The Council was not having a happy time of it.
Chapter 4
He lay half-awake in his bed, not really wanting to try.
The secret behind Jonnie's lethargy was the feeling that he had failed. Maybe the bombs hadn't landed on Psychlo. Maybe all this was just a brief interlude of peace for man. Perhaps soon the beautiful plains of his planet would once more be denied the human race.
And even if the bombs had landed and Psychlo was no longer a menace, he had heard of other races out there in the universe, savage races as pitiless as the Psychlos. How could this planet defend itself against those?
It haunted him at every awakening; it plagued his sleep. People now looked so happy and industrious, so revived. What cruelty if it were just a brief interlude. How crushed they would be!
Today would be just another day. He would get up, and a Russian attendant would bring in his breakfast and help Chrissie straighten the room. Then MacKendrick would come and they would exercise his arm and he would try to walk a bit. Something about there being nothing wrong, really, just having to learn to do it again. Then Sir Robert or the parson would come over and sit uncomfortably for a while until Chrissie shooed them out. A few more dull routine actions and another day would be gone. His failure oppressed him. He saw more clearly than they did how cruel a letdown this would be if the Psychlos counterattacked. He felt a little guilty when he saw a glad face: how soon it might turn to grief.
He had given the historian, Doctor MacDermott, a colorless outline of the drone destruction, all from the viewpoint of what one could or could not do if another one appeared, and Doctor Mac had well supposed there was far more to the action than that, but he had been chased out by Chrissie.
Chrissie had just washed his face and he was sitting at a trolley table when he noticed something odd going on with the Russian attendant. It really did not thoroughly challenge Jonnie's interest, for there were always Scots guarding him in the outside passage against intruders or disturbance– a guard he had at first protested and then accepted when they all seemed so upset at the refusal.
Jonnie had not seen this particular Russian in two weeks; others had been taking his place. Once this Russian had come in with a great big black eye and a triumphant grin on his face; questioned, Chrissie had explained that the Russians sometimes fought among themselves over the right to serve him. Well, this fellow looked like he could win any fight. As tall as Jonnie, heavyset with slightly slanted eyes, and dressed in baggy-bottomed trousers and a white tunic, he was quite imposing, his bristling black mustache standing straight out on both sides of his big nose. His name was, inevitably, Ivan.
After putting down the breakfast, he had drawn back and was standing there at the stiffest attention Jonnie had ever seen.
A Coordinator came slipping in the door, the Scot sentry scowling and privately vowing to send for Sir Robert by runner the moment the door was closed.
Jonnie looked at the Russian questioningly.
The Russian bowed from the hips and straightened up, looking stiffly ahead. “How do you do Jonnie Tyler sir.” His was a very thick accent. He did not go on.
Jonnie went on eating oatmeal and cream. “How do you do,” he said indifferently.
The Russian just stood there. Then his eyes rolled appealingly at the Scot Coordinator.
“That's all the English he knows, Jonnie sir. He has some news and a present for you.”
Chrissie, with a broom in her hand, her cornsilk hair tied out of her eyes with a buckskin thong, bristled at this violation of proper announcement. She looked like she was going to hit both of them with the broom. Jonnie motioned her to be still. He was slightly interested. The Russian was so imposing and was fairly bursting with what he had to say.
Ivan barked off a long string of Russian and the Coordinator took it up. “He says he is Colonel Ivan Smolensk of the Hindu Kush– that's in the Himalayan Mountains. They are descended from a Red Army detachment that was cut off there and intermarried locally; there are about ten groups in the Himalayas; some speak Russian, some an Afghanistan dialect. They really aren't army units. 'Colonel' to them means 'father.' They're really Cossacks.”
The Russian thought this was going on too long– it was more than he had said. So he rattled off another string. The Coordinator cleared up a couple of points and turned to Jonnie.
“This is very irregular,” said Chrissie, her black eyes flashing.
The Coordinator was already in awe of Chrissie and Jonnie had to tell him to go on. “It seems like when they found they could travel around– the steppes there are huge– a troop-that's their name for a family unit-rode clear over to the Ural Mountains. They got on the radio to him-anybody can use a radio it seems-and they gave him some news. Our Coordinator there had told them about this base and that troop for some reason thought there might be a Russian base.
“They came back and radioed Ivan here about it and he took off-anybody can hook a ride on a plane; they schedule 'round the various tribes about once a week– and he rode like the wind he says on their very swift horses and he went to check it personally and he's just come back and wants to tell you.”
“He should tell the Council!” said
Chrissie. "Jonnie is in no condition to be holding what they call audiences!”
The Russian let out another string.
The Coordinator timidly translated (he did not like crossing Chrissie; she was such a beautiful woman and such a celebrity herself). “There is such a base. It is as big as this one and just as full of atom bombs and hardware and dead men.”
Jonnie was vaguely interested. Might serve them as a refuge if there were a counterattack. “Well, tell him that's fine and why not clean it up and use it.”
A brief interchange between the Coordinator and the Russian, and then fireworks! Russian splattered off the very walls.
Robert the Fox came in; short of breath from hurrying, thoroughly disapproving of anyone disturbing Jonnie as well as short-circuiting proper channels. But he paused. Jonnie seemed interested. Not much, but more than Robert had seen for a while. The veteran leaned back against the wall and signaled the Coordinator to go on.
The Coordinator was getting overwhelmed. He was quite used to dealing with important tribal heads and notables, but here he was in the company of three of the most important names this planet had ever had, especially Jonnie sir. But Colonel Ivan was almost stomping his feet for him to translate.
“He says that's what ruined the whole human race. He says the valiant-red-army, trying to fight the capitalist-imperialist-warmongers (these are just names to him, Jonnie sir, he doesn't have a political axe to grind) had their attention on each other and didn't cooperate when an invader landed, and he says while tribal wars will and do happen, international wars among whole peoples are against the good welfare of the people. He says he is for the people of Earth and people didn't stick together but fought, and this must not happen again. He's very emphatic, Jonnie sir, and he says all the other Russian tribes are also.”
Jonnie pushed back the tray, and the Russian, suddenly remembering his duty, picked it up. He let out another broadside of Russian.
The Coordinator pulled out some papers. “They've retained literacy, sir, and he and some of the chiefs drew up some papers– they don't have much paper so excuse its condition, I think they found it in that base– and they want your agreement to it.”
Jonnie looked tired to Robert the Fox. “This is Council business. The Himalayan chiefs are members of the Council.”