"What do you do?"
Giles silently pulled a plastic card out of his pocket and handed it to Bemish. It was an ID of a senior Federal Intelligence and Counterintelligence Bureau officer.
"I can't believe it," Bemish said. "I had no clue that our spies made billions on fake stocks. And afterwards they collect taxes from us for democracy development!"
"Yes," Giles agreed. "We usually offer not exactly reputable financial projects to our partners in the government of the country that makes us nervous. And these officials, having pocketed several millions, find out that if they want to have more millions and not to have a scandal, they should push certain political decisions through."
"Why does this country make you nervous?"
"Weia? This country doesn't make anybody nervous. This country, Mr. Bemish, is now located in the Galaxy backyard and it will be there for another two hundred years… Whatever political adventures happen here, they will not cause problems for anybody except the Weians themselves. It's Gera that makes us nervous."
"Gera?"
"Yeah. Weia is located halfway between Gera and the Federation planets. It is a strategically important Galaxy location — an ideal base for the defense forces — and if it gets to a war between Gera and the Federation, it would be better if…"
"If the war happened around a corrupted planet in the Galaxy's backyard," Bemish completed.
Giles nodded.
"And how are you going to transform a financial gamble in a military base?"
"Like a charm. We buy the company, we build as many bases as we can, we do the construction behind barbed wire, we do not publish financial reports and we arrange a leak claiming that the barbed wire is caused by the total absence of any construction. The company's shares plummet; the defense committee buys all the securities and announces that it has a military base for a scrap of the price. "
"Are you serious?"
"Come on! You can build a business center on this planet calling it a garbage processing facility. You can make narcotics using tax breaks reserved for the production of medical drugs! A military spaceport instead of a civil one — is nothing by local standards!"
"Why are you telling me this?"
"You upset our plans and became the company director. Now you are going to build the base."
"Will you leave on your own," Bemish inquired, "or should I throw you over the rails?"
"Don't you want to help your own country?"
"You are out of your mind," Bemish said. "You wanted to drown me in shit! You made this mucky tape — now I understand why Shavash assured us it would withstand any examination — and when they sent you to hell, you have a gall to come to me with this talk."
"That's your personal aggravation. What about the good of the country?"
"The good of the country!" the raider exploded. "The good of the country is when the state doesn't stick its nose in corporate business! I guarantee you that, in half an hour, I will find in your project five incorrect decisions and ten less-than-optimal ones! I haven't seen a state project that was less than three times pricier than a private one! Why? Because, the more expensive the project is, the more important the official in charge of it feels! You can't save a penny and here you are, discussing the good of the country. Save money on this construction and this will be for the good of the country!"
"Is that all?" Giles queried.
"No, that's not all! This is only economics. As for the rest, what you call "preventive actions" is what actually starts wars. You say, "We don't want to fight but we should be able to defend ourselves!" Gerans say, "We don't want to fight but they built a military base right under our nose!" Before five years pass, both sides will be armed to their teeth, the taxes that you collected from me will turn to vapor, and you'll raise your hands on TV screens and catechize, "The Gerans wouldn't be so impudent if we invested five billion more in defense!" And the citizens squawk and give you five more billion!"
Having heard this, Giles, instead of leaving, sat in a low armchair, trimmed to the floor with feathers, leaned all the way back and asked.
"So, do you think that there is no difference between the democracy officials and the Weian ones?"
"There is a difference," Bemish said. "Here, the state is set up in such a way that the officials' pickings go directly to their pockets. Democracy doesn't give you this opportunity. You, however, have an opportunity to push through the projects that will require tripling the taxes I pay but will also enlarge your departments and demonstrate your importance. If you simply embezzled, it would cause less harm."
"So, you won't work on our project."
"No. If Gera is dangerous, try to push this project through congress."
"One month before your arrival," Giles said imperturbably, "I talked to Mr. Shavash. I found out that we could pay the state a billion and a half, get the permit and build the military base ourselves. We could also pay the state a billion and a half, get the permit and build the civil spaceport. We could also pay seven million not to the state but rather to Shavash, and then the state will take care of the above mentioned construction. A dummy front company would get the spaceport, both sides would share the expenses and, if the reporters on Gera or Earth ferreted out anything about the construction, Earth would have nothing to do with it — see, the Weian officials, known for their ingrained tendency to cheat their own people, started quietly to make a military base out of a civil spaceport."
"Shavash doesn't believe his motherland is worth much," Bemish muttered.
"It's even cheaper than you think. Since we found out that if we openly start building the military base, the Weian people and the sovereign may have issues with it. They may say for instance that we are clandestinely occupying the country. Or that we are making Weia a pawn in a big game — if the war with Gera starts, Weia will be attacked first as the closest to Gera Federation military base. If however Weia was in charge of the spaceport construction, all these issues would not arise."
"And did you," Bemish uttered through his teeth, "decide to save money?"
"It's not the question of saving money. As you acutely remarked, the state unlike private companies doesn't really care about savings. But you know perfectly well that while the President has minority in the Assembly, we will never obtain funding for one more military base — that's one problem. All the peace lovers, free ones and the ones on Gera payroll, will raise their hands with banners to the sky and take it to the streets to get on the evening news — that's the second problem. The base is twice more important if it's kept under wraps — that's the third problem."
Bemish was silent. Somehow the whole thing seemed especially disgusting. Yes, everybody around traded in the sovereign's name, but, in the end, it was the private agents and companies that gave bribes on Weia. But, for a bribe and such a huge bribe to be given by the Federation of Nineteen… Has it happened because parliament wouldn't approve of this project?
"Out of this money," Giles said, "one half has already been paid and quite a number of classified documents are in Shavash's hands. If Shavash doesn't get the second half, to squeeze some profit he will find a way to sell the papers to Gera. It won't hurt Shavash — such deeds are considered to be valiant on Weia — but what a scandal will burst in the Federation."
Bemish could easily imagine this, jumbo titles everywhere.
"Bribes instead of bread!", "A little bit of war", "We are controlled by the Intelligence Service."
"Shavash," Bemish said, "will not get what he deserves, because he is an Empire official, and you will get everything you deserve because you are democracy officials. If you have to build a base, you should be able to explain it to the people. If you can't explain it to the people, than you are lying about the construction being necessary. If the President considers that he can't make certain things public but he has to do them, he should change his occupation immediately. Why didn't you raise the question about the base in public?"
"Because everybody thinks the way y
ou do," Giles shrugged his shoulders.
"Because nobody looks beyond his personal profit and, once the government endeavors to do something about the common good, they all get nervous about raising the taxes! Because thanks to the idiots like you, Gera, while lagging great distance behind us economically, has already surpassed us militarily."
"Get out."
"Not before we shake hands on it," the spy said, lying in the armchair.
The next moment, Bemish jerked him out of the armchair with one hand and socked him on the jaw with all his heart. The punch was strong enough for the Federation agent to flip over the armchair and to the floor. He however somersaulted over his head, bounced softly in a fighting stance and hissed.
"You are Geran slut."
Thence Giles attempted to land a right hand punch on Bemish's temple. He shouldn't have done it. The bungling spy's hand was blocked and twisted and Giles squeaked piteously and dropped on his knees facing away from Bemish. He couldn't move — his hand would break.
"Your training isn't any good," Bemish commented, "if a financier can wipe your mug!"
"I will wipe your mug; I will jail you for illegal parking for five years… Ouch…"
At this moment, Kissur showed up on the terrace — behind their yells, Bemish and Giles didn't even hear the rustle that the car made entering the gate. Bemish freed the spy's wrist. Giles hissed something through his teeth, picked the folder off the table, locked it in his black case and said.
"I am sorry, but I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow noon as agreed, Mr. Bemish."
"Did I get in your way?" Kissur inquired, looking over the recent discussion participants with curiosity.
"Not at all," Giles said, "sorry, I am in hurry. I will not take your time, Mr. Kissur."
He fixed the collar torn by Bemish and disappeared. The next moment, a flyer whistled taking off in the backyard.
Bemish was chewing on his lips and tapping on a twined rail pole. "Where have I seen his mug?" Kissur said. "Oh, yes, he was also at the sovereign's. This is the jerk that bribed Shavash so that nobody except his company could get the spaceport concession. IC. Yes, IC Company. What did he want?"
Bemish paused.
"He let me know that the contract will be sabotaged. You know, the workers will go on a strike, the officials will support the workers…"
"You don't have to tell me," Kissur said. "I know how it happens. I was the first minister myself. What are you gonna do now?"
At this point, an idea came to Bemish's mind, simple and evident like a soft beverage commercial. "I'll leave. I'll drop it all and leave. If somebody has to be a bastard, at least, it won't be me. Let it be the day of farewell."
"Let's go riding," Bemish said. They trotted for a while down yellow roads amidst blue fields and they tied the horses afterwards and had a bare knuckle fistfight and swam in a pond, round and green like a bottle bottom.
Bemish rode back, tired and reticent, looking at the road, with the palm trees planted along it, and a fair spread beneath the white wall of a capital suburb. The day was hot, the clouds boiled away, the sun bubbled like an egg yolk on a frying pan. Kissur kept glancing at his friend. Somebody really upset the Earthman. They had let him know that they would foul the contract up. Well, construction is different from a duel. You can go to a duel uncaring whether you win or die. You can't work on construction, understanding that you will not obtain any profit. He will leave. It's too bad. Kissur suddenly realized that he became attached to this man. He lied much less than the local officials and he had some honesty inside in spite of his occupation that didn't encourage honor.
"What was this parking thing that Giles was going to jail you for?" Kissur asked suddenly.
"It's not here. It's on Earth," Bemish replied mechanically.
"No way!" Kissur was astonished. "Where did you park your auto to get five years in prison? Did you drive on the Federation Assembly roof?"
Bemish wanted to explain that it wasn't about parking but Kissur continued.
"What kind of laws are you guys making? They fine their citizens for spitting on the streets and allow Gera more than we allow our bandits! Though we, I have to admit, allow our bandits a lot."
"What has Gera got to do with this?" Bemish exclaimed in anger.
"Well, while you feed the homeless and make laws that protect green parrot species from getting extinct, they finance military programs and they will conquer you in five years! Even a donkey would get that, so I can."
"They won't conquer us," Bemish objected, "we are more powerful."
"You are not more powerful," Kissur said, "you are richer. The history has it that the rich, but lacking in spirit, countries get conquered by the poor and warlike countries. See, wealth makes a country stuffed and lazy like a fat ram while poverty makes it sinewy and greedy like a wolf."
"In this case, Gera will conquer you first — you are weaker."
"Why would they conquer us? Nobody needs us even free of charge. Wolves feed on sheep, not on northern moss."
Bemish puffed up and kept silence. It was nonsense. Barbarians have indeed gobbled empires up because their citizens were lazier than the barbarians while barbarian weapons were not any worse. While Gera — damn it, Gera's weapons may be the same… Still, the analogy is stupid. History doesn't gallop in a circle anymore. It's funny that the Federation Intelligence thinks along the same lines as an educated barbarian…
They parted by midnight and Kissur returned to his palace. He sat in a hall for a long while and, then, he called a servant to arrange a sacrificial basket and walked to a small room, adjoining his bedroom, where an Arfarra memorial altar stood. In front of the altar, a candle burned fixed atop a tortoise shield and a fresh pine branch floated in a silver water bowl. Kissur kneeled in front of the altar and sipped a bit from the bowl.
"Arfarra," he said quietly, "what should I do? My gods are silent. They have been silent for seven years. You had been next to me before that. You made decisions for me everywhere except war and I was free at war because there is nobody between a warrior and god. Can't I do anything for my country or can I only muck things up? Send me somebody! I have nobody. What are these Earthmen? The best of their best have credit cards, where their hearts should be, and the others are god knows what! Khanadar is like a goldfinch, who can only sing silly songs, and this man, Nan, that I could ask for an advice, would advise me to break my neck because it will be most useful for the country and most pleasing for Nan."
Kissur prayed like this for a while and called Arfarra. Suddenly he felt a draught coming from the door. Kissur froze. The door slowly opened and somebody's shadow stretched at the doorstep
"Great Wei!" Kissur cried out jumping on his feet and turning around. "Oh, it's you."
The Earthman stood in the door frame — Terence Bemish.
"Have you been waiting for somebody?" Bemish was concerned. Kissur looked at the altar with his head bowed.
"No," Kissur responded, "he will hardly come."
Bemish sat in the armchair.
"You were right, Kissur," he said. "IC did give Shavash six million dollars for this contract. But it was not IC money. This money belonged to Federation Intelligence. IC is just a front. They wanted to cram the spaceport with surveillance hardware and then with military equipment. They want to watch Gera first, and then…"
"But then Weia," Kissur said, "will become an Earth's military ally."
"It will become a military ally for those who don't want to fight. And when it all comes out, Weia will become a target for Gera and the Federation, the first point to attack in the case of war!"
"A military ally," Kissur repeated. His eyes lit, he looked over Bemish to the altar.
"Don't sprout crap!" Bemish cried out. "If Gera is not going to fight, why would the Federation need military allies? And if it is — imagine what your planet will be turned into. You will be the grass that elephants trample as they fight! Your planet's destruction will be, of course, a great rallying cry fo
r the Earth's people indignation — Earth will wake up at your expense."
"Military ally," Kissur repeated for the third time. And he laughed. "And did Shavash charge your government six million for such a gift?"
"And so they wanted to cover me in mud with this tape — you understand, Kissur, it was our Intelligence that made the tape for Shavash — and after that they have the gall to come to me and offer me a dance at their tune!"
"I hope you said, yes."
"I refused. I make money out of air but not out of shit."
At this moment, the door squeaked again and Shavash entered the room. "Just as I thought," he declared, taking a look at disheveled enraged
Bemish and Kissur, coldly baring his teeth at the altar.
Kissur approached Shavash, embraced and kissed him.
"I am sorry," he said.
Shavash gently freed himself from his embrace and turned to the Earthman.
"So? Has Kissur persuaded you yet?"
"No," Bemish shouted, "you are both blockheads! You, Shavash, are ready to sell you motherland for a fried chicken and, when this guy hears the word "war" he's jumping out of his pants with joy."
"I…," Shavash started with dignity.
Bemish threw the folder at him.
You can have it! The contract is here. I am leaving for Earth.
Shavash picked up scattered papers and suddenly he gawked at them fixedly. His eyes gaped wide in astonishment and his face assumed such an astounded look that Bemish couldn't help but ask.
"What are you reading there?"
"Tomorrow newspapers," Shavash said sweetly, "it's written here that the zealots from the Marked by the Sky sect killed Terence P. Bemish who had been appointed by the sovereign to the Assalah construction director position. Or… no, not Marked by The Sky but Following the Way. Yes, of course! This sect has a branch next to Assalah and they also learned of the dishonest ways that Bemish used to obtain the shares… These ways will of course be published, too…"
"How dare you?"
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