“Vince has a little problem with liquor sometimes,” Wraggon explained. “We’re trying to help him stay clean.”
“Yeah,” said the man Barnard had introduced as Casey Flynn, “but, like Vince says, that don’t mean you can’t have a whiskey if you want.” As if to emphasize his point, Flynn tossed back a glass of dark amber liquid and signaled to the waitress, who acknowledged the gesture but continued talking with a patron at the bar. Wraggon looked hard in Flynn’s direction but said nothing.
“It’s all right,” Keith told them. “I’ll just have a ginger ale.”
“Hey, sweetheart!” Barnard called out to the waitress in a booming voice. “Over here!”
The waitress wore one of those painted smiles affected by people whose professions require them to be friendly at all times.
“A ginger ale for my new friend, here,” said Barnard. “How ’bout you, Casey? You gonna have another one?”
Flynn clawed at his russet-colored beard in thought, then replied, “Naw. I guess that’ll be it for now.” He reached out and patted the waitress on the behind. “I got me some plans for later tonight, and we wouldn’t want the juice ta get in my way. Would we, now, baby?”
“I don’t know about your plans, Casey Flynn,” she said, “but I plan to go home and wash my hair!”
Barnard guffawed and slapped the table. “Guess she told you, Casey!”
Flynn grinned and shrugged. “Oh, well. It was worth a try. Anyway, Tauber don’t like us to have too much liquor or too much pussy.”
Keith took mental note of the new name—and of the way Wraggon seemed to stiffen at the mention of it.
“So, Barnard,” Keith said after a long silence, “when are you going back out with the Fleet?”
“Oh,” Barnard responded, “you mean you ain’t heard? They called off all Merchant Fleet runs till they get things straightened out with the colonies over this Nitinol stuff.”
“Yeah,” said Flynn, his green eyes twinkling, “if the rock farmers won’t give us our Nitinol, we’ll just starve ’em out by not delivering their supplies!” Then he laughed, pounding the table as if he were privy to some secret joke.
Barnard, too, was smiling, and Wraggon waged a losing battle to suppress a smirk.
They’re all in on it, Keith thought. Whatever it is.
“Are you a merchanter, too, Flynn?” Keith asked.
Flynn was a ruddy-faced man with a bent nose and a small mouth that peeped like a frightened rabbit from the thicket of his ill-kempt beard. Suddenly, the gleam left his eyes, and his face grew even more florid.
“Wrong question, pal,” Wraggon commented. “Casey washed out of the Merchant Fleet Academy.” Wraggon seemed to enjoy seeing the Irishman squirm as Flynn tried to keep his temper under control. Clearly, Wraggon and Flynn were not the best of friends.
“It’s okay, Casey,” Barnard chipped in. “We all know you got a raw deal. Hell, they almost bumped me, too! Made me lose 20 pounds before they’d even let me take the training as a Grade One merchanter. Said I was just too big. Aurora’s the one finally talked ’em into giving me a crack at it if I dumped the pounds. Don’t know how she did it, but they agreed. I have to weigh in again after every shore leave, though, and if I weigh too much, they won’t let me ship out.”
“You get bonus pay if you ship out to the Asteroid Belt,” Flynn explained, “so if they don’t let Vince ship out, it costs him bucks.”
“Yeah,” Barnard added, “it ain’t fair, neither. Hell, I’m six-foot-five. Whadda they expect? They want me to weigh what Casey or Charlie weigh? I mean, they’re little guys. Not even six foot. No offense, fellas,” he said, turning to the others. “Shit, I only weighed 250 to begin with, and all of that was muscle!” He flexed his biceps to emphasize the point. “Besides, I’m the best tender they got!”
“Tender?”
“I keep forgetting you’re such an Earth-baby, Daniels,” Barnard said with a laugh. “A tender kind of herds the robbies in and out of the ship to unload supplies and load up finished goods. Sounds easy, but it can be pretty tricky. Those robbies are really dumb. Like, you tell ’em to unload the H2O supplies and bring ’em into the domes, and they’ll just keep right on unloading till you tell ’em to stop, even if it’s the ship’s supplies they’re taking. And if you’re not careful, they’ll pile all the H2O containers together without checking stress readings. That happened to another tender I know once. The containers broke open, and water was everywhere except where it was supposed to be.”
“I thought directions like that were taken care of in the robots’ programming,” said Keith.
“Some of it’s in the programming all right, but lots of times the rock farmers’ll want things changed around at the last minute. The robbies up there are mostly single-purpose types or tech-programmables. After all, they still ain’t invented the robbie yet that can think like a man!”
“A-men!” Wraggon intoned.
“They finally figured out it works better to program robbies so’s they can be directed by specialists—” Barnard smiled, squared his shoulders and proudly tapped his massive chest “—specialists like me—than it is to rewrite whole programs every time the bowl squatters want to change some little thing or another. The rock farmers have a few tenders of their own, of course, but they don’t mess their hands with loading and unloading operations. That’s the Fleet’s job.”
Keith struck a sympathetic pose, inclining his head at Barnard’s sarcasm.
“Yeah,” Flynn added, “the rock farmers don’t respect merchanters, and the Merchant Fleet don’t know how to recognize good men. That’s why the Fleet’s lost so many guys.”
“Oh?” said Keith. “Really? A lot of people quitting the Fleet lately? I hadn’t heard anything about—”
“Yeah, well they don’t like to talk about it,” Flynn said, “but it’s true. That’s one of the things they told us when I was at the Academy. They were real worried about officers taking early retirement and going for civilian retraining and Fleet not having enough qualified Academy graduates to replace ’em. Pretty funny, ain’t it? They want to know why good men are leaving, but they’ll flunk a guy like me out just because I don’t talk so good. I mean, what’s the difference how I talk? I didn’t sign up for Fleet training so I could be no friggin’ English teacher! They’re as bad as my old man, pushin’ me all the time!”
“Take it easy, Casey,” Barnard told him. “Like I said before, we know you got a raw deal.”
“And the employment service ain’t much better.” Flynn was hot now. “I sign up to learn how to fix computers and robbies, and they still make me take all sorts of classes that don’t mean nothin’.”
“How about the important classes?” Wraggon baited. “You pass your course on basic component analysis yet, Casey? How about the one on the elements of computer and robot architecture?”
Flynn’s face flushed an even deeper shade of red.
“You seem to know a lot about this field,” Keith told Wraggon soothingly, automatically trying to head off a confrontation. What are you doing? he scolded himself. Let them get mad. If they get angry enough, maybe they’ll let their guard down and say something important! If there’s really anything important for them to say, that is.
“Charlie ought to know a lot about this stuff,” Barnard said, basking in the glow of his friend’s importance. “He runs the whole Los Angeles operation for King Robotics!”
Wraggon smiled broadly at Keith’s whistle, but the lawyer wasn’t showing respect for Wraggon’s lofty position. Keith was thinking about something else. King Robotics! Didn’t one of those reports on the Nitinol diversion say the colonial robots had recently been serviced and replaced by King Robotics?
“I’ve been with King for three years now,” Wraggon said, “ever since I was 25. Took hard work to get where I am, too, but I did it. You take a fella like Flynn, though, he’s 25 now, and he’s not only an Academy washout, but he’s about to disprove the employment service
’s motto about how anyone who wants to learn can be trained. Maybe you’re the exception that proves the rule, Casey!”
Flynn glared at Wraggon with barely controlled rage. “If it wasn’t for Tauber,” he said through gritted teeth, “I’d kill you right here and now, you rust-brained bastard.”
Tauber again, Keith noted, as Barnard tried to make peace between the other two men.
“Don’t be like that,” the merchanter almost pleaded. “It’s just like Tauber says. It’s this weak-sister world and its half-assed rules that’s the enemy. We can’t go around offing each other.”
Flynn continued to glower at Wraggon. “Don’t worry, Vince. I ain’t gonna do nothin’. At least, I ain’t gonna do nothin’ for now.”
Wraggon snorted and smiled. “I guess maybe Tauber’s right,” he agreed. “The important thing’s to get rid of those damn computers and robbies and—”
He broke off and slowly turned to stare at Keith, who tried not to grimace as his stomach muscles cramped themselves into an icy knot. “Wonder where my ginger ale is,” Keith mused aloud, his fingers beating a nervous rhythm on the tabletop. “It’s been a while, and....”
Wraggon continued to study Keith in silence, with an occasional concerned glance at Barnard and even Flynn. “Let me out,” he commanded abruptly.
Flynn must have sensed Wraggon’s urgency, because he slid out of the booth without protest, and Wraggon proceeded to the public communicators in an alcove at the back of the room. Watching Wraggon out of the corner of his eye, Keith smiled half-heartedly for the benefit of the others. Meanwhile, beneath the table, he tried unsuccessfully to dry his sweaty palms on his trouser legs.
“No need to worry about your ginger ale,” Wraggon said in a quietly determined voice when he returned to the booth. “We have this friend we think you ought to meet. You can get a ginger ale at his place.”
“Oh?” Keith croaked. “That’s fine with me. Any friend of yours is a—”
“Let’s go,” Wraggon interrupted, turning to the others. “Tauber’s expecting us.”
Well, Keith thought, releasing a long, low breath, I wanted information. Looks as though I may get more than I bargained for.
Chapter 17: Of Plots New and Old
“Look, Tauber, don’t blame me,” Wraggon was grumbling in a corner of the room. Vince bumped into him kind of accidental-like. He’s a friend of—”
“I know who he is,” Tauber said, his jaw set firmly.
How would this guy know me? Keith wondered, an adrenaline charge quickening his pulse. He wasn’t sure whether his hormones were preparing him for fight or flight, but he never really considered flight an option. He’d come for information, and this looked like the place to get it. That didn’t prevent his legs from bearing a remarkable resemblance to a pair of rubber sticks. In any case, Tauber had blocked the exit with a security seal, something he said he adapted from a Merchant Fleet design. Keith drew in a sharp breath: Tauber’s the Fleet lieutenant! He’s the guy who pulled Barnard out of Eduardo’s that night!
Keith considered helping himself to one of the molded plastic chairs lined up at the service bar near where Tauber and the others stood, but he decided to just wait and watch. At the moment, they were paying little attention to him. He didn’t want to remind them of his presence. The less aware of him they remained, the better his chances of learning more.
Back in the corner of the room, Tauber was glaring in stony silence from Wraggon to Barnard to Flynn. Even at a distance, Keith could sense the authority and power in that look. Finally, nostrils still slightly flared, Tauber turned to Keith.
“Have a seat, Mr. Daniels,” he said with an insincere smile. He picked up one of the plastic chairs, carried it to the center of the room, and set it down with the firm movement of an explorer planting his country’s flag in unclaimed territory. Almost casually, he added, “It seems we have a problem.”
Keith rounded his eyes into what he hoped was an expression of puzzled innocence.
“My associates, here, have a tendency to talk too much,” Tauber said. “They’re not terribly bright—” From the back of the room, Wraggon and the others began to protest, but Tauber shut them up with a stern look and an upraised hand. “They’re not terribly bright,” he repeated. “You, however, are another matter entirely.”
Keith arched his eyebrows but said nothing.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Daniels, I know quite a bit about you. I did some checking after the other night at Eduardo’s. Not only on you. On Miss Kingman and on Vince’s girlfriend, Aurora, as well.”
“I don’t know why you’d want to do that,” Keith said, but his voice sounded thin and reedy in his ears, and he knew his protest merely confirmed Tauber’s suspicion that he knew more than he should.
“Ah, yes,” Tauber said, standing rigidly before Keith as his fingers ticked off his points: “Mr. Keith G. Daniels, attorney at law. Formerly deputy chief economist for the Interplanetary Trade Commission of the United Nations. For a short time before that, a physicist engaged in basic research with Richardson and Davenport, Inc.”
Tauber paused for effect and relaxed into a military “at-ease” stance. “The ‘G’ in your name stands for ‘Gibran,’” he added. “From the last name of a Lebanese writer your mother admired.”
Keith tried hard not to squirm beneath Tauber’s cold, measuring gaze. He reached into the large pocket of his blue-gray leisure-tunic. For once, the latest fashion in men’s casual wear offered some genuine assets, he thought as he withdrew a wrapped stick of cherry licorice.
“Care for a bite?” he offered, striving for a nonchalance he didn’t really feel.
Tauber smiled briefly, then said, “Thank you, no.”
Keith shrugged, unwrapped the licorice and ripped off a chunk with his teeth. His ex-wife used to say that his love of cherry licorice represented some kind of oral fixation. She never could accept the idea that he simply liked the stuff. Besides, used properly, a stick of cherry licorice provided a dandy distraction—a way to stall for time. Keith smiled, closed his eyes and allowed himself to savor the sweet, fruity taste of the candy while Tauber studied him like a scientist tracking a mouse through a maze.
“You’re romantically involved with Miss Rayna Joanne Kingman,” Tauber said. “She’s a Los Angeles public schoolteacher who’s also a friend of Aurora Sanger. Miss Sanger is a former merchanter and an old love of Vince Barnard over there. Shall I go on? I can give you Miss Kingman’s address, if you wish.”
“No,” Keith said between chews, “that’s not necessary.” He paused to swallow. “You’re certainly well-informed.”
“I do my homework, Mr. Daniels, and I don’t like surprises. That’s why your arrival on the scene is so—inconvenient.”
Keith waited expectantly, but Tauber let his steely gaze do all the talking for him.
“As a proper guest,” Keith said, “I naturally regret any inconvenience I might have caused you.”
Tauber chuckled. “Either you’re not as smart as I thought you were or else you’re very cool under fire…. All right, let’s get down to it. Why did you show up at the Milk of Human Kindness, and just what did you make of what you heard?”
Keith considered his response carefully. Playing stupid wouldn’t work. He was sure Tauber wouldn’t buy the act.
“Actually,” Keith began slowly, “I was intrigued by what Barnard had to say the other night about how merchanters are treated by the colonists. The lawyer in me started wondering about whether the merchanters ever thought about taking any legal action.”
Tauber ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, moved the chair from a nearby desk closer to Keith, and sat down. “Interesting idea,” he said.
Beneath his tunic, Keith’s flesh rippled into goose bumps. He had the feeling that Tauber was peering directly into his mind, baring his innermost doubts and fears.
“What do you think about how the world is run?” Tauber finally asked.
Startled, Keith cleared his thr
oat and rubbed his chin. “How do you mean?”
“You know,” said Tauber, “the world. The power structure. The people who pull our strings.”
Keith helped himself to another stick of cherry licorice and concentrated on unwrapping it. “I don’t know. I guess I never thought much about it.”
“Well, think about it now, Daniels.” Tauber tugged on his laser-cauterized right earlobe. “We’ve all gotten pretty comfortable living in a world where computers and robots do just about anything we want them to do. Technology’s become the great equalizer. Individual strength and intelligence don’t matter much when machines do your physical work and your thinking for you.”
Tauber stood and walked to his computer/communicator console. Turning back toward Keith, he tapped the console with two fingers.
“There was a time when a man who knew how to operate one of these could climb pretty high in the world,” he said. “But that was a long while ago. Before computers became second nature. Before robots were integrated into the work force. Now, any kid with a grade school education knows how to operate these things.”
Keith cocked an eyebrow. “What’s your point?”
“The point is, there’s no place left for superior people to go.” Tauber’s manner was calm, but his voice was hard and chilly as he returned to his chair. “Some of us don’t think that’s right. I’m not just talking about Wraggon and Barnard and Flynn. There are a lot more of us. Some are pretty powerful, despite the system we live under.”
Keith frowned. “What do you mean, ‘the system we live under’?”
“The system,” Tauber said. “It’s plain enough. The world today is run by and for the weak. The strong are expected to stand politely aside and give away their birthright of power.”
Keith took a deep breath, his mind racing. Getting information was only half the job he’d undertaken. The other half was leaving this place alive. Any way you looked at it, the moment was critical. He leaned forward, eyes alert.
“Go on,” he told Tauber. “You have my attention. I’ve got to admit, I sometimes feel that way, too. Like you said, I’ve tried three different professions. Each time, it was the same story: The rules of the game were set down by a committee of ninnies who didn’t really know what they were doing.”
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