The Man Who Staked the Stars
Page 5
socialsecurity was impossible in a land so corrupted by the desperation offamines, so little able to spare the necessary taxes. The nation wastoo huge to be fed from outside, and so had been left by the FN tostew in its own misery until its people solved their basic problem.
So, in an enlightened clean and wealthy world, Bryce Carter had grownup in a slum whose swarming viciousness was a matter of take, steal,kill, climb or die. Perhaps under those special circumstances policepenal compulsion had to be brutally strong, stronger than the drivefor life itself, as brutal as the lurid tales he had heard. Perhaps inother countries the methods were different, a hypno-converted man nota horror to his friends, but he had had no time to study andinvestigate if it were so, and the horror and hatred remained.
But there was no need to think about the psycho-hunter the Board hadput on him for by the time the hunter could reach him UT would havefallen as a legal entity, its corruption would be completely public,and the psychologist would be called off before discovering anything.Bryce thought of the slight nervousness he had let show at the firstwords of the chairman's announcement. The only witness against him washimself. His control wasn't perfect. No one's was. But he was safe.
He concentrated on the opening pages of the Basic Principles ofEconomies.
* * * * *
In the darkened UT building which could be seen from his window a fewlights still burned where the night shift dealt with emergencies.
In a small projection room on the fifty-fifth floor a man sat andlooked at a film of the UT Board meeting of that day. He played only acertain small twenty minute interval, listening closely to thevoices--"Gentlemen, your attention please--" Watching the faces--"Dothe police know of this?" ... "Do you think if we offered this Manobathe right kind of money...." "Will the gentleman who voted nay on thesecret vote the first time speak up and explain...." "It is entirelylikely that the conspirator is among us." On the screen showed theapparently bored faces and relaxed poses of men accustomed to thepower game, habitually masking their feelings from each other,shifting their positions slightly sometimes, some smoking. "We'vedealt with that, let's get on to the next business."
The watcher stopped the film and silently reset it. It began againwith the chairman on the screen rapping the table lightly. "Gentlemen,your attention...."
In the darkened projection room the chairman sat to one side smokingand thinking while the psychologist played the film through for thefourth time.
The chairman was wondering just how seriously the watcher was takingMr. Beldman's proposals about what he should do to the culprit, andwhether he would raise his fee.
The telephone rang.
* * * * *
"Four thirty, Mr. Carter," said the voice of the night clerk in thereceiver.
It was time to catch the five thirty Moon ship. He splashed cold wateron his face and the back of his neck until he was awake, took a hotshower, dressed rapidly, and gave up his key at the desk at 4:45.
"A letter for you, Mister Carter," she smiled, handing it to him. Fromthe wall speakers a mild but penetrating voice began repeating, "Busline for spaceport leaving in twelve minutes. All passengers for LunaCity, Moon Base, Asteroid Belt and points out, please go to thelanding deck. Bus line for spaceport leaving in twelve minutes--"
He opened the letter when he had settled down in a comfortable morrischair in the airbus. The letterhead said MANOBA Group PsychotherapeuticResearch and Conference Management.
One sheet of it was a half page contract in fine print, apparently astandard form with the name of Union Transport Corporation typed inthe appropriate blanks. Above it was printed in clear English andlarge type for the benefit of those readers unaccustomed to contracts."WARNING. After you have signed this release you have no legalrecourse or claim as an individual against any physical or mentalinjury or inconvenience you may claim to have sustained as a result ofthe activities of the contracted psychotherapist(s) in the course ofgroup therapy. Your group is the responsible agent. It must make allclaims and complaints as a unit, and may withdraw from the contract asa unit. Those who withdraw from the group withdraw from participationin the contract."
Bryce smiled. Or in other words, if you didn't like it, you could quityour job and get out!
The other sheet he glanced at casually. It seemed to be an explanatorypage to the effect that the Manoba's work was strictly confidentialand they were under no obligation to explain what they had done orwere doing or give their identities to any member of the corporationwho had hired them. There was nothing resembling a sales talk aboutresults, and the only thing approaching it was a stiff last sentencereferring anyone who was curious about the results of such treatmentto the National Certified Analytical Statistics of ProfessionalStanding in such and such bulletins of such and such years.
He signed the contract, smiling, and mailed it at a handy postal andtelegraph window at the spaceport before boarding the spaceship.
* * * * *
The phone was ringing.
Bryce rolled over sleepily and picked it up. "Eight A.M. L.S. S.S.Sir," said the soft voice of the desk clerk.
"Okay," he grunted, glancing at his watch and hanging up. It was twominutes after eight, but he didn't check her up on it. If he placedthe voice rightly, it belonged to an exceptionally pretty brunette. Hehad not tried to date her yet, but she looked accessible, and Mona wasbecoming tiresome.
He turned the dial in the headboard that reversed the polarization ofthe window and rose reluctantly, stretching as sunlight flooded theroom. It was daylight on Moonbase City. It had been daylight for aweek, and it would be daylight still for another week.
Through the softening filter of the airtight glass the view of distantcrater walls and the airsealed towers of Moonbase City shone in etchedmagnificence, but he gave it only a glance. It was always the same.There was no weather on the Moon and no variety of view.
"Good morning," he smiled, passing a bellboy in the luxurious, deepcolored halls.
"Good morning, Mister Carter," the boy answered rapidly with an eagernervous smile.
Bryce had caught the management up sharply on several small lapses,and they all knew him now. He strode on, pleased. Efficiency.... Noone gave him a second glance or noticed him in the tube trains, but hewas not irritated by it. Someday they would. Someday the whole worldwould know his face as well as they knew their own. He promised thatto them silently and then settled down to concentrate on someconstructive planning before reaching the office. He was not going towaste his time gawking at ads or listening to the music like theothers.
"Mister Carter?" said a hesitant voice behind him as he was reachingfor the handle of the office doors.
"What is it?" he asked crisply, turning, but as he saw who had spokenhe knew exactly what it would be.
"Pardon me Mister Carter, but--" It was a spaceman, a skinny wreck ofa man in clothes that hung on him. A junky, a drug addict. Bryce knewthe signs. He had spent all his money and gone without food for hisdrug, and now he had remembered from Belt talk that Bryce Carter was asoft touch for a loan. "Never mind," Bryce snarled, reaching for thedoor again.
He assisted the smuggling of the stuff but that did not mean that hehad to admire the fools who took it. The man was muttering somethingabout a loan when the door shut and cut off his words. The loan wouldbe spent on more junk. If he had wanted food he could have signed intoa state hospital to take the Cure, and be imprisoned and fed until thehunger for his drug had passed and released him. The Cure was a briefhell, but it was fair payment for having had his fun, and if theaddict had any guts he would face it. Any time he was ready to pay theprice of exit he could go back to being a man.
Bryce strode through the offices irritably. It did not matter ifEarthlings chose to waste their time in artificial ecstasy, but it wasdifferent to see a good Belt spaceman let himself go.
The receptionist looked up with fright in her eyes as he passed andgave him a special
good-morning, with a smile that was tremulous andvery eager to please. He still had her in the stage of new employmentwhere she was kept afraid of losing her new job with a bad reference.It was best to put them all over the hurdles at first.
He gave her a condescending smile as he went through into the inneroffices. "Good morning." She was shaky enough. A few well faked coldrages against minor errors had done well. From now on she would needonly smiles to give the utmost in loyalty and hard work. What hadMachiavelli said? "Make them fear your wrath, and they will begrateful for your forebearance."
He did not bother to speak to Kesby when he passed his open officedoor. Kesby didn't need smiles or praise, he worked loyally just forthe rare curt acknowledgement that he had done well. Three years ofmanaging had made him a good lieutenant, completely faithful. WhenBryce quit Union Transport Kesby would follow