The Rival Rigelians

III

Joe Chessman was at the controls of the space lighter. At his side sat Leonid Plekhanov and behind them the other seven members of their team, including Isobel Sanchez. They had circled Texcoco twice at great altitude, four times at a lesser one. Now they were low enough to spot a few man-made works.

“Nomadic,” Plekhanov muttered. “Nomadic and village cultures.”

“A few dozen urbanized cultures,” Chessman said. “Whoever first compared the most advanced nation to the Aztecs was accurate, except for the fact that they base themselves along a river rather than on a mountain plateau.”

Plekhanov said, “Similarities to the Egyptians and Sumerians, and the Indus valley culture of Mohenjo-Daro and Harappa—what Lewis Morgan would have called the latter stage of barbarism.” He looked over his beefy shoulder at the technician who was photographing the areas over which they passed. “How does our geographer progress, Roberts?”

Natt Roberts brought his eyes up from his camera viewer. “I’ve got most of what we’ll need for awhile, sir.”

Isobel Sanchez said, “It’s a beautiful world, Leonid.”

Plekhanov ignored her use of his first name and turned back to Chessman. “We might as well head for their principle city, the one with the pyramids. We’ll make initial contact there. I like the suggestion of surplus labor available.”

“Surplus labor?” Chessman said, setting the controls. “How do you know?”

“Pyramids,” Plekhanov rumbled. “I’ve always been of the opinion that such projects as pyramids, whether they be in Yucatan or Egypt, are make-work affairs. A priesthood, or other evolving ruling clique, keeping its people busy and out of mischief.”

Chessman adjusted a speed lever and settled back. “I can see their point, keep the yokes busy and they don’t have time to wonder why they, who do all the hard work, don’t have the living standard of their betters.”

“But I don’t agree with it,” Plekhanov said ponderously. “A society that builds pyramids is a static one. Both the Mayans and Egyptians are classic examples; for centuries, neither changed its basic culture. For that matter, any society that resorts to make-work projects to busy its citizenry has something basically wrong, and that includes the New Deal back in the Twentieth Century.”

“Never heard of that one,” Hawkins said, from his rear seat.

Joe Chessman said sourly, “I wasn’t supporting the idea, just understanding the viewpoint of the priests. They’d made a nice thing for themselves and didn’t want to see anything happen to it. It’s not the only time a group in the saddle has held up progress for the sake of remaining there. Priests, slave owners, feudalistic barons, or bureaucrats of the Twentieth Century police states. A ruling clique will never give up power without pressure.”

Barry Watson leaned forward and pointed down and to the right. “There’s the river,” he said. “And there’s their capital city. Whoever selected its location didn’t have much of an eye for defense.”

“It probably wasn’t selected,” Chessman said. “It probably just evolved there from some original watering place, or trade crossroads.”

The small spacecraft settled at decreasing speed.

Chessman said, “The central square? It seems to be their market, by the number of people.”

“I suppose so,” Plekhanov said. “Right there before the largest pyramid. We’ll remain inside the craft for the rest of today and tonight.”

Isobel said, her voice low, “But good heavens, that’s going to be awfully…intimate. Me in here with you eight men.”

Natt Roberts, who had put away his camera, backed her. “Yes, why? Doctor Sanchez is right. It’s too crowded in here.”

“Because I said so,” Plekhanov rumbled. “This first impression is important. Our flying machine is undoubtedly the first they’ve seen. We’ve got to give them time to get used to the idea and then get together a welcoming committee. We’ll want the top men, right from the beginning.”

“The equivalent of the Emperor Montezuma meeting Cortez, eh?” Barry Watson said. “A real red carpet welcome.”

The Pedagogue’s space lighter settled to the plaza gently, some fifty yards from the ornate pyramid which stretched up over a hundred and fifty feet and was topped by a small, templelike building. It could have been the twin of the so-called House of the Magician in Uxmal, Yucatan.

Chessman stretched and stood up from the controls. “Your anthropology ought to be better than that, Barry,” he said. “There was no Emperor Montezuma and no Aztec Empire, except in the minds of the Spaniards.” He peered out one of the heavy ports. “And by the looks of this town, we’ll find a duplicate of Aztec society. I don’t believe they’ve even got the wheel.”

The nine of them clustered about the craft’s portholes, taking in the city that surrounded them. The square had emptied magically at their approach, and now the several thousand citizens that had filled it were peering fearfully from street entrances and alleyways.

Isobel Sanchez, pressed up against the side of Plekhanov, said, “Look at the manner in which the women utilize feathers in their costume.”

Plekhanov grunted. “As our doctor, my dear, I would have expected you to have first noted their stature. It indicates a high protein diet, and since the area isn’t particularly suited to the chase, that in turn would indicate extensive herds. I would suspect they are an aggressive people, rather than just sedentary farmers huddled behind their city walls.”

Cogswell, the technician, said, “Look at them! It’ll take hours before they drum up enough courage to come any closer. You were right, Doctor Plekhanov. If we left the boat now, we’d make fools of ourselves trying to coax them near enough to talk.”

Watson said to Joe Chessman, “What do you mean, no Emperor Montezuma? I know that much history.”

Chessman said absently, as he stared out at the primitive city, “When the Spanish got to Mexico, they didn’t understand what they saw, being musclemen rather than scholars. And before competent witnesses came on the scene, Aztec society was destroyed. The conqutstadores who did attempt to describe Tenochtitlan, misinterpreted it. They were from a feudalistic world and tried to portray the Aztecs in such terms. For instance, the large Indian community houses they thought were palaces. Actually, Montezuma was a democratically elected war-chief of a confederation of three tribes which dominated the Mexican valley. There was no empire because Indian society, being based on the clan, had no method of assimilating newcomers. The Aztec armies could loot and they could capture prisoners for their sacrifices, but they had no system of bringing their conquered enemies into the nation. They hadn’t reached that far in the evolution of society. The Incas could have taught them a few lessons.”

Plekhanov nodded. “Besides, the Spanish were fabulous liars. In Cortez’s attempt to impress Spain’s king, he built himself up far beyond reality. To read his reports you’d think the pueblo of Mexico had a population pushing a million. Actually, if it had thirty thousand, it was doing well. Without a field agriculture and with their primitive transport, they must have been hard put to feed even that large a town.”

A tall, erect native strode from one of the streets and approached to within twenty feet of the spacecraft. He stared at it for at least ten full minutes, then spun on his heel and strode off again in the direction of one of the stolidly built stone buildings that lined the square on each side except that which the pyramid dominated.

Cogswell said, “Now that he’s broken the ice, in a couple of hours kids will be scratching their names on our hull.”

In the morning, two or three hours after dawn, they made their preparations to disembark. Of them all, only Leonid Plekhanov was unarmed. Joe Chessman had a heavy handgun holstered at his waist. The rest of the men carried submachine guns; Isobel Sanchez had a small automatic. More destructive weapons were hardly called for, nor available for that matter; once world government had been established on Earth the age-old race for improved arms had fallen away.

Chessman assumed active command of the group, growling brief instructions.

“If there’s any difficulty, remember we’re civilizing a planet of nearly a billion population. The life or death of a few individuals is meaningless. Look at our position scientifically, dispassionately. If it becomes necessary to use force—we have the right, and the might to back it up. MacBride, you stay with the ship. Keep the hatch closed and station yourself at the gun. I’d leave Doctor Sanchez, but I doubt if she could buck that heavy a weapon.”

MacBride, a dour-faced specialist, was unhappy about being left behind at this historic moment, but said nothing. Each individual in the group fully realized the present need of exact discipline.

The natives seemed to know intuitively that the occupants of the craft from the sky would present themselves at this time. Several thousands of them crowded the plaza. Warriors armed with spears and bronze headed warclubs, kept the more adventurous from crowding too near.

The hatch opened, the steel landing ramp snaked out, and the hefty Plekhanov stepped down, closely followed by Chessman. The others brought up the rear: Watson, Roberts, Stevens, Hawkins, Cogswell, and finally Isobel Sanchez. They had hardly formed a compact group at the foot of the spacecraft than the ranks of the natives parted and what was obviously a delegation of officials approached them. In the fore was a giant of a man in his late middle years, and at his side, a cold visaged duplicate of him, obviously a son.

Behind these were variously dressed others—military, priesthood, local officials, by their appearance. They made a brave show in their barbaric splendor, bright with color and spectacular design. Gold and gems decorated costume and weapons of all save the priesthood who were, as so often in a priesthood, garbed in black.

Ten feet from the newcomers they stopped. The leader said in quiet understandable Amer-English, “I am Taller, Khan of all the People. Our legends tell of you. You must be from First Earth.” He added with a simple dignity, a quiet gesture, “Welcome to the World. Come in Peace and find Peace. How may we serve you?”

Plekhanov looked at the other for a long thoughtful moment, then took his approach.

He said flatly, “The name of this planet is Texcoco and the inhabitants shall henceforth be called Texcocans. You are correct, we have come from Earth. Our instructions are to civilize you, to bring you the latest technology, to prepare you to enter the community of planets, the Galactic Commonwealth.”

Phlegmatically he let his eyes go to the pyramids, to the temples, and the large community dwelling quarters. “We’ll call this city Tula, and its citizens Tulans.”

Taller took his turn at looking thoughtful, not having missed the tone of arrogant command.

One of the group behind the Khan, clad in flowing black robes, said to Plekhanov, mild reproof in his voice, “My son, we are the most advanced folk on…Texcoco. We have thought of ourselves as civilized. However, we…”

Plekhanov rumbled, “I am not your son, old man, and you are far short of civilization. We can’t stand here forever. Take us to a building where we can talk without these crowds staring at us. There is much to be done.”

Taller, the Khan, said, “This is Mynor, Chief Priest of the People.”

The priest bowed his head, then said, “The People are used to and expect ceremony on outstanding occasions. We have arranged for suitable sacrifices to the gods. At their completion, we will proclaim a festival. And then—”

The warriors had cleared a way through the multitude to the base of the pyramid which reared steep above them. And now the Earthlings could see a score of chained men and women, nude save for loin cloths and fetters, and obviously captives.

Plekhanov glared at Taller. “You were going to kill these?”

The Khan said reasonably, “They are not of the People. They are prisoners taken in battle.”

Mynor said, “Their lives please the gods.”

“There are no gods, as you probably know,” Plekhanov said flatly. “You will no longer sacrifice prisoners.”

A hush fell over the Texcocans near enough to hear his words. Joe Chessman let his hand drop to his weapon. The movement was not lost on Taller’s son, whose eyes narrowed.

“Leonid, Joe,” Isobel Sanchez murmured anxiously.

The Khan looked at the burly Plekhanov for a long moment. He said slowly, “Our institutions fit our needs. What would you have us do with these people? They are our enemies. If we turn them loose, they will fight us again. If we keep them imprisoned, they will eat our food. We…Tulans are not poor, we have food aplenty, for we Tulans, but we cannot feed all the thousands of prisoners we take in our wars.”

He hesitated a moment, then went on. “In the far past, our legends tell us, prisoners were eaten. Indeed, some of the more backwards peoples of…Texcoco, still so treat their prisoners. But we are not so primitive. We sacrifice them to the gods. What would you have us do with them?”

Joe Chessman said dryly, “As of today, there is a new policy. We put them to work.”

Plekhanov rumbled at him. “I’ll explain our position, Chessman, if you please.” Then to the Tulans. “To develop this planet, we’re going to need the labor of every man, woman and child capable of work.”

Taller said, after considering, “Perhaps your suggestion that we retire to a less public place is desirable. Will you follow?” He spoke a few words to an officer of the warriors, who shouted orders.

The Khan led the way with considerable dignity. Plekhanov and Chessman followed, side by side, and the other Earthlings brought up the rear of the leading group, their weapons at the ready. Following this group were Mynor, the priest, his face in a worried scowl, Taller’s son, and the other Tulan officials.

In what was evidently the reception hall of Taller’s official residence, the newcomers were made as comfortable as fur padded low stools permitted. Half a dozen teenage Tulans brought a cool drink somewhat similar to cocoa; it seemed to give a slight, though not quite alcoholic, lift.

Taller had not become Khan of the most progressive nation on Texcoco by other than his own abilities. The office was elective. He felt his way carefully now. He had no manner of knowing the powers wielded by these strangers from space. He suspected they were considerable and had no intention of precipitating a situation in which he would discover such powers to his sorrow.

He said carefully, “You have indicated that you intend major changes in the lives of the People.”

“Of all Texcocans,” Plekhanov said. “You Tulans are merely the beginning.”

Mynor, the aged priest, leaned forward. “But why? We do not wish these changes—whatever they may be. Already the Khan has allowed you to interfere with our worship of our gods. This will mean—”

Plekhanov growled, “Be silent, old man, and don’t bother to mention, ever again, your so-called gods. Gods have ever been the invention of men, to keep in suppression their fellow men. And now, all of you listen. Perhaps some of this will not be new. How much history has come down to you, I don’t know.

“A thousand years ago, a colony of one hundred persons was left here on Texcoco. It will one day be of scholarly interest to trace them down through the centuries, but at present the task does not interest us. This expedition has been sent to recontact you, now that you have populated Texcoco and made such adaptations as were necessary to survive here. Our basic task is to modernize your society, to bring it to an industrialized culture.”

Plekhanov’s eyes went to Taller’s son. “I assume you are a soldier?”

Taller said, “This is Reif, my eldest, and by our custom, second in command of the People’s armies. As Khan, I am first.”

Reif nodded coldly to Plekhanov. “I am a soldier.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “And willing to die to protect the People.”

“Indeed,” Plekhanov rumbled. “As a soldier you will be interested to know that our first step will involve the uniting of all the nations and tribes of this planet. Not a small task. There should be opportunity for you.”

Taller said, “Surely you speak in jest. The People have been at war for as long as scribes have records and never have we been stronger than today, never larger. But to conquer the world! Surely you jest.”

Plekhanov grunted ungraciously. He looked over at the lanky Barry Watson, a seeming youth, now leaning negligently against the wall, his submachine gun, however, at the easy ready. “Watson, you’re our military expert. Have you any opinions as yet?”

“Yes, sir,” Watson said. “Until we can get iron weapons and firearms into full production, I suggest the phalanx for their infantry. They have the horse, but the wheel seems to have gone out of use. We’ll introduce the chariot and also heavy carts to speed up logistics. We’ll bring in the saddle too, for better lance action. I have available for study the works of every cavalry leader from Tamerlane to Jeb Stuart. Yes, sir, I have some ideas.”

Plekhanov pursed his heavy lips. “From the beginning we’re going to need manpower on a scale never dreamed of locally. We’ll adapt a policy of expansion. Those who join us freely will become members of the State with full privileges. Those who resist will be made prisoners of war and used for shock labor on the roads and in the mines. However, a man works better if he has a goal, a dream. Each prisoner will be freed and become a member of the State after ten years of such work.”

He turned to his subordinates. “Roberts and Hawkins, you will begin tomorrow to seek the nearest practical sources of iron ore and coal. Wherever you discover them, we’ll direct our first military expeditions. Chessman and Cogswell, you’ll assemble their best artisans and begin their training in such basic advancements as the wheel.”

He looked to Isobel Sanchez. “Doctor Sanchez, you’ll immediately establish a hospital and laboratory and begin such advancements as the introduction of the antibiotics.”

“Yes, Leonid,” Isobel said.

Taller said softly, “You speak of advancement, but thus far you have mentioned largely war and on such a scale that I wonder how many of the People will survive. What advancement? We have all we wish.”

Plekhanov cut him off with a curt motion of his hand. He indicated the symbols inscribed on the chamber’s walls. “How long does it take to learn such writing?”

Mynor, the priest, said, “This is a mystery known only to the priesthood. One spends ten years in preparation to be a scribe.”

“We’ll teach you a new method which will have every citizen of the State reading and writing within a year.”

The Tulans gaped at him.

Mynor said, in protest, “But writing is only permitted of priests.”

Plekhanov ignored him. He moved ponderously over to Roberts, drew from its scabbard the sword the other had on his hip. He took it and slashed savagely at a stone post, gouging a heavy chunk from it. He tossed the weapon to Reif, whose eyes lit up.

“What metals have you been using? Copper, bronze? You’re going to move into the iron age overnight.”

He turned to Taller. “Are your priests also in charge of the health of your people?” he sneered. “Are their cures obtained from mumbo-jumbo and few herbs found in the desert? Doctor Sanchez has at her command the most advanced medical methods. Within a decade, I’ll guarantee you that not one of your major diseases will remain.”

He turned to the priest and said, “Or perhaps this will be the clincher for some of you. How many years do you have, old man?”

Mynor said with dignity, “I am sixty-four.”

Plekhanov said churlishly, “And I am two hundred and thirty-three.” He called to Hawkins. “I think you’re our youngest. How old are you, Dick?”

Dick Hawkins grinned. “Hundred and thirteen, next month.”

Mynor opened his mouth, closed it again. No man would prolong his youth. Of a sudden he felt old, old.

Young Reif, the Khan’s son, looked at Isobel Sanchez, his eyes wide. They went up and down her figure, outlined even through the coveralls she wore. He blinked. She smiled back at him, maliciously, and her dark eyes went up and down his own masculine figure. He blinked again.

Plekhanov turned back to Taller. “Most of the progress we have to offer is beyond your capacity to understand. We’ll give you freedom from want. Health. We’ll give you advances in every art. We’ll eventually free every citizen from drudgery, educate him, give him the opportunity to enjoy intellectual curiosity. We’ll open the stars to him. All these things the coming of the State will eventually mean to you.”

Tula’s Khan was not impressed. “This you tell us, man from First Earth. But to achieve these you plan to change every phase of our lives and we are happy with…Tula…the way it is. I say this to you. There are but eight of you, and one woman. And there are many, many of us. We do not want your…State. Return from whence you came.”

Plekhanov shook his massive head at the other. “Whether or not you want these changes, they will be made. If you fail to cooperate, we will find someone who will. I suggest you make the most of it.”

Taller arose from the squat stool upon which he had been seated. He was no coward. “I have listened and I do not like what you have said. I am Khan of all the People. Now leave in peace, or I shall order my warriors…”

“Joe,” Plekhanov said flatly. “Watson!”

Joe Chessman took his heavy handgun from its holster and triggered it twice. The roar of the explosions reverberated thunderously in the confined space, deafening all, and terrifying the Tulans. Bright red colored the robes the Khan wore, colored them without beauty. Bright red splattered the floor.

Leonid Plekhanov stared at his second in command, wet his thick lips. “Joe,” he sputtered. “I hadn’t…I didn’t expect you to be so…hasty.”

Joe Chessman, his gun still at the ready, growled: “We’ve got to let them know where we stand, right now, or they’ll never hold still for us. Cover the doors, Watson, Roberts.” He motioned to the others with his head. “Cogswell, Hawkins, Stevens, get to those windows and watch.”

Taller was a crumbled heap on the floor. The other Texcocans stared at his body in shocked horror.

Isobel had sunk down beside the Khan. She looked up, now, a shine in her eyes, but her face otherwise empty. She looked at Chessman and said, “The man is dead.”

“Of course,” Chessman said, his gun still at the ready and staring at Reif.

The Khan’s son sank down beside his father, too. He looked up, his lips white, at Plekhanov. “Yes, he is dead.”

Leonid Plekhanov collected himself. “It was his own fault.”

Reif’s cold face was expressionless. He looked at Joe Chessman. He said, “You can supply such weapons to my armies?”

Plekhanov said, “That is our intention, in time.”

Reif came erect. “Subject to the approval of the clan leaders, I am now Khan. Tell me more of this State of which you have spoken.”