A Slave is a Slave

A Slave is a Slave, by Henry
Beam Piper

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Title: A Slave is a Slave
Author: Henry Beam Piper
Release Date: March 3, 2007 [EBook #20726]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
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IS A SLAVE ***

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Transcriber's Note
This etext was produced from Analog Science Fact--Science Fiction
April 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the

U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

A SLAVE IS A SLAVE
BY H. BEAM PIPER
There has always been strong sympathy for the poor, meek,
downtrodden slave--the kindly little man, oppressed by cruel and
overbearing masters. Could it possibly have been misplaced...?
Jurgen, Prince Trevannion, accepted the coffee cup and lifted it to his
lips, then lowered it. These Navy robots always poured coffee too hot;
spacemen must have collapsium-lined throats. With the other hand, he
punched a button on the robot's keyboard and received a lighted
cigarette; turning, he placed the cup on the command-desk in front of
him and looked about. The tension was relaxing in Battle-Control, the
purposeful pandemonium of the last three hours dying rapidly. Officers
of both sexes, in red and blue and yellow and green coveralls, were
rising from seats, leaving their stations, gathering in groups. Laughter,
a trifle loud; he realized, suddenly, that they had been worried, and
wondered if he should not have been a little so himself. No. There
would have been nothing he could have done about anything, so worry
would not have been useful. He lifted the cup again and sipped
cautiously.
"That's everything we can do now," the man beside him said. "Now we
just sit and wait for the next move."
Like all the others, Line-Commodore Vann Shatrak wore shipboard
battle-dress; his coveralls were black, splashed on breast and between
shoulders with the gold insignia of his rank. His head was completely
bald, and almost spherical; a beaklike nose carried down the curve of
his brow, and the straight lines of mouth and chin chopped under it
enhanced rather than spoiled the effect. He was getting coffee; he
gulped it at once.
"It was very smart work, Commodore. I never saw a landing operation

go so smoothly."
"Too smooth," Shatrak said. "I don't trust it." He looked suspiciously
up at the row of viewscreens.
"It was absolutely unnecessary!"
That was young Obray, Count Erskyll, seated on the commodore's left.
He was a generation younger than Prince Trevannion, as Shatrak was a
generation older; they were both smooth-faced. It was odd, how beards
went in and out of fashion with alternate generations. He had been
worried, too, during the landing, but for a different reason from the
others. Now he was reacting with anger.
"I told you, from the first, that it was unnecessary. You see? They
weren't even able to defend themselves, let alone...."
His personal communication-screen buzzed; he set down the coffee and
flicked the switch. It was Lanze Degbrend. On the books, Lanze was
carried as Assistant to the Ministerial Secretary. In practice, Lanze was
his chess-opponent, conversational foil, right hand, third eye and ear,
and, sometimes, trigger-finger. Lanze was now wearing the combat
coveralls of an officer of Navy Landing-Troops; he had a steel helmet
with a transpex visor shoved up, and there was a carbine slung over his
shoulder. He grinned and executed an exaggeratedly military salute. He
chuckled.
"Well, look at you; aren't you the perfect picture of correct diplomatic
dress?"
"You know, sir, I'm afraid I am, for this planet," Degbrend said.
"Colonel Ravney insisted on it. He says the situation downstairs is still
fluid, which I take to mean that everybody is shooting at everybody. He
says he has the main telecast station, in the big building the locals call
the Citadel."
"Oh, good. Get our announcement out as quickly as you can. Number
Five. You and Colonel Ravney can decide what interpolations are

needed to fit the situation."
"Number Five; the really tough one," Degbrend considered. "I take it
that by interpolations you do not mean dilutions?"
"Oh, no; don't water the drink. Spike it."
Lanze Degbrend grinned at him. Then he snapped down the visor of his
helmet, unslung his carbine, and presented it. He was still standing at
present arms when Trevannion blanked the screen.
* * * * *
"That still doesn't excuse a wanton