“As you must surely know, Scholar Dahlmann, the objective voyage time to our home planet, Epsilon Eridani II, is almost twelve years. Three days ago the third %wrlyg Support Fleet arrived and assumed a parking orbit around the Earth. At this instant, they soar omnipotent over the lands of your people.” Dahlmann just smiled. “In any case, the first passengers have been unfrozen and brought down to the %wrlyg Ground Base. This is Scholar Ron Melmwn, the anthropologist that the Company has brought in with the Fleet.”
From behind his thick glasses, Dahlmann inspected me with new interest. “Well, I certainly am happy to meet a Mikin anthropologist. Our meeting is something of a first I believe.”
“I think so, too. Your institutions are ill-reported to us on Miki. This is natural since %wrlyg is primarily interested in the commercial and immigration prospects of your Northern Hemisphere. I want to correct the situation. During my stay I hope to use you and the other Terrans for source material in my study of your history and, uh, government. It’s especially good luck that I meet a professional like yourself.”
Dahlmann seemed happy to discuss his people and soon we were immersed in Terran history and cultures. Much of what he told me I knew from reports received, but I let him tell the whole story.
It seems that two hundred years before, there was a high-technology culture in the Northern Hemisphere. The way Dahlmann spoke, it was very nearly Mikin caliber—the North People even had some primitive form of space flight. Then there was a war. A war is something like a fight, only much bigger, bigger even than an antitrust action. They exploded more than 12,500 megatons of bombs on their own cities. In addition, germ cultures were released to kill anybody who survived the fusion bombs. Without radiation screens and panphagic viruses, it was a slaughter. Virtually all the mammals in the Northern Hemisphere were destroyed, and according to Dahlmann, there was, for a while, the fear that the radiation poisons and disease strains would wipe out life in the South World, too.
It is very difficult to imagine how anything like that could get started in the first place—the cause of “war” was one of the objects of my research. Of course the gross explanation was that the Terrans never developed the Umpire System or the Concept of Chaos. Instead they used the gargantuan organizations called “governments.” But the underlying
question was why they chose this weird governmental path at all. Were the Terrans essentially subhuman—or is it just luck that we Mikins discovered the True Way?
The war didn’t discourage the Terrans from their fundamental errors. Three governments rose from the ashes of the war. The Australian, the Sudamérican, and the Zulunder. Even the smallest nation, Australia, had one thousand times as many people as the %wrlyg Spice & Trading Company. And remember that %wrlyg is already as big as a group can get without being slapped with an antitrust ruling by the Umpires.
I forgot my surroundings as Dahlmann went on to explain the present power structure, the struggle of the two stronger nations to secure colonies in portions of the Northern Hemisphere where the war poisons had dissipated. This was a very dangerous situation, according to the Terran anthropologist, since there were many disease types dormant in the Northern Hemisphere. That could start hellish plagues in the South World, for the Terrans were still more than a century behind the technology they had achieved before the blowup.
Through all this discussion, Horlig maintained an almost contemptuous silence, not listening to what we were saying so much as observing us as specimens. Finally he interrupted. “Well, I’m glad to see you both hit it off so well. It’s getting too late for me though. I’ll have to take my leave. No, you don’t have to come back just yet, Melmwn. I’ll send the car back here on auto after I get to Base.”
“You don’t have to bother with that, Horlig. Things look pretty tame around here. I can walk back.”
“No,” Horlig said definitely. “We have regulations. And there is always this Merlyn, you know.”
THE MERLYN BUNGLERS DIDN’T FRIGHTEN ME, BUT I REMEMBERED THAT CAT’S Demoneyes. Suddenly I was happy to fly back. After Horlig had left, we returned to the den and its dim gas mantle lamps. I could understand why Dahlmann’s eyesight was so bad—you try reading at night without electric lights for a couple decades and you’ll go blind, too. He rummaged around in his desk and drew out a pouch of “tobacco.” He fumbled the ground leaves into the bowl of his pipe and tamped them down with a clumsy forefinger. I thought he was going to burn his face when he lit the mixture. Back home, anyone with coordination that poor would be dead in less than two days, unless he secluded himself in a pacific enclave. This Terran culture was truly alien. It was different along a dimension we had never imagined, except in a few mathematical theories of doubtful validity.
The Terran sat back and regarded me for a long moment. Behind those thick lenses his eyes loomed large and wise. Now I was the one
who seemed helpless. Finally he pulled back the curtains and inspected the lawn and the place where the car had rested. “I believe, Scholar Melmwn, that you are a reasonable and intelligent individual. I hope that you are even more than that. Do you realize that you are attending the execution of a race?”
This took me completely by surprise. “What! What do you mean?”
He appeared to ignore my question. “I knew when you people first landed and we saw your machines: Our culture is doomed. I had hoped that we could escape with our lives—though in our own history, few have been so lucky. I hoped that your social sciences would be as advanced as your physical. But I was wrong.
“Your Vice President for Aboriginal Affairs arrived with the Second %wrlyg Fleet. Is genocide the %wrlyg policy or is it Horlig’s private scheme?”
This was too much. “I find your questions insulting, Terran! The %wrlyg Company intends you no harm. Our interests are confined to reclaiming and colonizing areas of your planet that you admit are too hot for you to handle.”
Now Dahlmann was on the defensive. “I apologize, Scholar Melmwn, for my discourtesy. I dived into the subject too hastily. I don’t mean to offend you. Let me describe my fears and the reasons for them. I believe that Herul Horlig is not content with the cultural destruction of Earth. He would like to see all Terrans dead. Officially his job is to promote cooperation between our races and to eliminate possible frictions. In fact, he has played the opposite role. Since he arrived, his every act has increased our mutual antagonism. Take for instance, the ‘courtesy call’ he made to the Zulunder capital. He and that armed forces chief of yours, Noggin Chem—is that how you pronounce the name?”
“Ngagn Che#,” I corrected.
“They breezed into Pret armed to the teeth—fifteen air tanks and a military air-space craft. The Zulunder government requested that Horlig return the spaceship to orbit before they initiated talks. In response, the Mikins destroyed half the city. At the time I hoped that it was just the act of some demented gunner, but Horlig staged practically the same performance at Buenos Aires, the capital of Sudamérica. And this time he had no pretext whatsoever, since the Americans bent over backwards trying to avoid a clash. Every chance he gets, the man tries to prove how vicious Mikins can be.”
I MADE A NOTE TO CHECK ON THESE EVENTS WHEN I RETURNED TO BASE. Aloud I said: “Then you believe that Horlig is trying to provoke terrorist movements like this Merlyn thing, so he’ll have an excuse to kill all Terrans?”
Dahlmann didn’t answer immediately. He carefully pulled back the curtain again and looked into the yard. The aircar had not yet returned. I think he realized that the mikes aboard the car could easily record what we were saying. “That’s not quite what I mean, Scholar Melmwn. I believe that Horlig
is
Merlyn.”
I snorted disbelief.
“I know it sounds ridiculous—but everything fits. Just take the word ‘Merlyn.’ In Australian this refers to a magician who lived ages ago in England—that was one of the great pre-war nations in the Northern Hemisphere. At the same time it is a word that easily comes to the lips of a Mikin since it is entirely pronounceable within your phoneme system—it contains no front oral stops. With its magical connotations, it is designed to set fear in Mikins. The word Merlyn is a convenient handle for the fear and hatred that Mikins will come to associate with Terran activities. But note—we Terrans are a very unsuperstitious lot, especially the Australians and the Zulunders. And very few Terrans realize how superstitious many Mikins—the witch-fearers and the demon-mongers—are. The Merlyn concept is the invention of a Mikin mind.”
Dahlmann rushed on to keep me from interrupting. “Consider also: When terrorist attacks are thwarted and the Terrans captured, they turn out to be ill-equipped rumdums—not the skilled agents of some worldwide plot. But whenever great damage is done—say the detonation of the Company ammo stores last year—no one is caught. In fact, it is almost impossible to imagine how the job could be pulled off without Mikin technology. At first I discounted this theory, because so many Mikins were killed in the ammo blast, but I have since learned that you people do not regard such violence as improper business procedure.”
“It depends on who you are working for. There are plenty of Violent Nihilists on Miki, and occasionally they have their own companies. If %wrlyg is one such, he’s been keeping the fact a secret.”
“What it adds up to is that Horlig is creating an artificial threat which he believes will eventually justify genocide. One last element of proof. You came in on a Fleet landing craft this afternoon, did you not? Horlig was supposed to greet you. He invited me out to meet you on the field, as the Chief Representative of Her Majesty’s Government in Australia. This is the first friendly gesture the man has made in three years. As it happened I couldn’t go. I sent my daughter, Mary. But when you actually landed, Horlig got a sliver from his shin board, or something equally idiotic, and so couldn’t go onto the field—where just five minutes later a group of ‘Merlyn’s Men’ tried to shoot the lot of you.”
Mary Dahlmann. I stuttered over the next question. “How … how is your daughter, Scholar Dahlmann?”
Dahlmann was nonplussed for a moment. “She’s fine. Apparently
someone pulled her out of the line of fire. A bloody nose was the sum total of her injuries.”
For some reason I felt great relief at this news. I looked at my watch; it was thirty minutes to midnight, the witching hour. Tonight especially I wanted to get back to Base before Demonsloose. And I hadn’t known that Merlyn was the name of a wizard. I stood up. “You’ve certainly given me something to think about, Dahlmann. Of course you know where my sympathies ultimately lie, but I’ll be alert for signs of the plot you speak of, and I won’t tell anyone what you’ve told me.”
The Terran rose. “That’s all I ask.” He led me out of the den, and into the darkened mainroom. The wood floor creaked comfortingly beneath the thick carpet. Crystal goblets on wood shelving were outlined in faint glistening reflection from the den light. To the right a stairway led to the second floor. Was
she
up there sleeping, or out with some male? I wondered.
As we approached the door, something much more pertinent occurred to me. I touched Dahlmann’s elbow; he stopped, ready to open the door. “A moment, Scholar Dahlmann. All the facts you present fit another theory; namely, that some Terran, expert in Mikin ways, yourself perhaps, has manufactured Merlyn and the rumor that members of the %wrlyg Company are responsible for the conspiracy.”
I couldn’t tell for sure, but I think he smiled. “Your counter-proposal does indeed fit the facts. However, I am aware of the power that you Mikins have at your disposal, and how futile resistance would be.” He opened the door. I stepped out onto the porch. “Good night,” he said.
“Good night.” I stood there for several seconds, listening to his retreating footsteps, and puzzling over our last exchange.
I TURNED AND WAS HALFWAY ACROSS THE PORCH WHEN A SOFT VOICE BEHIND me asked, “And how did you like Daddy?” I jumped a good fifteen centimeters, spun around with my wrist gun extended. Mary Dahlmann sat on a wooden swing hung from the ceiling of the porch. She pushed the swing gently back and forth. I walked over and sat down beside her.
“He’s an impressive and intelligent man,” I answered.
“I want to thank you for pulling me down this afternoon.” Her mind seemed to jump randomly from one topic to another.
“Uh, that’s OK. There really wasn’t too much danger. The gun was so primitive that I imagine it’s almost as unpleasant to be behind it as in front. I would’ve thought you’d be the first to recognize it as an attack. You must be familiar with Australian weapons.”
“Are you kidding? The biggest gun I’ve ever seen was a twenty-millimeter rifle in a shooting exhibition.”
“You mean you’ve never been under fire until today?” I saw that she
hadn’t. “I didn’t mean to be insulting, Miss Dahlmann. I haven’t really had much firsthand information about Terrans. That’s one reason why I’m here.”
She laughed. “If you’re puzzled about us, then the feeling is mutual. Since my father became Chief Representative, he’s been doing everything he can to interview Mikins and figure out the structure of your culture. I’ll bet he spent half the night pumping you. As an anthropologist, you should be the best source he can find.”
Apparently she wasn’t aware of her father’s true concerns.