The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert (31 page)

On the distant valley floor Orne could see the dark red spire of the I–A ship that had come flaming down just after dawn of this day—homing on his transmitter. The ship, too, seemed set in a dreamlike haze: blue smoke from kitchen fires in the farm homes that dotted the valley. The red shape towered above the homes, looking out of place, like an ornament left over from holiday decorations for giants.

As Orne watched, a hunter paused on the ridge road, unlimbered his spyglass, studied the I–A ship.

The smoke and the hot yellow sun conspired to produce a summery appearance to the countryside—a look of lush growing. It was essentially a peaceful scene, arousing in Orne a deep feeling of bitterness.

Damn! I don't care what the I–A says! I was right to call them. These people of Hamal are hiding something. They're not peaceful! The real mistake that was made here was made by that dumbo on First-Contact when he gabbled about the importance we place on a peaceful history!

*   *   *

The pen scratching stopped, and the I–A man cleared his throat.

Orne turned, looked across the low room at the operative. The I–A man sat at a rough table beside Orne's unmade bed. Papers and report folders were scattered all around him on the table. A small recorder weighted one stack. The I–A man slouched in a bulky wooden chair. He was a big-headed, gangling figure with over-large features, a leathery skin. His hair was dark and straggling. His eyelids drooped. They gave to his face that look of haughty superciliousness that was like a brand mark of the I–A. The man wore patched blue fatigues without insignia. He had introduced himself as Umbo Stetson, chief I–A operative for this sector.

Stetson noted Orne's attention, said, “I believe I have everything now. Let's just check it over. You landed here ten weeks ago, right?”

“Yes. I was set down by a landing boat from the
R-and-R
transport, Arneb Rediscovery.”

“And this was your first mission?”

“Yes. I graduated from Uni-Galacta with the class of '07, and did my apprentice work on Timurlain.”

Stetson frowned. “Then you came out here to this newly re-discovered backwater planet?”

“That's right.”

“I see. You were just full of the old rah-rah, the old missionary spirit to uplift mankind and all that sort of thing.”

Orne blushed, scowled.

“They're still teaching that ‘cultural renaissance' bushwah at dear old Uni-Galacta, I see,” said Stetson. He put a hand to his breast, raised his voice: “We must re-unite the lost planets with the centers of culture and industry, and take up the glorious onward march of mankind that was stopped so brutally by the Rim Wars!”

He spat on the floor.

“I think we can skip all this,” muttered Orne.

Stetson chuckled. “You're sooooo right! Now … what'd you bring with you when you landed?”

“I had a dictionary compiled by the First-Contact man, but it was pretty sketchy in—”

“Who was that First-Contact, by the way?”

“I never met him but his name's in the dictionary: Andre Bullone.”

“Oh—Any relation to High Commissioner Ipscott Bullone?”

“I don't know.”

Stetson scribbled something on one of his papers. “And that report says this is a peaceful planet with a primitive farming-hunting economy, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Uh, huh. What else'd you bring with you?”

“The usual blanks and files for my reports—and a transmitter.”

“And you pushed the ‘panic button' on that transmitter two days ago, eh? Did we get here fast enough for you?”

Orne glared at the floor.

Stetson said, “I suppose you've the usual eidetic memory crammed with cultural-medical-industrial information.”

“I'm a fully qualified
R-and-R
agent.”

“We will observe a moment of reverent silence,” said Stetson. Abruptly, he slammed a hand onto the table. “It's just plain damn' stupidity! Nothing but a political come-on!”

Orne snapped to angry attention. “What do you mean?”

“This
R-and-R
dodge, son. It's an attention getter … it's perpetuating some political lives. But you mark my words: we're going to
re
-discover just one planet too many; we're going to give its people the industrial foundation they don't deserve—and we're going to see another Rim War to end all Rim Wars!”

Orne took a step forward. “Why'n hell do you think I pushed the panic button here?”

Stetson sat back. “My dear fellow, that's what we're just now trying to determine.” He tapped his front teeth with the pen. “Now … just why
did
you call us?”

“I
told
you I'm not sure! It's just—” He shrugged.

“You felt lonely and decided you wanted the I–A to come hold your hand. Is that it?”

“Oh go to hell!” barked Orne.

“In due time, son. In due time.” Stetson's drooping eyelids drooped even farther. “Now … just what're they teaching you
R-and-R
dummies to look for these days?”

Orne swallowed an angry reply. “Do you mean in war signs?”

“What else?”

“We're supposed to look for fortifications, for war games among the children, for people drilling or other signs of armylike group activities, for war scars and wounds on people and buildings, for indications of wholesale destruction and … you know, things like that.”

“Gross evidence,” said Stetson. “Do you consider this adequate?”

“No I don't!”

“You're sooooo right,” said Stetson. “Hm-m-m.… Let's dig a little deeper: What bothers you about these people?”

Orne sighed. “They have no spirit, no bounce. No humor. The atmosphere around this place is perpetual seriousness bordering on gloom.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I … I uh—” Orne wet his lips with his tongue. “I uh … told the Leaders' Council one day that our people are very interested in a steady source of
froolap
bones for making left-handed bone china saucers.”

Stetson jerked forward. “You
what
?”

“I uh … told the—”

“Yeah! I got that. What happened?”

“They asked for a detailed description of the
froolap
and the accepted method of preparing the bones for shipment.”

“And what'd you tell them?”

“Well, I.… Well, according to my description they decided that Hamal doesn't have any
froolaps.
”

“I see,” said Stetson.

“That's what's wrong with the place: no
froolaps.
”

Stetson took a deep breath, sat back. He tapped his pen on the table, stared into the distance.

*   *   *

Now I've done it,
thought Orne.
Why can't I keep my big mouth shut? I've just convinced him that I'm nuts!

“How're they taking to re-education?” asked Stetson.

“Oh, they're very interested in the industrial end. That's why I'm here in Pitsiben village. We located a tungsten source nearby and—”

“What about their medical people?” asked Stetson. “Are they on their toes?”

“I guess so,” said Orne. “But you know how it is with medical people—they often have the idea that they already know everything. I'm making progress, though.”

“What's their medical level?”

“They've got a good basic knowledge of anatomy … surgery and bone setting. That sort of thing.”

“You got any ideas why these people are so backward?” asked Stetson.

“Their history says this planet was accidentally seeded by sixteen survivors—eleven women and five men—from a Tritshain cruiser that was disabled in some engagement or other during the early part of the Rim Wars. They landed with a lifeboat without much equipment and little know-how. I take it that it was mostly the black gang that got away.”

“And here they sat until
R-and-R
came along,” said Stetson. “Lovely. Just lovely.”

“That was five hundred Standard years ago,” said Orne.

“And these gentle people are still farming and hunting,” murmured Stetson. “Oh lovely.” He glared up at Orne. “How long would it take a planet such as this one—granting the aggressive drive—to become a definite war menace?”

Orne said, “Well … there are two uninhabited planets in this system that they could grab for raw materials. Oh, I'd say twenty to twenty-five years after they got the industrial foundation on their own planet.”

“And how long before the aggressive core would have the know-how to go underground … if necessary … so that we'd have to blast the planet apart to get at them?”

“Six months to a year.”

“You are beginning to see the sweet little problem you
R-and-R
dummies are creating for us!” Stetson abruptly pointed an accusing finger at Orne. “And let us make just one little slip! Let us declare a planet aggressive and bring in an occupation force and let your spies find out we made a mistake!” He doubled his hand into a fist.
“Ahah!”

“They've already started building the factories to produce machine tools,” said Orne. “They're quick enough.” He shrugged. “They soak everything up like some dark gloomy sponge.”

“Very poetic,” growled Stetson. He lifted his long frame from the chair, stepped into the middle of the room. “Well, let's go take a closer look. But I'm warning you, Orne: this had better live up to whatever it was that prompted you to call us. The I–A has more important things to do than to go around wet nursing the
R-and-R
!”

“And you'd just love to get something on us, too!” said Orne.

“You're sooooo right, son.”

“Okay! So I made a mistake!”

“We'll see. Come along. I've a go-buggy downstairs.”

Here goes nothing,
thought Orne.
This jerk isn't going to look very hard when it's easier to sit back and laugh at the
R-and-R
!
I'm finished before I even get started!

It was already beginning to grow hot outside when they emerged onto the cobblestone street. The green and yellow flag hung limply from its mast atop the guest house. All activity seemed to have taken on a slower pace. Groups of stolid Hamal natives stood before awning-shaded vegetable stalls across the street. They gazed moodily at the I–A vehicle.

The go-buggy was a white two-seater tear drop with wrap-around window, a turbine engine in the rear.

Orne and Stetson got in, fastened their safety belts.

“There's what I mean,” said Orne.

Stetson started the motor, eased in the clutch. The buggy bounced a couple of times on the cobbles until the gyro-spring system took hold.

“There's what you mean what?” asked Stetson.

“Those dolts across the street back there. Any other place in the universe they'd have been around this rig ten deep, prying under the rear vents at the turbine, poking underneath at the wheels. These jerks just stand around at a distance and look gloomy!”

“No
froolap,
” said Stetson.

“Yeah!”

“What's wrong with that?” asked Stetson. “So they're shy.”

“Forget I mentioned it.”

“I saw by your reports that there are no walled villages on Hamal,” said Stetson. He slowed the go-buggy to maneuver between two of the low push carts.

“None that I've seen.”

“And no military drill by large groups?”

“None that I've seen.”

“And no heavy armaments?”

“None that I've seen.”

“What's this
none-that-I've-seen
kick?” demanded Stetson. “Do you suspect them of hiding something?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because things don't seem to fit somehow on this planet. And when things don't fit there are missing pieces.”

Stetson took his eyes from the street, shot a sharp glance at Orne, returned his attention to the street. “So you're suspicious.”

Orne grabbed the door handle as the go-buggy swerved around a corner, headed out the wide ridge road. “That's what I said right at the beginning.”

“We're always simply delighted to investigate
R-and-R
's slightest suspicions,” said Stetson.

“It's better for me to make a mistake than it is for you to make one,” growled Orne.

“You will notice that their construction is almost entirely of wood,” said Stetson. “Wood constructions is peaceful.”

“Doesn't that depend on what weapons are used?” asked Orne.

“Is that what they're teaching you at dear old Uni-Galacta?”

“No. That was my own idea. If they have artillery and mobile cavalry, then forts would be useless.”

“And what would they use for cavalry?” asked Stetson. “There are no riding animals on Hamal. According to your reports, that is.”

“So I haven't found any … yet!”

“All right,” said Stetson. “I'll be reasonable. You spoke of weapons. What weapons do they use? I haven't seen anything heavier than those fowling pieces carried by their hunters.”

“If they had cannon, that'd explain a lot of things,” muttered Orne.

“Such as the lack of forts?”

“You're damn' right!”

“An interesting theory. How do they manufacture those guns, by the way?”

“They're produced singly by skilled artisans. It's a sort of a guild.”

“A sort of a guild. My!” Stetson pulled the go-buggy to a jolting stop on a deserted stretch of the ridge road. “Did First-Contact see any sign of cannon?”

“You know he didn't.”

Stetson nodded. “Mm-m-m, hm-m-m-m.”