The Overlord's Thumb
By ROBERT SILVERBERG
Illustrated by BILL BOWMAN
His choice would govern a boy's fate—and,
incidentally, Earth's entire future.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity March 1958.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The sun had gone down blood-red, and Colonel John Devall slept poorlybecause of it. The atmosphere on Markin was not normally conducive toblood-red sunsets, though they did happen occasionally on eveningswhen the blue of sunlight was scattered particularly well. The Marksconnected red sunsets with approaching trouble. Colonel Devall, whoheaded the Terran cultural and military mission to Markin, was morecultural than military himself, and so was willing to accept the Markinbelief that the sunset was a premonition of conflict.
He was tall, well-made and erect in bearing, with the sharp bright eyesand crisp manner of the military man. He successfully tried to projectan appearance of authoritative officerhood, and his men respected andfeared the image he showed them.
His degree was in anthropology. The military education was anafterthought, but a shrewd one; it had brought him command of theMarkin outpost. The Department of Extraterrestrial Affairs insistedthat all missions to relatively primitive alien worlds be staffed andheaded by military men—and, Devall reasoned, so long as I keep up theoutward show, who's to know that I'm not the tough soldier they think Iam? Markin was a peaceful enough world. The natives were intelligent,fairly highly advanced culturally if not technically, easily dealt withon a rational being-to-being basis.
Which explains why Devall slept badly the night of the red sun. Despitehis elegant posture and comportment, he regarded himself essentially asa bookish, un-military man. He had some doubts as to his own possiblebehavior in an unforeseen time of crisis. The false front of hisofficerhood might well crumble away under stress, and he knew it.
He dozed off, finally, toward morning, having kicked the covers to thefloor and twisted the sheets into crumpled confusion. It was a warmishnight—most of them were, on Markin—but he felt chilled.
He woke late, only a few minutes before officers' mess, and dressedhurriedly in order to get there on time. As commanding officer, ofcourse, he had the privilege of sleeping as late as he pleased—butgetting up with the others was part of the task Devall imposed onhimself. He donned the light summer uniform, slapped depilator hastilyon his tanned face, hooked on his formal blaster and belt, andsignalled to his orderly that he was awake and ready.
The Terran enclave covered ten acres, half an hour's drive from one ofthe largest Markin villages. An idling jeep waited outside Devall'ssmall private dome, and he climbed in, nodding curtly at the orderly.
"Morning, Harris."
"Good morning, sit. Sleep well?"
It was a ritual by now. "Very well," Devall responded automatically,as the jeep's turbos thrummed once and sent the little car hummingacross the compound to the mess hall. Clipped to the seat next toDevall was his daily morning program-sheet, prepared for him by thestaffman-of-the-day while he slept. This morning's sheet was signed byDudley, a major of formidable efficiency—Space Service through andthrough, a Military Wing career man and nothing else. Devall scannedthe assignme