Escape Velocity

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Free to do what—rot?”

  “To do anything they want! I mean, even a rube like me has heard what's included in those rations.”

  Sam shrugged. “Sure, you can get drunk or stoned every night, and you can go out to a party or go to a show . . .”

  Dar gave a whimpering sigh.

  “. . . but actually do something? No chance! Unless you're born into government—and even they can't figure out anything worth doing.”

  “But . . .” Dar flailed at the sky. “But there's a thousand worlds out there to conquer!”

  “Why bother?” She smiled bitterly. “We've done that already—and it hasn't improved things back on Terra much.”

  “Hasn't improved!? But your poorest beggar lives like a medieval king!”

  “Oh, does she?” Sam's eyes glittered. “Where're the servants, the musicians, the courtiers, the knights willing to fight for her smile?”

  “Even a Terran reject has three or four servos! They'll even turn on the audio for him—and there's your musicians!”

  “And the courtiers? The knights?” Sam shook her head. “What made a king royal was being able to command other people—and there's no coin that'll buy that!”

  Dar could only stare.

  Then he gave his head a quick shake, pushing out a whistle. “Boy! That's sick!”

  “Also decadent.” She smiled, with Pyrrhic triumph. “They're moribund there. What I can't figure out is how you folks avoid it.”

  Dar shrugged. “Because we're already at the bottom? I mean, once you've landed here, there's no place to go but up!”

  “There's no place to go, period!” Sam's eyes lit. “Maybe that's it—because it's out here in the marches! Out here, on the edge of civilization—because anything you're going to do, you're going to have to do for yourselves. Terra's too far away to send help. And too far away to really be able to run you, either. By the time they can tell you not to do something, you've already been doing it for a year! And because . . .” She clamped her mouth shut.

  “Because they really don't care?” Dar grinned. “Because this place is a hole, and the only people Terra sends out here are the ones they want to forget about? I wouldn't be surprised if they even wanted to get rid of Shacklar.”

  “Of course; he was a threat to the ones with the real power. I mean, after all, he's capable. He was bound to make waves. Which I'm about to do too.”

  “I'm braced.” Dar tried to hide the smile.

  “You still haven't shown me how you're not really fleecing the natives.”

  “No, I haven't, have I. But it does take showing. We start trading at sundown.”

  2

  “That's not the way to make a campfire,” Sam pointed out.

  “What would you know about it?” Dar blithely heaped green sticks and leaves onto the flaming kindling. “You're a city girl.”

  “Who says?”

  “You. You said you came from Terra, and it's just one great big city.”

  “It is, but we've kept a few parks, like the Rockies. I do know you're supposed to use dry wood.”

  “Entirely correct.” Dar smiled up at the roiling column of thick gray smoke turning gold in the sunset.

  Sam sighed. “All right, so you're trying to attract attention. What do we use for cooking?”

  “Why bother?” Dar started foraging in the foodbag. “All we've got is cheese and crackers. And raisin wine, of course.”

  Sam shuddered.

  Darkness came down, and company came up—five Wolmen, each with a bale on his shoulder

  “Ah! Company for cordials!” Dar rubbed his hands, then reached for the bottle and the glasses.

  “Get 'em drunk before they start bargaining, huh?” Sam snorted.

  “That'd take more liquor than I can pack. But they count it friendly.” He stepped toward the arrivals, raising the bottle. “How!”

  “You not know, me not tell you,” the first grunted, completing the formula. “Good seeing, Dar Mandra.”

  “Good to see you, too, Hirschmeir.” Dar held out a handful of glasses; the Wolman took one, and so did each of his mates as they came up. Dar poured a round and lifted his glass. “To trade!”

  “And profit,” Hirschmeir grunted. He drank half his glass. “Ah! Good swill after long hike. And hot day gathering pipeweed.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Dar sympathized. “And it brings so little, too.”

  “Five point three eight kwahers per ounce on Libra exchange,” a second Wolman said promptly.

  Dar looked up in surprise. “That's the fresh quote, right off today's cargo ship. Where'd you get it?”

  “You sell us nice wireless last month,” Hirschmeir reminded. “Tell Sergeant Walstock him run nice music service.”

  “Sure will.” Dar pulled out a pad and scribbled a note.

  “Little heavy on drums, though,” another Wolman said thoughtfully.

  “Gotcha, Slotmeyer.” Dar scribbled again. “More booze, anybody?”

  Five glasses jumped out. Dar whistled, walking around with the bottle, then picked up a bale. “Well. Let's see what we're talking about.” He plopped the bale onto the front of the grav-sled.

  “Twenty-seven point three two kilograms,” the sled reported. “Ninety-seven percent Organum Translucem, with three percent grasses, leaf particles, and sundry detritus.”

  “The sundry's the good part.” Dar hefted the bale back off the sled and set it about halfway between himself and Hirschmeir.

  “You sure that thing not living?” one of the Wolmen demanded.

  “Sure. But it's got a ghost in it.”

  “No ghost in machine.” The Wolman shook his head emphatically.

  Dar looked up sharply, then frowned. “Did I sell you folks that cubook series on the history of philosophy?”

  “Last year,” Hirschmeir grunted. “Lousy bargain. Half of tribe quote-um Locke now.”

  “Locke?” Dar scowled. “I would've thought Berkeley and Sartre would be more your speed.”

  “Old concepts,” Slotmeyer snorted. “We learn at mothers' knees. You forget—our ancestors opposition culture.”

  “That does keep slipping my mind,” Dar confessed. “Well! How about two hundred thirty-four for the bale?”

  Hirschmeir shook his head. “Too far below Libra quote. Your scrip only worth eighty percent of Libran BTU today.”

  “I'm going to have to have a talk with Sergeant Walstock,” Dar growled. “Okay, so my price is twenty percent low. But you forget—we have to pay shipping charges to get this stuff to Libra.”

  “And your boss Cholly also gotta pay you, and overhead,” Slotmeyer added. “We not forget anything, Dar Mandra.”

  “Except that Cholly's gotta show some profit, or he can't stay in business,” Dar amended. “Okay, look—how about two seventy-five?”

  “Tenth of a kwaher?” Hirschmeir scoffed. He bent over and picked up his bale. “Nice talking to you, Dar Mandra.”

  “Okay, okay! Two eighty!”

  “Two ninety,” Slotmeyer said promptly.

  “Okay, two eighty-five.” Dar sighed, shaking his head. “The things I do for you guys! Well, it's not your worry if I don't come back next month. Hope you like the new man.”

  “No worry. We tell Cholly we only deal with soft touch.” Hirschmeir grinned. “Okay. What you got to sell, Dar Mandra?”

  “Oh, a little bit of this and a minor chunk of that.” Dar turned to the sled. “Wanna give me a hand?”

  Together, all six of them manhandled a huge crate onto the ground. Dar popped the catches and opened the front and the left side. The Wolmen crowded around, fingering the merchandise and muttering in excitement.

  “What this red stone?” Slotmeyer demanded, holding up a machined gem. “Ruby for laser?”

  Dar nodded. “Synthetically grown, but it works better than the natural ones.”

  “Here barrels,” another Wolman pointed out.

  “Same model you sold us instruction manual for?” Hirschmeir
weighed a power cell in his palm.

  Dar nodded. “Double-X 14. Same as the Navy uses.”

  “What this?” One of the Wolmen held up a bit of machined steel.

  “Part of the template assembly for an automatic lathe,” Dar answered.

  Slotmeyer frowned. “What is ‘lathe'?”

  Dar grinned. “Instruction manual's only twenty-five kwahers.”

  “Twenty-five?” Hirschmeir bleated.

  Dar's grin widened.

  Hirschmeir glowered at him, then grimaced and nodded. “You highway robber, Dar Mandra.”

  “No, low-way,” Dar corrected. “Cholly tells me I'm not ready for the highway.”

  “Him got high idea of low,” Hirschmeir grunted. “What prices on laser parts?”

  Dar slid a printed slip out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Hirschmeir. “ ’Scuse me while you study that; I'll finish the weigh-in.” He turned away to start hoisting bales onto the sled's scale as the Wolmen clustered around Hirschmeir, running through the price list and muttering darkly.

  Sam stepped up and tapped Dar on the shoulder. “What happened to all the ‘ums' on the ends of their verbs?”

  “Hm?” Dar looked up. “Oh, they know me, y' see. No need to put on a show anymore.”

  “All right, all right!” Hirschmeir grumbled. “We take three rubies, three barrels, ten power supplies, and template assembly for lathe.”

  “Gotcha.” Dar pressed a button on the scale, and it murmured, “Total for goods, 4235.50 BTUs.”

  Dar nodded. “And the total for your pipeweed is 5337.50. You can spend another 1102, Hirschmeir.”

  “No got any more goods we want,” Slotmeyer grunted.

  Hirschmeir nodded, holding out a palm. “Cash be nice.”

  “You could put it on deposit at the bank,” Dar offered. “Cholly's starting up a new kind of account.”

  Hirschmeir shook his head. “Only pays lousy five percent per annum. We do better use it for stake for playing poker with soldiers.”

  “But this is a new kind of account,” Dar reminded. “The interest is compounded quarterly.”

  Hirschmeir's head lifted a little, and his frown deepened. “ ‘Interest compounded'? What that mean?”

  “That means that, at the end of every five months, the interest is paid into your account, and figured as part of the principal for the next quarter.”

  “So for second quarter, Cholly pay interest on 1157.125?”

  Dar nodded. “And for the third quarter, he'll be paying you interest on 1162.48. You're getting an effective annual yield of twenty-one and a half percent.”

  “Cholly go broke,” Slotmeyer snapped.

  “No, he'll make a profit—if enough of you open up these accounts. If he gets five thousand for capital, he can buy Bank of I.D.E. bonds that pay twenty-three percent effective.”

  Slotmeyer's head lifted slowly, his eyes widening.

  He whirled to Hirschmeir. “Take it!”

  “You sure?” Hirschmeir looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  “Sure? When Cholly making profit, too? Gotta be straight deal!”

  Hirschmeir looked at the ground for a few minutes; then he looked up at Dar, face firming with decision. “Right. We open new account.”

  “Right here.” Dar whipped out the papers and handed them to Hirschmeir; but Slotmeyer intercepted them. He scanned the pages quickly, muttering to himself, then nodded and passed them on to Hirschmeir. Hirschmeir made his sign and added his signature after it in parentheses. Dar took the papers back, fed them into a slot in the sled. It chuckled to itself, then fed out a copy of the forms, and spat out a small flat blue booklet. Dar checked the passbook to make sure the deposit was recorded properly, then nodded and passed the bundle to Hirschmeir. The Wolman folded them away, straightening and grinning. “Okay, Dar Mandra. Is good doing business with you.”

  “Always a pleasure.” Dar held up the bottle. “One for the trail?”

  Sam watched the Wolman troop move off into the night, while Dar reloaded the grav-sled and fastened the tarp down again. Finally she turned back to him. “Why do they call it ‘pipeweed'?”

  “Hm?” Dar looked up. “Take a look at it.”

  Sam stepped over and fingered one of the bales. “Long, thin, hollow stems.” She nodded. “Little pipes.”

  Dar covered the bale and fastened down the last corner of the tarp. “Good quality, too. Not a bad night's trading.”

  “But how can you say that?” Sam erupted. “You've scarcely made any profit at all!”

  “About one and a half percent.” Dar picked up a plastic cube and stood up. “Which is pretty good. Cholly's happy if I just break even.”

  “Oh, he is, huh?” Sam jammed her fists on her hips. “What is he, a philanthropist?”

  “A teacher,” Dar reminded, “and Shacklar's a politician. All Cholly really cares about is how much the Wolmen learn from the trading; and all Shacklar cares about is tying the Wolmen into an economic unit with the soldiers. And the good will that goes with both, of course.”

  “Of course,” Sam echoed dryly. “And I suppose you manage to pick up a few items about Wolman culture on every trip.”

  “Which I faithfully report back to Cholly, who makes sure it winds up as beer-gossip.” Dar grinned. “Give us ten years, and the soldiers and Wolmen'll know each other's culture almost as well as their own.”

  “Well, they do seem to have a pretty thorough grasp of basic finance.”

  “And Slotmeyer's getting some ideas about law,” Dar said with a critical nod. “He's coming along nicely.”

  Sam frowned. “You sound like a teacher gloating over a prize pupil. . . . Oh!”

  Dar gave her a wicked grin.

  “Of course; I should have realized,” she said dryly. “Cholly doesn't hire traders; he recruits teachers.”

  “Pretty much,” Dar confirmed. “But we do have to have an eye for profit and loss.”

  “How about the loss to the Army?”

  “Hm?” Dar looked up. “What loss?”

  “Those laser parts—they're military issue, aren't they?”

  Dar stared at her while his smile congealed.

  “Come on,” Sam wheedled, “you can trust me. I mean, after all, I know enough to sink you already, if I really wanted to.”

  Dar's smile cracked into a grin. “How? We're already sunk here.”

  Sam frowned, nonplussed. “But how do you know I'm not a BOA spy? Or an Army spy, trying to find out what Shacklar's really doing here? For all you know, when I get back to Terra, I might issue a report that would get him pulled off this planet.”

  Dar nodded. “Yeah. You could be.”

  Sam inched away from him, watching him as a mouse watches a waking cat.

  “But you obviously aren't,” Dar finished.

  Sam frowned indignantly. “How the hell could you tell?”

  “Well, in the first place, I don't believe anybody on Terra really cares about what happens out here—not in the Army, and not in BOA either.”

  “Shacklar is building a power base,” Sam pointed out.

  “Power to do what? He can't even conquer the Wolmen.”

  “But he is trying to weld them into one solid unit with his convicts.”

  Dar smiled, amused. “And just what do you think he'll do with that unit? Build a very long ladder, and climb to Terra?” He shook his head. “There's no way Shacklar can be a threat to anybody off this planet—and the boys on Terra don't care what kind of threat he is to anybody on this planet.” He tossed the plastic cube in the air and caught it, grinning. “Not that I think you really are a spy. Of course, you could be a reporter, looking for a little bit of muck to rake, but why would you come all this way for it?”

  “To find something to report,” Sam said with a vindictive smile. “Nothing ever happens on Terra.”

  Dar shrugged. “Okay—let's say you really are that hard up. What could you actually do? Turn in a ten-minute report for a 3DT show about the horr
ible, crooked, scandalous doings out here on Wolmar?”

  “Sure. You're far enough away to have a touch of the exotic. It might really catch on for a while. We're really bored on Terra.”

  Dar shrugged. “So we'd be a six-day wonder”

  “Nine.”

  “Nine. And the Army would say, ‘My Heavens! We didn't realize that was going on!' And they'd send a formal, official notice to Shacklar that would say, ‘You naughty, naughty boy! How dare you do all these horrible things! The way you're treating your convicts is criminal!' And Shacklar, I'm sure, would give them fifty excellent reasons, and finish by saying, ‘But of course, since this isn't what you want, I'll be glad to do it your way.' And Central HQ would say, ‘Fine. You do it our way.' Which they would go tell the media, and the media would tell it to the people in another show, and the people would sit back with that nice, solid feeling that they'd actually managed to accomplish something. And everybody would forget about it.”

  “And Shacklar wouldn't actually do anything?”

  “Oh, sure—he'd give me a week of chores for shooting off my mouth. Which is okay; it's restful to do something that doesn't involve any responsibility, now and then.”

  Sam sighed. “All right. Then you should just tell me about those laser parts because you want to—and because there's no good reason not to. . . . Is there?”

  “None, except my firm conviction that you'll put the worst possible construction on anything I tell you. What about those laser parts?”

  “They're military issue, aren't they?”

  “Sure. What else would a general be able to get, that natives would want?”

  “That doesn't strike you as a little bit corrupt?”

  “Why? They're being used for a military purpose.”

  “The Wolmen's military purpose!” Sam exploded. “It's gunrunning!”

  “I suppose you could call it that,” Dar said judiciously.

  “ ‘Suppose'! Don't you realize you're signing your own death warrants?”

  “Not as long as things stay peaceful,” Dar pointed out. “Shacklar has more faith in trade than in firepower. It's awfully hard to fight your own customers.”

  “But not exactly unknown.”