The Creatures of Man (53 page)

"Aw-w-w," Gweanvin cooed mockingly. "Did the mean old pencil-pushers hurt Nathel's tender little feelings?"

"Go to hell," the big man grunted. "It's just that who needs it! The econo-war is a pencil-pusher's war. It fits them, not us. Hell, they outnumber us a million to one. It has to be their kind of fight. So I say, let them have it their way, and we'll stay on Jopat and have ours our way."

Gweanvin shrugged. "Prima Gran sent twenty doctrinists out here a few weeks ago. They were supposed to try to reason with you lunkheads. If they couldn't talk you out of such fallacious attitudes as that, far be it from me to even try." After a moment, she added, "All those doctrinists suddenly went out-comm. What happened to them?"

Gromon grinned. "Oh, we listened to them, till they started repeating themselves. That got too boring, so we field-stripped them and grounded them on a semi-tropic island. They're safe enough. The insects here don't like the taste of humans much, and we parleyed with the Lonnies to keep the fighting away from that island."

Gweanvin was not especially fond of doctrinists but she failed to share Gromon's amusement. Field-stripping a man was as ugly a crime as horse-thievery had been on an earlier frontier, and for the same reason. A man lived and moved by the life-support devices implanted in his body: power packets, shieldscreen generators, inertia nullifiers, propulsors, communicators and so on. To field-strip him—to cut out those devices that could be removed by simple operations—was the dirtiest of dirty tricks. In the econo-war not even captured frontliners were subjected to such treatment.

But Gweanvin saw no point to making an issue of the transgression. She could guess that the barbs had made it to put everybody on notice that on Jopat the game was played by barb rules, and outsiders had better not try to interfere.

"Getting back to the way pencil-pushers think of barbs," she said, "that's something the doctrinists, being pencil-pushers themselves, could hardly explain to you. They take that attitude toward all frontliners—toward me the same as toward you idiots. And it boils down to the fact that they just don't dig killing or being killed. They can't play, or even appreciate, a game played on that level."

"They're narrow," growled Gromon. "Killing is just bodies. If I get killed, all I got to do is find me a new one. And that ain't hard, because babies are being born every second."

"Right," Gweanvin agreed. "You know, all through history the most atheistic societies, the ones that didn't believe in the survival of the ego-field, were the most squeamish about killing."

"But that don't hold any more," objected the barb. "People don't have ignorance as an excuse now."

"No, but they have other reasons. Killing is destructive, wasteful—and the whole point of the econo-war is to have hard competition that is essentially constructive. It can't be all one way, true. But the vast majority of participants, the pencil-pushers, have to view conflict as a motivator for non-destructive activities."

Gromon grunted noncommittally.

"Also," Gweanvin went on, "killing and being killed are both traumatic. They were basic to the anatomy of unsanity. Pysch-releasing removed that problem quite a few centuries ago, of course, but the old association with unsanity gives killing an ugliness that's still remembered."

"Well, I can see all that," Gromon conceded, "but you ain't talking me into going back, girl. I like it here."

"Hell," Gweanvin grunted, "if twenty glib doctrinists couldn't talk some sense through your thick skulls, I'm not going to try. Propagandizing's not my line."

Gromon turned his head toward her briefly to study her emo-pattern. "Old Dargow figures Prima Gran sent you out here to bring us home," he said. "Do you say different?"

"No. That's what I'm here for."

"Well, how can you do it, if you don't talk us into it?" he demanded. "You can't force us to go back."

"I'll be damned if I know, Nathel," she replied, flashing annoyed frustration. "I'm flying blind on this stupid mission, and that's the disgusting truth."

Gromon considered this information with surprise for several seconds before chuckling. "I guess we really got the high brass running in circles back at Prima Gran HQ," he said smugly.

"Maybe so," murmured Gweanvin.

She had puzzled over the question for hours during her flight to Jopat, and it still made no sense to her. This mission wasn't spying. It wasn't sabotage. And if it was subversion, it was not the kind she was accustomed to. So, being none of those three, the mission simply wasn't in her line of work.

And in the past, even when engaged in work that was her line, Gweanvin had always gone out with detailed and specific orders—with a plan to put into operation. But this time all she had been told by the Special Assignments Bureau was to go to Jopat and bring the Primgranese Guardsmen home.

Gromon had been watching her emo as she glummed over her problem, and was radiating glee. "This is going to hand everybody here a hell of a big laugh," he chortled. "I can't wait to see old Dargow's face when I tell him! But slow down. We're on top of my camp."

Gweanvin followed him as he eased down among the tall trees to come to ground in a widely dispersed and rustic-looking campsite. A well-endowed young woman with dark hair was watching them from beside a stone fireplace, on which a crude earthware pot of stew simmered. It sent out odors fit to drive Gweanvin mad.

"Gweanvin, meet Valla," Gromon muttered, a touch of embarrassment showing. Gweanvin knew Gromon's wife, a barb named Samis, who had refused to come to Jopat with her husband. Guardsmen seldom had difficulty getting women, however, barb or otherwise. Gweanvin was not surprised to find a young beauty presiding over Gromon's cookfire.

Valla's emo-pattern showed dislike and misgiving for a moment as she studied Gweanvin's slim, almost boyish figure. Then, evidently deciding that such a wispy though pretty girl was no real competition, she smiled. Half-regretfully, Gweanvin decided not to disabuse her on that score. On a wilderness world like Jopat it would be foolish to get on bad terms with a talented cook, while available men were more than plentiful.

"That stew smells wonderful, Valla," she cooed.

Before Gweanvin had more than started eating, numerous barbs began dropping by that part of the camp. Some were old friends of hers desiring to renew acquaintanceship; most were strangers eager for a close look at the doll-faced little dish of dynamite whose skirmish with a whole squad of Lonnies had tizzied the top brass of both sides. Gromon, meanwhile, drifted away, presumably to report to General Dargow.

Gweanvin enjoyed the evening—being the center of attention was always fun. At least ten of the younger AWOL Guardsmen, either unattached to women or lightly attached, courted her unsuccessfully. Not that she didn't regard sex as fun. It was just that she would not want the barbs to think of her as a camp-follower and, with her thus classified to their satisfaction, dismiss her from their curiosity. To accomplish anything at all toward the completion of her mission, she felt, she would need to keep the barbs attentive—and if possible, mystified.

The cookfire was finally permitted to die down and the last of the visitors departed. Gromon had returned, but Valla had already discreetly lured him away to safety, evidently suspecting from the male attention Gweanvin was getting that she had underestimated the Prima Gran girl as potential competition.

Gweanvin chuckled to herself. Women were bigger idiots than barbs sometimes. That chick Valla, trying to own Nathel Gromon, who was certain to drift back to his wife sooner or later. If he didn't get vaporized first, of course.

She yawned, went semi-inert, and kicked herself up into a secluded treetop. There she hooked a beltsnap around a limb as a tether, and relaxed. After a moment she activated her tightbeam comm, tongued her toothmike, and said softly:

"GO to HQ SA-Forty. Smitwak?"

"I'm here, Gweanvin,"
came the response from distant Prima Gran.
"Report."

"I'm on Jopat, in contact with our barbs," she said. "Nothing new here since the last time you heard from the doctrinists. They're alive, by the way—field-stripped and isolated."

There was a pause on the other end. Gweanvin giggled as she imagined the angry thoughts that must be passing through the Prima Gran Bauble.

Smitwak spoke again. "Get us the precise location of the doctrinists," he snapped. "We've got enough loyal barbs to send out a heavily armed rescue party . . ."

"Cool down, Smitty," she replied. "I can dicker the barbs into letting you rescue them without a fight. These knuckleheads wanted to show how ornery they could be if anybody tried to interfere with them. They've made their point, and I think that now they'll let the doctrinists go."

"Okay, work on that. Meanwhile, the rescue team will be on its way. Now, any progress with your mission?"

"What the hell do you think?" she snarled. "I don't even know how to begin. Don't you have further instructions?"

"No. Continue under your original orders, Gweanvin."

"Those damned orders don't tell me a thing!"

"Sorry. You're on the scene, Gweanvin. In a position to evaluate the situation more thoroughly than HQ can and devise a practical plan to pursue. Give yourself time to think it through . . . not too much time, however. The need for those experienced Guardsmen is getting urgent here."

"Take my time, but hurry, huh?" she grunted disdainfully. "Thanks a lot. I'll set your words to music and sing myself to sleep with them. Out."

"Stay in touch, Gweanvin. Love and out."

A light rain had started falling. For a few minutes Gweanvin listened to the drops bounce off her invisible shieldscreen. Then she went to sleep.

The general wanted to see her the next morning.

He was waiting outside when Gromon brought her to Battle Headquarters, the only solid building Gweanvin was to see on Jopat. Constructed of meltstone, it had feet-thick walls and roof that were obviously flareproof.

Gromon and a few other staff officers stood around grinning as Spart Dargow glared disapproval at the slim shorts-and-haltered figure. Gweanvin glared back with cool disdain. Dargow was a seven-footer, several inches taller than the barb average, a middle-aged man of perhaps sixty-five whose hair and beard were grayshot.

"You look the same as when I last saw you, and that was a good seven years back," he growled. "When are you going to become a woman?"

She made a gesture of indifference. She was well aware of the striking contrast between herself and the normal woman of twenty-seven E-years. But she had never found the contrast disturbing. "Who knows?" she said. "Maybe never, like some boneheads I know whose brains never develop."

His reaction to the verbal jab was minimal. "I recall somebody describing you," he said, "as fifty-five pounds of brass and fifty-five pounds of viper venom. I see that hasn't changed, either."

"Right. I still weigh one hundred and ten," she replied.

Dargow's frown deepened, and his emo slowly shifted from disapproval to curiosity. Gweanvin knew what he was trying to do—understand her well enough to categorize her, and thus discover how to deal with her.

"I keep thinking," he finally muttered, "that you must be the victim of an incompetent psych-release, but that doesn't hold up. And I never heard of a physical deficiency the docs can't handle. Just what the hell is it with you, girl?"

Ask a polite question and get a polite answer, thought Gweanvin. "The physiologists tell me I'm a mutant, with a characteristic of late physical maturity."

"Oh . . . any more like you around?"

"I don't know of any yet."

"And I guess you won't ever," he grumbled. "That's a damn-fool mutation if I ever heard of one. Late maturity gives you too many chances to get killed before you breed. Especially if you go around frontlining like a wild morimet or something! Now, we genetic barbarians breed early—"

"And often," Gweanvin inserted.

"We're high-survival," he went on, "but unless you get your skinny rump home, and settle down behind a nice safe pencil till you're ready to have kids, your genetic line is going to be awful short."

Gweanvin shrugged. "Crap," she sniffed.

"Good sense," the general retorted angrily.

"Where's the good sense of trying to perpetuate a strain so low-survival that it needs that kind of protecting?" she countered. "If I don't have enough survival abilities to do the things I want to do, and still stay alive to have babies some day, to hell with my genetic line."

Dargow snorted. "You think you got those survival abilities?"

"I think I'll be around to spit in your vapor, general."

"Lots of luck!" he snapped. "Now, what's this about you trying to talk us into returning to the Commonality?"

"I'm not. The doctrinists used every conceivable argument to try to get some reason through your thick skulls, and they failed. So I'm not trying to talk anybody into anything."

"You are here to get us to go back, though."

"Right."

"And you don't know how you'll go about it?"

"Right again."

Dargow grunted an obscenity. "Maybe I ought to find that funny, but I don't like it a damned bit."

Gweanvin's eyes widened. This was a favorable development she had not anticipated. Plainly, Dargow could not counter her play if he did not know her game. And he could not force her to tell it, because she did not know it herself.

"I've changed my mind about making you leave Jopat this morning," he said after a pause. "The more convinced the pencil-pushers become that we're here to stay, despite any tricks they try to pull, the better for everybody. If I made you leave, they'd think you had us worried, unsure of ourselves. So stick around as long as you like—but try to stay out from underfoot."

"Thanks, general," she replied. "Since I'm at loose ends right now, as far as my mission is concerned, I may as well participate in this little game you and the Lonnie barbs are playing. I'm not much on teamwork, since I usually operate alone, but—"