“We went underground,” Junior said.
Mortimer Dowling gaped at him. “What?” he said.
“We went underground,” Junior told him. “We realized that the longer we could put off our final settlement with the government, the better off we’d be. Look at history. The great powers start off by butchering the aborigines of the countries they conquer. Then, as time goes by, their conscience begins to hurt and they make wards of those that are left. More time goes by and they begin to wax really sentimental. They seek out the very last survivors and load them with honors, with privileges, sometimes with positions superior even to their own citizens. Look at the British and the Tasmanians, the New Zealanders and the Maoris, the Swiss in Switzerland.”
Millie cleared her throat. “What happened to the Swiss?”
“Finally there were so many more tourists in the country than Swiss that they began to thin out. Like the Chinese used to do, with invaders, only sort of in reverse. The tourist hordes interbred with the Swiss until finally you couldn’t find a full-blooded one. The last man who could yodel died in Berne, twenty years ago.”
Mortimer Dowling said severely, “Let’s get back to the point.”
“The point is,” Charlie Horse said, “that the United States has no treaty with the Seminole Indian Nation. We didn’t sign up when everybody else did. We realized the tribe would benefit more if we hid out, kept secret our existence, put off signing for a full century.”
There was another bead of sweat on Mortimer Dowling’s forehead.
He said weakly, “I assume you have proof, that you can prove that your fifty-eight Seminoles are all full-blooded Indians?”
Junior said, “We’ve planned this, remember, for a whole century. We’ve studied every aspect. There are no loopholes by which you can escape. The United States is the only nation on earth that has not settled its problems with all its minorities. You can imagine the impact of public opinion upon you, if this hits the world’s headlines.”
Mortimer Dowling said hoarsely, “I have before me the treaty we had prepared a hundred years ago. It offers every Seminole one hundred thousand dollars to settle all claims against the United States.”
Fuller Bull chuckled his sarcasm. Junior and Charlie Horse didn’t even bother to do that.
Mortimer Dowling said, “I’ll up it. I’ll promise you the same as the Delawares got. A million dollars apiece for every man, woman and child in the tribe.”
They gave him the oatmeal look.
Mortimer Dowling said desperately, “What do you want?”
“Florida,” said Junior.
“Florida!”
“Florida,” Junior said. “We owned it originally and we’ve never signed it away.”
“Do you realize that half a billion people now live in Florida? Do you realize how much money the citizens of this country have invested in the Florida peninsula in the past three centuries? Why the bridge to Havana alone—
We’re going to make it a toll bridge,” Fuller Bull said with satisfaction.
“And we’re going to confiscate every house, every orange tree, every motel, in the state,” Charlie Horse added. “I get Miami.”
“Miami?” Mortimer Dowling repeated, trying to hold on to reality.
“That’s my share,” Charlie Horse told him.
“Good Heavens,” Mortimer Dowling said.
“We’re going to make every white man move out of the state,” Charlie Horse wound up, with satisfaction.
Mortimer Dowling blurted, “You’ll never get away with this. It’s impossible.”
Fuller Bull said darkly, “If necessary, we’ll take our case to the Reunited Nations.”
“The RN?” Mortimer Dowling said in despair. “We wouldn’t stand a chance. There’s not a country in the RN that hasn’t already cleared itself of every taint of colonialism and imperialism. Why, the very expressions have become bad words.”
The three Seminoles were smug.
Mortimer Dowling looked at his watch. “See here, gentlemen, let’s not be hasty about this.”
“So who’s being hasty?” Junior said. “We’ve waited a hundred years for this moment.”
“Well, see here, we needn’t rush into things. It’s time for lunch. Will you gentlemen be my guests? Ha ha, on Uncle Sam, of course. Do you realize this will make quite a precedent? In my fifteen years as head of this department, I’ve never before had the occasion to submit an expense account.”
The three Seminoles exchanged glances.
“Why not?” said Junior.
* * * *
In the morning, Mortimer Dowling opened one bloodshot eye and said, “Miss Fullbright, please go away. I’m dying.”
Millie said, “Take your feet off the desk. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
“No. Go away. I need rest.”
“Just look at yourself,” Millie said disgustedly. “The first time in fifteen years at this job you get something to do, and what happens? You blow up. Instead of trying to figure out an answer, you go get yourself stoned. Absolutely stoned.”
Mortimer Dowling grunted. He pointed with his finger at an official looking document lying on the desk. “Do you see that, Miss Fullbright? One of the most brilliant pieces of work done by an American official in the past century.”
“Heavens to Betsy, the treaty. And all three of their signatures on it. How in the world did you ever—”
Mortimer Dowling allowed himself a self-satisfied leer. “Miss Fullbright, haven’t you ever heard the old saying The only good Indian is a dead—”
Millie’s hand went to her mouth. “Mr. Dowling, you mean…you put the slug on all three of those poor Seminoles? But…but how about the remaining fifty-five of them? You can’t possibly kill them all!”
“Let me finish,” Mortimer Dowling growled. “I was about to say, The only good Indian is a dead drunk Indian. If you think I’m hanging over, you should see Charlie Horse and his wisenheimer pals. Those redskins couldn’t handle firewater back in the old days when the Dutch did them out of Manhattan with a handful of beads and a gallon of applejack and they still can’t. Now, go away and do a crossword puzzle, or something.”
NO RETURN FROM ELBA
AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION
Twenty years ago the short-short story, usually about a thousand words in length, was more prevalent than it is now, for reasons unknown to me. I always liked the form. The idea, of course, is to have a snap ending that surprises or amuses the reader. This first appeared in Fantastic magazine in 1953. Then editor, Howard Browne, who is now one of Hollywood’s top scriptwriters, liked it so much that he paid the unheard of, in those days, rate of four cents a word.
—Mack Reynolds
* * * *
The Omnipotent entered and answered their salute as he had in the old days—as though there were still fleets under his command instead of this single space scout—planets still under his thumb, instead of the single tiny asteroid which lay before them.
His voice was still curt, demanding of unthinking obedience. “How long will it be now?”