by C. L. Moore
"You mean somebody's already invented an x-ray machine on Venus?"
"No. Merely sensitized film. But that's part of your device, so you can't sell it."
Thirkell pushed forward. "I don't need film—"
The fat Venusian said, "Vibrationary patent three gross two dozen and seven—"
"What now?" Munn broke in.
Jorust smiled. "Machines employing vibration must not infringe on that patent."
"This is an x-ray machine," Thirkell snapped.
"Light is vibration," Jorust told him. "You can't sell it without buying permission from the tarkomar now owning that patent. It should cost—let's see—five thousand sofals or so."
-
Thirkell turned abruptly and went into the ship, where he mixed a whisky-and-soda and thought wistfully about diphtheria germs. After a time the others appeared, looking disconsolate.
"Can she do it?" Thirkell asked.
Munn nodded. "She can do it, chum. She's done it."
"We're not infringing on their patents."
"We're not on Earth. The patent laws here are so wide that if a man invents a gun, nobody else can make telescopic sights. We're rooked again."
Underhill said, "It's the tarkomars again. When they see a new process or invention that might mean change, they buy it up and suppress it. I can't think of any gadget we could make that wouldn't be an infringement on some Venusian patent or other."
"They stay within the law," Munn pointed out. "Their law. So we can't even challenge them. As long as we're on Venus, we're subject to their jurisprudence."
"The beans are getting low," Thirkell said morosely.
"Everything is," the captain told him. "Any ideas, somebody?"
There was silence. Presently Underhill took out a globe of Veetsy and put it on the table.
"Where'd you, get that?" Bronson asked. "It costs four fals."
"It's empty," Underhill said. "I found it in an ash can. I've been investigating glassite—the stuff they use for things like this."
"What about it?"
"I found out how they make it. It's a difficult, expensive process. It's no better than our flexiglass, and a lot harder to make. If we had a flexiglass factory here—"
"Well?"
"The bottom would drop out of Amalgamated Glassite."
"I don't get it," Bronson said. "So what?"
"Ever heard of a whispering campaign?" Underhill asked. "My father wangled many an election that way, the old devil. Suppose we passed the word around that there was a new process for making a cheaper, better substitute for glassite? Wouldn't Amalgamated stock drop?"
"Possibly," Munn said.
"We could clean up."
"What with?"
"Oh." Underhill was silent. "It takes money to make money."
"Always."
"I wonder. Here's another idea. Venus is on the iron standard. Iron's cheap on Earth. Suppose we talked about bringing in iron here—strewing it broadcast. There'd be a panic, wouldn't there?"
"Not without some iron to strew around," Munn said. "Counterpropaganda would be telecast; we couldn't compete with it. Our whispering campaign would be squashed before we got it started. The Venusian government—the tarkomars—would simply deny that Earth had unlimited iron supplies. We wouldn't profit, anyway."
-
"There must be some angle," Underhill scowled. "There's got to be. Let's see. What's the basis of the Venusian system?"
"No competition," Mike Soaring Eagle said. "Everybody has all he wants."
"Maybe. At the top. But the competitive instinct is too strong to be suppressed like that. I'll bet plenty of Venusians would like to make a few extra fals."
"Where does that get us?" Munn wanted to know.
"The way my father did it ... Hm-m-m. He manipulated, pulled the wires, made people come to him. What's the weak spot in Venusian economy?"
Munn hesitated. "Nothing we can strike at—we're too handicapped."
Underhill shut his eyes. "The basis of an economic and social system is—what?"
"Money," Bronson said.
"No. Earth's on the radium standard. Years ago it was gold or silver. Venus is on iron. And there's the barter system, too. Money's a variable."
"Money represents natural resources—" Thirkell began.
"Man-hours," Munn put in quietly.
Underhill jumped. "That's it! Of course—man-hours! That's the constant. The amount of production a man can turn out in an hour represents an arbitrary constant—two dollars, a dozen difals or whatever it is. That's the base for any economic set-up. And it's the base we've got to hit. The ancestor worship, the power of the tarkomars—they're superficial really. Once the basic system is challenged, they'll go down."
"I don't see where it gets us," Thirkell said.
"Make the man-hours variable," Underhill explained. "Once we do that, anything can happen."
"Something had better happen," Bronson said, "and quick. We've little food left."
"Shut up," Munn said. "I think the kid's got the right angle. Alter the man-hour constant, eh? How can we do that? Specialized training? Train a Venusian to turn out twice as much stuff in the same period of time? Skilled labor?"
"They've got skilled labor," Underhill said. "If we could make 'em work faster, or increase their stamina—"
"Benzedrine plus," Thirkell interrupted. "With enough caffeine, vitamin complex and riboflavin—I could whip up a speeder-upper, all right."
Munn nodded slowly. "Pills, not shots. If this works out, we'll have to do it undercover after a while."
"What the devil will it get us to make the Venusians work faster?" Bronson asked.
Underhill snapped his fingers. "Don't you see? Venus is ultraconservative. The economic system is frozen static. It isn't adapted to change. There'll be hell popping!"
Munn said, "We'll need advertising to arouse public interest first of all. A practical demonstration." He looked around the table, his gaze settling on Mike Soaring Eagle. "Looks like you're elected, Redskin. You've more stamina than any of us, according to the tests we took back on Earth."
"All right," the Navaho said. "What do I do?"
"Work!" Underhill told him. "Work till you drop!"
-
It began early the next morning in the main plaza of Vyring. Munn had checked up carefully, determined to make sure nothing would go wrong, and had learned that a recreation building was to be constructed on the site of the plaza. "Work won't start for several weeks," Jorust said. "Why?"
"We want to dig a hole there," Munn said. "Is it legal?"
The Venusian smiled. "Why, of course. That's public domain—until the contractors begin. But a demonstration of your muscular prowess won't help you, I'm afraid."
"Eh?"
"I'm not a fool. You're trying to land a job. You hope to do that by advertising your abilities. But why do it in just this way? Anybody can dig a hole. It isn't specialized."
Munn grunted. If Jorust wanted to jump at that conclusion, swell. He said, "It pays to advertise. Put a steam shovel to work, back on Earth, and a crowd will gather to watch it. We don't have a steam shovel, but—"
"Well, whatever you like. Legally you're within your rights. Nevertheless you can't hold a job without joining a tarkomar."
"Sometimes I think your planet would be a lot better off without the tarkomars," Munn said bluntly.
Jorust moved her shoulders. "Between ourselves, I have often thought so. I am merely an administrator, however. I have no real power. I do what I'm told to do. If I were permitted, I would be glad to lend you the money you need—"
"What?" Munn looked at her. "I thought—"
The woman froze. "It is not permitted. Tradition is not always wisdom, but I can do nothing about it. To defy the tarkomars is unthinkable and useless. I am sorry."
Munn felt a little better after that, somehow. The Venusians weren't all enemies. The all-powerful tarkomars, jealous of their power, fanatically desirous of preservin
g the status quo, were responsible for this mess.
When he got back to the plaza, the others were waiting. Bronson had rigged up a scoreboard, in phonetic Venusian, and had laid out mattock, pick, shovel, wheelbarrow and boards for the Navaho, who stood, a brawny, red-bronze figure, stripped to the waist in the cool wind. A few canalboats had stopped to watch.
Munn looked at his watch. "O.K., Redskin. Let's go. Steve can start—"
Underhill began to beat a drum. Bronson put figures on the scoreboard: 4:03:00, Venusian Vyring Time. Thirkell went to a nearby camp table, littered with bottles and medical equipment, shook from a vial one of the stimulant pills he had concocted, and gave it to Mike Soaring Eagle. The Indian ate it, heaved up the mattock and went to work.
That was all.
A man digging a hole. Just why the spectacle should be so fascinating no one has ever figured out. The principle remains the same, whether it's a steam shovel scooping out half a ton of earth at a bite, or a sweating, stocky Navaho wielding shovel and pick. The boats grew thicker.
Mike Soaring Eagle kept working. An hour passed. Another. There were regular, brief rest periods, and Mike kept rotating his tools, to get all his muscles into play. After breaking earth for a while with the mattock, he would shovel it into the wheelbarrow, roll his burden up a plank and dump it on an ever growing pile some distance away. Three hours. Four. Mike knocked off for a brief lunch. Bronson kept track of the time on his scoreboard.
Thirkell gave the Navaho another pill. "How're you doing?"
"Fine. I'm tough enough."
"I know, but these stimulants—they'll help."
Underhill was at a typewriter. He had already ground out a tremendous lot of copy, for he had been working since Mike Soaring Eagle started. Bronson had discovered a long-forgotten talent and was juggling makeshift Indian clubs and colored balls. He'd been keeping that up for quite a while, too.
Captain Rufus Munn was working a sewing machine. He didn't especially like the task, but it was precision work, and therefore helpful to the plan. All the party except Thirkell was doing something, and the physician was busy administering pills and trying to look like an alchemist.
Occasionally he visited Munn and Underhill, collected stacks of paper and carefully sewn scraps of cloth, and deposited them in various boxes near the canal, labelled, "Take One." On the cloth a legend was machine-embroidered in Venusian: "A Souvenir from Earth." The crowds thickened.
The Earthmen worked on. Bronson kept juggling, with pauses for refreshment. Eventually he experimented with coin and card tricks. Mike Soaring Eagle kept digging. Munn sewed. Underhill continued to type—and the Venusians read what his flying fingers turned out.
"Free! Free! Free!" the leaflets said. "Souvenir pillowcase covers from Earth! A free show! Watch the Earthmen demonstrate stamina, dexterity and precision in four separate ways. How long can they keep it up? With the aid of Power Pills—indefinitely! Their output is doubled and their precision increased by Power Pills—they pep you up! A medical product of Earth that can make any man worth twice his weight in sofals!"
-
It went on like that. The old army game—with variations. The Venusians couldn't resist. Word got around. The mob thickened. How long could the Earthmen keep up the pace?
They kept it up. Thirkell's stimulant pills—as well as the complex shots he had given his companions that morning—seemed to be working. Mike Soaring Eagle dug like a beaver. Sweat poured from his shining red-bronze torso. He drank prodigiously and ate salt tablets.
Munn kept sewing, without missing a stitch. He knew that his products were being scanned closely for signs of sloppy workmanship. Bronson kept juggling and doing coin tricks, never missing. Underhill typed with aching fingers.
Five hours. Six hours. Even with the rest periods, it was grueling. They had brought food from the Goodwill, but it wasn't too palatable. Still, Thirkell had selected it carefully for caloric.
Seven hours. Eight hours. The crowds made the canals impassable. A policeman came along and argued with Thirkell, who told him to see Jorust. Jorust must have put a flea in his ear, for he came back to watch, but not to interfere.
Nine hours. Ten hours. Ten hours of Herculean effort. The men were exhausted—but they kept going.
They had made their point by then, though, for a few Venusians approached Thirkell and inquired about the Power Pills. What were they? Did they really make you work faster? How could they buy the— The policeman appeared to stand beside Thirkell. "I've a message from the medical tarkomar," he announced. "If you try to sell any of those things, you go to jail."
"Wouldn't think of it," Thirkell said. "We're giving away free samples. Here, buddy." He dug into a sack and tossed the nearest Venusian a Power Pill. "Two days' work in that instead of your usual one. Come back for more tomorrow. Want one, pal? Here. You, too. Catch."
"Wait a minute—" the policeman said.
"Go get a warrant," Thirkell told him. "There's no law against making presents."
Jorust appeared with a burly, intolerant-looking Venusian. She introduced the latter as head of the Vyring tarkomars.
"And I'm here to tell you to stop this," the Venusian said.
Thirkell knew what to say. His companions kept on with their work, but he felt them watching and listening.
"What rule do you invoke?"
"Why ... why, peddling."
"I'm not selling anything. This is public domain; we're putting on a free show."
"Those ... ah ... Power Pills—"
"Free gifts," Thirkell said. "Listen, pal. When we gave all our food to you Venusian crooks, did you squawk? No, you took it. And then clamped down. When we asked for our grub back, you just told us that we had no legal recourse; possession is nine points of the law, and we had a perfect right to make free gifts. That's what we're doing now—giving presents. So what?"
Jorust's eyes were twinkling, but she hooded them swiftly. "I fear he speaks the truth. The law protects him. It is no great harm."
Thirkell, watching her, wondered. Had Jorust guessed the right answer? Was she on their side? The tarkomar leader turned dark green, hesitated, swung on his heel and went away. Jorust gave the Earthmen a long, enigmatic look, moved her shoulders and followed.
-
"I'm still stiff," Mike Soaring Eagle said a week later in the Goodwill. "Hungry, too. When do we get grub?"
Thirkell, at the valve, handed out a Power Pill to a Venusian and came back rubbing his hands and grinning. "Wait. Just wait. What's going on, skipper?"
Munn nodded towards Underhill. "Ask the kid. He got back from Vyring a few minutes ago."
Underhill chuckled. "There was hell popping. All in a week, too. We've certainly struck at the economic base. Every Venusian who labors on a piecework basis wants our pills, so he can speed up his production and make more fals. It's the competitive instinct—which is universal."
"Well?" Bronson asked. "How do the lizard-faced big shots like that?"
"They don't like it. It's hit the economic set-up they've had for centuries. Till now, one Venusian would make exactly ten sofals a week—say—by turning out five thousand bottle caps. With the pills Steve made up, he's turning out eight or ten thousand and making correspondingly more dough. The guy at the next bench says what the hell, and comes to us for a Power Pill for himself. Thus it goes. And the lovely part is that not all the labor is on piecework basis. It can't be. You need tangibles for piecework. Running a weather machine has got to be measured by time—not by how many raindrops you make in a day."
Munn nodded. "Jealousy, you mean?"
Underhill said, "Well, look. A weather-machine operator has been making ten sofals a week, the same as a bottle capper on piecework. Now the bottle capper's making twenty sofals. The weather-machine man doesn't see the point. He's willing to take Power Pills, too, but that won't step up his production. He asks for a raise. If he gets it, the economy is upset even more. If he doesn't, other weather-machine operators get together
with him and figure it's unfair discrimination. They get mad at the tarkomars. They strike!"
Mike Soaring Eagle said, "The tarkomars have forbidden work to any Venusian taking Power Pills."
"And still the Venusians ask us for Power Pills. So what? How can you prove a man's been swallowing them? His production steps up, sure, but the tarkomars can't clamp down on everybody with a good turnout. They tried that, and a lot of guys who never tried the Power Pills got mad. They were fast workers, that was all."
"The demonstration we put on was a good idea," Thirkell said. "It was convincing. I've had to cut down the strength of the pills—we're running low—but the power of suggestion helps us."
Underhill grinned. "So the base—the man-hour unit—had gone cockeyed. One little monkey wrench, thrown where it'll do the most good. It's spreading, too. Not only Vyring. The news is going all over Venus, and the workers in the other cities are asking why half of Vyring's laborers should get better pay. That's where the equal standard of exchange helps us—one monetary system all over Venus. Nothing has ever been off par here for centuries. Now—"
Munn said, "Now the system's toppling. It's a natural fault in a perfectly integrated, rigid set-up. For want of a nail the tarkomars are losing their grip. They've forgotten how to adjust."
"It'll spread," Underhill said confidently. "It'll spread. Steve, here comes another customer."
-
Underhill was wrong. Jorust and the Vyring tarkomar leader came in. "May you be worthy of your ancestors' names," Munn said politely. "Drag up a chair and have a drink. We've still got a few bulbs of beer left."
Jorust obeyed, but the Venusian rocked on his feet and glowered. The woman said, "Malsi is distressed. These Power Pills are causing trouble."
"I don't know why," Munn said. "They increase production, don't they?"
Malsi grimaced. "This is a trick! A stratagem! You are abusing our hospitality!"
"What hospitality?" Bronson wanted to know.
"You threatened the system," Malsi plunged on doggedly. "On Venus there is no change. There must be none."
"Why not?" Underhill asked. "There's only one real reason, and you know it. Any advances might upset the tarkomars—threaten the power they hold. You racketeers have had the whip hand for centuries. You've suppressed inventions, kept Venus in a backwater, tried to drive initiative out of the race, just so you could stay on top. It can't be done. Changes happen; they always do. If we hadn't come, there'd have been an internal explosion eventually."