Monument (novel)

15

An obsolete freighter, bound from Quiron to Yorlang on a seldom-used space route, mysteriously vanished. A thousand light-years away a bureaucrat with an overactive imagination thought of piracy. Orders went out, and Commander James Vorish, captain of the battle cruiser Hiln, changed course and resigned himself to a monotonous six months of patrolling.

A week later his orders were canceled. He changed course again and mulled over the new assignment with Lieutenant Commander Robert Smith, his executive. “Someone’s been stirring up an indigenous population,” Vorish said. “We’re to take over and protect Federation citizens and property.”

“Peculiar assignment for a battle cruiser,” Smith observed. “Where the devil is Langri? I’ve never heard of it.”

Looking westward, Vorish thought it the most beautiful world he’d ever seen. The forest stretched back into the hills, its unbroken foliage an awesome expanse of dazzling variegation. Flowers lifted delicately beautiful, enormous petals to the lightly stirring sea breeze. Waves rippled in lethargically from an indescribably magnificent sea, and the fine beach sand caught the afternoon sun with a billion billion facets of flashing color.

Behind him was the hideous, scarred, noisy, reeking cauldron of the construction site. Motors whined, machines shuffled back and forth, workmen scurried hither and yon like a blighting invasion of mindless insects.

Smith touched Vorish’s arm and pointed. A clumsy ground conveyance sped away from the clutter of prefab buildings and bounced toward them—the first official acknowledgment of their arrival. Vorish strode down the Hiln’s ramp, inspected the sentries, and then turned to see what that official acknowledgment would consist of.

There were four men in the vehicle, and when one vaulted out and hurried toward the Hiln, two of the others, obviously personal bodyguards, sauntered after him. Vorish appraised the short, rotund figure and decided that it probably contained more muscle than one would suspect. The agility with which the man had left the vehicle was impressive, and obviously he worked in the sun. His bronzed complexion was one the pale-faced inhabitants of frigid worlds would regard with envy.

“Glad to meet you, Commander,” the man said. “I’m Wembling.”

They touched hands.

“Seems peaceful here,” Vorish remarked. “From my orders, I had the impression that the natives were keeping you under siege.”

“They are,” Wembling said bitterly. “They’re pulling every dirty trick they can get away with.”

Vorish murmured polite concern and looked about him again. He could see nothing that contradicted his first impression: Langri was a spectacularly beautiful, peaceful world.

Wembling chuckled, completely misinterpreting Vorish’s scowl. “Don’t let it worry you. We keep them pretty much under control in the daytime. Why don’t you give your men a few hours of leave—let them enjoy the beach and shake off their space tremors. And as soon as you settle in, Commander, come down to my office and I’ll show you what I want you to do.”

He turned away, carelessly tossed a gesture of farewell over his shoulder, and boarded his conveyance. He was driven off at once, and the guards had to pile unceremoniously into the moving vehicle.

Vorish turned and found Lieutenant Commander Smith grinning down at him from the ramp. “Who was that?” Smith demanded. “The Grand Admiral? He certainly seems to know what you’re supposed to be doing.”

“I’m glad someone knows what I’m supposed to be doing. I certainly don’t. Do you notice something peculiar about this situation?”

“I seem to detect a certain pronounced odoriferousness,” Smith remarked.

“Tell Macklie to scout around and talk with Wembling’s men and see if he can find out what’s going on here. I suppose I’ll have to go see the man. At a guess, he wants the entire crew of the Hiln for sentry duty. While I’m gone, take a patrol and circle the construction site. See what the security arrangements are and what problems we’re likely to encounter.”

One wall of Wembling’s office was an enormous map, and Wembling, with energetic gesticulations, explained what it was he wanted. He wanted a solid wall of men around his construction site, though it took him twenty minutes to say so.

Vorish heard him out, and then he politely informed Wembling that it wasn’t possible. “My men are capable,” he said, “but there aren’t enough of them, and thus far I haven’t been able to teach them to function in seven different places at once.”

“It’s your solemn duty to protect the lives and property of citizens of the Federation!” Wembling snapped.

“If Fleet Headquarters had meant for me to stand guard duty over an entire continent,” Vorish told him coldly, “it would have sent a larger force—say two ships. What you want would require ten divisions of troops and a billion credits’ worth of equipment and even that wouldn’t be foolproof. Why do you have sentries along the beach?”

“Sometimes the puggards sneak in from the sea. Can’t trust the unprincipled scoundrels for an instant. My men won’t work for me if they’re all the time in terror of their lives.”

Vorish turned in surprise. “I wasn’t aware of that. How many men have you lost?”

“Well—none, but that isn’t the natives’ fault.”

“Have they been damaging your equipment and materials?”

“Plenty. They manage to put two or three machines out of commission every day, and they keep sneaking in and stopping the work. It’d be a lot worse if I hadn’t imported a double work force just to guard the site. Commander, I’ve met a lot of different kinds of people in my lifetime, but never before have I encountered this measure of ingratitude. My whole project was started just to finance projects the natives need, and the first thing I built was a medical center for them, and they’re going to share in every penny of profit this place makes. In spite of that they’ve harassed us in every possible way right from the beginning. This is a multibillion-credit project, and I’ve backed it to the limit of my resources, and these ingrates are trying to ruin me. I resent that. Now—this is what I suggest. Each of us will assign a man to each sentry post on every shift. My men know what the natives are up to and how to handle them, and they’ll show your men what to do. I’ll tell my super to work out the details with you.”

“Do you have another map?” Vorish asked.

“Why, yes-”

“With the sentry posts marked on it?”

Wembling shook his head. “Never needed more than one.”

“That’s all right. We’ll probably want to shift them anyway. Send your super up to the Hiln with the map. We’ll ask him what we need to know, and then we’ll work out with him what we’re prepared to do.”

Smith returned from his inspection patrol and glumly remarked that it wasn’t the Space Navy Wembling wanted, but the Space Army—all of it. Vorish turned Wembling’s super over to him and left the two of them arguing about the sentry posts. He wanted to see the situation for himself.

He was standing on a lonely stretch of beach at the far end of the perimeter, looking out to sea, when Lieutenant Commander Macklie, his intelligence officer, caught up with him.

“You were right, sir,” Macklie said. “It’s a queer situation. These raids Wembling talked about—the natives usually sneak in one or two at a time. They lie down in front of a machine or grab ahold of something, and all the work has to stop until someone pries them loose and tosses them back into the forest.”

“Have any natives been hurt?” Vorish asked.

“No, sir. The men say Wembling is very strict about that. He knows that mistreating the natives, even when he thinks they deserve it, would bring him more trouble than he could handle.”

“He knows correctly.”

“Yes, sir. The natives may be aware of it, because they almost seem to be trying to get hurt. It’s got on the workers’ nerves— they never know when a native is going to pop up in front of them. They’re afraid if one did get hurt the others would come after them with poisoned weapons. This world is reputed to have some very wicked poisons. There’s a thorn that will kill a man almost instantly.”

“Have any of the workers been injured?”

“Several were abducted before Wembling got the idea of making them work in groups. The natives returned them unharmed. They stuffed them into giant gourds and rolled the gourds down the slope at the prefabs. Scared everyone half to death, especially the workers inside the gourds, but no one was hurt.”

“Sounds like some kind of childish prank,” Vorish observed.

“Yes, sir. From what I’ve seen of Wembling, sir, my sympathy is with the natives.”

“And mine. Unfortunately, I have orders. It’s just as well that the natives have a sense of humor. I’m afraid they’re going to need it.”

“Smith asked me to tell you we’ll have to assign the specialized ratings to guard duty or there won’t be enough men.”

“They’ll howl, I suppose.”

“No, sir, they won’t. A couple of hours on this beach each day are worth four times that in guard duty. I’ll scout around some more, sir.”

He saluted and hurried away. Vorish strolled along the beach toward the landing field. As he passed the prefab dormitories and offices, a messenger hurried out to intercept him. “Excuse me, sir, but Mr. Wembling would like to use your ship’s power plant to extend his lighting system. If you’ll wait just a moment, his engineer—”

“Tell him to send his engineer to the Hiln,” Vorish said. “He can arrange it with my engineer.”

At the ship he okayed Smith’s guard rosters, and then he went to have a look at the security arrangements. He inspected sentry posts, watched the engineers set up new lights, and listened in on some of the arguments between his men and the construction workers.

Smith was complaining to a foreman that the lights in Sector R were useless because the field of observation was cluttered up with large bushes. He wanted them cut; the foreman protested that he had neither the men nor the machines for bush cutting. Smith was perfectly free to do the job himself, though. Since devices for cutting bushes were not standard equipment on Space Navy battle cruisers, Vorish knew how this was going to end. He walked on. At the north end of the perimeter, a nav technician was insisting that the line of sentry posts be moved back from the forest. “You can’t light up a forest,” he kept saying. “There’ll be a zillion shadows. Move the posts back, and the natives will have to come out of the trees to get at us.” Vorish gave him high marks but left him to win his own argument, which he did. The line was moved back.

While Vorish made his rounds, a stream of messengers from Wembling plodded in his wake.

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, sir, Mr. Wembling would like your Post Number Seven Two moved ten meters to the north. The light will fall on his bedroom window.”

“Mr. Wembling’s compliments, sir. It’s a frozen tart for your mess. And if it wouldn’t inconvenience you too much, would you mind spotting half a dozen more sentry posts at the head of the inlet?”

“Excuse me, sir, but Mr. Wembling would like to meet with your duty officer at seventeen hundred.”

“At your earliest convenience, sir, Mr. Wembling requests that-”

“Damn Wembling!” Vorish exploded.

At dusk Smith reported the sentry arrangements completed and the first echelon posted. “I think we’re in good shape,” he said. “There isn’t much to worry about anyway—outside Wembling’s imagination. The natives have no weapons.”

“Who says they don’t?” Vorish demanded. “Just because they haven’t used any doesn’t mean they don’t have any. These natives aren’t fools. I have a dozen reports of them watching from cover while you were posting the sentries. If they have foolish ambitions, tonight is the night they’ll try them out. They’ll know that fifty per cent of the sentries are new here, and they may know that Space Navy men aren’t accustomed to ground duty. Some of our men are going to be scared stiff standing out there with nothing between them and a dark forest, and the natives may know that, too. I want the off-duty echelons organized into platoons and bedded down where they’ll be available the moment reinforcements are needed anywhere. Have you talked with Macklie?”

Smith nodded. “Did he tell you the natives actually took Wembling to court over this?”

“No!”

“It’s a fact. They hit him with one suit after another and held up his work for months. Wembling won every case, but he was enjoined from working while the cases were being decided.”

“No wonder Wembling is in a foul mood!”

“That’s just the half of it. Once the courts let him go back to work, the natives started harassing him with those silly pranks to slow down his work. It gets on the nerves of his work force, and he’s had a tremendous turnover in personnel.”

“Did you know that Wembling claims he’s doing all this for the natives?”

Smith stared at him. “Then what are we doing here? Ours not to reason why, I suppose.”

“Nonsense,” Vorish said. “If a military man doesn’t know why, his work will suffer while he tries to figure it out for himself. Anyway, there’s no special secret why we’re here. Wembling may toss the natives a few crumbs, but he’s operating mainly for himself, and when he loses time he loses money. Whenever you encounter dirty politics, wherever you encounter it, it was caused by someone losing money, or someone trying to make money. Remember that.”

Along with the night, silence descended on the construction site. At the landing field the Hiln stood in an oval of light, and there was an unbroken band of light in front of the sentry posts around the entire perimeter. The dormitories and offices were surrounded by another band of light, and revolving lights swept the site, briefly illuminating the beginning of a skeletal framework where the resort building would stand. In spite of the lavish lighting, Wembling did not dare to continue work at night. In the confused play of shadows, the natives that broke in might be injured; or they might contrive really serious damage.

As soon as darkness had settled in, Vorish made another inspection tour. His men were less tense than he’d expected. The bored aplomb of Wembling’s veterans seemed to have a tranquilizing effect on them. Vorish returned to the Hiln and worked on a report, and when the second echelon had been posted he made another inspection. He had resigned himself to a sleepless night, but his men seemed in good spirits, and the night seemed so peaceful that he thought to catch a couple of hours’ sleep before inspecting the third echelon. He went to bed, and he was sound asleep when the explosion went off.

The enormous blast was still echoing in the distant hills when Vorish reached the ship’s ramp. High-pitched buzzes sounded from several directions as jittery men discharged their weapons. A patrol working inside the perimeter had taken cover, and the men in sentry reserve had sprung to their feet and were jabbering nervously. Down on the construction site, workers were pouring from the dormitories, and Wembling’s ground conveyance spun its rollers and lurched away toward the landing field. Vorish waited resignedly.

Another explosion sounded, and then another. Smith was delivering a preliminary report when the conveyance arrived. Wembling, in his slippers and a flapping robe, scrambled out and ran toward the Hiln, his ever present guards close on his heels. Vorish went to the bottom of the ramp to meet him. The echoing boom of the explosions continued.

“The natives are using explosives!” Wembling gasped.

“It certainly sounds that way,” Vorish agreed.

“We’re being attacked!”

“Nonsense. None of the sentries has seen a thing.”

“Remember those poison thorns I told you about? What if they have some kind of weapon that shoots them into the construction site?”

“If they were shooting anything at all into the construction site, it would have landed by now,” Vorish said dryly. “Nothing has.”

Wembling stood silently for a moment, and the two of them listened to the booming explosions. They ranged the full arc of the surrounding forest, but obviously they came from widely varied distances. If there was a pattern, Vorish couldn’t detect it.

“I want the sentries reinforced,” Wembling said.

“That’d be silly. I’d be left without a reserve.”

“I’m relying on you to take charge of the situation,” Wembling proclaimed oracularly.

“I’ve already done so.”

Trailing his guards, Wembling shuffled back to his conveyance and was driven away. Smith had loped off into the night while they were talking, so Vorish returned to the Hiln’s control room to wait for his report. The explosions continued.

Finally Smith returned. “No one has even seen a flash,” he said. “That’s maybe understandable considering how thick the forest is, but no one has smelled anything, either, and the wind is in our direction. I think the explosions are taking place a long way off. Nothing like this has ever happened before, and Wembling’s people haven’t an inkling of what’s going on. They say there’s only one man on Langri who’s likely to know anything about it— an anthropologist named Hort. He was on Wembling’s staff, and Wembling fired him because he stood up for the natives. He’s living by himself in a native-style dwelling back in the forest. Interestingly enough, he’s now a deputy marshal.”

Vorish arched his brows. “With what authority?”

“I don’t know.”

“See him tomorrow and put him on the staff,” Vorish said. “I don’t mind if he takes the natives’ part. It’s time someone did.”

“I want to see him tonight and ask him what the natives are up to.”

“How far?”

“A few kilometers.”

“How large a patrol?”

“Three men and myself—just enough to carry lights and com equipment.”

Vorish silently pondered the specter of a small patrol of his men taking a stroll along a narrow path in a thick, possibly hostile forest. It seemed a strange midnight occupation for the Space Navy, but he’d seen stranger things, and worlds far weirder than this one.

“I know about the thorns,” Smith said. “It’s perfectly safe as long as we keep to the center of the path. The paths were made by the natives, and they wouldn’t pass that way often enough to make a path if it wasn’t safe. Also, they’re too bright to be ambushing a patrol from a ship that could incinerate every one of their villages on one pass around the planet.”

“We don’t know that,” Vorish said. “On the other hand, since they haven’t harmed anyone yet, I’ll risk the assumption that they’d rather start with Wembling than us. Go ahead, then. And before you shoot anything, be damned certain it’s something you want to kill.”

Smith waved a salute and hurried away.

Vorish told a technician to give Smith’s patrol a special channel, and then he began to monitor the sentry posts. His men were nervous about the explosions, but they seemed to be holding up well. He caught bits of conversation. A nav muttered, “Whatever they’re blowing up, they’ve got a lot of the stuff,” and Wembling’s hammerhead replied, “You can’t trust the puggards as far as you can spit. Let me tell you about the time—”

An officer called in a suggestion that the beach sentries be moved to the forest side of the perimeter. “The natives would like that,” Vorish told him dryly. “Especially if the explosions are a diversion to keep our attention on the forest while they attack from the sea.”

By that time the technician had Smith’s patrol tuned in, and Vorish watched them in three-dimensional projection as they moved along a path, their lights poking holes in the forest’s blackness. Several of the explosions sounded alarmingly close by, but Smith, when Vorish asked him, chuckled and said they were kilometers away.

Finally the patrol rounded a bend and came upon a small clearing with a native hut. A bearded man stood in its doorway scowling fiercely at the intruders.

Smith marched up to him. “Aric Hort? I’m Lieutenant Commander Smith. Space Navy. What’s causing the explosions?”

“If I had the faintest idea, is there any reason why I should tell you?”

“Do the natives have explosives?” Smith asked.

At that moment one went off close by, with an enormous charge, and both Hort and Smith winced. “You deaf, or something?” Hort demanded. “Of course they do. Not that it’s any of your business—or is Wembling claiming sovereignty over the entire continent?”

“Wembling is hiding under his bed,” Smith said. “I have no intention of interfering with the natives. I’m just curious about what woke me up.”

Suddenly Hort grinned. “If you put it that way, so am I. Let’s go have a look.”

They moved off into the forest, with Hort leading the way. Explosions continued to sound. Smith, walking just behind Hort, said to him, “Are you positive these natives aren’t dangerous?”

Hort halted and faced him. “I’ve been living near them or with them for almost three years. I’ve spent most of my time with them, every day, and I’ve never seen a fight or even a strenuous argument. I’d say they’re extremely dangerous, but not in the way you’re thinking.”

They moved on. Suddenly they came upon a river, which they crossed on a boat rigged as a crude ferry. They regained the path on the opposite side and moved along it at a brisk pace. The forest unfolded monotonously along the path. The night and the com equipment reduced all colors to gray, and the huge flowers on many of the trees had folded delicate petals into strangely shaped defenses against the darkness.

They ferried their way across another river. The explosions were becoming more distant, but Vorish, watching from the safety of the Hiln while his men moved farther and farther into an unknown forest, became increasingly concerned.

Smith asked, “Have they ever set off explosives before?”

“No,” Hort said. “I didn’t know they had any.”

“They sound like potent charges. One of them could make a scrap heap of a rather large spaceship.”

Hort had no comment. Vorish was on the verge of halting them when suddenly Hort dropped to his knees on the path.

“Stand back!” he snapped.

Smith knelt nearby, holding a light, and one of the navs pointed a scanner. Vorish scrutinized the projected image of the nondescript mass Hort was studying and made nothing of it.

“What is it?” Smith asked.

“I don’t know. Can you move the light—there. Darned if it doesn’t look like—”

Suddenly Hort began to laugh. The navy men crowded around him and bewilderedly studied the clutter of debris on the path while Hort slumped to the ground convulsed with laughter. He thumped helplessly on the packed dirt with his fist. At irregular intervals the explosions boomed a bizarre accompaniment.

Finally Hort controlled himself sufficiently to be able to speak. “It’s the gourds,” he gasped.

“It’s the gourds,” Smith repeated. He was becoming angry. “Is that supposed to tell me something?”

Still laughing, Hort struggled to his feet. “Langri has these enormous gourds. They’re bigger than houses—in fact, the natives actually use segments of them for the roofs of their dwellings. They come in all shapes and sizes, and they’re used for everything from furniture to utensils. I’ve been wondering ever since I came here how the damned things reproduce, and now I know—they explode and scatter their spores.”

Smith said bitterly, “Do you mean every alien on the planet has been woke up, and we’ve had this lovely midnight stroll through the forest, just because some vegetables are enjoying their mating season?”

An officer entered the control room and snapped to attention. “Excuse me, sir, but—”

Vorish raised his hand. “Just a moment.”

Smith was nurturing his anger. “How come these gourds decided all of a sudden to have babies the night the navy landed?”

“Obviously the natives know how to set them off,” Hort said.

“Sir,” the officer said to Vorish, “there’s a native—”

Vorish raised his hand again.

“The natives know how to set them off,” Smith said coldly. “Just their idea of a friendly welcome, I suppose.”

“Or a way to distract your sentries.”

“There’s a native asking to see you, sir,” the officer persisted.

Vorish turned. “A native?”

Hort said, “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if your commanding officer were having an extremely interesting conversation with a young native named Fornri.”

“Is his name Fornri?” Vorish asked in a low voice.

“Yes, sir.”

“I told him he’d get killed if he tried to go through the perimeter,” Hort said. “I told him with all those new lights and sentry posts it’d be impossible, and I could make an appointment for him tomorrow, and he said it was too important to wait and the Plan would get him past the sentries.”

“What Plan?” Smith asked.

“The Plan behind everything the natives do. You’ve been listening to part of it.”

Vorish leaned forward and turned off the projection. “I suppose all the sentries and patrols have been watching the forest so they can hear the explosions better, and this Fornri walked right up to Sentry Post Number One without being challenged.”

“That he did,” the officer said grimly. “He had to pass through the perimeter, avoid three patrols, and follow a route that should have been visible to half the rear-line sentry posts, and no one saw him. I’m going to throw twenty men in the brig.”

“I’ll look into that later,” Vorish said. “Well—I’ve heard Wembling’s side of this, so it’s only fair that I hear what the natives have to say. Do you suppose Wembling would let us have an interpreter?”

“I wouldn’t know about that, sir, but this native doesn’t need one. He speaks Galactic.”

Vorish nodded his head. “Of course. He would. This is quite an assignment we’ve drawn here. Everything is perfectly logical and utterly inexplicable. Gourds explode, but only when they’re properly asked. A construction site is under tremendous guard with the navy called in to help, and for no obvious reason. Natives speak Galactic, which as far as I know isn’t a native language anywhere in the galaxy. Bring this Galactic-speaking native in.”