Adrian had to admit that there was little future in a collapsed colony, but...
"You spoke of extremists. What if a band of extremists seizes the Gandhi and—"
D' Anjou shrugged equably. "Then they would surely attract the attention of those who are charged with the security of the ship." He sat back in his seat. "So what are you going to do with yourself now that you are not going to Anish?"
"I don't have any plans. I didn't expect to be back on Earth."
But you can be sure that I don't intend to stay here.
He thought back to the quote by Gandhi above the main entrance to the building where they had trained for the mission: "A small body of determined spirits fired by an unquenchable faith in their mission can alter the course of history."
I've got the list of colonists and if Blanton and his ilk could stage a heist once, perhaps it can be done again... by the original crew.
When any calamity has been suffered, the first thing to remember is how much has been escaped.
—Samuel Johnson
* * *
Mousunderstanding
Carl Frederick | 5123 words
Illustrated by Joshua Meehan
"What's the big hurry?" said Roger.
Duncan, his boss, gestured him impatiently into the pilot's seat of the agency ship. "Get in! We've got to get to Madhya Loka fast, before any other trade delegation discovers it."
"Discovers what? " Roger threw his overnight bag behind the seat and climbed in. "And where's this Mad... whatsit?"
"Madhya Loka." Duncan withdrew a small framed picture from his jacket pocket and tossed it to Roger.
Roger bobbled it and stared at the picture: a bearded patriarch in deep meditation. "Weird. Where did it come from?"
"The Madhya Loka authorities sent a crate of possible exports"—Duncan strapped himself in and called up the preflight check list to his copilot monitor—"along with a request in broken Angloterran for a Terran trade delegation." He keyed in the Indeterminacy Coordinates of the planet.
Roger looked harder at the little painting. "And this is worth sending out a trade delegation?"
"The frame."
"Ostentatious gold plating," said Roger, hefting the picture. "A heavy base metal you could slug someone with."
"The assay report came in yesterday. It's pure gold."
"What? Can't be." Roger peered down at the object with newfound respect. "This would be worth a small fortune."
"To us, it would, but perhaps not to them." Duncan gave a bark of a laugh. "So, yes. It's worth sending a trade delegation."
"You could have told me this before," said Roger. "After all, I am the Cultural Liaison Officer."
"Junior Cultural Liaison Officer."
Roger, initiating engine tests, pursed his lips. He knew Duncan had little use for cultural liaison officers and wouldn't have one along if it weren't required by statute. "All right." He looked up from his console. "Would you mind telling your junior Cultural Liaison Officer about this Madhya Loka?"
Duncan pulled up a document to his monitor. "Madhya Loka is one of four populated planets in their stellar system, all colonized by Terrans."
"Ah," said Roger. "That should make the culture relatively easy to understand."
"I presume so." Duncan continued with the document. "There's only a single nation state on the planet, on one large island. They're classed as 'Interstellar Isolationist' in that they trade only with the other three planets in their system."
Duncan looked away from the document. "Their message suggested to me that their economy is in a shambles and they hope that interstellar trade might save them." He gave a tight-lipped smile. "And if we're not careful, the Terran economy might become a shambles as well."
"What?"
"If the planet has a super abundance of gold and that cheap gold gets into circulation, it could have devastating consequences for the world's economy, which in many respects is reliant on rare and expensive gold."
Duncan returned his attention to the monitor. "Madhya Loka: Atmospheric pressure, 102 kiloPascals; Gravity, 0.9 Earth; Language, Sanskrit; Oxygen level, 24 percent; Weather, Earth-Florida."
Duncan closed the document. "All right, let's get going."
"Sanskrit!" Roger pulled out his translator. "Our translators don't do Sanskrit."
"Ah. I forgot that." Duncan handed his translator to Roger. "We'll need to download a language module."
"Fine." Roger took the translators and began to download Sanskrit language modules to them. "But I'd really like a day or two to research the culture before we go."
"No time for that," said Duncan. "I'd go alone if Council would let me."
Roger nodded in understanding. On general principles, Duncan would have liked to go without him, but in addition, the maximum speed of a ship went down as the biological mass on the ship increased. Not that speed was all that well defined. A ship, in seeming violation of relativity, could travel essentially at many multiples of the speed of light if the destination couldn't be pinpointed on a galaxy map.
Roger shrugged. He probably didn't really need that research time. Not for a terran-derived culture.
The console beeped indicating that the language modules had been downloaded to the translator. Roger held a translator toward Duncan. "Say the planet's name."
"Madhya Loka."
"The realms of humans, animals, and plants," said the translator in Oxbridge English with an Indian accent.
"Weird name for a planet," said Roger.
"It has a moon." Duncan leaned in toward the translator. "Ahimsa."
"The principle of nonviolence," said the translator.
"Strange," said Roger as he returned Duncan's translator.
"Let's go." Duncan pointed a finger to the green Launch Status button. "I'm worried that another terran federation might also have been invited. And if we come late, we might not get the deal." He looked off into the forward viewport. "Maybe," he said, softly, as if to himself, "they even sent crates to other galactic civilizations."
Roger started the engines and the ship lifted from the launchpad. "And what exactly is the deal we might not get?"
"Our mission," said Duncan, solemnly, "is to buy up all of their gold, to make the metal scarce again." He shrugged. "And, after keeping a small amount of it, to dispose of the rest—dumping it into the Sun, or something."
Roger brought the ship to a landing at a berth at the spaceport. And, as there were very few other ships at the port, they'd chosen a pad very close to the single building at the port.
"Not exactly bustling," said Roger, swatting at a fly, as they walked to the building. The weather was tropical and Roger, in his suit, felt overdressed.
As they ambled into what looked like an arrival lounge, Roger was pleased to see that the signage was in multiple languages, including Angloterran. One of the signs announced,
WELCOME TO GIRIKANAURAKSANASTHANA
"Welcome to where? " said Roger.
Duncan stared at the sign. "Must be the name of the city, or maybe the country."
Roger voiced the long name.
"Mouse haven," said the translator.
"What?" Roger threw a puzzled look to the translator.
Just then, a man burst through a gate and strode up to them. He wore a thin, white, one-piece garment resembling an Indian dhoti. He also sported a pith helmet with netting hanging down from its brim. "Ah," he said in a cheerful, energetic voice. His next words, the translators rendered as "I am thinking you must be the Angloterrans."
Roger saw Duncan instantly morph into Trade Commissioner mode. He introduced himself, described his calling and his mission, and made a curt introduction of Roger.
"And I," said the man, "am the Girikanauraksanasthana trade minister." He made a small, self-effacing bow. "I am Rupin Rajendrasuri. But please, just call me Raj."
Raj guided them smoothly through customs and towards the exit. "My office is in the Central Bank," he said, "but my home is very close.
A more pleasant place to talk, I am thinking."
As they emerged from the terminal, a man with a broom swung in ahead and swept the ground in front as they walked.
Not knowing the culture, Roger made no comment. He assumed that Raj must be obsessively passionate about cleanliness.
Raj walked ahead to say something to the man, but their talk was too quiet for the translator to pick it up.
Out of sight of Raj now, Duncan shooed away the f lies f luttering around his head. Roger, wishing he had his own pith helmet, did the same.
"Why the hell did they bring flies to this planet?" Duncan whispered.
"Small bees, I think," said Roger. "Probably came with the terraforming. For plant pollination, I imagine."
Raj dropped back and gave a running commentary on the scenery as they walked. But he made no mention of the cats. There were strays everywhere. Beautiful cats. They appeared to be purebreds, Siamese-like but with large golden eyes.
Roger noticed that Duncan grimaced whenever he saw a cat.
"You don't care for cats," said Roger, "do you?"
Duncan looked disdainfully down his nose. "I prefer to say I'm an ailurophobe."
"So am I," said Raj. "So are all of us in Girikanauraksanasthana."
"Where did all these cats come from?" said Roger.
"We are thinking it was terrorism. People wanting to bring down our government, by breeding and releasing cats."
Cats bringing down a government? Roger gave a questioning look, but Raj did not elaborate.
Again, Duncan waved away flies.
"I am sorry," said Raj. "I should have met you with a car. But I was unable to requisition one." He sighed. "We investment mousers—investment bankers—used to have a high status here on Madhya Loka. But no more."
Roger stared quizzically at Raj. Investment mousers?
About a quarter Earth-hour later, Raj stopped in front of a screen door at a tan-colored house. He shooed away the ever-present flies, opened the door and quickly ushered Duncan and Roger in, snapping the door closed after them.
While Roger's eyes adjusted from the brightness of the street outside, he saw a shadowy figure rise from a sofa and step forward.
As his eyes accommodated, Roger froze with the shock of recognition. The figure confronting them was none other than Jacques Bouchard of the Club Francophone.
Roger sensed Duncan stiffen, and knew why. Bouchard was one of the best trade negotiators in the galaxy.
Bouchard extended his hand to Duncan. "Enchanté," he said with a sly smile. "Wonderful to see you again," he continued in Angloterran, a language he spoke about as well as his native French.
Duncan responded with an affable greeting of his own. Roger wondered how he could do it, considering that the last time they'd met Bouchard had virtually stolen a valuable trade deal right from under Duncan's nose.
"Ah," said Raj. "You have met each other before."
"Yessss," said Duncan. Roger wondered how the translators would render the extended sibilant.
"Excellent." Raj indicated a table. "Let us sit and have tea. I would be very happy to be hearing your thoughts about with whom we of Girikanauraksanasthana should be trading." He pulled back the chairs and motioned that they sit. "And about which of your governments would best appreciate our modest handicrafts."
"Perhaps both," said Duncan. Roger knew he was hedging his bets in the face of an extremely good negotiator in the person of Jacques Bouchard.
Raj gave a slight shake of his head. "Mister Bouchard has convinced me that an exclusive trade pact would best serve."
"Are you negotiating with anyone else?" said Duncan.
"No. Nor will we."
After a few seconds of silence and Bouchard smiling like a Cheshire cat, Duncan said, "All right then, how shall we proceed?"
"Since Mister Bouchard has arrived first, he has the first opportunity to convince me." Raj flashed a friendly smile at Bouchard then returned his gaze to Duncan. "Mister Bouchard traveled alone so he could arrive fast."
Duncan gave Roger an 'I told you so' look.
"I was most eager," said Bouchard, "to have the pleasure of describing the benefits of you affiliating with the Club Francophone."
"All right, then." Raj slapped a hand to the table. "Let us be proceeding. Girikanauraksanasthana's main export candidate is tiny framed pictures of our religious prophets." He smiled. "I am thinking, it doesn't sound very promising, does it?" He looked from face to face and without waiting for a response, went on. "Recently, as a cost cutting measure, we have started producing the pictures with metal frames rather than with expensive wood ones."
"Tell us about the... the metal," said Duncan. "Do you have a lot of it?"
"Gold." Raj smiled as if to himself. "And yes, we have a lot of it. It is mined from an ancient meteor comprised of almost pure gold." He narrowed his eyes. "I have been told that, unfortunately, many such meteors have been discovered throughout the galaxy—rendering gold essentially worthless." The smile returned. "A retribution of God for greed, no doubt. Yes?"
"I think we should tell him," Roger whispered, holding his translator low so it wouldn't pick up his words, "that gold is far from worthless?"
"Say nothing," Duncan whispered.
Bouchard though, after a moment where he seemed to be thinking hard, said, "It would be dishonorable not to tell you that I know of no other such meteors and that gold is far, far from worthless."
Roger realized that Bouchard had just seized the moral high ground. He could tell that Duncan realized it also. Things were definitely not going well.
After a few silent seconds, Raj laughed. "Actually," he said, "I am being disingenuous. I know gold is valuable to others. And we want to do what we can to prevent pirates from invading Madhya Loka to obtain it. The best way, I am thinking, is to make a trade agreement with a great Terran power."
"I represent a great Terran power," said Duncan.
"As do I," said Bouchard, pleasantly, "but not an aggressive one."
Duncan started to say something, but Raj cut him off. "To us, the metal is not valuable. We can produce the gold-framed pictures for one mouse fifty each."
Roger looked quizzically at his translator.
"The frames are almost pure gold," said Raj. "A common metal here, and only used for religious reasons. A common but nonetheless sacred metal."
Roger smiled. Sacred to our god Mammon as well, I'd say.
Raj stood. "I shall bring in the tea and pudding. Normally my wife would do that, but she's away, busy with beep." He clearly went on to say with what his wife was busy, but Roger's translator couldn't render it.
Roger nodded, as if he understood.
Raj left the room, leaving those sitting to talk. But there seemed to be nothing to say. The three just sat silently, avoiding each other's gazes.
Out of the corner of his eye, Roger saw a motion under the table. A mouse! He was embarrassed for Raj, having to negotiate with a mouse running around his house. Then Roger saw a second mouse, and then a third.
Roger was perplexed—and disgusted. Raj must surely know of the mouse infestation. But apparently, he doesn't care. Roger remembered the man with the broom and reassessed his assumption that the Girikanauraksanasthanans must be very big on cleanliness. He shivered with the thought that the pudding would probably be contaminated with mouse droppings.
He wondered if he should say something to Duncan, but he didn't get the chance; Raj returned with a tray.
Roger knew he was being a little obsessive about hygiene but still, he couldn't bring himself to partake of the food.
"I'm afraid my trip made me a little queasy," said Roger, dimly aware that the translator might have trouble with 'queasy.' "I'm afraid I need some air."
"Oh, I am feeling so sorry," said Raj. "Is there anything I can do?"
"I just need to take a walk." Roger glanced at Duncan, then back at Raj. "And I think it would be better if the negotiations were oneon-one. More fair that way." And Du
ncan prefers to negotiate alone.
"Yes, do go out for a stroll," said Duncan. "We will be fine."
Roger nodded. He knew it was undiplomatic to leave without eating, but then again, Duncan was the diplomat. Let him do the straining of the mouse droppings through his teeth.
"Fine, then," said Raj. "Perhaps you might return in say, two Earth hours. Then, we will have lunch."
Roger gave a weak smile, while wondering how he'd again get out of eating Raj's food.
Roger left Raj's house bent on redeeming himself by doing his job—finding out what he could about the culture. To that end, he returned to a park that he'd seen on his walk from the spaceport. He'd done that often on a variety of planets and cultures. A park was a good place to observe the natives in a natural setting.
As Roger walked, he saw another person, clearly of an upper class, walking with a sweeper in front. Curious if his assumption about some Madhya Lokans obsession with cleanliness was correct, Roger approached the sweeper. "Why are you sweeping the ground?"
Without breaking stride, the man said, "So that my beep doesn't accidentally step on any bugs."
Puzzled by the answer, Roger stood still while the sweeper and his whatever beep meant, walked by.
Roger continued to the park, and wandered through it. He stopped, smiling, as he saw a small boy petting a cat. But then an adult, presumably the boy's father, pulled the kid away. "Bad," said the man. "Cats are bad."
"But... but, I like cats."
The man appeared shocked. "You must not be petting cats." He tousled the boy's hair. "You should be petting mice."
"I cannot afford to be petting mice."
The man blew out a breath. "My fault. I probably am needing to raise your allowance." He reached inside his dhoti and withdrew a wallet. "Here," he said, pulling out a bill. "A five-mouse note." He handed it to the boy. "And tonight, I think we should be having our value of money talk." His expression became stern. "Pet mice, not cats."
Analog Science Fiction and Fact - 2014-01 Page 24