by Jerry
“How stupid of me,” murmured the self-pitying Mr. Jorey. “And I had thought a cutting knife to be made of molecules.” With which he glumly subsided.
As Marker strode through the un-vacated half of the village, he was jolted out of his abstraction. A lightly puffing native sat before a plot of earth, delicately loosening the dirt around a flower so huge and brilliantly decorative that Marker’s eyes bugged. He uttered a sound of admiration so abrupt that it was harsh. Fashono’s glittery eyes turned on the tended flower.
“It offends you?” he asked, then made a blowing sound of contempt. “A mere weed, Commander, which, fortunately, is virtually extinct! Our stupid peoples are sometimes discovered tending it as if it were a deity!”
He kicked at the plant, uprooting it. The native submissively lowered his head. Marker felt an instant, unreasoning anger. He scooped up the gorgeous blossom, staring into the purple cavern of the calyx where seed pods had burst from the blow of Fashono’s foot. The flower was six petaled, long stemmed, and of such deep thickly velvet perfection that Marker disbelieved his eyes. His anger began to blend with an aching nostalgia.
“Surely, Fashono,” he said acidly, “you have some regard for beauty?”
“Beauty?” Fashono puffed his bewilderment. “But where is beauty except in advancement? We of Lain need your science, your machines, your great buildings, your books. Until then, we are nothing.”
Marker held the flower out to arm’s length, studying it. “Nonetheless,” he said stiffly, “it may be to your benefit to know that Earth will bring beauty to you—if we come at all. To give you some idea of what part beauty plays in our’ lives, I must begin by insisting that this plant be protected and cultivated wherever it grows. It is, of course, a small request.” Fashono’s rose-lips pursed. “Very well,” he said with equal stiffness. “I had thought there were to be no qualifications in your offer to help us. Perhaps it is just as well, Commander. I have an equally small request to make of you. Come.” Whereupon he crossed the street, an’d then pranced in a return direction to his own home.
As they entered, Jorey said sot to voce to Marker, “Commander, let us not be concerned with the small matters, when larger matters are to be taken care of, eh?” Upon which Marker merely glared him down. For a reason he could hardly put his finger on, the preservation of a nearly extinct species of plant seemed of highest importance to him.
In his home, Fashono’s several wives and small children kept discreetly in the background. Fashono drew out a large scroll-map and unrolled it. He breathed lustily. Several extra finger stalks popped out of his bulging knuckles. He traced along the map, outlining a diamond-shaped territory, which Marker figured was several hundred miles in its long dimension.
“This is the home of our ancestors,” Fashono explained reverently. “As nearly as we can determine, our species had its origin there. This park, our Holy Land, covered with great stands of the towering, the splendid, the majestic pibber-trees, is inviolate by law, because of the existence of certain historic shrines. However—” his eyes flashed angrily “—it has been invaded. Thousands of irreligious Lainians live there, build their villages in the shadow of the shrines, and will not leave no matter how often we cite the laws.
“If we but had weapons! But no, no, we have none—and perhaps will be supplied with none until your glorious machines arrive. But you, Commander Marker, do have weapons.
We beg you, as a small favor, to clean these vermin out of our sacred park.”
Marker felt his stomach turn over. But he was quiet for a few seconds, thinking the thing out. Then he explained to Fashono some of the democratic principles of Earth. “These people have a right to their happiness,” he said. “Historic shrines, while of importance, do not outweigh the importance of people. Perhaps this is some thing that will be taught you when our sociologists arrive. If,” he added, smoothly throwing in a threat, “we come at all.”
The threat had the desired effect. Fashono stammered, begged, apologized, then sagged hopelessly. “But what,” he cried, “is to be done with these invading people?”
“They shall be protected,” declared Marker. “This is the way things are done on Earth. Therefore, we shall enact Earth laws, declaring your Holy Land what may be called a Planetary Park, protected in perpetuum against all human destruction or interference. Your own laws shall stand as they are, with the exception that the inhabitants of the area are to live their lives in peace.”
Besides, Marker thought hollowly, there are the pibber-trees. They must be a lot like the Sequoia, the Douglas fir—; can’t have human beings getting in there and going commercial.
Fashono was most unhappy. “Very well,” he sighed. “And you insist also on preserving and caring for the gitso-flowers wherever it grows?”
“That too.”
“You are foolish,” sighed Fashono; but he brightened. “But come, we must not waste time expressing our differences. In time, they will be smoothed out. In the meantime, can we not let the drawing up of the agreement wait until tomorrow? There is our evening meal to be eaten; there is entertainment afterward!”
He was considerably crestfallen when Marker insisted on the agreement being drawn on the spot. He drew the form out of his pocket, placing it on an anvil-shaped table which served as Fashono’s desk. Fashono puffed forlornly, then brightened again. He apparently decided to match Marker’s desire for haste, for, using Marker’s pen, he wrote with such blurring speed that he covered a page of the form with writing in less than a minute.
He then appeared to fall into a deep trance. Approximately seven-hundred different signatures rapidly appeared in microscopic precision. Then Fashono handed the paper to Marker.
Marker’s eyes bugged at the precision of handwriting—in English. They bugged still more when he read the agreement, which he had first intended to draw up himself. The agreement was without loopholes. It gave Colonial Planetary Survey Corporation exclusive ownership of an entire planet. It also mentioned the giteo-flowers and the Lainian Holy Land, leaving no doubt that iron-clad agreements had been made unprovisionally protecting the existence of both. In his wildest dreams, Marker could not have hoped for such success. He casually pocketed the document, as casually thanked Fashono, and then, with Jorey, followed the Lainian to a cool shaded porch whore he went through the amenities of eating a tasteless, vegetable meal. And as soon as he could, escaped back to the ship.
Whitsey raised his sleek head after reading the phototic copy of the agreement Marker sent over the Leaper. “Very good,” he said a bit vaguely. “A remarkable document. But I am quite unable to see the reason for your enthusiasm over these gitso-flowers, Commander.” There was a sly, poking note of sarcasm which Marker decided to ignore.
Marker frowned. Yes, he knew the answer now. “It’s a gold mine for the Corporation,” he said ambitiously. “These gitso-flowers outshine the orchid. Beautiful deep violet colors such as you never saw. If we can get the plant to flourishing properly, the Office will be able to add to the list of future profitables. For instance, put a full-color portrait of the gitso-flower on the Sales Folio for Lain—”
“Never mind,” said Whitsey humorlessly. “Leave that to the Sales and Advertising Department. Now how about this Park? You fully realize that it covers a sixteenth of the area of Lain, according to the latitude and longitude boundaries noted in the agreement?”
“What of it? There are things that are sacred, Whitsey—or would you know?” Marker was irritated. “I’ve got a planet. I’m coming back to Earth as fast as I can and I’m going to stay there—in the seat you’re sitting in.”
Whitsey shrugged. “Very well, Commander. You understand that I must send a copy of this agreement to each member of the Board for their approval.”
“They’ll approve.”
“I agree that they will. But you must also bear in mind that once the agreement is approved, it will then be in full force in all details. To rescind the agreement or any portion of the agreement wil
l be an expensive, time-wasting proposition.”
“It won’t be rescinded.”
Whitsey shrugged again, and, at Marker’s insistence, agreed to rush word back to the A polio-1 the minute the approvals came in. He was as good as his word. Several hours later he called.
“The agreement has been codified,” he said briefly, “and is now in force. Congratulations, Commander. All luck on the return flight.” From Marker’s view, Whitsey was a most unhappy man.
It was Marker’s triumphant decision to lift for Earth immediately, but at that moment Jorey appeared on the Apollo-1 with Fashono in tow. Jorey was a little drunk. Fashono excitably stated that a grand village entertainment, consisting of a parade, of music, of folk-dancing, of a delightful drink called f’has, had been planned.
“Already,” cried Fashono happily, “your men have approved of f’has—especially Mr. Jorey! In fact the supply is running so low that a neighboring village is sending quantities more. What a time will be had by all!”
All except Marker. After the shindig broke its own back in the little hours of the Lainian morning, Marker was the only conscious intelligence in the village. His men were snugly drunk in their houses, the villagers equally drunk in theirs. It had been a fine celebration-—for everybody except Marker.
As he glumly paced the dirt just beyond the airlock opening, he noted that the air, which was blowing quite forcefully, was filled with flying particles. He brushed them off his coat, and escaped into the ship. Several hours later when he awoke, a casual glance outside his cabin port showed a startling thing. The ground, the village street, the shrubby jungle beyond was solid with the wild purple of the gorgeous gitso-flower.
GITSO-FLOWERS!
Almost tottering with shock, Marker shrugged on his coat and, jittering, went to the airlock. No sooner was he outside, than he began to rage internally. The A polio-1 was garlanded, but much less thickly than the terrain. Febrile rootlets were thinly imbedded in the very hull of the ship.
Gitso-Flowers could eat metal. Ergo, no metal-work on Lain. Ergo, no Earth culture!
At Fashono’s house, it took some time before Fashono’s inebriated third wife would consent to waken the master. The deed was accomplished, however. Fashono came out, rubbing his great eye-sockets, and with no appearance of inebriation cried out his enthusiastic gladness at seeing Marker so soon again.
“What is this?” cried Marker, dragging the Lainian to the doorway and making a violent gesture that took in all of Lain. “You said the plant was extinct!”
“No, no,” cried Fashono. “I beg you. My words—I recall them well—were ‘virtually extinct.’ As they still are. The plant is a great rarity. Of course, every nine days they do cover the temperate zones—but is absolutely nothing to what they used to be, Commander! Nothing. Once these nearly extinct plants covered all Of Lain every three days. It has been said by historians that the blanketing effect of these plants on our world was the main cause of our pitiful lack of development.”
Marker’s blood turned to liquid helium. He let Fashono talk. Soon the goshe-birds would come, said Fashono, gobble up the blooming gitso-flowers until few were left, and then would retire to their hibernaculums at North and South poles respectively. Of course, they remained aloft during this sleeping period; this required little effort, considering the virulence of the planet’s wind system. At the end of six days the gitso-seeds would be voided, and the planetary winds would consume three days depositing them again in temperate zones, lateral winds shunting them away from the rest of the planet.
“At one time,” continued Fashono, nervously puffing and accidentally sending out unwanted stalks and legs, “we had a campaign to kill the goshe-bird as a species. This proved impossible. Now they have worked themselves in as a main item of our food-supply.”
Hollowly, Marker understood. There was a three-way ecology here, gitso-flower to goshe-bird to Lainian. For awhile his mind roved frantically through various levels. He ended up by muttering an insult at Fashono and then hurrying back to the ship, where he got Whitsey on the Leaper. Luckily, Whitsey had just arrived at the Office from his home. He listened impassively, then shook his head.
“The agreement, as I told you, cannot be rescinded on short notice. Furthermore, if I called an immediate Board meeting, I’d have to explain how your stupidity resulted in this impasse.”
“Never mind,” snarled Marker. “You could help if you wanted to. But you won’t, so I’ll use my own measures.”
“Commander.”
Whitsey spoke the word softly, to get Marker’s attention. “You’ve gotten yourself into a hole, Commander,” he continued, leaning close to the Leaper screen at his end. “You don’t have a planet at all, not if the gitso-flowers are considered sacrosanct, which they are by agreement.”
“What’s your solution?” snarled Marker.
“Forget Lain. Go out and get another planet.”
Marker exploded. When he finished, Whitsey was sitting back in his chair, drumming with his fingers, and smirking.
“My advice remains the same in spite of that childish outburst,” he remarked. “Look here, Commander. You’ve been duped and don’t know it. Remember I warned you against this thing called ‘identifying’ ? Fashono’s a liar. When he roved around in your mind picking up the language he picked up a lot beside.”
Whitsey began ticking off points on his fingers.
“First, he hustled half the native population out of the village. This was a plain sympathy gag, Commander, designed to strike at your emotional make-up. After a three-year absence, you identified your emotions and desires and thoughts so thoroughly with Earth that any vague similarity between something on Earth and something on an alien planet became identical. You became sorry for those Lainians. Great Heavens!
“The Lainians are not human, Commander. I doubt if they cared if they had to sleep in the jungle. Maybe they didn’t even care if they died, because, by telepathy, or something, they live in each other to some extent. And I doubt if the Lainians give one damn about machines or ‘progress.’
“Nor is a gisto-flower one of the violets in your nostalgic back yard! But Fashono played on your tendency to identify, and got you to protect a lively plant which is fifteen times as big as a violet.
“Similarly, your tendency to identify Lainians with Earth humans led you to put that so-called Holy Land—an area that is six percent of the planet!—out of our hands completely. So if you add the temperate zones as another landless because of the gitso-flower, we can say that, roughly, we have fifty percent of the planet remaining. That’s good batting—for the Lainians!
“My suggestion stands. Get off the planet. Let somebody else come out there and clean up the mess. But if you let yourself get in any deeper we’ll lose the planet the rest of the way.”
Marker stood trembling with anger. He saw the plot. And it had been double-edged. Whitsey, from his vantage on Earth, had seen Fashono’s subtleties from the first; he had let Marker sink in the mire, or had hoped that he was sinking. All this so that Marker would be kept from returning from a successful trip, and so oust Whitsey from his soft job.
“I know how I’m going to handle this,” Marker growled. “Just keep out of it, Whitsey.” He signed off, called the engineer, and ordered immediate lift.
Marker sighed his relief when the last of the goshe-birds was slaughtered. The creatures, floating in a dark shifting cloud with great shaggy wings outstretched above North and South poles, apparently were dead asleep when the Apollo-1 came upon them. The Apollo-1, using broad fanning beams of sub-molecular force, drifted above the cloudy masses, sweeping them with broad lines of roasting destruction. The corpses fell by the thousands. The goshe-birds would never again distribute gitso-seeds.
Back at the village, Marker gloatingly sought out Fashono. Fashono listened politely, and then made large blowing sounds of happiness.
“This is fine,” he cried. “Of course, by destroying the goshe-birds you have drastically red
uced our food supply. But when the Earth peoples arrive with their machines, I am sure this lack will be remedied.”
He thought a moment, then sighed heavily.
“But I am afraid another mistake has been made, Commander! May I tell you about it over a glass of f’has at my disagreeable home?”
A slow crawling started under Marker’s skin. He towered over the treacherous Lainian. “Tell me about it now!”
But Fashono escaped toward his home on pretext of beckoning both Marker and Jorey after him. At Fashono’s home, fully two hours passed as Fashono meticulously observed certain social customs. Then he dove for the heart of the matter, as if the important moment had arrived.
“By now,” he explained, “the goshe-birds would be awake and the air would be thick with them as they settled to their feast. Fortunately—or unfortunately!—they have been slaughtered and thus cannot again distribute gitso-flower seeds. But the gitso-flowers were not the goshe-birds’ only food. They also consumed the porbo-flies!”
“Oh-oh,” said Jorey, hiding his eyes from Marker.
Marker braced himself. “And these porbo-flies? What are they?”
“Listen and you shall hear,” said Fashono.
Marker heard; a droning, an ascending, distant roar.
“Watch and you shall see,” added Fashono. He led them to a tetrahedral window which had been set into the wall by the rules of no known mathematics. Sweeping from the north came a fiery red, surging cloud of activity that blocked out half of the sky’s light. The cloud thundered, droned, began to split up into its components as it swept down on the village. Marker saw scarlet butterflies.
Obviously, the lower part of the cloud was rubbing off on the ubiquitous gitso-flowers. The diminishing cloud rolled on, porbo-insects, landing and splattering against ship and village dwelling. For several minutes this continued. The cloud then passed into the distance. Fashono began his nervous puffing when Marker turned on him.
“If only you had listened to me,” he complained, “or at least told me your intention to slaughter the goshe-birds. For, you see, the honey-gathering time of the porbo-flies corresponds with the eating-time of the goshe-birds. The goshe-birds arrive for their meal a few moments after the porbo-flies have begun their task of gathering honey. The goshe-birds, in their great hunger, eat porbo-flies and gitso-flowers at the same time! But now there are no goshe-birds!”
