Chapter 12

They came straight down on Eglonsby, on Amaterasu, the Nemesis and the Space Scourge side by side. The radar had picked them up at point-five light-seconds; by this time the whole planet knew they were coming, and nobody was wondering why. Paul Koreff was monitoring at least twenty radio stations, assigning somebody to each one as it was identified. What was coming in was uniformly excited, some panicky, and all in fairly standard Lingua Terra.

Garvan Spasso was perturbed. So, in the communication screen from the Space Scourge, was Boake Valkanhayn.

“They got radio, and they got radar,” he clamored.

“Well, so what?” Harkaman asked. “They had radio and radar twenty years ago, when Rock Morgan was here in the Coalsack. But they don’t have nuclear energy, do they?”

“Well, no. I’m picking up a lot of industrial electrical discharge, but nothing nuclear.”

“All right. A man with a club can lick a man with his fists. A man with a gun can lick half a dozen with clubs. And two ships with nuclear weapons can lick a whole planet without them. Think it’s time, Lucas?”

He nodded. “Paul, can you cut in on that Eglonsby station yet?”

“What are you going to do?” Valkanhayn wanted to know, against it in advance.

“Summon them to surrender. If they don’t, we will drop a hellburner, and then we will pick out another city and summon it to surrender. I don’t think the second one will refuse. If we are going to be murderers, we’ll do it right, this time.”

Valkanhayn was aghast, probably at the idea of burning an unlooted city. Spasso was sputtering something about, “ ... Teach the dirty Neobarbs a lesson--” Koreff told him he was switched on. He picked up a hand-phone.

“Space Vikings Nemesis and Space Scourge, calling the city of Eglonsby. Space Vikings...”

He repeated it for over a minute; there was no reply.

“Vann,” he called Guns-and-Missiles. “A subcrit display job, about four miles over the city.”

He laid the phone down and looked to the underside viewscreen. A little later, a silvery shape dropped away from the ship’s south pole. The telescopic screen went off, and the unmagnified screen darkened as the filters went on. Valkanhayn, aboard the other ship, was shouting a warning about his own screens. The only unfiltered screen aboard the Nemesis was the one tuned to the falling missile. The city of Eglonsby rushed upward in it, and then it went suddenly dark. There was an orange-yellow blaze in the other screens. After a while, the filters went off and the telescopic screen went on again. He picked up the phone.

“Space Vikings calling Eglonsby; this is your last warning. Communicate at once.”

Less than a minute later, a voice came out of one of the speakers:

“Eglonsby calling Space Vikings. Your bomb has done great damage. Will you hold your fire until somebody in authority can communicate with you? This is the chief operator at the central State telecast station; I have no authority to say anything to you, or discuss anything.”

“Oh, good, that sounds like a dictatorship,” Harkaman was saying. “Grab the dictator and shove a pistol in his face and you have everything.”

“There is nothing to discuss. Get somebody who has authority to surrender the city to us. If this is not done within the hour, the city and everybody in it will be obliterated.”

Only minutes later, a new voice said:

“This is Gunsalis Jan, secretary to Pedrosan Pedro, President of the Council of Syndics. We will switch President Pedrosan over as soon as he can speak directly to the personage in supreme command of your ships.”

“That is myself; switch him to me at once.”

After a delay of less than fifteen seconds they had President Pedrosan Pedro.

“We are prepared to resist, but we realize what this would cost in lives and destruction of property,” he began.

“You don’t begin to. Do you know anything about nuclear weapons?”

“From history; we have no nuclear power of any sort. We can find no fissionables on this planet.”

“The cost, as you put it, would be everything and everybody in Eglonsby and for a radius of almost a hundred miles. Are you still prepared to resist?”

The President of the Council of Syndics wasn’t and said so. Trask asked him how much authority his position gave him.

“I have all powers in any emergency. I think,” the voice added tonelessly, “that this is an emergency. The council will automatically ratify any decision I make.”

Harkaman depressed a button in front of him. “What I said; dictatorship, with parliamentary false front.”

“If he isn’t a false-front dictator for some oligarchy.” He motioned to Harkaman to take his thumb off the button. “How large is this Council?”

“Sixteen, elected by the Syndicates they represent. There is the Syndicate of Labor, the Syndicate of Manufacturers, the Syndicate of Small Businesses, the...”

“Corporate State, First Century Pre-Atomic on Terra. Benny the Moose,” Harkaman said. “Let’s all go down and talk to them.”

When they were sure that the public had been warned to make no resistance, the Nemesis went down to two miles, bulking over the center of the city. The buildings were low by the standards of a contragravity-using people, the highest barely a thousand feet and few over five hundred, and they were more closely set than Sword-Worlders were accustomed to, with broad roadways between. In several places there were queer arrangements of crossed roadways, apparently leading nowhere. Harkaman laughed when he saw them.

“Airstrips. I’ve seen them on other planets where they’ve lost contragravity. For winged aircraft powered by chemical fuel. I hope we have time for me to look around, here. I’ll bet they even have railroads here.”

The “great damage” caused by the bomb was about equal to the effect of a medium hurricane; he had seen worse from high winds at Traskon. Mostly it had been moral, which had been the kind intended.

They met President Pedrosan and the council of Syndics in a spacious and well-furnished chamber near the top of one of the medium-high buildings. Valkanhayn was surprised; in a loud aside he considered that these people must be almost civilized. They were introduced. Amaterasuan surnames preceded personal names, which hinted at a culture and a political organization making much use of registration by alphabetical list. They all wore garments which had the indefinable but unmistakable appearance of uniforms. When they had all seated themselves at a large oval table, Harkaman drew his pistol and used the butt for a gavel.

“Lord Trask, will you deal with these people directly?” he asked, stiffly formal.

“Certainly, Admiral.” He spoke to the President, ignoring the others. “We want it understood that we control this city, and we expect complete submission. As long as you remain submissive to us, we will do no damage beyond removal of the things we wish to take from it, and there will be no violence to any of your people, or any indiscriminate vandalism. This visit we are paying you will cost you heavily, make no mistake about that, but whatever the cost, it will be a cheap price for avoiding what we might otherwise do.”

The President and the Syndics exchanged relieved glances. Let the taxpayers worry about the cost; they’d come out of it with whole skins.

“You understand, we want maximum value and minimum bulk,” he continued. “Jewels, objects of art, furs, the better grades of luxury goods of all kinds. Rare-element metals. And monetary metals, gold and platinum. You have a metallic-based currency, I suppose?”

“Oh, no!” President Pedrosan was slightly scandalized. “Our currency is based on services to society. Our monetary unit is simply called a credit.”

Harkaman snorted impolitely. Evidently he’d seen economic systems like that before. Trask wanted to know if they used gold or platinum at all.

“Gold, to some extent, for jewelry.” Evidently they weren’t complete economic puritans. “And platinum in industry, of course.”

“If they want gold, they should have raided Stolgoland,” one of the Syndics said. “They have a gold-standard currency.” From the way he said it, he might have been accusing them of eating with their fingers, and possibly of eating their own young.

“I know, the maps we’re using for this planet are a few centuries old; Stolgoland doesn’t seem to appear on them.”

“I wish it didn’t appear on ours, either.” That was General Dagró Ector, Syndic for State Protection.

“It would have been a good thing for this whole planet if you’d decided to raid them instead of us,” somebody else said.

“It isn’t too late for these gentlemen to make that decision,” Pedrosan said. “I gather that gold is a monetary metal among your people?” When Trask nodded, he continued: “It is also the basis of the Stolgonian currency. The actual currency is paper, theoretically redeemable in gold. In actuality, the circulation of gold has been prohibited, and the entire gold wealth of the nation is concentrated in vaults at three depositories. We know exactly where they are.”