The Friendlies, as I said, having bought back the troops they had lost as prisoners to the Cassidan forces under Kensie Graeme, had immediately reinforced them and encamped them outside the North Partition capital of Moreton, as an occupation force in demand of interplanetary credits due them.
The credits due, of course, were from the government of the now defeated and nonexistent North Partition rebels who had hired them. But, while there was nothing exactly legal about it, this was not uncommon practice between the stars, to hold a world ransom for any debt contracted off-world by any of its people.
The reason, of course, was that special currency between worlds which was the services of individual human units, whether as psychiatrists or soldiers. A debt contracted for the services of such units by one world from another had to be paid by the debtor world, and could not be repudiated by a change of governments. Governments would have proved too easy to change, if that had been a way out of interplanetary debts.
In practice, it was a winner-pay-all matter, if conflicting interests on a single world hired help from off-world. Something like the reverse of a civil suit-at-law to recover monetary damages, where the loser is required to pay the court costs of the winner. Officially, what had happened was that the Friendly government, being unpaid for the soldiers it had lent the rebel government, had declared war on New Earth as a world, until New Earth as a world should make up the bad debt contracted by some of her inhabitants.
In actuality, no hostilities were involved, and payment would, after a due amount of haggling, be forthcoming from those New Earth governments most directly involved. In this case, the South Partition government, mainly, since it had been the winner. But meanwhile, Friendly troops were in occupation upon New Earth soil; and it was in self-assignment to write a series of feature articles about this that I arrived there, some eight months after I had left.
I got in to see their Field Commander with no trouble this time. It was evident among the bubble-plastic buildings of the cantonment they had set up in an open area that the Friendly military were under orders to give as little irritation to non-Friendlies as possible. I heard no cant spoken by any of the soldiers, from the cantonment gate clear into and including the office of the Field Commander himself. But in spite of the fact he "youed" instead of "thoued" me, he was not happy to see me.
"Field Commander Wassel," he introduced himself. "Sit down, Newsman Olyn. I've heard about you."
He was a man in his late forties or early fifties with close-cropped, pure gray hair. He was built as square as the lower half of a Dutch door and had a heavy, square jaw which had no trouble looking grim. It was looking grim now, for all he was trying to appear unconcerned - and I knew the cause of the worry that was making his expression a rebel against his intentions.
"I supposed you would have," I said, grim enough in my own way. "So I'll make one point clear by reminding you right from the start of the impartiality of the Interstellar News Services."
He had sat back down.
"We know about that," he said, "and I'm not suggesting any bias on your part against us, either, Newsman. We regret the death of your brother-in-law and your own wounding. But I'd like to point out that the News Services, in sending you, of all Guild members, to do a series of articles on our occupation of this New Earth territory-"
"Let me make myself perfectly clear!" I broke in on him. "I chose to do this assignment, Commander. I asked to be able to do it!"
By this time his face was grim as a bulldog's, with little pretense remaining. I stared as bitterly straight across his desk into his eyes.
"I see you don't understand, Commander." I rapped the words out in as metallic a tone as I could; and - to my ear, at least - the tone was good. "My parents died when I was young. I was raised by an uncle and it was the goal of my life to be a Newsman. To me, the News Services are more important than any institution or human being on any of the sixteen civilized worlds. The Creed of the members of the Guild is carried in my heart, Commander. And the keystone article of that Creed is impartiality - the crushing down, the wiping out of any personal feeling where that might conflict with or influence to the slightest degree the work of a Newsman."
He continued to look grim at me from across the desk; and, gradually it seemed to me, a hint of doubt crept into that iron visage of his.
"Mr. Olyn," he said at last; and the more neutral title was a tentative lightening of the formal sword's-point attitude with which we had begun our talk. "Are you trying to tell me that you're here to do these articles as proof of your lack of bias toward us?"
"Toward you, or any people or things," I said, "in accordance with the Newsman's Creed. This series will be a public testimony to our Creed, and consequently to the benefit of all who wear the cloak."
He did not believe me even then, I think. His good sense warred with what I was telling him; and the assumption of selflessness on my part must have had a boastful ring in the mouth of someone he knew to be a non-Friendly.
But, at the same time, I was talking his language. The harsh joy of self-sacrifice, the stoic amputation of my own personal feelings in the pursuit of my duty rang true to the beliefs he had lived with all his own life.
"I see," he said at last. He got to his feet and extended his hand across the desk as I rose, too. "Well, Newsman, I cannot say that we are pleased to see you here, even now. But we will cooperate with you within reason as much as possible. Though any series reflecting the fact that we are here as unwelcome visitors upon a foreign planet is bound to do us harm in the eyes of the people of the sixteen worlds."
"I don't think so this time," I said shortly as I shook hands. He let go of my hand and looked at me with a sudden renewal of suspicion.
"What I plan to do is an editorial series," I explained. "It'll be titled The Case for Occupation by the Friendly Troops on New Earth, and it'll restrict itself completely to exploring the attitudes and positions of you and your men in the occupation force."
He stared at me.
"Good afternoon," I said.
I went out, hearing his half-mumbled "Good afternoon" behind me. I left him, I knew, completely uncertain as to whether he was sitting on a carton of high explosive or not.
But, as I knew he would, he began to come around, when the first of the articles in the series began to appear in the Interstellar News releases. There is a difference between an ordinary article of reportage and an editorial article. In an editorial article, you can present the case for the Devil; and as long as you dissociate yourself from it personally, you can preserve your reputation of a freedom from bias.
I presented the case for the Friendlies, in the Friendlies' own terms and utterances. It was the first time in years that the Friendly soldiers had been written about in the Interstellar News without adverse criticism; and, of course, to the Friendlies, all adverse criticism implied a bias against them. For they knew of no half-measures in their own way of life and recognized none in outsiders. By the time I was halfway through the series, Field Commander Wassel and all his occupation forces had taken me as close to their grim hearts as a non-Friendly could be taken.
Of course, the series evoked a howl from the New Earthians that their side of the occupation also be written up. And a very good Newsman named Moha Skanosky was assigned by the Guild to do just that.
But I had had the first innings at bat in the public eye; and the articles had so strong an effect that they almost convinced me, their writer. There is a magic in words when they are handled, and when I had finished the series I was almost ready to find in myself some excuse and sympathy for these unyielding men of a Spartan faith.