Weak Spot
Astounding Science Fiction – May 1954
(1954)*
Eric Frank Russell
illustrated by Kelly Freas

Once someone said that a dog needed fleas to keep his mind off the fact that he was a dog. Maybe, until men are perfect, they need fleas, too ...

-

	A great fleet of black ships sprang out of the starfield and took Demeter in thirty hours. There was little destruction and hardly any slaughter. The onset had been too sudden and well-timed, the element of surprise too great to enable the garrison to put up maximum resistance. Demeter fell in a day and a night. It was a triumph for the Barbs and a defeat for the Empire.

	The Barbs ran all over the stricken planet and gloated. What they'd got consisted of one medium-sized but livable world on which were three towns, eleven villages, fifty-two mines, fourteen manufacturing plants, a sizable hydroelectric power station, one modern spaceport and seventy thousand prisoners. All in good condition and fit for further service.

	Moreover they now had a space station and a potentially redoubtable military outpost thirty degrees around the rim of the Empire with respect to their own eight-planet system. Considering that the said Empire incorporated fifteen hundred solar systems with more than six thousand planets, the Barbs weren't doing so badly for little fellers.

	The victors pulsed the news back home where it caused bellicose rejoicing. Millions marched the streets forty abreast in military rhythm, carrying banners, blowing long silver horns and chanting war songs. Kalandar, their supreme overlord, posed on a balcony, waved and smiled while an immense mob in the square below howled its joy and shook defiant fists at the sky. Conscious of the hugeness of the defeated foe the crowd delighted in the thought that the bigger they come the harder they fall.

	Kalandar did not miss that point either. True, Demeter was only one inhabitable world and the Empire had a great number more. But what can be done once can be done again— and again and again. So he grinned toothily and drew roars of applause with a bow and a salute.

	The situation was one of the most commonplace in history: battle, conquest and the drunkenness of victory. It differed from all others in a single detail of which Kalandar and his warrior hordes remained blissfully unaware, namely, that deep in the heart of the Empire a small group of leaders rejoiced with them.

	Demeter has fallen, hurrah, hurrah!

	In the big Green Room of the Palace of Administration seventeen men sat around a horseshoe table and, in effect, composed the living mind of Empire. Beyond the windows soared numberless towers and spires of Gil-strand, capital city of six thousand worlds.

	Eldon, a white-haired, big-boned man with immense width of shoulder, accepted a slip of paper from a soft-footed messenger, glanced at it, said evenly to the others, "The Barbs captured Demeter this morning."

	"Ho-hum!" said one.

	"Nice work!" commented another in the manner of appreciating a favor.

	"We must make the most of it, of course," continued Eldon. He turned attention to a sharp-nosed, gimlet-eyed individual sitting on his right. "Get busy, Wanstell. Paste it on the walls."

	Wanstell nodded and went out.

	The remaining sixteen resumed their original discussion much as if a war and the loss of a world were just one of those things. They talked for an hour coolly, calmly, unhurriedly, with the air of men whose kind lost all capacity for melodramatics twenty, fifty or a hundred generations ago.

	In this respect they differed radically from the' lizard-skinned, but otherwise humanlike, Barbs who could and did froth and foam all over the place on slightest pretext. The Barbs were by nature hot-blooded fighters, turbulent, truculent, restless, impetuous and supposedly unbeatable by anything less than complete extermination. The seventeen leaders of Empire were by nature cold-blooded calculators, men who esteemed as mightier than the sword the ability to reckon two plus two.

	So the ones at the horseshoe table sat undisturbed and chatted until they reached their several decisions and went their various ways. After the -last had gone Eldon stood at a window and watched orange rays from the setting sun slowly piercing the purple sky.

	Eventually he moved to his desk, sat down, studied a plaque fastened to the wall above. It bore words raised in gilt. He smiled only with the corners of his eyes as he read them.

	"An insect may bite a lion — but the insect remains an insect and the lion remains a lion."

-

	Wanstell, as head of the Department of Imperial Communications, officially gave the news to most of a galaxy.

	"The government admits the loss of outer solar system T.K.490 containing four planets one of which, Demeter, is inhabitable and settled. Seventy thousand Empire citizens were on Demeter when it was seized by a task force of the Barbs today. The government is about to commence negotiations for the exchange of prisoners and in short time action will be taken to recapture Demeter. All citizens of Empire can rest assured that the situation is well in hand and there is no undue cause for alarm."

	Smooth political words such as had been used back to the dawn of time when the birthplace of Empire was a watery world called Terra. And, exactly as it had been in those far-off days, the independent news-services, heated the handout and distributed it on the boil.

	SWIFT BARB VICTORY screamed the radiocasts around Sirius. DEMETER LOST WHILE NAVY SLUMBERS snarled the always irritable and antigovernmental videos of the Wolf system. THE HOUR IS AT HAND editorialized the primitive but influential news sheets of the distant Rimbold group.

	"For at least twenty thousand years," lectured the dignified Gilstrand Sentinel, "and for nobody knows how much longer the Barbarians have been an unmitigated nuisance. While they continue to exist as a unified fighting force the fringes of Empire remain unsafe. So long as once in every century they make a reckless penetration of our sphere of space there is no security anywhere. It is high time we brought accord among our conflicting interests, ceased our petty squabbling, stood firmly shoulder to shoulder and put an end to this menace once and for all."

	And so on and so on. Each solar group fulminated according to the peculiar psychology of that group. Time had run on so long that while all citizens of Empire were men they were different groups with different cultures, different motivations, different modes of thought. The Empire had incubated fifteen hundred new races with fifteen hundred angles on any one problem.

	The repercussions following the fall of one relatively unimportant planet jolted far across the cosmos and proved that action and reaction may be opposite but grossly unequal. The effect somewhat resembled the ripples that once spread across an oldtime world after a minor massacre by Sioux.

	These things were to be expected. Indeed, experts in such matters could plan them in advance and calculate with a reasonable degree of precision the amplitude and impact of the emotional splash on some sparsely settled planet a thousand light-years away.

-

	The Barbs worked with furious energy typical of their kind. Their ships fled back and forth pouring troops and supplies into Demeter in haste to consolidate the position before the Empire could organize its counterblow.

	None doubted that ultimately such a wallop would come or that when it did it would be good and hard. They knew the Empire fully as well as it knew them. The two foes had lived in juxtaposition a long time, a very long time. They enjoyed the mutual understanding of those who co-exist for millennia in a state of platonic hatred.

	While the Barbs moved heaven and earth to turn Demeter into an inviolable fortress of space, certain of their vessels made fast runs to the neutral world of Kvav where prisoners were solemnly exchanged. This was a post-victory formality unthought-of before the expanding frontiers of Empire had reached them. In olden times prisoners were enslaved, worked until they dropped and then slaughtered. The Empire had introduced the swap-system and after a period of dark suspicion the Barbs had accommodated themselves to it. Since in their own opinion one Barb was worth ten Imperials an even trade had them head of the queue at the bargain counter.

	Prisoner-exchange had changed the shape of never-ending war so far as the Barbs were concerned. Space battles and territorial conquests were no longer enough. Now there must be raids to obtain prisoners whenever the numbers held by both sides failed to balance. For some unaccountable reason the onus of redressing the balance fell on the Barbs more often than on the Empire. Today it was a major victory to snatch a thousand Empire citizens and thus ensure the return of one thousand of their own.

	A minor Barb squadron ferried between Demeter and Kvav, dumped seventy thousand of the enemy, took home the same number of Barbs some of whom had waited four or five years for rescue. The whole procedure went like clockwork.

	Nobody bollixed the arithmetic by seizing a Barb ship coming or going.

	The Empire had vast fleets patrolling elsewhere.

	And nobody thought it strange.

-

	Eldon and Wanstell sat at the former's desk checking intelligence reports. Reactions of Empire news-channels were in their estimation most satisfactory. The doings of the Barbs were also pleasing. Both men were humorously conscious of their inability to solve the problem of how to give Kalandar a medal without creating ructions around fifteen hundred suns.

	They and the absent ones had a task that an ordinary engineer would consider beyond credulity: they were skilled operators of a gigantic machine that functioned better for a spanner thrown in the works.

	Proof lay before them. On Quimper a threatening revolt of the young against the old had gone pop like a burst bubble as overenergetic ringleaders rushed into the space-navy. Twenty-four worlds planning an independent customs union had dropped the notion in favor of a common space-push.

	Two hundred eighty highly individualistic frontier planets, yesterday increasingly defiant of central authority, today had taken alarm and were yelling for protection. The pacifist Rigellians were offering a contribution to defense formerly refused. The twin systems near Bootes had abandoned fatheaded ideas of civil war and decided to rival each other in smacking the Barbs. Public opinion around Arcturus had upped and voiced itself against a strong movement for secession.

	A thousand items in more or less similar strain proved that in given circumstances a thrown spanner boosts efficiency by quite a percentage.

	Only one thing threatened to spoil the whole business and of that they knew nothing just then. Outside, slowly mounting the stairs, was a trio bearing a metaphorical spanner far too big.

-

	One of these three who was a Palace of Administration official knocked and entered, leaving the others beyond the door. He said to Eldon, "Sir, we have struck a slight complication over exchange of prisoners."

	"In what way?" Eldon asked.

	"Kalandar demands the return of Jazan, his youngest son, a former pilot. We captured him two and a half years ago, if you recall."

	"I do not recall," said Eldon, frowning. "He is of no importance to us anyway. It is a strict rule that prisoners be returned in order of capture regardless of rank or station. I know of no reason why Jazan should not be handed over." He cocked an eye at the other. "Is there any reason?"

	"Yes, sir." 

	"What is it?" .

	"Jazan does not wish to return—just yet."

	"Does not wish to?" Eldon echoed it incredulously. A Barb uneager to resume the fray was unique. "Why not?"

	"That, sir, might be better explained by the chaplain if you would care to see him."

	"Show him in," ordered Eldon.

	The other went to the door, brought back a plump, solemn-faced cleric. The newcomer sat in response to El-don's gesture, folded hands in his lap.

	"Well, what do you wish to tell me?"

	"As you may know, I am the chaplain of Number Twelve camp," the newcomer explained. "It is a difficult post. It means one must try to create a little flock out of a bunch of wolves. However, I have made an important convert."

	"Jazan?"

	"Yes." He brooded a moment, looked vaguely uncomfortable. "You know the nature of the Barbs. They are highly emotional and tend toward fanaticism. The good Lord made them that way for reasons of His own."

	"Well?"

	"Generally speaking, a converted Barb tries to be ten times more Christian than any Christian. His make-up being what it is there's no holding him back. He wants to go out and save the whole of Creation. He has the inborn character of a missionary— and a martyr."

	"What does this mean to us?"

	"Everything is created for a good and wise purpose," asserted the chaplain. "Jazan firmly believes that he and his kind were made to be the Empire's missionaries in the great beyond, in the vastnesses of space yet to be explored. He wishes to discuss the matter with you and refuses to go home until he has done so."

	Eldon glanced toward Wanstell, found that worthy studiously examining the ceiling. He returned his attention to the chaplain.

	"All right, I will see him now—alone."

-

	Jazan proved to have the typical thinness, height and lizard skin of his kind. He also had the fiery eyes, though now they were modified by the light of inward mysticism.

	He stood before Eldon, head slightly bowed, hands behind his back, and said quietly, "It is for me to lead my father into the path of truth. Also my brothers and my people. I ask you to cease all hostilities coincidental with my return."

	"And if we do not?"

	"I shall pray for you as for every other sinner."

	"We shall stop fighting after your people have learned to be good, not before," declared Eldon, flatly. "And that's going to be a long, long time."

	"They will see the light. And, seeing it, they will bear it abroad. Your ships will follow in peace the paths our feet have trod."

	"We'll try it when that day comes," said Eldon. "But it isn't here yet."

	The fire momentarily blazed in Jazan's eyes. A characteristic blue flush of temper swept across his face but was suppressed. For a Barb he was unusually intelligent and self-disciplined.

	He said, "I am going to change my people whether you co-operate or not. The meek shall inherit while the proud shall be laid low. You should be willing to help. My kind could be most useful to you some day." His lowered head came up and he gazed straight into Eldon's eyes as he added, "Even more useful than they are now!"

	"What do you mean by that?" demanded Eldon.

	"As a true believer I have learned something of the real power of the Empire. It is infinitely greater than my own people believe. It is so great that you could destroy us overnight, could have done so many centuries ago." His gaze met the other again. "Why haven't you destroyed us?"

	Eldon pointed to the plaque. "You cannot diminish the lion no matter how much you bite."

	"Why permit us to bite at all?"

	Resting himself on the corner of the table, Eldon said:

	"I'll have to use a simple analogy. You know how a steam boiler functions? "

	"Yes, of course."

	"In theory a weak spot in a boiler could lead to an explosion. In practice it doesn't. Like me to tell you why?"

	"Goon."

	"Because the intelligent human mind is anticipatory. When we construct a boiler we build in a weak spot pre-set to give way at a little above maximum working pressure. The accidental bang never comes because it's beaten to the draw by a predesigned fizz. The created weak spot is called a safety valve. It pipes away surplus pressure."

	"I can understand that much."

	"The Empire," Eldon continued, "can be likened to an enormous boiler working under a multitude of varying pressures created by competition, rivalries, conflicting interests and scores of other inevitabilities. It cannot be made bigger until we find a way of crossing the great chasms beyond our borders."

	"I see."

	"Meanwhile, your warlike people hang around and obligingly pipe off our surplus steam. It is very kind of you. We appreciate it. So long as you continue to play your part we're not in danger of going bang."

	"Have you any objection to me giving my people these facts?"

	"None at all," assured Eldon, smiling. "Most of them will not believe you and the few who do will be mightily annoyed. The latter will find themselves in a chronic jam because they cannot vent their annoyance without playing our game."

	"And you refuse to call off the war?"

	"We cannot end that which we did not start in the first place," said Eldon. "Look, if you care to check history, you'll find the Empire has never struck first. It has always waited to be hit before hitting back, carefully and judiciously so as not to impair your function as a necessary enemy. Aggression is your proper part. We have no desire to deprive you of it."

	"That means the initiative lies with us," observed Jazan, shrewdly. "And you cannot dictate our use of it. Therefore I am going home. I am going to face you with the problem of peace."

	"If your bellicose folk will let you live that long."

	Jazan departed, quietly. Eldon walked twice round the room, had his usual look out the window and then returned to his desk. Fingering the intercom board, he selected a button, pressed it, spoke to the voice that answered.

	"Sanders, time is getting too short for my liking. That research into the super-drive must be given top priority as from now." He paused, listened, exclaimed, "Damn the armaments campaign! I said top priority!"

	The chasm was the real foe.

The End