He blanked the screen. In the seat in front, the native pilot said: “Some contragravity up ahead, boss.” It sounded like two voices speaking in unison, which was just what it was. “I’ll have a look.”
The pilot’s hand, long and thin, like a squirrel’s, reached up and pulled down the fifty-power binoculars on their swinging arm. Miles looked at the screen-map and saw a native village just ahead of the dot of light that marked the position of the aircar. He spoke the native name of the village aloud, and added:
“Let down there, Heshto. I’ll see what’s going on.”
The native, still looking through the glasses, said, “Right, boss.” Then he turned.
His skin was blue-gray and looked like sponge rubber. He was humanoid, to the extent of being an upright biped, with two arms, a head on top of shoulders, and a torso that housed, among other oddities, four lungs. His face wasn’t even vaguely human. He had two eyes in front, close enough for stereoscopic vision, but that was a common characteristic of sapient life forms everywhere. His mouth was strictly for eating; he breathed through separate intakes and outlets, one of each on either side of his neck; he talked through the outlets and had his scent and hearing organs in the intakes. The car was air-conditioned, which was a mercy; an overheated Kwann exhaled through his skin, and surrounded himself with stenches like an organic chemistry lab. But then, Kwanns didn’t come any closer to him than they could help when he was hot and sweated, which, lately, had been most of the time.
“A V and a half of air cavalry, circling around,” Heshto said. “Making sure nobody got away. And a combat car at a couple of hundred feet and another one just at treetop level.”
He rose and went to the seat next to the pilot, pulling down the binoculars that were focused for his own eyes. With them, he could see the air cavalry—egg-shaped things just big enough for a seated man, with jets and contragravity field generators below and a bristle of machine gun muzzles in front. A couple of them jetted up for a look at him and then went slanting down again, having recognized the Kwannon Planetwide News Service car.
The village was typical enough to have been an illustration in a sociography textbook—fields in a belt for a couple of hundred yards around it, dome-thatched mud-and-wattle huts inside a pole stockade with log storehouses built against it, their flat roofs high enough to provide platforms for defending archers, the open oval gathering-place in the middle. There was a big hut at one end of this, the khamdoo, the sanctum of the adult males, off limits for women and children. A small crowd was gathered in front of it; fifteen or twenty Terran air cavalrymen, a couple of enlisted men from the Second Kwannon Native Infantry, a Terran second lieutenant, and half a dozen natives. The rest of the village population, about two hundred, of both sexes and all ages, were lined up on the shadier side of the gathering-place, most of them looking up apprehensively at the two combat cars which were covering them with their guns.
Miles got to his feet as the car lurched off contragravity and the springs of the landing-feet took up the weight. A blast of furnacelike air struck him when he opened the door; he got out quickly and closed it behind him. The second lieutenant had come over to meet him; he extended his hand.
“Good day, Mr. Gilbert. We all owe you our thanks for the warning. This would have been a real baddie if we hadn’t caught it when we did.”
He didn’t even try to make any modest disclaimer; that was nothing more than the exact truth.
“Well, lieutenant, I see you have things in hand here.” He glanced at the lineup along the side of the oval plaza, and then at the selected group in front of the khamdoo. The patriarchal village chieftain in a loose slashed shirt; the shoonoo, wearing a multiplicity of amulets and nothing else; four or five of the village elders. “I take it the word of the swarming didn’t get this far?”
“No, this crowd still don’t know what the flap’s about, and I couldn’t think of anything to tell them that wouldn’t be worse than no explanation at all.”
He had noticed hoes and spades flying in the fields, and the cylindrical plastic containers the natives bought from traders, dropped when the troops had surprised the women at work. And the shoonoo didn’t have a fire-dance cloak or any other special regalia on. If he’d heard about the swarming, he’d have been dressed to make magic for it.
“What time did you get here, lieutenant?”
“Oh-nine-forty. I just called in and reported the village occupied, and they told me I was the last one in, so the operation’s finished.”
That had been smart work. He got the lieutenant’s name and unit and mentioned it into his memophone. That had been a little under five hours since he had convinced General Maith, in Bluelake, that the mass labor-desertion from the Sanders plantation had been the beginning of a swarming. Some division commanders wouldn’t have been able to get a brigade off the ground in that time, let alone landed on objective. He said as much to the young officer.
“The way the Army responded, today, can make the people of the Colony feel a lot more comfortable for the future.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Gilbert.” The Army, on Kwannon, was rather more used to obloquy than praise. “How did you spot what was going on so quickly?”
This was the hundredth time, at least, that he had been asked that today.
“Well, Paul Sanders’ labor all comes from neighboring villages. If they’d just wanted to go home and spend
