Finally Smith returned. “No one has even seen a flash,” he said. “That’s maybe understandable considering how thick the forest is, but no one has smelled anything, either, and the wind is in our direction. I think the explosions are taking place a long way off. Nothing like this has ever happened before, and Wembling’s people haven’t an inkling of what’s going on. They say there’s only one man on Langri who’s likely to know anything about it— an anthropologist named Hort. He was on Wembling’s staff, and Wembling fired him because he stood up for the natives. He’s living by himself in a native-style dwelling back in the forest. Interestingly enough, he’s now a deputy marshal.”
Vorish arched his brows. “With what authority?”
“I don’t know.”
“See him tomorrow and put him on the staff,” Vorish said. “I don’t mind if he takes the natives’ part. It’s time someone did.”
“I want to see him tonight and ask him what the natives are up to.”
“How far?”
“A few kilometers.”
“How large a patrol?”
“Three men and myself—just enough to carry lights and com equipment.”
Vorish silently pondered the specter of a small patrol of his men taking a stroll along a narrow path in a thick, possibly hostile forest. It seemed a strange midnight occupation for the Space Navy, but he’d seen stranger things, and worlds far weirder than this one.
“I know about the thorns,” Smith said. “It’s perfectly safe as long as we keep to the center of the path. The paths were made by the natives, and they wouldn’t pass that way often enough to make a path if it wasn’t safe. Also, they’re too bright to be ambushing a patrol from a ship that could incinerate every one of their villages on one pass around the planet.”
“We don’t know that,” Vorish said. “On the other hand, since they haven’t harmed anyone yet, I’ll risk the assumption that they’d rather start with Wembling than us. Go ahead, then. And before you shoot anything, be damned certain it’s something you want to kill.”
Smith waved a salute and hurried away.
Vorish told a technician to give Smith’s patrol a special channel, and then he began to monitor the sentry posts. His men were nervous about the explosions, but they seemed to be holding up well. He caught bits of conversation. A nav muttered, “Whatever they’re blowing up, they’ve got a lot of the stuff,” and Wembling’s hammerhead replied, “You can’t trust the puggards as far as you can spit. Let me tell you about the time—”
An officer called in a suggestion that the beach sentries be moved to the forest side of the perimeter. “The natives would like that,” Vorish told him dryly. “Especially if the explosions are a diversion to keep our attention on the forest while they attack from the sea.”
By that time the technician had Smith’s patrol tuned in, and Vorish watched them in three-dimensional projection as they moved along a path, their lights poking holes in the forest’s blackness. Several of the explosions sounded alarmingly close by, but Smith, when Vorish asked him, chuckled and said they were kilometers away.
Finally the patrol rounded a bend and came upon a small clearing with a native hut. A bearded man stood in its doorway scowling fiercely at the intruders.
Smith marched up to him. “Aric Hort? I’m Lieutenant Commander Smith. Space Navy. What’s causing the explosions?”
“If I had the faintest idea, is there any reason why I should tell you?”
“Do the natives have explosives?” Smith asked.
At that moment one went off close by, with an enormous charge, and both Hort and Smith winced. “You deaf, or something?” Hort demanded. “Of course they do. Not that it’s any of your business—or is Wembling claiming sovereignty over the entire continent?”
“Wembling is hiding under his bed,” Smith said. “I have no intention of interfering with the natives. I’m just curious about what woke me up.”
Suddenly Hort grinned. “If you put it that way, so am I. Let’s go have a look.”
They moved off into the forest, with Hort leading the way. Explosions continued to sound. Smith, walking just behind Hort, said to him, “Are you positive these natives aren’t dangerous?”
Hort halted and faced him. “I’ve been living near them or with them for almost three years. I’ve spent most of my time with them, every day, and I’ve never seen a fight or even a strenuous argument. I’d say they’re extremely dangerous, but not in the way you’re thinking.”
They moved on. Suddenly they came upon a river, which they crossed on a boat rigged as a crude ferry. They regained the path on the opposite side and moved along it at a brisk pace. The forest unfolded monotonously along the path. The night and the com equipment reduced all colors to gray, and the huge flowers on many of the trees had folded delicate petals into strangely shaped defenses against the darkness.
They ferried their way across another river. The explosions were becoming more distant, but Vorish, watching from the safety of the Hiln while his men moved farther and farther into an unknown forest, became increasingly concerned.
Smith asked, “Have they ever set off explosives before?”
“No,” Hort said. “I didn’t know they had any.”
“They sound like potent charges. One of them could make a scrap heap of a rather large spaceship.”
Hort had no comment. Vorish was on the verge of halting them when suddenly Hort dropped to his knees on the path.
“Stand back!” he snapped.
Smith knelt nearby, holding a light, and one of the navs pointed a scanner. Vorish scrutinized the projected image of the nondescript mass Hort was studying and made nothing of it.
“What is it?” Smith asked.
“I don’t know. Can you move the light—there. Darned if it doesn’t look like—”
Suddenly Hort began to laugh. The navy men crowded around him and bewilderedly studied the clutter of debris on the path while Hort slumped to the ground convulsed with laughter. He thumped helplessly on the packed dirt with his fist. At irregular intervals the explosions boomed a bizarre accompaniment.
Finally Hort controlled himself sufficiently to be able to speak. “It’s the gourds,” he gasped.
“It’s the gourds,” Smith repeated. He was becoming angry. “Is that supposed to tell me something?”
Still laughing, Hort struggled to his feet. “Langri has these enormous gourds. They’re bigger than houses—in fact, the natives actually use segments of them for the roofs of their dwellings. They come in all shapes and sizes, and they’re used for everything from furniture to utensils. I’ve been wondering ever since I came here how the damned things reproduce, and now I know—they explode and scatter their spores.”
Smith said bitterly, “Do you mean every alien on the planet has been woke up, and we’ve had this lovely midnight stroll through the forest, just because some vegetables are enjoying their mating season?”
An officer entered the control room and snapped to attention. “Excuse me, sir, but—”
Vorish raised his hand. “Just a moment.”
Smith was nurturing his anger. “How come these gourds decided all of a sudden to have babies the night the navy landed?”
“Obviously the natives know how to set them off,” Hort said.
“Sir,” the officer said to Vorish, “there’s a native—”
Vorish raised his hand again.
“The natives know how to set them off,” Smith said coldly. “Just their idea of a friendly welcome, I suppose.”
“Or a way to distract your sentries.”
“There’s a native asking to see you, sir,” the officer persisted.
Vorish turned. “A native?”