George Martin - Tuf Voyaging

After five minutes of silence, Kreen said, “Six standards, and that’s cheap. I know a lot of important things, things that Moses would want to know. Six.”

Haviland Tuf said nothing. Minutes passed.

“Five,” said Kreen, swearing.

Haviland Tuf said nothing.

“All right,” Kreen said at last. “Three standards. You are a cheat and a scoundrel, as well as a criminal. You have no ethics.”

“I will ignore your bombast,” said Haviland Tuf. “Three standards is the agreed sum, then. A sudden hunch comes to me that you may attempt to give evasive or confusing answers, so that I would have to ask many questions in order to elicit a small particle of information. I warn you that I will brook no such nonsense. Nor will I tolerate any deception. For each lie you attempt to tell me, I will add an additional ten standards on to your debt.”

Kreen laughed. “I have no intention of lying, Tuf. But even if I did, how would you ever know? I am not that transparent.”

Haviland Tuf permitted himself a smile, a tiny tight-lipped smile that barely touched his face and then was gone again. “Sir,” he said, “I assure you that I would know at once. Dax would tell me, in precisely the same manner that he told me how far you would come down from your absurd demand for ten standards, and warned me of your cowardly attack on K’theddion. Dax is a feline, sir, as no doubt even you will perceive. All felines are at least partially psionic, as mankind has known throughout history, and Dax is the end product of generations of breeding and genetic manipulation that have greatly strengthened this trait in him. So you will save all of us a good deal of time and effort if you will give complete, honest answers. While Dax’s talents are not sufficiently sophisticated to pluck difficult abstract concepts from your mind, I assure you that he can easily tell if you are lying or holding something back. So, with this in mind, shall we begin?”

Jaime Kreen was glaring at the big tomcat with venom in his eyes. Dax yawned again. “Go ahead,” Kreen said sullenly.

“First,” said Tuf, “there is the mystery of your assault upon us. I do not know you, sir. You are utterly a stranger to me. I am a simple merchant, and my services benefit all those who employ me. I had in no way given you offense. Yet you attacked me. This raises several questions! Why? What was your motive? Did you know me in some way? Had I given you offense in some action I have since forgotten?”

“Is that one question or four?” Kreen said.

Haviland Tuf folded his hands against his stomach again. “A point, sir. Begin with this: do you know me?”

“No,” said Kreen, “but I know of you, by reputation. You and your Ark are unique and widely famed, Tuf. And you were easy to recognize, when I chanced across you in that slimy Kytheddene restaurant. Gross hairless white giants are not exceptionally common, you know.”

“Three standards,” Tuf said. “I will take notice of neither your insults nor your flattery. You did not know me, then. Why did you assault me?”

“I was drunk.”

“Insufficient. It is true that you were drunk. But there were a number of other patrons in the eatery, any of whom might have obliged you if you were simply looking for a brawl. You were not. You chose me out of all those others. Why?”

“I dislike you. You are a criminal, by my standards.”

“Standards vary, of course,” Haviland Tuf replied. “On some worlds, my size itself would be a crime. On others, the fact that you wear boots made of cowhide would be punishable by long imprisonment. So in that sense, we are both criminals. Yet it is my feeling that it is unjust to judge a man by any laws save those of the culture in which he lives, or is presently moving. In that sense, I am no criminal, and your answer is still insufficient. Explain your dislike of me. What crimes do you charge against me?”

“I am a Charitan,” Kreen said. He coughed. “Or perhaps I should say I was formerly a Charitan. In fact, I was an administrator, although only sixth grade. Moses destroyed my career. I charge you with the crime of assisting Moses. It is well known. Do not bore me with your denials.”

Haviland Tuf glanced at Dax. “You appear to be telling the truth, and your answer contains a fair amount of information, although it raises several questions as well, and is far from clear. Nonetheless, I will do you a kindness and count it as an answer. Six standards, then. And my next questions will be simple ones. Who is Moses and what is a Charitan?”

Jaime Kreen looked incredulous. “Do you want to give me six standards? Don’t pretend, Tuf. I won’t buy it. You know who Moses is.”

“Indeed I do, in a sense,” Tuf replied. “Moses is a myth-figure associated with the various orthodox Christian religions, a figure alleged to have lived on Old Earth in the vast distant past. I believe he is somehow associated with or related to Noah, whom my Ark is named after, in a fashion. Moses and Noah were brothers, perhaps. The details escape me. In any event, both of them were among the earliest practitioners of ecological warfare, a field with which I am quite familiar. So, in a sense, I do know who Moses is. However, that Moses has been dead for a period sufficiently long to make it unlikely that he had destroyed your career, and even more unlikely that he would care a whit about any information you cared to convey to me. So I must judge that you are speaking of some other Moses, one I do not know. And that, sir, was the thrust of my question, the very point.”

“All right,” Kreen said. “If you insist on feigning ignorance, I’ll play your silly game. A Charitan is a citizen of Charity, as you know perfectly well. Moses, as he styles himself, is a religious demagogue who heads the Holy Altruistic Restoration. With your aid he has conducted a devastating campaign of ecological warfare against the City of Hope, our single great arcology, the center of Charitan life.”

“Twelve standards,” said Tuf. “Explain further.”

Kreen sighed and shifted in his chair. “The Holy Altruists were the original settlers of Charity, centuries ago. They left their original planet because their religious sensibilities were offended by its advanced technology. The Holy Altruistic Church teaches that salvation is obtained by living a simple life close to nature, by suffering and by self-sacrifice. So the Altruists came to a raw planet and suffered and sacrificed and died quite happily for a hundred years or so. Then, unfortunately for them, there was a second wave of settlers. The newcomers built the arcology we call the City of Hope, farmed the land with advanced robotic machinery, opened a star port, and generally sinned against God. Worse, after a few years, children of the Altruists began to desert to the City in droves, to enjoy life a little. In two generations, nothing was left of Altruists except a few old folks. Then Moses appeared, leading this movement they call the Restoration. He marched into the City of Hope, confronted the council of administrators, and demanded that we let his people go. The administrators explained that none of his people wanted to go. Moses was unmoved. He said that unless we let his people go, closed the star port, and dismantled the City of Hope to live close to God, he would bring down plagues on us.”

“Interesting,” said Haviland Tuf. “Continue.”

“It’s your money,” said Jaime Kreen. “Well, the administrators threw Moses out on his hairy ass, and everybody had a good laugh. But we also did some checking, just to be safe. We had all heard ancient horror stories about biological warfare, of course, but we presumed those secrets were long lost. Our computers confirmed as much. Techniques of cloning and genetic manipulation such as were employed by the Earth Imperials survived on only a handful of planets, those much scattered, and the nearest some seven years from us even by ftl drive.”