Transcriber's Note:

This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction May 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.

HISTORY REPEATS

Illustrated by Martinez

BY GEORGE O. SMITH

There are—and very probablywill always be—some Terrestrialswho can't, and forthat matter don't want, to calltheir souls their own....

Xanabar lays across the Spiral Arm, a sprawling sphere of influencevast, mighty, solid at the core. Only the far-flung boundary shows theslight ebb and flow of contingent cultures that may win a system or twotoday and lose them back tomorrow or a hundred years from now. Xanabaris the trading post of the galaxy, for only Xanabar is strong enough tostand over the trading table when belligerents meet and offer to takethem both at once if they do not sheathe their swords. For this serviceXanabar assesses her percentage, therefore Xanabar is rich. Her richesbuy her mercenaries to enforce her doctrines. Therefore Xanabar isrotten at the under-core, for mercenaries have no god but gold.

The clatter of a hundred tongues mingled with the clink of glasses andfloated through strata of smoke from the burning weeds of a hundredplanets. From one of the tables, voices rise in mild disagreement. Thereis a jeering laugh from one side and a roar of anger from the other. Twomen rise and face one another ready to follow their insults withviolence. Before the eruption can start, a mercenary steps forward onlithe feet and lightly catches the back-swung arm, a quick hand removesthe poised glass before it can be thrown into the adversary's face.

"Sit!" says the mercenary in a cold voice, and they sit still glaring atone another.

"Now," says the mercenary, "settle your differences by talk. Or departin opposite directions. This is Xanabar!"

"He lies! He brags!"

"I do not lie. They are barbarians. I do not brag. I can bring youone."

"You—"

"A wager," said the mercenary. "A wager. Xanabar can take no tax inblood." He faces one. "You claim you can do that which he says you cannot." Then not waiting for a reply he faces the other, "And if he does,how much are you willing to pay?"

"How much is his life worth?"

"How much are you willing to pay?" demands the mercenary coldly.

"Five hundredweight in crystal-cut."

"An honorable sum. Do you agree?"

"Not enough—"

"For a task as easy as you claim it to be," said the mercenary, "Fivehundredweight of crystal-cut seems honorable."

"But it means—"

"We in Xanabar are not interested in the details. Only in the tax. Anhonest wager-contract, outlanders. Otherwise I rule that your eruptionhere disturbed the peace."

The two outlanders look at one another; schoolboys caught fighting inthe alley by a monitor who demands a bite of their apple in lieu of avisit to the principal. As if loath to touch one another they reachforward hesitantly and handshake in a quick light grip.

"Good!" glows the mercenary. He waves a hand and his fellows convergewith contract-platen and etching stylus. "Now, gentlemen, please statethe terms for Xanabar."