The Cheep trotted over to the globe representing his world as it existed. He bent over and peered at it closely. He made a series of rapid chirping sounds, straightened up and slapped himself on the chest plates three times.
Blount said, “And you’d try to block the plan for the sake of a bunch of little animals like that?”
“Careful!” Sevridge said. “I can’t communicate with them yet, but they seem to be able to feel our emotions. Look at him now.”
The Cheep was in a half crouch his splayed fingers inches from the butt of the holstered weapon. There was no mistaking the look of cold ferocity with which he regarded Blount.
“Could he kill me with that thing?” Blount asked.
“He sure as hell could.” Sevridge spoke gently to the Cheep. It relaxed and moved backward. “They’ve got a nice brand of courage,” Sevridge said, “and a pretty good social order. They have nations and wars. As near as I can gather, they’ve given up big-scale wars in favor of hand to hand combat between the heads of nations. Saves them a lot of money and energy. You can see from the structure that they’re distant cousins of the human race. Mammals, meat-eaters. They farm, have music, build factories and send the little Cheeps to school. Life span is about fifty years, I think. Their bright boys are fooling around with gliders. Give them another twenty years and they’ll be in the air. That’s an automatic twenty rating, as you damn well know.”
“Nobody is giving them another twenty years, Sevridge.”
“How about letting me move them?”
“No.”
“Of course not. Too much chance of it getting out if you let me do that. And if the knowledge got into the hands of the right people, the Habilitation Service license would be yanked so fast you’d spin for a week like a fat top.”
“You know what you have to do, Sevridge.”
“They’ll fight, you know.”
Blount sneered. “A lot of good that will do. Even a Federation planet would have a very bad time if you dropped our equipment on it. They might wreck one or two pieces of equipment, if they’re lucky.”
“Come on out yourself and take a look at their cities first, Al. For old time’s sake. Like doll cities. Pastel towers overlooking little blue lakes. Their females wear crimson. At dusk when they walk in the streets of their cities it is like moving paths of flame.”
“We can skip the poetry. I’m too busy to go look at doll houses. You fail to realize, Sevridge, that planets don’t grow on trees. We’re having to go further and further afield. D. A. C. got the jump on us in Uranus Sector. You can afford the luxury of going soft over these little green animals. I can’t. I’ve got my responsibility to the employees and the stockholders. R eighty-five through R eighty-nine means the difference between a good year and a bad year.”
“But the law on Species Rating wasn’t passed just on account of the big words. And how are you going to get around the ruling that you have to select one colony of the spiecies and transport it to S. R. Headquarters — even low-rating stuff?”
“I don’t believe they’ll survive the trip. That’s all been arranged.”
“Think of everything, don’t you?”
Blount looked steadily at him. “Yes, I do. And that’s why I’m where I am, and why you’re exactly where you were five years ago, if you want me to be frank. Now, will you do what you’re told, or will I arrange it so that you can’t help doing what we want?”
Sevridge looked down at his strong brown hands, knotted into fists. “I’ll do as I’m told,” he said dully. “But I don’t have to like it. And I hope the Cheeps have some talent I haven’t seen and you haven’t thought of. I hope they put up the kind of a fight that you can’t hide from Earth.”
Blount looked at the Cheep which was still watching him warily. “I hardly think there’ll be much of a fight, Sevridge. Take that revolting little animal off my desk and put it back in your pocket. Don’t let anyone see it, and I’ll let you get away with bringing it here. All your equipment is in Orbit D. The technicians have been installing the coordination tapes. They’ll be through tomorrow at about this time. Then you can make up your train and head for R eighty-eight. We’ve already sent out the prospectus and we’re getting a nice response. My hands are tied.”
Sevridge put the Big Cheep back in his pocket. The Cheep gave Blount one last look, spat neatly through the crack between the two huge front teeth and ducked down into the pocket. Sevridge buttoned it.
“I wish your hands were tied,” he said reflectively, “to a concrete block and you were standing on the rail of a bridge. Happy planning, Buster.”
Sevridge went scowling back to his assigned room. He shut the door and put the Big Cheep on the bed. The Cheep dug into his own small baggage and took out the food package. He sat down with his back against the edge of the pillow and began eating. Sevridge thought he seemed moody.
“Just how much did you understand, boss?” Sevridge said.
The Cheep looked at him, munching.
“How about a night on the town, boss? Forget our troubles. You ever try any alcohol? No, I guess not. Remember, now. Stay down in the pocket. Give me that little cup of yours and I’ll fill it up and slip it to you at regular intervals.”
The Cheep picked up the tiny cup and tossed it into Sevridge’s lap. “I’ll be damned!” Sevridge said softly.
At three in the morning Sevridge came rolling back down the corridor, singing in a ragged baritone. The Big Cheep had his chin over the edge of the pocket. The brown eyes looked glassy.
Inside the room Sevridge tossed the Cheep onto the bed. It stood up, took three wavering steps and went down onto its face, aqua arms outspread. Sevridge held his ear close to it. He could hear a faint snoring sound.
“Poor li’l guy,” Sevridge said thickly. “Poor li’l ole Cheep. Dyin’ race, by God. Wiped out by big-mouth Al Blount. Las’ toot for the Big Cheep.” He sat solemnly in the chair and cried for a while and then passed out peacefully.
By mid-morning Sevridge’s hangover had diminished to the point where it was merely excruciating agony. He held his pocket open. “Climb in, chum. I can’t lift you. Ain’t you a little greener than usual?”
The hangover was handy. It kept Sevridge from thinking about what was ahead. He picked up his orders, climbed the ramp, tossed his duffle aboard the reequipped control ship and got clearance. He went upstairs to where the equipment was in orbit around C-17. Massive, monolithic equipment, with atomic jaws and sightless eyes. Three super-bulldozers with their fifty mile blades. Forty BX pulverizers, ready to yonk and chonk their way through vegetation and soil and subsoil, leaving behind a glistening and vitrified path. Three hundred other massive pieces, with specialized functions. The coordination tapes were all installed. The dim mechanical minds knew the shape of the planet-to-be. All Sevridge had to do was lead the train in his control ship. They’d follow with deceptive docility. Then, with the planet in range, yank the master switch and get out of the way. A half billion tons of auto-control equipment would drop onto the planet like locusts onto a corn patch. All he had to do was sit upstairs with the panel board and yank out any breakdowns and feed in the replacements. Dust would obscure the planet. And after a time there would be no dust, no hills, no green, no rivers. Just the shining surface, the block-like power stations, the drying seas. Then R-88 could be activated to provide the necessary heat for her four sister planets — and Blount would be warmly commended.
The last technician ship dropped away from the side of a Fabricator, and Sevridge received the all-clear signal.
He slid over into line just ahead of the lead machine, muttered “Come on, you tin wonders,” and straightened out on astrogation pattern on the Symetric Arc from C-17 to the R-85-89 system. Each piece of equipment broke out of orbit at the precise spot where Sevridge had. He set his screens and looked back to see if all broke free. They had. He headed through space at Continual Acceleration, equipment strung out behind him for two hundred and twenty thousand miles.