Poul Anderson: Flandry of Terra

Derek spat. “A pity he didn’t succeed!”

“Your father thought otherwise, seeing the attempt was made on his own rock. He was quite indignant.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed. His nostrils stirred, like an angry bull’s, and his head slanted forward. “So you spoke to my father after all, did you, now? I warned you, Impy—”

“We had a friendly sort of talk,” said Flandry. “He doesn’t believe anything can be gained by shooting men in their sleep.”

“I suppose all your own works would stand being refereed?”

Since they would certainly not, Flandry donned a frown and continued: “I’d keep an eye on your father, though. I’ve seen these dirty little fanaticisms before. Among the first people to be butchered are the native-born who keep enough native sense and honor to treat the Imperial like a fellow-being. You see, such people are too likely to understand that the revolution is really organized by some rival imperialism, and that you can’t win a war where your own home is the battleground.”

“Arrgh!” A hoarse animal noise, for no words were scornful enough.

“And my would-be assassin is still in business,” continued Flandry. “He knows I did talk to your father. Hate me as much as you like, Captain Umbolu, but keep a guard over the old gentleman. Or at least speak to a certain Rossalan whom I don’t accuse you of knowing.”

For a moment longer the brown eyes blazed against the glacial gray blandness of the Terran’s. Then Derek clashed his helmet down and returned to the water.

Flandry sighed. He really should start the formal machinery of investigation, but he went back to the house with an idea of borrowing some fishing tackle.

Inyanduma, seated at a desk among the inevitable documents of government, gave him a troubled look. “Are you certain that there is a real conspiracy on Nyanza?” he asked. “We’ve ever had our hotheads, like all others… aye, I’ve seen other planets, I ‘listed for the space Navy in my day and hold a reserve commission.”

Flandry sat down and looked at his fingernails. “Then why haven’t you reported what you know about Rossala?” he asked softly.

Inyanduma started. “Are you a telepath?”

“No. It’d make things too dull.” Flandry lit a fresh cigarette. “I know Rossala is arming, and that your nation is alarmed enough about it to prepare defensive weapons and alliances. Since the Empire would protect you, you must expect the Empire to be kicked off Nyanza.”

“Nay,” whispered Inyanduma. “We’ve nay certainty of aught. It’s but… we won’t bring a horde of detectives, belike a Terran military force, by denouncing our fellow nation… on so little proof… And yet we must keep some freedom of action, in case—”

“Especially in case Rossala calls on you to join in cutting the Terran apron strings?”

“Nay, nay—”

“Under such circumstances, it would be pathetic.” Flandry shook his tongue-clicking head. “It’s so amateurishly done that I feel grossly overpaid for my time here. But whoever engineered the conspiracy in the first place is no amateur. He used your parochial loyalties with skill. And he must expect to move soon, before a pre-occupied Imperium can find out enough about his arrangements to justify sending in the marines. The resident’s assassination is obviously a key action. It was chance I got here the very day that had happened, but someone like me would surely have arrived not many days later, and not been a great deal longer about learning as much as I’ve done. Of course, if they can kill me it will delay matters for a while, which will be helpful to them; but they don’t seem to expect they’ll need much time.”

Flandry paused, nodded to himself, and carried on. “Ergo, if this affair is not stopped, we can expect Rossala to revolt within a few weeks at the very latest. Rossala will call on the other Nyanzan nations to help-and they’ve been cleverly maneuvered into arming themselves and setting up a skeleton military organization. If the expert I suspect is behind the revolution, those leaders such as yourself, who demur at the idea, will die and be replaced by more gullible ones. Of course, Nyanza will have been promised outside help: I don’t imagine even Derek Umbolu thinks one planet can stand off all Terra’s power. Merseia is not too far away. If everything goes smoothly, we’ll end up with a nominally independent Nyanza which is actually a Merseian puppet-deep within Terran space. If the attempt fails, well, what’s one more radioactive wreck of a world to Merseia?”

There was a stillness.

In the end Inyanduma said grayly: “I don’t know but what the hazard you speak of will be better than to call in the Terrans; for in sooth all our nations have broken your law in that we have gathered weapons as you say. The Imperials would nay leave us what self-government we now have.”

“They might not be necessary,” said Flandry. “Since you do have those weapons, and the City constabulary is a legally armed native force with some nuclear equipment… you could do your own housecleaning. I could supervise the operation, make sure it was thorough, stamp my report to headquarters Fantastically Secret, and that would be the close of the affair.”

He stood up. “Think it over,” he said.

It was peaceful out on the rock. Flandry’s reel hummed, the lure flashed through brilliant air, the surf kittened gigantically with his hook. It did not seem to matter greatly that he got never a nibble. The tide began to rise again, he’d have to go inside or exchange his rod for a trident…

A kayak came over drowned skerries like something alive. Derek Umbolu brought it to Flandry’s feet and looked up. His face was sea-wet, which was merciful; Flandry did not want to know whether the giant was crying.

“Blood,” croaked Derek. “Blood, and the chairs broken, I could see in the blood how he was dragged out and thrown to the fish.”

Hollowness lay in Dominic Flandry’s heart. He felt his shoulders slump. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

Words ripped out, flat, hurried, under the ramping tidal noise:

“They center in Rossala, but someone in Uhunhu captains it. I was to seize control here when they rise, if Inyanduma will nay let us help the revolution. I hated the killing of old Bannerji, but it was needful. For now there will be nay effective space traffic control, till they replace him, and in two weeks there will come ships from Merseia with heavy nuclear war-weapons such as we can’t make on this planet. The same man who gaffed Bannerji tried for you. He was the only trained assassin in Jairnovaunt-and a neighbor gave you alibi-so I believe none of his whinings that he’d nay touched my father. His name was Mamoud Shufi. Cursed be it till the sun is cold clinkers!”

One great black hand unzipped the kayak cover. The other hand swooped down, pulled out something which dripped, and flung it at the Terran’s feet so hard that one dead eye burst from the lopped-off head.

Elsewhere on Nyanza it growled battle, men speared and shot each other, ships went to the bottom and buildings cracked open like rotten fruit. Where Flandry stood was only turquoise and lace. Perhaps some of the high white clouds banked in the west had a smoky tinge.

A crewman with a portable sonic fathometer nodded. “We’re over Uhunhu shoals now, sir.”

“Stop the music,” said Flandry. The skipper transmitted several orders, he felt the pulse of engines die, the submarine lay quiet. Looking down gray decks past the shark’s fin of a conning tower, Flandry saw crewmen gathering in a puzzled, almost resentful way. They had expected to join the fighting, till this Terran directed the ship eastward.