MacIntyre went on, “A message like this should be relayed, without delay, straight to our HQ in this sector. That’s routine. The booby trap in the setup is that the Stellar Scout Department is a part of Planetary Development Administration. This message will get distributed like lightning, so many copies to Planet Certification, so many to the Colonization Council, so many to Central Records, and one copy to Space Force HQ in this sector.”
“Yeah,” said Connely. “I see what you mean.”
“Good,” said MacIntyre. “Then maybe you can help me figure it out. There are only two possibilities. Either what is on that planet is as dangerous as it sounds, or it isn’t. In either case, you have to bear in mind that the Space Force and Planetary Development do not have the sweetest possible relationship with each other. If the planet is dangerous, it’s going to look suspicious that I am out here. A sector chief hardly ever goes out on a scouting trip. I’m only here because I got tangled up with a new piece of equipment, and couldn’t get loose before the ship took off. That’s the truth. But it’s an unlikely kind of an accident, and nobody is going to believe it. Word is going to get around that I knew there was trouble here, and came out to check before sending in the alarm. That’s a serious offense. There will be an investigation. Regardless how the investigation turns out, the Space Force will get considerable mileage out of it.”
Connely nodded. “There’s no doubt about that.”
“Or,” said MacIntyre, “alternatively, the place may turn out not to be dangerous. Nevertheless, the Space Force is going to rush here all set up for a fight. Big cruisers will be roaring all over the place. Monitors will be orbiting the planet ready to knock off anything that tries to get away. They’ll have the solar beam reflectors all set up ready, in case of trouble. Now, if they get all that stuff up out here, and it turns out there’s nothing more dangerous on the planet than a chipmunk, Planetary Development Administration is going to be in a mess.”
Connely nodded exasperatedly. In his mind, he could hear the wise commentators, and see the glaring headlines:
“NO EMERGENCY”
“PDA WRONG AGAIN”
“SPACE FORCE CHARGES BUNGLING.”
Connely could also see the news-sheets that would pop out of innumerable printers in countless homes as hurried husbands bolted breakfast and read:
” . . . Why was a PDA sector chief present at the scene of this latest bungling? Why does a mess like this follow right on the heels of the expensive uproar off Cygnes VI, and the disaster on Bemus III? Why must the public pay through the nose for the endless bickering and backbiting between these two monster organizations Planetary Development and the Space Force? Who is responsible? Careful analysis of the power struggle that took place at Cygnes showed without question that the local PDA official tried to mousetrap his opposite number in the Space Force. In this present instance, we actually find a high official of Planetary Development right on the spot, officiating as the misleading report was sent in. Was this intended to be another Cygnes? Or to be, like Bemus III, a planet officially approved for settlement by the Planetary Development Administration and all its octopoid bureaucratic subdivisions, from the Stellar Scouts through the confusingly named Planetary Development Authority to the oh-so-high-and-mighty Planet Certification Authority, but deadly to the helpless colonists who must trust PDA? Or was it another back-stab to the Space Force and the brave soldiers sent yet again to get PDA’s roasting chestnuts out of the fire? If Planetary Development is innocent, why was their Sector Chief already on the spot when this latest mess burst into the news? . . .”
The communicator beeped again, and said:
“Don’t land. Keep off this planet. For everybody’s sake as well as your own. Stay away.”
MacIntyre swore. “All right, Con. You see the problem. What’s your solution?”
Connely shrugged. “I’m no politician, Mac. But as far as I can see, once we relay that warning, the muck hits the fan. After that business on Cygnes, everybody’s a little—tense.”
“Yeah,” growled MacIntyre.
“On the other hand,” said Connely tentatively, “regulations say we’ve got to relay that message.” He looked at MacIntyre meaningfully. “As soon as we hear it, that is.
“Hm-m-m,” said MacIntyre thoughtfully.
The two men looked at each other.
“Of course,” said MacIntyre, “if we’d had the communicator, say . . . disassembled when we approached the planet, we wouldn’t have heard the message.”
“No,” said Connely. “That’s right. The message wasn’t sent out till our approach triggered off the satellite.”
“And then,” said MacIntyre, “with our communicator out of order, there’d be no need to relay the message.”
“Of course not,” Connely agreed. “We couldn’t relay it if we didn’t hear it. That’s common sense.”
The communicator said loudly, “Don’t land. Keep off this planet. For everybody’s sake as well as your own. Stay away.”
MacIntyre said tentatively, “Con, does the reception seem a little rough to you, as if something’s going out of whack?”
“Hm-m-m,” said Connely, “now that you mention it, it probably wouldn’t do any harm if we took a glance at the inside of the thing, would it?”
“An ounce of prevention,” said MacIntyre piously, “is worth a pound of cure. Now, let me help you get that inspection cover off.”
Several minutes later, parts of the communicator were spread out generously over Connely’s non-regulation gray rug.
“Probably,” said MacIntyre, “when we land on this planet, just for safety’s sake we ought to orbit an extra-powerful signal satellite. Then, at the mere touch of a button in the ship here, we could relay any warning—if, that is, any small warning satellite should happen to be up here. And meanwhile, if we didn’t cancel it periodically, the satellite would send out its emergency call.”
“Good idea,” said Connely. He glanced at the clouded blue and green planet in the viewscreen. “Of course, it doesn’t look dangerous.”
“No,” said MacIntyre. “And it probably isn’t, either.”
“Still, it’s a good idea,” said Connely. He went off to take care of it, relieved at the thought that the two monster bureaucracies were not about to come together in a head-on clash with him in the middle. Now it might be possible to get down to business.
A little later, they started down to the planet.
* * *
On their way down, they noted a number of small isolated villages on the screen, and a few fair-sized, medieval-looking cities widely scattered along the seacoast. Then Connely brought the ship down on a stretch of level grassland several dozen miles from a village built near the edge of a forest. His idea was to get a quiet look at the planet, and the natives, by sending out a few probes. Meanwhile, if there was any danger, it could hardly sneak up on the ship across that expanse of level land, and the detectors would spot anything airborne.
The ship had hardly settled down, however, when there was a noise in the corridor, and a yellow warning light began to flash. This yellow warning light told of activity by the IntruGrab, a device designed to seize intruders, and installed in the corridor near the inner air-lock door. So far, Connely had had nothing but trouble with the IntruGrab. Now, he looked out in the corridor to see its big globe halfway between ceiling and floor, and its metallic arms ranging far up and down the corridor.
Connely walked to the cross-corridor, saw nothing there, and decided that the IntruGrab had suffered a malfunction. He was happy to see that so far, at least, it made no effort to stuff him into the globe; but the metal arms snaking through the air around him were beginning to make him uneasy.
He was about to go back to the control room when he noticed a piece of roughly woven orange cloth on the floor of the corridor. He glanced around, wondering where that had come from, and bent to look at it.
This changed his angle of vision so that a glimpse of reflected light further up the corridor caught his attention. He stepped aside, to see, lying on the deck, a short, well-balanced dagger with no guard, and a thin double-edged blade that had been sharpened almost to a needle point. The lower third of the blade was snapped off, and lay close by. Frowning, Connely straightened. He’d had no such knife on board before, and the cloth, too, was strange. It followed that they must have come from outside. But the air lock was still shut.
Uneasily, Connely glanced around.
There was no one in sight in the corridor, but now from the direction of the control room came heavy breathing and a furious thumping sound. Connely dodged past the angled reinforcing members, and looked into the control room.