The Russian seemed to divine what he was saying and rattled off more Russian.
“He says no,” said the Coordinator. “This Council is over here on this continent and that base is over there on that continent. He says there are silos of nuclear weapons aimed at this continent and have been for a thousand years or so. And he doesn't want anything to happen to you, Jonnie sir. So he wants a force of South Americans and Alaskans-he knows there are almost no North Americans left– to take charge of that base over there on your authority. He says if the Russians have charge of this base here, they won't fire at Russia. And if people from this continent take charge of that base there they won't fire on this continent. They've got it all worked out, Jonnie sir. It 's all here. They worked it out in Russia. If you say all right, and put a little initial here...”
Robert the Fox was watching Jonnie. This was the first thing he'd seen the lad take even the slightest interest in. Robert knew it would probably be all right with the Council. He saw Jonnie looking at him. He nodded. Jonnie took the offered pen and wrote his initials on the paper.
The Russian seemed to almost deflate with relief. Then he rattled away at the Coordinator, who presently said, “He now has a present for you.”
Ivan put down the tray and reached into his tunic pocket. He brought out a gold disc with a big red star in the center of it and two lapel tabs of ancient braid. He gave them to Jonnie, waiting for him to accept.
The Coordinator said, “That is the cap ornament they found on the Marshal of the Red Army who was in charge of that base and those are his lapel tabs. He wants you to know that they are yours. And you are in charge of both bases.”
Jonnie smiled slightly and the Russian promptly kissed him on both cheeks and rushed out. Robert the Fox was holding the papers and Chrissie put the gifts in Jonnie's buckskin pouch.
"If this had happened a thousand or so years ago,” said Robert the Fox, “maybe things would have been different.” Chrissie was shooing him to leave. Jonnie looked tired. “The Council will put this through and handle it. There might be vital materials in that base.”
“You might get it cleaned up and filtered,” said Jonnie. “It might help them if gas drones come again.”
When Dr. MacKendrick came to exercise his arm and get him to walk, he told Jonnie he was improved.
Jonnie alarmed him. “Not improved enough!” said Jonnie, a bit bitterly. “I may not have been so smart after all.”
Part XVI
Chapter 1
Terl sat in his dark hole and was gloomy. He was not with the other Psychlos; they would have torn him to fur fluffs. He was here in a cubicle that had once been used for cleaning supplies on the dormitories. It had been rigged with a breathe-gas circulator; it contained a narrow, twelve-foot-long bed; there was a little port that had been rigged to push food through– one could see the outside corridor beyond its revolving panes; and there was a two-way intercom inset below the door.
The place was strong enough; he had already tried every means of opening it and escaping. He was not chained, but every hour of the day and night there was a sentry with an assault rifle just outside.
It was really the fault of the females, both the animal females and Chirk. His hindsight was a bit faulty, but not his conviction that it was correct. Always a master of self-delusion, Terl was at his best these days.
When he compared his present lot with the beautiful dream of being wealthy and powerful on Psychlo, being bowed to by the royalty and trembled at by everyone else, he quivered with suppressed rage. These animals were denying him his due! Ten beautiful gold coffin lids lay moldering in the company cemetery on Psychlo, of that he was utterly certain. The delicious thought of slipping out there some dark night and exhuming them was second only to the thought of the wealth and power that would ensue.
He had befriended these animals. And how had they treated him? A mop closet!
But Terl was nothing if not clever. He roused himself now and began to think hard and brightly. Now was the time to be the calm, cool, masterful Terl.
He would get to Psychlo. He would get these animals and this planet destroyed, finally and forever. He would dig up those coffins. He would be bowed to and trembled at. Nothing must stand in his way!
He began to tally up the bits and scraps of leverage he had. First, of course, it went without saying that his own cleverness was his chief asset; he agreed with himself on that. Second, he was almost certain the first animal he had caught had forgotten that there was a hefty charge of explosive left buried in that cage. Third, there had been three remotes: one was still in his office, one had been seized, but the third was just inside that cage door in case he somehow got tricked or trapped in there. That third one would have enabled him to blow up the females or shut off the power to the bars, and he was certain it had not been found. The fourth piece of leverage was a pretty big one and the fifth was gigantic.
Leverage!
Sitting there in the semidark he thought and thought. And after several days, he knew he had it. Every point in its torturous pattern of events was perfectly channeled, perfectly conceived, and ready to be put in train.
The primary stage was to get himself put in that cage. Good! He would do it.
So it was that a very mild, personable Terl noted one morning that the sentries no longer wore kilts. Gazing out through the revolving panes of the food slot, he carefully concealed his elation. He sized the creature up. It had long pants, strapped boots, and a half-wing insignia on its left breast.
Terl might be a top graduate of company schools but he was no linguist: that was part of the arts, and what self-respecting Psychlo had anything to do with those? So an element of luck had to enter in here.
“What,” said Terl in Psychlo through the intercom installed in the door, “does that half-wing stand for?”
The sentry looked a bit startled. Good, thought Terl.
“I should have thought it would have two wings,” said Terl.
“That's for a full pilot,” said the sentry. "I’m just a student pilot. But I’ll have my full wings someday!”
Terl laid aside his conviction that you couldn't understand animals. While arrogance demanded nonrecognition of them, necessity demanded he recognize them. This thing was talking Psychlo. Chinko accent, as would be expected, but Psychlo.
“I am sure you will earn wings,” said Terl. “I must say your Psychlo is excellent! You should practice it more, though. Talking to a real Psychlo would help.”
The sentry brightened up. Suddenly he realized that that was perfectly true. And here was a real Psychlo. He had never talked to one before. It was quite a novelty. So he told Terl who he was, that being easy to discuss. He said he was Lars Thorenson, part of the Swedish contingent that had arrived some months ago for pilot training. He did not share the ferocity of some of the Scots against the Psychlos, for his people, way up in the Arctic, hadn't had any previous contact with Psychlos. He thought maybe the Scots exaggerated things a bit. And by the way, was Terl a flier?
Oh, yes, Terl told him, and it was quite true. Terl was a past master in all types of flight, battle tactics, and stunts like flying right down into five-mile-deep mine shafts and picking up an endangered machine.
The sentry had drawn closer. Flight was very dear to him and here was a master. He said that their best flier was Jonnie, and did Terl know him?