Amazon Planet up-5

by Mack Reynolds

  The Amazonians, including the major and her two warriors, began to laugh.

  Aeasus, chuckling, said, “Actually, of course, graduate students in our upper schools participate in both teaching and in research in their respective fields. I am afraid, Citizen Thomas, that it would be quite difficult for your scholar not to enrich our culture as a result of his learning. Much of it, I am afraid, would rub off, willy-nilly.”

  Guy brushed that aspect aside. “All right, now look. According to you, each hour of time expended is worth just as much as any other hour.”

  Thasius interrupted here. “What could be more fair? It is the one thing in which all men and women are equal, without exception. We all, no matter of what sex, no matter the age, how intelligent or stupid, how quick of reaction or slow, have exactly twenty-four Earth basic hours a day. Surely nothing is more just than to realize that each person’s time is as valuable to her, as any other person’s. It is the ultimate substance of existence. What a crime is perpetuated if one person steals anothers, by whatever means.”

  Guy Thomas took a deep breath. “All right, let’s make this simple. Suppose you have a man making shoes. His reactions are quick, he’s ambitious, he’s diligent. He can make, say, four pairs of shoes in a work day. All right. Next to him is another fella. He’s slow and strictly a cloddy. Even if he tries, and possibly he doesn’t, he can’t make more than two pair of shoes a day. You think the hours the stute man puts in should equal the hours the cloddy does?”

  They all laughed again, to his irritation.

  Aeasus said, “You make it too simple. In the very old days, when shoes were manufactured as you describe, then truly the first man’s time was worth more than that of the second. But long ago that situation changed. It was found that six men working together—three of them, perhaps, cutting leather, another two sewing it together, another hammering on the heels—could perhaps produce seventy-two pair of shoes. Three times as many, per man, than if they had been working as individuals. Division of labor multiplies man’s efforts. Of this six-man team, one was the fastest, one the slowest, the others inbetween, but their combined efforts brought their average up to three times the production of the fastest.”

  “All right,” Guy muttered, “I’ll take that. “Still, the fastest—”

  “Just a moment, I haven’t finished. Shoes are no longer produced by teams of six men, bent over a cobbler’s bench. Instead, a highly trained technician watches gauges and dials and the reports of computers, while the automated factory in which he devotes his hours, pours out shoes at the rate of tens of thousands a day. This fabulous productivity of his is the accumulated legacy of the race. It does not belong to one person or group of persons, no matter how intelligent, quick or ambitious. That automated plant can operate only because half a million years ago one of our common ancestors first hit upon the use of fire. Only because twenty thousand years ago, perhaps, another ancestor devised the first wheel. Only because some long-forgotten Hittites stumbled upon the smelting of iron. And so on. A hundred, a thousand, a million of our more inventive ancestors had to live their lives to give us this legacy.

  “Can this technician who prowls the gauges and dials of the automated shoe factory claim to be turning out thousands of shoes per hour through only his own time? Obviously not. It is the whole human race, down through the centuries, which is producing them. For him to be so vainglorious as to demand more for the hours he puts in than a slightly less intelligent or less agile man is presumptuous. That legacy of the ages belongs to the less stute as well as our most fortunately endowed.”

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door which Clete guarded. She stiffed, opened it and peered out. She grunted and opened wide.

  A young man entered and nodded his head respectfully to Lampado. “Madam, the Hippolyte will be ready to receive the representative from United Planets in ten minutes.”

  “Very well,” the committee chairman told him. “That’s all.”

  The messenger left, after sweeping Guy Thomas with inquisitive eyes. At least he didn’t giggle, Guy conceded sourly.

  Lampado said, “We’ve spent too much time on nonessentials. But to sum it up, Citizen Thomas, Amazonia is as desirous as Avalon to exchange columbium for titanium. We suggest that the trade be based on the number of hours expended to produce the respective products. If this is unacceptable to Avalon, we welcome their further opinions on the subject.”

  “That’s the message you wish me to take to Avalon?” Guy said.

  The major, silent all this time, said, “Always subject, of course, to the approval of the Hippolyte.”

  Lampado gruffed, “Of course.”

  The commitee members began to come to their feet, stretching and smoothing out their togas and warrior’s cloaks.

  Guy stood too and approached the major. “Look,” he said. “Brief me a little on this setup. The more I hear about the workings of your society, the less clear I seem to be. Do I understand that the Hippolyte is queen of this continent?”

  Aeasus had overheard him. “Don’t be silly,” he snorted. “How could you have an institution as out of date as a feudalistic nobility in a culture as advanced as Amazonia? Even as figureheads kings and queens had largely disappeared before the first landing on Luna.”

  The major glowered at him. “Let me handle this.”

  The elderly scientist looked contrite. “Sorry, Major,” he said. “Out of my field, of couse.”

  She turned her eyes back to Guy Thomas. “The term queen is antiquated. The Hippolyte is the elected head of the four phylons or tribes of the Paphlagonian Amazons. The office is held for life unless the electorate deposes her.”

  Guy said, “Who composes the electorate?”

  “The four heads of the phylons,” the major told him as though nothing was more obvious.

  He cleared his throat. “All right. How do they get to be heads of the, uh, phylons?”

  “Each phylon is composed of ten phratras. The elected heads of the ten phratras elect the chief of their respective phylon.”

  Guy looked at her. “I know I’ll get to the bottom sooner or later,” he muttered. “Who elects the heads of the phratras?”

  “Each phratra is composed of ten genos. The elected head of each genos votes for the chief of the phratra to which he belongs.”

  “And…” Guy said patiently.

  The major wound it up. “The genos is the basic unit of our society. Its membership has a common name, going back to a supposed common ancestor. All members of the genos have certain rights and duties toward their fellow members.”

  “Kind of a great big, happy family, eh?” Guy said.

  “Exactly. It is a type of family, but composed of thousands of persons.”

  “And each adult member has the right to vote for the person who represents the genos, eh?”

  The major became slightly huffy. “Don’t be ridiculous. Not the men, of course.”

  “Oh,” Guy said sarcastically. “Of course not.” The major said, “Today the Senate which is composed of the heads of each genos is not in session. You will be received by only the Hippolyte, flanked by her council which consists of the four phylon chiefs. When you are presented, you will bow and remain silent until addressed.” She added, “I’ll stand next to you. The Hippolyte seldom bothers with men, of course. Try not to make a flat of yourself.”

  Guy said in a sarcastic tone, “I’ll do my best.”

  Her eyes turned bleak. “Don’t be cute with me, boy. I’m handing this job because I was ordered to. But I don’t like uppity men, understand?”

  “I suspected it all along, Major,” Guy got out. “Let’s go.”

  Out in the corridors again, they fell into their old pattern of precedence. The major led, followed by the Earthling, followed in turn by Clete and Lysippe.

  It would seem this building connected to the palace, or wherever it was that the Hippolyte held audience, by an underground passage. At any rate, they stepped into what Guy a
t first assumed was an elevator, but it turned out to be an elevator with ramifications. It sank, that feeling he could recognize, but at what he would have assumed to be the bottom of the shaft, no door opened. Instead, they began to move swiftly sideways. This continued for several minutes until they stopped, shunted this way, shunted that for a short distance, then began to mount again.

  “What is this?” Guy growled. “An amusement park ride?”

  “Shut up,” the major rapped.

  “Shut up yourself,” he snapped back.

  The three of them stared at him.

  Finally Clete laughed. “Sweety,” she said, “you’re the most effeminate man I ever saw in my life. Damned if I know what Minythyia sees in you. She’d have to spend the first year teaching you your place.”

  “That’d be fun,” Guy muttered. He was getting fed up with this chaotic relationship between the sexes. On top of everything else, that description he’d just had of the workings of the Paphlagonia government made about as much sense as anything else on this crackpot world. What were the duties of these layers upon layers of elected officials? Who profited by what? Who was the dog catcher, and who the Minister of War?”

  The car he had mistaken for a simple elevator stopped and the door opened quietly.

  His eyes widened in shocked disbelief.

  They stepped into the biggest, gaudiest hall he had ever seen in his life. It made the surviving cathedrals of antiquity on Earth, at Rome, Seville, Rheims and Istanbul look like peasants’ huts in comparison. He closed his eyes momentarily to cut the glare and to suffer in silence.

  “What’s the matter?” the major growled at him.

  He shook his head. “Nothing. I’ve simply never seen anything like this layout on any planet in the whole system, and we’ve got some dillies.”

  Clete looked at him questioningly. “I thought you had never been over-space before.”

  Guy Thomas covered. “I’ve seen a good many Tri-Di travelogues.”

  The major said, “Come along.”

  They left Clete and Lysippe at the entry and together began to march down the extended hall, eyes supposedly front, although, all along the way, Guy couldn’t resist shooting unbelieving glances left and right.

  Could those pillars actually be solid gold? No, of course not. Ridiculous. They were probably simply covered with gold leaf.

  Those lines of warriors. Holy Jumping Zen, all armed with scrambler rifles. There was enough fire power present to blow down the city.

  Those mosaics over on the wall, the scenes of Amazons and what he assumed were Greek warriors, fighting in chariots. He didn’t like the way the mosaics gleamed reflected light. Oh, no. The mosaics, the tiny colored pieces which composed the mural, simply coudn’t be gems!

  The hall could easily have accomodated an Earth-side football game. There was a self-conscious element in marching down its length. He had read once on one of the historical tapes, about the Italian dictator Mussolini who had an enormous office completely unfurnished except for the dictator’s desk at the far corner. A visitor had to walk the full length of the office, becoming more self-conscious every step, to appraoch the other. It had been deliberate, and so, Guy Thomas decided, must this be.

  All right, so he was impressed by the pomp and wealth of the Amazon Hippolyte.

  At long last, they came to a halt.

  On a dias sat a tall, distinguished-looking woman in her late middle years. Her throne, a heavy wooden chair in which she sat, was simple. The only simple article of furniture or decoration in the whole layout, Guy realized. She was flanked, two to each side, by four other women in her same age group, though none quite so patrician. Their cuirasses were evidently of silver and richly embossed and inlayed with gems, one emeralds, one rubies, one diamonds, one sapphires. Probably, Guy decided, each Amazonian phylon had a symbolic color, a symbolic jewel. The Hippolyte’s own cuirass was of simple gold without embellishments.

  They stood there for a long moment, Guy thinking, it’s your ball, start bouncing it.

  The Hippolyte finally spoke, her rich, full voice in complete compatibility with her distinguished appearance.

  “Present the Earthling,” she said.

  The major barked, “Citizen Guy Thomas, of Earth, representing the Department of Interplanetary Trade of the United Planets.”

  Guy bowed, moderately but sufficiently.

  The Hippolyte said, “We understand you have come to our world to—”

  “Just a minute,” the Phylon chief to her immediate right said.

  The Hippolyte turned to her, eyebrows up. “Yes, Marpesia? You have reason to interrupt me?”

  The Pylon chief nodded, without looking at her superior. Her eyes were narrow and on Guy Thomas.

  “Only last year, when I was Amazonian Ambassador to to the United Planets, he was pointed out to me at an Octagon reception. His name isn’t Guy Thomas and he is not connected with the Department of Interplanetary Trade. His name is Ronald Bronston and he is top trigger-man for Sidney Jakes of the Notorious Section G of the Bureau of Investigation.”

  VIII

  There must have been some sort of signal. Warriors, who had been standing far to the side, were approaching on the double.

  Guy Thomas didn’t bother to look for a possible way out. The legendary Houdini couldn’t have escaped from this monstrous reception hall, throne room, or call it what you will. There must have been a thousand uniformed and armed women present.

  He stood, unchanging, looking straight ahead.

  The Hippolyte held her silence for a long moment. In less than that time, Guy and the major were flanked with a double score of young, efficient-looking guards. The major, he noted, was glaring at him, speechlessly.

  The Hippolyte said finally, “You have heard Marpesia’s accusation. What is your answer. Earthling?”

  Guy took a breath and said, “I am a citizen of United Planets and a resident of the planet Earth. I demand to be turned over to the UP Embassy.”

  The Hippolyte said, “Put him to the question.”

  He had a warrior at each arm. Less than gently, he was about-faced and marched back to the entrance through which he had come only ten minutes or so earlier.

  At the entry to the elevator, Clete and Lysippe stared at him but didn’t move to join his retinue which consisted of Major Oreithyia and all the guards who could squeeze into the compartment.

  He had no way of knowing what methods they had of interrogating him. Simple torture? He assumed that he could bear as much as the next man. But was their torture simple? There had been no hint in the Hippolyte’s words to suggest of just what his interrogation would consist.

  Would he have a chance to suicide?

  Unlikely.

  He cursed himself for not having had the foresight to provide himself with a capsule of cyanide. He cursed Sid Jakes for not having thought of it.

  The elevator compartment sank and then, as before, shunted to the right, stopped, shunted left, stopped, seemed to twist and then moved forward at a clip.

  No one, not even the major, said a word.

  His mind raced, but there was nowhere for it to go. Everything was out of his control. There merest movement and the hands on his arms tightened. Without doubt, some of them bore some type of stun gun. He had enough problems without being muffled by a tuned-down stun gun.

  The moving compartment halted, shunted about again and then zoomed upward at a knee bending velocity. It came to a halt and the door opened.

  They marched him down a corridor which had the odors and atmosphere of a hospital, rather than of a prison or military building.

  They hustled him into a room which continued the hospital motif, up to and including an operating table.

  “Wait a minute,” he blurted inadvertently, even as two of his warrior guards reached down and grabbed him by the ankles. The two at his arms acted in unison and he found himself tossed up onto the table and held firmly.

  He didn’t see who it was that put
the clamps on arms, legs and head. He was unable to move.

  Someone blatted orders and all except a few seemed to leave the room. He stared at the ceiling, not bothering to turn his eyes in attempt to see who was entering, who leaving.

  He knew what was coming. There was to be no torture.

  Shortly his suspicions were fulfilled. He felt a sudden prick in his arm. He clenched his teeth, knowing even as he did how meaningless the gesture was. There was another injection.

  He might have known. In all other respects, the Amazonians had proven themselves to be as advanced as any of the member worlds of United Planets. There was no reason to believe they weren’t thoroughly familiar with Scop, or its equivalent. He had no illusions. He had just received a shot of Scop and of some other drug as well.

  There was a period of possibly five minutes in which various mutterings and shuffling went on in the background. He didn’t bother to try to look. He kept his eyes on the ceiling.

  Finally a voice said, “What is your name?”

  Deep within him his soul screamed.

  He said, “Ronald Bronston.”

  “What is your official position?”

  “I am an operative of supervisor grade of Section G, of the Bureau of Investigation, Department of Justice, Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs, of United Planets.”

  “Under whose orders are you working?”

  “Sidney Jakes.”

  “What is his position?”

  “Assistant to Ross Metaxa.”

  “Who is Ross Metaxa?”

  “Commissioner of Section G.”

  “From whom does he take orders?”

  “I do not know.”

  There was a pause for a moment and some whispering in the background.

  Finally the voice came again. “What are you doing on Amazonia?”