Black Bargain and Other Raw Deals
by Robert Bloch
* * *
Contents:
THE OLD COLLEGE TRY
BLACK BARGAIN
DAYBROKE
THE PAST MASTER
A GOOD IMAGINATION
FOUNDING FATHERS
FANGS OF VENGEANCE
DEATH IS AN ELEPHANT
PHILTRE TIP
METHOD FOR MURDER
UNTOUCHABLE
* * *
THE OLD COLLEGE TRY
Originally published in the Gamma #2 from 1963
Administrator Raymond's head was a hive of hornets. He could feel them buzzing in his brain, and before opening his eyes he held out his hand.
The Yorl, who had probably been crouching at his bedside for the past hour, in anticipation of this very moment, thrust a glass of Aspergin into his shaking fingers.
Administrator Raymond gulped it down, and gradually his fingers ceased twitching. The buzzing died away inside his skull, and he was able to open his eyes. In a moment he could even manage to sit up.
The blue-skinned little Yorl smiled at him and said, "Goo morning, Ministrata," then bowed as he offered Raymond his undergarments.
Raymond acknowledged the greeting with a friendly grin. He wondered just how much longer the Yorl would continue to bow if he knew that this was the last day. The new Administrator was arriving, and soon Raymond would go home—back to Vega and civilization. It would be good to see a normal world again—a world where grass was an honest pink and the birds snarled sweetly all the day.
On the other hand (even though that hand might tremble a little) he rather regretted leaving Yorla. He even regretted leaving the Yorls. The dark-visaged, stunted little blue humanoids might seem alien and uncivilized to strangers, but after five years on Yorla, Administrator Raymond was oddly fond of them.
Puffing a trifle, Raymond struggled into his uniform. Damned nuisance, but he had to keep up appearances. After all, today he must welcome the new Administrator. He hoped they were sending out a good one. It took a certain temperament to endure the heat and the solitude of life on Yorla. And, more important, it took a certain temperament to understand the Yorls.
"Ship has land!" Another Yorl came scuttling in, as usual, without bothering to knock. He grinned up at Raymond. "Bringa pinky."
"Pinky." That's what the Yorls called humans. He must be referring to the new Administrator.
"I'm coming," Raymond told his informant.
The Yorl shook his head. "No botha. We bring him, in your office now."
So they'd organized their own welcoming committee. Good. Raymond smiled as he thought of the new Administrator stepping out of the ship and being confronted with a mob of naked blue Yorls. Must have been something of a shock, particularly if they'd paraded for him with their trophies. Well, he'd just have to get used to it—as Raymond himself had gotten used to it when he arrived, five years ago.
"You go back, tell him I'll be right down," Raymond instructed. The Yorl messenger withdrew, and the other Yorl gave Raymond a shave, a shoeshine, and another glass of Aspergin, in that order.
Then Raymond waddled downstairs to his office and greeted the new Administrator.
He found him standing on his hands in the center of the floor.
"Greetings," he called, from his upside-down position. "You must be Raymond, eh? I'm Philip."
"Pleased to meet you," Raymond said, wondering if he ought to advance and shake Philip by the foot.
"Excuse the informality," Philip said. "Just trying to get back a little circulation. Long trip, and the decompression effect is a bother."
He lowered himself to the floor, but instead of rising, began to do push-ups. He was good at it, and Raymond felt himself grow tired just watching the exercise.
"One's duty to keep fit, eh?" Philip said, cheerily. He didn't even pant.
Raymond nodded, staring at the newcomer. Philip upsidedown or Philip horizontal was still a remarkably handsome young man. He had blonde, curly hair, regular features, sparkling blue eyes, white and gleaming teeth, and a super-abundance of muscles. His smile radiated enthusiastic vitality. In a word, he looked a bit too good to be true, and Raymond wondered how on Vega a prime specimen like this had ever been relegated to a post as Administrator on remote little Yorla.
Philip bounded to his feet, healthily flushed and perspiring mightily, and held out his hand to Raymond. His grip was as hearty as his voice.
"Good to see you," he said. "By the way, Captain Rand sends regrets. There was a slight mishap when we landed—something went wrong with the auxiliary grav-mech. I don't understand the technical side, but I'm afraid he and the crew are in for about a week of repairs here before they can take off on a return flight."
"A week?" Raymond couldn't conceal his frown. "But I'm all packed—I thought we'd be leaving today."
Philip shrugged. "I know how you feel," he said. "But speaking selfishly, for my own sake, I'm glad of the delay. It gives me a chance to find out a few things from you. In a week you can brief me on this post."
Raymond remembered his duties as a host. "Of course," he said. "Glad to."
"Want to see my papers?" Philip asked.
"Not necessary. Just a formality." Raymond turned and beckoned to his waiting Yorl. "Two Aspergins, hup-hup!"
As the Yorl nodded and backed out of the room, Philip shook his head. "Nothing for me, thanks. Never touch the stuff."
"Better learn," Raymond advised. "This is a fever-planet."
"I'll manage," Philip said, confidently. "They gave me all the new shots before I left. Besides, I've never been sick a day in my life." He paused, waiting until the Yorl had disappeared, then lowered his voice. "Odd creatures, aren't they?"
"You'll get used to them," Raymond said. "They make wonderful servants. You'll find you'll never have to lift a finger to do anything. There's a post staff here of twenty—they'll bathe you, dress you, brush your teeth for you if you like."
"I'm afraid I'm not accustomed to such luxuries," Philip told him. "Besides, isn't it a bit—ostentatious?"
"If you mean expensive, forget it," Raymond answered. "It costs Interplan next to nothing in wages. The Yorls aren't greedy. And they actually enjoy working for a pinky. That's what they call us, you know. It's easier than slaving in the Mines. You'll find them faithful and loyal if you treat them decently. Once you get used to the blue skins and the language, and accept their customs—"
Philip sat down, cracking his knuckles. "Their customs," he said. "Do you know how they met me when the ship landed? They came running out waving their spears. And on the tip of each spear was a head."
"They meant to do you honor," Raymond explained. "I told them a new Administrator would be arriving. So they got up a group to welcome you and brought out their trophies for display."
"Trophies? You mean they're actually head-hunters?"
"Of course not. They prize heads, and preserve them, but they don't go around killing one another just to collect more. After all, they're not barbarians. Besides, Interplan wouldn't tolerate such savagery."
"Then where do the heads come from?"
"Well, as you know, most of the Yorls work in our mines. The labor is hard and they don't particularly enjoy it, but they like our trade goods and the arrangement has worked out satisfactorily for all concerned. So much so that when the Yorl chiefs made their agreements with Interplan, they set up a quota. Every Yorl who signs up for mining is obliged to produce a set amount of ore. If a Yorl fails to meet his quota, if he's caught shirking—his companions merely chop off his head."
"And you say they're not barbarians," Philip murmured.
Raymond sh
rugged. "This is Yorla, not Vega or Titan. Remember the old saying—when on Rigel, do what the Rigelians do."
"But chopping off one another's heads that way! I should think something would be done about policing them."
"Meaning I should have done something as Administrator?"
Philip flushed but made no effort to deny the words.
Raymond sighed. "Maybe I felt the same way when I arrived here, five years ago. Since then I've learned a few things. As I say, the Yorls don't kill for the sake of killing, even though they value their trophies more highly than anything else. They have their own restraints, and it's all a matter of meting out justice."
"But the laws—"
"They have their own laws. Remember, Interplan sent us here to administrate, to supervise the mining operations and trade with the natives. It is not our duty to superimpose our own concepts or customs on this planet. Besides, oddly enough, the system works. We want what the mines produce. The Yorls see that we get it. They eliminate their own slackers and misfits, weed out their own criminals, deal with them promptly and efficiently. Why, we'd need to employ hundreds of men to act as overseers if we tried to keep them in line according to our own methods. This is a simpler, easier, cheaper way."
"But it's not right! In the name of common humanity—"
"Humanity." Raymond sighed again. "The Yorls are not humans. They are humanoid. That's the first thing you have to learn, the one thing you must always remember."
A Yorl bowed his way into the room.
"Affanoon, Ministrata," he said.
Philip glanced at Raymond, who nodded briefly. "That's right, it is afternoon. You're going to have to accustom yourself to the shorter days here." He turned and confronted the Yorl. "What is it?"
"You go way, tha ri'?"
"That's right. I will be going away, and Mr. Philip will be your new Administrator. But I won't leave for a while, not until the ship is ready."
"We no wish you go."
"Sorry. Interplan makes the rules. And you'll like Mr. Philip, I'm sure."
"So. But first you come long torga, this night, we hold koodoo, your honna."
"He's inviting us down to the village here for a party," Raymond explained.
"You come long?"
"We'll be there."
"Yaya!" The Yorl grinned happily. "Much fun!"
* * * *
It may have been much fun according to Yorl standards, and it may have been much fun for Raymond, but Philip didn't enjoy the koodoo a bit.
He sat there on the dais, sweltering in the heat of the warm night, and watched the dancers with a strained smile on his face. The pounding of the drums made his head ache. And when Raymond got up to make his speech, explaining how he was leaving and Philip would be taking over, the Yorls had shouted for almost five minutes. It was unnerving. Then there had been the banquet, and the nauseous concoctions he had to pretend to sample. Raymond didn't seem to mind—but then, he kept washing down his food with Aspergin.
Philip didn't like the setup at all. They were savages, and no amount of talking would change the fact. Dancing in a huge circle of spears set up in the sand—and each spear surmounted by the preserved and grinning head of a Yorl. The way those heads grinned was actually frightening, but the grins on the faces of the living dancers seemed worse.
And yet he had to maintain outward calm, outward dignity. Even when a hundred little blue Yorls writhed naked before him, chanting and contorting their bodies in gyrations that were positively obscene.
How could Raymond endure the noise, let alone the sight of them? Why, he was actually grinning himself—his fat face flushed and foolish, as if he enjoyed the disgusting spectacle. He was drunk, that was the answer.
Now the dancers had separated into two groups, male and female. They formed two lines, facing one another, and the drums beat in a quickening tempo. The lines advanced, converged, and then the drums went frantic. And now the dance was no longer a dance. It was mass orgy. Why, they were actually going to—
"Raymond!" Philip whispered. "Look! Aren't you going to stop them?"
"What for? They seem to be enjoying themselves."
"But in the name of common decency—"
"I told you they have their own customs. This is being done in our honor."
"Disgusting!" Philip rose abruptly.
"Natural." Raymond blinked. "Where are you going?"
"Back to my quarters. I'm afraid I'm not up to this sort of thing."
"Wait!"
But Philip did not wait. He moved away. Raymond waddled after him, puffing. Philip didn't slow his stride. The older man didn't catch up to him until they reached the Administration Building.
"Come back," Raymond wheezed. "You can't do this. You're insulting them by walking out."
"Insulting them? What did you expect me to do, get down there and wallow with them?"
"If they invited you, yes."
"Are you serious?"
Raymond nodded. "Of course. You can't offend their sense of hospitality." He chuckled. "Besides, it isn't so bad. Maybe their skins are blue, but you'd be surprised how white they look after five years out here."
"Not to me." Philip scowled. "I'm turning in."
"You're angry? Now look, son, let me explain a few things to you about—"
"Never mind. I've heard some of your explanations. And I'm afraid the Company reports are right. Interplan gave me specific orders to come out here and clean up the situation—"
Philip hesitated, then took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I mentioned it, but perhaps it's better that you know just where you stand. They know about you, Raymond. They know how you've been running this operation, and they don't approve of it any more than I do. Lording it over the natives like one of those colonial governors in prehistoric days back on Earth."
"But Interplan sent me out here to supervise the mines. I've done a good job. They get their ore, there's no trouble, the natives are satisfied—"
"Of course they're satisfied! Why shouldn't they be, when they're allowed to run wild; killing each other at will, indulging in every debauchery? You haven't made a move to stop them, have you? In five years you've made no attempt to educate them, no attempt to institute reforms, no attempt to provide them with decent government, decent standards of living. Instead of setting an example for them, you've merely sunk to their level."
"Now wait a minute—"
"I'm not waiting a minute! Starting tomorrow, I'll take over. Officially. You'll stay here until Captain Rand completes his work on the ship, but from now on I'm in charge."
"It isn't that simple. I know the Yorls, I understand them. You can't hope to change them overnight." Raymond blinked at him with his reddened eyes. "Why, you don't even like them! And that's the first thing, the most important thing. You've got to learn to like them."
"And I suppose you do?" Philip laughed shortly. "I suppose you think you're being kind to them when you take a staff of twenty servants to wait on you hand and foot as if you were some kind of lord of the manor here? Is it kindness to permit them to murder and rape?"
"They're entitled to their own way of life, their liberty."
"Liberty isn't license."
"You don't understand."
"Oh yes, I do, only too well. Administration and Aspergin don't mix. I advise you to go to bed and sleep it off."
Philip turned on his heel and marched down the corridor to his room. A Yorl squatted beside the door, and as Philip approached, he rose hastily and bowed.
"You wanna—" he began.
Philip took a second look, then realized that the Yorl was not a he after all, but a young female. He flushed as he guessed the nature of the unfinished question; flushed first with shame and then with indignation.
"No!" he shouted. "Get away from me! Go to Raymond."
Obediently, the Yorl trotted off along the corridor.
Philip entered his room and slammed the door. Immediately a second Yorl—this one unmistakably male—rose and appr
oached him with a fan.
"Out!" Philip ordered. "I don't need you here."
"But I cool you good."
"I'll cool myself."
"Take off clo'se?"
"No! Can't you understand? I don't want any servants! From now on I'll take care of myself."
The Yorl left, bowing so low that Philip barely caught a glimpse of his puzzled grimace.
All right, so he was puzzled. It wouldn't last long. Philip vowed he'd make his position perfectly plain in the near future. There were going to be some drastic changes made around here. And he'd start from scratch.
Philip wasn't worried about it, because he knew that he could take care of himself. He'd told off Raymond, and now he'd get to work on the Yorls. Tomorrow was the time to start. And the first and most important thing to do was to put an end to the head-chopping. No more heads on pikes.
Tomorrow, then.
But tonight, as Philip drifted into fitful sleep, the heads appeared on the long spears; parading through his dreams, just as they had today when the ship landed and tonight when the dancers gathered for the koodoo.
There was only one slight difference. As Philip remembered them, the heads had all been grinning.
And they were laughing, now ...
* * * *
Raymond was somewhat agreeably surprised to see Philip join him at the breakfast table. He was even more surprised to note that the young man appeared in a conciliatory mood.
He didn't apologize for anything he had said the previous evening, but he seemed much less belligerent as he explained his plans.
"I don't want you to misunderstand me," Philip told him. "I know as well as you do that there's no sense in trying to run roughshod over the feelings of the natives. I have no intention of issuing any formal orders about head-taking in the mines. And I couldn't enforce such orders if I gave them."
"Now you're talking sense," Raymond said. "I knew that once you really thought things over, you'd see it was impossible."
"I didn't say anything about impossibility," Philip corrected. "I merely told you that force wouldn't help. The answer lies in the psychological approach. It's all a matter of channelizing their aggressions."