Yarns Without Threads 

“When I was a kid,” informed the Ambassador, “I detested spinach. Whenever I found it on my plate I bolted it first. Then, having got rid of it, I could proceed to enjoy my dinner.” He smiled at the memory. “That is what we’ve done: we’ve disposed of the only hostile planet and now should have something more pleasant in prospect. Which is the next one, Captain?”

“A place said to be named Hygeia.”

“Oh, yes, I remember now that it was second on the list. I was supposed to read up what little is known about these dumps but never found the time. What information have you got in that little book of yours?”

“Not much. Hygeia is recorded as a warm, lush and fertile world that was confiscated by a crowd who called themselves the Sons of Freedom. They went away, shipload by shipload, until there were none left on Terra. Some time later another and different lot, known as Naturists, also went to Hygeia, presumably with the consent of the first ones. The grand total of those who scooted is not known but is thought to be about two and a half millions.”

“Sons of Freedom,” cogitated the Ambassador. “Weren’t they a religious sect better known as Quakers?”

“No, Your Excellency. You are thinking of the Society of Friends. They took over a planet which they named Amity. It isn’t on our list for this trip. Maybe some other expedition is looking them up.”

“In which case they’ll be dead out of luck,” put in Shelton. “I read about them once and have good reason to remember them. Stiff-necked pacifists, every one.”

“What do we care?” asked the Ambassador. “Let them be somebody else’s grief.”

“This other mob may be just as bad,” Shelton offered. “I’ve never heard of the Sons of Freedom but it sounds anarchistic to me.”

“Know anything about them, Captain?” the Ambassador asked.

“No, Your Excellency. More than three hundred minorities took flight during the years of the Great Explosion. One cannot remember the full details of all of them.”

The Hygeians very tall, well-built to the point of being over-muscled. Each carried a personal bag slung by a strap from one shoulder. Each was tastefully attired in a pair of sandals, those and nothing more. Apart from the footgear they were as naked as on the day they were born.

Studying his audience with unconcealed disdain, one gave fraternal greeting by saying, “Terrans—as dirty-minded as ever.”

The Ambassador was taking a second look when this observation hit him over the head. He bristled at once.

“What d’you mean?”

“Hiding yourselves from the glorious sunshine and the face of creation,” informed the other. Letting his gaze linger significantly upon the ambassadorial belly, he remarked to his companion, “I suppose it can be conceded that this one has good reason to be ashamed of his body, eh, Pincuff?”

“Yaz,” agreed Pincuff. “Years of greed and neglect have taken their toll.”

“I resent that,” said the Ambassador.

“He resents it, Boogle,” said Pincuff. Then he let go a loud and vulgar laugh. His roving eyes took in the ship, found its ports full of astonished faces. “Look at that lot, Boogle. Afraid to come out and show themselves. Pale and weedy to a man.”

“Yaz,” Boogle confirmed. “God bless their shriveled little chests.” Then he threw himself fiat, did twenty push-ups, sprang to his feet and massaged his bare midriff. “Let’s see you do that,” he invited the Ambassador.

“For your information, I am the Terran representative and not a circus acrobat.”

“You don’t say? Then how about doing a mere six up-and-downs?” “

“No. Certainly not.”

“Just one then,” pleaded Boogle. “One for a start. You can always work up to more. Do you a lot of good.”

“I am the sole arbiter of what does me good,” declared the Ambassador, holding his temper firmly in check. “And I have not come here to indulge in pointless calisthenics. I wish to meet someone in a position of authority.”

“What for?”

“The purpose is confidential.”

“Hear that?” Boogle asked Pincuff, full of suspicion. “There’s something smelly here.”

“It’s coming from the ship,” Pincuff informed. “Full of stale air and old clothing. Nobody has bathed for months. A real goat’s nest.”

“The ship’s air is automatically cleaned and sterilized six times per hour,” Grayder told him.

“I should think so, too,” approved Pincuff. “Else you could cut it with a knife.”

“Real stinkers,” Boogle added for good measure. “Probably the only form of life that has found it necessary to invent delousing stations.”

“And where did you hear about those?” asked the Ambassador coldly.

“We’ve been educated. We know a lot concerning Terra. Every one there is dirty-minded about his own body, dirty in physique, dirty in habits. Diseased, verminous and depraved. Persecutors of anyone who isn’t afraid to face the wind, the rain and the sun in his natural state.”

“You call that education?”

“Yaz. And it is, too.”

Changing his angle of attack, the Ambassador hazarded, “I suppose these are the orthodox teachings of the Sons of Freedom, eh?”

“Jumping Joseph!” exclaimed Pincuff, horrified. “He thinks we’re Doukhobors.”

“If you want the Douks,” said Boogle contemptuously, “they’re way over the hills playing around in the mud. We drove them out a couple of hundred years ago.”

“Why?”

“Couldn’t get on with them no matter how we tried. A preaching, praying, mealy-mouthed bunch always trying to convert us to their way of thinking and abusing us when we refused to see the light. They thought that because we Naturists had been victimized for nakedness we must be easy meat. They let us come here with the idea of boosting their own strength. That was their mistake.”

“And what happened?”

“We bided our time until we were ready and then we rushed them down south. Anyone who joins the Douks is mentally deficient. And that’s one thing we Naturists are not.” He performed a couple of full stretches, danced around and shadowboxed for half a minute, finished with, “A healthy mind in a healthy body. Do I speak wisdom, Pincuff?”

“Yaz,” said Pincuff.

"You're thinking of them in Terran terms," Harrison said. "It's a mistake. They are not Terrans no matter where they came from originally. They are Gands."

"Well, just what are Gands supposed to be?"

"I don't know. It's a safe bet they're some kind of fanatics. Terra exported one-track-minders by the millions around the time of the Great Explosion. Look at that crazy crowd on Hygeia, for instance."

"Ah, Hygeia. That was the only time I've ever strutted around wearing nothing but a dignified pose. I was looking forward to seeing Shelton and Bidworthy in their birthday suits. But those two heroes both lacked the guts." He chuckled to himself, went on, "Those Hygeians think that complete nakedness creates real democracy, as distinct from our fake version. I'm far from sure that they're wrong."

'You're thinking of them in Terran terms,' Harrison said. 'It's a mistake. They are not Terrans no matter where they came from originally. They're Gands.' He mused a moment. 'I've no notion of just what Gands are supposed to be but I reckon they're some kind of fanatics. Terra exported one-track-minders by the millions around the time of the Great Explosion. Look at that crazy crowd on Hygeia.'

'I was there once and I tried hard not to look,' confessed Gleed, reminiscently. 'Then I couldn't stop looking. Not so much as a fig leaf between the lot. They inisisted that we were obscene because we wore clothes. So eventually we had to take them off. Know what I was wearing at the time we left?'

'A dignified poise,' Harrison suggested.

'That and an identity disc, cupro-silver, official issue, spacemen, for the use of,' Gleed informed. 'Plus three wipes of grease-paint on my left arm to show I was a sergeant. I looked every inch a sergeant - like heck I did!'

'I know. I had a week in that place.'

'We'd a rear admiral on board,' Gleed went on. 'As a fine physical specimen he resembled a pair of badly-worn suspenders. He couldn't overawe anyone while in his birthday suit. Those Hygeians cited his deflation as proof that they'd got real democracy, as distinct from our fake version.' He clucked his tongue. 'I'm not so sure they're wrong.'