A strongly built officer, standing by a three-dimensional display panel, speaking into a small hand microphone, turned to face Doyle.
“Sir?”
“Change squadron course for Marshak III. Maximum squadron acceleration. Condition Three.”
“Yes, sir.”
Doyle looked back at the screen.
“You say you expect war if the work crew isn’t stopped?”
“I do. Experience tells me we’re right on the edge of an ugly situation. I can’t prove it. I can’t even show proof why this planet shouldn’t be classified in the A series. The dominant race is a large, obviously powerful and dangerous carnivore. But it has no visible technology or artifacts of any kind. To classify this planet as I think it should be classified, I have to show: a) advanced technological skills; b) complex social organization; c) a highly-developed language. I haven’t been able to find so much as a stone ax on the planet, so I can’t claim ‘technological skills’; their ‘social organization’ is on about the level of the lion’s, so that doesn’t count; I know perfectly well that they communicate with each other, so it follows that they’ve got a highly-developed language—but my linguistic analysis experts insist the creatures only make ‘simple repetitive sounds’ when I know they’re talking. But I’m not allowed to make a subjective judgement. Classification has to be based on objective facts.”
“What makes you so sure the animals are dangerous?”
“These creatures—we call them Marcats—Marshak III Cats, that is—these Marcats are built a lot like tigers. You can’t see them without knowing they’re dangerous. But it goes beyond that. This planet has things on it that make Tyrannosaurus rex look like a lap dog. But they don’t bother the Marcats. Nothing bothers the Marcats. If the Marcats feel like going for a stroll through a place thick with carnivorous monsters, why, they go for the stroll. And all the other carnivores come piling out in a hurry.”
“What do you think will happen if the construction work isn’t stopped?”
“There’s going to be a sudden mess of trouble. The one known art form that the Marcats have is what you might call a . . . ah . . . well, ‘community singing.’ Hundreds of them get together from time to time, and have a . . . a concert, you might call it. The place where the local Marcats have this concert is at a natural amphitheater in low hills not too far from here. The Marcats like this place. In fact, I don’t think it would be too much to say it’s sacred ground with them. Well, Krojac Construction plans to level this natural amphitheater tomorrow, to start work on a centrally located Administration Complex for a big rest and refit center they’re putting up for colonists using the main-trunk transport route that’s going to go right past here.”
“And you think the Marcats will retaliate?”
“I know they’ll retaliate. All hell will break loose. But Krojac and his hired blockheads are so thick in the skull they think the Marcats are just a kind of big pussycat. Krojac figures to grab this planet, run up his big rest and refit complex on the ground and in orbit, and use the planet to get leverage on future out-bound commerce and construction in this sector. He made low bid on the R and R contract, and for his purposes this planet is ideal. The maddening thing about it is, I can’t prove a thing. And I’ve only got one week till the mandatory deadline for planetary classification runs out. If I can’t find some way to prove my point, I’ll have to classify this planet A-10: ‘Physical environment ideal; primitively dangerous biological entities.'”
Doyle said, “Wait a minute. Why can’t you classify the planet as you think it should be classified?”
“Because I have to operate according to very strict rules. These rules were set up to eliminate the natural tendency of a planetary classification man to let his sympathies for the local life forms run away with him. There have been cases where human colonists were turned away because the classification team found the local race lovable, or didn’t want the idyllic scenery disturbed. So to prevent false classifications, the rules are ironclad.”
Doyle frowned. “So all I can do is to hold the crisis off for a week? Then you’ll be forced to classify the planet A-10, Krojac Construction will move in, the Marcats will attack the construction teams, and I’ll have to attack the Marcats?”
Lindell looked unhappy. “At worst, yes. But I’m still hoping to straighten this out. If I can prove the dominant local species has a highly-developed language, but has no developed technology or social structure, then we have an anomalous situation, which will justify me in classing the planet in the U series. I’ve sent for PDA’s advanced new linguistics computer, the LC-10,000. If the LC-10,000 arrives here in time, I’m sure I can straighten out the whole thing. But I have got to keep Krojac Construction from touching off an explosion before the LC-10,000 gets here.”
Doyle scowled. “Let’s see if I have this straight. This LC-10,000 is a new linguistics computer?”
“Right. The LC-10,000 is the ultimate authority on language. It contains the sum total of all that humanity has ever learned about language. It knows, in absolute and perfect detail, everything about every known human and nonhuman language in the known universe. Its receptors are capable of picking up the finest and most complex sounds, of whatever loudness or pitch, without exception. And its micropicominiaturized directed-pulse quasi-fibril potential circuits, with their sextillions of switching elements cooled in baths of liquid helium—Well, if it’s language, believe me, the LC-10,000 will recognize it in a flash. My troubles are over if I can just get the LC-10,000 here. And I’ve put the request in the strongest possible terms. But meanwhile, Colonel, I have to keep Krojac from leveling that amphitheater. That’s the fuse on the bomb.”
Doyle nodded. “I’ll get in touch with Interstellar Construction.”
Lindell looked worried.
“Look, Colonel, Krojac is a shrewd customer. He may say—”
Doyle shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what he says. You’ve formally requested that he be prevented from starting construction work on an unclassified planet. You’re head of the authorized PDA classification unit on the planet. Regulations state that I will enforce your ban on unauthorized activities on the planet. I will, therefore, enforce the ban. That’s all there is to it.”
Lindell looked relieved, thanked Doyle, and broke the connection.
Doyle got in touch with the headquarters ship of the Interstellar Construction Corporations. This turned out to be a gigantic self-contained globular office-building and nerve-center for Krojac Enterprises, Inc. A series of suavely-assured individuals informed Doyle that Mr. Krojac could not be disturbed at the moment, but that if he wished to request an appointment, it would be duly considered by Mr. Krojac’s appointments secretary.
Doyle then sent a formal message warning that any construction or earth-moving work on the planet Marshak III had been banned by duly-constituted authority, and he, Doyle, would enforce the ban, using whatever degree of force was necessary.
The message had hardly gone out when a reply, couched in legal phraseology, with references to authorities of all degrees of obscurity, began to come in. This reply ran to sixty-two single-spaced pages, and neither Doyle nor any of his officers could either understand it as it stood, or break it down into anything they could understand.
Doyle promptly sent a second message, warning in tough language that his first message stood unchanged.
A call shortly came on the communicator, and a long-faced individual with lightly-oiled wavy hair introduced himself as “J. Hale Reagan, special consultant to Mr. Krojac.” Holding by his thumb and forefinger two slips of yellow message paper, J. Hale Reagan looked at Doyle with slightly raised eyebrows and an expression around the nostrils as if he smelled rotten fish.
“I’m sorry to say, Mr. Doyle, that these messages of yours are quite unacceptable. I can scarcely believe that a person of your potential rank and attainments would choose to put himself on record in regard to Mr. Krojac in such a fashion.”
As Doyle looked on, J. Hale Reagan, against a background of what appeared to be a cocktail party, with a well-known senator just behind his left shoulder, and a Space Force general a little farther back, slowly touched the flame of a cigarette lighter to the two yellow slips of paper, dropped them into an oversized ashtray, and looked pointedly at Doyle.
“I couldn’t possibly forward such messages to the captain of this ship, and I most certainly will not waste Mr. Krojac’s time with them. I think we’d better just forget all this.”
Doyle found himself looking at an empty screen. He was in such a frame of mind that he didn’t trust himself to do a thing for a minute-and-a-half.
Then he sent for copies of the two previous messages, and changing the wording just slightly, sent a third message that said the same thing.