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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
"No," I said, and I fired at the only possible loophole left, "I'll just
leave quietly so you can admire your Huxtner."
He swung back to me with a start. "You recognize a Huxtner? You're
the first man I've ever met in the service who ever heard of Huxtner,
let alone recognizing one of his masterpieces! Hey, did you know I
brought this all the way from home in my hammock roll? And just
look at the coloring of that figure there!"
The loophole had been blasted wide open. "You're lucky," I said, and
I went on to lie about how I'd lost my own Huxtner prints in the
invasion. "No one," I continued, "ever got quite that flesh tint of
Huxtner's, did they?"
Huxtner, by the way, is notorious for using a yellow undercoat for his
blue flesh colors, unlike every realistic painter before or after who
have all used green undercoats—what else? Imagine a chrome-
yellow underlaying a blue skin color. All Huxtner's figures look like
two-week corpses—but Huxtner enthusiasts are unique.
The Assignments Trontar and I had a nice long chat about Huxtner,
at the conclusion of which he insisted on scratching my name from
the list of combat-bound men and putting me on a much smaller list
of men scheduled for our guard outfit, stationed at the old Terran
capital of Washington.
I had an un-Haldorian feeling of having arranged my own life after
that incident. That feeling persisted even after I took over one of the
guard platoons and discovered that life in a guard outfit is rather
similar to Basic Fighter Course.
"Trontar Ruxt! Two men of your platoon have tarnished armor. Get
them working on it, and maybe you'd better stay and see that they
do it properly."
"Yes, Sir."
One lives and learns. I turned the job of supervising the armor
cleaning to the Hweetorals of the squads and then I went home to
my native woman. Yes, this guard's outfit life was like Fighter Basic
Course.
But only for the lower ranks.

III

Life wasn't too unendurable in those days. The duties were

incredibly dull, of course, but the danger of sudden death had
receded, since only a few fanatics still tried to pick off us occupation
troops. And this new world of Haldoria's was rich in the things a
sensitive and artistic man appreciates: painting, sculpture, music.
Then there was this new and pleasing thing of living with a
woman....
But it wouldn't last long.
Soon there'd be another planet to invade and maybe a space battle
with the great enemy. More years of cramped living and lurking
danger, for in the Empire one was drafted for the duration, and this
duration was now some four hundred years old. The most Trontar
Ruxt could expect, the very most, was to somehow keep alive for
another fifty years and then to retire on a small pension to one of
the lesser worlds of the Empire.
"Trontar Ruxt! Your records show that you're a statistician." My
commanding officer stared at me suspiciously, for a fighting man,
even one on guard duty, distrusts office personnel. And as everyone
knows, "Once a fighting man, always a fighting man." I think my
C.O.'s last action had been thirty years ago.
"I was a statistician before I got in the service, Sir."
"Well, they're screaming over at headquarters for qualified office
personnel, and we have to send them any trained men we have—of
any rank."
"It's for Haldor, Sir," I said. By now I knew the correct answer was
most often the noncommittal one.
I reported to the Headquarters, 27th Invasion Force. The rumor was
that Phase II, Reduction of Inhabitants to Slavery with Shipment to
Haldorian Colonies, was about to start. And also, our Planners were
supposed to be well into Phase III, Terraforming, already.
Terraforming was necessary, of course, to bring the average
temperature of earth down to something like the sub-arctic so that
we Haldorians could live here in comfort. We lost quite a few fighters
during invasion when their cooling systems broke down. Rumor, as
always, was dead right; and the Headquarters was a mad rat-race.
The Senior Trontar of the office was delighted to get another body.
"Took your time getting here, Ruxt! You guard louts don't know the
meaning of time, do you?"
I remained at attention.
"So you're a statistician, are you? Well, we don't need any
statisticians now. We just got in a whole squad of them. Can you use
a writer, maybe?"

"Yes, Sir," I did not remind the Senior Trontar that using a writer was
a clerk's job, not a Trontar's, not a combat three-striper's, because
the chances were that he knew it, for one thing. And he could easily
make me a clerk, for another thing.
"Okay. Now that we understand each other," the Senior Trontar
grinned, "or that you understand me, which is all that matters,
here's your job." He handed me a stack of scribbled notes, some
rolls of speech tape and a couple of cans of visual stuff. "Make up a
report in standard format like this example. Consolidate all this stuff
into it. This report has to be ready in two days, and it has to be
perfect. No misspellings, no erasures, no nothing. Got that?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Yes, Sir," he mimicked. "Haldor only knows why they couldn't send
me a few clerks instead of a squad of statisticians and one guard
Trontar. Do you know what this stuff is that you're going to work up?
It's the final report on our invasion here!"
I looked impressed. Strange how you learn, after a while, even the
facial expression you are supposed to wear.
"Do you know why this report has to be perfect in format and
appearance?" I wouldn't say the Senior Trontar's manner was
bullying, quite. Perhaps one could call it hectoring. "Because the
Accountant is out in this sector somewhere and we have to be ready
for him if he drops in."
This time I didn't have to try to look impressed. The Accountant is
the man who passes judgment on the conduct of all military matters
—though of course he's not one man, but maybe a dozen of them.
Armed with the invaluable weapon of hindsight, he drops in after an
invasion is completed. He determines whether the affair has gone
according to regulations, or whether there has been carelessness,
slackness or wasting of Haldorian resources of men or material.
Additionally he monitors civil administration of colonies and
federated worlds. There are stories of Generals becoming Fighter
Basics and Chief Administrators becoming sub-clerks after an
Accountant's visit.

I got the report done, but it took the full two days—mainly because
fighting men make such incomplete and erroneous reports while
action is going on. I got to understand the exasperated concern of
office personnel who have to consolidate varied fragments into a
coherent whole. And adding to the natural difficulties of the task was
the continual presence of the Senior Trontar, and his barbed
comments and lurid promises as to what would follow my failure at
the work.
But the report was done and sent in to the Adjutant.
It came back covered with scribbled changes, additions, and
deletions—and it came back carried by a much disturbed Senior
Trontar.
"Who in Haldor do they think I am?" he moaned. "I just handed on
to you the figures that they gave me. Me! And threatening me with
duty on a space freighter ... and one into the Slug area at that!"
I thought, as I looked at my ruined script, that guard duty wasn't so
bad, and that even combat wasn't rough all the time.
"See, Trontar," the four-striper said, calling me by my proper rank for
the first time, "you did a good job, the Adjutant himself said so. But
these figures...." he shuddered. "If the Accountant should see these
we'd all be for it. Space-freighter duty would be getting off light."
The Senior Trontar seemed almost human to me right then.
"I just put down what you gave me," I said.
"Yeah, sure, Ruxt. But I didn't realize, nobody realized, how bad the
figures were till they were all together and written up. Look, this
report shows that we shouldn't Terraform this planet—that we can't
make a nudnick on the slavery proposition—and that maybe we
shouldn't have even invaded this inferno at all."
"So what do you want me to do?"
"I'll tell you what you're going to do...." The Senior Trontar had
regained his normal nasty disposition. "You're going to re-do this
report. You're going to re-do it starting now, you're going to work on
it all night, and you're going to have it on my desk and in perfect
shape when I come in in the morning, or, by Haldor, the next thing
you write will be your transfer to the space freighter run nearest the
Slug Galaxy." The Senior Trontar ran momentarily out of breath.
"And," he came back strongly, "you won't be going as no Trontar,
neither!"
"It'll be on your desk in the morning, Sir," I said.
Deck hands on the space freighter run were, I'd heard, particularly
expendable.

By the middle of the third watch I had completed a perfect copy of

the report complete with attachments, appendices, and
supplements. And also by this time I knew from the differences
between the original report and this jawboned version that someone
had goofed badly in undertaking this invasion, and then had goofed
worse in not calling the thing off. Now there was to be considerable
covering-up of tracks. The thought suddenly came to me that a
guard's trontar named Ruxt knew rather a lot of what had gone on.
Following that mildly worrying thought came a notion that perhaps a
guard's trontar named Ruxt might be considered by some as just
another set of tracks to be covered up. That far-off retirement on a
small but steady income became even more unlikely, and the
possibilities began to appear of a quick end in the Slug-shattered
hulk of a space freighter.
Had the Senior Trontar changed in his attitude towards me, towards
the end of the day, perhaps acted as though I were a condemned
man? Possibly. And had some of the officers been whispering about
me late in the afternoon? Could have been.
Shaken, I wandered down to the mess hall and joined a group of
third-watch guards, who were goofing off while their Trontar was
checking more distant guard posts.
"It's easy," one of them was telling the others. "All you got to do is
to slip some surgeon/replacer a few big notes and he gives you this
operation which makes you look like a native. And then you just
settle down on Astarte for the rest of your life with the women just
begging you to let them support you."
"You mean you'd rather live on some lousy federated world than be
a Haldorian in the Invasion Forces?" There was a strong sardonic
note in the questioner's voice.
"Man, you ever been on Astarte?" the first man asked incredulously.
"Yeah, but how are you going to be sure that the surgeon/replacer
doesn't turn you in?" objected one of the others. "He could take your
money, do the operation, and have you picked up. That way he'd
have the money and get a medal too."
"I'd get around that," the talky guy said, "I'd just...."
At this point he was jabbed in the arm by one of his buddies who
had noticed my eavesdropping. The man shut up. All four of them
drifted off to their posts.

I went reluctantly back to the office. From then till dawn I dreamed
up and rehearsed all manner of wild schemes to take me out of this
dangerous situation. Or was it all perhaps just imagination? A
Haldorian Trontar should never be guilty of an excess of that quality.
But I made sure when the Senior Trontar sneaked in a bit before the
regular opening time, that I was just, apparently, completing the last
page of the report. The impression I hoped to convey was that I had
spent the entire night in working and worrying.
"It's okay," the Senior Trontar growled after he had studied the
completed report. "Guess you can take a couple of days off, Ruxt. I
believe in taking care of my men. Say," he asked casually, "I suppose
you didn't understand those figures you were working up, did you?"
"No," I said, "I didn't pay any attention to them, they were just
something to copy, that's all." I felt confident that I could out-fence
the Senior Trontar any time at this little game, but what had he and
the Adjutant been whispering about before they had come in?
"But you used to be a statistician, didn't you?" He looked at the far
corner of the room and smiled slightly. "But you take a couple days
off, Ruxt. Maybe we'll find something good for you when you come
back." He smiled again. "Don't forget to check out with the Locator
before you go, though. We don't want to lose you."
I stumbled home, not even noticing the hate-filled glances my armor
and blue skin drew from the natives along the streets. The glances
were standard, but this feeling of being doomed was new.
They were going to get me. I felt sure of that, even though my Sike
Test Scores had always been as low as any normal's. But how could
a Haldorian disappear on this planet? Aside from skin color, there
was the need to keep body temperatures at a livable level. The body
armor unit was good only for about a week. Find a surgeon/replacer
and bribe him to change me to an Earthman? I saw now how
ridiculous such an idea was. But was there nothing but to wait
passively while the Senior Trontar and the Adjutant, and whoever
else did the dirty work, all got together and railroaded me off?
Haldorians, though, never surrender—or so the Mil Prop lad would
have us believe. Right from the time you are four years old and you
start seeing the legendary founders of Haldoria—Bordt and Smordt—
fighting off the fierce six-legged carnivores, you are told never to
give up. "Where there's Haldor, there's Hope!" "There's always
another stone for the wolves, if you but look." I must confess I'd
snickered (way deep inside, naturally) at these exhortations ever
since I'd reached the age of thinking, but now all these childhood
admonitions came rushing back to give me strength, quite as they
were intended to do. I found that I could but go down like any
Haldorian, fighting to the last.

IV
So I put on my dress uniform the next day, and made sure that
nothing could be deader than the dulled bits, or brighter than the
polished ones. A bit of this effort was wasted since I arrived at
Headquarters looking something less than sharp. The cooling unit in
my armor was acting up a bit; and, also, three Terran city guerillas
had tried to ambush me on the way. You take quite a jolt from a
land mine, even with armor set on maximum. Some of those people
never knew when they were licked. No wonder their Spanglt
Resistance Quotient was close to the highest on record.
I got through the three lines of guards and protective force fields all
right, checking my rayer here, my armor there—the usual dull
procedure. By the time I reached the Admissions Officer I was down
to uniform and medals.
"You want to see the Accountant?" the Admissions Officer asked
incredulously. "You mean one of his staff! Well, where's your request
slip, Trontar?"
"I've come on my own, Sir," I said, "not from my office, so I haven't
a request slip."
"Come on your own? What's your unit? Give me your ID card!"
Let's see, I thought, I've abstracted classified material from the files
and carried it outside the office, I've broken the chain of command
and communication, and, worst of all, I'd tried to see a senior officer
without a request slip. Yeah, maybe I'd be lucky to end up as a live
deckhand on a space freighter.
A bored young Zankor with the rarely-seen balance insignia of the
Accountant's Office rose from behind the Admissions Officer.
"I'll take responsibility for this man," he said casually to the A.O.
"Follow me, Trontar. I was wondering when you'd turn up."
"Me?"
"Well, someone like you. Though usually it's scared sub-clerks that
we drag up. And that reminds me." He turned to another young and
equally bored Zankor standing nearby. "Take over, Smit, will you?
They're bringing in that sub-clerk who's been writing those
anonymous letters. I've reserved the Inquisition Room for a couple
of hours for him."
I followed the Zankor as he strode away, wondering as I did if they
had more than one Inquisition Room.
He led me into a small room just off the corridor and motioned me
to a chair. "Before you see the Accountant, Trontar," he said, "I'll
have to screen what you have. It may be that we won't have to
bother the Accountant at all."

The smooth way the Zankor talked and his friendly manner almost
convinced me that we should both put the interests of the
Accountant first. But then it occurred to me that a man with the gold
knot of a Zankor on his collar wasn't often friendly with a mere
Trontar. That thought snapped me out of it and I knew I should only
give the minimums.
"I've got documents," I said—"document" is such a lovely strong
word, "which prove that the official report on the invasion and
occupation of this planet is false." That, I thought, was as minimum
as one could get.
"Ah, and have you?" The Zankor still looked bored. "Well, let's see
them, Trontar," he said briskly.
The Zankor had that sincere look the upper class always uses when
they are about to do you dirt. They blush that heavy shade of blue,
almost purple, and they look you straight in the eye, and they quiver
a bit as to voice ... and the next thing you know, you're shafted.
"I'm sorry, Sir," I said, "but what I have is so important that I can
give it to the Accountant only."
He stared at me for rather a long moment, pondering, no doubt, the
pleasures of witnessing a full-dress military flogging. Then he
shrugged and picked up the speaker beside him. He didn't call the
Trontar of the Guard to come and take my documents by force. I
could tell that even though he spoke in High Haldorian, that harsh
language the upper class are so proud of preserving as a relic from
the days of the early conquerors. No, he was speaking to a superior
—there's never any doubt as to who is on top when people are
speaking High Haldorian—and then I caught the emphatic negative
connected with the present-day Haldorian phrases meaning Phase II
and Phase III, Terraforming. So even though I don't know High
Haldorian, and would never be so incautious as to admit it if I did, I
knew roughly what had been said.
And I was frantically revising my plans.
"Follow me," the Zankor said, after completing the call. "We'll see
the Accountant now, and—" he looked at me sincerely—"you'd better
have something very good indeed. You really had, Trontar."

The Accountant turned out to be a tall and thin Full Marshal, the first
I'd seen. He was dressed in a uniform subtly different from the
regulation, and he wore only one tiny ribbon, which I didn't
recognize. He had the slightly deeper-blue skin you often see on the
upper classes, though this impression may have been due to the
green furnishings of the room. It was, in fact, called the Green
Room, when the Terrans had used it as one of their regional capitals.
I saluted the Accountant with my best salute, the kind you lift like it
was sugar and drop as if it were the other. The Accountant
responded with one of those negligent waves that tell you the
saluter was a survivor of the best and bloodiest private military
school in existence.
"Proceed, Trontar," the Accountant said, leaning back and relaxing as
if he didn't have a care in the universe.
I launched into my speech, the one I'd been mentally rehearsing. I
told him I knew I was breaking the chain of communication, but that
I was doing it for the service and for Haldoria, etc. Any old
serviceman knows the routine. I was, as I ran through this speech,
just as sincere and just as earnestly interested in the good of
Haldoria as any Haldorian combat Trontar could be. But, deep inside
me, the old Ameet Ruxt was both marveling at the change in himself
and cynically appreciating the performance.
The Accountant interrupted the performance about halfway through.
"Yes, yes, Trontar," he said brusquely, "I think we can assume your
action is for the good of Haldoria, may the Empire increase and the
Emperor live forever. Yes. But you say you have material dealing
with the overall report on our invasion and occupation of this planet.
You further say this material shows discrepancies in the official
report—which you imply you have seen."
"Yes, Sir," I said, and I handed over the several sheets of paper
which comprised the old report and the changes of the new.
Meanwhile, behind me, the Zankor was invisible but I had not a
doubt but that he was there, keeping the regulation distance from
me.
These people knew their business.
The Accountant took the collection of papers and compared them
with some others he had on his desk. I continued to stand at Full
Brace. Once you've been chewed out for slipping into an Ease
position without being so ordered, you never forget.
The Accountant laid down the papers, scanned my face, got up and
walked to the far end of the room. In front of a mirror he stopped
and fingered that one small ribbon, quite, I thought, as if he were
matching it with another one.
He came back quickly and sat down again. "Zankor," he said, "set up
a meeting with the top brass for this afternoon. I'll talk with the
Trontar privately."
The Zankor saluted and was on his way out the door when the
Accountant spoke again. "And Zankor...."
"Yes, Sir?"
"I should be very unhappy if the top brass here—the present top
brass—found out about this material the Trontar brought."
The Zankor swallowed hard and assured the Accountant that he
understood ... "Sir."

Then we were alone and the Accountant was suddenly a kindly old
man who invited me to sit down and relax. I did. I really let go and
stretched out, I forgot everything I'd ever been taught as a child or
had learned on my climb to the status of Trontar. I relaxed and he
had me.
I had been caught on the standard Haldorian Soft/Hard Tactic.
"Disabuse your mind, Trontar," the Accountant snapped, and he was
no longer a kindly old man but a thin-lipped Haldorian snapper, "of
any idea that you have saved the Empire—or any such nonsense!"
Having cracked his verbal whip about my shoulders he just crouched
there, glaring at me, his mouth entirely vanished and his eyes—well,
I'd just as soon not think about some things.
Yes, and then he gave me the Shout/Silence treatment, the whole
thing so masterfully timed that at the end he could have signed me
on as a permanent latrine keeper on a spy satellite in the Slug
Galaxy. A genius, that man was. The sort of man who could—and
probably did—control forty wives without a weapon.
"Your information, as it happens," he said after I had regained my
senses, "checks with other data I've received. It might be, of course,
that the whole thing is a fabrication of my enemies. In that case,
Trontar—" he looked at me earnestly—"you can be assured you'll not
be around to rejoice at or to profit from my downfall."
"Of course, Sir," I said, quite as earnestly as he.
"But we both know that you are only a genuine patriot," he said with
a hearty chuckle, a chuckle exactly like that of a Father Goodness—
that kindly old godfather who brings such nice presents to every
Haldorian child until they are six, and who on that last exciting visit
brings, and enthusiastically uses, a bundle of large and heavy whips
to demonstrate that no one can be trusted. Efficient teachers, the
Haldorians.
"Just a genuine patriot," the Accountant repeated, "who has
rendered a considerable service to the Empire. Trontar," he said, all
friendly and intimate, "the Empire likes to reward well its faithful
sons. What would you most like to have or to do?"
"To serve Haldoria, Sir!" I was back on my mental feet at last.
He dropped his act then. He was, I think, just practicing anyway. We
had a short talk then, the kind in which one person is quickly and
efficiently pumped of everything he knows. After about ten minutes
of question and answers, the Accountant leaned back and studied
my face carefully.
"Have you considered Officers' Selection Course, Trontar? I might be
able to help you a little in getting in."
Officers' Selection Course was, I knew, Fighter Basic Course
multiplied in length and casualties. Less than 20 per cent graduate
... or escape.

"No, Sir," I said. "I wondered if I mightn't be of more value to

Haldoria in some way other than being in the combat services." So
now I'd said it and there was nothing to do but to go on. "Perhaps,"
I ventured, "I might be of some help in the administrative services."
The Accountant said nothing, his face was immobile, his hands still.
He'd learned his lessons well, once.
"In fact," I said, deciding to go for broke, "with my knowledge of the
language and the customs here, I might be of most service to
Haldoria right here on this planet."
"Had you guessed, by any chance, Trontar," the Accountant's voice
was neutrally soft, "that we won't be terraforming this world? And
that we may not even exploit the slavery proposition?"
"I thought both those possibilities likely," I admitted.
"But you know that in such a case we would have no administrative
services on this world? Thus you are, in fact, asking for a position
that wouldn't exist." The Accountant, without a change of position or
expression, somehow gave the impression of looming over me.
"I thought," I said, trying to pick exactly the right words, and at the
same time all too conscious of a twitching muscle in my left eyelid,
"that there might be an analogous position, even so."
The Accountant loomed higher.
"If only," he said, "you hadn't come to us, Trontar. I mean that you,
in effect, sold your associates out to me. And I hold that once a
seller, always a seller. If I could be certain that you are and will be
perfectly loyal to the Haldorian Way...."
I managed to quiet the twitching eyelid and to look perfectly loyal to
the Haldorian Way.
"Yes, Trontar," the Accountant said decisively, "I'll buy it."

The results of my conference with the Accountant were not long in

appearing.
The Haldorian troops were called in, along with the military
governors and the whole administrative body, and they all shipped
out, somewhere into the Big Out-There they all love so much. A
surprised Earth was informed that she was now a full-fledged and
self-governing member of the Haldorian Empire. The Terrans were
not informed of the economic factors behind this decision, though it
might have been cheering for them to know that their Spanglt
Resistance Quotient indicated they would make unsatisfactory
slaves. Nor did the high cost of terraforming the planet get
mentioned. We Haldorians prefer the gratitude of others towards us
to be unalloyed with baser, or calculating, emotions.
Not all the Haldorian personnel went out to fight or to administer. I
understand the space-freighter run to the battle fleet in the Slug
Galaxy gained many new deck-hands, among them one whose
uniform showed the marks where Trontar's stripes had perched.
As for myself?
Well, a relatively minor operation changed me into a black-skinned
Terran, though the surgeon/replacers could do nothing, ironically
enough in view of my new color, to increase my resistance to heat. I
remember those stirring days of combat sometimes, usually when I
am making my semi-annual flight between Churchill, Manitoba, and
Tierra Del Fuego. In fact, during those flights when I am practically
alone is the only time I have to reflect or remember, because on
both of my estates there is nothing but noise, children, and wives.
But it's a good life when the snow is driving down out of a low gray
overcast, just like it does back on Haldor. It's a good life being
Resident Trader on Terra, especially when one is, on the side, a
trusted agent of the Accountant. It would be a perfect life—if the
Accountant hadn't been right about people being unable to stop
selling out.
Right now I'm up to my neck in this Terran conspiracy to revolt
against the very light bonds Haldoria left on this planet. But how
could I resist the tempting offer the Terrans made me? The long
sought-for good life, it now occurs to me, isn't so much in escaping
from something, but in knowing when to stop. But that I know. I'm
drawing the line right now. I'll just tell that agent of the Slug Galaxy
that I have no intention of selling out both this solar system and
Haldoria!
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