“That—ah—that isn’t the idea,” Dr. Pine said, bending his fingers and rocking from toes to heels. “I—ah—I want to do a little anthropology—study them in the life….”
“Why?” Chet demanded. “I can tell you all about them. I can tell you what they did to me, too! They don’t deserve to live! And this planet won’t be safe for spacemen till they’re dead. Why waste time studying them? It isn’t as if you were a professional anthropologist, sir—didn’t you give me medical care?”
“Yes…. But I do anthropology, too. Medical help—ah—gains the confidence of the people….”
“You mean—?” Chet was at first incredulous, then outraged. “You mean you’re not going to punish them?”
“That’s right,” Dr. Pine said, smiling.
“That’s wrong!” Chet contradicted.
Cheeks burning, he turned to Commander Seymour. “How about you, sir? Do you want your men chained to a post if they get captured? Do you want me to dismiss three years of torture as a mistake, or something? Do you want—”
“Here, here!” Commander Seymour said. He didn’t raise his voice. But as he rose from the cot, Chet rose with him, and found himself at attention. They eyed each other.
“Relax,” Dr. Pine suggested. “Please sit down—both of you.”
Commander Seymour obeyed his subordinate. But Chet, still standing, still angry, turned hotly on the doctor.
“I can’t just sit and let you talk about rewarding the Agvars for torturing me!” he cried. “We don’t have to appease them—they can’t fight. You don’t have to be afraid—”
“That’ll do, Barfield!” Commander Seymour was on his feet again, and his tone was sharp. It quieted Chet instantly.
In silence he watched Commander Seymour motion Dr. Pine to follow him out the door. Someone locked it after them.
Alternately tossing on the cot and pacing the floor, Chet seethed for hours. His first interview with the new C.O., and two bawlings-out in five minutes! Because of Pine—Pine, who kept him confined in this room, seeing no one but the attendants, having his meals alone….
When a day passed, and then two, and he felt his strength returning, Chet was sure that Dr. Pine kept him out of the wardroom and away from the other officers only as punishment. Three years a prisoner—and a prisoner still! By the time Commander Seymour came to see him again, Chet had spent hours plotting revenge.
“Barfield,” the commander said, “Dr. Pine is going—alone—to the village you escaped from. He’ll pretend he’s you, or someone like you—whichever he can get away with. So here’s your chance for a little fresh air—you can guide us to the village.”
“Does that mean I go on active duty, sir?”
“Not quite. Dr. Pine hasn’t released you from sickbay.”
Pine again! Pine found him good enough to imitate, it seemed, but not good enough to put on duty.
Suddenly Chet saw the possibilities. So Pine was going to impersonate him? Then Pine would be taken for an escaped sacrifice, a prisoner who’d killed a witch-doctor!
Tell him? Huh. Let him find out the hard way! Then even he, yellow as he was, would want revenge on the Agvars. If he survived their welcome….
“I’ll be glad to go, sir,” Chet said.
They brought him fatigues, not a dress uniform. But fatigues and shoes—even tight ones—were clothing, at least. And clothing would change his appearance. The Agvars had never seen him dressed, nor, since his first days, with a haircut and shave. Whether Pine’s impersonation worked or not, Chet saw no danger for himself in approaching the village. But he wondered how it was to be managed.
He was told the plan when Commander Seymour and Dr. Pine met him outside by the ship’s tail. The commander, who was armed, and the doctor, already naked except for a pair of slippers and a sunlamp tan, would go with him by the shortest route direct to the village. But only Dr. Pine would enter it.
Commander Seymour explained Chet’s part—and his own. “Barfield,” he said, “I want you to find and point out some kind of game animal they use for food. I count on killing something after we come under the Agvars’ observation. That should show off our weapon-superiority—and pave the way for a feast.”
“No medical stuff?” Chet asked sarcastically. “I thought Dr. Pine was supposed to cure all their ills, not give them indigestion.”
“He has to get their confidence before he can treat them,” Commander Seymour explained seriously. “And on a strange planet like this, he’s taking quite a chance to try treatment at any time: if it fails, they’re apt to accuse him of murder!”
Chet said nothing. But he felt as if he’d drawn a wild card in a poker game.
They’d entered the woods. Even before that, Dr. Pine had lagged because his slippers kept falling off, and now he brought up the rear. Chet, in the lead, took a last long look at the ship before the trees and mosses cut off his view.
He went on slowed by vague reluctance. He didn’t like this forest. The trees dwarfed and oppressed him. Old fears began to stir and gnaw, but at new places.
Perhaps the two men he guided would stand together against him. If so, revenge on one would cut him off from both as sharply as the forest cut him off from the ship….
Well, it was worth it! They hadn’t put him on duty, hadn’t accepted him as one of themselves…. He couldn’t be cut off much more than he was already!
And Seymour might listen to reason. After all, he was a practical man, a leader. And Pine was yellow!
“What’s Pine after, sir?” Chet asked over his shoulder. “Why take these risks you’ve mentioned?”
“Well, partly for safety: if we kill any Agvars, we’re likely to have to kill them all, or have the survivors to contend with indefinitely. That might cost us some casualties…. And of course there’s the research angle, but that’s out of my line.”
“What’s the matter with punishment, sir—discipline? You use discipline on your crew—why not on their enemies?”
“Because the men understand the rules and the penalties. The Agvars don’t.”
“Kill them, sir! That they’ll understand!”
“No!” Commander Seymour spoke sharply. “If they don’t fight back, that’s cold-blooded slaughter. If they do, it’s war. I don’t hold with butchery, Barfield, and I certainly won’t risk casualties just to give you a cheap feeling of satisfaction!”
He couldn’t escape. Commander Seymour, looking from over Chet’s shoulder like a walking sneer, stuck close. But he gave the impression of following a man who smelled bad.
Was he? Chet wondered.
Wondering, he unconsciously hung his head, slowed—stopped. Dr. Pine caught up. He and Commander Seymour, faintly breathless from the trying need to regulate their respiration consciously, looked at Chet questioningly.
Again they were sizing him up. Suddenly Chet wished he could go back to that first interview in the sickbay, and change all the things he’d said.
“We can’t go on!” he blurted. “You don’t know what you’re getting into, Doctor!”
“Oh?” said Dr. Pine agreeably. “I know more than you think, young feller.” He smiled encouragingly.
“That—that I’ve killed a witch-doctor? That you may be taken for a murderer?”
“Sure! You—ah—you talked about it under drugs. We… weren’t spying, Chet. We just wanted you to tell your story without reliving all the agony. It wasn’t intended as—ah—a trap….” He massaged his fingers apologetically.
“No….” Chet agreed. “But-I-was-trying-to-lead-you-into-one!”
Had he said that aloud? Chet couldn’t be sure.