“Why the devil are they allowed to break the cases?”
The Space Force major winced under the unmistakable lash of authority, then recovered and stared at the lean civilian.
“I thought, Mr.—ah—Fisher, that you had been thoroughly briefed on this procedure.”
“So did I,” said the colonel shortly. “But no one mentioned this piece of insanity. I knew there was pilferage and outright robbery, and I knew your cargoes are trans-shipped over the local transportation system. But no one bothered to tell me that the cargoes are broken out of their shipping crates and transferred to other containers. What’s the point? What’s wrong with the original shipping cases?”
“They are in advance of local technology.”
“What of it?” said the colonel.
The major frowned, seeking to explain to himself Fisher’s civilian capacity, military bearing, and obvious authority.
The colonel, unaware of the effect he was creating, thrust out his jaw.
The major squinted at the card the colonel had handed him on arrival:
INTERSTELLAR
INVESTIGATIONS
CORPORATION
L. L. Fisher
Chief Regional Operative
The card had a picture of the civilian on it, a miniature set of fingerprints, retinal patterns, and other identifying data, and the warning, “THIS IS A TIMED CARD. CARRY OUT YOUR IDENTIFICATION WITHIN ONE HOUR OF RECEIPT.”
The major seemed to have heard of something called Interstellar Investigations, which now and then came into the news when it nailed some particularly troublesome operator. Nevertheless, no detective, Chief Regional Operative or otherwise, would have occasion to develop that ring of command, and that manner of authority. It was that that bothered the major. His instincts told him that he was dealing with a military man, and one of comparatively high rank. The civilian clothes and the card didn’t prove a thing. The orders the major had received, instructing him to cooperate with one L. L. Fisher of the Interstellar Investigations Corporation, who was “assisting the Space Force in attempting to trace losses incurred in shipment,” and so on—all that was so much humbug. It came to the major like a bolt of lightning that, somewhere in the Space Force, someone of very high rank had gotten wind of the stink off Terex, and had either come himself to investigate, or had sent a trusted member of his staff—whoever it was, was now standing there in disguise right beside the major; the disguise no more concealed his real nature than a necklace of flowers on a tiger—but, of course, the major had to act as if it fooled him.
With a puff and a sudden heat, the identification card burst into dust. The major shook his hand, and took a deep breath.
“Ah—Well, you see, Mr. Fisher, this is typical of our whole problem on this planet. In one way or another, the locals nullify the advantages of our technology.”
“What’s the pretext for breaking the shipments out of all those cases?”
“The locals have strict regulations for containers to be used on their transportation system. They make their cases out of solid wood and iron. They specify a certain minimum thickness for each size of keg, barrel, drum, crate, or what-have-you. Well, our cases are stronger. But their standards are applied arbitrarily. They won’t let our cases be used on the planet—because they are of inferior weight and thickness.”
The colonel looked down on the reloading line. As he watched, he could catch the quick movements as grenades, small hand weapons, and magazines disappeared under the loose cloaks. He began to see other things, too, such as skillful wielders of hammers and chisels who opened cases of rifles, and deftly knocked sights out of line as they transferred the weapons. Five hand-launchers came out of one case, and went into a barrel that would only accommodate four of them without jamming. The little bag containing the firing pins vanished into a Terexian cloak. Onto these containers, the shipping labels were slapped in odd positions. Doubtless these containers would not be pilfered en route. Meanwhile, over in a corner at the far end of the line, half-a-dozen of the locals were bent over a kind of keg, feeding in what looked like a length of thin wire off a small roll; now a grenade went in, and the Terexians carefully pressed the cover down, pulled out some of the wire, cut it off, and pushed the end back inside. What could that be but a booby trap?
Beside the colonel, Captain Finch of the H-ship stood, his concealed recorder taking down sight and sound.
The Space Force major was saying, ” . . . Obvious enough they’re robbing us, but we aren’t allowed to use our own loading crews. That would ‘deprive Terexian citizens of much-needed employment.’ If we take them to court, it’s our word against theirs, and any number of them will swear we’re lying. I could go right down there this minute, grab one of those loaders with a full harness, and I would be arrested for assault and battery. We need our own loading crews, our own courts—and our own transportation system, as a matter of fact. But that’s unthinkable. These are our ‘loyal allies in the fight against the guerrillas.’ By ‘giving them employment,’ we are ‘winning their gratitude, and gaining their loyalty in a most effective way.’ Sir, until we get PDA’s wishful thinking and propaganda out of the way, we’re going to get slaughtered on this planet.”
The colonel noted the “sir,” realized with a shock what had happened, and then accommodated himself to it in an instant.
“Never mind that,” he said. “Mr. Dexter and I, with our . . . ah . . . team of operatives . . . will do what we can to rectify this situation. Now, what we need is an enclosed building of some kind where we can get at a portion of the shipment before it goes through the loading line here.”
“Well, sir—”
“Mr. Fisher.”
“Yes, Mr. Fisher. Excuse me. There’s a sizable shed out back, that you could use. Of course, you’ll want to keep it secret that you’re using it. That poses a problem, but—”
“Not at all,” said the colonel. “We don’t want to keep it secret. We want it announced that a team of human experts has arrived to track down the source of the trouble. We want a published warning, over your signature, that any individual who comes into possession of any human military equipment should turn it in at once, for his own protection. Every shipment that goes through this center will have a big seal put on it, announcing that it is under the special protection of the Interstellar Investigations Corporation, and that secret hidden methods of extraordinary craft will be used to track down and punish anyone who unlawfully appropriates the contents.”
The Space Force major tried to look enthusiastic about this idea, gave up, and frankly looked sick.
“The last time anyone tried anything like that, the pilferage rate at that center went up to one hundred percent.”
The colonel smiled.
“Have faith in the Interstellar Investigations Corporation.”
“I’ll be a laughingstock for making the announcement.”
“A small sacrifice to make for the good of the service.”
The major looked pained, but nodded dutifully.
“Yes, Mr. Fisher.”
Having finished work at the loading center, the colonel and the H-ship captain went back to their ship. The colonel was mentally damning the haste with which this operation had been rushed through. He particularly damned himself for not insisting that reports, imperfect or not, be made up into an orientation. He had missed the obvious business about transferring weapons from one container to another, and there was no predicting what else he might have missed. As he and “Mr. Dexter” now approached the ship, he saw twenty or thirty Space Force men in battle dress debarking from a Space Force tender not far away. There were Terexian workers scattered all over the field, and some of them were doubtless spies.
The Space Force men formed a column of twos, and marched toward the H-ship, which was lettered:
INTERSTELLAR
INVESTIGATIONS
CORPORATION
“Mr. Dexter” said dryly, “Here we go, Mr. Fisher.”
The colonel nodded.
“Let me handle it, Mr. Dexter.”
The Space Force veterans came to a halt and faced to the front. The sergeant in charge glanced at his orders, and looked up in bafflement at the ship. Several Terexian laborers dawdled at their work as they shifted crates nearby, and shot furtive glances at the ship and the veterans.
The colonel stepped forward, and cleared his throat loudly.
The men looked around.
The colonel ran a finger around his uncomfortable collar, and looked at the sky, as if seeking inspiration.
“Gentlemen . . . ah . . . men—” He cleared his throat again. “We of the Interstellar Investigations Corporation have been called upon to use our modern techniques of detection, to . . . ah . . . ah . . . detect and track down those ill-advised few among the largely loyal native population who are attempting pilferage upon the Space Force, and, lacking sufficient trained man-power to carry out our scientific detection procedures, which I understand would not . . . ah . . . fit well with the cultural patterns of thought and action upon this planet, we have obtained permission to train and put to use combat personnel who are temporarily . . . ah . . . dismounted pending future assignment. Ahem.”