The Warlock's Companion wisoh-9

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Their concern for their offspring has moved them to altruism," Fess agreed. "I would ask you to bear that in mind when you talk to them."

  "Oh, I'll be nice," Dar growled. In actuality, he could hardly wait. Living human beings… !

  Fess slowed the car, banking it around to point it toward the largest building in town, and Dar tensed, not wanting to say anything—in fact, definitely not wanting to say anything, to give Fess one less datum to process. He was ready, though. Sometimes it happened, sometimes it didn't.

  The comm screen crackled into life. "Dar, if you're coming, you'd better…"

  The screen went black, and the instrument panel went dead. The car dropped like a rock.

  Dar slapped the manual override, and the instrument panel glowed to life again. He brought the car down in front of the port, as the commscreen showed Myrtle finishing saying, "… stuff will be gone," and faded from sight.

  Dar cut the power, sighed, and lifted the floor plate that gave him access to the prone robot. He pushed the circuit breaker at the base of Fess's "brain," and waited.

  "Wwhhhaddtt… DDddaarrrr… whhhhadddttt…"

  "You had a seizure," Dar explained gently. "You were coping just fine with the landing, but Myrtle came on the air to tell me to hurry up, and the extra item of processing overloaded your weak capacitor.''

  "AAAiiii… ammmm… verrry…"

  "Nothing to be sorry about, mon vieux," Dar said quickly. "Just keep practicing your meditation exercises, eh? Concentration does it! Lona assured us that's how to control it."

  "Iii… willl… attemmptt…it."

  "Good. Have a good rest, now." Dar climbed out of the car, making a mental note to try to figure out some way to accelerate Fess's recoveries. He chained his car to the pylon alongside a score of other cars, all of them newer and fancier. Not that he, or any of his neighbors, doubted anyone's honesty—but with the gravity so low, the cars might easily drift away. He turned to survey the row of pylons that curved around the great dome of the meeting hall. It was a very gay display, all colors of the rainbow, with sweeping fins and airscoops and baroque ornamentation—all of it perfectly nonfunctional, of course; how much good could airscoops be in vacuum?

  They could look nice. And they did. And by looking nice, they proclaimed their owner's wealth and, consequently, status.

  The hell with that. It looked pretty. Beauty was its own excuse for being. Dar turned, clipped his safety to the guy wire, and hauled himself into the hall.

  He came through the airlock, opening his faceplate, splitting his seal, tilting his helmet back—and a ham of a hand caught him between the shoulder blades. "Hey, Dar boy! Great t' see ya! How ya been?"

  Dar recovered and caught the offending hand with a grin. "Hello, Estivan. What's germane?"

  "Not much." Estivan squeezed back. "In fact, from what I hear, the miner only brought in silicon, steel, gold, and some plastic."

  "No germanium at all, huh?"

  "Yeah, but who uses it any more? So what's been happening at Maison d'Armand, huh?"

  "She's not back yet. But as soon as she is, we'll declare party."

  "I'll look forward to it. Hey, Carolita!" Estivan waved his daughter over. Carolita looked up from a box of crystals she was fingering, saw Dar, and broke into a smile. "Hi, Dar!" She came over to catch his hand in a warm clasp. "Getting lonely yet?"

  "Fess doesn't let me go out alone, Carol," Dar answered, grinning. "Shopping for ornaments, or raw materials?"

  Carol shrugged. "Depends on how pretty they are. Need any help on your organic chem?"

  "No, but I wish I did."

  "Gallant, very gallant—though untrue. Be off with you, though—I know you want to look over the merchandise. You might take a look at the minerals, too."

  "Yeah, I gotta at least pretend I'm doing business. Drink after the auction?"

  "Suits. Go get ready to be an adversary, now."

  Dar turned away, warmed by camaraderie, but also relieved. Carol was right—she wasn't exactly pretty. Not quite ugly, but who was he to talk?

  Lona's husband. Whether it was official or not, all the neighbor women knew it, and respected her claim—which made it easier for Dar, since he could enjoy their friendship without worrying about avoiding overtures.

  He threaded through the throng, exchanging handshakes and shop talk, and occasional hugs with the ladies, when he couldn't avoid it.

  "Dar-ling!" Bridget threw her arms around his neck and leaned down to plant a kiss on his cheek. "What have you been doing with yourself all these weeks?"

  "Working, eating, and sleeping, Bridget." Dar pecked at her cheek, reflecting that the daughter of the Mulhearns, at least, didn't patronize him.

  No, she was very forthrightly the take-charge type. "You call that a kiss? Here, let me show you how…"

  "Oh, come on! I get so tired of lessons!"

  "You ought to consider a change of curriculum." Bridget let her eyelids droop, producing the effect of an amorous dugong.

  "Yeah, but what if my prof caught me studying from someone else's notes? You wouldn't want me to get expelled, would you?"

  The reference to Lona, oblique though it was, reminded Bridget of her manners. She edged away, still smiling—but idling down from flirt to friend. "Of course not; she's got a mean left hook. How about a bite? A snack, I mean," Bridget actually blushed. "My lord! Once you start this kind of thing, it's hard to stop, isn't it?"

  "So I'm told. Just think clean, Bridget."

  "Yeah, but what happens if I hear dirty?" They sailed into the restaurant area, and she sat as Dar tucked her chair in, then took the one next to her—better a wolf who'd been muzzled, then one who'd just been let out of her cage. "May I order for you?"

  "No, thanks—I can enter a code for myself." Bridget pressed in the sequence for coffee and local Danish, then sat back to sip. "How is your factory running?"

  And they were off into shoptalk, safe and chummy—which was just as well because, regardless of how Bridget didn't look, Dar's hormones had given him a rush when she had. Weeks of celibate living had their effect—though the sight of the ladies of the community helped quell it. They ranged in appearance from plain to ugly, with only the occasional woman who was mildly pretty. Dar wondered why Maxima attracted so few beauties. Maybe the stunning ones preferred to stay on Terra, where the standard of living was higher, and the morals were lower? Of course, Lona hadn't—but she had spent half her life in space, hopping from planet to planet with her grandfather, before she'd ever heard of Maxima; and even she took off for Terra every chance she could get, leaving him at the mercy of his neighbors' wives and daughters.

  Nothing but wives and daughters, of course—the young men who had come to Maxima to build robots and fortunes still outnumbered the women 2.36 to 1. Any single woman who showed up to join the colony was married within a year, plain or not, usually after a hectic courtship that resembled a bidding war. Of course, there were one or two who chose to stay single, like Myrtle—but they were very few. Looks or no looks, Maxima was a marriage mart.

  Of course, Dar had to admit he was biased. To him, any woman would look plain, compared to Lona.

  He found himself wondering if the other husbands could possibly feel the same way about their wives.

  "Two therms!"

  "Two and five kwahers!"

  "Two and ten!" Msimangu turned to glare at Dar. "Blast you, d'Armand! You're running the price up!"

  "No, I'm buying it! Two and twelve!"

  "Two and twelve?" the miner cried. "Do I hear two and fifteen?" He glanced at Msimangu.

  "Not from me." The white-haired black man turned away in disgust. "I'm not that low. I'll wait for the next shipment."

  "Two and fourteen?" the miner called. "Two and thirteen. I have two and twelve; who'll give me two and thirteen?"

  There were several mutters, but no one called out.

  "Going once! Going twice! Sold!" The miner whacked the gavel on the board. "Three kilograms of silicon
to the young man in the pin-striped coverall, at two therms, twelve kwahers per!"

  Msimangu shouldered through the crowd to shake a finger under Dar's nose. "Do not bid against me again, young d'Armand! I can ruin you!"

  Dar lifted his chin—he had to; the old black man was six inches taller than he—and gave back glare for glare. "Would you dock us a fair chance to get started, Omar? We're not thick in the wallet; we have to pick up small lots when we can."

  "Perhaps, but the gold is not small!"

  "No, but it's vital."

  "Then deal in retail! If a beginner like you seeks to buy gold wholesale, he will break himself!"

  "One hundred fifteen kilograms of fine gold!" the miner called. "What am I bid?"

  A storm of calls answered him. He sorted them out, the price leapfrogging. "Five thousand therms… six thousand… eight thousand… ten…"

  "Twelve thousand therms!" Msimangu called out. "Twelve thousand therms per kilo!"

  "Thirteen!" Laurentian answered, and "Fourteen!" Mulhearn called from across the room. "Fifteen!" Ngoya called. "Sixteen!" Bolwheel shouted.

  "Seventeen!" Msimangu bellowed. "Seventeen therms per kilo!"

  The small bidders had dropped out; now the plutocrats were getting down to serious competition. It was exciting in its way, but watching his neighbors fight made Dar nervous. He edged away toward the rim of the crowd, pulling out Lona's list and checking through it. All the items were crossed off, except for the silicon; he drew a line through that and turned away, tucking the list back for future reference. He patted the pocket where the trio of rubies lay. He really shouldn't have spent the money, but Lona would love them, if he could cut, polish, and mount them properly. Besides, they'd be worth ten times the amount he'd paid, back on Terra.

  "Twenty-two and nine going once—twenty-two and nine going twice—SOLD! To the tall black gent with the white hair!"

  Msimangu whooped victory, and his fellow millionaires turned away, reviling his ancestry and personal habits. Msimangu ignored them, laughing as he turned away, shouldering through his congratulating fellows. "I won the big one, at least! Come, come drink with me!"

  A few accepted, though most withdrew to take their turns at the retail booth. Still laughing, Msimangu caught up with Dar at the door to the restaurant. "Come drink with us, young d'Armand! Let us rejoice, let us make a celebration!"

  Dar looked up with a slow smile. "Don't mind if I do, Omar."

  "Fine, fine! Then come with us!" And Msimangu plunged into the public bar.

  Dar sat down at table with a half-dozen solid citizens. He noticed that Mulhearn and Bolwheel had joined the crew, and was amazed once again that people who could rage and revile one another in the bidding, could relax and talk together without the slightest rancor only five minutes later. Everyone seemed to understand that business might be business, but friendship was more important.

  Much more important, out here where the shrunken sun blazed in eternal night, and your own survival depended on your neighbors'. They couldn't afford feuds on Maxima; they all had a constant, common enemy—the ever-present void. Sitting down for a drink wasn't just a celebration—it was a declaration of apology and forgiveness, a healing of wounds, and an unspoken pledge of mutual support.

  He felt honored to be included, though it had become part of the pattern. From the first, he'd been invited to join in every gathering that happened. If they needed each other here, it made them all the more willing to accept the newcomer into the fold. Dar wondered if they would be so open in a hundred years, when (if!) the colony was firmly established and thriving.

  "We will grow," Bolwheel maintained. He was a red-haired, jowly man of middle age, who looked fat but wasn't. "We grow already."

  Neils Woltham nodded. "We all tend to have large families, somehow."

  "That is half the reason we are here." Msimangu punched up another tankard. "For the room to have families."

  David Mulhearn, pale and red-haired but graying, nodded. "All is rationed, on Terra—food, land, houses, what you will. Rationed, or so dear that it might as well be."

  "I wouldn't call the prices low here," Jory Kimish said. He was almost as young as Dar, and newly come from Earth. "You blokes seem to have put in a good deal of time and labor. Can't rate that too low, you know."

  "We do not," Msimangu assured him. "But even if you compute the cost of our houses so, young man, you will find them much less expensive than their equivalents on Terra."

  "True," Bolwheel said, "but this isn't exactly the choicest location, you know."

  "And what is wrong with it?" Msimangu rounded on him. "You can have as much land as you can fence, here!"

  "Aye, but naught will grow on't," Mulhearn pointed out. "Yet I cannot fault the neighborhood—for nowhere else have I found neighbors of my own mindset and code."

  "Nor I," Msimangu agreed, "nor I. I could not ask for more congenial company."

  "When we get it," Dar pointed out. "Of course, it's worth waiting for."

  "Surely there's no dearth of folk who wish to join us," Mulhearn pointed out.

  Bolwheel answered with a knowing smile. "Where else can they find a reputation for their product, David? Only fifty years, and already our computers and robots are known as the best in Terran space!"

  "Of course, it helps that Terran space has been reduced a bit by the DDT," Dar pointed out. .

  "Only officially, young d'Armand. None seek to bar us from trading with other PEST planets—and the outermost of those, trade with the frontier. No, our robots are known wherever men use automatons."

  "Well, surely it's your reputation that I came to join," Jory Kimish said, "though I'd stay for the company alone. But why is the Maximan product so much the best? You'd think Terra would have it all!"

  "All but the brains," Bolwheel answered. "For don't you see, the brightest of the computerfolk saw the collapse of the DDT coming, and came out here early. The second brightest stayed till the civil war, then escaped to avoid being shot by the storm troopers, or by the loyalists; and the third brightest waited till PEST had taken all the planet, then escaped just before PEST banned emigration."

  Msimangu nodded. "First, second, third—most of the best came to us."

  "Nay, not all, though," Mulhearn cautioned. "There are brains on Terra still, and not all of them were made on Maxima."

  "True," Msimangu agreed, "though they lose steadily of what's left, by deportation. And some of those come here."

  Dar stared. "You mean PEST is deliberately trying to get rid of its bright ones?"

  "Only those who show some sign of making trouble, young d'Armand—which means only half of the brightest."

  "And the other half?"

  "They work their way into government, join the LORDS party, and start the long, savage climb," Bolwheel assured him.

  Dar frowned. "So they can't design a decent robot?"

  "Decent, yes. But if it's more than 'decent,' they are marked as dangerous; they might take their bosses' jobs. No, a smart young man on Terra will be sure to hide his mind."

  Dar shuddered. "No wonder they come to Maxima! Who would want to work in that kind of environment?"

  "Not me," Kimish assured him, "so I made just enough trouble to be deported, but not enough for them to care where." He leaned back with a sigh. "Can you know how intoxicating the spirit of freedom is, here? Where your neighbors challenge you to dream up some idea nobody ever thought of before? Where they make you feel ashamed, if you don't come up with anything new?"

  "Yes." Dar had a few memories of PEST's Terra, himself. "It makes all the toil and loneliness worthwhile."

  He caught looks of sympathy, quickly veiled; their wives stayed home to keep them company.

  Quick change of topic needed, and Bolwheel supplied it. "I think perhaps that is why PEST leaves us alone, and does not seek to impose its rules here."

  Kimish frowned. "I was wondering about that. One squadron of destroyers, and we'd be slaves."

  "But the
y need us, they need us," Msimangu assured him. "They need someone, away from Terra, to invent better computers for them, for they must have machines to do the work, if they are to give the people the leisure they have promised. And they dare not have such innovation being developed on any of their planets—it could set people to thinking, and questioning their orders."

  A rumbling chorus of agreement went around the table, men nodding their heads in concurrence, and Dar nodded along with the rest of them, even though, privately, he thought it might also have something to do with PEST thinking Maxima was too small to be worth swatting. Realistically, he knew that the asteroid would die if its customers stopped buying, which meant the Terran government could destroy them any time it wanted to. And if PEST's bureaucrats could destroy the Maximans, surely they could also control them, easily and totally, as much as they wished—or so they thought, so they reasoned.

  They were wrong, of course. They could kill Maxima, they could conquer it—but if they didn't conquer, they couldn't control. As long as they left the asteroid free, Maximans could do whatever they wished.

  But Maxima wasn't about to let PEST know that. Sure, it might be fun to send the Terran bureaucrats a list of all the things Maximans did, that were forbidden on Terra—but it would also be very foolish. A bureaucrat defines himself by the amount of power he has; PEST's logical response would be conquest.

  Which in itself was pretty silly, when all they would have to do would be to send back a list of all the things Terrans could do, that Maximans couldn't—mostly hedonistic pastimes. The younger Maximans would start eating their hearts out.

  Or maybe not. Dar's neighbors were a pretty unworldly bunch, if you excluded making money and building grandiose houses.

  Houses they were definitely big on, though. "I passed your estate on the way in, young d'Armand," Msimangu was saying, "I saw your home. I confess I thought it the height of ugliness last year, but now I begin to see its form emerge. It will be beautiful, when it is done."

  "Why, thank you," Dar said, frankly floored by the compliment. In fact, he was so pleased that he forgot to mention who had designed it.