Lord Schleim had seated himself off to the side, in front where he could appear to be addressing them all as their leader. “We have not actually examined the credentials of this...this...soldier? who called this meeting,” he offered. “I move that he be removed as the principal speaker, that I be appointed in his stead.”
Sir Robert offered them the disc. It was played. It was in Gaelic, a tongue they didn't know. And he might have been called ineligible to conduct the meeting had he not looked beseechingly at the small gray man and if one of the disinterested members had not asked the small gray man whether he had accepted these credentials. The small gray man nodded. Bored, the rest of them accepted the credentials.
That one had been touch-and-go for Sir Robert, for just prior to his entrance he had gotten word that the
Chief of Clanfearghus had been wounded in repelling an attack on the guns and he did not know whether he could get a confirmation from Edinburgh.
“I fear,” said Lord Schleim, “that I must raise another critical point. How can we be sure that this upstart planet can afford even the small costs of convening such a meeting as this? Your lordships surely would not want to remain unpaid and have to bear such expenses yourselves. They guaranteed the diplomatic costs but we have no way of knowing that they will ever pay them. A scrap of paper saying that one is owed does not fit well in the pocket.”
The emissaries laughed at the joke, poor as it was.
“We can pay,” glowered Sir Robert. “With scraps off dirty plates?” said
Lord Schleim.
The emissaries laughed some more.
“With Galactic credits!” snapped Sir Robert.
“Taken, no doubt,” said Lord Schleim, “from the pockets of our crewmen. Well, never mind. Your august lords have a perfect right to declare that the meeting should proceed. But I, myself, feel it is demeaning for the representatives of such mighty and powerful sovereigns to meet just to determine the conditions of surrender and capitulation of some felons-”
“Stop!” bellowed Sir Robert. He had had enough. “We are not here to discuss our surrender! Also there are other planets than your own involved and we have not heard from them!”
“Ah,” said Lord Schleim with a leisurely, airy rotation of his scepter,
“but my planet has the most ships here– two for every one the other planets have. And the senior officer of this 'combined police force' happens to be a Tolnep. Quarter-Admiral Snowleter-'
“Is dead!” roared Sir Robert. “His flagship, the Capture, is lying right out there in the lake. Your admiral and that entire crew are carrion.”
“Oh, so?” said Lord Schleim. “It had slipped my mind. These accidents happen. Space travel is a perilous venture at best. Probably ran out of fuel. But it doesn't alter what I have just said at all. Captain Rogodeter Snowl is the senior officer, then. He has just been promoted. So it remains that the senior commander and the greatest number of ships are Tolnep, which leaves me in the position of principal negotiator for the surrender of your people and planet after their unprovoked attack on us.”
“We are not losing!” stormed Sir Robert.
Lord Schleim shrugged. He cast a negligent glance over the assemblage as though pleading with them to have patience with this barbarian and drawled, “Would the assemblage give me leave to confirm certain points?”
Yes, of course, they muttered. Reasonable request.
Lord Schleim's head bent over the round ball atop his scepter, and with a shock Sir Robert realized it was a disguised radio and that he had been in communication with his forces all along.
“Ah,” said Lord Schleim as he raised his head, showed his fangs in a smile, and fixed his glass-hooded eyes on Sir Robert. “Eighteen of your major cities are in flames!”
So that was why they were burning deserted cities. To make an appearance of winning. Just to terrorize and have a bargaining position in any surrender talks.
Sir Robert was about to tell him those were just deserted ruins that hadn't been lived in for a millennium, but Lord Schleim was pressing on. “This august assembly needs proof. Please have this trace run off!" He pulled a tiny thread from the base of the radio, a trace copy of the type they received from drones.
“I will not do it!” said Sir Robert.
The assemblage looked a little shocked. It began to dawn on them that maybe this planet's forces were losing.
“Suppression of evidence,” laughed Lord Schleim, “is a crime punishable by this body by fines. I suggest you mend your attitude. Of course, if you have no modern equipment...”
Sir Robert sent the trace out to a resolver. They waited and presently a stack of pictures came back.
They were spectacular air views, in full color, of twenty-five burning cities. The flames were roaring thousands of feet into the air, and if you passed a finger down the right border the sound turned on, the sound of rushing flames and crashing buildings cut through with the howl of furnace winds. Each picture had been taken at a height best showing the conflagration and the resulting effect was devastating.
Lord Schleim passed them around. Paws and jeweled hands and inquisitive feelers made them roar.
“We offer,” said Lord Schleim, “very liberal terms. I am quite sure I will be
rebuked by a motion of our House of Plunder for being so liberal. But my feelings of pity prompt me and my word here is, of course, binding upon my government. The terms are that all your population be sold into slavery to meet the indemnities it incurred when Earth brought on this unprovoked war. I can even guarantee that they will be well treated– over fifty percent survive such transportation on the average. Other belligerents– the Hawvins,
Jambitchows, Bolbods, Drawkins, and Kayrnes-to divide up the rest of the planet to meet the expenses incurred in defending themselves against this unprovoked attack upon their peaceful ships. Your king can go into exile on Tolnep and even be provided with a spacious dungeon. Good fair terms. Too liberal, but my feelings of compassion prompt them.”
The other emissaries shrugged. It was obvious, it seemed to them, that they had been called here just to witness some surrender terms in a petty war.
Sir Robert was thinking fast, trying to see a way out of this trap. At the start of the meeting he thought he had heard the hum of the transshipment rig two or three times. He could not be sure. He could not count on anything right now. He was tired. His king was wounded. His wife might be dead. All he could really think of was leaping on this horrible creature and taking his chances with those poisoned fangs. But he knew such an action before these emissaries would be fatal to their last glimmering chances.
Seeing his indecision, Lord Schleim said with a harsh, acid hiss, “You Earthlings realize that these mighty lords can make an agreement to force your capitulation! I believe the other combatants of the combined police force agree to my terms?”
The representatives of the Hawvins, Jambitchows, Bolbods, Drawkins, and Kayrnes all nodded and said, one after the other, that they certainly agreed to these liberal terms. The rest of the assembly was just watching. A local dispute. But they could swing over and support the Tolneps if it meant ending this useless consumption of their time.
“I came,” said Sir Robert, “to discuss your surrender. But before we go any further with this, I shall have to call in my fully authorized colleague.”
He made a signal in the direction of where he knew the button camera was and sat down. He was tired.
The slowness and delay of these deliberations had eaten into him. Didn't these gilded popinjays realize that while they dawdled about, good men were dying out there in the field! But urgency never touched them.