The Mig stared at him suspiciously. "You a spy?"
He started to stand up.
"Well, so what if you are. I'm fed up. Nothin' make me feel better'n to break you—"
Bet took him by the arm. Gently pulled him down and bought him a beer.
"If you're serious," Sten said, "I got some people I want you to meet."
"To do what? Gripe like all the others?" He waved an arm at all the Migs in the bar.
"We gonna do more than gripe," Sten said.
The Mig eyed them. Then smiled a big grin. His hand reached across the table. "I'm your man."
Sten shook his hand.
"What are you called?"
"Lots of things from the clottin' supervisor. But my name's Webb."
They rose and left the bar.
"I think I finally got the idea how this whole thing works," Bet told Ida and Doc.
"The gray actions?" Ida asked. Bet nodded.
"Poor humans," Doc said, "torturing what little brain they have over the obvious."
Bet gave him a look to shave his tendrils at neck leveL Turned, and started out the door.
"Wait," Ida said.
Bet stopped.
"Doc," Ida said. "You're the all-seeing being, but sometimes you miss what's in front of your pudgy little face."
"Such as?"
"Like maybe we ought to find out what Bet has on her mind."
Doc thought about it, tendrils wiggling. Then exuded his warmest feelings at Bet. "My error," he said. "Blame it on genetic tendencies to rip and tear."
Mollified, Bet returned and settled into a chair. "What I was thinking about," she said, "was the ultimate gray action. For Migs."
"Like?" Ida asked.
"Like the old legend that's been going around Vulcan since the first Mig."
"Legends?" Doc said. "I like legends. There's so much to build on."
Bet took a deep breath.
"Story says someday there's gonna be a Mig revolt. A successful revolt led by an offworlder who was once a Mig himself."
Doc was still feeling a little slow—his apology had put him off.
But Ida got it right away. "You mean Sten?"
"Yes. Sten."
"Ah," Doc said, finally getting it. "The mythical redeemer. Sten leads the way to salvation."
"Something like that," Bet said.
"The perfect rumor," Ida said. "We spread the word that the redeemer is here." She looked at Doc. "Have we reached that point yet?"
"Yes," Doc said. "It's the perfect intermediate stage."
Bet hesitated. "One problem."
"Such as?" Doc was anxious to be about his work.
"What will Sten think about it?"
Ida shrugged. "Who cares? Just wish it were me. There's a lot of money in redemption."
The rumor spread like a virus colony on a petri dish. All over Vulcan, Migs were tense, angry, waiting for something to happen. But knowing, still, that nothing ever would. Without prodding, the dissension would dissipate to everyday acceptance.
"You see?" the old Mig told his grandchildren. "It's like I been tellin' your dad all along. There is a way off Vulcan. And clot the Company."
His son and daughter-in-law ignored the obscenity. Nodded to their kids. Gramps was right.
"And like I been sayin' all the time, it's a Mig that'll shove our contracts right up the Company's—"
"Dad," his daughter-in-law warned.
"Tell us about him, gramps," a child said. "Tell us about the Mig."
"Well, to begin with, he's just like us. A workin' clot. And then he got offworld. But he never forgot us, and. . ."
"Ah didna ken Ah was servin' wi' th' Redeemer," Alex said. He bowed ceremoniously and held the mug out to Sten.
"Sharrup," Sten growled. Bet giggled.
"Ay, Bet. Tis wonderful ye brought th' weenin' hole in m'theology to light. Here Ah was, servin' in darkness, havin' naught save th' Trinity t' keep me safe."
"Trinity?" Bet asked.
"Aye." Alex bent, and picked a struggling Sten up by the hips. Held him high overhead then to either side, then dumped him back in the chair. "In nomine Bobby Burns, John Knox, an' me gran'sire."
For once, Sten couldn't find an Imperial obscenity dirty enough to fit the occasion.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
"BEGGING YOUR PARDON, sir," the Counselor said, "but you don't know what it's like out there. Lies. Rumors. Every Mig ready to cut your throat."
"Nonsense," the Baron said. "It's a normal Mig stage."
The Counselor sat in Thoresen's garden, waiting for the ax to fall. But it wasn't what he expected. Here he was with a drink in his hand, chatting with the Baron. That's not what usually happened when Thoresen summoned an employee. Especially with all those stories going around about the Counselor.
"I asked you here," Thoresen said, "because of your well-known frankness."
The Counselor beamed.
"And that matter," Thoresen continued, "of certain, ah, shall we say alleged indiscretions on your part."
The Counselor's face fell. It was all a setup after all.
"There have been accusations," Thoresen said, "that you have been dipping a bit too deep into Mig credits."
"I never—" the Counselor began.
Thoresen held up a hand, silencing him.
"It's expected," Thoresen said. "It's the way it's always been done. The Counselors make a little extra for their loyal efforts, without cost to the Company, and casual labor contracts are extended without expensive book work."
The Counselor relaxed a bit. The Baron's description was accurate. An informal system that had worked for centuries.
"My difficulty," the Counselor said, "is the rumors. I promise you—on my life—I've never taken the amount I'm being accused of."
Again, Thoresen motioned him to silence. "Of course, you haven't. You are one of my most trustworthy—well, at least, discreet—employees."
"Then why—?"
"Why did I summon you?"
"Yes, sir."
Thoresen rose and began pacing. "Actually, I'm calling in all of my key officers. The Migs are moaning and groaning again. It happened in my grandfather's time. And my father's. I'm not worried about them. What I'm concerned about is the overreaction of my own people."
The Counselor thought about the ugly looks he had seen lately. It was more than Mig grumbling. He started to say something. Then decided not to.
"As I said," Thoresen continued, "it's just a cycle. A normal cycle. But it must be handled delicately."
"Yes, sir," the Counselor said.
"The first thing to remember," Thoresen said, "is not to aggravate them. Let them blow a little hot. Ignore what they say. And identify the leaders. We'll deal with them after things calm down." He looked at the Counselor. "Am I understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Now I plan to take a personal hand in all this."
"Yes, sir."
"I want all incidents—no matter how minor—brought to my attention."
"Yes, sir."
"No action—no matter how minor—is to be taken without my go-ahead."
"Yes, sir."
"Then it's settled. Now, is there anything else I should know about?"
The Counselor hesitated, then said, "Uh, yes. The broadcasts on the Mig radio. They've been a little heavy-handed?"
"An excellent example of what I've been talking about. Overreaction. The people responsible have denied releasing that information, but facts are facts."
"If I may ask—what did you do?"
Thoresen smiled. "Dismissed them. And ordered all broadcasts cleared by me."
There was an uncomfortable pause, until the Counselor realized he had been dismissed. He rose, almost bowing.
"Thank you for your time, sir."