Black Bargain and Other Raw Deals

  "Huh?"

  "I'll merely provide them with other outlets for their energies, offer them suitable substitute activities."

  "This is something they teach you in the College of Space?"

  "Exactly. I trust you weren't meaning to be sarcastic?"

  "Certainly not," Raymond said. "I know my place."

  "Good. Then perhaps you can help me clarify the situation."

  "Gladly."

  "You tell me the Yorls only take heads of slackers, wrongdoers, inefficient workers. Is that correct?"

  "Yes."

  "And yet they value individual head collections very highly."

  "True."

  "So I infer that they're always on the lookout for someone who breaks the rules."

  "That's right. Every Yorl keeps a close watch on the activities of his fellow workers. It's a sort of wholesale espionage system, you might say."

  "In other words, they compete with one another to detect possible victims."

  "You might say that."

  "And in that—that orgy last night—" Philip hesitated, his pink face coloring. "I didn't see very much, understand, but I gather that there is a certain competitive factor in their debauchery."

  "If you're trying to make out that the male who takes the most females is supposed to be the best, then you're correct."

  "Ah, yes. Again, competition enters into it. Now, if I can provide harmless substitute outlets for their competitive instincts, I'll soon have them functioning normally."

  "Normally? What's abnormal about sexual activity?" Raymond blinked. "Forgive the question, but you see, I never attended the College of Space."

  "Please! There is nothing abnormal about such activity, provided it is carried out under the proper legal arrangements, and for the purposes of procreation only." Philip smiled. "After all, I'm not narrow-minded, you know."

  "Sure." Raymond gestured, and a Yorl came over and wiped his forehead. "So what do you plan?"

  "Well, we've established the basic fact. The Yorl is a highly competitive creature, and his social institutions are based upon competition. I think I can introduce some new institutions."

  "Such as?"

  Philip smiled again. "Wait and see," he said.

  Raymond waited, and three days later, he saw.

  To be specific, it was three evenings later when Philip came to his office and invited him down to the torga. It was unusually hot, and Raymond chose to be transported in a litter, borne by four Yorls.

  He couldn't imagine where the younger man got his energy from, but there he was, hopping around like one possessed, making last-minute arrangements in the big clearing before the huts. He kept jumping in and out of the ring—

  Ring.

  "Wait a minute," Raymond murmured. "Don't tell me you're planning a boxing match?"

  "Exactly!" Philip beamed happily. "I've conferred with the villagers here and they seem quite excited. They donated their services to put up the ring, and I've had the females weaving gloves out of ritan. There were no end of volunteers for contestants, after I explained the procedure. I've coached the two we finally selected, and I think they'll put on a great show. The Yorls seem to have a natural coordination that is quite remarkable. I'm looking forward to this evening."

  "I'm not," Raymond murmured.

  "What's that?"

  "Nothing. When do you begin?"

  "Almost immediately. See, they're assembling right now."

  And they were. The blue-skinned little humanoids had gathered on all four sides of the improvised ring, squatting on the ground and staring up expectantly as the Yorl fighters made their way to their respective corners. Philip, clad in a sweat shirt and shorts, climbed through the strands of porga serving as ropes. He was obviously serving as referee, and a whistle dangled from a cord around his neck. He conferred briefly with each of the contestants, and the little blue boxers nodded and grinned up at him in turn.

  Then there was a roll of the drums and Philip came forward to the center of the ring, lifting his hands for silence. He spoke very briefly about the rules of the coming contest, and the virtues of the manly art of self-defense. This, he declared, would be a clean fight, demonstrating the finest principles of sportsmanship. And now, at the drum-signal

  It came.

  Philip stepped back.

  The Yorls rushed out from their respective corners. The crowd yelled.

  The Yorls exchanged expert blows.

  The crowd screamed.

  The taller Yorl hit his opponent below the belt.

  Philip stepped forward hastily.

  The smaller Yorl brought his knee up and kicked the other fighter in the chin.

  Philip blew his whistle.

  The Yorls paid no attention. Perhaps they couldn't even hear the whistle above the shrieks of the audience. At any rate, they went into a clinch. Both of them were kicking at one another's loins. They had shed their gloves.

  Philip waved, frantically, then tried to separate them. The Yorls put their heads down and kicked harder. Then, suddenly, they were rolling around on the floor of the ring. The smaller Yorl ended up on top of his opponent. He got his hands around the windpipe and squeezed.

  The crowd went crazy then, but not half as crazy as Philip.

  "Stop!" He shouted. "You're killing him!"

  The little Yorl on top nodded, grinning happily. He released one hand, then dug his fingers into his victim's eyes.

  And then Raymond somehow managed to clamber his way into the ring. He helped Philip pull the Yorl off the prostrate body of his opponent, and he said something to quiet the crowd and disperse them.

  Afterwards he walked Philip back to Administration in the darkness.

  "But I don't understand," Philip kept saying. "I don't understand! I offered them a logical outlet for sublimation—"

  "Maybe they don't want to sublimate," Raymond said. "Maybe they can't."

  "But the principles of psychology—"

  "—apply to human beings," Raymond finished for him. "Not necessarily to Yorls." He wheezed heavily and patted Philip on the shoulder. "Anyway, you tried. Now, perhaps, you can see why I've never attempted to change their ways. There just isn't any use."

  "I'm not licked yet," Philip declared. "I know the idea is sound. Sport is the best substitute for actual combat. It always works."

  Raymond led him into his office, and a Yorl jumped up from the floor to pour a glass of Aspergin. Raymond gulped, and the Yorl wiped his chin.

  "Substitute," he said. "Can't you realize the Yorls don't believe in substitutes? Why should they, when they can have the real thing? A pretense of combat or a limited combat will never satisfy them when they can actually—"

  "The real thing," Philip murmured. He stood up abruptly. "Of course! That's the answer, you're right! Why didn't I think of it? Nobody accepts a substitute when the real thing is available. But if the real thing is not available any longer, then perhaps they'll learn to cooperate."

  "What do you mean?" Raymond asked. "If you've got any wild ideas, I advise you to forget them."

  Philip shook his head. "No wild ideas. Just common sense. You did me a great favor tonight, Raymond. I won't forget it."

  He turned and headed down the corridor towards his room. A Yorl rose to follow him, then hesitated, remembering that his services were not required there. Instead he poured Raymond another glass of Aspergin. And another.

  It was almost two hours later that Raymond finally sought his own bed. He was pleasantly tired, pleasantly tipsy, and pleasantly unaware of the faint glow and the faint cries from outside his window.

  Not until the Yorl came running in did he open his eyes and sit up.

  "What's the matter?" he muttered.

  "You come," the Yorl panted. "Come to torga, fast!" "Why?"

  The Yorl's blue-veined eyeballs rolled. "Otha Ministrata there. He burn heads!"

  "Damn and blast-off!" Raymond rose, thrusting out his feet as the Yorl brought his shoes. He fumbled in the rear of
a drawer, looking for the needler he never carried. It felt cold and heavy in his hand as he followed the Yorl down the path, running in the direction of the torga.

  The faint glow had flared into flame now, and the faint cries rose to a chattering crescendo as Raymond entered the clearing.

  The Yorl had told the truth.

  Philip had waited until the village was quiet, then crept back there in darkness and done what he'd planned. He'd gone from hut to hut and gathered the spears which stood upright before them. He'd gathered the spears, harvested the heads, heaped them like ripe melons in a central pile at the end of the clearing, and ignited them. They were blazing furiously now—but not half as furiously as the Yorls themselves.

  Philip stood before the fire, needier in hand, facing them defiantly. The Yorls confronted him in a body, screeching and howling, waving their spears. And they were edging forward—

  "Get back!" Philip shouted. "I'm not going to harm you! This is for your own good, don't you see? It is wrong to take heads. It is wrong to kill."

  Raymond made out the words vaguely through the tumult. He doubted if the Yorls could hear or understand, and even if they did, it meant nothing to them. Because they kept inching forward, closer and closer, and the spears were poised for the cast.

  "Stop!" Philip cried. "I'm your Administrator. I order you to go to your huts. One more step and I—"

  Nobody took a step.

  Instead, a spear whizzed past Philip's head.

  He didn't run. He didn't duck. He didn't flinch. He merely faced the Yorl who had hurled the spear; faced the weaponless little blue humanoid and pressed the tip of his needler.

  There was a faint crackling sound and the silvery flash of the energy-arc. The Yorl fell, shrivelling and blackening before he hit the ground.

  A great sigh arose from the crowd, and then a hundred arms were raised, a hundred spears went back.

  And halted.

  Halted, as the pyre of heads hissed suddenly, then disappeared in a black billow.

  Raymond had tossed the water on the fire.

  Everyone turned as he stepped forward and grasped Philip by the arm. They watched as he took the needler from Philip's hand and tossed it into the center of the dying blaze. They watched as he tossed his own weapon on the ground.

  Raymond raised his arms over his head.

  "I am truly sorry," he murmured. "A wrong has been done, but it shall never be repeated. We ask to go in peace." Silently, he led Philip away into the darkness.

  Raymond did not speak to his companion until they reached the office agan, and then only when he had dismissed the waiting Yorl servant.

  "I think you'd better change your plans, now," he said, mildly. "The ship will be ready to leave in three days, according to what Captain Rand tells me. You'd best leave with him."

  He didn't wait for Philip to reply, but turned his back and poured a glass of Aspergin.

  He was still gulping it down when Philip walked away.

  * * * *

  It was already afternoon of the following day when Philip reentered the office. Raymond looked up expectantly. "Started your packing?" he asked, casually.

  Philip shook his head. "I'm not going."

  "But—"

  "I'm not going. Why should I?"

  "You ask me that, after last night? After what you did?"

  "What did I do?"

  "You mortally offended the Yorls. You violated the great taboo. You killed one of their leaders."

  Philip shook his head again. "It was self-defense," he said. "As for what I did, it was right."

  "According to your standards, yes. But the Yorls—"

  "Look at him!"

  Philip levelled his finger at the corner. A Yorl servant crouched there, his blue face ashen, his eyes bulging in terror as Philip stared at him.

  Philip smiled. "Don't you see? He's afraid of me, now. They all are, after last night. I didn't realize it at the time, but I'd done the one thing necessary. By putting an end to this head fetishism, by destroying their trophies, I proved that a human is stronger than their whole barbaric culture and belief. That's the sort of practical demonstration they needed in order to understand. A show of force."

  "But they hate you now—"

  "Nonsense! They hated me last night, and I'm quite sure that after we left they got together and prayed for my destruction. I don't pretend to understand their superstitions, but I'll bet they expected their gods to destroy me with a bolt of flame. So when I went down to the village today, it came as quite a shock to see me alive and healthy."

  "You went back to the village again?"

  "I've just come from there." Philip glanced carelessly at the Yorl, who cringed. "That's the reaction I got from all of them. Nobody dared to harm me, nobody dared speak. I summoned them out and laid down the law. From now on, no more taking of heads. The mines will be operated efficiently on the basis of my orders, and on the threat of my punishment. Nobody else will take the law into their own hands. They understand that I mean business."

  Raymond scratched his head. "But you were the one who objected to my colonialism, as you called it! I thought you didn't like this business of having servants, of ordering them around."

  "I don't," Philip answered. "Not when it's just a matter of selfish personal comfort. But this is different. We're dealing with fundamentals here. In order to bring civilization and sanity, one must issue orders and enforce them."

  "I never used force. You know that. The Yorls enjoy serving me, it's better than the mines."

  "Yes. That's just the trouble. You gave them a choice. You never used force. You never established the first and most important principle—that we, as human beings, are superior. They must obey for their own good, so that we can raise them to a decent level."

  "But they don't want to be like human beings, it's not their nature to be."

  "Nonsense! You can't halt evolution, you can't halt progress. From now on, we'll operate according to sound, scientific principles. That means taking a firm hand."

  Raymond sighed. "What about the sports?" he asked, softly. "I suppose this isn't important any more under the new regime?"

  Philip smiled. "If you're indulging in sarcasm, spare the effort," he replied. "It so happens that I've no intention of abandoning the program. In fact, as I told you yesterday, I consider sublimation very important. Now it's more important than ever. The natives will need outlets for aggression. And as I said then, once their old outlets are gone, they will embrace the new much more willingly. As they are doing now."

  "Now?"

  "Yes. I issued instructions to the villagers. They are laying out a football field."

  "Football?"

  "Of course. I really should have thought of it first, instead of this silly boxing business. Football is the natural sport. Calls for team participation, allows substitute activity to a much greater number at one time. It's the ideal sublimation—a rough body-contact sport, and it's a great vicarious outlet for the spectators, too. I was star halfback,. for two seasons at the College of Space. They went crazy over the game—"

  "Human beings do, perhaps. But the Yorls won't play football. They don't understand abstractions. Why should they think it worthwhile to fight over the possession of a—"

  It was Philip's turn to interrupt, and he did so with a laugh.

  "I'm not interested in your arguments," he said. "The fact remains that the Yorls will learn football. They are building a stadium alongside the field. I will organize their teams and instruct them. They're bright enough, in their way. A few skull-practice sessions, a little actual training, and you'll see. By tomorrow I expect we can raise the goal posts."

  "Please, you're making a mistake. I can't stand by and watch you do this."

  "Not necessary." Philip laughed again. "I keep forgetting you won't be around to observe the results. The ship leaves in three days, you say." He turned. "Well, I'll not keep you. I expect you'll want to get on with your packing."

  Raymon
d didn't want to get on with it, but he did. During the next two days he saw nothing of Philip. If he was organizing and coaching his teams, there was no sign. Raymond made no effort to visit the torga or to inspect the playing field behind it. He packed, and he drank incredible amounts of Aspergin, and he did his best to welcome and maintain the numbness which resulted.

  On the night before the day of departure, Raymond deliberately courted stupor. Philip left after dinner, and that was just as well; he did not want to be reminded of Philip's presence, or his own coming absence.

  Ordinarily, he'd have been delighted with the prospect of leaving Yorla and returning to the pleasures and comforts of Vegan civilization. The Aspergin was better there, too. Well, he'd need plenty of Aspergin now, with Interplan breathing down his neck. So they didn't like the way he'd run things here. What did they know about the Yorls—the way they lived, the way they thought? Maybe he'd never attended the College of Space, but he understood how to do a job. And he'd miss doing it.

  That was bad, but the thought of Philip as Administrator was worse. Using force on the Yorls, ruling through fear—it would never work.

  Raymond signalled and his glass was automatically refilled.

  No, force and fear would never work. But they had worked, they were working. He must admit it. The Yorls were afraid of Philip and they obeyed. They'd even play his stupid football games if he commanded. Sublimation seemed to be the answer.

  "Maybe I'm wrong," Raymond told himself. "Maybe I've misjudged them."

  Suddenly he felt very old, and very tired. He leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his fat paunch.

  And it was there that the Yorl found him.

  He came bursting into the office, his face contorted in an amiable grin.

  "Goo evening, Ministrata. You come now?"

  "Come where?"

  "See game."

  "Game? You mean you're playing football already?"

  "Tha ri'. Foo ball game now. Your honna."

  "But I'm tired, I've got to finish packing—"

  "Your honna."

  "All right. Just for a little while." Raymond rose, fighting fatigue and the dizzying effects of the Aspergin. He didn't want to go, but it was the last night, and the Yorls would be disappointed. They were like children, really—they always wanted to share their pleasures with him.