As the color drained from faces around the table, the Secretary; fumbled with the papers. After reading the same thing over twice,; he looked up at Stone. "It... it's true, Mr. Stone."
There was but a hint of a smile on Karl Arnheim's lips as he turned to the secretary. "Otto."
"Yes... yes, Mr. Arnheim?"
"As your last official act, record the following ballot result:
All officers and board members are canned. Replacing them, myself as President; Adjya Sum as Vice-president, Deerji Muszzdn, Treasurer; Cev To Linta, Secretary—"
Milton Stone stood up and slapped his hand onto the table. "You are a maniac, Arnheim, if you think you can get away with this! Stacking the board with Nuumiians? The rest of the stock holders can get this whole thing thrown into court! You're responsible!"
Arnheim pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and balled it up. Taking the paper ball between thumb and forefinger, he flicked it down the long table and watched as it came to rest against the Secretary's hand. "That's the list of officers and directors." He looked around the table, his gaze coming to rest on Stone. "Gentlemen, at this moment your shares in A&BCE are worth close to twelve hundred credits apiece. I am offering, this one time only, to buy them from you at that amount." He grinned. "I think you know what would happen to their value if even a hint of top-level scandal made it into the news, much less the courts. What shall it be, gentlemen: go out with a sure thing, or go down in a flaming wreckage of principles?" He dropped his grin. "I might add, that with my present control of A&BCE, I can deliver the orders that will destroy this corporation before one of you can make it across the street to file any kind of action."
Ambassador Sum nodded again as he watched the directors shakily signing over their shares. A fine hate; a fine hate, indeed.
TWENTY-EIGHT
May 4th, 2145
En route to Mystienya, fifty-second planet of the Nuumiian Empire, under special arrangement that will guarantee the show's minimum for the season. Reports from the advance are good...
Tom Warner stopped at the edge of the pit, his calves still aching from the steep climb. He caught his breath, looked up at Mystienya's deep purple sky, then turned and looked down into the pit. Through the haze of poisonous rock dust, he could make out a few of his people—busting the milk rock from the pit walls, gathering it into baskets, balancing the baskets upon tired backs, then trudging the steep trail to the bins at the pit's lip.
"Human!" The loudspeaker instantly froze everyone in the pit. One by one the workers realized that the guard was not addressing them and went back to work. Tom Warner looked up at the hermetically sealed tower. "Where are you bound, human?"
"Honor, I am to report to the village master at this hour."
The voice paused for what the Nuumiians called the fear moment. "Proceed, human."
He bowed his head toward the tower, then turned and headed up the slope toward the village, knowing the guard's eyes would follow him until he disappeared over the crest of the slope, in case Tom Warner was foolish enough to make a gesture. Jason had made the gesture once; hand extended, fingers spread out, palm facing the guard. None of the humans knew the meaning of the gesture to the Nuumiians, but it was the only time any of them had seen one of the creatures angry.
Tom Warner held the flat of his hand against his thigh. As he reached to top of the slope, another of the hermetically sealed guard towers came into view. Beyond it lay the village: sheet metal and plastic rows of barracks.
"Human, where are you bound?"
Tom lurched to a halt, drew his hands into fists, took two deep breaths, then looked up at the tower. "Honor, I was told to report to the village master at this hour."
The Pause. "For what purpose?"
"Honor, I do not know."
The Pause. "Proceed."
Tom stepped off, but his knees almost buckled. He shut his eyes, flexed his fingers, and took more deep breaths. Hate is not an emotion with them, he thought. It is a creed? a religion, a philosophy. He felt the knots of muscles in his back ease slightly, and he moved toward the village, not looking back.
The rock dust covering the ground thinned as he approached the village, and Tom slapped at his rags in a futile attempt to raise the powder into the air and walk from it. As he came into the center street of the village, the exact rows of featureless barracks facing it, he approached the guard tower that straddled the dusty lane. The town guard was different. "Warner, you are back from the pit too soon."
Tom shrugged. "Honor, I must report to the village master." The town guard appeared friendlier than the others, and Tom wet his dusty lips and took a chance. "Honor, do you know anything about it?" Tom wet his lips again. Friends of his had been shocked for making unnecessary communications to guards.
"I do not know, Warner. Perhaps it has to do with a new group of pit workers coming to the village."
Tom let out his breath. "Honor, my thanks." He waited for the order.
"Proceed, Warner."
Tom stepped off, mentally shaking his head. He shrugged, thinking that zookeepers took an interest in their animals once they got to know them. He turned right off the street, came to a barrack door, and opened it. He stepped into the dimly lit interior and closed the door. The hallway was short with a door on either side and a door opening onto the workers' sleeping bay at the end. Tom turned right and opened the door. A sallow-faced man, seated at a simple table, looked up from some papers, squinted his eyes, then nodded. "Come in, Tom."
Tom entered the combination office-bedroom, closed the door, and sat down on the cot against the wall, next to the table. "What did you want to see me about, Francis?"
Francis DeNare, village master, pushed thin white wisps of hair from his eyes. "Tom, we're getting in a new lot of workers for the pit. They will be billeted here at the village."
Tom chuckled and shook his head. "Where? We don't have enough cots as it is."
"We'll have to manage somehow."
"Francis, what about rations? They weren't increased with the last lot. A further cut in calorie intake might kill some of the old ones."
Francis shook his head. "No increase in rations." His eyes appeared to go out of focus, then they turned in Tom's direction.
Tom looked at the floor. "If they would feed us and give us just a little modern equipment, we could increase production by a thousand percent."
Francis smiled. "Tom, what do you suppose it is that they do with the milk rock?"
Tom shrugged. "I always supposed it was an ingredient in cement—something like that."
Francis shook his head. "The rock that we mine is taken by the members of another village to another pit, where it is dumped." "You... you're certain?"
Francis nodded. "The runaways that passed through the hills last night, they told the hands working the vegetable patch."
Tom leaned back against the wall, held his hands out, then let them drop into his lap. "Just because they hate us."
"The Nuumiians blame humans for limiting the expansion of the Empire."
"Humans didn't do it; the Quadrant Assembly—" "—Which has a majority of humans on it." Tom raised his eyebrows and nodded. "I suppose that's all that a Nuumiian needs to crank up a good hate." He looked at Francis.
"Wouldn't it have been nice—as long as the Assembly was settling the Nuumiian hash—if they had given a little thought to Mystienya?"
Francis looked back at his papers. "We were the price for three other planets—a matter of compromise. Three uninhabited worlds could be made open by the Assembly if they let Mystienya remain within the Empire."