Gordon Dickson - The Human Edge

“Give you credit?” The Jhan’s voice thinned; and the two bigheaded monsters playing about his feet froze like startled animals, staring at him. “Where is my kidnapped Morah?”

“I’m sorry,” said Dormu, carefully, “that matter has been investigated. As we suspected, the individual you mention turns out not to be a Morah, but a human. We’ve located his records. A Paul Edmonds.”

“What sort of lie is this?” said the Jhan. “He is a Morah. No human. You may let yourself be deluded by the fact he looks like yourselves, but don’t try to think you can delude us with looks. As I told you, it’s our privilege to play with the shapes of individuals, casting them into the mold we want, to amuse ourselves; and the mold we played with in this case, was like your own. So be more careful in your answers. I would not want to decide you deliberately kidnapped this Morah, as an affront to provoke me.”

“The Morah Jhan,” said Dormu, colorlessly, “must know how unlikely such an action on our part would be—as unlikely as the possibility that the Morah might have arranged to turn this individual loose, in order to embarrass us in the midst of these talks.”

The Jhan’s eyes slitted down until their openings showed hardly wider than two heavy pencil lines.

“ You do not accuse me, human!” said the Jhan. “ I accuse you! Affront my dignity; and less than an hour after I lift ship from this planetoid of yours, I can have a fleet here that will reduce it to one large cinder!”

He paused. Dormu said nothing. After a long moment, the slitted eyes relaxed, opening a little.

“But I will be kind,” said the Jhan. “Perhaps there is some excuse for your behavior. You have been misled, perhaps—by this business of records, the testimony of those amateur butchers you humans call physicians and surgeons. Let me set your mind at rest. I, the Morah Jhan, assure you that this prisoner of yours is a Morah, one of my own Morah; and no human. Naturally, you will return him now, immediately, in as good shape as when he was taken from us.”

“That, in any case, is not possible,” said Dormu.

“How?” said the Jhan.

“The man,” said Dormu, “is dying.”

The Jhan sat without motion or sound for as long as a roan might comfortably hold his breath. Then, he spoke.

“The Morah ,” he said. “I will not warn you again.”

“My apologies to the Morah Jhan,” said Dormu, tonelessly. “I respect his assurances, but I am required to believe our own records and experienced men. The man , I say, is dying.”

The Jhan rose suddenly to his feet. The two small Morah scuttled away behind him toward the door.

“I will go to the quarters you’ve provided me, now,” said the Jhan, “and make my retinue ready to leave. In one of your hours, I will reboard my ship. You have until that moment to return my Morah to me.”

He turned, went around his chair and out of the room. The door shut behind him.

Dormu turned and headed out the door at their side of the room. Whin followed him. As they opened the door, they saw Stigh, waiting there. Whin opened his mouth to speak, but Dormu beat him to it.

“Dead?” Dormu asked.

“He died just a few minutes ago—almost as soon as you’d both gone in to talk to the Jhan,” said Stigh.

Whin slowly closed his mouth. Stigh stood without saying anything further. They both waited, watching Dormu, who did not seem to be aware of their gaze. At Stigh’s answer, his face had become tight, his eyes abstract.

“Well,” said Whin, after a long moment and Dormu still stood abstracted, “it’s a body now.”

His eyes were sharp on Dormu. The little man jerked his head up suddenly and turned to face the marshal.

“Yes,” said Dormu, a little strangely. “He’ll have to be buried, won’t he? You won’t object to a burial with full military honors?”

“Hell, no!” said Whin. “He earned it. When?”

“Right away.” Dormu puffed out a little sigh like a weary man whose long day is yet far from over. “Before the Jhan leaves. And not quietly. Broadcast it through the Outpost.”

Whin swore gently under his breath, with a sort of grim happiness.

“See to it!” he said to Stigh. After Stigh had gone, he added softly to Dormu. “Forgive me. You’re a good man once the chips are down, Mr. Ambassador.”

“You think so?” said Dormu, wryly. He turned abruptly toward the lift tubes. “We’d better get down to the docking area. The Jhan said an hour—but he may not wait that long.”

The Jhan did not wait. He cut his hour short, like someone eager to accomplish his leaving before events should dissuade him. He was at the docking area twenty minutes later; and only the fact that it was Morah protocol that his entourage must board before him, caused him to be still on the dock when the first notes of the Attention Call sounded through the Outpost.

The Jhan stopped, with one foot on the gangway to his vessel. He turned about and saw the dockside Military Police all now at attention, facing the nearest command screen three meters wide by two high, which had just come to life on the side of the main docking warehouse. The Jhan’s own eyes went to the image on the screen—to the open grave, the armed soldiers, the chaplain and the bugler.

The chaplain was already reading the last paragraph of the burial service. The religious content of the human words could have no meaning to the Jhan; but his eyes went comprehendingly, directly to Dormu, standing with Whin on the other side of the gangway. The Jhan took a step that brought him within a couple of feet of the little man.

“I see,” the Jhan said. “He is dead.”

“He died while we were last speaking,” answered Dormu, without inflection. “We are giving him an honorable funeral.”

“I see—” began the Jhan, again. He was interrupted by the sound of fired volleys as the burial service ended and the blank-faced coffin began to be let down into the pulverized rock of the Outpost. A command sounded from the screen. The soldiers who had just fired went to present arms—along with every soldier in sight in the docking area—as the bugler raised his instrument and taps began to sound.

“Yes.” The Jhan looked around at the saluting Military Police, then back at Dormu. “You are a fool,” he said, softly. “I had no conception that a human like yourself could be so much a fool. You handled my demands well—but what value is a dead body, to anyone? If you had returned it, I would have taken no action—this time, at least, after your concessions on the settlements. But you not only threw away all you’d gained, you flaunted defiance in my face, by burying the body before I could leave this Outpost. I’ve no choice now—after an affront like that. I must act.”

“No,” said Dormu.

“No?” The Jhan stared at him.

“You have no affront to react against,” said Dormu. “You erred only through a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding?” said the Jhan. “ I misunderstood? I not only did not misunderstand, I made the greatest effort to see that you did not misunderstand. I cannot let you take a Morah from me, just because he looks like a human. And he was a Morah. You did not need your records, or your physicians, to tell you that. My word was enough. But you let your emotions, the counsel of these lesser people, sway you—to your disaster, now. Do you think I didn’t know how all these soldiers of yours were feeling? But I am the Morah Jhan. Did you think I would lie over anything so insignificant as one stray pet?”

“No,” said Dormu.

“Now—” said the Jhan. “Now, you face the fact. But it is too late. You have affronted me. I told you it is our privilege and pleasure to play with the shapes of beings, making them into what we desire. I told you the shape did not mean he was human. I told you he was Morah. You kept him and buried him anyway, thinking he was human—thinking he was that lost spy of yours.” He stared down at Dormu. “I told you he was a Morah.”