The Rival Rigelians

V

Barry Watson was dressed in the leather kilts and fatigue jacket of the Tulan non-com. Except for the heavy hand gun, slung low on his hip, he was indistinguishable from the drill sergeants who sweated and swore in the mid-day sun. Looking nothing so much as a lanky youngster, he sauntered up, checking a sheaf of reports as he came.

Terry Stevens, still attired in the coveralls that had been standard garb on the spaceship Pedagogue, called an order to one of his sergeants, who, as sergeants ever, barked out a command that could be heard from one end of the drill field to the other. The shuffling footmen came to a halt, fell into an at ease stance.

Barry Watson looked out over the field. The men were dressed in fatigues, the weapons they carried were of wood, the shields were light frameworks covered with cloth.

Barry said, “How’re they coming, Terry?”

Stevens grunted and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “All right, I suppose. This isn’t exactly my game, you know. They start out stumbling all over their feet, get their spears stuck between their legs. That goes on for weeks. They don’t seem to learn anything. Then, all of a sudden, the whole cohort is moving like a machine. They’re doing all right.”

Watson looked down at his reports. “This gang should’ve been ready for campaigning a couple of weeks ago. They should be in the field by now.”

Stevens said defensively, “I’m not as up on this as you are, Barry. It’s not my line.”

“It’s not my line, either. Only out of books. We’re all playing it more or less by ear. We’re lucky we’re not trying to train really well drilled men. The phalanx was originally conceived to take peasants, arm them simply and send them into action with a minimum of training.”

“Well, if all this is what you call a minimum of training, I’d hate to have to go through getting them into real trim.”

Barry chuckled. “Well, things have developed. A Theban named Epaminondas figured out some new departures. His innovations were so acute that they were continued and utilized as late as Frederick the Great.”

“I thought this was all based on the Greeks,” Stevens said, not really interested.

“The Macedonians. Philip came along, learned all that the Thebans knew about the phalanx and added some contributions of his own, particularly the use of cavalry in conjunction with the foot.”

Stevens snorted. “You want to know something? Back at the university, they used to call me the last of the pacifists.”

Barry Watson looked at him.

Stevens chuckled. “We used to have debates on whether or not the military should be tolerated on the newly opening planets.”

“And what did you decide?”

“Nothing. What’s ever decided by debating?”

Barry Watson turned to one of the drill sergeants. “Let’s put them through open phalanx to tortuga, sergeant.”

The non-com Tulan came to the salute. “Yes, sir.” He wheeled about sharply and barked out an order.

The men snapped to attention. For the next few minutes, Barry watched them, narrow eyed. They went into ranks six deep. They wheeled, they turned about, they marched this way and that, and back again.

“Tortuga,” Barry Watson snapped to the sergeant. The non-com rasped.

Of a sudden, ranks closed tight. The first file lowered its shields, the second, crowded behind, extended their own over the heads of the first rank so that their drill shields topped the others. Behind, the third rank, and fourth held their shields above their heads, horizontally. The fifth and sixth ranks had about faced sharply and duplicated the shield wall. They were a living war tank.

Barry grunted unhappily, tugging at his right ear. He said to Stevens, “That’s a Roman maneuver, actually. These cloddies aren’t doing it any too well.”

He turned to one of the drill sergeants. “That man at the end of the third file, sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have him over here.” The sergeant barked commands. Terry Stevens said, “What’s the matter?”

“Is that recruit a new man or something?”

“No,” Stevens said uncomfortably. “He’s got family troubles. He’s got a lot on his mind.”

Barry looked at him. “Haven’t we all? Who told him he had a mind? He’s a phalanx man.”

The cohort had ground to a halt again. In a moment, the footman in question approached at the double. He faced the two Earthmen and came to a half-hearted salute. His lack of enthusiasm wasn’t lost on Barry Watson.

Watson looked at him for a long moment. “You don’t seem to have your heart in this, spearman.” The other said nothing.

The Earthman said, “The whole theory is that every man moves exactly so. Just one man doesn’t and the whole thing falls apart. In combat, that’s a matter of life and death. Let those nomad funkers break your ranks, and you’ve all had it. You should know all this. Answer me!”

The footman said, his voice surly, “I should be working in the fields. This is not the season for war. It is the season to plant and hoe. It is not fitting that the strongest should be playing at war, with spears without points and shields made of cloth, while the women and children are in the fields.”

“I see,” Barry Watson said, his voice very level. “Then let me tell you this, spearman. You are not needed in the fields with your hoe. Specialist MacBride has succeeded in exploiting the islands off the coast. Technician Hawkins has introduced your people to the plow and reaper. The women and the new war prisoners are capable of producing more in the fields than was ever done before when you were breaking your back with your hoe. You are needed to defend the State against the nomads and rebels.”

“The nomads were no danger until…” the footman began, his voice low still.

Barry Watson turned to the sergeant. “Flog this man,” he snapped. “If he is able to move in less than a week, you answer for it.”

“Yes, sir!”

Barry looked at another of the non-coms. The man’s face was stolid and empty. They were good men, drawn from the ranks of the Khan’s standing bodyguard. They were warriors born, and Barry Watson knew they were heart and soul behind the innovations he was making. Nothing succeeds like success, he knew, and these professionals knew success when they saw it. So far as,the drill sergeants were concerned, there was no resentment against this instructor from space.

The Earthman snapped: “Take over the drill, sergeant. These men are going to be ready for the field by the end of the week. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Barry looked at his companion. “Walk on over here with me, Terry. I have something.”

They strolled toward the side of the drill field, Stevens scowling unhappily.

“You sure that was a good idea?”

“What? Having that man flogged?”

Stevens said nothing for a moment, then, finally, “There’s only eight of us—and Isobel.”

Barry Watson grunted sour humor. “And that’s probably the reason I should have had him shot for insubordination, instead of simply whipped. Tula is at war. Joe Chessman has the right idea. You don’t run a military machine by being humanitarian, Terry.”

“Maybe there was some other way to do it,” Stevens muttered.

“Some other way of uniting Texcoco?” Barry grinned at him. “You should have come up with it sooner, friend. It would’ve saved me a lot of grief.”

Stevens took a deep breath. “What’d you want to talk about, Barry?”

The other stopped and turned. He said evenly, “Mynor has defected. The Chief Priest. He’s gone over to the nomads and rebels.”

Stevens pursed his lips and thought about it. “He’s a big wig on this planet. That religion of his is pretty well worldwide. What does Leonid Plekhanov think it will mean?”

Watson said sourly, “He’s dithering, as usual. Joe was in favor of rounding up Mynor’s closest associates and shooting them before they have a chance to take off too.”

“Holy Jumping Zen,” Stevens protested. “Plekhanov stopped that idea, didn’t he?”

“Yes. As predictable. Our intrepid leader is great with his books, or in debate with somebody like Amschel Mayers, but when it comes to thinking on his feet, he dithers.”

“Well, I’d rather have Plekhanov dithering, than Joe Chessman running around shooting everybody that doesn’t look right to him.”

Barry Watson said thoughtfully, “I don’t know, Terry. I don’t know. Sometimes by shooting one or two, you don’t have to shoot one or two thousand a few weeks later.”

Terry Stevens said, “And by shooting one or two thousand, you don’t have to shoot ten or twenty thousand a month later?” Watson laughed, though without humor. “You’re beginning to get it.” But then he sobered. “I didn’t ask for this job, Terry. But if this planet is ever going to become united, we’ve got to have a military to do it. It’s anarchy now. Mynor and his rebels want only one thing: to turn the wheels backward to the old days.”

“It’s their world,” Stevens muttered.

Barry Watson laughed his humorless laugh again. “Whose side are you on? Remember us? We’re the handful of specialists sent out by the Office of Galactic Colonization to bring this world into the human community. Nobody thought it was going to be fun.”

“I suppose so,” Stevens said. “I’m just tired.”

Watson grinned. “You’ll be more tired tomorrow. I’m leaving you and Steve Cogswell in charge when we go up to the Pedagogue to confer with Amschel Mayer and his team. Plekhanov is leaving Isobel, Dick Hawkins, MacBride and you and Cogswell to hold the fort.”

“Shouldn’t either he or Chessman be here?”

Barry winked. “He’s afraid to leave Joe Chessman. He labors under the illusion that Joe is his only rival for Hot Pants Sanchez.”

Stevens flushed.

Barry Watson cocked his head and looked at his colleague narrowly. “Don’t tell me our good doctor has got to you, too. Why don’t you take a lesson from Cogswell and round yourself up a bevy from the Tulan curves? With the man shortage that’s beginning to develop around here, we’re developing the largest number of round heeled mopsies known in history.”

“You think it’s a good example for us to be setting?” Stevens said accusingly.

Watson shrugged as he turned to make off. “I’ll be a cloddy if I know. I suppose we have to keep the birthrate up somehow.”

Leonid Plekhanov returned to the Pedagogue with a certain ostentatious ceremony. He was accompanied by Joe Chessman, Natt Roberts and Barry Watson of his original group, but four young, hard-eyed, hard-faced and armed Tulans were also in the party.

Their space lighter swooped in, nestled to the Pedagogue’s hull in the original bed it had occupied on the trip from Terra City, and her port opened to the corridors of the mother ship.

Plekhanov, flanked by Chessman and Watson, strode heavily toward the ship’s lounge. Natt Roberts and two of the Tulans remained with the small boat and busied themselves acquiring various items they wished to take back to Texcoco on the return.

The two other natives followed the Earthmen to the lounge, their eyes going here and there in continued amazement, in spite of their efforts to appear untouched by it all. They were in full uniform, in the leather jerkins and kilts that had been adopted by Chessman for his troops. At their sides were short swords. In this they differed from their Earthling officers all of whom wore pistols.

Amschel Mayer was already seated at the officers’ table. His face displayed his irritation at the other’s methods of presenting himself. “Good Heavens, Plekhanov, what is this, an invasion?”

The other registered surprise.

Mayer indicated the Texcocans. “Do you think it necessary to bring armed men aboard the Pedagogue? Frankly, I have not even revealed to a single Genoese the existence of the ship.”

Jerry Kennedy was seated to one side of Mayer, Natalie Wieliczka to the other. They were the only members of the Genoa team who had accompanied him for this meeting. Kennedy winked at Watson and Chessman and Watson grinned back but held his peace. He was trying to think of some manner in which to get Natalie aside, and for the moment, couldn’t.

Plekhanov sank into a chair, rumbling, “We hold no secrets from the Texcocans. The sooner they advance to where they can utilize our libraries and laboratories, the better. And the fact that these boys are armed has no significance. My Tulans are currently embarked on a campaign to unite the planet. Arms are sometimes necessary, and Tula, my capital, is somewhat of an armed camp. All able-bodied men—”

Mayer broke in heatedly. “And this is the method you use to bring civilization to Texcoco? Is this what you consider the purpose of the Office of Galactic Colonization? An armed camp! How many persons have you slaughtered thus far?”

Joe Chessman sent a dour look at the two Tulans who were standing in the background. He looked back at Mayer. “Easy,” he said.

Amschel Mayer spun on him. “I need no instruction from you, Chessman. Please remember I am senior in charge of this expedition and as such rank you.”

Plekhanov thudded a heavy hand on the table. “I’ll call my assistants to order, Mayer, if I feel it necessary. Admittedly, when this expedition left Terra City you were the ranking officer. Now, however, we’re divided—at your suggestion, please remember. Now there are two independent groups and you no longer have jurisdiction over mine. You can hardly expect to supervise developments on Texcoco by getting together with us once every ten years. We’ll go our own way, Mayer.”

“Indeed!” Mayer barked. “And suppose I decide to withhold the use of the Pedagogue’s libraries and laboratories to you. I tell you, Plekhanov—”

Leonid Plekhanov interrupted him coldly. “I would not suggest you attempt any such step, Mayer. For one thing, I doubt if you have the…ability to carry it out.”

Natalie Wieliczka was looking from one to the other of them in dismay. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” she said gently. “We’re all colleagues.”

Barry Watson chuckled. “Second the motion,” he said. “What’s all this jetsam about, anyway?”

Mayer glared but suddenly reversed himself. “Let’s settle down and become more sensible. This is the first conference of the five we have scheduled. Ten years have elapsed. Actually, of course, we’d had some idea of each other’s progress since team members sometimes meet on trips back here to the Pedagogue to consult the library, or do some work in one of the laboratories or shops. I am afraid, my dear Leonid, that your theories on rapid industrialization are being proven inaccurate.”

“Nonsense!” Plekhanov rumbled in complete disgust. “The opposite is true.”

Mayer said smoothly, “In the decade past, my team’s efforts have more than tripled the Genoese industrial potential. Last week, one of our steamships crossed the second ocean. We’ve located petroleum and the first wells are going down. We’ve introduced a dozen crops that had disappeared through misadventure to the original colonists, including maize and oats. And, oh yes, our first railroad is scheduled to begin running between Bari and Ronda next spring. There are six new universities, including three Doctor Wieliczka has established to concentrate on medicine, and in the next decade I expect twenty more.”

“Very good, indeed,” Plekhanov grumbled.

“Only a beginning,” Mayer pursued. “The breath of competition, of enterprise is sweeping Genoa. Feudalism crumbles. Customs, mores and traditions that have held up progress for a century or more are now on their way out.”

Joe Chessman growled. “Some of the boys tell me you’ve had a few difficulties with this crumbling feudalism thing. In fact, didn’t Buchwald barely escape with his life when the barons on your southern continent united to suppress all chartered cities?”

Mayer’s thin face had darkened. “Never fear, my dear Joseph, those barons responsible for shedding the blood of southern hemisphere elements of progress will shortly pay for their crimes.”

“You’ve got military problems, too, then?” Barry Watson asked him. “It seemed to me you were suggesting that only we on Texcoco have had to resort to strong arm tactics.” There was an amused element in the younger man’s voice.

Mayer’s eyes went to him in irritation. “Some of the free cities of Genoa are planning measures to regain their property and rights on the southern hemisphere. This has nothing to do with my team, except, of course, in so far as we might sell them supplies or equipment.”

The lanky Watson laughed lowly. “You mean like selling them a few quick firing breech loaders and trench mortars?”

Plekhanov muttered, “That will be enough, Barry.”

But Mayer’s eyes had widened. “How did you know about that?” He whirled on Plekhanov. “You’re spying on me, trying to negate my work!”

Plekhanov rumbled, “Don’t be a fool, Mayer. My team has neither the time nor interest to spy on you. We have our own work to do.”

“Then how did you know—”

Barry Watson said mildly, “I was doing some investigating in the ship’s library. I ran into evidence that you people had already used the blueprints for breech loaders and trench mortars.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t particularly interested.”

Jerry Kennedy came to his feet and strolled over to the messroom bar. He said, “This seems to be an all-out spat rather than a conference to compare progress. Let’s try to clear the air a bit. Anybody for a drink? Natalie, you used to like dry sherry, didn’t you.”

“Good heavens,” Natalie Wieliczka said. “Is there still sherry there? I’d quite forgotten about sherry.”

Kennedy said, “Frankly, that’s the next thing I’m going to introduce to Genoa—some halfway decent guzzle. Do you know what those benighted heathens drink now? They ferment a berry and wind up with a sweetish wine that tastes something like blackberry cordial and runs about eight percent alcohol.”

Watson grinned. “Make mine whiskey, Jerry. You’ve got no complaints. Our benighted heathens have a national beverage fermented from a plant similar to cactus. Ought to be drummed out of the human race.”

Barry Watson had spoken idly, as had Kennedy, both forgetful of the two Tulan guards who were stationed at the doorway. One of the natives flushed slightly, but the other’s resentment was only deep in his eyes.

Kennedy passed drinks around for everyone except the two Tulan soldiers and Amschel Mayer who shook his head in distaste. If only for a brief spell, some of the tenseness left the air while the men from Earth sipped their beverages.

Jerry Kennedy looked down into the glass into which he had poured a hefty shot of cognac. “Mother’s milk,” he muttered. He looked across the table. “Well, you’ve heard our report. How go things on Texcoco?”

“According to plan,” Plekhanov rumbled. He threw his double vodka down.

Mayer snorted disbelief.

Plekhanov said ungraciously, “Our prime effort is now the uniting of the total population into one strong whole—a super-state capable of accomplishing the goals set us by the Co-ordinator. Everything else we do is secondary to forming such a state.”

Mayer sneered. “Undoubtedly this goal of yours, this super-state, is being established by force. Nothing else could do it.”

“Not always,” Joe Chessman said. “Quite a few of the tribes join up on their own. Why not? The State has a great deal to offer them.”

“Such as what?” Kennedy said mildly. He swirled his cognac in the large glass, smelled the bouquet and sighed.

Chessman looked at him in irritation. “Such as advanced medicine, security from famine, military protection from more powerful nations. The opportunity for youth to get an education and find advancement in the State’s government, if they’ve got it on the ball.”

“And what if they don’t have it on the ball?”

Chessman growled. “What happens to such under any society? They get the dirty-end-of-the-stick jobs.” His eyes went from Kennedy to Mayer, and there was contempt in his expression. “Are you suggesting that you offer anything better on Genoa?”

Mayer said, “Already on most of Genoa it is a matter of free competition. The person with ability is able to profit by it.”

Joe Chessman grunted sour amusement. “Of course, it doesn’t help to be the son of a wealthy merchant or a big politician—or, better still, a member of the Pedagogues complement.”

Plekhanov took over. “In any society the natural leaders come to the top in much the same manner as the big ones come to the top in a bin of potatoes; they just work their way up.”

Jerry Kennedy had finished with savoring the aroma of his cognac. He threw the drink back, then said easily, “At least those at the top can claim they’re the biggest potatoes. They’ve been doing it down through the ages. Remember back in the twentieth century when Hitler and his gang announced they were the big potatoes in Germany and men of Einstein’s stature fled the country—being small potatoes, I suppose.”

Amschel Mayer said impatiently, “We continue to get away from the subject. Pray go on, my dear Leonid. You say you are forcibly uniting all Texcoco, requiring all to join this super-state of yours.”

“We are uniting all Texcoco,” Plekhanov corrected with a scowl at the other’s prodding. “Not always by force. And that is by no means our only effort. We are weeding out the most intelligent of the assimilated peoples and educating them as rapidly as possible. We’ve introduced iron…”

“And use it chiefly for weapons,” Natalie said lowly. She had been looking at Barry Watson, as though wondering at the changes ten years had wrought in him.

Plekhanov switched his scowl to her. “We’ve also introduced antibiotics, Doctor Wieliczka, and other medicines. And a field agriculture.” He looked back to Kennedy. “We’re rapidly building roads…”

“Military roads,” Kennedy mused, looking down into his empty glass.

“…to all sections of the State. We’ve made a beginning in naval science and, of course, haven’t ignored the arts.”

“On the face of it,” Mayer nodded, “hardly approaching what we have accomplished on Genoa.”

Plekhanov rumbled indignantly. “We started two ethnic periods behind you. Even the Tulans, our most advanced people, were still using bronze, but your Genoese had iron and even gunpowder. Our advance is a bit slow to get moving Mayer, but when it begins to roll—”

Mayer gave his characteristic snort. “A free people need never worry about being passed by a subjected one.”

Barry Watson came to his feet and made his way over to the bar. He picked up a bottle of whiskey that Kennedy had opened earlier, and poured himself another slug. He looked back over his shoulder at Amschel Mayer. “It’s interesting the way you throw about that term free. Just what type of government do you sponsor?”

Mayer snapped. “Our team does not interfere in governmental forms, Watson. The various nations are free to adapt to whatever local conditions decree. They range from some under feudalistic domination to countries with varying degrees of republican democracy. Our base of operations in the eastern hemisphere is probably the most advanced of all the chartered cities on Genoa. It amounts to a city-state somewhat similar to Florence during the Renaissance.”

“And your team finds itself in the position of the Medici, I assume.”

“You might use that analogy. The Medici might have been, well, tyrants of Florence, dominating her finances and trade as well as her political government, but they were benevolent tyrants.”

“Yeah,” Watson grinned. “The thing about a benevolent tyranny, though, is that it’s up to the tyrants to decide what’s benevolent. I’m not so sure there’s a great basic difference between your governing of Genoa and ours of Texcoco.”

“Don’t be a yoke,” Mayer snapped. “We are granting the Genoese political freedoms as fast as they can assimilate them.”

Joe Chessman growled, “But I imagine it’s surprising to find how slowly they can assimilate. A moment ago you said they were free to form any government they wished. Now you say you feed them what you call freedom, only so fast as they can assimilate it.”

“Obviously, we encourage them along whatever path we think will most quickly develop their economy,” Mayer argued. “That’s what we’ve been sent here to do. We stimulate competition, encourage all progress, political as well as economic.”

Plekhanov lumbered to his feet and joined Kennedy at the bar. He growled at the other team head. “Amschel, obviously we are getting nowhere with this conference. I propose we adjourn to meet again at the end of the second decade.”

Kennedy poured the other another shot of vodka, and filled his own glass again.

Amschel Mayer said, “I suppose it would be futile to suggest you give up this impossible totalitarian scheme of yours and reunite the expedition.”

Plekhanov merely grunted his disgust.

Barry Watson said, “You might remember that it was your idea in the first place. It’s too late to change now.”

Jerry Kennedy said, “One thing.” He frowned and swirled his cognac in the big glass. “What stand have you taken on giving your planet immortality?”

No one noticed the two Tulan men at arms shoot startled looks at each other.

“Immortality?” Chessman grunted. “We haven’t got it to give.”

“You know what I mean. It wouldn’t take long to extend the life span double or triple the present,” Jerry Kennedy said.

Amschel Mayer pursed his thin lips. “At this stage progress is faster with the generations closer together. A man is pressed when he knows he has only twenty or thirty years of peak efficiency. We on Earth are inclined to settle back and take life as it comes. For instance, you younger men are all past the century mark, but none have bothered to get married as yet.”

Barry Watson shot a look at Natalie, who flushed slightly. “Plenty of time for that,” he grinned.

“That’s what I mean,” Mayer said. “But a Texcocan or Genoese feels pressed to wed in his twenties, or earlier, to get his family under way.”

“There’s another element,” Plekhanov muttered. He tossed his straight drink back, stiff wristed. “The more the natives progress, the more nearly they will equal our abilities. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to our overall plans. As it is now, their abilities taper off at sixty and they reach senility at seventy or eighty. I think until the end we should keep it this way.”

“A cold blooded view,” Kennedy said. “If we extend their life expectancy, their best men would live to be of additional use to planet development.”

“But they would not have our dreams,” Plekhanov rumbled. “Such men might try to subvert us, and, just possibly, might succeed.”

“I think Leonid is right,” Mayer admitted with reluctance.

It was obvious that the discussion was going to continue for at least a time. Barry Watson got Natalie Wieliczka’s eye and made a motion toward the ship’s library with his head. She looked about the others, then nodded very slightly. Barry drifted, unnoticed, from the lounge and waited for her behind some of the tape racks. She wasn’t long in coming.

He put his hands on her shoulders. “It’s been a long time, Polack,” he told her softly. “Ten years.”

Natalie looked up into his face. “Yes.”

He let his arms go down and around her. “I’ve come up here, oh a dozen times on research. Thought maybe I’d run into you.”

“I’ve spent quite a bit of time here in the library,” she said lowly. “We just didn’t coincide.”

He kissed her. For a moment, a briefest of moments, her lips were tense. Then they relaxed.

She said, “Oh, Barry. So long a time. So long.”

He held her away from him for a moment and looked into her face. “You haven’t changed your mind?”

She shook her head, mute.

He said, “Like you say, ten years is forever. You sure you haven’t found yourself a…a Genoese, to…to pass the hours?”

She shook her head.

There was a teasing element in his voice now. “Or Jerry Kennedy, or Mike Dean, one of our own group?”

She shook her head still once again and took a deep breath. “No. Nobody, Barry.”

He kissed her and let his right hand drift lower down her back. He pressed her closer. She stiffened slightly but didn’t resist.

Barry Watson looked at her questioningly. “You’re tired, Natalie.”

She gave a little snort of deprecation. “Isn’t Isobel Sanchez? What does an M.D. do when she is the sole competent doctor on a whole planet? One doctor, one billion patients.”

He laughed lowly. “What do you do? I have a sneaking suspicion not exactly what Isobel has come up with.”

She said, “Why, I’ve established three medical universities, one on each continent. I’m trying to teach teachers. I get one going and move on to the third. Then back to the first.” She paused and took a deep breath as though in frustration.

“And?”

“And by the time I’ve made the complete circuit, they’ve got back to powdering frogs for medicine, murmuring incantations and spells, and bleeding their patients. I have to start all over.” She shook her head. “Perhaps I’m using the wrong method. I wish Isobel Sanchez had come up. I’d like to confer with her. What is she doing? What can you do when you are one and you have a billion patients?”

He grinned at her. “You can let nine hundred million, nine hundred thousand of them go to pot and work on what’s left.”

She frowned at him.

He said, a shade of impatience at the trend of talk in his voice, “Isobel isn’t bothering with anybody except our Tulans. She’s had them build a swanky hospital. She’s training a handful of them, or, rather, letting them train themselves.” He chuckled sourly. “She has a knack for picking the best looking physical specimens to become her male nurses cum interns. Old Leonid must be blind. At any rate, she’s introduced antibiotics and so forth. Actually, her glamour boys learn fast. She’s letting them get into the Pedagogue’s tapes as fast as they can assimilate them.”

Natalie said thoughtfully, “I’ve got to get more basic medical books into print.”

He kissed her again. “Zen take this fling, Polack. Let those cloddies in the lounge talk shop. How about us?”

“How do you mean, Barry?”

“Just that. It’s been ten years, Polack. Are we going to let it be another ten?”

She frowned at him, lacking understanding. “But you’re on Texcoco and I’m on Genoa, Barry. What can we do?”

He was impatient. “Look, let’s not be a couple of flats. You have access to your team’s space lighter, I have access to ours. Fine. Let’s make a date. I’ll tell old Plekhanov I’ve got to check up on the differences between the Theban and Macedonian phalanxes, and why it was the Romans were able to take the Macedonians a couple of hundred years after Alexander. Meanwhile, you can tell Amschel that there’s a new epidemic or something, and you have to come up here for a few day’s study.”

“A few days?”

“Sure. We’ll have a real party. There’s still lots of Earth-side liquor on board and…”

She was shaking her head, hard. “No. Oh, no, Barry. That’s not what we want!”

He scowled at her. “Ten years is a long time, Natalie. I’m a man, not a robot. It’s what I want. Do you love me or not?”

She turned from him abruptly and ran back toward the lounge.

“Hey!” he called. “Don’t be drivel happy.”

Natt Roberts entered the library. He looked back over his shoulder at the retreating Natalie. “What’s the matter?” he said.

Barry Watson swore under his breath. “Nothing,” he said.

Roberts shrugged. “The team’s getting ready to leave,” he said. “Plekhanov wants to know where you are.”

“I’m coming,” Watson snarled.

Later, in the space lighter heading back for Genoa, Amschel Mayer said speculatively, “Did you notice anything about Leonid Plekhanov?”

Jerry Kennedy was piloting. He said, “He seems the same irascible old bird he’s always been.”

Natalie’s mind was on other things. “A bit tired,” she said. “But we’re all that. Both teams.”

But the group leader wasn’t to be put off. “It seems to me he’s become a touch power mad. Could the pressures he’s under cause his mind to slip? Obviously, all isn’t peaches and cream in that attempt of his to achieve world government on Texcoco.”

“Well,” Kennedy muttered, “all isn’t peaches and cream with us, either. The barons are far from licked, especially in the west.” He changed the subject. “By the way, that banking deal went through in Pola. I was able to get control.”

“Fine,” Mayer chuckled. “You must be quite the richest man in the city. There is a certain stimulation in this financial game, Jerry, isn’t there?”

“Uh huh,” Jerry told him. “Of course, it doesn’t hurt to have a marked deck.”

“Marked deck?” Natalie said, frowning.

“That’s right. It’s handy that gold is the medium of exchange on Genoa,” Jerry said. “Especially in view of the fact that we have a machine on the ship capable of changing metals.”