“A thousand years ago, a colony of one hundred persons was left here on Texcoco. It will one day be of scholarly interest to trace them down through the centuries, but at present the task does not interest us. This expedition has been sent to recontact you, now that you have populated Texcoco and made such adaptations as were necessary to survive here. Our basic task is to modernize your society, to bring it to an industrialized culture.”
Plekhanov’s eyes went to Taller’s son. “I assume you are a soldier?”
Taller said, “This is Reif, my eldest, and by our custom, second in command of the People’s armies. As Khan, I am first.”
Reif nodded coldly to Plekhanov. “I am a soldier.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “And willing to die to protect the People.”
“Indeed,” Plekhanov rumbled. “As a soldier you will be interested to know that our first step will involve the uniting of all the nations and tribes of this planet. Not a small task. There should be opportunity for you.”
Taller said, “Surely you speak in jest. The People have been at war for as long as scribes have records and never have we been stronger than today, never larger. But to conquer the world! Surely you jest.”
Plekhanov grunted ungraciously. He looked over at the lanky Barry Watson, a seeming youth, now leaning negligently against the wall, his submachine gun, however, at the easy ready. “Watson, you’re our military expert. Have you any opinions as yet?”
“Yes, sir,” Watson said. “Until we can get iron weapons and firearms into full production, I suggest the phalanx for their infantry. They have the horse, but the wheel seems to have gone out of use. We’ll introduce the chariot and also heavy carts to speed up logistics. We’ll bring in the saddle too, for better lance action. I have available for study the works of every cavalry leader from Tamerlane to Jeb Stuart. Yes, sir, I have some ideas.”
Plekhanov pursed his heavy lips. “From the beginning we’re going to need manpower on a scale never dreamed of locally. We’ll adapt a policy of expansion. Those who join us freely will become members of the State with full privileges. Those who resist will be made prisoners of war and used for shock labor on the roads and in the mines. However, a man works better if he has a goal, a dream. Each prisoner will be freed and become a member of the State after ten years of such work.”
He turned to his subordinates. “Roberts and Hawkins, you will begin tomorrow to seek the nearest practical sources of iron ore and coal. Wherever you discover them, we’ll direct our first military expeditions. Chessman and Cogswell, you’ll assemble their best artisans and begin their training in such basic advancements as the wheel.”
He looked to Isobel Sanchez. “Doctor Sanchez, you’ll immediately establish a hospital and laboratory and begin such advancements as the introduction of the antibiotics.”
“Yes, Leonid,” Isobel said.
Taller said softly, “You speak of advancement, but thus far you have mentioned largely war and on such a scale that I wonder how many of the People will survive. What advancement? We have all we wish.”
Plekhanov cut him off with a curt motion of his hand. He indicated the symbols inscribed on the chamber’s walls. “How long does it take to learn such writing?”
Mynor, the priest, said, “This is a mystery known only to the priesthood. One spends ten years in preparation to be a scribe.”
“We’ll teach you a new method which will have every citizen of the State reading and writing within a year.”
The Tulans gaped at him.
Mynor said, in protest, “But writing is only permitted of priests.”
Plekhanov ignored him. He moved ponderously over to Roberts, drew from its scabbard the sword the other had on his hip. He took it and slashed savagely at a stone post, gouging a heavy chunk from it. He tossed the weapon to Reif, whose eyes lit up.
“What metals have you been using? Copper, bronze? You’re going to move into the iron age overnight.”
He turned to Taller. “Are your priests also in charge of the health of your people?” he sneered. “Are their cures obtained from mumbo-jumbo and few herbs found in the desert? Doctor Sanchez has at her command the most advanced medical methods. Within a decade, I’ll guarantee you that not one of your major diseases will remain.”
He turned to the priest and said, “Or perhaps this will be the clincher for some of you. How many years do you have, old man?”
Mynor said with dignity, “I am sixty-four.”
Plekhanov said churlishly, “And I am two hundred and thirty-three.” He called to Hawkins. “I think you’re our youngest. How old are you, Dick?”
Dick Hawkins grinned. “Hundred and thirteen, next month.”
Mynor opened his mouth, closed it again. No man would prolong his youth. Of a sudden he felt old, old.
Young Reif, the Khan’s son, looked at Isobel Sanchez, his eyes wide. They went up and down her figure, outlined even through the coveralls she wore. He blinked. She smiled back at him, maliciously, and her dark eyes went up and down his own masculine figure. He blinked again.
Plekhanov turned back to Taller. “Most of the progress we have to offer is beyond your capacity to understand. We’ll give you freedom from want. Health. We’ll give you advances in every art. We’ll eventually free every citizen from drudgery, educate him, give him the opportunity to enjoy intellectual curiosity. We’ll open the stars to him. All these things the coming of the State will eventually mean to you.”
Tula’s Khan was not impressed. “This you tell us, man from First Earth. But to achieve these you plan to change every phase of our lives and we are happy with…Tula…the way it is. I say this to you. There are but eight of you, and one woman. And there are many, many of us. We do not want your…State. Return from whence you came.”
Plekhanov shook his massive head at the other. “Whether or not you want these changes, they will be made. If you fail to cooperate, we will find someone who will. I suggest you make the most of it.”
Taller arose from the squat stool upon which he had been seated. He was no coward. “I have listened and I do not like what you have said. I am Khan of all the People. Now leave in peace, or I shall order my warriors…”
“Joe,” Plekhanov said flatly. “Watson!”
Joe Chessman took his heavy handgun from its holster and triggered it twice. The roar of the explosions reverberated thunderously in the confined space, deafening all, and terrifying the Tulans. Bright red colored the robes the Khan wore, colored them without beauty. Bright red splattered the floor.
Leonid Plekhanov stared at his second in command, wet his thick lips. “Joe,” he sputtered. “I hadn’t…I didn’t expect you to be so…hasty.”
Joe Chessman, his gun still at the ready, growled: “We’ve got to let them know where we stand, right now, or they’ll never hold still for us. Cover the doors, Watson, Roberts.” He motioned to the others with his head. “Cogswell, Hawkins, Stevens, get to those windows and watch.”
Taller was a crumbled heap on the floor. The other Texcocans stared at his body in shocked horror.
Isobel had sunk down beside the Khan. She looked up, now, a shine in her eyes, but her face otherwise empty. She looked at Chessman and said, “The man is dead.”
“Of course,” Chessman said, his gun still at the ready and staring at Reif.
The Khan’s son sank down beside his father, too. He looked up, his lips white, at Plekhanov. “Yes, he is dead.”
Leonid Plekhanov collected himself. “It was his own fault.”
Reif’s cold face was expressionless. He looked at Joe Chessman. He said, “You can supply such weapons to my armies?”
Plekhanov said, “That is our intention, in time.”
Reif came erect. “Subject to the approval of the clan leaders, I am now Khan. Tell me more of this State of which you have spoken.”