“Subjects have an effective defensive force not realized in the early scouting reports,” he told the Set. “Their weapons, while slow, are of an extremely high order and in many ways inconsistent with their past history. Obviously, the relatively static culture that we found was atypical of the races involved. Such weapons as these, and the highly unorthodox methodology employed—much of which had obvious nonmilitary applications not reflected in their technological level are quite obviously a product of a savage evolution. Although apparently at Level One evolution—peaceful, highly developed, relatively static, as we have found elsewhere—they are not so. We depended too much on past models. These are at least Level Three cultures—barbarians, if you will, wild animals—with a convincing veneer of Level One.”
“Such a finding is inconsistent,” the Set objected. “A Level Three culture would continually war, continually fight among itself. We are faced with an affront to the laws of nature if your information is correct—a pack of ferocious annuals who have reached a working compromise. We could accept that of one race perhaps, but there are fourteen totally different types of life-form. It is against the laws of historical evolution. Such a civilization as is represented by this ‘Com’ should be at the highest level, beyond wars or threats of wars; it should be as it observably is, in social stasis, at precisely the level where the only possible advancement is Dreel assumption of control.”
“Nevertheless,” The Recorder responded, “they have a stasis reality and yet did not destroy the weapons of their barbarian past—and, most incredibly, did not lose the knowledge or will to use them. This is a fact. More, it applies to all of them. Therefore the different races are cooperating with each other against us.”
The Set remained silent for a moment. The Recorder waited, still patient, knowing that within the heart of the massive mother ship the Set—countless Dreel without body—were interacting, searching for answers, devising plans. It was a giant live, organic computer with billions of years of wisdom and experience accounted for among its myriad components.
One of the things the Dreel had learned in all those years was pragmatism; it was the last refuge of the puzzled, and it worked.
“Much work will be done to explain this anomaly,” the Set announced at last. “It is possible that laws of historical evolution do not apply universally as they did to our birth-galaxy. Therefore, faced with a civilization technologically capable of detecting us, further passive infiltration is hereby ended. If it is a Level Three we are dealing with, then we must counter it as we would a Level Three culture anywhere, no matter its outward appearance.”
“That is a dangerous road,” The Recorder pointed out. “Although slower than we, they successfully destroyed twelve of our ships on the Madalin attack to no losses on their side. Our fleet numbers under forty thousand ships, our factory-ship capacity is limited, and we do not control sufficient worlds to use their own facilities.”
The Set was actually shocked. “To suggest that the Dreel might lose to such evolutionary inferiors!…”
The Recorder became alarmed. “No, no! I mean nothing of the sort! Only that the most submissive pet might still bite, kick, or otherwise injure the master.”
“We are aware of that,” the Set replied coldly. “Know that superior numbers are not always the answer. They are on the defensive, not we. They must meet our threat. The twelve ships lost were lost because they had to face a preset gauntlet. The situation will be reversed. Be at ease, report to Medical. Go.”
Even as The Recorder left, the Set was ordering that, while undergoing medical check, additional Dreel be added to his system to counterbalance the obvious alienation The Recorder had suffered while in the Com. The historical anomaly had obviously unhinged him. Recombination was needed. Never before had the Dreel faced this sort of society; never before had it been at such a disadvantage. The victory here would be all the greater for the difficulty the Com presented. A herd might trample a warder, but never the race of warders. Now was the time for the Dreel to show its true superiority, which was power.
On the Freighter Hoahokim
They called him Gypsy, nothing more. At all, quiet man, dark-complected and without the almost universal Oriental cast of the human race, he had a strong Roman nose and dark, flashing eyes that were a hypnotic mask. Gypsy was not a Com Policeman; in fact, he seemed to hate all authority and authority figures. Marquoz had run into him some years before on a backwater planet where Gypsy was playing his pipe and passing the hat. That had been the first time Marquoz had performed the dance, impromptu, and they became fast friends. Even now, the Chugach knew little about his human companion and understood less. Deep down, though, each seemed to sense a kindred spark in their attitudes toward themselves and others.
They had hit upon the act almost at once, and it proved even more effective when they discovered that, on most planets, people took the little dragon for some sort of exotic animal—not so unusual when you consider that most Com citizens never left the planet of their birth and knew as little about elsewhere as ordinary people had since time immemorial.
Marquoz was snoozing in the stateroom while Gypsy strolled on the deck. The Chugach awoke with a snort and a tiny puff of smoke from his nostrils as the door opened and the man entered. There was no pretense at being a pet on ship; spacefarers generally recognized all the races.
One reptilian lid popped open and watched as the man entered. “So? Find anything you didn’t find on the last three thousand ships we’ve been on?”
Gypsy flopped on the bunk, sighed, and spat. “Naw. I got up to the passenger lounge and there was one of those superwomen there—the ones with tails, you know?—spoutin’ all the religious guff. Maybe I should’a gone into the religion racket—lots of bucks and an easy life. I did do some faith healing once.”
Both dragon eyes popped open. “You? A faith healer?” Again the smoky snort, this time of derisive amusement.
Gypsy’s shaggy head nodded slightly. “Yeah. Great scam. Whip ’em all up, sing a lotta hymns, then summon the sick to be cured. Put a shill or two in the crowd so’s you can have a couple of real cures to get things started. Bums’ll do it for a fiver—good actors, too, if you don’t pay ’em until after the scam. Who knows? If you actually cure anybody legit you make a fortune; if you don’t, well, it’s because they didn’t have enough faith. Part of the secret of a good scam—always put the blame for the breakdown on the mark.”
“Did you really cure anybody?” Marquoz asked, skeptical but interested.
“Oh, sure, one or two here and there,” Gypsy responded matter-of-factly. “The mind can cure a lot of ills on its own if the person really believes. Hell, I can stop my bleeding at will and refuse to recognize pain—the needle scam, you remember.”
The Chugach nodded. “I still don’t know how you do that. Must be something different in our two races. Put a needle into me anywhere and it hurts like hell. I’m still feeling the Dreel immunization shot.”
Gypsy chuckled. “Naw, I don’t think it’s anything racial. I think anybody with a good brain can do it. It’s really willpower.”
Marquoz shrugged. “Have it your way. No one of my race has come close to it. I think there’s more to it than you believe—something humans can do, and perhaps some others, but not we, any more than you can snort fire and smoke.”
“Have it your own way.” Gypsy sighed, then changed the subject. “That Olympian is really a stunner. All the attributes of every dream woman anybody can imagine, but I can’t get turned on by her. There’s something about her—other than the horse tail, of course—that just isn’t human. In some way I think she’s a lot less human that you, Marq.”