Oomphel in the Sky | Page 2

stenches like an organic chemistry lab.
But then, Kwanns didn't come any closer to him than they could help
when he was hot and sweated, which, lately, had been most of the time.
"A V and a half of air cavalry, circling around," Heshto said. "Making
sure nobody got away. And a combat car at a couple of hundred feet
and another one just at treetop level."
He rose and went to the seat next to the pilot, pulling down the
binoculars that were focused for his own eyes. With them, he could see
the air cavalry--egg-shaped things just big enough for a seated man,
with jets and contragravity field generators below and a bristle of
machine gun muzzles in front. A couple of them jetted up for a look at
him and then went slanting down again, having recognized the
Kwannon Planetwide News Service car.
The village was typical enough to have been an illustration in a
sociography textbook--fields in a belt for a couple of hundred yards
around it, dome-thatched mud-and-wattle huts inside a pole stockade
with log storehouses built against it, their flat roofs high enough to
provide platforms for defending archers, the open oval gathering-place
in the middle. There was a big hut at one end of this, the khamdoo, the
sanctum of the adult males, off limits for women and children. A small
crowd was gathered in front of it; fifteen or twenty Terran air
cavalrymen, a couple of enlisted men from the Second Kwannon
Native Infantry, a Terran second lieutenant, and half a dozen natives.
The rest of the village population, about two hundred, of both sexes and
all ages, were lined up on the shadier side of the gathering-place, most
of them looking up apprehensively at the two combat cars which were
covering them with their guns.
Miles got to his feet as the car lurched off contragravity and the springs
of the landing-feet took up the weight. A blast of furnacelike air struck
him when he opened the door; he got out quickly and closed it behind
him. The second lieutenant had come over to meet him; he extended his

hand.
"Good day, Mr. Gilbert. We all owe you our thanks for the warning.
This would have been a real baddie if we hadn't caught it when we
did."
He didn't even try to make any modest disclaimer; that was nothing
more than the exact truth.
"Well, lieutenant, I see you have things in hand here." He glanced at
the line-up along the side of the oval plaza, and then at the selected
group in front of the khamdoo. The patriarchal village chieftain in a
loose slashed shirt; the shoonoo, wearing a multiplicity of amulets and
nothing else; four or five of the village elders. "I take it the word of the
swarming didn't get this far?"
"No, this crowd still don't know what the flap's about, and I couldn't
think of anything to tell them that wouldn't be worse than no
explanation at all."
He had noticed hoes and spades flying in the fields, and the cylindrical
plastic containers the natives bought from traders, dropped when the
troops had surprised the women at work. And the shoonoo didn't have a
fire-dance cloak or any other special regalia on. If he'd heard about the
swarming, he'd have been dressed to make magic for it.
"What time did you get here, lieutenant?"
"Oh-nine-forty. I just called in and reported the village occupied, and
they told me I was the last one in, so the operation's finished."
That had been smart work. He got the lieutenant's name and unit and
mentioned it into his memophone. That had been a little under five
hours since he had convinced General Maith, in Bluelake, that the mass
labor-desertion from the Sanders plantation had been the beginning of a
swarming. Some division commanders wouldn't have been able to get a
brigade off the ground in that time, let alone landed on objective. He
said as much to the young officer.

"The way the Army responded, today, can make the people of the
Colony feel a lot more comfortable for the future."
"Why, thank you, Mr. Gilbert." The Army, on Kwannon, was rather
more used to obloquy than praise. "How did you spot what was going
on so quickly?"
This was the hundredth time, at least, that he had been asked that today.
"Well, Paul Sanders' labor all comes from neighboring villages. If
they'd just wanted to go home and spend the end of the world with their
families, they'd have been dribbling away in small batches for the last
couple of hundred hours. Instead, they all bugged out in a bunch, they
took all the food they could carry and nothing else, and they didn't
make any trouble before they