The Rival Rigelians up-3

by Mack Reynolds

  Dean held up a hand, placatingly. “Your Holiness, it is not the desire of myself and my business associates to intrude on the Temple.”

  “Intrude! My revenues have been cut in half! And what is this new disgusting beverage, ale, so cheap that the most poverty stricken can afford to indulge in it and do so even on feast days, holy days, when wine is traditional?”

  Rosetti cleared his throat. “That was the point, Your Holiness. The poor also need their release from their daily pressures. Ale can provide it, at little cost.”

  “At my expense! That is, of course, at the expense of the Temple.”

  Dean said, gently, “Your Holiness, it is not our desire to antagonize you.” He picked up a quill, dipped it into his ink pot, wrote rapidly on a piece of paper. “Would it help if I made a contribution of…of one million crowns to your, ah, personal account as Presbyter in charge of administering the production and distribution of the, ah, holy product of the vine?”

  “One…million…crowns?”

  Dean handed him the check.

  The Temple father frowned at it. “What is this?”

  “A new institution, Your Holiness. If you will present that at any of our recently established banking houses, it will be honored.”

  Doul scowled at the paper. “I have heard mention of this new institution. And you say this is in value a million crowns?”

  “Gold crowns, Your Holiness. A contribution made in recognition of your unfailing labors on behalf of the Temple.” Dean found it impossible to keep an edge of sarcasm from his voice.

  The other’s eyes had narrowed again. He began to say something, but then closed his thin lips to a tight line. He came to his feet. “Very well, my sons.” He looked from one of the Earthmen to the other. “Undoubtedly, some meditation on the issues involved is in order.”

  Dean and Rosetti stood as well. In great ceremony, they saw their visitor to the door.

  When they returned to their places, Louis Rosetti was scowling in thought. “You sure that was a good idea, Mike?”

  His companion pulled a snowy handkerchief from an inner pocket and wiped his forehead. “I don’t know. That molly has had the wine monopoly tied up in his family so long that they think any guzzle is their private preserve.”

  Rosetti said, “The question is, will he stay bribed?”

  “I hope long enough for our new drinks to become so popular he won’t be able to blow the whistle on us.”

  “But suppose he does?”

  Dean grinned at him. “A million crowns is a lot of money. That check was made out to Presbyter Doul, personally. When he cashes it, we will have the check. Supposedly, temple monks take the oath of poverty. Our friend Doul is going to look very sick indeed if, on making the charges against us, there are some counter-charges of misappropriating of funds.”

  Louis Rosetti looked at him doubtfully. “I hope you’re not getting too fancy, Mike.”

  Mike Dean laughed it away.

  Amschel Mayer was incensed.

  “What’s got into Buchwald and MacDonald?” he spat.

  Jerry Kennedy, attired as was his superior in fur trimmed Genoese robes, signaled one of the servants for a refilling of his glass. Then he shugged.

  “I suppose it’s partly our own fault,” he said lightly. He sipped the wine the servant had poured from a long-necked dusty bottle and made a mental note to buy up the rest of this vintage for his cellars before young Mannerheim or someone else did.

  “Our fault!” Mayer glared. He shook the report he held in his right hand at the other.

  The old boy was getting decreasingly tolerant as the years went by, Kennedy decided. He said soothingly, “You sent Peter and Fred over there to speed up local development. Well, that’s what they’re doing.”

  “Are you insane?” Mayer squirmed in his chair. “Did you read this radiogram? They’ve squeezed out all my holdings in rubber, the fastest growing industry on the southern continent. Why, millions are involved. Who do they think they are?”

  Kennedy put down his glass and chuckled. “See here, Amschel, we’re developing this planet by encouraging free competition. Our contention is that under such socio-economic systems the best men are brought to the lead and benefit all society by the advances they make.”

  “Sol What has this got to do with MacDonald and Buchwald betraying my interests.?”

  “Don’t you see? Using your own theory, you have been set back by someone more efficiently competitive. Fred and Peter saw an opening and, in keeping with your instructions, moved in. It’s just coincidence that the rubber they took over was your property rather than some Genoese operator’s. If you were open to a loss there, then if they hadn’t taken over someone else could have. Possibly Baron Leonar, or even Russ.”

  “That reminds me,” Mayer snapped. “Our Honorable Russ is getting too big for his britches in petroleum. Did you know he’s established a laboratory in Amerus? Has a hundred or more chemists working on new products.”

  Jerry Kennedy finished his wine and motioned to the servant to fill his glass still once again. He said to his older companion, “Fine.”

  “Fine! What do you mean? Dean is our man in petroleum.”

  “Look here, if Russ can develop the industry faster than Mike Dean, let him go ahead. That’s all to our advantage.”

  Mayer leaned forward and tapped his assistant emphatically on the knee. “Look here, yourself, Jerome Kennedy. At this stage, we don’t want things getting out of our hands. A culture is in the hands of those who control the wealth; the means of production, distribution, communication. Theirs is the real power. I’ve made a point of spacing our team about the whole planet. Gunther is in mines, Dean heads petroleum among other things, MacDonald shipping, Buchwald steel, Rosetti distilling, Doctor Wieliczka medicine, and so forth. As fast as this planet can assimilate, we push new inventions, new techniques, often whole new sciences, into use. Meanwhile, you and I sit back and dominate it all through the strongest of power mediums, finance.”

  Jerry Kennedy nodded. “I wouldn’t worry about old man Russ taking over Dean’s domination of oil, though. Mike’s got the support of all the Pedagogue’s resources behind him. Besides, we’ve got to let these Genoese get into the act. The more the economy expands, the more capable men we need. As it is, I think we’re already spread a little too thin.”

  Amschel Mayer had dropped the subject. He was reading the radiogram again and scowling his anger. “This cooks MacDonald and Buchwald. I’ll break them.”

  His assistant took another pull at his drink, and raised his eyebrows. “How do you mean?”

  “I’m not going to put up with my subordinates going against my interests.”

  “In this case, what can you do about it? Business is business.”

  “You hold quite a bit of their paper, don’t you?” The older man’s voice held a sly quality.

  “You know that. Most of our team’s finances funnel through my hands.”

  “We’ll close them out. They’ve become too concerned with their wealth. They’ve forgotten why the Pedagogue was sent here. I’ll break them, Jerry. They’ll come crawling. Perhaps I’ll send them back to the Pedagogue. Make them stay aboard as a permanent crew.”

  Kennedy shrugged. “Well, Peter MacDonald is going to hate that. He’s developed into quite a high playboy—gourmet food, women, one of the most lavish estates on the southern continent.”

  “Ha!” Mayer snorted. “Let him go back to ship’s rations and crews’ quarters.”

  A servant entered the lushly furnished room and announced: “The Honorable Gunther calling on the Honorables Mayer and Kennedy.”

  “Show him in, of course,” Mayer ordered. Martin Gunther, for once his calm ruffled, hurried into the room. “Rykov,” he blurted. “He’s disappeared. The barons have probably got him!”

  Amschel Mayer shot to his feet. “That’s the end,” he swore shrilly. “Only in the west have the barons held out. I thought we’d slowly wear them down, take ove
r their powers bit by bit. But this does it. This means we fight!”

  He spun to Kennedy.

  “Jerry, make preparations to take a trip out to the Pedagogue. You know the extent of Genoa’s industrial progress. Seek out the most advanced weapons this technology could produce.”

  Kennedy put down his glass, and came to his own feet, shocked by Gunther’s words. “But, Amschel, do you think it’s wise to start an intercontinental war? Remember, we’ve been helping to industrialize the west, too. It’s almost as advanced as our continent. Their war potential isn’t weak.”

  “Nevertheless,” Mayer snapped, “we’ve got to break the backs of the barons and the Temple monks. Get messages off to Baron Leonar and young Mannerheim, to Russ and Olderman. We’ll want them to put pressure on their local politicians. What we need is a continental alliance for this war.”

  Gunther said, “Should I get in touch with Rosetti and Dean? They’re still over there.”

  Mayer hesitated. “No,” he said. “Well keep Mike and Louis informed but they’d better stay where they are. We’ll still want our men in the basic positions of higher power when we’ve won.”

  “They might get hurt,” Gunther scowled. “The barons might get them too. I’m not so sure about their cover. The Temple’s got a lot of strings out. They might know we’re all interconnected.”

  “Nonsense. Mike and Louis can take care of themselves.”

  Jerry Kennedy was upset. He was not by nature a man of violence. He said, “Are you sure about this war, chief? Isn’t a conflict of this size apt to hold up our overall plans?”

  “Of course not,” Mayer scoffed. “Man makes his greatest progress under pressure. A major war will unite the nations of both the western continent and this one as nothing else could. Both will push their development to the utmost.”

  He added, thoughtfully, “Which reminds me. It might be a good idea for us to begin accumulating interests in such industries as will be affected by a war economy.”

  Jerry Kennedy chuckled at him. “Merchant of death.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” Kennedy said. “Something I read about on an historical tape.”

  VIII

  At the decade’s end, once again the representatives of the Genoese team were first in the Pedagogue’s lounge. Mayer sat at the officers’ table, Martin Gunther at his right. Jerry Kennedy leaned against the ship’s bar, sipping appreciatively at a highball in a tall glass; the drink was inordinately dark.

  They could hear the impact of the spaceboat from Texcoco when it slid into its bed.

  “Poor piloting,” Gunther mused. “Whoever’s doing that flying doesn’t get enough practice.”

  They could hear the ports opening and then the sound of approaching feet. The footsteps had a strangely military ring, for a group of scientists and technicians.

  Joe Chessman entered, followed immediately by Barry Watson, Dick Hawkins and Natt Roberts. They were all dressed in heavy uniform, complete with colorful decorations. Behind them were four Texcocans, including Reif and his teen-age son, Taller, also in uniform, though the other two Tulans wore civilian dress.

  Mayer scowled at them in the way of greeting. “Where’s Plekhanov?” he snapped. “The agreement was that the heads of teams meet each decade.”

  “Leonid Plekhanov is no longer with us,” Chessman said sourly. “Under pressure his mind evidently snapped and he made decisions that would have meant the collapse of the expedition. He resisted when we reasoned with him.”

  The four members of the Genoese team stared without speaking. Jerry Kennedy put down his glass at last. “You mean you had to restrict him? Why didn’t you bring him back to the ship?”

  Barry Watson said slowly, “He was put under guard. We were in combat. The men who guarded him disappeared in the fray. Leonid evidently died with them. We are lucky any of us survived.”

  “You should have taken more efficient steps to protect him,” Mayer snapped. “I had my differences with Leonid Plekhanov, but, after all, he was second in command of this expedition. I am not at all sure, now that he is gone, who I will appoint to take his place.”

  Dick Hawkins chuckled softly.

  Chessman took a chair at the table. The others assumed standing positions behind him. He said coldly, “I am afraid we’ll have to reject your views on the subject. Twenty years ago this expedition split into two groups. My team will accomplish its original mission, its tasks. Your opinons are not needed.”

  Amschel Mayer glared at the others in hostility but when he spoke again it was on a different subject. He said, “You have certainly come in force this time.”

  Chessman said flatly, “Save for Mrs. Chessman, that is, Doctor Sanchez, and Steve Cogswell, who have been left behind to hold things together, this is all of us, Mayer.”

  “All of you? Where are Stevens and MacBride?”

  Barry Watson said, “Plekhanov’s fault. Lost in the battle that broke the back of the rebels. At least they died in good cause.”

  Joe Chessman looked at his military chief. “I’ll act as team spokesman, Barry.”

  “Broke the back of the rebels,” Jerry Kennedy mused. “That opens all sorts of avenues, doesn’t it?”

  Chessman growled. “I suppose that in the past twenty years your team had no obstacles. Not a drop of blood shed. Come on, the truth. How many of your team has been lost in this peaceful program of yours?”

  Mayer shifted in his chair. “Possibly your point is well taken. Nick Rykov fell into the hands of a group of malcontents, some of the barons and Temple monks who oppose our reforms. Our reports indicate he is dead.”

  “Only one man lost, eh?”

  Mayer stirred uncomfortably then flushed at the other’s tone. “Something has happened to Buchwald and MacDonald. They must be insane. They’ve broken off contact with me, are amassing personal fortunes in the eastern hemisphere.”

  Hawkins laughed abruptly. “Free competition,” he said.

  Barry Watson leaned forward and said to Kennedy, rather than to Amschel Mayer. “How is, uh, Doctor Wieliczka? Why didn’t she come?”

  Kennedy cocked his head questioningly but said, “Too busy. She’s got a whole string of medical universities and hospitals under her care. However, she sent you a message.”

  Watson looked at him. “Well?”

  Kennedy said slowly, “She said, give him my love…”

  Barry Watson flushed.

  “…if he still wants it.”

  Chessman growled. “Let’s halt this bickering and jabber and get to business. First, let me introduce Reif, Texcocan State Army Chief of Staff and his son Taller.”

  Reif and his son came to a formal salute. The Earthmen from Genoa nodded acknowledgment, uncomfortably.

  Chessman said, “And these other Texcocans are Wiss and Foken, both of whom have gone far in the sciences.”

  The two Tulan scientists shook hands, Earth style, but then stepped to the rear again where they followed the conversation without comment.

  Mayer said, “You think it wise to introduce natives to the Pedagogue? Last time it was armed guards. This time prominent officials and scientists.”

  “Of course,” Chessman said. “Following this conference I am going to take Foken and Wiss into the library. What are we here for if not to bring these people up to our level as rapidly as possible?”

  “Very well,” Mayer conceded grudgingly. “And now I have a complaint. When the Pedagogue first arrived we had only so many weapons aboard. However, both teams have evidently run into more physical violence than was at first expected. And you have taken more than half of the ship’s weapons in the past two decades.”

  Chessman shrugged it off. “We’ll return the greater part to the ship’s arsenal. At this stage, we are producing our own.”

  “I’ll bet you are,” Jerry Kennedy said. “Look, any of you fellows want a real Earthside whiskey? When we were crewing this expedition, why didn’t we bring someone with a knowledge of disti
lling, brewing and fermenting?”

  Mayer snapped at him. “Jerry, you drink too much.”

  “The hell I do,” the other said cheerfully. “Not near enough.”

  Barry Watson said easily, “A drink wouldn’t hurt. Why’re we so stiff? This is the first get-together for ten years. Jerry, you’re putting on weight.”

  Kennedy looked down at his rounded stomach. “Don’t get enough exercise,” he said, then reversed the attack. “You look older, Barry. Are you taking your rejuvenation treatments?”

  Barry Watson grimaced. “Sure, but I’m working under pressure. It’s been one long campaign.”

  Kennedy passed around the drinks, thoughtfully refilling his own glass.

  Dick Hawkins laughed. “It’s been one long campaign, all right. Barry has a house as big as a castle and six or eight—I don’t think he knows himself—women in his harem.”

  Watson flushed, but obviously without displeasure.

  Martin Gunther, of the Genoese team, cocked his head. “Harem?”

  Joe Chessman said impatiently, “Man adapts to circumstances, Gunther. The wars have lost us a lot of men. Women are consequently in a surplus. If the population curve is to continue upward, it is necessary that a man serve more than one woman. Polygamy is the obvious answer.”

  Gunther cleared his throat smoothly. “So a man in Barry’s position will have as many as eight wives, eh? You must have lost a good many men.”

  Watson grinned modestly. “Everybody doesn’t have that many. It’s according to your ability to support them, and, also rank has its privileges, as always. Besides, we figure it’s a good idea to spread the best seed around. By mixing our blood with the Texcocans we improve the breed.”

  Behind him, Taller, the Tulan boy, stirred without notice. One of the two scientists looked at his colleague from the side of his eyes, but the faces of both remained expressionless.

  Kennedy finished off his highball and began to build another, immediately. He said, “Here we go again. The big potatoes coming to the top.”