Captain Protz was standing at the top of his ship’s ramp, angrily staring into the distance. Dallman called to him, “Where did it land?”
“Off in the forest somewhere,” Protz said. His face was flushed with anger. “What idiot was it?”
“I don’t know. Suppose we try finding out.”
“When we do, I want the captain’s license. He came in without clearance, he violated every landing procedure on the list, and then he missed the field by at least twenty kilometers.”
Their investigation lasted all of five minutes and produced two negatives: the ship was not a naval craft, and Wembling’s supply chief disclaimed any knowledge of it—he had no ships due. In the meantime, a reconocopter was taking the tops out of trees back in the area where the ship was presumed to have come down. The pilot saw no trace of it.
“This can only mean one thing,” Dallman said. “The natives have visitors.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I think that landing approach was neither inept nor accidental. It was done deliberately, to avoid any chance of an interception. The natives probably have the ship thoroughly hidden by now, which means that neither a reconocopter nor a ground search would have a chance in a million of finding it.”
“A ground search is out anyway,” Protz said. “I wouldn’t order men into that forest. Anyway, I don’t suppose there’s a portable detector on Langri.”
“I certainly don’t know of any.”
“What possible business would an outsider have with the natives?”
“How about smuggling arms?” Dallman suggested.
Protz groaned. “In that case, we’ll have to make a ground search. But even if we found the ship, the arms would be unloaded and hidden.”
“If they attack us, we’ll have to smash them,” Dallman said despondently. “I’d hoped I could get through this assignment without a shot fired at the natives. I’d much rather shoot Wembling.”
20
A broad band of light marked the construction site perimeter, and on the landing field each ship stood in its own bright oval. The humped silhouette of a reconocopter, small cabin perched over enormous, circular turbine housing, stood at the edge of the landing field. As Dallman and Protz approached it, the pilot jumped down and snapped a salute.
“Ready any time you are, sir,” he said.
“Pity Langri doesn’t have a moon,” Protz observed, looking about him. “It’d be charming by moonlight.”
“Mention that to Wembling,” Dallman said. “He’ll have one built.”
They climbed aboard, and the reconocopter shot upward steeply and moved off along the coast, still climbing. Staring down into utter blackness, Dallman suddenly saw a patch of light on the horizon. As they gained altitude, more patches came into view.
He touched the pilot’s shoulder. “Can we have a closer look?”
They dropped precipitously and drifted over a village at low altitude, and the patch of light resolved into rows of fires that turned the village oval into a blaze of light. There seemed to be a great bustle of activity, but what it signified Dallman had no idea.
“You say this isn’t normal?” he asked the pilot.
“Definitely not normal, sir. They fix their evening meal about dark, when the hunting boats get in. When they have something to fix, that is. Sometimes they don’t. Once they’ve finished their meal you can fly the whole coast without catching a glimpse of light except at the construction sites.”
“It’s a shame that we know so little about these natives,” Dallman said. “I never have an inkling of what Fornri’s thinking about, and I doubt that Aric Hort understands him any better than I do. The Colonial Bureau should have sent in a team to study them.” He turned to Protz. “What do you make of it?”
“It’s suggestive, but darned if I know what it suggests.”
“I know what it suggests,” Dallman said grimly. “A strange ship lands this afternoon, and tonight every native on the planet is staying up all night. They’re getting ready for something. We’d better go back and make a few preparations of our own.”
The pilot turned back. When they reached the landing field, Dallman strolled over to the perimeter and walked the sentry path for a thousand meters, meditating the uncanny quiet of the night. Protz followed behind him without speaking.
“Going to double the sentries?” he asked finally.
“Could you work out a staggered relief system to place all the sentries on duty from four hundred on?”
“Of course.”
“Let’s do it that way. Since most of the natives are still at their villages, it should be several hours before anything happens here. I’m going to get Wembling out of bed. I’ll tell him to issue orders immediately—his men are to have the day off tomorrow, and they’re restricted to quarters until further notice. That’ll apply to him, too. He can put his commissary to work right now packing meals for the men to eat in quarters.”
“He’ll howl,” Protz said.
“He’d better not howl to me. I want all the site commanders alerted. For the time being we’re going to forget Wembling’s golf courses and shorten sentry lines to effectively protect workers and equipment. I’ll also tell ordnance to place a reserve of arms at each site so the workers can be armed if that proves necessary.”
They returned to the landing field, and Dallman walked over to a waiting conveyance and climbed into it. “I want to see Hort the first thing in the morning,” he said. “Wembling’s niece, too, if she’ll come. Tell me—if you were a native and you wanted to stop Wembling’s work, what would you do?”
“That’s easy. I’d kill Wembling.”
“All right,” Dallman said disgustedly. “I’ll give him an armed guard.”
Dallman slept at his desk. He woke up occasionally to monitor reports, but nothing was being reported but negatives. All of the larger native villages were alight with numerous small fires, but if the natives were stirring anywhere else, no one saw them. Finally Dallman chose to ignore the reports and sleep.
The intercom rasped him to wakefulness and reminded him that he’d decided the day before to replace his desk ensign. “Captain Protz is here, sir. With Miss Warr and Mr. Hort.”
Dallman stirred sleepily, yawned, and lowered his feet. “Send them in.”
He stood up to greet them, and with Protz’s help he pulled chairs into position and got the three of them seated. “Nice of you to come,” he said, wearily dropping into his own chair. “I urgently need the answer to a question. What’s going on?”
Hort and Miss Warr exchanged startled glances and then looked at him blankly. Protz said, “They won’t be able to help us much. They don’t know anything about the fires. They didn’t even know a ship landed yesterday.”
“There wasn’t any mention among the natives of a ship landing?” Dallman asked them.
They shook their heads.
“Did you notice anything about the natives yesterday that seemed unusual?”
“They were a little hungrier than they were the day before, but there’s nothing unusual about that,” Hort said. “What’s this about a ship?”
“I don’t know, except that there was one,” Dallman said. “It landed in the forest some twenty kilometers from the coast.” Absently he got to his feet and went to the window. “How does it happen you don’t know about the fires? Aren’t you two usually at one of the villages until after nightfall?”
“Usually,” Hort agreed. “Yesterday—well, it seemed natural enough at the time, but now that I think about it—anyway, we were sort of escorted away yesterday afternoon.”