Early, he had observed that the clients could be divided roughly into two categories, the child of nature and the broken men. The first were those of little imagination and simple standards. In all probability they had known nothing better back on Earth; they saw in the colonial culture, not slavery, but freedom from responsibility, security, and an occasional spree. The others were the broken men, the outcasts, they who had once been somebody, but, through some defect of character, or some accident, had lost their places in society. Perhaps the judge had said, 'Sentence suspended if you ship for the colonies.'
He realized with sudden panic that his own status was crystallizing; he was becoming one of the broken men. His background on Earth was becoming dim in his mind; he had put off for the last three days the labor of writing another letter to Jones; he had spent all the last shift rationalizing the necessity for taking a couple of days holiday at Venusburg. Face it, son, face it, he told himself. You're slipping, you're letting your mind relax into slave psychology. You've unloaded the problem of getting out of this mess onto Jones - how do you know he can help you? For all you know he may be dead. Out of the dimness of his memory he recaptured a phrase which he had read somewhere, some philosopher of history: 'No slave is ever freed, save he free himself.'
All right, all right-pull up your socks, old son. Take a brace. No more rhira-no, that wasn't practical; a man had to have sleep. Very well, then, no rhira until lights-out, keep your mind clear in the evenings and plan. Keep your eyes open, find out all you can, cultivate friendships, and watch for a chance.
Through the gloom he saw a human figure approaching the gate of the compound. As it approached he saw that it was a woman and supposed it to be one of the female clients. She came closer, he saw that he was mistaken. It was Annek van Huysen, daughter of the patron.
She was a husky, overgrown blond girl with unhappy eyes. He had seen her many times, watching the clients as they returned from their labor, or wandering alone around the ranch clearing. She was neither unsightly, nor in anywise attractive; her heavy adolescent figure needed more to flatter it than the harness which all colonists wore as the maximum tolerable garment.
She stopped before him, and, unzipping the pouch at her waist which served in lieu of pockets, took out a package of cigarettes. 'I found this back there. Did you lose it?'
He knew that she lied; she had picked up nothing since she had come into sight. And the brand was one smoked on Earth and by patrons; no client could afford such. What was she up to?
He noted the eagerness in her face and the rapidity of her breathing, and realized, with confusion, that this girl was trying indirectly to make him a present. Why?
Wingate was not particularly conceited about his own physical beauty, or charm, nor had he any reason to be. But what he had not realized was that among the common run of the clients he stood out like a cock pheasant in a barnyard. But that Annek found him pleasing he was forced to admit; there could be no other explanation for her trumped-up story and her pathetic little present.
His first impulse was to snub her. He wanted nothing of her and resented the invasion of his privacy, and he was vaguely aware that the situation could be awkward, even dangerous to him, involving, as it did, violations of custom which jeopardized the whole social and economic structure. From the viewpoint of the patrons, labor clients were almost as much beyond the pale as the amphibians. A liaison between a labor client and one of the womenfolk of the patrons could easily wake up old Judge Lynch.
But he had not the heart to be brusque with her. He could see the dumb adoration in her eyes; it would have required cold, heartlessness to have repulsed her. Besides, there was nothing coy or provocative in her attitude; her manner was naive, almost childlike in its unsophistication. He recalled his determination to make friends; here was friendship offered, a dangerous friendship, but one which might prove useful in Winning free.
He felt a momentary wave of shame that he should be weighing the potential usefulness of this defenseless child, but he suppressed it by affirming to himself that he would do her no harm, and, anyhow, there was the old saw about the vindictiveness of a woman scorned.
'Why, perhaps I did lose it,' he evaded, then added, 'It's my favorite brand.'
'Is it?' she said happily. 'Then do take it, in any case.'
'Thank you. Will you smoke one with me? No, I guess that wouldn't do; your father would not want you to stay here that long.'
'Oh, he's busy with his accounts. I saw that before I came out,' she answered, and seemed unaware that she had given away her pitiful little deception. 'But go ahead, I-I hardly ever smoke.'
'Perhaps you prefer a meerschaum pipe, like your father.'
She laughed more than the poor witticism deserved. After that they talked aimlessly, both agreeing that the crop was coming in nicely, that the weather seemed a little cooler than last week, and that there was nothing like a little fresh air after supper.
'Do you ever walk for exercise after supper?' she asked.
He did not say that a long day in the swamps offered more than enough exercise, but agreed that he did.
'So do I,' she blurted out. 'Lots of times up near the water tower.'
He looked at her. 'Is that so? I'll remember that.' The signal for roll call gave him a welcome excuse to get away; three more minutes, he thought, and I would have had to make a date with her.
Wingate found himself called for swamp work the next day, the rush in the chopping sheds having abated. The crock lumbered and splashed its way around the long, meandering circuit, leaving one or more Earthmen at each supervision station. The car was down to four occupants, Wingate, Satchel, the Pusher, and Jimmie the Crocker, when the Pusher signaled for another stop. The flat, bright-eyed heads of amphibian natives broke water on three sides as soon as they were halted. 'All right, Satchel,' ordered the Pusher, 'this is your billet. Over the side.'
Satchel looked around. 'Where's my skiff?' The ranchers used small flat-bottomed duralumin skiffs in which to collect their day's harvest. There was not one left in the crock.
'You won't need one. You goin' to clean this field for planting.'
'That's okay. Still-I don't see nobody around, and I don't see no solid ground.' The skiffs had a double purpose; if a man were working out of contact with other Earthmen and at some distance from safe dry ground, the skiff became his life boat. If the crocodile which was supposed to collect him broke down, or if for any other reason he had need to sit down or lie down while on station, the skiff gave him a place to do so. The older clients told grim stories of men who had stood in eighteen inches of water for twenty-four, forty-eight, seventy-two hours, and then drowned horribly, out of their heads from sheer fatigue.
'There's dry ground right over there.' The Pusher waved his hand in the general direction of a clump of trees which lay perhaps a quarter of a mile away.
'Maybe so,' answered Satchel equably. 'Let's go see.' He grinned at Jimmie, who turned to the Pusher for instructions.
'Damnation! Don't argue with me! Get over the side!'
'Not,' said Satchel, 'until I've seen something better than two feet of slime to squat on in a pinch.'
The little water people had been following the argument with acute interest. They clucked and lisped in their own language; those who knew some pidgin English appeared to be giving newsy and undoubtedly distorted explanations of the events to their less sophisticated brethren. Fuming as he was, this seemed to add to the Pusher's anger.
'For the last time-get out there!'
'Well,' said Satchel, settling his gross frame more comfortably on the floorplates, 'I'm glad we've finished with that subject.'
Wingate was behind the Pusher. This circumstance probably saved Satchel Hartley at least a scalp wound, for he caught the arm of the Pusher as he struck. Hartley closed in at once; the three wrestled for a few seconds on the bottom of the craft.
Hartley sat on the Pusher's chest while Wingate pried a blackjack away from the clenched fing
ers of the Pusher's right fist. 'Glad you saw him reach for that, Hump,' Satchel acknowledged, 'or I'd be needin' an aspirin about now.'
'Yeah, I guess so,' Wingate answered, and threw the weapon as far as he could out into the marshy waste. Several of the amphibians streaked after it and dived. 'I guess you can let him up now.'
The Pusher said nothing to them as he brushed himself off, but he turned to the Crocker who had remained quietly in his saddle at the controls the whole time. 'Why the hell didn't you help me?'
'I supposed you could take care of yourself, Boss,' Jimmie answered noncommittally.
Wingate and Hartley finished that 'work period as helpers to labor clients already stationed. The Pusher had completely ignored them except for curt orders necessary to station them. But while they were washing up for supper back at the compound they received word to report to the Big House.
When they were ushered into the Patron's office they found the Pusher already there with his employer and wearing a self-satisfied smirk while Van Huysen's expression was black indeed.
'What's this I hear about you two?' he burst out. 'Refusing work. Jumping my foreman. By Joe, I show you a thing or two!'
'Just a moment, Patron van Huysen,' began Wingate quietly, suddenly at home in the atmosphere of a trial court, 'no one refused duty. Hartley simply protested doing dangerous work without reasonable safeguards. As for the fracas, your foreman attacked us; we acted simply in self-defense, and desisted as soon as we had disarmed him.'
The Pusher leaned over Van Huysen and whispered in his ear. The Patron looked more angry than before. 'You did this with natives watching. Natives! You know colonial law? I could send you to the mines for this.'
'No,' Wingate denied, 'your foreman did it in the presence of natives. Our role was passive and defensive throughout -'
'You call jumping my foreman peaceful? Now you listen to me-Your job here is to work. My foreman's job is to tell you where and how to work. He's not such a dummy as to lose me my investment in a man. He judges what work is dangerous, not you.' The Pusher whispered again to his chief. Van Huysen shook his head. The other persisted, but the Patron cut him off with a gesture, and turned back to the two labor clients.
'See here-I give every dog one bite, but not two. For you, no supper tonight and no rhira. Tomorrow we see how you behave.'
'But Patron van Huys -'
'That's all. Get to your quarters.'
At lights out Wingate found, on crawling into his bunk, that someone had hidden therein a food bar. He munched it gratefully in the dark and wondered who his friend could be. The food stayed the complaints of his stomach but was not sufficient, in the absence of rhira, to permit him to go to sleep. He lay there, staring into the oppressive blackness of the bunkroom and listening to the assorted irritating noises that men can make while sleeping, and considered his position. It had been bad enough but barely tolerable before; now, he was logically certain, it would be as near hell as a vindictive overseer could make it. He was prepared to believe, from what he had seen and the tales he had heard, that it would be very near indeed!
He had been nursing his troubles for perhaps an hour when he felt a hand touch his side. 'Hump! Hump!' came a whisper, 'come outside. Something's up.' It was Jimmie.
He felt his way cautiously through the stacks of bunks and slipped out the door after Jimmie. Satchel was already outside and with him a fourth figure.
It was Annek van Huysen. He wondered how she had been able to get into the locked compound. Her eyes were puffy, as if she had been crying.
Jimmie started to speak at once, in cautious, low tones. 'The kid tells us that I am scheduled to haul you two lugs back into Adonis tomorrow.'
'What for?'
'She doesn't know. But she's afraid it's to sell you South. That doesn't seem likely. The Old Man has never sold anyone South-but then nobody ever jumped his pusher before. I don't know.'
They wasted some minutes in fruitless discussion, then, after a bemused silence, Wingate asked Jimmie, 'Do you know where they keep the keys to the crock?'
'No. Why do y-'
'I could get them for you,' offered Annek eagerly.
'You can't drive a crock.'
'I've watched you for some weeks.'
'Well, suppose you can,' Jimmie continued to protest, 'suppose you run for it in the crock. You'd be lost in ten miles. If you weren't caught, you'd starve.'
Wingate shrugged. 'I'm not going to be sold South.'
'Nor am I,' Hartley added.
'Wait a minute.'
'Well, I don't see any bet-'
'Wait a minute,' Jimmie reiterated snappishly. 'Can't you see I'm trying to think'?'
The other three kept silent for several long moments. At last Jimmie said, 'Okay. Kid, you'd better run along and let us talk. The less you know about this the better for you.' Annek looked hurt, but complied docilely to the extent of withdrawing out of earshot. The three men conferred for some minutes. At last Wingate motioned for her to rejoin them.
'That's all, Annek,' he told her. 'Thanks a lot for everything you've done. We've figured a way out.' He stopped, and then said awkwardly, 'Well, good night.'
She looked up at him.
Wingate wondered what to do or say next. Finally he led her around the corner of the barracks and bade her good night again. He returned very quickly, looking shame-faced. They re-entered the barracks.
Patron van Huysen also was having trouble getting to sleep. He hated having to discipline his people. By damn, why couldn't they all be good boys and leave him in peace? Not but what there was precious little peace for a rancher these days. It cost more to make a crop than the crop fetched in Adonis-at least it did after the interest was paid.
He had turned his attention to his accounts after dinner that night to try to get the unpleasantness out of his mind, but he found it hard to concentrate on his figures. That man Wingate, now ... he had bought him as much to keep him away from that slave driver Rigsbee as to get another hand. He had too much money invested in hands as it was in spite of his foreman always complaining about being short of labor. He would either have to sell some, or ask the bank to refinance the mortgage again.
Hands weren't worth their keep any more. You didn't get the kind of men on Venus that used to come when he was a boy. He bent over his books again. If the market went up even a little, the bank should be willing to discount his paper for a little more than last season. Maybe that would do it.
He had been interrupted by a visit from his daughter. Annek he was always glad to see, but this time what she had to say, what she finally blurted out. had only served to make him angry. She, preoccupied with her own thoughts, could not know that she hurt her father's heart, with a pain that was actually physical.
But that had settled the matter insofar as Wingate was concerned. He would get rid of the trouble-maker. Van Huysen ordered his daughter to bed with a roughness he had never before used on her.
Of course it was all his own fault, he told himself after he had gone to bed. A ranch on Venus was no place to raise a motherless girl. His Annekchen was almost a woman grown now; how was she to find a husband here in these outlands? What would she do if he should die? She did not know it, but there would be nothing left, nothing, not even a ticket to Terra. No, she would not become a labor client's vrouw; no, not while there was a breath left in his old tired body.
Well, Wingate would have to go, and the one they called Satchel, too. But he would not sell them South. No, he had never done that to one of his people. He thought with distaste of the great, factory like plantations a few hundred miles further from the pole, where the temperature was always twenty to thirty degrees higher than it was in his marshes and mortality among labor clients was a standard item in cost accounting. No, he would take them in and trade them at the assignment station; what happened to them at auction there would be none of his business. But he would not sell them directly South.
That gave him an idea; he did a little comput
ing in his head and estimated that he might be able to get enough credit on the two unexpired labor contracts to buy Annek a ticket to Earth. He was quite sure that his sister would take her in, reasonably sure anyway, even though she had quarreled with him over marrying Annek's mother. He could send her a little money from time to time. And perhaps she could learn to be a secretary, or one of those other fine jobs a girl could get on Earth.
But what would the ranch be like without Annekchen?
He was so immersed in his own troubles that he did not hear his daughter slip out of her room and go outside.
Wingate and Hartley tried to appear surprised when they were left behind at muster for work. Jimmie was told to report to the Big House; they saw him a few minutes later, backing the big Remington out of its shed. He picked them up, then trundled back to the Big House and waited for the Patron to appear. Van Huysen came out shortly and climbed into his cabin with neither word nor look for anyone.
The, crocodile started toward Adonis, lumbering a steady ten miles an hour. Wingate and Satchel conversed in subdued voices, waited, and wondered. After an interminable time the crock stopped. The cabin window flew open. 'What's the matter?' Van Huysen demanded. 'Your engine acting up?'
Jimmie grinned at him. 'No, I stopped it.'
'For what?'
'Better come up here and find out.'
'By damn, I do!' The window slammed; presently Van Huysen reappeared, warping his ponderous bulk around the side of the little cabin. 'Now what this monkeyshines?'
Logic of Empire Page 4
