Authors: The Double Invaders
He
requested the driver to pull in close to one building and stop. He dismounted
and went close enough to touch the stonework. It was as the men had reported
last night.
A
chalky, friable stuff, rough-textured, more
like expanded plastic foam than anything else he could think of. Yet it was
stone-dust, which would have been easy to aggregate into something much harder.
So why did they choose to build with this? He stood back and looked up, then
went further back, into the roadway. It wasn't lack of know-how, he decided,
because the road and sidewalks were as solid and durable as anyone could want.
He turned away, frowning, and was brought up
short by a deep gutter between sidewalk and road. It was about four feet wide
and so deep that the bottom was obscured in shadow. Three steps away to his
left there was a solid stone bridge across, which he used, then scanned as far
as he could see in all directions. The gutters were common everywhere. And the
little bridges. That, he scratched his jaw and thought, seemed to indicate
provision for torrential rains. In the season. He had seen that kind of thing
before. But he would have guessed that one good tropical downpour would just
about wash away the dust-block structure.
He
climbed back on the skimmer and gave the trooper the go-ahead, his mind full of
bewilderment. In a short while he reasoned out that the buildings must be
supported by steel corner posts, or something similar, with the walls hanging
from them, rather than standing of themselves. It was the only way possible to
erect buildings, using that stuff. But why bother? The ever-growing string of
questions began to irritate him and he left them gladly as they encountered a
quick-marching squad of troopers at a crossroad. He hailed the squad leader and
asked about progress.
"Not a soul, sir. Not
one man, woman or child. Queerl"
"Did they take things with them, so far
as you can tell? What I mean, did they just bolt, or was this orderly?"
"Hard to tell, sir, not knowing what the
interiors looked like before. But every place we've been into, they all looked
neat and tidy. No signs of upset or damage. Looks like they just walked away
and left everything."
Bragan
dismissed him and ordered the skimmer on, chewing at the puzzle with even
greater irritation now that he could appreciate the impact of its sheer
physical size. By comparison with other cities known to him Stopa was small,
but comparison or not, to evacuate something like half a million people in one
night, in the dark, silently, is a gigantic feat of organization by any
standards. And, over everything else, why?
The skimmer went on to halt in a large open
square before a massive gray-white building that was in its own way unique in
that it had a flight of solid stone steps leading up to a mighty pair of double
doors, elaborately carved. Outside, the troopers of Squad Two stiffened into
attention as Bragan went on by and in, into a magnificendy proportioned hall.
Eyes alert, he noted the same clean lines and lack of ornament, the restrained
colors. Size and proportion alone made it a place of dignity and importance.
Even the furnishings were starkly plain, solidly crafted of straight-grain
dark wood, nothing fancy.
Over
against one wall the troopers had set up a multichannel radio station and
computer-access-and-readout. Further along and herded into a corner awaiting
him were half a dozen Scartanni prisoners. Bragan exchanged silent greetings
with the group-leader lieutenant, then stood awhile to study the prisoners. The
first thing he noticed was that they were all, still, securely bound. A plastic
cable linked elbows behind and another linked wrists in front. Simple,
effective, and uncomfortable. Also they were all linked to each other in a
chain, with barely room between them for movement. Bragan returned his gaze to
the lieutenant, raised a brow.
"They
don't give us any choice, sir. They just don't grasp the notion of parole, or
behavior, or anything like it. We've tried. As fast as we turn one loose he
tries to make a dash for it, and we have to stun them or club them to make them
stop. They don't know when they're beat. It's exactly the same with the women
and kids. We have to tie them down, and then tie them together. And then watch
them like hawks!"
"Yes.
And you can't put them into something secure, can you, not with this queer
building material of theirs?"
"We
found that one out the hard way, sir. Locked up one bunch in a small room and
they went straight out through the opposite wall!"
Bragan
nodded. For one awful moment he had the dream-feeling that this whole situation
was rapidly becoming as insubstantial as the stuff of the odd buildings, that
it was crumbling between his fingers as fast as he tried to grasp it. He shook
off the thought uneasily and swung his gaze back to the line of prisoners.
"Which is
Mordin?"
"At the far end,
sir."
Bragan
nodded and paced slowly along the line, taking his time to study the specimens.
Long-range observation had told him that these people were in the human
category to within one tenth of one percent. This close he saw that the
correspondence was even closer, the differences nonexistent. They were as human
as he was. But here again—he was feeling for nuances now—there was that
impression of plain simplicity, lack of frills and ornament.
The three women in the lineup were handsome,
could have been beautiful with just a little artifice, were attractive without
it. He studied them candidly, saw only chill indifference in their faces and
eyes. Clean, he thought, and well-groomed, but confined to essentials. No
trimmings. Clothing, for example. Shoes made by the simple method of cutting a
piece of hide some incjes larger then the foot outline, threading a thong, and
pulling the whole thing tight in front Dress—all alike—of some fine-knitted
wool-stuff, very fine and white for the single undergarment that he labeled unglamorously
as "drawers," and thicker knit and various colors for the single
overpiece that was made—he considered one—by taking a long strip two-and-a-half
feet wide, making a hole in the middle for the head, and catching it together
at the sides with buttons. A kind of tabard-tunic. He had reached the end.
He
stood and stared at Hallex Mordin the way he would examine a prize animal.
Mordin stared back at him with indifference, a big broad-shouldered man with
something reminiscent of an oak tree about the way he stood. Gray in his thick
hair and deep-grooved lines on his face marked him as about sixty years old,
maybe more. That face was square, hard-planed, but by no means obtuse. There
were hints of intelligence and quiet watchfulness. Bragan took out the notion
of "oak tree" and substituted "coiled-spring" as he sensed
the atmosphere of explosive power here. A man to be reckoned with.
"I am Denzil Bragan," he said,
suddenly and flatly, without emphasis, "Supreme Executive of the Zorgan
Fleet on Scarta. You are Hallex Mordin, the senior landholder of Stopa. Will
you talk with me?"
"Why
should I?" Mordin demanded instantly, but in a surprisingly mild tone for
such a big man.
"Because
you are the most important citizen on the whole planet at this moment and I
wish to discuss matters with you which affect the well-being of everyone on the
planet."
Mordin
took a moment to look at the statement, and Bragan got the impression of
ruthless thoroughness, that every word and shade of meaning was scrupulously examined.
The reply came.
"There
is no such idea as the most important citizen' in our way of thinking. You, who
seem to know our language and our ways so well, should know that much."
"There
is a great deal about your people that I do not yet know, just as there is much
about us that
you
do not know. For one thing, I
am
the most important person in this force of the Zorgan Empire. I am in
command here, over all the Zorgan forces present on the planet. We
do
have such an idea. I am the embodiment of it. I suggest that a discussion
between us will be of mutual benefit. But first a question. Have you .had
anything to eat and drink this morning?"
"My needs have been
met. I thank you."
"All
right. Now, let me put the large picture to you, as it stands. We have taken your
planet."
"All
fifteen million of us?" Mordin's voice, still mild, held
a
tinge of sarcasm. Bragan sailed right past it confidently.
"All
fifteen million. Like this. Stopa is your largest city. My ship, Unit One,
holds it fast. Five other ships hold your next five major cities in the same
manner. We also hold securely all your chief citizens, your people in
authority, and many hundreds of women and children. The rest of you,
aU
the rest of you, will obey us, will do as we say."
"Or
what?" Mordin queried, and again Bragan was shaken by the sheer speed of
the response and its lack of emotion.
"If
there is trouble, resistance, refusal, call it what you like—if the Scartanni
refuse to work for us, to obey our orders, then you will suffer. We will
broadcast our instructions over your radio network. If those instructions are
not obeyed, we will count one in every ten of the prisoners we hold, and kill
them. And then again, one in ten, and so on. Understand that." Bragan
waited a moment for it to penetrate, then went on: "Should the resistance
be troublesome we will smash Stopa flat to the ground, destroy it totally. If
that does not convince, we will select the next largest city and destroy that.
And so on. And the other ships will act in
a
similar manner. Do you still understand me?" Mordin nodded, his
craggy face still watchfully intent.
"That is the general pattern. We can
vary it, of course. I tell you all this because I know you are powerless to
stop us. This you know, because you have tried and failed. You cannot stop
Zorgan. Well?"
Mordin took a full minute to consider, his
face giving no clue at all to his thoughts. When he did speak, it was
a
question. "How long do you think you can keep it up?"
Bragan
gave him
a
hard stare. "When a man is killed do you
ask how long he will be dead? Why ask such a question, man? If your people do
not see reason, you will not see tomorrow. Could it be any simpler?"
Mordin
moved his shoulders in a shrug. "They are not
my
people. I have no people. Such talk means nothing." Bragan digested
that, tried a sharper attack.
"You have a wife?"
"There
is a woman who shares my life, yes." Both men had used the same Scartan
phrase, but Mordin's inflection gave it a subtly different meaning from that
which Bragan had intended. He glanced interrogatively at the lieutenant.
"Third one along. Her. Name's Edina
cal-Mordin."
Bragan
paced along to stand before her, to study her face. Years had been kinder to
her than to the old man. She must have been comely once, was attractive still.
"I
want your man to cooperate -with me," Bragan told her, "to do as I
order. If he refuses, you will be killed. What do you say?"
She
looked puzzled for a moment, then composed herself. "He will do whatever
he thinks best. Why ask me?"
Bragan
controlled his face, swung back to Mordin. "You heard? You will obey my
orders, or this woman will be killed."
For a moment it seemed that Mordin smiled. Then
he shrugged again. "This is fool's talk, meaning nothing. How can I obey
what you say, when I have not heard yet what you say?"
Aha!
Bragan thought, but kept his face bleak. "Very well,
I
will tell you now what I want. You will be taken to the radio station.
You will speak to your people, to the whole of Scarta. You will make it known
to them who you are. Then you will command them to return, in good order, to
surrender and do as we order them. You will explain to them that if they do
not—"
Mordin shook his head heavily. "This is
still fool's talk. No people will obey me, or you. They will not heed my words
any more than they have heeded yours. Why should they?"
"Then your woman will
die."
"What of it? We must
all die sometime."
So
far as Bragan could determine, the man was utterly sincere. He felt baffled,
but only for a moment. Zorgan had several depths.