"They haven't got much for weapons," Wembling said. "But they have enough to cut throats, and there's a hell of a lot of natives in this place if they all decide to come at me at once. And then, their mucking about the project is slowing things down. I want 'em kept out."
"I don't think your throat is in danger, but we'll do what we can to keep them out."
"Guess I can't ask more than that," Wembling said. He chuckled good-naturedly, and looped his arm through Vorish's.
Smith had sited his sentry posts to make a shrewd use of the infrequent irregularities in terrain. He had men at work now, clearing the ground for better visibility. Wembling sauntered along reviewing the results with the casual aloofness of an Admiral of the Fleet. Suddenly he pulled Vorish to a halt.
"This defense line of ours. We'll have to move it."
Vorish regarded him coldly. "Why?"
"In the next two or three weeks we're going to start work on the golf course. We wouldn't be able to get more than half of it this side of the line. Maybe not that much. So we'll have to move it. It wouldn't be safe to have my men working off by themselves. But there's no hurry—tomorrow will do."
"Supposing you tell me what you have in mind," Vorish said.
Wembling summoned a survey party, and they set out under the watchful eyes of a military escort. They moved west along the peninsula, which widened sharply until it became a part of the mainland. They pushed their way through the trees as the perspiring Wembling, enjoying himself immensely, gestured and talked his way around the prospective golf course.
An hour later Vorish took another look at the acreage the golf course was to occupy, and gave Wembling a flat refusal. "The line would be too long here," he said. "I wouldn't have enough men."
Wembling grinned. "The commander is always pulling my leg. You've got plenty of men. They're all down there on the beach."
"My men are working in shifts, just as yours are. If I put those men on guard duty, I won't have any relief for them."
"We both know you could set up an impassable defense that wouldn't require any men," Wembling said.
"We both know I'm not going to do it. Your men can work without naval protection. They'll be safe."
"All right. If that's the way you want it. But if anything happens to them—"
"There's one more thing," Vorish said. "What are you going to do about that abandoned native village where the eighth hole is supposed to be?"
Wembling gazed contemptuously at the distant huts. "Tear it down. Nobody lives there."
"You can't do that," Vorish said. "It's native property. You'll have to get permission."
"Whose permission?"
"The natives' permission."
Wembling threw back his head, and laughed uproariously. "Let 'em take it to court, if they want to waste their money. That last case must have cost 'em close to a hundred thousand, and know what their damages were? Seven hundred and fifty credits. The sooner they use up their money, the sooner they stop bothering me."
"My orders call for the protection of natives and native property just as I protect you and your property," Vorish said. "The natives won't stop you, but I will."
He strode away without looking back. He was in a hurry to get to his office on the Hiln, and have a talk with Lieutenant Charles. There was something he remembered reading, a long time ago, in his little-used manual of military government . . .
The days drifted by pleasantly, ruffled only by Wembling's violent protests whenever a native slipped through to slow down construction. Vorish kept an alert eye on Wembling's Operation Golf Course, and waited impatiently for some official reaction to his report on the Langri treaty.
Official reaction there was none, but Wembling's work-crew steadily sliced its way back into the forest. Trees were being hauled away to be cut into lumber. The delicately-speckled grain would make an exquisite and novel paneling for the hotel's interior.
The crew reached the deserted native village and worked completely around it. They made no effort to trespass, though Vorish saw them casting nervous glances in that direction from time to time, as though they hoped it would go away.
Making his morning rounds of the sentry posts, Vorish paused occasionally to turn his binoculars on the work around the village.
"You're sticking your neck out," Smith said. "I hope you realize that."
Vorish made no reply. He had his own opinion of naval officers who were unduly concerned for their necks. "There's Wembling," he said.
With his bodyguards panting on his heels, Wembling was moving at his usual fast pace across the cleared ground. His foreman came forward to meet him. Wembling spoke briefly, and pointed. The foreman turned to his men, and pointed. A moment later the first hut was overturned.
"Let's go," said Vorish.
Smith signaled a squad of navy men into action, and hurried after him. The men reached the village first, and cleared out Wembling's men. Wembling was frozen in impotent rage when Vorish arrived.
Vorish paused to study the row of toppled huts. "Did you have permission from the natives to do this?" he asked.
"Hell, no," Wembling said. "I've got a charter. What can they do about it?"
"Place these men under arrest," Vorish said, and turned away.
Somewhat to his surprise, Wembling said nothing. His aspect was that of a man thinking deeply.
Vorish confined Wembling to his tent, under arrest. He halted all work on the hotel. Then he forwarded a complete report on the incident to Naval Headquarters, and sat back to await results.
The indifference of headquarters to his Langri report had intrigued him. Had someone filed it way as unimportant, or was there a corrupt conspiracy high up in the government? Either way, injustice was being done. The natives wanted time for something they called the Plan. Vorish wanted time to call someone's attention to what was going on. It would be a shame to allow Wembling to finish his hotel while the report on the Langri situation lay in an underling's desk drawer.
With Wembling under arrest and the work stopped, Vorish watched in amusement while Wembling got off frantic messages to exalted persons high up in the Federation government.
"Now," Vorish told himself with satisfaction, "let's see them ignore Langri this time."
The days had added up to three weeks when Headquarters suddenly broke the silence. The battle cruiser Bolar was being dispatched, under Admiral Corning. The admiral would make an on-the-spot investigation.
"It doesn't sound as if you're being relieved," Smith said. "Do you know Corning?"
"I've served under him several times, at various places and ranks. You might call him an old friend."
"That's fortunate for you."
"It could be worse," Vorish admitted. He felt that he'd covered himself well, and Corning, even though he was crusty, temperamental and a stickler for accuracy, would not go out of his way to make trouble for a friend.
Vorish turned out an honor guard for the admiral, and received him with full ceremony. Corning stepped briskly down the ramp from the Bolar and glanced about approvingly.
"Glad to see you, Jim," he said, his eyes on one of Langri's inviting beaches. "Nice place here. Nice place." He turned to Vorish, and studied his tanned face. "And you've been making good use of it. You've put on weight."
"You've lost weight," Vorish said.
"Always was skinny," Corning said. "I make up for it in height. Did I ever tell you about the time—" He glanced at the circle of respectfully attentive officers, and dropped his voice. "Let's go where we can talk."
Vorish dismissed his men, and took Corning to his office in the Hiln. The admiral said nothing along the way, but his sharp eyes surveyed Vorish's defense arrangements, and he clucked his tongue softly.
"Jim," Corning said, as Vorish closed the door, "just what is going on here?"
"I want to give you some background," Vorish said, and told him about the treaty and its violation. Corning listened intently, muttering an occasional "Damn!"
&nb
sp; "You mean they took no official action on it at all?" he demanded.
"That's exactly what they did."
"Damn! Sooner or later somebody's head will roll over that. But it'll probably be the wrong head, and that treaty really has nothing to do with this mess you've gotten yourself into. Not officially, anyway, because officially the treaty doesn't exist. Now what's this nonsense about a few native huts?"
Vorish smiled. He felt that he was on firm ground there—he'd had a long conference with Fornri, exploring all of the angles. "According to my orders," he said, "I'm an impartial referee here. I'm to protect Federation citizens and property, but I am also to protect the natives against any infringements upon their customs, means of livelihood, and so on. Paragraph seven."
"I've read it."
"The idea is that if the natives are treated properly, Federation citizens and property are a lot less likely to need protection. That particular native village is more than just a collection of empty huts. It seems to have some religious significance to the natives. They call it the Teacher's Village, or some such thing."
"Teacher or leader," Corning said. "Sometimes they're the same thing to primitive peoples. That might make the village a kind of shrine. I take it that this Wembling busted right in and started tearing the place apart."
"That's what he did."
"And you warned him ahead of time that he should get the natives' permission, and he laughed it off. All right. Your conduct was not only proper, there—it was commendable. But why did you have to close the whole works down? You could have protected that village, and made him put his golf course somewhere else, and he would have screamed to high heaven without getting anything but laughed at. But you had to stop everything. Were you trying to get fired? You've cost Wembling a lot of time and a lot of money, and now he has a real grievance. And he's got plenty of influence."
"It isn't my fault if he wasted time and money," Vorish said. "I advised headquarters of my action immediately. They could have reversed that order any time they chose."
"That's just it. They didn't dare, because there was always a chance that things might blow up. They didn't know the situation here. You caused a pretty stew at headquarters. Why did you arrest Wembling, and keep him in his tent under guard?"
"For his own protection. He'd defiled a sacred place, and I'd be responsible if anything happened to him."
For the first time Corning smiled. "So that's the line. Not bad. It all comes down to a matter of judgment, and that makes it your opinion against Wembling's. You flip your coin and you take your choice, and no one who wasn't on the spot is entitled to vote." He nodded. "I'll follow that up in my report. Wembling stepped out of line. Definitely. The consequences might have been serious. I can't rightly say that your action was too drastic, because I wasn't here at the time. I don't exactly see what you were trying to do, or maybe I do, but I'll back you up as much as I can. I guess I can keep you from being shot."
"Oh," Vorish said. "So they were going to shoot me. I wondered."
"They were . . . they are . . . going to do their worst." Corning looked steadily at Vorish. "I don't much like it, but I have my orders. You'll return to Galaxia on the Hiln, under arrest—to stand court-martial. Personally I don't think you have much to worry about. I can't see them going ahead with it, but right now they think they want to try."
"I won't worry," Vorish said. "I've studied this thing through pretty carefully. I rather hope they try, though. I'll insist on a public court-martial, of course, and . . . but I'm afraid they won't do it. Anyway, I'm glad I'll be leaving Langri in capable hands."
"Not my hands," Corning said. "Not for long. The 984th Squadron is on its way now, to take over. Eleven ships. They're not taking any chance on this thing getting out of hand. The commander is Ernst Dillinger—just made admiral a few month ago. Know him?"
IV
The fishing boat was still in position, far out. Dillinger raised his binoculars, lowered them. As far as he could see, the natives were—fishing. He returned to his desk and sat gazing seaward at the fleck of color that was the sail.
The plush spaciousness of his office annoyed him. It was only his second day in the quarters Wembling had persuaded him to occupy in the completed wing of Hotel Langri, and he was spending most of his time pacing in out-sized circles about the work that piled up on his desk.
He was worried about the natives. He was worried about an enigmatic something or other which they called the Plan, and which they intimated would eventually sweep Wembling and his workers and his hotels right off the planet.
With Hotel Langri opening for business in a few months, and work already beginning on two other hotels, Dillinger knew that the legal expulsion of Wembling had become a flat impossibility. So what were the natives planning? Illegal expulsion? The use of force? With a squadron of the Space Navy standing by?
He got to his feet again and walked over the curved expanse of tinted plastic that formed the window. The fishing boat was still there. Every day it was there. But perhaps, as Protz suggested, the water off the point was merely a good place to fish.
His intercom clicked. "Mr. Wembling, sir."
"Send him in," Dillinger said, and turned towards the door.
Wembling entered jauntily, hand outstretched. "Morning, Ernie."
"Good morning, Howard," Dillinger said, blinking at Wembling's ridiculously patterned shirt.
"Come down to the lounge for a drink?"
Dillinger lifted a stack of papers from his desk, and dropped it. "Sure."
They walked down a palatial corridor to the lounge, and a uniformed attendant took their orders and brought the drinks. Dillinger idly stirred the ice in his glass and looked through the enormous window at the terrace, and the beach beyond. Wembling's landscaping crew had done its work well. Velvety grass and colorful shrubs surrounded the hotel. The pool, ready for use, stood deserted. Off-duty navy men and workers crowded the beach, and speared fish off the point.
Wembling prated enthusiastically over the progress he was making on his new sites, which were fifty miles down the coast in both directions.
"It's a headache to me, your scattering these sites all over the place," Dillinger said. "I have to guard them."
Wembling reached over and patted his arm. "You're doing a good job, Ernie. We haven't had any trouble since you took over. I'm putting in a good word for you where it'll do the most good."
"There's room for fifty hotels right here on the peninsula," Dillinger said. "Not to mention a few golf courses."
Wembling turned a veiled smile in his direction. "Politics and law," he murmured. "Stay away from both of them, Ernie. You have brains and talent, but it isn't that kind of brains and talent."
Dillinger flushed, and turned his gaze to the window again. The fishing boat was a mere speck on the horizon. It was probably drifting or sailing slowly, but it seemed motionless.
"Have you heard anything about Commander Vorish?" Wembling asked.
"The last I heard, he'd taken the Hiln on training maneuvers."
"Then—they didn't fire him?"
"They investigated him," Dillinger said with a grin. "But all he got was a commendation for handling himself well in a difficult situation. My guess is that any action against him would have resulted in publicity, and someone didn't want publicity. Of course I don't know anything about politics and law. Did you want Vorish fired?"
Wembling shook his head thoughtfully. "No. I had no grudge against him. There's no profit in grudges. We both had a job to do, but he went at his the wrong way. All I wanted was to get on with the work, and after he left I passed the word along to go easy on him. But I thought they'd kick him out of the navy, and if they did I wanted him back here on Langri. I think he understood these natives, and I can always use a man like that. I told him to get in touch with my Galaxia Office, and they'd make arrangements to get him back here. But I never heard from him."
"He didn't get fired. The next time you see him he'll probabl
y be an admiral."
"The same goes for you," Wembling said. "If you ever leave the navy, come back to Langri. I'm going to have a big enterprise to run here, and I'll need all the good men I can get. And good men aren't always easy to find."
Dillinger turned aside to hide his smile. "Thanks. I'll remember that."
Wembling slapped the table, and pushed himself erect. "Well, back to work. Chess tonight?"
"Better make it late," Dillinger said. "I've got to get that work cleaned up."
He watched Wembling waddle away. He had to admire the man. Even if he loathed him, and loathed his methods, he had to admire him. He got things done.
Protz was waiting for him when he got back to his office—Commander Protz, now, Captain of the Rirga, the flag ship of Dillinger's 984th Squadron. Dillinger nodded at him, and spoke into his intercom.
"I don't want to be disturbed." He switched it off, and turned to Protz. "What's the score."
"We're losing," Protz said. "It definitely didn't crash. According to the sentry, it came in for a perfect landing back in the forest. Wembling isn't missing a supply ship, and we know it didn't belong to us. The recon planes have been taking the tops out of the trees in that area, and they can't spot a thing."
"So it wasn't Wembling's," Dillinger said. Since he'd gotten the first report on the unidentified ship, at dawn that morning, he'd been thinking that it had to be Wembling's. He turned in his chair, and looked out to sea. "So the natives have visitors."
"Whoever it was, they were expected," Protz said. "They got the ship camouflaged in a hurry. Maybe they had a landing pit dug there."
"Wembling thinks someone in his supply fleet has been keeping the natives in touch with that attorney of theirs. I suppose we should have monitored the planet. But we'd have to leave a ship in orbit, and we've needed every man, with Wembling building hotels all over the place. Well, the ship is here. The question now, is—what is it doing?"
"Smuggling arms?"
"Just what we need to make this assignment interesting. Has Intelligence turned up anything?"
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