Sixth Column by Robert A. Heinlein
“But,” one of his advisers had pointed out, “it is always assumed that the gods do nothing to answer those prayers.”
That was true; no one expected a god to climb down off his pedestal and actually perform. “What, if anything, has this god Mota done? Has anyone seen him?”
“No, Serene One, but—”
“Then what has he done?”
“It is difficult to say. It is impossible to enter their temples—”
“Did I not give orders not to disturb the slaves in their worship?” The Prince’s tones were perilously sweet.
“True. Serene One, true,” he was hastily assured, “nor have they been, but your secret police have been totally unable to enter in order to check up for you, no matter how cleverly they were disguised.”
“So? Perhaps they were clumsy. What stopped them?”
The adviser shook his head. “That is the point, Serene One. None can remember what happened.”
“What is that you say?—but that is ridiculous. Fetch me one to question.”
The adviser spread his hands. “I regret, sire—”
“So? Of course, of course—peace be to their spirits.” He smoothed an embroidered silken panel that streamed down his chest. While he thought, his eye was caught by ornately and amusingly carved chessmen set up on a table at his elbow. Idly he tried a pawn in a different square. No, that was not the solution; white to move and checkmate in four moves—that took five. He turned back. “It might be well to tax them.”
“We have already tried—”
“Without my permission?” The Prince’s voice was gentler than before. Sweat showed on the face of the other.
“If it were an error, Serene One, we wished the error to be ours.”
“You think me capable of error?” The Prince was the author of the standard text on the administration of subject races, written while a young provincial governor in India. “Very well, we will pass it. You taxed them, heavily I presume—what then?”
“They paid it, sire.”
“Triple it.”
“I am sure they would pay it, for—”
“Make it tenfold. Set it so high they can not pay it.”
“But Serene One, that is the point. The gold with which they pay is chemically pure. Our doctors of temporal wisdom tell us that this gold is made, transmuted. There is no limit to the tax they can pay. In fact,” he went on hurriedly, “it is our opinion, subject always to the correction of superior wisdom”—he bowed quickly—“that this is not a religion at all, but scientific forces of an unknown sort!”
“You are suggesting that these barbarians have greater scientific attainments than the Chosen Race?”
“Please, sire, they have something, and that something is demoralizing your people. The incidence of honorable suicide has climbed to an alarming high, and there have been far too many petitions to return to the land of our fathers.”
“No doubt you have found means to discourage such requests?”
“Yes, Serene One, but it has only resulted in a greater number of honorable suicides among those thrown in contact with the priests of Mota. I fear to say it, but such contact seems to weaken the spirit of your children.”
“Hm-m-m. I think, yes, I think that I will see this High Priest of Mota.”
“When will the Serene One see him?”
“That I will tell you. In the meantime, let it be said that my learned doctors, if they have not lived too many years and passed their usefulness, will be able to duplicate and counteract any science the barbarians may have.”
“The Serene One has spoken.”
The Prince Royal watched with great interest as Ardmore approached him. The man walked without fear. And, the Prince was forced to admit, the man had a certain dignity about him, for a barbarian. This would be interesting. What was that shining thing around his head?—an amusing conceit, that.
Ardmore stopped before him and pronounced a benediction, hand raised high. Then—“You asked that I visit you, Master.”
“So I did.” Was the man unaware that he should kneel?
Ardmore glanced around. “Will the Master cause his servants to fetch me a chair?”
Really, the man was delightful—regrettable that he must die. Or would it be possible to keep him around the palace for diversion? Of course, that would entail the deaths of all who had watched this scene—and perhaps more such expedient deaths later, if his delicious vagaries continued. The Prince concluded that it was not the initial cost, but the upkeep.
He raised a hand. Two scandalized menials hastened up with a stool. Ardmore sat down. His eye rested on the chess table by the Prince. The Prince followed his glance and inquired, “Do you play the Battle Game?”
“A little, Master.”
“How would you solve this problem?”
Ardmore got up and stood over the board. He studied it for a few moments, while the Oriental watched him. The courtiers were as silent as the pieces on the board—waiting.
“I would move this pawn—so,” Ardmore announced at last.
“In such a fashion? That is a most unorthodox move.”
“But necessary. From there it is mate in three moves—but, of course, the Master sees that.”,
“Of course. Yes, of course. But I did not fetch you here for chess,” he added, turning away. “We must speak of other matters. I learn with sorrow that there have been complaints about your followers.”
“The Master’s sorrow is my sorrow. May the servant ask in what manner his children have erred?”
But the Prince was again studying the chessboard. He raised a finger; a servant was kneeling beside him with writing board. He dipped a brush in ink and quickly executed a group of ideographs, sealing the letter with his ring. The servant bowed himself away, while a messenger sped out with the dispatch.
“What was that? Oh, yes—it is reported that they lack in grace. Their manner is unseemly in dealing with the Chosen Ones.”
“Will the Master help an humble priest by telling him which of his children have been guilty of lapses from propriety and in what respects that he may correct them?”
This request, the Prince admitted to himself, was awkward. In some manner this uncouth creature had managed to put him on the defensive. He was not used to being asked for details; it was improper. Furthermore there was no answer; the conduct of the priests of Mota had been impeccable, flawless, in every fashion that could be cited.
Yet his court stood there, waiting, to hear what answer he would make to this crude indecency. How went the ancient lines? “…Kung F’tze confounded by the question of a dolt!”
“It is not meet that the servant should question the master. At this moment you err in the fashion of your followers.”
“Your pardon, Master. Though the slave may not question, is it not written that he may pray for mercy and help? We are simple servants, possessing not the wisdom of the Sun and of the Moon. Are you not our father and our mother? Will you not, from your heights, instruct us?”
The Prince refrained from biting his lip. How had this happened? By some twist of words this barbarian had put him in the wrong again. It was not safe to let the man open his mouth! Still—this must be met; when a slave cries for mercy, honor requires an answer.
“We consent to instruct you in one particular; learn the lesson well and other aspects of wisdom will come to you of themselves.” He paused and considered his words. “The manner of address used by you and your lesser priests in greeting the Chosen Ones is not seemly. This affront corrupts the character of all who see it.”
“Am I to believe that the Chosen Race disdains the blessing of the Lord Mota?”
He had twisted it again! Sound policy required that the ruler assume that the gods of the slaves were authentic. “The blessing is not refused, but the form of greeting must be that of servant to master.”
Ardmore was suddenly aware that he was being called with urgency. Ringing in his head was the voice of Thomas: “Chief! Chi
“The Lord Mota hears!” It was addressed to the Prince; would Jeff understand also?
Jeff again—“Was that to me, Chief?”
“See to it that his followers understand.” The Prince had answered too quickly for Ardmore to devise another double meaning in which to speak to Thomas. But he knew something that the Prince did not know he knew. Now to use it—
“How can I instruct my priests when you are even now arresting them?” Ardmore’s manner changed suddenly from humble to accusatory.
The face of the Prince was impassive, his eyes alone gave away his astonishment. Had the man guessed the nature of that dispatch? “You speak wildly.”
“I do not! Even while you have been instructing me in the way that I must instruct my priests, your soldiers have been knocking at the gates of all the temples of Mota. Wait! I have a message to you from the Lord Mota: His priests do not fear worldly power. You have not succeeded in arresting them, nor would you, did not the Lord Mota bid them to surrender. In thirty minutes, after the priests have cleansed themselves spiritually and girded themselves for the ordeal, each will surrender himself at the threshold of his temple. Until then, woe to the soldier who attempts to violate the House of Mota!”
“’At’s telling ’em Chief! ’At’s telling ’em! You mean for each temple priest to hold off thirty more minutes, then surrender—is that right? And for them to be loaded for bear, power units, communicators, and all the latest gadgets. Acknowledge, if you can.”
“In the groove, Jeff.” He had to chance it—four meaningless syllables to the Prince, but Jeff would understand.
“O.K., Chief. I don’t know what you’re up to, but we’ll go along a thousand percent!”
The face of the Prince was a frozen mask. “Take him away.”
For some minutes after Ardmore was gone the Serene One sat staring at the chessboard and pulling at his underlip.
They placed Ardmore in a room underground, a room with metal walls and massive locks on the door. Not content with that, he was hardly inside when he heard a soft hissing noise and saw a point at the edge of the door turn cherry red. Welding! They evidently intended to make sure that no possible human weakness of his guards could result in escape. He called the Citadel.
“Lord Mota, hear thy servant!”
“Yes, Chief.”
“A wink is as good as a nod.”
“Got you, Chief. You are still where you can be overheard. Slang it up. I’ll get your drift!”
“The headman witch doctor hankers to chew the rag with the rest of the sky pilots.”
“You want Circuit A?”
“Most bodaciously.”
There was a brief pause, then Thomas answered. “O.K., Chief, you’ve got it. I’ll stay cut in to interpret; it probably won’t be necessary, since the boys have practiced this kind of double talk. Go ahead—you’ve got five minutes, if they are to surrender on time.”
Any cipher can be broken, any code can be compromised. But the most exact academic knowledge of a language gives no clue to its slang, its colloquial allusions, its half statements, over statements, and inverted meanings. Ardmore felt logically certain that the PanAsians had planted a microphone in his cell. Very well, since they were bound to listen to his end of the conversation, let them be confused and baffled by it, uncertain whether he spoke in gibberish to his god, or had possibly lost his mind.
“Look, cherubs—mamma wants baby to go to the nice man. It’s all hunkydory as long as baby-bunting carries his nice new rattle. Yea, verily, rattle is the watchword—you don’t and they do. Deal this cold deck the way it’s stacked and the chopstick laddies are stonkered and discombobulated. The stiff upper lip does it.”
“Check me if I’m wrong, Chief. You want the priests to give themselves up, and to rattle the PanAsians by their apparent unconcern. You want them to carry it off the way you did, cool as a cucumber, and bold as brass. I also take it that you want them to hang on to their staffs, but not to use them unless you tell them to. Is that right?”
“Elementary, my dear Watson!”
“What happens after that?”
“No thirty.”
“What’s that? Oh, ‘No thirty’—more to come on this story; you’ll tell us later. All right, Chief—it’s time!”
“Okey-dokey!”
Ardmore waited until he was reasonably certain that all the PanAsians not immediately concerned with guarding the prisoners would be asleep, or at least in their quarters. What he proposed to do would be effective fully only in the event that no one knew just what had happened. The chances were better at night.
He called Thomas by whistling a couple of bars of “Anchors Aweigh.” He responded at once—he had not gone off duty, but had remained at the pararadio, giving the prisoners an occasional fight talk and playing records of martial music. “Yes, Chief?”
“The time has come to take a powder. Allee-allee out’s in free!”
“Jailbreak?”
“In the manner of the proverbial Arab—the exact manner.”
They had discussed this technique before; Thomas gave itemized instructions and then said, “Say when, Chief.”
“When!”
He could almost see Thomas nod. “Right-oh! O.K., troops, get going!”
Ardmore stood up and stretched his cramped limbs. He walked over to one wall of his prison and stood so that the single light cast a shadow on the wall. That would be about right—there! He set the controls of his staff for maximum range in the primary Ledbetter effect, checked to see that the frequency band covered the Mongolian race, and adjusted it to stun rather than kill. Then he turned on power.
A few moments later he turned it off, and again regarded his shadow on the wall. This required an entirely different setting, directional and with fine discrimination. He turned on the red ray of Dis to guide him in his work, completed his set-up, and again turned on power.
Quietly and without fuss, atoms of metal rearranged themselves and appeared as nitrogen, to mix harmlessly with the air. Where there had been a solid wall was now an opening the size and shape of a tall man dressed in priestly robes. He looked at it, and, as an after thought, he meticulously traced an ellipse over the head of the representation, an ellipse the size and shape of his halo. That done, he reset the controls of his staff to what he had used before, turned on power, and stepped through the opening. It was a close fit; he had to wriggle through sideways.
Outside it was necessary to step over the piled-up bodies of a dozen or more PanAsian soldiers. This was not the side of the welded-up entrance; he guessed that he would have found guards outside each and any of the four walls, probably floor and ceiling as well.
There were more doors to pass, more bodies to clamber over before he found himself outside. When he did, he was completely unoriented. “Jeff,” he called, “where am I?”
“Just a second, Chief. You’re—No, we can’t get a fix on you, but you are on a line of bearing almost due south of the nearest temple. Are you still near the palace?”
“Just outside it.”
“Then head north—it’s about nine squares.”
“Which way is north? I’m all turned around. No wait a minute—I just located the Big Dipper, I’m all right.”
“Hurry, Chief.”
“I will.” He set out at a quick dogtrot, kept it up for a couple of hundred yards, then dropped into a fast walk. Damn it, he thought, a man gets out of condition with all this desk work.
Ardmore encountered several Asiatic police, but they were in no condition to notice him; he had kept the primary effect turned on. There were no whites about—the curfew was strict—with the exception of a pair of startled street cleaners. It occurred to him that he should induce them to go with him to the temple, but he decided against it; they were in no more danger than a hundred fifty million others
There was the temple!—its four walls glowing with the colors of attributes. He broke into a run and burst inside. The local priest was almost at his heels, arriving from the other direction.
He greeted the priest heartily, suddenly realizing the strain he had been under in finding how good it was to speak to a man of his own kind—a comrade. The two of them ducked around back of the altar and went down below to the control and communication room, where the pararadio operator and his opposite number were almost hysterically glad to see them. They offered him black coffee, which he accepted gratefully. Then he told the operator to cut out of Circuit A and establish direct two-way connection with headquarters with vision converted into the circuit.
Thomas appeared to be about to jump out of the screen. “Whitey!” he yelled. It was the first time since the Collapse that anyone had called Ardmore by his nickname. He was not even aware that Thomas knew it. But he felt warmed by the slip.
“Hi, Jeff,” he called to the image, “good to see you. Any reports in yet?”
“Some. They are coming in all the time.”
“Shift to relay through the diocese offices; Circuit A is too clumsy. I want a quick report.”
It was forthcoming. Within less than twenty minutes the last diocese had reported in. Every priest was back in his own temple. “Good,” he told Thomas. “Now I want the projector in each temple set for counteraction, and wake all those monkeys up. They ought to be able to use a directional concentration down the line each priest returned on, and reach clear back to the local jailhouse.”
“O.K., if you say so, Chief. May I ask why you don’t simply let ’em wake up when the effect wears off?”
“Because,” he explained, “if they simply come to before anybody finds them the effect will be much more mysterious than if they are found apparently dead. The object of the whole caper was to break the morale of the Asiatics. This increases the effect.”
“Right—as usual, Chief. The word is going out.”
“Fine. When that’s done, have them check the shielding of their temples, turn on the fourteen-cycle note, and go to bed—all that aren’t on duty. I imagine we’ll have a busy day tomorrow.”