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It was not until they had embarked on the last leg of the journey and had been aboard the vessel for half a day that they met a second time. The ship was not a Markovian or a terran-type vessel of any kind. Another week's wait would have been required for one of those. As it was, their quarters were not too uncomfortable although very limited.
We must save the Terran-type crops and the carniculture plants. If we don't, we all starve." Miles nodded. There wasn't anything he could think of saying to that. "How soon can you begin to show results with those shoonoon, Mr. Gilbert?" the general asked. "You said from twenty-five to thirty hours. Can you cut that any? In twenty-five hours, all hell could be loose all over the continent."
He and Patrolman Willis were on the way to the solar system Sirene 1432, where Krishnamurti's Law said there ought to be something very close to a terran-type planet in either the third or fourth orbit out from the sun. That planet would be inhabited by Huks, who were very much like humans. They knew of the defeat and forced emigration of their fellow-Huks in other solar systems.
The carniculture plants, where Terran-type animal tissue was grown in nutrient-vats, were even more heavily guarded, and the native city was being patroled from above and the streets were empty, even of the hordes of native children who usually played in them. The Terran city had no streets.
You should know about it before you leave. The Markovian Nucleus is somewhat of a hotbed of Ids." "Ids you mean the Idealists ?" Fothergill nodded. "Know anything about them?" "Not much, except that they are a sort of parasitic group, living usually in a servant relationship to other races on terran-type worlds.
And the steel coffer full of sunstones. Almost all luxury goods, the only really dependable commodities in interstellar trade. And he had spoken of other things. Veldbeest meat, up seven per cent from last month, twenty per cent from last year, still in demand on a dozen planets unable to produce Terran-type foodstuffs. Grain, leather, lumber.
"Parked right in the middle of the Terran-type food production area," Travis was continuing. That was worrying him. Maybe he wasn't used to planets where the biochemistry wasn't Terra-type and a Terran would be poisoned or, at best, starve to death, on the local food; maybe, as a soldier he knew how fragile even the best logistics system can be. It was something to worry about.
It should be obvious to everybody that the behavior of these natives is nullifying everything the civil government is trying to do to ensure the survival of the Terran colonists, the production of Terran-type food without which we would all starve, the biocrystal plantations without which the Colony would perish, and even the natives themselves.
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