There was Anthony Windham, in particular. Colonel Windham, he called himself, and Stuart was willing to believe it. A retired colonel who had probably drilled a home guard militia on a village green, forty years ago, with such lack of distinction that he was not called back to service in any capacity, even during the emergency of Earth’s first interstellar war.
“Dashed unpleasant thing to be saying about the enemy, Stuart. Don’t know that I like your attitude.” Windham seemed to push the words through his clipped mustache. His head had been shaven, too, in imitation of the current military style, but now a gray stubble was beginning to show about a centered bald patch. His flabby cheeks dragged downward. That and the fine red lines on his thick nose gave him a somewhat undone appearance, as though he had been wakened too suddenly and too early in the morning.
Stuart said, “Nonsense. Just reverse the present situation. Suppose an Earth warship had taken a Kloro liner. What do you think would have happened to any Kloro civilians aboard?”
“I’m sure the Earth fleet would observe all the interstellar rules of war,” Windham said stiffly.
“Except that there aren’t any. If we landed a prize crew on one of their ships, do you think we’d take the trouble to maintain a chlorine atmosphere for the benefit of the survivors; allow them to keep their non-contraband possessions; give them the use of the most comfortable stateroom, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera?”
Ben Porter said, “Oh, shut up, for God’s sake. If I hear your etcetera, etcetera once again, I’ll go nuts.”
Stuart said, “Sorry!” He wasn’t.
Porter was scarcely responsible. His thin face and beaky nose glistened with perspiration, and he kept biting the inside of his cheek until he suddenly winced. He put his tongue against the sore spot, which made him look even more clownish.
Stuart was growing weary of baiting them. Windham was too flabby a target and Porter could do nothing but writhe. The rest were silent. Demetrios Polyorketes was off in a world of silent internal grief for the moment. He had not slept the night before, most probably. At least, whenever Stuart woke to change his position--he himself had been rather restless--there had been Poryorketes’ thick mumble from the next cot. It said many things, but the moan to which it returned over and over again was, “Oh, my brother!”
He sat dumbly on his cot now, his red eyes rolling at the other prisoners out of his broad swarthy, unshaven face. As Stuart watched, his face sank into calloused palms so that only his mop of crisp and curly black hair could be seen. He rocked gently, but now that they were all awake, he made no sound.
Claude Leblanc was trying very unsuccessfully, to read a letter. He was the youngest of the six, scarcely out of college, returning to Earth to get married. Stuart had found him that morning weeping quietly, his pink and white face flushed and blotched as though it were a heartbroken child’s. He was very fair, with almost a girl’s beauty about his large blue eyes and full lips. Stuart wondered what kind of girl it was who had promised to be his wife. He had seen her picture. Who on the ship had not? She had the characterless prettiness that makes all pictures of fiancées indistinguishable. It seemed to Stuart that if he were a girl, however, he would want someone a little more pronouncedly masculine.
That left only Randolph Mullen. Stuart frankly did not have the least idea what to make of him. He was the only one of the six that had been on the Arcturian worlds for any length of time. Stuart, himself, for instance, had been there only long enough to give a series of lectures on astronautical engineering at the provincial engineering institute. Colonel Windham had been on a Cook’s tour; Porter was trying to buy concentrated alien vegetables for his canneries on Earth; and the Polyorketes brothers had attempted to establish themselves in Arcturus as truck farmers and, after two growing seasons, gave it up, had somehow unloaded at a profit, and were returning to Earth.
Randolph Mullen, however, had been in the Arcturian system for seventeen years. How did voyagers discover so much about one another so quickly? As far as Stuart knew, the little man had scarcely spoken aboard ship. He was unfailingly polite, always stepped to one side to allow another to pass, but his entire vocabulary appeared to consist only of “Thank you” and “Pardon me.” Yet the word had gone around that this was his first trip to Earth in seventeen years.
He was a little man, very precise, almost irritatingly so. Upon awaking that morning, he had made his cot neatly, shaved, bathed and dressed. The habit of years seemed not in the least disturbed by the fact that he was a prisoner of the Kloros now. He was unobtrusive about it, it had to be admitted, and gave no impression of disapproving of the sloppiness of the others. He simply sat there, almost apologetic, trussed in his over-conservative clothing, and hands loosely clasped in his lap. The thin line of hair on his upper lip, far from adding character to his face, absurdly increased its primness.
He looked like someone’s idea of a caricature of a bookkeeper. And the queer thing about it all, Stuart thought, was that that was exactly what he was. He had noticed it on the registry--Randolph Fluellen Mullen; occupation, bookkeeper; employers, Prime Paper Box Co.; 27 Tobias Avenue, New Warsaw, Arcturus II.
“Mr. Stuart?”
Stuart looked up. It was Leblanc, his lower lip trembling slightly. Stuart tried to remember how one went about being gentle. He said, “What is it, Leblanc?”
“Tell me, when will they let us go?”
“How should I know?”
“Everyone says you lived on a Kloro planet, and just now you said they were gentlemen.”
“Well, yes. But even gentlemen fight wars in order to win. Probably, we’ll be interned for the duration.”
“But that could be years! Margaret is waiting. She’ll think I’m dead!”
“I suppose they’ll allow messages to be sent through once we’re on their planet.”
Porter’s hoarse voice sounded in agitation. “Look here, if you know so much about these devils, what will they do to us while we’re interned? What will they feed us? Where will they get oxygen for us? They’ll kill us, I tell you.” And as an afterthought, “I’ve got a wife waiting for me, too,” he added.
But Stuart had heard him speaking of his wife in the days before the attack. He wasn’t impressed. Porter’s nail-bitten fingers were pulling and plucking at Stuart’s sleeve. Stuart drew away in sharp revulsion. He couldn’t stand those ugly hands. It angered him to desperation that such monstrosities should be real while his own white and perfectly shaped hands were only mocking imitations grown out of an alien latex.
He said, “They won’t kill us. If they were going to, they would have done it before now. Look, we capture Kloros too, you know, and it’s just a matter of common sense to treat your prisoners decently if you want the other side to be decent to your men. They’ll do their best. The food may not be very good, but they’re better chemists than we are. It’s what they’re best at. They’ll know exactly what food factors we’ll need and how many calories. We’ll live. They’ll see to that.”
Windham rumbled, “You sound more and more like a blasted greenie sympathizer, Stuart. It turns my stomach to hear an Earthman speak well of the green fellas the way you’ve been doing. Burn it, man, where’s your loyalty?”
“My loyalty’s where it belongs. With honesty and decency, regardless of the shape of the being it appears in.” Stuart held up his hands. “See these? Kloros made them. I lived on one of their planets for six months. My hands were mangled in the conditioning machinery of my own quarters. I thought the oxygen supply they gave me was a little poor--it wasn’t, by the way-- and I tried making the adjustments on my own. It was my fault. You should never trust yourself with the machines of another culture. By the time someone among the Kloros could put on an atmosphere suit and get to me, it was too late to save my hands.
“They grew these artiplasm things for me and operated. You know what that meant? It meant designing equipment and nutrient solutions that would work in oxygen atmosphere. I
t meant that their surgeons had to perform a delicate operation while dressed in atmosphere suits. And now I’ve got hands again.” He laughed harshly, and clenched them into weak fists. “Hands--”
Windham said, “And you’d sell your loyalty to Earth for that?”
“Sell my loyalty? You’re mad. For years, I hated the Kloros for this. I was a master pilot on the Trans-Galactic Spacelines before it happened. Now? Desk job. Or an occasional lecture. It took me a long time to pin the fault on myself and to realize that the only role played by the Kloros was a decent one. They have their code of ethics, and it’s as good as ours. If it weren’t for the stupidity of some of their people--and, by God, of some of ours--we wouldn’t be at war. And after it’s over--”
Polyorketes was on his feet. His thick fingers curved inward before him and his dark eyes glittered. “I don’t like what you say, mister.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Because you talk too nice about these damned green bastards. The Kloros were good to you, eh? Well, they weren’t good to my brother. They killed him. I think maybe I kill you, you damned greenie spy.”
And he charged.
Stuart barely had time to raise his arms to meet the infuriated farmer. He gasped out, “What the hell--” as he caught one wrist and heaved a shoulder to block the other which groped toward his throat.
His artiplasm hand gave way. Polyorketes wrenched free with scarcely an effort.
Windham was bellowing incoherently, and Leblanc was calling out in his reedy voice, “Stop it! Stop it!” But it was little Mulkn who threw his arms about the farmer’s neck from behind and pulled with all his might. He was not very effective; Polyorketes seemed scarcely aware of the little man’s weight upon his back. Mullen’s feet left the floor so that he tossed helplessly to right and left. But he held his grip and it hampered Polyorketes sufficiently to allow Stuart to break free long enough to grasp Windham’s aluminum cane.
He said, “Stay away, Polyorketes.”
He was gasping for breath and fearful of another rush. The hollow aluminum cylinder was scarcely heavy enough to accomplish much, but it was better than having only his weak hands to defend himself with.
Mullen had loosed his hold and was now circling cautiously, his breathing roughened and his jacket in disarray.
Polyorketes, for a moment, did not move. He stood there, his shaggy head bent low. Then he said, “It is no use. I must kill Kloros. Just watch your tongue, Stuart. If it keeps on rattling too much, you’re liable to get hurt. Really hurt, I mean.”
Stuart passed a forearm over his forehead and thrust the cane back at
Windham, who seized it with his left hand, while mopping his bald pate vigorously with a handkerchief in his right.
Windham said, “Gentlemen, we must avoid this. It lowers our prestige. We must remember the common enemy. We are Earthmen and we must act what we are--the ruling race of the Galaxy. We dare not demean ourselves before the lesser breeds.”
“Yes, Colonel,” said Stuart, wearily. “Give us the rest of the speech tomorrow.”
He turned to Mullen, “I want to say thanks.”
He was uncomfortable about it, but he had to. The little accountant had surprised him completely.
But Mullen said, in a dry voice that scarcely raised above a whisper, “Don’t thank me, Mr. Stuart. It was the logical thing to do. If we are to be interned, we would need you as an interpreter, perhaps, one who would understand the Kloros.”
Stuart stiffened. It was, he thought, too much of the bookkeeper type of reasoning, too logical, too dry of juice. Present risk and ultimate advantage. The assets and debits balanced neatly. He would have liked Mullen to leap to his defense out of--well, out of what? Out of pure, unselfish decency?
Stuart laughed silently at himself. He was beginning to expect idealism of human beings, rather than good, straight-forward, self-centered motivation.
Polyorketes was numb. His sorrow and rage were like acid inside him, but they had no words to get out. If he were Stuart, big-mouth, white-hands Stuart, he could talk and talk and maybe feel better. Instead, he had to sit there with half of him dead; with no brother, no Aristides--
It had happened so quickly. If he could only go back and have one second more warning, so that he might snatch Aristides, hold him, save him.
But mostly he hated the Kloros. Two months ago, he had hardly ever heard of them, and now he hated them so hard, he would be glad to die if he could kill a few.
He said, without looking up, “What happened to start this war, eh?”
He was afraid Stuart’s voice would answer. He hated Stuart’s voice. But it was Windham, the bald one.
Windham said, “The immediate cause, sir, was a dispute over mining concessions in the Wyandotte system. The Kloros had poached on Earth property.”
“Room for both, Colonel!”
Polyorketes looked up at that, snarling. Stuart could not be kept quiet for long. He was speaking again; the cripple-hand, wiseguy, Kloros-lover.
Stuart was saying, “Is that anything to fight over, Colonel? We can’t use one another’s worlds. Their chlorine planets are useless to us and our oxygen ones are useless to them. Chlorine is deadly to us and oxygen is deadly to them. There’s no way we could maintain permanent hostility. Our races just don’t coincide. Is there reason to fight then because both races want to dig iron out of the same airless planetoids when there are millions like them in the Galaxy?”
Windham said, “There is the question of planetary honor--”
“Planetary fertilizer. How can it excuse a ridiculous war like this one? It can only be fought on outposts. It has to come down to a series of holding actions and eventually be settled by negotiations that might just as easily have been worked out in the first place. Neither we nor the Kloros will gain a thing.”
Grudgingly, Polyorketes found that he agreed with Stuart. What did he and Aristides care where Earth or the Kloros got their iron?
Was that something for Aristides to die over?
The little warning buzzer sounded.
Polyorketes’ head shot up and he rose slowly, his lips drawing back. Only one thing could be at the door. He waited, arms tense, fists balled. Stuart was edging toward him. Polyorketes saw that and laughed to himself. Let the Kloro come in, and Stuart, along with all the rest, could not stop him.
Wait, Aristides, wait just a moment, and a fraction of revenge will be paid back.
The door opened and a figure entered, completely swathed in a shapeless, billowing travesty of a spacesuit.
An odd, unnatural, but not entirely unpleasant voice began, “It is with some misgivings, Earthmen, that my companion and myself--”
It ended abruptly as Polyorketes, with a roar, charged once again. There was no science in the lunge. It was sheer bull-momentum. Dark head low, burly arms spread out with the hair-tufted fingers in choking position, he clumped on. Stuart was whirled to one side before he had a chance to intervene, and was spun tumbling across a cot.
The Kloro might have, without undue exertion, straight-armed Polyorketes to a halt, or stepped aside, allowing the whirlwind to pass. He did neither. With a rapid movement, a hand-weapon was up and a gentle pinkish line of radiance connected it with the plunging Earthman. Polyorketes stumbled and crashed down, his body maintaining its last curved position, one foot raised, as though a lightning paralysis had taken place. It toppled to one side and he lay there, eyes all alive and wild with rage.
The Kloro said, “He is not permanently hurt.” He seemed not to resent the offered violence. Then he began again, “It is with some misgiving, Earthmen, that my companion and myself were made aware of a certain commotion in this room. Are you in any need which we can satisfy?”
Stuart was angrily nursing his knee which he had scraped in colliding with the cot. He said, “No, thank you, Kloro.”
“Now, look here,” puffed Windham, “this is a dashed outrage. We demand that our release
be arranged.”
The Kloro’s tiny, insectlike head turned in the fat old man’s direction. He was not a pleasant sight to anyone unused to him. He was about the height of an Earthman, but the top of him consisted of a thin stalk of a neck with a head that was the merest swelling. It consisted of a blunt triangular proboscis in front and two bulging eyes on either side. That was all. There was no brain pan and no brain. What corresponded to the brain in a Kloro was located in what would be an Earthly abdomen, leaving the head as a mere sensory organ. The Kloro’s spacesuit followed the outlines of the head more or less faithfully, the two eyes being exposed by two clear semicircles of glass, which looked faintly green because of the chlorine atmosphere inside.
One of the eyes was now cocked squarely at Windham, who quivered uncomfortably under the glance, but insisted, “You have no right to hold us prisoner. We are noncombatants.”
The Kloro’s voice, sounding thoroughly artificial, came from a small attachment of chromium mesh on what served as its chest. The voice box was manipulated by compressed air under the control of one or two of the many delicate, forked tendrils that radiated from two circles about its upper body and were, mercifully enough, hidden by the suit.
The voice said, “Are you serious, Earthman? Surely you have heard of war and rules of war and prisoners of war.”
It looked about, shifting eyes with quick jerks of its head, staring at a particular object first with one, then with another. It was Stuart’s understanding that each eye transferred a separate message to the abdominal brain, which had to coordinate the two to obtain full information.
Windham had nothing to say. No one had. The Kloro, its four main limbs, roughly arms and legs in pairs, had a vaguely human appearance under the masking of the suit, if you looked no higher than its chest, but there was no way of telling what it felt.
They watched it turn and leave.
Porter coughed and said in a strangled voice, “God, smell that chlorine. If they don’t do something, we’ll all die of rotted lungs.”