LITMIR.BIZ

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When he republished it in his yearly anthology of the best Analog stories of the year, he pointed out that the background material is quite valid; the Seminole Indians are still legally at war with the United States. A treaty has never been signed.

      —Mack Reynolds

      * * * *

      Mortimer Dowling opened one eye accusingly and said, “Miss Fullbright, I thought we had a standing agreement that I was never to be bothered while in conference.”

      Millie said, “Take your feet off the desk, you’ll scratch it. Am I or am I not your receptionist?”

      “You am. Now go away. It was very drunk out last night.”

      “A receptionist recepts and…”

      Mortimer Dowling opened the other eye, too, and interrupted. “No she doesn’t,” he said severely. “You don’t do enough crossword puzzles. A recept is an idea formed by the repetition of similar percepts, as successive percepts of the same object. A receptionist does something else. I forget what. Go away. I’m tired.”

      “...And when someone comes into my office asking for an appointment to see the Director of the Department of Indian Affairs, then it’s my duty to so inform you.”

      He closed both eyes and snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous.

      “Three of them,” Millie said definitely.

      Mortimer Dowling said sleepily, “Three what? Why don’t you go away? Go away and do a crossword puzzle or something.”

      “Three Indians to see you, sir,” Millie said formally.

      The head of the Department of Indian Affairs opened both eyes again and said severely, “Miss Fullbright, I am in no mood for jest. You know very well that there is no such thing as three Indians. The last Indian died almost ten years ago. The President proclaimed a day of national mourning. I made a speech. It was all very sentimental. Are you going away or not?”

      Her mouth tightened. “They say they’re Indians. And they look like Indians. I’ve seen pictures of Indians.”

      Mortimer Dowling blinked. “You’re serious?”

      “Of course, I’m serious.”

      “Three men in the outer office, and they say they’re Indians?” A certain tremor was coming into Mortimer Dowling’s voice.

      She nodded definitely.

      “Good Heavens,” said the Director of Indian Affairs. “For nearly fifteen years I’ve held this job, and my father before me. By the terms of the final Indian treaty there must always be a Department of Indian Affairs so long as the United States shall endure, the original idea being that the Indians would always have somewhere to go to find justice. It never occurred to those who compiled the treaty that the Indians would eventually blend into the rest of the population. The last bit of business conducted by the department was almost half a century ago. Miss Fullbright, do you realize what you’re saying? There’s actually something for me to do!”

      “Yes, sir,” said Millie, overwhelmed by it all. “What shall I tell them?”

      Mortimer Dowling sat up straight behind his desk, businesslike. “Now, just what was it they wanted?”

      “An appointment.”

      He thought about that. “Well, we should give them one, Miss Fullbright. Yes, indeed. An appointment.”

      Millie was impressed by the new aggressive mien of her superior. “Very good, sir,” she said.

      “Mark it down on the calendar, Miss Fullbright.”

      “Yes, sir. When do you wish to make this appointment, sir?”

      He thought about that. Finally, decisively, “Now. ”

      “Right now?”

      “Right now. They might go away and not come back. ”

      “Yes, sir.”

      There were three of them all right and they came in assorted sizes ranging from a six-footer pushing three hundred pounds to a five-footer pushing ninety pounds. The one in the middle averaged out neatly.

      Mortimer Dowling shook hands with enthusiasm. “You have no idea how pleasant it is to meet you chaps,” he said. “Our records show that the last full-blooded Indian died ten years ago. Where have you been keeping yourselves? Miss Fullbright, chairs for these gentlemen.”

      When they were seated, Mortimer Dowling looked them over happily. They were Indians all right, all right. You could see they were real Indians.

      Mortimer Dowling said, “Yes, sir, a real pleasure. Now then, what can we do for you? The Department of Indian Affairs places its full resources at your disposal, gentlemen.”

      The one in the middle said, “We’re Seminoles. We’ve come to sign a treaty.”

      Mortimer Dowling’s face went blank. “Seminoles?” he said. “A treaty?”

      They gave him one concerted nod, lapsed back into frozen-faced silence. Oh, they were Indians all right.

      Mortimer Dowling cleared his throat. “Look here, the government of the United States cleared up all its Indian difficulties over a century ago. We signed final treaties with every tribe.”

      “Except the Seminoles,” the one in the middle said. “We represent the Seminoles.” He indicated his hefty companion to the right. “This is Charlie Horse and I’m Fuller Bull, and...”

      “You’re what?”

      “Who, not what,” the Indian said strictly. “I’m Fuller Bull.”

      “Oh,” Mortimer Dowling said. “I thought you said— never mind.” He looked at the small one and tried to place the conversation back on a lighter level with a bon mot. “And I suppose this is Chicken Little.”

      “And this is Osceola the Eighteenth,” Fuller Bull said. “We call him Junior.”

      Junior spoke up for the first time. “For your information, the three of us took our LL.D.s at Harvard. We carry powers of attorney for all fifty-five of the other surviving members of the Seminole tribe.”

      “Fifty-five?” Mortimer Dowling was astounded. “You mean there are fifty-five more of you?”

      “Correct,” Charlie Horse said. “And we’ve come to sign a treaty between the Seminole Nation and the United States of America.”

      Already Mortimer Dowling was beginning to feel a bead of very cold sweat forming on his forehead. He said anxiously, “Miss Fullbright. Please. The file on the Seminole Indian Nation.”

      “Yes, sir,” Millie said. She scooted out. Came scooting back in mere moments, a thin file held in both hands. She put the file before him.

      Mortimer Dowling renewed his information on the Seminoles quickly. Scanned paper after paper. Emitted occasional grunts. Finally he looked up at them in satisfaction.

      “Now,” he said definitely, “I don’t know what your game is, but it won’t work. More than a century ago, the whole world went through a period of settling its difficulties with its minorities. World opinion grew so strong that not a major power on earth dared do otherwise. Why, even the Sino-Soviet Complex freed its satellites—of course, by that time there was nobody left in the satellites except good commies, so they immediately applied for readmission. However, that’s beside the point. The point is that the United States reviewed every dealing we had ever had with every Indian tribe. Settling all the Indian questions beggared the United States treasury, but we satisfied them all—every tribe, every member of every tribe.” He let his eyes go ceilingward for a moment. “As I recall, the hardest to please were the Delawares. There were only three hundred seventy-five of them left, and they got a million dollars apiece.”

      “Peanuts,” Charlie Horse said.

      “I

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