We Open on Venus - Starship Troupers 2

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” Barry sighed. “Very well, Captain. How do we ‘dawdle’ in space?”

  “Throttle down, Number One,” McLeod said, and Merlo lowered a slider. “That’ll let us coast in past the L-point beacons.” McLeod peered at the sensor screen. “Should time out nicely; we’ll get a visual look at them as we slide by. Courier will land a couple hours ahead of us, if he maintains his pace.”

  “Why do I feel that we’ve just had the trip for nothing?” Horace wondered.

  “Not nothing, old boy,” Barry said. “Haldane’s Star is only a little further in this direction.”

  “Yes, about fifty light-years,” Horace sighed. “Well, I suppose our lessons in peaceful coexistence might as well be a crash course.”

  “Approaching craft, identify yourself,” the speaker said. I reached for the communicator, but Merlo laid a hand over mine. “He’s talking to the other guy.”

  Looking up, I saw a silver dart flash across the visual screen. “He really is traveling!”

  “IDE courier Mercury to New Venus ground control,” a raspy voice said. “Permission to land.”

  “Right, Mercury,” ground control said instantly. ‘Touch down in the northwest quadrant, Target Fourteen.”

  “Northwest quadrant it is,” the raspy voice confirmed. “And we all know what message that courier is carrying,” Merlo growled.

  “Oh, I’m sure there will be several,” Barry murmured. “After all, the LORDS party itself is not officially part of the government, and cannot commandeer a courier. But Elector Rudders could, of course, place a personal message in with official dispatches.”

  “Entirely too personal,” Horace agreed.

  “Whatever they’re carrying, they’ve got five hours at least on us.” McLeod glared at the viewscreen, where the courier was already only a brighter disk of light that seemed to be just barely moving toward the dimmer but larger disk that was New Venus. “How much trouble can they make for you in that amount of time, Mr. Tallendar?”

  “Officially, none, Captain,” Barry answered; neither of them seemed to be getting tired of the formality. “Unofficially, of course, they can … shall we say, create an atmosphere of hostility? We may find that we need a permit to perform.”

  “On New Venus? You bet you’ll need a permit! The whole planet’s one big company town, Mr. Director! You damn near need a permit to breather

  I thought he was joking. Turned out he wasn’t; there was no free oxygen on New Venus. They had to manufacture it, and everybody was allotted just so much per week. Management got more than labor, of course; rank hath its privileges. I found out that the managers insisted on having it written into their contracts.

  “Beacon ahead,” Merlo noted.

  I looked up at the screen just in time to see a bright button swell to the size of a dinner plate. It slid smoothly toward the side of the screen, so quickly that I almost wasn’t sure I’d seen what I thought I’d seen.

  “Merlo,” I said, “that isn’t a signpost sticking out from it, is it?”

  “Sure is,” Merlo grated. “Read it.”

  I punched for higher magnification, maneuvering the direction buttons to keep the beacon satellite centered in the screen. The printed words on the sign grew larger and larger, until I could read:

  “NO SMOKING.”

  In five languages.

  I stared. “What in the name … ?”

  Just then, a klaxon blared from the speaker, and blinking red letters stamped themselves across the screen: “Absolutely no smoking! Of any kind!”

  The klaxon stopped, and a stem voice replaced it. “Welcome to New Venus. For your protection, absolutely no smoking is permitted. This ban applies to private rooms, bathrooms, and hallways, as well as public places. All chambers of any sort are equipped with smoke detectors. Tampering with smoke detectors is a crime punishable by five to ten years imprisonment. Smoking is a capital crime, punishable by death.”

  The blinking letters changed to Russian, and the voice stated, “Ne kooreetye! ” and went on to what I assumed was the same message.

  I stared. “They are serious!” I turned to Merlo. “What’s the matter—was the planet colonized by health nuts?”

  “No,” Merlo answered. “A petroleum company.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, gave my head a shake, and opened them again, but the red Cyrillic letters were still there. “Why would a petroleum company colonize a whole planet?”

  It was Merlo’s turn to stare. “What did they teach you in that college—basket weaving?”

  “Electronics,” I snapped. “Of course they didn’t teach me history—I wasn’t in the humanities.”

  “And they call that an education,” Merlo said, with the fine disgust of the self-taught technician. “But I shouldn’t criticize—this was high school stuff. Didn’t you learn about the history of colonization between bells?”

  “Well, sure, about the brave pioneers facing the void for the sake of freedom. They told us New Venus was colonized by people dedicated to preserving free-market economics.”

  “Some truth to that,” Merlo said with a cynical smile. “The Founders were out to make a profit.”

  I frowned. “I thought it was bold pioneers, looking for space to live and freedom from rules.”

  “Not on New Venus,” Merlo said. “The whole atmosphere is helium, and you can’t go out without a helmet and air bottles.”

  “Helium?” I stared. “Enough for a whole atmosphere? Where did that come from?”

  “The Company put it there,” Merlo explained. “It’s to keep the gasoline from exploding.”

  “Gasoline? What gasoline?”

  “The ocean of gasoline that the Company exports,” Merlo explained. “Ninety percent of the planet’s surface is covered with petroleum derivatives.”

  I stared at the viewscreen. “No wonder they don’t want anyone smoking!”

  “Which, they claim, is why they have to maintain the tightest dictatorship any government ever managed,” Merlo agreed. “Like the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz, the only thing they’re afraid of is a lighted match.”

  “We’re trying to land, Number One!” McLeod snapped. “Ensign Lazarian, give me a channel to ground control.”

  I keyed the communicator.

  “Liner Cotton Blossom to ground control,” McLeod rapped. “Come in, ground control.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Barry cross his fingers.

  “Ground control to liner Cotton Blossom,” ground control answered. Barry heaved a sigh of relief and uncrossed his fingers.

  Beside him, Horace nodded. “I was afraid of that, too, Barry. Apparently, though, the pilot of that courier ship does not know the contents of the documents he carries.”

  “I was afraid that he did,” Barry admitted, “and might have tried to prevent ground control from giving us permission to land.”

  He had a very suspicious nature. It made the hair on my neck stand on end. Not his paranoia—the fact that he was probably right. As one of my psychiatrists told me, a little bit of paranoia is a pro-survival factor. A lot of it can kill you, but I didn’t have a lot—just enough to help me live longer.

  Apparently, so did Barry.

  “State your owner’s name and business,” ground control demanded.

  “My owner is the Star Repertory Company,” McLeod returned, “and their business is theater.”

  “A 3DT distributor?” ground control snapped. “You’ve wasted your water; we have an exclusive arrangement with the Lackland Features Syndicate.”

  I felt a stab of sympathy for the New Venusians. I’d seen the kind of epics Lackland stocked—all bland, mildly educational, and guaranteed harmless. Of course they were harmless—they scarcely had any content!

  “Not 3DT,” McLeod was saying. “Live theater. Real live actors, right there in your own auditorium.”

  Horace winced; “auditorium” was a dirty word.

  “Live?” ground control blurted in disbe
lief.

  “Live,” McLeod confirmed. “We’re carrying a dozen actors with costumes, lighting, and scenery.”

  “I never heard of such a thing!” .

  “You never saw anything like it, either,” McLeod agreed. “And you won’t, if you don’t give us permission to land.”

  “I—I’ll have to check with management ..

  “Anything in the rules against it?” McLeod said with an edge to his voice.

  “Well, no—but …”

  “You’ll never forgive yourself if you miss this chance,” McLeod promised. “It’s just like those shows on Broadway. In fact, half the actors have been on Broadway.” He didn’t bother mentioning that they couldn’t get jobs there anymore.

  “Clearance granted!” ground control said quickly. “Northwest quadrant, Target Fifteen.”

  I could fairly hear him drooling into the mike. I frowned; I’d heard of dedicated theatergoers, but this didn’t sound like quite the right attitude.

  Barry, however, was smiling. “It sounds as if we were right, Horace. They’re starved for theater.”

  “It does indeed,” Horace agreed, but he was looking at me. “You seem troubled, Ramou.”

  “Just wondering why that guy went into heat when the captain mentioned Broadway,” I said.

  “Bright lights and glamour.” Horace smiled with gentle amusement. “See the Star Company, and you don’t just see a show—you participate in the experience of being on Terra, in one of the greatest cities humanity has ever known. Not since Nineveh.”

  I found out later that it was more a matter of “not since Babylon.” For these provincials, the word “Broadway” conjured up visions of luscious ladies with almost nothing on, performing in decadent plays about passion and depravity. Needless to say, they were doomed to disappointment.

  Barry was nodding. “I rather like that, Horace. ‘See the Star Company, and share in the experience of Broadway!’ Yes, I’ll have to remember that. It might do nicely on a poster.”

  “Confirmed, ground control. Northwest quadrant, Target Fifteen.” But as I disconnected, McLeod looked as if he’d just bitten a bad lemon.

  Barry saw. “What’s the matter, Captain?”

  “He’s got us right next to that courier ship,” McLeod answered. “I can think of happier berths.”

  Horace said, by way of reassurance, “At least, this way, we can keep on eye on him.”

  Which is why, as the ship grounded, I saw a man in a gray complet, with matching gray narrow-brimmed hat, riding away in the landing taxi, toward the ground control tower.

  “What’s the matter, Ramou?” Merlo asked.

  “That guy.” I pointed at the screen. “I could swear he’s the same one who was in the crowd, that night the reporters ambushed us. He was there when they jumped Mamie, too, and he was the one who was coming out on the scooter to deliver the restraining order as we were trying to take off!”

  “The same one in all three places?” Merlo looked up at the screen, shaking his head. “Hard to believe. Besides, how could you see his face at this distance?”

  “All right, so maybe he’s triplets, and they all dress the same! But I saw him all three times, I tell you!”

  “And we all saw him tumbling hat-over-scooter in our backwash, as we took off,” McLeod agreed. “Not much we can do about it, though.”

  “Except keep an eye on him,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Not a favorable sign.” Barry was watching the screen, too. “At the worst, I would say he was a bird of ill omen.”

  But Horace was watching me. “Don’t be tempted to try any auguries, Ramou.”

  “I won’t give in,” I promised him, “but I can’t help being tempted.”

  Merlo turned to me, eyes wide with alarm. “Hey, Ramou! Remember, no throwing the first punch!”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but I can be watching for it. Paranoids live longer, Merlo.”

  “Perhaps,” Horace said, “but they haven’t much pleasure in it.”

  Horace had hit the nail squarely on the head, of course. Which did I want—a short life and a merry one, or a long life looking over my shoulder and waiting for the ax to fall? I mulled it over as McLeod went through the postlanding check with Merlo, then leaned over to the intercom and announced, “We’re down.”

  I could almost hear the massed cheer through the steel of the hull.

  “They’re going to want to get out and stretch their legs, Mr. Tallendar,” McLeod advised. “Shall I tell them they can, or would you rather do the honors?” He gestured toward the microphone patch.

  “I believe I would, Captain,” Barry said slowly, “but let us observe the formalities—publicly. Ramou, if you would give me all stations?”

  I pressed a patch.

  Barry stepped up beside McLeod, bent over a little to make sure he was within the pickup pattern, and asked, “Permission to go ashore, sir?”

  “Permission granted,” McLeod said. “Four-hour leave, Director—I think we’d better rendezvous back here for dinner.”

  “An excellent notion. After all, we have no idea what hotel facilities are available. Everyone will return to the ship at 1800 hours. Everyone going ashore, meet at the aft air lock—you know, where we came in—in twenty minutes.” He nodded to me to end the call, and I punched out. “Why so long, Mr. Tallendar?”

  He looked up, amused. “Eager, are you? Well, I can’t say that I’m any less, after three weeks closeted inside a hotel without windows, no matter how luxurious it is.”

  Merlo let out a short laugh before he clapped a hand over his mouth, and McLeod snorted. “Three weeks? Mr. Director, that’s just a warm-up!”

  “I’m well aware that we will have months in space on some of our longer expeditions, Captain,” Barry sighed, “and I’m not looking forward to the effort of keeping this group of egomaniacs from killing one another. However, at the moment, I am looking forward even less to confronting the powers that be about permission to perform. Still, it will be good to feel fresh air on my face again ..

  “Uh, Barry ..Merlo said.

  Barry looked up in mild surprise. “Yes, Merlo?”

  “The only fresh air here is helium,” Merlo told him. “If you go outside a dome, you’ll have to wear a breather.” Barry just stared at him, his face growing longer and longer.

  “At least,” Horace said, “there will be a bit more space about us.”

  “The official domes are pretty roomy, yes,” McLeod agreed. “They even have transparent walls.”

  Barry smiled and squared his shoulders with a sigh. “Well, at least I shall rejoice in the illusion of room—and, I hope, in a kind reception.”

  “I hope so, too.” McLeod held up a hand, showing no sign of getting out of his couch.

  Barry started to turn away, then paused, looking back. “Aren’t you coming with us, Captain?”

  “No, not just yet. Someone has to mind the store—and I’ve seen New Venus. Too often. I might get out to stretch my legs now and then, when Merlo’s here to stand watch— but right now, I think he’s got a bit of cabin fever himself. In any case, you’ll need him to play tour guide for the older folk. I suspect the younglings will want to go exploring on their own.”

  Barry looked up in alarm, and Horace said, “Won’t they supply guides for us?”

  “Not officially,” McLeod said, “though I’m sure the young folk can find somebody willing—if they’re willing to spend the money. That’s after you all get through customs, of course. Have a good trip.”

  10

  Since all the planets in the Terran Sphere of colonized space are members of the Interstellar Dominion Electorates, we didn’t have to worry about passports—we were still in territory controlled by the same government. On the other hand, each planet is semiautonomous, so we didn’t have to worry about being arrested for having left Terra against Elector Rudders’ wishes—especially since his process server never did manage to get the hard copy to us.

  But we did h
ave to worry about customs. Transporting illegal goods is a crime on any planet, and customs searches are still very effective ways of holding down on that particular crime. Besides, the Company had a few items it didn’t want brought in, either—such as books. Not all books, mind you—just certain ones. They had a list. Two lists, one bad, one good—and if it wasn’t on either list, it was impounded while the censors thought it over. I know, because I tried to bring along a copy of Torrid Flame Girls of Altair, to read just in case the trip got boring. It was a recent release, so it wasn’t. Released, I mean. The customs agent impounded it, and I never did see it again. Presumably, the censorship committee was still debating its literary merits. Of course, they all had to read it first. What can I say? Maybe they were slow readers.

  Of course, there was the mean and nasty suspicion that maybe the agent never turned it over to the committee in the first place, just kept it for his own personal edification and moral improvement—but I wouldn’t say a nasty thing like that, would I?

  All of that was still ahead of me, though—about an hour ahead of me. Before we could worry about the agents, we had to get to their counters. They were way over there, halfway across a huge enclosed space with the girders showing up at the top of a very high ceiling; I think it was a converted rocket hangar. There was a vast expanse of beige plasticrete floor, roughened enough for good traction, with a few improvised booths selling refreshments to a half-dozen empty tables and hard chairs. There was a ticket counter way over there at the other end, past the tubular fences that herded people up to a gate that was empty at the moment. We were looking at it from the back, so I assumed it was for outgoing passengers. It had a duplicate over on our side of the huge echoing building, only this one we were seeing from the front. The gate was a scanner booth, adept at detecting secret weapons or any kind of contraband that could be hidden on a person and wasn’t made out of flesh; presumably, it couldn’t pick up pork sausages being smuggled in, if anybody had a mind to try it. Anything else, vegetable or mineral, it could pick out with no trouble. Apparently they had set it to ignore the cloth of our clothing, which opened up great possibilities for smuggling in contraband underwear.