The Rival Rigelians

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.”

IV

The sergeant stopped the small company about a quarter of a mile from the city of Bari. His detachment numbered only ten but they were well armed with swords and blunderbusses and wore mail and iron helmets. On the face of it, they would have been a match for ten times this number of merchants.

It was hardly noon, but the sergeant had already been at his wine flask. He leered at them. “And where do you think you go?”

The merchant who led the rest was a thin little man but he was richly robed and astride a heavy black mule. He said, “To Bari, soldier.”

He drew a paper from a pouch. “I hold this permission from Baron Mannerheim to pass through his lands with my people.”

The leer turned mercenary. “Unfortunately, city man, I can’t read. What do you carry on the mules and asses?”

“Personal property which, I repeat, I have permission to transport through Baron Mannerheim’s lands free of charge and worry from his followers.” He added in irritation, “The Baron is a friend of mine, fond of the gifts I give him. Only last week, we supped together.”

One of the soldiers grunted his skepticism, checked the flint on the lock of his piece, then looked at the sergeant suggestively.

The sergeant said, “As you say, merchant, my lord the baron is fond of gifts. But aren’t we all? Unfortunately, I have received no word of your passage. My instructions are to stop all intruders upon the baron’s lands and, if there is resistance, to slay them and confiscate such properties as they may be carrying.”

The merchant sighed and reached into his pouch again. The eyes of the sergeant dropped in greed. The hand emerged with two small coins. “As you say,” the merchant muttered bitterly, “we are all fond of gifts. Will you accept this and do me the honor to drink my health at the tavern tonight?”

The sergeant’s mouth slackened and he fondled the hilt of his sword.

“Do you insult me by offering me a bribe, merchant?” He cleared his throat suggestively. “Such a small bribe, at that?”