Description
A Slave Is a Slave
There has always been strong sympathy for the poor, meek,
downtrodden slave–the kindly little man, oppressed by cruel and
overbearing masters. Could it possibly have been misplaced…?
Jurgen, Prince Trevannion, accepted the coffee cup and lifted it to his
lips, then lowered it. These Navy robots always poured coffee too hot;
spacemen must have collapsium-lined throats. With the other hand, he
punched a button on the robot’s keyboard and received a lighted
cigarette; turning, he placed the cup on the command-desk in front of
him and looked about. The tension was relaxing in Battle-Control, the
purposeful pandemonium of the last three hours dying rapidly. Officers
of both sexes, in red and blue and yellow and green coveralls, were
rising from seats, leaving their stations, gathering in groups.
Laughter, a trifle loud; he realized, suddenly, that they had been
worried, and wondered if he should not have been a little so himself.
No. There would have been nothing he could have done about anything, so
worry would not have been useful. He lifted the cup again and sipped
cautiously.
“That’s everything we can do now,” the man beside him said. “Now we just
sit and wait for the next move.”
Like all the others, Line-Commodore Vann Shatrak wore shipboard
battle-dress; his coveralls were black, splashed on breast and between
shoulders with the gold insignia of his rank. His head was completely
bald, and almost spherical; a beaklike nose carried down the curve of
his brow, and the straight lines of mouth and chin chopped under it
enhanced rather than spoiled the effect. He was getting coffee; he
gulped it at once.