Paper or Plastic

by Mackey Chandler

  The throttle was a twist sort, like a motorcycle’s, on the end of a single tiller bar used to steer. The tube for the steering bar was bent so the end formed two sides of a triangle. With that in the middle either passenger could drive. Both sides had a single large bar hanging out from under the dash for the brake. When Fist stepped on his, Roger noted the bar dipped on Martee's side too.

  At a guess they were doing thirty miles an hour and the drive was almost silent except for the whisper of tires against pavement. It looked like Fist had twisted open the throttle all the way against the stop, but there was no speedometer. Neither were there seat belts or any padding on the flat metal dash. A liability lawyer would have fainted dead away with one glance at this deathtrap. When they pulled up in front of what passed for the local hotel, Roger noticed Fist simply twisted a disconnect switch for the power on the dash. There was no key or lock pad.

  Fist had kept up a steady stream of chatter all the way in, mixing local gossip with questions about Earth, once he understood that was their last port. It sounded as if he had never heard of the world before and wasn't especially surprised at that either. He'd gradually come to address his remarks to Martee, because Roger had clammed up and was intent on observing everything around him more than talking. To the point Martee sort of apologized.

  "Don't mind Roger," she begged Fist. "He's not usually this quiet, but this is all new to him and he's taking it all in."

  "Oh sure," Fist waved it off, smiling. "I've seen that a lot. We get kids just out of school in from the research stations and they've never seen a big city and it's as much as they can absorb right at first."

  "So what are you folks going to do? Are you going to consign your cargo to a local merchant?"

  Roger suspected Fist was ready to suggest a merchant if they needed one. He wondered what Fist's commission would be if they did. He looked around at the town, amused at the idea he was awed at the big city. It was spread out, with so many trees that you couldn't really see the whole thing from any one place. Very much like the way Seattle had disappointed Martee, Roger realized.

  Its flavor was more like a bunch of closely connected villages. There were all of three motorized vehicles in sight and a double handful of pedestrians who seemed to be in no particular hurry. He didn't see a multistory building anywhere. He managed to keep from laughing, but didn't even try to keep the smile off his face. He really wondered if this fellow could absorb the sight of New York City as well as Martee had.

  Martee explained they intended to clear a line of credit with the interstellar bank and rent a place to market their goods themselves. Fist didn't seem all that disappointed, but had nobody to shill for that service.

  A bird flitted by swooping like an Earth swallow, but Roger was unnerved to see it had little canard wings in front of the mains as it went by.

  The port official helped them unload their luggage at the door and assured them the hotel could rent them a similar utility vehicle for their stay, or have a driver do individual trips on demand. There was just a small painted sign on the concrete facade by the door, no big logo or sign that could be seen from down the street.

  A local couple came out dressed a bit differently. The man had on what could only be called a kilt, although it had the off color of undyed cotton rather than any bonny plaid and she had on the first shorts he'd seen, which he'd have labeled Bermudas. They were talking, which was what made him look up, but then the man caught sight of Martee and was rendered speechless, with his mouth hanging open. If that wasn't bad enough he walked straight into the corner of the building and bounced off into his companion. The woman gave Martee a venomous glare as they passed.

  Roger found it easy to smile and give them a courteous nod as they passed. Wait until you see her in an evening gown and jewelry, he thought in delight. Such attention could only work well for their business.

  The check-in desk at the central entry was self serve, not even computerized. Straight through, another door opened on a small parking lot in the rear. A clipboard held a sheet to sign in and Martee simply crossed a room off the list of rooms open and headed down a hall. Apparently, there were no different grades or sizes of rooms – they were all the same.

  If there was no computer entry to occupy a room, there was likely no security system either, Roger concluded. They must save a fortune not having any check-in staff. He wondered if he'd have to change his own sheets.

  "Don't we get a key?" Roger asked looking around at the building skeptically.

  "The key will be in the door to the room. We're the only ones who will need it so why would I want bring it all the way back to the check-in?"

  Roger could think of a half-dozen reasons from vandalism, to the danger of it being copied, but dropped it, afraid he'd sound like a devious career criminal, instead of simply cautious. There was no luggage cart, but the hallway was short and wide. They got everything in two trips and he wasn't too afraid of leaving a few pieces sitting out front, for the few minutes they were out of sight. He'd been in small towns in the Midwest where you could do that safely too.

  The building had a Spanish feel, if you could picture the unadorned concrete as stucco. The floor was set with unglazed red tiles. A shared bathroom was the last room at the end of each hallway. A big window at each end admitted light and there were luminescent panels on the ceiling turned off for now. It was safe, but a little gloomy in the middle of the hall away from the windows.

  The door was flat and plain, but had Trishan numbers very much like an Earth hotel door, but painted instead of a decal or brass. Roger only saw a few doors with the keys missing and immediately thought how that marked them as occupied, if somebody was looking to find valuables in them. It was just hard to drop the crime-cautious Earth mindset.

  The beds were the first sign they weren't in Kansas anymore. They were high, with huge gaps underneath. From the thickness Roger guessed they were a simple stuffed mattress. The proportions were wrong too, short but wide, his eye being trained to American standard sizes. At least nobody could hide under them. In fact the luggage fit under easily. He stretched out on one leaving his shoes on. The lack of sag said the platform under the mattress was a solid sheet – no straps or springy pieces. He'd slept on worse in camp as a kid and once in jail. He'd never thought to bring an air mattress or foam roll.

  The windows had shutters inside instead of drapes and there was a sort of dressing bench, but no pole for clothes hangers and none of the things you came to expect in Earth hotels like signs giving checkout times, fire alarms, or sprinkler heads. Certainly there were no little complimentary shampoos or soap.

  No Gideon Bible or phone book he realized, smiling to himself. No smoke alarm either, which made him check – yes, the windows would unlatch and swing open from the center joint at three places. There was a little sign by the center latch that he couldn't quite read, but the picture was of a mosquito, drawn life size and then the same image repeated in a common magnifying glass, complete with a frame and handle on the lens, just as he was used to. Some designs are timeless, he mused. He hoped there were towels down at the communal bath.

  The warning sign made sense, when he realized there were no window screens. That might be a problem, if there was no air conditioning or even a fan.

  Insect screening went on his list for personal gear, as well as trade goods.

  Martee had her computer out and working. No matter how primitive everything else was, he saw she had a wireless connection.

  "We can get in right away to see the local bank," Martee said. "Do you want to do that, or do you need some time to have lunch?"

  "Do these folks eat three meals a day?"

  "Yes but we're late for lunch and early for supper. So we're also running out of time for the business day."

  "Let's see your banker then. I can wait for supper and get on the local schedule. I'm glad we didn't land in the middle of the night. There wouldn't have been anybody to greet us, would there?"

  "No, but
I checked my navigation computer before we ever left to see how their time was running against Earth time, because I knew how it is here from visiting before. I'm going to change into a different outfit," Martee said, digging in her luggage already, "and the sign out in the lobby said there are rental vehicles behind the hotel, if you go straight through from the entrance."

  "What's wrong with your jeans?" Rog asked.

  "This is a banker we're going to see," Martee explained. "You wanted us dressed up for business in New York didn't you?"

  "Yeah, but I thought jeans were an expensive item and would be impressive."

  "On Trishan, yes. I doubt they have ever seen them out here. Roger, you remember when you were embarrassed to explain what a strip club was to me, in New York?"

  "Uh-huh," Roger said, uncomfortable with the subject.

  "Well jeans are more like what a sex industry worker would wear on Trishan, than a business woman. Would a businessman wanting money from a bank take along one of his workers dressed for the strip club, to sit across the desk from a banker?"

  "Sex industry? You mean hookers?" Roger squeaked out. "Not all those girls are hookers, Martee. There really are some that run a clean club."

  "Hmm… maybe, but yes, hookers, prostitutes, whores. You didn't think I'd learn those words too? And surely you didn't think Trishan culture is so squeaky clean we don't have such a thing? No matter how strict, every society of man has an underside. I think we keep it repressed a bit more than your world. But there are always drugs and gambling and such, by entrepreneurs who supply such tastes locally and probably every other vice you Earth men have invented."

  "No, he wouldn't bring one of the girls along to meet the banker, Martee. Not unless she was going to be offered up as a perk for his closing the deal. "

  "That's what I thought. So I'll dress more formally, to disabuse him of any such notion. And if he displays such ideas you'd best correct him before I do."

  "I'll speak right up if I see things taking a turn that way. If you are dressing up I better put a suit on."

  "You know that what you consider conservative business wear, he will consider radical fashion don't you?"

  "What would you have me do, Martee? Buy one of those canvas sacks like the locals wear and look like a refugee? A banker in New York wouldn't twitch if an Arab came in wearing robes, or a Nigerian came in wearing an elaborate dashiki. I intent to change what they wear here, not adopt their customs. If he isn't grown-up enough to not be shocked by offworld people dressing differently, to hell with him."

  "I still have my Trishan clothing if you want me to look normal to him."

  "Suit yourself. I don't think that's you anymore. With or without his help, I figure after we've been on this world a few years he'll be the one to be look out of place, after we show these people a little style."

  * * *

  Martee parked on the bluish grass in front of the bank, which felt strange to Roger. She assured him the grass was very hardy and bred specifically to survive a lot of heavy traffic. The bank only vaguely resembled a bank, just as their hotel only looked somewhat like an Earth hotel. Foremost in Roger's mind was the lack of a logo and sign, to advertise the business. It didn't have to be garish, it could be high class. Brushed brass letters on stone might do, not a plastic back-lighted monstrosity, but something.

  It did have a glass entry door, the first he'd seen. Inside there were no teller windows and a double doorway to the back had to be a route to the vault, but it was not visible, nor were there safety deposit boxes or guards to be seen. Plain waist-high windows looked more like a college classroom than a commercial building. There were a couple small tables, behind a line of desks and the head honcho had a private office without a door, but separated by the first glass wall he'd seen on this world. Maybe that was their idea of architectural elegance – using a little more glass.

  "How many other banks are there in town, Martee?"

  "I think two or three, but this is the only one that handles off-planet exchange."

  "Why?"

  "Well," she looked confused at the question. "You have me thinking like an Earth woman! They only need one bank to do exchange with other planets. How would you know which one to use, if all of them did?"

  "The one that gives you the best deal, off course."

  "But if they all did, the bank managers would all get together and agree on rates and fees and there would be no difference anyway."

  "They'd put them in jail if they did that in the US and in most other Earth countries too. It's called price-fixing. Why do they even have other banks, if they don't compete?"

  "Because one will specialize in household accounts and another the local businesses and farmers. Each knows their market and their customers feel comfortable with them."

  "Ahh… and I bet the real benefit, is that they don't have to mix with other social classes to do their business," Roger guessed.

  "Hmm. Maybe you're onto something there," Martee admitted.

  A young woman approached and was working very hard not to stare at their clothing. Martee had on a grey pantsuit with a white-on-white embroidered blouse, low heeled leather pumps and a Hermes silk scarf pinned over one shoulder as an accessory. Roger had on a very nice darker grey suit, with a understated tie and shoes that exactly matched his shoulder bag. He doubted if they could appreciate the tailoring. The girl's outfit and hair both reminded Rog of pictures he's seen of the 1940s – WWII era styles.

  Their escort walked them to the glassed-off office and introduced them to the older gentlemen behind the desk, but didn't name him in turn. He neither thanked her nor dismissed her. She simply left, as if that was expected. His plain jacket reminded Roger of the Indian style most Americans still called a Nehru jacket, even if they didn't know who Nehru was as a person.

  There were two seats, but rather than ask them to sit the fellow leaned back and laced his fingers over his ample belly. He inspected them silently, with a directness that became rude for the amount of time it went on. Especially when combined with the unfriendly look on his face. Their friendly smiles seemed to have no effect on his manner at all.

  "Martee, does this world have the custom of the 'duel'?" Roger asked, using the English word.

  "No Roger. None of the worlds of Trishan culture have had that, for many thousands of years. There are other worlds of men that do, but not us."

  "That is a shame," Roger allowed.

  "What does this 'duel' have to do with your business here?" the banker asked, irritated to be talked around, when he was the one displaying his power, by making them wait his pleasure.

  "It has been the custom in parts of my world, that when a gentleman offers you deliberate insult, you have the privilege of asking him to give you satisfaction for the slight."

  "What sort of satisfaction? A fine of some sort?"

  "No, if I ask for satisfaction in a dueling culture, the challenged can publicly apologize, or name his choice of weapons and fight you to the death."

  "I don't believe it. You'd have murder in the streets every day."

  "No, you have much more courtesy, because people are aware they may pay for rudeness with their life, especially a pudgy little man with soft hands, like you. You wouldn't last a month, before some easily-offended fellow put a shot between your eyes, or stirred your guts with a blade. Worse than that, if you treated customers like you are us, staring them down and not offering your name, or seats, or refreshment, you wouldn't have any business. Come Martee, we can take our custom elsewhere."

  "None of the other banks will do offworld exchange," Martee reminded him.

  "Then we'll barter and send the goods offworld, anything to avoid dealing with this little swine." That translated very well.

  "Yes, Roger. I'm sorry you can't kill him. It would look really bad by local customs. We really do have a Trishan word for 'honor'. It is turra, but I doubt if he understands it." She said that with a twinkle in her eye, playing along so well that it was her statement i
nstead of Roger's, that left the man sitting with his mouth hanging open.

  Sitting in the car Roger was in no hurry to start away. Instead he asked Martee, "What exactly would happen to me if I killed a local?"

  "Is there really anyplace left on Earth that people duel?" she countered.

  "I'm not sure. Maybe some places like Sicily, where they still follow custom more than law, in matters of honor. I just wanted that jerk to know what I thought of him. But tell me, what would they do here?"

  "You'd be judged as to whether it was a crime of passion, or of premeditation. If say, you came home and found someone in bed with your wife and killed them, they would find it unlikely you were a danger to the public. So all they would do is make a slave of you to the state. You'd be put to work on roads, or cleaning up the streets. You'd get the very lowest grade of pay and housing and you'd wear a bracelet welded on permanently, that warned others what you are. They do that for any crime that involves serious violence, not just murder. However, if you wanted you could ask for exile like a premeditated murderer."

  "Exile where? Off-world?"

  "If you had the cash, because your bank account would be canceled. And if there was a ship with room and willing to take a murderer on board. But not many would have the fee and if the ship was going to another colony world of Trishan, you'd just get the same sentence there too. You'd have to find a ship going to another world of men and some of them are so savage or inhospitable you'd be better taking local exile. That usually means they take you halfway around the world, far away from any city and drop you with the clothing on your back and an ax or hatchet. Chances of finding another exiled person are pretty slim – so you are pretty much on your own. Such persons are no longer even part of the lowest of society. I don't know how to describe them."

  "Outlaws," Roger said with a funny voice, "literally outside the law. They are neither subject to it, nor protected by it."

  "I should have known you'd have a word for it. I have that word, but I thought it just meant a criminal."