Fornri hesitated. "Perhaps we should discuss the matter."

"By all means," Dillinger said. "But one word of caution. Once the planet has been named, it will be infernally difficult to change it."

"I understand," Fornri said.

The native withdrew, and Dillinger settled back with a smile, and sipped from a tumbler of the native drink. The drink was everything the survey man had claimed.

Perhaps Paradise would be a good name for the place, he thought. But then-better to let the natives

decide. Paradise might mean something very different to them. All sorts of complications resulted when planets were named by outsiders. He remembered the famous story of the survey ship calling for help from a swamp on a strange planet. "Where are you?" Base had demanded. The survey ship gave its coordinates, and added, quite needlessly, "It's a h.e.l.luvaplace." The people of that planet had been trying for two centuries to have its name changed, but on all the official charts it was still h.e.l.luvaplace.

"Your sun, too," he called after Fornri. "We'll have to name that."

Three hours later they were in s.p.a.ce, on their way to Fron, the sector capital. Protz looked back at the dwindling planet, and shook his head. "Langri. What do you suppose it means?"On Fron, Dillinger reported to the sector governor. "So they call it Langri," the governor said. "And- you say they speak Galactic?"

"Speak it rather well, with a kind of provincial accent."

"Easily accounted for, of course. A ship touched down there some time in the past. People liked the

place and stayed, maybe. Did you see any traces of such a ship, or ships?"

"No. We didn't see anything except what they wanted us to see."

"Yes. Awkward position you stumbled into. Not your fault, of course. But those survey men . . ." He

shook his head. "What beats me is that they learned Galactic. Normally the aliens would learn the native

language, unless there was a crowd of them. There is a native language, isn't there?"

"I can't say. I never heard any of them speak anything but Galactic. Of course I didn't hear them talking among themselves. They withdrew well out of hearing whenever they had to confer about something.

But now that I think about it, I did overhear some kids speaking Galactic."

"Interesting," the governor said. "Langri-that must be a native word. I'd better attach a philologist to the staff we'll place there. I'd like to know how they happened to learn Galactic and keep on speaking it, and I'd like to know how long it's been since there were aliens in their midst. Very interesting."

"They're an intelligent people," Dillinger said. "They drove a good bargain, but they were very civilized about it. My orders say I'm to pick up an amba.s.sador for Langri, and the personnel to form a permanent station there. Know anything about that?"

"I'll furnish the personnel for the station. The amba.s.sador has been appointed, and he should be along in a few days. In the meantime, give your men some leave and enjoy yourselves."

* * * A week later H. Harlow Wembling, Amba.s.sador to Langri, waddled up the ramp to the Rirga, carrying his ample paunch like a ceremonial badge of honor. He bullied the duty officer, snarled at the crew, and, when Dillinger called at his quarters to pay his respects, demanded a member of the s.p.a.ce navy to serve as his valet for the duration of his time on board.

Dillinger emerged wiping his brow, and gave Protz his precise opinion of the new amba.s.sador in words that made the executive officer wince and rub his ears thoughtfully.

"Are you going to give him what he wants?" Protz asked.

"I told him," Dillinger said, still savoring his remarks, "I told him that the only person on board likely to have that much free time would be myself, and I lack the proper qualifications. It's too bad. It's really a shame."

"Oh, we'll be rid of him in no time."

"I was thinking of the natives on Langri. It's politics, of course. Wembling will be a party stalwart, getting paid off for years of loyal service and campaign donations. It happens all the time, and most of the appointees are decent enough. Some of them are even competent, but there's always the exceptional

case where a man thinks the word Amba.s.sador in front of his name elevates him forty degrees towards divinity. So why does our planet have to draw this one?""It's probably nothing to worry about. These political appointees never keep their jobs long. Anyway, it's no concern of ours."

"It's my concern," Dillinger said. "I negotiated the Langri treaty and I feel some responsibility for the place."

They delivered Amba.s.sador Wembling to Langri, along with the personnel to set up a permanent

Federation station. There was one last-minute altercation with Wembling when he suddenly insisted that half of the Rirga's crew be left to guard the station. Then they were back in s.p.a.ce, ready, as Dillinger said, to forget Langri and get back to work.

But he did not forget Langri and there were many times in the months and years that followed that he found himself reminiscing dreamily of perfect beaches and water swarming with fish and sea air blended with the perfume of myriads of flowers. Now there would be the place for a vacation, he would think. Or for retirement-what a place that would be for a retired naval officer!

An obsolete freighter, bound from Quiron to Yorlan on a little-used s.p.a.ce route, disappeared. Light-years away a bureaucrat with a vivid imagination immediately thought of piracy. Orders went out, and Lieutenant Commander James Vorish, of the battle cruiser Hiln, changed course and resigned himself to a monotonous six months of patrolling.

A week later his orders were canceled. He changed course again, and mulled over the development with

Lieutenant Robert Smith.

"Someone's been stirring up an indigenous population," Vorish said. "We're to take over, and protect Federation citizens and property."

"Some people never learn," Smith said. "But-Langri? Where the devil is Langri? I've never heard of it."Vorish thought it was the most beautiful place he had ever seen. To the west, that is. Trees stretched glistening pale-green foliage over the narrow beach. Flowers were closing delicately beautiful petals as the evening sun abandoned them. Waves rippled in lazily from an awesomely blue sea.

Behind him, the hideous skeleton of an enormous building under construction stood out sharply in the

dusk. The afternoon shift was busily and loudly at work. Clanging sounds and thuds echoed along the sh.o.r.e. Motors chugged and gurgled. Mercifully, the uncertain light disguised the havoc the construction work had wrought in the unspoiled forest.

The man Wembling was still talking. "It is your duty to protect the lives and property of citizens of the

Federation."

"Certainly," Vorish said. "Within reason. The installation you want would take a division of troops and a million credits worth of equipment. And even then it wouldn't be foolproof. You say part of the time the natives come in from the sea. We'd have to ring the entire peninsula."

"They're unprincipled scoundrels," Wembling said. "We have a right to demand protection. I can't keep men on the job if they're in terror of their lives."

"How many men have you lost?"

"Why, none. But that isn't the natives' fault."

"You haven't lost anybody? What about property? Have they been damaging your equipment or supplies?"

"No," Wembling said. "But only because we've been alert. I've had to turn half my crew into a police

force."

"We'll see what we can do," Vorish said. "Give me some time to get the feel of the situation, and then I'll talk with you again."

Wembling summoned two burly bodyguards, and hurried away. Vorish strode on along the beach, returned a sentry's salute, and stood looking out to sea.

"There's n.o.body out in front of us, sir," the sentry said. "The natives-"

He halted abruptly, challenged, and then saluted. Smith came down the slope, nodded at Vorish, and faced west.

"What'd you get?" Vorish asked.

"There's something mighty queer about this situation. These 'raids' Wembling talked about-the natives usually come one at a time, and they don't come armed. They simply sneak in here and get in the way- lie down in front of a machine, or something like that-and the work has to stop until someone carries

them away and dumps them back in the forest."

"Have any natives been hurt?"

"No. The men say Wembling is pretty strict about that. It's gotten on the men's nerves because they

never know when a native is going to pop up in front of them. They're afraid if one did get hurt the

others would come with knives or poison arrows, or some such thing."

"From what I've seen of Wembling, my sympathy is with the natives. But I have my orders. We'll put a line of sentry posts across the peninsula, and distribute some more about the work area. It's the best we can do, and even that will be a strain on our personnel. Some of the specialized ratings are going to howl when we a.s.sign them to guard duty."

"No," Smith said. "No, they won't. A couple of hours on this beach are worth eight hours of guard duty.

I'll start spotting the sentry posts."Vorish went back to the Hiln, and became the target of an avalanche of messengers. Mr. Wembling would like to know . . . Mr. Wembling suggests . . . If it would not be too much trouble . . . Compliments of Mr. Wembling . . . Mr. Wembling says. . . At your earliest convenience . . . Mr. Wembling's apologies, but . . .

d.a.m.n Mr. Wembling! Vorish had been on the point of telling his communications officer to put in a special line to Wembling's office. He breathed a sigh of relief over his narrow escape, and gave a junior officer the full-time a.s.signment of dealing with Wembling's messengers.

Smith strode in out of the darkness from his job of posting the sentries. "Native wants to see you," he

said. "I have him outside."

Vorish threw up his hands. "Well, I heard Wembling's side of it. I might as well hear theirs. I hate to ask, but I suppose Wembling will let us have an interpreter."

"He might if he had any, but he hasn't. These natives speak Galactic." "Now look here." He paused, shook his head. "No, I see you aren't joking. I guess this planet is just different. Bring him in." * * * The native introduced himself as Fornri, and confidently clasped Vorish's hand. His hair blazed vividly red in the cold glow of the overhead light. He accepted a chair, and sat down calmly. "I understand," he said, "that you are members of the s.p.a.ce Navy of the Galactic Federation of Independent Worlds. Is that correct?"