Finally he recognized Arkay Delton's voice speaking from the call box. "Renson?"
"Yes?"
"You're to be released, with the understanding that you will not remain within Federation territory. Accepted?"
"Yes," he replied, wondering. Released? Just like that? "Is this an exchange of captured personnel?" he asked.
"No, the next scheduled exchange is six months away. And there could be complications if we tried to include you in an exchange. Shall we send out an arrival notification for you?"
Renson grimaced slightly at the insulting truth of Delton's words. The Commonality would not care in the least if he were never released, with his war-critical attitude, and would not be interested in accepting him for a captive Lontastan.
He answered Delton's question: "Notify Bernswa in the Halstayne Independency."
"Sounds like a wise choice for you, Renson," Delton approved. "There you'll be out of the war entirely. Check your life-support and we'll send you on your way."
"Right."
Renson went in the bathroom, stripped, got the life-support meter out of the cabinet, and began testing. He pressed the sensor platelet into the hollow under his ribs on his right side, and saw that the powerpack implant in that location still had a .7 energy capacity, which was quite sufficient. Moving the sensor above his right hip he assured himself that the multifield packet imbedded there was in total working order. A similar check above his left hip verified the functionality of his transport packet.
Then he pressed the platelet against his closed lips, tongued his toothmike, hummed softly, and watched the needle respond. Finally he placed the sensor behind each ear in turn, tapped the soundkey, and heard the clear blips.
This checked out all the major implants. And the macromolecule-sized segments of his life-support, such as those used for gas conversion in the space-respiration system, and the purely mechanical units such as the stomach balloon—these things had to be working right, or he would be feeling sick.
He dressed, stepped out of the bathroom, and blinked when he found three Guardsmen waiting for him. One handed him his belt which he put on automatically.
Then he was blindfielded, escorted out of spying range of Nexal, and sent on his way.
* * *
Out of the dozen developed planets in the Halstayne Independency, Renson had picked Bernswa because that was the home world of the only Halstaynian he knew.
The Independency was in a dusty area of the galactic arm, which accounted in part for its autonomy. Warping through dust was not an impossibility, but the prime-field turbulence that resulted was mind-wracking and dangerous. Clear lanes through the dust were eventually found, but their circuitousness kept the Halstayne region from having much appeal for either of the two superpowers. As a result, the Independency was formed and settled in large part by persons who had opted out of the developing Primgranese-Lontastan conflict. It was a pocket of peace, bordered by both of its larger, more contentious neighbors.
Renson made a careful zigzag of warps along one of the clear lanes. Finally through the worst of the dust, he paused in normal space and looked around. The teeming suns of the galaxy were totally obscured. Only fifty-some points of light were scattered sparsely across the blackness—the suns of the Independency—and several of these wore fuzzy halos of dust and gas.
But the sun of Bernswa sparkled un-obscured, and he warped for it. After breaking warp near the planet and clearing his arrival, he messaged Estine Cauval, not knowing what to expect.
It turned out that she was not only at home but in a position—and with the inclination—to be hospitable.
"Sure, come on down, Grap!" she exclaimed eagerly. "I'll switch on my beacon for you!"
"I won't be intruding?"
"Not at all. Oh, I was married for a while after I last saw you, but now everything is casual and simple. Don't forget, Grap, it's been over eight years!"
"Yes. Still a newsgirl?"
"Oh, yes, but not so pushy about it now. I haven't been outside covering the econo-war for years and years!"
"I'll be down in forty minutes," he told her.
Bernswa had several hundred semicities, but Estine did not live in one of these. Her house stood isolated in a richly forested piedmont. This puzzled Renson after a few minutes with her, because he could tell she was still the lover of crowds and swirling activity he had remembered.
"I'm writing a drama," she explained, "and need the isolation of a place like this."
"A drama?"
"Didn't I ever tell you? Dramaturgy has always been my dream. I still do occasional news features but I give most of my working time to my play. I've been at it for over a year."
Renson nodded slowly. Estine was bright, clever, charming . . . but a playwright? That hardly seemed likely. She was too much a reporter, too intrigued by the event to pay much heed to the meanings behind the event. He doubted if she could create a play worth watching.
"Tell me about yourself, Grap," she demanded gaily. "What brings you here?"
He sat down beside her and described his fruitless efforts to learn why the econo-war existed.
"Welcome to the fold!" she exclaimed. "You won't find an answer here, but at least you're among people who share your puzzlement. About the only sensible thing to say about the econo-war is that it's ridiculous!"
"Which begs the question," Renson remarked glumly.
"Yes, but what else is there to say? The society, as well as the individual, of the Independency is sane. It has to appear nonsensical to us that the rest of humanity finds warfare a normal and desirable condition of life. It's all so frantic and foolish."
He grinned. "You seemed to enjoy it when you were a correspondent."
"Oh, sure, as a reporter," Estine said with a toss of her head. "Life in the Commonality has a crazy excitement that was fun to write about, and to watch for a while. It's . . . well . . . have you ever tried writing, Grap?"
"Not the kind of writing you mean—just engineering specs and so on. I've thought if I could solve the mystery of the econo-war, I'd write something about that."
"Yes, but that's not what I mean. I mean poetry, or fiction, or drama. What is called creative writing. Grap, it's next to impossible to write creatively, and interestingly, about sane people doing sane things!"
Renson thought this over, and finally nodded. "I can see how it would be," he agreed. "If everybody is sane and reasonable, you don't get much dramatic conflict."
"That's it, exactly," she said. "And that's why I enjoyed covering the econo-war. It's also why modern novelists do historical pieces about Earth-Only days, or else fantasies. I'm not saying sanity is dull," she giggled, "only that it makes dull fiction compared to Dickens, or Tolstoy."
"And there is some fiction about the econo-war," Renson put in, wondering why Estine had sounded defensive when she denied that sanity was dull. "Which may be roundabout evidence that the econo-war is as anachronistic as Uriah Heap."
She smiled and grasped his hand. "I sensed that you felt that way when I first met you, Grap. That was one of the things that attracted me to you. And now . . . welcome to our non-fictionalized society."
"Thanks. Hope I'll fit in."
"Oh, you will," she said with assurance.
* * *
A few days later he went to talk to Ferd Primlay about a job. Primlay was development director of Halstayne United Life-Support Corporation, largest producer of life-support equipment in the Independency.
"I've not been active in the field for five years," Renson said apologetically after they had talked for a while, "and that may put me a bit out-of-date."
"Not at all!" glowed Primlay. "You may, uh, even find you're ahead of us in some respects. We do tend to lag behind Commonality and Federation companies at times, with them always scrambling for some minor competitive advantage. Although I must say we do all right, considering our size and position."
Renson nodded. It was all a matter, he thought fleetingly, of wh
at one considered "all right" to be. The Halstaynian version of the multifield packet was a cumbersome object, nearly two cubic inches in volume and about sixty years out-of-date by Commonality standards. He had noticed that Estine's packet actually made a visible lump under her skin when she bent a certain way.
"Perhaps I can help you overcome some of those lags," he said. "Also, there's an idea I had on the way here. Why not include an emo-monitor in standard life-support equipment?"
"Hm-m-m. An interesting thought," said Primlay. "I wonder, though, if an emo-monitor wouldn't be getting us too far away from the basic definition of 'life-support'?"
"I think not. The definition has got broader over the centuries. Life-support originally meant providing a livable environment for a man in space, either within a ship, or in protective clothing. In essence, it meant air and temperature control. Provisions for propulsion and communication were called by other names. That distinction was eliminated as it became possible to equip a man for spaceflight without recourse to ships or special clothing. And, after all, motion and communication are as fundamental to life as breathing and maintaining internal pressure, if somewhat less immediately so. An emo-monitor would seem a logical addition to the communication capabilities of life-support."
Primlay nodded gravely. "It would, of course, require extensive research. I can see the advantages. A man wants to understand his woman, a parent wants to understand his child, and so on. Personal relationships would be improved if we could 'read' each other's feelings."
"It could all but eliminate deceit, including self-deceit," said Renson.
"Yes." Primlay squinted in concentration. "Let's keep that idea in mind, Renson, and we'll discuss it further in a few months. You understand such a proposal isn't one to jump at without thorough consideration, and there's something else I'd like to get you onto first."
"Then you're hiring me?"
"Of course! All applicants are hired here. Didn't you know? That's basic to the Halstaynian way of life."
Renson blinked. He remembered reading something to that effect long ago, but he hadn't really believed it, thinking it one of those rules honored more in the breach than the keeping. But, if the Independency was actually free of economic competition, such a rule was probably necessary.
Primlay was watching his expression. "I suppose your former colleagues wouldn't consider that a practical personnel policy," he remarked stiffly.
"They wouldn't," agreed Renson with a slight grin. "But they cling to many things dating from pre-sanity times. What is it you want me to work on?"
Mollified, Primlay said, "Stomach discomfort, especially in older people. Our balloon apparently does not work as well as the Commonality version."
"If the balloon's outer surface is sufficiently random-transportive," Renson said, "there shouldn't be any discomfort."
"Random-transportive," murmured Primlay, not quite making it a question.
"You may have another term for it," said Renson. "The idea is that the balloon shouldn't block pill nourishment away from any portion of the stomach's wall, otherwise a person gets localized pangs. It's mainly a design job, involving the distribution of microtublets in the self-flexing substance of the balloon, with the distribution ordered to provide maximum pressure in areas of maximum resistance."
Primlay nodded. "This is something you're familiar with?"
"Yes."
"Fine! That will be your first assignment. Now, I understand from your friend Estine Cauval that you're quite a vactennis player, Grap."
"Yes, but I'm a bit out of practice now."
"It's my game, too," said Primlay, in a livelier tone than he had used before. "In fact, that's what first roused my interest in life-support systems. A player's game is no better than his equipment, you know. Perhaps we could have a game . . . ?"
"Sure," agreed Renson. "Let me know when you have time."
"No time like the present," laughed Primlay. "Come on!" he leaped eagerly from his seat, strode to the window and dived out. "Let's go!" his fading voice trailed back.
Renson stood motionless for an instant, then grinned and dived after his new employer. Maybe, he guessed, it was part of the rules in the Independency that a man in Primlay's position could play hooky from his job if he liked.
He followed the man up into space and the two of them enjoyed an afternoon of strenuous sport. The Independency, Renson was thinking, was a great place to live.
* * *
He spent the next three months changing his mind.
The stomach balloon assignment had not struck him as a major challenge, but more as a preliminary test to assure Primlay that he could deliver. It involved nothing more than was already being done by Commonality and Federation manufacturers, using materials and processes Renson knew well. For that matter, samples of modern stomach balloons from outside were easily available for copying, although at a higher price than many Independency citizens could afford.
He had expected to be through with the project within a month at most. But that length of time found him barely started.
He told Primlay, "I would like to do some shifting about of the personnel on the project. Random-transportive design is a finicky task, in which a minor error by one drafter throws out the work of a whole drafting team. And . . . well . . . some drafters are less talented than others."
"That's very true," nodded Primlay. "However, shifting people about isn't easy. What did you have in mind?"
"Anything that would give me a first-rate drafting team—even a small one. For instance, the less useful drafters could be put on other jobs within the project—"
"Not unless they ask for it without prompting," said Primlay. "The key point there is that these people accepted employment with our company as drafters. As long as they're satisfied with the work they're doing—"
"O.K.," said Renson, "let's take them off the project entirely. Assign them elsewhere in the company."
Primlay smiled. "That wouldn't be exactly fair to our other projects, would it? I assure you, Grap, your project has no more than its share of less useful workers in any category."
"Well, look," Renson snapped, "these people are a drag on our progress! What can be done about it?"
"The best thing to do," laughed Primlay, "is to relax. There's no great rush. Actually, your project is coming along excellently, Grap. Not as fast as such things go in the Commonality, perhaps, but remember there's no war on here. Now, how about vactennis this afternoon?"
After that Renson decided not to bother mentioning his other personnel problem to Primlay: absenteeism. After all, Primlay himself was a heavy offender on that score.
So the project's difficulties boiled down to those overlapping problems—at least a third of the personnel were "losers," people who lacked the ability, or the motivation, to do efficient work. And the entire staff, losers as well as winners, came and went from the lab as they chose. The recommended workday was six hours, but that was treated very loosely as a maximum. There seemed to be no minimum.
* * *
Renson tried to acclimate himself to these working conditions. After all, they were absurd only from the viewpoint of a high-competition society, or a society in which the absence of sanity made such a free and easy approach totally unworkable.
And there was no equalitarian nonsense involved in the Independency's way of life, no pretense that everybody had equal intelligence and ability. The system merely insisted that the person of less ability be allowed to make what contribution he could, in whatever way he chose, to the society's progress. That hardly seemed too much to allow.
And aside from all that, the people at the lab, and others he met socially as the weeks passed, were obviously and genuinely grateful to Renson for joining them, and working to bring their life-support systems closer to outside standards. It was good to be appreciated, he discovered.
So he hung on, and ignored as best he could the growing sense of frustration he felt with the crawling pace of his project.
>
"The thing is, it's such a simple task," he complained to Estine one evening, "to merely redesign the stomach balloon. I don't know what the lab would do with a really tough development problem, like my idea of adding a miniaturized emo-monitor to the standard system. They would probably stretch that one out over several lifetimes! No wonder Primlay's interest in it was so mild."
She grinned at him. "Don't you know we don't have a war on, Grap?"
"Yes, I know that," he chuckled sorely. "I've heard about it from several people, several times. But I still find it a poor excuse for total inefficiency."
"But it's not inefficiency, Grap!" she protested. "It's just the sane, comfortable way of doing things. You don't find anyone taking a negative attitude toward his work, do you?"
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