Planet Stories Super Pack #2. Ray Bradbury, Nelson S. Bond, Leigh Brackett

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      "Our government. Here we have a World Council, made up of the oldest and wisest amongst us. Many, many centuries ago the question was raised as to whether we of Nadron should establish and maintain intercourse between our neighboring planets.

      "After a lengthy period of observation and study, it was decided we should not. It was the Council’s judgment—" Here Slador flushed with thin apology—"that Earth is in too primitive a stage of development for such a union.

      "Wherever and whenever we watched affairs unfolding, we saw war, strife, bickering and discontent. We saw poverty and hunger…perils unknown in our own quiet civilization. We heard the roar of gunfire and the bombastic mouthings of warlords. We found, in short, no culture worthy of inclusion in our own placid existence.

      "At that time was the Law laid down…that we of Nadron should not embroil ourselves in Earth’s affairs until such time as a civilized Earth should be able to meet us on a plane of equal amity.

      "Therefore—" sighed the Ptan—"despite my private sympathy with your cause, I am compelled to warn you that you may not use Nadron as host for your gathering forces. Though a peaceful world, we have means of enforcing this edict. I am sorry, but you must develop other plans."

      Dirk stared at the speaker strickenly, realizing the logic of all Slador had said, but feeling, nevertheless, sick despair that Earth’s past madnesses should now so destroy the only chance of present salvation. He turned to the girl, who returned his gaze with a helpless little shrug of sympathy.

      He wet his lips, said hoarsely, "But…but if you do not help us, Earth is doomed to tyranny for countless decades to come. You cannot refuse us your aid—"

      Slador said smoothly, surprisingly, "I have not said I would not aid you. I have merely forbidden your forces the soil of Nadron. But there are…other ways of helping. Ways not under the ban of our Council’s sage decision."

      Hope surged in Morris like a welling tide.

      "There are?" he cried. "What ways, Ptan Slador?"

      "Have you forgotten," asked Slador, "the strangeness of your own existence here? Or is it that you do not yet see how this can be bent to use? Listen, my son—"

      He spoke, and Dirk Morris listened with ever growing interest.

      III

      Corporal Ned Tandred, Precinct Collector of Taxes in the Ninth Ward, Thirty-Fourth district of Greater Globe City, did not like his job.

      As he wheeled his unicar through the twilight shaded streets of the city, hemmed by a rush of bustling traffic, he thought regretfully of those from whom he had this day forced payment of tithes—tribute—they could ill afford.

      An old man…an even older widow…the husband of an invalid wife and father of three small children…a young man unable, now new taxes had been exacted, to marry the girl who had been waiting for him seven long years…these were just a few of the humble lives the Emperor’s recent edict had driven to newer, deeper, sloughs of despair. And he, Corporal Tandred, had been the unwilling instrument through which Garroway had dipped once again into the pockets of his subjects.

      "Subjects!" grunted Corporal Tandred. "Not subjects…slaves! That’s what we are, all of us. Myself included!" He tugged savagely at the handle of his unicar, careening the tiny one-wheeled vehicle perilously to the curb of the avenue as a gigantic, gray-green armored tanker of the Imperial Army roared belligerently up the center of the street, hogging the road and scattering traffic before it. "Miserable serfs, all of us! If I thought there were half a chance of getting away with it, I’d skip this filthy uniform and—"

      He stopped suddenly, a strange sensation coming over him. The sensation of somehow being watched…listened to.

      He peered cautiously over his shoulder. No…no one in the car but himself. The communications unit was dull; no chance his rebellious grumbling had been overhead by a keen-eared Headquarters clerk.

      Corporal Tandred breathed a sigh of relief. Nerves. Just plain nerves…that was all that bothered him. That was the result of living under constant surveillance, inescapable oppression. You got the feeling of never being free.

      "This cursed money!" he grumbled again. "If I could get away with it, I’d throw it in the Captain’s face! In the Overlord’s face! Thieving—"

      Once more he stopped in midsentence, his lips a wide and fearful O of bewilderment. This time he had made no mistake! There was someone near him. A voice spoke in his ear.

      "Make no such foolish gesture, Corporal! "

      Corporal Tandred recovered control of his car with a sudden effort. He depressed its decelerating button, drew it to the curb, and stared wildly about him.

      "W-who said that?" he demanded hoarsely. "Where are you?"

      "Who speaks," said the quiet, insistent voice, "does not matter. Nor the spot from whence I speak. The important thing is that you hear and obey my words. Make not the error of hurling the tribute money in anyone’s face. Deliver it to your superior officer—but see that you get a signed receipt for it. Do you understand? "

      "No!" said Corporal Tandred weakly. "I hear a voice speaking, but see no one. I don’t understand—"

      "It is not necessary that you understand. Just obey. Get a signed receipt for that money. That is all! "

      "Wait!" cried Corporal Tandred. "Wait a minute—!" He was talking to himself. Even as he spoke, he sensed that. The strange, semi-electrical feeling of a nearby presence was gone.

      *

      For a moment he sat stock-still, trying to sooth his ruffled nerves. His effort was not altogether successful; he started the unicar with a jerk, and sped down the avenue at a rate of speed forbidden by civic ordinance. A uniformed attendant frowned disapproval as he screeled to a stop in front of the Revenue Office, but Corporal Tandred paid him no heed. He hurried straightway to the central office, there deposited his collections before his captain.

      The captain nodded abstractedly, then, his attention drawn by some oddness in the subaltern’s appearance, raised a questioning eyebrow.

      "What is it, Tandred? Anything wrong?"

      "N-no, sir," said the corporal uncertainly.

      "Someone make a complaint? That it?"

      "Well, sir, there were several complaints. Citizens find these new taxes hard to swallow, sir; very hard."

      The captain laughed derisively.

      "Sheep! Let them suffer. It is no concern of ours. The Overlord has a militia to maintain. Well…that is all."

      He waved a hand in dismissal. Corporal Tandred said hesitantly, "Yes, sir. But the…the receipt, sir?"

      "Receipt? For what?"

      "For the money, sir. Regulations, sir."

      "Oh, yes." The captain grinned caustically. "Don’t you trust me, Corporal? You never asked for a receipt before that I can remember."

      "N-no, sir. I mean…of course СКАЧАТЬ