You Take the High Road
Astounding – May 1958
(1958)*
Frank Herbert

The trouble with spotting a motive is that a given set of facts can be fitted into so many different theories—and tie key facts can't always be spotted for what they are!

-

	LEWIS ORNE clasped his hands behind his back until the knuckles showed white. He stared darkly out his second-floor window at the morning on Hamal II. The big yellow sun already above the distant mountains dominated a cloudless sky. It promised to be a scorcher of a day.

	Behind him Orne could hear a scratchy pen rasping across paper as the Investigation and Adjustment operative made notes on their just-completed interview.

	So maybe I was wrong to push the panic button, thought Orne. That doesn't give this wise guy the right to be such a heel! After all—this is my first job. They can't expect perfection the first time out!

	The scratching pen began to wear on Orne's nerves.

	Creases furrowed his square forehead. He put his left hand up to the rough window wooden frame, ran his right hand through the stiff bristles of his close-cropped red hair. The loose cut of his white coverall uniform—standard for agents of the Rediscovery and Re-education Service—accentuated Orne's blocky appearance. He had the thick muscles and no-fat look of someone raised on a heavy planet—in his case, Chargon of the Gemma System. There was a full jowled bulldog appearance to his face. It was an effective disguise for a pixie nature.

	At the moment, however, he was feeling decidedly unpixielike.

	If I'm wrong, they'll boot me out of the service, he thought. There's too much bad blood between R-and-R and the Investigation and Adjustment people. But there'll be some jumping if I'm right about this place!

	Orne shook his head. But I'm probably wrong.

	The more he thought about it the more he felt that it had been a stupid move to call in the I-A. This planet of Hamal II probably was not aggressive by nature. There probably was no danger here of providing arms to a potential war maker.

	Someone clumped down the stairs at the other end of the building. The floor shook under Orne's feet. This was an old building—the government guest house—and built of rough lumber. The room carried the sour smell of many former occupants.

	From his second-floor window Orne could see part of the cobblestone market square of this village of Pitsiben. Beyond the square he could make out the wide track of the ridge road that came up from the Plains of Rogga. Along the road stretched a double line of moving figures: farmers and hunters coming for market day in Pitsiben. Amber dust hung over the road. It softened the scene, imparted a romantic out-of-focus look.

	The farmers leaned into the pushing harness of their low two-wheeled carts, plodding along with a heavy-footed swaying motion. They wore long green coats, yellow berets tipped uniformly over the left ear, yellow trousers with the cuffs darkened by the dust of the road, open sandals that revealed horny feet splayed out like the feet of draft animals. The carts were piled high with green and yellow vegetables seemingly arranged to carry out the general color scheme.

	Brown-clothed hunters moved with the line, but to one side like flank guards. They strode along, heads high, cap feathers bobbing. Each carried a bell-muzzled fowling piece at a jaunty angle over one arm, a spyglass in a leather case over the left shoulder. Behind the hunters trotted their apprentices pulling three-wheeled carts overflowing with swamp deer, ducks and porjos, the snake-tailed rodents that Hamal natives considered such a delicacy.

	On the distant valley floor Orne could see the dark red spire of the I-A ship that had come flaming down just after dawn of this day—homing on his transmitter. The ship, too, seemed set in a dreamlike haze: blue smoke from kitchen fires in the farm homes that dotted the valley. The red shape towered above the homes, looking out of place like an ornament left over from holiday decorations for giants.

	As Orne watched, a hunter paused on the ridge road, unlimbered his spyglass, studied the I-A ship.

	The smoke and the hot yellow sun conspired to produce a summery appearance to the countryside—a look of lush growing. It was essentially a peaceful scene, arousing in Orne a deep feeling of bitterness.

	Damn! I don't care what the I-A says! I was right to call them. These people of Hamal are hiding something. They're not peaceful! The real mistake that was made here was made by that dumbo on First-Contact when he gabbled about the importance we place on a peaceful history!

-

	The pen scratching stopped, and the I-A man cleared his throat.

	Orne turned, looked across the low room at the operative. The I-A man sat at a rough table beside Orne's unmade bed. Papers and report folders were scattered all around him on the table. A small recorder weighted one stack. The I-A man slouched in a bulky wooden chair. He was a big-headed, gangling figure with over-large features, a leathery skin. His hair was dark and straggling. His eyelids drooped. They gave to his face that look of haughty superciliousness that was like a brand mark of the I-A. The man wore patched blue fatigues without insignia. He had introduced himself as Umbo Stetson, chief I-A operative for this sector.

	Stetson noted Orne's attention, said, "I believe I have everything now. Let's just check it over. You landed here ten weeks ago, right?"

	"Yes. I was set down by a landing boat from the R-and-R transport, Arneb Rediscovery."

	"And this was your first mission?"

	"Yes. I graduated from Uni-Galacta with the class of '07, and did my apprentice work on Timurlain."

	Stetson frowned. "Then you came out here to this newly re-discovered backwater planet?"

	"That's right."

	"I see. You were just full of the old rah-rah, the old missionary spirit to uplift mankind and all that sort of thing." Orne blushed, scowled.

	"They're still teaching that 'cultural renaissance' bushwah at dear old Uni-Galacta, I see," said Stetson. He put a hand to his breast, raised his voice: "We must re-unite the lost planets with the centers of culture and industry, and take up the glorious onward march of mankind that was stopped so brutally by the Rim Wars!"

	He spat on the floor.

	"I think we can skip all this," muttered Orne.

	Stetson chuckled. "You're sooooo right! Now ... what'd you bring with you when you landed?"

	"I had a dictionary compiled by the First-Contact man, but it was pretty sketchy in—"

	"Who was that First-Contact, by the way?"

	"I never met him but his name's in the dictionary: Andre Bullone."

	"Oh—Any relation to High Commissioner Ipscott Bullone?"

	"I don't know."

	Stetson scribbled something on one of his papers. "And that report says this is a peaceful planet with a primitive farming-hunting economy, eh?"

	"Yes."

	"Uh, huh. What else'd you bring with you?"

	"The usual blanks and files for my reports—and a transmitter."

	"And you pushed the 'panic button' on that transmitter two days ago, eh? Did we get here fast enough for you?" 

	Orne glared at the floor.

	Stetson said, "I suppose you've the usual eidetic memory crammed with cultural-medical-industrial information."

	"I'm a fully qualified R-and-R agent."

	"We will observe a moment of reverent silence," said Stetson. Abruptly, he slammed a hand onto the table. "It's just plain damn' stupidity! Nothing but a political come-on!"

	Orne snapped to angry attention. "What do you mean?"

	"This R-and-R dodge, son. It's an attention getter ... it's perpetuating some political lives. But you mark my words: we're going to re-discover just one planet too many; we're going to give its people the industrial foundation they don't deserve—and we're going to see another Rim War to end all Rim Wars!"

	Orne took a step forward. "Why'n hell do you think I pushed the panic button here?"

	Stetson sat back. "My dear fellow, that's what we're just now trying to determine." He tapped his front teeth with the pen. "Now ... just why did you call us?"

	"I told you I'm not sure! It's just—" He shrugged.

	"You felt lonely and decided you wanted the I-A to come hold your hand. Is that it?"

	"Oh go to hell!" barked Orne.

	"In due time, son. In due time." Stetson's drooping eyelids drooped even farther. "Now ... just what're they teaching you R-and-R dummies to look for these days?"

	Orne swallowed an angry reply. "Do you mean in war signs?"

	"What else?"

	"We're supposed to look for fortifications, for war games among the children, for people drilling or other signs of armylike group activities, for war scars and wounds on people and buildings, for indications of wholesale destruction and ... you know, things like that."

	"Gross evidence," said Stetson. "Do you consider this adequate?"

	"No I don't!"

	"You're sooooo right," said Stetson. "Hm-m-m ... Let's dig a little deeper: What bothers you about these people?"

	Orne sighed. "They have no spirit, no bounce. No humor. The atmosphere around this place is perpetual seriousness bordering on gloom."

	"Oh?"

	"Yeah. I ... I uh—" Orne wet his lips with his tongue. "I uh ... told the Leaders' Council one day that our people are very interested in a steady source of froolap bones for making left-handed bone china saucers."

	Stetson jerked forward. "You what?"

	"I uh ... told the—"

	"Yeah! I got that. What happened?"

	"They asked for a detailed description of the froolap and the accepted method of preparing the bones for shipment."

	"And what'd you tell them?"

	"Well, I ... Well, according to my description they decided that Hamal doesn't have any froolaps."

	"I see," said Stetson.

	"That's what's wrong with the place: no froolaps."

	Stetson took a deep breath, sat back. He tapped his pen on the table, stared into the distance.

-

	Now I've done it, thought Orne. Why can't I keep my big mouth shut? I've just convinced him that I'm nuts!

	"How're they taking to re-education?" asked Stetson.

	"Oh, they're very interested in the industrial end. That's why I'm here in Pitsiben village. We located a tungsten source nearby and—"

	"What about their medical people?" asked Stetson. "Are they on their toes?"

	"I guess so," said Orne. "But you know how it is with medical people—they often have the idea that they already know everything. I'm making progress, though."

	"What's their medical level?"

	"They've got a good basic knowledge of anatomy ... surgery and bone setting. That sort of thing."

	"You got any ideas why these people are so backward?" asked Stetson.

	"Their history says this planet was accidentally seeded by sixteen survivors—eleven women and five men—from a Tritshain cruiser that was disabled in some engagement or other during the early part of the Rim Wars, They landed with a lifeboat without much equipment and little know-how. I take it that it was mostly the black gang that got away."

	"And here they sat until R-and-R came along," said Stetson. "Lovely. Just lovely."

	"That was five hundred Standard years ago," said Orne.

	"And these gentle people are still farming and hunting," murmured Stetson. "Oh lovely." He glared up at Orne. "How long would it take a planet such as this one—granting the aggressive drive—to become a definite war menace?"

	Orne said, "Well ... there are two uninhabited planets in this system that they could grab for raw materials. Oh, I'd say twenty to twenty-five years after they got the industrial foundation on their own planet."

	"And how long before the aggressive core would have the know-how to go underground ... if necessary ... so that we'd have to blast the planet apart to get at them?"

	"Six months to a year."

	"You are beginning to see the sweet little problem you R-and-R dummies are creating for us!" Stetson abruptly pointed an accusing finger at Orne. "And let us make just one little slip! Let us declare a planet aggressive and bring in an occupation force and let your spies find out we made a mistake!" He doubled his hand into a fist. "Ahah!"

	"They've already started building the factories to produce machine tools," said Orne. "They're quick enough." He shrugged. "They soak everything up like some dark gloomy sponge."

	"Very poetic," growled Stetson. He lifted his long frame from the chair, stepped into the middle of the room. "Well, let's go take a closer look. But I'm warning you, Orne: this had better live up to whatever it was that prompted you to call us. The I-A has more important things to do than to go around wet nursing the R-and-R'."

	"And you'd just love to get something on us, too!" said Orne.

	"You're sooooo right, son."

	"O.K.! So I made a mistake!"

	"We'll see. Come along. I've a go-buggy downstairs."

	Here goes nothing, thought Orne. This jerk isn't going to look very hard when it's easier to sit back and laugh at the R-and-R.' I'm finished before 1 even get started!

	It was already beginning to grow hot outside when they emerged onto the cobblestone street. The green and yellow flag hung limply from its mast atop the guest house. All activity seemed to have taken on a slower pace. Groups of stolid Hamal natives stood before awning-shaded vegetable stalls across the street. They gazed moodily at the I-A vehicle.

	The go-buggy was a white two-seater tear drop with wrap-around window, a turbine engine in the rear.

	Orne and Stetson got in, fastened their safety belts.

	"There's what I mean," said Orne.

	Stetson started the motor, eased in the clutch. The buggy bounced a couple of times on the cobbles until the gyro-spring system took hold. "There's what you mean what?" asked Stetson.

	"Those dolts across the street back there. Any other place in the universe they'd have been around this rig ten deep, prying under the rear vents at the turbine, poking underneath at the wheels. These jerks just stand around at a distance and look gloomy!"

	"No froolap," said Stetson.

	"Yeah!"

	"What's wrong with that?" asked Stetson. "So they're shy."

	"Forget I mentioned it."

	"I saw by your reports that there are no walled villages on Hamal," said Stetson. He slowed the go-buggy to maneuver between two of the low push carts.

	"None that I've seen."

	"And no military drill by large groups?"

	"None that I've seen."

	"And no heavy armaments?"

	"None that I've seen."

	"What's this none-that-I've-seen kick?" demanded Stetson. "Do you suspect them of hiding something?"

	"I do."

	"Why?"

	"Because things don't seem to fit somehow on this planet. And when things don't fit there are missing pieces."

	Stetson took his eyes from the street, shot a sharp glance at Orne, returned his attention to the street. "So you're suspicious."

	Orne grabbed the door handle as the go-buggy swerved around a corner, headed out the wide ridge road. "That's what I said right at the beginning."

	"We're always simply delighted to investigate R-and-R's slightest suspicions," said Stetson.

	"It's better for me to make a mistake than it is for you to make one," growled Orne.

	"You will notice that their construction is almost entirely of wood," said Stetson. "Wood constructions is peaceful."

	"Doesn't that depend on what weapons are used?" asked Orne.

	"Is that what they're teaching you at dear old Uni-Galacta?"

	"No. That was my own idea. If they have artillery and mobile cavalry, then forts would be useless."

	"And what would they use for cavalry?" asked Stetson. "There are no riding animals on Hamal. According to your reports, that is."

	"So I haven't found any ... yet!"

	"All right," said Stetson. "I'll be reasonable. You spoke of weapons. What weapons do they use? I haven't seen anything heavier than those fowling pieces carried by their hunters."

	"If they had cannon, that'd explain a lot of things," muttered Orne.

	"Such as the lack of forts?"

	"You're damn' right!"

	"An interesting theory. How do they manufacture those guns, by the way?"

	"They're produced singly by skilled artisans. It's a sort of a guild."

	"A sort of a guild. My!" Stetson pulled the go-buggy to a jolting stop on a deserted stretch of the ridge road. "Did First-Contact see any sign of cannon?"

	"You know he didn't."

	Stetson nodded. "Mm -m-m, hm-m-m-m."

	"But that could've been an accident," said Orne. "What I don't like is that the stupid jerk shot off his face and told these people right off how important it is to us that a redisk planet have a peaceful outlook."

	"You're sooooo right. For once," said Stetson. He got out of the buggy. "Come on. Give me a hand."

	Orne slid out his side. "Why're we stopping here?"

	Stetson passed him the end of a tape measure. "Hold that on the edge of the road over there like a good fellow, will you?"

	Orne obeyed.

	The ridge road proved to be just under seven meters wide. Stetson wrote the figure in a notebook, muttered something about "lines of regression."

	They got back into the buggy, moved on down the road.

	"What's important about the width of the road?" asked Orne.

	"I-A has a profitable side line selling omnibuses," said Stetson. "I just wanted to see if our current models would fit on these roads."

	Funny man! thought Orne. He said, "I presume it's increasingly difficult for I-A to justify its appropriations!"

	Stetson laughed. "You're too sooooo right! We're going to put in an additional line of nerve tonic for R-and-R agents."

	"Hah!"

	Orne leaned back into his own comer, became lost in gloom. I'm sunk! This smart-Aleck isn't going to find anything I haven't found. There was no real reason to call in the I-A except that things don't feel right here!

	The ridge road dipped down to the right through scrub trees.

	"We finally get off the high road," said Stetson.

	"If we'd kept straight on, we'd have gone down into a swamp," said Orne. 

	"Oh?"

	They came out into the floor of a wide valley that was cut by lines of windbreak trees. Smoke spiraled into the still air from behind the trees.

	"What's the smoke over there?" asked Stetson.

	"Houses."

	"Have you looked?"

	"Yes I've looked!"

	"Touchy, aren't we?"

	The road bore directly toward a river. They crossed on a crude wooden bridge. Stetson pulled to a stop on the opposite side of the bridge, stared at the twin lines of a narrow cart track that wound along the river.

	Again they got under way, heading toward another ridge.

	The I-A man looked thoughtful. "Let's go over that about their government again," he said.

	Orne raised his voice above the whine of the turbine as it began to labor in the climb up the other ridge. "What do you mean?"

	"That hereditary business."

	"I just said that Council membership seems to be passed along on an eldest son basis."

	"Seems to be?" Stetson maneuvered the buggy over a rise and onto a road that turned right down the crest of the ridge.

	"Well, they gave me some hanky panky about an elective procedure in case the eldest son dies."

	"I see. What games do these people play?"

	"I've only seen one: it's played by sixteen men in teams of four. They use a square field about fifty meters on a side with smooth diagonal ditches crossing from corner to corner. Four men take stations at each corner, and rotate the turns at play."

	"What do they do? Crawl at each other along the ditches?"

	"Very funny! They use two heavy balls pierced for holding with the fingers. One ball's green and the other's yellow. Yellow ball goes first: it's rolled along the ditch. The green ball's supposed to be thrown in such a way that it smacks the yellow ball at the intersection."

	"And a great huzzah goes up!" said Stetson.

	"No audience," said Orne.

	"Anyway, it seems like a peaceful game," said Stetson. "Are they good at it?"

	"Remarkably clumsy I thought. But they seem to enjoy it. Come to think of it: that game's the only thing I've ever seen them even come close to enjoying."

	"You're a frustrated missionary," said Stetson. "People aren't having any fun: you want to jump in and organize games!"

	"War games," said Orne. "Have you ever thought of that one?"

	"Huh?" Stetson took his eyes off the road momentarily. They bumped off the edge. He jerked his attention back to his driving.

	"What if some smart R-and-R agent sets himself up as emperor on this planet?" asked Orne. "He could start his own dynasty. First thing you'd know about it is when the bombs started dropping!"

	"That's the I-A's personal nightmare," said Stetson. He fell silent.

-

	The sun climbed higher.

	Their road dipped into a slight hollow, slanted up to a new ridge, swung left along the crest. They could see another village on high ground in the distance. When they were close enough to see the green and yellow flag atop the government building, Stetson pulled to a stop, opened his window, shut off the motor. The turbine keened down-scale to silence. With the window open, the air-conditioning off, they felt the oppressive heat of the day.

	Sweat began pouring off Orne, settling in a soggy puddle where his bottom touched the plastic of the seat.

	"What're we doing here?" asked Orne.

	"Waiting."

	"Waiting for what?"

	"For something to happen," said Stetson. "How do the natives feel about peace?"

	"Oh, they think it's wonderful. The Council members are delighted by the peaceful activities of R-and-R."

	"Now tell me why you punched the panic button!" demanded Stetson.

	Orne's mouth worked soundlessly. Then he blurted: "I told you before I wasn't sure!"

	"I want to know what set you off," said Stetson. "What was the straw that grounded the blinking rocket?" 

	Orne swallowed, spoke in a low voice. "They held a banquet for—"

	"Who held a banquet?"

	"The Council. They held a banquet for me. And ... uh—"

	"They served froolap" said Stetson. 

	"Do you want to hear this?"

	"Dear boy: I'm all ears."

	"You're sooooo right!" said Orne. "Well ... what they served me was a stew of porjo tails that—"

	"Porjo?"

	"It's a kind of rodent that they consider a delicacy. Especially the tails. Anyway, what they did was ... well, the cook just before bringing the stew in and planking it down in front of me he tied up a live porjo with some kind of cord that dissolved quickly in the hot liquid. This animal erupted out of the pot and all over me."

	"So?"

	"They laughed for five minutes."

	"You mean they played a practical joke on you and you got mad? I thought you said they had no sense of humor?"

	"Look, wise guy! Have you ever stopped to think what kind of people it takes to put a live animal in boiling liquid just to play a joke?"

	"A little heavy for humor," said Stetson. "But playful all the same. And that's why you called in the I-A?"

	"That's part of it!"

	"And the rest is your deep dark suspicions!"

	Orne's face darkened with rage. "So I got mad and pulled a stupid boner! Go ahead! Make something out of it!"

	"I fully intend to," said Stetson. He reached under the dash, pulled out a microphone, spoke into it: "This is Stetson."

	So I've really had it! thought Orne.

-

	A humming sound came from beneath the dash followed by: "This is the ship. What's doing?"

	"We've got a real baddy here, Hal," said Stetson. "Put out an emergency call for an occupation force."

	Orne jerked upright, ogled the I-A man.

	The dash speaker clanked, and the voice said: "How bad is it?"

	"One of the worst I've ever seen. Put out a VRO on the First-Contact: some jerk named Bullone. Have him sacked. I don't care if he's Commissioner Bullone's mother! It'd take a blind man and a stupid one at that to call this joint peaceful!"

	"You going to have trouble getting back?" asked the voice.

	"I doubt it. They don't know yet that we're on to them."

	"Give me your grid just in case."

	Stetson glanced at an indicator dial on the dash. "A-8."

	"Gotcha."

	"Get that call out, man!" said Stetson. "I want a full O-force in here by tomorrow night!"

	"Right away."

	The humming sound stopped.

	Stetson replaced the microphone, turned to Orne. "So you just followed a hunch?" 

	Orne shook his head. "I—"

	"Look behind us," said Stetson.

	Orne stuck his head out the open window, stared back the way they had come.

	"See anything curious?" asked Stetson.

	Orne felt giddy. He said, "I see a late coming farmer and one hunter with apprentice moving up fast on the outside."

	"I mean the road," said Stetson. "You may consider this a first lesson in I-A technique: a wide road that follows the ridges is a military road. Always. Farm roads are narrow and follow the water level route. Military roads are wider, avoid swamps, and cross rivers at right angles. This one fits all the way."

	"But—" Orne fell silent as the hunter came up, passed their vehicle without a side glance. "What's that leather case on his back?" asked Stetson. "Spyglass."

	"Lesson number two," said Stetson. "Telescopes always originate as astronomical devices. Spyglasses are always developed as an adjunct of a long-range weapon. I would guess that fowling piece has an effective range of probably one hundred meters. Ergo: you may take it as proved that they have artillery."

	Orne nodded.

	"Now let's look at this village," said Stetson. "Notice the flag. Almost inevitably they originate as banners to follow into battle. Not always. However, you may take this as a good piece of circumstantial evidence in view of the other things."

	"I see."

	"Now let's consider your Leader's Council," said Stetson. "There's nothing but a civilian aristocracy. Rule one in our book says that whenever you have a situation of haves and have-nots, then you have positions to be defended. That always means armies. I'll bet my bottom credit that those gaming fields of the green and yellow balls are disguised drill grounds." 

	Orne swallowed. "I should've thought of that."

	"You did," said Stetson. "Unconsciously. You saw all of this unconsciously. It bothered hell out of you. That's why you pushed the panic button.

	"I guess you're right."

-

	"Another lesson," said Stetson. "The most important point on the aggression index: peaceful people don't even discuss peace. They don't even think about it. The only way you develop more than a casual interest in peace is through the violent contrast of war."

	"Sure!" Orne took a deep breath, stared at the village. "But what about the lack of forts?"

	"We can take it for granted that they have artillery," said Stetson. "Hm-m-m." He rubbed at his chin. "Well, that's probably enough. I guess you don't have to have mobile cavalry in the equation to rule out forts."

	"I guess not."

	"What happened here was something like this," said Stetson. "First-Contact, that stoop Bullone, jumped to a wrong conclusion about these people, and he tipped our hand. The rulers of Hamal probably got together, declared a truce, hid or disguised every sign of war they knew about, and concentrated on milking us for all they could get."

	"That figures," said Orne. He was just beginning to feel the emotional cleansing of relief.

	"I think you'll make a pretty good I-A operative," said Stetson.

	"I'll make a—Huh?"

	"We're drafting you," said Stetson.

	Orne stared at him. "Can you do that?"

	"There are still some wise heads in our government," said Stetson. "You may take it for granted that we have this power." He frowned. "And we find too damned many of our people the way we found you!"

	Orne swallowed. "This is—" He fell silent as the farmer pushed his creaking cart past the I-A vehicle. They stared at the peculiar swaying motion of the farmer's back, the solid way his feet came down, the smooth way the high-piled vegetable cart rolled over the road.

	"I'm a left-handed froolap myself?" muttered Orne. He pointed at the retreating back. "There's your cavalry animal. That damn' wagon's nothing but a chariot!"

	Stetson slapped his right fist into this open left palm. "Damn! Right in front of our eyes all the time!" He smiled grimly. "There are going to be some surprised and angry people hereabouts when our occupation force arrives."

	As it turned out, he was "sooooo right."

The End