“We don’t need slaves,” said Orne. “We have machines to do our work. We’ll send experts in here, teach you people how to exploit your planet, how to build good transportation facilities, show you how to mine your minerals, how to—”
“And what do we do in return?” whispered Tanub.
“You could start by teaching us how you make superior glass,” said Orne. “I certainly hope you see things our way. We really don’t want to have to come down there and clean you out. It’d be a shame to have to blast that city into little pieces.”
Tanub wilted. Presently, he said: “Send me back. I will discuss this with ... our council.” He stared at Orne. “You I-A’s are too strong. We did not know.”
In the wardroom of Stetson’s scout cruiser, the lights were low, the leather chairs comfortable, the green beige table set with a decanter of Hochar brandy and two glasses.
Orne lifted his glass, sipped the liquor, smacked his lips. “For a while there, I thought I’d never be tasting anything like this again.”
Stetson took his own glass. “ComGO heard the whole thing over the general monitor net,” he said. “D’you know you’ve been breveted to senior field man?”
“Ah, they’ve already recognized my sterling worth,” said Orne.
The wolfish grin took over Stetson’s big features. “Senior field men last about half as long as the juniors,” he said. “Mortality’s terrific?”
“I might’ve known,” said Orne. He took another sip of the brandy.