Arthur Clarke: Trouble with the Natives

“Well, have you brought any?”

“No I thought you—”

Before Danstor could finish, their tormentors took to their heels and disappeared down a side street. Coming along the road was a majestic figure in a blue uniform.

Crysteel’s eyes lit up.

“A policeman!” he said. “Probably going to investigate a murder somewhere. But perhaps he’ll spare us a minute,” he added, not very hopefully.

P.C. Hinks eyed the strangers with some astonishment, but managed to keep his feelings out of his voice.

“Hello, gents. Looking for anything?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Danstor in his friendliest and most soothing tone of voice. “Perhaps you can help us. You see, we’ve just landed on this planet and want to make contact with the authorities.”

“Eh?” said P.C. Hinks startled. There was a long pause—though not too long, for P.C. Hinks was a bright young man who had no intention of remaining a village constable all his life. “So you’ve just landed, have you? In a spaceship, I suppose?”

“That’s right,” said Danstor, immensely relieved at the absence of the incredulity, or even violence, which such announcements all too often provoked on the more primitive planets.

“Well, well!” said P.C. Hinks, in tones which he hoped would inspire confidence and feelings of amity. (Not that it mattered much if they both became violent—they seemed a pretty skinny pair.) “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll see what we can do about it.”

“I’m so glad,” said Danstor. “You see, we’ve landed in this rather remote spot because we don’t want to create a panic. It would be best to keep our presence known to as few people as possible until we have contacted your government.”

“I quite understand,” replied P.C. Hinks, glancing round hastily to see if there was anyone through whom he could send a message to his sergeant. “And what do you propose to do then?”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss our long-term policy with regard to Earth,” said Danstor cagily. “All I can say is that this section of the Universe is being surveyed and opened up for development, and we’re quite sure we can help you in many ways.”

“That’s very nice of you,” said P.C. Hinks heartily. “I think the best thing is for you to come along to the station with me so that we can put through a call to the Prime Minister.”

“Thank you very much,” said Danstor, full of gratitude. They walked trustingly beside P.C. Hinks, despite his slight tendency to keep behind them, until they reached the village police station.

“This way, gents,” said P.C. Hinks, politely ushering them into a room which was really rather poorly lit and not at all well furnished, even by the somewhat primitive standards they had expected. Before they could fully take in their surroundings, there was a “click” and they found themselves separated from their guide by a large door composed entirely of iron bars.

“Now don’t worry,” said P.C. Hinks. “Everything will be quite all right. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Crysteel and Danstor gazed at each other with a surmise that rapidly deepened to a dreadful certainty.

“We’re locked in!”

“This is a prison!”

“Now what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know if you chaps understand English,” said a languid voice from the gloom, “but you might let a fellow sleep in peace.”

For the first time, the two prisoners saw that they were not alone. Lying on a bed in the corner of the cell was a somewhat dilapidated young man, who gazed at them wearily out of one resentful eye.

“My goodness!” said Danstor nervously. “Do you suppose he’s a dangerous criminal?”

“He doesn’t look very dangerous at the moment,” said Crysteel, with more accuracy than he guessed.

“What are you in for, anyway?” asked the stranger, sitting up unsteadily. “You look as if you’ve been to a fancy-dress party. Oh, my poor head!” He collapsed again into the prone position.

“Fancy locking up anyone as ill as this!” said Danstor, who was a kind-hearted individual. Then he continued, in English, “I don’t know why we’re here. We just told the policeman who we were and where we came from, and this is what happened.”

“Well, who are you?”

“We’ve just landed—”

“Oh, there’s no point in going through all that again,” interrupted Crysteel. “We’ll never get anyone to believe us.”

“Hey!” said the stranger, sitting up once more. “What language is that you’re speaking? I know a few, but I’ve never heard anything like that.”

“Oh, all right,” Crysteel said to Danstor. “You might as well tell him. There’s nothing else to do until that policeman comes back anyway.”

At this moment, P.C. Hinks was engaged in earnest conversation with the superintendent of the local mental home, who insisted stoutly that all his patients were present. However, a careful check was promised and he’d call back later.

Wondering if the whole thing was a practical joke, P.C. Hinks put the receiver down and quietly made his way to the cells. The three prisoners seemed to be engaged in friendly conversation, so he tiptoed away again. It would do them all good to have a chance to cool down. He rubbed his eye tenderly as he remembered what a battle it had been to get Mr Graham into the cell during the small hours of the morning.

That young man was now reasonably sober after the night’s celebrations, which he did not in the least regret. (It was, after all, quite an occasion when your degree came through and you found you’d got Honours when you’d barely expected a Pass.) But he began to fear that he was still under the influence as Danstor unfolded his tale and waited, not expecting to be believed.

In these circumstances, thought Graham, the best thing to do was to behave as matter-of-factly as possible until the hallucinations got fed up and went away.

“If you really have a spaceship in the hills,” he remarked, “surely you can get in touch with it and ask someone to come and rescue you?”

“We want to handle this ourselves,” said Crysteel with dignity. “Besides, you don’t know our captain.”

They sounded very convincing, thought Graham. The whole story hung together remarkably well. And yet…

“It’s a bit hard for me to believe that you can build interstellar spaceships, but can’t get out of a miserable village police station.”

Danstor looked at Crysteel, who shuffled uncomfortably.

“We could get out easily enough,” said the anthropologist. “But we don’t want to use violent means unless it’s absolutely essential. You’ve no idea of the trouble it causes, and the reports we might have to fill in. Besides, if we do get out, I suppose your Flying Squad would catch us before we got back to the ship.”

“Not in Little Milton,” grinned Graham. “Especially if we could get across to the ‘White Hart’ without being stopped. My car is over there.”

“Oh,” said Danstor, his spirits suddenly reviving. He turned to his companion and a lively discussion followed. Then, very gingerly, he produced a small black cylinder from an inner pocket, handling it with much the same confidence as a nervous spinster holding a loaded gun for the first time. Simultaneously, Crysteel retired with some speed to the far corner of the cell.

It was at this precise moment that Graham knew, with a sudden icy certainty, that he was stone-sober and that the story he had been listening to was nothing less than the truth.

There was no fuss or bother, no flurry of electric sparks or coloured rays—but a section of the wall three feet across dissolved quietly and collapsed into a little pyramid of sand. The sunlight came streaming into the cell as, with a great sigh of relief, Danstor put his mysterious weapon away.