Slave Is a Slave-H. Beam Piper

Clifford D. Simak (0:20)

CHAPTER I There has always been strong sympathy For the poor, meek, downtrodden slave, The kindly man, oppressed by cruel and overbearing masters, Could it possibly have been misplaced?

Jurgen, Prince Trevonioan, accepted the coffee cup and lifted it to his lips, Then lowered it.

These navy robots always poured coffee too hot. Spacemen must have colopsium-lined throats. With the other hand he punched a button on the robot's keyboard and received the alighted cigarette. Turning, he placed the cup on the command desk in front of him and looked about.

The tension was relaxing in battle control, the purposeful pandemonium of the last three hours dying rapidly. Officers of both sexes, in red and blue and yellow and green coveralls, were rising from seats, leaving their stations, gathering in groups. Laughter, a trifle loud. He realized suddenly that they had been worried, and wondered if he should not have been a little so himself. No, there would have been nothing he could have done about anything, so worry would not have been useful. He lifted the cup again and sipped cautiously.

That's everything we can do now, the man beside him said. Now we just sit and wait for the next move. Like all the others, Line Commodore Van Shatrak warshipboard battle-dress, his coveralls were black, splashed on breast and between shoulders with the gold insignia of his rank.

His hat was completely bald and almost spherical, a beak-like nose carried down the curve of his brow, and the straight lines of mouth and chin chopped under it, enhanced rather than spoiled the effect. He was getting coffee, he gulped it at once.

But it was very smart work, Commodore. I never saw our landing operation go so smoothly.

Too smooth, Shattrack said. I don't trust it. He looked suspiciously up at the row of viewscreens. It was absolutely unnecessary. That was young Obrey, Count Irkskill, seated at the Commodore's left. He was a generation younger than Prince Trevonion, as Shattrack was a generation older. They were both smooth-faced.

It was odd how Beards went in and out of fashion with alternate generations. He had been worried, too, during the landing, but for a different reason from the others. Now he was reacting with anger. I told you from the first that it was unnecessary. You see, they weren't even able to defend themselves, let alone his personal communication screen buzzed. He set down the coffee and flicked the switch. It was Lons Degbren. On the books Lons was carried as assistant to the ministerial secretary. In practice Lons was his chess opponent, conversational foil, right hand, third eye and ear, and sometimes trigger finger. Lons was now wearing the combat coveralls of an officer of Navy landing troops. He had a steel helmet with a transplex visor shoved up, and there was a carbine slung over his shoulder. He grinned and executed an exaggeratedly military salute. He chuckled.

Well, look at you! Aren't you the perfect picture of correct diplomatic dress? You know, sir, I'm afraid I am for this planet. Degbren said. Colonel Rabney insisted on it. He says the situation downstairs is still fluid, which I take to mean that everybody is shooting at everybody. He says he has the main telecast station. In the big building the locals call the Citadel. Oh, good! Get our announcement out as quickly as you can.

You and Colonel Rabney can decide what interpolations are needed to fit the situation.

The really tough one, Degbren considered. I take it that by interpolations you do not mean dilutions? Oh, no! Don't water the drink! Spike it! Lanz Degbren grinned at him. Then he snapped down the visor of his helmet, unslung his carbine, and presented it. He was still standing at present arms when Trevonion blanked the screen.

That still doesn't excuse a wanton and unprovoked aggression, Erskill was telling Shetrak. His thin face flushed, and his voice quivering with indignation. We came here to help these people, not to murder them. We didn't come here to do either, Obre, he said, turning to face the younger man. We came here to annex this planet to the Galactic Empire, whether they wish it annexed or not. Commodore Shetrak used the quickest and most effective method of doing that. It would have done no good to attempt to parley with them from off-planet. You heard those telecasts of theirs. Authoritarian, Shetrak said, then mimicked pompously. Everybody is commanded to remain calm. The Mastership is taking action. The Convocation of the Lord's Master is in special session. They will decide how to deal with the invaders. The administrators are directed to reassure the supervisors. The overseers will keep the workers at their tasks. Any person disobeying the orders of the Mastership will be dealt with most severely. Static too. No space ships into this system for the last five hundred years. The Convocation—equals Parliament, I assume—hasn't been in special session for two hundred and fifty. Yes, I've taken over planets with that kind of government before, Shatrak said. You can't argue with them. You just grab them by the center of authority, quick and hard. Count Irkskill said nothing for a moment. He was opposed to the use of force—force, he believed, was the last resort of incompetence. He had said so frequently enough since this operation had begun. Of course, he was absolutely right, though not in the way he meant. Only the incompetent wait until the last extremity to use force, and by then it is usually too late to use anything, even prayer. But at the same time he was opposed to authoritarianism, except of course when necessary for the real good of the people, and he did not like rulers who call themselves lords' master. Good democratic rulers call themselves servants of the people. So he relapsed into silence and stared at the viewscreens.