The Godmakers by Frank Herbert
Once, Stetson asked: “What about Hamal’s religion?”
“I looked for clues there,” Orne said. “They pray to the Overgod of Amel, monotheistic. There was a book of common prayers in the Tritsahin lifeboat. They have a few wandering hermits, but as near as I can make out the hermits are spies for the Council. About three hundred years ago, a holy man began preaching a vision of the Overgod. There’s a cult of this visionary now, but no evidence of religious friction.”
“Sweetness and light,” Stetson said. “A priesthood?”
“Religious leadership stems from the Council. They appoint votaries called ‘Keepers of the Prayer.’ Nine-day cycle of religious observance seems to be the pattern. There’s a complex variation on this involving holy days, something called ‘Relief Days’ and they observe the anniversary of the date when the visionary, name of Arune, was transported bodily into heaven. The Priests of Amel have sent a Temporary Dispensation Missive and you can expect the usual conferences, I’m sure, with a subsequent pronouncement proving that the Overgod watches over the least of His creatures.”
“Do I detect a note of sarcasm in your voice?” Stetson asked.
“You detect a note of caution,” Orne said. “I’m a native of Chargon. Our prophet was Mahmud, who was duly verified by Amel’s priesthood. Where Amel is concerned, I walk softly.”
“The wise man prays once a week and studies Psi every day,” Stetson murmured.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Their road dipped now into a shallow depression between hills, crossed a small brook and slanted up to a new ridge where it swung left along the crest. They could see another village on high ground in the distance. When they were close enough to make out the green and yellow flag atop the government building, Stetson pulled to a stop, opened his window, shut off the engine. The turbine rotor keened downscale to silence. With the window open, the air conditioner off, they felt the oppressive heat of the day.
Sweat began pouring off Orne, settling into a soggy puddle where his bottom touched the seat’s plastic depression.
“No aircraft on Hamal?” Stetson asked.
“Not a sign of them.”
“Strange.”
“Not really. They have a superstition about the dangers of leaving the ground. A result of their narrow escape from space, no doubt. They’re just a bit antitechnology—except in the Council where they’re more sophisticated about man’s toolmaking propensity.”
“Black-gang syndrome,” Stetson muttered.
“What?”
“Technology is dangerous to sapient creatures,” Stetson said. “Lots of cultures and subcultures believe this. There are times when I believe it myself.”
“Why’ve we stopped here?” Orne asked.
“We’re waiting.”
“For what?”
“For something to happen,” Stetson said. “How do the Hamalites feel about peace?”
“They think it’s wonderful. The Council is delighted by the peaceful activities of R&R. The common citizenry has a response pattern indicating a rote answer. They say: ‘Men find peace in the Overgod.’ It’s all very consistent.”
“Orne, can you tell me why you punched the panic button?” Stetson demanded.
Orne’s mouth worked soundlessly, then: “I told you!”
“But what set you off?” Stetson asked. “What straw grounded the blinking rocket?”
Orne swallowed, spoke in a low voice: “A couple of things. For one, they held a banquet to ...”
“Who held a banquet?”
“The Council. They held a banquet to honor me. And ... uh ...”
“They served froolap,” Stetson said.
“Do you want to hear this or don’t you?”
“Dear boy, I’m all ears.”
Orne glanced pointedly at Stetson’s ears, said: “I hadn’t noticed.” Then: “Well, the Council banquet featured a stew of porjo tails that ...”
“Porjo?”
“It’s a native rodent. They consider it a delicacy, especially the tails. The Tritsahin castaways survived at first on porjo.”
“So they served it at this banquet.”
“Right. What they did was—well, the cook, just before bringing me my bowl of stew, tied a live porjo with some kind of cord that dissolved quickly in the hot liquid. This animal erupted out of the pot all over me.”
“So?”
“They laughed for five minutes. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen Hamalites really laugh.”
“You mean they played a practical joke on you and you got mad, so mad you pushed the panic button? I thought you said these people have no sense of humor.”
“Look, wise guy! Have you ever stopped to think what kind of people it takes to put a live animal in boiling liquid just to play a joke?”
“A little heavy for humor,” Stetson agreed. “But playful all the same. And that’s why you called in the I-A?”
“That’s part of it!”
“And the rest?”
Orne described the incident of the pratfall into the pile of soft fruit.
“So they just stood there without laughing and this aroused your deepest suspicions,” Stetson said.
Orne’s face darkened with anger. “So I got mad at the porjo trick! Go ahead, make something of it! I’m still right about this place! Make something out of that, too!”
“I fully intend to,” Stetson said. He reached under the go-buggy’s instrument panel, pulled out a microphone, spoke into it: “This is Stetson.”
So I’ve really had it, Orne thought. His stomach felt empty and there was a sour taste at the back of his throat.
The humming sound of a space-punch transceiver came from beneath the instrument panel, followed by: “This is the ship. What’s doing?” The voice carried the echo flatness of scrambler transmission.
“We have a real baddy here, Hal,” Stetson said. “Put out a Priority One emergency call for an occupation force.”
Orne jerked upright, stared at the I-A operative.
The transceiver emitted a clanking sound, then: “How bad is it, Stet?”
“One of the worst I’ve ever seen. Put out a VRO on the First-Contact, some schlammler by the name of Bullone. Have him sacked. I don’t care if he’s Commissioner Bullone’s mother! It’d take a blind man, and a stupid one at that, to call Hamal peaceful!”
“Will you have any trouble getting back?” the voice from the speaker asked.
“I doubt it. The R&R operative has been pretty cagey and they probably don’t know yet that we’re on to them.”
“Give me your grid just in case.”
Stetson glanced at an indicator on his instrument panel. “A-Eight.”
“Gotcha.”
“Get that call out immediately, Hal,” Stetson said. “I want a full O-force in here by tomorrow!”
“Call’s already on its way.”
The humming of the space-punch transceiver fell off to silence. Stetson replaced the microphone, turned to Orne. “So you just followed a hunch?”
Orne shook his head. “I ...”
“Look behind us,” Stetson said.
Orne turned, stared back the way they had come.
“See anything curious?” Stetson asked.
Orne fought down a sensation of giddiness, said: “I see a late-coming farmer and one hunter with apprentice moving up fast on the outside.”
“I mean the road,” Stetson said. “You may consider this a first lesson in I-A technique: a wide road that follows the ridges is a military road. Always. Farm roads are narrow and follow the water level routes. Military roads are wider, avoid swamps and cross rivers at right angles. This one fits all the way.”
“But ...” Orne fell silent as the hunter came up to them, passed their vehicle with only a casual side-glance.
“What’s the leather case on his back?” Stetson asked.
“Spyglass.”
“Lesson number two,” Stetson said. “Telescopes originate a
Orne nodded. He still felt dazed with the rapidity of developments, unable as yet to accept complete sensations of relief.
“Now, let’s consider that village up ahead,” Stetson said. “Notice the flag. Almost inevitably flags originate as banners to follow into battle. Not always. However, you may take this as a good piece of circumstantial evidence in view of the other things.”
“I see.”
“There’s the docility of the civilian populace,” Stetson said. “It’s axiomatic that this goes hand in glove with a powerful military and/or religious aristocracy which suppresses technological change. Hamal’s Leader Council is nothing but an aristocracy, well versed in the use of religion as a tool of statecraft and in the use of spies, another inevitable development occurring with armies and warfare.”
“They’re aristocrats, all right,” Orne agreed.
“Rule one in our book,” Stetson said, “says that whenever you have a situation of haves and have-nots, then you have positions to be defended. That always means armies, whether you call them troops or police or guards. I’ll bet my bottom credit those gaming fields of the green and yellow balls are disguised drill grounds.”
Orne swallowed. “I should’ve thought of that.”
“You did,” Stetson said. “Unconsciously. You saw all of the wrongness here unconsciously. It bothered the hell out of you. That’s why you pushed the panic button.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Another lesson,” Stetson said. “The most important point on the aggression index: peaceful people, really peaceful types, don’t even discuss peace. They have developed a dynamic of nonviolence in which the ordinary concept of peace doesn’t even occur. They don’t even think about it. The only way you develop more than a casual interest in peace as we conceive of it is through the recurrent and violent contrast of war.”
“Of course.” Orne took a deep breath, stared at the village on the high ground ahead of them. “But what about the lack of forts? I mean, no cavalry animals and ...”
“We can take it for granted that they have artillery,” Stetson said. “Hmmmmm.” He rubbed his chin. “Well, that’s probably enough. We’ll undoubtedly discover a pattern here which rules mobile cavalry out of the equation prohibiting stone forts.”
“I guess so.”
“What happened here was something like this,” Stetson said. “First-Contact, that schlammler, may he rot in a military prison, jumped to a wrong conclusion about Hamal. He tipped our hand. The Hamalites got together, declared a truce, hid or disguised every sign of warfare they knew anything about, put out the word to the citizenry, then concentrated on milking us for everything they could get. Have they sent a deputation to Marak, yet?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll have to pick them up, too.”
“It figures,” Orne said. He began to feel the full emotional cleansing of relief, but with odd overtones of disquiet trailing along behind. His own career was out of the soup, but he thought of the consequences for Hamal in what was about to happen. A full O-force! Military occupation did nasty things to the occupiers and the occupied.
“I think you’ll make a pretty good I-A operative,” Stetson said.
Orne snapped out of his reverie. “I’ll make a ... Huh?”
“I’m drafting you,” Stetson said.
Orne stared at him. “Can you do that?”
“There are still a few wise heads in our government,” Stetson said. “You may take it for granted that we have this power in the I-A.” He scowled. “And we find too damned many of our operatives this way—one step short of disaster.”
Orne swallowed. “This is ...” He fell silent as the farmer pushed his creaking cart past the I-A vehicle.
The men in the go-buggy stared at the peculiar swaying motion of the farmer’s back, the solid way his feet came down on the dusty roadbed, the smooth way the high-piled vegetable cart rolled along.
“I’m a left-handed froolap!” Orne muttered. He pointed at the retreating back. “There’s your cavalry animal. That damn wagon’s nothing but a chariot!”
Stetson slapped his right fist into his open left palm. “Damn! Right in front of our eyes all the time!” He smiled grimly. “There are going to be some surprised and angry people hereabouts when our O-force arrives tomorrow.”
Orne nodded silently, wishing there were some other way to prevent disastrous military excursions into space. And he thought: What Hamal needs is a new kind of religion, one that shows them how to balance their own lives happily on their world and to balance their world in the universe.
But with Amel controlling the course of every religion, that was out of the question. There was no such religious balancing system—not on Chargon ... not even on Marak.
And certainly not on Hamal.
***
Chapter Five
Every sapient creature needs a religion of some kind.
—NOAH ARKWRIGHT,
The Basic Scriptures of Amel
Umbo Stetson paced the landing control bridge of his scout cruiser. His footsteps grated on a floor that was the rear wall of the bridge during flight. Now, the ship rested on its tail fins—all four hundred glistening red and black meters of it. The open ports of the bridge looked out on the jungle roof of the planet Gienah III some one hundred and fifty meters below. A butter-yellow sun hung above the horizon perhaps an hour from setting.
Gienah was a nasty situation and he didn’t like using an untested operative in such a place. It concerned him that this particular operative had been drafted into the I-A by a sector chief named Umbo Stetson.
I draft him and I send him out to get killed, Stetson thought. He glanced across the bridge at Lewis Orne, now a junior I-A field operative with a maiden diploma. Trained ... and intelligent, but inexperienced.
“We ought to scrape this planet clean of every living thing on it,” Stetson muttered. “Clean as an egg!” He paused in his round of the bridge, glared out the open starboard port into the fire-blackened circle the cruiser had burned from a jungle clearing.
The I-A sector chief pulled his head back in the port, stood in his customary slouch. It was a stance not improved by the sacklike patched blue fatigues he wore. Although on this operation he rated the flag of a division admiral, his fatigues carried no insignia. There was a generally unkempt, straggling look about him.
Orne stood at an opposite port, studying the jungle horizon. Something glittered out there too far away to identify, probably the city. Now and then he glanced at the bridge control console, at the chronometer above it, at the big translite map of their position which had been tilted from the upper bulkhead. He felt vaguely uneasy, intensely aware of his heavy-planet muscles overreacting on Gienah III with its gravity only seven-eighths Terran Standard. The surgical scars on his neck where the microcommunications equipment had been inserted into his flesh itched maddeningly. He scratched.
“Ha!” Stetson barked. “Politicians!”
A thin black insect with shell-like wings flew in Orne’s port, settled in his closely cropped red hair. Orne pulled the insect gently from his hair, released it. Again, it tried to land in his hair. He dodged. The insect flew across the bridge and out the port beside Stetson.
The starchy newness of Orne’s blue I-A fatigues failed to conceal his no-fat appearance. It gave Orne a look of military spit and polish, but something about his blocky, off-center features suggested the clown.
“I’m getting tired of waiting,” Orne said.
“You’re tired! Ha!”
“You hear anything new from Hamal?” Orne asked.
“Forget Hamal! Concentrate on Gienah!”
“I was just curious, trying to pass the time.”
A breeze rippled the tops of the green ocean below
“Just look at that blasted jungle!” Stetson said. “Them and their stupid orders!”
Orne listened quietly to the sounds of anger from his chief. Gienah obviously was a very special, very dangerous problem. Orne’s thoughts, though, kept going back to Hamal. The O-force had taken over on that planet and things were in their expected mess. No way had ever been found to keep occupying troops from betraying an overbearing attitude and engaging in certain oppressive activities—such as picking off all the prettiest and most willing women. When the O-force finally lifted from Hamal, the people of that planet might be peaceful, but they’d bear scars which five hundred generations might not erase.
A call bell tinkled on the bridge console above Orne. The red light at the speaker grid began blinking. Stetson shot an angry glance at the offending equipment. “Yeah, Hal?”
“Okay, Stet. Orders just came through. We use Plan C. ComGo says you may now brief the fieldman on the classified information, then jet the aitch out of here.”
“Did you ask them about using another fieldman?”
Orne looked up attentively. Secrecy piled upon secrecy and now this? “Negative. It’s crash priority. ComGo expects to blast the planet anyway.”
Stetson glared at the speaker grid. “Those fat-headed, lard-bottomed, pig-brained, schlemmel-hearted POLITICIANS!” He took two deep breaths. “Okay. Tell them we’ll comply.”
“Confirmation’s on the way. You want me to come up and help in the briefing?”
“No. I ... Dammit! Ask them again if I can take this one!”
“Stet, they said we have to use Orne because of the records on the Delphinus.”
Stetson sighed, then: “Will they give us more time to brief him?”
“Crash priority, Stet. We’re wasting time.”
“If it isn’t one ...”
“Stet!”
“What now?”
“I just got a confirmed contact.”