that understood?” He flicked off the switch without waiting for a reply. “All right, Mr. Coleman. Now let's see just how much gumption your Federation has.” Coleman pulled a small transistorized communication device out of his pocket and activated it. “This is Coleman.” He waited until his voiceprint had been cleared. “It's Spica II, tonight. Get a camera there on the double.” He replaced the communicator in his pocket and looked up at the Secretary with what he hoped was a confident smile. “It's your move now, sir.” “You talk about this as if it were a chess game, instead of a crime of treason against the Republic,” said the Secretary. “But since you've made the ground rules, I hope you'll be willing to play by them.” He flicked on the intercom again. “Intercept and detain all ships traveling within one parsec of the Spica system for the next five days.” He looked steadily at Coleman. “Still think you have a chance?” “Tell me when you're ready to agree publicly to our demands,” said Coleman. He turned and left the office.
At exactly midnight, the Federation of Miners went on strike. At eleven minutes after midnight, the flagship of the 27th Fleet demanded that the miners of Spica II relinquish their daily quota of iron.
At twelve minutes after midnight, the miners refused. At fourteen minutes after midnight, the 27th Fleet gave the miners a ten-minute ultimatum, after which they stated that they would take the iron by force and arrest the miners.
At twenty-two minutes after midnight, the seventy-two miners who formed the total population of Spica
II gathered by the largest single refinery on the planet and set off a series of three nuclear bombs. And at three minutes after one in the morning, Coleman was ushered into the Secretary's office under armed guard.
“Just what the hell are you trying to prove?” demanded the Secretary, who had obviously just been aroused from a sound sleep.
“We're not trying to prove anything,” said Coleman. “We're trying to win something: our rights. These miners have undergone three hours of intense hypnotic conditioning every day for more than a decade, and are fully prepared to die for their rights if need be. In fact, they are so completely conditioned that they have no choice in the matter; any opposition by the Republic will trigger this reaction. I assure you that there can and will be no weakening of our resolve.” “Dammit, you're the best-paid men in the Republic!'’ “Not in relation to the service we render to the Republic,” said Coleman. “Are you ready to agree to our demands yet?”
“You can blow every last mining world to hell before we'll submit to this kind of coercion!” snapped the Secretary.
“I doubt that, sir,” said Coleman. “Once the Republic discovers how deeply these miners believe in their cause...”
“The public won't find out a damned thing,” said the Secretary. “We stopped your ship, and we'll stop every other ship that attempts to approach a mining world.” “Then ultimately your own conscience will force you to yield to us,” said Coleman. “Get him out of here,” said the Secretary disgustedly. “Is he under arrest?” asked one of the military aids. “Hell, yes! Charge him with treason and lock him up!” Coleman was escorted to an electrified cell. He was well fed and was treated with the utmost cordiality. Each morning he was allowed to view the newstapes. He could find nothing about the results of the strike, nor even any acknowledgment of its existence, but he knew it would be continuing. The Republic could get along without the mining worlds for a week or two, possibly three. But then all interstellar traffic would come grinding to a halt. Before long the hospitals would be screaming for supplies. They'd be the first to feel the pinch, and for that he was sorry; but they'd be followed in short order by the huge spacecraft cartels, and they'd scream good and loud. Even the Secretary couldn't keep the lid on this for too much longer.
He spent exactly nineteen days, six hours, and twenty-four minutes in prison. Then he was once again ushered into the Secretary's presence.
The Secretary seemed to have aged perceptibly since the last time he had seen him. There were deep,
heavy lines around his eyes, and his pendulous jowls seemed to sag even more.
“If you ever had any friends on Praesepe II and VI, Alphard XVII, or Altair V, you'll never see them again. I hope that makes you happy.”
“It makes me very sad,” said Coleman sincerely. “And I know their deaths must weigh heavily on the conscience of the Republic.”
“How about
“I told you before: We will not yield to threats.” “We can wait,” said Coleman. “Time is on our side. Not even you, with all the resources of the Republic behind you, can keep this quiet for much longer. If you'd made it public to begin with, you might have been able to stir up sentiment for your side. But now the miners of five worlds are dead, and not a single member of the military has been harmed. Where do you think the public's sentiment will rest?” “What's to stop us from surrounding every remaining mining world and moving in after every last miner blows himself to bits?”
“We're using exceptionally dirty bombs,” said Coleman calmly. “It would be years before most of the worlds could be opened for mining, or before the mined material could be safely used. Do you think the Republic's economy can stand that?”
The Secretary closed his eyes and lowered his head in thought for a full minute. Then he looked up at his aides. “Will you leave Mr. Coleman and me alone for a few moment, please?” When the room emptied out, he gestured for Coleman to sit down opposite him. “If we agree to your financial terms, will you relinquish your request for greater political representation?” Coleman shook his head. “You're going to sign it anyway, so why should we yield? Too many of us have died to start striking bargains now.” “What do you get out of this?” asked the Secretary. “Justice.”
“I mean, personally.”
“I get a salary of a quarter million credits a year,” said Coleman. “And I donate ninety percent of it to our medical program.”
“I never could stand dealing with a thoroughly righteous man,” sighed the Secretary. He pulled the miners’ demands out of the drawer, picked up the seal of his office, stamped the papers, and signed his
name.
* * * *
Victory celebrations were in progress on almost a thousand scattered worlds, not the least of which was Gamma Leporis IX. Intoxicants flowed and happiness reigned supreme on this final night of idleness. “Hey!” cried somebody. “Let's let Ferdy in and give him a drink! He's got as much right inside here as anybody.”
Indeed he did, agreed Ferdinand silently. He had no auditory orifices with which to hear, but he had means of understanding what was said, and he'd been listening intently all evening. He didn't especially like being inside the auditorium. It was warm and uncomfortable, the higher oxygen content of the air made his eyes smart, and his metabolism couldn't cope with the whiskey they were feeding him. But Men were a pretty pleasant species, and he was very happy to kill nelsons in exchange for magnesium.
Tomorrow morning, he decided, would be soon enough to present them with the Butterballs’ list of demands.
4: THE PSYCHOLOGISTS
...Probably no field of study was more instantly expanded than that of psychology, for where Man originally had only himself as a subject, he now had literally thousands of races, many with such foreign values that simply separating sentient from nonsentient life forms became a titanic task. For half a millennium Man was able to communicate with less than five percent of the other races of the galaxy; as his new psychological skills improved, he was ultimately able to understand and exchange ideas with almost half of them...
—
