“Asked to leave?”
“Nothing like that. Fornri said he was going to the next village, and he offered to walk with us as far as the center. If eviction was what he had in mind, I’d have to admit he managed it very neatly. What kind of fires were there?”
Dallman turned again to the window. He gazed at the horizon for a moment, and then he leaned forward, staring. “Look!”
The other three bounded to the window. “What is it?” Protz demanded.
“Look-off the point.”
All of them stared. “There’s nothing there,” Protz announced.
“Right.” After so many hours of uncertainty, Dallman’s grimness had become fatalistic. “Every day since I arrived here, there’s been a hunting fleet working off the point—until today.”
“I was about to tell you that,” Protz said reproachfully. “The reconocopter pilot just reported—none of the hunting boats are working today.”
“I see. Yesterday a strange ship arrives. Today all the natives on Langri take the day off. What are they doing?”
“All the pilot could tell me is that they’re congregating in the larger villages,” Protz said.
“At this point there’s only one thing to do. We’ll have a frank talk with Fornri.”
“How many men do you want to take?”
“None. Miss Warr and Hort if they want to come. We aren’t trying to coerce the natives. We’re just asking the favor of some information.”
They circled widely to approach from the sea and make an unobtrusive landing on the beach below the village. The pilot remained with the reconocopter; Dallman, with Protz, Hort, and Miss Warr trailing after him, walked slowly up the slope to the village. As they reached the point where the first curving side street intercepted the main avenue, he paused and looked about him incredulously.
The natives were in festival costume, and the atmosphere was one of celebration. They greeted their visitors with smiles and made way for them respectfully as they moved slowly up the central avenue. And despite their emaciated appearances, they seemed not merely cheerful but happy.
Cooking fires blazed in the central oval. When they reached it, Dallman paused again and sniffed appreciatively. “They’re certainly starving in style. That smells delicious.”
“It is delicious,” Hort said bitterly. “What there is of it. The natives will get about as much as you did—a smell.”
“It was enough to remind me that I missed breakfast,” Dallman said good-naturedly. They moved on, and at the other side of the oval he halted abruptly. “What the devil!”
They stood gazing perplexedly up the central avenue. At the top of the village, before one of the larger dwellings, a long line of natives stood waiting quietly.
Then Fornri saw them. He came hurrying toward them, but whether his action suggested either alarm or resentment at their presence, Dallman could not say. The native’s face remained expressionless.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“To observe,” Dallman said.
“In the past you have not interfered in the lives of my people. Is that to change?”
“Certainly not,” Dallman said. “I have no intention of interfering.”
“Then your presence is not required. What is happening here concerns only ourselves.”
“Everything that happens on this world concerns me,” Dallman said firmly. “I intend to know what is going on here.”
They faced each other, Space Navy admiral and Langrian native, and Dallman had no doubt that he was the more nervous of the two. The silence seemed interminable. Finally Fornri spoke. “I know that you have been a good friend to my people. All of you have, but you also have duties and obligations that concern others. Our fear on this day is that Mr. Wembling may attempt to interfere with us.”
“He won’t,” Dallman promised. “I’ve confined Wembling and all of his workers to their quarters. If what you are doing concerns only yourselves, no one will interfere.”
“Very well.” Fornri paused, and then he said proudly, “We are holding an election.”
“An—election?” Dallman felt Protz’s grip tighten on his arm. He turned and looked blankly at him. Hort and Miss Warr were looking just as blankly at each other.
“We are electing delegates to a constitutional convention,” Fornri said.
Dallman gazed past Fornri at the line of waiting natives. He thought, “What an idyllic setting for an election!” Holiday atmosphere, a magnificent view of the sea, a feast in preparation, citizens waiting their turns at the polling booths in a woven grass hut—the principles of democracy had never been more strikingly portrayed.
None of them spoke. Probably none of them could speak— Dallman could not.
“When the constitution has been approved,” Fornri went on, “we shall elect a government. And then we shall apply for membership in the Galactic Federation of Independent Worlds.”
“Is it legal?” Protz blurted.
“It is legal. Our attorney is advising us.”
“Is it the Plan?” Hort asked eagerly.
“It is part of the Plan,” Fornri said. “We could have done it sooner, but we did not know that we needed only sixty per cent literacy. We have more than ninety per cent.”
Dallman, sensing the solemnity as well as the importance of the occasion, snapped to attention. “I am honored to present my congratulations, and I’m confident that I can include those of the Federation Government. And I give you this pledge: no one will interfere with any of your steps toward self-government, at any time. If anyone tries, notify me at once.”
Fornri gave the jerky bow that he sometimes affected when speaking with outsiders. “In behalf of the people of Langri, I thank you.”
“I suppose your government’s first official action will be to evict Wembling,” Protz said lightly.
Fornri’s politely blank expression did not change. “We shall of course be guided by the law.”
With a final glance at the polling hut, they turned and walked slowly back to the reconocopter. The pilot was waiting to assist them aboard, but instead they turned again and looked at the village.
“And that,” Protz murmured, “will finish Wembling.”
“At least we’ve solved the mystery of the unknown ship,” Dallman said. “It was their attorney, coming to advise them and help them draw up a constitution. As for finishing Wembling, you’re wrong. The Wemblings in this universe don’t finish that easily. He’s ready for this. You might even say he’s been expecting it.”
“What can he do?” Protz demanded.
“No court of law would make him give up what he already has. The bribery and political connivance that got him his illegal charter won’t be part of the official record, and the court can’t take note of them. It will have to assume that Wembling acted under his charter in good faith. Now we know why he’s been laying out all those enormous golf courses. That land was legally developed by him, under an official Federation charter, and the court will let him keep it.”
Hort and Miss Warr turned on him aghast. “That can’t be true!” Hort exclaimed.
“Ah, but it is. Wait and see. And once the court confirms his ownership of all that land, he’ll be free to use it any way he likes. He can put up dozens of resorts and flood the coast with tourists. If the natives try to stop him, the Federation courts will support Wembling—with force, if necessary.”
Dallman gestured at the distant election lines. “Do you realize what a tremendous accomplishment that is? Ninety per cent literacy from nothing. How they must have worked! You two—” He spoke to Hort and Miss Warr. “Did you know the entire population was learning to read and write?”
“I’ve been teaching the children,” Hort said. “But only children from the villages close by.”