He darted his gaze toward Corson, who stared back unmoving at those vertical irises between double lids.
“And this is where you come in. We have forgotten the practice of war. Not the theory, because it is our custom to speculate on every kind of subject, but the hard practice. We possess fearful weapons, the very ones which the most farsighted of the Urian Princes hid in the depths of the planet over six thousand years ago. But we need a cunning, stubborn animal like you to tell us when and where to strike. I do not underestimate humans; I merely find them contemptible, which is not the same thing. And during my long nights of meditation I have been saying to myself: use against humans that keenest of weapons, another human.
“Raise no objections, man Corson. Your interest lies with us. You have been judged, condemned, and discarded by your own people. There is no safety for you among them. Whereas if you enter the service of the glorious Blue Egg of Uria you will be free, as free as any Urian, and you will come to lord it over human slaves. If you were to decide to oppose us, man Corson, your will power alone would not prevail. We are expert in forbidden sciences and we have not forgotten the experiments we carried out six thousand years ago on some of your species. I am afraid, though, that afterward you might not be much like yourself.
“And you are not the only individual at our disposal, man Corson. These days there is a considerable trade in warriors. On many worlds there are beings who desire to get rid of the overweening Security Office and who are buying mercenaries at a good price. For the most part there is nothing the latter want more than revenge. Hate for their own species multiplies their skills by ten. I hope, man Corson, for your sake and ours, that we have not been misled concerning your talents. For you are committed to a course from which there is only one way out: to win for us!”
“I understand,” Corson said.
Urians had a reputation for being talkative, and this one was no exception. But he had not mentioned what Corson most wanted to know: the date. Had he returned before or after his first visit to Uria? Did this new danger coincide with the other two, the Monster at large in the forest and Veran’s lust for conquest? Was that coincidence not far too great? Was there some compensatory principle which made it possible to delay a catastrophe, but not avoid it?
And that name, Ngal R’nda. Floria Van Nelle had uttered it: “Ngal R’nda is one of my best friends.” Since, at the time, he had attached little importance to it, it was odd that he should now recall it so distinctly.
He realized that asking for a date would be pointless; he had no idea what the year of his first visit was called in the Urian calendar. But there was one landmark he might invoke.
“Has a wild pegasone been reported recently on Uria?”
“You ask peculiar questions, man Corson. But I see no harm in answering that. No wild pegasone has been seen on this world for centuries and perhaps millennia.”
So there are two alternatives. Either all this is happening before I landed on Uria, or else it’s just afterward, while the Monster is hidden in a burrow getting ready to bear its eighteen thousand young. In the second case, the margin of error is reduced to at most six months…
“Very well,” Corson said. “You’ve convinced me. I’ll march with you. That is, if you have an army.”
“An army is an unsophisticated means of waging war.”
“What is your means, then?”
“Blackmail—assassination—propaganda.”
“Very sophisticated indeed!” Corson said ironically. “But you’re going to need an army as well.”
“We have weapons that do not require operators,” the Urian said. “From this spot I can wipe out anything on the planet from a whole city to a single twig. Or any human being, wherever he may be… including you, of course.”
“Then why do you need me?”
“You are to tell us what targets are most suitable for attack, and what rate of escalation should be adopted. Your suggestions will be carefully analyzed before being put into effect. You will also be in charge of negotiations with the humans. After that they will detest you so much you will no longer be tempted to betray us.”
“What conditions are you laying down for their surrender?”
“To begin with, nine out of ten women are to be put to death. Human breeding must be kept within reasonable bounds. To kill men would be pointless, for one man may fertilize many women. But women are the weak spot in your species.”
“They won’t let that be done to them,” Corson said. “They’ll defend themselves like demons. Humans can be very tough if they’re needled too often.”
“They will have no option,” said the Urian. “It will be that, or extermination.”
Corson scowled.
“I’m tired and hungry,” he said. “Are you intending to go to war this minute, or do I have time to rest and refresh myself… and think things over?”
“Yes, there is time,” said the Urian.
He gave a signal to the guards, who lowered their guns and closed on Corson.
“Take him away,” the old Urian said. “And treat him gently. He is worth more than his weight in element 164.”
Chapter 24
Corson was gently awakened by a Urian whose cropped crest and yellow tunic indicated he was of a low servant caste.
“Man Corson,” the native said, “you must prepare yourself for the ceremony.”
Too sleepy for the moment to ask what ceremony, Corson allowed himself to be led into an ablution room whose fitments were ill designed for humans. The water stank of chlorine and he used it sparingly; nonetheless he managed to wash and even shave. Then the Urian gave him a yellow tunic like the one he himself wore. Although it had obviously been altered specially for Corson’s benefit, the sleeves were too short and the hem dangled around his feet. The Urians’ vaunted knowledge of human anatomy did not extend to the tailor level, it appeared.
Then he was taken to a refreshment room. Human and Urian metabolisms differed so radically that what was food for one was poison for the other, and at first Corson was dubious about what was set before him. However, the giant bird reassured him.
Having sampled the food and found it better than it looked, he inquired what ceremony he was being invited to.
“A Presentation of the Egg, man Corson,” the native answered in a solemn tone.
“What egg?” Corson asked with his mouth full.
He thought the Urian had suddenly been taken ill. Chirping noises issued from his beak, which Corson assumed to be either oaths or some sort of ritual formula.
“The Most Honorable Blue Egg of the Prince!” the servant forced out at last, as though his bill were stuffed with capital letters.
“You don’t say!” Corson exclaimed in surprise.
“No human has ever witnessed a Presentation of the Egg before. You are extraordinarily lucky, and it’s a great honor that Prince R’nda is bestowing on you.”
Corson nodded. “I can believe that.”
“And now,” the Urian said, rising, “it is time to go.”
He escorted Corson to a large elliptical room, devoid of openings apart from its door. Since falling into the clutches of the Urians, Corson had not seen a single opening of any kind giving on to the exterior. This secret base must be buried far below ground.
A hundred or so Urians were crowded into the room, preserving a respectful silence. They parted to let Corson and his guide through to take their station at the front, and he noticed that those present wore tunics of different colors and were grouped by hues. Corson and the Urian servant were the only ones wearing yellow in the foremost rank. All the others were uniformly dressed in violet, shading toward blue. Corson heard a cackling noise around him and had no trouble in guessing that his neighbors must be high-class nobles if they allowed themselves to indulge in such a breach of etiquette. Turning his head, he looked toward the back of the room. Behind those in violet, others wearing red were dutifully waiting; beyond them again were more in orange, and right at the far end were a few in yellow standing with their heads bowed.