Monument (SS)

by Lloyd Biggle, Jr.

  "It's probably nothing to worry about. These political appointees never keep their jobs long. Anyway, it's no concern of ours."

  "It's my concern." Dillinger said. "I negotiated the Langri treaty and I feel some responsibility for the place."

  They delivered Ambassador Wembling to Langri, along with the personnel to set up a permanent Federation station. There was one last-minute altercation with Wembling when he suddenly insisted that half of the Rirga's crew be left to guard the station. Then they were back in space, ready, as Dillinger said, to forget Langri and get back to work.

  But he did not forget Langri, and there were many times in the months and years that followed that he found himself reminiscing dreamily of perfect beaches and water swarming with fish and sea air blended with the perfume of myriads of flowers. Now there would be the place for a vacation, he would think. Or for retirement—what a place that would be for a retired naval officer!

  III

  An obsolete freighter, bound from Quiron to Yorlan on a little-used space route, disappeared. Light-years away a bureaucrat with a vivid imagination immediately thought of piracy. Orders went out, and Lieutenant Commander James Vorish, of the battle cruiser Hiln, changed course and resigned himself to a monotonous six months of patrolling.

  A week later his orders were canceled. He changed course again, and mulled over the development with Lieutenant Robert Smith.

  "Someone's been stirring up an indigenous population," Vorish said. "We're to take over, and protect Federation citizens and property."

  "Some people never learn," Smith said. "But—Langri? Where the devil is Langri? I've never heard of it."

  Vorish thought it was the most beautiful place he had ever seen. To the west, that is. Trees stretched glistening pale-green foliage over the narrow beach. Flowers were closing delicately beautiful petals as the evening sun abandoned them. Waves rippled in lazily from an awesomely blue sea.

  Behind him, the hideous skeleton of an enormous building under construction stood out sharply in the dusk. The afternoon shift was busily and loudly at work. Clanging sounds and thuds echoed along the shore. Motors chugged and gurgled. Mercifully, the uncertain light disguised the havoc the construction work had wrought in the unspoiled forest.

  The man Wembling was still talking. "It is your duty to protect the lives and property of citizens of the Federation."

  "Certainly," Vorish said. "Within reason. The installation you want would take a division of troops and a million credits worth of equipment. And even then it wouldn't be foolproof. You say part of the time the natives come in from the sea. We'd have to ring the entire peninsula."

  "They're unprincipled scoundrels." Wembling said. "We have a right to demand protection. I can't keep men on the job if they're in terror of their lives."

  "How many men have you lost?"

  "Why, none. But that isn't the natives' fault."

  "You haven't lost anybody? What about property? Have they been damaging your equipment or supplies?"

  "No," Wembling said. "But only because we've been alert. I've had to turn half my crew into a police force."

  "We'll see what we can do," Vorish said. "Give me some time to get the feel of the situation, and then I'll talk with you again."

  Wembling summoned two burly bodyguards, and hurried away. Vorish strode on along the beach, returned a sentry's salute, and stood looking out to sea.

  "There's nobody out in front of us, sir," the sentry said. "The natives—"

  He halted abruptly, challenged, and then saluted. Smith came down the slope, nodded at Vorish, and faced west.

  "What'd you get?" Vorish asked.

  "There's something mighty queer about this situation. These 'raids' Wembling talked about—the natives usually come one at a time, and they don't come armed. They simply sneak in here and get in the way—lie down in front of a machine, or something like that—and the work has to stop until someone carries them away and dumps them back in the forest."

  "Have any natives been hurt?"

  "No. The men say Wembling is pretty strict about that. It's gotten on the men's nerves because they never know when a native is going to pop up in front of them. They're afraid if one did get hurt the others would come with knives, or poison arrows, or some such thing."

  "From what I've seen of Wembling, my sympathy is with the natives. But I have my orders. We'll put a line of sentry posts across the peninsula, and distribute some more about the work area. It's the best we can do, and even that will be a strain on our personnel. Some of the specialized ratings are going to howl when we assign them to guard duty."

  "No," Smith said. "No. they won't. A couple of hours on this beach are worth eight hours of guard duty. I'll start spotting the sentry posts."

  Vorish went back to the Hiln, and became the target of an avalanche of messengers. Mr. Wembling would like to know . . . Mr. Wembling suggests ... If it would not be too much trouble . . . Compliments of Mr. Wembling . . . Mr. Wembling says ... At your earliest convenience . . . Mr. Wembling's apologies, but . . .

  Damn Mr. Wembling! Vorish had been on the point of telling his communications officer to put in a special line to Mr. Wembling's office. He breathed a sigh of relief over his narrow escape, and gave a junior officer the full-time assignment of dealing with Wembling's messengers.

  Smith strode in out of the darkness from his job of posting the sentries. "Native wants to see you," he said. "I have him outside."

  Vorish threw up his hands. "Well, I heard Wemhling's side of it. I might as well hear theirs. I hate to ask, but I suppose Wembling will let us have an interpreter."

  "He might if he had any, but he hasn't. These natives speak Galactic."

  "Now look here." He paused, shook his head. "No, I see you aren't joking. I guess this planet is just different. Bring him in."

  The native introduced himself as Fornri, and confidently clasped Vorish's hand. His hair blazed vividly red in the cold glow of the overhead light. He accepted a chair, and sat down calmly. "I understand," he said, "that you are members of the Space Navy of the Galactic Federation of Independent Worlds. Is that correct?"

  Vorish stopped staring long enough to acknowledge that it was correct.

  "In behalf of my government," Fornri said, "I ask your assistance in repelling invaders of our world."

  "The devil!" Smith muttered.

  Vorish studied the native's earnest young face before venturing a reply. "These invaders," he said finally. "Are you referring to the construction project?"

  "I am," Fornri said.

  "Your planet has been classified 3C by the Federation, which places it under the jurisdiction of the Colonial Bureau. Wembling & Company have a charter from the Bureau for their project here. They are hardly to be considered invaders."

  Fornri spoke slowly and distinctly. "My government has a treaty with the Galactic Federation of Independent Worlds. The treaty guarantees the independence of Langri, and also guarantees the assistance of the Federation in the event that Langri is invaded from outer space. I am calling upon the Galactic Federation of Independent Worlds to fulfill its guarantee."

  "Let's have the Index," Vorish said to Srnith. He took the heavy volume, checked the contents, and found a page headed Langri. "Initial survey contact in '84," he said. "Four years ago. Classified 3C in September of '85. No mention of any kind of treaty."

  Fornri took a polished tube of wood from his belt, and slipped out a rolled paper. He passed it to Vorish, who unrolled it and smoothed it flat. It was a carefully written copy of an obviously official document. Vorish looked at the date, and turned to the Index. "Dated in June of '84," he said to Smith. "A month and a half after the initial survey Contact. It classifies Langri as 5X."

  "Genuine?" Smith asked.

  "It looks genuine. I don't suppose these people could have made it up. Do you have the original of this document?"

  "Yes," Fornri said.

  "Of course he wouldn't carry it around with him. Probably doesn't trus
t us, and I can't blame him."

  He passed the paper over to Smith, who scrutinized it carefully and returned it. "It would be a little odd for classification of a new planet to be delayed for a year and a half after the initial survey contact. If this thing is genuine, then Langri was reclassified in '85."

  "The Index doesn't say anything about reclassification," Vorish said. He turned to Fornri. "Until we were ordered to this planet, we had never heard of Langri, so of course we know nothing about its classification. Tell us how it happened."

  Fornri nodded. He spoke Galactic well, with an accent that Vorish could not quite place. Occasionally he had to pause and grope for a word, but his narrative was clear and concise. He described the coming of survey men, their capture, and the negotiations with the officers of the Rirga. What followed brought scowls to their faces.

  "Wembling? Wembling was the first ambassador?"

  "Yes, sir," Fornri said. "He mocked the authority of our government, insulted our people, and bothered our women. We asked your government to take him way, and it did."

  "Probably he has plenty of political pull," Smith said. "He got the planet reclassified, and got himself a charter. Pretty effective revenge for a supposed insult."

  "Or maybe he just saw an opportunity to make money here," Vorish said. "Was your government given formal notification of the termination of the treaty and Langri's reclassification?"

  "No," Fornri said. "After Wembling there came another ambassador, a Mr. Gorman. He was a good friend of my people. Then a ship came and took him and all of the others away. We were told nothing. Next came Mr. Wembling with many ships and many men. We told him to leave, and he laughed at us and began to build the hotel."

  "He's been building for nearly three years," Vorish said. "He isn't getting along very fast."

  "We have hired an attorney many worlds away," Fornri said. "Many times he has obtained the conjunction, and made the work stop. But then each time the judge has stopped the conjunction."

  "Injunction?" Smith exclaimed. "You mean you've made a lawsuit out of this?"

  "Bring Lieutenant Charles in here," Vorish said. Smith routed the Hiln's young legal officer out of bed. With the help of Charles they quizzed Fornri at length on the futile legal action taken by the government of Langri against H. Harlow Wembling.

  The story was both amazing and pathetic. The Federation station had taken its communication equipment when it was withdrawn. The natives were helpless when Wembling arrived, and they knew better than to attempt a show of force. Fortunately they had found a friend on Wembling's staff—Fornri wouldn't say whom—and he had managed to put them in touch with an attorney and the attorney had gone to court for them enthusiastically, many times.

  He could not intervene in the matter of the violated treaty, because the government had sole jurisdiction there. But he had attacked Wembling's activities on a number of counts, some of which Fornri did not understand. In one instance Wembling had been accused of violating his charter, which gave him exclusive rights to develop Langri's natural resources. Wembling's work on his hotel was halted for months, until a judge ruled that a planet's vacation and resort potential was a natural resource. The natives had just won the most recent round, when a court held Wembling liable for damages because he'd torn down an entire village in clearing ground for the hotel. His charter, the court said, did not permit him to usurp private property. But the damages had been mild, and now Wembling was back at work, and the attorney was trying to think of something else. He was also lobbying to get something done about the broken treaty, but there had been no promise of success there.

  "Lawsuits cost money," Vorish observed.

  Fornri shrugged. Langri had money. It had four hundred thousand credits which the Federation had paid to it, and it had the proceeds of a good weight of platinum ore which the friend on Wembling's staff had managed to smuggle out for them.

  "There's platinum on Langri?" Vorish asked.

  "It didn't come from Langri," Fornri said.

  Vorish drummed impatiently on his desk. The Langri situation involved several noteworthy mysteries, but just for a start he'd like to know how the natives had happened to be speaking Galactic when the first survey men arrived. And then—platinum ore that didn't come from Langri. He shook his head. "I don't think you'll ever defeat Wembling in court. You may give him a few temporary setbacks, but in the long run he'll win out. And he'll ruin you. Men like him have too much influence, and all the financial backing they need."

  "The conjunctions give us time," Fornri said. "Time is what we need—time for the Plan."

  Vorish looked doubtfully at Smith. "What do you think?"

  "I think we're obliged to make a full report on this. The treaty was negotiated by naval officers. Naval Headquarters should be filled in on what's happened."

  "Yes. We should send them a copy of this—but a copy of a copy may not swing much weight. And the natives probably won't want to turn loose the original." He turned to Fornri. "I'm going to send Lieutenant Smith with you. He will bring a couple of men along. None of them will be armed. Take them wherever you like, and guard them any way you like, but they must make their own photographs of the treaty before we can help you."

  Fornri considered the matter briefly, and agreed. Vorish sent Smith off with two technicians and their equipment, and settled down to compose a report. He was interrupted by a young ensign who gulped, flushed crimson, and stammered, "Excuse me, sir. But Mr. Wembling—"

  "What now?" Vorish said resignedly.

  "Mr. Wembling wants sentry post number thirty-two moved. The lights are interfering with his sleep."

  In the morning Vorish strolled around the project to take a good look at Wembling's embryo hotel. Wembling joined him, wearing a revoltingly-patterned short-sleeved shirt and shorts. His arms and legs were crisply tanned, his face pale under an outlandish sun helmet.

  "A thousand accommodations," Wembling said. "Most of them will be suites. There'll be a big pool on the terrace overlooking the beach. Some people can't stand salt water, you know. I have the men laying out a golf course. There'll be two main dining rooms and half a dozen small ones that will specialize in food from famous places. I'll have a whole fleet of boats to take people fishing. I might even have a submarine or two—those jobs with rows of observation ports. You might not believe it, but there are hundreds of worlds where people have never seen an ocean. Why, there are worlds where people don't even have water to bathe in. They have to use chemicals. If some of those people can come to Langri, and live a little, now and then, a lot of head doctors are going to be out of work. This project of mine is nothing but a service to humanity."

  "Is that so?" Vorish murmured. "I wasn't aware that yours was a nonprofit organization."

  "Huh? Of course I'll make a profit. A darned good profit. What's wrong with that?"

  "From what I've seen of your hotel, the only minds you'll be saving will be those of the poor, broken-down millionaires."

  Wembling indulged in a grandiose gesture. "Just a beginning. Have to put the thing on a sound financial basis right from the start, you know. But there'll be plenty of room for the little fellows. Not in water-front hotels, but there'll be community beaches, and hotels with rights of access, and all that sort of thing. My staff has it all worked out."

  "It's just that I'm trained to look at things differently," Vorish said. "We in the Space Navy devote our lives to the protection of humanity, but if you'll look at the current pay scale you'll see that there's no profit motive."

  "There's nothing wrong with taking a profit. Where would the human race be today if nobody wanted a profit? We'd be living in grass huts back on old Terra, just like these Langri natives. There's a good example of a nonprofit society. I suppose you'd like that."

  "It doesn't look so bad to me," Vorish murmured.

  But Wembling did not hear him. He whirled and darted away, sputtering an unbelievably pungent profanity. A native, dashing in from nowhere, had attached himself t
o a girder that was about to be swung aloft. Workmen were valiantly striving to remove him—gently. The native clung stubbornly. Work stopped until he was pried loose and carried away.

  Lieutenant Smith came up in time to see the drama carried to its comical conclusion.

  "What do they expect to gain?" Vorish said.

  "Time." Smith said. "Didn't you hear what that native said? They need time for the Plan—whatever that means."

  "Maybe they're planning some kind of a massive uprising."

  "I doubt it. They seem to be essentially a peaceful people."

  "I wish them luck," Vorish said. "This Wembling is a tough customer. He's a self-activated power unit. I wonder how his weight holds up, the way he tears around keeping things humming."

  "Maybe he eats all night. Want to look over the sentry layout?"

  They turned away. In the distance they heard Wembling, his voice high-pitched with excitement, getting the work going again. A moment later he caught up with them and walked jauntily along beside Vorish.

  "If you'd put in the kind of defense line I want," he said, "I wouldn't have that trouble."

  Vorish did not reply. It was obvious that Wembling was going out of his way to avoid injuring the natives, but Vorish doubted that his motives were humanitarian. Inept handling of the native problem might embarrass him in some future court test.

  On the other hand, Wembling was not worried in the least about the Space Navy's injuring the natives. The blame for that action could not possibly fall upon him. He had demanded that Vorish erect an electronic barrier that would incinerate any native attempting to pass.

  "At the very worst," Vorish said, "the natives are only a minor nuisance."