Chapter 8
“Who are you?” said Terl. He had no trouble at all in seeing the figure who stood in the shadow of the post. It was a brilliantly clear, moonlit night, so bright that even the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies gleamed.
Lars Thorenson had brought the newcomer down to the cage at senior Councilman Staffor's request. Lars had totally flunked out of pilot training after trying a “combat maneuver” so impossible that it crashed him, wiped out a plane, and cracked his neck. He had been appointed “language assistant” to the Council. The plaster cast collar he was wearing did not interfere with his talking. He had been told to bring the newcomer down to the cage, turn off the electricity, hand in a mine radio, give the newcomer another mine radio, and then with no mine radio of his own withdraw. Lars was very punctilious about his duties– he had accepted the appointment on the condition that he could now also spread fascism among the tribes, which made both him and his father very happy. This newcomer had really stunk up the ground car! Suddenly Lars remembered he was also to tell the cadet on guard duty to go elsewhere, so he rushed off to find him and tell him just that.
Terl looked at this newcomer, hoping his contempt for the animal wouldn't show through his face mask or sound in his voice. He knew all about General Snith of the Brigantes. As security officer, war officer, and political officer of this planet, he was very well informed about this band. Like all security officers before him, Terl had accepted the situation of a human group in a rainy forest who couldn't be reached or observed and who had developed a symbiotic relationship with the Psychlos. The Brigantes had kept all other races wiped out and had delivered hundreds of thousands of Bantu and Pygmies to the branch minesite. The only attraction that place had was that you could occasionally buy a human creature to torture. Yes, Terl not only knew all about them but he had personally engineered their transport over here.
Terl had persuaded the creature Staffor that what he needed was a true and reliable corps of troops for this place. Staffor had vehemently agreed– you couldn't trust those Scots, they were too sly and treacherous; you also shouldn't use cadets who seemed to have some damnable and misplaced admiration for that Tyler.
The Brigantes had come but Staffor seemed to be having trouble with the negotiation with them, so Terl had suggested their chief be sent down.
“Who are you?” repeated Terl in the mine radio. Did the creature speak Psychlo as was reported?
Yes, the next words were Psychlo, but a Psychlo spoken as though the thing had goo-food in its mouth. “The question be, who the crap crud be you?” said General Snith.
“I am Terl, the chief security officer of this planet.”
“Then what be you doing in a cage?”
“An observation post that keeps the humans out.”
“Ah,” said Snith, understanding. (Who did this Psychlo think he was fooling?)
“I understand,” said Terl, “that you have had some difficulty coming to terms.” (You crud brain: I pull you out of a jungle and you don't realize my power!)
“It be the back pay,” said Snith. It seemed quite natural to be talking to a Psychlo over a mine radio. He had never talked to one any other way. So maybe this interview was on the level after all. This Psychlo knew the proper form.
“Back pay?” said Terl. He could understand somebody being concerned about that, but he thought it was a barter system of explosive ingredients for humans.
“We was hired by the international bank,” said Snith. He knew his legends and he knew his rights, and he was very good at trading. Very good indeed. “At one hundred dollars a day per man. We ain't been paid.”
“How many men, how long?” said Terl.
“I calculate in rough figures one thousand men for, let's say, one thousand years.”
The rapid skill Terl had with mathematics told him this was 36,500 a year per man; 36,500,000 per year for all the men; and 36,500,000,000 in total. But he made a test. “Why,” said Terl, in a shocked voice, “that's more than a million!”
Snith nodded gravely. “Just so! They won't agree to it.” This Psychlo knew when he was in a boxed ambush. Maybe he could do business with him after all.
Terl had his answer. The piece of crap couldn't do common arithmetic! “You were hired, you say, by the international bank to take Kishangani of Haut-Zaire and then take Kinshasa and overthrow the government and wait for bank representatives to come in and negotiate for proper payment of loans. Is that right?”
Snith had said nothing of the sort, not in that detail. The legends were a trifle vague. But he realized abruptly that he was talking to somebody who really knew his business.
Terl always knew his business. He hadn't even bothered to review any of this. It was a security chief joke and had been for more than a thousand years on this planet. They had had all the details from a captured mercenary, properly interrogated over several days way back when; it had made delicious reading. “But your ancestors,” Terl bore on remorselessly, “only captured Kishangani. They never went on to capture Kinshasa.”
Snith had dimly known that, but he had hoped it wouldn't come up. His ancient forebears had been crudely interrupted by the Psychlo invasion. He wasn't sure what was coming now.
“You see,” said Terl, “the international bank has been taken over.” He hoped this crap brain would swallow this outrageous set of lies. “The Galactic Bank, located in the Gredides System, bought them out.”
"Gredides System?” gawped Snith.
“You know,” said Terl, “Universe Eight.” This much was true, where the Galactic Bank was. Always sweeten lies with a little truth.
“Ah,” said Snith, totally adrift. He better watch it. This Psychlo would swindle him. It had happened before. He was on the alert.
“And,” lied Terl, “you will be glad to know that it took over all obligations of the international bank and that includes yours.” This quick reversal almost spun Snith.
“So as one of the agents for the Galactic Bank,” (if he only were!) “I am authorized to pay you the back pay. But your ancestors only did half their job so you only get half the back pay. That would be five hundred thousand dollars.” He was wondering what a dollar was. "I’m sure that will be acceptable.”
Snith came out of his fog like a shot. He had expected nothing! “Yes,” he said deliberately, “I think I can persuade my men to accept that.” Creepo! That would be ten dollars a man and the rest for himself. Riches!
“Now is there any other trouble? Quarters? They found you quarters?”
Snith said yes, they'd given them a whole "serbub" in the town up there, a square mile of old houses and buildings in the outskirts. Bad repair, but palaces really.
“You should also insist on some uniforms,” said Terl. He was looking at this filthy creature over there in its monkey skins and crossed bandoliers of poisoned arrows and a diamond in a peaked leather cap. “You should also clean yourself up, comb your fur. Look more military.”
This was rank criticism! Snith became very cross. He himself was spit and polish and so was his unit. All twenty of his commandos, fifty men in each, properly officered, trained to the nth degree! (He slowed down, hoping they wouldn't notice it was only thirty-five to the commando these days, the food situation being what it had become.)
“And food?” said Terl.
Snith was startled. Could this Psychlo read his mind? “Food is bad!” said Snith. “There be plenty of dead bodies in those houses but they be old and dried and unfit to eat. There would got to be a clause in any future contract about better food!”