Monument (novel)

5

It required eight days of frenzied communication with his headquarters before Dallman finally was able to complete negotiations with the natives. Before the last conference started he asked to confer with the navy men and scratcher crews under detention, and Fornri led him on a fast-paced march along meandering forest trails. He was fully convinced that the detention camp was buried at the center of the continent when suddenly they emerged on the seashore again. For all Dallman knew, they were a couple of kilometers and a short boat ride down the coast from where they had started.

“They don’t quite trust me,” he mused. “But then—why should they?”

A small village had been constructed in a sloping meadow just above the beach. He had not been close to a native village, and the dwellings startled him—the brilliantly colored, precisely shaped roofs looked like molded plastic.

But the village was deserted. Its entire population was on the beach, either cavorting or relaxing. Some prisoners were swimming, some sprawled in the sun, and some were playing games with native boys. One young native was giving juggling lessons with oddly shaped balls that had color patterns similar to the roofs of the dwellings. In the water just offshore, an older youth was teaching some prisoners to spear sea creatures. A nav jabbed with his spear; the boy cried, “No, no!” He thrust with his own spear and brought up a squirming nightmare of a meter-long sea monster. Farther offshore was a boat race between Space Navy men and native boys. The boys, more of them convulsed with laughter than paddling, were having a difficult time making the race look close. The navy men were working furiously and accomplishing very little, and all were having a hilariously good time.

Fornri smiled and gestured, indicating to Dallman that he had the freedom of the place, and seated himself at the edge of the forest to wait. Dallman walked down to the beach and stopped beside one of his men who lay among the sun bathers. At first the nav had difficulty in recognizing his commanding officer. Belatedly he attempted to lurch to his feet, and Dallman put him at ease.

The nav grinned sheepishly. “I’m almost sorry to see you, sir. I suppose the leave is over.”

“How have you been treated?”

“Perfectly. Couldn’t ask for better treatment. The food is wonderful. They have a drink I’ll swear is the best thing in the galaxy. Those huts they built for us are very comfortable, and each of us has a hammock. They told us where we could go and what we could do and left us alone. We hardly see any natives except for the boys. They bring our food, and they’re around all the time. Look—” He pointed to the boat race, now fading into the distance. “It’s been a riot.”

“Three native women apiece, I suppose,” Dallman said dryly.

“Well, no. The women haven’t come near us. Otherwise, if you’re thinking of naming this planet, sir, you can call it Paradise.”

The men in the scratchers’ crews had much the same story to tell. “You weren’t harmed?” Dallman asked.

“No, sir. They took us by surprise and used just enough force to disarm us. One of the crewmen of Wembling’s ship died from running a poison thorn in his leg, but that wasn’t the natives’ fault. He was out exploring, or something.”

Eventually Dallman located Commander Protz, and the two of them sat down apart from the others and talked.

Protz said, “Half a million credits! The government will never pay it!”

“The money’s already been transferred. What have you found out about this character Wembling?”

“More than he wanted me to know. Obviously he’s a Very Important Big Businessman with plenty of political pull.”

“What’s the man doing out here?” Dallman asked.

“Neither he nor his crew is talking much about that. From an occasional careless remark, I gather that Wembling is speculating in bankrupt mining corporations. If he can find new sources of ore for them, he’ll make a billion, so he’s batting about this unsurveyed zone looking for worlds to plunder. In other words, the situation is shady.”

“Very shady,” Dallman agreed. “In fact, illegal.”

“A Very Important Big Businessman with political pull isn’t handicapped by legalities. Wembling has a right-hand man named Hirus Ayns who’s as slick an expert in dirty manipulations as you’ll ever meet. He offered to make me an admiral in two years for unspecified considerations, and I think he meant it. Anyway, Wembling got around the law by chartering himself as a scientific expedition, but with one exception all of his scientists are geologists and mineralogists.”

“The one exception being the grain of truth in case he’s caught? I’m sorry to hear that. I’m about to negotiate a treaty recognizing this place as an independent world, and guess whom the sector governor has nominated as the first ambassador.”

Protz stared at him. “Not—Wembling?”

“I feel sorry for the natives, who seem to be a remarkably fine people, but I have my orders.” Dallman got to his feet. “I’ll talk with Wembling now, and then we’ll wind this thing up.”

Dallman found Wembling and the man Ayns seated on boulders near the water, and the beginning of their conversation was interrupted by the boat race, now on its return lap. It swept past them just offshore, and Wembling turned to scowl at it until the racket receded. When he could make himself heard, he asked incredulously, “What was that you said? Ambassador?”

“The sector governor wants to appoint one immediately so he won’t be embarrassed by the loss of more ships.”

Wembling chuckled. “Nonsense! That may be what he told you, but I know that cheap twiddler. He just wants to save transportation expenses. I’m here, and if I don’t take the job he’ll have to send someone. Tell him I haven’t got time right now for playing ambassador.”

“He instructed me to tell you that you already have more money than you know how to spend, and if you serve as ambassador, even temporarily, forever afterward you’ll be able to refer to yourself as the Eminent H. Harlow Wembling.”

Wembling guffawed heartily. “How about that? The Eminent H. Harlow Wembling! Not bad for the son of a jet swabber that had to drop out of school to support his family. Not bad! But no, I just haven’t the time—”

Ayns’s foot moved two centimeters and nudged Wembling’s ankle. Wembling turned, and Ayns’s head moved an almost imperceptible two millimeters down, two millimeters up. A nod.

“Maybe I better think it over,” Wembling said.

“You can have half an hour. If you decide to stay, I’m authorized to let you have some prefab buildings for an embassy, equipment for a communications center, and enough supplies to last until a courier ship gets here. If you want to keep some of your own people with you, the governor will give diplomatic appointments to a reasonable number. Let me know as soon as you decide.”

The props, with the central conference table and chairs, still stood in the shady grove near the Rirga. Dallman and Protz met Fornri there. With Fornri was the girl Dalla, formerly first justice, and the boy Banu, who had been Fornri’s lawbook. The officers saluted; the natives responded with upraised arms. Then they seated themselves on opposite sides of the conference table.

“I now have my final instructions,” Dallman announced. “I am authorized to accept unconditionally your listing of fines and penalties. The half million credits will be deposited to the credit of your government in the Bank of the Galaxy as soon as my government is notified that these negotiations have been successfully completed. In accepting it, you agree to return all confiscated equipment and weapons, to release all detained personnel, and to give departure clearance to all ships.”

He passed the credit memo across the table. The natives glanced at it indifferently. Dallman found himself wondering what a half million credits—a modest fortune on any civilized world—could possibly mean on this one.

“Your planet’s status as an independent world will be recognized,” Dallman went on. “Its laws will be respected by the Galactic Federation and enforceable in Federation courts whenever Federation citizens or governments are involved. My government will maintain a representative in residence with the rank of ambassador, and his embassy will operate a communications center for contact with his government and with ships wishing to obtain landing clearance.”

“That is satisfactory,” Fornri said. “Provided, of course, that the terms of the agreement are in writing,”

“Certainly.” Dallman hesitated. “You understand—this means that you must return all of the weapons that you’ve confiscated, not only from the Rirga, but also from the survey ships.”

“We understand,” Fornri said with a smile. “We are a peaceful people. We have no need for weapons.”

For some reason Dallman had expected negotiations to collapse over that point. He paused for a deep breath and said, “Very well. I’ll have the treaty drawn up for signature.”

“May we have copy reproductions for our district archives?” Fornri asked.

Dallman blinked at him; the very word “archive” seemed incongruous on this lush, primitive world, but he resisted the temptation to inquire as to whether the archives were kept in woven-walled huts or hollow trees. “You can have as many copies as you like,” he said. “There is one more thing. In order to draw up the treaty, we’ll need an official name for your world. What do you call it?”

The natives gazed at him blankly. “Official—name? ” Fornri repeated.

“Until now your world has been a set of chart coordinates. It must have a name, and if you don’t name it someone else will and you probably won’t like his choice. The name can be a native word that means ‘world,’ or the name of a legendary hero, or a description—anything you like, really, but it’s wise to make it short and euphonious. What do you want to call it?”

Fornri hesitated. “Perhaps we should discuss this.”

“Certainly. It’s extremely important, not only for the treaty, but for your relations with other worlds. Worlds have names for much the same reason that men have names—to identify them, to describe them, and so on. We can’t even deposit the half million credits for you unless your world has a name with which to identify its account. But one word of caution. Once you choose a name, it will become a matter of record in all sorts of places and virtually impossible to change.”

“I understand.”

“As soon as you decide on the name, then, we’ll draw up the treaty.”

The natives withdrew. Dallman relaxed and poured himself a tumbler of the natives’ fermented drink. It was all that the nav had claimed, and the food Dallman had eaten when the natives invited him to a festival the night before—something called koluf —was a delicacy any member of the Galactic League of Culinary Artists would have been proud to assign his mark to.

All of this beauty, and gastronomical delights as well. “Perhaps Paradise would be the proper name for the place,” he mused aloud.

Protz raised his own tumbler, took a long draft, and sighed deeply. “Agreed, but we’d best leave the choice to them. Their idea of Paradise might be a very different sort of place. Anyway, all kinds of complications arise when worlds are named by outsiders.”

Dallman smiled, remembering the famous story of the survey ship calling for help from a swamp on a strange planet. “Where are you?” its base had asked. The survey ship gave its coordinates and then added, quite unnecessarily, “It’s a helluva place.” The people of that planet had been trying for centuries to have its name changed, but on all the official charts it was still Helluva-place.

Three hours later the Rirga was in space, and Protz and Dallman stood in the control room watching the receding disk of a planet they always would remember as Paradise.

“I’d feel a lot better about this if the ambassador was anyone but Wembling,” Protz said.

“That couldn’t be helped,” Dallman said, looking dreamily at the viewer. “What a lovely world it was, though. I wonder if well ever see it again.”

“And they call it ‘Langri,’ ” Protz mused. “What do you suppose that means?”