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 difficult," 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 stone-age savages had built a new settlement near the work camp, a cliff village of seers and warlocks assembled to curse the skyland demons. Their drums pounded day and night, and the men talked of blasting them out, just to shut them up.

Morrison pushed them on. Roads were constructed, and within a week they crumpled. Food seemed to spoil at an alarming rate, and no one would eat the planet's natural products. During a storm, lightning struck the generator plant, ignoring the lightning rods which Lerner had personally installed. The resulting fire swept half the camp, and when the fire-control team went for water, they found the nearest streams had been mysteriously diverted.

A second attempt was made to blow up the mountain without a name, but this one succeeded only in jarring loose a few freak landslides. Five men had been holding an unauthorized beer party on a nearby slope, and they were caught beneath falling rock. After that, the explosions men refused to plant charges on the mountain. And the Earth office called again.

"But just exactly what is wrong, Morrison?" Mr. Shotwell asked.

"I tell you I don't know," Morrison said. After a moment, Shotwell asked softly, "Is there any possibility of sabotage?"

"I guess so," Morrison said. "All this couldn't be entirely natural. If someone wanted to, they could do a lot of damage — like misguiding a convoy, tampering with charges, lousing up the lightning rods —"

"Do you suspect anyone?"

"I have over five thousand men here," Morrison said slowly.

"I know that. Now listen carefully. The board of directors has agreed to grant you extraordinary powers in this emergency. You can do anything you like to get the job done. Lock up half the camp, if you wish. Blow the natives out of the hills, if you think that might help. Take any and all measures. No legal responsibility will devolve upon you. We're even prepared to pay a sizable bonus. But the job must be completed."

"I know," Morrison said.

"Yes, but you don't know how important Work Order 35 is. In strictest confidence, the company has received a number of setbacks elsewhere. There have been loss and damage suits, Acts of God uncovered by our insurance. We've sunk too much in this planet to abandon it. You simply must carry it off."

"I'll do my best," Morrison said, and signed off. That afternoon there was an explosion in the fuel dump.

Ten thousand gallons of D-12 were destroyed, and the fuel-dump guard was killed.

"You were pretty lucky," Morrison said, staring somberly at Lerner.

"I'll say," Lerner said, his face still gray and sweat-stained. Quickly he poured himself a drink. "If I had walked through there ten minutes later, I would have been in the soup. That's too close for comfort."

"Pretty lucky," Morrison said thoughtfully.

"Do you know," Lerner said, "I think the ground was hot when I walked past the dump? It didn't strike me until now. Could there be some sort of volcanic activity under the surface?"

"No," Morrison said. "Our geologists have charted every inch of this area. We're perched on solid granite."

"Hmm," Lerner said. "Morrie, I believe you should wipe out the natives."

"Why do that?"

"They're the only really uncontrolled factor. Everyone in the camp is watching everyone else. It must be the natives! Psi ability has been proved, you know, and it's been shown more prevalent in primitives."

Morrison nodded. "Then you would say that the explosion was caused by poltergeist activity?"

Lerner frowned, watching Morrison's face. "Why not? It's worth looking into."

"And if they can polter," Morrison went on, "they can do anything else, can't they? Direct an explosion, lead a convoy astray —"

"I suppose they can, granting the hypothesis."

"Then what are they fooling around for?" Morrison asked. "If they can do all that, they could blow us off this planet without any trouble."

"They might have certain limitations," Lerner said.

"Nuts. Too complicated a theory. It's much simpler to assume that someone here doesn't want the job completed. Maybe he's been offered a million dollars by a rival company. Maybe he's a crank. But he'd have to be someone who gets around. Someone who checks blast patterns, charts courses, directs work parties —"