Free The Very Best of F & SF v1 by Gordon Van Gelder (ed) Page B

don’t,
Johnny, but I’m sure you can pick up one just as good from one of your eager
junior officers. “)
    Three Hydrogen
Bombs examined the gifts, particularly the typewriter, with some interest. Then
he solemnly distributed them among the members of his council, keeping only the
typewriter and one of the sapphires for himself. The sword he gave to his son.
    Makes Much
Radiation tapped the steel with his fingernail. “Not so much,” he stated. “Not -so-much. Mr. Thomas came up
with better stuff than this from the Confederate States of America for my
sister’s puberty ceremony.” He tossed the saber negligently to the ground. “But
what can you expect from a bunch of lazy, good-for-nothing whiteskin stinkards?”
    When he heard
the last word, Jerry Franklin went rigid. That meant he’d have to fight Makes
Much Radiation—and the prospect scared him right down to the wet hairs on his
legs. The alternative was losing face completely among the Sioux.
    “Stinkard” was a
term from the Natchez system and was applied these days indiscriminately to all
white men bound to field or factory under their aristocratic Indian overlords.
A “stinkard” was something lower than a serf, whose one value was that his toil
gave his masters the leisure to engage in the activities of full manhood:
hunting, fighting, thinking.
    If you let
someone call you a stinkard and didn’t kill him, why, then you were a stinkard—and that
was all there was to it.
    “I am an
accredited representative of the United States of America,” Jerry said slowly
and distinctly, “and the oldest son of the Senator from Idaho. When my father
dies, I will sit in the Senate in his place. I am a free-born man, high in the
councils of my nation, and anyone who calls me a stinkard is a rotten, no-good,
foul-mouthed liar!”
    There—it was
done. He waited as Makes Much Radiation rose to his feet. He noted with dismay
the well-fed, well-muscled sleekness of the young warrior. He wouldn’t have a
chance against him. Not in hand-to-hand combat—which was the way it would be.
    Makes Much
Radiation picked up the sword and pointed it at Jerry Franklin. “I could chop
you in half right now like a fat onion,” he observed. “Or I could go into a
ring with you knife to knife and cut your belly open. I’ve fought and killed
Seminole, I’ve fought Apache, I’ve even fought and killed Comanche. But I’ve
never dirtied my hands with paleface blood, and I don’t intend to start now. I
leave such simple butchery to the overseers of our estates. Father, I’ll be
outside until the lodge is clean again.” Then he threw the sword ringingly at
Jerry’s feet and walked out.
    Just before he
left, he stopped, and remarked over his shoulder: “The oldest son of the
Senator from Idaho! Idaho has been part of the estates of my mother’s family
for the past forty-five years! When will these romantic children stop playing
games and start living in the world as it is now?”
    “My son,” the old
chief murmured. “Younger generation. A bit wild. Highly intolerant. But he
means well. Really does. Means well.”
    He signaled to
the white serfs who brought over a large chest covered with great splashes of
color.
    While the chief
rummaged in the chest, Jerry Franklin relaxed inch by inch. It was almost too
good to be true: he wouldn’t have to fight Makes Much Radiation, and he hadn’t
lost face. All things considered, the whole business had turned out very well
indeed.
    And as for the
last comment—well, why expect an Indian to understand about things like
tradition and the glory that could reside forever in a symbol?
     
    When his father
stood up under the cracked roof of Madison Square Garden and roared across to
the Vice-President of the United States: “The people of the sovereign state of
Idaho will never and can never in all conscience consent to a tax on potatoes.
From time immemorial, potatoes have been associated with Idaho, potatoes have
been the pride of