The Rival Rigelians

The Earthman snapped: “Take over the drill, sergeant. These men are going to be ready for the field by the end of the week. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Barry looked at his companion. “Walk on over here with me, Terry. I have something.”

They strolled toward the side of the drill field, Stevens scowling unhappily.

“You sure that was a good idea?”

“What? Having that man flogged?”

Stevens said nothing for a moment, then, finally, “There’s only eight of us—and Isobel.”

Barry Watson grunted sour humor. “And that’s probably the reason I should have had him shot for insubordination, instead of simply whipped. Tula is at war. Joe Chessman has the right idea. You don’t run a military machine by being humanitarian, Terry.”

“Maybe there was some other way to do it,” Stevens muttered.

“Some other way of uniting Texcoco?” Barry grinned at him. “You should have come up with it sooner, friend. It would’ve saved me a lot of grief.”

Stevens took a deep breath. “What’d you want to talk about, Barry?”

The other stopped and turned. He said evenly, “Mynor has defected. The Chief Priest. He’s gone over to the nomads and rebels.”

Stevens pursed his lips and thought about it. “He’s a big wig on this planet. That religion of his is pretty well worldwide. What does Leonid Plekhanov think it will mean?”

Watson said sourly, “He’s dithering, as usual. Joe was in favor of rounding up Mynor’s closest associates and shooting them before they have a chance to take off too.”

“Holy Jumping Zen,” Stevens protested. “Plekhanov stopped that idea, didn’t he?”

“Yes. As predictable. Our intrepid leader is great with his books, or in debate with somebody like Amschel Mayers, but when it comes to thinking on his feet, he dithers.”

“Well, I’d rather have Plekhanov dithering, than Joe Chessman running around shooting everybody that doesn’t look right to him.”

Barry Watson said thoughtfully, “I don’t know, Terry. I don’t know. Sometimes by shooting one or two, you don’t have to shoot one or two thousand a few weeks later.”

Terry Stevens said, “And by shooting one or two thousand, you don’t have to shoot ten or twenty thousand a month later?” Watson laughed, though without humor. “You’re beginning to get it.” But then he sobered. “I didn’t ask for this job, Terry. But if this planet is ever going to become united, we’ve got to have a military to do it. It’s anarchy now. Mynor and his rebels want only one thing: to turn the wheels backward to the old days.”

“It’s their world,” Stevens muttered.

Barry Watson laughed his humorless laugh again. “Whose side are you on? Remember us? We’re the handful of specialists sent out by the Office of Galactic Colonization to bring this world into the human community. Nobody thought it was going to be fun.”

“I suppose so,” Stevens said. “I’m just tired.”

Watson grinned. “You’ll be more tired tomorrow. I’m leaving you and Steve Cogswell in charge when we go up to the Pedagogue to confer with Amschel Mayer and his team. Plekhanov is leaving Isobel, Dick Hawkins, MacBride and you and Cogswell to hold the fort.”

“Shouldn’t either he or Chessman be here?”

Barry winked. “He’s afraid to leave Joe Chessman. He labors under the illusion that Joe is his only rival for Hot Pants Sanchez.”

Stevens flushed.

Barry Watson cocked his head and looked at his colleague narrowly. “Don’t tell me our good doctor has got to you, too. Why don’t you take a lesson from Cogswell and round yourself up a bevy from the Tulan curves? With the man shortage that’s beginning to develop around here, we’re developing the largest number of round heeled mopsies known in history.”

“You think it’s a good example for us to be setting?” Stevens said accusingly.

Watson shrugged as he turned to make off. “I’ll be a cloddy if I know. I suppose we have to keep the birthrate up somehow.”

Leonid Plekhanov returned to the Pedagogue with a certain ostentatious ceremony. He was accompanied by Joe Chessman, Natt Roberts and Barry Watson of his original group, but four young, hard-eyed, hard-faced and armed Tulans were also in the party.

Their space lighter swooped in, nestled to the Pedagogue’s hull in the original bed it had occupied on the trip from Terra City, and her port opened to the corridors of the mother ship.

Plekhanov, flanked by Chessman and Watson, strode heavily toward the ship’s lounge. Natt Roberts and two of the Tulans remained with the small boat and busied themselves acquiring various items they wished to take back to Texcoco on the return.

The two other natives followed the Earthmen to the lounge, their eyes going here and there in continued amazement, in spite of their efforts to appear untouched by it all. They were in full uniform, in the leather jerkins and kilts that had been adopted by Chessman for his troops. At their sides were short swords. In this they differed from their Earthling officers all of whom wore pistols.