under the fat, augmented by quick reflexes, as enemies (and occasionally, his employees) have been chagrined to learn. He's a capitalist hero, too, always thinking of making a buck (or a credit), even in desperate situations, who'd rather sell things to his enemies than fight them. He started out dirt poor and built his Solar Spice & Liquors Company up from a shoestring. Move over, John Galt. He's no ascetic either, and never misses a chance to enjoy good food, good booze, and a good smoke, usually with Mozart playing in the background. He appreciates the ladies, too, and while financial considerations are often involved, this is not always the case. He also appreciates art and classic literature, though the latter doesn't seem to have helped his malaprop-prone speech, full of twisted turns of phrase. Someday, somebody might imitate Heinlein's The Notebooks of Lazarus Long and do a short book of classic van Rijnisms, such as: "I have no fine university degrees, I learned in the school of hard knockers." "I make no skeletons about it…" "Put that in your pipe and stick it!" "This is the times that fry men's souls." And there's more where those came from… Van Rijn's ongoing war with the King's Anglic notwithstanding, he did play the silver-tongued orator on one memorable occasion, in the full-length novel included in this volume, The Man Who Counts, when he had to convince squabbling factions of the winged Diomedeans to unite against the common enemy. A lesser writer than Poul Anderson would have attempted to compose a stirring speech for his hero and brought forth a clunker that's dead both on the page and on arrival. A good, but less ingenious writer would have composed a stirring speech that was actually stirring. Poul Anderson, being both very good and very ingenious, did something entirely different. And I won't spoil anyone's first encounter with that part of the novel by giving it away here. Also on stage is one of van Rijn's employees, David Falkayn, first seen as an ambitious young man trying to make his mark, and not sure he'll succeed, or even survive. You may think that I'm not giving him his due in this introduction, but the scales will be balanced in the next volume, where he plays a larger role (as indicated by the title of the second Technic Civilization book, David Falkayn: Star Trader; reserve your copy now). Further, Falkayn is 2 going to become part of a trader team, one member of which, Adzel the dragonlike Buddhist, you'll encounter briefly in one of the stories herein, but you'll have to wait for volume two to meet Chee Lan, the third member of the team. And this team is very much more than the sum of its parts. I'll also mention that Falkayn's influence on the course of human history arguably is even greater than that of van Rijn (more on that in future volumes). In any case, it's obvious that Falkayn, like his creator, is a fan of Leslie Charteris, and how could I slight a fellow acolyte of the Saintly chronicles? And now, the master chef… Poul Anderson was one of the most prolific writers in science fiction and fantasy, and possibly the most prolific. His bibliography has something like seventy sf or fantasy novels and over forty story collections published, drawn from his hundreds of sf and fantasy short stories. While he wrote in many fields— historical fiction, mysteries, horror fiction, nonfiction books and essays, and poetry—the realms of science fiction and fantasy were his true home, and there he was one of the best. I doubt that any sf writer who might come close to matching him for quantity could show such a consistently high quality of work. He was also a writer who got the science right, which was no surprise since he had a degree in physics, and had a lifelong passion for all the hard sciences. Before he set a story on a planet, he would do research and calculations to come up with a world that wasn't just a cardboard backdrop—Diomedes in The Man Who Counts is a prime example, and he gave a solid scientific explanation how the winged natives can fly there, when they would be too heavy to fly on Earth. He got more than science right, too. The brief introduction to "The Three-Cornered Wheel" quotes Sturgeon's Revelation ("ninety percent of everything is crud"). It happens that Sturgeon's Revelation is usually and wrongly named as Sturgeon's Law, but when Sturgeon formulated it in his book review column for Venture in the late 1950s, he called it Sturgeon's Revelation. And Anderson gets the name right, to my appreciative applause. (If you'll pardon a digression, Sturgeon himself complained about people miscalling his Revelation as his Law, and noted that he already had a Sturgeon's Law, first stated in the story "The Claustrophile" in a 1956 Galaxy, usually rendered as "nothing is always absolutely so.") But Anderson's getting the science right didn't preclude having prose that is always fluent and often sings, perhaps emulating the Scandinavian sagas which he knew by heart. For example, in "Esau": …a range of ice mountains flashed blindingly; Suleiman's twelve-hour day was drawing to a close and Osman's rays struck level through a break in roiling ruddy cloud cover. Elsewhere a storm lifted like a dark wall on which lightning scribbled. The dense air brought its thunder-noise to Dalmady as a high drumroll. Larry Niven once described Anderson as "a poet who happens to write science fiction." Just so, though critics have rarely included Anderson with other notable stylists such as Sturgeon or Bradbury. It's not surprising that Anderson won seven Hugo Awards and three Nebula Awards ("The Saturn Game," the first story in this book, took home one of each), as well as a Gandalf Grand Master award, a John W. Campbell Memorial Award, and four Prometheus Awards (including the Lifetime Achievement Prometheus Award). Speaking of lifetime achievement, he also received the Grand Master Award for that very thing from the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. Nor was it remarkable that when Locus in the 1970s did a poll of its readers for Best All- Time SF Writer, he nailed the fifth spot from the top. If anything, it's surprising that he didn't have a much longer shelf full of honors and rank even higher in that poll. Likely, Anderson wrote too much, too well, and made it look far too easy to stand out among the flashier scribes. Eric Flint, comparing Anderson to Joe DiMaggio, "who," as he put it, "never did anything in baseball better than anyone else, but always did everything superbly well," thought that Anderson was less appreciated than, for example, Robert A. Heinlein for that reason. Still, master storytellers are not easy to come by, and now that, for the first time, his monumental Technic Civilization series will be published in internal chronological order in these volumes, the arbiters of science fiction as literature may give him his due. His grateful readers gave him his rightful due long ago, of course, and still do. —Hank Davis 2008 3 MARGIN OF PROFIT IT WAS an anachronism to have a human receptionist in this hall of lucent plastic, among machines that winked and talked between jade columns soaring up into vaulted dimness—but a remarkably pleasant one when she was as long- legged and redheaded a stunblast as the girl behind the desk. Captain Torres drew to a crisp halt and identified himself. Traveling down sumptuous curves, his glance was jarred by the needle gun at her waist. "Good day, sir," she smiled. "I'll see if Freeman van Rijn is ready for you." She switched on an intercom. A three- megavolt oath bounced out. "No, he's still in conference on the audivid. Won't you be seated?" Before she turned the intercom off, Torres caught a few words: "—he'll give us the exclusive franchise or we embargo, ja, and maybe arrange a little blockade too. Who in Satan's squatpot do these emperors on a single planet think they are? Hokay, he has a million soldiers under arms. You go tell him to take those soldiers, with hobnailed boots and rifles at port, and stuff them—" Click. Torres wrapped cape around tunic and sat down, laying one polished boot across the other knee of his white culottes. He felt awkward, simultaneously overdressed and naked. The formal garb of a Lodgemaster in the Federated Brotherhood of Spacefarers was a far remove from the coverall he wore in his ship or the loungers of groundside leave. And the guards in the lobby, a kilometer below, had not only checked his credentials and retinal patterns, they had made him deposit his sidearm. Damn Nicholas van Rijn and the whole Polesotechnic League! Good saints, drop him on Pluto with no underwear! Of course, a merchant prince did have to be wary of kidnappers and assassins, though van Rijn himself was said to be murderously fast with a handgun. Nevertheless, arming your receptionist was not a polite thing to do. Torres wondered, a trifle wistfully, if she was among the old devil's mistresses. Perhaps not. However, given the present friction between the Company—by extension, the entire League—and the Brotherhood, she'd have no time for him; her contract doubtless had a personal fealty clause. His gaze went to the League emblem on the wall behind her, a golden sunburst afire with jewels, surrounding an ancient rocketship, and the motto: All the traffic will bear. That could be taken two ways, he reflected sourly. Beneath it was the trademark of this outfit, the Solar Spice & Liquors Company. The girl turned the intercom back on and heard only a steady rumble of obscenities. "You may go in now, please," she said, and to the speaker: "Lodgemaster Captain Torres, sir, here for his appointment." The spaceman rose and passed through the inner door. His lean dark features were taut. This would be a new experience, meeting his ultimate boss. It was ten years since he had had to call anybody "sir" or "madam." The office was big, an entire side transparent, overlooking a precipitous vista of Djakarta's towers, green landscape hot with tropical gardens, and the molten glitter of the Java Sea. The other walls were lined with the biggest datacom Torres had ever seen, with shelves of extraterrestrial curios, and, astonishingly, a thousand or more codex-type books whose fine leather bindings showed signs of wear. Despite its expanse, the desktop was littered, close to maximum entropy. The most noticeable object on it was a small image of St. Dismas, carved from Martian sandroot. Ventilators could not quite dismiss a haze and reek of tobacco smoke. The newcomer snapped a salute. "Lodgemaster Captain Rafael Torres speaking for the Brotherhood. Good day, sir." Van Rijn grunted. He was a huge man, two meters in height and more than broad enough to match. A triple chin and swag belly did not make him appear soft. Rings glittered on hairy fingers and bracelets on brawny wrists, under snuff-soiled lace. Small black eyes, set close to a great hook nose under a sloping forehead, peered with laser intensity. He continued filling his pipe and said nothing until he had a good head of steam up. "So," he growled then, basso profundo, in an accent as thick as himself. "You speak for the whole unspeakable union, I hope. Women members too? I have never understood why they want to say they belong to a brotherhood." Waxed mustaches and long goatee waggled above a gorgeously embroidered waistcoat. Beneath it was only a sarong, which gave way to columnar ankles and bare splay feet. Torres checked his temper. "Yes, sir. Privately, informally, of course… thus far. I have the honor to represent all locals in the Commonwealth, and lodges outside the Solar System have expressed solidarity. We assume you will be a spokesman for the master merchants of the League." "In a subliminary way. I will shovel your demands along at my associates, what of them as don't hide too good in their offices and harems. Sit." Torres gave the chair no opportunity to mold itself to him. Perched on the edge, he proceeded harshly: "The issue is very simple. The votes are now in, and the result can't surprise you. We are not calling a strike, you realize. But contracts or no, we will not take any more ships through the Kossaluth of Borthu until that menace has been ended. Any owner who tries to hold us to the articles and send us there will be struck. The idea of our meeting today, Freeman van Rijn, is to make that clear and get the League's agreement, without a lot of public noise that might bring on a real fight." "By damn, you cut your own throats like with a butterknife, slow and outscruciating." The merchant's tone was surprisingly mild. "Not alone the loss of pay and commissions. No, but if Sector Antares is not kept steady supplied, it loses taste maybe for cinnamon and London dry gin. Nor can other companies be phlegmatic about what they 4 hawk. Like if Jo-Boy Technical Services bring in no more engineers and scientists, the colonies will train up their own. Hell's poxy belles! In a few years, no more market on any planet in those parts. You lose, I lose, we all lose." "The answer is obvious, sir. We detour around the Kossaluth. I know that'll take us through more hazardous regions, astronomically speaking, unless we go very far aside indeed. However, the brothers and sisters will accept either choice." "What?" Somehow van Rijn managed a bass scream. "Is you developed feedback of the bowels? Double or quadruple the length of the voyage! Boost heaven-high the salaries, capital goods losses, survivors' compensation, insurance! Halve or quarter the deliveries per year! We are ruined! Better we give up Antares at once!" The route was already expensive, Torres knew. He wasn't sure whether or not the companies could afford the extra cost; their books were their own secret. Having waited out the dramatics, he said patiently: "The Borthudian press gangs have been operating for two years now, you know. Nothing that's been tried has stopped them. We have not panicked. If it had been up to the siblings at large, we'd have voted right at the start to bypass that horrorhole. But the Lodgemasters held back, hoping something could be worked out. Apparently that isn't possible." "See here," van Rijn urged. "I don't like this no better than you. Worse, maybe. The losses my company alone has took could make me weep snot. We can afford it, though. Naked-barely, but we can. Figure it. About fifteen percent of our ships altogether gets captured. We would lose more, traveling through the Gamma Mist or the Stonefields. And those crews would not be prisoners that we are still working to have released. No, they would be kind of dead. As for making a still bigger roundabout through nice clear vacuum, well, that would be safe, but means an absolute loss on each run. Even if your brotherhood will take a big cut in the exorbital wages you draw, still, consider the tieup of bottom on voyages so long. We do have trade elsewheres to carry on." Torres' temper snapped across. "Go flush your dirty financial calculations! Try thinking about human beings for once. We'll face meteoroid swarms, infrasuns, rogue planets, black holes, radiation bursts, hostile natives—but have you met one of those impressed men? I have. That's what decided me, and made me take a lead in getting the Brotherhood to act. I'm not going to risk it happening to me, nor to any lodge sibling of mine. Why don't you and your fellow moneymen conn the ships personally?" "Ho-o-o," murmured van Rijn. He showed no offense, but leaned across the desk on his forearms. "You tell me, ha?" Torres must force the story out. "Met him on Arkan III—on the fringe of the Kossaluth, autonomous planet, you recall. We'd put in with a consignment of tea. A ship of theirs was in too, and you can bet your brain we went around in armed parties, ready to shoot any Borthudian who might look like a crimp. Or any Borthudian at all; but they kept to themselves. Instead, I saw him, this man they'd snatched, going on some errand. I spoke to him. My friends and I even tried to capture him, so we could bring him back to Earth and get reversed what that electronic hell-machine had done to him… He fought us and got away. God! He'd've been more free if he were in chains. And still I could feel how he wanted out, he was screaming inside, but he couldn't break the conditioning and he couldn't go crazy either—" Torres grew aware that van Rijn had come around the desk and was thrusting a bottle into his hand. "Here, you drink some from this," the merchant said. The liquor burned the whole way down. "I have seen a conditioned man myself once, long ago when I was a rough-and-tumbler. A petty native prince had got it done to him, to keep him for a technical expert when he wanted to go home. We did catch him that time, and took him back for treatment." He returned to his chair and rekindled his pipe. "First, though, we got together with the ship's engineer and made us a little firecracker what we blew off at the royal palace." He chuckled. "The yield was about five kilotons." "If you want to outfit a punitive expedition, sir," Torres rasped, "I guarantee you can get full crews." "No." Curled, shoulder-length black locks swished greasily as van Rijn shook his head. "You know the League does not have much of a combat fleet. The trouble with capital ships is, they tie up capital. It is one thing to use a tiny bit of force on a planetbound lordling what has got unreasonable. It is another thing to take on somebody what can take you right on back. Simple tooling up for a war with Borthu, let alone fighting one, would bring many member companies close to bankrupture." "But what about the precedent, if you tamely let these outrages go on? Who'll be next to make prey of you?" "Ja, there is that. But there is also the Commonwealth government. We try any big-size action, we traders, even though it is far outside the Solar System, and right away we get gibberings about our 'imperialism.' We could get lots of trouble made for us, right here in the heart of civilization. Maybe we get called pirates, because we is not a government ourselves with politicians and bureaucrats telling people what to do. Maybe Sol would actual-like intervene against us on behalf of the Kossaluth, what is 'only exercising sovereignty within its legitimate sphere.' You know how diplomats from Earth has not made any hard effort for getting Borthu to stop. In fact, I tell you, a lot of politicians feel quite chortlesome when they see us wicked profiteers receiving some shaftcraft." Torres stirred in his seat. "Yes, of course, I'm as disgusted as you with the official reaction, or lack of reaction. But what about the League? I mean, its leaders must have been trying measures short of war. I take it those have come to naught." "You take that, boy, and keep it for yourself, because I for sure don't want it. Ja. Correct. Threats the Borthudians grin at, knowing how hard pinched we is and where. Not good trade offers nor economic sanctions has 5 worked; they is not interested in trade with us. Rathermore, they do expect we will soon shun their territory, like you now want us to. That suits their masters well, not having foreign influentials… Bribes? How do you bribe a being what ranks big in his own civilization and species, both those alien to you? Assassins? Ach, I am afraid we squandered several good assassins for no philanthropic result." Van Rijn cursed for two straight minutes without repeating himself. "And there they sit, fat and greedy-gut, across the route to Antares and all stars beyond! It is not to be stood for! No, it is to be jumped on!" Presently he finished in a calmer tone: "This ultimatum of yours brings matters to a head. Speaking of heads, it is getting time for a tall cold beer. I will soon throw a little brainbooting session with a few fellows and see what oozes out. Maybe we can invent something. You go tell the crewmen they should sit bottom-tight for a while yet, nie? Now, would you like to join me in the bar?—No? Then good day to you, Captain, if possible." *** *** *** It is a truism that the structure of a society is basically determined by its technology. Not in an absolute sense—there may be totally different cultures using identical tools—but the tools settle the possibilities; you can't have interstellar trade without spaceships. A race limited to a single planet, possessing a high knowledge of mechanics but with its basic machines of industry and war requiring a large capital investment, will inevitably tend toward collectivism under one name or another. Free enterprise needs elbow room. Automation and the mineral wealth of the Solar System made the manufacture of most goods cheap. The cost of energy nosedived when small, clean, simple fusion units became available. Gravitics led to the hyperdrive, which opened a galaxy to exploitation. This also provided a safety valve. A citizen who found his government oppressive could often emigrate elsewhere, an exodus—the Breakup, as it came to be called—that planted liberty on a number of worlds. Their influence in turn loosened bonds upon the mother planet. Interstellar distances being what they are, and intelligent races having their separate ideas of culture, there was no political union of them. Nor was there much armed conflict; besides the risk of destruction, few had anything to fight about. A race rarely gets to be intelligent without an undue share of built-in ruthlessness, so all was not sweetness and fraternity. However, the various balances of power remained fairly stable. Meanwhile the demand for cargoes grew huge. Not only did colonies want the luxuries of home, and home want colonial products, but the older civilizations had much to swap. It was usually cheaper to import such things than to create the industry needed to make synthetics and substitutes. Under such conditions, an exuberant capitalism was bound to arise. It was also bound to find mutual interests, form alliances, and negotiate spheres of influence. The powerful companies might be in competition, but their magnates had the wit to see that, overriding this, they shared a need to cooperate in many activities, arbitrate disputes among themselves, and present a united front to the demands of the state—any state. Governments were limited to a few planetary systems at most; they could do little to control their cosmopolitan merchants. One by one, through bribery, coercion, or sheer despair, they gave up the struggle. Selfishness is a potent force. Governments, officially dedicated to altruism, remained divided. The Polesotechnic League became a loose kind of supergovernment, sprawling from Canopus to Deneb, drawing its membership and employees from perhaps a thousand species. It was a horizontal society, cutting across political and cultural boundaries. It set its own policies, made its own treaties, established its own bases, fought its own battles… and for a time, in the course of milking the Milky Way, did more to spread a truly universal civilization and enforce a solid Pax than all the diplomats in known history. Nevertheless, it had its troubles. *** *** *** A mansion among those belonging to Nicholas van Rijn lay on the peak of Kilimanjaro, up among the undying snows. It was an easy spot to defend, just in case, and a favorite for conferences. His car slanted down through a night of needle-sharp stars, toward high turrets and glowing lights. Looking through the canopy, he picked out Scorpio. Antares flashed a red promise. He shook his fist at the fainter, unseen suns between him and it. "So!" he muttered. "Monkey business with van Rijn. The whole Sagittarius direction waiting to be opened, and you in the way. By damn, this will cost you money, gut and kipper me if it don't." He thought back to days when he had ridden ships through yonder spaces, bargaining in strange cities or stranger wildernesses, or beneath unblue skies and in poisonous winds, for treasures Earth had not yet imagined. For a moment, wistfulness tugged at him. A long time now since he had been any further than the Moon… poor, aging fat man, chained to a single planet and cursed whenever he turned an honest credit. The Antares route was more important than he cared to admit aloud. If he lost it, he lost his chance at the pioneering that went on beyond, to corporations with offices on the other side of the Kossaluth. You went on expanding or you went under, and being a conspicuous member of the League wouldn't save you. Of course, he could retire, but then what would there be to engage his energies? The car landed itself. Household staff, liveried and beweaponed, sprang to flank him as he emerged. He wheezed thin chill air into sooty lungs, drew his cloak of phosphorescent onthar skin tightly around him, and scrunched up a 6 graveled garden path to the house. A new maid stood at the door, pert and pretty. He tossed his plumed cap at her and considered making a proposition, but the butler said that the invited persons were already here. Seating himself, more for show than because of weariness, he told the chair, "Conference room" and rolled along corridors paneled in the woods of a dozen planets. A sweet smell of attar of janie and a softly played Mozart quintet enlivened the air. Four colleagues were poised around a table when he entered, a datacom terminal before each. Kraaknach of the Martian Transport Company was glowing his yellow eyes at a Frans Hals on the wall. Firmage of North American Engineering registered impatience with a puffed cigar. Mjambo, who owned Jo-Boy Technical Services, was talking into his wristphone, but stopped when his host entered. Gornas-Kiew happened to be on Earth and was authorized to speak for the Centaurian conglomerate; "he" sat hunched into "his" shell, naught moving save the delicate antennae. Van Rijn plumped his mass into an armchair at the head of the table. Waiters appeared with trays of drinks, snacks, and smokes catered for the individuals present. He took a large bite from a limburger-and-onion sandwich and looked inquiringly at the rest. Kraaknach's face, owlish within the air helmet, turned to him. "Well, Freeman who receives us," he trilled and croaked, "I understand we are met on account of this Borthudian hrokna. Did the spacemen make their expected demand?" "Ja." Van Rijn chose a cigar and rolled it between his fingers. "The situation is changed from desperate to serious. They will not take ships through the Kossaluth, except to fight, while this shanghai business goes on." "I suppose it is quite unfeasible to deliver a few gigatons' worth of warhead at the Borthudian home planet?" asked Mjambo. Van Rijn tugged his goatee. "Death and damnation!" He checked his temper. After all, he had invited these specific sophonts here precisely because they had not yet been much concerned with the problem. It had affected their enterprises in varying degrees, of course, but interests elsewhere had been tying up their direct attention. This tiny, outlying corner of the galaxy which Technic civilization has slightly explored is that big and various. Van Rijn was hoping for a fresh viewpoint. Having repeated the objections he had given Torres, he added: "I must got to admit, also, supposing we could, slaughtering several billion sentients because their leaders make trouble for us is not nice. I do not think the League would long survive being so guilty. Besides, it is wasteful. They should better be made customers of ours." "Limited action, whittling down their naval strength till they see reason?" wondered Firmage. "I have had more such programs run through the computers than there is politicians in hell," van Rijn answered. "They every one give the same grismal answer. Allowing for minimal losses, compensations, salaries, risk bonuses, construction, maintenance, replacement, ammunition, depreciation, loss of business due to lack of supervision elsewhere, legal action brought by the Solar Commonwealth and maybe other governments, bribes, loss of profit if the money was invested where it ought to be, et bloody-bestonkered cetera… in a nutshell, we cannot afford it." Reminded, he told the butler, "Simmons, you gluefoot, a bowl of mixed-up nuts, chop-chop, only you don't chop them, understand?" "You will pardon my ignorance, good sirs," clicked Gornas-Kiew's vocalizer. "I have been quite marginally aware of this unpleasantness. Why are the Borthudians impressing human crews?" Firmage and Mjambo stared. They had known Centaurians are apt to be single-minded—but this much? Van Rijn simply cracked a Brazil nut between his teeth, awing everybody present except for Gornas-Kiew, and reached for a snifter of brandy. "The gruntbrains have not enough of their own," he said. "Perhaps I can make it clear," said Kraaknach. Like many Martians of the Sirruch Horde—the latest wave of immigrants to Earth's once desolate neighbor—he was a natural-hatched lecturer. He ran a clawed hand across gray feathers, stuck a rinn tube through the intake sphincter on his helmet, and lit it. "Borthu is a backward planet, terrestroid to eight points, with autochthons describable as humanoid," he began. "They were at an early industrial, nuclear-power stage when explorers visited them, and their reaction to the presence of a superior culture was paranoid. At least, it was in the largest nation, which shortly proceeded to conquer the rest. It had modernized technologically with extreme rapidity, aided by certain irresponsible elements of this civilization who helped it for high pay. United, the Borthudians set out to acquire an interstellar empire. Today they dominate a space about forty light-years across, though they actually occupy just a few Solar-type systems within it. By and large, they want nothing to do with the outside universe: doubtless because the rulers fear that such contact will be dangerous to the stability of their regime. Certainly they are quite able to supply their needs within the boundaries of their dominion—with the sole exception of efficient spacemen. If we ourselves, with all our capabilities in the field of robotics, have not yet been able to produce totally automated spacecraft which are reliable, how much worse must the Borthudians feel the lack of enough crews." "Hm," said Firmage. "I've already thought about subversion. I can't believe their whole populace is happy. If we could get only a few regularly scheduled freighters in there… double agents… the Kossalu and his whole filthy government overthrown from within—" "Of course we will follow that course in due course, if we can," van Rijn interrupted. "But at best it takes much time. Meanwhile, competitors sew up the Sagittarius frontier. We need a quick way to get back our routes through that space." 7 Kraaknach puffed oily smoke. "To continue," he said, "the Borthudians can build as many ships as they wish, which is a great many since their economy is expanding. In fact, that economy requires constant expansion if the whole empire is not to collapse, inasmuch as the race-mystique of its masters has promoted a population explosion. But they cannot produce trained spacehands at the needful rate. Pride, and a not unjustified fear of ideological contamination, prevents them from sending students to Technic planets, or hiring from among us; and they have only one understaffed astronautical academy of their own." "I know," said Mjambo. "It'd be a whopping good market for me if we could change their minds for them." "Accordingly," Kraaknach proceeded, "they have in the past two years taken to waylaying our vessels. Doubtless they expect to be shunned eventually, as the Brotherhood has now voted to do. But then they can afford to let much of their population die back, while using what manned ships they have to maintain the rest. Without fear of direct or indirect interference from outside, the masters can 'remold' Borthudian society at leisure. It is a pattern not unknown to Terrestrial history, I believe. "At present, their actions are obviously in defiance of what has been considered interstellar law. However, only the Commonwealth, among governments, has the potential of doing anything about it—and there is such popular revulsion on Earth at the thought of war that the Commonwealth has confined itself to a few feeble protests. Indeed, a strong faction in it is not displeased to see the arrogant Polesotechnic League discomfited. Certain spokesmen are even arguing that territorial sovereignty should be formally recognized as extending through interstellar space. A vicious principle if ever there was one, hru?" He extracted the rinn tube and dropped it down an ashtaker. "In any event," he finished, "they capture the men, brain-channel them, and assign them to their own transport fleet. It takes years to train an astronaut. We are losing a major asset in this alone." "Can't we improve our evasive action?" inquired Firmage. "Any astronomical distance is so damn big. Why can't we avoid their patrols altogether?" "Eighty-five percent of our ships do precisely that," van Rijn reminded him. "It is not enough. The unlucky minority—" —who were detected by sensitive instruments within the maximum range of about a light-year, by the instantaneous pseudogravitational pulses of hyperdrive; on whom the Borthudians then closed in, using naval vessels which were faster and more maneuverable than merchantmen— "—they is gotten to be too many by now. The Brotherhood will accept no more. Confidential amongst the we of us, I would not either. And, ja, plenty different escape tactics is been tried, as well as cutting engines and lying low. None of them work very good." "Well, then, how about convoying our ships through?" Firmage persisted. "At what cost? I have been with the figures. It also would mean operating the Antares run at a loss—quite apart from those extra warcraft we would have to build. It would make Sagittarian trade out of the damned question." "Why can't we arm the merchantmen themselves?" "Bah! Wasn't you listening to Freeman Kraaknach? Robotics is never yet got to where live brains can be altogether replaced, except in bureaucrats." Deliberately irritating, which might pique forth ideas, van Rijn added what was everybody's knowledge: "A frigate-class ship needs twenty men for the weapons and instruments. An unarmed freighter needs only four. Consider the wages paid to spacefolk; we would really get folked. Also, sixteen extra on every ship would mean cutting down operations elsewhere, for lack of crews. Not to mention the cost of the outfitting. We cannot afford all this; we would lose money in big fat globs. What is worse, the Kossalu knows we would. He need only wait, holding back his fig-plucking patrols, till we is too broke to continue. Then he would maybe be tempted to start conquering some more, around Antares." Firmage tapped the table with a restless finger. "Everything we've thought of seems to be ruled out," he said. "Suggestions, anybody?" Silence grew, under the radiant ceiling. Gornas-Kiew broke it: "Precisely how are captures made? It is impossible to exchange shots while in hyperdrive." "Statistically impossible," amended Kraaknach. "Energy beams are out of the question. Material missiles have to be hypered themselves, or they would revert to true, sublight velocity and be left behind as soon as they emerged from the drive field. Furthermore, to make a hit, they must be precisely in phase with the target. A good pilot can phase in on another ship, but the operation involves too many variables for any cybernet of useful size." "I tell you how," snarled van Rijn. "The pest-bedamned Borthudians detect the vibration-wake from afar. They compute an intercept course. Coming close, they phase in and slap on a tractor beam. Then they haul themselves up alongside, burn through the hull or an airlock, and board." "Why, the answer looks simple enough," said Mjambo. "Equip our craft with pressor beams. Keep the enemy ships at arm's length." "You forget, esteemed colleague, that beams of either positive or negative sign are powered from the engine," said Kraaknach. "A naval vessel has much stronger engines than a merchantman." "Give our crews small arms. Let them blast down the boarding parties." "The illegitimate-offspring-of-interspecies-crosses Borthudians already have arms, also hands what hold weapons," snorted van Rijn. "Phosphor and farts! Do you think four men can stand off twenty?" 8 "M-m-m… yes, I see your point." Firmage nodded. "But look here, we can't do anything about this without laying out some cash. I'm not sure what the mean profit is—" "On the average, for everybody's combined Antarean voyages, about thirty percent on each run," said van Rijn promptly. Mjambo started. "How the devil do you get the figures for my company?" he exclaimed. Van Rijn grinned and drew on his cigar. "That gives us a margin to use," said Gornas-Kiew. "We can invest in military equipment to such an extent that our profit is less—though I agree there must still be a final result in the black—for the duration of this emergency." "It'd be worth it," said Mjambo. "In fact, I'd take a fair-sized loss just to teach those bastards a lesson." "No, no." Van Rijn lifted a hand which, after years in offices, was still the broad muscular paw of a working spaceman. "Revenge and destruction are un-Christian thoughts. Also, I have told you, they do not pay very well, since it is hard to sell anything to a corpse. The problem is to find some means inside our resources what will make it unprofitable for Borthu to raid us. Not being stupid heads, they will then stop raiding and we can maybe later do business." "You're a cold-blooded one," said Mjambo. "Not always," replied van Rijn blandly. "Like a sensible man, I set my thermostat according to what is called for. In this case, what we need is a scientifical approach with elegant mathematics—" Abruptly he dropped his glance and covered a shiver by pouring himself another glassful. He had gotten an idea. When the others had argued for a fruitless hour, he said: "Freemen, this gets us nowhere, nie? Perhaps we are not stimulated enough to think clear." "What do you propose?" sighed Mjambo. "Oh… an agreement. A pool, or prize, or reward for whoever solves this problem. For example, ten percent of everybody else's Antarean profits for the next ten years." "Hoy, there!" burst from Firmage. "If I know you, you robber, you've come up with an answer." "No, no, no. By my honor I swear it. I have some beginning thoughts, maybe, but I am only a poor rough old space walloper without the fine education you beings have had. I could too easy be wrong." "What is your notion?" "Best I not say yet, until it is more fermented. But please to note, he who tries something active will take on the risk and expense. If he succeeds, he saves profits for all. Does not a tiny return on his investment sound fair and proper?" There was more argument. Van Rijn smiled with infinite benevolence. He settled at last for a compact, recorded on ciphertape, whose details would be computed later. Beaming, he clapped his hands. "Freemen," he said, "we have worked hard tonight and soon comes much harder work. By damn, I think we deserve a little celebration. Simmons, prepare an orgy." *** *** *** Rafael Torres had considered himself unshockable by any mere words. He was wrong. "Are you serious?" he gasped. "In confidentials, of course," van Rijn answered. "The crew must be good men like you. Can you recommend more?" "No—" "We will not be stingy with the bonuses." Torres shook his head violently. "Out of the question, sir. The Brotherhood's refusal to enter the Kossaluth on anything except a punitive expedition is absolute. This one you propose is not, as you describe it. We can't lift the ban without another vote, which would necessarily be a public matter." "You can publicly vote again after we see if the idea works," van Rijn pressed him. "The first trip will have to be secret." "Then the first trip will have to do without a crew." "Bile on a boomerang!" Van Rijn's fist crashed against his desk. He surged to his feet. "What sort of putzing cowards do I deal with? In my day we were men! And we had ideals, I can tell you. We would have boosted through hell's open gates if you paid us enough." Torres sucked hard on his cigarette. "The ban must stand. None but a Lodgemaster can… Well, all right, I'll say it." Anger was a cold flaring in him. "You want men to take an untried ship into enemy sky and invite attack. If they lose, they're condemned to a lifetime of praying, with what's left of their free wills, for death. If they succeed, they win a few measly kilocredits. In either case, you sit back here plump and safe. God damn it, no!" Van Rijn stood quiet for a while. This was something he had not quite foreseen. His gaze wandered forth, out the transparency, to the narrow sea. A yacht was passing by, lovely in white sails and slender hull. Really, he ought to spend more time on his own. Money wasn't that important. Was it? This was not such a bad world, this Earth, even when one was being invaded by age and fat. It was full of blossoms and burgundy, clean winds and lovely women, Mozart melodies and fine books. Doubtless his memories of earlier days in space were colored by nostalgia… 9 He reached a decision and turned around to face his visitor. "A Lodgemaster can come on such a trip without telling peoples," he said. "The union rules give you discretion. You think you can raise two more like yourself, hah?" "I told you, Freeman, I won't so much as consider it." "Even if I myself am the skipper?" *** *** *** The Mercury did not, outwardly, look different after the engineers were finished with her. Her cargo was the same as usual, too: cinnamon, ginger, pepper, cloves, tea, whisky, gin. If he was going to Antares, van Rijn did not intend to waste the voyage. He did omit wines, doubting their quality could stand as rough a trip as this one would be. The alterations were internal, extra hull bracing and a new and monstrously powerful engine. The actuarial computers estimated the cost of such an outfitting as three times the total profit from all her journeys during an average service life. Van Rijn had winced, but put a shipyard to work. In truth, his margin was slim, and he was gambling more on it than he could afford to lose. However, if the Kossalu of Borthu had statisticians of his own—always assuming that the idea proved out— Well, if it didn't, Nicholas van Rijn would die in battle, or be liquidated as too old for usefulness, or become a brain-channeled slave, or be held for a ruinous ransom. The possibilities looked about equally bad. He installed himself, dark-haired and multiply curved Dorcas Gherardini, and a stout supply of brandy, tobacco, and ripe cheese, in the captain's cabin. One might as well be comfortable. Torres was his mate, Captains Petrovich and Seiichi his engineers. The Mercury lifted from Quito Spaceport without fanfare, waited unpretentiously in orbit for clearance, then accelerated on negagrav away from Sol. At the required distance, she went on hyperdrive and outpaced light. Van Rijn sat back on the bridge and lit his churchwarden pipe. "Now is a month's going to Antares," he said piously. "Good St. Dismas, watch over us." "I'll stick by St. Nicholas, patron of travelers," replied Torres. "In spite of his being your namesake." Van Rijn looked hurt. "By damn, do you not respect my morals?" Torres shrugged. "Well, I admire your courage—nobody can say you lack guts—" van Rijn gave him a hard look —"and if anybody can pull this off, you can. Set a pirate to catch a pirate." "You younger generations got a loud mouth and no manners." The merchant blew malodorous clouds. "In my day, we said 'sir' to the captain even when we mutinied." "I'm still worried about a particular detail," admitted Torres. He had had much more to occupy mind and body than the working out of strategies, mainly the accumulation of as many enjoyable memories as possible. "I suppose it's a fairly safe bet that the enemy hasn't yet heard about our travel ban. Still, the recent absence of ships must have made him think. Besides, our course brings us so near a known Borthudian base that we're certain to be detected. Suppose he gets suspicious and dispatches half a dozen vessels to jump us?" "The likelihood of that is quite low, because he keeps his bloody-be-damned patrol craft cruising far apart, to maximize their chances of spotting a catch. If he feels wary of us, he will simply not attack; but this also I doubt, for a prize is valuable." Van Rijn heaved his bulk onto his feet. One good thing about spacefaring, you could set the gravity-field generator low and feel almost lissome again. "What you at your cockamamie age do not quite understand, my friend, is that there are hardly any certainties in life. Always we must go on probabilities. The secret of success is to make the odds favor you. Then in the long run you are sure to come out ahead. It is your watch now, and I recommend you project a book on statistical theory to pass the time. The data bank has an excellent library. As for me, I will be in conference with Freelady Gherardini." "I wish to blazes I could run commands of mine the way you run this of yours," said Torres mournfully. Van Rijn waved an expansive hand. "Why not, my boy, why not? So long as you make money and no trouble for the Company, the Company does not peek over your shoulder. The trouble with you young snapperwhippers is you lack initiative. When you are a poor old feeble fat man like me, you will look back and regret your lost opportunities." Low-gee or no, the deck thumped beneath his feet as he departed. *** *** *** Heaven was darkness filled with a glory of suns. Viewscreens framed the spilling silver of the Milky Way, ruby spark of Antares, curling edge of a nebula limned by the glare of an enmeshed star. Brightest in vision stood Borthu's, yellow as minted gold. The ship drove on as she had done for a pair of weeks, pulsing in and out of four-space at thousands of times per second, loaded with a tension that neared the detonation point. On a wardroom bench, Dorcas posed slim legs and high prow with a care so practiced as to be unconscious. She could not pull her eyes from the screen. "It's beautiful," she said in a small voice. "Somehow that doubles the horror." Van Rijn sprawled beside her, his majestic nose aimed aloft. "What is horrible, my little sinusoid?" he asked. "Them… waiting to pounce on us and… In God's name, why did I come along?" 10