Free John Rackham by The Double Invaders Page A

powerl"
    As
soon as it was practical again, Mordin raised his hand for quiet. The crowd
tittered into silence and the old man showed his teeth in a ferocious grin.
"We have seen something of the might of Zorgan. Enough. And we have heard
enough of you, I think. I want words with these others." He ran a cold eye
over them, came back to aim a finger at Karsh. "What do you do?"
    "I
am responsible for directing the technical side of the operation, the devices,
methods and means used. And the weapons."
    "And you?" The
finger moved to Slatt.
    "I
am Captain of the ship, Unit One, responsible for that ship, the men on it, and
that part of the operation in which the ship was involved."
    "Hmm!" Mordin frowned, and so did
the audience, men and women alike. The
old man fingered a trooper next, then another. Bit by bit he began to assemble
the complex pyramid of authority and responsibility of the whole force, the
chain of command, the hierarchy involved. Then, at last, he called
a halt.
    "Out
of such a confusion," he growled, "one thing is plain. Not one of you
thinks for himself. Not one. Not even him. You were sent here by some other
person, and you do what that Other person
says, what you have been toid to do. That is no way for a man, and we will have
no time for it. Here on Scarta every man thinks for himself and decides what he
has to do. Then he does it. If it is a big thing, then many men think together
and decide, as we are doing now. That is our way, here on Scarta. And you men
are all here now with us, so it will be the same for you. You must think for
yourselves and decide what you will do. What say you to that?"
    They
said, each and every one of them, exactly what Bragan could have predicted they
would say. Nothing at all. Nothing in their previous experience had prepared
them for such a shattering question as this. He watched them, saw the shifting
eyes, the uneasy feet, the bewilderment, the way they looked to one another for
inspiration. And he saw how all the glances and unspoken questions gradually
shifted and found a focus, on himself. Mordin saw it too, and glared at Bragan.
    "Are
these men? See how they look to you for their thinking, to be told what next.
Can't they think for themselves?"
    Bragan
smiled. "Such is the power of Zorgan," he said softly. "You see?
These are my men and they do as I say. I tell you this, old man. We are your
enemies. We are your prisoners now, true, but we will be your masters some day,
be sure of that. And until then, we are enemies. You will have to keep watch
and guard on us, keep us secure and prisoned, and worry in case we escape. Or,
of course, you can kill us."
    "We do not kill!" Mordin growled. "We leave that to the whim of the
gods. You still mean to resist, Bragan?"
    "All the way."
    "I
see." The old man scratched his jaw thoughtfully, then turned to confer a moment or two with his fellow
seniors. A buzz of talk came from the crowd.
Bragan kept a critical eye on the throng, trying to guess its shifting mood. It wasn't easy. The thinking was alien here and he had a
hard part to play, with little or no script. In a while the old man turned to
the audience and raised his hand once more for silence.
    "We are dealing with strange people
here," he announced. "It seems the sons of Zorgan cannot think
without help. I propose to offer such help. Now"—he swept the assembled
prisoners with a searching eye—"which of you has skill in the working of
metals, of iron and copper and such things?"
    After
a long breath Bragan saw one trooper raise a hand, then another. The old man
nodded. "Good! And which of you is skilled in the handling and use of
electricity?" That got him more hands. He went on to ask about food-preparation,
about the design and flying of aircraft, even about farming practice, and each
time he got more hands. Bragan knew what the game was. Divide and rule. Mordin
was no fool. After a long string of questions he called a halt again.
    "Very
well. Scarta can use men like you.