Dramocles: An Intergalactic Soap Opera by Robert Sheckley

cattle that supplied food and drink, and whose year’s molt provided clothing as well.
    And now, at last, an emissary had come to him from civilization.
    Haldemar arranged a meeting at once, as protocol demanded. Although he had a primitive man’s distrust of manners, yet he also possessed a barbarian’s exquisite sense of ritual. He went to the meeting with hope and trepidation, and for the occasion he put on a new luumolt shirt.

 
    21
    The audience was held in Haldemar’s banquet hall. Haldemar had the place swept out and fresh rushes laid on the floor. At the last moment, remembering the refinements of civilization, he borrowed two chairs from Sigrid Eigretnose, his scrivener.
    The emissary wore a cloak of puce and mauve, colors unknown in this rough barbarian world. He was a man of above the middling height, with a breadth of shoulder and broadness of thew that led Haldemar to think that the fellow might not be unavailing at swordplay. The emissary wore other things, too, but Haldemar, with a barbarian’s indifference to detail, did not notice them.
    “Welcome!” said Haldemar. “How are matters?”
    “Pretty good,” Vitello said. “How are things here?”
    Haldemar shrugged. “The same as always. Raising luu and raiding each other’s settlements are our principal occupations. Raiding is particularly useful, and is one of our chief contributions to social theory. It serves to keep the men occupied, the population down, and goods like swords and goblets in constant circulation.”
    “Sounds like fun,” Vitello said.
    “It’s a living,” Haldemar admitted.
    “Not like the old days, eh? Raiding each other can’t be as much fun as raiding other people.”
    “Well, it’s insightful of you to realize that,” Haldemar said. “But what can we do? Our weapons are too primitive and our numbers too small to permit us to raid the civilized planets without getting our asses kicked, it you’ll excuse the expression.”
    Vitello nodded. “That’s the way it has been, up till now.”
    “That’s how it still is,” Haldemar said, “unless you bring news to the contrary.”
    Vitello said, “Haven’t you heard of the great changes that are going on? Dramocles of Glorm has taken Aardvark and landed troops on Lekk. Count John of Crimsole opposes him, as does my master, Prince Chuch, son of Dramocles. There’s trouble brewing, and where there’s trouble, there’s a profit to be made and some fun to be had.”
    “Reports of this have reached us,” Haldemar said, “but we considered it no more than a family affair. If the Vanir were to enter the conflict, the various antagonists would combine against us, as they have done in the past.”
    “It has gone beyond family squabbles,” Vitello said. “My Lord Chuch has sworn to be seated on the throne of Glorm. Count John and Snint of Lekk have pledged their support. There’ll be no patching up this quarrel. It’s going to be war.”
    “Well, good enough. But what has that to do with us?”
    Vitello smiled deviously. “Prince Chuch felt that no interplanetary war could be complete without the participation of the Vanir. He invites you to join his side.”
    “Aha!” Haldemar pretended to think for a moment, and tugged at his greasy mustaches. “What inducement does Prince Chuch offer?”
    “A full partner’s share in the anticipated spoils of Glorm.”
    “Promises are easy,” said Haldemar. “How do I know I can trust your master?”
    “Sire, he also sends you a treaty of amicability and accord, which he has already signed. This provides a legal basis for you to raid and ravage Glorm. In the ancient language of Earth it is known as a license to steal.”
    Vitello presented the treaty, a rolled parchment tied with red ribbon and bristling with seals. Haldemar touched it gently, for, barbarian to the core, he considered all pieces of paper sacred. Yet still he hesitated.
    “What other sign of his love does Prince Chuch send me?”
    “My spaceship is