II
The spaceport was built on a hill, a hundred jungled kilometers from the planet’s chief city, for the benefit of the Betelgeuseans. A few ancient Pulaoic ships were also kept at that place, but never used.
“A hermit kingdom,” the bluefaced skipper had growled to Flandry in the tavern on Orma. “We don’t visit them very often. Once or twice a standard year a trading craft of ours stops by.” The Betelgeuseans were ubiquitous throughout this sector of space. Flandry had engaged passage on one of their tramp ships, as the quickest way to get from his completed assignment on Altai to the big Imperial port at Spica VI. There he would catch the Empress Maia, which touched on the homeward leg of her regular cruise. He felt he deserved to ride back to Terra on a luxury liner, and he was an accomplished padder of expense accounts.
“What do you trade for?” he asked. It was idle curiosity, filling in time until the merchant ship departed this planet. They were speaking Alfzarian, which scratched his throat, but the other being had no Anglic.
“Hides, natural fibers, and fruits, mostly. You’ve never eaten modjo fruit? Humans in this sector think it’s quite a delicacy; me, I wouldn’t know. But I guess nobody ever thought to take some as far as Terra. Hm-m-m.” The Betelgeusean went into a commercial reverie.
Flandry sipped raw local brandy and said, “There are still scattered independent colonies left over from the early days. I’ve just come from one, in fact. But I’ve never heard of this Unan Besar.”
“Why should you? Doubtless the astronautical archives at sector HQ, even at Terra, contain mention of it. But it keeps to itself. And it’s of no real importance, even to us. We sell a little machinery and stuff there; we pick up the goods I mentioned; but it amounts to very little. It could amount to more, I think, but whoever controls the planet doesn’t want that.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s obvious. They have one wretched little spaceport for the whole globe. Antiquated facilities, a few warehouses, all stuck way to chaos out in the woods—as if spaceships were still spewing radiation! Traders aren’t permitted to go anywhere else. They aren’t even furnished a bunkhouse. So naturally, they only stay long enough to discharge a consignment and load the exchange cargo. They never meet anyone except a few officials. They’re not supposed to speak with the native longshoremen. Once or twice I’ve tried that, in private, just to see what would happen. Nothing did. The poor devil was so frightened that he ran. He knew the law!”
“Hm.” Flandry rubbed his chin. Its scratchiness reminded him he was due for his bimonthly dose of antibeard enzyme, and he shifted to stroking his mustache. “I wonder they even let you learn their language.”
“That happened several generations ago, when our traders first made contact. Anglic was inconvenient for both parties—Oh, yes, a few of their aristocrats know Anglic. We sell them books, newstapes, anything to keep their ruling class up to date on what’s happening in the rest of the known galaxy. Maybe the common people on Unan Besar are rusticating. But the overlords are not.”
“What are they doing, then?”
“I don’t know. From space, you can see it’s a rich world. Backward agricultural methods, odd-looking towns, but crammed with natural resources.”
“What sort of planet is it? What type?”
“Terrestroid. What else?”
Flandry grimaced and puffed a cigarette to life. “You know how much that means!”
“Well, then, it’s about one A.U. from its sun. But that’s an F2 star, a little more massive than Sol, so the planet’s sidereal period is only nine months and its average temperature is higher than Terra or Alfzar. No satellites. Very little axial tilt. About a ten-hour rotation. A trifle smaller than Terra, surface gravity oh-point-eight gee. As a consequence, fewer uplands: smaller continents, lots of islands, most areas rather low and swampy. Because of the weaker gravity and higher irradiation, it actually has less hydrosphere than Terra. But you’d never know that, what with shallow seas and heavy clouds everywhere you look. . . . Uh, yes, there’s something the matter with its ecology also. I forget what, because it doesn’t affect my species, but humans need to take precautions. Can’t be too serious, though, or the place wouldn’t have such a population. I estimate a hundred million inhabitants—and it was only colonized three centuries ago.”
“Well,” said Flandry, “people have to do something in their spare time.”
He smoked slowly, thinking. The self-isolation of Unan Besar might mean nothing, except to its dwellers. On the other hand, he knew of places where hell’s own kettle had simmered unnoticed for a long time. It was hard enough—impossible, actually—to keep watch on those four million suns estimated to lie within the Imperial sphere itself. Out here on the marches, where barbarism faded into unknownness, and the agents of a hostile Merseia prowled and probed, any hope of controlling all situations grew cold indeed.
Wherefore the thumb-witted guardians of a fat and funseeking Terra had stopped even trying, thought Flandry. They should make periodic reviews of the archives, sift every Intelligence report, investigate each of a billion mysteries. But that would require a bigger Navy, he thought, which would require higher taxes, which would deprive too many Terran lordlings of a new skycar and too many of their mistresses of a new syntha-gem bracelet. It might even turn up certain facts on which the Navy would have to act, which might even (horrors!) lead to full-scale fighting somewhere. . . .
Ah, the devil with it, he thought. I’ve just come from a mission the accounts of which, delicately exaggerated, will make me a celebrity at Home. I have several months’ unspent pay waiting. And speaking of mistresses—
But it is not natural for a human planet to cut itself off from humanity. When I get back, I’d better file a recommendation that this be checked up on.
Though I’m hardly naive enough to think that anyone will act on my bare suspicion.
“Where,” said Captain Flandry, “can I rent a space flitter?”