PERPETUAL MOTION
L. Sprague de Camp
I.
"My good senhor," said Abreu, "where the devil did you get those? Raid half the Earth's pawnshops?" He bent closer to look at the decorations on Felix Borel's chest. "Teutonic Order, French Legion of Honor, Third World War, Public Service Award of North America, Fourth Degree of the Knights of St. Stephen, Danish Order of the Elephant, something-or-other from Japan, Intercollegiate Basketball Championship, Pistol Championship of the Policia do Rio de Janeiro… Tamates, what a collection!"
Borel smiled sardonically down on the fat little security officer. "You never can tell. I might be a basketball champion."
"What are you going to do, sell these things to the poor ignorant Krishnans?"
"I might, if I ran short. Or maybe I'll just dazzle them so they'll give me whatever I ask for."
"Humph. I admit that in that private uniform, with all those medals and orders, you're an awe-inspiring spectacle."
Borel, amusedly watching Abreu fume, knew that the latter was sore because he had not been able to find any excuse to hold Borel at Novorecife. Thank God, thought Borel, the universe is not yet so carefully organized that personal influence can't perform a trick or two. He would have liked to do Abreu a bad turn if for no better reason than that he harbored an irrational prejudice against Brazzies, as though it were Abreu's fault that his native country was the Earth's leading power.
Borel grinned at the bureaucrat. "You'd be surprised how helpful this—uh—costume of mine has been. Flunkeys at spaceports assume I'm at least Chief of Staff of the World Federation. 'Step this way, senhor! Come to the head of the line, senhor!' More fun than a circus."
Abreu sighed. "Well, I can't stop you. I still think you'd have a better chance of survival disguised as a Krishnan, though."
"And wear a green wig, and false feelers on my forehead? No thanks."
"That's your funeral. However, remember Regulation 368 of the Interplanetary Council rules. You know it?"
"Sure. 'It is forbidden to communicate to any native resident of the planet Krishna any device, appliance, machine, tool, weapon, or invention representing an improvement upon the science and technics already in existence upon this planet…' Want me to go on?"
"Ndo, you know it. Remember that while the Via-gens Interplanetarias will ordinarily let you alone once you leave Novorecife, we'll go to any length to prevent and punish any violation of that rule. That's Council orders."
Borel yawned. "I understand. If the type has finished X-raying my baggage, I'll be pushing off. What's the best route to Mishe at present?"
"You could go straight through the Koloft Swamps, but the wilder tribes of the Koloftuma sometimes kill travelers for their goods. You'd better take a raft down the Pichide to Qou, and follow the road southwest from there to Mishe."
"Obrigado. The Republic of Mikardand is on a gold standard, isn't it?"
"Pois sim."
"And what's gold at Novorecife worth in terms of World Federation dollars on Earth?"
"Oh, Deus meu! That takes a higher mathematician to calculate, what with freight and interest and the balance of trade."
"Just approximately," persisted Borel.
"As I remember, a little less than two dollars a gram."
Borel stood up and shook back his red hair with a characteristic gesture. He gathered up his papers. "Adeus, Senhor Cristovao; you've been most helpful."
He smiled broadly as he said this, for Abreu had obviously wanted to be anything but helpful and was still gently simmering over his failure to halt Borel's invasion of Krishna.
The next day found Felix Borel drifting down the Pichide on a timber raft under the tall clouds that paraded across the greenish sky of Krishna. Next to him crouched the Kolofto servant he had hired at Novorecife, tailed and monstrously ugly.
A brisk shower had just ended. Borel stood up and shook drops off his cloak as the big yellow sun struck them. Yerevats did likewise, grumbling in broken Gozashtandou: "If master do like I say, put on poor man clothes, could take towboat and stay close to shore. Then when rain come, could put up tarpaulin. No get wet, no be afraid robbers."
"That's my responsiblity," replied Borel, moving about to get his circulation going again. He gazed off to starboard, where the low shore of the Pichide broke up into a swarm of reedy islets. "What's that?" he asked, pointing.
"Koloft Swamps," said Yerevats.
"Your people live there?"
"No, not by river. Further back. By river is all uj-ero." (He gave the Kolofto name for the quasi-human people of the planet, whom most Earthmen thought of simply as Krishans because they were the dominant species.) "Robbers," he added.
Borel, looking at the dark horizontal stripe of reeds between sky and water, wondered if he had been wise to reject Yerevats's advice to buy the full panoply of a garm or knight. Yerevats, he suspected, had been hoping for a fancy suit of armor for himself. Borel had turned down the idea on grounds of expense and weight; suppose one fell into the Pichide in all that stove-piping? Also, he now admitted to himself, he had succumbed to Terran prejudice against medieval Krishman weapons, since one Terran bomb could easily wipe out a whole Krishnan city and one gun mow down a whole army. Perhaps he had not given enough weight to the fact that, where he was going, no Terran bombs or guns would be available.
Too late now for might-have-beens. Borel checked over the armament he had finally bought: a sword for himself, as much a badge of status as a protection. A cheap mace with a wooden handle and a star-shaped iron head for Yerevats. Sheath knives of general utility for both. Finally, a crossbow. Privately Borel, no swashbuckler, hoped that any fighting they did would be at as long a range as possible. He had tried drawing a longbow in the Outfitting Shop at Novorecife, but in his unskilled grip it bob-bled about too much and would have required more practice than he had time for.
Borel folded his cloak, laid it on his barracks bag, and sat down to go over his plans again. The only flaw he could see lay in the matter of getting an entre to the Order of Qarar after he arrived at Mi-she. Once he had made friends with members of the Brotherhood, the rest should be easy. By all accounts, the Mikardanduma were natural-born suckers. But how to take that first step? He would probably have to improvise after he got there.
Once he had gotten over that first hurdle, his careful preparation and experience in rackets like this would see him through. And the best part would be that he would have the laugh on old Abreu, who could do absolutely nothing about it. Since Borel considered honesty a sign of stupidity, and since Abreu was not stupid for all his pompous ways, Borel assumed that Abreu must be out for what he could get like other wise joes, and that his moral attitudes and talk of principles were mere hypocritical pretence.
"Ao!" The shout of one of the raftmen broke into Borel's reverie. The Krishnan was pointing off towards the right bank, where a boat was emerging from among the islets.
Yerevats jumped, up, shading his eyes with his hairy hand. "Robbers!" he said.
"How can you tell from here?" asked Borel, a horrid fear making his heart pound.
"Just know. You see," said the Koloftu, his tail twitching nervously. He looked appealingly at Borel. "Brave master kill robbers? No let them hurt us?"
"Sh-sure," said Borel. He pulled out his sword halfway, looked at the blade, and shoved it back into its scabbard, more as a nervous gesture than anything else.
"Ohe!" said one of the raftmen. "Think you to fight the robbers?"
"I suppose so," said Borel.