Trouble with the Natives

Trouble with the Natives by Arthur C. Clarke

The flying saucer came down vertically through the clouds, braked to a halt about fifty feet from the ground, and settled with a considerable bump on a patch of heather-strewn moorland.

“That,” said Captain Wyxtpthll, “was a lousy landing.” He did not, of course, use precisely these words. To human ears his remarks would have sounded rather like the clucking of an angry hen. Master Pilot Krtclugg unwound three of his tentacles from the control panel, stretched all four of his legs, and relaxed comfortably.

“Not my fault the automatics have packed up again,” he grumbled. “But what do you expect with a ship that should have been scrapped five thousand years ago? If those cheeseparing form-fillers back at Base Planet—”

“Oh, all right! We’re down in one piece, which is more than I expected. Tell Crysteel and Danstor to come in here. I want a word with them before they go.”

Crysteel and Danstor were, very obviously, of a different species from the rest of the crew. They had only one pair of legs and arms, no eyes at the back of the head, and other physical deficiencies which their colleagues did their best to overlook. These very defects, however, had made them the obvious choice for this particular mission, for it had needed only a minimum of disguise to let them pass as human beings under all but the closest scrutiny.

“Now you’re perfectly sure,” said the Captain, “that you understand your instructions?”

“Of course,” said Crysteel, slightly huffed. “This isn’t the first time I’ve made contact with a primitive race. My training in anthropology—”

“Good. And the language?”

“Well, that’s Danstor’s business, but I can speak it reasonably fluently now. It’s a very simple language and after all we’ve been studying their radio programmes for a couple of years.”

“Any other points before you go?”

“Er—there’s just one matter.” Crysteel hesitated slightly. “It’s quite obvious from their broadcasts that the social system is very primitive, and that crime and lawlessness are widespread. Many of the wealthier citizens have to use what are called ‘detectives’ or ‘special agents’ to protect their lives and property. Now we know it’s against regulations, but we were wondering…”

“What?”

“Well, we’d feel much safer if we could take a couple of Mark III disrupters with us.”

“Not on your life! I’d be court-martialled if they heard about it at the Base. Suppose you killed some of the natives—then I’d have the Bureau of Interstellar politics, the Aborignes Conservancy Board, and half a dozen others after me.”

“There’d be just as much trouble if we got killed,” Crysteel pointed out with considerable emotion. “After all, you’re responsible for our safety. Remember that radio play I was tell ing you about? It described a typical household, but there were two murders in the first half hour!”

“Oh, very well. But only a Mark II—we don’t want you to do too much damage if there is trouble.”

“Thanks a lot; that’s a great relief. I’ll report every thirty minutes as arranged. We shouldn’t be gone more than a couple of hours.”

Captain Wyxtpthll watched them disappear over the brow of the hill. He sighed deeply.

“Why,” he said, “of all the people in the ship did it have to be those two?”

“It couldn’t be helped,” answered the pilot. “All these primitive races are terrified of anything strange. If they saw us coming, there’d be general panic and before we knew where we were the bombs would be falling on top of us. You just can’t rush these things.”

Captain Wyxtpthll was absentmindedly making a cat’s cradle out of his tentacles in the way he did when he was worried.

“Of course,” he said, “if they don’t come back I can always go away and report the place dangerous.” He brightened considerably. “Yes, that would save a lot of trouble.”

“And waste all the months we’ve spent studying it?” said the pilot, scandalized. They won’t be wasted,” replied the captain, unravelling himself with a flick that no human eye could have followed. “Our report will be useful for the next survey ship. I’ll suggest that we make another visit in — oh, let’s say five thousand years. By then the place may be civilized—though frankly, I doubt it.”

Samuel Higginsbotham was settling down to a snack of cheese and cider when he saw the two figures approaching along the lane. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, put the bottle carefully down beside his hedge-trimming tools, and stared with mild surprise at the couple as they came into range.

“Mornin’,” he said cheerfully between mouthfuls of cheese.

The strangers paused. One was surreptitiously ruffling through a small book which, if Sam only knew, was packed with such common phrases and expressions as: “Before the weather forecast, here is a gale warning,” “Stick ’em up—I’ve got you covered!”, and “Calling all cars!” Danstor, who had no needs for these aids to memory, replied promptly enough.