

















                           MORAL EQUIVALENT

                            By KRIS NEVILLE

                      Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                 Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]




              Why shouldn't a culture mimic another right
              down to the last little detail? Because the
             last detail may be just that--the final one!


The planet Lanit II had dwindled to a luminous speck. They were in
clear space now, at Breakoff Point. Beliakoff held the ship in position
while Kelly set dials for the jump into the hyperspatial drift opening,
which deep-space men knew as the Slot.

Beliakoff cracked his bony knuckles nervously. "Now, Johnny," he said,
"easy this time. _Real_ easy. Gentle her into it. She's not a new ship.
She resents being slammed into the Slot."

"She'll take it," Kelly said, with a boyish grin of almost suicidal
abandon.

"Maybe she will, but how about us? You sort of creased the Slot getting
us off Torriang. A little closer and--"

"I was still getting the touch. You ought to be glad I'm an
instinctive astrogator."

He set the last dial with a rapid twirl and reached for the kissoff
switch.

"You're out two decimal points," said Beliakoff, who worried about such
trifles. "Enough to ionize us."

"I know, I know," Kelly grumbled, adjusting the dial. "I was just
touching it for luck. Here we go!"

He depressed the kissoff switch. Beliakoff shut his eyes as the ship
lurched Slotward, wishing that Kyne, their government-inspected,
college-graduated astrogator was still aboard. Kyne had been an expert
at the job. But then, three planets back, he had suddenly gone after
a native stevedore with a micro-edge cleaver, screaming that no dirty
alien would ever marry _his_ daughter.

Kyne had no daughter.

Currently he was confined in Azolith, awaiting transportation
Earthside, to a padded little homy room in the Spaceman's Snug Port.

       *       *       *       *       *

"How about that?" Kelly asked proudly, once the ship was locked in
hyperspace. "Superior intelligence and steel nerves do the trick every
time."

"Poor devil, Kyne," Beliakoff sighed.

"A paranoid," Kelly diagnosed. "Did he ever tell you about the plot to
keep him out of the Luna Military Academy?"

"He never talked to me much."

"That's because you're a cold, distant, unsympathetic type," Kelly
said, with a complacent smile. "Me, he told everything. He applied to
Luna every year. Studied all the textbooks on military organization,
land tactics, sea tactics, space strategy, histories of warfare.
Crammed his cabin with that junk. Knew it inside out. Fantastic memory!"

"Why didn't he get in?"

"Hemophilia. He couldn't pass the physical. He thought they were
plotting against him. Still, I'm grateful for the chance at a little
astrogation." With the barest hint of a smile, Kelly said, "I
understand it's possible to bring a ship sidewise through the Slot at
Terra."

"Please don't try," Beliakoff begged, shuddering. "I knew we should
have waited for Kyne's replacement at Mala."

"We'd still be there, with a cargo of kvash turning sour."

"I was afraid it would sour anyhow," Beliakoff said, with a worrier's
knack for finding trouble. "Mala is the slowest loading port this side
of the Rift. I must admit, however, they didn't do badly this time."

"Noticed that, did you?" Kelly asked.

"Hm? Did you find a way of speeding them up?"

"Sure. Gave them Kyne's old dog-eared books. They're crazy about books.
Really hustled for them."

Beliakoff said nothing for several seconds, but his long, sallow face
became pale. "You what?"

"Gave 'em the books. Don't worry," Kelly said quickly. "Kyne gave them
to me before they hauled him away."

"You gave the _warfare books_ to the people on Mala?"

"You mean I shouldn't have? Why not? What's wrong with Mala?"

"Plenty." Beliakoff grimly did some quick figuring. "It'll be a year,
their time, when we can get back. Kelly, take us out of hyperspace!"

"Now?" Kelly gasped. "Here?"

"At once!"

"But we might come out inside a star or--"

"That," Beliakoff said, his voice filled with righteousness, "simply
cannot be helped. We must return at once to Mala!"

       *       *       *       *       *

General Drak, Commander of the Forces of the Empress, Wearer of the
Gold Star of Mala, sat at his desk in the Supreme Command Post, which
had recently been converted from a hardware store. He was engaged in a
fiery argument over the telephone with Nob, the Empress's right-hand
man.

"But damn it all," General Drak shouted, "I must have it! I am the
Supreme Commander, the General of All the Armies of the Dictatorship!
Doesn't that mean anything?"

"Not under the circumstances," Nob answered.

Two soldiers, standing guard in the General's quarters, listened
interestedly.

"Think he'll get it?" one asked.

"Not a chance," the other answered.

Drak glared them into silence, then returned to the argument. "Will
you please attempt to understand my position?" he said hoarsely. "You
put me in command. At my orders, the Armies of the Dictatorship move
against the Allied Democracies. All the other generals obey me. _Me!_
Correct?"

"He's got a point," one soldier said.

"He'll never get it," the other replied.

"Shut up, you two!" Drak roared. "Nob, aren't I right? It's the Earthly
way, Nob. Authority must be recognized!"

"I'm sorry," Nob said. "Extremely sorry. Personally, I sympathize with
you. But the _Book of Terran Rank Equivalents_ is quite specific. Seven
shoulder stars are the most--the absolute most--that any general can
wear. I absolutely cannot allow you to wear eight."

"But you gave Frix seven! And he's just Unit General!"

"That was before we understood the rules completely. We thought there
was no limit to the number of stars we could give and Frix was sulky.
I'm sorry, General, you'll just have to be satisfied with seven."

"Take one away from Frix, then."

"Can't. He'll resign."

"In that case, I resign."

"You aren't allowed to. The book, _Military Leadership_, specifically
states that a Supreme Commander never resigns during hostilities. An
Earthman would find the very thought inconceivable."

"All right!" Drak furiously slammed down the telephone.

The two soldiers exchanged winks.

"At attention, you two," Drak said. "You're supposed to be honor
guards. Why can't you act like honor guards?"

"We haven't got weapons," one of the soldiers pointed out.

"Can't be helped. I sent what we had to the front."

"But we need them here," the soldier said earnestly. "It's bad for
morale, us not having weapons, and morale is vital for victory."

Drak hated to be lectured, but he had to accept textbook truth when it
was quoted at him.

"You may be right," he agreed. "I'll try to get some back."

He rubbed his eyes tiredly. Everything had happened so quickly!

       *       *       *       *       *

Just a week ago, Nob had walked into his store and inquired, "Drak, how
would you like to be a general?"

"I don't know," Drak had confessed honestly. "What is it and why do we
need one?"

"War starting," Nob said. "You've heard of war, haven't you? Earth
idea, _very_ Earthly. I'll explain later how it works. What do you say?"

"All right. But do you really think I'm the right type?"

"Absolutely. Besides, your hardware store is perfectly situated for the
Supreme Command Post."

But aside from the location of his hardware store, Drak had other
qualifications for leadership. For one thing, he looked like an Earth
general and this had loomed large in Nob's eyes. Drak was over six feet
tall, strongly built, solidly muscled. His eyes were gray, deep-set and
fierce; his nose was aquiline; his mouth was firm because he usually
held nails in it when he was out on a repair job.

In his uniform, Drak looked every inch a general; as a matter of fact,
he looked like several generals, for his cap came from the Earth-Mars
war of '82, his tunic was a relic of the D'eereli Campaign, his belt
was in the style of the Third Empire, his pants were a replica of the
Southern Star Front, while his shoes reminded one of the hectic days of
the Fanzani Rebellion.

But at least all his clothes were soldiers' clothes. His honor
guard had to piece out their uniforms with personal articles. They
had complained bitterly about the injustice of this, and had come
close to deserting. But Drak, after some hasty reading in Smogget's
_Leadership_, told them about the Terran doctrine of the Privileges of
Rank.

In front of him now was a report from the Allani Battle Front. He
wasn't sure what it said, since it was coded and he had neglected to
write down the code. Was it ENEMY REPULSED US WITH HEAVY LOSSES or
should it read US REPULSED ENEMY WITH HEAVY LOSSES?

He wished he knew. It made quite a difference.

The door burst open and a young corporal rushed in. "Hey, General, take
a look out the window!"

Drak started to rise, then reconsidered. Rules were rules.

"Hey, what?" he demanded.

"Forgot," the corporal said. "Hey, _sir_, take a look out the window,
huh?"

"Much better." Drak walked to the window and saw, in the distance, a
mass of ascending black smoke.

"City of Chando," the corporal said proudly. "Boy, we smacked it today!
Saturation bombing for ten hours. They can't use it for anything but a
gravel pit now!"

"Sir," Drak reminded.

"Sir. The planes are fueled up and waiting. What shall we flatten next,
huh, sir?"

"Let me see...." General Drak examined a wall map upon which the
important enemy cities were circled in red. There were Alis and Dryn,
Kys and Mos and Dlettre. Drak could think of no reason for leveling one
more than another. After a moment's thought, he pushed a button on his
desk.

"Yeah?" asked a voice over the loudspeaker.

"Which one, Ingif?"

"Kys, of course," said the cracked voice of his old hardware store
assistant. "Fellow over there owes us money and won't pay up."

"Thanks, Ingif." Drak turned to the corporal. "Go to it, soldier!"

"Yes, sir!"

The corporal hurried out.

General Drak turned back to the reports on his desk, trying again to
puzzle out what had happened at Allani. Repulsed Us? Us Repulsed? How
should it read?

"Oh, well," Drak said resignedly. "In the long run, I don't suppose it
really makes much difference."

       *       *       *       *       *

Miles away, in no man's land, stood a bunker of reinforced concrete and
steel. Within the bunker were two men. They sat on opposite sides of
a plain wooden table and their faces were stern and impassive. Beside
each man was a pad and pencil. Upon each pad were marks.

Upon the table between them was a coin.

"Your toss," said the man on the right.

The man on the left picked up the coin. "Call it."

"Heads."

It came up heads.

"Damn," said the flipper, passing the coin across the table and
standing up.

The other man smiled faintly, but said nothing.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kelly reached for the kissoff switch, then hesitated. "Look, Igor," he
said, "do we have to come out now, without charts? It gets risky, you
know. How can we tell what's out there in normal space?"

"It is a risk we have to take," Beliakoff said stonily.

"But why? What's wrong with the people of Mala having those books?
Believe me, there's nothing dirty in them."

"Look," Beliakoff said patiently, "you know that Mala is a
semi-restricted planet. Limited trading is allowed under control
conditions. No articles are allowed on the planet except those on the
approved list."

"Yeah," Kelly said vaguely. "Silly sort of rule."

"Not at all. Mala is a mirror culture. They consider Earth and its ways
to be absolute perfection. They copy everything of Earth's they can
find."

"Seems like a good idea. We _have_ got a real good culture."

"Sure, but we developed into it. The Malans simply copy what they see,
with no underlying tradition or rationale. Since they don't know why
they're doing any particular thing, they can easily misinterpret it,
warp it into something harmful."

"They'll learn," Kelly said.

"Of course they will. But in the meantime, the results can be
devastating. They always are when a primitive race tries to ape the
culture of a more advanced people. Look at what happened to the South
Sea Islanders. All they picked up was the worst of French, British and
American culture. You hardly see any more South Sea Islanders, do you?
Same with the American Indians, with the Hottentots, and plenty of
others."

"I still think you're making too much of a fuss about it," Kelly
said. "All right, I gave them a lot of books on warfare and political
organization. So what? What in blazes can they do with them?"

"The Malans," Beliakoff said grimly, "have never had a war."

Kelly gulped. "Never?"

"Never. They're a completely cooperative society. Or were, before they
started reading those warfare books."

"But they wouldn't start a war just because they've got some books on
it, and know that Earth people do it, and--yeah, I guess they would."
Quickly he set the dials. "You're right, buddy. We have an absolute
moral obligation to return and straighten out that mess."

"I knew you'd see it that way," Beliakoff said approvingly. "And
there is the additional fact that the Galactic Council could hold
us responsible for any deaths traceable to the books. It could mean
Ran-hachi Prison for a hundred years or so."

"Why didn't you say that in the first place?" Kelly flipped the kissoff
switch. The ship came out in normal space. Fortunately, there was no
sun or planet in its path.

"Hang on," Kelly said, "we're going where we're going in a great big
rush!"

"I just hope we'll be in time to salvage something," Beliakoff said,
watching as their freighter plowed its way through the sea of space
toward the unchanging stars.

       *       *       *       *       *

With evident nervousness, Nob walked down a long, dim corridor toward
the imperial chambers, carrying a small package in both hands. The
Prime Minister of the Dictatorship was a small bald man with a great
bulging forehead and small, glittering black eyes, made smaller by
steel-rimmed spectacles. He looked the very incarnation of an evil
genius, which was why he had been chosen as the Power Behind the Throne.

In point of fact, however, Nob was a mild, near-sighted, well-meaning
little man, a lawyer by occupation, known throughout Mala for his
prize rose gardens and his collection of Earth stamps. In spite of a
temperamental handicap, he didn't find his new job too difficult. The
Earth books were there and Nob simply interpreted them as literally as
possible. Whenever a problem came up, Nob thought: how would they solve
it on Earth? Then he would do the same, or as near the same as possible.

But dealing with the Empress presented problems of a unique nature.
Nob couldn't find a book entitled _Ways and Means of Placating
Royalty_. If such a book were obtainable, Nob would have paid any price
for it.

He took a deep breath, knocked and opened the door into the Royal
Chambers.

Instantly he ducked. A vase shattered against the wall behind him. Not
so good, he thought, calculating the distance by which it had missed
him. The Empress Jusa's aim was improving.

"Nob, you dirty swine!" the Empress shrieked.

"At your service, Majesty," Nob answered, bowing low.

"Where are the pearls, you insolent dolt?"

"Here, Majesty," Nob said, handing over the package. "It strained the
exchequer, buying them for you. The Minister of the Treasury threatened
to desert to the enemy. He may still. The people are muttering about
extravagance in high places. But the pearls are yours, Majesty."

"Of course." Jusa opened the package and looked at the lustrous gems.
"Can I keep them?" she asked, in a very small voice.

"Of course not."

"I didn't think so," Jusa said sadly. She had been just another Malan
girl, but had been chosen as Empress on the basis of her looks, which
were heartbreakingly lovely. It was axiomatic that an Empress should be
heartbreakingly lovely. The Malans had seen enough Earth films to know
that.

But an Empress should also be cold, calculating, cruel, as well as
gracious, headstrong and generous to a fault. She should care nothing
for her people, while, simultaneously, all she cared for was the
people. She should act in a manner calculated to make her subjects love
her in spite of and because of herself.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jusa was a girl of considerable intelligence and she wanted to be as
Earthly as the next. But the contradictions in her role baffled her.

"Can't I keep them just for a little while?" she pleaded, holding a
single pearl up to the light.

"It isn't possible," Nob said. "We need guns, tanks, planes. Therefore
you sell your jewelry. There are many Terran precedents."

"But why did I have to insist upon the pearls in the first place?" Jusa
asked.

"I explained! As Empress, you must be flighty, must possess a whim of
iron, must have no regard for anyone else's feelings, must lust for
expensive baubles."

"All right," Jusa said.

"All right, what?"

"All right, swine."

"That's better," Nob said. "You're learning, Jusa, you really are. If
you could just fluctuate your moods more consistently--"

"I really will try," promised the Empress. "I'll learn, Nob. You'll be
proud of me yet."

"Good. Now there are some problems of state which you must decide upon.
Prisoners of war, for one thing. We have several possible means for
disposing of them. First, we could--"

"You take care of it."

"Now, now," Nob chided. "Mustn't shirk your duty."

"I'm not. I am simply being arbitrary and dictatorial. _You_ solve it,
pig. And bring me diamonds."

"Yes, Excellency," Nob said, bowing low. "Diamonds. But the people--"

"I love the people. But to hell with them!" she cried, fire in her eyes.

"Fine, fine," Nob said, and bowed his way out of the room.

Jusa stood for a few moments in thought, then picked up a vase and
shattered it on the floor. She made a mental note to order several
dozen more.

Then she flung herself upon the royal couch and began to weep bitterly.

She was quite a young Empress and she had the feeling of being in
beyond her depth. The problems of the war and of royalty had completely
ended her social life.

She resented it; any girl would.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nob, meanwhile, left the palace and went home in his armored car.
The car had been ordered to protect him against assassins, who,
according to the Earth books, aimed a good deal of their plots at
Prime Ministers. Nob could see no reason for this, since if he weren't
Prime Minister, any one of a thousand men could do the job with equal
efficiency. But he supposed it had a certain symbolic meaning.

He reached his home and his wife kissed him on the cheek. "Hard day at
the palace, dear?" she asked.

"Quite hard," Nob said. "Lots of work for after supper."

"It just isn't fair," complained his wife. She was a plump, pleasant
little person and she worried continually about her husband's health.
"They shouldn't make you work so hard."

"But of course they should!" said Nob, a little astonished. "Don't
you remember what I told you? All the books say that during a war, a
Prime Minister is a harried, harassed individual, weighed down by the
enormous burden of state, unable to relax, tense with the numerous
strains of high office."

"It isn't fair," his wife repeated.

"No one said it was. But it's extremely Earthlike."

His wife shrugged her shoulders. "Well, of course, if it's Earthlike,
it must be right. Come eat supper, dear."

       *       *       *       *       *

After eating, Nob attacked his mounds of paperwork. But soon he was
yawning and his eyes burned. He turned to his wife, who was just
finishing the dishes.

"My dear," he said, "do you suppose you could help me?"

"Is it proper?" she asked.

"Oh, absolutely. The books state that the Prime Minister's wife tries
in every way possible to relieve her husband of the burden of power."

"In that case, I'll be happy to try." She sat down in front of the
great pile of papers. "But, dear, I don't know anything about these
matters."

"Rely on instinct," Nob answered, yawning. "That's what I do."

Flattered by the importance of her task, she set to work with a will.

Several hours later, she awakened her husband, who was slumbering on
the couch.

"I've got them all finished except these," she said. "In this one, I'm
afraid I don't understand that word."

Nob glanced at the paper. "Oh, propaganda. That means giving the people
the facts, whether true or false. It's very important in any war."

"I don't see why."

"It's obvious. To have a genuine Earth-style war, you need ideological
differences. That's why we chose a dictatorship and the other continent
chose a democracy. The job of propaganda is to keep us different."

"I see," she said dubiously. "Well, this other paper is from General
Heglm of Security. He asks what you are doing about the spy situation.
He says it's very serious."

"I had forgotten about that. He's right, it's reached a crisis point."
He put the paper in his pocket. "I'm going to take care of that
personally, first thing in the morning."

In the last few hours, his wife had made no less than eight Major
Policy Decisions, twenty Codifications, eight Unifications, and three
Clarifications. Nob didn't bother to read them over. He trusted his
wife's good judgment and common sense.

He went to bed that night with the feeling of a job well done. And
before he fell asleep, he figured out exactly what he would do about
the spy situation.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning, Nob's orders went out by all means of communication.
The results were gratifyingly swift, since the people of the
dictatorship were completely behind the war and dutifully loved and
hated their Empress, in whose name the order was signed.

A typical scene took place in the clubcar of the Char-Xil express. The
occupants of the car, twenty-three commuting businessmen, sealed the
doors as soon as they received Nob's order. The best-read among them, a
salesman by the name of Thrang, was elected spokesman for the group.

"Boys," said Thrang, "I guess I don't have to tell you anything about
the importance of this order. We all know what war is by now, don't we?"

"We sure do!"

"War is hell!"

"The war that the enemy thrust on us!"

"The war to start all wars!"

"That's right," Thrang said. "And I guess we've all felt the pinch
since the war started. Eh, boys?"

"I've done my part," said a man named Draxil. "When the Prime Minister
called for a cigarette shortage, I dumped twenty carloads of tobacco in
the Hunto River. Now we got cigarette rationing!"

"That's the spirit," Thrang said. "I know for a fact that others among
you have done the same with sugar, canned goods, butter, meat and a
hundred items. Everything's rationed now; everyone feels the pinch.
But, boys, there's still more we have to do. Now a spy situation has
come up and it calls for quick action."

"Haven't we done enough?" groaned a clothing-store owner.

"It's never enough! In time of war, Earth people give till it
hurts--then give some more! They know that no sacrifice is too much,
that nothing counts but the proper prosecution of the war."

The clothing-store owner nodded vehemently. "If it's Earthly, it's good
enough for me. So what can we do about this spy situation?"

"That is for us to decide here and now," Thrang said. "According to the
Prime Minister, our dictatorship cannot boast a single act of espionage
or sabotage done to it since the beginning of the war. The Chief of
Security is alarmed. It's his job to keep all spies under surveillance.
Since there are none, his department has lost all morale, which, in
turn, affects the other departments."

"Do we really need spies?"

"They serve a vital purpose," Thrang explained. "All the books agree
on this. Spies keep a country alert, on its toes, eternally vigilant.
Through sabotage, they cut down on arms production, which otherwise
would grow absurdly large, since it has priority over everything else.
They supply Security with subjects for Interrogation, Confession,
Brainwashing and Re-indoctrination. This in turn supplies data for
the enemy propaganda machine, which in turn supplies material for our
counter-propaganda machine."

       *       *       *       *       *

Draxil looked awed. "I didn't know it was so complicated."

"That's the beauty of the Earth War," Thrang said. "Stupendous yet
delicate complications, completely interrelated. Leave out one
seemingly unimportant detail and the whole structure collapses."

"Those Terrans!" Draxil said, shaking his head in admiration.

"Now to work. Boys, I'm calling for volunteers. Who'll be a spy?"

No one responded.

"Really now!" said Thrang. "That's no attitude to take. Come on, some
of you must be harboring treasonous thoughts. Don't be ashamed of it.
Remember, it takes all kinds to make a war."

Little Herg, a zipper salesman from Xcoth, cleared his throat. "I have
a cousin who's Minister of War for the Allies."

"An excellent motive for subversion!" Thrang cried.

"I rather thought it was," the zipper salesman said, pleased. "Yes, I
believe I can handle the job."

"Splendid!" Thrang said.

By then, the train had arrived at the station. The doors were unsealed,
allowing the commuters to leave for their jobs. Thrang watched the
zipper salesman depart, then hurried into the crowd. In a moment, he
found a tall man wearing a slouch hat and dark glasses. On his lapel
was a silver badge which read _Secret Police_.

"See that man?" Thrang asked, pointing to the zipper salesman.

"You bet," the Secret Policeman said.

"He's a spy! A dirty spy! Quick, after him!"

"He's being watched," said the Secret Policeman laconically.

"I just wanted to make sure," Thrang said, and started to walk off.

He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He turned. The Secret Policeman
had been joined by two tall men in slouch hats and dark glasses. They
wore badges that said _Storm Troopers_.

"You're under arrest," said the Secret Policeman.

"Why? What have I done?"

"Not a thing, as far as we know," said a Storm Trooper. "Not a single
solitary thing. That's why we're arresting you."

"Arbitrary police powers," the Secret Policeman explained. "Suspension
of search warrants and habeas corpus. Invasion of privacy. War, you
know. Come along quietly, sir. You have a special and very important
part to play in the war effort."

"What's that?"

"You have been arbitrarily selected as Martyr," said the Secret
Policeman.

Head held high, Thrang marched proudly to his destiny.

       *       *       *       *       *

The whole of Mala took to war with a will. Soon books began to appear
on the stalls: _War and You_ for the masses, _The Erotic Release of
War_ for the elite, _The Inherent Will to Destroy_ for philosophers,
and _War and Civilization_ for scholars. Volumes of personal
experiences sold well. Among them was an account of daring sabotage by
a former zipper salesman, and the dramatic story of the Martyrdom of
Thrang.

War eliminated a thousand old institutions and unburdened the people of
the heavy hand of tradition. War demonstrated clearly that everything
was as temporary as a match-flash except Art and Man, because cities,
buildings, parks, vehicles, hills, museums, monuments were as whispers
of dust after the bombers had gone.

Among the proletariat, the prevailing opinion was voiced by Zun, who
was quoted as saying at a war plant party, "Well, there ain't nothin'
in the stores I can buy. But I never made so much money in my life!"

In the universities, professors boned up on the subject in order to fit
themselves for Chairs of War that were sure to be endowed. All they had
to do was wait until the recent crop of war profiteers were taxed into
becoming philanthropists, or driven to it by the sense of guilt that
the books assured them they would feel.

Armies grew. Soldiers learned to paint, salute, curse, appreciate home
cooking, play poker, and fit themselves in every way for the post-war
civilian life. They broadened themselves with travel and got a welcome
vacation from home and hearth.

War, the Malans agreed, was certainly one of the cleverest of Earth
institutions and as educational as it was entertaining.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Nope," Beliakoff was saying, "you wouldn't like Ran-hachi Prison, not
one little bit. It's on Mercury, you know, in the twilight zone. You
blister by day and you freeze by night. Only two men have escaped from
Ran-hachi in the last hundred years, and one of them figured his curve
wrong and flipped into Sol."

"What about the other one?" Kelly asked, perspiring lightly.

"His gyros fused. He was bound straight for the Coal Sack. Take him
a couple of thousand years to get there, at his speed," Beliakoff
finished dreamily. "No, Johnny, you wouldn't like Ran-hachi."

"Okay, okay," Kelly said. "The death penalty would be better."

"They give that only as a measure of extreme clemency," Beliakoff said
with gloomy Slavic satisfaction.

"Enough! We'll straighten out Mala." There was more hope than
conviction in Kelly's voice. "Thar she lies, off to starboard."

Mala was a tiny blue and brown sphere, suddenly growing larger in their
screens.

Their radio blared on the emergency channel.

Kelly swore. "That's the Galactic patrol boat from Azolith. What's he
doing here?"

"Blockade," said Beliakoff. "Standard practice to quarantine a planet
at war. We can't touch down legally until the war's declared over."

"Nuts. We're going down." Kelly touched the controls and the freighter
began to descend into the interdicted area.

"Attention, freighter!" the radio blasted. "This is the interdictory
ship _Moth_. Heave to and identify yourself."

Beliakoff answered promptly in the Propendium language. "Let's see 'em
unscramble _that_," he said to Kelly. They continued their descent.

After a while, a voice from the patrol boat said in Propendium,
"Attention, freighter! You are entering an interdicted area. Heave to
at once and prepare to be boarded."

"I can't understand your vile North Propendium accent," Beliakoff
bellowed, in a broad South Propendium dialect. "If you people can't
speak a man's language, don't clutter up the ether with your ridiculous
chatter. I know you long-haul trampers and I'll be damned if I'll give
you any air, water, food, or anything else. If you can't stock that
stuff like any normal, decent--"

"This area is interdicted," the patrol boat broke in, speaking now with
a broad South Propendium accent.

"Hell," Beliakoff grumbled. "They've got themselves a robot linguist."

"--under direct orders from the patrol boat _Moth_. Heave to at once,
freighter, and prepare to be boarded and inspected."

       *       *       *       *       *

Beliakoff glanced at the planet looming large beneath them. He gestured
at the power control to Kelly and said, "Hello! Hello! Do you read me?
Your message is not coming across. Do you read me?"

"Stop or we'll fire!"

Beliakoff nodded. Kelly kicked in all the jets and they plummeted
toward the surface. With his pilot's sixth sense, Kelly changed course
abruptly. A blast seared past them, sealing a starboard tube for
good. Then they were in the atmosphere, traveling too fast, the hull
glowing red with friction. The heavy cruiser, built only for spatial
maneuvering, broke off its pursuit curve.

"All right, freighter. This means your license. You gotta leave
sometime."

Beliakoff shut off the radio. Kelly fired the braking jets and began to
spiral in for a landing.

As they circled, Beliakoff saw the shattered rubble and ruin where
cities had been. He saw highways filled with military columns, and, at
the distant edge of the horizon, a fleet of military planes winging
their way to a fresh target.

"What a mess!" he said. Kelly nodded glumly.

They touched down and opened the hatches. Already a crowd of Malans had
gathered. A few artists had set up their easels and were busy painting
the freighter, not because it was lovely, but because it was Terran,
which was better.

A Malan stepped forward, grinning. "Well," he asked, "what do you
think of it?"

"Of what?"

"Our war, of course. You must have noticed!"

"Oh, yes, we noticed," Beliakoff said.

"A real intercontinental war complete with ideological differences,"
the man stated proudly. "Just like the civilized planets have. You must
admit it's Earthlike."

"Exceedingly Earthlike," Kelly said. "Now take us to whoever's in
charge--quick!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The conference with Nob at the Imperial Palace began well. The Prime
Minister was overjoyed that real Earthmen had come to witness their
war. He knew very well that, by Earth standards, it was a pretty small
war. A beginner's war, really. But they were trying. Some day, with
more know-how, with better equipment, they would be able to produce a
war that would match anyone's.

"We were hampered from the start," Nob apologized, "by not knowing how
to produce atomic fission."

"That must have been confining," Kelly said, and Beliakoff winced.

"It was. Dynamite and nitroglycerin just don't have the same grandeur
and finality. The scale of demolition seems insignificant. But if you
will come with me, gentlemen, I have something here which may interest
you."

Nob ushered the Earthmen ahead of him so he could copy their
loose-jointed, rolling walk.

"Here!" he said, darting ahead and opening a door. "Behold!"

The Earthmen saw, upon an ivory pedestal, a small model of an atomic
bomb.

"We worked until we mastered it at last," Nob said proudly. "With any
luck, we'll be in production within the month and using them within the
year. Now I think I can safely say that Mala has come of age!"

Beliakoff said, "No."

"No, what?"

"No atom bombs."

"But it's Earthlike to use atomic bombs. Why--"

"This war has to end at once," Kelly said.

"You're joking!" protested Nob, looking intently at the Earthmen. But
he saw at once that they were deadly serious. He groaned and sat down.

Nob was faced with a moral dilemma of fearful proportions. On the one
hand, war was a typical Terran institution, an extremely important one,
an institution clearly worthy of emulation by the people of Mala. But
on the other hand, this Terran institution was being refuted, denied,
in fact, by two typical Terrans.

The problem was insoluble for him. And Nob remembered that, when
an ultimate crisis is at hand, that is the moment for the supreme
authority to step in.

"We must discuss this with the Empress," he said.

       *       *       *       *       *

He led them to Jusa's chambers, knocked and opened the door. Half a
dozen vases shattered around them.

"On your knees, pigs!" Jusa shrilled. "You, Nob, have you brought the
diamonds?"

"I knew I forgot something."

"Forgot them! Then how dare you show your face?" Jusa stamped her small
foot. "And these peasants--who are they? I've a good mind to lock them
up, especially that grinning red-headed ape."

Kelly's grin became a trifle strained.

"These are _Earthmen_, Your Majesty," Nob said. "Genuine Earthmen!"

"Really?" breathed Jusa.

"Really," said Nob.

"Oh, golly," Jusa said, losing all her painfully acquired imperial pose
and becoming a frightened, albeit lovely, young girl.

"Your Majesty--" Beliakoff began.

"Just call me Jusa. My gosh! Real Earthmen! I never met a real
Earthman before. I wish you had let me know in advance. My hair--"

"Is beautiful, just like yourself," Kelly said.

"I'm so glad. I think _your_ hair is beautiful, too."

Kelly turned brick-red. "You're not supposed to say that, you know."

"I _didn't_ know," Jusa said. "But I'm willing to learn. What should I
have--"

"Excuse me," Beliakoff broke in sourly. "Your Majesty, we've come to
ask you to stop the war."

"You don't mean it!" Jusa turned bewilderedly to Kelly.

"Have to do it, honey," Kelly said softly. "You folks just aren't ready
for a war yet."

Jusa's eyes flashed and she began to regain a little of her imperial
pose. "But of course we are! Look at what we've done. Go over our
battlefields, look at our cities, interrogate our refugees. You'll find
that everything has been done in strict accordance with the rules.
We're as ready for war as anyone!"

"I'm sorry, you'll have to stop it," Beliakoff said, and Kelly nodded
his agreement.

Jusa gave Nob a beseeching look, but the Prime Minister averted
his eyes. The dilemma was there again, enormous, insurmountable,
and squarely on Jusa's shoulders. To stop the war now would be
Unearthlike; to refuse the Earthmen was unthinkable.

"I just don't know," Jusa said. She looked at Kelly, who wore the
guilty expression of a man caught murdering a fawn. Then she burst into
tears and collapsed on a couch.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nob and the Earthmen looked at each other, made several helpless
gestures, and left.

"What now?" Beliakoff asked, in the corridor. "Do you think she'll stop
the war?"

Nob shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows? It's a problem without a
solution."

"But she has to make up her mind," Kelly said. "That's one of the
duties of authority."

"The Empress is aware of that. And she _will_ make up her mind, though
it could take a year or more. Unless she fails completely under the
strain."

"Poor kid," Kelly said. "She needs a man to help her out."

"Indeed she does," Nob agreed hastily. "A strong man, a wise man, a man
who could guide her and be as adviser and husband to her."

Kelly blinked, then laughed nervously. "Don't look at me! I mean she's
a cute kid, nice girl, make some man a wonderful wife, but I'm not the
marrying kind, you know what I mean?"

"Johnny," said Beliakoff, "I'd like to have a serious talk with you."

Nob led them to a vacant room and left discreetly.

"I won't do it!" Kelly declared bluntly.

"You have to," Beliakoff said. "You got us into this mess. Now you can
marry us out."

"No!"

"She'd make a wonderful wife," Beliakoff quoted Kelly's words back at
him. "Docile, pretty, but spirited. What more could you ask?"

"Freedom of choice," Kelly said grimly.

"That's for adolescents."

"Speaking."

"She'll never be able to make up her mind to stop the war unless you
marry her. Until the war ends, that interdictory ship is going to sit
in orbit, waiting for us. You haven't anything to lose," Beliakoff
added.

"I haven't?"

"Not a thing. It's a big galaxy and our freighter is always waiting."

"That's true...." Kelly admitted.

Ten minutes later, Beliakoff dragged him into the corridor. They were
joined by Nob, who ushered them back to the Empress's chambers.

"It's okay by me if it's okay by you, kid," Kelly blurted out, in
a tone that made Beliakoff shudder and made Nob smile in outright
hero-worship.

"What is all right?" Jusa asked.

"Marriage," Kelly said. "What d'ya say?"

Jusa studied his face for several seconds. "But do you love me?"

"Give it time, kid! Give it time!"

Jusa must have seen something in his expression, something behind the
embarrassment and anger. Very softly she said, "I will be most happy to
marry you."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a double-ring ceremony and authentically Terran. Beliakoff
produced a Bible from the freighter and the ancient words of the Earth
ceremony were read. When it was over, Kelly, grinning, perspiring,
nervously rubbing his hands together, turned to his bride.

"Now stop the war, honey."

"Yes, dear," Jusa said dutifully. She heaved a great sigh.

"What's wrong?" Kelly asked.

"I just tremble to think of our cities being bombed out of existence
and us not able to do anything about it because we've stopped fighting."

"What are you talking about? If we stop fighting--"

"_They_ won't!" she said. "Why should they? It's Earthlike to continue
conquering, and if we quit fighting, there'll be nothing to stop them
from conquering us completely."

"Nob!" Kelly shouted. "Igor! What can we do about this?"

Nob said, "There would appear to be only one certain solution. I can
arrange a meeting for you--" he turned to Beliakoff--"with Lanvi, the
President of the Allies."

"What would I say to him?" asked Beliakoff.

"To her," Nob corrected. "You can say, I suppose, the same sort of
thing your friend said."

Beliakoff, ashy pale, started to back away. Kelly caught him in one
meaty fist. "Okay, Mr. Fixer. Your duty is plain. Marry us out of
trouble."

"But I've got a girl friend in Minsk--"

"She forgot you years ago. Stop squirming, buddy."

"What does she look like?" Beliakoff queried in apprehension.

"_Very_ pretty," Nob said.

       *       *       *       *       *

During the double-ring ceremony, Beliakoff peered at his bride with
cautious approval. Lanvi was indeed a pretty girl and she seemed to
possess the Malan virtues of obedience, patience and fire.

As soon as the final words were spoken, the war was declared officially
over. Peace, an authentic Earth custom, was proclaimed.

"Now the real work begins," Beliakoff said. "First, we'll need a list
of the casualties."

"The what?" Nob asked.

"Casualties."

"I'm not sure I understand," said the Prime Minister.

"Casualties! The number of people killed in the warfare."

"Now wait a moment," Nob said, his voice trembling. "Do I understand
you correctly? Are you trying to tell me that civilized people kill
people in their wars? _Do you mean that they leave people in the cities
they bomb?_"

Kelly looked at Beliakoff. Beliakoff looked at Kelly.

"Lord, Lord," murmured Kelly.

Beliakoff merely gulped.

"Is it possible?" asked Nob. "Do civilized people really--"

"Of course not," said Beliakoff.

"Never," Kelly said.

Nob pursed his lips. "I've been wanting to ask a real authority, a
genuine Earthman, some questions on the subject. Our texts were by no
means complete and some parts we couldn't understand at all. Like the
matter of determining victories. That's something we couldn't figure
out. We decided you must use a complicated system of umpires. It was
too much for us, so we built a bunker in no man's land and put a man
from each side in it. They tossed coins to determine whose turn it was.
The winning side would bomb an enemy city. After the occupants had
been evacuated, of course."

"Of course," said Beliakoff.

"It worked out rather well with the coins," Nob said. "Law of averages,
in fact."

"Substantially our system," said Kelly.

"Just the way we do it," Beliakoff added.

"A few more questions, if you please," Nob said. "Jusa, would you bring
in the big _War Encyclopedia_?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Jusa and Lanvi had been gossiping on the other side of the room. They
hurried out and returned with the great book.

"Now here," Nob said, opening the volume, "it seems to imply--"

"Wait," Beliakoff broke in. He took the book from Nob's hands and
flipped through it rapidly, then turned to Kelly. In a whisper, he said
in Propendium, "It looks as though Kyne blotted out all references to
killing."

"Sure!" exclaimed Kelly, brightening. "I told you he was a
hemophiliac--a bleeder. Naturally, he'd cut out every single mention of
bloodshed!"

"This point--" Nob began.

"Later," Beliakoff said. "Right now, we'd like to get a few articles
from our spaceship." He winked at Kelly, who winked back. "It won't
take a moment and then we'll be only too happy to--"

"Oh, dear," said Nob. "You mean you _wanted_ the spaceship?"

"What?"

"Well, I assumed that you'd have no further use for it. Metal is hard
to get nowadays and it seemed only proper to erect heroic statues to
both of you, the men who brought the institution of peace to Mala. Did
I do something wrong?"

"Not at all, not at all," Kelly said. "Oh, not at all. Perfectly
delighted. Not at--"

"Johnny!" said Beliakoff.

"Sorry," Kelly apologized, a broken man.

The brides stepped forward to claim their husbands.

Peace and prosperity came to Mala, under the deft guidance of their
Terran leaders. In time, spaceships arrived and departed, but neither
man showed any particular desire to board one, for their wives--docile,
patient, yet fiery--proved more appealing than the lonely far reaches
of space.

Beliakoff sometimes pondered the opportune melting down of their
freighter. He was never able to discover who had signed the order. But
all Mala knew the saying, "An Earthman is easy to catch, but hard to
hold." He wondered whether that had been the true reason behind the
order to scrap the ship.

By this time, of course, he didn't really care; if his wife or Kelly's
had been responsible, it was all the more reason to feel appreciated.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nob knew the answer, but he had other things on his mind. He lay awake,
restless, until his wife asked worriedly what was wrong.

"I've been wondering," he said. "Those war books that the Earthmen had
us turn in--I never did understand why all those deletions were made.
You know, the ones that made us figure out a way of deciding which side
won."

"But the Earthmen said they used the very same system," she reminded
him. "And they wouldn't lie, would they?"

"They would, if it was for our good. That's what is known as diplomacy,
dear. Statesmanship. Or politics. Interchangeable terms."

She looked impressed. "Oh. And?"

"I've tried to question the crews of ships that land here. The answers
are so evasive that I can't help thinking--"

"Yes, dear?" she prompted.

"--that civilized people actually _kill_ each other in wars."

She turned a shocked face toward him. "How can you think such a thing?
What would be the advantage?"

"Advantage?" he repeated. Then his expression cleared and he fell back
on his pillow, completely relaxed. "I hadn't thought of that, dear.
None, of course. It would really be _too_ much, wouldn't it?"

"No question of it, dear," she said. "Now that that's settled, can you
go to sleep?"

There was no answer. He was already snoring peacefully.






