Monument (novel)

20

A broad band of light marked the construction site perimeter, and on the landing field each ship stood in its own bright oval. The humped silhouette of a reconocopter, small cabin perched over enormous, circular turbine housing, stood at the edge of the landing field. As Dallman and Protz approached it, the pilot jumped down and snapped a salute.

“Ready any time you are, sir,” he said.

“Pity Langri doesn’t have a moon,” Protz observed, looking about him. “It’d be charming by moonlight.”

“Mention that to Wembling,” Dallman said. “He’ll have one built.”

They climbed aboard, and the reconocopter shot upward steeply and moved off along the coast, still climbing. Staring down into utter blackness, Dallman suddenly saw a patch of light on the horizon. As they gained altitude, more patches came into view.

He touched the pilot’s shoulder. “Can we have a closer look?”

They dropped precipitously and drifted over a village at low altitude, and the patch of light resolved into rows of fires that turned the village oval into a blaze of light. There seemed to be a great bustle of activity, but what it signified Dallman had no idea.

“You say this isn’t normal?” he asked the pilot.

“Definitely not normal, sir. They fix their evening meal about dark, when the hunting boats get in. When they have something to fix, that is. Sometimes they don’t. Once they’ve finished their meal you can fly the whole coast without catching a glimpse of light except at the construction sites.”

“It’s a shame that we know so little about these natives,” Dallman said. “I never have an inkling of what Fornri’s thinking about, and I doubt that Aric Hort understands him any better than I do. The Colonial Bureau should have sent in a team to study them.” He turned to Protz. “What do you make of it?”

“It’s suggestive, but darned if I know what it suggests.”

“I know what it suggests,” Dallman said grimly. “A strange ship lands this afternoon, and tonight every native on the planet is staying up all night. They’re getting ready for something. We’d better go back and make a few preparations of our own.”

The pilot turned back. When they reached the landing field, Dallman strolled over to the perimeter and walked the sentry path for a thousand meters, meditating the uncanny quiet of the night. Protz followed behind him without speaking.

“Going to double the sentries?” he asked finally.

“Could you work out a staggered relief system to place all the sentries on duty from four hundred on?”

“Of course.”

“Let’s do it that way. Since most of the natives are still at their villages, it should be several hours before anything happens here. I’m going to get Wembling out of bed. I’ll tell him to issue orders immediately—his men are to have the day off tomorrow, and they’re restricted to quarters until further notice. That’ll apply to him, too. He can put his commissary to work right now packing meals for the men to eat in quarters.”

“He’ll howl,” Protz said.

“He’d better not howl to me. I want all the site commanders alerted. For the time being we’re going to forget Wembling’s golf courses and shorten sentry lines to effectively protect workers and equipment. I’ll also tell ordnance to place a reserve of arms at each site so the workers can be armed if that proves necessary.”

They returned to the landing field, and Dallman walked over to a waiting conveyance and climbed into it. “I want to see Hort the first thing in the morning,” he said. “Wembling’s niece, too, if she’ll come. Tell me—if you were a native and you wanted to stop Wembling’s work, what would you do?”

“That’s easy. I’d kill Wembling.”

“All right,” Dallman said disgustedly. “I’ll give him an armed guard.”

Dallman slept at his desk. He woke up occasionally to monitor reports, but nothing was being reported but negatives. All of the larger native villages were alight with numerous small fires, but if the natives were stirring anywhere else, no one saw them. Finally Dallman chose to ignore the reports and sleep.

The intercom rasped him to wakefulness and reminded him that he’d decided the day before to replace his desk ensign. “Captain Protz is here, sir. With Miss Warr and Mr. Hort.”

Dallman stirred sleepily, yawned, and lowered his feet. “Send them in.”

He stood up to greet them, and with Protz’s help he pulled chairs into position and got the three of them seated. “Nice of you to come,” he said, wearily dropping into his own chair. “I urgently need the answer to a question. What’s going on?”

Hort and Miss Warr exchanged startled glances and then looked at him blankly. Protz said, “They won’t be able to help us much. They don’t know anything about the fires. They didn’t even know a ship landed yesterday.”

“There wasn’t any mention among the natives of a ship landing?” Dallman asked them.

They shook their heads.

“Did you notice anything about the natives yesterday that seemed unusual?”

“They were a little hungrier than they were the day before, but there’s nothing unusual about that,” Hort said. “What’s this about a ship?”

“I don’t know, except that there was one,” Dallman said. “It landed in the forest some twenty kilometers from the coast.” Absently he got to his feet and went to the window. “How does it happen you don’t know about the fires? Aren’t you two usually at one of the villages until after nightfall?”

“Usually,” Hort agreed. “Yesterday—well, it seemed natural enough at the time, but now that I think about it—anyway, we were sort of escorted away yesterday afternoon.”

“Asked to leave?”

“Nothing like that. Fornri said he was going to the next village, and he offered to walk with us as far as the center. If eviction was what he had in mind, I’d have to admit he managed it very neatly. What kind of fires were there?”

Dallman turned again to the window. He gazed at the horizon for a moment, and then he leaned forward, staring. “Look!”

The other three bounded to the window. “What is it?” Protz demanded.

“Look-off the point.”

All of them stared. “There’s nothing there,” Protz announced.

“Right.” After so many hours of uncertainty, Dallman’s grimness had become fatalistic. “Every day since I arrived here, there’s been a hunting fleet working off the point—until today.”

“I was about to tell you that,” Protz said reproachfully. “The reconocopter pilot just reported—none of the hunting boats are working today.”

“I see. Yesterday a strange ship arrives. Today all the natives on Langri take the day off. What are they doing?”

“All the pilot could tell me is that they’re congregating in the larger villages,” Protz said.

“At this point there’s only one thing to do. We’ll have a frank talk with Fornri.”

“How many men do you want to take?”

“None. Miss Warr and Hort if they want to come. We aren’t trying to coerce the natives. We’re just asking the favor of some information.”

They circled widely to approach from the sea and make an unobtrusive landing on the beach below the village. The pilot remained with the reconocopter; Dallman, with Protz, Hort, and Miss Warr trailing after him, walked slowly up the slope to the village. As they reached the point where the first curving side street intercepted the main avenue, he paused and looked about him incredulously.

The natives were in festival costume, and the atmosphere was one of celebration. They greeted their visitors with smiles and made way for them respectfully as they moved slowly up the central avenue. And despite their emaciated appearances, they seemed not merely cheerful but happy.

Cooking fires blazed in the central oval. When they reached it, Dallman paused again and sniffed appreciatively. “They’re certainly starving in style. That smells delicious.”

“It is delicious,” Hort said bitterly. “What there is of it. The natives will get about as much as you did—a smell.”

“It was enough to remind me that I missed breakfast,” Dallman said good-naturedly. They moved on, and at the other side of the oval he halted abruptly. “What the devil!”

They stood gazing perplexedly up the central avenue. At the top of the village, before one of the larger dwellings, a long line of natives stood waiting quietly.

Then Fornri saw them. He came hurrying toward them, but whether his action suggested either alarm or resentment at their presence, Dallman could not say. The native’s face remained expressionless.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“To observe,” Dallman said.

“In the past you have not interfered in the lives of my people. Is that to change?”

“Certainly not,” Dallman said. “I have no intention of interfering.”

“Then your presence is not required. What is happening here concerns only ourselves.”

“Everything that happens on this world concerns me,” Dallman said firmly. “I intend to know what is going on here.”

They faced each other, Space Navy admiral and Langrian native, and Dallman had no doubt that he was the more nervous of the two. The silence seemed interminable. Finally Fornri spoke. “I know that you have been a good friend to my people. All of you have, but you also have duties and obligations that concern others. Our fear on this day is that Mr. Wembling may attempt to interfere with us.”

“He won’t,” Dallman promised. “I’ve confined Wembling and all of his workers to their quarters. If what you are doing concerns only yourselves, no one will interfere.”

“Very well.” Fornri paused, and then he said proudly, “We are holding an election.”

“An—election?” Dallman felt Protz’s grip tighten on his arm. He turned and looked blankly at him. Hort and Miss Warr were looking just as blankly at each other.

“We are electing delegates to a constitutional convention,” Fornri said.

Dallman gazed past Fornri at the line of waiting natives. He thought, “What an idyllic setting for an election!” Holiday atmosphere, a magnificent view of the sea, a feast in preparation, citizens waiting their turns at the polling booths in a woven grass hut—the principles of democracy had never been more strikingly portrayed.

None of them spoke. Probably none of them could speak— Dallman could not.

“When the constitution has been approved,” Fornri went on, “we shall elect a government. And then we shall apply for membership in the Galactic Federation of Independent Worlds.”

“Is it legal?” Protz blurted.

“It is legal. Our attorney is advising us.”

“Is it the Plan?” Hort asked eagerly.

“It is part of the Plan,” Fornri said. “We could have done it sooner, but we did not know that we needed only sixty per cent literacy. We have more than ninety per cent.”

Dallman, sensing the solemnity as well as the importance of the occasion, snapped to attention. “I am honored to present my congratulations, and I’m confident that I can include those of the Federation Government. And I give you this pledge: no one will interfere with any of your steps toward self-government, at any time. If anyone tries, notify me at once.”

Fornri gave the jerky bow that he sometimes affected when speaking with outsiders. “In behalf of the people of Langri, I thank you.”

“I suppose your government’s first official action will be to evict Wembling,” Protz said lightly.

Fornri’s politely blank expression did not change. “We shall of course be guided by the law.”

With a final glance at the polling hut, they turned and walked slowly back to the reconocopter. The pilot was waiting to assist them aboard, but instead they turned again and looked at the village.

“And that,” Protz murmured, “will finish Wembling.”

“At least we’ve solved the mystery of the unknown ship,” Dallman said. “It was their attorney, coming to advise them and help them draw up a constitution. As for finishing Wembling, you’re wrong. The Wemblings in this universe don’t finish that easily. He’s ready for this. You might even say he’s been expecting it.”

“What can he do?” Protz demanded.

“No court of law would make him give up what he already has. The bribery and political connivance that got him his illegal charter won’t be part of the official record, and the court can’t take note of them. It will have to assume that Wembling acted under his charter in good faith. Now we know why he’s been laying out all those enormous golf courses. That land was legally developed by him, under an official Federation charter, and the court will let him keep it.”

Hort and Miss Warr turned on him aghast. “That can’t be true!” Hort exclaimed.

“Ah, but it is. Wait and see. And once the court confirms his ownership of all that land, he’ll be free to use it any way he likes. He can put up dozens of resorts and flood the coast with tourists. If the natives try to stop him, the Federation courts will support Wembling—with force, if necessary.”

Dallman gestured at the distant election lines. “Do you realize what a tremendous accomplishment that is? Ninety per cent literacy from nothing. How they must have worked! You two—” He spoke to Hort and Miss Warr. “Did you know the entire population was learning to read and write?”

“I’ve been teaching the children,” Hort said. “But only children from the villages close by.”

“Then the children taught the adults, and the villages close by taught others. They did this thing themselves, and they did it secretly, and in all of human history few people can have worked harder or achieved more. Ninety per cent literacy. And they were beaten before they started. The poor devils!”