Robert Sheckley: Citizen in Space

When Morrison left headquarters tent, Dengue the observer was asleep with his mouth open, sprawled loosely in a canvas chair. Morrison took care not to awaken him. He had enough trouble on his hands.

He had to see a deputation of natives, the same idiots who had been drumming from the cliffs. And then he had to supervise the destruction of the mountain without a name. His assistant, Ed Lerner, was there now. But first, he had to check the most recent accident.

It was noon when he walked through the work camp, and the men were taking their lunch break, leaning against their gigantic machines as they ate sandwiches and sipped coffee. It looked normal enough, but Morrison had been bossing planetary construction long enough to know the bad signs. No one kidded him, no one griped. They simply sat on the dusty ground in the shade of their big machines, waiting for something else to happen.

A big Owens Landmover had been damaged this time. It sagged on its broken axle where the wrecking gang had left it. The two drivers were sitting in the cab, waiting for him.

"How did it happen?" Morrison asked.

"I don't know," the chief driver said, wiping perspiration from his eyes. "Felt the road lift out. Spun sideways, sorta."

Morrison grunted and kicked the Owens' gigantic front wheel. A Landmover could drop twenty feet onto rock and come up without a scratched fender. They were the toughest machines built. Five of his were out of commission now.

"Nothing's going right on this job," the assistant driver said, as though that explained everything.

"You're getting careless," Morrison said. "You can't wheel that rig like you were on Earth. How fast were you going?"

"We were doing fifteen miles an hour," the chief driver said.

"Sure you were," Morrison said.

"It's the truth! The road sorta dropped out —"

"Yeah," Morrison said. "When will you guys get it through your thick skulls you aren't driving the Indianapolis speedway. I'm docking you both a half-day's wages."

He turned and walked away. They were angry at him now. Good enough, if it helped take their superstitious minds off the planet.

He was starting toward the mountain without a name when the radio operator leaned out of his shack and called, "For you, Morrie. Earth."

Morrison took the call. At full amplification he could just recognize the voice of Mr. Shotwell, chairman of the board of Transterran Steel. He was saying, "What's holding things up?"

"Accidents," Morrison said.

"More accidents?"

"I'm afraid so, sir."

There was a moment's silence. Mr. Shotwell said, "But why, Morrison? It's a soft planet on the specs. Isn't it?"

"Yes sir," Morrison admitted unwillingly. "We've had a run of bad luck. But we'll roll."

"I hope so," Mr. Shotwell said. "I certainly hope so. You've been there nearly a month, and you haven't built a single city, or port, or even a highway! Our first advertisements have appeared. Inquiries are rolling in. There are people who want to settle there, Morrison! Businesses and service industries to move in."

"I know that, sir."

"I'm sure you do. But they require a finished planet, and they need definite moving dates. If we can't give it to them, General Construction can, or Earth-Mars, or Johnson and Hearn. Planets aren't that scarce. You understand that, don't you?"

Morrison's temper had been uncertain since the accidents had started. Now it flared suddenly. He shouted, "What in hell do you want out of me? Do you think I'm stalling? You can take your lousy contract and —"

"Now now," Mr. Shotwell said hurriedly. "I didn't mean anything personally Morrison. We believe — we know — that you're the best man in planetary construction. But the stockholders —"

"I'll do the best I can," Morrison said, and signed off.

"Rough, rough," the radio operator murmured. "Maybe the stockholders would like to come out here with their little shovels?"

"Forget it," Morrison said, and hurried off.

Lerner was waiting for him at Control Point Able, gazing somberly at the mountain. It was taller than Everest on Earth, and the snow on its upper ranges glowed pink in the afternoon sun. It had never been named.

"Charges all planted?" Morrison asked.

"Another few hours." Lerner hesitated. Aside from being Morrison's assistant, he was an amateur conservationist, a small, careful, graying man.

"It's the tallest mountain on the planet," Lerner said. "Couldn't you save it?"

"Not a chance. This is the key location. We need an ocean port right here."

Lerner nodded, and looked regretfully at the mountain. "It's a real pity. No one's ever climbed it."

Morrison turned quickly and glared at his assistant. "Look, Lerner," he said. "I am aware that no one has ever climbed that mountain. I recognize the symbolism inherent in destroying that mountain. But you know as well as I do that it has to go. Why rub it in?"

"I wasn't —"

"My job isn't to admire scenery. I hate scenery. My job is to convert this place to the specialized needs of human beings."

"You're pretty jumpy," Lerner said.

"Just don't give me any more of your sly innuendoes."

"All right."

Morrison wiped his sweaty hands against his pants leg. He smiled faintly, apologetically, and said, "Let's get back to camp and see what that damned Dengue is up to."

They turned and walked away. Glancing back, Lerner saw the mountain without a name outlined red against the sky.

Even the planet was nameless. Its small native population called it Umgcha or Ongja, but that didn't matter. It would have no official name until the advertising staff of Transterran Steel figured out something semantically pleasing to several million potential settlers from the crowded inner planets. In the meantime, it was simply referred to as Work Order 35. Several thousand men and machines were on the planet, and at Morrison's order they would fan out, destroy mountains, build up plains, shift whole forests, redirect rivers, melt ice caps, mold continents, dig new seas, do everything to make Work Order 35 another suitable home for homo sapiens' unique and demanding technological civilization.

Dozens of planets had been rearranged to the terran standard. Work Order 35 should have presented no unusual problems. It was a quiet place of gentle fields and forests, warm seas and rolling hills. But something was wrong with the tamed land. Accidents happened, past all statistical probability, and a nervous camp chain-reacted to produce more. Everyone helped. There were fights between bulldozer men and explosions men. A cook had hysterics over a tub of mashed potatoes, and the bookkeeper's spaniel bit the accountant's ankle. Little things led to big things.

And the job — a simple job on an uncomplicated planet — had barely begun.

In headquarters tent Dengue was awake, squinting judiciously at a whiskey and soda.

"What ho?" he called. "How goes the good work?"

"Fine," Morrison said.

"Glad to hear it," Dengue said emphatically. "I like watching you lads work. Efficiency. Sureness of touch. Know-how."

Morrison had no jurisdiction over the man or his tongue. The government construction code stipulated that observers from other companies could be present at all projects. This was designed to reinforce the courts' «method-sharing» decision in planetary construction. But practically, the observer looked, not for improved methods, but for hidden weaknesses which his own company could exploit. And if he could kid the construction boss into a state of nerves, so much the better. Dengue was an expert at that.

"And what comes next?" Dengue asked.

"We're taking down a mountain," Lerner said.