Mack Reynolds: The Rival Rigelians

Cogswell said, “Now that he’s broken the ice, in a couple of hours kids will be scratching their names on our hull.”

In the morning, two or three hours after dawn, they made their preparations to disembark. Of them all, only Leonid Plekhanov was unarmed. Joe Chessman had a heavy handgun holstered at his waist. The rest of the men carried submachine guns; Isobel Sanchez had a small automatic. More destructive weapons were hardly called for, nor available for that matter; once world government had been established on Earth the age-old race for improved arms had fallen away.

Chessman assumed active command of the group, growling brief instructions.

“If there’s any difficulty, remember we’re civilizing a planet of nearly a billion population. The life or death of a few individuals is meaningless. Look at our position scientifically, dispassionately. If it becomes necessary to use force—we have the right, and the might to back it up. MacBride, you stay with the ship. Keep the hatch closed and station yourself at the gun. I’d leave Doctor Sanchez, but I doubt if she could buck that heavy a weapon.”

MacBride, a dour-faced specialist, was unhappy about being left behind at this historic moment, but said nothing. Each individual in the group fully realized the present need of exact discipline.

The natives seemed to know intuitively that the occupants of the craft from the sky would present themselves at this time. Several thousands of them crowded the plaza. Warriors armed with spears and bronze headed warclubs, kept the more adventurous from crowding too near.

The hatch opened, the steel landing ramp snaked out, and the hefty Plekhanov stepped down, closely followed by Chessman. The others brought up the rear: Watson, Roberts, Stevens, Hawkins, Cogswell, and finally Isobel Sanchez. They had hardly formed a compact group at the foot of the spacecraft than the ranks of the natives parted and what was obviously a delegation of officials approached them. In the fore was a giant of a man in his late middle years, and at his side, a cold visaged duplicate of him, obviously a son.

Behind these were variously dressed others—military, priesthood, local officials, by their appearance. They made a brave show in their barbaric splendor, bright with color and spectacular design. Gold and gems decorated costume and weapons of all save the priesthood who were, as so often in a priesthood, garbed in black.

Ten feet from the newcomers they stopped. The leader said in quiet understandable Amer-English, “I am Taller, Khan of all the People. Our legends tell of you. You must be from First Earth.” He added with a simple dignity, a quiet gesture, “Welcome to the World. Come in Peace and find Peace. How may we serve you?”

Plekhanov looked at the other for a long thoughtful moment, then took his approach.

He said flatly, “The name of this planet is Texcoco and the inhabitants shall henceforth be called Texcocans. You are correct, we have come from Earth. Our instructions are to civilize you, to bring you the latest technology, to prepare you to enter the community of planets, the Galactic Commonwealth.”

Phlegmatically he let his eyes go to the pyramids, to the temples, and the large community dwelling quarters. “We’ll call this city Tula, and its citizens Tulans.”

Taller took his turn at looking thoughtful, not having missed the tone of arrogant command.

One of the group behind the Khan, clad in flowing black robes, said to Plekhanov, mild reproof in his voice, “My son, we are the most advanced folk on…Texcoco. We have thought of ourselves as civilized. However, we…”

Plekhanov rumbled, “I am not your son, old man, and you are far short of civilization. We can’t stand here forever. Take us to a building where we can talk without these crowds staring at us. There is much to be done.”

Taller, the Khan, said, “This is Mynor, Chief Priest of the People.”

The priest bowed his head, then said, “The People are used to and expect ceremony on outstanding occasions. We have arranged for suitable sacrifices to the gods. At their completion, we will proclaim a festival. And then—”

The warriors had cleared a way through the multitude to the base of the pyramid which reared steep above them. And now the Earthlings could see a score of chained men and women, nude save for loin cloths and fetters, and obviously captives.

Plekhanov glared at Taller. “You were going to kill these?”

The Khan said reasonably, “They are not of the People. They are prisoners taken in battle.”

Mynor said, “Their lives please the gods.”

“There are no gods, as you probably know,” Plekhanov said flatly. “You will no longer sacrifice prisoners.”

A hush fell over the Texcocans near enough to hear his words. Joe Chessman let his hand drop to his weapon. The movement was not lost on Taller’s son, whose eyes narrowed.

“Leonid, Joe,” Isobel Sanchez murmured anxiously.

The Khan looked at the burly Plekhanov for a long moment. He said slowly, “Our institutions fit our needs. What would you have us do with these people? They are our enemies. If we turn them loose, they will fight us again. If we keep them imprisoned, they will eat our food. We…Tulans are not poor, we have food aplenty, for we Tulans, but we cannot feed all the thousands of prisoners we take in our wars.”

He hesitated a moment, then went on. “In the far past, our legends tell us, prisoners were eaten. Indeed, some of the more backwards peoples of…Texcoco, still so treat their prisoners. But we are not so primitive. We sacrifice them to the gods. What would you have us do with them?”

Joe Chessman said dryly, “As of today, there is a new policy. We put them to work.”

Plekhanov rumbled at him. “I’ll explain our position, Chessman, if you please.” Then to the Tulans. “To develop this planet, we’re going to need the labor of every man, woman and child capable of work.”

Taller said, after considering, “Perhaps your suggestion that we retire to a less public place is desirable. Will you follow?” He spoke a few words to an officer of the warriors, who shouted orders.

The Khan led the way with considerable dignity. Plekhanov and Chessman followed, side by side, and the other Earthlings brought up the rear of the leading group, their weapons at the ready. Following this group were Mynor, the priest, his face in a worried scowl, Taller’s son, and the other Tulan officials.

In what was evidently the reception hall of Taller’s official residence, the newcomers were made as comfortable as fur padded low stools permitted. Half a dozen teenage Tulans brought a cool drink somewhat similar to cocoa; it seemed to give a slight, though not quite alcoholic, lift.

Taller had not become Khan of the most progressive nation on Texcoco by other than his own abilities. The office was elective. He felt his way carefully now. He had no manner of knowing the powers wielded by these strangers from space. He suspected they were considerable and had no intention of precipitating a situation in which he would discover such powers to his sorrow.

He said carefully, “You have indicated that you intend major changes in the lives of the People.”

“Of all Texcocans,” Plekhanov said. “You Tulans are merely the beginning.”

Mynor, the aged priest, leaned forward. “But why? We do not wish these changes—whatever they may be. Already the Khan has allowed you to interfere with our worship of our gods. This will mean—”

Plekhanov growled, “Be silent, old man, and don’t bother to mention, ever again, your so-called gods. Gods have ever been the invention of men, to keep in suppression their fellow men. And now, all of you listen. Perhaps some of this will not be new. How much history has come down to you, I don’t know.