Eric Flint - Interstellar Patrol 2 -The Federation Of Humanity

Interstellar Patrol II:

The Federation of Humanity

Compiled & Edited By Eric Flint Christopher Anvil

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any

or portions thereof in any form. A Baen Books Original Baen Publishing Enterprises P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471 www.baen.com ISBN: 0-7434-9892-5 Cover art by Jeff Easley First printing,

March 2005 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Anvil, Christopher.

Interstellar patrol II : the federation of humanity / Christopher Anvil ; compiled & edited by Eric Flint. p.

cm. "A Baen Books original"--T.p. verso. ISBN 0-7434-9892-5 (hc) 1. Life on other planets--Fiction.

2. Space warfare--Fiction. 3. Space ships--Fiction. I. Title: Intersteller patrol 2. II. Title: Intersteller

patrol two. III. Flint, Eric. IV. Title.

PS3551.N9I59 2005 813'.54--dc22 2004027041 Distributed by Simon & Schuster 1230 Avenue of

the Americas New York, NY 10020 Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH Printed in the

United States of America

Baen Books by Christopher Anvil

Pandora's Legion Interstellar Patrol Interstellar Patrol II: The Federation of Humanity The Trouble with

Aliens (forthcoming)

Editor's Note:

Interstellar Patrol II: The Federation of Humanity is a companion volume to Christopher Anvil's

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Interstellar Patrol (published by Baen Books in April, 2003). In this volume, the later adventures of the

Interstellar Patrol agents Vaughan Roberts and his associates are recounted. Included also are all the

various other stories which Anvil wrote in the same Federation of Humanity setting.

Copyright information for Christopher Anvil, Interstellar Patrol II: The Federation of Humanity

"The Claw and the Clock" was first published in Analog in February 1971. "Riddle Me This..." was first

published in Analog in January 1972. "The Unknown" was first published in Amazing in July 1972. "The

Throne and the Usurper" was first published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction in

November 1970. "The Trojan Hostage" was first published in Analog in July 1990. Warlord's World

was first published in 1975 by DAW Books. "Goliath and the Beanstalk" was first published in

Astounding in November 1958. "Facts to Fit the Theory" was first published in Analog in November

1966. "Cantor's War" was first published in If in May/June 1974. "Uplift the Savage" was first published

in Analog in March 1968. "Odds" was first published in Amazing in July 1977. "The Troublemaker" was

first published in Astounding in July 1960. "Bill For Delivery" was first published in Analog in November

1964. "Untropy" was first published in Analog in January 1966. "The Low Road" was first published in

Amazing in September 1970. "Trial By Silk" was first published in Amazing in March 1970. "The

Operator" was first published in Analog in March 1971. "While the Northwind Blows" was first

published in Amazing in November 1978. "Leverage" was first published in Astounding in July 1959.

"The Sieve" was first published in Astounding in April 1959. "Mating Problems" was first published in

Astounding in December 1959. "Hunger" was first published in Analog in May 1964. "Contrast" was first

published in Analog in December 1964.

The Interstellar Patrol

THE CLAW AND THE CLOCK

Iadrubel Vire glanced over the descriptive documents thoughtfully.

"A promising world. However, considering the extent of the Earthmen's possessions, and the size of their

Space Force, one hesitates to start trouble."

Margash Grele bowed deferentially.

"Understood, Excellency. But there is a significant point that we have just discovered. We have always

supposed this planet was a part of their Federation. It is not. It is independent."

Vire got his two hind ripping claws up onto their rest.

"Hm-m-m . . . How did we come by this information?"

"One of their merchant ships got off-course, and Admiral Arvast Nade answered the distress signal."

Grele gave a bone-popping sound, signifying wry humor. "Needless to say, the Earthmen were more

distressed after the rescue than before."

Vire sat up.

"So, contrary to my specific instructions, Nade has given the Earthmen pretext to strike at us?"

"Excellency, restraint of the kill-instinct requires high moral development when dealing with something as

helpless as these Earthmen. Nade, himself, did not take part in the orgy, of course, but he was unable to

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restrain his men. It was the Earthlings' fault, because they were not armed. If they had been in full battle

armor, with their tools of war—Well, who wants to crack his claws on a thing like that? But they

presented themselves as defenseless offerings. The temptation was too great."

"Were the Earthmen aware of the identity of the rescue craft?"

Grele looked uneasy.

"Admiral Nade feared some trap, and . . . ah . . . undertook to forestall treachery by using an Ursoid

recognition signal."

Vire could feel the scales across his back twitch. This fool, Nade, had created out of nothing the

possibility of war with both Earth and Ursa.

Vire said shortly, "Having given the Ursoid recognition signal, the Earthmen naturally would not be

prepared. Therefore Nade would naturally be unable to restrain his men. So, what—"

Grele gave his bone-grinding chuckle, and suddenly Vire saw it as amusement at the ability of Nade to

disobey Vire's orders, and get away with it.

Vire's right-hand battle-pincer came up off its rest, his manipulators popped behind his bony chest

armor, three death-dealing stings snicked into position in his left-hand battle pincer—

Grele hurtled into a corner, all claws menacingly thrust out, but screaming, "Excellency, I meant no

offense! Forgive my error! I mean only respect!"

"Then get to the point! Let's have the facts!"

Grele said in a rush, "Admiral Nade saved several Earthlings, to question them. They saw him as their

protector, and were frank. It seems the Earthmen on this planet have a method for eliminating war-like

traits from their race, and—"

"From their race on this planet alone?"

"Yes. The planet was settled by very stern religionists, who believe in total peace unless attacked. They

eliminate individuals who show irrepressible warlike traits."

Vire settled back in his seat. "They believe in 'Total peace, unless attacked.' Then what?"

"Apparently, they believe in self-defense. A little impractical, if proper precautions have not been made."

"Hm-m-m. How did the crewmen know about this?"

"They had made many delivery trips to the planet. It seems that the Earthmen call this planet, among

themselves, 'Storehouse.' The code name is given in the documents there, and it is formally named 'Faith.'

But to the Earthmen, it is 'Storehouse.'"

"Why?"

"These religious Earthlings have perfected means to preserve provisions with no loss whatever. Even live

animals are in some way frozen, gassed, irradiated—or somehow treated—so they are just as good

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when they come out as when they went in. This is handy for shippers who have a surplus due to a

temporary glut on the market, or because it's a bad year for the buyers. So, within practicable shipping

distance, Storehouse does a thriving business, preserving goods from time of surplus to a time of need."

Vire absently grated his ripping claws on their rests.

"Hm-m-m . . . And the basis of this process is not generally known?"

"No, sir. They have a monopoly. Moreover, they use their monopoly to enforce codes of conduct on the

shippers. Shippers who employ practices they regard as immoral, or who deal in goods they disapprove

of, have their storage quotas cut. Shippers they approve of get reduced rates. And they are incorruptible,

since they are religious fanatics—like our Cult of the Sea, who resist the last molt, and stick to gills."

"Well, well, this does offer possibilities. But, would the Earthmen be willing to lose this valuable facility,

even if it is not a member of their Federation? On the other hand—I wonder if the fanatics have

antagonized the Earthmen as the cursed sea cult antagonizes us? That collection of righteous clams."

Grele nodded. "From what Admiral Nade learned, it certainly seems so. The crew of the distressed ship,

for instance, had just had their quota cut because they had been caught 'shooting craps,' a form of

gambling—while on their own ship waiting to unload."

"Yes, that sounds like it. Nade, I suppose, has his fleet in position?"

"Excellency, he chafes at the restraints."

"No doubt."

Vire balanced the possibilities.

"It is rumored that some who have attacked independent Earth-settled planets have not enjoyed the

experience."

"The Earthlings would be bound to spread such rumors. But what can mere religious fanatics do against

the guns of our men? The fanatics are skilled operators of a preserving plant; of what use is that in

combat?"

Vire settled back. Either the Earthmen were truly unprepared, in which case he, Vire, would receive

partial credit for a valuable acquisition; or else the Earthmen were prepared, and Nade would get such a

dent in his shell that his reputation would never recover.

"All right," said Vire cheerfully, "but we must have a pretext—these religious fanatics must have delivered

some insult that we want to avenge, and it must fit in with their known character. If possible, it must rouse

sympathy, even, for us. Let's see . . ."

Elder Hugh Phillips eyed the message dourly.

"These lobsters have their gall. Look at this."

Deacon Bentley adjusted his penance shirt to make the bristles bite in better, and took the message. He

read aloud in a dry methodical voice:

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"'Headquarters, the Imperial Hatchery, Khlaftschffran'—lot of heathenish gabble there, I'll skip all that.

Let's see ' . . . Pursuant to the blessings of the' . . . heh . . . 'fertility god Fflahvritschtsvri . . . Pursuant to

the blessings of the fertility god, What's-His-Name, the Royal Brood has exceeded expectations this

season, all praise to So-and-So, et cetera, et cetera, and exceeds the possibility of the Royal Hatchery to

handle. We, therefore, favor you with the condescension of becoming for the next standard year an

Auxiliary Royal Hatchery, consecrated according to the ritual of Fflahvrit . . . et cetera . . . and under due

direction of the Imperial Priesthood, and appropriate Brood Masters, you to receive in addition to the

honor your best standard payment for the service of maintaining the Royal Brood in good health, and

returning same in time for the next season, undamaged by the delay, to make up the deficiency predicted

by the Brood Masters. The fertility god, What's-His-Name, directs us through his Priesthood to

command your immediate notice of compliance, as none of the precious Brood must be endangered by

delay.'"

Deacon Bentley looked up.

"To make it short, we're supposed to store the royal lobsters for a year, is that it?"

"Evidently."

"There's no difficulty there." Bentley eyed the message coldly. "As for being consecrated according to

the lobster's fertility god, there we part company."

Elder Phillips nodded.

"They do offer good pay, however."

"All worldly money is counterfeit. The only reward is in Heaven."

"Amen. But from their own heathen viewpoint, the offer is fair. Obviously, we can't accept it. But we

must be fair in return, even to lobsters. We will take care of the Royal Brood, but as for their

Priesthood"—he cleared his throat—"with due humility, we must decline that provision. Now, who writes

the answer?"

"Brother Fry would be ideal for it."

"He's on a fast. How about Deacon Fenell?"

"No good. He went into a cell on Tuesday. Committed himself for a month."

"He did, eh? Able's boy, Wilder, would have been good at this. Too bad."

Phillips nodded.

"Unfortunately, not all can conquer their own nature. Some require grosser enemies." He sighed. "Let's

see. How do we start the thing off?"

"Let's just say, 'We will put up your brood for so-and-so much per year. We decline the consecration.'

That's the gist of the matter. Then we nail some diplomacy on both ends of it, dress it up a little, and there

we are."

"I wish Brother Fry were here. This nonsense can eat up time. However, he's not here, so let's get at it."

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Iadrubel Vire read the message over again intently:

From: Central Contracting Office Penitence City Planet of Faith To: Headquarters The Imperial

Hatchery Khlaftschiffranzitschopendischkla Dear Sirs: We are in receipt of your request of the 22nd

instant that we put the excess of the Royal Brood in storage for a period approximating one standard

year. We agree to do this, in accord with our standard rate schedule "D" appended, suitable for

nonpreferred live shipments. Kindly note that these rates apply from date of delivery to the storehouse

entrance, to date of reshipment from the same point. We regret that we must refuse your other terms, to

wit: a) Accompaniment of the shipment by priests and broodmasters. b) Consecration to the fertility god,

referred to in your communication. In reference to a), no such accompaniment is necessary or allowed. In

reference to b), the said god, so-called, is, of course, nonexistent.

In view of the fact that your race is known to be heathen, these requests will not be held against you in

determining the rate schedule, beyond placing you in the nonpreferred status. We express our

appreciation for this order, and trust that our service will be found satisfactory in every respect. Truly

yours, Hugh Bentley Chief Assistant Central Contracting Office

Vire sat back, absently scratched his ripping claws on their rest, reached out with a manipulator, and

punched a call-button.

A door popped open, and Margash Grele stepped in and bowed.

"Excellency?"

"Read this."

Grele read it, and looked up.

"These people are, as I told you, sir, like our sea cult—only worse."

"They certainly take an independent line for an isolated planet dealing with an interstellar empire—and on

a sensitive subject, at that."

"Not so, Excellency. It is independent from our viewpoint. If you read between the lines, you can see

that, for them, they are bent over backwards."

Vire absently squeaked the sharp tips of his right-hand battle claw together.

"Maybe. In any case, I don't think we would be quite justified by this reply in doing anything drastic.

However, I think we can improve on this. Tell Nade to get his claws sharpened up, and we'll see what

happens with the next message."

Hugh Phillips handed the message to Deacon Bentley.

"There seems to have been something wrong with our answer to these crabs."

"What, did we lose the order? Let's see."

Bentley's eyebrows raised.

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"Hm-m-m. . . .'Due to your maligning the religious precepts of our Race, we must demand a full

retraction and immediate apology . . . 'When did we do that?"

"There was something about that part where we said they were heathens."

"They are heathens."

"I know."

"Truth is Truth."

"That is so. Nevertheless—well, Brother Fry would know how to handle this."

"Unfortunately, he is not here. Well, what to do about this?"

Phillips looked at it.

"What is there to do?"

Bentley's look of perplexity cleared away.

"True. We can't have lobsters giving us religious instruction." He looked wary. "On the other hand, we

mustn't fall into the sin of pride, either."

"Here, let's have a pen." Phillips wrote rapidly, frowned, then glanced at Bentley. "How is your sister's

son coming along? Her next-to-eldest?"

Bentley shook his head.

"I fear he is not meant for righteousness. He has refused to do his penances."

Phillips shook his head, then looked at what he had written. After a moment, he glanced up. "If the truth

were told, some of us shaved by pretty close, ourselves. I suppose it's to be expected. The first settlers

were certainly descended from a rough lot." He cleared his throat. "I am not so sure my eldest is going to

make it."

Bentley caught his breath.

"Perhaps you judge too harshly."

"No. As a boy, he did not play marbles. He lined them up in ranks, and studied the formations. We

would find him with his mother's pie plate and a pencil, holding them to observe how a space fleet in disk

might destroy one in column. I have tried to . . ." Phillips cleared his throat. "Here, read this. See if you

can improve it. We must be strictly honest, and must not truckle to these heathens. It would be bad for

them as well as us."

"Amen, Elder. Let's see, now—"

Iadrubel Vire straightened up in his seat, reread the message, and summoned Margash Grele.

Margash bowed deferentially.

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"Excellency?"

"This is incredible. Read this."

Grele read aloud:

"'Sirs: We acknowledge receipt of yours of the 28th instant, and are constrained, in all truth, to reply that

you are heathen; that your so-called fertility god is no god at all; that your priests are at best misled, and

at worst representatives of the devil; and that we can on no account tolerate priests of heathen religions

on this planet. As these are plain facts, there can be no retraction and no apology, as there is no insult,

but only a plain statement of truth. As a gesture of compromise, and to prove good will, we will allow

one (1) brood master to accompany the shipment, provided he is not a priest of any godless 'religion,'

so-called. We will not revise the schedule of charges on this occasion, but warn you plainly that this is our

final offer. Truly yours . . . '"

Grele looked up blankly.

Vire said, "There is a tone to this, my dear Grele, that does not appear consistent with pacifism. Not

with pacifism as I understand the word."

"I certainly see what you mean, sir. Nevertheless, they are pacifists. We have carefully checked our

information."

"And we are certain they are not members of the Federation?"

"Absolutely certain."

"Well, there is something here that we do not understand. This message could not be better planned if it

were a bait to draw us to the attack."

"It is certainly an insulting message, but one well suited to our purpose."

"That, too, is suspicious. Events rarely fall into line so easily."

"Excellency, they are religious fanatics. There is the explanation."

"Nevertheless, we must draw the net tighter before we attempt to take them. Such utter fearlessness

usually implies either a formidable weapon, or a formidable protector. We must be certain the Federation

does not have some informal agreement with this planet."

"Excellency, Admiral Nade grows impatient."

Vire's right-hand claw quivered. "We will give him the chance to do the job, once we have done ours.

We must make certain we do not send our troops straight into the jaws of a trap. There is a strong Space

Force fleet so situated that it might intervene."

General Larssen, of the Space Force, looked up from copies of the messages. "The only place in this

end of space where we can store supplies with no spoilage, and they have to wind up in a fight with the

lobsters over royal lobster eggs. And we aren't allowed to do anything about it."

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"Well, sir," said Larssen's aide, "they were pretty insulting about it. And they've had every chance to join

the Federation. It's hard to see why the Federation should take on all Crustax for them now."

"'All Crustax,' nuts. The lobsters would back down if we'd ram a stiff note down their throat. Do we

have any reply from the . . . er . . . 'court of last resort' on this?"

"No, sir, they haven't replied yet."

"Much as I dislike them, they don't pussyfoot around, anyway. Let's hope—"

There was a quiet rap, and Larssen looked up.

"Come in!"

The communications officer stepped in, looking serious.

"I wanted to bring you this myself, sir. The Interstellar Patrol declines to intervene, because it feels that

the locals can take care of themselves."

Larssen stared. "They're a bunch of pacifists! All they're strong at is fighting off temptation!"

"Yes, sir. We made that point. All we got back was, 'Wait and see.'"

"Well, we tried, at least. Now we've got a ringside seat for the slaughter."

Admiral Nade was in his bunk when the top priority message came in. His aide entered the room,

approached the bunk, and hesitated. Nade was completely covered up, out of sight.

The aide looked around nervously. The chief was a trifle peevish when roused out of a sound sleep.

The aide put the message on the admiral's cloak of rank on the nightstand near the bunk,

retraced his steps to the hatch, opened it wide, then returned to the bunk. Hopefully, he waited, but

Nade didn't stir.

The aide spoke hesitantly: "Ah . . . a message, sir." Nothing happened. He tried again.

Nade didn't move.

The aide climbed over the raised lip of the catch tray, took hold of the edge of the bunk, dug several

claws into the wood in his nervousness, and cautiously scratched back a little of the fine white sand. The

admiral was in there somewhere. He scratched a little more urgently. A few smooth pebbles rattled into

the tray.

Just then, he bumped something.

Claws shot up. Sand flew in all directions.

The aide fell over the edge of the tray, scrabbled violently, and hurled himself through the doorway.

The admiral bellowed, "WHO DARES—"

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The aide rounded corners, and shot down cross-corridors as the admiral grabbed his cloak of rank, then

spotted the message.

Nade seized the message, stripped off various seals the message machine had plastered on it, growled:

"The fool probably wants more delay." Then he tore open the lightproof envelope that guaranteed no one

would see it but him, unfolded the message itself, and snarled, "' . . . received your message #4e67t3fs . .

. While I agree—' Bah! ' . . . extreme caution is advised . . . ' That clawless wonder! Let's see, what's

this? ' . . . Provided due consideration is given to these precautions, you are hereby authorized to carry

out the seizure by force of the aforesaid planet, its occupation, its annexation, and whatever ancillary

measures may appear necessary or desirable. You are, however, warned on no account to engage forces

of the Federation in battle, the operation to be strictly limited to the seizure, et cetera, of the aforesaid

planet. If possible, minimum damage is to be done to the planet's storage equipment, as possession of this

equipment should prove extremely valuable . . . ' Well, he's a hard-shell, after all! Let's see . . . 'Security

against surprise by Federation forces will be employed without however endangering success of the

operation by undue dividing of the attacking force . . . ' That doesn't hurt anything. Now, the quicker we

take them, the better."

He whipped his cloak of rank around him, tied it with a few quick jerks of his manipulators, strode into

the corridor, and headed for the bridge, composing an ultimatum as he went.

Elder Phillips examined the message, and cleared his throat. "We appear to have a war on our hands."

Deacon Bentley made a clucking noise. "Let's see."

Phillips handed him the message. Bentley sat back.

"Ha-hm-m-m. 'Due to your deliberately insulting references to our religion, to your slandering of our

gods, and to your refusal to withdraw the insult, we are compelled to extend claws in battle to defend our

honor. I hereby authorize the Fleet of Crustax to engage in lawful combat, and have notified Federation

authorities as the contiguous independent power in this region that a state of war exists. Signed, Iadrubel

Vire, Chief

Commander of the Forces.' Well, it appears, Elder, that our message was not quite up to Brother Fry's

level. Hm-m-m, there's more to this. Did this all come in at once?"

"It did, Deacon. The first part apparently authorizes the second part."

"Quite a different style, this. 'I, Arvast Nade, Commander Battle Fleet IV, hereby demand your

immediate surrender. Failure to comply within one hour, your time, following receipt of this ultimatum, as

determined by my communications center, will open your planet to pillage by my troops. Any attempt at

resistance will be crushed without mercy, and your population decimated in retaliation. Any damage, or

attempted damage, by you to goods or facilities of value on the planet will be avenged by execution of

leading citizens selected at my command. By my fiat as conqueror, your status, retroactive to the moment

of transmission of this ultimatum, is that of bond-sleg to the conquering race. Any lack of instantaneous

obedience will be dealt with accordingly. Signed, Arvast Nade, Battle Fleet Commander.'"

Deacon Bentley looked up.

"What do we do with this?"

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Eric Flint - Interstellar Patrol 2 -The Federation Of Humanity

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