Arnild’s numbness was wearing off. He understood now.
"The adaptability of mankind," he said.
"Of course. The ability — given enough time-to adapt to almost any extreme of environment. This is a perfect example. A cut-off population with no history, no written language-just the desire to survive. Every few years unspeakable creatures drop out of the sky and steal their children. They try running away, but there is no place to run. They build boats, but there is no place to sail to. Nothing works…"
"Until one bright boy digs a hole, covers it up and hides his family in it. And finds out it works."
"The beginning," Commander Stane nodded. "The idea spreads, the tunnels get deeper and more elaborate when the Slavers try to dig them out. Until the slaves finally win."
This was probably the first planet to rebel successfully against the Greater Slavocracy. They couldn’t be dug out. Poison gas would just kill them and they had no value dead. Machines sent after them were trapped like our Eyes. And men who were foolish enough to go down…" He couldn’t finish the sentence, Dall’s body was stronger evidence than words could ever be.
"But the hatred?" Arnild asked. "The way the girl killed herself rather than be taken."
"The tunnels became a religion," Stane told him. "They had to be, to be kept in operation and repair during the long gap of years between visits by the Slavers. The children had to be taught that the demons come from the skies and salvation lies below. The opposite of the old Earth religions. Hatred and fear were implanted so everyone, no matter how young, would know what to do if a ship appeared. There must be entrances everywhere. Seconds after a ship is sighted the population can vanish underground. They knew we were Slavers since only demons come from the sky."
"Dall must have guessed part of this. Only he thought he could reason with them, explain that the Slavers were gone and that they didn’t have to hide any more. That good men come from the skies. But that’s heresy, and by itself would be enough to get him killed. If they ever bothered to listen."
They were gentle when they carried Dall the Younger back to his ship.
"It’ll be a job trying to convince these people of the truth." They paused for a moment to rest. "I still don’t understand though, why the Slavers wanted to blow the planet up.
"There too, we were looking for too complex a motive," Commander Stane said. "Why does a conquering army blow up buildings and destroy monuments when it is forced to retreat? Just frustration and anger, old human emotions. If I can’t have it, you can’t either. This planet must have annoyed the Slavers for years. A successful rebellion that they couldn’t put down. They kept trying to capture the rebels since they were incapable of admitting defeat at the hands of slaves. When they knew their war was lost, destruction of this planet was a happy vent for their emotions. I noticed you feeling the same way yourself when you saw Dall’s body. It’s a human reaction."
They were both old soldiers, so they didn’t show their emotions too much when they put Dall’s corpse into the special chamber and readied the ship for takeoff.
But they were old men as well, much older since they had come to this planet, and they moved now with old men’s stiffness.
There aren’t many really talented Inventors or perfectionists in the human population, but it doesn’t take many to keep things humming right along. The Wright brothers made the first powered flight in 1903, and less than forty-five years later airplanes were in production with a wingspan greater than the total distance of this first flight, not to mention the size of the plane. Homo sapiens is a born improver. Everything keeps getting bigger and bigger and better and better.
This applies to war too. Space wars only give an illusion of being bigger and better than other wars, no doubt due to the gigantic size of the field of action. But they can be frustrating because so few people can be involved and blown up at the same time. Sooner or later, in spite of all the forces of enlightenment, war will return to battered old Mother Earth. Different groups will find important things to differ about, and very logically, differences of opinion will be settled in the tried and true manner — by combat.
Of course the robots will help since by this time, after so much training, they will be getting very good at the game themselves. This robot participation will take away a great amount of the pleasure gained from hand-to-hand combat, but a perfecting trend cannot be stopped. As long as one side gets a little bit ahead, the other side has to rush to catch up.
Until in the end we will have global warfare of a truly majestic sort, where the entire surface of the planet, the air and the seas will be a single gigantic battleground…
WAR WITH THE ROBOTS
ONLY THE SLIGHTEST VIBRATION could be felt through the floor of the hurtling monorail car. There was no sensation of motion since the rushing tunnel walls could not be seen though the windowless sides. The riders, all of them in neatly pressed uniforms with buttons and decorations shining, swayed slightly in their seats on the turns, wrapped in their own thoughts and mumbled conversations. Above them, thousands of feet of solid rock sealed them off from the war. At an effortless one-hundred and fifty miles an hour the car rushed General Pere and his staff to their battle stations.
When the alarm screamed the driver clamped the brakes full on and reversed his motors. There was not enough time. At full speed the metal bullet tore into the barrier of rocks and dirt that blocked the tunnel. Steel plates crushed and crumpled as the car slammed to a halt. All the lights went out; and in the empty silence that followed the ear-shattering clamor of the crash only a faint moaning could be heard.
General Pere pushed himself up from the chair, shaking his head in an effort to clear it, and snapped on his flash. The beam nervously danced the length of the car, gleaming on settling dust motes and lighting up the frightened white faces of his staff.
"Casualty report, verbal," he told his adjutant, his voice pitched low so that no quaver might be heard. It is not easy to be a general when you are only nineteen years old. Pere forced himself to stand still while the metal back of the adjutant robot moved swiftly up the aisle.
The seats were well anchored and faced to the rear, so it was hopeful that there would not be too many casualties. Behind the backs of the last chairs was a rubble of dirt that had burst in through the destroyed nose. The driver was undoubtedly dead under it, which was all for the best. It saved the trouble of a court-martial.
"One killed, one missing in action, one wounded, total active strength of unit now seventeen." The adjutant dropped the salute and stood at attention, waiting further orders. General Pere nervously chewed his lip.
Missing-in-action meant the driver. Presumed dead, damn well dead. The "one killed" was the new captain from Interceptor Control, who had had the bad luck to be leaning out of his chair at the time of the accident. His neck had been cracked on the edge of the chair and his head now hung down at a sickening angle. The moaning must be the wounded man, he had better check on that first. He stamped down the aisle and shined his light on the sallow, sweatbeaded face of Colonel Zen.
"My arm, sir," the Colonel gasped. "I was reaching out when we crashed, my arm whipped back and hit the metal edge. Broken I think. The pain…"
"That’s enough, Colonel," Pere said. A little too loudly, because the man’s fear was beginning to touch him too. There were footsteps in the aisle and his second-in-command, General Natia, joined him.
"You’ve had the standard first aid course, General," Pere said. ‘Bandage this man and then report to me."