The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  "The same gag could work on them, too."

  "Starvation? But—"

  "Passive resistance. There's no law compelling Venusians to treat with Earthmen. They can simply adopt a closed-door policy, and there's not a thing we can do about it. There's no welcome mat on Venus."

  Mike Soaring Eagle broke a long silence as they emerged to the canal bank. "It's a variation of ancestor worship, their psychology. Transferred egotism, perhaps—a racial inferiority complex."

  Munn shook his head. "You're drawing it a bit fine."

  "All right, maybe I am. But it boils down to worship of the past. And fear. Their present social culture has worked for centuries. They want no intrusions. It's logical. If you had a machine that worked perfectly at the job for which it had been designed, would you want improvements?"

  "Why not?" Munn said. "Certainly I would."

  "Why?"

  "Well—to save time. If a new attachment would make the machine double its production, I'd want that."

  The Navaho looked thoughtful. "Suppose it turned out—say—refrigerators. There'd be repercussions. You'd need less labor, which would upset the economic structure."

  "Microscopically."

  "In that case. But there'd also be a change in the consumer's angle. More people would have refrigerators. More people would make homemade ice cream. Sales on ice cream would drop—retail sales. The wholesalers would buy less milk. The farmers would—"

  "I know," Munn said. "For want of a nail the kingdom was lost. You're speaking of microcosms. Even if you weren't, there are automatic adjustments—there always are."

  "An experimental, growing civilization is willing to stand for such adjustments," Mike Soaring Eagle pointed out. "The Venusians are ultraconservative. They figure they don't need to grow or change any more. Their system has worked for centuries. It's perfectly integrated. Intrusion of anything might upset the apple cart. The tarkomars have the power, and they intend to keep it."

  "So we starve," Underhill put in.

  The Indian grinned at him. "Looks like it. Unless we can dope out some way of making money."

  "'We ought to," Munn said. "We were chosen for our I.Q., among other things."

  "Our talents aren't too suitable," Mike Soaring Eagle remarked, kicking a stone into the canal. "You're a physicist. I'm a naturalist. Bronson's an engineer and Steve Thirkell's a sawbones. You, my useless young friend, are a rich man's son."

  Underhill smiled in an embarrassed fashion. "Well, dad came up the hard way. He knew how to make money. That's what we need now, isn't it?"

  "How did he clean up?"

  "Stock market."

  "That helps a lot," Munn said. "I think our best plan is to find some process the Venusians really need, and then sell it to them."

  "If we could wireless back to Earth for help—" Underhill began.

  "—then we'd have nothing to worry about," the Navaho ended. "Unfortunately Venus has a Heaviside layer, so we can't wireless. You'd better try your hand at inventing something, skipper. But whether or not the Venusians will want it afterwards, I don't know."

  Munn brooded. "The status quo can't remain permanently that way. It ain't sensible, as my grandfather used to say about practically everything. There are always inventors. New processes—they've got to be assimilated into the social set-up. I should be able to dope out a gadget. Even a good preservative for foods might do it."

  "Not with the hydroponic gardens producing as they do."

  "Um-m. A better mousetrap—something useless but intriguing. A one-armed bandit—"

  "They'd pass a law against it."

  "Well, you suggest something."

  "The Venusians don't seem to know much about genetics. If I could produce some unusual foods by crossbreeding ... eh?"

  "Maybe," Munn said. "Maybe."

  -

  Steve Thirkell's pudgy face looked into the port. The rest of the party were seated at the table, scribbling on stylopads and drinking weak coffee.

  "I have an idea," Thirkell said.

  Munn grunted. "I know your ideas. What is it now?"

  "Very simple. A plague strikes the Venusians and I find an antivirus that will save them. They will be grateful—"

  "—and you'll marry Jorust and rule the planet," Munn finished. "Ha!"

  "Not exactly," Thirkell went on imperturbably. "If they're not grateful, we'll simply hold out on the antitoxin till they pay up."

  "The only thing wrong with that brainstorm is that the Venusians don't seem to be suffering from a plague," Mike Soaring Eagle pointed out. "Otherwise it's perfect."

  Thirkell sighed. "I was afraid you'd mention that. Maybe we could be unethical—just a little, you know—and start a plague. Typhoid or something."

  "What a man!" the Navaho said admiringly. "You'd make a grand murderer, Steve."

  "I have often thought so. But I didn't intend to go as far as murder. A painful, incapacitating disease—"

  "Such as?" Munn asked.

  "Diphtheria?" the murderous physician suggested hopefully.

  "A cheerful prospect," Mike Soaring Eagle muttered. "You sound like an Apache."

  "Diphtheria, beriberi, leprosy, bubonic plague," Pat Bronson said violently. "I vote for all of 'em. Give the nasty little frogs a taste of their own medicine. Wallop 'em good."

  "Suppose we let you start a mild plague," Munn said. "Something that couldn't conceivably be fatal—how would you go about it?"

  "Pollute the water supply or something ... eh?"

  "Eh? What with?"

  Thirkell suddenly looked heartbroken. "Oh! Oh!"

  Munn nodded. "The Goodwill isn't stocked for that sort of thing. We're germless. Antiseptic inside and out. Have you forgotten the physical treatment they gave us before we left?"

  Bronson cursed. "Never will I forget that—a hypo every hour! Antitoxins, shots, ultraviolet x-rays, till my bones turned green."

  "Exactly," Munn said. "We're practically germless. It's a precaution they had to take, to prevent our starting a plague on Venus."

  "But we want to start a plague," Thirkell said plaintively.

  "You couldn't even give a Venusian a head cold," Munn told him. "So that's out. What about Venusian anesthetics? Are they as good as ours?

  “Better, the physician admitted. Not that they need them, except for the children. Their synapses are funny. They've mastered self-hypnosis so they can block pain when it's necessary."

  "Sulfa drugs?"

  "I've thought of that. They've got those, too."

  "My idea," Bronson broke in, "is water power. Or dams. Whenever it rains, there's a flood."

  "There's good drainage, though," Munn said. "The canals take care of that."

  "Now let me finish! Those fish-skinned so-and-sos have hydropower, but it isn't efficient. There's so much fast water all over the place that they build plants wherever it seems best—thousands of them—and half the time they're useless, when the rains concentrate on another district. Half of the plants are inoperable all the time. Which costs money. If they'd build dams, they'd have a steady source of power without the terrific overhead."

  "It's a thought," Munn acknowledged.

  Mike Soaring Eagle said, "I'll stick to my crossbreeds in the hydroponic gardens. I can raise beefsteak-mushrooms to taste of Worcestershire sauce or something. An appeal to the palate, you know—"

  "Fair enough. Steve?"

  Thirkell rumpled his hair. "I'll think of an angle. Don't rush me."

  Munn looked at Underhill. "Any flashes of intellect, chum?"

  The youngster grimaced. "Not just now. All I can think of is manipulating the stock market."

  "Without money?"

  "That's the trouble."

  Munn nodded. "Well, my own idea is advertising. As a physicist, it's in my line."

  "How?" Bronson wanted to know. "Demonstrating atom-smashing? A strong-man act?"

  "Pipe down. Advertising isn't known on Venus, though commerce is. That's funny. I should think t
he retailers would jump at the chance."

  "They've got radio commercials."

  "Stylized and ritualistic. Their televisors are ready-made for splash advertising. A visual blurb ... yeah. Trick gadgets I could make to demonstrate the products. Why not?"

  "I think I'll build an x-ray machine," Thirkell said suddenly, "if you'll help me, skipper."

  Munn said sure. "We've got the equipment—and the blueprints. Tomorrow we'll start. It must be pretty late."

  It was, though there was no sunset on Venus. The quintet retired, to dream of full-course dinners—all but Thirkell, who dreamed he was eating a roast chicken that abruptly turned into a Venusian and began to devour him, starting at the feet. He woke up sweating and cursing, took some nembutal, and finally slept again.

  -

  The next morning they scattered. Mike Soaring Eagle took a microscope and other gadgets to the nearest hydroponic center and went to work. He wasn't allowed to carry spores back to the Goodwill, but there was no objection to his experimenting in Vyring itself. He made cultures and used forced-growth vitamin complexes and hoped for the best.

  Pat Bronson went to see Skottery, head of Water Power. Skottery was a tall, saturnine Venusian who knew a lot about engineering and insisted on showing Bronson the models in his office before they settled down to a talk.

  "How many power stations do you have?" Bronson asked.

  "Third power twelve times four dozens. Forty-two dozen in this district."

  Nearly a million altogether, Bronson made it. "How many in actual operation now?" he carried on.

  "About seventeen dozen."

  "That means three hundred idle—twenty-five dozen, that is. Isn't the upkeep a factor?"

  "Quite a factor," Skottery acknowledged. "Aside from the fact that some of those stations are now permanently inoperable. The terrain changes rapidly. Erosion, you know. We'll build one station on a gorge one year, and the next the water will be taking a different route. We build about a dozen a day. But we salvage something from the old ones, of course."

  Bronson had a brainstorm. "No watershed?"

  "Eh?"

  The Earthman explained. Skottery shook his shoulders in negation.

  "We have a different type of vegetation here. There's so much water that roots don't have to strike deeply."

  "But they need soil?"

  "No. The elements they need are in suspension in the water."

  Bronson described how watersheds worked. "Suppose you imported Earth plants and trees and forested the mountains. And built dams to retain your water. You'd have power all the time, and you'd need only a few big stations. And they'd be permanent."

  Skottery thought that over. "We have all the power we need."

  "But look at the expense!"

  "Our rates cover that."

  "You could make more money—difals and sofals—"

  "We have made exactly the same profits for three hundred years," Skottery explained. "Our net remains constant. It works perfectly. You fail to understand our economic system, I see. Since we have everything we need, there's no use making more money—not even a fal more."

  "Your competitors—"

  "We have only three, and they are satisfied with their profits."

  "Suppose I interest them in my plan?"

  "But you couldn't," Skottery said patiently. "They wouldn't be interested any more than I am. I'm glad you dropped in. May you be worthy of your father's name."

  "Ye soulless fish!" Bronson yelled, losing his temper. "Is there no red blood in your green-skinned carcass? Does no one on this world know what fight means?" He hammered a fist into his palm. "I wouldn't be worthy of the old Seumas Bronson's name unless I took a poke at that ugly phiz of yours right now—"

  Skottery had pressed a button. Two large Venusians appeared. The head of Water Power pointed to Bronson.

  "Remove it," he said.

  -

  Captain Rufus Munn was in one of the telecasting studios with Bart Underhill. They were sitting beside Hakkapuy, owner of Veetsy—which might be freely translated as Wet Tingles. They were watching the telecast commercial plug for Hakkapuy's product, on the 'visor screen high on the wall.

  A Venusian faded in, legs wide apart, arms akimbo. He raised one hand, six fingers spread wide.

  "All men drink water. Water is good. Life needs water. Veetsy is good also. Four fals buys a globe of Veetsy. That is all."

  He vanished. Colors rippled across the screen and music played in off-beat rhythm. Munn turned to Hakkapuy.

  "That isn't advertising. You can't get customers that way."

  'Well, it's traditional," Hakkapuy said weakly.

  Munn opened the pack at his feet, brought out a tall glass beaker, and asked for a globe of Veetsy. It was given him, and he emptied the green fluid into his beaker. After that, he dropped in a half dozen colored balls and added a chunk of dry ice, which sank to the bottom. The balls went up and down rapidly.

  "See?" Munn said. "Visual effect. The marbles are only slightly heavier than Veetsy. It's the visual equivalent of Wet Tingles. Show that on the televisor, with a good sales talk, and see how your sales curve jumps."

  Hakkapuy looked interested. "I'm not sure—"

  Munn dragged out a sheaf of papers and hammered at the breach in the wall. After a time a fat Venusian came in and said, "May you be worthy of your ancestors' names." Hakkapuy introduced him as Lorish.

  "I thought Lorish had better see this. Would you mind going over it again?"

  "Sure," Munn said. "Now the principle of display windows—"

  When he had finished, Hakkapuy looked at Lorish, who shook his shoulders slowly.

  "No," he said.

  Hakkapuy blew out his lips. "It would sell more Veetsy."

  "And upset the economy charts," Lorish said. "No."

  Munn glared at him. "Why not? Hakkapuy owns Veetsy, doesn't he? Who are you, anyhow—a censor?"

  "I represent the advertisers' tarkomar," Lorish explained. "You see, advertising on Venus is strongly ritual. It is never changed. Why should it be? If we let Hakkapuy use your ideas, it would be unfair to other makers of soft drinks."

  "They could do the same thing," Munn pointed out.

  "A pyramiding competition leading to ultimate collapse. Hakkapuy makes enough money. Don't you, Hakkapuy?"

  "I suppose so."

  "Are you questioning the motives of the tarkomars?"

  Hakkapuy gulped. "No," he said hastily. "No, no, no! You're perfectly right."

  Lorish looked at him. "Very well. As for you, Earthman, you had better not waste your time pursuing this—scheme—further."

  Munn reddened. "Are you threatening me?"

  "Of course not. I simply mean that no advertiser could use your idea without consulting my tarkomar, and we would veto it."

  "Sure," Munn said. "O.K. Come on, Bert. Let's get out of here."

  They departed, to stroll along a canal bank and confer. Underhill was thoughtful.

  "The tarkomars have held the balance of power for a long time, it looks like. They want things to stay as they are. That's obvious."

  Munn growled.

  Underhill went on, "We'd have to upset the whole apple cart to get anywhere. There's one thing in our favor, though."

  "What?"

  "The laws."

  "How do you figure that out?" Munn asked. "They're all against us."

  "So far—yes. But they're traditionally rigid and unswerving. A decision made three hundred years ago can't be changed except by a long court process. If we can find a loophole in those laws, they can't touch us."

  "All right, find the loophole," Munn said grumpily. "I'm going back to the ship and help Steve build an x-ray machine."

  "I think I'll go down to the stock exchange and snoop," Underhill said. "It's just possible—"

  -

  After a week, the x-ray device was finished. Munn and Thirkell looked through the Vyring law records and found they were permitted to sell a self-created devic
e without belonging to a tarkomar, provided they obeyed certain trivial restrictions. Leaflets were printed and strewed around the city, and the Venusians came to watch Munn and Thirkell demonstrating the merits of Roentgen rays.

  Mike Soaring Eagle knocked off work for the day and recklessly smoked a dozen cigarettes from his scanty store, burning with dull fury as he puffed. He had run into trouble with his hydroponic cultures.

  "Crazy!" he told Bronson. "Luther Burbank would have gone nuts—the way I'm going. How the devil can I cross-pollinate those ambiguous specimens of Venusian flora?"

  "Well, it doesn't seem exactly fair," Bronson consoled. "Eighteen sexes, eh?"

  "Eighteen so far. And four varieties that apparently haven't any sex at all. How can you crossbreed those perverted mushrooms? You'd have to exhibit the result in a side show."

  "You're getting nowhere?"

  "Oh, I'm getting places," Mike Soaring Eagle said bitterly. "I'm getting all sorts of results. The trouble is nothing stays constant. I get a rum-flavored fungus one day, and it doesn't breed true—its spores turn into something that tastes like turpentine. So you see."

  Bronson looked sympathetic. "Can't you swipe some grub when they're not looking? That way the job wouldn't be a complete washout."

  "They search me," the Navaho said.

  "The dirty skunks," Bronson yelped. "What do they think we are? Crooks?"

  "Mph. Something's going on outside. Let's take a look."

  They went out of the Goodwill to find Munn arguing passionately with Jorust, who had come in person to examine the x-ray machine. A crowd of Venusians watched avidly. Munn's face was crimson.

  "I looked it up," he was saying. "You can't stop me this time, Jorust. It's perfectly legal to build a machine and sell it outside the city limits."

  "Certainly," Jorust said. "I'm not complaining about that."

  "Well? We're not breaking any law."

  The woman beckoned, and a fat Venusian waddled forward. "Patent three gross squared fourteen two dozen, issued to Metzi-Stang of Mylosh year fourth power twelve, subject sensitized plates."

  "What's that?" Munn asked.

  "It's a patent," Jorust told him. "It was issued some time ago to a Venusian inventor named Metzi-Stang. A tarkomar bought and suppressed the process, but it's still illegal to infringe on it."