Superior race though the Trogish might be, their only answer might be to destroy the upstart planet. Morales doubted that: Kulihhan's comments on execution might certainly be considered proof enough of the Trogish attitude, but Morales had to be sure.
It was bad enough that the humans had been so positive of the logic of their own position. There was the argument which had preceded his death—
"The Trogish had it too good for too long," Pedersen pronounced flatly. "They've grown soft. Now it's our turn."
Morales stared at his friend with contempt. "You're going to cheer for the greater glory of the Earth empire?" he demanded. "What's happened to Pete Pedersen the pacifist? Back in college you used to say, 'War is evil. Nothing can be achieved by beating somebody's brains in. If might doesn't make right in personal matters, it certainly doesn't in international affairs—' "
"This is different, Artie," Pedersen interrupted. "Humans shouldn't fight each other, but that doesn't mean they should knuckle under to aliens. And I refuse to shed any tears for the Trogish. They're arrogant—they treat the San Salvadorans like inferiors, refusing to give them any say in their own government or even in their own economy. The Trogish are conquerors, and the only future for conquerors is to be conquered in turn.
"Besides, I don't think an Earth conquest would be so bad for the galaxy. We're not what we once were. I'll bet that a triumphant Earth would teach formerly subjugated peoples like the poor benighted San Salvadorans to stand up for themselves. There's no reason why an Earth-directed confederation couldn't be based on democratic principles."
"With men like O'Fallon here in command? You know very well he's thinking about the loot he can drag home. You're a bigger fool than he is, Pete!"
"And what are you, Morales?" Commander O'Fallon asked evenly. "Pedersen and I may not agree on every point, but we know which side we're on. Which side are you on, Morales?"
Arthur Morales took a deep breath. He was surprised to discover that his forehead was bathed with perspiration. "I'm not on anyone's side," he said slowly. "I don't see why there has to be sides. Commander O'Fallon, if this is a scientific expedition—as it set out to be—you have no right to force me to make such decisions. I'll take your orders in times of danger, but I'm not a soldier or a spy or an empire-builder. I intend to conduct investigations which are in accordance with my field of science. That's all I am qualified or commissioned to do, and that's all I care to do."
"In other words," Oliphant said, "you're agin' us."
"If it comes to that—yes!" Morales couldn't stop the words rushing from his lips, and suddenly he realized that he didn't want to. "I'm against conquest; I'm against destruction—and I don't care who's doing it! There's no reason to believe that a Trogish galactic empire means what it would mean in Earth terms. Maybe it's to the advantage of Earth to submit to the direction and leadership of a more advanced people. I don't know—but I do know that I'm not going to help you start a war with an unoffending race! If you go back thinking the way you do, you'll incite Earth to war! There'll be no backing out, nothing ahead for the whole human race but—"
"And just what do you intend to do about it?" Commander O'Fallon asked.
"I'm going to see Jhumm!" Morales snapped. He turned on his heel and started for the door. "I'm going to warn the Trogish that there are barbaric Earthmen on this expedition who can only think in terms of bloodshed. I'm going to ask them to help me stop you, and to get some sort of sane message back—"
Morales had just reached the doorway when he heard the explosion. Absently, he stared at the rotund San Salvadoran sculptor on the other side of the wide dirt street, who was crawling like a red slug over an unfinished, nonobjective granite statue. The anthropologist's knees grew numb as he tried to comprehend the smashing blow on the back he had just received. He stumbled and went down, twisting so that he landed on his back.
The pain increased agonizingly, and so did the numbness. It seemed to be affecting his vision. He could barely make out the smoking pistol in O'Fallon's right hand.
"You . . . shot me—" he whispered, striving to understand, and bitterly unhappy that he could not.
Pete Pedersen stepped forward and stood over Morales. His voice came thinly over the black gulf that had suddenly opened up before Morales' eyes. "You're a traitor, Morales. The worst traitor who ever lived. You're planning to sell out the whole human race—"
Morales twisted on his narrow cot in the Trogish viceroy's spare room. He moaned and threw a weak hand up over his eyes to shut out the dim light and the accusing voice in his mind. The arm brushed wetness and he knew that he was weeping.
Jhumm was waiting in the garden when Morales came out the next morning. The anthropologist had awakened to discover a bowl of food beside his bed. He had an appetite too, he was pleased to discover, and when he had finished the oatmeal—could it have been that?—he felt strong enough to get out of bed.
The Trogish was listening to a scroll and clacking away at the keys of his computer, but he removed his earphone and looked up courteously when Morales appeared in the doorway.
"Ah, my friend," Jhumm said, rising to his feet, "I see you are recovering from your illness."
"From my death, you mean." Morales stepped to the side of the Trogish and breathed deeply of the perfumed, warm air. "It's good to be alive again. Jhumm," he went on awkwardly, "I don't know how one expresses gratitude for what you've done for me."
Sure you do
, Morales told himself silently.
Just tell him why they killed you. Anybody would consider that payment enough.
Jhumm raised a protesting hand. "Please, my friend! There is no need to thank me. I am most happy the revivifying machines did their work properly. We Trogish are not good mechanics, you know. Two hundred robots are out of commission on our north continent spaceport. Everything is in chaos up there—but enough of this!" He put a furred arm around Morales' shoulder.
"You are alive again, my friend, and I have a free day, and this is after all a period of rejoicing for all the Trogish in the galaxy who can spare the time from their work!"
"Rejoicing? Why?"
Jhumm's wide-eyed face registered surprise, and he was about to answer when a rotund San Salvadoran waddled into the garden.
"Greetings, Jhumm!" the red-skinned, hairless creature pronounced, raising a double-jointed arm. "I understand that all went well with the Earthmen. I have come to proffer my congratulations!"
Jhumm wiggled his flopping ears happily. "Thank you," he said. "And my thanks, too, to all of your people for bearing with us so patiently in these last difficult years."
Morales was startled. The San Salvadoran was speaking in the Trogish language, and Morales had assumed up until now that no native was capable of that feat. At least, none had ever attempted it before in the presence of any Earthman. Oliphant and the others, as well as Morales, had remarked on the studied San Salvadoran indifference to their rulers. In return, the Trogish had always treated their subjects with a dignified reserve, speaking to them only when it seemed absolutely necessary.
And now here was a San Salvadoran speaking Trogish, and Jhumm was wriggling with happiness!
A sudden, irrational suspicion burgeoned in the anthropologist's mind. "Jhumm," he said, stepping forward, "do you know why I was killed?"
The tall Trogish turned. "To prevent you from warning us of an impending attack by Earth, of course."
Morales swallowed hard.
"You knew that?" he whispered. "And yet you let them go?"
The San Salvadoran waddled to Morales' side. He looked up at the human earnestly. "You must not grieve over that which cannot be changed, human," he said in his own sibilant language, and Morales became more confused then ever.
For four weeks the humans had tried in every conceivable way to get on speaking terms with the natives. But the San Salvadorans had answered every inquiry as briefly as possible and then returned to their own pursuits. It had been decided, finally, that the San Salvadorans were either too bucolically stupid or too subjugated to be able to respond intelligently. But this native, for some obscure reason, was offering his sympathy to Morales!
Then, suddenly, the anthropologist became aware that Jhumm was speaking.
". . . We didn't exactly know why they'd killed you, yet it wasn't hard to figure out. We were quite certain O'Fallon, your commanding officer, disapproved of the Trogish empire and had dreams of destroying it. When he killed you, the inference was that you refused to go along with him."
The tall Trogish played absently with the keys of his computer. "As for our letting them go, knowing they planned to persuade Earth to attack us," he went on, "I'm afraid I have a confession to make. Not only have we been aware of this plan, but we've been hoping desperately that nothing would happen to change the Earthmen's minds!"
"But . . . but why? Earth
will
attack, you know. They'll be back just as soon as a warfleet can be constructed. Unless you think your empire is impregnable—"
"Oh, don't worry about that," Jhumm said airily. "It's not. Our warships have been rusting hulks for almost a thousand years, and we probably couldn't operate them properly even if we knew how to put them back in shape, which we don't. No, Earth will attack us, and that will be the end of the Trogish empire, and I thank the ancient gods of my people that I am alive to see this happen."
The San Salvadoran whistled with amusement. "I appreciate how you must feel, Jhumm. And speaking for all of us on this planet, it couldn't have happened to a more deserving race!"
Morales clutched a throbbing head. "I don't understand," he muttered.
In a patient, almost lecture-room tone, the Trogish went on. "For close to two thousand years, Arthur, the Trogish have administered to the needs of the galaxy. That's long enough. We've paid our price of admission to the status of a mature, civilized race. We want to be able to concentrate at last on the more important things—basic philosophy, the arts, science, and the general ordinary enjoyment of living. A race which has to worry about the multitudinous details of a three-billion-planet galactic civilization just hasn't the time for those things. I want to be a mathematician—and it looks like I'm going to get the chance!"
"But there will be bloodshed . . . warfare—" Morales protested.
"Not if we don't put up a fight," Jhumm told him. "And we won't. Nobody will. As soon as the Earth warships appear, we'll surrender and turn the reins of galactic rule over to them. Then we'll go about our own business, and let Earth run things, while we sit home thankfully on our own world. That's what the Pikux did to us, and before them the—"
"You mean the entire galaxy will just relax and allow Earth to take over?"
The Trogish viceroy wiggled his ears contentedly. "That's right. The galaxy is a smoothly running affair, you see. All it needs is a few individuals on each planet to keep things moving. Isn't it fair that the youngest, most backward species be given the job? After all, someone has to do it, and the older races obviously can do much more important things. Besides, it helps the newcomers to mature. After a few centuries, they begin to realize that what they thought was an empire is more on the order of being interstellar bookkeepers and clerks. But they weren't forced into anything—they demanded the job, and now they're stuck with it."
Morales began to chuckle crazily. "What happens if they up and quit?"
"They won't. None of us do. By the time they realize it fully, they've matured to the point where they can accept their position at the bottom of the galactic heap. Then it's a matter of waiting for a new race to come boiling up off a planet, demanding control of the galaxy."
"So for the next thousand years or so, Earthmen will be nothing but administrators, technicians—janitors?"
The San Salvadoran rippled its skin sympathetically. "Yes, human, that is the way it must be. The rest of us will help out occasionally, after a while, but only if we want to."
A thought occurred to Morales. "What happens to me?"
"That's up to you," Jhumm told him. "I'm afraid we can't permit you to meet up with Earthmen again. Not because we want to keep the future a secret—they wouldn't believe you, anyway. But because you're supposed to be dead, and they'll get curious about the revivification process. They'll learn it eventually, of course, but there's an established pattern to galactic conquest, and we mustn't disturb it."
The Trogish stared down at his computer thoughtfully for a moment. "How would you like to travel from planet to planet on the supply ships, visiting the different peoples? Every planet has its own culture, you know, and they're all interesting."
The young anthropologist nodded violently, so overwhelmed that he could not speak.
"You would? Good! It would take more than your own lifetime, even if we extend it to the full limit of our ability, to visit them all. It will even be many hundreds of Earth-years before full Earth administration is established Over the entire galaxy. The Trogish will have to maintain interim control until then, but as long as it's interim, we won't mind."
"Oh, that reminds me!" the San Salvadoran broke in. "The planting season for this continent is upon us again, Jhumm. How many of
shasiss
beans are we to set our robots to planting this year?"
"My son is working on that problem right now," Jhumm said. "He will announce the quota as soon as he knows the figures himself." He pointed at the half-dilated door of the house, through which Kulihhan, the assistant Trogish viceroy on San Salvador, could be seen dimly, working furiously at his desk, almost buried beneath a mound of papers.
As empires age, they become more civilized. This may result in sheer decadence, but it won't be called that. For whatever reason, though, the empire won't be able to recruit many legionnaires from its heartland.