Read Online The Brave Free Men by Jack Vance - Free Book Online
Authors: Jack Vance
Tags: Science-Fiction
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particular."
Etzwane said in a measured voice: "At this moment we reach a critical phase in your life. Either you cooperate with me, to the exclusion of all else, or I will impose a harsh penalty. You have your choice; which is it to be?"
Hillen smiled a patently insincere smile. "If you are the representative of the Anome, I must obey you. But where are your credentials?"
"Here," said Etzwane, handing over a purple protocol bearing the Anome's sigil. "And here." He displayed the pulse-emitter. "Tell me, then: why did you shake your head to this man? What did you warn him against?"
"Insolence," said Hillen in a voice so neutral as to be an insult in itself.
"You were notified of my coming," said Etzwane. "Is this not correct?"
Hillen gave the brim of his hat a twitch. "No such notification reached me."
Around the corner of the stockade came a group of four men carrying rakes, shovels, and leather sacks of water. What if one threatened with his shovel and Hillen, in aiming his dart gun, struck Etzwane instead?
Etzwane, who held absolute power in Shant, was also absolutely vulnerable.
The garden gang shambled across the compound without menace. No threat here. But perhaps on another occasion?
Etzwane said, "Your dart guns are unneeded. Drop them to the ground, if you please."
Hillen growled, "To the contrary, they are constantly necessary. We live and work among desperate men."
Etzwane brought forth the broad-impulse tube, a destructive weapon of cruel potential, which exploded every torc within its range and could as easily destroy a thousand as one. "I make myself responsible for your safety, and I must see to my own. Drop the dart guns."
Hillen still hesitated. "I will count to five," said Etzwane. "One. . . ."
With dignity Hillen placed his weapon on the ground; his assistant followed suit. Etzwane moved back a pace or two and glanced into the ledger. Each page detailed the name of a worker, his torc code, a resume 1 of his background. Figures indicated the fluctuating status of his indenture.
Nowhere did Etzwane see the name Jerd Finnerack. Odd. "We will visit the stockade," he told Hillen. "You may return to the office." This last was for Hillen's assistant.
They marched through the afternoon glare to the tall stockade, the portals of which stood open. Flight would have little appeal for a man in this soggy land of chumpa, blue-black humph, swamp vermin.
Inside the stockade the heat was concentrated and rose in shimmering waves. To one side were tanks and racks, to the other was a great shed where the withe was peeled, scraped, graded, hardened, and packed. Beyond were the dormitories, the kitchens and refectory. The air smelled sour; a rancid odor which Etzwane assumed to derive from withe processing.
Etzwane went to the shed and looked along the line of tables. About fifty men worked here, with a peculiar listless haste. They watched Etzwane and Hillen from the side of their faces.
Etzwane looked into the kitchens. Twenty cooks, busy at various tasks—peeling vegetables, scouring earthenware pots, boning the carcass of a gray-fleshed beast—turned aside expressionless glances
which implied more than glares or hoots of derision.
Etzwane slowly returned to the center. of the compound, where he paused to think. The atmosphere at Camp Three was oppressive in the extreme. Still: what else could be expected? Indenture and the threat of indenture guaranteed that each man fulfilled his obligations; the system was acknowledged to be a useful social force. No denying, however, that under extreme circumstances, great hardship was the result. Etzwane asked Hillen, "Who cuts the withe?"
"Work parties go out into the thickets. When they cut their quota they come back in."
"How long have you been here yourself?"
"Fourteen years."
"What is the turnover in personnel?"
"They come, they go."
Etzwane indicated the ledger. "Few of the men seem to diminish their obligations. Ermel Gans, for instance, in four years
Etzwane said in a measured voice: "At this moment we reach a critical phase in your life. Either you cooperate with me, to the exclusion of all else, or I will impose a harsh penalty. You have your choice; which is it to be?"
Hillen smiled a patently insincere smile. "If you are the representative of the Anome, I must obey you. But where are your credentials?"
"Here," said Etzwane, handing over a purple protocol bearing the Anome's sigil. "And here." He displayed the pulse-emitter. "Tell me, then: why did you shake your head to this man? What did you warn him against?"
"Insolence," said Hillen in a voice so neutral as to be an insult in itself.
"You were notified of my coming," said Etzwane. "Is this not correct?"
Hillen gave the brim of his hat a twitch. "No such notification reached me."
Around the corner of the stockade came a group of four men carrying rakes, shovels, and leather sacks of water. What if one threatened with his shovel and Hillen, in aiming his dart gun, struck Etzwane instead?
Etzwane, who held absolute power in Shant, was also absolutely vulnerable.
The garden gang shambled across the compound without menace. No threat here. But perhaps on another occasion?
Etzwane said, "Your dart guns are unneeded. Drop them to the ground, if you please."
Hillen growled, "To the contrary, they are constantly necessary. We live and work among desperate men."
Etzwane brought forth the broad-impulse tube, a destructive weapon of cruel potential, which exploded every torc within its range and could as easily destroy a thousand as one. "I make myself responsible for your safety, and I must see to my own. Drop the dart guns."
Hillen still hesitated. "I will count to five," said Etzwane. "One. . . ."
With dignity Hillen placed his weapon on the ground; his assistant followed suit. Etzwane moved back a pace or two and glanced into the ledger. Each page detailed the name of a worker, his torc code, a resume 1 of his background. Figures indicated the fluctuating status of his indenture.
Nowhere did Etzwane see the name Jerd Finnerack. Odd. "We will visit the stockade," he told Hillen. "You may return to the office." This last was for Hillen's assistant.
They marched through the afternoon glare to the tall stockade, the portals of which stood open. Flight would have little appeal for a man in this soggy land of chumpa, blue-black humph, swamp vermin.
Inside the stockade the heat was concentrated and rose in shimmering waves. To one side were tanks and racks, to the other was a great shed where the withe was peeled, scraped, graded, hardened, and packed. Beyond were the dormitories, the kitchens and refectory. The air smelled sour; a rancid odor which Etzwane assumed to derive from withe processing.
Etzwane went to the shed and looked along the line of tables. About fifty men worked here, with a peculiar listless haste. They watched Etzwane and Hillen from the side of their faces.
Etzwane looked into the kitchens. Twenty cooks, busy at various tasks—peeling vegetables, scouring earthenware pots, boning the carcass of a gray-fleshed beast—turned aside expressionless glances
which implied more than glares or hoots of derision.
Etzwane slowly returned to the center. of the compound, where he paused to think. The atmosphere at Camp Three was oppressive in the extreme. Still: what else could be expected? Indenture and the threat of indenture guaranteed that each man fulfilled his obligations; the system was acknowledged to be a useful social force. No denying, however, that under extreme circumstances, great hardship was the result. Etzwane asked Hillen, "Who cuts the withe?"
"Work parties go out into the thickets. When they cut their quota they come back in."
"How long have you been here yourself?"
"Fourteen years."
"What is the turnover in personnel?"
"They come, they go."
Etzwane indicated the ledger. "Few of the men seem to diminish their obligations. Ermel Gans, for instance, in four years
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