Monument (novel)

4

The battle cruiser Rirga was outward bound on a routine patrol mission, and Captain Ernst Dallman was relaxing quietly in his quarters with his robot chess player. He was about to trap the robot’s queen, a suspenseful move because this robot was programmed for eccentricity, and at a given moment it could be functioning on any level from idiot to genius. He never knew whether an apparent lapse was due to stupidity or the setting of a cunningly contrived trap.

At that crucial moment the Rirga’s communications officer interrupted to hand Dallman a message. From his apologetic manner and the speed with which he departed, Dallman knew that the news was not good. The officer was dropping the door shut when a bellow of anger brought him scurrying back.

Dallman tapped the strip menacingly. “This is an order from the sector governor.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ships of the fleet do not take orders from bureaucrats, politicians, or port authority waste disposal engineers. You will kindly inform His Highness that there is an entity known as Fleet Headquarters, and that it esteems the illusion that it has full control over its own ships. I am currently on a third-priority assignment, and the fact that I am passing through one corner of his alleged territory does not give a sector governor control over my movements.”

The communications officer fumbled with a pocket flap and produced his memorator. “If you will dictate the message, sir—”

“I just gave you the message. You’re a communications officer. Communicate. Surely you have sufficient command of language to tell the man in a flattering way that Space Navy orders must come through Space Navy channels. Do so. And tell Commander Protz I want to see him.”

“Yes, sir.”

The communications officer exited nervously. Commander Protz sauntered in a moment later, met Dallman’s foreboding scowl with a grin, and calmly seated himself.

“How long are we going to be in this sector?” Dallman asked him.

Protz thought for a moment. “Roughly forty-eight hours.”

Dallman slammed down the message. “That’s twenty-four hours too long.”

“Some colony in trouble?”

“It’s worse than that. The sector governor has lost four scratchers.”

Protz straightened up and swallowed his grin. “By all that’s spaceworthy! Four of them? Look here—I have a leave due in two or three years. I’m sorry I won’t be able to see you through this, but I wouldn’t give up that leave if the Chancellor himself had lost four scratchers.”

“Not only does this oaf of a governor lose four survey ships at one crack,” Dallman went on, “but he has the insufferable nerve to order me to start looking for them. Order, mind you. I’m letting him know that we have a chain-of-command procedure in the Space Navy, but he’ll have time to get through to headquarters and have the order issued there. And since the Rirga is on routine patrol, headquarters will be happy to oblige.”

Protz reached over and took the strip. By the time he finished reading, he had recaptured his grin. “It could be worse. We just might find all of them in the same place. The W-439 turned up missing. What’s the ‘W’ for?”

“Maybe it’s privately owned. The others belong to the Sector Survey.”

“To be sure. The W-439 turned up missing, so they sent the 1123 to look for it. Then they sent the 519 after the W-439 and the 1123, and the 1468 after the W-439 and the 1123 and the 519. Too bad we happened to be here. Now we’ll never know how many ships the governor would have lost one at a time before he realized that isn’t the way to do it.”

Dallman nodded. “Seems curious, doesn’t it?”

“We can rule out mechanical failure. Those scratchers are reliable, and four of them wouldn’t bubble out at the same time.”

“Right. And no more than a fifth of the worlds in this sector have even had space ranging. Probably fewer than a tenth have been surveyed. An unsurveyed world can offer some queer kinds of trouble. The odds are that we’ll find all four on the same planet and that the same trouble that caught the first one caught the others. Go down to the chart room and see if you can lay out a search area. We might even be lucky.”

Twenty-four hours later Fleet Headquarters made it official, and the Rirga altered course. Protz paced the control room, whistling cheerfully and making deft calculations on a three-dimensional slide rule. Technicians were verifying them on a battery of computers and having trouble keeping up.

Finally he produced a set of coordinates, and Dallman accepted it skeptically. “I asked for an area, not a star system.”

“I’m betting we’ll find them there,” Protz said. He stepped to the chart. “The W-439 last reported in from here, on course—so. Obviously this is where it was heading, and there shouldn’t be more than one habitable planet. We can wind this up in a couple of days.”

Dallman nodded grimly. “And when we do—if we do—I’m going to see that this sector’s surveying section overhauls its procedures. If you’re right, four ships in a row landed on an unsurveyed planet, and not one of them bothered to let its headquarters know where it was and what it thought it was doing there. If the navy operated like that—” He turned on Protz. “Are you out of your mind? A couple of days to find four scratchers? You’ve been in space so long you’ve forgotten how large a world is!”

Protz shrugged cheerfully. “Like you said, we might even be lucky.”

They were lucky. There was one habitable planet, with a single long, narrow subtropical continent. On their first orbit they sighted the four gleaming survey ships parked neatly in a row in a meadow overlooking the sea.

Dallman studied the observational data, squinted at the film strips, and exploded. “By the time we get back on course we’ll be a month off schedule, and those fools have just taken time off to go fishing.”

“We’ll have to land,” Protz said. “We can’t be certain.”

“Of course we’ll land—but only after we’ve observed the entire prescribed procedure for landings on unsurveyed worlds. And as we complete each step we’ll notify headquarters that we have done so, just in case we have to be rescued. If whatever caught those scratchers also catches us, we’d better have a damned good excuse.”

“Right,” Protz agreed. “We land, but we land by the book.”

Dallman was still looking at the film strips. “Take a good look at these,” he said with a smile. “After this is over with, and after I’ve kicked those scratcher crews in the pants, I’m going fishing.”

Protz instituted USW landing procedure, and before he completed half the prescribed visual and instrument surveys, headquarters intervened and ordered them to land at once.

Protz read the order incredulously. “Who was on that privately owned ship? A Federation congressman’s brother-in-law?”

“At least,” Dallman said.

“Going to protest the order?”

Dallman shook his head. “I’d lose the argument, and what if something happened to this party while I was protesting? Obviously it’s someone important enough to risk losing a battle cruiser.”

The Rirga came gently to rest a thousand meters down the shore from the survey ships. After the routine scientific tests, a security unit made a meticulous search of the landing area, and Protz led a patrol to investigate the survey ships under the cover of alert Rirga gunners.

Dallman was waiting at the top of the ramp when he returned. “There’s no sign of any trouble,” Protz said. “It looks as if the scratchers’ crews just parked the ships and walked off and left them.”

“Notify headquarters,” Dallman said. “If you want my opinion, either this is something very simple, or else we have a major space mystery on our hands.”

Protz returned to the control room, and Dallman strolled down the ramp and headed for the beach, sniffing the sea air hungrily. “Beautiful!” he murmured. “Where has this world been all my life?”

His communications officer had trailed after him with portable equipment, mortally offended that a naval officer would conduct a military operation from anywhere but his ship’s command station. He said, “Commander Protz, sir.”

Dallman, who was admiring the sea, did not bother to turn around. “Let’s hear it.”

The officer said, “Go ahead, sir,” and directed Protz’s voice at Dallman.

“That native village is recently deserted, sir,” Protz said. “I’d suggest consolidation of patrols for a probe in that direction. If the natives have captured the scratchers’ crews, they’ll have enough weapons to give a small patrol a nasty surprise.”

“Do so,” Dallman said.

He strolled along the beach until he reached the point where Rirga sentries had established a perimeter. The communications officer, still following after him, announced suddenly, “Sir—we’ve found a native!”

“The Rirga ought to be able to cope with one native without harassing its commanding officer,” Dallman said pleasantly.

“Perhaps I should say he found us, sir. He walked right into the perimeter—none of the outposts saw him—and he says he wants to speak with the captain.”

Dallman turned and stared at him. “He wants to speak—any particular language?”

“He speaks Galactic, sir. They want to know what they should do with him.”

“I suppose we’ll have to pretend that he’s someone important. Tell them to set up some props, and I’ll receive him formally. Does Commander Protz know about this?”

The communications officer flushed. “Commander Protz says it’s probably the local game warden, come to complain because the scratcher crews went fishing without a license.”

Dallman returned to the Rirga and donned a ribbon-bedecked dress uniform. Then he went to the control room to observe the native on the viewing screen before he stepped forth to meet him in person. The young man was intelligent-looking and a model of bodily perfection, though he wore only a loincloth of doubtful manufacture. If he felt any nervousness about meeting the Rirga’s captain, he was concealing it.

Protz entered and asked, “Ready to go, sir?”

“I’m having a look at the native,” Dallman told him. “Odd to find humans already in residence on such a remote world, isn’t it? Lost colonies forgotten because of war or some other catastrophe have always been favorite scope subjects, but I’ve never heard of it actually happening.”

“This place is too remote for it anyway,” Protz said.

“I don’t know about that. Historians think none of the old suspended-animation colonies survived, but one of the ships could have run off course and deposited a colony here. Or a private expedition could have landed and been unwilling or unable to leave. The equipment it brought would wear out, the ship would be disassembled for the metal, and if the colony found no metals here or didn’t have the know-how to mine and smelter them, its descendants would have to survive as a primitive society. After a few hundred years they’d be as much ‘natives’ as an indigenous population would be. Anthropologists will be fascinated. Did you notify headquarters? Then let’s go talk with him.”

Dallman marched down the ramp, and as he approached the props he saw the members of the honor guard struggling to keep their faces straight. He had to restrain a smile of his own. A naval captain in full dress uniform ceremoniously receiving a native in loincloth offered a study in incongruities worth pondering.

The props were upholstered sections from the ship’s lounge. They had been assembled into a circle in a shaded location a short distance from the ship. In the center were chairs and a conference table, the whole looking strangely out of place in that sylvan setting, but Dallman hoped that the native would be impressed into amicability if that happened to be what the situation required.

The honor guard presented arms as Dallman approached. The native stood calmly surrounded by grinning officers. Dallman scowled at them, and the grinning stopped.

The native stepped to meet him. “I greet you. I am Fornri.”

“I’m Captain Dallman,” Dallman responded. He came to attention and snapped off a full salute. Then he stepped aside and gestured graciously. An officer opened a door in the circle of props, and Fornri stepped through and turned as Dallman and Protz followed him.

He ignored the proffered chair and faced Dallman with splendid dignity. “It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that you and the personnel of your ship are under arrest,” he announced.

Dallman sat down heavily. He looked blankly at Protz, who grinned and winked. The native had spoken in a firm tone of voice, and beyond the circle the waiting officers were struggling to contain their laughter.

A semi-nude native possessed of not so much as a dull spear had calmly walked in and placed the Rirga under arrest. It was a gag worth retelling—if anyone would believe it.

Dallman said angrily, “Stop it! This is a serious matter.” The laughter stopped. Dallman turned to Fornri. “What are the charges?”

The native recited tonelessly, “Failure to land at a proper immigration point with official clearance, landing in a restricted area, avoidance of customs and quarantine, suspicion of smuggling, and bearing arms without legal authority. Follow me, please, and I’ll lead you to your detention area.”

Dallman turned on his officers again. “You will kindly stop that idiotic grinning,” he snapped.

The grinning stopped.

“This man represents civil authority,” Dallman went on. “Unless there are special arrangements to the contrary, military personnel are subject to civil law.” He asked the native, “Does this world have a central government?”

“It does,” the native said.

“Do you have the personnel of the survey ships under detention?”

“We do.”

“May I have permission to inform my superiors as to the charges?”

“On two conditions. All weapons that have been brought from your ship are considered confiscated; and no one except yourself will be permitted to return to the ship.”

“May I request an immediate court hearing?”

“Certainly.”

Dallman turned to Protz. “Order the men to stack arms at whatever place he indicates.”

“You can’t be serious!” Protz exclaimed, a note of hysteria in his voice. “One native in a loincloth—what would happen if we just packed up and left?”

“Probably nothing,” Dallman said, “but several hundred independent worlds would have convulsions if they found out about it. The Federation’s obligations toward every independent world are written into a lot of treaties.”

Dallman opened the gate to the circle of props and stepped through it. Turning, he said again, “Order the men to stack arms at whatever place he indicates.”

The courtroom was a lovely hillside by the sea. The slope was crowded with natives, none of whom had the air of knowing what was happening. At the bottom, seated behind something that looked suspiciously like an enormous, elongated gourd, were the justices: a girl and two young men. The chairs occupied by the defense and the prosecution also were fashioned from gourds, and Dallman was so impressed with the comfort of his that he considered trying to buy it.

The verdict, of course, was predetermined. Not only that, but the courtroom scene had all of the blundering overtones of a drama badly rehearsed by amateur actors. Lines were bungled. The defense seemingly was expected to play dead, because every query or objection produced stark consternation on the part of both prosecution and court. The native Fornri, the arresting officer, also functioned as chief prosecutor. He addressed the young lady first justice as “Your Eminence” except when he absently called her Dalla. Fornri’s assistant, a native called Banu, seemed to sleep through the proceedings, but when either prosecution or court was stumped on a legal point, Fornri would nudge him, whisper a question, and—after a searching meditation—receive a whispered response.

At one side and to the rear of the justices, a native named Larno sat beside a stretched matting that had been plastered with clay. When Dallman first saw this, he nudged his counsel, the Rirga’s young legal officer, Lieutenant Darnsel, and whispered jokingly, “The court recorder.” He was only partly wrong. Larno’s function, they eventually discovered, was to record the fines as they were assessed.

Lieutenant Darnsel had no more illusion as to the outcome than Dallman had, but as long as he had to be there he was determined to enjoy himself. His performance displayed a skill in histrionics and a gift for inspired improvisation that Dallman would not have suspected of him. The vibrant indignation with which he now leaped to his feet to shout, “Exception!” was sheer dramatic art.

The natives again displayed signs of consternation. Dallman could not understand why. They had bested Lieutenant Darnsel easily on every point he raised.

“State your exception,” the first justice responded.

“We cannot be convicted on any of those charges—willfully disregarding landing regulations, avoidance of customs, landing in a restricted area, and so on, when you have failed to inform approaching ships as to what your regulations are.”

Prosecution and court listened with deepening anxiety.

Darnsel continued, “You are required to so inform approaching ships, and the failure to do so places the burden of negligence on you.”

The justices exchanged apprehensive glances. “Does the distinguished world’s advocate have any comment?” the first justice asked.

Fornri again turned to the dozing Banu, who eventually whispered a reply. Fornri nodded, got to his feet, and faced Lieutenant Darnsel. “Please tell the court what steps you took to obtain the necessary regulations prior to landing.”

“We monitored the SCC, the Standard Communications Channel, which is required of any ship approaching a planet. The same regulations require every planet to broadcast its regulations in the common Galactic language and to state the communications channel to be used to obtain landing instructions and clearance. Obviously you failed to do so, and your negligence leaves this world open to severe penalties.”

Fornri conferred with Banu again, and then he asked, “Where is this requirement of which you speak? Where is it stated? We are an independent world. Who requires this of us?”

“It is contained in every interworld treaty and in every commercial and communications agreement,” Lieutenant Darnsel said.

“We have no such treaty or agreement,” Fornri told him.

Darnsel reflected for a moment, shrugged wearily, and murmured, “Touche.” He took a step toward his chair and then turned to Fornri again. “Would you mind if I consulted your lawbook?”

Fornri’s expression was one of sheer bafflement, but he said politely, “Not at all.”

Darnsel marched over to Banu, and they engaged in a whispered conference while court and audience gaped at them. Finally Darnsel straightened up and addressed the court. “No further questions.”

The first justice said, “Will the court’s recorder kindly tabulate the fines?”

“Certainly, Your Eminence,” Larno said. “Five counts of failure to land at proper immigration points with official clearance.” He turned to Darnsel and Dallman and added, with engaging apology, “That’s one for each ship.”

They watched intently as he wrote, and as he finished Darnsel leaped to his feet with a cry of anguish. He was no longer acting. “A hundred and twenty-five thousand credits!” he screamed.

“Next charge, please,” the first justice said.

Darnsel stood with arms outstretched pleadingly. Fornri ignored him. “The next charge, Your Eminence, is ‘Willful avoidance of customs and quarantine.’ On this date, representing the fifth in a series of flagrant and willful acts, a ship of the Space Navy of the Galactic Federation of Independent Worlds did violate our sovereign territory—”

Darnsel continued his exhibition of dramatic pantomime, but neither court nor prosecutor paid the slightest attention.

Nor, in the end, did it have the least effect on the outcome.

As they marched back from the court hearing, with natives escorting them at a discreet distance, Darnsel remarked, “I’ve heard of piracy, sir, and I’ve had some experience with extortion, but this—half a million credits in fines—I don’t know what to call this.”

Dallman said philosophically, “They knocked off thirty thousand to make it a round number, which was nice of them.”

“The government won’t pay it. It’ll let us rot here.”

“It’ll pay it,” Dallman said confidently. “It’ll have to, to avoid political complications.”

“Where does it get the money, sir? Out of our wages for the next century?”

“Hardly. We were ordered to land immediately, and we followed orders. If the fine comes out of anyone’s wages it won’t be ours. What was it you asked the young chap who functions as a lawbook?”

“I asked him about the age of majority on this world. All of the justices looked suspiciously young to me—in fact, I thought I had sound basis for a mistrial.”

“So what did you find out?”

“I had some trouble making him understand what I meant by ‘age of majority,’ and then he claimed it was up to the individual to decide when he was an adult. I didn’t pursue the matter. What will you do now, sir?”

“Communicate with headquarters and ask for instructions,’’ Dallman said. He smiled wryly. “It could only happen in Paradise.”