From the forest came a chittering bark, like anthropomorphic laughter.
Saxon shivered, remembering the thing that chittered, the three-inch
fangs and the talons. "Hardly," he lied. "That, incidentally, was a
Narl. Herbivore, very harmless."
Madsen walked past him, towards the supplies.
Saxon moved among the colonists, shaking hands, congratulating,
speaking of green fields and good crops and a virgin planet where every
man could carve an empire. These last moments were the worst, when you
said goodbye, knowing that thirty percent of them would be dead within
the week. He saw Madsen opening a supply case. _Damn him! Just three
more minutes!_
The last crew member dumped his load and hurried into the airlock.
Saxon started casually after him, too late. Madsen stood there, his
grin taut, nailed on.
"Primitive pre-fab shelters," he said thickly. "Axes and seeds! The
city was a lie. We're on our own, is that it? _Why--_"
Saxon's palm flashed and Madsen fell writhing. There were shouts, hands
clawing at him as he tore free, sprinting for the ship.
_Always running_, he thought bitterly. _I'm getting old._
* * * * *
He walked through the silent corridors of the ship, a lonely figure
in the black uniform of the Inhibition Corps, and once he stared
through the porthole at Eden XXI, a mottled sphere receding into the
star-frosted night. His mouth twisted. Conceive a colony in fear, breed
it in terror. Watch it adapt, grow. If it grows too fast, hurt it. Hurt
it with disease, famine, dictatorship. If it keeps growing--destroy it.
The captain came down the corridor and stood at respectful attention
before the black uniform. "Stereo call, Commander. Prime Base."
Saxon slowly went to his cabin. The stereo panel was flashing steady
crimson to designate top priority and he restrained a savage impulse
to shut the thing off. He slumped in the control chair, and the tri-di
image of a man at a desk slowly coalesced. It was a granite-featured
old man with eyes like blue ice, and Saxon's head snapped sharply
erect. It was Primus Gant, Corps Director. At ninety parsecs Gant's
features were slightly hazed, but his voice was clear, sharp as a sword.
"Report, Commander."
"My extrapolation went through an hour ago. Also my resignation."
Nothing moved in Gant's face or his eyes. Saxon said stiffly,
"Planetfall uneventful. Area inimical. Initial shock conception,
probable God-betrayal mythology by fourth generation. Those things
in the forest should get thirty percent of them the first week.
Weaponless, they'll run. The two to one female ratio should make for an
agricultural matriarchy by the sixth generation. Recommend intermittent
check at that time." He took a slow angry breath. "Why didn't we give
them weapons?"
Gant's smile was acid. "Because we haven't yet tried an agricultural
matriarchy, Commander. Because the lower the initial survival factor,
the slower the culture development. Getting squeamish?"