Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net INHIBITION BY JAMES CAUSEY _Regardless of scientific attainment, any culture is vulnerable to inhibition. And Saxon was a good agent; no culture nor individual would sway his loyal appraisal...._ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, February 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Planetfall. Here the forest was green and cool. A soft, damp wind promised rain. The colonists moved down the ramp, staring at the crew members piling crates of supplies in the meadow beyond. Frowns. Then whispers. Saxon glanced up. His nostrils flared. "Hurry," he told the crewmen, and came forward, beaming. He was tired. It showed in his feverish, too-bright smile as he said, "Afraid Engineering's a little behind schedule. They'll be here tomorrow morning to erect your city. Tonight you'll have to rough it." Reactions varied. The women murmured and moved closer to their men. Some smiled. One man thoughtfully eyed the mounting pyramid of supplies. "You're getting a choice world, Jarl," Saxon said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Survey spent thirty years here, balancing the ecology, wiping out the bugs and carnivores. Eden." Saxon tasted the word like wine. Jarl Madsen's face was stone. "Aren't they all named Eden?" From the forest came a chittering bark, like anthropomorphic laughter. Saxon shivered, remembering the thing that chittered, the three-inch fangs and the talons. "Hardly," he lied. "That, incidentally, was a Narl. Herbivore, very harmless." Madsen walked past him, towards the supplies. Saxon moved among the colonists, shaking hands, congratulating, speaking of green fields and good crops and a virgin planet where every man could carve an empire. These last moments were the worst, when you said goodbye, knowing that thirty percent of them would be dead within the week. He saw Madsen opening a supply case. _Damn him! Just three more minutes!_ The last crew member dumped his load and hurried into the airlock. Saxon started casually after him, too late. Madsen stood there, his grin taut, nailed on. "Primitive pre-fab shelters," he said thickly. "Axes and seeds! The city was a lie. We're on our own, is that it? _Why--_" Saxon's palm flashed and Madsen fell writhing. There were shouts, hands clawing at him as he tore free, sprinting for the ship. _Always running_, he thought bitterly. _I'm getting old._ * * * * *