Sixth Column (21 page)

"So? Perhaps they were c lumsy. What stopped them?"

The adviser shook his head. "That is the point, Serene One. None can

remember what happened."

"What is that you say? -but that is ridiculous. Fetch me one to question."

The adviser spread his hands. "I regret, sire-"

"So? Of course, of course-peace be to their spirits." He smoothed an

embroidered silken panel that streamed down his chest. While he thought,

his eye was caught by ornately and amusingly carved chessmen set up on a

table at his elbow. Idly he tried a pawn in a different square. No, that was not

the solution; white to move and checkmate in four moves-that took five. He

turned back. "It might be well to tax them."

"We have already tried-"

"Without my permission?" The Prince's voice was gentler than before.

Sweat showed on the face of the other.

"If it were an error, Serene One, we wished the error to be ours."

"You think me capable of error?" The Prince was the author of the

standard text on the administration of subject races, written while a young

provincial governor in India. "Very well, we will pass it. You taxed them,

heavily I presume-what then?"

"They paid it, sire."

"Triple it."

"I am sure they would pay it, for-"

"Make it tenfold. Set it so high they can not pay it. "

"But Serene One, that is the point. The gold with which they pay is

chemically pure. Our doctors of temporal wisdom tell us that this gold is

made, transmuted. There is no limit to the tax they can pay. In fact," he went

on hurriedly, "it is our opinion, subject always to the correction of superior

wisdom"-he bowed quickly-"that this is not a religion at all, but scientific

forces of an unknown sort!"

"You are suggesting that these barbarians have greater scientific

attainments than the Chosen Race?"

"Please, sire, they have something, and that something is demoralizing

your people. The incidence of honorable suicide has climbed to an alarming

high, and there have been far too many petitions to return to the land of our

fathers.

"No doubt you have found means to discourage such requests?"

"Yes, Serene One, but it has only resulted in a greater number of

honorable suicides among those thrown in contact with the priests of Mota. I

fear to say it, but such contact seems to weaken the spirit of your children."

"Hm-m-m. I think, yes, I think that I will see this High Priest of Mota."

"When will the Serene One see him?"

"That I will tell you. In the meantime, let it be said that my learned

doctors, if they have not lived too many years and passed their usefulness,

will be able to duplicate and counteract any science the barbarians may

have."

"The Serene One has spoken."

The Prince Royal watched with great interest as Ardmore approached

him. The man walked without fear. And, the Prince was forced to admit, the

man had a certain dignity about him, for a barbarian. This would be

interesting. What was that shining thing around his head?-an amusing

conceit, that.

Ardmore stopped before him and pronounced a benediction, hand raised

high. Then-"You asked that I visit you, Master."

"So I did." Was the man unaware that he should kneel?

Ardmore glanced around. "Will the Master cause his servants to fetch me

a chair?"

Really, the man was delightful-regrettable that he must die. Or would it

be possible to keep him around the palace for diversion? Of course, that

would entail the deaths of all who had watched this scene and perhaps more

such expedient deaths later, if his delicious vagaries continued. The Prince

concluded that it was not the initial cost, but the upkeep.

He raised a hand. Two scandalized menials hastened up with a stool.

Ardmore sat down. His eye rested on the chess table by the Prince. The

Prince followed his glance and inquired, "Do you play the Battle Game?"

"A little, Master."

"How would you solve this problem?"

Ardmore got up and stood over the board. He s tudied it for a few

moments, while the Oriental watched him. The courtiers were as silent as the

pieces on the board-waiting.

"I would move this pawn-so," Ardmore announced at last.

"In such a fashion? That is a most unorthodox move."

"But necessary. From there it is mate in three moves-but, of course, the

Master sees that.",

"Of course. Yes, of course. But I did not fetch you here for chess," he

added, turning away. "We must speak of other matters. I learn with sorrow

that there have been complaints about your followers."

"The Master's sorrow is my sorrow. May the servant ask in what manner.

his children have erred?"

But the Prince was again studying the chessboard. He raised a finger; a

servant was kneeling beside him with writing board. He dipped a brush in ink

and quickly executed a group of ideographs, sealing. the letter with his ring.

The servant bowed himself away, while a messenger sped out with the

dispatch.

"What was that? Oh, yes-it is reported that they lack in grace. Their

manner is unseemly in dealing with the Chosen Ones."

"Will the Master help an humble priest by telling him which of his children

have been guilty of lapses from propriety and in what respects that he may

correct them?"

This request, the Prince admitted to himself, was awkward. In some

manner this uncouth creature had managed to put him on the defensive. He

was not used to being asked for details; it was improper. Furthermore there

was no answer; the conduct of the priests of Mota had been impeccable,

flawless, in every fashion that could be cited.

Yet his court stood there, waiting, to hear what answer he would make to

this crude indecency. How went the ancient lines? " . . . Kung F'tze

confounded by the question of a dolt!"

"It is not meet that the servant should question the master. At this

moment you err in the fashion of your followers."

"Your pardon, Master. Though the slave may not question, is it not

written that he may pray for mercy and help? We are simple servants,

possessing not the wisdom of the Sun and of the Moon. Are you not our

father and our mother? Will you not, from your heights, instruct us?"

The Prince refrained from biting his lip. How had this happened? By

some twist of words this barbarian had put him in the wrong again. It was not

safe to let the man open his mouth! Still-this must be met; when a slave cries

for mercy, honor requires an answer.

"We consent to instruct you in one particular; learn the lesson well and

other aspects of wisdom will come to you of themselves." He paused and

considered his words. "The manner of address used by you and your lesser

priests in greeting the Chosen Ones is not seemly. This afront corrupts the

character of all who see it."

"Am I to believe that the Chosen Race disdains the blessing of the Lord

Mota?"

He had twisted it-again! Sound policy required that the ruler assume that

the gods of the slaves were authentic. "The blessing is not refused, but the

form of greeting must be that of servant to master."

Ardmore was suddenly aware that he was being called with urgency.

Ringing in his head was the voice of Thomas: "Chief! Chief! Can you hear

me? There's a squad of police at every temple, demanding the surrender of

the priests -we're getting reports in from all over the country!"

"The Lord Mota hears!" It was addressed to the Prince; would Jeff

understand also?

Jeff again-"Was that to me, Chief?"

"See to it that his followers understand." The Prince had answered too

quickly for Ardmore to devise another double meaning in which to speak to

Thomas. But he knew something that the Prince did not know he knew. Now

to use it.

"How can I instruct my priests when you are even now arresting them?"

Ardmore's manner changed suddenly from humble to accusatory.

The face of the Prince was impassive, his eyes alone gave away his

astonishment. Had the man guessed the nature of that dispatch? "You speak

wildly."

"I do not! Even while you have been instructing me in the way that I must

instruct my priests, your soldiers have been knocking at the gates of all the

temples of Mota. Wait! I have a message to you from the Lord Mota: His

priests do not fear worldly power. You have not succeeded in arresting them,

nor would you, did not the Lord Mota bid them to surrender. In thirty minutes,

after the priests have cleansed themselves spiritually and girded themselves

for the ordeal, each will surrender himself at the threshold of his temple. Until

then, woe to the soldier who attempts to violate the House of Mota!"

" 'At's telling 'em Chief! 'At's telling 'em! You mean for each temple priest

to hold off thirty more minutes, then surrender-is that right? And for them to

be loaded for bear, power units, communicators, and all the latest gadgets.

Acknowledge, if you can."

"In the groove, Jeff." He had to chance it four meaningless syllables to

the Prince, but Jeff would understand.

"O. K., Chief. I don't know what you're up to, but we'll go along a

thousand percent!"

The face of the Prince was a frozen mask. "Take him away."

For some minutes after Ardmore was gone the Serene One sat staring at

the chessboard and pulling at his underlip.

They placed Ardmore in a room underground, a room with metal walls

and massive locks on the door. Not content with that, he-was hardly inside

when he heard a soft hissing noise and saw a point at the edge of the door

turn cherry red. Welding! They evidently intended to make sure that no

possible human weakness of his guards could result in escape. He called the

Citadel.

"Lord Mota, hear thy servant!"

"Yes, Chief."

"A wink is as good as a nod."

"Got you, Chief. You are still where you can be overheard. Slang it up. I'll

get your drift!"

"The headman witch doctor hankers to chew the rag with the rest of the

sky pilots."

"You want Circuit A?"

"Most bodaciously."

There was a brief pause, then Thomas answered. "O. K., Chief, you've

got it. I'll stay cut in to interpret it

probably won't be necessary, since the boys have practiced this kind of

double talk. Go ahead you've got five minutes, if they are to surrender on

time."

Any cipher can be broken, any code can be compromised. But the most

exact academic knowledge of a language gives no clue to its slang, its

colloquial allusions, its half statements, over statements, and inverted

meanings. Ardmore felt logically certain that the PanAsians had planted a

microphone in his cell. Very well, since they were bound to listen to his end of

the conversation, let them be confused and baled by it, uncertain whether he

spoke in gibberish to his god, or had possibly lost his mind.

"Look, cherubs-mamma wants baby to go to the nice man. It's all

hunkydory as long as baby-bunting carries his nice new rattle. Yea, verily,

rattle is the watchword-you don't and they do. Deal this cold deck the way it's

stacked and the chopstick laddies are stonkered and discombobulated. The

stiff upper lip does it."

"Check me if I'm wrong, Chief. You want the priests to give themselves

up, and to rattle the PanAsians by their apparent unconcern. You want them

to carry it off the way you did, cool as a cucumber, and bold as brass. I also

take it that you want them to hang on to their staffs, but not to use them

unless you tell them to. Is that right?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson!"

"What happens after that?"

"No thirty."

"What's that? Oh, `No thirty'-more to come on this story; you'll tell us

later. All right, Chief-it's time!"

"Okey-dokey!"

Ardmore waited until he was reasonably certain that all the PanAsians

not immediately concerned with guarding the prisoners would be asleep, or

at least in their quarters. What he proposed to do would be effective fully only

in the event that no one knew just what had happened. The chances were

better at night.

He called Thomas by whistling a couple of bars of "Anchors Aweigh." He

responded at once-he had not gone off duty, but had remained at the

pararadio, giving the prisoners an occasional fight talk and playing records of

martial music. "Yes, Chief?"

"The time has come to take a powder. Allee-allee out's in free!"

"Jailbreak?"

"In the manner of the proverbial Arab-the exact manner."

They had discussed this technique before; Thomas gave itemized

instructions and then said, "Say when, Chief. "

"When!"

He could almost see Thomas nod. "Right-oh! O. K., troops, get going!"

Ardmore stood up and stretched his cramped limbs. He walked over to

one wall of his prison and stood so that the single light cast a shadow on the

wall. That would be about right there! He set the controls of his staff for

maximum range in the primary Ledbetter effect, checked to see that the

frequency band covered the Mongolian race, and adjusted it to stun rather

than kill. Then he turned on power.

A few moments later he turned it off, and again regarded his shadow on