“Ridiculous!” Qumax said.
“By no means,” Qubuc corrected him. Then, to Nancy: “Do you wish to complete the contract? You would sacrifice certain personal rights, and would have to leave for Spevar instead of returning to Earth with your Minister Prodkins.”
“You’re not seriously considering—” I began, amazed. But I saw that she was.
“I was greatly impressed with what I learned about Spevarians and galactic civilization,” she said. “My research appetite was whetted. A chance to experience life on Spevar in the service of a recognized Spevarian Scholar—what extraterrestrialogist wouldn’t jump at the chance?”
“Nancy, there’s no question of your going through with this,” I protested. “You’re a bright lass and you know you’d be sacrificing your freedom. Think of it, Nancy—slavery!”
“Knowledge,” she said. “More knowledge than we of Earth could otherwise dream of gaining.”
“In slavery? Nancy, you must be mad!”
“Harold, what we think of as slavery isn’t—”
“Is slavery! Don’t give me that, wench! I know a thing or two, too, you know. So for some systems it isn’t slavery, it’s just the ownership of individuals by other individuals. That’s really doubletalk—the kind some Earth societies have been famous for!”
“Harold, how can you imagine anything so stupid? This isn’t Earth.”
“I know what it is, Nancy. Do you? My conscience is in control now—what happened to yours? I suppose if you’d been offered an excellent contract as a courtesan you’d have jumped at it!”
“HAROLD!” Color rose to her face and I knew that it was not going to be male-logic that would dominate. “Harold, you’re beneath contempt when you talk that way!”
“Neither slavery nor prostitution are considered to be dishonorable trades in the galaxy,” Qubuc observed.
“You don’t know these Earthians, Tyrant,” Qumax said, frying. He was still as bratty as ever.
At that point seal-like Bumvelde arrived.
“Corcos Lamorcos!” Nancy cried. “I agree to your contract. I want to leave for Spevar, not to return to Earth again. I don’t think I ever want to see this—this gravbopper again!”
My head whirled, as it had so often in the past few days. I knew I had to stop her, yet I didn’t see how I could. She was, as the saying went, free, white and eighteen, and I had no hold over her.
“Perhaps, Harold Prodkins,” Qubuc said gently, “you would care to go along with her? You are welcome to remain here, but I’m sure you could also get a Spevarian contract.”
“Thanks for nothing,” I said diplomatically. You’re seriously suggesting that I double the error by becoming a slave myself?
“I don’t think you’d regret a contract, Harold Prodkins. If this imperious female means as much to you as appears . . .”
I considered it. I certainly didn’t want to sacrifice the very independence I’d struggled so hard to preserve for myself and my world (rightly or wrongly), but with Nancy so difficult . . .
“It would not last forever, and then you could warn other Earthians about such contracts—assuming you’d be disappointed, of course.”
Hmmmm, now that he put it that way . . . Yes, by golly! Nancy was worth it. “Bumvelde,” I said, “I demand to be your slave!” The Spevarian thought a blob of astonishment at me. “If Nancy Dilsmore enters your service, then I insist on the right to enter also. It is my duty to Earth to find out about Corcos Lamorcos contracts.”
“Impossible. My contractees must be content if they are to prove worth the investment. Nancy Dilsmore wishes not to see you again.”
“But—” “Definitely not. Only if she should give her approval.” “Nancy—” I said, baffled. “Harold!” Her eyes were luminous. “You’d become a slave?
For me?” “I already am a slave to you.” “Why Harold—that’s, that’s—”
“Stupid? Foolish? Idiotic? Romantic? Sure, all those things, but—” “Ohhh, Harold—could you, will you—I mean, why don’t you ask me?” “Huh?” I could have used a glug of scrotch to clarify things.
“Marriage, you stupid foolish idiotic romantic! That’s what you had in mind, isn’t it?” “Why, ah, sure,” I said, terrified. “Then we might as well have the ceremony now, don’t you think?” “I guess.” I felt stupidfoolishidioticromantic. Nancy said a few words to Bumvelde, or maybe she thought some thoughts.
“Certainly,” the Spevarian said. Rapidly he ran over the terms of a standard five-year Corcos Lamorcos contract for one mated unit consisting of two sexes. With our minds only half on Corcos Lamorcos, Nancy and I agreed and the two Jamborangs served as witnesses for the completed contract. Bumvelde announced that his contractees would be allowed several long Jamborango days as Qubuc’s castle-guests; at the end of that period the Spevarian would come for us. It was, we were given to understand, the equivalent of an enlistment bonus, or an Earthly honeymoon.
When the agreements were complete, Qubuc drew the curtains again and the entire Galactic Court reappeared. A beautiful sky-blue octopus moved to the front of the panoramic image. Nancy and I joined hands and bowed our heads reverently before it. There was a brief exchange of alien thoughts, some private, some open. Things settled down to a very respectful silence. Then the octopus thought at us:
CIVILIZED BEINGS, INTELLIGENT ENTITIES PEOPLE ALL: WE ARE GATHERED TOGETHER IN THIS IMAGE AT THIS TIME TO WITNESS THE OFFICIAL REGISTERING OF TWO INDIVIDUALS OF THE SAME SPECIES—EARTHIANS HAROLD PRODKINS AND NANCY DILSMORE—AS MATES. BY THE SUPREME ALL-PERVADING INTELLIGENCE, BY THE UNIVERSAL GOODNESS, BY THE TIMELESS NEVER-ENDING SEA OF STARS—
By the time he had finished, I had never felt more officially anything in my life. I squeezed Nancy’s hand and I knew without receiving her thoughts that she felt the same way about it. Bumvelde promised to show up in person in a few days, the Galactic Court vanished again, and Nancy and I were alone in a palace of silver drapes with Qumax and Qubuc.
Later, but not much later, alone in our highly private room, Nancy and I learned the full extent of what telepathy could do for us. Baggie-dresses and prudery were crippling limitations rather than assurers of innocence; before the dawn, we were rid of both limitations and innocence to an extent that few Earth-born humans could be.
And you know, Prunians were like cows in comparison.
*
Common sense tells me that Nancy and I could not have honeymooned on any world quite so wonderful. Yet we did. We spent the equivalent of many Earth days sightseeing, carried by winged members of the Qu Swarm; we visited the harvesting fields and entered one of the big blossoms in the company of Qubuc; we scaled mountains and visited the capital with Qumax; swam in a sparkling, rose-scented sea; lazed beneath a sun of just the right warmth and no burning; loved, constantly and in many ways, none solely physical. During all this time only one flaw kept away complete happiness: the dreadful knowledge that my wife and I were soon to be taken into slavery.
Nancy explained over and over that slavery, to the galactics, was not really onerous. She drew educated parallels between the galactic institution and the ideal Earth had never achieved.
I only pretended to follow. So maybe it was no worse than the buying and selling of baseball and football players. No matter how benevolent the owner, I was not about to be the completely willing slave of anyone.
Then Bumvelde arrived. He had left his wives and children on Spevar and come to take us home. Much to my discomfiture, I found him to be every inch the alien gentleman. So cultured was he and so widely respected that Qubuc insisted that he stay a few days as castle-guest himself. They were to discuss the sort of things that Qubuc enjoyed discussing, and Nancy and I could take the opportunity to get to know our new master gradually.
And we did—for days. The second day Nancy, Bumvelde and I went to the bottom of a glassy sea in a transparent submarine. We maneuvered it about and watched the strange, colorful sea-creatures that human minds had never imagined. I took ove
r the controls . . . and it came to me, insanely as such a thought will come, that with a bit of maneuvering I might readily destroy this fragile creature. Bumvelde was probably an excellent swimmer, if his seal-like appearance meant anything, but there were other ways.
The moment passed. I maneuvered us safely past the jagged coral, through an underwater cave and out into the undersea light. I surfaced us, brought us into dock. Despite everything, I was glad I hadn’t done anything rash. That would have been the Strumbermian way.
As we approached the tie-up, I saw the circling figure of a flyer. We bumped to rest and the flyer landed, folded wings and stood waiting for us. I put the hatch-cover up, looked out and recognized it as one of the Qu Swarm. The differences between swarms were subtle, but I was getting adept at noting them.
“News,” sang the flyer. “Prince Qumax now enters the cocoon.”
“Now?” I repeated stupidly.
The flyer’s wings flopped. “At this very moment. Hurry, so that you may visit with him.”
It was like birth, I thought—this quick, all-but-unexpected process that was to make of Qumax a strong, sensible adult. A cocoon, and from it would emerge—what? I couldn’t quite imagine this impudent brat as a noble-browed, fully-winged Qubuc. Yet such a transformation, we had been assured, could and would take place. Qumax the larva to Qumax the adult, wings and all. Incredible!
We landed in our litter in record time on the castle’s grounds and were escorted immediately inside by excited though carefully respectful flyers. Through a tall door, down a long hall and into a large room in which Qumax hung head-down from a high, ornate rafter. The gray silk-sack now enclosed two-thirds of his body. His head went round and round, suggesting that he was a caterpillar and not a cabbage worm. His dark, overly intelligent eyes were shut. There was a look on his face that spoke of needs and pleasures more ancient and complete than the tribe of Man would ever know.
We stood and watched. After a while it began to seem a bore. Waiting in a maternity hospital was like this, I had been told.
“Uh—how many children do you have?” I asked Qubuc.
He was rapt. “A full four hundred and one, by your reckoning. Qumax is the one. Some swarms never receive the Prince— the one capable of founding his own swarm. But my fortunate two hundred wives and I, we fulfilled our quota of neuters and females and—”
“You mean to say that these things are regulated?”
“They must be, unfortunately.”
“But—isn’t that a little cruel? I mean—neuters?”
“Not for the individuals involved, Harold Prodkins. In many ways, the neuters have all the best of it. It’s the neuters who do all the big important things while the males and females are bound to their planet and their swarm. I confess that I sympathize with Qumax’s desire to escape and live as an adventurer. I had the same urge when I was a larva. Sometimes, even today, I would almost trade all my beloved wives and my position in the government to be a traveling author, a vagabond entertainer or even a simple police Jam. But we are as we are and those of us who are destined to rule a swarm have our lives and careers set from the moment of conception.”
“Hmmmm, yes, I can see that such a large swarm might cramp an entity’s style a bit. Still, I’d think that it’s really the Tyrants who are controlling things. Don’t you agree with me, Qubuc?”
“No, I’m afraid not. A policeJam who saves lives and prevents disasters, a ship’s captain who is responsible for the security of his vessel, a much-traveled author who really adds to our understanding of the people of the universe—these are all more important than I. But I—now that I look at Qumax, I confess that I feel rather important.”
His words brought back my attention to the fast-disappearing cocooned head. Suddenly it thought at us:
Harold, Nancy, Bumvelde (you slavemaster!)—I wish all of you present at my Maturity Flight.
“Maturity Flight—when’s that?” I asked. I was afraid we’d have to leave for Spevar before that date.
Not long as the galaxy measures time, Harold Prodkins. Only long enough for you to get to appreciate your wife. It will be a span of time roughly equivalent to fourteen of your Earth-years. ...
Chapter 15
Some of the most momentous days in our lives begin the most slowly. Take for instance that morning on Spevar, thirteen and a half Earth-years after Nancy and I had last seen Qumax.
It was one of those frequent contracted holidays. This meant that today Nancy did not assist Bumvelde in his historical research and that I did not demonstrate Prodkins’ Solar Pool Tables at Bumvelde’s factory. Otherwise all was normal. We were out on our acres-wide, self-regulating lawn in front of our “slavemansion”—a careful antebellum reconstruction built to my very specific order. The day was typically, Spevarianly, perfect. Nancy had brought out an armload of books and periodicals, plus letters and other bits of mail. She dropped these on the ground underneath the spreading branches of an oak tree—one of three we had imported as seedlings—and stood frowning pensively. Nancy, it seemed, was always frowning pensively. It made her very attractive.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I could wish that Earth had never made its debut.”
I smiled. “That didn’t used to be your story.”
“Yours either, you ungrammatical lout.”
I let her drop the mail beside me, then reached up and attempted to pull her down beside me. She struggled only a little— no karate chops—and then gave up. There was not, I was sure, much else she had to do today. “Nancy,” I said, “do you realize that we have now been here the equivalent of thirteen and a half of our Earth-years?”
“I realize it very well,” she said.
“But—we haven’t aged. Not noticeably, anyway. You’ve still got a figure like a—”
“Harold!” But the protest was the reflex of over a decade. She had not worn a baggie in all that time. “It must be the air,” she said after a bit. “It’s always like spring here. I feel almost as though I could expect to reach a thousand—Earth-years.”
“Why not Spevarian?” I asked. “They’re approximately twelve times as long.”
She sighed and leaned her head on my shoulder. “Harold, have you thought-checked Bumqu this morning?”
“Not this morning,” I said. “The kid’s nearly twelve-”
“Thirteen.”
“Nearly thirteen, then. He doesn’t want his old man checking on him all the time. That’s the trouble with most mothers— they don’t let their sons mature naturally. I’ll bet he’s off somewhere with Bumvelde’s kids, planning a new space-scooter or something. What are all those letters-more paperwork?”
“More orders for Prodkins’ S-P Tables. I do believe you’ll even be getting orders from Earth soon.”
“Wouldn’t doubt it,” I said. “There are still people on Earth just stupid enough to pay a premium just because a table is manufactured here instead of on the planet where the fool game originated. Funny how I was so worried about the Corcos Lamorcos contract, wasn’t it?”
“Funny now, perhaps. The most trying thing was the way I couldn’t convince you. I knew what the contract was, but you refused to believe me. It’s a diabolical arrangement, really. Spevarians such as Bumvelde travel about and gain control of individuals new to the galactic scene by the one temporary contract. It’s like striking gold—”
“Striking oil. You find gold.”
“For a gold-strike? Without your knowledge of the Solar Pool game, he never would have gotten anywhere building a factory.”
“But without his funds and knowledge, I couldn’t have done anything with that knowledge. And speaking of knowledge, what about all the learning of an Earthian extraterrestrialogist he acquired in the bargain?”
“But think of how much knowledge the extraterrestrialogist accumulated,” she said. “Those books and thought-recordings are doing very well on Earth—almost as well as Bumvelde’s own monographs on Earth-culture are doing nearer the center of the Ga
laxy.”
“It’s a good deal all the way around,” I agreed. “Except of course for competitors. Contractees get security and a chance to really profit and build in a more advanced society. Contractors get the fresh ideas and insights.”
I looked at the top envelope of the mail she had brought. It was addressed to Galactic Ambassador Harold W. Prodkins— an unofficial title that had been conferred on me along with the official recognition of my mission to Jamborango. “In undertaking to write the definitive biography of your late cousin, Frederik Michael Bascum. . . .”
“Good God,” I said, “another one!” That made several hundred definitive biographies of a man who deserved at most a historical footnote. I could understand Earth’s interest in the former president, but when it came to the way he was idolized I was often tempted to give the true story.
Fortunately there were other books heralding the great individuals responsible for the great changes that had been made. There was one on Karlos Nitti (so that was the warden’s first name!) that, fictive as it was, still resulted in badly needed prison reform. And there had been the runaway best seller For God and Qumax, purporting to give the full story of the worm’s visit to Earth. Yes, there had been plenty of entertaining fiction!
“Here’s what we’ve been waiting for,” Nancy said.
I looked at her in surprise. She was holding up an engraved card. “An official invitation to Qumax’s Maturity Flight,” she said.
I grabbed the card away from her. At the bottom was a small table converting local Spevarian time to Jamborango capital time. I looked at the postmark and saw that the card had been delayed in the spacemail.
“Good God,” I said. “That thing is for tomorrow. Bumvelde will be along any minute to pick us up.”
*
Bumvelde, his two wives and six younger children, Bumqu, Nancy and I made about seven kids too many on the Spevarian’s space yacht. Bumvelde piloted us down through the atmosphere, and all the noise inside was beyond belief.