Chapter V

The families were on the move, away from their comfortable homes under the everlasting warmth of the sun. Luke Royceton shifted his weight in the copter and trained the glasses on a column of dust rising three miles to the west and ten thousand feet below.

“It’s okay, Harry,” he said to the pilot. “They’ve swung back north again.”

“Right, Luke,” the pilot replied. “Scout report just in says there’s a real big outfit about eighty miles settling down around a lake. Shall we hit them?”

“We the closest?”

“Singer’s forty miles the other side of them, but he’s tied up chasing some mavericks.”

“Let’s go then.”

Luke holstered his glasses and slid down into the cargo hold. The rest of the team were taking advantage of the lull in activity to catch up on their relaxation. They had been constantly on the go since the migrations had begun in earnest two months earlier. Luke kibitzed a card game for a few minutes, then announced: “Action coming up in about twenty minutes. Grab something to eat and run a check on your costumes.”

The copter dropped to treetop level five miles from the lake and came to ground four miles further on. The team piled out, stretched the tensions of the long ride out of their bodies, then started out through head-high dwarf trees that separated their landing spot from the lake. They wound through the trees and over a low, rolling series of hills. The cover stopped suddenly, two hundred yards from the beach.

“Big family is right!” said Luke softly, gripping his axe.

There were nearly fifty huts in various stages of construction along the beach. Twice that number of adult males were working on them, while the women were bringing in armloads of grass for thatching. The children were waist-deep in the lake with fishing spears. A still wriggling pile on the beach testified to their prowess.

Luke glanced over the dozen members of his team, shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “Those are pretty hefty odds.”

“What’s to worry about, Luke?” asked one of the men. “You don’t expect those characters to put up a fight, do you?”

“God only knows. They just might take it in their heads to do that. From looks of things, either this outfit has been traveling far or else several villages have combined forces. If it’s the last, then I’m plenty worried.”

“So what do we do? Go back and yell for reinforcements?”

“Not yet. Not until we try these babies ourselves. Everybody got his courage screwed up?” There were soft murmurs of assent from each man. “Make torches.” Two men faded away and returned a moment later with arms full of the same grass the villagers were using. Half the team set to work, twisting them into torches and tying them with short lengths of a twine-like vine they had brought along from the equatorial jungles. The torches were passed out, and Luke took a deep breath: “Let’s go!”

The team leaped to their feet and broke from the cover, screaming their banshee cry. The natives dropped what they were doing and wheeled around, then froze in their tracks at the sight of the wildly painted devils tearing down the beach. The two hundred yards separating them halved, then halved again before the natives broke out of their stupor. One of the workers placed his fingers between his teeth and whistled. The children ran in from the lake, tossing their spears to the nearest adult, man or woman.

By the time the team was among them, axes whistling through the air and smashing the walls of the huts, the villagers were armed and fighting back.

“We’ve got troubles!” yelled Luke, bringing his axe down to break several spears being jabbed at him. The spears were too short to make good throwing weapons, so the natives were using them just as they would in going after fish. One got through Luke’s guard; he choked back a cry of pain as the broad stone head went into his flesh and was twisted. He pulled away, yanking the shaft out of the native’s hand.

Two of the team had managed to get close enough to the cooking fires to light their torches. They used them now as shields, until the grass burned down to the handles. One then tossed his into the large pile of thatching material, while the other stuck his into the unplastered wall of the nearest hut. The thatching blazed up quickly, forcing the natives away from the heat. Most of the team now had their backs to the nearest wall; none had escaped the jabbing spears. One man was completely encircled by the natives. Suddenly his axe was wrenched from his grasp. They picked him up, legs flailing wildly in the air, carried him over and threw him onto the fire.

“Let’s get out of here!” screamed Luke, surprising those around him by suddenly leaping forward and grabbing two of them, forcing them off balance. He called on every ounce of strength he possessed to run through the gauntlet of spears. From the corner of his eye, he could see one other man break loose, only to be recaptured a dozen feet farther on.

By some miracle, Luke outdistanced those pursuing him, crashing into the cover. The natives followed a few yards, then gave up the chase, heading back to the easier sport on the beach.

Luke tripped over an exposed root and crashed to the ground. He tried to get up again, but his injured arm refused to support him. Closing his eyes, he waited for the fatal blow to fall.

Several minutes passed, during which Luke recited every prayer he had ever heard, to every conceivable deity in the pantheon. At the end of that time, he realized that he wasn’t going to die after all--at least, not here and now. Rolling over onto his good arm, he sat up and got his back against a tree. From the beach came screams of terror, growing fainter as he listened and finally dying away altogether. Bracing his good arm against a tree, he worked himself up, got himself oriented and started back towards the copter.

The pilot threw away his cigarette and dropped out of the door to the cargo hold when Luke came limping into view.

“My God, man! What happened?”

“I ... made a mistake.” He let himself be helped into the copter and took the mike, reporting the disaster on the beach to the Commandant back at Base. Then he let the pilot bandage his wounds.

“Eleven men dead,” he said bitterly.

“Don’t take it so hard, Luke,” said Andy Singer. The team Commanders were back in the debriefing room again. All had commiserated with Luke on the tragedy; none had been able to convince him that it had not been his fault.

“Eleven men dead,” he repeated, no matter what they said.

The commandant came in and they rose. “At ease, gentlemen,” he said, as he mounted the platform. He stared at them for a thirty-second eternity.

“Ours is not an easy task.” His words broke the tension; all sighed.

“There has been a tragic accident, gentlemen. Good men have died. Men just as good have died on a thousand planets in a thousand different ways. Sometimes they died because of an error; sometimes the death was unavoidable. But for whatever reason, they did not die in vain!

“This is a young planet,” he continued. “In many ways, it’s as near to paradise as any of us will ever see. Man is a young race here--young in development. Yet almost before he has a chance to prove himself, he has found himself in a backwater, stymied as it were by the very paradise qualities which attract us. Life is easy here, too easy. He doesn’t have to exert himself. He lives much like his ancestors did, ten thousand years ago.

“There is no future in standing still. Whether he likes it or not, man must develop, must give the future generations a chance for their place in the sun. Despite sentimentality, anything that gives them that chance is good. Therefore, I repeat: eleven men died here yesterday. They did not die in vain!“

“Time for a break, I think,” said Reilly, pressing a button. The door opened and the cadet Sergeant-Major stuck his head in.

“Sir?”

“Coffee, Sergeant. That will be suitable, gentlemen?” The boys nodded and the cadet withdrew.

“While we’re waiting, are there any more questions?”

One of the boys hesitantly raised his hand.

“Mr. Phillips?”

“Sir, why is so much of the activity by the agents carried out in secrecy? It all seems rather underhanded to me.”

“By the very nature of themselves, what we do must be carried out secretly. Even when we act openly, it is in secret...”