Battlefield Earth

“You win,” said Jo

Jo

Avoiding the bandage on the arm, Mr.

Tsung scrubbed industriously with a lathering soap and a brush. Suddenly he stopped work and there was a whispered consultation back of Jo

Jo

Twice more the bath was stopped. Once to put a string around his chest. The second time to put a string down the side of his leg.

Eventually Mr. Tsung dried his hair and beard with a towel and then wrapped a bigger one around Jo

Thankful to stretch out at last, avoiding even looking at the screens, Jo

It was Dr. MacKendrick and Dr. Allen. The robe was loose and they got his arm out. Dr. Allen cut off the bandage, cleaned the area with alcohol that stung the nose– probably whiskey of not too good a distillation– poured some white powder in the wound and then made him eat some of it. More sulfa! Mr. Tsung was there with a bowl of soup while Dr. Allen put on a fresh bandage.

Then the two doctors stood back. Jo

“I always thought,” said Dr. Allen, “that Du

Jo

“I suppose,” said MacKendrick, “it just seemed more natural to him.” A remark calculated to distract.

And he took the long needle he had been holding behind him and, seizing Jo

"Ow!" said Jo

“That's for your dizziness,” said Dr. MacKendrick, smugly cleaning the needle. “It’s some stuff we found called 'B Complex.' The venom and the relaxant and this sulfa all rob the system of it. You'll feel much better very shortly.”

"I’ve got enough to do,” said Jo

Dr. Allen laid a hand on his shoulder. “That's just it,” he said.

“You've got far, far too much to worry about and to do. You've got to learn to let others help you. Let them contribute as well. You do splendidly. Let others help too!” He gave Jo

The soup had made his stomach feel better. After a bit he raised his head and bobbed it. He wasn't as dizzy as he had been.

Another couple of emissaries had arrived on the platform. The ops room looked frantic. He was worried about this coming conference. Jo

"Tsung!" he called. “Please get out my best buckskin suit.” Yes, he would let someone else contribute. Mr. Tsung could dig up his buckskins.

The result was totally unexpected. Mr. Tsung flashed in, drew himself up to his full five feet, and said, “No!”

Then he struggled to find more words from his meager store of English. “They lords!” He couldn't say what he wanted to say.

An amazed Jo

The Coordinator, a black-bearded Scot, took a deep breath. “You're maybe not going to like this, MacTyler, but you have gotten yourself a diplomatic manager. I know these Chinese, and when they get their minds set on something, they're worse than my old woman!”

Jo

“Everything,” said the Coordinator. “Just everything.” He sighed and began to explain: “Mr. Tsung is a descendant of a family that served as chamberlains to the Ch'ing Dynasty-those who ruled China from the mandate 1644 A.D. to about 1911. Maybe eleven hundred years ago. That was the last dynasty before China became a People's Republic. The court and emperors were not Chinese; they were a race called 'Manchus.' And they needed a lot of advice. Tsung says his family served them well but times changed and because they had served the Manchus his ancestors were exiled to Tibet. It was the western powers that overthrew the Manchus, Tsung says, not his family's advice. So Mr. Tsung here is really a 'Mandarin of the blue button' according to ancestry, a lord of the court.

“He says all the family records and scrolls are with the Chinese university library you put in a vault someplace.”

“Russia,” said Jo

“Well, good,” said the Scot. “He says he could read you some of it but he doesn't have it here. But his family always kept up on its background, expecting someday a dynasty they could serve would come back into power. They have long memories, these Chinese– imagine waiting eleven hundred years to get back a job!”

Mr. Tsung detected this was wandering off track and he nudged the Coordinator's arm and made gestures that clearly said, tell him, tell him!

The Coordinator sighed. He was not sure how Jo

If Jo

The Coordinator was relieved that this had not been received as criticism. He continued. “He says he knew there would be a diplomatic conference and that a lot of lords would be arriving and that they would be very uppish and snobbish and fancy. And it's true enough. I’ve seen them coming in on the platform. Jeweled breathe-masks, glittering cloth, ornaments-one even had a jeweled monocle. Pretty fancy dudes!”

He then swallowed and said the rest in a rush, “And if you go out there and talk to them in hines, they'll think you're just a barbarian and won't listen to you. He says if you look and act,” he swallowed again, “like an uncouth savage, they'll hold you in contempt.” He stopped, relieved to have gotten through it. “And that's what he was trying to tell you. Don't be upset with him. I could add that quite in addition to a genuine affection for you, about thirty-five thousand lives– no, less than that now, but a lot– depend on this conference. Otherwise I wouldn't have translated it for him because to me, MacTyler, ye're no barbarian!”