“Ah-hah! That explains it. Hurulta must have foreseen that result and let the observers do as they pleased. He’s a canny lad, that old blueface.”

“Well, you must admit there’s some justification for the complaints,” said Meinz with a hint of bitterness. “The authorization was of doubtful legality in the first place, and could only be justified at the next Council meeting if there were solid results to show. Instead, you’ve dawdled out here, skulking I might say. You haven’t fought one battle, not so much as a skirmish. You’ve let Ulugan occupy no less than seven planets besides Tukatan—”

“At last reports, it was about twenty,” said Alak blandly. “We’ve got them scared, you see. They’re grabbing everything that might conceivably be of value to us.”

“In other words,” said Meinz, “you’re pushing them in exactly the direction they want to go.”

“Correct.”

“Now look, Alak, I came out here myself, and it’s a long troublesome journey, to get your side of it. I have to tell them something at home, or they’ll pass a recall order in spite of everything I can do. Now I’m not even sure if I would resist such a move.”

“Give me credit for some sense,” urged Alak. “I can’t tell you everything. The real reason why we operate this way is a Patrol secret. Let’s just say, which is true enough, that outright war is cruel and expensive, and that I don’t even think we could win one.”

“But what are you doing then, man?”

“Just sitting here,” laughed Alak. “Sitting here drinking Scotch, and letting nature take its course.”

* * *

The medical officer halted at the entrance to the tent. The steady, endless rain dripped off his shoulders and made a puddle about his muddy feet. By the one glaring lamp inside, he noticed that the fungus had begun to devour this tent, too. It would be a rag before the eight-day was out. And you couldn’t live in the metal barracks left by the Patrolmen—they were bake-ovens, and air-conditioning units rotted and rusted too fast to be of help.

He saluted wearily. The commandant of Garvish Base looked up from his game of galanzu solitaire. “What is it?” he asked listlessly.

“Fifteen more men down with fever, sir,” said the medical officer. “And ten of the earlier cases are dead.”

The commandant nodded. Light gleamed off his wet bald head. The blue face was haggard, unhealthily flushed, and the smart uniform was a sodden ruin. “The sanitators don’t work, eh?” he asked.

“Not against this stuff, sir,” said the doctor. “It seems to be a virus which isn’t bothered by the vibrations, but I haven’t been able to isolate it yet.”

“We just aren’t built for this climate.” The commandant wagged his head, and one shaky hand reached for a bottle. “We’re cold-world dwellers.”

A beast screamed out in the jungle. “Poison plants got several more this eight-day,” said the doctor.

“I know. I’ve begged and pleaded with headquarters to send us air domes and space armor. But they claim it’s needed elsewhere.”