Christopher Anvil - Interstellar Patrol

Interstellar Patrol

Christopher Anvil

Edited byEric Flint

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

fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

"Strangers to Paradise" was first published in Analog, October 1966. "The Dukes of

Desire" was first published in Analog, June 1967. "The King's Legions" was first

published in Analog, September 1967. (These three stories were later combined and

issued as the novel Strangers in Paradise, Tower 1969.) "A Question of Attitude" was

first published in Analog, December 1967. "The Royal Road" was first published in

Analog, June 1968. "The Nitrocellulose Doormat" was first published in Analog, June

1969. "Basic" was first published in Venture Science Fiction, November 1969. "Test

Ultimate" was first published in Analog, October 1969. "Compound Interest" was first

published in Analog, July 1967. "Experts in the Field" was first published in Analog,

May 1967. "The Hunch" was first published in Analog, July 1961. "Star Tiger" was first

published in Astounding, June 1960. "Revolt!" was first published in Astounding, April

1958. "Stranglehold" was first published in Analog, June 1966.

form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-3600-8

Cover art by Mark Hennessey-Barratt

First printing, April 2003

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Anvil, Christopher.

Interstellar patrol / by Christopher Anvil ; compiled and edited by Eric Flint.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-7434-3600-8

1. Life on other planets—Fiction. 2. Space warfare—Fiction. 3. Space

ships—Fiction.

I. Flint, Eric. II. Title.

PS3551.N9I58 2003

813'.54—dc21

2003040348

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

Introduction

by David Weber

I'm delighted that someone is making Christopher Anvil's work available once again. Especially the

Interstellar Patrol stories. Vaughan Roberts, Morrissey, and Hammell have always been three of my very

favorite characters, and I've always loved Anvil's . . . peculiar sense of humor.

I suppose, if I'm going to be honest, that Roberts' J-class ship is another of my favorite characters. In

fact, although I hadn't realized it until I sat down to write this introduction, I suspect that there was a lot of

the Patrol boat's computer hiding somewhere in the depths of my memory when I created Dahak for the

Mutineers' Moon series. After all, Dahak is simply another self-aware ship kidnapping itself a captain on

a somewhat larger scale. They even have a few personality traits in common.

The characters themselves are always a delight in an Anvil story or novel. Like most good character

builders, Anvil creates his memorable people for the reader through their interactions, and the edge of

zaniness which seems to creep into almost everything he writes only makes them even more interesting.

His pronounced gift for building larger-than-life planets and environments for them to interact in

sometimes seems to slip past almost unnoticed, yet it is a constant in almost all of his stories, and I think it

is one of his strongest building blocks. He also has more than a touch of the Eric Frank Russell school of

"poor aliens" in his work, because whoever sets out to oppose or overcome one of his characters has all

unknowingly set his foot on the first slippery step of the slope of doom. The only question is how big a

splat the villain is going to make at the foot of the cliff. This shows strongly in the first volume of Anvil's

work from Baen Books, Pandora's Legions, but it makes its appearance in this volume, as well. In this

instance, however, most of the "poor aliens" are actually "poor humans," with a sizable smattering of

unfortunate master computers, robotic police units, and nasty extraterrestrial fauna thrown in for good

measure.

In many ways, Anvil's storytelling style has always reminded me of the historical romance novels by

Georgette Heyer or Lois Bujold's Miles Vorkosigan stories. Like Heyer and Bujold, Anvil's characters

always have a perfectly logical reason for everything they do, yet they slide inevitably from one

catastrophe to another in a slither which rapidly assumes avalanche proportions. A Keith Laumer

character triumphs through an unflinching refusal to yield which transforms him, permits him to break

through to some higher level of capability or greatness. An Anvil character triumphs by shooting the

rapids, by caroming from one obstacle to another, adapting and overcoming as he goes. In many ways,

his characters are science-fiction descendents of Odysseus, the scheming fast thinker who dazzles his

opponents with his footwork. Of course, sometimes it's a little difficult to tell whether they're dazzling an

opponent with their footwork, or skittering across a floor covered in ball bearings. But Anvil has the

technique and the skill to bring them out triumphant in the end, and watching them dance is such a

delightful pleasure.

The stories in this volume are science-fiction in the grand, rip-roaring tradition. Anvil throws around

powerful bureaucracies like the PDA, huge space navies like the Space Force, and deviously capable

guardians of the Right and Good (although said guardians may be just a mite tarnished around the edges)

like the Interstellar Patrol. He delights in creating obscure, complex, often many-sided conundrums for his

characters, and then taking us with him as they unravel the problem one strand at a time. I see a lot of the

Golden Age in his stories, echoes of Williamson's Legion of Space, or of John Campbell's Arcot, Wade,

and Morey in the scale and the sweeping, half-laughing scope of the problems he inflicts upon his

characters. And most delightfully of all, in our post Star Trek universe, there isn't a trace of the Prime

Directive. There are only characters with wit, humor, courage, and rather more audacity than is good for

them.

While it is inevitable that any volume which is going to deal with Vaughan Roberts & Co. has to start

with "Strangers to Paradise," that story—excellent as it is—was never really my favorite Interstellar

Patrol story. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it's because the "want-generator" is a bit too much like

Williamson's AKKA super weapon in the Legion of Space stories. Or perhaps it's because the

"want-generator" is a little too much of the one aspect of Anvil's stories which sometimes disturbs me on

a philosophical level. His characters, by their nature, are the sort of people who set out to fix problems,

yet sometimes the means they embrace fringe just a little too closely upon a sort of intellectual

totalitarianism. Not in terms of ideology per se, but in the willingness to manipulate and control in ways

which cannot be resisted. At the same time, however, Anvil is always careful to show the pitfalls of such

an approach, as in "Strangers to Paradise" itself, when the subjects of our heroes' "mind control"

stubbornly persist in doing something their controllers never counted on.

Yet whether or not "Strangers to Paradise" would make my own list of top five Anvil stories, it is

most definitely the direct and necessary progenitor of what undoubtedly are my two favorite IP stories:

"The King's Legions," which is included in this volume, and the short novel Warlord's World, which is not

but which I hope and expect will be along shortly. It's always seemed to me that, just as Laumer's novella

"The Night of the Trolls" captures the essential Laumer hero perfectly, "The King's Legions" and

Warlord's World capture the essential Anvil.

For those of us who have known Anvil for years, this book is a most welcome reunion with old

friends. For those not already familiar with him, it offers an introduction to a writer and to characters very

much worth knowing. In some ways, I rather envy the reader who is about to experience his or her first,

concentrated dose of Anvil-dom. If you're one of those newcomers, welcome aboard. Whichever Anvil

tale winds up your favorite, at least you'll have a rich and varied selection to choose from. This volume

contains many of my favorites, but there's a lot more Anvil out there, and I hope that Baen will bring

more of it to us. In the meantime, you hold in your hands an excellent starting point.

Buckle up tight. It's going to be an . . . energetic ride.

Editor's Preface

Without a doubt, Christopher Anvil's richest and most developed setting was what he and John

Campbell—who edited Astounding/Analog magazine where most of the stories originally

appeared—called "the Colonization series." Anvil wrote over thirty stories in that setting, ranging in length

from short stories to the novel Warlord's World.

At the heart of the Colonization series are the stories concerning the Interstellar Patrol, which are the

best known. But Anvil wrote a number of stories in the same setting, in which the Interstellar Patrol does

not figure directly. These stories often involved such organizations as the Space Force, the Planetary

Development Authority and the Stellar Scouts, the Space Navy—and a wide range of civilians, from big

businessmen to merchant spacemen to colonists on the ground.

Often enough, characters who appear in cameo or minor roles in the Interstellar Patrol stories are the

protagonists of other stories. An example is the ruthless businessman Nels Krojac, who is only mentioned

in passing in "The King's Legions" and "The Royal Road" but is a central figure in "Compound Interest"

and "Experts in the Field."

In this volume, we are reissuing the first two major episodes of Anvil's Interstellar Patrol adventures,

as well as—in Part III—a number of stories which give the reader a sense of the setting as a whole.

—Eric Flint

Part I: Paradise

STRANGERS TO PARADISE

Vaughan Nathan Roberts, captain of the fast interstellar transport Orion, stood in the huge room

amidst all the wheeled and antennaed metal shapes, large and small, and thought of his ship orbiting the

planet with its drive knocked out. The idea of coming to this place, he told himself stubbornly, was to get

repairs. Not to get eaten alive, mobbed, or bundled around by roboid functionaries, but to get repairs.

The question was, how?

Roberts was flanked by metal boxes nearly as tall as himself, much wider and thicker, with whip

antennas on top, bicycle wheels below, and the words "Law Enforcement" blazoned on them front and

back.

Directly in front of Roberts stood a far larger metal box, on low massive wheels, with a variety of

antennas sticking up, and mouthpieces, viewscreens, and receptor heads thrust out toward him under the

glowing letters: CRIMINAL COURT.

From this maze of screens and speakers, a voice was murmuring: " . . . Fingerprints, palm prints,

retinal patterns, total body index: not on record. Conclusion unavoidable that this individual is not native

to this planet."

"I've been trying to tell you," said Roberts, "we had gravitor trouble. We headed for the nearest

repair facility, got here crippled, couldn't raise any response on the communicator, and half-a-dozen of us

came down in the ship's tender. The tender cracked up in a forest forty miles from the spaceport. Three

of my men were badly hurt. One of us stayed with them, and two of us hiked out for help. When we

reached your city, here, we got garbage dumped on us, tin cans and chunks of cement slung at us, a gang

of kids went for us, and then your iron gendarmes arrested us for causing a riot."

"Unsuitable attire," snapped a voice from the metal box to Roberts' right.

"We are dressed as spacemen," said Roberts shortly. "Now, I've got three injured men in the tender,

and a ship in orbit with the rest of my crew trapped on board. We'll gladly pay for medical help and

repairs. Where are they?"

A general murmur and clack rose from the big metal box in front of Roberts. On the screens, human

faces and metal forms of various sizes and shapes rapidly came and went. From somewhere in the room,

Roberts could hear the voice of Hammell, his cargo-control officer, raised in anger.

Then a speaker in front of him was murmuring, "On basis of correlation of statements of both

accused, overall probability of guilt is 0.2, necessity of making examples 0.1. Therefore, adjudge

innocent, transfer to Immigration."

At once, a loud voice announced, "We find the accused innocent of all charges brought against him."

From Roberts' roboid captors, to either side, came low murmurs of discontent.

A new voice spoke with authority. "The prisoner will be released at once, and escorted to

Immigration for disposal."

Roberts blinked. "I don't want to immigrate. I just need repairs for my ship!"

The words CRIMINAL COURT faded out and the words IMMIGRATION HEARING

flickered on.

"Name," said the box.

Roberts said, "I've been through all that. What I want . . ."

"Name," said the box sternly.

To Roberts' right, one of the smaller boxes explained. "You were at the Criminal Court. Now you

are at the Immigration Hearing."

"I don't want to immigrate!" said Roberts.

The big metal box said sternly, "This case has been transferred to Immigration for disposal. Relevant

information of interest to applicant: 1) No individual not already a citizen will be compelled against his will

to become a citizen. 2) Due to food and material shortages, technological breakdowns, and attendant

malfunctions, no one not a citizen will be fed, sheltered, clothed, or otherwise allowed to become a

charge on the planet, unless otherwise decided by the due and constituted authorities." There was a brief

pause. "Name."

Roberts blinked. Apparently he would have to become a citizen in order to exist while arranging for

repairs.

"Name," snapped the box.

"Roberts. Vaughan N. Roberts."

"Sex."

"Male."

"Age."

"Thirty-six."

"Height."

"Six feet one-quarter inch."

"Weight."

"One hundred seventy-five pounds. Look . . ."

"Occupation?"

"Spaceship captain. Listen, all I want . . ."

"Inapplicable occupation. Demand for spaceship captains on this planet: Zero. Correction:

Occupation: Unskilled. Years of experience?"

Roberts stared. "Experience? As a spaceship captain?"

"As unskilled," snapped the box. "This is your occupation."

Roberts said, "I have no experience as unskilled. I . . ."

"No experience," said the box disapprovingly. "Any physical defects?"

"No. Look, all . . ."

"Convicted of how many crimes the last three years?"

"None. All I . . ."

"Formal education?"

Roberts blew out his breath. "Twelve years of general schooling, six years training in the Space

Academy, one year at the Tactical Combat Command Advanced Training Center. And all I want is to

get some repairs done!"

"Seven years college training. Equivalent fourteen years experience credit. Excellent. Raise your right

hand."

Roberts exasperatedly raised his right hand.

"Repeat after me," said the box, and rolled off words in short incomplete groups, so that Roberts had

time to repeat the words, but not to understand their full meaning. Then the box said, "You are now a

citizen of the planet Boschock III, known as Paradise, and entitled to all the rights and privileges

appertaining thereto, and subject to all the laws, regulations, and customs thereof, so help you God,

Amen. This hearing is closed."

The words IMMIGRATION HEARING faded out.

Before Roberts could say a word, he was rushed up a gravity-lift, down a hall, and shoved into a

room where he was weighed, measured, photographed, fingerprinted, palm, toe, and foot-printed,

retina-graphed, his mouth pried open and teeth examined, and then he was presented with an

identification card, and run down the hall to a window where ration books popped out of slots onto a

counter. Next he was hurried out to a store full of huge vending machines, and outfitted with a new set of

clothes.

Roberts and Hammell now found themselves outside, holding their own clothing wrapped in big

bundles, and each wearing a kind of loose long-sleeved blouse, loose long pantaloons, ill-fitting shoes,

and long-billed high-topped floppy cap.

Roberts looked sourly up the street at the milling crowd, then glanced at Hammell. "Do you have any

ideas?"

"I wouldn't know an idea if one banged into me," growled Hammell. "I'm so mad I can't see straight."

"We need to get in touch with someone in authority—if any human on this planet has authority."

"Yes," said Hammell. "But how?"

Roberts said, "If they have any kind of public communications system here, there ought to be a

directory."

While they were trying to think where to look for one, a large mobile metal box stopped in front of

them, and abruptly shot its antenna to full height. Metal covers on its sides snapped back and a dazzling

yellow light flashed in their faces. A set of long flexible metal arms whipped out, a mesh-covered speaker

snapped "Spot check," and with a quick flip of the metal arms, the robot emptied their pockets onto the

sidewalk. Next, it rapidly felt them all over, then jerked loose the bundles they were holding, so that they

spilled open in the street.

"Nonexplosive. Clothing. But nonstandard. You have receipts for these?"

For the moment, Roberts was speechless. He heard Hammell snarl, "They're our own clothes."

"Uncitylike behavior, one count: lying to roboid police officer under direct interrogation during spot

check; these are not clothes permissible for a citizen to wear, hence they are not your clothes. They can

only be costumes, and costumes can only be purchased by registered entertainers. You are not dressed

as registered entertainers." The yellow light flashed in Roberts' face. "You. You have receipts for these?

Your answer? Do not lie."

"We're new citizens," Roberts began, "and—"

"Not asked. Do not evade the question. Do you have receipts for these costumes?"

"Of course," said Roberts. "Yes, certainly."

"Produce the receipts."

"They're on board the spaceship Orion. We wore these clothes on board Orion, came down to

arrange for repairs, got sent to Immigration, and then bought the clothes we're wearing now. These

clothes in the bundles are the clothes we wore when we came down."

"Spaceship visits are rare, improbable. It follows, this explanation is improbable. Arrest on suspicion

of shoplifting. You will come with me for immediate interrogation while investigation proceeds."

The two men were separated, placed under bright lights for a long series of questions, then put into a

cell with two cots, a light bulb, a toilet, a 3-V set that didn't work, and a decorative design on the ceiling

that obviously incorporated the pick-up heads for a sight-and-sound recording system.

As the robot-jailer rolled off down the corridor, Roberts and Hammell eyed the ceiling, and lay down

on the cots without a word.

* * *

Several hours crawled by, then a tall gray-haired man wearing dark-blue blouse and pantaloons, of

good material and narrow cut, walked down the corridor, and stopped outside the cell.

"Which of you is Roberts, Vaughan N.?"

"I am."

"You represent yourself as a spaceship captain?"

"I'm captain of T.S.M. Orion, Interstellar Rapid Transport Corporation. The ship is now orbiting this

planet with a nonfunctional main gravitor. I came down here to arrange for repairs, but our tender went

out of control, we cracked up, two of us hiked in to get help, were attacked by a gang, arrested, dragged

into court, given to understand we would immigrate or starve to death, then arrested again because we

couldn't produce receipts for the clothes we'd worn down, and here we are."

"I see. And this other individual . . . let's see . . . Hammell?"

"He's the cargo-control officer assigned to Orion."

"As which," said Hammell coldly, "it is my duty to tell you that Orion has a spoilable cargo. This

planet is supposed to have a Class II commercial repair facility. We've been trying to get in touch with it

for days."

"I see. My name is Kelty. I'm assistant-chief of the Law-Enforcement Department, acting under the

planetary computer, which technically is chief. I'm afraid I have some bad news for you gentlemen."

"Not surprising," growled Hammell.

Roberts said, "This planet has been nothing but bad news since we got here."

"Then why not go to another planet?"

"Our gravitor burned out. We had to strip the coils of the tender's gravitor, to make emergency

repairs. Then, to come down here, we had to scavenge from the main gravitor, to get the tender to

work."

"Where did you land?"

"We didn't land. We crashed about ten miles inside a forest belt, between a couple of wide tracts of

cleared land. The spaceport was about forty miles to the east of where we crashed."

"Then," said Kelty, watching Roberts alertly, "you were well inside the killer forest. I'm surprised you

got through alive."

"Yes," said Roberts, "we're a little surprised, ourselves. We'd scarcely started to set foot outside the

tender when a thing like an oversize gray tiger jumped us. We fought that off with guns from the

emergency kit. Our communications officer got in contact with your city here—we hadn't been able to

raise it while we were in orbit—and while I was trying to arrange for help, another of these overgrown

tigers showed up. Meanwhile, it turned out that I was talking to a mechanical answering device of some

kind, so I gave that up. We fought off this second animal, the sun set, and something started taking

cracks at the far side of the tender. This thing forced its way into the tender's cargo compartment. We

managed to get in touch with someone else on the communicator, but before we could make our position

clear, the tender got heaved around, and the communicator was smashed."

Roberts shook his head. "The next morning, Hammell and I started through the forest, got into some

kind of a thicket that folded big clinging leaves around us like wet sheets, and while we were fighting clear

of this, a pile of insects came pouring through the trees, tumbling over each other, and spreading out to

eat everything in sight. We managed to get out of their way, and saw that when the horde passed, all the

insects left behind jumped and flew after it to catch up and pour forward again. They were traveling

southeast, which suited us, so we walked along close behind, and believe me, nothing bothered us. When

they hit the cleared ground, they changed direction, and we got out of the forest and hiked the rest of the

way in the open."

Kelty was listening intently. His look of suspicion had disappeared, and now he smiled. "You used

your heads. Such good sense deserves success; but I'm sorry to have to tell you, we have no way to go

after those men, and the repair facility you're looking for is no longer here."

Roberts looked at him blankly.

Kelty said, "You've apparently assumed that the population of this planet grew up from a beginning

with a few tough settlers to its present size. In that case, if there was cause for a repair facility in the first

place, it wouldn't disappear overnight. But it isn't so. The city was designed and built as a man-made

paradise, through the beneficence of a tax-free foundation. The foundation was under legislative

investigation. To get out from under, an accumulated surplus balance of several trillions had to be

unloaded quickly, and it had to be done somehow for the demonstrable benefit of mankind. A

planetary-utopia project was dug out of the files, and right here is the final result. This city was built, and

staffed by highly-trained technicians, with a computer in overall control, then the foundation opened a

campaign on half-a-dozen overpopulated worlds, gathered from their slums millions of

'socially-disadvantaged individuals' and used the last of its excess money shipping them here. That is how

this planet was settled."

Roberts grappled with the mental picture this created.

* * *

Hammell said, "Where did a repair facility ever fit in?"

"It looked nice in the plans, and it did a good job when the populace was coming in here. After that,

there wasn't much use for it. When a mob looted and burned it, the computer had what still remained

reprocessed to fill more urgent needs. There's nothing left now but a plot of ground where the facility

used to be."

Hammell shook his head and glanced at Roberts.

Roberts finally said, "There's no way to get the repairs done here?"

"Not without the equipment and the technicians. The equipment was looted. About that time, the

technicians saw the way things were sliding, and made recommendations, which the computer, in

compliance with its built-in directives, rejected. The technicians got fed up. One fine morning, they pulled

out, leaving the computer programmed to neither produce nor maintain air-travel mechanisms. The

technicians went to the far side of the killer forest, and set up independent farming communities over

there. This planet being what it is, they're evidently having plenty of trouble, but they prefer it to the city.

We can't reach them to bring them back. We have no air transport. And the computer couldn't be

programmed to restore the repair facility except by these technicians."

Roberts said, "Could the technicians be persuaded to come back temporarily, just to program the

computer?"

Kelty's eyes glinted. "If so, they'll never get away again. They broke their contract. Now the whole

roboid police force is on the lookout for them. Naturally, I will obey the orders of the planetary

computer, and seize them the instant they show up." Kelty saw Roberts' expression, and smiled. "Don't

worry, Roberts. They know this. No, you could never possibly persuade them to come back here.

We've tried to hire people to take their place, but without success. Who wants to spend his time

struggling with the frustrations of a gigantic slum-city? Everything you do here fails. Put up a light bulb,

and someone will smash it. Install a water pipe in the afternoon, and it will be ripped out by next morning.

Bare maintenance is all the computer and its mechanisms can manage. For most specialists, the work is

solid frustration. My job is a little different. It's quite a challenge to use limited force in such a way that a

measure of order is maintained. But I do it, and I aim to continue to do it."

Roberts thought it over. "I can see what you're up against. But unless we can get the computer and

the technicians together, how can we get the ship—or even the ship's tender—repaired?"

Kelty shook his head. "In the present setup, it's impossible. The computer can't divert the effort to

rebuild the repair facility, because of the widespread disorder and destructiveness of the populace."

"I can't leave my ship in orbit," said Roberts, "and the men trapped on board, helpless."

"But, you see, unless some order can be brought out of this chaos, we have no choice in the matter.

And to do that would take a change in the attitude of the populace. There's only one other way."

"What's that?"

Kelty studied him speculatively. "If you and your men, who have considerable technical background,

will first consent to devote your time and training exclusively to work for the City, from now on, then we

might be able to work something out." He straightened up, and then stepped back. "Then, you see, it

might be worth the computer's while to rebuild the repair facility."

Roberts stared at him.

Kelty smiled. "Meanwhile, since you're citizens, you have guaranteed rent-free cost-free housing. If

you should decide to join us, your work would naturally require that you live in close proximity to the

Planetary Control Center. Until you do, it would, of course, be unfair to discriminate against the other

citizens by giving you special attention. Since we've found you innocent, you will now be released. You'll

be given a routing ticket on the way out, to take you to your quarters. You'll find them airy, with an

exceptional view."

Kelty turned, gestured, and a roboid-jailer wheeled with a hiss of tires down the corridor.

Kelty gave them a final smiling glance. "Think over what I've said, Roberts. If you decide to join us,

let me know."

* * *

That evening found Roberts and Hammell in a five-room apartment on the sixth floor of a ten-story

building. The building had emergency staircases littered with cans, broken bottles, garbage, and large

rats, which disputed the passage with them on the way up. The gravitor-drop had a chain across the

entrance, bearing a dented "NO POWER" sign. There was not a whole piece of glass to be seen in the

building. The empty window frames looked out over a park, where dead half-grown trees had four-letter

words carved in their bark, and the spindly grass sprouted amidst heaps of rotting garbage.

From down in the streets came a scrape and rumble as battered cleaning-machines picked up trash.

From the building above came a chorus of yells:

"Kill the lousy mechs!"

A fusillade of bottles smashed down on the machines' armored tops. Loudspeakers broadcast

Christopher Anvil - Interstellar Patrol

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