It was morning when he opened his eyes. The sea was lovely in the soft sunlight, but he missed the shouts of the boys rollicking in the surf. They know I'm dying, he thought.
He looked at the saddened faces of the men about him. "Friends . . ." he said. And then, in a tongue that was strange to them, he whispered, "before God—before my God and theirs—I have done my best."
The fire of death leaped high on the beach that night, and the choked silence of mourning gripped the villages. The next day the hundred young men moved back to their village in the forest to grapple doubtfully with the heritage the Langri had left to them.
II
The Rirga was outbound on a routine patrol mission, and Commander Ernst Dillinger was relaxing quietly in his quarters with his robot chess player. He had neatly trapped the robot's queen, and was moving in for the kill when his communication officer interrupted.
He saluted, and handed Dillinger a message. "Confidential," he said.
Dillinger knew from his apologetic manner and the speed with which he made his departure that the news was not good. The man was already closing the door when Dillinger glanced at the message and uncoiled himself in an anguished bellow. The bellow brought him scurrying back.
Dillinger tapped the paper. "This is an order from the sector governor."
"Yes, sir." The communications officer made it sound as if that information was somehow news to him.
"Ships of the fleet do not take orders from bureaucrats and fly-by-night politicians. You will kindly inform his highness that I received my orders from Fleet Headquarters, that I am currently on a third-priority assignment, and that the fact that I am passing through one corner of his alleged territory does not give him automatic control over my movements."
The communications officer fumbled, and produced a notebook. "If you will dictate the message, sir—"
"I just gave you the message. You're a communications officer. Haven't you got enough command of language to tell him to go to hell in a flattering way?"
"I suppose so, sir."
"Do so. And send Lieutenant Protz in here."
The communications officer made a panicky exit.
Lieutenant Protz sauntered in a moment later, met Dillinger's foreboding scowl with a grin, and calmly seated himself.
"What sector are we in, Protz?" Dillinger asked.
"2397," Protz said promptly.
"And how long are we going to be in Sector 2397?"
"Forty-eight hours."
Dillinger slammed down the message. "Too long."
"Some colony in trouble?"
"Worse than that. The sector governor has lost four scratchers."
Protz straightened up and swallowed his grin. "By all that's spaceworthy! Four of them? Look—I have a leave coming up next year. I'm sorry I won't be able to see you through this, but I wouldn't give up that leave if it were a dozen scratchers. You'll just have to find them without me."
"Shut up!" Dillinger snarled. "Not only does this oaf of a governor lose four survey ships at one crack, but he has the insufferable nerve to order me to start looking for them. Order, mind you. I'm letting him know that we have a chain-of-command procedure in the space navy, but he'll have time to get through to headquarters, and have the order issued there. They'll be happy to oblige, of course, as long as the Rirga is in the general area."
Protz reached over and took the paper. "So they send a battle cruiser to look for four survey ships." He read, and chuckled. "It could be worse. We might find them all in the same place. The 719 turned up missing, so they sent the 1123 to look for it. And then they sent the 572 after the 719 and the 1123, and the 1486 after the 719 and the 1123 and the 572. Lucky thing for them we happened to be here. That nonsense could have gone on indefinitely."
Dillinger nodded. "Seems curious, doesn't it?"
"We can rule out mechanical failure. Those scratchers are dependable, and four of them wouldn't bubble out at the same time. Do you suppose maybe one of these worlds is civilized to the point of primitive space travel, and is picking them off?"
"Possibly," Dillinger said. "But not very likely. Not more than a tenth of the planets in this sector have been surveyed, but the entire sector has been charted, and the fleet used it for training maneuvers a couple of times. If one of these worlds has developed space travel, someone would have noticed it. No—I figure we'll find all four scratchers on one planet. The same trouble that caught the first caught the others. Whether we can do any good remains to be seen. An unsurveyed world can offer some queer kinds of trouble. Go down to the chart room, and see if you can narrow down the search area. We might even be lucky."
Twenty-four hours later Fleet Headquarters made it official, and the Rirga altered course. Protz paced the chart room, whistling cheerfully and making deft calculations on a three-dimensional slide rule. A technician was verifying them on a battery of computers, and having trouble keeping up.
Dillinger scowled at the co-ordinates Protz handed to him. "You figure this system is as good a bet as any?"
"Better than any." Protz stepped to the chart. "The 719 last reported in from here, on course—so. There are three possibilities, but only this one is directly on its course. I'd say it's ten to one that this is it. There shouldn't be more than one habitable planet. We can wind this up in a couple of days."
Dillinger snorted. "Only one planet to search for four scratchers! You've been in space too long. Have you forgotten how big a planet is?"
"Like you said, we might be lucky."
They were lucky. There was one habitable planet, with a single, narrow, sub-tropical continent. On their first observation they sighted the four glistening survey ships, parked neatly in a row on a low rise overlooking the sea.
Dillinger studied the observation data, squinted at the film strips, and exploded. "Damn! This will cost us a week anyway, and those fools have just taken some time off to go fishing."
"We'll have to land," Protz said. "We can't be certain."
Dillinger looked up from the film strips, a faint smile on his face. "Sure we'll land. Take a good look at these. We'll land, and after I kick those scratcher crews in the pants, I'm going fishing."
The Rirga came ponderously to rest a thousand yards down the shore. There were the inevitable scientific tests. A security unit made a meticulous search of the landing area, and dispatched a squad to investigate the survey ships under cover of the alert Rirga gunners. Dillinger strode down the ramp, sniffed the sea breeze hungrily, and headed towards the beach.
Protz came up a moment later. "The scratchers are deserted. Looks as if they just walked off and left them."
"We'll have to root them out," Dillinger said. "Notify headquarters."
Protz hurried away.
Dillinger walked slowly back to the Rirga. The landing area was being consolidated. Patrols were pushing inland and along the shore. One signaled the discovery of a deserted native village. Dillinger shrugged indifferently, and went to his quarters. He poured himself a drink stretched out on his bunk, wondering if there was anything on board that would pass for fishing equipment.
Protz's voice snapped out of the intercom. "Commander?"
"I'm relaxing," Dillinger said.
"We've found a native."
"The Rirga should be able to cope with one native without harrassing its commanding officer."
"Maybe I should say the native found us. He wants to speak to the commanding officer."
Dillinger's reflexes were slow. It was a full ten seconds before he sat up abruptly, spilling his drink.
"He speaks Galactic," Protz said. "They're bringing him in now. What shall we do with him?"
"Set up a tent. I'll receive him with due ceremony."
A short time later, resplendent in a ribbon-decked dress uniform, he hurried down the ramp. The tent had been set up, and an honor guard posted around it. The men were, it seemed to Dillinger, struggling to keep their faces straight. A moment later he understood why. The native was a model
of bodily perfection, young, intelligent-looking. He wore only a loin cloth of doubtful manufacture. His red hair was dazzling in the bright sunlight.
Standing before him in full dress uniform, Dillinger saw the humor of the occasion, and smiled. The native stepped forward, his face serious, his manner confident. He extended his hand. "How do you do. I am Fornri."
"I am Commander Dillinger," Dillinger responded, almost automatically. He stepped ceremoniously aside, and allowed the native to precede him into the tent. Dillinger, and a number of his officers, filed after him.
The native ignored the chairs, and faced Dillinger. "It is my sad duty to inform you that you and the personnel of your ship are under arrest."
Dillinger sat down heavily. He turned to Protz, who grinned and winked. Behind him an officer failed to suppress a chuckle. Because the native had spoken in a firm tone of voice, his words carried beyond the tent. Much whispering and some ill-concealed laughter drifted in to them.
A red-haired native who possessed not so much as a dull spear had calmly walked in and placed the Rirga under arrest. It was a gag worth retelling—if anyone would believe it.
Dillinger ignored Protz's wink. "What are the charges?"
The native recited tonelessly, "Landing in a restricted area, willful avoidance of customs and quarantine, failure to land at a proper immigration point with official clearance, suspicion of smuggling, and bearing arms without proper authority. Follow me, please, and I will lead you to your detention area."
Protz was suddenly solemn. "He didn't learn to speak Galactic like that from the scratcher crews," he whispered. "It's only been a month since the first ship was reported missing."
Dillinger whirled on the officers that surrounded him. "You will kindly stop grinning. This is a serious matter."
The grinning stopped.
"You see, you idots, this man represents civil authority. Unless there are special arrangements to the contrary, military personnel are subject to the laws of any planet which has a central government. If there are several autonomous governments . . ." He turned to the native. "Does this planet have a central government?"
"It does," the native said.
"Do you have the personnel of the survey ships under detention?"
"We do."
"Order all personnel back to the ship," Dillinger said to Protz. He said to the native, "You understand—I'll have to communicate with my superiors about this."
"On two conditions. All weapons which have been brought from the ship are considered confiscated. And no one except yourself will be permitted to return to the ship."
Dillinger turned to Protz. "Have the men stack their arms at a place he designates."
Eight days passed before Dillinger was able to get down to final negotiations. Before the conference started he asked to speak with one of the survey men. Natives brought him into the tent, tanned, robust-looking, wearing a native loin cloth. He grinned sheepishly at Dillinger.
"I'm almost sorry to see you, Commander."
"How have you been treated?"
"Perfect. Couldn't ask for better treatment. The food is wonderful. They have a drink that I'll swear is the best thing in the galaxy. They built us some huts on the seashore, and told us where we could go and what we could do, and left us alone. Except for the ones that bring our food, and some fishing boats, we hardly see any natives."
"Three native women apiece, I suppose," Dillinger said dryly.
"Well, no. The women haven't come near us. Otherwise, if you're thinking of naming this planet you can call it Paradise. We've been mostly swimming and spearing fish. You should see the fish in that ocean!"
"You weren't harmed?"
"No. They took us by surprise, and disarmed us, and that was it. Same went for the other ships."
"That's all I want to know," Dillinger said.
The natives led him away, and Dillinger opened the negotiations. He sat on one side of a table, flanked by two of his officers. Fornri and two other young natives faced him across the table.
"I am authorized," Dillinger said, "to accept unconditionally your listing of fines and penalties. Four hundred thousand credits have been transferred to the credit of your government in the Bank of the Galaxy." He passed a credit memo across the table. Fornri accepted it indifferently.
"This planet's status as an independent world will be recognized." Dillinger went on. "Its laws will be respected by the Galactic Federation and enforceable in Federation courts where Federation citizens are involved. We shall furnish your government with a communications center, so that contact with the Federation can be maintained, and ships wishing to land may obtain official permission.
"In return, we shall expect immediate release of personnel, return of equipment, and departure clearance for Federation ships."
"That is satisfactory," Fornri said. "Providing, of course, that the terms of the agreement are in writing."
"It will be taken care of immediately," Dillinger said. He hestitated, feeling a bit uneasy. "You understand—this means that you must return all weapons which you have confiscated, both from the Rirga and the survey ships."
"I understand," Fornri said. He smiled. "We are a peaceful people. We do not need weapons."
Dillinger took a deep breath. For some reason he had expected the negotiations to collapse at that point. "Lieutenant Protz," he said, "will you see that the terms are drawn up for signature?"
Protz nodded, and got to his feet.
"One moment," Dillinger said. "There is one thing more. We must have an official name for your planet. What do you call it?"
Fornri seemed puzzled. "Sir?"
"Up to now, you have only been co-ordinates and a number to us. You must have a name. It is probably best that you name your own planet. If you don't, someone else will, and you might not like it. It can be your native name for the planet, or a descriptive term—anything you like."
Fornri hestitated. "Perhaps we should discuss the matter."
"By all means." Dillinger said. "But one word of caution. Once the planet has been named, it will be infernally difficult to change it."
"I understand," Fornri said.
The native withdrew, and Dillinger settled back with a smile, and sipped from a tumbler of the native drink. The drink was everything the survey man had claimed.
Perhaps Paradise would be a good name for the place, he thought. But then—better to let the natives decide. Paradise might mean something very different to them. All sorts of complications resulted when planets were named by outsiders. He remembered the famous story of the survey ship calling for help from a swamp on a strange planet. "Where are you?" Base had demanded. The survey ship gave its coordinates, and added, quite needlessly, "It's a helluvaplace."
The people of that planet had been trying for two centuries to have its name changed, but on all the official charts it was still Helluvaplace.
"Your sun, too," he called after Fornri. "We'll have to name that."
Three hours later they were in space, on their way to Fron, the sector capital. Protz looked back at the dwindling planet, and shook his head. "Langri. What do you suppose it means?"
On Fron, Dillinger reported to the sector governor. "So they call it Langri," the governor said. "And—you say they speak Galactic?"
"Speak it rather well, with a kind of provincial accent."
"Easily accounted for, of course. A ship touched down there some time in the past. People liked the place and stayed, maybe. Did you see any traces of such a ship, or ships?"
"No. We didn't see anything except what they wanted us to see."
"Yes. Awkward position you stumbled into. Not your fault, of course. But those survey men . . ." He shook his head. "What beats me is that they learned Galactic. Normally the aliens would learn the native language, unless there was a crowd of them. There is a native language, isn't there?"
"I can't say. I never heard any of them speak anything but Galactic. Of course I didn't hear them talking among themse
lves. They withdrew well out of hearing whenever they had to confer about something. But now that I think about it, I did overhear some kids speaking Galactic."
"Interesting." the governor said. "Langri—that must be a native word. I'd better attach a philologist to the staff we'll place there. I'd like to know how they happened to learn Galactic and keep on speaking it, and I'd like to know how long it's been since there were aliens in their midst. Very interesting."
"They're an intelligent people," Dillinger said. "They drove a good bargain, but they were very civilized about it. My orders say I'm to pick up an ambassador for Langri, and the personnel to form a permanent station there. Know anything about that?"
"I'll furnish the personnel for the station. The ambassador has been appointed, and he should be along in a few days. In the meantime, give your men some leave and enjoy yourselves."
A week later H. Harlow Wembling, Ambassador to Langri, waddled up the ramp to the Rirga, carrying his ample paunch like a ceremonial badge of honor. He bullied the duty officer, snarled at the crew, and, when Dillinger called at his quarters to pay his respects, demanded a member of the space navy to serve as his valet for the duration of his time on board.
Dillinger emerged wiping his brow, and gave Protz his precise opinion of the new ambassador in words that made the executive officer wince and rub his ears thoughtfully.
"Are you going to give him what he wants?" Protz asked.
"I told him," Dillinger said, still savoring his remarks, "I told him that the only person on board likely to have that much free time would be myself, and I lack the proper qualifications. It's too bad. It's really a shame."
"Oh, we'll be rid of him in no time."
"I was thinking of the natives on Langri. It's politics, of course. Wembling will be a party stalwart, getting paid off for years of loyal service and campaign donations. It happens all the time, and most of the appointees are decent enough. Some of them are even competent, but there's always the exceptional case where a man thinks the word Ambassador in front of his name elevates him forty degrees towards divinity. So why does our planet have to draw this one?"
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