Part one of the highest treason. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The highest treason by Randall Garrett. Part one, the prisoner. The two rooms were not luxurious, but MacMaine hadn't expected that they would be. The walls were a flat metallic gray, unadorned and windowless. The ceilings and floors were simply continuations of the walls except for the glow plates overhead. One room held a small cabinet for his personal possessions, a wide reasonably soft bed, a small but adequate desk, and in one corner a cubicle that contained the necessary sanitary plumbing facilities. The other room held a couch, two big easy chairs, a low table, some bookshelves, a squat refrigerator containing food and drink for his occasional snacks. His regular meals were brought in hot from the main kitchen and a closet that contained his clothing, the insignia-less uniforms of a carol-thigh officer. No thought, Sebastian MacMaine. It was not luxurious, but neither did it look like the prison cell it was. There was comfort here, and even the illusion of privacy, although there were TV pickups in the walls, placed so that no movement in either room would go unnoticed. The switch which cut off the soft white light from the glow plates did not cut off the infrared radiation which enabled his host to watch him while he slept. Every sound was heard and recorded. But none of that bothered MacMaine. On the contrary, he was glad of it. He wanted the carol-thigh to know that he had no intention of escaping or hatching any plot against them. He had long since decided that if things continued as they had, Earth would lose the war with carol-thigh, and Sebastian MacMaine had no desire whatever to be on the losing side of the greatest war ever fought. The problem now was to convince the carol-thigh that he fully intended to fight with them to give them the full benefit of his ability as a military strategist to do his best to win every battle for carol-thigh. And that was going to be the most difficult task of all. A tell-tale glow of red blinked rapidly over the door, and a soft chime pinged in time with it. MacMaine smiled inwardly, although not a trace of it showed on his broad-jawed, blocky face. To give him the illusion that he was a guest rather than a prisoner, the carol-thigh had installed an announcer at the door and invariably used it. Not once had any one of them ever simply walked in on him. Come in, MacMaine said. He was seated in one of the easy-chairs in his living-room, smoking a cigarette and reading a book on the history of carol-thigh, but he put the book down on the low table as a tall carol-thigh came in through the doorway. MacMaine allowed himself a smile of honest pleasure. To most earthmen, all the carrot-skins look alike, and MacMaine admitted honestly to himself he hadn't yet trained himself completely to look beyond the strangeness that made the carol-thigh different from earthmen and see the details that made them different from each other. But this was one carol-thigh that MacMaine would never mistake for any other. Tallis. He stood up and extended both hands in the carol-thigh fashion. The other did the same, and they clasped hands for a moment. How are your guts, he added in carol-thick. They functioned smoothly, my sibling by choice, answered Space General Polan Tallis, and your own. Smoothly indeed, it's been far too long a time since we have touched. The carol-thigh stepped back a pace and looked the earthmen up and down. You look healthy enough for a prisoner. You're treated well, then? Well enough. Sit down, my sibling by choice. MacMaine waved toward the couch nearby. The General sat down and looked around the apartment. Well, well. You're getting preferential treatment, all right. This is as good as you could expect as a battleship commander. Maybe you're being trained for the job. MacMaine laughed, allowing the touch of sardonicism that he felt to be heard in the laughter. I might have hoped so once, Tallis, but I'm afraid I have simply come out even. I have traded nothing for nothing. General Tallis reached into the pocket of his uniform jacket and took out the thin aluminum case that held the carol-thigh equivalent of cigarettes. He took one out, put it between his lips, and lit it with the hot point that was built into the case. MacMaine took an earth cigarette out of the package on the table and allowed Tallis to light it for him. The pause and the silence MacMaine knew were for a purpose. He waited. Tallis had something to say, but he was allowing the earthmen to adjust to surprise. It was one of the fine points of carol-thigh etiquette. A sudden silence on the part of one participant in a conversation under these particular circumstances meant that something unusual was coming up, and the other person was supposed to take the opportunity to brace himself for shock. It could mean anything. In the carol-thigh space forces, a superior informed a junior officer of the junior's forthcoming promotion by just such tactics. But the same tactics were used when informing a person of the death of a loved one. In fact, MacMaine was well aware that such a period of silence was derogere in a carol-thigh court just before sentence was pronounced, as well as a preliminary to a proposal of marriage by a carol-thigh male to the light of his love. MacMaine could do nothing but wait. It would be indelicate to speak until Tallis felt that he was ready for the surprise. It was not, however, indelicate to watch Tallis's face closely. It was expected. Theoretically, one was supposed to be able to discern at least whether the news was good or bad. With Tallis, it was impossible to tell, and MacMaine knew it would be useless to read the man's expression, but he watched nonetheless. In one way Tallis's face was typically carol-thigh. The orange pigmented skin and the bright grass-green eyes were common to all carol-thigh. The planet-carol-thigh, like Earth, had evolved several different races of humanoid, but unlike Earth, the distinction was not one of color. MacMaine took a drag off his cigarette and forced himself to keep his mind off whatever it was that Tallis might be about to say. He was already prepared for a death sentence, even a death sentence by torture. Now he felt he could not be shocked, and rather than build up the tension within himself to an unbearable degree, he thought about Tallis rather than about himself. Tallis, like the rest of the carol-thigh, was unbelievably humanoid. There were internal differences in the placement of organs and differences in the functions of those organs. For instance, it took two separate organs to perform the same function that the liver performed in Earthmen, and the kidneys were completely absent. That function being performed by special tissues in the lower colon, which meant that the carol-thigh were more efficient with water saving than Earthmen, since the waste products were excreted as relatively dry solids through an all-purpose cloaca. But externally, a carol-thigh would need only a touch of plastic surgery and some makeup to passes an Earthmen in a stage play. Close up, of course, the job would be much more difficult, as difficult as a negro trying to disguise himself as a swede or vice versa. But Tallis was, I would have a word, Tallis said, shattering MacMaine's carefully neutral train of thought. It was a standard opening for breaking the pause of adjustment, but it presaged good news rather than bad. I await your word, MacMaine said, even after all this time he still felt vaguely proud of his ability to handle the subtle idioms of carol-thigh. I thank, Tallis said carefully, that you may be offered a commission in the carol-thigh's space forces.  I am grateful, my sibling, by choice, he said. General Tallis tapped his cigarette ash into a large blue ceramic astray. MacMaine could smell the acrid smoke from the alien plant matter that burned in the carol-thigh cigarette, a chopped up inner bark from a carol-thigh tree. MacMaine could no more smoke a carol-thigh cigarette than Tallis could smoke tobacco, but the two were remarkably similar in their effects. The surprise had been delivered. Now, as was proper, Tallis would move adroitly all around the subject until he was ready to return to it again. You have been with us. How long, Sebastian? He asked. Two-and-a-third cronet. Tallis nodded. Nearly a year of your time. MacMaine smiled. Tallis was as proud of his knowledge of earth criminology as MacMaine was proud of his mastery of carol-thigh. Lacking three weeks, MacMaine said. What? Three? Oh, yes. Well, a long time, said Tallis.  MacMaine thought, and a sudden surge of impatience. Get to the point! His face showed only calm. The board of strategy asked me to tell you, Tallis continued. After all, my recommendation was partially responsible for the decision. He paused for a moment, but it was merely a conversational hesitation, not a formal hiatus. It was a hard decision, Sebastian. You must realize that. We have been at war with your race for ten years now. We have taken thousands of earthmen as prisoners, and many of them have agreed to cooperate with us. But with one single exception, these prisoners have been the moral dregs of your civilization. They have been men who had no pride of race, no pride of society, no pride of self. They have been weak, self-centered, small-minded cowards who had no thought for earthmen and earthmen, but only for themselves. Not, he said hurriedly, that all of them are that way, or even the majority. Most of them have the minds of warriors, although I must say, not strong warriors. That last MacMaine knew was a polite concession. The carol-thigh had no respect for earthmen, and MacMaine could hardly blame them. For three long centuries the people of earth had had nothing to do but indulge themselves in the pleasures of material wealth. It was a wonder that any of them had any moral fiber left. But none of those who had any strength agreed to work with us, Tallis went on, with one exception. You. Am I weak then, MacMaine asked? General Tallis shook his head in a peculiarly human-like gesture. No, no you are not, and that is what has made us pause for three years. His grass-green eyes looked candidly into MacMaine's own. You aren't the type of person who betrays his own kind. It looks like a trap. After a whole year the Board of Strategy still isn't sure that there is no trap. Tallis stopped, leaned forward, and ground out the stub of his cigarette in the blue ash tray. Then his eyes again sought MacMaine's. If it were not for what I personally know about you, the Board of Strategy would not even consider your proposition. I take it then that they have considered it, MacMaine asked with a grin. As I said, Sebastian, Tallis said, you have won your case. After almost a year of your time, your decision has been justified. MacMaine lost his grin. I am grateful, Tallis, he said gravely. I think you must realize that it was a difficult decision to make. His thoughts went back across long months of time and longer light years of space to the day when that decision had been made. Part 2 The Decision Colonel Sebastian MacMaine didn't feel that morning as though this day were different from any other. The sun faintly veiled by a few wisps of cloud, shown as it always had. The guards at the doors of the Space Force Administration Building saluted him as usual. His brother officers nodded politely as they always did.  The duty list lay on his desk as it had every morning for years. Sebastian MacMaine felt tense and a little irritated with himself, but he felt nothing that could be called a premonition. When he read the first item on the duty list, his irritation became a little stronger. Interrogate Corothei General The interrogation duty had swung round to him again. He didn't want to talk to General Tullis. There was something about the alien that bothered him and he couldn't place exactly what it was. Earth had been lucky to capture the alien officer. In a space war there's usually very little left to capture after a battle, especially if your side lost the battle. On the other hand the Corothei General wasn't so lucky. The food that had been captured with him would run out in less than six months and it was doubtful that he would survive on Earth food. It was equally doubtful that any more Corothei food would be captured. For two years Earth had been fighting the Corothei and for two years Earth had been winning a few minor skirmishes and losing the major battles. The Corothei hadn't hit any of the major colonies yet, but they had swallowed up outpost after outpost and Earth's space fleet was losing ships faster than her factories could turn them out. The hell of it was that nobody on Earth seemed to be very much concerned about it at all. McMaine wondered why he let it concern him. If no one else was worried why did he let it bother him? He pushed the thought from his mind and picked up the questionnaire form that had been made out for that morning session with the Corothei General. Might as well get it over with. He glanced down the list of further duties for the day. It looked as though the routine interrogation of the Carothei General was likely to provide most of the interest in the day's work at that. He took the drop-shoot down to the basement of the building to the small prison section where the alien officer was being held. The guard saluted nonchalantly as he went in. The routine questioning sessions were nothing new to them. McMaine turned to the lock on the prisoner's cell door and went in. Then he came to attention and saluted the Carothei General. He was probably the only officer in the place who did that, he knew. The others treated the alien general as though he were a criminal. They treated him as though he were a petty thief or a common pickpocket. Criminal, yes, but of a definitely inferior type. General Tallis, as always, stood and returned the salute. Cutimonic, Colonel McMaine, he said. The Carothei language lacked many of the voiced consonants of English and Russian and as a result Tallis' use of B, D, G, J, V, N, Z made them come out as P, T, K, C, H, F, and S. The English R, as it is pronounced in run or rat, eluded him entirely and he pronounced it only when he could give it the guttural pronunciation of the German R. The terminal N, G always came out as N, K. The nasal M and N were a little more drawn out than in English, but they were easily understandable. Good morning General Tallis, McMaine said. Sit down, how do you feel this morning? The general sat again on the hard bunk that, aside from the single chair, was the only furniture in the small cell. As well as could be expected. I get very little exercise. I, how is it said? I become soft. Soft is correct. Correct. You've learned our language very well for so short a time. The general shrugged off the compliment. When it is a matter of learn and auto to survive, one learns. You think then that your survival has depended on your learning our language? The general's orange face contrived a wry smile. Obviously, your people will not learn Chorotic. If I can't answer questions, I am of no use. As long as I am of use, I will live. Not? McMaine decided he might as well spring his bomb on the Carrethai officer now as later. I am not so certain but that you might have stretched out your time longer if you had forced us to learn Chorotic, General. He said, in Chorotic? He knew his Chorotic was bad, since it had been learned from the Carrethai spacemen who had been captured with the general, and the men had been badly wounded and had survived only two weeks. But that little bit of basic instruction, plus the work he had done on the books and tapes from the ruined Chorothai ship, had helped him. Ah? The general blinked in surprise. Then he smiled. Your accent, he said in Chorotic, is atrocious, but certainly no worse than mine when I speak your inklitsch. I suppose you intend to question me in Chorotic now, eh? In the hope that I may reveal more in my own tongue. Possibly you may, McMaine said with a grin, but I learned it from my own information. For your own what? Oh, I see. Interesting. I know no others if your race would do such a thing. Anything which is difficult is beneath them. Not so, General. I am not unique. There are many of us who don't think that way. The general shrugged. I do not deny it. I merely say that I have met none. Certainly they do not tend to go into military service. Possibly that is because you are not a race of fighters. It takes a fighter to tackle the difficult, just because it is difficult. McMaine gave him a short hard laugh. Don't you think getting information out of you is difficult? And yet we tackle that. Not the same thing at all. Oh, routine. You have used no pressure, no threats, no promises, no torture, no stress. McMaine wasn't quite sure of his translation of the last two negative phrases. You mean the application of physical pain? That's barbaric. I won't pursue this subject, the general said with sudden irony. I can understand that, but you can rest assured that we would never do such a thing. It isn't civilized. Our civil police do use certain drugs to obtain information, but we have so little knowledge of carotide body chemistry that we hesitate to use drugs on you. The application of stress, you say, is not civilized. Not perhaps according to your definition of, he used the English word, civilized. No, not civilized, but it works. Again, he smiled. I said that I have become soft since I have been here, but I fear that your civilization is even softer. A man can lie even if his arms are pulled off or his feet crushed, but McMaine said stiffly. The carotide looked startled. When he spoke again, it was in English. I will say no more, if you have questions to ask, go ahead. I will not take up time with further talking. A little angry with himself and with the general, but McMaine spent the rest of the hour asking routine questions and getting nowhere, filling up the tape in his mini-quarter with the same old answers that others had gotten. He left, giving the general a brisk salute and turning before the general had time to return it. Back in his office, he filed the tape dutifully and started on item two of the duty list. Strategy analysis of battle reports. Strategy analysis always irritated and upset him. He knew that if he'd just go about it in the approved way, there would be no irritation, only boredom, but he was constitutionally incapable of working that way. In spite of himself, he always played a little game with himself and with the general's strategy, computer. The only battle of significance in the past week had been the defense of an Earth outpost called Bennington Four. Theoretically, McMaine was supposed to check over the entire report, find out where the losing side had aired, and feed correctional information into the computer. But he couldn't resist stopping after he had read the first section. Information known to Earth Commander at moment of initial contact. Then he would stop and consider how he personally would have handled the situation if he had been the Earth Commander. So many ships in such and such places. Enemy fleet approaching at such and such velocities. Battle array of enemy, thus and so. Now what? McMaine thought over the information on the defense of Bennington Four and devised a battle plan. There was a weak point in the enemy's attack, but it was rather obvious. McMaine searched until he found another weak point, much less obvious than the first. He knew it would be there. It was. Then he proceeded to ignore both weak points and concentrate on what he would do if he were the enemy commander. The weak points were traps. The computer could see them and avoid them, which was just exactly what was wrong with the computer's logic. In avoiding the traps, it also avoided the best way to hit the enemy. A weak point is weak, no matter how well it may be booby-trapped. Embading a rat trap, you have to use real cheese because an imitation won't work. Of course, McMaine thought to himself, you can always poison the cheese, but let's not carry the analogy too far. Alright then. How to hit the traps? It took him half an hour to devise a completely wacky and unorthodox way of hitting the holes in the enemy advance. He checked the time carefully because there's no point in devising a strategy if the battle is too far gone to use it by the time you figured it out. Then he went ahead and read the rest of the report. Earth had lost the outpost, and worse, McMaine's strategy would have won the battle if it had been used. He fed it through his small office computer to make sure the odds were good. And that was the thing that made McMaine hate strategy analysis. Too often, he won. Too often, Earth lost. A computer was fine for working out the logical outcome of a battle if it was given the proper strategy, but it couldn't devise anything new. Colonel McMaine had tried to get himself transferred to space duty, but without success, the commanding staff didn't want him out there. The trouble was that they didn't believe McMaine actually devised his strategy before he read the complete report. How could anyone outthink a computer? He'd offered to prove it. Give me a problem, he'd told his immediate superior, General Matsukuo. Give me the initial contact information of a battle I haven't seen before, and I'll show you.  Setting yourself up as someone superior to the strategy board is the most anti-social type of egocentrism imaginable. You were given the same education at the academy as every other officer. What makes you think you are better than they? As time goes on, your automatic promotions will put you in a position to vote on such matters, provided you don't prejudice the promotion board against you by anti-social behavior. I hold you in the highest regard, Colonel, and I will say nothing to the promotion board about this, but if you persist, I will have to do my duty. Now I don't want to hear any more about it, is that clear? It was. All McMahon had to do was wait, and he'd automatically be promoted to the commanding staff, where he would have an equal vote with the others of his rank, one unit vote to begin with, and an additional unit for every year thereafter. It's a great system for running a peacetime social club, maybe, McMahon thought, but it's no way to run a fighting force. Maybe the Karathai general was right. Maybe Homo sapiens just wasn't a race of fighters. They had been once. Mankind had fought its way to domination of Earth by battling every other form of life on the planet from the smallest virus to the biggest carnivore. The fight against disease was still going on as a matter of fact, and Man was still fighting the elemental fury of Earth's climate. But Man no longer fought with Man. Was that a bad thing? The discovery of atomic energy two centuries before had literally made war impossible if the race was to survive. Small struggles bred bigger struggles, or so the reasoning went. Therefore the society had unconsciously sought to eliminate the reasons for struggle. What bred the hatreds and jealousies among men? What caused one group to fight another? Society had decided that intolerance and hatred were caused by inequality. The jealousy of the inferior toward his superior. The scorn of the superior toward his inferior. The have-not envies the have, and the have looks down upon the have-not. Then let us eliminate the have-not. Let us make sure that everyone is a have. Raise the standard of living. Make sure that every human being has the necessities of life. Food, clothing, shelter, proper medical care, and proper education. More. Give them the luxuries too. Let no man be without anything that is poorer in quality or less in quantity than the possessions of any other. There was no longer any middle class simply because there were no other classes for it to be in the middle of. The poor you will have always with you, Jesus of Nazareth had said, but in a material sense that was no longer true. The poor were gone and so were the rich. But the poor in mind and the poor in spirit were still there in ever increasing numbers. Material wealth could be evenly distributed, but it could not remain that way unless society made sure that the man who was more clever than the rest could not increase his wealth at the expense of his less fortunate brethren. Make it a social stigma to show more ability than the average. Be kind to your fellow man.  All men are created equal, and let's make sure they stay that way. There could be no such thing as a classless society, of course. That was easily seen. No human being could do everything, learn everything, be everything. There had to be doctors and lawyers and policemen and bartenders and soldiers and machinists and laborers and actors and writers and criminals and bums. But let's make sure that the differentiation between classes is horizontal, not vertical. As long as a person does his job the best he can, he's as good as anybody else. A doctor is as good as a lawyer, isn't he?  And what of the loafer, the bum, the man who's too lazy or weak-willed to put out any more effort than is absolutely necessary to stay alive? Well, my goodness, the poor chap can't help it, can he? It is in his fault, is it? He has to be helped. There is always something he is both capable of doing and willing to do. Does he like to sit around all day and do nothing but watch television? Then give him a sheet of paper with all the programs on it and two little boxes marked yes and no, wouldn't X in one or the other to indicate whether he likes the program or not? Useful? Certainly! All these sheets can be tallied up in order to find out what sort of program the public likes to see. After all, his vote is just as good as anyone else's, isn't it? And a program analyst is just as good, just as important, and just as well cared for as anyone else. And what about the criminal? Well, what is a criminal? A person who thinks he's superior to others. A thief steals because he thinks he has more right to something than its real owner. A man kills because he has an idea that he has a better right to live than someone else. In short, a man breaks the law because he feels superior because he thinks he can outsmart society and the law, or simply because he thinks he can outsmart the policeman on the beat. Obviously, that sort of antisocial behavior can't be allowed. The poor fellow who thinks he's better than anyone else has to be segregated from normal society and treated for his aberrations. But not punished! Heavens, no! His erratic behavior isn't his fault, is it? It was axiomatic that there had to be some sort of vertical structure to society naturally. A child can't do the work of an adult, and a beginner can't be as good as an old hand. Aside from the fact that it was actually impossible to force everyone into a common mold, it was recognized that there had to be some incentive for staying with a job. What to do? The labor unions had solved that problem two hundred years before. Promotion by seniority. Stick with a job long enough and you'll automatically rise to the top. That way everyone had as good a chance as everyone else. Promotion tables for individual jobs were worked out on the basis of longevity tables so that by the time a man reached the automatic retirement age he was automatically at the highest position he could hold. No fuss, no bother, no trouble. Just keep your nose clean and live as long as possible. It eliminated struggle. It eliminated the petty jockeying for position that undermined efficiency in an organization. Everybody deserves an equal chance in life so make sure everybody gets it. Colonel Sebastian McMain had been born and reared in that society. He could see many of its fault, but he didn't have the orientation to see all of them. As he'd grown older he'd seen that regardless of the position a man held according to seniority, a smart man could exercise more power than those above him if he did it carefully. A man is a slave if he is held rigidly in a pattern and not permitted to step out of that pattern. In ancient times a slave was born at the bottom of the social ladder and he remained there all his life. Only rarely did a slave of exceptional merit manage to rise above his assigned position. But a man who is forced to remain on the bottom step of a stationary stairway is no more a slave than a man who is forced to remain on a given step of an escalator and no less so. Slavery, however, has two advantages. One for the individual and one which in the long run can be good for the race. For the individual it offers security and that is the goal which by far the greater majority of mankind seeks. The second advantage is more difficult to see. It operates only in favor of the exceptional individual. There are always individuals who aspire to greater heights than the one they occupy at any given moment, but in a slave society they are slapped back into place if they act hastily. Just as the one-eyed man in the kingdom of the blind can be king if he taps the ground with a cane, so the gifted individual can gain his ends in a slave society, provided he thinks out the consequences of any act in advance. The law of gravity is a universal edict which enslaves in a sense every particle of matter in the cosmos. The man who attempts to defy the injustice of that law by ignoring the consequences of its enforcement will find himself punished rather severely. It may be unjust that a bird can fly under its own muscle power, but a man who tries to correct that injustice by leaping out of a skyscraper window and flapping his arms vigorously will find the overt defiance of the law of gravity brings very serious penalties indeed. The wise man seeks the loopholes in the law, and loopholes are caused by other laws which counteract, not defy the given law. A balloon full of hydrogen falls up in obedience to the law of gravity. A contradiction? A paradox? No. It is the law of gravity which causes the density and pressure of a planet's atmosphere to decrease with altitude, and that decrease in pressure forces the balloon upwards until the balance point between atmospheric density and the internal density of the balloon is reached. The illustration may seem obvious and elementary to the modern man, but it seems so only because he understands, at least to some extent, the laws involved. It was not obvious to even the most learned man of, say, the 13th century. Slavery too has its laws, and it is as dangerous to defy the laws of a society as it is to defy those of nature, and the only way to escape the punishment resulting from those laws is to find the loopholes.  It is the first law one learns as a child. Thou shall not suffer thyself to be caught. The unthinking man believes that this basic law can be applied by breaking the laws of his society in secret. What he fails to see is that such law-breaking requires such a fantastic network of lies, subterfuges, evasions, and chicanery that the structure itself eventually breaks down and his guild is obvious to all. The very steps he has taken to keep from getting caught eventually become signposts that point unerringly at the law-breaker himself. Like the loopholes in the law of gravity, the loopholes in the laws of society cannot entail a defiance of the law. Only compliance with those laws will be ultimately successful. The wise man works within the framework of the law, not only the written but the unwritten law of his society. In a slave society, any slave who openly rebels will find that he gets squashed pretty quickly. But many a slave owner has danced willingly to the tune of a slave who was wiser and cleverer than he without ever knowing that the tune played was not his own. And that is the second advantage of slavery. It teaches the exceptional individual to think. When a wise, intelligent individual openly and violently breaks the laws of his society, there are two things which are almost certain. One, he knows that there is no other way to do the thing he feels must be done. And two, he knows that he will pay the penalty for his crime in one way or another. Sebastian McMain knew the operations of those laws. As a member of a self-inslaved society, he knew that to betray any sign of intelligence was dangerous. A slight slip could bring the scorn of the slaves around him. A major offense could mean death. The war with Karroth had thrown him slightly off balance, but after his one experience with General Matsukuo, he had quickly regained his equilibrium. At the end of his workday, McMain closed his desk and left his office precisely on time as usual. Working overtime, except in the gravest emergencies, was looked upon as anti-socialism. The fact that the vendor was suspected of having ambition, obviously a bad thing. It was during his meal at the officer's mess that Colonel Sebastian McMain heard the statement that triggered the decision in his mind. There were three other officers seated with McMain around one of the four-place tables in the big room. McMain only paid enough attention to the table conversation to be able to make the appropriate noises at the proper times. He had long since learned to do his thinking under cover of general banalities. Colonel Van Dusen was a man who would never have made private first class in an army that operated on a strict merit system. His thinking was muddy and his conversation betrayed it. All he felt comfortable in talking about was just exactly what he had been taught. Slogans, banalities, and bromides. He knew his catechism and he knew it was safe. What I mean is, we got nothing to worry about. We all stick together and we can do anything. As long as we don't rock the boat, we'll come through okay. Sure, said Major Brock, looking up from his plate in blank face surprise. I mean, who says different? Guy on my research team, said Van Dusen, plying his fork industriously. A wise guy, second Louis, one of them. Oh, said the Major knowingly, one of them. He went back to his meal. What'd he say, McMain asked, just to keep his oar in? Nothing serious, I guess, said Van Dusen around a mouthful of steak. Said we were all clogged up with paperwork, making reports on tests, things like that. Said, why don't we figure out something to pop those carrot skins out of the sky? So I said to him, look, Lieutenant. I said, you got your job to do, I got mine. If the paperwork's piling up, I said, it's because somebody isn't pulling his share. And it better not be you, I said. He chuckled in spirit another cube of steak with his fork. That settled him down. He's all right, though, young yet, you know. Soon as he gets the hang of how the space force operates, he'll be okay. Since Van Dusen was the senior officer at the table, the others listened respectfully as he talked, only inserting a word now and then to show that they were listening. McMain was thinking deeply about something else entirely, but Van Dusen's influence intruded a little. McMain was wondering what it was that bothered him about General Tullis, the Carothei prisoner. The alien was pleasant enough in spite of his position. He seemed to accept his imprisonment as one of the fortunes of war. He didn't threaten or bluster, although he tended to maintain an air of superiority that would have been unbearable in an Earthman. Was that the reason for his uneasiness in the General's presence? No. McMain could accept the reason for that attitude. The General's background was different from that of an Earthman, and therefore he could not be judged by terrestrial standards. Besides, McMain could acknowledge to himself that Tullis was superior to the norm, not only to the norm of Carothe, but that of Earth. McMain wasn't sure he could have acknowledged superiority in another Earthman in spite of the fact that he knew there must be men who were his superiors in one way or another. Because of his social background he knew that he would probably form an intense and instant dislike for any Earthman who talked away Tullis did, but he found that he actually liked the alien officer. It came as a slight shock when the realization hit McMain that his liking for the General was exactly why he was uncomfortable around him. Damn it, a man isn't supposed to like his enemy, and most especially when that enemy doesn't says things that one would despise in a friend. Come to think of it though, did he, McMain, actually have any friends? He looked around him, suddenly clearly conscious of all the other men in the room. He searched through his memory, thinking of all his acquaintances and relatives. It was an even greater shock to realize that he would not be more than faintly touched emotionally if any or all of them were to die at that instant. Even his parents, both of whom were now dead, were only dim figures in his memory. He had mourned them when an aircraft accident had taken both of them when he was only eleven, but he found himself wondering if it had been the loss of loved ones that had caused his emotional upset, or simply the abrupt vanishing of a kind of security he had taken for granted.  Colonel Van Dusen was still holding forth.   Time I get to be on the general staff, I told him, why you'll be taking over my job maybe. That's the way it works, I said. He's a good kid, I mean, he's a fresh young punk, that's all. He'll learn okay. He'll climb right up once he's got the right attitude. Why would I was? But MacMaine was no longer listening. It was astonishing to realize that what Van Dusen had said was perfectly true. A blockhead like Van Dusen would simply be lifted to a position of higher authority only to be replaced by another blockhead. There would be no essential change in the status quo. The Karothai were winning steadily and the people of Earth and her colonies were making no changes whatever in their way of living. The majority of people were too blind to be able to see what was happening and the rest were afraid to admit the danger even to themselves. It required no great understanding of strategy to see what the inevitable outcome must be. At some point in the last few centuries human civilization had taken the wrong path, a path that led only to oblivion. It was at that moment that Colonel Sebastian MacMaine made his decision. End of Part 2. Part 3 of The Highest Treason. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Highest Treason by Randall Garrett. Part 3. The Escape. Are you sure you understand Tullus MacMaine asked in Karothic? The alien general nodded emphatically. Perfectly. Your Karothic is not so bad that I could misunderstand your instructions. I still don't understand why you are doing this. Oh, I know the reasons you've given me but I don't completely believe them. However, I'll go along with you. The worst that could happen would be for me to be killed and I would sooner face death in trying to escape than in waiting for your executioners. If this is some sort of trap, some sort of weird way your race's twisted idea of kindness has evolved to dispose of me, then I'll accept your sentence. It's better than starving to death or facing a firing squad. Not a firing squad, MacMaine said. That wouldn't be kind and odorless, but quite deadly gas would be pumped into this cell while you slept. That's worse. When death comes, I want to face it and fight it off as long as possible, not have it sneaking up on me in my sleep. I think I'd rather starve. You would, said MacMaine. The food that was captured with you has nearly run out and we haven't been able to capture any more.  He glanced at the watch on his instrument cuff. Almost time. MacMaine looked the alien over once more. Tallis was dressed in the uniform of Earth's space force and the insignia of a full general gleamed on his collar.  He wouldn't pass a close inspection, but MacMaine fervently hoped that he wouldn't need to. Think it out, be sure you're right, then go ahead. Sebastian MacMaine had done just that. For three months he had worked over the details of his plan, making sure that they were as perfect as he was capable of making them. Even so, there was a great deal of risk involved. And there were too many details that required luck for MacMaine to be perfectly happy about the plan. But time was running out. As the general's food supply dwindled, his execution date neared and now it was only two days away. There was no point in waiting until the last minute, it was now or never. There were no spying TV cameras in the general cell, no hidden microphones to report and record what went on. No one had ever escaped from the Space Force's prison, therefore no one ever would. MacMaine glanced again at his watch. It was time. He reached inside his blouse and took out a fully loaded handgun. For an instant the alien officer's eyes widened and he stiffened as if he were ready to die in an attempt to disarm the earthmen. Then he saw that MacMaine wasn't holding it by the butt, his hand was clasped around the middle of the weapon. This is a chance I have to take, MacMaine said evenly. With this gun you can shoot me down right here and try to escape alone. I've told you every detail of our course of action and with luck you might make it alone. He held out his hand with the weapon resting on his open palm. General Tullis eyed the earthmen for a long second. Then, without haste, he took the gun and inspected it with a professional eye. Do you know how to operate it? MacMaine asked, forcing calmness into his voice. Yes, we've captured plenty of them. Tullis thumbed the stud that allowed the magazine to slide out of the button into his hand. Then he checked the mechanism and the power cartridges. Finally, he replaced the magazine and put the weapon into the empty sleeve holster that MacMaine had given him. MacMaine let his breath out slowly. All right, he said, let's go. He opened the door of the cell and both men stepped out into the corridor. At the far end of the corridor some thirty yards away stood the two armed guards who kept watch over the prisoner. At that distance it was impossible to tell that Tullis was not what he appeared to be. The guard had been changed while MacMaine was in the prisoner's cell and he was relying on the lax discipline of the soldiers to get him and Tullis out of the cell block. With luck the guards would have failed to listen too closely to what they had been told by the men they replaced. With even greater luck the previous guardsmen would have failed to be too explicit about who was in the prisoner's cell. With no luck at all MacMaine would be forced to shoot to kill. MacMaine walked casually up to the two men who came to an easy attention. I want you two men to come with me. Something odd has happened in General Quimby and I want two witnesses as to what went on. What happened, sir? One of them asked. Don't know for sure, MacMaine said in a puzzled voice. The general and I were talking to the prisoner when all of a sudden he fell over. I think he's dead. I couldn't find a heartbeat. I want you to take a look at him so that you can testify that we didn't shoot him or anything. Obediently the two guards headed for the cell and MacMaine fell in behind them. You couldn't have shot him, sir, said the second guard confidently. We would have heard the shot. Besides, said the other, it don't matter much. It was going to be gas day after tomorrow. As the trio approached the cell, Tullis pulled the door open a little wider and in doing so contrived to put himself behind it so that his face couldn't be seen. The young guards weren't too awed by a full general. After all, they'd be generals themselves some day. They were much more interested in seeing the dead alien. As the guards reached the cell door, MacMaine unholstered his pistol from his sleeve and brought it down hard on the head of the nearest youth. At the same time, Tullis stepped from behind the door and clouded the other. Quickly MacMaine disarmed the fallen men and dragged them into the open cell. He came out again and locked the door securely. Their guns were tossed into an empty cell nearby. They won't be missed until the next change of watch in four hours, MacMaine said. By then it won't matter one way or another. Getting out of the huge building that housed the administrative offices of the Space Force was relatively easy. A lift chute brought the pair to the main floor and, this late in the evening, there weren't many people on that floor. The officers and men who had night duty were working on the upper floors. Several times Tullis had to take a handkerchief from his pocket and pretend to blow his nose in order to conceal his alien features from someone who came too close, but no one appeared to notice anything out of the ordinary. As they walked out boldly through the main door fifteen minutes later, the guards merely came to attention and relaxed as a tall colonel and a somewhat shorter general strode out. The general appeared to be having a fit of sneezing and the colonel was heard to say, "'That's quite a cold you've picked up, sir. Better get over to the dispensary and pick up an anti-Koriza shot.'" "'Mmm,' said the general. Getting to the spaceport was no problem at all. McMaine had an official car waiting and the two sergeants in the front seat didn't pay any attention to the general getting in the back seat because Colonel McMaine was talking to them. "'We're ready to roll, Sergeant,' he said to the driver. General Quimby wants to go straight to the manila, so let's get there as fast as possible. Takeoff is scheduled in ten minutes.' Then he got into the back seat himself. The one-way glass partition that separated the back seat from the front prevented either of the two men from looking back at their passengers. Seven minutes later the staff car was rolling unquestioned through the main gate of Waikiki spaceport. It was all so incredibly easy, McMaine thought. Nobody questioned an official car. Nobody checked anything too closely. Nobody wanted to risk his lifelong security by doing or saying something that might be considered antisocial by a busy general. Besides, it never entered anyone's mind that there could be anything wrong. If there was a war on, apparently no one had been told about it yet. McMaine thought, was I ever that stubbornly blind? Not quite, I guess, or I'd never have seen what is happening. But he knew he hadn't been too much more perceptive than those around him. Even to an intelligent man, the mask of stupidity can become a barrier to the outside world, as well as a concealment from it. The interstellar ship Manila was a small, fast, ten-man blaster boat designed to get into the thick of a battle quickly, strike hard, and get away. Unlike the bigger, more powerful battlecruisers, she could be landed directly on any planet with less than a 2G pole at the surface. The really big babies had to be parked in an orbit and loaded by shuttle. They'd break up of their own weight if they tried to set down on anything bigger than a good-sized planetoid. As long as their anti-acceleration fields were on, they could take unimaginable thrusts along their axis, but the AA fields were the cause of those thrusts as well as the protection against them. The ships couldn't stand still while they were operating, so they were no protection at all against a planet's gravity. But a blaster boat was small enough and compact enough to take the strain. It had taken careful preparation to get the Manila ready to go just exactly when McMay needed it. Papers had to be forged and put into the chain of command communication at precisely the right times. Others had to be taken out and replaced with harmless near-duplicates so that the commanding staff wouldn't discover the deception. He had to build up the fictional identity of a general Lucius Quimby in such a way that it would take a thorough check to discover that the officer who had been put in command of the Manila was non-existent. It was two minutes until take-off time when the staff car pulled up at the foot of the ramp that led to the main airlock of the ISS Manila. A young-looking captain was standing nervously at the foot of it, obviously afraid that his new commander might be late for the take-off and wondering what sort of decision he would have to make if the general wasn't there at take-off time. McMay could imagine his feelings. General Quimby developed another sneezing fit as he stepped out of the car. This was the touchiest part of McMay's plan, the weakest link in the whole chain of action. For a space of perhaps a minute, the disguised Corothei general would have to stand so close to the young captain that the crudity of his makeup job would be detectable. He had to keep that handkerchief over his face and yet do it in such a way that it would seem natural. As Tullis climbed out of the car, chuffing windily into the kerchief, McMay snapped in order to the sergeant behind the wheel. That's all. We're taking off almost immediately, so get that car out of here. Then he walked rapidly over to the captain who had snapped to attention. There was a definite look of relief on his face now that he knew his commander was on time. All ready for take-off, Captain? Everything checked out? Ammunition? Energy packs all filled to capacity? All the crew aboard? Full rations and stores stowed away? The captain kept his eyes on McMay's face as he answered, Yes, sir? Yes, sir? Yes, sir? To the rapid fire of questions. He had no time to shift his gaze to the face of his new CO who was snuffling his way toward the foot of the landing ramp. McMay kept firing questions until Tullis was halfway up the ramp. Then he said, Oh, by the way, Captain, was the large package containing General Quimby's personal gear brought aboard? The big package? Yes, sir, about fifteen minutes ago. Good, said McMay. He looked up the ramp. Are there any special orders at this time, sir? he asked. No, said Tullis without turning. Carry on, Colonel. He went on up to the airlock. It had taken Tullis hours of practice to say that phrase properly, but the training had been worth it. After Tullis was well inside the airlock, McMay whispered to the young captain, As you can see, the general has got a rather bad cold. He'll want to remain in his cabin until he's over it. See that anti-corrhiza shots are sent up from the dispensary as soon as we are out of the solar system. Now let's go. We have less than a minute till takeoff. McMay went up the ramp with the captain scrambling up behind him. Tullis was just stepping into the commander's cabin as the two men entered the airlock. McMay didn't see him again until the ship was twelve minutes on her way, nearly five billion miles from Earth and still accelerating. He identified himself at the door, and Tullis opened it cautiously. I brought your anti-corrhiza shot, sir, he said. In a small ship like the Manila, the captain and the seven crew members could hear any conversation in the companion ways. He stepped inside and closed the door. Then he practically collapsed on the nearest chair and had a good case of the shakes. This is so far so good, he said. General Tullis grasped his shoulder with a firm hand. Brace up, Sebastian, he said gently and chorothic. You've done a beautiful job. I still can't believe it, but I'll have to admit that if this is an act, it's a beautiful one. He gestured toward the small desk in one corner of the room and the big package that was sitting on it. The food is all there. I'll have to eat sparingly, but I can make it. Now, what's the rest of the plan? MacMaine took a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly. His shakes subsided to a faint, almost imperceptible quiver. The captain doesn't know our destination. He was told that he would receive secret instructions from you. His voice, he noticed thankfully, was almost normal. He reached into his uniform jacket and took out an official-looking sealed envelope. These are the orders. We are going out to arrange a special truce with the chorothi. What? That's what it says here. You'll have to get on the sub-radio and do some plain and fancy talking. Fortunately, not a man Jack aboard this ship knows a word of your language, so they'll think you're arranging truce terms. They'll be sitting ducks when your warship pulls up alongside and sends in a boarding party. By the time they realize what has happened, it'll be too late. You're giving us the ship, too? Tallis looked at him, wonderingly. And eight prisoners? Nine, said MacMaine. I'll hand over my sidearm to you just before your men come through the airlock. General Tallis sat down in the other small chair, his eyes still on the earthmen. I can't help but feel that this is some sort of trick, but if it is, I can't see through it. Why are you doing this, Sebastian? You may not understand this, Tallis, MacMaine said evenly, but I am fighting for freedom. The freedom to think. End of Part Three. Part Four of the Highest Treason. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Highest Treason by Randall Garrett. Part Four, The Trader. Convincing the corothei that he was in earnest was more difficult than MacMaine had at first, supposed. He had done his best, and now, after nearly a year of captivity, Tallis had come to tell him that his offer had been accepted. General Tallis sat across from Colonel MacMaine, smoking his cigarette absently. Just why are they accepting my proposition, MacMaine asked bluntly? Because they can afford to, Tallis said with a smile. You will be watched, my sibling, by choice. Watched every moment for any sign of treason. Your flagship will be a small ten-man blaster boat, one of our own. You gave us one, we'll give you one.  At the best, your admittedly brilliant grasp of tactics and strategy will enable us to save thousands of corothei lives to say nothing of the immense savings in time and money. All I ask is a chance to prove my ability and my loyalty. You've already proven your ability. All of the strategy problems that you have been given over the past year were actual battles that had already been fought. In eighty-seven percent of the cases, your strategy proved to be superior to our own. In most of the others it was just as good. In only three cases was the estimate of your losses higher than the actual losses. Actually we'd be fools to turn you down. We have everything to gain and nothing to lose. I felt the same way a year ago, said MacMaine. Even being watched all the time will allow me more freedom than I had on earth. If the Board of Strategy is willing to meet my terms. Talas chuckled. They are. You'll be the best-paid officer in the entire fleet. None of the rest of us gets a tenth of what you'll be getting as far as personal value is concerned. And yet it costs us practically nothing. You drive an attractive bargain, Sebastian. Is that the kind of pay you'd like to get, Talas? MacMaine asked with a smile. Why not?  The pick of the most beautiful by your standards of the earth women we capture. A home on carot, built to your specifications and full citizenship, including the freedom to enter into any business relationship you wish. If you keep your promises, we can keep ours and still come out ahead. Good. When do we start? Now, said Talas, rising from his chair, put on your dress uniform and we'll go down to see the High Commander. We've got to give you a set of generals' insignia, my sibling by choice. Talas waited while MacMaine donned the blue trousers and gold-trimmed red uniform of a carotide officer. When he was through, MacMaine looked at himself in the mirror. There's one more thing, Talas, he said thoughtfully. What's that? This hair. I think you better arrange to have it permanently removed according to your custom. I can't do anything about the color of my skin, but there's no point in my looking like one of your wild hillmen. You're very gracious, Talas said, and very wise. Our officers will certainly come closer to feeling that you are one of us. I am one of you from this moment, MacMaine said. I never intend to see earth again except perhaps from space when we fight the final battle of the war. That may be a hard battle, Talas said. Maybe, MacMaine said thoughtfully. On the other hand, if my overall strategy comes out the way I think it will, that battle may never be fought at all. I think that complete and total surrender will end the war before we ever get that close to earth. I hope you're right, Talas said firmly. This war is costing far more than we had anticipated in spite of the weakness of your—that is, of earth. Well, MacMaine said with a slight grin, at least you've been able to capture enough earth food to keep me eating while all this time. Talas's grin was broad. You're right, we're not doing too badly at that. Now, let's go. The High Commander is waiting. MacMaine didn't realize until he walked into the big room that what he was facing was not just a discussion with a high officer, but what amounted to a court of inquiry. The High Commander, a dome-headed, wrinkled, yellow-skinned, hard-eyed old corothei, was seated in the center of a long, high desk, flanked on either side by two lower-ranking generals who had this same, deadly, hard look. Off to one side, almost like a jury in a jury box, sat twenty or so lesser officers, none of them ranking below the corothei equivalent of Lieutenant Colonel. As far as MacMaine could tell, none of the officers were the insignia of fleet officers, the spaceship and comet that showed that the wearer was a fighting man. These were the men of the Permanent Headquarters staff, the military group that controlled not only the armed forces of Karoth, but the civil government as well. What's this, MacMaine hissed in a whispered aside in English? Pair up, my brother. Talus answered softly in the same tongue. All is well. MacMaine had known long before he had ever heard of General Polan Talus that the hegemony of Karoth was governed by a military junta and that all corothei were regarded as members of the armed forces. Technically there were no civilians. They were legally members of the unorganized reserve and were under military law. He had known that Karothi society was, in its own way, as much a slave society as that of Earth, but it had the advantage over Earth in that the system did allow for advance by merit. If a man had the determination to get ahead and the ability to cut the throat, either literally or figuratively, of the man above him in rank, he could take his place. On a more strictly legal basis it was possible for a common trooper to become an officer by going through the schools set up for that purpose, but in practice it took both pull and pressure to get into those schools. In theory any citizen of the hegemony could become an officer and any officer could become a member of the permanent headquarters staff. Actually a much greater preference was given to the children of officers. Examinations were given periodically for the purpose of recruiting new members for the elite officer's corps and any citizen could take the examination once, but the tests were heavily weighted in favor of those who were already well versed in matters military including what might be called the inside jokes of the officer's corps. A common trooper had some chance of passing the examination. A civilian had a very minute chance. A non-commissioned officer had the best chance of passing the examination, but there were age limits which usually kept NCOs from getting a commission. By the time a man became a non-commissioned officer he was too old to be admitted to the officer's training schools. There were allowances made for extraordinary merit which allowed common troopers or upper grade NCOs to be commissioned in spite of the general rules and an astute man could take advantage of those allowances. Ability could get a man up the ladder, but it had to be a particular kind of ability. During his sojourn as a guest of the Karothai, McMaine had made a point of exploring the history of the race. He knew perfectly well that the histories he had read were doctored, twisted, and in general totally unreliable insofar as presenting anything that would be called a history by an unbiased investigator. But, knowing this, McMaine had been able to learn a great deal about the present society. Even if the history was worthless as such, it did tell something about the attitudes of a society that would make up such a history. And, too, he felt that in general the main events which had been catalogued actually occurred, the details had been blurred and the attitudes of the people had been misrepresented, but the skeleton was essentially factual. McMaine felt that he knew what kind of philosophy had produced the mental attitudes of the court he now faced, and he felt he knew how to handle himself before them. Half a dozen paces in front of the great desk, the color of the floor tiling was different from that of the rest of the floor. Instead of a solid blue it was a dead black. Tallis, who was slightly ahead of McMaine, came to a halt as his toes touched the edge of the black area. Uh-oh. A bulk line, McMaine thought. He stopped sharply at the same point. Both of them just stood there for a full minute while they were carefully inspected by the members of the court. Then the high commander gestured with one hand, and the officer to his left leaned forward and said, Why is this one brought before us in the uniform of an officer, bear of any insignia of rank? It could only be a ritual question McMaine decided, they must know why he was there. I bring him as a candidate for admission to our in-group, Tallis replied formally, and ask the indulgence of your superiorities therefore. And who are you to ask our indulgence? Tallis identified himself at length. Name, rank, serial number, military record, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.  The high commander had closed his eyes, and he looked as if he had gone to sleep. There was more formality. Through it all McMaine stood at rigid attention, flexing his calf muscles occasionally to keep the blood flowing in his legs. He had no desire to disgrace himself by passing out in front of the court. Finally the Karothai officer stopped asking Tallis questions and looked at the high commander. McMaine got the feeling that there was about to be a departure from the usual procedure. Without opening his eyes, the high commander stood in a brittle, rather harsh voice. These circumstances are unprecedented. Then he opened his eyes and looked directly at McMaine. Never has an animal been proposed for such an honor. In times past such a proposal would have been mockery of this court and this in-group and a crime of such monstrous proportions as to merit excommunication. McMaine knew what that meant. The word was used literally. The condemned one was cut off from all communication by having his sensory nerves surgically severed. Madness followed quickly. Psychosomatic death followed eventually as the brain cut off from any outside stimuli except those which could not be eliminated without death following instantly finally became incapable of keeping the body alive. Without feedback control was impossible and the organism as a whole slowly deteriorated until death was inevitable. At first the victim screamed and thrashed his limbs as the brain sent out message after message to the rest of the body but since the brain had no way of knowing whether the messages have been received or acted upon the victim soon went into a state comparable to that of catatonia and finally died. If it was not the ultimate impunishment it was a damned close approach McMaine thought and he felt that the word damned could be used in that sense without fear of exaggeration. However the High Commander went on gazing at the ceiling. Circumstances change. It would once have been thought vile that a machine should be allowed to do the work of a skilled man and the thought that a machine might do the work with more precision and greater rapidity would have been almost blasphemous. This case must be viewed in the same light. As we are replacing certain of our workers on our outer planets with Earth animals simply because they are capable of doing the work more cheaply so we must recognize that the same interests of economy govern in this case. A computing animal in that sense is in the same class as a computing machine. It will be folly to waste their abilities simply because they are not human. There also arises the question of command. It has been represented to this court by certain officers who have been active in investigating the candidate animal that it would be as degrading to ask a human officer to take orders from an animal as it would be to ask him to take orders from a commoner of the unorganized reserve if not more so. And I must admit there is on the surface of it some basis for this reasoning. But again, we must not let ourselves be misled. Does not a spaceship pilot in a sense take orders from the computer that gives him his orbits and courses? In fact, do not all computers give orders in one way or another to those who use them? Why then should we refuse to take orders from a computing animal? He paused and appeared to listen to the silence in the room before going on. Stand at ease until the High Commander looks at you again, Tala said in a loiside. This was definitely the pause for adjusting to surprise. It seemed interminable, though it couldn't have been longer than a minute later that the High Commander dropped his gaze from the ceiling to McMaine. When McMaine snapped to attention again, the others in the room became suddenly silent. We feel, the hard-faced old growth I continued as if there had been no break, that in this case we are justified in employing the animal in question. However, we must make certain exceptions to our normal procedure. The candidate is not a machine and therefore cannot be treated as a machine. Neither is it human and therefore cannot be treated as human. Therefore this is the judgment of the Court of the In Group. The animal, having shown itself to be capable of behaving in some degree as befits an officer, including as we have been informed voluntarily conforming to our custom as regards superfluous hair, it shall henceforth be considered as having the same status as an untaught child or a barbarian insofar as social conventions are concerned and shall be entitled to the use of the human pronoun he. Further he shall be entitled to wear the uniform he now wears and the insignia of a general of the fleet. He shall be entitled as far as personal contact goes to the privileges of that rank and shall be addressed as such. He will be accorded the right of punishment of an officer of that rank insofar as disciplining his inferiors is concerned, except that he must first secure the concurrence of his guardian officer as here and after provided. He shall also be subject to punishment in the same way and for the same offenses as humans of his rank, taking into account physiological differences except as here and after provided. His reward for proper service, the High Commander listed the demands that Colonel McMain had made, are deemed fitting and shall be paid, providing his duties and service are carried out as proposed. Obviously, however, certain restrictions must be made. Colonel McMain, as he is entitled to be called, is employed solely as a strategy computer. His ability as such and his knowledge of the psychology of the Earth animals are as far as we are concerned at this moment his only useful attributes. Therefore, his command is restricted to that function. He is empowered to act only through the other officers of the fleet as this court may appoint. He is not to command directly. Further, it is ordered that he shall have a guardian officer who shall accompany him at all times and shall be directly responsible for his actions. That officer shall be punished for any deliberate crime committed by the aforesaid General McMain as if he had himself committed the crime. Until such time as this court may appoint another officer for the purpose, General Polin Tallis previously identified in these proceedings is appointed as guardian officer. The High Commander paused for a moment, then he said, Proceed with the investment of the insignia. End of Part 4. Part 5 of the Highest Treason. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Highest Treason by Randall Garrett. Part 5. The Strategy. General Sebastian McMain, sometime Colonel of Earth Space Force and presently a General of the Karothai Fleet, looked at the array of stars that appeared to drift by the main view plate of his flagship, the Blaster Boat Shudos. Behind him General Tallis was saying, You've done well, Sebastian. Better than anyone could have really expected. Three battles so far and every one of them won by a margin far greater than anticipated. Any ideas that anyone may have had that you were not wholly working for the Karothai cause has certainly been dispelled. Thanks, Tallis. McMain turned to look at the Karothai officer. I only hope that I can keep it up. Now that we're ready for the big push, I can't help but wonder what would happen if I were to lose a battle. Frankly, Tallis said, that would depend on several things. The main one being whether or not it appeared that you had deliberately thrown the advantage to the enemy. But nobody expects you or anyone else to win every time. Even the most brilliant commander can make an honest mistake, and if it can be shown that it was an honest mistake, and one furthermore that he could not have been expected to avoid, he wouldn't be punished for it. In your case, I'll admit that the investigation would be a great deal more thorough than normal, and that you wouldn't get as much of the benefit of the doubt as another officer might. But unless there is a deliberate error, I doubt that anything serious would happen. Do you really believe that, Tallis? Isn't it just wishful thinking on your part knowing as you do that your punishment will be the same as mine if I fail? McMaine asked flatly. Tallis didn't hesitate. If I didn't believe it, I would ask to be relieved as your guardian, and the moment I did that, you would be removed from command. The moment I feel that you are not acting for the best interests of Karoth, I will act, not only to protect myself, but to protect my people. That's fair enough, McMaine said, but how about the others? I cannot speak for my fellow officers, only for myself. Then Tallis' voice became cold. Just keep your hands clean, Sebastian, and all will be well. You will not be punished for mistakes, only for crimes. If you are planning no crimes, worry of yours is needless. I ceased to worry about myself long ago, McMaine said coolly. I did not fear personal death, not even by excommunication. My sole worry is about the ultimate outcome of the war if I should fail. That and nothing more. I believe you, Tallis said. Let us say no more about it. Your actions are difficult for us to understand in some ways, that's all. No Karoth I would ever change his allegiance as you have, nor has any Earth officer that we have captured shown any desire to do so. Oh, some of them have agreed to do almost anything we wanted them to, but these were not the intelligent ones, and even they were only doing it to save their own miserable hides.   It was because I foresaw their eventual enslavement that I acted as I did, McMaine admitted. As I saw it, I had only two choices. To remain as I was and become a slave to the Karoth I were to put myself in your hands willingly and hope for the best. As you, he was interrupted by a harsh voice from a nearby speaker. Battle stations, battle stations, enemy fleet and detector range, contact in twelve minutes. Tallis and McMaine headed for the command room at a fast trot. The three other Karoth I who made up the strategy staff came in at almost the same time. There was a flurry of activity as the computers and viewers were ready for action. Then the Karoth I arrived at the Earthmen. McMaine looked at the detector screens. The deployment of the approaching Earth fleet was almost as he had expected it would be. There were slight differences, but they would require only minor changes in the strategy he had mapped out from the information brought in by the Karoth I scout ships. Undoubtedly, the Karoth I position had been relayed to the Earth commander by their own advanced scouts buzzing about in tiny one-man shells to be undetectable at normal range. Watching the positions on the screens carefully, McMaine called out a series of numbers in an unhurried voice and watched as the orders relayed by the Karoth I staff changed the position of parts of the Karoth I fleet. Then, as the computer led Earth fleet jockeyed to compensate for the change in the Karoth I deployment, McMaine called out more orders. The high commander of Karoth had called McMaine a computing animal, but the term was far from accurate. McMaine couldn't possibly have computed all the variables in that battle, and he didn't try. It was a matter of human intuition against mechanical logic. The advantage lay with McMaine for while the computer could not logically fathom the intuitive processes of its human opponent, McMaine could and did have an intuitive grasp of the machine's logic. McMaine didn't need to know every variable in the pattern. He only needed to know the pattern as a whole. The she-dose was well in the rear of the main body of the Karoth I fleet. There was every necessity for keeping McMaine's flagship out of as much of the fighting as possible. When the first contact was made, McMaine was certain of the outcome. His voice became a steady drone as he looked out instructions to the staff officers. His mind was so fully occupied with the moving pattern before him that he noticed nothing else in the room around him. Spaceship against spaceship, the two fleets locked in battle. The warheads of ultralight torpedoes flared their eye-searing explosions soundlessly into the void. Ships exploded like overcharged beer bottles as blaster energy caught them and smashed through their screens. Men and machines flamed and died scattering the stripped nuclei of their component atoms through the screaming silence of space. And through it all, Sebastian McMaine watched dispassionately calling out his orders as ten Earthmen died for every Karoth I death. This was a crucial battle. The big push toward the center of Earth's cluster of worlds had begun. Until now the Karoth I had been fighting the outposts, the planets on the fringes of Earth's sphere of influence which were only lightly colonized and therefore relatively easy to take. Earth's strongest fleets were out there to protect planets that could not protect themselves. Inside that periphery were the more densely populated planets, the self-sufficient colonies which were more or less able to defend themselves without too much reliance on them. But now that the backbone of the Earth's space force had been all but broken it would be a relatively easy matter to mop up planet after planet since each one could be surrounded separately, pounded into surrender and secure before going on to the next. That at least had been the original Karoth I intention, but McMaine had told them that there was another way, a way which, if it succeeded, would save time, lives and money for the Karoth I. And if it failed McMaine said they would be no worse off, they would simply have to resume the original plan. Now the first of the big colony planets was to be taken. When the protecting Earth fleet was reduced to tatters the Karoth I would go on to Houston's world as the first step in the big push toward Earth itself. But McMaine wasn't thinking of that phase of the war, that was still in the future while the hellish space battle was still at hand. He lost track of time as he watched the Karoth I fleet take advantage of their superior tactical position and tear the Earth fleet to bits. Not until he saw the remains of the Earth fleet turn tail and run did he realize that the battle had been won. The Karoth I fleet consolidated itself. There was no point in pursuing the fleeting Earth ships. That would only break up the solidity of the Karoth I deployment. The losers could afford to scatter. The winners could not. Early in the war the Karoth I had used that trick against Earth. The Karoth I had broken and fled and the Earth fleet had split up to chase them down. The scattered Earth ships had suddenly found that they had been led into traps composed of hidden clusters of Karoth I ships. Naturally the trick had never worked again for either side. All right McMaine said when it was all over. Let's get on to Euston's world. The staff men, including Tallis, were already on their feet congratulating McMaine and shaking his hands. Even General Hokotan, the headquarters staff men who had been transferred temporarily to the fleet force to keep an eye on both McMaine and Tallis was enthusiastically pounding McMaine's shoulder. No one aboard was supposed to know that Hokotan was a headquarters officer, but McMaine had spotted the spy rather easily. There was a difference between the fighters of the fleet and the politicos of headquarters. The politicos were no harder perhaps, nor more ruthless than the fighters, but they were of a different breed. Theirs was the ruthlessness of the bully who steps on those who were weaker rather than the ruthlessness of the man who kills only to win a battle. McMaine had the feeling that the headquarters staff preferred to spend their time brow-beating their underlings rather than risk their necks with someone who could fight back however weakly. General Hokotan seemed to have more of the fighting quality than most HQ men, but he wasn't a fleet officer at heart. He couldn't be compared to Tallis without looking small and mean. As a matter of cold fact, very few of the officers were in any way comparable to Tallis, not even the fleet men. The more McMaine learned of the Karothai, the more he realized just how lucky he had been that it had been Tallis and not some other Karothai general who had been captured by the earthhorses. He was not at all sure that his plan would have worked at all with any of the other officers he had met. Tallis, like McMaine, was an unusual specimen of his race. McMaine took the congratulations of the Karothai officers with a look of pleasure on his face and when they had subsided somewhat he grinned and said let's get a little work done around here shall we?  They laughed. Reducing a planet didn't require strategy, only firepower. The planet-based defenses couldn't maneuver, but the energy reserve of a planet was greater than that of any fleet no matter how large. Each defense point would have to be cut down individually by the massed power of the fleet, cut down one by one until the planet was helpless. The planet as a whole might have more energy reserve than the fleet, but no individual defense point did. The problem was to avoid being hit by the rest of the defense points while one single point was bearing the brunt of the fleet's attack. It wasn't without danger, but it could be done. And for a job like that, McMaine's special abilities weren't needed, he could only watch and wait until it was over. So he watched and waited. Unlike the short-time fury of a space battle, the reduction of a planet took days of steady pounding. When it was over, the blaster boats of the Karothai fleet in the shuttles from the great battle cruisers landed on Euston's world and took the planet. McMaine was waiting in his cabin when General Hokuton brought the news that the planet was secured. They are ours, the HQ man said with a superior smile. The sniveling animals didn't even seem to want to defend themselves. They don't even know how to fight a hand-to-hand battle.  Hokuton enjoyed making such remarks to McMaine's face knowing that since McMaine was technically a Karothai, he couldn't show any emotion when the enemy was insulted. McMaine showed none.  Oh, but a few who scattered into the hills and forests. But not many of them had the guts to leave the security of their cities even though we were occupying them. How many are left alive? An estimated 150 million more or less? Good. That should be enough to set an example. I picked Houston's world because we can withdraw from it without weakening our position. Its position in space is such that it would constitute no menace to us even if we never reduced it. That way we can be sure that our little message is received on Earth. Hokuton's grin was wolfish. And the whole weakhearted race will shake with fear, eh? Exactly. Tullus can speak English well enough to be understood, have him make the announcement to them. He can word it however he likes, but the essence is to be this. Houston's world resisted the occupation by Karothai troops. An example must be made of them to show them what happens to Earthmen who resist. That's all? That's enough. Oh, by the way, make sure that there are plenty of their cargo spaceships in good working order. I doubt that we've ruined them all, but if we have, repair some of them. And, too, you better make sure that you allow some of the merchant spacemen to escape just in case there are no space pilots among those who took to the hills. We want to make sure that someone can use those ships to take the news and the rest, Hukatan asked with an expectant look. He knew what was to be done, but he wanted to hear McMaine say it again. McMaine obliged, hang them, every man, every woman, every child. I want them to be decorating every lamppost and roof beam on the planet, dangling like overripe fruit when the Earth forces return. End of Part 5.