If he could only make planetfall!
But direct contact was against custom. He was already at the Emit of prudence.
He hadn’t attracted attention yet, but if his ship continued to hover—
He would have to call Sector headquarters. This was their job.
All that beautiful data down there, and cycles to wait.
Just one cycle, and he’d have his information.
The system was undiscovered—isolated. It would be unnoticed for a long time. Personal reconnaissance would never be detected by the natives, or noted by the Guard.
The rules of contact were devised to prevent interference with planetary development. Observation wouldn’t interfere in the least.
An observer doesn’t meddle with a culture. He simply watches it and takes notes.
He could get all the information he needed in a cycle, then correlate his notes while exploration was going on.
It wasn’t as though he contemplated harmful action. He would leave this planet as he found it, and report it, of course.
The ship dropped rapidly through the atmosphere on the night side of the planet. A thousand feet above ground, it leveled off and Klion Meinora dropped out of the port, levitator on to allow him to settle to the ground. He turned his mental force amplifier up to detect the presence of any native, switched in the body shield modulation which rendered him invisible, and floated toward the city, confident that nothing could go wrong.
But something had gone decidedly wrong. He was still here.
He looked at the book, considering it. If one remembered the amount of data available to the writer, it was well done. In fact, it was good. He laid it aside and cupped his chin in his hands, exploring the extent of mental damage he had suffered. It wasn’t too serious. There had been some tearing of tissue, he knew, but it had healed and regenerated to a great extent. A primitive, he realized, would have been permanently crippled, but the long periods of existence had brought changes to Meinora’s race. He traced out the mental lines, re-establishing a few interrupted paths. Finally, he realized he had done all he could. Time would take care of the rest. His efforts had produced a slight headache, so he closed his eyes and lowered his head to his arms to deal with it. Also, he sent out a questing thought. There was no result, but he hadn’t really expected one. Those news stories had been too obvious.
After a few minutes, he raised his head again, feeling almost normal. He picked up his book and made his way to the door. At the gate, the girl looked sharply at him, but said nothing. Fie put the book on her desk.
“Good book,” he told her. “Read it some time.” He went out.
The girl sniffed, looking after him indignantly, then she picked up the book, looked at it curiously, and defied library rules. She commenced to read. Meinora walked out of the library, looked about, then took the road toward the Dornath Establishment.
As he walked, he idly wondered what the native reactions would be when the camouflage cells wore out in those unclaimed automatic observers which circled two planets. He grinned to himself. The things would be visible eventually. They would evade any attempt at pursuit, and eventually they would cease to record and start following random courses. They could be expected to bunch up, too. He wondered what theories would be devised to explain their presence.
Back at the dormitory, he glanced into his room, then went back to the recreation room. Everyone was gone, and he looked about uncertainly until he remembered. The off-shift people would be at the fights, of course. Garn hadn’t bothered to put his tungo set away. Idly, Varon went over to the table, picked up the cup, shook, and spilled the four tetrahedrons out. They fell into a neat row, their pips showing one, two, three, and four. He picked up the end tora, flipped it into the air, caught it in the cup, and rolled it out on the table. It rolled to the end of the line, showing four again. He scooped the toren up, replaced them in the cup, threw them again. They showed all threes this time. For a few minutes more, he toyed with the cup and toren, then he shook his head.
“Ethics,” he reminded himself. “Remember?”
He walked back to his room. A quick search of his wardrobe produced no writing materials. Of course. There was no one to write to. He had never bought any, but now he could see a need for large quantities of paper, considerable ink, and a good pen. He set to figuring his accounts without paper.
When he had come to the factory, he had been loaned some eleven hundred crowns. Oh, yes, eleven hundred ninety-two—and sixty-three kel. The clothing, bedding, and other equipment he had bought the first day had cost one hundred twenty crowns. The interest rate was one tenth per cent a week. He rubbed his chin. He had been here some twenty weeks, during which time, he had paid in eighty crowns to his account. He searched his memory for the various charges due to purchases at the sales store and snack bar. Slowly, they were recalled and added to the interest. Finally, he sat on his bed, shaking his head with rueful amusement. His respect for the Dornath budget department was mounting. As closely as he could figure, his present debit balance in the Employees’ Welfare Fund was thirteen hundred twenty-two crowns, ninety-seven kel. He wondered how deep they would let him get without a caution about excessive spending. He fished into his pockets, bringing out three crowns and a small handful of change. Walking over to his wardrobe, he unlocked the private drawer. There were six four-crown notes. Here, then, was proof that he had managed to save something at least.
“Fooled them a little,” he laughed. “Let’s see. At this rate, it won’t take me much more than a thousand weeks to pay up, in cash. Then, I’ll have enough to put up a ‘Bond of Independence’ in another eight hundred, and I can go out and do as I please.” He leaned back on his bed, laughing. “Why, that’s only eighteen years. I’ll be out of here in no time.” He sobered again. “Of course,” he told himself, “the average worker is only good for about fifteen of these two-cycle years, productively, at least, so they’re still a few up.”
He undressed and went to bed. If he remembered correctly, and if the laws and customs were administered as written, he would be leaving Dornath in much less than eighteen years. For a while, he reviewed some of his previous work in his mind, then he went to sleep.
Garn Verlera removed his tungo set from the wardrobe, and looked curiously at his roommate. Funny chap, that Varon. Never know what he’ll do next. All this time he’d been here, he’d never used that writing table, then the other night, he’d come in with a package of paper, sat down as though he’d been doing it every night, and started writing. Gam looked at his playing cloth, then shook his head. It was probably just as well. No chance of his getting mixed up in a tungo game this way. He remembered Varan’s uncanny displays of skill with the toren cup. As he walked down the corridor, he shook his head.
“Didn’t remember a thing about the game when he first came here,” he told himself, “then he learned how to play, and no one had a chance.” He paused, looking back at the room. “Bet he was a professional gambler ’fore he got his head beat in. Funny guy!” He went on into the recreation room.
As he wrote, Harl Varon smiled to himself. It was going well, naturally. This story had already been written—far away, and by different means, to be sure, but he had done the entire romance before. It was merely a matter of putting it on paper instead of tape. Suddenly, he stopped, looking critically at a paragraph.
“Ugh!” He scrawled a huge X. “Language difficulty.”
He tossed the page away and rewrote.
He was so absorbed in his writing that he didn’t notice when Cenro looked in. With a grin, the man picked up the discarded sheet.
“What’s all the writing about?” he inquired. Then, he started reading. Suddenly, he let out a whoop of derisive amusement and went dashing out into the hall. Varon rose from his chair.
That pest again! he thought. Ethics he hanged!
“Hey, you guys,” shouted Cenro, “this jerk thinks he’s an author.” He struck an exaggerated pose and started to read fro
m the page.
“They looked out over the sea. Feathery clouds hung in the sky, tinted pale gold against the clear blue. The sun rested—”
Harl was at the door. He started to lash out with a furiously destructive thought, then modified it at the last instant.
“Dorn,” he said mildly.
The man turned, the grin freezing.
“That isn’t very polite, you know, Dorn.” Harl’s voice had changed timbre. It was plaintively reproving. “I’d like my paper back, please.”
Cenro looked a little scared, like a boy caught in a prank. He shuffled back, handing the sheet to its owner. “I’m sorry, po . . . I’m sorry,” he said apologetically. He went to his room, closing the door.
Varon went back to the writing table. He started to write, then he got up. He put his papers away, then crossed the hall, tapping at a door.
“Aw, go away. Don’t—Oh, come on in, then.” The voice was a little thick.
Klion Meinora closed the door, and stood looking at the room’s occupant. Cenro sat on the edge of his bed, looking up defiantly. His eyes were a little puffy.
“I’m sorry, too, Cenro.” Klion held out a hand. “I didn’t realize until almost too late.”
“Aw, you just caught me off guard,” growled Cenro. He looked at the floor. “It was just like my old man. I used to kid around with his letters sometimes, till I realized he was too beat to raise a row.” He drew a long breath. “You won’t get me again.”
“I don’t want to. Look, want to get it off your mind?”
“Nothing you can do about it.” Cenro started to get up. “There’s nothing anyone can do about it.”
“You can. Maybe I can help a little. Come on, let’s have it.”
A wave of sympathetic mental force pervaded the room. In his private thoughts, Meinora was fuming. If he only had his mentacom. This was work!
The story came out. It was slow at first, then it came in a furious flood of words. Dorn Cenro’s father had been an independent clerk a good many years ago. He had come of a long line of independent artisans, clerks, minor bureaucrats. There had been a wife, children, a small house, even a car which Dorn had learned to drive. The Cenro family had their circle of friends. Young Dorn had been taught to look forward to a pleasant, uneventful, middle-class life. That had been before the disaster.
It had started with a clerical error. At first, a minor error, it had been magnified by the presence of dishonesty in the organization. Old Vark Cenro had been suspected. There was a trial—a long, expensive affair. There had been appeals, and finally, investigation had exposed the defalcator, and incidentally vindicated Cenro, but expenses had been heavy, and income had ceased. The car had gone first. Then, the house had been sold. In time, it became necessary to use part of the Bond of Independence, and that had been fatal. Another court had found Cenro insolvent, and therefore unemployable. Eventually, a noble family had sponsored him, but living expenses had placed him in debt, and save though he might, the account was never cleared.
Dorn Cenro had left the free school, of course, and the House of Dornath had sponsored him in the common school. At first, his account in the Employees’ Welfare Fund had been small, but it had grown until Cenro had realized he would never pay out. He would never accumulate that thousand crowns necessary to attain the status of an independent citizen. In fact, he would never be able to call his pay his own. There would always be that payment for Employees’ Welfare.
Finally, Klion leaned back. “Quite a trap, isn’t it?” he agreed softly. Then, he sat forward again.
“I see what you mean,” he said, “you can’t beat ’em. But you can join ’em.” He pointed around the room. “Look,” he commanded, “this is all you’ve got as a ‘hand.’ How about the foremen?”
Cenro shrugged. “Nicer quarters,” he admitted. “One-man rooms, of course, and more allowance.” He spread his hands. “Bigger account, too.”
“So? Debts you’ve always got. They’ll never let it get too big. Cenro, you’re well above average in intelligence. You didn’t get all your education, but they gave you common schooling. Why not grab all the advantages they’ll give you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I might want a wife—kids. Who wants to raise kids to be sponsored workers?” Cenro frowned. Then, an idea struck him. “Look, Ha . . . Varon. You’ll get out. You’ll be big some day. You’re . . . I don’t know how you handled me, but you’re too big for them. Look, how about you sponsoring me? I wouldn’t want much, just food, clothes, a crown now and then. I just want to get away from here.”
Klion was startled. He had come in here on an impulse. He had really wanted to help, but—He started to shake his head, then he came to a sudden decision.
“I’ll make a bet with you, Cenro,” he said. “You’re right. I’ll get out, and fairly soon, too. Then, I’ll keep in touch with you. The day you are promoted to group leader, I’ll pick up your account. Then, soon’s you’ve worked with me for a while, I’ll put up a bond for you. When you are ready, you can pay me back—without interest. Deal?”
Cenro jumped up. “Man,” he cried, “watch me go!” He reached into his wardrobe, grabbed a cloth and waved it. “So help me,” he grinned, “I’ll even shine old Dandro’s shoes if that’ll help.”
Harl Varon went to the door, then turned back. “Only one favor,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Don’t talk about this. We’re both of us going to be too busy to waste time gossiping.”
He went out, and returned to his writing with a new enthusiasm.
Kort Dandro examined the banknotes closely. He turned them over, recounting them. Then, he looked sharply at the man before him, “Where did you get this money?” he demanded sternly.
“From a legitimate source,” Harl Varon assured him. He took a folded sheet from his pocket and handed it across the desk. Dandro accepted it, unfolded it, and sat back to read. He pursed his lips judicially for a few moments, then re-read the lines. At last, he looked up.
“Well,” he said, “that’s very good. Very good, indeed.” He shook his head slightly, then looked reproving. “But it seems a little extra legal for you to accept employment with another concern when you are sponsored here, now doesn’t it?”
Harl smiled at him. “This wasn’t exactly employment,” he assured. “Under the law, the production of a
work of art, or an original musical or literary composition is not regarded as contractual employment. Such things, you will remember, unless specifically commissioned, remain the sole properly of the originator or composer, and are not subject to lien until sold.” He took a breath. “Of course, money proceeding from the sale of such items is subject to all legal obligations. I am satisfying my legal obligations by tendering the full amount of my debt to the Employees’ Welfare Fund, with interest as prescribed by law.”
Dandro tapped on his desk for a moment, fingered the folder before him, then looked about the office. “But all this unnecessary ceremony,” lie objected. “Why couldn’t you have simply come in quietly and presented your payment? We could have taken care of it without any fuss or disturbance.” He looked unhappily at the uniformed protector, who watched with a professionally bored expression.
“I have no doubt. I suppose you could have taken care of it very nicely,” agreed Varon, “but there is a certain procedure formulized by law. I have followed this procedure to the letter. I have deposited my Bond of Independence with the Chief City Magistrate, together with an amount equal to twice my known indebtedness. I have prayed the protection of the Lord Protector of Bardon, and in turn, he has assigned a member of his own Protection Division to witness my Certificate of Clearance, to assure that the law is complied with, and to ascertain that I leave the premises in an orderly manner.”
Dandro waved an impatient hand. “But don’t you see, man, you have been under the protection of the Lord Dornath ever since we decided to sponsor you over a year ago? Now, why don’t you just remain under that prot
ection? We can forget this little incident, and you can return to your regular place with no trouble at all.” He frowned thoughtfully, then nodded his head judicially. “No trouble at all,” he repeated. “I can safely assure you that we won’t press any charges for conspiracy if you drop this matter here.”
Varon shook his head admiringly. “That is very kind,” he acknowledged, “and I appreciate it. But my present status differs from my former position, you see. Yesterday, when I was under the sponsorship of the Lord Dornath, and subject to the rules of this Establishment, my sponsor granted me privileges as an obedient employee of the House of Dornath. Today, since I have become an independent citizen of Bardon, the Lord Protector of that city, my former sponsor, protects my rights.” Pie paused, the smile fading. “These include,” he added less pleasantly, “the right to be free of illegal threats and unlawful coercion.”
Dandro waved his hands. “Yes, yes, of course.” He glanced at the protector, who looked a little less bored. “Very well, if you are so insistent, go ahead over to the quarters and get your personal belongings. I’ll have your Certificate ready when you come back.” He turned. “Cara,” he called, “come here a moment.”
Varon went out, followed by the protector.
As they came to the gate, Harl set his new leather bag down and opened it. The guard glanced at it casually, then waved. “Oh, go ahead,” he ordered.
“No,” Varon told him, “you must be certain that I am not removing any Establishment property from the premises. Then you must sign this certificate—right here.”
The guard followed the pointing finger, then looked up. “Smart, aren’t you?”
“Careful,” corrected Varon.
They went out on the street. Harl started to turn away as they came to the turbo-car, but the protector stopped him.
Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks) Page 10