Skottery had pressed a button. Two large Venusians appeared. The head of Water Power pointed to Bronson.
“Remove it,” he said.
Captain Rufus Munn was in one of the telecasting studios with Bart Underhill. They were sitting beside Hakkapuy, owner of Veetsy—which might be freely translated as Wet Tingles. They were watching the telecast commercial plug for Hakkapuy’s product, on the ’visor screen high on the wall.
A Venusian faded in, legs wide apart, arms akimbo. He raised one hand, six fingers spread wide.
“All men drink water. Water is good. Life needs water. Veetsy is good also. Four fals buys a globe of Veetsy. That is all.”
He vanished. Colors rippled across the screen and music played in off-beat rhythm. Munn turned to Hakkapuy.
“That isn’t advertising. You can’t get customers that way.”
“Well, it’s traditional,” Hakkapuy said weakly.
Munn opened the pack at his feet, brought out a tall glass beaker, and asked for a globe of Veetsy. It was given him, and he emptied the green fluid into his beaker. After that, he dropped in a half dozen colored balls and added a chunk of dry ice, which sank to the bottom. The balls went up and down rapidly.
“See?” Munn said. “Visual effect. The marbles are only slightly heavier than Veetsy. It’s the visual equivalent of Wet Tingles. Show that on the televisor, with a good sales talk, and see how your sales curve jumps.”
Hakkapuy looked interested. “I’m not sure—”
Munn dragged out a sheaf of papers and hammered at the breach in the wall. After a time a fat Venusian came in and said, “May you be worthy of your ancestors’ names.” Hakkapuy introduced him as Lorish.
“I thought Lorish had better see this. Would you mind going over it again?”
“Sure,” Munn said. “Now the principle of display windows—”
When he had finished, Hakkapuy looked at Lorish, who shook his shoulders slowly.
“No,” he said.
Hakkapuy blew out his lips. “It would sell more Veetsy.”
“And upset the economy charts,” Lorish said. “No.”
Munn glared at him. “Why not? Hakkapuy owns Veetsy, doesn’t he? Who are you, anyhow—a censor?”
“I represent the advertisers’ tarkomar,” Lorish explained. “You see, advertising on Venus is strongly ritual. It is never changed. Why should it be? If we let Hakkapuy use your ideas, it would be unfair to other makers of soft drinks.”
“They could do the same thing,” Munn pointed out.
“A pyramiding competition leading to ultimate collapse. Hakkapuy makes enough money. Don’t you, Hakkapuy?”
“I suppose so.”
“Are you questioning the motives of the tarkomars?”
Hakkapuy gulped. “No,” he said hastily. “No, no, no! You’re perfectly right.”
Lorish looked at him. “Very well. As for you, Earthman, you had better not waste your time pursuing this—scheme—further.”
Munn reddened. “Are you threatening me?”
“Of course not. I simply mean that no advertiser could use your idea without consulting my tarkomar, and we would veto it.”
“Sure,” Munn said. “O.K. Come on, Bart. Let’s get out of here.”
They departed, to stroll along a canal bank and confer. Underhill was thoughtful.
“The tarkomars have held the balance of power for a long time, it looks like. They want things to stay as they are. That’s obvious.”
Munn growled.
Underhill went on, “We’d have to upset the whole apple cart to get anywhere. There’s one thing in our favor, though.”
“What?”
“The laws.”
“How do you figure that out?” Munn asked. “They’re all against us.”
“So far—yes. But they’re traditionally rigid and unswerving. A decision made three hundred years ago can’t be changed except by a long court process. If we can find a loophole in those laws, they can’t touch us.”
“All right, find the loophole,” Munn said grumpily. “I’m going back to the ship and help Steve build an X-ray machine.”
“I think I’ll go down to the stock exchange and snoop,” Underhill said. “It’s just possible—”
After a week, the X-ray device was finished. Munn and Thirkell looked through the Vyring law records and found they were permitted to sell a self-created device without belonging to a tarkomar, provided they obeyed certain trivial restrictions. Leaflets were printed and strewed around the city, and the Venusians came to watch Munn and Thirkell demonstrating the merits of Roentgen rays.
Mike Soaring Eagle knocked off work for the day and recklessly smoked a dozen cigarettes from his scanty store, burning with dull fury as he puffed. He had run into trouble with his hydroponic cultures.
“Crazy!” he told Bronson. “Luther Burbank would have gone nuts—the way I’m going. How the devil can I guess-pollinate those ambiguous specimens of Venusian flora?”
“Well, it doesn’t seem exactly fair,” Bronson consoled. “Eighteen sexes, eh?”
“Eighteen so far. And four varieties that apparently haven’t any sex at all. How can you crossbreed those perverted mushrooms? You’d have to exhibit the result in a side show.”
“You’re getting nowhere?”
“Oh, I’m getting places,” Mike Soaring Eagle said bitterly. “I’m getting all sorts of results. The trouble is nothing stays constant. I get a rum-flavored fungus one day, and it doesn’t breed true—its spores turn into something that tastes like turpentine. So you see.”
Bronson looked sympathetic. “Can’t you swipe some grub when they’re not looking? That way the job wouldn’t be a complete washout.”
“They search me,” the Navaho said.
“The dirty skunks,” Bronson yelped. “What do they think we are? Crooks?”
“Mph. Something’s going on outside. Let’s take a look.”
They went out of the Goodwill to find Munn arguing passionately with Jorust, who had come in person to examine the X-ray machine. A crowd of Venusians watched avidly. Munn’s face was crimson.
“I looked it up,” he was saying. “You can’t stop me this time, Jorust. It’s perfectly legal to build a machine and sell it outside the city limits.”
“Certainly,” Jorust said. “I’m not complaining about that.”
“Well? We’re not breaking any law.”
The woman beckoned, and a fat Venusian waddled forward. “Patent three gross squared fourteen two dozen, issued to Metzi-Stang of Mylosh year fourth power twelve, subject sensitized plates.”
“What’s that?” Munn asked.
“It’s a patent,” Jorust told him. “It was issued some time ago to a Venusian inventor named Metzi-Stang. A tarkomar bought and suppressed the process, but it’s still illegal to infringe on it.”
“You mean somebody’s already invented an X-ray machine on Venus?”
“No. Merely sensitized film. But that’s part of your device, so you can’t sell it.”
Thirkell pushed forward. “I don’t need film—”
The fat Venusian said, “Vibrationary patent three gross two dozen and seven—”
“What now?” Munn broke in.
Jorust smiled. “Machines employing vibration must not infringe on that patent.”
“This is an X-ray machine,” Thirkell snapped.
“Light is vibration,” Jorust told him. “You can’t sell it without buying permission from the tarkomar now owning that patent. It should cost—let’s see—five thousand sofals or so.”
Thirkell turned abruptly and went into the ship, where he mixed a whisky-and-soda and thought wistfully about diphtheria germs. After a time the others appeared, looking disconsolate.
“Can she do it?” Thirkell asked.
Munn nodded. “She can do it, chum. She’s done it.”
“We’re not infringing on their patents.”
“We’re not on Earth. The patent laws here are so wide that
if a man invents a gun, nobody else can make telescopic sights. We’re rooked again.”
Underhill said, “It’s the tarkomars again. When they see a new process or invention that might mean change, they buy it up and suppress it. I can’t think of any gadget we could make that wouldn’t be an infringement on some Venusian patent or other.”
“They stay within the law,” Munn pointed out. “Their law. So we can’t even challenge them. As long as we’re on Venus, we’re subject to their jurisprudence.”
“The beans are getting low,” Thirkell said morosely.
“Everything is,” the captain told him. “Any ideas, somebody?”
There was silence. Presently Underhill took out a globe of Veetsy and put it on the table.
“Where’d you get that?” Bronson asked. “It costs four fals.”
“It’s empty,” Underhill said. “I found it in an ash can. I’ve been investigating glassite—the stuff they use for things like this.”
“What about it?”
“I found out how they make it. It’s a difficult, expensive process. It’s no better than our flexiglass, and a lot harder to make. If we had a flexiglass factory here—”
“Well?”
“The bottom would drop out of Amalgamated Glassite.”
“I don’t get it,” Bronson said. “So what?”
“Ever heard of a whispering campaign?” Underhill asked. “My father wangled many an election that way, the old devil. Suppose we passed the word around that there was a new process for making a cheaper, better substitute for glassite? Wouldn’t Amalgamated stock drop?”
“Possibly,” Munn said.
“We could clean up.”
“What with?”
“Oh.” Underhill was silent. “It takes money to make money.”
“Always.”
“I wonder. Here’s another idea. Venus is on the iron standard. Iron’s cheap on Earth. Suppose we talked about bringing in iron here—strewing it broadcast. There’d be a panic, wouldn’t there?”
“Not without some iron to strew around,” Munn said. “Counterpropaganda would be telecast; we couldn’t compete with it. Our whispering campaign would be squashed before we got it started. The Venusian government—the tarkomars—would simply deny that Earth had unlimited iron supplies. We wouldn’t profit, anyway.”
“There must be some angle,” Underhill scowled. “There’s got to be. Let’s see. What’s the basis of the Venusian system?”
“No competition,” Mike Soaring Eagle said. “Everybody has all he wants.”
“Maybe. At the top. But the competitive instinct is too strong to be suppressed like that. I’ll bet plenty of Venusians would like to make a few extra fals.”
“Where does that get us?” Munn wanted to know.
“The way my father did it…Hm-m-m. He manipulated, pulled the wires, made people come to him. What’s the weak spot in Venusian economy?”
Munn hesitated. “Nothing we can strike at—we’re too handicapped.”
Underhill shut his eyes. “The basis of an economic and social system is—what?”
“Money,” Bronson said.
“No. Earth’s on the radium standard. Years ago it was gold or silver. Venus is on iron. And there’s the barter system, too. Money’s a variable.”
“Money represents natural resources—” Thirkell began.
“Man-hours,” Munn put in quietly.
Underhill jumped. “That’s it! Of course—man-hours! That’s the constant. The amount of production a man can turn out in an hour represents an arbitrary constant—two dollars, a dozen difals or whatever it is. That’s the base for any economic set-up. And it’s the base we’ve got to hit. The ancestor worship, the power of the tarkomars—they’re superficial really. Once the basic system is challenged, they’ll go down.”
“I don’t see where it gets us,” Thirkell said.
“Make the man-hours variable,” Underhill explained. “Once we do that, anything can happen.”
“Something had better happen,” Bronson said, “and quick. We’ve little food left.”
“Shut up,” Munn said. “I think the kid’s got the right angle. Alter the man-hour constant, eh? How can we do that? Specialized training? Train a Venusian to turn out twice as much stuff in the same period of time? Skilled labor?”
“They’ve got skilled labor,” Underhill said. “If we could make ’em work faster, or increase their stamina—”
“Benzedrine plus,” Thirkell interrupted. “With enough caffeine, vitamin complex and riboflavin—I could whip up a speeder-upper, all right.”
Munn nodded slowly. “Pills, not shots. If this works out, we’ll have to do it undercover after a while.”
“What the devil will it get us to make the Venusians work faster?” Bronson asked.
Underhill snapped his fingers. “Don’t you see? Venus is ultraconservative. The economic system is frozen static. It isn’t adapted to change. There’ll be hell popping!”
Munn said, “We’ll need advertising to arouse public interest first of all. A practical demonstration.” He looked around the table, his gaze settling on Mike Soaring Eagle. “Looks like you’re elected, Redskin. You’ve more stamina than any of us, according to the tests we took back on Earth.”
“All right,” the Navaho said. “What do I do?”
“Work!” Underhill told him. “Work till you drop!”
It began early the next morning in the main plaza of Vyring. Munn had checked up carefully, determined to make sure nothing would go wrong, and had learned that a recreation building was to be constructed on the site of the plaza. “Work won’t start for several weeks,” Jorust said. “Why?”
“We want to dig a hole there,” Munn said. “Is it legal?”
The Venusian smiled. “Why, of course. That’s public domain—until the contractors begin. But a demonstration of your muscular prowess won’t help you, I’m afraid.”
“Eh?”
“I’m not a fool. You’re trying to land a job. You hope to do that by advertising your abilities. But why do it in just this way? Anybody can dig a hole. It isn’t specialized.”
Munn grunted. If Jorust wanted to jump at that conclusion, swell. He said, “It pays to advertise. Put a steam shovel to work, back on Earth, and a crowd will gather to watch it. We don’t have a steam shovel, but—”
“Well, whatever you like. Legally you’re within your rights. Nevertheless you can’t hold a job without joining a tarkomar.”
“Sometimes I think your planet would be a lot better off without the tarkomars,” Munn said bluntly.
Jorust moved her shoulders. “Between ourselves, I have often thought so. I am merely an administrator, however. I have no real power. I do what I’m told to do. If I were permitted, I would be glad to lend you the money you need—”
“What?” Munn looked at her. “I thought—”
The woman froze. “It is not permitted. Tradition is not always wisdom, but I can do nothing about it. To defy the tarkomars is unthinkable and useless. I am sorry.”
Munn felt a little better after that, somehow. The Venusians weren’t all enemies. The all-powerful tarkomars, jealous of their power, fanatically desirous of preserving the status quo, were responsible for this mess.
When he got back to the plaza, the others were waiting. Bronson had rigged up a scoreboard, in phonetic Venusian, and had laid out mattock, pick, shovel, wheelbarrow and boards for the Navaho, who stood, a brawny, red-bronze figure, stripped to the waist in the cool wind. A few canal-boats had stopped to watch.
Munn looked at his watch. “O.K., Redskin. Let’s go. Steve can start—”
Underhill began to beat a drum. Bronson put figures on the scoreboard: 4:03:00, Venusian Vyring Time. Thirkell went to a nearby camp table, littered with bottles and medical equipment, shook from a vial one of the stimulant pills he had concocted, and gave it to Mike Soaring Eagle. The Indian ate it, heaved up the mattock and went to work.
That was all.
A man digging a hole. Just why the spectacle should be so fascinating no one has ever figured out. The principle remains the same, whether it’s a steam shovel scooping out half a ton of earth at a bite, or a sweating, stocky Navaho wielding shovel and pick. The boats grew thicker.
Mike Soaring Eagle kept working. An hour passed. Another. There were regular, brief rest periods, and Mike kept rotating his tools, to get all his muscles into play. After breaking earth for a while with the mattock, he would shovel it into the wheelbarrow, roll his burden up a plank and dump it on an ever growing pile some distance away. Three hours. Four. Mike knocked off for a brief lunch. Bronson kept track of the time on his scoreboard.
Thirkell gave the Navaho another pill. “How’re you doing?”
“Fine. I’m tough enough.”
“I know, but these stimulants—they’ll help.”
Underhill was at a typewriter. He had already ground out a tremendous lot of copy, for he had been working since Mike Soaring Eagle started. Bronson had discovered a long-forgotten talent and was juggling makeshift Indian clubs and colored balls. He’d been keeping that up for quite a while, too.
Captain Rufus Munn was working a sewing machine. He didn’t especially like the task, but it was precision work, and therefore helpful to the plan. All the party except Thirkell was doing something, and the physician was busy administering pills and trying to look like an alchemist.
Occasionally he visited Munn and Underhill, collected stacks of paper and carefully sewn scraps of cloth, and deposited them in various boxes near the canal, labelled, “Take One.” On the cloth a legend was machine-embroidered in Venusian: “A Souvenir from Earth.” The crowds thickened.
The Earthmen worked on. Bronson kept juggling, with pauses for refreshment. Eventually he experimented with coin and card tricks. Mike Soaring Eagle kept digging. Munn sewed. Underhill continued to type—and the Venusians read what his flying fingers turned out.
“Free! Free! Free!” the leaflets said. “Souvenir pillow-case covers from Earth! A free show! Watch the Earthmen demonstrate stamina, dexterity and precision in four separate ways. How long can they keep it up? With the aid of POWER PILLS—indefinitely! Their output is doubled and their precision increased by POWER PILLS—they pep you up! A medical product of Earth that can make any man worth twice his weight in sofals!”
The Best of C.L. Moore & Henry Kuttner Page 72