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looked at the savages with pity. Something like this happened on every planet with a native population. The same meaningless threats were always made by pre-civilized peoples with an inflated opinion of themselves and no concept at all of the power of technology. He knew primitive humans too well. Great boasters, great killers of the local variety of rabbits and mice. Occasionally fifty of them would gang up on a tired buffalo, tormenting it into exhaustion before they dared approach close enough to torture out its life with pin pricks from their dull spears. And then what a celebration they had! What heroes they thought themselves!

      “Tell them to get the hell out of here,” Morrison said. “Tell them if they come near this camp they’ll find some magic that really works.”

      The interpreter called after him, “They’re promising big bad trouble in five supernatural categories.”

      “Save it for your doctorate,[5]” Morrison said, and the interpreter grinned cheerfully.

      By late afternoon it was time for the destruction of the mountain without a name. Lerner went on a last inspection. Dengue, for once acting like an observer, went down the line jotting down diagrams of the charge pattern. Then everyone retreated. The explosions men crouched in their shelters. Morrison went to Control Point Able.

      One by one the section chiefs reported their men in. Weather took its last readings and found conditions satisfactory. The photographer snapped his last “before” pictures.

      “Stand by,” Morrison said over the radio, and removed the safety interlocks from the master detonation box.

      “Look at the sky,” Lerner murmured.

      Morrison glanced up. It was approaching sunset, and black clouds had sprung up from the west, covering an ocher sky. Silence descended on the camp, and even the drums from nearby hills were quiet.

      “Ten seconds… five, four, three, two, one – now!” Morrison called, and rammed the plunger home. At that moment, he felt the wind fan his cheek.

      Just before the mountain erupted, Morrison clawed at the plunger, instinctively trying to undo the inevitable moment.

      Because even before the men started screaming, he knew that the explosion pattern was wrong, terribly wrong.

      Afterward, in the solitude of his tent, after the injured men had been carried to the hospital and the dead had been buried, Morrison tried to reconstruct the event. It had been an accident, of course: A sudden shift in wind direction, the unexpected brittleness of rock just under the surface layer, the failure of the dampers, and the criminal stupidity of placing two booster charges where they would do the most harm.

      Another in a long series of statistical improbabilities, he told himself, then sat suddenly upright.

      For the first time it occurred to him that the accidents might have been helped.

      Absurd! But planetary construction was tricky work, with its juggling of massive forces. Accidents happened inevitably. If someone gave them a helping hand, they could become catastrophic.

      He stood up and began to pace the narrow length of his tent. Dengue was the obvious suspect. Rivalry between the companies ran high. If Transterran Steel could be shown inept, careless, accident-ridden, she might lose her charter, to the advantage of Dengue’s company, and Dengue himself.

      But Dengue seemed too obvious. Anyone could be responsible. Even little Lerner might have his motives. He really could trust no one. Perhaps he should even consider the natives and their magic – which might be unconscious psi manipulation, for all he knew.

      He walked to the doorway and looked out on the scores of tents housing his city of workmen. Who was to blame? How could he find out?

      From the hills he could hear the faint, clumsy drums of the planet’s former owners. And in front of him, the jagged, ruined, avalanche-swept summit of the mountain without a name was still standing.

      He didn’t sleep well that night.

      The next day, work went on as usual. The big conveyor trucks lined up, filled with chemicals for the fixation of the nearby swamps. Dengue arrived, trim in khaki slacks and pink officer’s shirt.

      “Say, chief,” he said, “I think I’ll go along, if you don’t mind.”

      “Not at all,” Morrison said, checking out the trip slips.

      “Thanks. I like this sort of operation,” Dengue said, swinging into the lead Trailbreaker beside the chartman. “This sort of operation makes me proud to be a human. We’re reclaiming all wasted swamp land, hundreds of square miles of it, and some day fields of wheat will grow where only bulrushes flourished.”

      “You’ve got the chart?” Morrison asked Rivera, the assistant foreman.

      “Here it is,” Lerner said, giving it to Rivera.

      “Yes,” Dengue mused out loud. “Swamp into wheat fields. A miracle of science. And what a surprise it will be for the denizens of the swamp! Imagine the consternation of several hundred species of fish, the amphibians, water fowl, and beasts of the swamp when they find that their watery paradise has suddenly solidified on them! Literally solidified on them; a hard break. But, of course, excellent fertilizer for the wheat.”

      “All right, move out,” Morrison called. Dengue waved gaily as the convoy started. Rivera climbed into a truck. Flynn, the fix foreman, came by in his jeep.

      “Wait a minute,” Morrison said. He walked up to the jeep. “I want you to keep an eye on Dengue.”

      Flynn looked blank. “Keep an eye on him?”

      “That’s right.” Morrison rubbed his hands together uncomfortably. “I’m not making any accusations, understand. But there’s too many accidents on this job. If someone wanted us to look bad —”

      Flynn smiled wolfishly. “I’ll watch him, boss. Don’t worry about this operation. Maybe he’ll join his fishes in the wheat fields.”

      “No rough stuff,” Morrison warned.

      “Of course not. I understand you perfectly, boss.” The fix foreman swung into his jeep and roared to the front of the convoy. The procession of trucks churned dust for half an hour, and then the last of them was gone. Morrison returned to his tent to fill out progress reports.

      But he found he was staring at the radio, waiting for Flynn to report. If only Dengue would do something! Nothing big, just enough to prove he was the man. Then Morrison would have every right to take him apart limb by limb.

      It was two hours before the radio buzzed, and Morrison banged his knee answering it.

      “This is Rivera. We’ve had some trouble, Mr. Morrison.”

      “Go on.”

      “The lead Trailbreaker must have got off course. Don’t ask me how. I thought the chartman knew where he was going. He’s paid enough.”

      “Come on, what happened?” Morrison shouted.

      “Must have been going over a thin crust. Once the convoy was on it, the surface cracked. Mud underneath, supersaturated with water. Lost all but six trucks.”

      “Flynn?”

      “We pontooned a lot of the men out, but Flynn didn’t make it.”

      “All right,” Morrison said heavily. “All right. Sit there. I’m sending the amphibians out for you. And listen. Keep hold of Dengue.”

      “That’ll be sort of dififcult,” Rivera said.

      “Why?”

      “Well, you know, he was in that lead Trailbreaker. He never had a chance.”

      The men in the work camp were in a sullen, angry mood after their new losses, and badly in need of something tangible to strike at. They beat up a baker because his bread tasted funny, and almost lynched a water-control man because he was found near the big rigs, where he had no legitimate business. But this didn’t satisfy them, and they began to glance toward the native village.

      The

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