I nod and he raises an eyebrow.
“Right. But beware of their teeth and their sting! The sting is under that fold of skin on its rump. Just here. When one of them has a hold of you your only defense is to find their stun point—if you are unarmed. It’s located behind the head at the top of its neck amongst all the folded skin and fur…over there. Doesn’t help much unless you know what you’re doing. When pinched they go under—so to say, okay?”
He nods thoughtfully—a calculating look in his eyes.
Those his thoughts are the ones I need.
“Also. You’ll find the stuffed ones in my store under a tarp are low priced compared to others. Hmm?”
He waves my sales pitch aside. I step closer and touch his elbow. The elbow pad is rough, sand scratches my palm. He goes rigid, struggles with something, relaxes and says, “This have something to do with why you had me inspect your desert?”
“Yes...well done putting those together. Tomorrow we’ll head into the wild desert and I’ll teach you how to find water.”
“Tell me now and don’t think I appreciated your childish compliment,” he says.
I bite my tongue. “I’d rather show you...better than telling you.”
“I prefer to be informed well ahead of time.”
“No doubt you do.” And I walk away.
He follows slapping the soles of his boots loudly on the tiled floor. Shoppers glance his way and shrug...it’s an EB.
Inside the Top of the Mine restaurant, old mining lamps serve as overhead light fittings. Antique Laser-gas drillers and early Fraggers line the sidewalls in silent testimony of an evolving technology.
Wax figures of miners from years long gone, dressed in dirt-splattered coveralls with helmet lanterns ablaze, lean over tables illuminating meals. Behind the counter, a small converted heat-treatment furnace serves as a pizza oven.
I take a deep breath in, which rewards me with the enticing aroma of coffee, sausages, bacon, pancakes, and eggs. We take seats with a view out the front window facing down concourse towards the main entrance.
Wernt checks the restaurant over, sits back and scrutinizes photos of mining activities adorning the walls. He zeroes in on pictures of Fragger units, some blasting while others have miners draped across them. He smiles as though he understands something. Inside I smile too. If he thinks Fraggers are our UWMD he follows in the steps of most every EB tourist.
Audrey, a waiter with long auburn hair and dressed like a Mongolian maiden hands us menus. “How are you doing with this one compared to your last?” she asks mind-to-mind.
“I’m having trouble getting his thoughts,” I reply.
Taken aback she studies him a moment. “Best solve that one,” and out aloud says, “Where have you been? I’ve missed the sight of all that new red hair you have these days,” and she chuckles.
“Ah Audrey. Volcanic activity closed LAX-EB for six weeks. No one was able to obtain passage to Here-Born. But how is your husband? I hear his SandRider broke down quite far north.”
“Yes, it did. Luckily he had the new FindMe app running. So we found him.”
“Good to hear that.”
She nods and points to the menus. We order and she leaves.
Peter stares off into the Mall. I do too.
After a few minutes, he stretches and groans in pleasure. Mid-stretch he leaps to his feet and unhooks the Quaaseon flask at his hip. Gas hisses as he does a recharge using a small metallic backup canister. Done, he tucks the empty into a pocket.
My interest is piqued. “Peter. Quaaseon flasks cool a fan-n-fit suit around four to five days per charge. Right?” He nods confirmation.
What was he doing? Most tourist will not roam on their own. Then again, it is none of my business. I’m about to query again but I stay my questions as Audrey arrives with food and drinks.
She hands Peter his coffee but deliberately shakes her hand causing the teaspoon to slip off the saucer. I place my fork down, catch the teaspoon mid-flight and return it to the saucer with a clink of stainless steel on ceramic.
Peter barely blinks.
“As slow as all the others,” Audrey says.
“Too true,” I reply as Peter glances back and forth between us.
“Doesn’t he look like he got our mind-to-mind?” Audrey asks.
I nod.
“Thankfully they can’t,” she concludes and heads off.
However, if he can and has been then I must urgently get with Madsen about that bulge at Peter’s armpit. As Madsen has often enough said, “Failure with this tourist ain’t an option.”
Such reminders bring a sour flavor to my mouth.
I sip some coffee.
Ah! Much better.
CHAPTER 13
Of The Power Of Wallets And Government Assistance
I turn to Peter as Audrey enters the kitchen. “When we’re done eating, we’ll go underground. Okay?”
“It’s an idiot’s world out here Once-Other. I should never have come. An agent could better do what’s needed.”
“Oh? What needs doing?” He ignores my question and starts eating.
I’m about to follow suit when a commotion outside the Mall entrance attracts our attention. Poip had stopped an elderly Here-Born lady and demanded her Nomadi.
She searches her purse, looks up and takes an uncertain step backward. Poip take a determined one forward. She stares long and fearfully at them then hands over her Nomadi.
A-one plugs it in and checks. A moment later, it wiggles as though ecstatic and without further ado—they arrest her.
“Looks like she screwed up,” Peter says.
“Yes...sure does. So sad it is.”
He laughs, wipes his nose and says, “You people...so much to learn.”
I wait for more but nothing. “Well...gifts bestowed upon us by your Rulers. Elected officials so to say?”
He grins and says, “You don’t approve of me. Do you?”
An icy wind slithers across my shoulders. Not because of what he said—but at not knowing if he is getting my thoughts. Are the tables turned? Alternatively, am I a neurotic loon newly converted to that madness?
Without being obvious, I scrutinize him but find no visible technology—just that bulge under his arm. I calm my heart and sample the future—tidbits of info snuggle in.
It’ll be best to keep this Wernt tourist off balance as much as possible. To do so without qualms I assure self that he seems tougher, hardier and more resistant than other EB’s. It is common knowledge that certain EB Foundations do not crumble easily.
This we discovered is due to their education. It’s deeply embedded—almost as though implanted into their minds with tremendous force or threat. And this Peter is definitely unpleasant—to say the least. He will survive a ruined Foundation without mishap...or so I assume.
I do know of one such tourist who survived—a truly hardy and robust character I’m told. And so it is unlikely Peter will go screwball snorting and vanish as others have. And this despite his strange behavior.
I lick my lips at having forded a river of personal doubt. A climb up the opposite bank finds clearer purpose and intent awaiting me. It is time to move on. “Not you personally. Those Earth-Born laws and taxes you forced upon us. Allow me to outline how our tax system works.” And I dive right in without waiting for his okay.
When I’m done explaining he doubles over laughing. Tears stream down his cheeks and gasping for breath he says, “No Government will hold off at fixed percentages like those. I figure they will need more and invent ways of getting what they want. Right?”
“Too true,” I reply.
“There you go! Yeah. Wasting my tour time with your idiotic tax system. How dumb are those percentages? Just how stupid an idea is that? Yeah. Wish I’d missed that experience. Come on—wakey-wakey. Yeah! Who believes the more you earn the lower a rate you will pay. Get real.”
And he pours himself a cup of coffee.
Around us the hum of convers
ation, clink of crockery, and breakfast aromas swirl and float as though alive and seeking recognition. I sigh, breathe them in and say, “Well. Our Bill of Rights outlines a single method by which Government can increase taxation revenues....”
“There you go—wasting my time again.” He throws his arms wide appealing to one-n-all. “Anyway,” he says, “our laws rule. Yeah. Wait. Er? Well...what if someone refuses to pay your so called taxes.”
“A fate I consider worse than prison.”
“What’s that mean?” he asks.
“Refuse to live by our system, rules, laws...here!”
I pull out my Nomadi, browse to a website and show him the screen. “See that list of names? Okay. Those people have refused to pay taxes or cheated. Make this list and most no one will hire you, mostly no one will accept your money and absolutely no one will do business with you.
“You either sign on to make up what you owe and begin paying or you end up a hermit eking out an existence in the wild desert.”
“That’s an idiotic, moronic law!” he growls.
“It’s not a law nor a regulation, Peter. We do that as a personal decision. No one forces us. So. If you wish to take their money or hire such a person, go ahead. But keep in mind that many will not do business with you once you do. There you go! Oh. I know our taxes are...were different. I’ll explain further.”
“This is not what I paid for Once-Other. Don’t waste my money.”
He blows to cool his coffee and slurps at it.
“Peter. You wanted to....”
He pulls back from slurping, spills coffee, his mouth snaps open in protest but I cut him off. “No! You wait! You listen!” His eyes widen but I rush on. “You asked me to outline our customs and business practices. Right?” And I hold my breath.
He pats his cheek eying me and says, “Er? Yeah. Right?”
“All I’m doing.”
His eyes dart from Fraggers to waiters to lighting and hold steady. A cunning comes to them. “Okay oh wise one. Educate away. But don’t think I’m persuaded. And I’ve noticed you’re selling your Constitution and Bill of Rights. Warning alert—”
“You see,” I cut in, “our Government stands ever dedicated to working with us via our Treasury.”
He laughs. “And they soon come visiting. Right?”
“Damn right you are. Three government contractors visit you—say what?”
“Far worse than on Earth,” he repeats.
“Well, worse or better than EB I don’t know.”
“What kind of tour guide says I don’t know?” he sneers.
I gulp and say, “Our Treasury, using Treasury Contractors, works endlessly to take in more-n-more tax dollars.”
“No!” he blurts, stands, throws his arms wide, waves to one-n-all and sits down. “And so it unravels. Feel free, go on, keep going. How small and amusing. Ha! Ha!”
He sips coffee glances at a gray haired lady applying makeup and winks at her. She smiles at him dabs at her lipstick and directly communicates that she feels my pain.
I grin. “Okay. Now. All Treasury Contractors must first and foremost be experts in communication. Not some communication system. Communications directly person to person for the purpose of gaining understand.
“That’s the fundamental requirement just to qualify for this work. They will also need to be expert in one or more technologies. Such as business administration, production, management, marketing, human resources including staff assessment, training. All these in any one of the fields of commerce and industry.
“These contractors send out teams to private enterprises regularly. They investigate how you or a company is operating and how well financially you are doing. Typically three different teams arrive at the same time.”
His mouth snaps open but I wave him silent. “Each presents a proposal to improve your productivity and so increase your income and profits. They charge for their service. It’s the only way they are paid but the inspection is a no charge item.”
He waves an invitation for me to wake up. “Never bite the hand that rubs the back that feeds the pack.”
“Ah? Okay. That made no sense...now ah. Okay. Their program guarantees higher income for you or your business.”
“Yeah sure,” he says.
I swallow. “Well they...they estimate as a percentage range how much your income will increase once a program is fully and correctly completed—you pick which one to go with.”
“Any dimwit can spit out a number,” he says, pulls out the empty Quaaseon canister and taps his chin with it.
I wave that aside. “Now when they’re wrong. And or when increased revenues or profits are far less than estimated, they have to come back at no cost to you. And! Fix what needs doing to get that promised increase.”
I sit back and fold my arms.
“What?” he says waving his arms like a windmill beset by bedeviling crosswinds.
The empty canister slips from his grasp, floats and lands on the floor bouncing towards the aisle. He drops to his hands and knees and shuffles after it managing to grasp hold of it just as it rolls under the elderly lady’s table.
“Been a long time since a man got to his knees for me,” she says and we smile.
Peter sits down again and I drop a ticking time bomb into his Foundation. “If they don’t or can’t increase their customers’ income they will go bankrupt.”
“Whoa. Lost me right there. What are you talking about?” And he leans forward.
I lean in as well. “Here’s what I mean. The only way our Treasury can earn more annual revenues is by raising productivity on Here-Born. You get that?”
He nods, I rush on. “Okay. Good. Urgh! Maybe not! Look. These contractors guaranty one greater income and live or die by their own word. Fail to do this often enough and you’ll soon be bankrupt.”
His face goes blank as most tourist’s faces do.
I drive in harder. “Yes. To those from EB, the thought of a Government assisting citizens and companies to earn more and be more successful comes across as foreign as wingless stones flying into the sun to nest and raise their young.”
He blinks and snarls, “BS!”
“Wha...no Peter.”
He grins as one does after hearing something incredibly stupid. After biting my tongue, I pause for a moment as the pain subsides. He waves me on his full blown sneer masquerading as a smile.
“Our Government must increase the income of all working individuals, all corporations and any business,” I add and wait but he waves me on again.
“That’s the only way they can get more tax dollars into the Treasury on Schedule 1-4...which is the only obligatory tax on Here-Born. It’s all in our Constitution. You really should read it but read it all before screaming in vain or should that be in pain.”
And I smile but to no effect.
He waves all of everything aside. “Whatever the 1-4...will not work. We’ve analyzed it, dissected your system—this way and that way—up and down. Never going to pan out. Period.”
I note how he claims to have not read something he then claims to have analyzed. Tucking that info away as contradictory, I continue.
“Hear me out here. Our Government assists us to produce more and in doing so they contribute to the success of all. Please comprehend...you’re hearing something new, understanding it may take a while.”
He yet again waves all I’ve said aside. “Has never happened and never will. No. You get a grip. Ongoing real-time legislating with detailed regulations to follow is the ideal. Wake up. You live by our Law now.”
I bat those words aside. “Works here. Yes...wasn’t achieved in all of human history until Here-Born. Your barrier to understanding is never having read our Constitution. Read what is written there and you will understand.
“Now, maybe you’ve gotten a glimpse of why passing new Laws isn’t the primary activity of elected officials on Here-Born. To the contrary—that’s the last action from politicians we desire let alone enco
urage.”
“So they do this increasing production tap dance?” he asks.
“What else would a government do other than that and running...?”
But he bats my words into no-where-sand as too painful to consider.
I push on. “Get this. Those Government contractors provide the service I mentioned and one can hire them at any time—so help is waiting a Nomadi call away.”
His head shakes saying both no and I don’t believe this.
“Oh it works and Treasury certifies all contractors.”
His mouth cycles four or five times before any sound exits. “That...that...that goes against the grain and the natural order of things—of the universe. There are standardized methodologies, Once-Other. A three-week visit to Earth will see you clear to understanding some very simple basics. Just as I have....” His mouth snaps closed and he glances furtively around.
If I could just access his thoughts, I would know what he didn’t say. That was likely an important thought I’d missed.
Nevertheless, I provide him with the last piece and say, “If a contractor continuously fails bad-on-bad happens to them.”
“What?” he asks more interested than he lets on.
“They are investigated and so too the Government officials who selected them.”
He grunts. “Why not removed? That’s the logical sequence in your illogical world.”
I sigh at all that is EB and say, “Out here criminal laws are used against criminals alone. Which means they only kick in after you are found guilty of a crime—never before. Near the end of your tour, I’ll give you excerpts from our Constitution and Bill of Rights to take home with you.”
“Dream on if you wish,” he says and pours himself another cup of coffee and sips with the air of a superior.
Time to back off. I wave Audrey over, plug my Nomadi into her cash register, pay and add a tip for her.
“Why don’t you use wireless when paying?” he asks.
“Close to impossible to piggyback a direct connect.”
He smiles as does the thief. “Ah. Yeah. Just steal the handheld.” I nod, grin, and we head out the restaurant.
He glances around the open expanse. “What’s The Missing Twelve?” he says pointing at a poster.
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