“Where are your women?” he asked a Selgen one day, just out of curiosity.
“Our women, Master, are in the village, brewing evil,” the native told him.
“Don’t call me master. I suppose you consider women beneath you?” Ewick asked, with what he hoped was an air of scientific detachment.
“Women, Master, are scum.” The native watched Ewick’s face and smiled.
“Not only The Women—all women, Master, on all planets. Women cause a man to die early. Women, Master—” The native went on, dripping his venom.
A month ago, Ewick would have laughed it off. Now it made him distinctly uncomfortable.
“And what is your woman doing now, Master?” the native asked suddenly.
“None of your damned business,” Ewick said.
“Ah!” The native grinned evilly. “I quite understand, Master.”
“There isn’t anything to understand!” Ewick shouted. “My wife is on Earth, where she belongs.”
“Of course, Master,” the native said with a knowing smile.
“You damned—” Ewick choked himself off, and hurried away. The hatred of the natives followed, like a roaring tide.
He slammed the door violently. Fluff leaped off a chair and ran into another room. The cat had been avoiding him lately.
He went into his bedroom, took a piece of sandpaper and started to work on the barrel of his carbine. It was deeply pitted with rust now, inside and outside. Worthless.
He threw it down and started pacing the floor. Outside he heard the voices of the natives.
“All other races are detestable. There is only one race. The People!”
“I hate and abhor The People. But I hate Outsiders more. At least, we are The People!”
“Shut up!” Ewick screamed at the window. He threw his chemistry book against the wall. To hell with valences and interchange of atoms. He wanted out of this detestable place, before he slaughtered a few thousand Selgens.
The rain clouds were thicker now, great with rain, waiting to explode. But they still waited, and no drop fell.
Ewick thought of all the natives on the planet, millions of them, all hating him, abhoring the Outsider. They were the in-group; hating, but still a group. And he was alone.
By God, he thought, how dare they hate me? Me, an Earthman!
And then he remembered that the natives didn’t believe in God.
In four months the seeds were all planted, and the green sprouts were starting to grow in the fields. Ewick had to work twice as hard now, forcing the natives to weed the furrows.
“Let’s go there,” he said, his voice hoarse from months of shouting.
“Will the Master’s God destroy us if we don’t?” a native asked with heavy irony.
“Forget it,” Ewick said. “But get to work.”
Fluff scampered by, running with three of the native animals. “Here, puss,” Ewick called in his rough, tired voice. Fluff ignored him. She had struck up a wary friendship with the animals, and had taken to sleeping out.
“Don’t leave the weeds in the fields,” Ewick pleaded. “They’ll just take root again.” He raised a tired hand and pointed to a native. “You. Carry these weeds off.”
The native unwillingly picked up a handful, dropping most of them before he reached the edge of the field.
“That’s the stuff.” Ewick detested the Selgens as strongly as ever, but the bursting anger of the first months had passed. He was too tired now, too sick of being hated. “Keep it up,” he said.
“Oh, of course, Master,” a mocking voice said. Ewick didn’t bother turning. He let them go an hour early, and walked back to Colonial House.
In the house, he decided not to shave. It was too much trouble, and there was no reason why he shouldn’t wear a beard. He went into the kitchen and opened a can of corned beef.
Eating it, he wondered if his stomach would hold Selgen food.
He was sick of canned diet.
He went to the door and called Fluff, but she didn’t come. He called again, and the cat appeared from a tangle of underbrush. She snarled at him, and disappeared.
The cat had left his group, he thought.
Ewick went back to the bedroom. The place was a mess. He rarely bothered to clean it these days. He picked up the moldy chemistry book, dusted the cover and placed it on top of Janet’s picture, face-down on the bureau. He straightened the blanket on his bed, and stumbled over the carbine. Bending over, he picked it up by the muzzle.
The barrel, corroded through, snapped when he lifted it.
“Oh Master,” a voice said outside. “May we return to our hated women?”
“Yes,” Ewick said. “Do anything you please. And stop calling me master.”
“All right,” the native said.
Ewick was startled. The native hadn’t called him master that time. Was there a change in attitude? Ewick wasn’t sure, but he thought he could sense it. They hated him, true. But he must have proved himself. He didn’t sense the true, deep bitter hatred of the in-group for the out.
He was in, he thought, and smiled without a trace of irony.
And only six months to go.
Outside, the thick, bulging storm clouds finally broke, and the fields were drenched with water.
At the end of the year the relief ship came, landing on its blossom of flame. All the natives came forward to meet it, Ewick went with them, surrounded by them, hating them.
The ship’s door opened, and a young Earthman came out, suitcase in hand. He smiled uncertainly, looking over the group. Then he saw Ewick.
“Hello there,” he said. “You must be Ewick. I’m your relief. Joe Svenson. Say, this is quite a welcoming committee!”
“Greetings, Master,” Ewick said to the Outsider, safe in the pack of his hated brothers.
THE LAXIAN KEY
Free enterprise was fine, but AAA Ace happened on something even better—free production!
RICHARD Gregor was at his desk in the dusty office of the AAA Ace Interplanetary Decontamination Service. It was almost noon, but Arnold, his partner, hadn’t showed up yet. Gregor was just laying out an unusually complicated game of solitaire, when he heard a loud crash in the hall.
The door of AAA Ace opened, and Arnold stuck his head in.
“Banker’s hours?” Gregor asked.
“I have just made our fortunes,” Arnold said. He threw the door fully open and beckoned dramatically. “Bring it in, boys.”
Four sweating workmen lugged in a square black machine the size of a baby elephant, and dropped it in the middle of the floor.
“There it is,” Arnold said proudly. He paid the workmen, and stood, hands clasped behind his back, eyes half shut, surveying the machine.
Gregor put his cards away with the slow, weary motions of a man who has seen everything. He stood up and walked around the machine. “All right, I give up. What is it?”
“It’s a million bucks right in our fists,” Arnold said.
“Of course. But what is it?”
“It’s a Free Producer,” Arnold said. He smiled proudly. “I was walking past Joe’s Interstellar Junkyard this morning, and there it was, sitting in the window. I picked it up for next to nothing. Joe didn’t even know what it was.”
“I don’t, either,” Gregor said. “Do you?”
Arnold was on his hands and knees trying to read the instructions engraved on the front of the machine. Without looking up, he said, “You’ve heard of the planet Meldge, haven’t you?”
Gregor nodded.
MELDGE was a third-rate little planet on the Northern periphery of the Galaxy, some distance from the trade routes. At one time, Meldge had possessed an extremely advanced civilization, made possible by the so-called Meldgen Old Science. The Old Science techniques had been lost ages ago, although an occasional artifact still turned up here and there.
“And this is a product of the Old Science?” Gregor asked.
“Right. It’s a Meldgen Free Producer. I doubt
if there are more than four or five of them in the entire Universe. They can’t be duplicated.”
“What does it produce?” Gregor asked.
“How should I know?” Arnold said. “Hand me the Meldge-English dictionary, will you?” Keeping a stern rein on his patience, Gregor walked to the bookshelf. “You don’t know what it produces—”
“Dictionary. Thank you. What does it matter what it produces? It’s free! This machine grabs energy out of the air, out of space, the Sim, anywhere. You don’t have to plug it in, fuel or service it. It runs indefinitely.” Arnold opened the dictionary and started to look up the words on the front of the Producer. “Free energy—”
“Those scientists were no fools,” Arnold said, jotting down his translation on a pocket pad. “The Producer just grabs energy out of the air. So it really doesn’t matter what it turns out. We can always sell it, and anything we get will be pure profit.”
Gregor stared at his dapper little partner, and his long, unhappy face became sadder than ever.
“Arnold,” he said, “I’d like to remind you of something. First of all, you are a chemist. I am an ecologist. We know nothing about machinery, and less than nothing about complicated alien machinery.”
Arnold nodded absently and turned a dial. The Producer gave a dry gurgle.
“What’s more,” Gregor said, retreating a few steps, “we are planetary decontaminationists. Remember? We have no reason to—”
The Producer began to cough unevenly.
“Got it now,” Arnold said. “It says, ‘The Meldge Free Producer, another triumph of Glotten Laboratories. This’ Producer is indestructible, unbreakable, free of all defects. No Power Hookup is required. To start, press Button One. To stop, use Laxian Key. Your Meldge Free Producer comes with an Eternal Guarantee against Breakdown. If defective in any way, please return at once to Glotten Laboratories.’ ”
“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” Gregor said. “We are planetary—”
“Don’t be stodgy,” Arnold said. “Once we get this thing working, we can retire. Here’s Button One.”
The machine began to clank ominously, then shifted to a steady purr. For long minutes, nothing happened.
“Needs warming up,” Arnold said anxiously.
Then, out of an opening at the base of the machine, a gray powder began to pour.
“Probably a waste product,” Gregor muttered. But the powder continued to stream over the floor for fifteen minutes.
“Success!” Arnold shouted.
“What is it?” Gregor asked.
“I haven’t the faintest idea. I’ll have to run some tests.” Grinning triumphantly, Arnold scooped some powder into a test tube and hurried over to his desk.
Gregor stood in front of the Producer, watching the gray powder stream out. Finally he said, “Shouldn’t we turn it off until we find out what it is?”
“Of course not,” Arnold said. “Whatever it is, it must be worth money.” He lighted his bunsen burner, filled a test tube with distilled water, and went to work.
GREGOR shrugged his shoulders. He was used to his partner’s hair-brained schemes for quick wealth. Ever since they had formed AAA Ace, Arnold had been looking for short cuts. The short cuts usually resulted in more work than plain old-fashioned labor, but Arnold was quick to forget that.
Well, Gregor thought, at least it kept things lively. He sat down at his desk and dealt out a complex solitaire pattern.
THERE was silence in the office the next few hours. Arnold worked steadily, adding chemicals, pouring off precipitates, checking the results in several large books he kept on his desk.
Gregor brought in sandwiches and coffee. After eating, he paced up and down, and watched the gray powder tumble steadily out of the machine.
The purr of the Producer grew steadily louder, and the powder flowed in a thicker stream.
An hour after lunch Arnold stood up. “We are in!” he stated.
“What is that stuff?” Gregor asked, wondering if, for once, Arnold had hit upon something.
“That stuff,” Arnold said, “is Tangreese.” He looked expectantly at Gregor.
“Tangreese, eh?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then would you kindly tell me what Tangreese is?” Gregor shouted.
“I thought you knew. Tangreese is the basic food of the Meldgen people. I believe an adult Meldgen consumes several tons a year.”
“Food, eh?” Gregor looked at the thick gray powder with new respect. A machine which turned out food steadily, twenty-four hours a day, might be a very good money maker. Especially if the machine never needed servicing and cost nothing to run.
Arnold already had the telephone book open. “Here we are.” He dialed a number. “Hello, Interstellar Food Corporation? Let me speak to the president. What? He isn’t? The vice-president then. This is important . . . Channels, eh? All right, here’s the story. I am in a position to supply you with an almost unlimited quantity of Tangreese, the basic food of the Meldgen people. That’s right. I knew you’d be interested. Yes, of course I’ll hold on.”
He turned to Gregor, beaming. “These corporations think they can push—yes? Yes, sir, that’s right, sir. You do handle Tangreese, eh? Fine, splendid!” Gregor moved closer, trying to hear what was being said on the other end. Arnold pushed him away.
“Price? Well, what is the fair market price? Oh. Well, five dollars a ton isn’t much, but I suppose—what? Five cents a ton? You’re kidding!”
Gregor walked away from the telephone and sank wearily into a chair. Apathetically he listened to Arnold saying, “Yes, yes. Well, I didn’t know that. I see. Thanks.”
Arnold hung up. “It seems,” he said, “there’s not much demand for Tangreese on Earth. There are only about fifty Meldgens here, and the cost of transporting it to the Northern periphery is prohibitively high.”
Gregor raised both eyebrows and looked at the Producer. Apparently it had hit its stride, for Tangreese was pouring out like water from a high pressure hose. There was gray powder over everything in the room. It was half a foot high in front of the machine.
“Never mind, we’ll sell It,” Arnold said. “It must be used for something else.” He returned to his desk and opened several more large books.
“Shouldn’t we turn it off in the meantime?” Gregor asked.
“Certainly not,” Arnold said. “It’s free, don’t you understand? It’s making money for us.”
He plunged into his books. Gregor began to pace the floor, but found it difficult wading through the ankle-deep Tangreese. He slumped into his chair, wondering why he hadn’t gone into landscape gardening.
BY early evening, gray dust had filled the room to a depth of several feet. Several pens, pencils, a briefcase and a small filing cabinet were already lost in it, and Gregor was beginning to wonder if the floor would hold the weight. He had to shovel a path to the door, using a wastepaper basket as an improvised spade.
Arnold finally closed his books with a look of weary satisfaction. “There is another use.”
“What?”
“Tangreese is used as a building material. After a few weeks’ exposure to the air it hardens like granite, you know.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Get a construction company on the telephone. We’ll take care of this right now.”
Gregor called the Toledo-Mars Construction Company and told a Mr. O’Toole that they were prepared to supply them with an almost unlimited quantity of Tangreese.
“Tangreese, eh?” O’Toole said. “Not too popular as a building material these days. Doesn’t hold paint, you know.”
“No, I didn’t,” Gregor admitted unhappily.
“Fact. Tell you what. Tangreese can be eaten by some crazy race. Why don’t you—”
“We prefer to sell it as a building material,” Gregor said.
“Well, I suppose we can buy it. Always some cheap construction going on. Give you fifteen a ton for it.”
“Dollars?�
��
“Cents.”
“I’ll let you know,” Gregor said.
His partner nodded sagely when he heard the offer. “That’s all right. Say this machine of ours produces ten tons a day, every day, year after year. Let’s see . . .” He did some quick figuring with his slide rule. “That’s almost five hundred and fifty dollars a year. Won’t make us rich, but it’ll help pay the rent.”
“But we can’t leave it here,” Gregor said, looking with alarm at the ever-increasing pile of Tangreese.
“Of course not. We’ll find a vacant lot in the country and turn it loose. They can haul the stuff away any time they like.”
Gregor called O’Toole and said they would be happy to do business.
“All right,” O’Toole said. “You know where our plant is. Just truck the stuff in any old time.”
“Us truck it in? I thought you would—”
“At fifteen cents a ton? No, we’re doing you a favor just taking it off your hands. You truck it in.”
“That’s bad,” Arnold said, after Gregor had hung up. “The cost of transporting it—”
“Would be far more than fifteen cents a ton,” Gregor said. “You’d better shut fhat thing off until we decide what to do.”
Arnold waded up to the Producer. “Let me see,” he said. “To turn it off, I use the Laxian Key.” He studied the front of the machine.
“Go ahead, turn it off,” Gregor said.
“Just a moment.”
“Are you going to turn it off or not?”
Arnold straightened up and gave an embarrassed little laugh. “It’s not that easy.”
“Why not?”
“We need a Laxian Key to turn it off. And we don’t seem to have one.”
THE next few hours were spent in frantic telephone calls around the country. Gregor and Arnold contacted museums, research institutions, the archeological departments of colleges, and anyone else they could think of. No one had ever seen a Laxian Key, or heard of one being found.
In desperation, Arnold called Joe, the Interstellar Junkman, at his downtown penthouse.
“No, I ain’t got no Laxian Key,” Joe said. “Why you think I sold you the gadget so cheap?”
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