The Eleventh Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack

by F. L. Wallace

  He sat down in bewilderment. His grandfather had said they were poor workmen, poor technicians. He had direct evidence to the contrary. For that matter, his grandfather had said they were poor businessmen as well. And while it didn’t signify that the rest of them were as good, it was true that his father, once he had left Merhaven, had proved to be a genius as an entrepreneur. Was the old man wrong there, too? He shook his head. It would take more information than he had gathered on this trip to decide that.

  He remembered the item the old man had pressed into his hand before take-off. He retraced his steps and found where he laid it. It made no sense until he looked at it for a long time. And the clearer it became, the less he liked it.

  His grandfather had entered the room in darkness, avoiding the alarm. Such stealth wasn’t necessary, men outside or not; only Jason could have heard the alarm. The only logical explanation was that he hadn’t wanted to awaken Jason—when he entered. For some reason he had been diverted from his original intentions.

  His grandfather had given him a heavy-handled, long-bladed knife. His own words convicted him: he had been tempted to use it—on Jason. The gift of a madman—the knife that hadn’t been used on him. They were all mad on Merhaven!

  * * * *

  The call came while the ship was landing. He checked to see who it was—Restap Intrade—and rejected it on the grounds that the automatic landing controls were not functioning properly and needed his attention. To make his reason plausible, he nudged the controls at the proper time, and the big ship rose up and slid into the approach pattern again. Twice around, and he gained half an hour in which to think. The call he finally accepted was not from any Intrade official with whom he had previously had contact. He frowned. Airsta, Undersecretary of Intrade, was probably high in the hierarchy of Restap officialdom, but Jason preferred to deal directly with the top.

  “I’m sorry, but Secretary Moffle is away,” said Airsta, and she named the planet he’d left for.

  The name meant nothing to him; there were too many places in the universe for anyone to be familiar with all of them. The secretary would be gone for some time and no one knew when he would be back. This wasn’t to his liking. His hastily-contrived plans were running into obstacles.

  The Intrade official seemed to sense his disappointment. She was rather tall. She carried herself well and had the body to go with her posture. She was quite young for the position she had in Intrade, an attractive woman with calm assurance. “In the Secretary’s absence, I’m in command,” she said. “He left some instructions, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss them with you.”

  That was a surprise. He didn’t know a woman on Restap could have such a responsible office, at least not in Intrade. He looked at her carefully. Either she had a lot of ability or she had used her attractiveness as a woman to obtain such advancement. Maybe a little of each.

  “We find our trade is out of balance in the Earth sector,” continued Airsta. “In the interest of economical shipping, we’d like to equalize our imports and exports in that area. Perhaps you can help us, to our mutual advantage.”

  He certainly could—because it was a neat solution—for him. Intrade spared him a lot of trouble with their offer; that was what he was going to propose. It was more than a small coincidence, but he wasn’t going to fail to take advantage of it.

  He opened a cautious, exploratory discussion on Earth trade. At the end of a half hour he had learned two things. First, Airsta was exceedingly able. Her knowledge of Earth, however elementary, was sound. It was the result of hurried indoctrination by Intrade experts. But essentially she was slippery. He could get close to information he wanted, and she would turn the question aside, answer it in a way that was devoid of meaning. Eventually he would be able to learn what he wanted to know, but it was going to be a slow process.

  Secondly he learned that Airsta knew he had gone to Merhaven. How she knew, he didn’t ask, but it added to his respect for her. Not only was she herself able—she had a first-rate organization behind her. He would have to be careful.

  The first phase of the discussions were complete. He snapped off the screen and left the ship. On his way to the hotel he noticed little islands of greenery in the midst of the bustling city. As green as anything he had seen on Merhaven. He was annoyed that he still thought of Merhaven.

  * * * *

  Later in the day Carlos came bouncing into the hotel. Her feet were on the floor as she entered and apparently touched nowhere else until she nestled in his arms. Her greeting, he decided, was not altogether cousinly. Her head was covered with copper ringlets and her fur was a wild mixture of patterns and glistening colors. Pleasing, but not sedate. He sat her down.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “Ready for what?”

  “The picnic,” she said, rising.

  In self-defense he sat down in the nearest chair. It was not an adequate defense. She curled up in his lap. “They’ve been so kind,” she said.

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “Restapans, of course. Mostly, Intrade. They’ve made all the arrangements, cooperated with us in every way.”

  That explained something—why Airsta had been so wary. Intrade had half guessed the direction in which his current interest lay, and all their “cooperation” was merely a softening-up process. The Kransians were making it difficult for him. He began to regret the idea of a picnic, but there was nothing he could do about it, at this stage.

  He tried to question Carlos about Kransi but she was too excited, and in the end he gave up the attempt. He had had little time to himself and he needed to reorganize his thinking.

  His headache was real, and when he managed to convince Carlos that it was, it had reached proportions that only sleep could assuage.

  Sometime later he awakened. His headache was gone, and Grandy was there. The old man was leaning against a curved board that fitted the contours of his body and tilted backward to compensate for his weight. He wore a toga-like garment; it was crumpled and did not fit well.

  “Where’s Carlos?” asked Jason, getting up. “Out,” said Grandy vaguely.

  A thin slip of paper fluttered to the floor in the breeze that came from the air vent. Jason picked it up, noticing that Grandy politely turned away. Though he had difficulty with the Kransian script, Jason finally determined that it was meant for him.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  Grandy coughed. “You wanted me to charter a ship. This may be the bill.”

  Jason looked at him sharply; there was no question about it, it was the bill. Only the infernal Kransian ethics about money matters prevented him from saying so outright. He studied it at length, puzzling out each item separately. A ship was a miniature world; it might give him a clue as to how they managed their planetary economy. But the longer he studied it, the less he knew.

  * * * *

  “Is this all?” he asked when further examination seemed pointless.

  “It’s a fair price,” said Grandy stubbornly. “The ship owner did not overcharge you much.”

  “Overcharge?” said Jason. “I don’t see how he could get it off the ground for this.” He took up the bill. “Food, for one hundred people, round trip.” And he read off an amount. “This is impossibly low.”

  Grandy looked at him complacently. “There’s lots of food on Kransi,” he said.

  Unconvinced, Jason nodded. It couldn’t be that cheap. The last item showed how little hope there was for Kransi. They existed in a universe of sharp traders and apparently had never learned how to compete. “The charge for fuel is—exactly nothing,” he said. Their naïveté was disheartening.

  Grandy raised nonexistent eyebrows. “What did you expect?”

  “It must cost something,” said Jason in exasperation. “Iron, lead, or one of the transmuted artificial elements. Whatever it is, you don’t get it for nothing and you’ve got to charge correspondingly.”

  Grandy shrugged. “Why should we charge? It’s
the easiest way to get rid of it.”

  “Get rid of what?” asked Jason. “Suppose you tell me just what it is that you have to get rid of.”

  Grandy moved closer and looked around. He lowered his voice. “This is what it amounts to,” he whispered. “We cheat the Restapans.”

  That was debatable, considering the enormous difference in aptitudes. Jason said nothing and waited for Grandy to continue.

  “We get the raw material front Restap and bring it back to Kransi for processing,” said Grandy.

  “Just a minute. Why do you get the material from Restap?”

  “Because we don’t have any,” said Grandy. He scratched his head. “We’ve never let them learn what the processing consists of, otherwise they’d do it themselves and we’d be out of luck.

  “At the end of the process we have goop. Most of it we ship back to Restap, but part of it we keep for ourselves. You’ve seen how we dress?”

  Jason had. But Restapans certainly didn’t dress the same way. “What do they use it for?” he asked.

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” said Grandy with dignity. “I’m a culture custodian. I never pry into technical matters.”

  Meaning, of course, he lacked the training to understand. “What about Carlos?” asked Jason. “Would she know what they use it for?”

  “Perhaps,” said Grandy. “She’s a composer.”

  It didn’t sound promising, but he had to ask. “What does she compose?”

  “Most anything,” said Grandy. “She’s best at animals, though.”

  Inwardly Jason groaned. His mother’s family certainly had stayed clear of anything practical. A composer? Yes, of animals.

  “Never mind what they use it for,” he said wearily. “Tell me about the fuel.”

  “At the end of the process we have a remainder that can’t be made into anything else. We used to have trouble getting rid of it. And then someone tried using it as fuel. And it worked.” Grandy winked. “Naturally we didn’t tell them about it.”

  “Naturally,” said Jason gravely. Whatever they did use the goop for, Restapans weren’t doing badly or they wouldn’t continue the exchange. They could he depended on, to look out for their own interests.

  “And the raw material from Restap,” said Jason. “Just what is it?”

  Grandy looked at him with superior benevolence. “I’m a culture custodian. Does that mean anything to you?” He saw that it didn’t, and shook his head helplessly. “I know all about the raw material of my profession—what people sing, write, paint, and act. But the raw material you’re talking about, I can’t help you with that.”

  Perhaps his ignorance wasn’t too incomprehensible, decided Jason. There were many products he used every day and yet he had only the vaguest idea of where they came from or how they were made. After a few more questions he filed the information in his mind for further use. The picture of Kransi was being filled in, however slowly.

  * * * *

  The trees appeared to be all around. On closer inspection he realized that they were certainly not trees, though they were as tall. The giant Restapan plants, whatever their origin, were an indication of an advanced biological science. Jason extricated himself from the crowd. There were too many people, and he couldn’t remember all the names. There was his mother’s sister. She resembled Carlos, except that she u as no longer agile and was slightly thicker around the waist. There were others—but they were all mixed up, cousins, uncles, aunts, and still others whose degree of kinship had no meaning outside of Kransi. He was not comfortable with them.

  Airsta followed him out of the crowd. She had made many of the arrangements and was present in an honorary capacity. She was very attractive in her cool competence, dressed in a manner unconsciously reminiscent of Earth fashions. The only discordant note was the tiny com-unit on her shoulder.

  For most officialdom above the status of a clerk and all Restapan businessmen, the shoulder coin-unit provided contact with the office. There were other means of communication of course, but the personal com-unit was first of all an indication of status, and no one authorized to wear it ever neglected to do so on the commercial planet of Restap.

  Airsta’s unit resembled a flower. But the mechanism within, though tiny, was complicated and didn’t offer much scope for the artisan who created it. The flower looked more like an abstract design than an actual flower, and therefore stood out all the more—perhaps the effect she had intended.

  She stood beside him on a rise in the small amphitheater, looking out over the antics of the Kransians assembled in the park. An athletic contest of some sort was in progress. It involved two contestants, each one grasping an end of a cord about five meters long. A heavily-weighted ball with a short stem slid back and forth along the cord on a swivel. A whiplike motion of the wrist sent the ball hurtling along the rope toward one end where the other contestant, with the same kind of motion, looped it hack, faster. It was a duel, thrust and deflection and thrust again, and it required strong arms and a supple body to avoid a stinging blow on the head.

  “Charming,” she said, and he wondered how sincere her comment was.

  “I don’t think we’ll ever understand them,” she continued. “We’ve known them for a long time, and they seem no friendlier.”

  He nodded; they were childlike. By comparison, and he couldn’t help making it, she was a mature person. After the jangling, wholesale introduction to them, it was a relief to be near her.

  Airsta gasped. At first Jason didn’t realize what it signified. He turned and followed her gaze. Down the slope came his grandfather, followed by ten Merhavians, all of them nearly as tall. They towered over the slender Kransians, groups of which they passed through, ignoring them. As nearly as he could see they were not armed; fortunately, neither were the Kransians.

  “We’ve tried to keep them separated,” whispered Airsta. “Until now we’ve been successful.” She left his side and went to meet the Merhavians, who paused as she came up.

  “We won’t tolerate any disturbance,” she said. “Please remember that you’re on Restap.” She moved her hand toward the shoulder com-unit. Now would be a good time to ask for help, thought Jason, but she didn’t.

  His grandfather inclined his head perfunctorily. “How could we forget it?” he answered, and went on to meet Jason.

  “I’m an old man,” he said in a low voice. “But not too old to realize that I’ve acted like a fool.” He was calm and pleasant, not at all the same person he had seemed to be on his native planet. Only his dignity was the same.

  Front the corner of his eye Jason was aware that the games had stopped. The Kransians had drawn together and there was no longer any shouting. It was a tight spot. Originally he’d gone to Merhaven to arrange a meeting with the Kransi. He’d left without suggesting it because it hadn’t seemed feasible. Now it had happened anyway, but he wasn’t sure it was going to be friendly.

  “The human mind isn’t as logical as we’d like to think it is. And anyone can do strange things when he’s emotionally upset.” That was lame, but he hoped it expressed willingness to examine his grandfather’s unexpected behavior on Merhaven. Willingness, but not necessarily approval.

  The old man nodded, that was all. He was not accustomed to apologizing for anything, and it was too public here to discuss the subject.

  “I’ve returned the equipment you forgot,” he said, edges of a smile showing. “Also I’ve heard about Amity. I’m curious; perhaps you can tell me about it later.”

  Amity seemed a strange touchstone for them. Had he misjudged Merhavians too? It seemed so. He couldn’t guess how his grandfather had heard about it, but, as long as he had, that was all that mattered. Ruefully, Jason decided he would have to learn something about it himself. It wasn’t enough to be president of Amity. He’d have to have facts. He murmured that he’d be glad to discuss it.

  His grandfather looked around. “I’ve never seen so many Kransians, nor at such close range.” He seemed interested, an
d more than a little disappointed that Kransians were not monsters.

  “They’re all right,” said Jason noncommittally. It wasn’t wise to push an object lesson too hard. Let him find out for himself.

  His grandfather glanced down. “I’ve heard your mother was such a trifle as that one.” He sounded faintly amused.

  Jason followed the direction of his gaze. In the interim Carlos had come up and stood at his side, not much higher than his elbow.

  “You’ll hear many things before your ears drop off. Only a scoundrel pretends to believe them all,” said Grandy from the other side.

  His grandfather’s eyes darkened. “I think you misunderstand,” he said, his voice thicker. “To us, trifle means nothing derogatory. We have jewels that we call—” He broke off sadly, almost regretfully. He swung his arm in a huge arc.

  If it had landed, something would have been crushed, the bones in his hand or Grandy’s skull. With an ease that was deceptive, considering his age, Grandy moved aside. He clasped the great fist as it roared past his head and utilized the momentum of it to swing him behind. He clambered up the Merhavian’s giant back and clamped a throttling hold on his throat.

  With a bellow grandfather reached behind, tore Grandy loose, and threw him over his head. Grandy bounced, landed on his feet, and darted back.

  Kransian men rushed up, and the women were not far behind. Outnumbered nearly ten to one, but far larger physically, the Merhavians drew together. Miraculously weapons sprouted in their hands. No gelguns, or anything of that caliber, but the Merhavians were better prepared than a casual glimpse had revealed. Some carried long knives; others swung wrist-thick lengths of metal bars.

  Jason shouted and ran between the two groups. Grandfather shoved him contemptuously aside and moved into attack. Before he fell, Jason could see his eyes. They were murderous.

  Carlos flattened her body over Jason. “Stay down,” she screamed in his ear. “You’ll get hurt.”

  Jason grunted. Lots of people were going to get hurt, for no good reason. It was several minutes before he could shake her loose and get to his feet.