For several years after this first sale, one editor rejected my every story with praise for how much he had liked “Apartness.” I think he was referring to the parts of the story that had a moral for the times. I didn’t have any bright ideas along those lines—but I did think that other stories might be possible in the same future.
I had enjoyed Chad Oliver’s stories and I thought it would be fun to imagine what social science might look like coming out of an entirely different milieu. Modern anthropologists seem full of cultural relativism and self-conscious tolerance. Would it be possible to have a story set in some wider context, with an anthropology based on alien motives? I wanted a culture that was technologically superior to ours, workable, and yet so painfully different that accepting it would be hard even for open-minded people with our outlook.
So what would be sufficiently alien? Ever since high school, I’ve been fascinated with the notion of anarchy. Every anarchical scheme has some set of assumptions for why the participants will cooperate. (You can usually spot the assumption in the names: anarcho-communism, anarcho-capitalism … ) There’s a fundamental problem all such plans must face: how to prevent the formation of power groups large enough to in fact
be
the government. In the following story, “Conquest by Default,” I attempted a frontal assault on this question.
An aside: I’ve always had a weakness for unpronounceable names and oddball orthographies. The names in this story were a problem from the beginning. I had just taken a descriptive linguistics course, and I was enthusiastic: my aliens can close their noses—
true
nasal stops and fricatives were possible for them! In the version John W. Campbell bought around 1967, I represented a voiceless nasal stop by the letter “p” with tilde and a voiced nasal fricative by the letter “v” with tilde. John told me he didn’t think it would get past the typesetters. He was right. And even now, such oddball symbols can be hard to print. One editor, Jim Baen, kindly offered to accept photoready copy from me—so that
I
could set the type exactly as it should be. In this printing, I have chosen to represent the voiceless nasal stop as “%” and the voiced nasal fricative as “#”.
T
his all happened a long time ago, and almost twenty light-years from where we’re standing now. You honor me here tonight as a humanitarian, as a man who has done something to bring a temporary light to the eternal darkness that is our universe. But you deceive yourselves. I made the situation just civilized enough so that its true brutality, shed of bloody drapery, can be seen.
I see you don’t believe what I say. In this whole audience I suspect that only a Melmwn truly understands—and she better than I. Not one of you has ever been kicked in the teeth by these particular facts of life. Perhaps if I told you the story as it happened to me—I could make you
feel
the horror you hear me describe.
Two centuries ago, the %wrlyg Spice & Trading Company completed the first interstellar flight. They were thirty years ahead of their nearest competitors. They had a whole planet at their disposal, except for one minor complication … .
The natives were restless.
My attention was unevenly divided between the beautiful girl who had just introduced herself, and the ancient city that shimmered in the hot air behind her.
Mary Dahlmann. That was a hard name to pronounce, but I had studied Australian for almost two years, and I was damned if I couldn’t say a name. I clumsily worked my way through a response. “Yes, ah, Miss, ah, Dahlmann. I am Ron Melmwn, and I am the new Company anthropologist. But I thought the vice president for Aboriginal Affairs was going to meet me.”
Ngagn Che# dug me in the ribs. “Say, you really can speak that gabble, can’t you, Melmwn?” he whispered in Mikin. Che# was Vice President for Violence—an OK guy, but an incurable bigot.
Mary Dahlmann smiled uncertainly at this exchange. Then she answered my question. “Mr. Horlig will be right along. He asked me to meet you. My father is Chief Representative for Her Majesty’s Government.” I later learned that Her Majesty was two centuries dead. “Here, let me show you off the field.” She grasped my wrist for a second—an instant. I guess I jerked back. Her hand fell away and her eagerness vanished. “This way,” she said icily, pointing to a gate in the force fence surrounding the %wrlyg landing field. I wished very much I had not pulled away from her touch. Even though she was so blond and pale, she was a woman, and in a weird way, pretty. Besides,
she
had overcome whatever feelings she had against us.
There was an embarrassed silence, as the five of us cleared the landing craft and walked toward the gate.
The sun was bright—brighter than ours ever shines over Miki. It was also very dry. There were no clouds in the sky. Twenty or thirty people worked in the field. Most were Mikin, but here and there were clusters of Terrans. Several were standing around a device in the corner of the field where the fence made a joint to angle out toward the beach. The Terrans knelt by the device.
Orange fire flickered from the end of the machine, followed by a loud
guda-bam-bam-bam.
Even as my conscious mind concluded that we were
under fire, I threw myself on the ground and flattened into the lowest profile possible. You’ve heard the bromide about combat making life more real. I don’t know about that, but it’s certainly true that when you are flat against the ground with your face in the dirt, the whole universe looks different. That red-tan sand was
hot
. Sharp little stones bit into my face. Two inches before my face a clump of sage had assumed the dimensions of a #ola tree.
I cocked my head microscopically to see how the others were doing. They were all down, too. Correction: That idiot Earthgirl was still standing. More than a second after the attack she was still working toward the idea that someone was trying to kill her. Only a dement or a Little Sister brought up in a convent could be so dense. I reached out, grabbed her slim ankle, and jerked. She came down hard. Once down, she didn’t move.
Ngagn Che# and some accountant, whose name I didn’t remember, were advancing toward the slug-thrower. That accountant had the fastest low-crawl I have ever seen. The Terrans frantically tried to lower the barrels of their gun—but it was really primitive and couldn’t search more than five degrees. The little accountant zipped up to within twenty meters of the gun, reached into his weapons pouch, and tossed a grenade toward the Earthmen and their weapon. I dug my face into the dirt and waited for the explosion. There was only a muffled thud. It was a gas bomb—not frag. A green mist hung for an instant over the gun and the Terrans.
When I got to them, Che# was already complimenting the accountant on his throw.
“A private quarrel?” I asked Che#.
The security chief looked faintly surprised. “Why no. These fellows”—he pointed at the unconscious Terrans—“belong to some conspiracy to drive us off the planet. They’re really a pitiful collection.” He pointed to the weapon. It was composed of twenty barrels welded to three metal hoops. By turning a crank, the barrels could be rotated past a belt cartridge feeder. “That gun is hardly more accurate than a shrapnel bomb. This is nothing very dangerous, but I’m going to catch chaos for letting them get within the perimeter. And I can tell you, I am going to scorch those agents of mine that let these abos sneak in. Anyway, we got the pests alive. They’ll be able to answer some questions.” He nudged one of the bodies over with his boot. “Sometimes I think it would be best to exterminate the race. They don’t occupy much territory but they sure are a nuisance.
“See,” he picked up a card from the ground and handed it to me. It was lettered in neat Mikin: MERLYN SENDS YOU DEATH. “Merlyn is the name of the ‘terrorist’ organization—it’s nonprofit. I think. Terrans are a queer lot.”
Several Company armsmen showed up then and Che# proceeded to
bawl them out in a very thorough way. It was interesting, but a little embarrassing, too. I turned and started toward the main gate. I still had to meet my new boss—Horlig, the Vice President for Abo Affairs.
Where was the Terran girl? In the fuss I had completely forgotten her. But now she was gone. I ran back to where we stood when the first shots were fired. I felt cold and a little sick as I looked at the ground where she had fallen. Maybe it had been a superficial wound. Maybe the medics had carried her off. But whatever the explanation, a pool of blood almost thirty centimeters wide lay on the sand. As I watched, it soaked into the sand and became a dark brown grease spot, barely visible against the reddish-tan soil. As far as appearances go, it could have been human blood.
HORLIG WAS A GLOYN. I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN FROM HIS NAME. As IT WAS, I got quite a surprise when I met him. With his pale gray skin and hair, Herul Horlig could easily be mistaken for an Earthman. The Vice President for Aboriginal Affairs was either an Ostentatious Simplist or very proud of his neolithic grandparents. He wore wooden shin plates and a black breech-clout. His only weapon was a machine dartgun strapped to his wrist.
It quickly became clear that the man was unhappy with me as an addition to his staff. I could understand that. As a professional, my opinions might carry more weight with the Board of Directors and the President than his. Horlig did his best to hide his displeasure, though. He seemed a hard-headed, sincere fellow who could be ruthless, but nevertheless believed whatever he did was right. He unbent considerably during our meal at Supply Central. When I mentioned I wanted to interview some abos, he surprised me by suggesting we fly over to the native city that evening.
When we left Central, it was already dark. We walked to the parking lot, and got into Horlig’s car. Three minutes later we were ghosting over the suburbs of Adelaide-west. Horlig cast a practiced eye upon the queer rectangular street pattern below, and brought us down on the lawn of a two-story wood house. I started to get out.
“Just a minute, Melmwn,” said Horlig. He grabbed a pair of earphones and set the TV on pan. I didn’t say anything as he scanned the quiet neighborhood for signs of hostile activity. I was interested: Usually a Simplist will avoid using advanced defense techniques. Horlig explained as he set the car’s computer on SENTRY and threw open the hatch:
“Our illustrious Board of Directors dictates that we employ ‘all security precautions at our disposal.’ Bunk. Even when these Earth creatures attack us, they are less violent than good-natured street brawlers
back home. I don’t think there have been more than thirty murders in this city since %wrlyg landed twenty years ago.”
I jumped to the soft grass and looked around. Things really were quiet. Gas lamps lit the cobblestone street and dimly outlined the wood buildings up and down the lane. Weak yellow light emerged from windows. From down the street came faint laughter of some party. Our landing had gone unnoticed.
Demoneyes
. I stepped back sharply. The twin yellow disks glittered maniacally, as the cat turned to face us, and the lamps’ light came back from its eyes. The little animal turned slowly and walked disdainfully across the lawn. This was a bad omen indeed. I would have to watch the Signs very carefully tonight. Horlig was not disturbed at all. I don’t think he knew I was brought up a witch-fearer. We started up the walk toward the nearest house.
“You know, Melmwn, this isn’t just any old native we’re visiting. He’s an anthropologist, Earth style. Of course, he’s just as insipid as the rest of the bunch, but our staff is forced to do quite a bit of liaison work with him.”
An anthropologist! This was going to be interesting, both as an exchange of information and of research procedures.
“In addition, he’s the primary representative chosen by the Australian
gowernmen’
… a
gowernmen’
is sort of a huge corporation, as far as I can tell.”
“Uh-huh.” As a matter of fact, I knew a lot more about the mysterious
government
concept than Horlig. My Scholarate thesis was a theoretical study of macro organizations. The paper was almost rejected because my instructors claimed it was an analysis of a patent impossibility. Then came word that three macro organizations existed on Earth.
WE CLIMBED THE FRONT PORCH STEPS. HORLIG POUNDED ON THE DOOR. “THE fellow’s name is Nalman.”
I translated his poor pronunciation back to the probable Australian original: Dahlmann! Perhaps I could find out what happened to the Earthgirl.
There were shuffling steps from within. Whoever it was did not even bother to look us over through a spy hole. Earthmen were nothing if not trusting. We were confronted by a tall, middle-aged man with thin, silvery hair. His hand quavered slightly as he removed the pipe from his mouth. Either he was in an extremity of fear or he had terrible coordination.
But when he spoke, I knew there was no fear. “Mr. Horlig. Won’t you come in?” The words and tone were mild, but in that mildness rested an immense confidence. In the past I had heard that tone only
from Umpires. It implied that neither storm, nor struggle, nor crumbling physical prowess could upset the mind behind the voice. That’s a lot to get out of six quiet words—but it was all there.
When we were settled in Scholar Dahlmann’s den, Horlig made the introductions. Horlig understood Australian fairly well, but his accent was atrocious.