So there is the riddle of Waterloo. A pleasant, peaceful culture that tortures visitors. Force is out of the question, whatever the provocation. Earth could not possibly transport and land enough troops to pacify the entire planet since the men could not forage from the land. Diplomacy has to do the job if it is to be done at all. And it must be done, lest other spacefaring species assume control of the region and threaten Man's security.
Gloria pleads and cries and threatens and cajoles, but I volunteer. I am confident that I, as a superior individual, will succeed once more where my incompetent predecessors have failed.
I am landing now at the only suitable place on the planet. This is where a super-hard lava flow exists that can withstand the blast of chemical rockets. The ancient Loo spaceports are in shambles, quite useless today, so this natural formation has to substitute.
According to envoy #6 (intriguing coincidence of nomenclature, that! My Latin loudmouth finally finagled a reprieve)—the Loos never kill an animate creature if they can help it. Their atrocities are calculated to induce maximum pain with minimum loss of body faculty. But their science in this respect remains crude. They do not have the discipline box.
The first two envoys (#6 claims) died because the Loos were not sufficiently conversant with human anatomy and function to preserve them through the scheduled rigors. The next three committed suicide. The sixth made his break instead. He was a specially trained agent who was able to pull off his phenomenal escape without the use of one hand. Now he has quit the Service.
I have no such spy training. And I mean to see my mission through to the end, for marriage and considerable acclaim and fortune await me. So I will neither run nor commit suicide. The Loos will have to kill me outright—or negotiate.
Here are the Loos, coming across the plain of lava in an animal cart. They are actually rather small, only four and a half feet tall and proportionately slender. Hardly the type one would expect to find in the torture business. The gravity of this world is less than Earth-norm, but the difference isn't enough to account for such diminished stature, if that's the way it works. I don't really know or care much about exobiology. I do know their internal systems are different; they look like human mock-ups, but there are myriad distinctions. The Loos are probably the right size for what they are, though that isn't much.
"Welcome to Waterloo," their spokesman says, using their own word for the planet but speaking English otherwise. They have evidently learned something about us and made an effort to accommodate. That should help. Maybe the earlier difficulties were the result of some linguistic confusion.
Maybe cheese is made from green moons, too. By what innocent misapprehension would they torture six envoys?
"I have come to make a treaty," I inform the Loo. "Between your world and mine. Mutually beneficial. You understand?"
"Yes, Envoy," he replies. I know he is male because he has a penis. Primitives don't wear much.
He conducts me to his castle, making small talk. If he is trying to impress me with his verbal facility, he is succeeding. I doubt I could handle the Loo gabble that well, should I be moved to try. His name is something like Kule, he is to be my host for the duration, and he seems friendly enough. Innocuous, in fact. Naturally he is hiding something.
The air is balmy. I am able to breathe comfortably and to drink the local water, but that's as far as it goes.
Inside, Kule introduces me to his mate, Vibe. She is a thick individual with four teats down the front and a jelly-pudendum, and she speaks limited English. Her litter of four stands behind her: vaguely akin to bald-headed human brats.
"Do they speak my language too?" I inquire.
"To some extent," Kule admits. "All those who expect to deal with aliens must study the tongues. But beyond this domicile there are few you could converse with."
We share a royal dinner. I cannot touch the Waterloo food, of course. Its chemistry differs right down to the cellular structure. A distinct and alien life-pattern. Assimilation of any of it would havoc my innards. The air and water are essentially inorganic, so I can use them, but the food—a biological antimatter, I suppose. But they have imported some Earth staples at fabulous expense (or stolen them from the prior envoys) and prepared them for me. A fattening for the Kill?
"You come politically, as did the other Earthmen?" the Loo inquires as we dine. "To deal as between sovereign planets?"
"Yes," I agree. He already knows this. Perhaps he is letting his family in on the secret now.
"You have courage."
I suppose that is a way of looking at it. I find it hard to be afraid of inferiors. "I understand that you torture envoys."
"Certainly. We regret that your predecessors... desisted prematurely. But we are now sufficiently familiar with human anatomy so that we are virtually assured you will not perish on the rack." He took another mouthful of pudding, looking pleased.
I mouth my own dessert. "Unless I commit suicide."
Vibe turns green around all four nipples and the litter titters. I see immediately that I have committed a faux pas.
"Your species is prone to jest?" Kule asks uncertainly.
"Very prone." The bad moment passes. Should I regret that I have caused this nice, homey, bloodthirsty family embarrassment? Yet if torture is one of their amenities....
The meal is finished. "Shall I conduct you to the business office now," Kule asks, "or would you prefer to rest a little first?"
"Business before pleasure," I reply. I doubt he has either intent or authority to sign a treaty between two worlds, however. Perhaps I am to meet someone more important.
Kule obligingly guides me to a lower chamber of the castle. It is large and set up like a theater. Tiers of benches rise above an ample stage. I do not need the sight of several Loos suspended on boards to acquaint me with the fact that this is indeed a torture chamber.
It occurs to me to inquire why they feel the need to inflict pain on natives and aliens alike, but I realize that sadism requires no objective justification. Perhaps Kule expects me to break and run for my ship; this is his way of scaring me away from my mission.
No doubt he has never dealt with a superior man. I shall neither be bluffed nor commit a faux pas again.
Kule introduces me to my personal torturer, a legless one-eyed Loo. He cannot move; he is mounted to a pedestal before a vacant rack. I see that each client has a similarly incapacitated attendant. None of that modern mass-production indifference here!
"This is Beve, our specialist in human anatomy," Kule says with pride. "You can be assured that he is fully accredited. Under his direction you will suffer the most exquisite agony your system is capable of. He handled the three successful cases."
"Successful?"
"Those who took the grail." Kule gestures to a handsome goblet affixed to one edge of the vertical board. I perceive that it is filled with an amber fluid. A suicide cup?
It would not work for me, because of the differing metabolism, and would not have worked for the prior envoys. He is lying. No—it would work, but not quite in the manner intended. Not the poison, but the alien chemistry would do the human drinker in. Academic distinction.
"Who handled the unsuccessful cases?" I inquire politely.
"We do not speak the names of failures," Kule reproves me gently. "Incompetent practitioners are incarcerated along with their mistakes in the oubliette. If extenuating circumstances exist, they are granted a sip from the grail first." His demeanor is grave; he does not enjoy the subject. I understand. No one likes to admit proximity to incompetence.
But it is an intriguing point, this concern about accidental death on the rack. If the client is driven to suicide, it is the tormenter's bonus, I gather. If the client dies adamant, he guarantees his torturer's demise. Very nice. But what of those who survive bloody but unbowed?