INHIBITION
BY JAMES CAUSEY
Regardless of scientific attainment, any culture
is vulnerable to inhibition. And Saxon was a good
agent; no culture nor individual would sway his
loyal appraisal....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, February 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Planetfall.
Here the forest was green and cool. A soft, damp wind promised rain.The colonists moved down the ramp, staring at the crew members pilingcrates of supplies in the meadow beyond.
Frowns. Then whispers.
Saxon glanced up. His nostrils flared. "Hurry," he told the crewmen,and came forward, beaming. He was tired. It showed in his feverish,too-bright smile as he said, "Afraid Engineering's a little behindschedule. They'll be here tomorrow morning to erect your city. Tonightyou'll have to rough it."
Reactions varied. The women murmured and moved closer to their men.Some smiled. One man thoughtfully eyed the mounting pyramid of supplies.
"You're getting a choice world, Jarl," Saxon said, clapping him onthe shoulder. "Survey spent thirty years here, balancing the ecology,wiping out the bugs and carnivores. Eden." Saxon tasted the word likewine.
Jarl Madsen's face was stone. "Aren't they all named Eden?"
From the forest came a chittering bark, like anthropomorphic laughter.Saxon shivered, remembering the thing that chittered, the three-inchfangs and the talons. "Hardly," he lied. "That, incidentally, was aNarl. Herbivore, very harmless."
Madsen walked past him, towards the supplies.
Saxon moved among the colonists, shaking hands, congratulating,speaking of green fields and good crops and a virgin planet where everyman could carve an empire. These last moments were the worst, when yousaid goodbye, knowing that thirty percent of them would be dead withinthe week. He saw Madsen opening a supply case. Damn him! Just threemore minutes!
The last crew member dumped his load and hurried into the airlock.Saxon started casually after him, too late. Madsen stood there, hisgrin taut, nailed on.
"Primitive pre-fab shelters," he said thickly. "Axes and seeds! Thecity was a lie. We're on our own, is that it? Why—"
Saxon's palm flashed and Madsen fell writhing. There were shouts, handsclawing at him as he tore free, sprinting for the ship.
Always running, he thought bitterly. I'm getting old.
He walked through the silent corridors of the ship, a lonely figurein the black uniform of the Inhibition Corps, and once he staredthrough the porthole at Eden XXI, a mottled sphere receding into thestar-frosted night. His mouth twisted. Conceive a colony in fear, breedit in terror. Watch it adapt, grow. If it grows too fast, hurt it. Hurtit with disease, famine, dictatorship. If it keeps growing—destroy it.
The captain came down the corridor and stood at respectful attentionbefore the black uniform. "Stereo call, Commander. Prime Base."
Saxon slowly went to his cabin. The stereo panel was flashing steadycrimson to designate top priority and he restrained a savage impulseto shut the thing off. He slumped in the control chair, and the tri-diimage of a man at a desk slowly coalesced. It was a granite-featuredold man with eyes like blue ice, and Saxon's head snapped sharplyerect. It was Primus Gant, Corps Director. At ninety parsecs Gant'sfeatures were slightly hazed, but his voice