“Well, for the present,” Maith said, “I think I’m holding them off. The Civil Government doesn’t want the responsibility of keeping them in custody, I refused to assume responsibility for them if they were kept anywhere else, and Kovac simply won’t consider releasing them, so that leaves things as they are. I did have to make one compromise, though.” That didn’t sound good. It sounded less so when Maith continued: “They insisted on having one of their people at the Suzikami Building as an observer. I had to grant that.”
“That’s going to mean trouble.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so. This observer will observe, and nothing else. She will take no part in anything you’re doing, will voice no objections, and will not interrupt anything you are saying to the shoonoon. I was quite firm on that, and the governor general agreed completely.”
“She?”
“Yes. A Miss Edith Shaw; do you know anything about her?”
“I’ve met her a few times; cocktail parties and so on.” She was young enough, and new enough to Kwannon, not to have a completely indurated mind. On the other hand, she was E.E.T.A. which was bad, and had a master’s in sociography from Adelaide, which was worse. “When can I look for her?”
“Well, the governor general’s going to screen me and find out when you’ll have the shoonoon on hand.”
Doesn’t want to talk to me at all, Miles thought. Afraid he might say something and get quoted.
“For your information, they’ll be here inside an hour. They will have to eat, and they’re all tired and sleepy. I should say ’bout oh-eight-hundred. Oh, and will you tell the governor general to tell Miss Shaw to bring an overnight kit with her. She’s going to need it.”
He was up at 0400, just a little after Beta-rise. He might be a civilian big-wheel in an Army psychological warfare project, but he still had four newscasts a day to produce. He spent a couple of hours checking the 0600 ’cast and briefing Harry Walsh for the indeterminate period in which he would be acting chief editor and producer. At 0700, Foxx Travis put in an appearance. They went down to the fourth floor, to the little room they had fitted out as command-post, control room and office for Operation Shoonoo.
There was a rectangular black traveling-case, initialed E. S., beside the open office door. Travis nodded at it, and they grinned at one another; she’d come early, possibly hoping to catch them hiding something they didn’t want her to see. Entering the office quietly, they found her seated facing the big viewscreen, smoking and watching a couple of enlisted men of the First Kwannon Native Infantry at work in another room where the pickup was. There were close to a dozen lipstick-tinted cigarette butts in the ashtray beside her. Her private face wasn’t particularly happy. Maybe she was being earnest and concerned about the betterment of the underpriviledged, or the satanic maneuvers of the selfish planters.
Then she realized that somebody had entered; with a slight start, she turned, then rose. She was about the height of Foxx Travis, a few inches shorter than Miles, and slender. Light blond; green suit costume. She ditched her private face and got on her public one, a pleasant and deferential smile, with a trace of uncertainty behind it. Miles introduced Travis, and they sat down again facing the screen.
It gave a view, from one of the long sides and near the ceiling, of a big room. In the center, a number of seats—the drum-shaped cushions the natives had adopted in place of the seats carved from sections of tree trunk that they had been using when the Terrans had come to Kwannon—were arranged in a semicircle, one in the middle slightly in advance of the others. Facing them were three armchairs, a remote-control box beside one and another Kwann cushion behind and between the other two. There was a large globe of Kwannon, and on the wall behind the chairs an array of viewscreens.
“There’ll be an interpreter, a native Army sergeant, between you and Captain Travis,” he said. “I don’t know how good you are with native languages, Miss Shaw; the captain is not very fluent.”
“Cushions for them, I see, and chairs for the lordly Terrans,” she commented. “Never miss a chance to rub our superiority in, do you?”
“I never deliberately force them to adopt our ways,” he replied. “Our chairs are as uncomfortable for them as their low seats are for us. Difference, you know, doesn’t mean inferiority or superiority. It just means difference.”
“Well, what are you trying to do, here?”
“I’m trying to find out a little more about the psychology back of these frenzies and swarmings.”
“It hasn’t occurred to you to look for them in the economic wrongs these people are suffering at the hands of the planters and traders, I suppose.”
“So they’re committing suicide, and that’s all you can call these swarmings, and the fire-frenzies in the south, from economic motives,” Travis said. “How does one better oneself economically by dying?”
She ignored the question, which was easier than trying to answer it.
“And why are you bothering to talk to these witch doctors? They aren’t representative of the native people. They’re a lot of cynical charlatans, with a vested interest in ignorance and superstition—”
“Miss Shaw, for the past eight centuries, earnest souls have been bewailing the fact that progress in the social sciences has always lagged behind progress in the physical sciences. I would suggest that the explanation might be in difference of approach. The physical scientist works with physical forces, even when he is trying, as in the case of contragravity, to nullify them. The social scientist works against social forces.”
“And the result’s usually a miserable failure, even on the physical-accomplishment level,” Foxx Travis added. “This storm shelter project that was set up ten years ago and got nowhere,
