Гарднер Дозуа - The Good Old Stuff

“You see yourself as a planetary emperor?” said Frome. This should certainly be reported back to his superiors at Bembom without delay!

Sirat made a deprecating motion. “I should not employ so extravagant a term—at least not yet. It is a planet of large land area. But—you comprehend the general idea. Under unified rule I could instill real culture into the Dzlieri and Romeli, which the y will never attain on a basis of feuding tribes.” He chuckled. “A psychologist once asserted that I had a power-complex because of my short stature. Perhaps he was correct; but is that any pretext for neglecting to put this characteristic to good use?”

“And where does Miss Milln come in?” asked Frome.

“My dear Frome! These primitives can comprehend the dynastic principle, but are much too backward for your recondite democratic ideals, as the failure of attempts to teach the representative government has amply demonstrated. Therefore we must have a dynasty, and I have elected Miss Millfin to assist me in founding it.”

Elena’s manner changed abruptly and visibly. “I never shall,” she said coldly. “If I ever marry, it will be because the Cosmos has infused my spiritual self with a Ray of its Divine Love.”

Frome choked on his drink, wondering how such a nice girl could talk such tosh.

Sirat smiled. “She will alter her mind. She does not know what is beneficial for her, poor infant.”

Elena said: “He walks in the darkness of many lives’ accumulated karma, Mr. Frome, and so cannot understand spiritual truths.”

Sirat grinned broadly. “Just a benighted old ignoramus. I suppose, my love, you would find our guest more amenable to your spiritual suasion?”

“Judging by the color of his aura, yes.” (Frome glanced nervously about.) “If his heart were filled with Cosmic Love, I could set his feet on the SevenFold Path to Union with the Infinite.”

Frome almost declared he wouldn’t stand by and see an Earthwoman put under duress—not while he had his health—but thought better of it.

Such an outburst would do more harm than good. Still, Adrian Frome had committed himself mentally to helping Elena, for while he affected a hardboiled attitude towards women, he was secretly a sentimental softhead towards anything remotely like a damsel in distress.

Sirat said: “Let us discuss less rarefied matters. How are affairs proceeding at Bembom, Mr. Frome? The information brought hither by my Dzlieri is often garbled in transit.”

After that the meal went agreeably enough. Frome found Sirat Mongkut, despite his extraordinarily pedantic speech, a shrewd fellow with a good deal of charm, though obviously one who let nothing stand in his way. The girl, too, fascinated him. She seemed to be two different people—one, a nice normal gift whom he found altogether attractive; the other, a priestess of the occult who rather frightened him.

When Sirat dismissed his guests, a Dzlieri escorted each of them out of the room. Mishinatven saw to it that Frome was safely in bed (Frome had to move the bed a couple of times to avoid the drip of rain-water through the mat ceiling) before leaving him. As for Adrian Frome, he was too tired to care whether they mounted guard over him or not.

During the ensuing days Frome learned more of the workings of the shop and revived his familiarity with the skills that make a metal-worker.

He also got used to being tailed by Mishinatven or some other Dzlieri.

He supposed he should be plotting escape, and felt guilty because he had not been able to devise any clever scheme for doing so. Sirat kept his own person guarded, and Frome under constant surveillance.

And assuming Frome could give his guards the slip, what then? Even if the Dzlieri failed to catch him in his flight (as they probably would) or if he were not devoured by one of the carnivores of the jungle, without a compass, he would get hopelessly lost before he had gone one kilometer and presently die of the deficiency-diseases that always struck down Earthmen who tried to live on an exclusively Vishnuvan diet.

Meanwhile he liked the feeling of craftsmanship that came from exercising his hands on the tough metals, and found the other human beings agreeable to know.

One evening Sirat said: “Adrian, I should like you to take tomorrow off to witness some exercises I am planning.”

“Glad to,” said From. “You coming, Elena?”

She said: “I prefer not to watch preparations for the crime of violence.”

Sirat laughed. “She still thinks she can convert the Dzlieri to pacifism.

You might as well instruct a horse to perform on the violin. She tried it on Chief Kamatobden and he thought her simply deranged.”

“I shall yet bring enlightenment to these strayed souls,” she said firmly.

The exercises took place in a large clearing near Amnairad. Sirat sat on a saddled zebra watching squadrons of Dzlieri maneuver at breakneck speed with high precision: some with native weapons, some with the new shotguns.

A troop of lancers would thunder across the field in line abreast; then a square of musketeers would run onto the field, throw themselves down behind stumps and pretend to fire, and then leap up and scatter into the surrounding jungle, to reassemble elsewhere. There was some target practice like trapshooting, but no indiscriminate firing; Sirat kept the ammunition for his new guns locked up and doled it out only for specific ac-dons.

Frome did not think Sirat was in a position to attack Bembom—yet.

But he could certainly make a sweep of the nearby Vishnuvan tribes, whose armies were mere yelling mobs by comparison with his. And then ... Silva must be told about this.

Sirat seemed to be controlling the movements in the field, though he neither gestured nor spoke. Frome worked his way close enough to the rene-gado to see that he had the little brass tube in his mouth and was going through the motions of blowing into it. Frome remembered: a Galton whistle, of course! It gave out an ultrasonic blast above the limits of human hearing, and sometimes people back on Earth called their dogs with them.

The Dzlieri must have a range of hearing beyond 20,000 cycles per second.

At dinner that night he asked Sirat about this method of signalling.

Sirat answered: “I thought you would so conjecture. I have worked out a system of signals, something like Morse. There is no great advantage in employing the whistle against hostile Dzlieri, since they can perceive it also; but with human beings or Romeli ... For instance, assume some ill-intentioned Earthman were to assault me in my quarters when my guards were absent? A blast would bring them running without the miscreant’s knowing I had called.

“That reminds me,” continued the adventurer, “tomorrow I desire you to commence twenty more of these, for my subordinate officers. I have decided to train them in the use of the device as well. And I must request haste, since I apprehend major movements in the near future.”

“Moving against Kamatobden, eh?” said Frome.

“You may think so if you wish. Do not look so fearful, Elena; I will take good care of myself. Your warrior shall return.”

Maybe, thought Frome, that’s what she’s scared of.

Frome looked over the Galton whistle Sirat had left with him. He now ran the whole shop and knew where he could lay hands on a length of copper tubing (probably once the fuel-line of a helicopter) that should do for the duplication of the whistle.

With the help of one of the natives he completed the order by nightfall, plus one whistle the Dzlieri had spoiled. Sirat came over from the palace and said: “Excellent, my dear Adrian. We shall go far together. You must pardon my not inviting you to dine with me tonight, but I am compelled to confer with my officers. Will you and Miss Milln carry on in the regular dining-room in my absence?”