[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
//-->/* /* XML end ]]*/The Project Gutenberg EBook of History Repeats, by George Oliver SmithThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: History RepeatsAuthor: George Oliver SmithIllustrator: MartinezRelease Date: December 17, 2007 [EBook #23884]Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: ISO-8859-1*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HISTORY REPEATS ***Produced by Greg Weeks, Greg Bergquist, Bruce Albrecht andthe Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.netTranscriber's Note:This etext was produced fromAstounding Science FictionMay 1959. Extensive research didnot uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spellingand typographical errors have been corrected without note.HISTORY REPEATSIllustrated by MartinezBY GEORGE O. SMITHThere are—and very probably will always be—some Terrestrials who can't, and forthat matter don't want, to call their souls their own....Xanabar lays across the Spiral Arm, a sprawling sphere of influence vast, mighty, solid at the core. Onlythe far-flung boundary shows the slight ebb and flow of contingent cultures that may win a system or twotoday and lose them back tomorrow or a hundred years from now. Xanabar is the trading post of thegalaxy, for only Xanabar is strong enough to stand over the trading table when belligerents meet and offerto take them both at once if they do not sheathe their swords. For this service Xanabar assesses herpercentage, therefore Xanabar is rich. Her riches buy her mercenaries to enforce her doctrines.Therefore Xanabar is rotten at the under-core, for mercenaries have no god but gold.The clatter of a hundred tongues mingled with the clink of glasses and floated through strata of smokefrom the burning weeds of a hundred planets. From one of the tables, voices rise in mild disagreement.There is a jeering laugh from one side and a roar of anger from the other. Two men rise and face oneanother ready to follow their insults with violence. Before the eruption can start, a mercenary stepsforward on lithe feet and lightly catches the back-swung arm, a quick hand removes the poised glassbefore it can be thrown into the adversary's face."Sit!" says the mercenary in a cold voice, and they sit still glaring at one another."Now," says the mercenary, "settle your differences by talk. Or depart in opposite directions. This isXanabar!""He lies! He brags!""I do not lie. Theyarebarbarians. I do not brag. Icanbring you one.""You—""A wager," said the mercenary. "A wager. Xanabar can take no tax in blood." He faces one. "You claimyou can do that which he says you can not." Then not waiting for a reply he faces the other, "And if hedoes, how much are you willing to pay?""How much is his life worth?""How much are you willing to pay?" demands the mercenary coldly."Five hundredweight in crystal-cut.""An honorable sum. Do you agree?""Not enough—""For a task as easy as you claim it to be," said the mercenary, "Five hundredweight of crystal-cut seemshonorable.""But it means—""We in Xanabar are not interested in the details. Only in the tax. An honest wager-contract, outlanders.Otherwise I rule that your eruption here disturbed the peace."The two outlanders look at one another; schoolboys caught fighting in the alley by a monitor whodemands a bite of their apple in lieu of a visit to the principal. As if loath to touch one another they reachforward hesitantly and handshake in a quick light grip."Good!" glows the mercenary. He waves a hand and his fellows converge with contract-platen andetching stylus. "Now, gentlemen, please state the terms for Xanabar."Peter Hawley strolled down a side street with a dog at his heel. It was a dog of many breeds, but not amixture of careless parentage. Peter paused at a cross-street and looked uncertainly to left and right."What do you make, Buregarde?""The noble dog says right," replied Buregarde."Right," said Peter turning up the street. "And stop this 'Noble dog' routine.""Man is dog's best friend," said Buregarde. "If you'd called me something sensible, I wouldn't havelooked it up. There is a statue to me in the Okeefenokee back on Earth. I am the noble dog. Pogo saysso.""I—""Easy Peter!" said the dog in a near-whisper."All right. Do we play down the chatter?"Buregarde sat, lifted his nose and sniffed. His natural voice gave a faint whine of discontent. "I'msupposed to have a nose," he complained. "This is like trying to smell out a lone mouse in a zoologicalgarden in midsummer.""Why the warning?" asked Peter."All races smell the same when they are poised for violence," said the dog. "Trouble is that man-smellisn't pointed the way it's going, only where it's coming from."Peter grunted. "Catch any woman-smell?""Just the usual whiff. Stale scent. She was here; she passed this way. But which way?""We can guess they made it away from the spaceport.""Unless," said the dog taking another sniff of the air, "they're taking her back to some other spacecraft."Buregarde looked up at Peter. "Do you catch anything?""Just the usual mingled fright and danger, frantic despair.""Directional?"Peter shook his head. "No," he said. "The source is too close.""Let's stroll up this street to the end and come back on the other side," said the dog. "Quietly."In a saunter they went, alert and poised. A man and his dog from all appearances. But in Xanabar, theprincipal city of Xanabar the Empire they were huntsman and companion.Like all cities of more than ten million souls, Xanabar had its glistening and lofty area and itsslums—and what would have been a waterfront region in a seafaring city. The conditions were thesame as they'd been everywhere for a few decades of thousands of years. Only the technology changes.Man's cave is stainless steel and synthetic plastic; the cave's man is swinging a better axe, and his hide isprotected from the weather by stuff far more durable than his awn skin. But he's the same man with thesame hackles; they just rise for a few more thousand reasons than the hackles of his ancestors."Got it!" said Buregarde coming to a brief point at a closed door."Let's go in!"Buregarde's reply was half-snarl and half, "Look out!"Peter whirled to catch a glimpse of a man upon him with pencil-ray coming to point. He faded down and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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//-->/* /* XML end ]]*/The Project Gutenberg EBook of History Repeats, by George Oliver SmithThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: History RepeatsAuthor: George Oliver SmithIllustrator: MartinezRelease Date: December 17, 2007 [EBook #23884]Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: ISO-8859-1*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HISTORY REPEATS ***Produced by Greg Weeks, Greg Bergquist, Bruce Albrecht andthe Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.netTranscriber's Note:This etext was produced fromAstounding Science FictionMay 1959. Extensive research didnot uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spellingand typographical errors have been corrected without note.HISTORY REPEATSIllustrated by MartinezBY GEORGE O. SMITHThere are—and very probably will always be—some Terrestrials who can't, and forthat matter don't want, to call their souls their own....Xanabar lays across the Spiral Arm, a sprawling sphere of influence vast, mighty, solid at the core. Onlythe far-flung boundary shows the slight ebb and flow of contingent cultures that may win a system or twotoday and lose them back tomorrow or a hundred years from now. Xanabar is the trading post of thegalaxy, for only Xanabar is strong enough to stand over the trading table when belligerents meet and offerto take them both at once if they do not sheathe their swords. For this service Xanabar assesses herpercentage, therefore Xanabar is rich. Her riches buy her mercenaries to enforce her doctrines.Therefore Xanabar is rotten at the under-core, for mercenaries have no god but gold.The clatter of a hundred tongues mingled with the clink of glasses and floated through strata of smokefrom the burning weeds of a hundred planets. From one of the tables, voices rise in mild disagreement.There is a jeering laugh from one side and a roar of anger from the other. Two men rise and face oneanother ready to follow their insults with violence. Before the eruption can start, a mercenary stepsforward on lithe feet and lightly catches the back-swung arm, a quick hand removes the poised glassbefore it can be thrown into the adversary's face."Sit!" says the mercenary in a cold voice, and they sit still glaring at one another."Now," says the mercenary, "settle your differences by talk. Or depart in opposite directions. This isXanabar!""He lies! He brags!""I do not lie. Theyarebarbarians. I do not brag. Icanbring you one.""You—""A wager," said the mercenary. "A wager. Xanabar can take no tax in blood." He faces one. "You claimyou can do that which he says you can not." Then not waiting for a reply he faces the other, "And if hedoes, how much are you willing to pay?""How much is his life worth?""How much are you willing to pay?" demands the mercenary coldly."Five hundredweight in crystal-cut.""An honorable sum. Do you agree?""Not enough—""For a task as easy as you claim it to be," said the mercenary, "Five hundredweight of crystal-cut seemshonorable.""But it means—""We in Xanabar are not interested in the details. Only in the tax. An honest wager-contract, outlanders.Otherwise I rule that your eruption here disturbed the peace."The two outlanders look at one another; schoolboys caught fighting in the alley by a monitor whodemands a bite of their apple in lieu of a visit to the principal. As if loath to touch one another they reachforward hesitantly and handshake in a quick light grip."Good!" glows the mercenary. He waves a hand and his fellows converge with contract-platen andetching stylus. "Now, gentlemen, please state the terms for Xanabar."Peter Hawley strolled down a side street with a dog at his heel. It was a dog of many breeds, but not amixture of careless parentage. Peter paused at a cross-street and looked uncertainly to left and right."What do you make, Buregarde?""The noble dog says right," replied Buregarde."Right," said Peter turning up the street. "And stop this 'Noble dog' routine.""Man is dog's best friend," said Buregarde. "If you'd called me something sensible, I wouldn't havelooked it up. There is a statue to me in the Okeefenokee back on Earth. I am the noble dog. Pogo saysso.""I—""Easy Peter!" said the dog in a near-whisper."All right. Do we play down the chatter?"Buregarde sat, lifted his nose and sniffed. His natural voice gave a faint whine of discontent. "I'msupposed to have a nose," he complained. "This is like trying to smell out a lone mouse in a zoologicalgarden in midsummer.""Why the warning?" asked Peter."All races smell the same when they are poised for violence," said the dog. "Trouble is that man-smellisn't pointed the way it's going, only where it's coming from."Peter grunted. "Catch any woman-smell?""Just the usual whiff. Stale scent. She was here; she passed this way. But which way?""We can guess they made it away from the spaceport.""Unless," said the dog taking another sniff of the air, "they're taking her back to some other spacecraft."Buregarde looked up at Peter. "Do you catch anything?""Just the usual mingled fright and danger, frantic despair.""Directional?"Peter shook his head. "No," he said. "The source is too close.""Let's stroll up this street to the end and come back on the other side," said the dog. "Quietly."In a saunter they went, alert and poised. A man and his dog from all appearances. But in Xanabar, theprincipal city of Xanabar the Empire they were huntsman and companion.Like all cities of more than ten million souls, Xanabar had its glistening and lofty area and itsslums—and what would have been a waterfront region in a seafaring city. The conditions were thesame as they'd been everywhere for a few decades of thousands of years. Only the technology changes.Man's cave is stainless steel and synthetic plastic; the cave's man is swinging a better axe, and his hide isprotected from the weather by stuff far more durable than his awn skin. But he's the same man with thesame hackles; they just rise for a few more thousand reasons than the hackles of his ancestors."Got it!" said Buregarde coming to a brief point at a closed door."Let's go in!"Buregarde's reply was half-snarl and half, "Look out!"Peter whirled to catch a glimpse of a man upon him with pencil-ray coming to point. He faded down and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]