All of the settlements, in fact, were in the northern hemisphere, in the middle latitudes. And it was here that the strangeness set in.
These settlements showed no signs of civilization whatever.
No use of artificial illumination at night had been sighted, nor were there evidently airships of any kind. The instruments had failed to detect any use of atomic energy. There were no metropolitan centers. And large segments of land were obviously in cultivation, apparently for food… more primitive than which it was impossible to imagine.
A bucolic world, on the face of it. A primitive paradise which had reverted to a pre-civilized agricultural level. Pity they couldn’t have been left to stagnate in peace.
Why the world had been left off the charts no one present could guess. The charts, carefully assembled, translated and transcribed after the New Empire had been built up from the rubble of the Dark Ages following the collapse of the Old Empire, had always been assumed to be correct. The Old Empire had burned itself out in its attempt to seed the stars with humanity, finally bringing about its own collapse and the Dark Ages that had followed by so doing. And during those Dark Ages, contact with the far-flung colonies had been lost. It was only now, five hundred years after the dissolution of the Old Empire, that once again Earth was master of space. Now once again the Protectorate was being expanded, and the Lost Colonies were being rediscovered and reintegrated into the Empire.
The other five Scientists monotoned slowly through their reports, and then Glorring turned inquisitively to Cahann. “You’ve heard,” he said. “What do you think? Are these people peaceful, or are they warlike?”
Cahann shook his head. “I have no idea,” he said. “I can’t tell much about their social structure from what I’ve just heard. They’re pre-industrial, obviously, and it doesn’t seem as though their number can be very large. But we don’t have any records. We don’t know who founded the colony, how long ago, under what kind of charter, or with what sort of original population. In this situation, there’s only one way for me to learn anything, and that’s to go down and take a look.”
Glorring considered, his bullet head bowed in thought. At last, he said, “You have to see these natives in person, is that it?” Cahann nodded.
“Very well. We will land near one of the larger settlements, and you will leave the ship. You will spend one hour studying the natives, and then you will return. If you have not returned in that time, we will make every effort to rescue you.”
“Thank you,” murmured Cahann.
Strull was suddenly active, whispering into His Excellency’s ear. Glorring nodded.
“You will have an enlisted man with you,” he told Cahann. “To protect you,” he lied blandly.
“Thank you,” said Cahann, deadpan, not looking at Strull.
II
Elan and Brent sat together in their cubicle on block six. They had felt the speed-transition, and knew now that the ship was moving in normal speed. But that was all they knew. It didn’t seem as though they had come out of FTL for a Colony, since they hadn’t been put on battle standby, and of course conflicting rumors were spreading throughout the block, and of course none of the Marines actually had any idea at all what was going on. All they could do now was wait.
Elan was using this time to good advantage, shining his combat boots. At twenty, he was tall and slender. Marine life had made him lean and physically hard. It had also taught him the knack of the impassive face, and it had trained him in patience.
He had, like everyone else on Earth, been taken into the service on his sixteenth birthday. After one year of training and an additional year of garrison duty on Earth, he had been assigned to the Lawrence for the rest of his twelve-year tour.
He had had trouble adapting to the military life at first. Having been born and raised in the Adirondacks of North America, still the most backward area of Earth, the tight quarters which had seemed so natural to the men from more metropolitan regions had depressed him for a long while, though he had gradually grown used to them.
Brent broke a rather lengthy silence between them by saying, “You never know. It might be a Lost Colony after all. I sure hope so.”
“It might be,” said Elan non-commitally. He didn’t sound as pleased as Brent, but then he wasn’t a reconvert, and reconverts were always pleased, always happy.
Reconvert: Former enemy impressed into the service to bring the force back up to strength after a military engagement. Surgical and psychological reconversion, taking five days, was necessary to make such a former enemy a willing and malleable Marine. There was, of course, a good deal lost insofar as initiative, intelligence and personality were concerned, but the remainder was a good Marine.
“I sure hope it’s a Lost Colony,” said Brent. “I’d be glad to get back into action.”
Elan looked at his friend. Brent’s squarish face had the bland smile and smooth complexion of the reconvert, and he sat stolidly on his bunk, body completely at rest. In the year and a half that Brent had been on the ship, Elan had never seen any other expression or any other emotion on Brent’s face. The reconverts could only be happy.
A trace of wistfulness came into Elan’s voice: “You know, Brent, in a way you’re lucky.”
“Sure I’m lucky,” said Brent, happily but without surprise. “Good ship, good outfit, good chow. And every once in a while a chance to see some good action.”
“That isn’t what I meant,” said Elan. “I meant—” he groped for words — “you don’t ever worry, ever feel sad or lonely or afraid.”
“Sure,” smiled Brent. “It’s a great life, Elan.”
“I could volunteer,” said Elan softly, as though talking to himself. “They’d reconvert me if I asked. But I’d lose an awful lot, wouldn’t I?”
“Still be the same great outfit,” said Brent. “We’d still be here, buddy.”
“But I wouldn’t be the same.” Elan looked down at himself, wearing off-duty uniform, and then gazed out the open side of the cubicle at the other Marines he could see. All alike, every one of them. Only the faces were different. And even there the differences were small, minimized by the deadpan encouraged by the officers.
The thing that he had, that was him, that made him unique and different from anyone else — was there any real reason to keep it, if it only gave him pain?
There was only one answer to that. While he gloomily studied it S/2nd Carr, the flight leader, stuck his head into the cubicle and barked, “Elan! Dress uniform on the double and report to Personnel Hatch.”
Elan looked up, astonished. “Sir?”
“Don’t ask me, all I know is you’re going outside. On the double. No weapons.”
“Outside,” said Elan.
“Maybe there won’t be any fight,” said Brent, and it was clear that upset him, but he was still smiling happily.
Cahann leaned against the wall by the open personnel hatch, and pointedly ignored Strull. At the last moment, it had been decided to send the adjutant along. Neither one of them was happy about it.
In a way, Cahann reflected, it didn’t matter whether Strull and the enlisted man came along or not. He could still make every effort to explain the situation to the natives, to try to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, convince them that capitulation was their only defense.